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AMERICAN
COMMON-PLACE BOOK
OF
PROSE,
A COLLECTION OF
ELOQUENT AND INTERESTING EXTRACTS
FROM THE WRITINGS OF
AMERICAN AUTHORS.
BY G. B. CHEEVER.
BOSTON:
CARTER, HENDEE, &, CO
1833.
DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, TO WIT:
District Clerk's Office.
BE IT REMEMISERED, That on the fifteenth day of M;iy, A. D. 1828, in
the fifty-secondyearof the Independence of the United States of America,
8. G. Goodrich, of the said district, has deposited in this office the title
of a hook, the right whereof he claims as proprietor, in the words fol-
lowing, to wit :
" The American Common-place Book of Prose, a Collection of elo-
quent and interesting Extracts, from the Writings of American Au-
thors."
In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entitled,
" An Act for the encouragement of learning, hy securing the copies of
maps, charts and hooks to the authors and proprietors of such copies,
during the times therein mentioned :" and also to an act, entitled, " An
Act supplementary to an net, entitled, An Act for the encouragement of
learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and hooks to the authors
and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned, and
extending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engravingund etch-
ing historical and other prints."
JNO. W. DAVIS,
Clerk of the District of Massachusetts.
StatR
Annex
PREFACE.
BOOKS of common-place are the amusements of
literature. It is pleasant to have at one's side a well-
selected volume, to which he may turn for mental
recreation, when the fatigue of preceding exertion
has rendered him unequal to intellectual effort. It is
pleasant, also, to have before us the eloquent passages
of our favourite authors, so that we may occasionally
awakeix and prolong the delightful sensations with
which we at first perused them. But the mere power
of conferring amusement is not that, which gives to
publications of this sort their highest value. To all
those, whose constant occupation precludes the possi-
bility of spending many leisure hours in the acquisi-
tion of literary taste and knowledge, they may be ren-
dered eminently useful.
The present volume is selected entirely from Ameri-
can authors, and contains specimens of American lit-
erature from its earliest period to the present day. It
is hoped that it may not be found~inferior in excellence
or interest to any of those compilations which have
hitherto embraced only the morceaux delicieuse of Eng-
lish genius.
When we say this, it is without any feeling of na-
tional vanity or rivalry. Our wish is merely to furnish
a volume which shall correspond in design and execu-
tion to those which are now so popular abroad, and
2031346
which contribute so extensively to the improvement of
general and literary taste, by bringing the happier ef-
forts of higher minds within the reach of all classes
of society.
The volume now offered to the public may also, we
trust, prove serviceable to the interests of education.
The selection contained in the following pages is such
it is hoped, as will exert a favourable influence on the
iriinds of youth, by the predominating intellectual and
literary character of the pieces. The sentiments im-
bibed from the perusal of this compilation will be such
as our most eminent writers have inculcated ; and the
spirit infused by it will be that vivid admiration of
nature and of human excellence, which forms a char-
acteristic trait in American writings.
There is a period, too, in education, in which an
enlightened instructor will not omit a candid compar-
ison of our native literature with the contemporary
productions of English writers, not for the sake of
indulging national prejudice of any kind, but of en-
larging the intelligence, and disciplining the taste, of
the rising minds, which, in their subsequent advance-
ment, are to influence the literary estimation of their
country. As a reading book for the higher classes
in seminaries for both sexes, the Common-place Book
will be found, it is thought, well adapted to a depart-
ment of education in which it is difficult to find a vol-
ume of suitable character, and especially when that
excellent volume the First Class Book, or any similar
work, has been used in the previous stages of instruc-
tion.
Boston 1828. EDITOR.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
Goodness of the Deity displayed in the Beauty of Creation. Dwight. 9
Night Season favourable to Contemplation and Study. . . Dennie. 10
Colloquial Powers of Dr. Franklin Wirt. 12
An Apparition. Club-Room. 14
Rural Occupations favourable to the Sentiments of Devotion.
Buckminstrr. 19
Reciprocal Influence of Morals and Literature Friable. 21
Evening Scenes on the St. Lawrence Silliman. 23
Franklin's first Entrance into Philadelphia Franklin. 23
Passage of the Potomac through the Blue Ridge. . . . Jefferson. 25
Moral and intellectual Efficacy of the Sacred Scriptures. Wayland. 26
Character of Washington Ames. 29
Labours of periodical Composition Idle Man. 33
Industry necessary to Uie Attainment of Eloquence. . . . Ware. 34
Ingratitude towards the Deity Jlpplelon. 30
Resistance to Oppression J. Quincy, Jun. 37
Lafayette in the French Revolution Ticknor. 33
Poeta nascitur, Orator fit Monthly Anthology. 42
Intellectual Qualities of Milton . . Channing. 43
National Recollections the Foundation of national Character.
E. Ecerett. 44
Extract from the Legend of Sleepy Hollow Irving. 46
Reflections on the Settlement of Now England Webster. 51
Forest Scenery Faulting. 53
Influence of Christianity in elevating the femal; Character.
J. Q. Carter. 53
Necessity of a pure national Morality Beecher. 57
Value of religious Faith Buckminster. 59
Death of General Washington Marshall. 64
The Lessons of Death JVorfon. 66
Character of Chief Justice Marshall Wirt. 68
Moral Sublimity illustrated Wayland. 71
Eloquent Speech of Logan, Chief of the Mingoes. . . . Jefferson. 74
Fox, Burke, and Pitt A. H. Everett. 75
Surprise and Destruction of the Pequod Indians. . . Miss Sedowick. 81
Character of Fisher Ames Kirkland. 88
Reflections on the Death of Adams and Jeflerson. . . .Sergeant. 94
Indolence Dennie. 97
Escape of Harvey Birch and Captain Whartoh Cooper. 99
Scenery in the Notch of the White Mountains Dwight. 107
Exalted Character of Poetry Channmg. Ill
Eloquent Appeal in Favour of the Greeks. North American Remeio. 115
Death of J. Quincy, Jun J. Quiney. 123
Danger of Delay in Religion Buckminster. 124
Scenes in Philadelphia during the Prevalence of the Yellow Fe-
ver, in 1793 C. B. Brown. 128
1*
6 TABLE OF CONTENTS.
AC*
Importance of Knowledge to the Mechanic. . . O. B. Emerson. 133
Humorous Description of the Custom of Whitewashing.
Franca Hopkinson. 135
Hay you die among your Kindred Oreenifood. 141
Description of a Death Scene Miss Francis. 141
ThcRose Mrs. Sifoumey. 145
Influence of Female Character Thar her. 146
Character of James Monroe Ifirt. IM
The Stout Gentleman. A Stage-coach Romance . Irving. 153
Patriotism and Eloquence of John Adams Webster. 161
Description of the Speedwell Mine in England Silliman. 166
Effects of the modern Diffusion of Knowledge. . . . Wayland. 169
The Love of human Estimation Buckmtnster. 173
Extract from an Address on retiring from the public Service of the
United States of America . . Washington. 176
Speech over the Grave of Black Buffalo, Chief of the Teton Tribe
of Indian. Big Elk Maha Chief. 179
Speech of /fiMM-yinew, or Farmer's Brother 180
Abdication of Napoleon, and Retirement of Lafayette. . Ticlcnor. 181
Extract from " Hyperion." J. Qiuncy, Jun. 185
The Sabbath in i \'ew England Mitt Sedg wick. 190
Description of the Capture of a Whale Cooper. 192
l*ko George. . Club-Room. 197
HviHtthondriasb and its Remedies Rusk. 205
rfimato and Scenery of New England Tudor. 209
First and second Death Grcrnrood. 215
Posthumous Influence of tin? Wise and Good JVorton. 917
I !i;Virul! i encountered by the Federal Convention. . . Madison. 218
Hi'MVrt ions on tho Battle of Lexington E. Everett. 221
Purpose of the Monument on Bunker Hill W ebtter. 223
Albums and the Alps Biukmin.it.er. 224
lutrrvi. -w with Robert Southey Griseom. 226
Christmas trvmg. 298
. . Jefferson. 230
. . . Fitch. 234
Miss Francis. 238
. . Tudor. 240
Hamilton. 242
Sports on New Year's Day Faulting. 245
Conclusion of " Observations on the Boston Port Bill."
J. Quincy, Jun. 249
Necessity of Union ltwecn the States fay. 253
Character of Hamilton Jlmes. 256
Morality of Poetry O. Bancroft 259
The Consequences of Atheism Gtamfaif. M
The blind Preacher Wirt . 2fi3
The humble Man and the proud Tkacher. 266
The Son. From The Idle Man." R. Dana. 268
Neglect of foreign Literature in America.
American Quarterly Reriev. 277
Death a sublime and universal Moralist Sparks. 279
Battle of Bunker Hill Cooper. 233
Autumn and Spring Pauldiny. 296
The Storm-Ship Irnna. 298
Anecdote of James Otis -. . . . J. Jtdam.i. VH
Interesting Passage in the Life of James Otis Tudor. 306
Close of the Lives of Adams and Jefferson Webster. 310
Morals of Chess ... . Franklin. 31J
Declaration of American Independence.
M"in.-iitos of the Instability of human Existence.
Description of the Preaching of Whitfield. . .
Anecdote of Dr. Chauncy
Effects of a Devolution of the Federal UrT
TABLE OF CONTENTS. 7
P*ga
The Hospital in Philadelphia during the Pestilence. C. B. Brown 3K
Shipwreck of the Ariel Coopa 319
Destruction of a Family of the Pilgrims by the Savages.
JUits Sedgmck. :2J
The Emigrant's Abode in Ohio Flint. 336
Melancholy Decay of the Indians Cass. 337
Object and Success of the Missionary Enterprise. . . Wayland. 339
Mont Blanc in the Gleam of Sunset Griscom. 343
Contrast in tiie Characters of Cicero and Atticus. . Buckmiiister. 345
Scenery in the Highlands on the River Hudson Irving. 346
Eternity of God Greenwood. 350
Philosophy and Morality of Tacitus frisbie. 355
The Village Grave-Yard Greenwood. 350
Influence of the Habit of Gaming on the Mind and Heart. . JVoM. 3C3
The Preservation of the Church Mason. 367
Modern Facilities for evangelizing the World Beecher. 3CS
Speech of the Chief Sa-gu-yu-ichat-liah, called by the white People
Red Jacket. . . 370
Extract from a Speech on the British Treaty. ..... Jimes. 373
Appeal in Favour of the Union Madison. 378
'Grand electrical Experiment of Dr. Franklin Stuber. 380
Extrication of a Frigate from the Shoals. ...... Cooper. 3*3
Lafayette's first Visit to America Ticknor. 393
Goffe the Regicide Dtcight. 390
General Washington resigning the Command of the Army.
Ramsay. 397
Alexander Wilson Worth American Review. 403
Female Education and Learning Story. 407
Poetical Character of Gray Buckmin.-trr. 409
Republics of Greece and Italy Hamilton. 414
Professional Character of William Pinkney. . . . H. Wheaton. 41c
External Appearance of England Jl.H. F.rerett. 417
Features of American Scenery Tudor. 421
Literary Character of Jefferson and Adams Webster. 422
Eloquence and Humour of Patrick Henry Wirt. vlA .
Valley of the Commanches Francis Ben-tan 425
Pleasures of the Man of a refined Imagination. ... Idle Ma*. 427
Scene at Niagara JUiss Scdgwick. 429
Procession of Nuns in a Catholic Hospital. . . . Miss Franca. 430
Grandeur of astronomical Discoveries Wirt. 434
Scenes on the Prairies. . ". Anonymous. 43G
Eulogy on William Penn /> Ponceau. 439
Morbid Effects of Envy, Malice, and Hatred Rush. 440
Appearance of the first Settlements of the Pilgrim*. Miss Sedevick. 442
Description of a Herd of Bisons Cooper. 444
The Character of Jesus Thacher. 448
Recollections of J. (luincy, Jun J. Quiacy. 450
The true Pride of Ancestry Webster. 451
A Slide in the White Mountains Mrs. Hale. 453
The Twins Token. 454
The lone Imiian. Miss Francis. 457
A Scene in the Catskill Mountains G. Mellen. 459
The St. Lawrence JV. P. Willis. 460
I have seen an End of all Perfection Mrs. Sgourney. 461
Neatnesi Dennie. 464
Description of King's College Chapel SUliman. 467
INDEX OF AUTHORS.
Adams, J. . . .
Fige.
. . . 304
29, 256, 375
. 436
Jay. . . .
Jefferson.
Kirkland.
Pige
253
. . 25,74,230
S8
.Anouvmouft
Anthology, Monthly.
. . . 42
36
Madison. . .
Marshall.
. . . 218,378
64
Bancroft, G. . . .
. 259
. 57. 3fiS
Mason. . .
Mellen, G.
367
459
I:.,- Klk Muha Chief. . . . ' 179
19"59, r i24, 172, 224, 345, 409
Carter, J. G .55
337
rimnning. . . . 43,111,262
< lu!>-Room 14, 197
Norton. . .
Nott
. . . .66,217
Faulding. . .
(luincy, J., Jun
auincy, J. .
. . 53,245,290
. 37,185,249
. . . 123,450
Copier. 99,192,283,319,383,444
Dana, R 268
IXMinie 10,97,464
Dii IVireau . - 43Q
. 37
K<-d Jacket, (an Indian Chief!) 370
Review, American Quarterly. 277
North American. 115, 403
Rush 205,440
Sedgwick, Miss.
81, 190, 329, 429, 4-12
Divight. *. . .
9 107 396
I'mrrion, G. B. . .
. 133
Kverett.A.H. . .
. . 75,417
. 44.931
Farmer's Brother, (an Indian
Chief.) 180
Fitch . w
Sigourney, Mrs.
Silliman.' .
. . 145, 461
. . 23, 106, 407
Sparks. . .
. . . 2T
Flint
. . . 336
Stuber. . .
380
Francis Berrian. .
Francis, MUs. 141,
Franklin. . . .
. . . 425
238, 430, 457
23 312
Thacher. .
. 146, 266, 448
Ticknor
".- !-!'rn
Frisbie. . .
21 355
Token. . .
Tudor. . .
Ware. . . .
Washington.
Wayland. .
Webster. 51, 16
Whraton. rf.
Willis N P
454
209, 240, 300, 421
34
176
Greenwood. . 141,
Griscom
Hale. Mrs. . . .
Hamilton. . . .
Hopkinson F
215, 350, 359
. 226,343
... 453
. 242, 414
135
. 26,71,169,339
, 223, 310, 422, 451
. . . . 415
460
Idle Man.
Irving. . 46,153,
.. 33,427
228, 298, 340
Wirt. 12, 68
150,263 4, 434
AMERICAN
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
Goodness of the Deity displayed in the Beauty of
Creation. DWIGHT.
WERE all the interesting diversities of colour and form
to disappear, how unsightly, dull, and wearisome, would
be the aspect of the world ! The pleasures, conveyed to
us by the endless varieties, with which these sources of
beauty are presented to the eye, are so much things of
course, and exist so much without intermission, that we
scarcely think either of their nature, their number, or the
great proportion which they constitute in the whole mass of
our enjoyment. But, were an inhabitant of this country
to be removed from its delightful scenery to the midst of
an Arabian desert, a boundless expanse of sand, a waste,
spread with uniform desolation, enlivened by the murmur
of no stream, and cheered by the beauty of no verdure ;
although he might live in a palace, and riot in splendour
and luxury, he would, I think, find life a dull, wearisome,
melancholy round of existence ; and, amid all his gratifi
cations, would sigh for the hills and valleys of his native
land, the brooks, and rivers, the living lustre of the Spring,
and the rich glories of the Autumn. The ever-varying
brilliancy atid grandeur of the landscape, and the magnifi-
cence of the sky, sun, moon, and stars, enter more exten-
sively into the enjoyment of mankind, than we, perhaps,
ever think, or can possibly apprehend, without frequent
and extensive investigation. This beauty and splendour of
the objects around us, it is ever to be remembered, is not
necessary to their existence, nor to what we commonly in-
tend by their usefulness. It is, therefore, to be regarded
10 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
as a source of pleasure gratuitously superinduced upon the
general nature of the objects themselves, and, in this light,
as a testimony of the divine goodness peculiarly affecting.
Night Season favourable to Contemplation and
Study. DENNIE.
" Watchman, what of the night -"ISAIAH zxi. 11.
To this query of Isaiah, the watchman replies, that
" The morning cometh, and also the night." The brevity
of this answer has left it involved in something of the ob-
scurity of the season in which it was given. I think that
night, however sooty and ill-favoured it may be pronounced
by those who were born under a daystar, merits a more
particular description. I feel peculiarly disposed to ar-
range some ideas in favour of this season. I know that
the majority are literally blind to its merits ; they must
be prominent, indeed, to be discerned by the closed eyes
of the snorer, who thinks that night was made for nothing
but sleep. But the student and the sage are willing to
believe that it was formed for higher purposes ; and that
it not only recruits exhausted spirits, but sometimes in-
forms inquisitive and mends wicked ones.
Duty, as well as inclination, urges the Lay Preacher to
sermonize while others slumber. To read numerous vol-
umes in the morning, and to observe various characters at
noon, will leave but little time, except the night, to digest
the one or speculate upon the other. The night, there-
fore, is often dedicated to composition, and, while the light
of the paly planets discovers at his desk the Preacher, more
wan than they, he may be heard repeating emphatically
with Dr. Young,
" Darkness has much Divinity for me.'
He is then alone ; he is then at peace. No companions
near, but the silent volumes on his shelf; no noise abroad,
but the click of the village clock or the bark of the vil-
lage dog. The deacon has then smoked his sixth, and last
pipe, and asks not a question more concerning Josephus
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 11
or the church Stillness aids study, and the sermon pro-
ceeds. Such nemg the obligations to night, it would be
ungrateful not to acknowledge them. As my watchful
eyes can discern its dim beauties, my warm heart shall
feel, and my prompt pen shall describe, the uses and pleas-
ures of the nocturnal hour.
" Watchman, what of the night ?" I can with propriety
imagine this question addressed to myself; I am a professed
lucubrator ; and who so well qualified to delineate the sa-
ble hours as
" A meager, muse-rid mope, adust and thin ?'
However injuriously night is treated by the sleepy mod-
erns, the vigilance of the ancients could not overlook its
benefits and joys. In as early a record as the book of
Genesis, I find that Isaac, though he devoted his assiduous
days to action, reserved speculation till night. " He went
out to meditate in the field at eventide." He chose that
sad, that solemn hour, to reflect upon the virtues of a be-
loved and departed mother. The tumult and glare of the
day suited not with the sorrow of his soul. He had lost
his most amiable, most genuine friend, and his unostenta-
tious grief was eager for privacy and shade. Sincere sor-
row rarely suffers its tears to be seen. It was natural for
Isaac to select a season to weep in, that should resemble
" the colour of his fate." The darkness, the solemnity,
the stillness of the eve, were favourable to his melancholy
purpose. He forsook, therefore, the bustling tents of his
father, the pleasant " south country," and " well of La-
hairoi ;" he went out and pensively meditated at even-
tide.
The Grecian and Roman philosophers firmly believed
that the " dead of midnight is the noon of thought." One
of them is beautifully described by the poet as soliciting
knowledge from the skies in private and nightly audience,
and that neither his theme, nor his nightly walks, were
forsaken till the sun appeared, and dimmed his " nobler in-
tellectual beam." We undoubtedly owe to the studious
nights of the ancients most of their elaborate and immortal
productions. Among them it was necessary that every
tnan of letters should trim the midnight lamp. The day
12 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
might be given to the forum or the circus, but the night
was the season for the statesman to project his schemes,
and for the poet to pour his verse.
Night has, likewise, with great reason, been considered,
in every age, as the astronomer's day. Young observes,
with energy, that
" An undercut astronomer ia mad."
The privilege of contemplating those brilliant and nu-
merous myriads of planets which bedeck our skies is pe-
culiar to night, and it is our duty, both as lovers of moral
and natural beauty, to bless that season, when we are in-
dulged with such a gorgeous display of glittering and use-
ful light. It must be confessed, that the seclusion, calm-
ness, and tranquillity of midnight, are most friendly to seri-
ous, and even airy contemplations.
I think it treason to this sable Power, who holds divided
empire with Day, constantly to shut our eyes at her ap-
proach. To long sleep I am decidedly a foe. As it is
expressed by a quaint writer, we shall all have enough of
it in the grave. Those, who cannot break the silence of
the night by vocal throat, or eloquent tongue, may be per-
mitted to disturb it by a snore. But he, among my readers,
who possesses the power of fancy and strong thought,
should be vigilant as a watchman. Let him sleep abun-
dantly for health, but sparingly for sloth. It is better,
sometimes, to consult a page of philosophy than the pillow.
Colloquial Powers of Dr. Franklin. WIRT.
NEVER have I known such a fireside companion as he
was ! Great as he was, both as a statesman and a philoso-
pher, he never shone in a light more winning than when
he was seen in a domestic circle. It was once my good
fortune to pass two or three weeks with him, at the house
of a private gentleman, in the back part of Pennsylvania ;
and we were confined to the house during the whole of
that time, by the unintermitting constancy and depth of the
snows. But confinement could never be felt where Frank-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 13
lin was an inmate. His cheerfulness and his colloquial
powers spread around him a perpetual spring. When I
speak, however, of his colloquial powers, I do not mean to
awaken any notion analogous to that which Boswell ha?
given us, when he so frequently mentions the colloquial
powers of Dr. Johnson. The conversation of the latter
continually reminds one of " the pomp and circumstance
of glorious war." It was, indeed, a perpetual contest for
victory, or an arbitrary and despotic exaction of homage
to his superior talents. It was strong, acute, prompt,
.splendid and vociferous ; as loud, stormy, and sublime, as
those winds which he represents as shaking the Hebrides,
and rocking the old castles that frowned upon the dark
rolling sea beneath. But one gets tired of storms, however
sublime they may be, and longs for the more orderly cur-
rent of nature. Of Franklin no one ever became tired.
There was no ambition of eloquence, no effort to shine, in
any thing which came from him. There was nothing
which made any demand either upon your allegiance or
your admiration.
H'is manner was as unaffected as infancy. It was na-
ture's self. He talked like an old patriarch ; and his plain-
ness and simplicity put you, at once, at your ease, and gave
you the full and free possession and use of all your fac-
ulties.
His thoughts were of a character to shine by their own
light, without any adventitious aid. They required only a
medium of vision like his pure and simple style, to exhibit,
to the highest advantage, their native radiance and beauty.
His cheerfulness was unremitting. It seemed to be as
much the effect of the systematic and salutary exercise
of the mind as of its superior organization. His wit was
of the first order. It did not show itself merely in occa-
sional coruscations ; but, without any effort or force on his
part, it shed a constant stream of the purest light over
the whole of his discourse. Whether in the company of
commons or nobles, he was always the same plain man ;
always most perfectly at his ease, his faculties in full play,
and the full orbit of his genius forever clear and uncloud-
ed. And then the stores of his mind were inexhaustible.
He had commenced life with an attention so vigilant, that
2
14 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PHOSE.
nothing had escaped his observation, and a judgment so
solid, that every incident was turned to advantage. His
youth had not been wasted in idleness, nor overcast by in-
temperance. He had been all his life a close and deep
reader, as well as thinker ; and, by the force of his own
powers, had wrought up the raw materials, which he had
gathered from books, with such exquisite skill and felicity,
that he had added a hundred fold to their original value,
and justly made them his own.
Jin Apparition. CLUB-ROOM.
THE sun was hastening to a glorious setting as I gained
the last hill that overlooks the forest; and, late as it was, I
paused to gaze once more on this most brilliant and touch-
ing of the wonders of nature. The glories of the western
sky lasted long after the moon was in full splendour in the
east ; on one side all was rich and warm with departing
day on the other how pure and calm was the approach
of night ! If 1 had been born a heathen, I think I could
not have seen the setting sun, without believing myself
immortal : who, that had never seen the morning dawn,
could believe that wonderful orb, which sinks so slowly
and majestically through a sea of light, throwing up beams
of a thousand hues, melting and mingling together, touch-
ing the crest of the clouds with fire, and streaming over
the heavens with broad brilliancy, up to the zenith then
retiring from sight, and gradually drawing his beams after
him, till their last faint blush is extinguished in the cold,
uniform tints of moonlight who could believe that source
of light had perished ? Who then could believe that the
being, who gazes on that magnificent spectacle with such
emotion, and draws from it such high conclusions of his
own nature and destiny, is even more perishable ?
I remained absorbed in such reflections till the twilight
was almost gone. I then began rapidly to descend, and,
leaving the moon behind the hill, entered the long dark
shadow it threw over the wood at its foot. It was gloomy
and chill the faint lingering of day was hidden by the
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 15
trees, and the moon seemed to have set again, throwing
only a distant light on the rich volumes of clouds that hung
over her. As I descended farther, the air became colder,
the sky took a deeper blue, and the stars shone with a
wintry brightness. The thoughts which came tenderly
over me, by the light of the setting sun, now grew dark
and solemn ; and I felt how fleeting and unsatisfactory are
the hopes built on the analogies of nature. The sun/sets
so beautifully it seems impossible it should not rise again ;
but in the gloom of midnight, where is the promise of the
morrow ? In the cold, but still beautiful, features of the
dead, we think we see the pledge of a resurrection ; but
what hope of life is there in the dust to which they crum-
ble ?
I arrived late at the inn. It was a large and ruinous
structure, which had once been a castle, but the family of
its owner had perished in disgrace : their title was extin-
guished, their lands confiscated and sold, and their name
now almost forgotten. It stood on a small bare hill in the
midst of the forest, which it overtopped, only to lose its
shelter and shade, for from it the eye could not reach
the extremity of the wood. I knocked long before I was
admitted ; at last an old man came to the door with a lan-
tern, and, without a word of welcome, led my horse to the
stable, leaving me to find my way into the house. The
spirit of the place seemed to have infected its inhabitants.
I entered a kitchen, whose extent I could not see by the
dim fire-light, and, having stirred the embers, sat down to
warm me. The old man soon returned, and showed me
up the remains of a spacious staircase, to a long hall, in a
corner of which was my bed. I extinguished the light, and
lay down without undressing ; but the thoughts and scenes
of the evening had taken strong hold of my mind, and I
could not sleep. I did not feel troubled, but there was an
intensity of thought and feeling within me, that seemed
waiting for some great object on which to expend itself.
I rose, and walked to the window : the moon was shining
beautifully bright, but the forest was so thick that her light
only glanced on the tops of the trees, and showed nothing
distinctly all was silent and motionless not a breeze, not
a sound, not a cloud <the earth was dim and undUtinguish-
16 COMMON-PLACE DOOK OF .PROSE.
able, the heavens were filled with a calm light, and the
moon seemed to stand still in the midst. 1 know not how
long I remained leaning against the window and gazing
upward, for I was dreaming of things long past,. of which
I was then, though I knew it not, the only living witness ;
when my attention was suddenly recalled by the low but
distinct sound of some one breathing near me I turned
with a sudden thrill of fear, but saw nothing ; and, as the
sound had ceased, I readily believed it was fancy. I soon
relapsed into my former train of thought, and had forgot-
ten the circumstance, when I was again startled by a
sound I could not mistake there was some one breathing
at my very ear so terribly certain was the fact that I did
not move even my eyes ; it was not the deep, regular breath
of one asleep, nor the quick panting of guilt, but a quiet,
gentle respiration ; I remained listening till I could doubt
no longer, and then turned slowly round, that I might not
be overpowered by the suddenness of the sight, which I
knew I must meet again there was nothing to be seen
the moon shone broad into the long desolate chamber, and,
though there was a little gathering of shadow in the cor-
ners, I am sure nothing visible could have escaped ttie
keenness of my gaze, as I looked again and again along
the dark wainscot. My calmness now forsook me, and, as
I turned fearfully back to the window, my hand brushed
against the curtain, whose deep folds hid the corner near
which I was standing the blood gushed to my heart with
a sharp pang, and I involuntarily dashed my hands forward
they passed through against the damp wall, and the tide
of life rolled back, leaving me hardly able to support my
self. I stood a few moments lost in fear and wonder
when the breathing began again, and there in the bright
moonlight I felt the air driven against my face by a being
I could not see. I sat down on the bed in great agitation,
and it was a considerable time before I could at all com-
pose my mind the fact was certain, but the cause inscru-
table. I rose, and walked across the chamber.
I made three or four turns, and gradually recovered my
tranquillity, though still impressed with the belief that what
I had heard was no natural sound. I was not now in a
state to be easily deluded, for my senses were on the alert,
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 17
but my mind perfectly calm. The old floor groaned under
every tread, but the noise excited in me no alarm ; I did
not even turn when the planks sprung and cracked behind
me long after my foot had left them. But, good -God !
what were my feelings when I heard distinct footsteps fol-
lowing my own ! the light tread of naked feet I stopped
instantly, just as I had made a step the tread ceased, and
a moment after I heard a foot brought up as if to support
the walker in this unexpected pause Could it be echo ?
I struck my foot upon the floor the sound was short and
sullen, and was not repeated I walked on, but the steps
did not follow I turned, and paused again all was still.
I walked back, and as I reached the spot where the sounds
had ceased whether I heard or saw it I cannot tell but
something passed me, and a soft sigh floated along with it,
dying away in distance like the moaning of a gentle wind.
It was indistinct as it passed, but as I listened to catch its
last lingering, I knew the voice of Gertrude ! " Her-
mann !" it said, in a tone so tender and mournful, that my
eyes filled with tears, and I seemed to hear it long after it
had ceased. " Gertrude !" I cried aloud the same sweet
sigh answered me, and for an instant I caught the dark
beam of her eye there was no form, but I saw her own
look that deep melancholy gaze it was but a moment,
and it was gone. "Gertrude!" I cried again, " if it be
thou, do not fly me come to me, beloved !" A pause of
deeper silence followed ; my eyes were fixed on the air
where I had lost her, when the shadows at the extremity
of the chamber began to move like the waving of a gar-
ment ; their motion at first was indefinite and hardly per-
ceptible, but gradually increased till they parted and rolled
away, leaving a brighter space in the middle. This had at
first no determinate form, but soon began to assume the
outline of a human figure. I shall never forget the sensa-
tion of that moment my hair rose, my flesh crept, and
drops of sweat rolled fast down my cheeks ; yet it was not
fear I cannot describe the emotion with which I watched
the figure growing more and more distinct ; and even when
I saw the face of my own Gertrude, all thoughts of earth
were swallowed up in those of eternity I stood in the
presence of a spirit, and felt myself immortal ! The
2*
18 .COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
triumph was short it was too like herself the eyes were
closed, but it was her own graceful form, though attenu-
ated and almost transparent her own face pale and lan-
guid, but oh, how beautiful ! at last the eyes opened
they alone were unchanged, and they gazed on me with a
tenderness I could not bear 1 sunk on my knees, and hid
my face I felt her approach I did not raise my eyes, but
I knew she was near me by a glow of more than human
'happiness a hand was laid upon my head " Hermann !"
said the same sweet voice, " dear Hermann ! but one
year more !" and the sound floated away. I looked up
she was already disappearing she smiled on me, and the
form faded, and the shadows gathered over it.
I had sunk on the floor exhausted ; the first feeling I
remember was one of unutterable grief and loneliness ;
but the next was joy at the thought that I was not to en-
dure it long " but one year more, and I shall be with thee
forever" I could, not feel more certain of any fact of my
own experience, than that Gertrude was dead, and I should
soon follow.
I paced the chamber till day-break, and then watched
the sky till the sun rose. I was in no haste to be gone,
for I had but a short day's journey before me, and did not
wish to arrive before night. I remained in my chamber
till the.morning mists were dispersed, and then began my
journey. I rode slowly all day, musing and abstracted, and
hardly noticing the objects around me, till I reached the
brow of a hill beneath which lay the village of Underwal-
den a few simple buildings gathered close round the
church whose spire just rose above the trees ; beyond was
the gentle slope of green hills parted only by hawthorn
hedges ; and still further on, the home of my Gertrude, can-
opied by tall ancient elms, and gleaming in the yellow light
of the setting sun.
If I had had no other reason, I should have foreboded
evil from the silence of the hour it is always a quiet time,
but it has a few sounds that harmonize with its solemnity-
the lowing of the cattle, the whistle of the returning la-
bourer, or the distant merriment of the children released
from school, come naturally with the close of day but
now the cattle were gathered home, and the labourer had
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 19
left the field before the usual hour, the school was shut,
and the village green silent and solitary. A few of the
better class of villagers, in their decent sabbath dress, were
walking over the hill toward the mansion ; others, with
their wives and children, were standing round the gate of
the church-yard, and there was something mournful in the
motions and attitudes of all. I knew well what all this
meant, but I gazed on it with a vacant mind, and without
any new conviction of my desolate lot. I even saw with
a sad pleasure the beauty of a landscape, which, like all the
world, was nothing now to me. But this did not last long
suddenly there was a hum of voices, and a stir among
those who had been waiting at the church the bell tolled,
a faint chant swelled from behind the hill, and the proces-
sion came slowly in sight. Then the truth fell on me with
an overpowering weight ; I threw myself on the ground,
and looked on with a bursting heart, till all I had loved
was forever hidden from sight. Farewell, my friend ! I
am going to Rome for a few months, for it is the seat of
my religion, and I would look once more before I die
on the mightiest remains of earth. I have watched the
fall of the last leaves in Underwalden ; I shall return to
see them put forth once more, but when they fall again,
they will cover the grave of HERMANN.
Rural Occupations favourable to the Sentiments of
Devotion. BUCKMINSTER.
No situation in life is so favourable to established habits
of virtue, and to powerful sentiments of devotion, as a resi-
dence in the country, and rural occupations. I am not
speaking of a condition of peasantry, (of which, in this
country, we know little,) who are mere vassals of an ab-
sent lord, or the hired labourers of an intendant, and who
are therefore interested in nothing but the regular receipt
of their daily wages ; but I refer to the honourable cnarac-
ter of an owner of the soil, whose comforts, whose weight
in the community, and whose very existence, depend upon
his personal labours, and the regular returns of the abun-
20 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
dance from the soil which he cultivates. No man, one
would think, would feel so sensibly his immediate depend-
ence upon God, as the husbandman. For all his peculiar
blessings he is invited to look immediately to the bounty
of Heaven. No secondary cause stands between him and
his Maker. To him are essential the regular succession
of the seasons, and the timely fall of the rain, the genial
warmth of the sun, the sure productiveness of the soil,
and the certain operations of those laws of nature, which
must appear to him nothing less than the varied exertions
of omnipresent energy. In the country we seem to stand
in the midst of the great theatre of God's power, and we
feel an unusual proximity to our Creator. His blue and
tranquil sky spreads itself over our heads, and we acknowl-
edge the intrusion of no secondary agent in unfolding this
vast expanse. Nothing but Omnipotence can work up the
dark horrors of the tempest, dart the flashes of the light-
ning, and roll the long-resounding rumour of the thunder.
The breeze wafts to his senses the odours of God's benefi-
cence ; the voice of God's power is heard in the rustling
of the forest ; and the varied forms of life, activity, and
pleasure, which he observes at every step in the fields,
lead him irresistibly, one would think, to the Source of
be ng, and beauty, and joy. How auspicious such a life
to the noble sentiments of devotion ! Besides, the situation
of the husbandman is peculiarly favourable, it should seem,
to purity and simplicity of moral sentiment. He is brought
acquainted chiefly with the real and native wants of mankind.
Employed solely in bringing food out of the earth, he is
not liable to be fascinated with the fictitious pleasures, the
unnatural wants, the fashionable follies, and tyrannical vices
of more busy and splendid life.
Still more favourable to the religious character of the
husbandman is the circumstance, that, from the nature of
agricultural pursuits, they do not so completely engross
the attention as other occupations. They leave much
time for contemplation, for reading, and intellectual pleas-
ures ; and these are peculiarly grateful to the resident in
the country. Especially does the institution of the Sabbath
discover all its value to the tiller of the earth, whose fa-
tigue it solaces, whose hard labours it interrupts, and who
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 21
feels, on that day, the worth of his moral nature, which
cannot be understood by the busy man, who considers the
repose of this day as interfering with his hopes of gam, or
professional employments. If, then, this institution is of
any moral and religious value, it is to the country we must
look for the continuance of that respect and observance,
which it merits. My friends, those of you, especially,
who retire annually into the country, let these periodical
retreats from business or dissipation bring you nearer to
your God; let them restore the clearness of your judg-,
ment on the objects of human pursuit, invigorate your
moral perceptions, exalt your sentiments, and regulate your
habits of devotion ; and, if there be any virtue or simplici-
ty remaining in rural life, let them never be impaired
by the influence of your presence and example.
Reciprocal Influence of Morals and Literature.
FRISBIE.
IN no productions of modern genius is the reciprocal in-
fluence of morals and literature more distinctly seen, than
in those of the author of Childe Harold. His character
produced the poems, and it cannot be doubted, that his po-
ems are adapted to produce such a character. His heroes
speak a language supplied not more by imagination than
consciousness. They are not those machines, that, by a
contrivance of the artist, send forth a music of their own
but instruments, through which he breathes his very soul,
vn tones of agonized sensibility, that cannot but give a sym-
pathetic impulse to those who hear. The desolate misan-
thropy of his mind rises, and throws its dark shade over his
poetry, like one of his own ruined castles ; we feel it to
be sublime, but we forget that k is a sublimity it cannot
have till it is abandoned by every thing that is kind, and
peaceful, and happy, and its halls are ready to become
the haunts of outlaws and assassins. Nor are his more
tender and affectionate passages those to which we can
yield ourselves without a feeling of uneasiness. It is
not that we can here and there select a proposition formally
22 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
false and pernicious; but he leaves an impression unfa-
vourable to a healthful state of thought and feeling, pecu-
liarly dangerous to the finest minds and most susceptible
hearts. They are the scene of a summer evening, where
all is tender, and beautiful, and grand ; but the damps of
disease descend with the dews of heaven, and the pestilent
vapours of night are breathed in with the fragrance and
balm, and the delicate and fair are the surest victims of the
exposure.
Although I have illustrated the moral influence of liter-
ature principally from its mischiefs, yet it is obvious, if
what I have said be just, it may be rendered no less pow-
erful as a means of good. Is it not true that within the
last century a decided and important improvement in the
moral character of our literature has taken place ? and, had
Pope and Smollett written at the present day, would the
former have published the imitations of Chaucer, or the
latter the adventures of Pickle and Random ? Genius
cannot now sanctify impurity or want of principle ; and
our critics and reviewers are exercising jurisdiction not
only upon the literary, but moral blemishes of the authors
who come before them. We notice with peculiar pleasure
the sentence of just indignation which the Edinburgh tri-
bunal has pronounced upon Moore, Swift, Goethe, and, in
general, the German sentimentalists. Indeed, the foun-
tains of literature, into which an enemy has sometimes in-
fused poison, naturally flow with refreshment and health.
Cowper and Campbell have led the muses to repose in the
bowers of religion and virtue ; and Miss Edgeworth has so
cautiously combined the features of her characters, that
the predominant expression is ever what it should be. She
has shown us not vices ennobled by virtues, but virtues de-
graded and perverted by their union with vices. The suc-
cess of this lady has been great ; but, had she availed her-
self more of the motives and sentiments of religion, we
think it would have been greater. She has stretched
forth a powerful hand to the impotent in virtue ; and had
she added, with the apostle, in the name of Jesus of Naz-
areth, we should almost have expected miracles from iU
touch.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PKOSE. 23
Evening Scenes on the St. Lawrence.
FROM the moment the sun is down, every thing becomes
silent on the shore, which our windows overlook, and the
murmurs of the broad St. Lawrence, more than two miles
wide immediately before us, and, a little way to the
right, spreading to five or six miles in breadth, are some-
times for an hour the only sounds that arrest our attention.
Every evening since we have been here, black clouds and
splendid moonlight have hung over, and embellished this
tranquil scene ; and on two of these evenings we have
been attracted to the window, by the plaintive Canadian
boat-song. In one instance, it arose from a solitary voya-
ger, floating in his light canoe, which occasionally appear-
ed and disappeared on the sparkling river, and in its distant
course seemed no larger than some sportive insect. In
another instance, a larger boat, with more numerous and
less melodious voices, not indeed in perfect harmony, pass-
ed nearer to the shore, and gave additional life to the scene.
A few moments after, the moon broke out from a throne
of dark clouds, and seemed to convert the whole expanse
of water into one vast sheet of glittering silver ; and, in
the very brightest spot, at the distance of more than a mile,
again appeared a solitary boat, but too distant to admit of
our hearing the song, with which the boatman was proba-
bly solacing his lonely course.
Franklin's first Entrance into Philadelphia.
FRANKLIN.
I HAVE entered into the particulars of my voyage, and
shall, in like manner, describe my first entrance into this
city, that you may be able to compare beginnings so little
auspicious with the figure I have since made.
On my arrival at Philadelphia, I was in my working
dress, my best clothes being to come by sea. I was cover-
ed with dirt ; my pockets were filled with shirts and stock-
ings ; I was unacquainted with a single soul in the place,
24 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
and knew not where to seek a lodging. Fatigued with
walking, rowing, and having passed the night without
sleep, I was extremely hungry, and all my money consist-
ed of a Dutch dollar, and about a shilling's worth of cop-
pers, which I gave to the boatmen for my passage. As I
had assisted them in rowing, they refused it at first ; but I
insisted on their taking it. A man is sometimes more gen-
erous when he has little than when he has much money ,
probably because, in the first case, he is desirous of con-
cealing his poverty.
I walked towards the top of the street, looking eagerly
on both sides, till I came to Market Street, where I met
with a child with a loaf of bread. Often had I made my
dinner on dry bread. I inquired where he had bought it,
and went straight to the baker's shop, which he pointed out
to me. I asked for some biscuits, expecting to find sucli
as we had at Boston ; but they made, it seems, none of that
sort at Philadelphia. I then asked for a threepenny loaf.
They made no loaves of that price. Finding myself igno-
rant of the prices, as well as of the different kinds of bread, 1
desired him to let me have threepenny-worth of bread of
some kind or other. He gave me three large rolls. I was
surprised at receiving so much : I took them, however, and,
having no room in my pockets, I walked on with a roll under
each arm, eating a third. In this manner I went through
Market Street to Fourth Street, and passed the house of Mr.
Read, the father of my future wife. She was standing at
the door, observed me, and thought, with reason, that I
made a very singular and grotesque appearance.
I then turned the corner, and went through Chestnut
Street, eating my roll all the way ; and, having made this
round, I found myself again on Market Street wharf, near
the boat in which I arrived. 1 stepped into it to take a
draught of the river water ; and, finding myself satisfied
with my first roll, I gave the other two to a woman and
her child, who had come down with us in the boat, and
was waiting to continue her journey. Thus refreshed, I
regained the street, which was now full of well-dressed
people, all going the same way. I joined them, and was
thus led to a large Quakers' meeting-hous.- near the mar-
ketplace. I sat down with the rest and, after looking
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 25
round me for some time, hearing nothing said, and being
drowsy from my last night's labour and want of rest, I fell
into a sound sleep. In this state I continued till the as-
sembly dispersed, when one of the congregation had the
goodness to wake me. Tbis was consequently the first
house I entered, or in which I slept, at Philadelphia.
Passage of the Potomac through the Blue Ridge. -
JEFFERSON.
THE passage of the Potomac, through the Blue Ridge,
is perhaps one of the most stupendous scenes in nature.
You stand on a very high point of land. On your right
comes up the Shenandoah, having ranged along the foot
of the mountain a hundred miles to seek a vent. On your
left approaches the Potomac, seeking a passage also. In
the moment of their junction, they rush together against
the mountain, rend it asunder, and pass off to the sea.
The first glance at this scene hurries our senses into the
opinion, that this earth has been created in time ; that the
mountains were formed first ; that the rivers began to flow
afterwards ; that, in this place particularly, they have been
dammed up by the Blue Ridge of mountains, and have
formed an ocean which filled the whole valley ; that, con-
tinuing to rise, they have at length broken over at this spot,
and have torn the mountain down from its summit to its
base. The piles of rock on each hand, but particularly on
the Shenandoah, the evident marks of their disrupture and
avulsion from their beds by the most powerful agents of
nature, corroborate the impression. But the distant finish-
ing, which Nature has given to the picture, is of a very dif-
ferent character. It is a true contrast to the foreground.
It is as placid and delightful as that is wild and tremendous.
For, the mountain being cloven asunder, she presents to
your eye, through the cleft, a small catch of smooth blue
horizon, at an infinite distance in the plain country, invit-
ing you, as it were, from the riot and tumult roaring around,
to pass through the breach, and participate of the calm be-
low. Here the eye ultimately composes itself; and that
26 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
way, too, the road happens actually to lead. You cross the
Potomac above its junction, pass along its side through
the base of the mountain for three miles, its terrible preci-
pices hanging in fragments over you, and within about
twenty miles reach Fredericktown, and the fine country
round that. This scene is worth a voyage across the At-
lantic. Yet here, as in the neighbourhood of the Natu-
ral Bridge, are people who have passed their lives within
half a dozen miles, and have never been to survey these
monuments of a war between rivers and mountains, which
must have shaken the earth itself to its centre.
Moral and intellectual Efficacy of the Sacred
Scriptures. WAYLAND.
As to the powerful, I had almost said miraculous, effect 01
the Sacred Scriptures, there can no longer he a doubt in
the mind of any one on whom fact can make an impression.
That the truths of the Bible have the power of awakening
an intense moral feeling in man under every variety of
character, learned or ignorant, civilized or savage ; that they
make bad men good, and send a pulse of healthful feeling
through all the domestic, civil, and social relations; that they
teach men to love right, to hate wrong, and to seek each
other's welfare, as the children of one common parent ;
that they control the baleful passions of the human heart,
and thus make men proficients in the science of self-gov-
ernment ; and, finally, that they teach him to aspire after at
conformity to a Being of infinite holiness, and fill him with
hopes infinitely more purifying, more exalting, more suited
to his nature, than any other, which this world has ever
known, are facts incontrovertible as the laws of philoso-
phy, or the demonstrations of mathematics. Evidence in
support of all this can be brought from every age, in the
history of man, since there has been a revelation from God
on earth. We see the proof of it every where around us.
There is scarcely a neighbourhood in our country, where
the Bible is circulated, in which we cannot point you to a
very considerable portion of its population, whom its truths
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 27
have reclaimed from the practice of vice, and taught the
practice of whatsoever things are pure, and honest, and
just, and of good report.
That this distinctive and peculiar effect is produced upon
every man to whom the Gospel is announced, we pretend
not to affirm. But we do affirm, that, besides producing
this special renovation, to which we have alluded, upon a
part, it, in a most remarkable degree, elevates the tone
of moral feeling throughout the whole community.
Wherever the Bible is freely circulated, and its doctrines
carried home to the understandings of men, the aspect of
society is altered ; the frequency of crime is diminished ;
men begin to love justice, and to administer it by law ; and
a virtuous public opinion, that strongest safeguard of right,
spreads over a nation the shield of its invisible protection.
Wherever it has faithfully been brought to bear upon the
human heart, even under most unpromising circumstances,
it has, within a single generation, revolutionized the whole
structure of society ; and thus, within a few years, done
more for man than all other means have for ages accom-
plished without it. For proof of all this, I need only refer
you to the effects of the Gospel in Greenland, or in South
Africa, in the Society Islands, or even among the aborigi-
nes of our own country.
But, before we leave this part of the subject, it may be
well to pause for a moment, and inquire whether, in addi-
tion to its moral efficacy, the Bible may not exert a pow-
erful influence upon the intellectual character of man.
And here it is scarcely necessary that I should remark,
that, of all the books with which, since the invention of
writing, this world has been deluged, the number of those
is very small which have produced any perceptible effect on
the mass of human character. By far the greater part have
been, even by their cotemporaries, unnoticed and unknown.
Not many a one has made its little mark upon the genera-
tion that produced it, though it sunk with that generation
to utter forgetfulness. But, after the ceaseless toil of six
thousand years, how few have been the works, the adaman-
tine basis of whose reputation has stood unhurt amid the
fluctuations of time, and whose impression can be traced
through successive centuries, on the history of our species.
28 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
When, however, such a work appears, its effects are a!i -
solutely incalculable ; and such a work, you are aware, is
the ILIAD OF HOMER. Who can estimate the results
produced by the incomparable efforts of a single mind ;
Who can tell what Greece owes to this first-born of song ?
Her breathing marbles, her solemn temples, her unrivalled
eloquence, and her matchless verse, all point us to that
transcendent genius, who, by the very splendour of his
own effulgence, woke the human intellect from the slum-
ber of ages. It was Homer who gave laws to the artist ;
it was Homer who inspired the poet ; it was Homer whc
thundered in the senate ; and, more than all, it was Ho-
mer who was sung by the people ; and hence a nation
was cast into the mould of one mighty mind, and the land
of the Iliad became the region of taste, the birth-place of
the arts.
Nor was this influence confined within the limits of
Greece. Long after the sceptre of empire had passed
westward, Genius still held her court on the banks of the
Ilyssus, and from the country of Homer gave laws to the
world. The light, which the blind old man of Sci6 had
kindled in Greece, shed its radiance over Italy ; and thus
did he awaken a second nation into intellectual existence.
And we may form some idea of the power which this one
work has to the present day exerted over the mind of man,
by remarking, laat " nation after nation, and century after
century, has been able to do little more than transpose
his incidents, new-name his characters, and paraphrase his
sentiments."
But, considered simply as an intellectual production,
who will compare the poems of Homer with the Holy
Scriptures of the Old and New Testament ? Where in
the Iliad shall we find simplicity and pathos which shall
vie with the narrative of Moses, or maxims of conduct to
equal in wisdom the Proverbs of Solomon, or sublimity
which does not fade away before the conceptions of Job or
David, of Isaiah or St. John ? But I cannot pursue this
comparison. I feel that it is doing wrong to the mind
which dictated the Iliad, and to those other mighty intel-
lects on whom the light of the holy oracles never shined.
Who that has read hie poem has not observed how he strove
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 29
in vain to give dignity to the mythology of his time ? Who
has not seen how the religion of his country, unable to
support the flight of his imagination, sunk powerless be-
neath him ? It is the unseen world, where the master spir-
its of our race breathe freely, and are at home ; and it ia
mournful to behold the intellect of Homer striving to free
itself from the conceptions of materialism, and then sink-
ing down iu hopeless despair, to weave idle tales about
Jupiter and Juno, Apollo and Diana. But the difficulties
under which he laboured are abundantly illustrated by the
fact, that the light, which he poured upon the human intel-
lect, taught other ages how unworthy was the religion of
his day of the man who was compelled to use It. " It
seems to me," says Longinus, " that Homer, when he de-
scribes dissensions, jealousies, tears, imprisonments, and
other afflictions to his deities, hath, as much as was in his
power, made the men of the Iliad gods, and the gods men.
To man, when afflicted, death is the termination of evils ;
but he hath made not only the nature, but the miseries, of
the gods eternal."
If, then, so great results have flowed from this one ef-
fort of a single mind, what may we not expect from the com-
bined efforts of several, at least his equals in power over
the human heart? If that one genius, though groping in
the thick darkness of absurd idolatry, wrought so glorious
a transformation in the character of his countrymen, what
may we net look for from the universal dissemination of
those writings, on whose authors was poured the full splen-
dour of eternal truth ? If unassisted human nature, spell-
bound by a childish mythology, have done so much, what
may we not hope for from the supernatural efforts f pre-
eminent genius, which spake as it was moved by the Holy
Ghost >
Character of Washington. AMES.
THERE has scarcely appeared a really great man, whose
character has been more admired in his life time, or less
correctly understood by his admirers. When it is compre-
3"
30 ' COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
bended, it is no easy task to delineate its excellencies in
such a manner as to give to the portrait both interest and
resemblance ; for it requires thought and study to under-
stand the .true ground of the superiority of his character
over many others, whom he resembled in the principles of
action, and even in the manner of acting. But perhaps he
excels all the great men that ever lived in the steadiness
of his adherence to his maxims of life, and in the uniformity
of all his conduct to the same maxims. These maxims,
though wise, were yet not so remarkable for their wisdom, as
for their authority ovei his life ; for, if there were any er-
rors in his judgment, (and he discovered as few as any
man,) we know of no blemishes in his virtue He was the
patriot without reproach ; he loved his country well enough
to hold his success in serving it an ample recompense. Thus
far self-love and love of country coincided ; but when his
country needed sacrifices that no other man could, or per-
haps would, be willing to make, he did not even hesitate.
This was virtue in its most exalted character. More than
once he put his fame at hazard, when he had reason to
think it would be sacrificed, at least in this age. Two in-
stances cannot be denied; when the army was disbanded,
and again, when he stood, like Leonidas at the pass of Ther-
mopylae, to defend our independence against France.
It is, indeed, almost as difficult to draw his character, as
the portrait of Virtue. The reasons are similar : our ideas
of moral excellence are obscure, because they are com-
plex, and we are obliged to resort to illustrations. Wash-
ington's example is the happiest to show what virtue is ;
and, to delineate his character, we naturally expatiate on
the beauty of virtue ; much must be felt, and much ima^
gined. His pre-eminence is not so much to be seen in the
display of any one virtue, as in the possession of them all,
and in the practice of the most difficult. Hereafter, there-
fore, his character must be studied before it will be strik-
ing ; and then it will be admitted as a model, a precious
one to a free republic.
It is no less difficult to speak of his talents. They were
adapted to lead, without dazzling mankind ; and to draw
forth and employ the talent? of others, without being mis-
led by them. In this he was certainly superior, that he
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 31
neither mistook nor misapplied his own. His great modesty
and reserve would have concealed them, if great occasions
had not called them forth ; and then, as he never spoke
from the affectation to shine, nor acted from any sinister
motives, it is from their effects only that we are to judge of
their greatness and extent. In public trusts, where men,
acting conspicuously, are cautious, and in those private
concerns where few conceal or resist their weaknesses,
Washington was uniformly great, pursuing right conduct
from right maxims. His talents were such as assist a sound
judgment, and ripen with it. His prudence was consum-
mate, and seemed to take the direction of his powers and
passions ; for, as a soldier, he was more solicitous to avoid
mistakes that might be fatal, than to perform exploits tlu-t
are brilliant ; and, as a statesman, to adhere to just princi-
ples, however old, than to pursue novelties ; and therefore,
in both characters, his qualities were singularly adapted to
the interest, and were tried in the greatest perils of the
country. His habits of inquiry were so far remarkable, that
he was never satisfied with investigating, nor desisted from
it, so long as he had less than all the light that he could obtain
upon a subject, and then he made his decision without bias.
This command over the partialities that so generally stop
men short, or turn them aside in their pursuit of truth, is
one of the chief causes of his unvaried course of right
conduct in so many difficult scenes, where every human
actor must be presumed to err. If he had. strong passions,
ho had learned to subdue them, and to be moderate and
mild. If he had weaknesses, he concealed them, which
is rare, and excluded them from the government of his
temper and conduct, which is still more rare. If he loved
fame, he never made improper compliances for what is
called popularity. The fame he enjoyed is of the kinJ
that will last forever ; yet it was rather the effect, than the
motive of his conduct. Some future Plutarch will search
for a parallel to his character. Epaminondas is perhaps the
brightest name of all antiquity. Our Washington resem-
bled him in the purity and ardour of his patriotism ; and
like him he first exalted the glory of his country. There,
it is to be hoped, the parallel ends ; for Thebes fell with
Epaminondas. But such comparisons cannot be pursued
32 COMMON-PLACE BOOK Of 1'ROSE.
far without departing from the similitude. For we shall
find it as difficult to compare great men as great rivers
Some we admire for the length and rapidity of their cur-
rent, and the grandeur of their cataracts ; others for the
majestic silence and fulness of their streams : we cannot
bring them together to measure the difference of their
waters. The unambitious life of Washington, declining
fame, yet courted by it, seemed, like the Ohio, to choose
its long way through solitudes, diffusing fertility ; or, like
his own Potomac, widening and deepening his channel
as he approaches the sea, and displaying most the useful-
ness and serenity of his greatness towards the end of his
course. Such a citizen would do honour to any country.
The constant affection and veneration of his country will
show, that it was worthy of such a citizen.
However his military fame may excite the wonder of
mankind, it is chiefly by his civil magistracy, that his ex-
ample will instruct them. Great generals have arisen in
all ages of the world, and perhaps most in those of despot-
ism and darkness. In times of violence and convulsion,
they rise, by the force of the whirlwind, high enough to
ride in it, and direct the storm. Like meteors, they glare
on the black clouds with a splendour, that, while it dazzles
and terrifies, makes nothing visible but the darkness. The
fame of heroes is indeed growing vulgar ; they multiply
in every long war ; they stand in history, and thicken in
their ranks, almost as undistinguished as their own soldiers.
But such a chief magistrate as Washington appears, like the
pole star in a clear sky, to direct the skilful statesman. His
presidency will form an epoch, and be distinguished as the
age of Washington. Already it assumes its high place in
the political region. Like the milky way, it whitens along
its allotted portion of the hemisphere. The latest genera-
tions of men will survey, through the telescope of history,
the space where so many virtues blend their rays, and de-
light to separate them into groups and distinct virtues. As
the best illustration of them, the living monument to which
the first of patriots would have chosen to consign his fame,
it is my earnest prayer to Heaven that our country may
subsist, even to that late day, in the plenitude of its liberty
and happiness, and mingle its mild glory with Washington's.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
Labours of periodical Composition. IDLE MAN.
I KNOW that it is an arduous undertaking, for one whose
mind rarely feels the spring of bodily health bearing it up,
whose frame is soon worn by mental labour, and who can
seldom go to his task with that hopeful sense sustaining
him, which a vigorous and clear spirit gives to the soul. To
know that our hour for toil is come, and that we are weak
and unprepared ; to feel that depression or lassitude is
weighing us down, when we must feign lightness and
mirth ; or to mock our secret griefs with show of others
not akin, must be the fate of him who labours in such a
work. This is not all. When our work is done, and well
done, the excitement which the employment had given us
is gone, the spirits sink down, and there is a dreadful void
in the mind. We feel as powerless as infancy till pushed
to the exertion of our powers again ; even great success has
its terrors. We fear that we shall never do so well again ;
and know how churlishly the world receives from us that
which will not bear a comparison with what we have given
them before.
Yet these sufferings have their rewards. To bear up
against ill health by a sudden and strong effort, to shake off
low spirits, and drive away the mists which lie thick and
heavy upon the mind, gives a new state of being to the
soul cheerful as the light. To sit at home in our easy
chair, and send our gay thoughts abroad, as it were, on
wings to thousands to Imagine them laughing over the
odd fancies and drolleries which had made us vain and
happy in secret, multiplies and spreads our sympathies qui-
etly and happily through the world. In this way, too, we
can pour out before the world thoughts which had never
been laid open even to a friend ; and make it feel our mel-
ancholy, and bear our griefs, while we still sit in the secret
of our souls. The heart tells its story abroad, yet loses not
ita delicacy : it lays itself bare, but is still sensitive.
34 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
Industry necessary to the Attainment of Eloquence.
WARE.
THE history of the world is full of testimony to prove
how much depends upon industry ; not an eminent orator
has lived but is an example of it. Yet, in contradiction to
all this, the almost universal feeling appears to be, that in-
dustry can effect nothing, that eminence is the result of
accident, and ftiat every one must be content to remain just
what he may happen to be. Thus multitudes, who como
forward as teachers and guides, suffer themselves to be sat-
isfied with the most indifferent attainments, and a miserable
mediocrity, without so much as inquiring how they may
rise higher, much less making any attempt to rise. For
any other art they would have served an apprenticeship,
and would be ashamed to practise it in public before they
had learned it. If any one would sing, he attends a mas-
ter, and is drilled in the very elementary principles ; and
only after the most laborious process dares to exercise his
voice in public. This he does, though he has scarce any
thing to learn but the mechanical execution of what lie?
in sensible forms before the eye. But the extempore speak-
er, who is to invent as well as to utter, to carry on an opera-
tion of the mind as well as to produce sound, enters upon the
work without preparatory discipline, and then wonders that
he fails ! If he were learning to play on the flute for pub-
lic exhibition, what hours and days would he spend in giv-
ing facility to his fingers, and attaining the power of the
sweetest and most expressive execution ! If he were de-
voting himself to the organ, what months and years would
he labour, that he might know its compass, and be master
of its keys, and be able to draw out, at will, all its various
combinations of harmonious sound, and its full richness and
delicacy of expression ! And yet he will fancy that the
grandest, the most various and most expressive of all instru-
ments, which the infinite Creator has fashioned by the union
of an intellectual soul with the powers of speech, may be
played upon without study or practice ; he comes to it a
mere uninstructed tyro, and thinks to manage all its stops,
and command the whole compass of its varied and com-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 35
prehensive power ! He finds himself a bungler in the at-
tempt, is mortified at his failure, and settles it in his mind
forever, that the attempt is vain.
Success in every art, whatever may be the natural talent,
is always the reward of industry and pains. But the in-
stances are many, of men of the finest natural genius,
whose beginning has promised much, but who have de-
generated wretchedly as they advanced, because they
trusted to their gifts, and made no efforts to improve. That
there have never been other men of equal endowments
with Demosthenes and Cicero, none would venture to sup-
pose ; but who have so devoted themselves to their art, or
become equal in excellence ? If those great men had been
content, like others, to continue as they began, and had
never made their persevering efforts for improvement, what
would their countries have benefited from their genius, or
the world have known of their fame ? They would have
been lost in the undistinguished crowd that sunk to oblivion
around them. Of how many more will the same remark
prove true ! What encouragement is thus given to the
industrious ! With such encouragement, how inexcusable
is the negligence, which suffers the most interesting and
important truths to seem heavy and dull, and fall ineffec-
tual to the ground, through mere sluggishness in their de-
livery ! How unworthy of one, who performs the high
functions of a religious instructor, upon whom depend, in a
great measure, the religious knowledge, and devotional
sentiments, and final character, of many fellow-beings,
to imagine, that he can worthily discharge this great con-
cern, by occasionally talking for an hour, he knows not
how, and in a manner which he has taken no pains to ren-
der correct, impressive, and attractive ; and which, simply
through want of that command over himself, which study
would give, is immethodical, verbose, inaccurate, feeble,
trifling. It has been said of the good -preacher, that " truths
divine come mended from his tongue." Alas ! they come
ruined and worthless from such a man as this. They lose
that holy energy, by which they are to convert the soul and
purify man for heaven, and sink, in interest and efficacy,
below the level of those principles, which govern the ordi-
nary affairs of this lower world.
36 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
Ingratitude towards the Deity. APPLETOW.
PERHAPS there is no crime which finds fewer advocates
than ingratitude. Persons accused of this may deny the
charge, but they never attempt to justify the disposition.
They never say that there is no obliquity and demerit in
being unmindful of benefits. If a moral fitness is discern-
ible on any occasion, it is so on an occasion of favours be-
stowed and received. In proportion to these favours is
the degree of demerit attached to ingratitude. Agreeable
to this is the sentence so often quoted from Publius Syrus,
" Omne dixeris maledictum, quum ingratum hominem dix-
eris."
With what feelings do we receive and enjoy favours
bestowed by our Creator ! Our dependence on him is ab-
solute and universal. Existence is not more truly his gift,
than are all those objects, which render existence valuable.
To his munificence are we indebted for intellectual powers,
and the means for their cultivation ; for the sustenance
daily provided ; for the enjoyments derived from the ac-
tive and varying scenes of the day, and from the rest and
tranquillity of the night. His gifts are the relations and
friends, whom we love, and from whose affection to us so
considerable a part of the joy of life is derived. His are
the showers which moisten, and the sun which warms the
earth. From Him are the pleasures and animation of
spring, and the riches of harvest all, that satisfies the ap-
petite, supports or restores the animal system, gratifies the
ear, or charms the eye. With what emotions, let it be
asked, are all these objects viewed, and these blessings en-
joyed ? Is it the habit of man to acknowledge God in his
works, and to attribute all his pleasures and security of life
to the Creator's munificence ? Possession and prosperity
are enjoyed not as a gift to the undeserving, but as the re-
sult of chance or good fortune, or as the merited reward of
our own prudence and effort. Were gratitude a trait in the
human character, it would be proportionate to obligation ;
and where much is received much would be acknowledged.
In this the liveliest sense of obligation would be exhibited
among the wealthy, and those whose prosperity had been
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 37
long and uninterrupted. But do facts correspond to this
supposition ? Are God, his providence, and bounty, most
sensibly and devoutly acknowledged by you, who feel no
want, and are tried by no adversity ? The truth is, our
sense of obligation usually diminishes in proportion to the
greatness and duration of blessings bestowed. A long
course of prosperity renders us the more insensible and
irreligious.
But on no subject is human ingratitude so remarkably
apparent, as in regard to the Christian religion. I speak
not of those who reject, but of those who believe Chris-
tianity, and who of course believe that " God so loved the
world, as to give his only begotten Son, that whosoever
believeth on him might not perish." Search all the records
of every era and nation ; look through the works of God
so far as they are open to human inspection, and you find
nothing which equally displays the riches of divine mercy.
The Son of God died to save culprits from merited condem-
nation. But is this subject contemplated with interest,
with joy, with astonishment ? It is viewed with the most
frigid indifference or heartfelt reluctance. The human
mind, far from considering this as a favourite subject, flies
from it, when occasionally presented.
Resistance to Oppression." J. QUINCY, JUN.
To complain of the enormities of power, to expostulate
with overgrown oppressors, hath in all ages been denomi-
nated sedition and faction ; and to turn upon tyrants, trea-
son and rebellion. But tyrants are rebels against the first
laws of Heaven and society ; to oppose their ravages is an
instinct of nature the inspiration of God in the heart of
man. In the noble resistance which mankind make to ex-
orbitant ambition and power, they always feel that divine
afflatus, which, paramount to every thing human, causes
* This piece is extracted from " Observations on the Boston Port
Bill," first published in 1774, and recently reprinted in connexion with
the Life of Mr. Quincy, by his son.-Eo.
4
88 COMMON-I'LACE BOOK OF PROSE.
them to consider the Lord of Hosts as their leader, and his
angels as fellow-soldiers. Trumpets are to them joyful
sounds, and the ensigns of war the banners of God. Their
wounds are bound up in the oil of a good cause ; sudden
death is to them present martyrdom, and funeral obsequies
resurrections to eternal honour and glory, their widows
and babes being received into the arms of a compassionate
God, and their names enrolled among David's worthies :
greatest losses are to them greatest gains ; for they leave
the troubles of their warfare to lie down on beds of eter-
nal rest and felicity.
Lafayette in the French Revolution. TICKNOK.
LAFAYETTE was, also, a prominent member of the
States General, which met in 1789, and assumed the name
of the National Assembly. He proposed, in this body, a
Declaration of Rights, not unlike our own, and it was un-
der his influence, and while he was, for this very purpose,
in the chair, that a decree was passed on the night of the
13th and 14th of July, at the moment the Bastile was fall-
ing before the cannon of the populace, which provided for
the responsibility of ministers, and thus furnished one of
the most important elements of a representative monarchy.
Two days afterwards, he was appointed commander in
chief of the National Guards of Paris, and thus was placed
at the head of what was intended to be made, when it
should be carried into all the departments, the effective
military power of the realm, and what, under his wise
management, soon became such.
His great military command, and his still greater per-
sonal influence, now brought him constantly in contact
with the throne. His position, therefore, was extremely
delicate and difficult, especially as the popular party in
Paris, of which he was not so much the head as the idol,
was already in a state of perilous excitement, and atrocious
violences were beginning to be committed. The abhor-
rence of the queen was almost universal, and was exces-
sive to a degree of which we can have no just idea. The
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 39
circumstance that the court lived at Versailles, sixteen
miles from Paris, and that the National Assembly was held
there, was another source of jealousy, irritation, and ha-
tred, on the part of the capital. The people of Paris, there-
fore, as a sign of opposition, had mounted their municipal
cockade of blue and red, whose effects were already be-
coming alarming. Lafayette, who was anxious about the
consequences of such a marked division, and who knew
how important are small means of conciliation, added to it,
on the 26th of July, the white of the royal cockade, and,
as he placed it in his own hat, amidst the acclamations of
the multitude, prophesied that it " would go round the
world ;" a prediction that is already more than half ac-
complished, since the tri-colourcd cockade has been used
for the ensign of emancipation in Spain, in Naples, in some
parts of South America, and in Greece.
Still, however, the tendency of every thing was to con-
fusion and violence. The troubles of the times, too, rather
than a positive want of the means of subsistence, had
brought on a famine in the capital ; and the populace of
fauxbourgs, the most degraded certainly in France, having
assembled and armed themselves, determined to go to Ver-
sailles ; the greater part with a blind desire for vengeance
on the royal family,, but others only with the purpose of
bringing the king from Versailles, and forcing him to re-
side in the more ancient, but scarcely habitable palace of
the Thuilleries, in the midst of Paris. The National
Guards clamoured to accompany this savage multitude.
Lafayette opposed their inclination; the municipality of
Paris hesitated, but supported it ; he resisted nearly the
whole of the 5th of October, while the road to Versailles
was already thronged with an exasperated mob of above
a hundred thousand ferocious men and women, until, at
last, finding the multitude were armed, and even had can-
non, he asked and received an order to march from the
competent authority, and set off at four o'clock in the af-
ternoon, as one going to a post of imminent danger, which
it had clearly become his duty to occupy.
He arrived at Versailles at ten o'clock at night, after
having been on horseback from before daylight in the
morning, and having made, during the whole interval, both
40 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
at Paris and on the road, incredible exertions to control the
multitude and calm the soldiers. " The Marquis de La-
fayette at last entered the Chateau," says Madame de Stafll,
" and, passing through the apartment where we were,
went to the king. We all pressed round him as if he were
the master of events, and yet the popular party was already
more powerful than its chief, and principles were yielding
to factions, or rather were beginning to serve as their pre-
texts. M. de Lafayette's manner was perfectly calm ; no-
body ever saw it otherwise ; but his delicacy suffered from
the importance of the part he was called to act. He asked
for the interior posts of the Chateau, in order that he might
ensure their safety. Only the outer posts were granted to
him." This refusal was not disrespectful to him who made
the request. It was given simply because the etiquette
of the court reserved the guard of the royal person and
family to another body of men. Lafayette, therefore, an-
swered for the National Guards, and for the posts commit-
ted to them ; but he could answer for no more ; and hia
pledge was faithfully and desperately redeemed.
Between two and three o'clock, the queen and the royal
family went to bed. Lafayette, too, slept after the great
fatigues of this fearful day. At half past four, a portion
of the populace made their way into the palace by an ob-
scure, interior passage, which had been overlooked, and
which was not in that part of the Chateau intrusted to
].:i!".i\ i-ttr. They were evidently led by persons who well
knew the secret avenues. Mirabeau's name was after-
wards strangely compromised in it, and the form of the infa-
mous Duke of Orleans was repeatedly recognised on the great
staircase, pointing the assassins the way to the queen's cham-
ber. They easily found it. Two of her guards were cut
down in an instant, and she made her escape almost naked.
Lafayette immediately rushed in with the national troops,
protected the guards from the brutal populace, and saved
the lives of the royal family, which had so nearly been sac-
rificed to the etiquette of the monarchy.
The day dawned, as this fearful scene of guilt and blood-
shed was passing in the magnificent palace, whose con-
struction had exhausted the revenues of Louis Fourteenth,
and which, for a century, had been the most splendid resi-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 41
dencc in Europe. As soon as it was light, the same furi-
ous multitude tilled the space, which, from the rich mate-
rials of which it was formed, passed under the name of the
Court of Marble. They called upon the king, in tones
not to be mistaken, to go to Paris ; and they called for the
queen, who had but just escaped from their daggers, to
come out upon the balcony. The king, after a short con-
sultation with his ministers, announced his intention to set
out for the capital ; but Lafayette was afraid to trust the
queen in the midst of the blood-thirsty multitude. He
went to her, therefore, with respectful hesitation, and ask-
ed her if it were her intention to accompany the king to
Paris. " Yes," she replied, " although I am aware of the
danger." " Are you positively determined ?" " Yes, sir."
" Condescend, then, to go out upon the balcony, and suffer
me to attend you." " Without the king ?" she replied,
hesitating " Have you observed the threats ?" " Yes,
madam, I have ; but dare to trust me." He led her out
upon the balcony. It was a moment of great responsibility
and great delicacy ; but nothing, he felt assured, could be
so dangerous as to permit her to set out for Paris, surround-
ed by that multitude, unless its feelings could be changed.
The agitation, the tumult, the cries of the crowd, rendered
it impossible that his voice should be heard. It was neces-
sary, therefore, to address himself to the eye, and, turning
towards the queen with that admirable presence of mind
which never yet forsook him, and with that mingled grace
and dignity, which were the peculiar inheritance of the
ancient court of France, he simply kissed her hand before
the vast multitude. An instant of silent astonishment fol-
lowed, but the whole was immediately interpreted, and
the air was rent with cries of " Long live the queen !"
" Long live the general !" from the same fickle and cruel
populace, that, only two hours before, had imbrued their
hands in the blood of the guards who defended the life of
this same queen.
4"
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
Poeta nascitur, Orator fit. MONTHLY ANTHOLOGY
POETRY is the frolic of invention, the dance of words,
and the harmony of sounds. Oratory consists in a judi-
cious disposition of arguments, a happy selection of terms,
and a pleasing elocution. The object of poetry is to de-
light, that of oratory to persuade. Poetry is truth, but it
is truth in her gayest and loveliest robes, and wit, flattery,
hyperbole, and fable, are marshalled in her train. Oratory
has a graver and more majestic port, and gains by slow ad-
vances and perseverance what the poet takes by sudden-
ness of inspiration, and by surprise. Poetry requires ge
nius; eloquence is within the reach of talent. Serious-
ness becomes one, sprightliness the other. The wittiest
poets have been the shortest writers ; but he is often the
best orator, who has the strongest lungs, and the firmest
legs. The poet sings for the approbation of the wise and
the pleasure of the ingenious; the orator addresses ill
multitude, and the larger the number of ears, the better
for his purpose ; and he who can get the most votes most
thoroughly understands his art. Bad verses are always
abominable : but he is a good speaker who gains his cause.
Bards are generally remarkable for generosity of nature;
orators are as often notorious for their ambition. These en-
joy most influence while alive ; those live longest after
death. Poets are not necessarily poor ; for Theocritus and
Anacreon, Horace and Lucian, Racine and Boileau, Pope and
Addison, rolled in their carriages, and slept in palaces ; yet
it must be confessed, that most of the poetical tribe have
rather feared the tap of the sheriff, than the damnation of
critics. The poverty of a poet takes nothing from the
richness and sweetness of his lines ; while an orator's suc-
cess is not infrequently promoted by his wealth. Never-
theless, were I poor, I would study eloquence, that I might
be rich ; had I riches, I would study poetry, that I might
give a portion of immortality to both. Could I write no
better than Blackmore, I would sometimes versify ; but
were I privileged to soar upon the daring wing of Dryden's
muse, I would not keep my pinions continually spread.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 43
Intellectual Qualities of Milton. CHANGING.
IN- speaking of the intellectual qualities of Milton, we
may begin by observing that the very splendour of his poetic
fame has tended to obscure or conceal the extent of his
inind, and the variety of its energies and attainments. To
many he seems only a poet, when in truth he was a pro-
found scholar, a man of vast compass of thought, imbued
thoroughly with all ancient and modern learning, and able
to master, to mould, to impregnate with his own intellectu-
al power, his great and various acquisitions. He had not
learned the superficial doctrine of a later day, that poetry
flourishes most in an uncultivated soil, and that imagination
shapes its brightest visions from the mists of a superstitious
age ; and he had no dread of accumulating knowledge,
lest he should oppress and smother his genius. He waa
conscious of that within him, which could quicken all
knowledge, and wield it with ease and might; which could
give freshness to old truths, and harmony to discordant
thoughts ; which could bind together, by living ties and
mysterious affinities, the most remote discoveries ; and rear
fabrics of glory and beauty from the rude materials which
other minds had collected. Milton had that universality
which marks the highest order of intellect. Though ac-
customed, almost from infancy, to drink at the fountains of
classical literature, he had nothing of the pedantry and fas-
tidiousness, which disdain all other draughts. His heal-
thy mind delighted in genius, in whatever soil, or in what-
ever age it has burst forth, and poured out its fulness. He
understood too well the right, and dignity, and pride of cre-
ative imagination, to lay on it the laws of the Greek or Ro
man school. Parnassus was not to him the only holy ground
of genius. He felt that poetry was a universal .presence.
Great minds were every where his kindred. He felt the
enchantment of oriental fiction, surrendered himself to
the strange creations of " Araby the blest," and delighted
still more in the romantic spirit of chivalry, and in the tales
of wonder in which it was imbodied. Accordingly, his
poetry reminds us of the ocean, which adds to its own
boundlessness contributions from all regions under heaven.
44 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
Nor was it only in the department of imagination, that his
acquisitions were vast. He travelled over the whole field of
knowledge, as far as it had then been explored. His various
philological attainments were used to put him in pt-i-"iuii
of the wisdom stored in all countries where the intellect
had been cultivated. The natural philosophy, metaphys-
ics, ethics, history, theology and political science of his
own and former times were familiar to him. Never was
there a more unconfmed mind ; and we would cite Milton
as a practical example of the benefits of that universal cul-
ture of intellect, which forms one distinction of our times,
but which some dread as unfriendly to original thought.
Let such remember, that mind is in its own nature difl'iiMvc.
Its object is the universe, which is strictly one, or bound
together by infinite connexions and correspondencies ; and,
accordingly, its natural progress is from one to another field
of thought ; and, wherever original power or creative ge-
nius exists, the mind, far from being distracted or oppressed
by the variety of its acquisitions, will see more and more
bearings, and hidden and beautiful analogies in all the objects
of knowledge, will see mutual light shed from truth to
truth, and will compel, as with a kingly power, whatever
it understands to yield some tribute of proof, or illustration,
or splendour, to whatever topic it would unfold.
National Recollections the Foundation of national Char-
acter. EDWARD EVERETT.
AND how is the spirit of a free people to be formed, and
animated, and cheered, but out of the store-house of its
historic recollections ? Are we to be eternally ringing
the changes upon Marathon and Thermopylae ; and going
back to read in obscure texts of Greek and Latin of the
exemplars of patriotic virtue ? I thank God that we can find
them nearer home, in our own country, on our own soil ;
that strains of the noblest sentiment that ever swelled in
the breast of man, are breathing to us out of every page
of our country's history, in the native eloquence of our
mother tongue ; that the colonial and provincial councils
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 45
of America exhibit to us models of the spirit and charac-
ter, which gave Greece and Rome their name and their
praise among the nations. Here we ought to go for our in-
struction ; the lesson is plain, it is clear, it is applicable.
When we go to ancient history, we are bewildered with
the difference of manners and institutions. We are willing
to pay our tribute of applause to the memory of Leonidas,
who fell nobly for his country in the face of his foe. But
when we trace him to his home, we are confounded at the
reflection, that the same Spartan heroism, to which he sacri-
ficed himself at Thermopylae, would have led him to tear
his own child, if it had happened to be a sickly babe, tho
very object for which all that is kind and good in man
rises up to plead, from the bosom of its mother, and carry
it out to be eaten by the wolves of Taygctus. We feel a
glow of admiration at the heroism displayed at Marathon,
by the ten thousand champions of invaded Greece ; bu
we cannot forget that the tenth part of the number were
slaves, unchained from the work-shops and door-posts of
their masters, to go and fight the battles of freedom. I do
not mean that these examples are*to destroy the intercs 1
with which we read the history of ancient times ; they
possibly increase that interest by the very contrasts they
exhibit. But they do warn us, if we need the warning,
to seek our great practical lessons of patriotism at home ; out
of the exploits and sacrifices of which our own country is
the theatre ; out of the characters of our own fathers.
Them we know, the high-souled, natural, unaffected, the
citizen heroes. We know what happy firesides they left
for the cheerless camp. We know with what pacific habits
they dared the perils of the field. There is no mystery,
no romance, no madness, under the name of chivalry, about
them. It is all resolute, manly resistance for conscience*
and liberty's sake, not merely of an overwhelming power,
but of all the force of long-rooted habits and native love of
order and peace.
Above all, their blood calls to us from the soil which we
tread ; it beats in our veins ; it cries to us not merely in the
thrilling words of one. of the first victims in this cause,
" My sons, scorn to be slaves !" but it cries with a still
more moving eloquence " My eons, forget not your fa-
46 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
thcrs!" Fast, oh! too fast, with all our efforts to prevent
it, their precious memories are dying away. Notwithstand-
ing our numerous written memorials, much of \\li.-u H
known of those eventful times dwells but in the recollec-
tions of a few revered survivors, and with them is rapidly
perishing unrecorded and irretrievable. How many pru-
dent counsels, conceived in perplexed times; how many
heart-stirring words, uttered when liberty was treason ,
how many brave and heroic deeds, performed when the
halter, not the laurel, was the promised meed of patriotic
daring, are already lost and forgotten in the graves of their
authors! How little do we, although we have been per-
mitted to hold converse with the venerable remnants of
that day, how little do we know of their dark and anx-
ious hours ; of their secret meditations ; of the hurried
and perilous events of the momentous struggle ! And while
they are dropping around us like the leaves of autumn,
while scarce a week passes that does not call away some
member of the veteran ranks, already so sadly thinned,
shall we make no effort to hand down the traditions of their
day to our children ; td pass the torch of liberty, which
we received in all the splendour of its first enkindling, -
bright and flaming, to those who stand next us on the
line ; so that, when we shall come to be gathered to the
dust where our fathers are laid, we may say to our sons
and our grandsons, " If we did not amass, we have not
squandered your inheritance of glory ?"
Extract from the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. IRVINO.
ON a fine autumnal morning, Ichabod, in pensive mood,
sat enthroned on a lofty stool, from whence he usually
watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In
his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic pow-
er ; the birch of justice reposed on three nails behind the
throne, a constant terror to evil doers ; while on the desk be-
fore him might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohib-
ited weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins ; sm-li
s half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, flycages, and
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 47
Whole legions of rampant little paper game-cocks. Appa-
rently there had been some act of justice recently iiilKct-
ed ; for his scholars were all busily intent upon their books,
or slyly whispering behind them, with one eye kept upon
the master ; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned
throughout the school-room. It was suddenly interrupted
by the appearance of a negro in tow-cloth jacket and trow-
sers, a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of
Mercury, and mounted on a ragged, wild, half-broken colt,
which he managed with a rope, by way of halter. He
came clattering up to the school-door, with an invitation to
Ichabod to attend a merry-making, or " quilting frolic,"
to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's ; and, hav-
ing delivered his message with that air of importance, and
effort of fine language, which a negro is apt to display on
petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and
was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the im-
portance and hurry of his mission.
All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school-
room. The scholars were hurried through their lessons
without stopping at trifles ; those who were nimble skip-
ped over half with impunity, and those who were tardy
had a smart application now and then in the rear, to quick-
en their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books were
thrown aside without being put away on the shelves ; ink-
stands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the
whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual
time ; bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping
and racketing about the green, in joy at their early eman-
cipation.
The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half-
hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and
indeed only, suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by
a bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in the school
house. That he might make his appearance before his mis-
tress in the true spirit of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse
from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a chol-
eric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van RipM^^nd,
thus gallantly mounted, issued forth like a knigh^Wrant
in quest of adventures. But it is fit that I should, in the
true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the
48 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The ani-
mal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, thut h;ui
outlived almost every thing but his viciousness. He was
gaunt and shagged, with an ewe neck, and a head like a
hammer ; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knot-
ted with burrs ; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring
and spectral, but the other had the gleam of a genuine
devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day,
if we may judge from his name, which was Gunpowder. He
had, in fact, been a favourite steed of his master's, the chole-
ric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused,
very probably, some of his spirit into the animal ; for, old and
broken down as he looked, there was more of the lurking
devil in him than in any young filly in the country.
Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He
rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly
up to the pommel of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out
like grasshoppers' ; he carried his whip perpendicularly in
his hand, like a sceptre, and, as his horse jogged on, tin- mo-
tion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of
wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose,
for so his scanty strip of a forehead might be called, and
the skirts of his black coat flirted out almost to the horse's
tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed,
as he shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and
: t was altogether such an apparition as is rarely to be met
with in broad day-light.
It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was
clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden
livery, which we always associate with the idea of abun-
dance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yel-
low, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nip-
ped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and
scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their
appearance high in the air ; the bark of the squirrel might
be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and
the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neigh-
bouring stubble field.
The small birds were taking their farewell banquets.
In the fulness of their revelry they fluttered, chirping
and frolicking from bush to bush and tree to tree, capri-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 40
Cious from the very abundance around them. There was
the honest cock-robin, the favourite game of stripling
sportsmen, with its loud, querulous note ; and the twitter-
ing blackbirds flying in sable clouds ; and the golden-wing-
ed woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black gor-
get, and splendid plumage ; and the cedar bird, with its
red-tipped wings and yellow-tipped tail, and its little montero
cap of feathers ; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in
his gay light-blue coat and white under-clothes, screaming
and chattering, nodding, and bobbing, and bowing, and pre-
tending to be on good terms with every songster of the
grove.
As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever
open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with
delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On "all sides
he beheld vast store of apples, some hanging in oppressive
opulence on the trees ; some gathered into baskets and bar-
rels for the market ; others heaped up in rich piles for the
cidec-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian
corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts,
and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty puddings ;
and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up
their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample pros-
pects of the most luxurious pies ; and anon he passed the
fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odour of the bee-
hive, and, as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over
his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished
with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand
of Katrina Van Tassel.
Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and
" sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a
range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest
scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheel-
ed his broad disk down into the west; the wide bosom of
the Tapaan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that,
here and there, a gentle undulation waved and prolonged
the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber
clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move
them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing
gradually into a pure apple green, and from that into the
deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the
5
60 COMMON-PLACE UOOK OP PllOSE.
woody crests of the precipices, that overhung some parts
of the river, giving greater depth to the dark gray and
purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the
distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail
hanging uselessly against the mast ; and, as the reflection
of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if
the vessel was suspended in the air.
It was towards evening that Ichabod arrived at the cas-
tle of Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the
pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare,
leatherned-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue
stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles.
Their brisk, withered little dames, in close-crimped caps,
long-waisted gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and
pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside.
Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, except-
ing where a straw' hat, a fine riband, or perhaps a white
frock, gave symptoms of city innovations. The sons in short
square-skirted coats, with rows of stupendous brass buttons,
and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the time-.
especially if they could procure an eclskin for the purpose,
it being esteemed throughout the country as a potent nour-
isher and strengthener of the hair.
Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, hav-
ing come to the gathering on his favourite steed Daredevil,
a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and
which no one but himself could manage. He was in fact
noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of
tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck,
for he held a tractable, wellbroken horse as unworthy a lad
of spirit.
Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms
that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero as he en-
tered the state parlour of Van Tassel's mansion : not those
of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of
red and white ; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch
country tea-table in the sumptuous time of antumn. Such
heaped-up platters of cakes of various and almost inde i i-
bable kinds, known only to the experienced Dutch house-
wives ! There was the doughty dough-nut, the tender oly
koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller, sweet cakes and
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 51
short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole
family of cakes. And then there were apple pies, and
peach pies, and pumpkin pies ; besides slices of ham and
smoked beef; and, moreover, delectable dishes of preserved
plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces ; not to men-
tion broiled shad and roasted chickens ; together with bowls
of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty
much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly tea-
pot sending up its clouds of vapour from the midst. Hea-
ven bless the mark I I want breath and time to discuss this
banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my
story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry
as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty.
Reflections on the Settlement of New England.
WEBSTER.
THE settlement of New England, by the colony which
landed here on the twenty-second of December, sixteen hun-
dred and twenty, although not the first European establish-
ment in what now constitutes the United States, was yet so
peculiar in its causes and character, and has been followed,
and must still be followed, by such consequences, as to
give it a high claim to lasting commemoration. On these
causes and consequences, more than on its immediately at-
tendant circumstances, its importance, as anhistorical event,
depends. Great actions and striking occurrences, having
excited a temporary admiration, often pass away and are
forgotten, because they leave no lasting results, affecting
the prosperity of communities. Such is frequently the for-
tune of the most brilliant military achievements. Of the
ten thousand battles which have been fought ; of all the
fields fertilized with carnage ; of the banners which have
been bathed in blood; of the warriors who have hoped
that they had risen from the field of conquest to a glory as
bright and as durable as the stars, how few that continue
long to interest mankind ! The victory of yesterday is re-
versed by the defeat of to-day ; the star of military glory,
rising like a meteor, like a meteor has fallen ; disgrace and
62 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
disaster hang on the heels of conquest and renown ; victor
and vanquished presently pass away to oblivion, and the
world holds on its course, with the loss only of so many
lives, and so much treasure.
But if this is frequently, or generally, the fortune of military
achievements, it is not always so. There are enterprises, mili-
tary as well as civil, that'sometirties check the current of
events, give a new turn to human affairs, and transmit their
consequences through ages. We see their importance in their
results, and call them great, because great things follow.
There have been battles which have fixed the fate of na-
tions. These come down to us in history with a solid and
permanent influence, not created by a display of glittering
armour, the rush of adverse battalions, the sinking and ris-
ing of pennons, the flight, the pursuit, and the victory ;
but by their effect in advancing or retarding human knowl-
edge, in overthrowing or establishing despotism, in extend-
ing or destroying human happiness. When the traveller
pauses on the plains of Marathon, what are the emotions
which strongly agitate his breast ? what is that glorious re-
collection that thrills through his frame, and suffuses his
eyes ? Not, I imagine, that Grecian skill and Grecian
valour were here most signally displayed ; but that Greece
herself was saved. It is because to this spot, and to the
event which has rendered it immortal, he refers all the
succeeding glories of the republic. It is because, if that
day had gone otherwise, Greece had perished. It is be-
cause he perceives that her philosophers and orators, her
poets and painters, her sculptors and architects, her gov-
ernment and free institutions, point backward to Mara-
thon, and that their future existence seems to have been
suspended on the contingency, whether the Persian or Gre-
cian banner should wave victorious in the beams of that
day's setting sun. And, as his imagination kindles at the
retrospect, he is transported back to the interesting mo-
ment ; he counts the fearful odds of the contending hosts ;
his interest for the result overwhelms him; he trembles as
if it were still uncertain, and seems to doubt whether
he may consider Socrates and Plato, Demosthenes, Sopho-
cles, and Phidias, as secure, yet, to himself and
world.
hether
Sopho-
to the
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 63
"If we conquer," -said the Athenian commander on
the morning of that decisive day, " if we conquer, we
shall make Athens the greatest city of Greece." A proph-
ecy how well fulfilled ! " if God prosper us," might
have been the more appropriate language of our fathers,
when they landed upon this rock, " if God prosper us.
we shall here begin a work that shall last for ages ; we
shall plant here a new society, in the principles of the
fullest liberty, and the purest religion ; we shall subdue
this wilderness which is before us ; we shall fill this re-
gion of the great continent, which stretches almost from pole
to pole, with civilization and Christianity ; the temples of th
true God shall rise where now ascends the smoke of idol?
trous sacrifice ; fields and gardens, the flowers of summer.
and the waving and golden harvests of autumn, shall ex
tend over a thousand hills, and stretch along a thousand
valleys, never yet, since the creation, reclaimed to the use
of civilized man. We shall whiten this coast with the can-
vass of a prosperous commerce ; we shall stud the long and
winding shore with a hundred cities. That which we
sow in weakness shall be raised in strength. From our
sincere, but houseless worship, there shall spring splendid
temples to record God's goodness ; from the simplicity of
our social union, there shall arise wise and politic constitu-
tions of government, full of the liberty which we ourselves
bring and breathe ; from our zeal for learning, institutions
shall spring, which shall scatter the light of knowledge
throughout the land, and, in time, paying back what they
have borrowed, shall contribute their part to the great ag-
gregate of human knowledge ; and our descendants, through
all generations, shall look back to this spot, and this hour,
with unabated affection and regard."
Forest Scenery. PATTLDING.
BY degrees, as custom reconciled me more and more to
fasting and long rambles, I extended my excursions farther
from home, and sometimes remained out all day without
tasting food, or resting myself, except for a few minutes
5*
54 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
upon the trunk of some decayed old tree or moss-covered
rock. The country, though in a great degree in its native
.state of wildness, was full of romantic beauties. The Mo-
hawk is one of the most charming of rivers, sometimes
brawling among ragged rocks, or darting swiftly through long,
narrow reaches, and here and there, as at the Little Falls,
and again at the Cohoes, darting down high perpendicular
rocks, in sheets of milk-white foam ; but its general charac-
ter is that of repose and quiet. It is no where so broad,
but that rural objects and rural sounds may be seen and
heard distinctly from one side to the other ; and in many
places the banks on either hand are composed of rich mead-
ows, or fiats, as they were denominated by the early Dutch
settlers, so nearly on a level with the surface of the water,
as to be almost identified with it at a distance, were it not
for the rich fringe of water willows, that skirt it on either
side, and mark the lines of separation. In these rich pas-
tures may now be seen the lowing herds, half hidden in
the luxuriant grass, and, a little farther on, out of the reach
of the spring freshets, the comfortable farm-houses of
many a sanguine country squire, who dreams of boundless
wealth from the Grand Canal, and, in his admiration of the
works of man, forgets the far greater beauty, grandeur,
and utility of the works of his Maker. But I am to de-
scribe the scenery as it was in the days of my boyhood,
when, like Nimrod, I was a mighty hunter before the
Lord.
At the time 1 speak of, all that was to be seen was of the
handy work of nature, except the little settlement, over
which presided the patriarch Veeder. We were the ad-
vance guard of civilization, and a few steps beyond us was
the region of primeval forests, composed of elms and ma-
ples, and oaks and pines, that seemed as if their seeds had
been sown at the time of the deluge, and that they had
been growing ever since. I have still a distinct recollec-
tion, I might almost say perception, of the gloom and damps
which pervaded these chilling shades, where the summer
sun never penetrated, and in whose recesses the very light
was of a greenish hue. Here, especially along the little
streams, many of which are now dried up by the opening of
the earth to the sun-beams, every rock and piece of mould-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 55
ering wood was wrapped in a carpet of green moss, fostered
into more than velvet luxuriance by the everlasting damps,
that, unlike the dews of heaven, fell all the day as well as
all the night. Here and there a flower reared its pale
head among the rankness of the sunless vegetation of un-
sightly fungus, but it was without fragrance, and almost
without life, for it withered as soon as plucked from the
stem. I do not remember ever to have heard a singing
bird in these forests, except just on the outer skirts, front-
ing the south, where occasionally a robin chirped, or a
thrush sung his evening chant. These tiny choristers seem
almost actuated by the vanity of human beings ; forl have
observed they appear to take peculiar delight in the neigh-
bourhood of the habitations of men, where they have listen-
ers to their music. They do not love to sing where there
is no one to hear them. The very insects of the wing
seemed almost to have abandoned the gloomy solitude, to
sport in the sunshine among the flowers. Neither butter-
fly nor grasshopper abided there, and the honey-bee never
came to equip himself in his yellow breeches. He is the
companion of the white man, and seems content to be his
slave, to toil for him all the summer, only that he may be
allowed the enjoyment of the refuse of his own labours in
the winter. To plunge into the recesses of these woods,
was like descending into a cave under ground. There
was the coolness, the dampness, and the obscurity of twi-
light. Yet custom made me love these solitudes, and
many are the days I have spent among them, with my dog
and gun, and no other guide but the sun in heaven and the
moss on the north side of the trees.
Influence of Christianity in elevating the female
Character. J. G. CARTER.
THERE is one topic, intimately connected with the intro-
duction and decline of Christianity, and subsequently with
its revival in Europe, which the occasion strongly suggests,
and which I cannot forbear briefly to touch upon. I allude
to the new and more interesting character assumed by wo-
56 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
man since those events. In the heathen world, and under
the Jewish dispensation, she was the slave of man. Chris-
tianity constituted her his companion. But, as our religion
gradually lost its power in the dark ages, she sunk down
again to her deep moral degradation. She was the first to
fall in the garden of Eden, and perhaps it was a judgment
upon her, that, when the whole human race was now low,
she sunk the lowest, and was the last to rise again to her
original consequence in the scale of being. The age of
chivalry, indeed, exalted her to be an object of adoration.
But it was a profane adoration, not founded upon the respect
due to a being of immortal hopes and destinies as well as
man. This high character has been conceded to her at
a later period, as she has slowly attained the rank ordained
for her by Heaven. Although this change in the relation of
woman to man and to society is both an evidence and a conse-
quence of an improvement in the human condition, yet now
her character is a cause operating to produce a still great-
er improvement. And if there be any one cause, to which
we may look with more confidence than to others, for has-
tening the approach of a more perfect state of society,
that cause is the elevated character of woman as displayed
tn the full developement of all her moral and intellectual
powers. The conjugal confession of Eve to Adam,
" God is thy law, thou mine ; to know no more
Is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise,"
has grown to be obsolete. The influence of the female
character is now felt and acknowledged in all the relations
of her life. I speak not now of those distinguished wo-
men, who instruct their age through the public press ; nor
of those whose devout strains we take upon our lips when
we worship ; but of a much larger class ; of those whose
influence is felt in the relations of neighbour, fiiend, daugh-
ter, wife, mother. Who waits at the couch of the sick to
administer tender charities while life lingers, or to perform
the last acts of kindness when death comes ? Where shall
we look for those examples of friendship, that most adorn
our nature ; those abiding friendships, which trust even
when betrayed, and survive all changes of fortune ? Where
ph.-ill we find the brightest ilhwtrations of filial piety?
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 57
Have you ever seen a daughter, herself, perhaps, timid
and helpless, watching the decline of an aged parent, and
holding out with heroic fortitude to anticipate his wishes,
to administer to his wants, and to sustain his tottering steps
to the very borders of the grave ?
But in no relation does woman exercise so deep an influ-
ence, both immediately and prospectively, as in that of
mother. To her is committed the immortal treasure of the
infant mind. Upon her devolves the care of the first
stages of that course of discipline, which is to form, of a
being perhaps the most frail and helpless in the world, the
fearless ruler of animated creation, and the devout ador-
er of its great Creator. Her smiles call into exercise the
first affections that spring up in our hearts. She cher-
ishes and expands the earliest germs of our intellects.
She breathes over us her deepest devotions. She lifts our
little hands, and teaches our little tongues to lisp in prayer.
She watches over us, like a guardian angel, and protects
us through all our helpless years, when we know not of
her cares and her anxieties on our account. She follows
us into the world of men, and lives in us, and blesses us,
when she lives not otherwise upon the earth. What con-
stitutes the centre of every home ? Whither do our
thoughts turn, when our feet are weary with wandering,
and our hearts sick with disappointment ? Where shall the
truant and forgetful husband go for sympathy, unalloyed
and without design, but to the bosom of her, who is ever
ready and waiting to share in his adversity or his prosperi-
ty. And if there be a tribunal, where the sins and the fol-
lies of a froward child may hope for pardon and forgive-
ness this side heaven, that tribunal is the heart of a fond
and devoted mother.
Necessity of a pure national Morality. BEECHER.
THE crisis has come. By the people of this generation,
by ourselves, probably, the amazing question is to be de-
cided, whether the inheritance of our fathers shall be pre-
served or thrown away ; whether our Sabbaths shall be a
58 COMMON-PLACE BOOR OP PROSE.
delight or a loathing ; whether the taverns, on that holy
day, shall be crowded with drunkards, or the sanctuary of
God with humble worshippers ; whether riot and profane-
ness shall fill our streets, and poverty our dwellings, and
convicts our jails, and violence our land, or whether indus-
try, and temperance, and righteousness, shall be the stability
of our times ; whether mild laws shall receive the cheer-
ful submission of freemen, or the iron rod of a tyrant com-
pel the trembling homage of slaves. Be not deceived.
Human nature in this state is like human nature every
where. All actual difference in our favour is adventitious,
and the result of our laws, institutions, and habits. It is a
moral influence, which, with the blessing of God, has form-
ed a state of society so eminently desirable. The same in-
fluence which formed it is indispensable to its preservation.
The rocks and hills of New England will remain till the
last conflagration. But let the Sabbath be profaned with
impunity, the worship of God be abandoned, the govern-
ment and religious instruction of children neglected, and
the streams of intemperance be permitted to flow, and her
glory will depart. The wall of fire will no longer sur-
round her, and the munition of rocks will no longer be her
defence.
If we neglect our duty, and suffer our laws and institu-
tions to go down, we give them up forever. It is easy to
relax, easy to retreat ; but impossible, when the abomina-
tion of desolation has once passed over New England, to
rear again the thrown-down altars, and gather again the
fragments, and build up the ruins of demolished institutions.
Another New England nor we nor our children shall ever
see, if this be destroyed. All is lost irretrievably when
the landmarks are once removed, and the bands which now
hold us are once broken. Such institutions and such a
state of society can be established only by such men as
our fathers were, and in such circumstances as they were
in. They could not have made a New England in Hol-
land ; they made the attempt, but failed.
The hand that overturns our laws and temples is the
hand of death unbarring the gate of Pandemonium, and
letting loose upon our land the crimes and miseries of Hell.
If the Most High should stand aloof, and cast not a single
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 59
ingredient into our cup of trembling, it would seem to be
full of superlative wo. But he will not stand aloof. As
we shall have begun an open controversy with him he will
contend openly with us. And never, since the earth stood
3 it been so fearful a thing for nations to fall into the
hands of the living God. The day of vengeance is at
nd ; the day of judgment has come ; the great earth-
quake which sinks Babylon is shaking the nations, and the
waves of the mighty commotion are dashing upon every
shore. Is this, then, a time to remove the foundations
when the earth itself is shaken ? Is this a time to forfeit
the protection of God, when the hearts of men are failin-
them for fear, and for looking after those things which are
to come upon the earth ? Is this a time to run upon his
neck and the thick bosses of his buckler, when the nations
are drinking blood, and fainting, and passing away in his
wrath ? Is this a time to throw away the shield of faith
when his arrows are drunk with the blood of the slain ? to
at from the anchor of hope, when the clouds are collect-
ing, and the sea and the waves are roaring, and thun-
ders are uttering their voices, and lightnings blazing in
the heavens, and the great hail is falling from heaven upon
*en, and every mountain, sea and island is fleeing in dis-
may from the face of an incensed God ?
Value of religious Faith. BTJCKMINSTZR.
WHO would look back upon the history of the world
with the eye of incredulity, after having once read it with
the eye of faith ? To the man of faith it is the story of
God s operations. To the unbeliever it is only the record
oi the strange sports of a race of agents as uncontrolled as
hey are unaccountable. To the man of faith every por-
.on of history is part of a vast plan, conceived ages ago in
the mind of Omnipotence, which has been fitted precisely
to the period it was intended to occupy. The who'le series
of events forms a magnificent and symmetrical fabric to
the eye of pious contemplation; and, though the dome be
in the clouds, and the top, from its loftiness, be indiscerni-
60 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
ble to mortal vision, yet the foundations are so deep
and solid, that we are sure they are intended to support
something permanent and grand. To the sceptic, all the
events of all the ages of the world are but a scattered
crowd of useless and indigested materials. In his mind
all is darkness, all is incomprehensible. The light of
prophecy illuminates not to him the obscurity of ancient
annals. He sees in them neither design nor operation,
neither tendencies nor conclusions. To him the wonderful
knowledge of one people is just &.s interesting as the des-
perate ignorance of another. In the deliverance which
God has sometimes wrought for the oppressed, he sees
nothing but the fact ; and in the oppression and decline of
haughty empires, nothing but the common accidents of na-
tional fortune. Going about to account for events accord-
ing to what he calls general laws, he never for a moment
considers, that all laws, whether physical, political or moral,
imply a legislator, and are contrived to serve some purpose.
Because he cannot always, by his short-sighted vision, dis-
cover the tendencies of the mighty events of which this
earth has been the theatre, he looks on the drama of ex-
istence around him as proceeding without a plan. Is that
principle, then, of no importance, which raises man above
what his eys? see or his ears hear at present, and shows
him the vast chain of human events, fastened eternally to
the throne of God, and returning, after embracing the
universe, again to link itself to the footstool of Omnipo-
tence ?
Would you know the value of this principle of faith to
the bereaved ? Go, and follow a corpse to the grave. See
the body deposited there, and hear the earth thrown in upon
all that remains of your friend. Return now, if you will,
and brood over the lesson which your senses have given
you, and derive from it -what consolation you can. You
have learned nothing but an unconsoling fact. No voice
of comfort issues from the tomb. All is still there, and
blank, and lifeless, and has been so for ages. You see
nothing but bodies dissolving and successively mingling
with the clods which cover them, the grass growing over
the spot, and the trees waving in sullen majesty over this
region of eternal silence. And what is there more ?
COMMON- PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 61
Nothing. Come, Faith, and people these deserts ! Come,
and reanimate these regions of forgetfulness ! Mothers !
take again your children to your arms, for they are living.
Sons ! your aged parents are coming forth in the vigour of
regenerated years. Friends ! behold, your dearest connex-
ions are waiting to embrace you. The tombs are burst.
Generations long since in slumbers are awakening. They
are coming from the east and the west, from the north
and from the south, to constitute the community of the
blessed.
But it is not in the loss of friends alone, that faith fur-
i.ishes consolations which are inestimable. With a man of
faith not an affliction is lost, not a change is unimproved
He studies even his own history with pleasure, and finds it
full of instruction. The dark passages of his life are illu-
minated with hope ; and he sees, that although he has
passed through many dreary defiles, yet they have opened
at last into brighter regions of existence. He recalls, with
a species of wondering gratitude, periods pf his life, when
all its events seemed to conspire against him. Hemmed
in by straitened circumstances, wearied with repeated
blows of unexpected misfortunes, and exhausted with the
painful anticipation of more, he recollects years, when the
ordinary love of life could not have retained him in the
world. Many a time he might have wished to lay down
his being in disgust, : fed not something more than the
senses provide us with, kept up the elasticity of his mind.
He yet lives, and has found that light is sown for the right-
eous, and gladness for the upright in heart. The man of
faith discovers some gracious purpose in every combination
of circumstances. Wherever he finds himself, he knows
that he has a destination he has, therefore, a duty. Every
event has, in his eye, a tendency and an aim. Nothing is
accidental, nothing without purpose, nothing unattended
with benevolent consequences. Every thing on earth is
probationary, nothing ultimate. He is poor perhaps his
plans have been defeated he finds it difficult to provide
for the exigencies of life sickness is permitted to invade
the quiet of his household long confinement imprisons
his activity, and cuts short the exertions on which so many
depend something apparently unlucky mars his best plans
62 COMMON-PLACE BOOR OP PROSE.
new failures and embarrassments among his friends pre-
sent themselves, and throw additional, obstruction in his
W ay the world look on and say, all these things are against
him. Some wait coolly for the hour when he shall sink
under the complicated embarrassments of his cruel fortune.
Others, of a kinder spirit, regard him with compassion, and
wonder how he can sustain such a variety of wo. A few
there are, a very few, I fear, who can understand some-
thing of the serenity of his mind, and comprehend some-
thing of the nature df his fortitude. There are those,
whose sympathetic piety can read and interpret the char-
acters of resignation on his brow. There are those, in fine,
who have felt the influence of faith.
In this influence there is nothing mysterious, nothing
romantic, nothing of which the highest reason may be
ashamed. It shows the Christian his God, in all the mild
majesty of his parental character. It shows you God, dis-
posing in still and benevolent wisdom the events of every
individual's life, pressing the pious spirit with the weight
of calamity to increase the elasticity of the mind, produc-
ing characters of unexpected worth by unexpected mis-
.ortune, invigorating certain virtues by peculiar probations,
thus breaking the fetters which bind us to temporal things,
and
" From seeming evil still educing good.
And better thence again, an* better still,
In infinite progression."
When the sun of the believer's hopes, according to com-
mon calculations, is set, to the eye of faith it is still visible.
When much of the rest of the world is in darkness, the
high ground of faith is illuminated with the brightness of
religious consolation.
Come now, my incredulous friends, and follow me to the
bed of the dying believer. Would you see in what peace a
Christian can die ? Watch the last gleams of thought which
stream from his dying eyes. Do you see any thing like ap-
prehension ? The world, it is true, begins to shut in. The
shadows of evening collect around his senses. A dark mist
thickens, and rests upon the objects which have hitherto
engaged his observation. The countenances of his friends
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 63
onov!? Tf and , r re indlstlnct - The sweet expressions
wales no , 1? "" D ]m er intelli g^le. His ear
wakes no more at the well-known voice of his children
heard 1!^ f** f tender affection die *V "'
of hl^Tf H CCaying SenSeS ' T him the 8 P ec ^l
descendln 'i h ra t ng tO ** d Se> and the curtain is
scenes HeT, S Ut thiS Carth ' itS act rs ' and its
He ,s no longer interested in all that is done un-
o h s You? - th ^ V, ould now open to y u the recesses
is soul , that I could reveal to you the lieht whirh
dart, into the chambers of his understand^ He ap
proaches that world which he has so long sefn in fahh.
tie elToTf T n W C UeCtS US diminished ^rength, and
the eye of faith opens wide. Friends ! do not stand, thus
feed In sorrow, around this bed of death. Why are you
os ,11 and silent ? Fear not to move-you cannot disturb
>e last visions which enchant this holy spirit. Your lam-
of ser
Crowd ' if
hi- row ' ou *<>>
id his couch-he heeds you not-already he sees the
P e I" advandng to S ether to Deceive a kindred
Press him not with importunities; urge him not
with al eviafons. Think you he wants now these tones
of mortal voices-these material, these gross consolations >
He is going to add another to the myriads of the just
that are every moment crowding into the portals of heav-
He is entering on a nobler life. He leaves you he
leaves you, weeping children of mortality, to grope about
a htle onger among the miseries and sensualities of a
worldly life. Already he cries to you from the regions of
bliss WU1 you not join him there? Will you not taste the
subhrne joys of faith ? There are your predecessors in vir
tue; there, too are places left for your contemporaries.
There are seats for you in the assembly of the just made
Jo S * 'numerable company of angels, where i 3
Jesus, the mediator of the new covenant, and God, the
64 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
Death of General Washington. MARSHALL.
ON Friday, the 13th of December, 1799, while attending
to some improvements upon his estate, he was exposed to a
slight rain, by which his neck and hair became wet. Un-
apprehensive of danger from this circumstance, he passed
the afternoon in his usual manner ; but in the night he
was seized with an inflammatory affection of the wind-
pipe. The disease commenced with a violent ague, ac-
companied with some pain in the upper and fore part of
the throat, a sense of stricture in the same part, a cough,
and a difficult, rather than a painful, deglutition, which
were soon succeeded by a fever, and a quick and laborious
respiration.
Believing bloodletting to be necessary, he procured a
bleeder, who took from his arm twelve or fourteen ounces
of blood ; but he would not permit a messenger to be de-
spatched for his family physician until the appearance of
day. About eleven in the morning, Dr. Craik arrived ;
and, perceiving the extreme danger of the case, requested
that two consulting physicians should be immediately sent
for. The utmost exertions of medical skill were applied
in vain. The powers of life were manifestly yielding to
the force of the disorder ; speaking, which was painful
from the beginning, became almost impracticable ; respi-
ration became more and more contracted and imperfect ;
until half past eleven on Saturday night, when, retaining the
full possession of his intellect, he expired without a struggle.
Believing, at the commencement of his complaint, as well
as through every succeeding stage of it, that its conclusion
would be mortal, he submitted to the exertions made for
his recovery rather as a duty than from any expectation of
their efficacy. Some hours before his death, after repeated
efforts to be understood, he succeeded in expressing a de-
sire that he might be permitted to die without interruption.
After it became impossible to get any thing down his throat,
he undressed himself, and went to bed, there to die. To
his friend and physician, Dr. Craik, who sat on his bed,
and took his head in his lap, he said with difficulty, " Doc-
tor, I am dying, and have been dying for a long time ; but
I am not afraid to die."
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 65
During the short period of his illness, he economized his
time in arranging, with the utmost serenity, those few con!
cerns whzch required his attention, and anUcipated hTs ap.
p oaching dissolution with every demonstration of that equa-
"
The deep and wide-spreading grief, occasioned by this
melancholy event, assembled a great concourse of peopk
for the purpose of paying the last tribute of respect to
at?e d d r nC , an9< ? nWednes day,the 18th of December!
attended by military honours and the ceremonies of religion
SolhorT T Sit 1? ^ thC famUy Vault at Mount Ve
So short was his illness, that, at the seat of government
the intel hgence of his death preceded that of Ms indispo-
stion It was first communicated by a passenger in the
*Uge to an acquaintance whom he met in the ftreet and
the re port quick , y reached fte houge Q{ *e t and
Uon teTd I" Vf eSSi0n / ThC Utm St dlsma y and afflic -
DD were d.splayed for a few minutes, after which a mem-
ber stated in his place the melancholy information which
had been received. This information.he said, was noT cet
tain but there was too much reason to believe it true
After receiving intelligence," he added, of a national
calamity so heavy and afflicting, the house of represent
tives can be but ill fitted for public business.
On the succeeding day, as soon as the orders were read
the same member addressed the chair, and afterwards of
fered the following resolutions
" Resolved, that this house will wait upon the president
m condolence of this mournful event. '
black* itThVlf the r aker ' S Chdr be Shrouded with
66 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSK.
able manner of paying honour to the memory of the Man
first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his
fellow-citizens."
The Lessons of Death. NORTON.
WHKN such men are taken from us, we are made to feel
the instability of life, and the insecurity of the tenure by
which we hold its dearest blessings. But this feeling will
be of little value, if it do not lead us to look beyond this world,
and if it be not thus connected with a strong sense of the
proper business of life, to prepare ourselves for happiness
'.n that world, where there shall be no change but from
glory to glory. It will be in vain for us to contemplate
such a character as we have been regarding, if we do not
feel that its foundation was in that religion, which teaches
every one of us to regard himself as created by God, to
be an image of his own eternity. It will be in vain for
us to stand by the open grave of departed worth, if no
earthly passion grows cool, and no holy purpose gains
strength.
We are liable, in this world, to continual delusion ; to a
most extravagant over-estimate of the value of its objects.
With respect to many of our cares and pursuits, the senti-
ment expressed in the words of David must have borne
with all its truth and force upon the mind of every con-
siderate man in some moments, at least, of serious reflec-
tion : Surely every one walketh in a vain show ; surely
they are disquieted in vain. The events of the next
month, or the next year, often assume in our eyes a most
disproportionate importance, and almost exclude from our
view all the other infinite variety of concerns and changes
which are to follow in the course of an immortal existence.
The whole happiness of our being seems sometimes to be
at stake upon the success of a plan, which, when we have
grown but a little older, we may regard with indifference.
These are subjects on which reason too commonly speaks
to us in vain. But there is one lesson, which God some-
times gives us, that brings the truth home to our hearts.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 67
There is an admonition, which addresses itself directly to
our feelings, and before which they bow in humility and
tears. We can hardly watch the gradual decay of a man
eminent for virtue and talents, and hear him uttering, with
a voice that will soon be heard no more, the last expressions
of piety and holy hope, without feeling that the delusions of
life are losing their power over our minds. Its true pur-
poses begin to appear to us in their proper distinctness.
We are accompanying one, who is about to take his leave
of present objects ; to whom the things of this life, merely,
are no longer of any interest or value. The eye, which
is still turned to us in kindness, will, in a few days, be closed
forever. The hand, by which ours is still pressed, will be
motionless. The affections, which are still warm and vivid
they will not perish ; but we shall know nothing of their
exercise. We shall, be cut off from all expressions and
return of sympathy. He whom we love is taking leave of
us for an undefined period of absence. We are placed with
him on the verge between this world and the eternity iulo
which he is entering ; we look before us, and the objects
of the latter rise to view, in all their vast and solemn mag-
nificence.
There is, I well know, an anguish which may preclude
this calmness of reflection and hope. Our resolution may
be prostrated to the earth ; for he, on whom we are accus-
tomed to rely for strength and support, has been taken
away. We return to the world, and there is bitterness in
all it presents us ; for every thing bears impressed upon it
a remembrance of what we have lost. It has one, and but
one, miserable consolation to offer :
" That anguish will be wearied down, I know.
What pang is permanent with man ? Prom th' highest,
As from the vilest thing of every day,
He learns to wean himself. For the strong hours
Conquer him."
It is a consolation, which, offered in this naked and of-
fensive form, we instinctively reject. Our recollections and
our sorrows, blended as they are together, are far too dear
to be parted with upon such terms. But God glveth not as
the world giveth. There is a peace which comes from
him, and brings healing to the heart. His religion would
6$ COMMON-PLACE 11UOK OF PROSE.
not have us forget, but cherish, our affections for the dead ;
for it makes known to us, that these affections shall be im-
mortal. It gradually takes away the bitterness of our re-
collections, and changes them into glorious hopes ; for it
teaches us to regard the friend, who is with us no longer,
not as one whom we have lost on earth, but as one whom we
shall meet, as an angel, in heaven.
Character of Chief Justice Marshall. WIRT.
THE chief justice of the United States is in his person
tall, meager, emaciated ; his muscles relaxed, and his
joints so loosely connected, as not only to disqualify him,
apparently, for any vigorous exertions of body, but to de-
stroy every thing like elegance and harmony in his air and
movements. Indeed, in his whole appearance and demea-
nour, dress, attitudes, and gesture sitting, standing, or
walking, he is as far removed from the idolized graces of
Lord Chesterfield, as any other gentleman on earth. To
continue the portrait : his head and face are small in pro-
portion to his height ; his complexion swarthy ; the mus-
cles of his face, being relaxed, give him the appearance of
a man of fifty years of age, nor can he be much younger.
His countenance has a failhful expression of great good-
humour and hilarity ; while his black eyes that unerring
index possess an irradiating spirit, which proclaims the
imperial powers of the mind that sits enthroned within.
This extraordinary man, without the aid of fancy, with-
out the advantages of person, voice, attitude, gesture, or
any of the ornaments of an orator, deserves to be consid-
ered as one of the most eloquent men in the world ; if elo-
quence may be said to consist in the power of seizing the
attention with irresistible force, and never permitting it to
elude the grasp until the hearer has received the convic-
tion which the speaker intends.
As to his person, it has already been described. His
voice is dry and hard ; his attitude, in his most effective ora.
tions, was often extremely awkward, as it was not unusual
for him to stand with his left foot in advance j while all his
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 69
gesture proceeded from his right arm, and consisted mere-
ly in a vehement, perpendicular swing of it, from about
the elevation of his head to the bar, behind which he was
accustomed to stand.
As to Fancy, if she hold a seat in his mind at all, which
I very much doubt, his gigantic Genius tramples with dis-
d.ain on all her flower-decked plats and blooming parterres
How, then, you will ask, with a look of incredulous curios-
ity , how is it possible that such a man can hold the atten-
tion of an audience enchained through a speech of even or-
dinary length ? I will tell you.
He possesses one original, and almost supernatural facul-
ty, the faculty of developing a subject by a single glance
of his mind, and detecting at once the very point on which
every controversy depends. No matter what the question :
though ten times more knotty than " the gnarled oak," the
lightning of heaven is not more rapid nor more resistless
than his astonishing penetration. Nor does the exercise
of it seem to cost him an effort. On the contrary, it is as
easy as vision. I am persuaded that his eyes do not fly
over a landscape, and take in its various objects with more
promptitude and facility, than his mind embraces and ana-
lyzes the most complex subject.
Possessing while at the bar this intellectual elevation,
which enabled him to look down and comprehend the whole
ground at once, he determined, immediately, and without diffi-
culty, on which side the question might be most advantageous-
ly approached and assailed. In a bad cause, his art consisted in
laying his premises so remotely from the point directly in
debate, or else in terms so general and specious, that the
dearer, seeing no consequence which could be drawn from
them, was just as willing to admit them as not ; but, his
premises once admitted, the demonstration, however dis-
tant, followed as certainly, as cogently, and as inevitably, as
any demonstration of Euclid.
All his eloquence consists in the apparently deep self-
conviction and emphatic earnestness of his manner; the
correspondent simplicity and energy of his style ; the close
and logical connexion of his thoughts ; and the easy gra-
dations by which he opens his lights on the attentive minds
of his hearers.
70 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
The audience are never permitted to pause for a
moment. There is no stopping to weave garlands of
flowers to be hung in festoons around a favourite argument
On the contrary, every sentence is progressive ; every idea
sheds new light on the subject; the listener is kept per-
petually in that sweetly pleasurable vibration, with which
the mind of man always receives new truths ; the dawn
advances in easy but unremitting pace ; the subject opens
gradually on the view ; until, rising in high relief in all
its native colours and proportions, the argument is consum-
mated by the conviction of the delighted hearer.
His political adversaries allege that he is a mere lawyer ;
that his mind has been so long trammelled by judicial pre-
cedent, so long habituated to the quart and tierce of foren-
sic digladiation, (as Dr. Johnson would probably have call-
ed it,) as to be unequal to the discussion of a great qucs
tion of state. Mr. Curran, in his defence of Rowan, seems
to have sanctioned the probability of such an effect from
such a cause, when he complains of his own mind as hav-
ing been narrowed and circumscribed by a strict and tech
nical adherence to established forms ; but, in the nc\
breath, an astonishing burst of the grandest thought, and a
power of comprehension, to which there seems to be no
earthly limit, proves that his complaint, as it relates to him-
self, is entirely without foundation.
Indeed, if the object/on to the chief justice mean any
thing more than that he has not had the same illumination
and exercise in matters of state as if he had devoted his
life to them, I am unwilling to admit it. The force of a
cannon is the same, whether pointed at a rampart or a mar
of war, although practice may have made the engineer
more expert in one case than in the other. So it is clear
that practice may give a man a greater command over one
class of subjects than another ; but the inherent energy
of his mind remains the same whithersoever it may be di-
rected. From this impression, I have never seen any
cause to wonder at what is called a universal genius : It
proves only that the man has applied a powerful mind
to a great variety of subjects, and pays a compliment rather
to his superior industry than his superior intellect I am
very certain that the gentleman of whom we are speaking
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 71
possesses the acumen which might constitute him a univer-
sal genius, according to the usual acceptation of that phrase
But if he be the truant, which his warmest friends repre-
sent him to be, there is very little probability that he will
ever reach this distinction.
Moral Sublimity illustrated. WAYLAND.
PHILOSOPHERS have speculated much concerning a pro-
cess of sensation, which has commonly been denominated
the emotion of sublimity. Aware that, like any other sim-
ple feeling, it must be incapable of definition, they have
seldom attempted to define it ; but, content with remarking
the occasions on which it is excited, have told us that it
arises in general from the contemplation of whatever is
vast in nature, splendid in intellect, or lofty in morals : or,
to express the same idea somewhat varied, in the language
of a critic of antiquity, " That alone is truly sublime, of
which the conception is-vast, the effect irresistible, and the
remembrance scarcely, if ever, to be erased."
But, although philosophers alone have written about this
emotion, they are far from being the only men who have
felt it. The untutored peasant, when he has seen the au-
tumnal tempest collecting between the hills, and, as it ad-
vanced, enveloping in misty obscurity village and hamlet,
forest and meadow, has tasted the sublime in all its reality ;
and, whilst the thunder has rolled and the lightning flashed
around him, has exulted in the view of Nature moving
forth in her majesty. The untaught sailor-boy, listlessly
hearkening to the idle ripple of the moonlight wave, when on
a sudden he has thought upon the unfathomable abyss be-
neath him, and the wide waste of waters around him, and
the infinite expanse above him, has enjoyed to the ull the
emotion of sublimity, whilst his inmost soul has trem-
bled at the vastness of its own conceptions. But why
need 1 multiply illustrations from nature ? Who does not
recollect the emotion he has felt while surveying aught, ia
the material world, of terror or of vastness 2
72 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
And this sensation is not produced by grandeur in mate-
rial objects alone. It is also excited on most of those occa-
sions in which we see man tasking to the uttermost the ener-
gies of his intellectual or moral nature. Through the long
lapse of centuries, who, without emotion, has read of Leoni-
das and his three hundred's throwing themselves as a bar-
rier before the myriads of Xerxes, and contending unto
death for the liberties of Greece ?
But we need not turn to classic story to find all that is
great in human action ; we find it in our own times, and in
the history of our own country. Who is there of us that,
even in the nursery, has not felt his spirit stir within him,
when, with child-like wonder, he has listened to the story o*
Washington? And although the terms of the narrative were
scarcely intelligible, yet the young soul kindled at the
thought of one man's working out the delivery of a nation.
And as our understanding, strengthened by age, was at last
able to grasp the detail of this transaction, we saw that oui
infantile conceptions had fallen far short of its grandeur.
Oh ! if an American citizen ever exults in the contempla-
tion of all that is sublime in human enterprise, it is when,
bringing to mind the men who first conceived the idea of
this nation's independence, he beholds them estimating the
power of her oppressor, the resources of her citizens, de-
ciding in their collected might that this nation should be free,
and, through the long years of trial that ensued, never
blenching from their purpose, but freely redeeming the
pledge they had given, to consecrate to it " their lives,
their fortunes, and their sacred honour."
11 Patriots have toiled, and, in their country'* cause,
Bled nobly, and their deeds, as they deserve,
Receive proud recompense. We five in charge
Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic Muse,
Proud ot her treasure, marches with it down
To latest times : and Sculpture in her turn
Gives bond, in stone and ever-during brass,
To guard them, and immortalize her trust."
It is not in the field of patriotism alone that deeds have
been achieved, to which history has awarded the palm of
moral sublimity. There have lived men, in whom the
name of patriot has been merged in that of philanthropist ,
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 73
who, looking with an eye of compassion over the face of
the earth, have felt for the miseries of our race, and have
it forth their calm might to wipe off one blot from the
marred and stained escutcheon of human nature, to strike
off one form of suffering from the catalogue of human wo.
uch a man was Howard. Surveying our world like a
spirit of the blessed, he beheld the misery of the captive
ic heard the groaning of the prisoner. His determination
:s fixed. He resolved, single-handed, to gauge and to
measure one form of unpitied, unheeded wretchedness, and,
ringing it out to the sunshine of public observation, to
work its utter extermination. And he well knew what this
undertaking would cost him. He knew what he had to hazard
from the infection of dungeons, to endure from the fatigues
>t inhospitable travel, and to brook from the insolence of
legalized oppression. He knew that he was devoting him-
self to the altar of philanthropy, and he willingly devoted
himself. He had marked out his destiny, and he hasted
torward to its accomplishment, with an intensity, " which
the nature of the human mind forbade to be more, and the
character of the individual forbade to be less." Thus ho
commenced a new era in the history of benevolence. And
hence, the name of Howard will be associated with all that
is sublime in mercy, until the final consummation of all
things.
Such a man is Clark-son, who, looking abroad, beheld the
miseries of Africa, and, looking at home, saw his country
stained with her blood. We have seen him, laying aside
the vestments of the priesthood, consecrate himself to the
holy purpose of rescuing a continent from rapine and mur-
der, and of erasing this one sin from the book of his na-
tion's iniquities. We have seen him and his fellow phi-
lanthropists, for twenty years, never waver from their pur-
ose. We have seen them persevere amidst neglect and
obloquy, and contempt, and persecution, until, the cry of the
oppressed having roused the sensibilities of the nation, the
" Island Empress" rose in her might, and said to this
loul traffic in human flesh, Thus far shall thou go, and no
farther.
7
74 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE,
Eloquent Speech of Logan, Chief of the Mingocs.
JEFFERSON.
I MAY challenge the whole orations of Demosthenes and
Cicero, and of any more eminent orator, if Europe has fur-
nished more eminent, to produce a single passage superior
to the speech of Logan, a Mingo chief, to Lord Dunrnore,
when governor of this state.* And, as a testimony of their
talents in this line, I beg leave to introduce it, first stating
the incidents necessary for understanding it.
In the spring of the year 1774, a robbery was commit-
ted by some Indians on certain land adventurers on the
riverof Ohio. The whites in that quarter, according to their
custom, undertook to punish this outrage in a summary
way. Captain Michael Cresap and a certain Daniel Great-
house, leading on these parties, surprised, at differenttimes,
travelling and hunting parties of the Indians, having their
women and children with them, and murdered many.
Among these were unfortunately the family of Logan, a
chief celebrated in peace and war, and long distinguished
as the friend of the whites. This unworthy return provoked
his vengeance. He accordingly signalized himself in the war
which ensued. In the autumn of the same year a decisive
battle was fought at the mouth of the Great Kanhaway, be-
tween the collected forces of the Shawanese,Mingoes, and
Delawares, and a detachment of the Virginia militia. The
Indians were defeated, and sued for peace. Logan, how-
ever, disdained to be seen among the suppliants. But, lest
the sincerity of a treaty should be distrusted, from which
so distinguished a chief absented himself, he sent, by a
messenger, the following speech to be delivered to Lord
Dunmore.
"I appeal to any white man to say, if ever he entered
Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat ; if ever
he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During
the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remained
idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my
love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they
passed, and said, ' Logan is the friend of white men.' I
had even thought to have lived with you, but for the inju-
* Virginia
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 75
ries of one man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold
blood, and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Lo
gan, not even sparing my women and children. There
runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living
creature . This called on me for revenge . I have sought it :
I have killed many : I have fully glutted my vengeance.
For my country, I rejoice at the beams of peace : but do
not harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear : Logan
never felt fear : he will not turn on his heel to save his
life. Who is there to mourn for Logan ? Not one."
Fox, Burke, and Pitt. A. H. EVERETT.
IF the views of the opposition in parliament, in regard to
some very important subjects, have received an apparent
confirmation from the final result of the measures that
were pursued, the party can also boast the honour of reck-
oning upon its list of members some of the most distinguish-
ed statesmen that ever appeared in England or the world.
Not to mention those now living, who would do credit to
any party or any nation, it may be sufficient to cite the
illustrious names of Fox and Burke ; names that are hardly
to be paralleled in the records of eloquence, philosophy, and
patriotism ; and which will only be more closely associated
in the respect and veneration of future ages, on account of
the personal schism which grew up between them, and
which forms one of the most interesting parts of their histo-
ry. Their difference was rather in regard to policy than
to principle, both being warm and strenuous friends of lib-
erty; and, when they differed, they were both partly right
and partly wrong. That Burke was judicious and wise in
discountenancing the too violent spirit of reform, which
was then spreading through the nation, and threatening
ruin to its institutions, and that Fox, in encouraging it, was
rather influenced by a generous and unreflecting zeal for
freedom, than by motives of sound policy, will now hardly be
denied; and the time, perhaps, is not very distant, if it has
not already arrived, when it will be admitted, with equal
unanimity, that the policy of making war upon France,
76 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
whether for the purpose of crushing the principles of liber-
ty, or, at a subsequent period, of checking the dcvclope-
ment of her power, was, throughout, not only unjust, but
imprudent, and eminently unfortunate for the ultimate in-
terests of England; that Burke, by supporting this policy
with his fervid and powerful eloquence, was unconscious-
ly doing a serious injury to his country ; and that the sys-
tem of Fox and his friends and successors, in this point, was
as politic and prudent as it was generous and humane. Af-
ter thirty years of unheard-of exertion and unexampled
success, the war seems to have ended by leaving an
open field to the ambition of another state, infinitely more
formidable and dangerous than France. It may be re-
marked, however, that this result does not appear to have
been foreseen by the opposition any more than by the minis-
try. It has generally been the fault of the British states-
men, of all parties, to regard France merely as a rival state,
instead of extending their views to the whole European
system, of which France and England are only members,
with interests almost wholly in unison.
Fox and Burke, if I may be allowed to dwell a little
longer on so pleasing a theme as the characters of these il-
lustrious statesmen, were not less distinguished for amiable
personal qualities, and intellectual accomplishments, than
for commanding eloquence and skill in political science. The
friends of Fox dwell with enthusiasm and fond regret up-
on the cordiality of his manners and the unalloyed sweet-
ness of his disposition. It is unfortunate that the pure
lustre of these charming virtues was not graced by a suffi-
cient regard to the dictates of private morality. Burke, on
the contrary with an equally kind and social spirit, was a
model of perfection in all the relations of domestic life ; his
character being at once unsullied by the least stain of
excess, and exempt from any shade of rigorism or defect
of humour. While his private virtues made the happiness
of his family and friends, his conversation was the charm
and wonler of the loftiest minds and the most enlightened
circles of society. He was the only man whom Dr. John-
son, a great master of conversation, admitted to be capable
of tasking his powers. The only deduction from the uni-
form excellence of Burke is said to have been the small at-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 77
traction of his manner in public speaking, a point In which
Fox was also not particularly successful, but was reckon-
ed his superior. It would be too rash for an ordinary ob-
server to undertake to give to either of these two mighty
minds the palm of original superiority It can hardly
be denied that that of Burke was better disciplined and
more accomplished ; and his intellectual reputation, being
better supported than that of Fox by written memorials,
will probably stand higher with posterity. Had Fox been
permitted to finish the historical work which he had be-
gun, he might, perhaps, have bequeathed to future ages
a literary monument, superior in dignity and lasting value
to any thing that remains from the pen of Burke. Both
possessed a fine and cultivated taste for the beauties of art
and nature ; that of Fox seems to have been even more
poetical than his illustrious rival's ; but he has left no writ-
ten proofs of it equal to the fine philosophical Essay on the
Sublime and Beautiful. It is but poor praise of this ele-
gant performance, to say that it is infinitely superior to the
essay of Longinus on the sublime, from which the hint
seems to have been taken, and which nothing but a blind
and ignorant admiration of antiquity could ever have exalt-
ed into a work of great merit.
A sagacious critic has advanced the opinion, that the
merit of Burke was almost wholly literary ; but I confess
I see little ground for this assertion, if literary excel-
lence is here understood in any other sense than as an im-
mediate result of the highest intellectual and moral endow-
ments. Such compositions as the writings of Burke sup-
pose, no doubt, the fine taste, the command of language,
and the finished education, which are all supposed by eve-
ry description of literary success. But, in the present
state of society, these qualities are far from being uncom-
mon ; and are possessed by thousands, who make no pre-
tension to the eminence of Burke, in the same degree in
which they were by nim. Such a writer as Cumberland,
for example, who stands infinitely below Burke on the
scale of intellect, may yet be regarded as his equal or supe-
rior in purely literary accomplishments, taken in this ex-
clusive sense. The style of Burke is undoubtedly one of
the most splendid forms, in which the English language
78 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
haa ever been exhibited. It displays the happy and diffi-
cult union of all the richness and magnificence that good
taste admits, with a perfectly easy construction. In Burke,
we see the manly movement of a well-bred gentleman ;
in Johnson, an equally profound and vigorous thinker, the
measured march of a grenadier. We forgive the great
moralist his stiff and cumbrous phrases, in return for
the rich stores of thought and poetry which they conceal ;
but we admire in Burke, as in a fine antique statue, the
grace with which the large flowing robe adapts itself to
the majestic dignity of the person. But, with all his litera-
ry excellence, the peculiar merits of this great man were,
perhaps, the faculty of profound and philosophical thought,
and the moral courage which led him to disregard personal
inconvenience in the expression of his sentiments. Deep
thought is the informing soul, that every where sustains
and inspires the imposing grandeur of his eloquence. Even
in the Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful, the only work
of pure literature which he attempted, that is, the only one
which was not an immediate expression of his views on
public affairs, there is still the same richness of thought,
the same basis of " divine philosophy," to support the har-
monious superstructure of the language. And the moral
courage, which formed so remarkable a feature in his
character, contributed not less essentially to his literary
success. It seems to be a law of nature, that the highest
degree of eloquence demands the union of the noblest
qualities of character as well as intellect. To think is tht
highest exercise of the mind ; to say what you think, the
boldest effort of moral courage ; and both these things are
required for a really powerful writer. Eloquence without
thoughts is a mere parade of words; and no man can ex-
press with spirit and vigour any thoughts but his own.
This was the secret of the eloquence of Rousseau, which
is not without a certain analogy in its forms to that of
Burke. The principal of the Jesuits' college one day in-
quired of him by what art he had been able to write so
well ; " I said what I thought," replied the unceremonious
Genevan ; conveying, in these few words, the bitterest sat-
ire on the system of the Jesuits, and the best explanation
of his own.
COMMON-PLACE BOOR OP PROSE. 79
If, by the criticism above alluded to, it be meant that
Burke, though an eloquent writer and profound thinker,
was not an able practical statesman, the position may
be more tenable, at least for the partisans of the school
of Fox, but not, perhaps, ultimately more secure. To
form correct conclusions in forms of practice, in opposition
to the habitual current of one's opinions and prejudices,
must be considered as the highest proof of practical abili-
ty ; and this was done by Burke in regard to the French
revolution. As a member of the opposition, and a uniform
friend and supporter of liberal principles, he was led by all
his habits of thinking, and by all his personal associations,
to approve it ; and to feel the same excessive desire to
introduce its principles in England, which prevailed
among his political friends. But he had sagacity enough to
see the true interest of his country through the cloud of
illusions and associations, and independence enough to
proclaim his opinions, with the sacrifice of all his intimate
connexions. This was at once the height of practical abili-
ty and disinterested patriotism. If he pushed his ideas to
exaggeration in regard to foreign affairs, it was still the ex-
aggeration of a system essentially correct in its domestic
operation. He was rather a British than a European
statesman; but the moment was so critical at home, that
he may, perhaps, be excused for not seeing quite clearly
what was right abroad ; and it was also not unnatural that
he should carry to excess the system to which he had sac-
rificed his prejudices and his friendships. That his system
was not correct in all its parts may be easily admitted ; but
I think that, in supporting it, under the circumstances, he
proved great practical ability ; and what system was ever
adopted, in which it was not possible, thirty years after, to
point out faults ?
By the side of these celebrated patriots arose another not.
less distinguished, though his name is hardly surrounded, in
public opinion, with so many amiable and lofty associations ;
I mean the son of Chatham " the pilot that weathered
the storm !" Prejudice itself can hardly refuse to this
statesman the praise of transcendent endowments, both in-
tellectual and moral. He had the natural gift of a brilliant
and easy elocution, great aptitude for despatch of business.
80 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
and a singular facility in seeing through, at a glance, and
developing with perfect clearness, the most intricate com-
binations of politics and finance. He possessed, moreover, a
firmness of purpose, and a determined confidence in hiH
own system, which finally ensured its success, and which
afford, perhaps, the strongest proofs he has given of the ele-
vation of his character. It was no secondary statesman,
who could trust undauntedly to himself, when left, as it
were, alone in Europe, like the tragical Medea, abandoned
by all the world ; and, in the confidence of his own re*
sources, could renew his efforts with redoubled vigour. His
admirers will hardly venture to ascribe to him the enlarged
philosophy, or the warmth of heart, that belonged to his
illustrious colleagues and rivals. The conduct of public
affairs was the business of his life ; and he neither knew
nor cared about any other matters. He was born and bred
to this ; and if he was equal to it, he was also not above it.
Philosophy and friendship were to him, in the language of
the law, surplusage ; as Calvinism was to the great Cu-
jas 'Nihil hoe ad edictitm Prtttorit. And though politi-
cal affairs are of a higher order, and of more extensive
interest, than any others, yet, when the conduct of them is
pursued mechanically, like a mere professional employ-
ment, it becomes, like other professions, a matter of routine
and drudgery. Thus, while Burke and Fox appear like
beings of a different class, descending from superior regions
to interest themselves in the welfare of mortals, Pitt pre-
sents himself to the mind as the first of mere politicians,
but still as a mere politician like the rest. His eloquence
is marked by the stamp of his character. It pursues a
clear and rapid course, neither falling below, nor rising
above, the elevation of his habitual themes. No attempt to
sound thedepths of thought, or soar on the wings of fancy, still
less to touch the fine chords of feeling, but all a + b, an ele-
gant solution of political problems very nearly in the man-
ner of algebra. This profuse and interminable flow of word*
is not in itself either a rare or remarkable endowment. It
is wholly a thing of habit, and is exercised by every vil-
lage lawyer with various degrees of power and grace.
Lord Londonderry, though he wants the elegant correct-
ness of language, as well as the lofty talents of his great
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 81
predecessor, commands an equally ready and copious elo-
cution. In the estimate of Mr. Pitt's powers, I have not
taken into account the errors of his foreign policy, because
an erroneous judgment is not always a proof of inferior
talents, but often only argues a false position. The misfor-
tune of having countenanced and joined in the crusade
against the French, and the merit of having resisted the
spirit of revolution at home, belong alike to Pitt and to
Burke. The praise of a clearer and more generous view
of foreign politics is due to Fox ; though his plan is not al-
ways bottomed on the most enlarged system of European
relations, and although his glory is somewhat clouded by
his too precipitate zeal for political novelties at home.
Surprise and Destruction of the Pequod Indians.
Miss SEDGWICK.
MAGAWISCA paused a few moments, sighed deeply,
and then began the recital of the last acts in the tragedy
of her people, the principal circumstances of which are de-
tailed in the chronicles of the times, by the witnesses of the
bloodyscenes. " You know," she said, " our fortress-homes
were on the level summit of a hill. Thence we could see,
as far a the eye could stretch, our hunting-grounds, and our
gardens, which lay beneath us on the borders of a stream that
glided around our hill, and so near to it, that in the still nights
we could hear its gentle voice. Our fort and wigwams were
encompassed with a palisade, formed of young trees, and
branches interwoven and sharply pointed. No enemy's foot
had ever approached this nest, which the eagles of the tribe
had built for their mates and their young. Sassacus and my
father were both aw*ay on that dreadful night. They had
called a council of our chiefs, and old men ; our young
men had been out in their canoes, and, when they returned,
they had danced and feasted, and were now in deep sleep.
My mother was in her hut with her children, not sleeping,
for my brother Samoset had lingered behind his compan-
ions, and had not yet returned from the water-sport. The
warning spirit, that ever keeps its station at a mother's pil-
83 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
low, whispered that some evil was near ; and my mother,
bidding me lie still with the little ones, went forth in quest
of my brother.
" All the servants of the Great Spirit spoke to my moth-
er's ear and eye of danger and death. The moon, as she
sunk behind the hills, appeared a ball of fire : strange lights
darted through the air ; to my mother's eye they seemed
fiery arrows ; to her ear the air was filled with death-
sighs.
" She had passed the palisade, and was descending the
hill, when she met old Cushmakin. " Do you know aught
of my boy?" she asked.
" Your boy is safe, and sleeps with his companions ; he
returned by the Sassafras knoll; that way can only be
trodden by the strong-limbed and light-footed."
"My boy is safe," said my mother; " then tell me, for
in-ill art wise, and canst see quite through the dark future,
tell me, what evil is coming to our tribe ?" She then de-
scribed the omens she had seen. " I know not," said Cush-
makin ; of late darkness hath spread over my soul, and all
is black there, as before those eyes, that the arrows of
death hath pierced ; but tell me, Monoco, what see you
now in the fields of heaven?"
"Oh, now," said my mother, "I see nothing but the
blue depths and the watching stars. The spirits of the air
have ceased their moaning, and steal over my cheek like
an infant's breath. The water-spirits are rising, and will
soon spread their soft wings around the nest of our tribe."
"The boy sleeps safely," muttered the old man, " and I
have listened to the idle fear of a doting mother."
" I come not of a fearful race," said my mother.
"Nay, that I did not mean," replied Cushmakin; " but
the panther watching her young is fearful as a doe." The
night was far spent, and my mother bade hirn go home
with her, for our powwows have always a mat in the wig-
wam of their chief. " Nay," he said, " the day is near,
and I am always abroad at the rising of the sun." Itseem-
ed that the first warm touch of the sun opened the eye of
the old man's soul, and he saw again the flushed hills, and
the shaded valleys, the sparkling waters, the green maize,
and the gray old rocks of our home. They were just pass-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 83
ing the little gate of the palisade, when the old man s dog
sprang from him with a fearful bark. A rushing sound
was heard. "Owanox ! Owanox ! (the English! the Eng-
lish! ") cried Cushmakin. My mother joined her voice to
his, and in an instant the cry of alarm spread through the
wigwams. The enemy were indeed upon us. They had
surrounded the palisade, and opened their fire."
" Was it so sudden ? Did they so rush on sleeping
women and children ?" asked Everell, who was uncon-
sciously lending all his interest to the party of the nar-
rator.
"Even so; they were guided to us by the traitor We-
quash ; he from whose bloody hand my mother had shield-
ed the captive English maidens he who had eaten from
my father's dish, and slept on his mat. They were flank-
ed by the cowardly Narragansetts, who shrunk from the
sight of our tribe who were pale as white men at the
thought of Sassacus,and so feared him that, when his name
was spoken, they were like an unstrung bow, and they
said, ' He is all one God no man can kill him.' These
cowardly allies waited for the prey they dared not attack."
"Then," said Everell, "as I have heard, our people had
all the honour of the fight?"
"Honour! was it, Everell? ye shall hear. Our war-
riors rushed forth to meet the foe; they surrounded the
huts of their mothers, wives, sisters, children; they fought
as if each man had a hundred lives, and would give each
and all to redeem their homes. Oh! the dreadful fray,
even now, rings in my ears ! Tho~se fearful guns, that
we had never heard before the shouts of your people
our own battle-yell the piteous cries of the little children
the groans of our mothers, and, oh! worse worse thai*
all the silence of those that could not speak. The English
fell back; they were driven to the palisade, some beyond
it, when their leader gave the cry to fire our huts, and led
the way to my mother's. Samoset, the noble boy, defend-
ed the entrance with a princelike courage, till they struck
him down; prostrate and bleeding, he again bent his bow,
and had taken deadly aim at the English leader, when a
sabre-blow severed his bow-string. Then was taken from
our hearth-stone, where the English had been so often
84 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
warmed and cherished, the brand to consume our dwell-
ings. They were covered with mats, and burnt like dried
straw. The enemy retreated without the palisade. In
vain did our warriors fight for a path by which we might
escape from the consuming fire ; they were beaten back ;
the fierce element gained on us ; the Narragansetts press-
ed on the English, howling like wolves for their prey.
Some of our people threw themselves into the midst of the
crackling flames, and their courageous souls parted with
one shout of triumph ; others mounted the palisade, but
they were shot, and dropped like a flock of birds smitten by
the hunter's arrows. Thus did the strangers destroy, in
our own homes, hundreds of our tribe."
" And how did you escape in that dreadful hour, Maga-
wisca ? you were not then taken prisoners ?"
" No ; there was a rock at one extremity of our hut,
and beneath it a cavity, into which my mother crept, with
6neco, myself, and the two little ones that afterwards per-
ished. Our simple habitations were soon consumed ; we
heard the foe retiring, and, when the last sound had died
away, we came forth to a sight that made us lament to be
among the living. The sun was scarce an hour from his
rising, and yet in this brief space our homes had vanished.
The bodies of our people were strewn about the smoulder-
ing ruin ; and all around the palisade lay the strong and
valiant warriors cold silent powerless as the unformed
clay."
Magawisca paused ; she was overcome with the recol-
lection of this scene of desolation. She looked upward
with an intent gaze, as if she held communion with an in-
visible being. " Spirit of my mother !" burst from her
lips " oh ! that I could follow thee to that blessed land,
where I should no more dread the war-cry, nor the death-
knife." Everell dashed the gathering tears from his eyes,
and Magawisca proceeded in her narrative.
" While we all stood silent and motionless, we heard foot-
steps and cheerful voices. They came from my father and
Sassacus, and their band, returning from the friendly coun-
cil. They approached on the side of the hill that was cov-
ered with a thicket of oaks, and their ruined homes at once
burst upon their view. Oh ! what horrid sounds then
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PllOSE. 86
pealed on the air ! shouts of wailing, and cries of ven-
geance. Every eye was turned with suspicion and hatred
on my father. He had been the friend of the English ;
he had counselled peace and alliance with them ; he had
protected their traders ; delivered the captives taken from
them, and restored them to their people : now his wife and
children alone were living, and they called him traitor. I
heard an angry murmur, and many hands were lifted to
strike the death-blow. He moved not ' Nay, nay,' cried
Sassacus, beating them off. ' Touch him not ; his soul is
bright as the sun ; sooner shall you darken that, than find
treason in his breast. If he hath shown the dove's heart
to the English, when he believed them friends, he will
show himself the fierce eagle, now he knows them enemies.
Touch him not, warriors ; remember my blood runneth in
his veins.'
" From that moment my father was a changed man. He
neither spoke nor looked at his wife, or children ; but.
placing himself at the head of one band of the young men,
he shouted his war-cry, and then silently pursued the ene-
my. Sassacus went forth to assemble the tribe, and we
followed my mother to one of our villages."
" You did not tell me, Magawisca," said Everell, "how
Samoset perished ; was he consumed in the flames, or shot
from the palisade ?"
" Neither neither. He was reserved to whet my fa-
ther's revenge to a still keener edge. He had forced a
passage through the English, and, hastily collecting a few
warriors, they pursued the enemy, sprung upon them from
a covert, and did so annoy them that the English turned,
and gave them battle. All fled save my brother, and him
they took prisoner. They told him they would spare his
life if he would guide them to our strong holds ; he refused.
He had, Everell, lived but sixteen summers ; he loved the
light of the sun even as we love it ; his manly spirit was
tamed by wounds and weariness ; his limbs were like a
bending reed, and his heart beat Iike"\ woman's ; but the
fire of his soul burnt clear. Again they pressed him with
offers of life and reward ; he faithfully refused, and with
one sabre-stroke they severed his head from his body."
8
86 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
Magawisca paused she looked at Everell, and said with
a bitter smile " You English tell us, Everell, that the book
of your law is better than that written on our hearts, for, ye
say, it teaches mercy, compassion, forgiveness if ye had
such a law, and believed it, would ye thus have treated a
captive boy ?"
Magawisca's reflecting mind suggested the most serious
obstacle to the progress of the Christian religion, in all
ages and under all circumstances ; the contrariety between
its divine principles and the conduct of its professors ; which,
instead of always being a medium for the light that ema-
nates from our holy law, is too often the darkest cloud that
obstructs the passage of its rays to the hearts of heathen
luen. Everell had been carefully instructed in the princi-
ples of his religion, and he felt Magawisca's relation to be
an awkward comment on them, and her inquiry natural ;
but, though he knew not what answer to make, he was sure
there must be a good one, and, mentally resolving to refer
the case to his mother, he begged Magawisca to proceed
with her narrative.
" The fragments of our broken tribe," she said, " were
collected, and some other small dependant tribes persuaded
to join us. We were obliged to flee from the open grounds,
and shelter ourselves in a dismal swamp. The English sur-
rounded us ; they sent in to us a messenger, and offered
life and pardon to all who had not shed the blood of Eng-
lishmen. Our allies listened, and fled from us, as fright-
ened birds fly from a falling tree. My father looked upon
his warriors ; they answered that look with their battle-
shout ' Tell your people,' said my father to the messen-
ger, ' that we have shed and drank English blood, and that
we will take nothing from them but death.' The messen-
ger departed, and again returned with offers of pardon, if
we would come forth, and lay our arrows and our toma-
hawks at the feet of the English. ' What say you, war-
riors ?' cried my father ' shall we take pardon from those
who have burned your wives and children, and given your
homes to the beasts of prey ? who have robbed you of your
hunting-grounds, and driven your canoes from their wa-
ters ?' A hundred arrows were pointed to the messenger.
' Enough you have your answer,' said my father ; and
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 87
the messenger returned to announce the fate we had
chosen."
" Where was Sassacus ? had he abandoned his people ?"
asked Everell.
" Abandoned them ! No his life was in theirs ; but, ac-
customed to attack and victory, he could not bear to be
thus driven like a fox to his hole. His soul was sick with-
in him, and he was silent, and left all to my fathe.r. All
day we heard the strokes of the English axes felling the
trees that defended us, and, when night came, they had ap-
proached so near, that we could see the glimmering of their
watch-lights through tfie branches of the trees. All night
they were pouring in their bullets, alike on warriors,
women, and children. Old Cushmakin was lying at my
mother's feet, when he received a death-wound. Gasping
for breath, he called on Sassacus and my father ' Stay not
here,' he said ; ' look not on your wives and children, but
burst your prison bound ; sound through the nations the
cry of revenge ! Linked together, ye shall drive the Eng-
lish into the sea. I speak the word of the Great Spirit
obey it !' While he was yet speaking, he stiffened in
death. ' Obey him, warriors,' cried my mother ; ' see,'
she said, pointing to the mist that was now wrapping itself
around the wood like a thick curtain ' see, our friends
have come from the spirit-land to shelter you. Nay, look
not on us our hearts have been tender in the wigwam, bul
we can die before our enemies without a groan. Go forth
and avenge us.'
" ' Have we come to the counsel of old men and old
women !' said Sassacus, in the bitterness of his spirit.
" ' When women put down their womanish thoughts and
counsel like men, they should be obeyed,' said my father.
Follow me, warriors.'
" They burst through the enclosure. We saw nothing
more, but we heard the shout from the foe, as they issued
from the wood the momentary fierce encounter and the
cry, ' They have escaped !' Then it was that my mother,
who had listened with breathless silence, threw herself
down on the mossy stones, and, laying her hot cheek to
mine ' Oh, my children my children !* she said, ' would
that I could die for you ! But fear not death the blood
88 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
of a hundred chieftains, that never knew fear, runneth in
your veins. Hark, the enemy conies nearer and nearer.
Now lift up your heads, my children, and show them that
even the weak ones of our tribe are strong in soul.'
" We rose from the ground all about sat women and
children in family clusters, awaiting unmoved their fate.
The English had penetrated the forest-screen, and were
already on the little rising-ground where we had been in-
trenched. Death was dealt freely. None resisted not a
movement was made not a voice lifted not a sound es-
caped, save the waitings of the dying children.
"One of your soldiers knew my mother, and a com-
mand was given that her life and that of her children
should be spared. A guard was stationed round us.
" You know that, after our tribe was thus cut off, wo
were taken, with a few other captives, to Boston. Some
were sent to the Islands of the Sun, to bend their free
limbs to bondage like your beasts of burden. There are
among your people those who have not put out the light
of the Great Spirit ; they can remember a kindness, albeit
done by an Indian ; and when it was known to your sa-
chems that the wife of Mononotto, once the protector
and friend of your people, was a prisoner, they treated
her with honour and gentleness. But her people were
extinguished her husband driven to distant forests forced
on earth to the misery of wicked souls to wander without
a home ; her children were captives and her heart was
broken."
Character of Fisher Ames. KIRKLAWD.
MR. AMES, as a speaker and a writer, had the power to
enlighten and persuade, to move, to please, to charm, to
astonish. He united those decorations, which belong to
fine talents, to that penetration and judgment, that des-
ignate an acute and solid mind. Many of his opinions
had the authority of predictions fulfilled and fulfilling. He
had the ability of investigation, and, where it was neces-
ary, did investigate with patient attention, going through
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 89
a series of observation and deduction, and tracing the links
which connect one truth with another. When the result
of his researches was exhibited in discourse, the steps of a
logical process were in some measure concealed by the
colouring of rhetoric. Minute calculation and dry details
were employments, however, the least adapted to his pe-
culiar construction of mind. It was easy and delightful
for him to illustrate by a picture, but painful and laborious
to prove by a diagram. It was the prerogative of his mind
to discern by a glance, so rapid as to seem intuition, those
truths which common capacities struggle hard to appre-
hend ; and it was the part of his eloquence to display, ex-
pand and enforce them.
His imagination was a distinguishing feature of his mind.
Prolific, grand, sportive, original, it gave him the command
of nature and of art, and enabled him to vary the disposi-
tion and the dress of his ideas without end. Now it as-
sembled most pleasing images, adorned with all that is soft
and beautiful ; and now rose in the storm, wielding the ele-
ments, and flashing in the most awful splendours. Very
few men have produced more original combinations. He
presented resemblances and contrasts, which none saw be-
fore, but all admitted to be just and striking. In delicate
and powerful wit he was pre-eminent.
The exercise of these talents and accomplishments was
guided and exalted by a sublime morality and the spirit of
rational piety, was modelled by much good taste, and
prompted by an ardent heart.
He was more adapted to the senate than the bar. His
speeches in congress, always respectable, were many of
them excellent, abounding in argument and sentiment,
having all the necessary information, embellished with
rhetorical beauties, and animated by patriotic fires.
So much of the skill and address of the orator do they
exhibit, that, though he had little regard to the rules of the
art, they are perhaps fair examples of the leading precepts
for the several parts of an oration. In debates on impor-
tant questions, he generally waited before he spoke till the
discussion had proceeded at some length, when he was
sure to notice every argument that had been offered. He
was sometimes in a minority, when he well considered tha
90 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
temper of a majority in a republican assembly, impatient
of contradiction, refutation, or detection, claiming to be
allowed sincere in their convictions, and disinterested in
their views. He was not unsuccessful in uniting the pru-
dence and conciliation, necessary in parliamentary speak-
ing, with lawful freedom in debate, and an effectual use
of those sharp and massy weapons, which his talents sup-
plied, and which his frankness and zeal prompted him to
employ.
He did not systematically study the exterior graces of
speaking, but his attitude was erect and easy, his gestures
manly and forcible, his intonations varied and expressive,
his articulation distinct, and his whole manner animated
and natural. His written compositions, it will be per-
ceived, have that glow and vivacity which belong to his
speeches.
All the other efforts of his mind, however, were proba-
bly exceeded by his powers in conversation. He appear-
ed among his friends with an illuminated face, and, with
peculiar amenity and captivating kindness, displayed all
the playful felicity of his wit, the force of his intellect, and
the fertility of his imagination.
On the kind or degree of excellence which criticism
may concede or deny to Mr. Ames's productions, we do
not undertake with accurate discrimination to determine.
He was undoubtedly rather actuated by the genius of ora-
tory, than disciplined by the precepts of rhetoric ; was
more intent on exciting attention and interest, and produc-
ing effect, than securing the praise of skill in the artifice
of composition. Hence critics may be dissatisfied, yet hear-
ers charmed. The abundance of materials, the energy and
quickness of conception, the inexhaustible fertility of mind,
which he possessed, as they did not require, so they for-
bade, a rigid adherence to artificial guides, in the dispo-
sition and employment of his intellectual stores. To a cer-
tain extent, such a speaker and writer may claim to be his
own authority.
Image crowded upon image in his mind, yet he is not
chargeable with affectation in the use of figurative lan-
guage ; his tropes are evidently prompted by imagination,
and not forced into service. Their novelty and variety
COMMON-FLACK BOOK OF PKOSE. 91
create constant surprise and delight. But they are per-
haps too lavishly employed. The fancy of his hearers is
sometimes overplied with stimulus, and the importance of
the thought liable to be concealed in the multitude and
heauty of the metaphors. His condensation of expression
may be thought to produce occasional abruptness. He
aimed rather at the terseness, strength, and vivacity of the
short sentence, than at the dignity of the full and flowing
period. His style is conspicuous for sententious brevity,
for antithesis and point. Single ideas appear with so much
prominence, that the connexion of the several parts of his
discourse is not always obvious to the common mind, and
the aggregate impression of the composition is not always
completely obtained. In these respects, where his peculiar
excellences came near to defects, he is rather to be ad-
mired than imitated.
Mr. Ames, though trusting much to his native resources,
did by no means neglect to apply the labours of others to
his own use. His early love of books he retained and
cherished through the whole of his life. He was particu-
larly fond of ethical studies ; but he went more deeply
into history than any other branch of learning. Here he
sought the principles of legislation, the science of politics,
the causes of the rise and decline of nations, and the char-
acters and passions of men acting in public affairs. He read
Herodotus, Thucydides, Livy, Tacitus, Plutarch, and the
modern historians of Greece and Rome. The English his-
tory he studied with much care. Hence he possessed a
great fund of historical knowledge, always at command,
both for conversation and writing. He contemplated the
character of Cicero as an orator and statesman with fervent
admiration.
He never ceased to be a -lover of the poets. Homer, in
Pope, he often perused ; and he read Virgil in the original,
within two years of his death, with increased delight. His
knowledge of the French enabled him to read their authors,
though not to speak their language. He was accustomed
to read the Scriptures, not only as containing a system of
truth and duty, but as displaying, in their poetical parts,
all that is sublime, animated and affecting in composition.
92 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
tlia learning seldom appeared as such, but was interwoven
with his thoughts, and became his own.
In public speaking he trusted much to excitement, and
did little more in his closet than draw the outlines of his
speech, and reflect on it till he had received deeply the
impressions he intended to make ; depending for the turns
and figures of language, illustrations and modes of appeal
to the passions, on his imagination and feelings at the time.
This excitement continued when the cause had ceased to
operate. After debate his mind was agitated, like the ocean
after a storm, and his nerves were like the shrouds of a
hip, torn by the tempest. He brought his mind much in
contact with the minds of others, ever pleased to converse
on subjects of public interest, and seizing every hint that
might be useful to him in writing for the instruction of his
fellow-citizens. He justly thought that persons below him
in capacity might have good ideas, which he might em-
ploy in the correction and improvement of his own. His
attention was always awake to grasp the materials that came
to him from every source. A constant labour was going
on in his mind. He never sunk from an elevated tone of
thought and action, nor suffered his faculties to slumber in
indolence. The circumstances of the times, in which he
was called to act, contributed to elicit his powers, and sup-
ply fuel to his genius. The greatest interests were sub-
jects of debate. When he was in the national legislature,
the spirit of party did not tie the hands of the public func-
tionaries ; and questions, on which depended tho peace or
war, the safety or danger, the freedom or dishonour, of the
country, might be greatly influenced by the counsels and
efforts of a single patriot.
Mr. Ames's character as a patriot rests on the highest
and firmest ground. He loved his country with equal pu-
rity and fervour. This affection was the spring of all his
efforts to promote her welfare. The glory of being a ben-
efactor to a great people he could not despise, but justly
valued. He was covetous of the fame purchased by des-
ert ; but he was above ambition ; and popularity, except
as an instrument of public service, weighed nothing in the
balance by which he estimated good and evil. Had h
Bought power only, he would have devoted himself to that
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 93
party, in whose gift he foresaw it would be placed. His
first election, though highly flattering, was equally un-
sought and unexpected, and his acceptance of it interrupt-
ed his chosen plan of life. It obliged him to sacrifice the
advantages of a profession, which he needed, and placed in
uncertainty his prospects of realizing the enjoyments ot
domestic life, which he considered the highest species oi
happiness. But he found himself at the disposal of others,
and did not so much choose, as acquiesce, in his destination
to the national legislature.
The objects of religion presented themselves with a
strong interest to his mind. The relation of the world to
its Author, and of this life to a retributory scene in another,
could not be contemplated by him without the greatest so-
lemnity. The religious sense was, in his view, essential
in the constitution of man. He placed a full reliance on
the divine origin of Christianity. If there ever was a time
in his life when the light of revelation shone dimly upon
his understanding, he did not rashly close his mind against
clearer vision ; for he was more fearful of mistakes to the
disadvantage of a system, which he saw to be excellent
and benign, than of prepossessions in its favour. He felt
it his duty and interest to inquire, and discover on the side
of faith, a fulness of evidence little short of demonstration.
At about thirty-five he made a public profession of his faith
in the Christian religion, and was a regular attendant ou
its services. In regard to articles of belief, his conviction
was confined to those leading principles, about which
Christians have little diversity of opinion. Subtile ques-
tions of theology, from various causes often agitated, but
never determined, he neither pretended nor desired to in-
vestigate, satisfied that they related to points uncertain or
unimportant. He loved to view religion on the practical
side, as designed to operate, by a few simple and grand
truths, on the affections, actions and habits of men. His
conversation and behaviour evinced the sincerity of his re-
ligious impressions. No levity upon these subjects ever
escaped his lips ; but his manner of recurring to them in
conversation indicated reverence and feeling. The sublime,
the affecting character of Christ, he never mentioned with-
out emotion.
94 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
He was gratefully sensible of the peculiar felicity of his
domestic life. In his beloved home his sickness found all
the alleviation, that a judicious and unwearied tenderness
could minister ; and his intervals of health a succession of
every pleasing enjoyment and heartfelt satisfaction. The
complacency of his looks, the sweetness of his tones, his
mild and often playful manner of imparting instruction,
evinced his extreme delight in the society of his family,
who felt that they derived from him their chief happiness,
and found in his conversation and example a constant ex-
citement to noble and virtuous conduct. As a husband
and father, he was all that is provident, kind, exemplary.
He was riveted in the regards of those who were in his
service. He felt all the ties of kindred. The delicacy,
the ardour, and constancy, with which he cherished his
friends, his readiness to the offices of good neighbourhood,
and his propensity to contrive and execute plans of public
improvement, formed traits in his character, each of re-
markable strength. He cultivated friendship by an active
and punctual correspondence, which made the number of
his letters very great, and which are not less excellent
than numerous.
Mr. Ames in person a little exceeded the middle height,
was well proportioned, and remarkably erect. His features
were regular, his aspect respectable and pleasing, his eye
expressive of benignity and intelligence. In his man-
ners he was easy, affable, cordial, inviting confidence, yet
inspiring respect. He had that refined spirit of society,
which observes the forms of real, but not studied polite-
ness, and paid a most delicate regard to the propriety of
conversation and behaviour.
Reflections on the Death of Adams and Jefferson,
SERGEANT.
TIME in its course has produced a striking epoch in the
history of our favoured country ; and, as if to mark with
peculiar emphasis this interesting stage of our national ex-
istence, it comes to us accompanied with incidents calcu-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 95
lated to make a powerful and lasting impression. The
dawn of the fiftieth anniversary of independence beamed
upon two venerable and illustrious citizens, to whom, under
Providence, a nation acknowledged itself greatly indebted
for the event which the day was set apart to commemorate.
The one was the author, the other was "the ablest advocate "
of that solemn assertion of right, that heroic defiance of un-
just power, which, in the midst of difficulty and danger,
proclaimed the determination to assume a separate and equal
station among the powers of the earth, and declared to the
world the causes which impelled to this decision. Both
had stood by their country with unabated ardour and un-
wavering fortitude, through every vicissitude of her for-
tune, until the " glorious day" of her final triumph crown-
ed their labours and their sacrifices with complete success.
With equal solicitude, and with equal warmth of patriotic
affection, they devoted their great faculties, which had been
employed in vindicating the rights of their country, to con-
struct for her, upon deep and strong foundations, the solid
edifice of social order, and of civil and religious freedom
They had both held the highest public employment, and
were distinguished by the highest honours the nation could
confer. Arrived at an age when nature seems to demand
repose, each had retired to the spot from which the public
exigencies had first called him, his public labours ended,
his work accomplished, his country prosperous and happy,
there to indulge in the blessed retrospect of a well-spent
life, and await that period which comes to all ; but not to
await it in idleness or indifference. The same spirit of
active benevolence, which made the meridian of their lives
resplendent with glory, continued to shed its lustre upon
their evening path. Still intent upon doing good, still de-
voted to the great cause of human happiness and improve-
ment, neither of these illustrious men relaxed in his exer-
tions. They seemed only to concentrate their energy, as
age and increasing infirmity contracted the circle of action,
bestowing, without ostentation, their latest efforts upon the
state and neighbourhood in which they resided. There
with patriarchal simplicity, they lived, the objects of a
nation's grateful remembrance and affection; the living
records of a nation's history ; the charm of an age which
96 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF THOSE.
they delighted, adorned and instructed by their vivid
sketches of times that are past ; and, as it were, the im-
bodied spirit of the revolution itself, in all its purity and
force, diffusing its wholesome influence through the gen-
erations that have succeeded, rebuking every dnister de-
sign, and invigorating every manly and virtuous resolution.
The Jubilee came, the great national commemoration
of a nation's birth, the fiftieth year of deliverance from
a foreign rule, wrought out by exertions, and suffering, and
sacrifices of the patriots of the revolution. It found these
illustrious and venerable men, full of honours and full of
years, animated with the proud recollection of the times
in which they had borne so distinguished a part, and cheer-
ed by the beneficent and expanding influence of their
patriotic labours. The eyes of a nation were turned to-
wards them with affection and reverence. They heard the
first song of triumph on that memorable day. As the
voice of millions of freemen rose in gratitude and joy, they
both sunk gently to rest, and their spirits departed in the
midst of the swelling chorus of national enthusiasm.
Death has thus placed his seal upon the lives of these
two eminent men with impressive solemnity. A gracious
Providence, whose favours have been so often manifested
in mercy to our country, has been pleased to allow them
an unusual length of time, and an uncommon continuance
of their extraordinary faculties. They have been, as it
were, united in death; and they have both, in a most sig-
nal manner, been associated in the great event which
they so largely contributed to produce. Henceforward the
names of Jefferson and Adams can never be separated from
the Declaration of Independence. Whilst that venerated
instrument shall continue to exist, as long as its sacred
spirit shall dwell with the people of this nation, or the free
institutions that have grown out of it be preserved and
respected, so longwill our children, and our children's chil-
dren, to the latest generation, bless the names of these our
illustrious benefactors, and cherish their memory with reve-
rential respect. The Jubilee, at each return, will bring
back, with renovated force, the lives and the deaths of these
distinguished men; and History, with the simple pencil of
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 97
Truth, sketching the wonderful coincidence, will, for once
at least, set at defiance all the powers of poetry and ro-
mance.
Indolence. DENWIK.
"How long wilt thou sleep, O sluggard? When wilt thou arise out
of sleep?"
NOT until you have had another nap, you reply ; not
till there has been a little more folding of the hands !
Various philosophers and naturalists have attempted to
define man. I never was satisfied with their labours : ab-
surd to pronounce him a two-legged, unfeathcred animal,
when it is obvious he is a sleepy one. In this world there
is business enough for every individual: a sparkling sky
over his head to admire, a soil under his feet to till, and
innumerable objects, useful and pleasant, to choose. Bui
such in general is the provoking indolence of our species,
that the lives of many, if impartially journalized, might
be truly said to have consisted of a series of slumbers.
Some men are infested with day dreams, as well as by
visions of the night : they travel a certain insipid round,
like the blind horse of the mill, and, as Bolingbroke ob-
serves, perhaps beget others to do the like after them. They
may sometimes open their eyes a little, but they are soon
dimmed by some lazy fog ; they may sometimes stretch a
limb, but its efforts are soon palsied by procrastination.
Yawning, amid tobacco fumes, they seem to have no hopes,
except that their bed will soon be made, and no fears, ex-
cept that their slumbers will be broken by business clam-
ouring at the door.
How tender and affectionate is the reproachful question
of Solomon, in the text, " When wilt thou arise out of
sleep ?" The Jewish prince, whom we know to be an ac-
tive one, from the temple which he erected and the books
which he composed, saw, when he cast his eyes around
the city, half his subjects asleep. Though in many a wise
proverb he had warned them of the baneful effects of in-
98 COMMON-PLACE BOOR OP PROSE.
dolence, they were deaf to his charming voice, and blind
to his noble example. The men servants and the maid
servants, whom he had hired, nodded over their domestic
duties iu the royal kitchen, and when, in the vineyards he
had planted, he looked for grapes, lo, they brought forth
wild grapes, for the vintager was drowsy.
At the present time, few Solomons exist to preach against
pillows, and never was there more occasion for a sermon.
Our country being at peace, not a drum is heard to rouse
the slothful. But, though we are exempted from the tu-
mults and vicissitudes of war, we should remember that
there are many posts of duty, if not of danger, and at these
we should vigilantly stand. If we will stretch the hand
of exertion, means to acquire competent wealth, and honest
fame, abound, and when such ends are in view, how shameful
to close our eyes ! He who surveys the paths of active life,
will find them so numerous and long, that he will feel the
necessity of early rising, and late taking rest, to accomplish
so much travel. He who pants for the shade of speculation,
will find that literature cannot flourish in the bowers of in-
dolence and monkish gloom. Much midnight oil must be
consumed, and innumerable pages examined, by him whose
object is to be really wise. Few hours has that man to
sleep, and not one to loiter, who has many coffers of wealth
to fill, or many cells in his memory to store.
Among the various men, whom I see in the course of my
pilgrimage through this world, I cannot frequently find
those who are broad awake. Sloth, a powerful magician,
mutters a witching spell, and deluded mortals tamely suffer
this drowsy being to bind a fillet over their eyes. All
their activity is employed in turning themselves like the
door on a rusty hinge, and all the noise they make in the
world is a snore. When I see one, designed by nature for
noble purposes, indolently declining the privilege, and, heed-
less, like Esau,. bartering the birthright, for what is of less
worth than his red pottage of lentils, for liberty to sit still
and lie quietly, I think I see, not a man, but an oyster.
The drone in society, like that fish on our shores, might as
well be sunken in the mud, and enclosed in a shell, as
stretched on a couch, or seated in a chimney-corner.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 99
The season is now approaching fast, when some of the
most plausible excuses for a little more sleep must fail. En-
ervated by indulgence, the slothful are of all men most im-
patient of cold, and they deem it never more intense than
in the morning. But the last bitter month has rolled
away, and now, could I persuade to the experiment, the
sluggard may discover that he may toss off the bed-quilt,
and try the air of early day, without being congealed !
He may be assured that sleep is a very stupid employment,
and differs very little from death, except in duration. He
may receive it implicitly, upon the faith both of the physi-
cian and the preacher, that morning is friendly to the health
and the heart ; and if the idler is so manacled by the chains
of habit, that he can, at first, do no more, he will do wise-
ly and well to inhale pure air, to watch the rising sun, and
mark the magnificence of nature.
Escape of Harvey Birch and Captain Wharton.
COOPER.
THE road which it was necessary for the pedler and the
English captain to travel, in order to reach the shelter of
the hills, lay, for half a mile, in full view from the door of
the building, that had so recently been the prison of the
latter ; running for the whole distance over the rich plain,
that spreads to the very foot of the mountains, which here
rise in a nearly perpendicular ascent from their bases; it then
turned short to the right, and was obliged to follow the
windings of nature, as it won its way into the bosom of the
Highlands.
To preserve the supposed difference in their stations,
Harvey rode a short distance ahead of his companion, and
maintained the sober, dignified pace, that was suited to his
assumed character. On their right, the regiment of foot,
that we have already mentioned, lay in tents ; and the sen-
tinels, who guarded their encampment, were to be seen
moving, with measured tread, under the skirts of the hills
themselves. The first impulse of Henry was, certainly,
to urge the beast he rode to his greatest speed at once, and,
100 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
by a coup-de-main, not only to accomplish his escape, but
relieve himself from the torturing suspense of his situation.
But the forward movement that the youth made for this
purpose was instantly checked by the pedler.
" Hold up!" he cried, dexterously reining his own horse
icross the path of the other; "would you ruin us both ?
Fall into the place of a black following his master. Did
you not see their blooded chargers, all saddled and bridled,
standing in the sun before the house ? How long do you
think that miserable Dutch horse you are on would hold
his speed, if pursued by the Virginians ? Every foot that
we can gain without giving the alarm, counts us a day
in our lives. Ride steadily after me, and on no account
look back. They are as subtle as foxes, ay, and as rave-
nous for blood as wolves."
Henry reluctantly restrained his impatience, and follow-
ed the direction of the pedler. His imagination, however,
continually alarmed him with the fancied sounds of pursuit ;
though Birch, who occasionally looked back under the pre-
tence of addressing his companion, assured him that all
continued quiet and peaceful.
" But," said Henry, " it will not be possible for Caesar
to remain long undiscovered : had we not better put our
horses to the gallop ? and, by the time they can reflect on
the cause of our flight, we can reach the corner of the
woods."
" Ah ! you little know them, Captain Wharton," re-
turned the pedler ; " there is a sergeant at this moment look-
ing after us, as if he thought all was not right ; the keen-
eyed fellow watches me like a tiger laying in wait for his
leap ; when I stood on the horse block, he half suspected
something was wrong ; nay, check your beast ; we must
let the animals walk a little, for he is laying his hand on
the pommel of his saddle ; if he mounts now, we are
gone. The foot soldiers could reach us with their mus-
kets."
" What does he do ?" asked Henry, reining his horse to
a walk, but, at the same time, pressing his heels into the
animal's sides, to be in readiness for a spring.
" He turns from his charger, and looks the other wny.
Now trot on gently ; not so fast, not so fast ; observe the
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 101
sentinel in the field a little ahead of us; he eyes us
keenly."
" Never mind the footman," said Henry impatiently ;
" he can do nothing but shoot us ; whereas these dragoons
may make me a captive again. Surely, Harvey, there are
horsemen moving down the road behind us. Do you see
nothing particular ?"
"Humph !" ejaculated the pedler ; " there is something
particular, indeed, to be seen behind the thicket on your left ;
turn your head a little, and you may see and profit by it too."
Henry eagerly seized his permisson to look aside, and
his blood curdled to the heart as he observed they were
passing a gallows, that had unquestionably been erected
for his own execution. He turned his face from the sight
in undisguised horror.
" There is a warning to be prudent in that bit of wood,"
said the pedler, in that sententious manner that he often
adopted.
" It is a terrific sight indeed !" cried Henry, for a mo-
ment veiling his face with his hands, as if to drive a vision
from before him.
The pedler moved his body partly around, and spoke with
energetic but gloomy bitterness " and yet, Captain Whar-
ton, you see it when the setting sun shines full upon you ; the
air you breathe is clear, and fresh from the hills before you.
Every step that you take leaves that hated gallows behind ;
and every dark hollow, and every shapeless rock in the
mountains, offers you a hiding-place from the vengeance
of your enemies. But I have seen the gibbet raised, when
no place of refuge offered. Twice have I been buried in
dungeons, where, fettered and in chains, I have passed nights
in torture, looking forward to the morning's dawn that was
to light me to a death of infamy. The sweat has started
from limbs that seeded already drained of their moisture, and
if I ventured to the hole, that admitted air through grates of
iron, to look out upon the smiles of nature, which God has
bestowed for the meanest of his creatures, the gibbet has
glared before my eyes, like an evil conscience, harrowing
the soul of a dying man. Four times have I been in their
power, besides this last ; but twice twice did I think
that my hour had come. It is hard to die at the best.
9*
102 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
Captain Wharton ; but to spend your last moments alone
and unpiticd, to know that none near you so much as think
of the fate that is to you the closing of all that is earthly ;
to think that in a few hours you are to be led from the
gloom which, as you dwell on what follows, becomes dear
to you to the face of day, and there to meet all eyes
upon you, as if you were a wild beast ; and to lose sight of
every thing amidst the jeers and scoffs of your fellow crea-
tures ; that, Captain Wharton, that indeed is to die."
Henry listened in amazement, as his companion uttered
this speech with a vehemence altogether new to him ;
both seemed to have forgotten their danger and their dis-
guises, as he cried
" What! were you ever so near death as that?"
" Have I not been the hunted beast of these hills for
three years past ?" resumed Harvey ; " and once they even
led me to the foot of the gallows itself, and I escaped only
by an alarm from the royal troops. Had they been a quar-
ter of an hour later, I must have died. There was I placed,
in the midst of unfeeling men, and gaping women and
children, as a monster to be cursed. When I would pray
to God, my ears were insulted with the history of my crimes ;
and when, in all that multitude, I looked around for a sin-
gle face that showed me any pity, I coulJ find none no,
not even one all cursed me as a wretch who would sell
his country for gold. The sun was brighter to my eyes
han common but then it was the last time I should see
it. The fields were gay and pleasant, and every thing seem-
ed as if this world was a kind of heaven. Oh ! how sweet
life was to me at that moment! 'Twas a dreadful hour,
Captain Wharton, and such as you have never known. You
have friends to feel for you ; but I had none but a father
to mourn my loss when he might hear of it; there was no
pity, no consolation near to soothe my anguish. Every
thing seemed to have deserted me, I even thought that
He had forgotten that I lived."
" What ! did you feel that God had forsaken you, Har-
vey ?" cried the youth, with strong sympathy.
" God never forsakes his servants," returned Birch, with
reverence, and exhibiting naturally a devotion that hitherto
he had only assumed.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 103
" And who did you mean by He ?"
The pedler raised himself in his saddle to the stiff and
upright posture that was suited to the outward appearance.
The look of fire, that, for a short time, glowed upon his
countenance, disappeared in the solemn lines of unbend-
ing self-abasement, and, speaking as if addressing a negro,
he replied
" In heaven, there is no distinction of colour, my broth-
er; therefore you have a precious charge within you, that
you must hereafter render an account of," dropping his
voice ; " this is the last sentinel near the road ; look not
back, as you value your life."
Henry remembered his situation, and instantly assumed
the humble demeanour of his adopted character. The un-
accountable energy of the pedler's manner was soon for-
gotten in the sense of his own immediate danger ; and with
the recollection of his critical situation returned all the
uneasiness that he had momentarily forgotten.
" What see you, Harvey ?" he cried, observing the ped-
Icr to gaze towards the building they had left, with omi-
nous interest ; " what see you at the house ?"
" That which bodes no good to us," returned the pre-
tended priest. " Throw aside the mask and wig you
will need all your senses without much delay throw
them in the road : there are none before us that I dread, but
there are those behind us, who will give us a fearful
race."
" Nay, then," cried the captain, casting the implements
of his disguise into the highway, " let us improve our time
to the utmost ; we want a full quarter to the turn ; why
not push for it at once ?**
" Be cool they are in alarm, but they will not mount
without an officer, unless they see us fly now he comes
he moves to the stables trot briskly a dozen are in their
saddles, but the officer stops to tighten his girths they hope
to steal a march upon us he is mounted now ride, Cap-
tain Wharton, for your life, and keep at my heels. If you
quit me you will be lost."
A second request was unnecessary. The instant that
Harvey put his horse to his speed, Captain Wharton was at
his heels, urging the miserable animal that he rode to the
104 COMMON-PLACE liOOK OF PROSE.
utmost Birch had selected the beast on which he rode,
and, although vastly inferior to the high-fed and blooded
chargers of the dragoons, still it was much superior to the
Jittle pony that had been thought good enough to carry Caesar
Thompson on an errand. A very few jumps convinced the
captain that his companion was fast leaving him, and a fear-
ful glance that he threw behind informed the fugitive that
his enemies were as speedily approaching. With that
abandonment that makes misery doubly grievous, when it
is to be supported alone, Henry called aloud to the pedler
not to desert him. Harvey instantly drew up, and suffer-
ed his companion to run along-side of his own horse. The
cocked hat and wig of the pedler fell from his head the
moment that his steed began to move briskly, and this de-
velopement of their disguise, as it might be termed, was
witnessed by the dragoons, who announced their observa-
tion by a boisterous shout, that seemed to be uttered in the
very ears of the fugitives so loud was the cry, and so
.short the distance between them.
" Had we not better leave our horses," said Henry, " and
make for the hills across the fields on our left .' the fence
will stop our pursuers."
" That way lies the gallows," returned the pedler
" these fellows go three feet to our two, and would mind
them fences no more than we do these ruts ; but it is a short
quarter to the turn, and there are two roads behind the
wood. They may stand to choose until they can take
the track, and we shall gain a little upon them there."
" But this*miserable horse is blown already," cried Hen-
ry, urging his beast with the end of his bridle, at the same
time that Harvey aided his efforts by applying the lash of
a heavy riding whip that he carried ; " he will never stand
it for half a mile further."
" A quarter will do a quarter will do," said the pedler ;
" a single quarter will save us, if you follow my direc-
tions."
Somewhat cheered by the cool and confident manner of
his companion, Henry continued silently urging his horse
forward. A few moments brought them to the desired
turn, and, as they doubled round a point of low under-brush,
Hie fugitives caught a glimpse of their pursuers scattered
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 105
along the highway. Mason and the sergeant, being better
mounted than the rest of the party, were much nearer to
their heels than even the pedler thought could be possible.
At the foot of the hills, and for some distance up the
dark valley that wound among the mountains, a thick un-
derwood of saplings had been suffered to shoot up, when
the heavier growth was felled for the sake of fuel. At
the sight of this cover, Henry again urged the pedler to
dismount, and to plunge into the woods ; but his request
was promptly refused. The two roads before mentioned
met at a very sharp angle, at a short distance from the turn,
and both were circuitous, so that but little of either could
be seen at a time. The pedler took the one which led to
the left, but held it only a moment, for, on reaching a par-
tial opening in the thicket, he darted across the right hand
path, and led the way up a steep ascent, which lay direct-
ly before them. This manoeuvre saved them. On reaching
the fork, the dragoons followed the track, and passed the
spot where the fugitives had crossed to the other road, be-
fore they missed the marks of the footsteps. Their loud
cries were heard by Henry and the pedler, as their weari-
ed and breathless animals toiled up the hill, ordering their
comrades in the rear to ride in the right direction. The
captain again proposed to leave their horses, and dash into
the thicket
" Not yet not yet," said Birch in a low voice ; the road
falls from the top of this hill as steep as it rises first let
us gain the top." While speaking they reached the desir-
ed summit, and both threw themselves from their horses.
Henry plunged into the thick underwood, which covered
the side of the mountain for some distance above them. Har-
vey stopped to give each of their beasts a few severe blows
of his whip, that drove them headlong down the path on
the other side of the eminence, and then followed his ex-
ample.
The pedler entered the thicket with a little caution,
and avoided, as much as possible, rustling or breaking the
branches in his way. There was but time only to shelter
his person from view, when a dragoon led up the ascent,
and, on reaching the height, he cried aloud
106 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PIIOSE.
" I saw one of their horses turning the hill this min-
ute."
" Drive on spur forward, my lads," shouted Mason ;
" give the Englishman quarter, but cut down the pedler,
and make an end of him."
Henry felt his companion gripe his arm hard, as he lis-
tened in a great tremour to this cry, which was followed by
the passage of a dozen horsemen, with a vigour and speed
that showed too plainly how little security their over-tired
steeds could have afforded them.
" Now," said the pedler, rising from his cover to recon-
noitre, and standing for a moment in suspense, " all that we
gain is clear gain ; for, as we go up, they go down. Let us
be stirring."
" But will they not follow us, and surround this moun-
tain .'" said Henry, rising, and imitating the laboured but
rapid progress of his companion ; " remember they have
foot as well as horse, and at any rate we shall starve in the
hills."
" Fear nothing, Captain Wharton," returned the pedler
with confidence ; " this is not the mountain that I would
be on, but necessity has made me a dexterous pilot among
these hills. I will lead you where no man will dare to fol-
low. See, the sun is already setting behind the tops of the
western mountains, and it will be two hours to the rising
of the moon. Who, think you, will follow us far, on
a November night, among these rocks and precipices ?"
" But listen !" exclaimed Henry ; " the dragoons arc
shouting to each other they miss us already."
" Come to the point of this rock, and you may see them,"
said Harvey, composedly setting himself down to rest. " Nay,
they can see us notice, they are pointing up with their
fingers. There ! one has fired his pistol, but the distance
is too great for even a musket to carry upwards."
" They will pursue us," cried the impatient Henry ;
" let us be moving."
" They will not think of such a thing," returned the
pedler, picking the chickerberries that grew on the thin
soil where he sat, and very deliberately chewing them,
leaves and all, to refresh his mouth. " What progress
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 10?
could they make here, in their boots and spurs, with their long
swords, or even pistols .' No, no they may go back and
turn out the foot ; but the horse pass through these denies,
when they can keep the saddle, with fear and trembling.
Come, follow me, Captain Wharton ; we have a troublesome
march before us, but I will bring you where none will
think of venturing this night."
So saying, they both arose, and were soon hid from view
amongst the rocks and caverns of the mountain.
Scenery in the Notch of the IVhite Mountains.
DWIGHT.
THE Notch of the White Mountains is a phrase appro-
priated to a very narrow defile, extending two miles in length
between two huge cliffs apparently rent asunder by some
vast convulsion of nature. This convulsion was, in my
own view, that of the deluge. There are here, and
throughout New England, no eminent proofs of volcanic
violence, nor any strong exhibitions of the power of earth-
quakes. Nor has history recorded any earthquake or vol-
cano in other countries, of sufficient efficacy to produce the
phenomena of this place. The objects rent asunder are
too great, the ruin is too vast and too complete, to have
been accomplished by these agents. The change appears to
have been effected when the surface of the earth exten-
sively subsided ; when countries and continents assumed a
new face ; and a general commotion of the elements pro-
duced a disruption of some mountains, and merged others
beneath the common level of desolation. Nothing less
than this will account for the sundering of a long range of
great rocks, or rather of vast mountains ; or for the exist-
ing evidences of the immense force, by which the rup-
ture was effected.
The entrance of the chasm is formed by two rocks stand-
ing perpendicularly at the distance of twenty-two feet
from each other ; one about twenty feet in height, the other
about twelve. Half of the space is occupied by the brook
mentioned as the head stream of the Saco ; the other half
108 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
by the road. The stream is lost and invisible beneath a
mass of fragments, partly blown out of the road, and part-
ly thrown down by some great convulsion.
When we entered the Notch, we were struck with the
wild and solemn appearance of every thing before us. The
scale, on which all the objects in view were formed, was
the scale of grandeur only. The rocks, rude and ragged
in a manner rarely paralleled, were fashioned and piled by
a hand operating only in the boldest and most irregular man-
ner. As we advanced, these appearances increased rapidly.
Huge masses of granite, of every abrupt form, and hoary
with a moss, which seemed the product of ages, recalling
to the mind the saxitm vetustum of Virgil, speedily rose
to a mountainous height. Before us the view widened
fast to the south-east. Behind us, it closed almost instanta-
neously, and presented nothing to the eye-but an impassa-
ble barrier of mountains.
About half a mile from the entrance of the chasm, we
saw, in full view, the most beautiful cascade, perhaps, in
the world. It issued from a mountain on the right, about
eight hundred feet above the subjacent valley, and at the
distance 'from us of about two miles. The stream ran over
a series of rocks almost perpendicular, with a course so
little broken as to preserve the appearance of a uniform
current; and yet so far disturbed as to be perfectly white.
The sun shown with the clearest splendour, from a station
in the heavens the most advantageous to our prospect ;
and the cascade glittered down the vast steep, like a stream
of burnished silver.
At the distance of three quarters of a mile from the en-
trance, we passed a brook, known in this region by the
name of the flume ; from the strong resemblance to that
object exhibited by the channel, which it has worn for a
considerable length in a bed of rocks ; the sides being per-
pendicular to the bottom. This elegant piece of water we de-
termined to examine farther; and, alighting from our horses,
walked up the acclivity perhaps a furlong. The stream fell
from a height of two hundred and forty or two hundred and
fifty feet over three precipices; the second receding a small
distance from the front of the first, and the third from that
of the second. Down the first and second it fell in a sin-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 109
gle current ; and down the third in three, which united
their streams at the bottom in a fine basin, formed by the
hand of nature in the rocks immediately beneath us. It is
impossible for a brook of this size to be modelled into more
diversified or more delightful forms ; or for a cascade to de-
scend over precipices more happily fitted to finish its beau-
ty. The cliffs, together with a level at their foot, furnish-
ed a considerable opening, surrounded by the forest. The
sunbeams, penetrating through the trees, painted here a
great variety of fine images of light, and edged an equally
numerous and diversified collection of shadows ; both dan-
cing on the waters, and alternately silvering and obscuring
their course. Purer water was never seen. Exclusively
of its murmurs, the world around us was solemn and silent.
Every thing assumed the characterof enchantment; and.had
I been educated in the Grecian mythology, I should scarce-
ly have been surprised to find an assemblage of Dryads,
Naiads and Oreades, sporting en the little plain below our
ieet. The purity of this water was discernible, not only by
its limpid appearance, and its taste, but frota several other
circumstances. Its course is wholly over hard granite ; and
the rocks and the stones inks bed and at its side, instead of
being covered with adventitious substances, were washed
perfectly clean ; and, by their neat appearance, added not a
little to the beauty of the scenery.
From this spot the mountains speedily began to open
with increased majesty; and, in several instances, rose to
a. perpendicular height little less than a mile. The bosom
of both ranges was overspread, in all the inferior regions,
by a mixture of evergreens with trees, whose leaves are
deciduous. The annual foliage had been already changed
by the frost. Of the effects of this change it is, perhaps,
impossible for an inhabitant of Great Britain, as I have
been assured by several foreigners, to form an adequate
conception, without visiting an American forest. When I
was a youth, I remarked that Thomson had entirely omit-
ted in his Seasons this fine part of autumnal imagery.
Upon inquiring of an English gentleman the probable cause
of the omission, he informed me that no such scenery
existed in Great Britain. In this country, it is often amcng
the most splendid beauties of nature. "All the leaves of
10
110 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
trees, which are not evergreens, are, by the first severe treat,
changed from their verdure towards the/ perfection of that
colour which they are capable of ultimately assuming,
through yellow, orange and red, to a pretty deep brown.
As the frost affects different trees, and different leaves of the
same tree, in very different degrees, a vast multitude of
tinctures are commonly found on those of a single tree,
and always on those of a grove or forest. These colours
also, in all their varieties, are generally full ; and, in many
instances, are among the most exquisite, which are found
in the regions of nature. Different sorts of trees are sus-
ceptible of different degrees of this beauty. Among them
the maple is pre-eminently distinguished by the prodigious
varieties, the finished beauty, and the intense lustre of its
hues ; varying through all the dyes between a rich green
and the most perfect crimson, or, more definitely, the red
of the prismatic image.
There is, however, a sensible difference in the beauty of
this" appearance of nature in different parts of the country,
even when the forest trees are the same. I have seen no
tract where its splendour was so highly finished, as in the
region which surrounds Lancaster for a distance of thirty
miles. The colours are more varied and more intense ;
and the numerous evergreens furnish, in their deep hues,
the best groundwork of the picture.
I have remarked, that the annual foliage on the scmoun-
tains had been already changed by the frost. Of course, the
darkness of the evergreens was finely illumined by the
brilliant yellow of the birch, the beech and the cherry,
and the more brilliant orange and crimson of the maple.
The effect of this universal diffusion of gay and splendid
light was, to render the preponderating deep green more
solemn. The mind, encircled by this scenery, im'^i-tiMy
remembered that the light was the light of decay, autum-
nal and melancholy. The dark was the gloom of evening,
approximating to night. Over the whole, the azure of the
sky cast a deep, misty blue ; blending, towards the summit,
every other hue, and predominating over all.
As the eye ascended these steeps, the light decayed, and
gradually ceased. On the inferior summits rose crowns of
conical firs and spruces. On the superior eminences, the
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. Ill
trees, growing less and less, yielded to the chilling atmos-
phere, and marked the limit of forest vegetation. Above,
the surface was covered with a mass of shrubs, terminating,
at a still higher elevation, in a shroud of dark-coloured
moss.
As we passed onward through this singular valley, occa-
sional torrents, formed by the rains and dissolving snows at
the close of winter, had left behind them, in many places,
perpetual monuments of their progress, in perpendicular,
narrow and irregular paths of immense length, where they
had washed the precipices naked and white, from the sum-
mit of the mountain to the base. Wide and deep chasms
also met the eye, both on the summits and the sides; and
strongly impressed the imagination with the thought, that
a hand of immeasurable power had rent asunder the solid
rocks, and tumbled them into the subjacent valley. Over
all, hoary cliffs, rising with proud supremacy, frowned aw-
fully on the world below, and finished the landscape.
By our side, the Saco was alternately visible and lost
and increased, almost at every step, by the junction of
tributary streams. Its course was a perpetual cascade;
asd with its sprightly murmurs furnished the only contrast
to the scenery around us.
Exalted Character of Poetry. CHANNING.
BY those who are accustomed to speak of poetry as light
reading, Milton's eminence in this sphere may be consider-
ed only as giving him a high rank among the contributors
to public amusement. Not so thought Milton. Of all
God's gifts of intellect, he esteemed poetical intellect the
most transcendent. He esteemed it in himself as a kind of
inspiration, and wrote his great works with the conscious
dignity of a prophet. We agree with Milton in his esti-
mate of poetry. It seems to us the divinest of all arts; for
it is the breathing or expression of that principle or senti-
ment, which is deepest and sublimest in human nature ; we
mean, of that thirst or aspiration, to which no mind is whol-
ly a stranger, for something purer and lovelier, something
112 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
more powerful, lofty and thrilling, than ordinary and real
life affords. No doctrine is more common among Chris-
tians than that of man's immortality ; but it is not so gener-
ally understood, that the germs or principles of his whole
future being are now wrapped up in his soul, as the rudi-
ments of the future plant in the seed. As a necessary re-
sult of this constitution, the soul, possessed and moved by
these mighty though infant energies, is perpetually stretch-
ing beyond what is present and visible, struggling against
the bounds of its earthly prison-house, and seeking relief
and joy in imaginings of unseen and ideal being. This view
of our nature, which has never been fuUy developed, and
which goes farther towards explaining the contradictions
of human life than all others, carries us to the very founda-
tion and sources of poetry. He, who cannot interpret by
his own consciousness what we now have said, wants the
true key to works of Genius. He has not penetrated those
secret recesses of the soul, where Poetry is born and nour-
ished, and inhales immortal vigour, and wings herself for
her heavenward flight. In an intellectual nature, framed
for progress and for higher modes of being, there must be
creative energies, power of original and ever-growing
thought; and poetry is the form in which these energies
are chiefly manifested. It is the glorious prerogative of
this art, that it " makes all things new" for the gratifica-
tion of a divine instinct. It indeed finds its elements in
what it actually sees and experiences in the worlds of mat-
ter and mind ; but it combines and blends these into new
forms, and according to new affinities; breaks down, if
we may so say, the distinctions and bounds of nature ; im-
parts to material objects life, and sentiment, and emotion,
and invests the mind with the powers and splendours of the
outward creation; describes the surrounding universe in
the colours which the passions throw over it, and depicts
the mind in those modes of repose or agitation, of tender-
ness or sublime emotion, which manifest its thirst for a
more powerful and joyful existence. To a man of a literal
and prosaic character, the mind may seem lawless in its
workings ; but it observes higher laws than it transgresses,
the laws of the immortal intellect; it is trying and developing
its best faculties; and, in the objects which it describes.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 113
or the emotions which it awakens, anticipates those states
of progressive power, splendour, beauty and happiness, for
which it was created.
We accordingly believe that poetry, far from injuring
society, is one of the great instruments of its refinement
and exaltation. It lifts the mind above ordinary life, gives
it a respite from depressing cares, and awakens the con-
sciousness of its affinity with what is pure and noble, in
its legitimate and highest efforts, it has the same ten-
dency and aim with Christianity ; that is, to spiritualize
our nature. True, poetry has been made the instrument
of vice, the pander of bad passions ; but when genius thus
stoops, it dims its firej, and parts with much of its power ;
and even when Poetry is enslaved to licentiousness and
misanthropy, she cannot wholly forget her true vocation.
Strains of pure feeling, touches of tenderness, images of
innocent happiness, sympathies with what is good in our
nature, bursts of scorn or indignation at the hpllowness of
the world, passages true to our moral nature, often escape
in an immoral work, and show us how hard it is for a gifted
spirit to divorce itself wholly from what is good. Poetry
has a natural alliance with our best affections. It delights
in the beauty and sublimity of outward nature and of the
soul. It indeed portrays with terrible energy the ex-
cesses of the passions, but they are passions which show a
mighty nature, which are full of power, which command
awe, and excite a deep though shuddering sympathy. Its
great tendency and purpose is, to carry the mind beyond
and above the beaten, dusty, weary walks of ordinary
life ; to lift it into a purer element, and to breathe into it
more profound and generous emotion. It reveals to us the
loveliness of nature, brings back the freshness of youthful
feeling, revives the relish of simple pleasures, keeps un-
quenched the enthusiasm which warmed the spring-time
of our being, refines youthful love, strengthens our inter-
est in human nature by vivid delineations of its tenderest
and loftiest feelings, spreads our sympathies over all classes
of society, knits us by new ties with universal being, and,
through the brightness of its prophetic visions, helps faith
to lay hold on the future life.
10*
114 COMMON-PLACE UUOK OF PROSE,
We are aware that it is objected to poetry, that it give*
wrong views, and excites false expectations of life, peoples
the mind with shadows and illusions, and builds up imagina-
tion on the ruins of wisdom. That there is a wisdom, against
which poetry wars, the wisdom of the senses, which
makes physical comfort and gratification the supreme good,
and wealth the chief interest of life, we do not deny ; nor
do we deem it the least service which poetry renders to
mankind, that it redeems them from the thraldom of this
earthborn prudence. But, passing over this topic, we
would observe, that the complaint against poetry as abound
ing in illusion and deception is, in the main, groundless
In many poems there is more of truth than in many histo-
ries and philosophic theories. The fictions of genius are
often the vehicles of the sublimest verities, and its flashes
often open new regions of thought, and throw new light on
the mysteries of our being. In poetry the letter is false-
hood, but the spirit is often profoundest wisdom. And if
truth thus dwells in the boldest fictions of the poet, much
more may it be expected in his delineations of life ; for the
present life, which is the first stage of the immortal mind,
abounds in the materials of poetry, and it is the highest
office of the bard to detect this divine element among the
grosser pleasures and labours of our earthly being. The
present life is not wholly prosaic, precise, tame and finite.
To the gifted eye it abounds in the poetic. The affections
which spread beyond ourselves, and stretch far into futurity ;
the workings of mighty passions, which seem to arm the
soul with an almost superhuman energy ; the innocent and
irrepressible joy of infancy; the bloom, and buoyancy, and
dazzling hopes of youth ; the throhhings of the heart
when it first wakes to love, and dreams of a happiness too
vast for earth; woman, with her beauty, and grace, and
gentleness, and fulness of feeling, and depth of affection,
and her blushes of purity, and the tones and looks which
only a mother's heart can inspire ; these are all poetical.
It is not true that the poet paints a life which does not
exist. He only extracts and concentrates, as it were, life's
ethereal essence, arrests and condenses its volatile fra-
grance, brings together its scattered beauties, and prolongs
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 115
its more refined but evanescent joys ; and in this he does
well ; for it is good to feel that life is not wholly usurped
by cares for subsistence and physical gratifications, but
admits, in measures which may be indefinitely enlarged,
sentiments and delights worthy of a higher being. This
power of poetry to refine our views of life and happiness,
is more and more needed as society advances. It is needed
to withstand the encroachments of heartless and artificial
manners, which make civilization so tame and uninterest-
ing. It is needed to counteract the tendency of physical
science, which, being now sought, not, as formerly, for in-
tellectual gratification, but for multiplying bodily comforts,
requires a new developement of imagination, taste and
poetry, to preserve men from sinking into an earthly,
material, epicurean life.
Our remarks in vindication of poetry have extended be-
yond our original design. They have had a higher aim
than to assert the dignity of Milton as a poet, and that is, to
endear and recommend this divine art to all who reverence,
and would cultivate and refine their nature.
Eloquent Jlppcal in Favour of the Greeks. NORTH
AMERICAN REVIEW.*
THERE is an individual, who sits on no throne, in whose
veins no aristocratic blood runs, who derives no influence
from amassed or inherited wealth, but who, by the simple
supremacy of mind, exercises, at this moment, a political
sway, as mighty as that of Napoleon at the zenith of his
power. Indebted for his own brilliant position to the lib-
erality of the age, which is shaking off the fetters of an-
cient prejudices, this literal ruler by the grace of God can
feel no deference for most of the maxims, by which the
* The article, from which this extract is taken, is ascribed to the pen
of the Hon. Edward Everett. Little did its author imagine, whiie thus
eloquently apostrophizing the prime minister of England, that he was
so soon to be withdrawn by the mysterious hand of the Almighty from
that wide sphere of power and benevolence, to which ths -" liberality
of the age" had exalted him. ED.
116 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
neutrality of England in the wars of Grecian liberty ia
justified. How devoutly is it to be wished, that the pure
and undying glory of restoring another civilized region to
the family of Christendom, could present itself in vision to
the mind of this fortunate statesman ; that, turning from
his fond but magnificent boast, that he had called into exist-
ence a new world in the Indies, he would appropriate to him-
self the immortal fame, which could not be gainsaid, of hav-
ing recalled to life the fairest region of Europe. He has but
to speak the word within the narrow walls of St. Stephen's,
and the sultan trembles on his throne. He has but to speak
the word, and all the poor scruples and hypocritical sophis-
tries of the continental cabinets vanish into air. Let him
then abandon the paltry chase of a few ragamuffin Portu-
guese malecontents,- and follow a game, which is worthy
of himself and the people whose organ he is. Let him
pronounce the sentence of expulsion from Europe of the
cruel and barbarous despotism, which has so long oppressed
it. The whole civilized world will applaud and sanction
the decree ; he will alleviate an amount of human suf-
fering, he will work out a sum of human good, which the
revolutions of ages scarcely put it within the reach of men,
or governments, to avert or effect. He will encircle his
plebeian temples with a wreath of fame, compared with
which the diadem of the monarch whom he serves is
worthless dross.
At all events, there they are, a gallant race, struggling,
single-handed, for independence ; an extraordinary specta-
cle to the world ! With scarcely a government of their
own, and without the assistance of any established power,
they have waged, for six years, a fearfully contested war
against one of the great empires of the earth. When Mr.
Canning lately held out the menace of war against those
continental nations who should violently interfere with the
English system, he sought to render the menace more
alarming, by calling it " a war of opinions," in which the dis-
contented of every other country would rally against their
own government under the banners of Great Britain. On
this menace, which, considering the quarter from whence it
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 117.
proceeds, comes with somewhat of a revolutionary and dis-
organizing tone, we have now no comment to make. The
war now raging in Greece is, in a much higher and better
sense, a war of opinion which has actually begun ; and in
which the unarrayed, the unofficial, and, we had almost
said, the individual efforts and charities of the friends of
liberty throughout Christendom are combatting, and thus
far successfully, the barbarous hosts of the Turk. De-
serted as they have been by the governments to whom they
naturally looked for aid ; by Russia, who tamely sees the
head of the Russian church hung up at the door of his own
cathedral ; by England, the champion of liberal principles
in Europe, and the protectress of the Ionian Isles ; by the
Holy Alliance, that takes no umbrage at the debarkation
of army after army of swarthy infidels on the shores of a
Christian country ; the Greeks have still been cheered
and sustained by the sympathy of the civilized world. Gal-
lant volunteers have crowded to their assistance, and some
of the best blood in Europe has been shed in their defence.
Liberal contributions of money have been sent to them
across the globe ; and, while we write these sentences, sup-
plies are despatched to them from various parts of our owe
country, sufficient to avert the horrors of famine for
another season. The direct effect of these contributions,
great as it is, (and it is this which has enabled the Greeks
to hold out thus far,) is not its best operation. We live in
an age of moral influences. Greece, in these various acts,
feels herself incorporated into the family of civilized . na-
tions ; raised out of the prison-house of a cruel and besot-
ted despotism, into the community of enlightened states.
Let an individual fall in with and be assailed by a superior
force in the lonely desert, on the solitary ocean, or beneath
the cover of darkness, and his heart sinks within him, as
he receives blow after blow, and feels his strength wasting
in the unwitnessed and uncheered struggle : but let the
sound of human voices swell upon his ear, or a friendly
s;til draw nigh, and life and hope revive within his bosom.
Nor is human nature different in its operation in the large
masses of men. Can any one doubt, that, if the Greeks,
instead of being placed where they are, on a renowned
arena, in sight of the civilized world, visited, aided, ap-
118 COMMON-PLACK BOOK OF FROSE.
plauded as they have been, from one extreme of Christen-
dom to the other, had been surrounded by barbarism, se-
cluded in the interior of the Turkish empire, without a
medium of communication with the world, they would
have been swept away in a single campaign ? They would
have been crushed ; they would have been trampled into
the dust ; and the Tartars, that returned from the massa-
cre, would have brought the first tidings of their struggle.
This is our encouragement to persevere in calling the at-
tention of the public to this subject. It is a warfare in
which we all are or ought to be enlisted. It is a war of
opinion, and of feeling, and of humanity. It is a great war
of public sentiment ; not conflicting (as it is commonly
called to do) merely with public sentiment operating in an
opposite direction, but with a powerful, barbarous, and des-
potic government. The strength and efficacy of the pub-
lic sentiment of the civilized world are now, therefore, to
be put to the test on a large scale, and upon a most mo-
mentous issue. It is now to be seen whether mankind,
that is, its civilized portion, whether enlightened Europe
and enlightened America will stand by, and behold a civil-
ized Christian people massacred en masse; whether a
people that cultivate the arts which we cultivate, that
enter into friendly intercourse with us, that send their
children to our schools, that translate and read our histo-
rians, philosophers and moralists, that live by the same
rule of faith, and die in the hope of the same Saviour, shall
be allowed to be hewn down to the earth in our sight, by a
savage horde of Ethiopians and Turks. For ourselves, we
do not believe it. An inward assurance tells us that it
cannot be. Such an atrocity never has happened in hu-
man affairs, and will not now be permitted. As the horrid
catastrophe draws near, if draw near it must, the Christian
governments will awaken from their apathy. . If govern-
ments remain enchained by reasons of state, the common
feeling of humanity among men will burst out, in some ef-
fectual interference. And if this fail, why should not
Providence graciously interpose, to prevent the extinction
of the only people, in whose churches the New Testament
is used in the original tongue ? Is it not a pertinent sub-
ject of inquiry with those, who administer the religious
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 119
charities of this and other Christian countries, whether the
entire cause of the diffusion of the Gospel is not more close-
ly connected with the event of the struggle in Greece,
than with any thing else, in any part of the world ? Is
not the question whether Greece and her islands shall be
Christian or Mahometan, a more important question than
any other, in the decision of which we have the remotest
agency ? Might not a well-devised and active concert
among the Christian charitable societies in Europe and
America, for the sake of rescuing this Christian people, pre-
sent the most auspicious prospect of success, and form an
organization adequate to the importance and sacredness of
the object ? And can any man, who has humanity, liber-
ty, or Christianity at heart, feel justified in forbearing to
give his voice, his aid, his sympathy, to this cause, in any
way in which it is practicable to advance it.
Small as are the numbers of the Greeks, and limited as
is their country, it may be safely said, that there has not,
since the last Turkish invasion of Europe, been waged a
war, of which the results, in the worst event, could have
been so calamitous, as it must be allowed by every reflect-
ing mind, that the subjugation and consequent extirpation
of the Greeks would be. The wars that are waged be-
tween the state's of Christendom, generally grow out of
disputed titles of princes, or state quarrels between the
icovernments. Serious changes no doubt take place, as
these wars may be decided one way or the other. Nations,
formerly well governed, may come under an arbitrary
sway ; or a despotic be exchanged for a milder govern-
ment. But, inasmuch as victor and vanquished belong to
the same civilized family ? and the social condition, the
standard of morality, and the received code of public law,
are substantially the same in all the nations of Europe ; no
irreparable disaster to the cause of humanity itself can en-
sue from any war, in which they may be engaged with
each other. Had Napoleon, for instance, succeeded in in-
vading and conquering England, (and this is probably the
strongest case that could be put,) after the first calamities
of invasion and conquest were past, which must in all cases
be much the same, no worse evils would probably have
resulted to the cause of humanity, than the restoration of
120 COMMON-PLACE JJOOK OF PROSE.
the Catholic religion as the religion of the state, the intro-
duction of the civil law in place of the common law, and
the general exclusion of the English nobility and gentry
from offices of power and profit ; an exclusion, which
the English government itself, since the year 1688, has
enforced towards the Catholic families, among which are
some of the oldest and richest in the kingdom. Whereas,
should the Turks prevail in the present contest, an amal-
gamation of victor and vanquished would be as impracti-
cable now, as when Greece was first conquered by the
Ottoman power. The possession of the country has been
promised to the Bey of Egypt, as the reward of his services
in effecting its conquest. The men-at-arms have already
been doomed to military execution of the most cruel kind,
and the women and children would be sold into Asiatic and
African bondage.
We are not left to collect this merely from the known
maxims of Turkish warfare, nor the menaces which have
repeatedly been made by the Porte, but we see it exem-
plified in tin- island of Scio. On the soil of Greece, thus
swept of its present population, will be settled the Egyptian
and Turkish troops, by whom it shall have been subdued.
Thus will have been cut off, obliterated from the map of
Europe, and annihilated by the operation of whatever is
most barbarous and terrific in the military practice of the
Turkish government, an entire people ; one of those dis-
tinct social families, into which Providence collects the sons
of men. In them will perish the descendants of ancestors,
toward whom we all profess a reverence ; who carry, in
the language they speak, the proof of their national iden-
tity. In them will be exterminated a people apt and pre-
disposed for all the improvements of civilized life ; a peo-
ple connected with the rest of Europe by every moral and
intellectual association, and capable of being reared up into
a prosperous and cultivated state. Finally ; in them will
perish one whole Christian people ; and that the first that
embraced Christianity ; churches actually founded by the
apostles in person, churches, for whose direct instruction a
considerable part of the New Testament was composed,
after abiding all the storms of eighteen centuries, and sur-
viving so many vicissitudes, are now at length to be
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 121
razed ; and, in the place of all this, an uncivilized Ma-
hometan horde is to be established upon the ruins. We
say it is a most momentous alternative. Interest humani
generis. The character of the age is concerned. The
impending evil is tremendous. To preserve the faith of
certain old treaties, concluded we forget when, the parlia-
ment of England decides by acclamation to send an army
into Portugal and Spain, because Spain has patronised the
disaffection of the Portuguese ultra- royalists. To prevent
a change in the governments of Piedmont, Naples and
Spain, Austria and France invade those countries with
large armies. Can those great powers look tamely on, and
see the ruin of their Christian brethren consummated in
Greece ? Is there a faded parchment in the diplomatic ar-
chives of London or Lisbon, that binds the English gov-
ernment more imperiously than the great original obliga-
tion to rescue an entire Christian people from the cimetcr ?
Can statesmen, who profess to be, who are, influenced by
the rules of a chaste and lofty public morality, justify their
sanguinary wars with Ashantees and Burmans, and find
reasons of duty for shaking the petty thrones of the interior
of Africa, and allow an African satrap to strew the plains
of Attica with bloody ashes ?
If they can, and if they will, then let the friends of lib-
erty, humanity, and religion, take up this cause, as one thai
concerns them, all and each, in his capacity as a Christian
and a man. Let them make strong the public sentiment
on this subject, and it will prevail. Let them remember
what ere now has been done, by the perseverance and res-
olution of small societies, and even individual men. Let
them remember how small a company of adventurers, un-
patronised, scarcely tolerated by their government, suc-
ceeded in laying the foundations of this our happy coun-
try beyond a mighty ocean. Let them recollect, that it
was one fixed impression, cherished and pursued in the
heart of an humble and friendless mariner, through long
years of fruitless solicitation and fainting hope, to which it
is owing, that these vast American continents are made a
part of the heritage of civilized man. Let them recollect
that, in the same generation, one poor monk dismembered
the great ecclesiastical empire of Europe. Let them bear
11
122 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
in mind, that it was a hermit who roused the nations of
Europe in mass, to engage in an expedition against the
common enemy of Chistendom ; an expedition, wild indeed,
and unjustifiable, according to our better lights, but lawful
and meritorious in those who embarked in it. Let them,
in a word, never forget, that when, on those lovely ishmds
and once happy shores, over which a dark cloud of destruc-
tion now hangs, the foundations of the Christian church
were first laid, it was by the hands of private, obscure and
persecuted individuals. It was the people, the humblest
of the people, that took up the Gospel, in defiance of all
the patronage, the power, and the laws of the government.
Why should not Christianity be sustained in the same coun-
try, and by the same means by which it was originally es-
tablished ? If, as we believe, it is the strong and decided
sentiment of the civilized world, that the cause of the
Greeks is a good cause, and that they ought not to be al-
lowed to perish, it cannot be that this sentiment will re-
main inoperative. The very existence of this sentiment
is a tower of strength. It will make itself felt by a thou-
sand manifestations. It will be heard in our senates and
our pulpits ; it will be echoed from our firesides. Does
any one doubt the cause of America was mightily strength-
ened and animated by the voices of the friends of liberty
in the British parliament ? Were not the speeches of
Chatham and Burke worth a triumphant battle to our fa-
thers ? And can any one doubt that the Grecian patriots
will hold out, so long as the Christian world will cheer
them with its sanction ?
Let, then, the public mind be disabused of the prejudices
which mislead it on this question. Let it not be operated
upon by tales of piracies at sea, and factions on land ; evils,
which belong not to Greeks, but to human nature. Let
the means of propagating authentic intelligence of the pro-
gress of the revolution be multiplied. Let its well-wishers
and its well-hopers declare themselves in the cause. Let
the tide <)f pious and Christian charity be turned into this
broad and thirsty channel. Let every ardent and high-
spirited young man, who has an independent subsistence
of two or three hundred dollars a year, embark personally
in the cause, and aspire to that crown of glory, never yet
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 123
worn except by him who so lately triumphed in the hearts
of the entire millions of Americans. Let this be done,
and Greece is safe.
Death of Josiah Quincy, Jun. J. QUINCY.
AFTER being five weeks at sea, the wished-for shore
yet at a distance, he became convinced that his fate was
inevitable, and prepared to submit himself to the will of
Heaven with heroic calmness and Christian resignation.
Under the pressure of disease, and amidst the daily sink-
ing of nature, his friends, his family, and, above all, his
country, predominated in his affections. He repeatedly
said to the seaman on whose attentions he was chiefly de-
pendant, that he had but one desire and one prayer, which
was, that he might live long enough to have an interview
with Samuel Adams or Joseph Warren ; that granted, he
should die content. This wish of the patriot's heart,
Heaven, in its inscrutable wisdom, did not grant.
As he drew towards his native shore, the crisis he had"
so long foreseen arrived. The battle of Lexington was
fought. According to his predictions, " his countrymen
sealed their faith and constancy to their liberties with their
blood." But he lived not to hear the event of that glori-
ous day.
While yet the ship was three days' sail from land, ex-
hausted by disease, and perceiving his last hour approach,
he called the seaman to the side of his birth, and, being
himself too weak to write, dictated to him a letter full of
the most interesting and affecting communications to his
family and nearest friends. This letter still exists
among his papers, in the rude hand-writing of an illiterate
sailor.
Such is the last notice of the close of the life of Josiah
Quincy, Jun. On the 26th of April, 1775, within sight of
that beloved country, which he was not permitted to reach;
neither supported by the kindness of friendship, nor cheer-
ed by the voice of affection, he expired ; not, indeed, as
124 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
a few weeks afterwards did his friend and co-patriot War-
ren, in battle, on a field ever-memorable and glorious ; but
in solitude, amidst suffering, without associate and without
witness ; yet breathing forth a dying sigh for his country,
desiring to live only to perform towards her a last and sig-
nal service.
A few hours after his death, the ship, with his lifeless
remains, entered the harbour of Gloucester, Cape Ann.
His arrival had been anticipated with anxious solicitude,
and the intelligence of his death was received with an uni-
versal sorrow. By his family and immediate friends, the
event was mourned as the extinction of their brightest
hope. His contemporaries, faithful to his virtues, and
deeply sensible of his services, early associated his name
with those most honoured and most beloved of the period
in which he lived. It was his lot to compress events and
exertions sufficient for a long life within the compass of a
few short years. To live forever in the hearts of his coun-
trymen, and, by labour and virtue, to become immortal in
the memory of future times, were the strong passions of
his soul. That he was prohibited from filling the great
sphere of usefulness, for which his intellectual powers
seemed adapted and destined, is less a subject of regret,
than it is of joy and gratitude that he was permitted, in so
short a time, to perform so noble a part, and that to his
desire has been granted so large a portion of that imperish-
able meed, which, beyond all earthly reward, was the ob-
ject of his search and solicitude.
Danger of Delay in Religion. BUCKMINSTER.
IT has been most acutely and justly observed, that all
resolutions to repent at a future time are necessarily in-
sincere, and must be a mere deception; because they im-
ply a preference of a man's present habits and conduct ;
they imply, that he is really unwilling to change them,
and that nothing but necessity would lead him to make any
attempt of the kind. But let us suppose the expected lei-
ure for repentance to have arrived ; the avaricious or
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 125
fraudulent dealer to have attained that competency, which
is to secure him from want ; the profligate and debauched
to have passed the slippery season of youth, and to be es-
tablished in life ; the gamester, by one successful throw, to
have recovered his desperate finances ; the dissipated and
luxurious to have secured a peaceful retreat for the re-
mainder of his days ; to each of these the long anticipated
hour of amendment, the opportune leisure for religion, has
at length arrived; but where, alas! is the disposition ! where
the necessary strength of resolution!* How rare, and, I
had almost said, how miraculous, is the instance of a
change !
The danger of delay, even if we suppose this uncertain
leisure and inclination to be secured, is inconceivablj
heightened, when we consider, further, the nature of re-
pentance. It is a settled change of the disposition from
vice to virtue, discovered in the gradual improvement of
the life. It is not a fleeting wish, a vapoury sigh, jv length-
ened groan. Neither is it a twinge of remorse, i flutter
of fear, nor any temporary and partial resolution. The
habits of a sinner have been long in forming. They have
acquired a strength, which is not to be broken by a blow
The labour of a day will not build up a virtuous habit on
the ruins of an old and vicious character. You, then, who
have deferred, from year to year, the relinquishment of a
vice ; you, if such there be, who, while the wrinkles are
gathering in your foreheads, are still dissatisfied with your-
selves, remember, that amendment is a slow and laborious
process. Can you be too assiduous, too fearful, when you
consider how short the opportunity, and how much is re-
quired to complete the work of reformation, and to estab-
lish the dominion of virtue ?
It is impossible to dismiss this subject without consider-
ing a common topic, the inefficacy of a death-bed repent-
ance. It is to be feared that charity, which hopeth and
believeth all things, has sometimes discovered more of
generous credulity, than of well-founded hope, when it
has laid great stress, and built much consolation, on the
casual expressions and faint sighs of dying men. . Far be it
from us to excite suspicion or recall anxiety in the breast of
surviving friendship, or to throw a new shade of terror
11
126 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
over the valley of death ; but better, far better, were it
for a thousand breasts to be pierced with temporary anguish,
and a new horror be added to the dreary passage of the
grave, than that one soul be lost to heaven by the delusive
expectation of effectual repentance in a dying hour. For,
as we have repeatedly asked, what is effectual repentance ?
Can it be supposed, that, where the vigour of life has been
spent in the establishment of vicious propensities ; where
all the vivacity of youth, all the soberness of manhood, and
all the leisure of otd age, have been given to the service
of sin ; where vice has been growing with the growth, and
strengthening with the strength ; where it has spread out
with the limbs of the stripling, and become rigid with the
fibres of the aged ; can it, I say, be supposed, that the la-
bours of such a life are to be overthrown by one last exer-
tion of a mind impaired with disease, by the convulsive
exercise of an affrighted spirit, and by the inarticulate and
feeble sounds of an expiring breath ? Repentance consists
not in one or more acts of contrition ; it is a permanent
change of the disposition. Those dispositions and habits
of mind, which you bring to your dying bed, you will
carry with you to another world. These habits are the
dying dress of the soul. They are the grave-clothes,
in which it must come forth, at the last, to meet the sen-
tence of an impartial Judge. If they were filthy, they
will be filthy still. The washing of baptismal water will
not, at that hour, cleanse the spots of the soul. The con-
fession of sins, which have never been removed, will not
furnish the conscience with an answer towards God. The
reception of the elements will not, then, infuse a principle
of spiritual life, any more than unconsecrated bread and
wine will infuse health into the limbs, on which the cold
damps of death have already collected. Say not, that you
have discarded such superstitious expectations. You have
not discarded them, while you defer any thing to that hour ;
while you venture to rely on any thing but the mercy of
God toward a heart, holy, sincere, and sanctified ; a heart,
which loves heaven for its purity, and God for his goodness.
If, in this solemn hour, the soul of an habitual and invet-
erate offender be prepared for the residence of pure and
spotless spirits, it can be only by a sovereign and miracu-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PItOSE. 127
lous interposition of Omnipotence. His power we pretend
not to limit. He can wash the sooty Ethiop white, and
cause the spots on the leopard's skin to disappear. We
presume not to fathom the counsels of his will ; but this we
will venture to assert, that if, at the last hour of the sin-
ner's life, the power of God ever interposes to snatch him
from his ruin, such interposition will never be disclosed to
the curiosity of man. For, if it should once be believed,
that the rewards of heaven can be obtained by such an in-
stantaneous and miraculous change at the last hour of life,
all our ideas of moral probation, and of the connexion be-
tween character here, and condition hereafter, are loose
unstable, and groundless ; the nature and the laws of God's
moral government are made at once inexplicable ; our ex-
hortations are useless, our experience false, and the whole
apparatus of Gospel means and motives becomes a cumbrous
and unnecessary provision.
What, then, is the great conclusion, which we should
deduce from all that we have said of the nature of habit,
and the difficulty of repentance ? It is this : Behold, now
is the accepted time, now is the day of salvation. If you
are young, you cannot begin too soon ; if you are old, you
may begin too late. Age, says the proverb, strips us of
every thing, even of resolution. To-morrow we shall be
older ; to-morrow, indeed, Death may fix his seal forever
on our characters. It is a seal which can never be broken,
till the voice of the Son of man shall burst the tombs,
which enclose us. If, then, we leave this place, sensible
of a propensity which ought to be restrained, of a lust
which ought to be exterminated, of a habit which ought
to be broken, and rashly defer the hour of amendment,
consider, I beseech you, it may, perhaps, be merciful in
God to refuse us another opportunity. It may be a gra-
cious method of preventing an abuse, "which will only ag-
gravate the retribution, which awaits the impenitent. Make
haste, then, and delay not to keep the commandments of
God ; of that God, who has no pleasure in the death of the
wicked, but that the wicked turn from his way, and live.
128 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE
Scenes in Philadelphia during the Prevalence of the
Yellow Fever, in 1793. C. B. BROWN.
MY thoughts were called away from pursuing these in-
quiries by a rumour, which had gradually swelled to formi-
dable dimensions ; and which, at length, reached us in our
quiet retreats. The city, we were told, was involved in
confusion and panic ; for a pestilential disease had begun its
destructive progress. Magistrates and citizens were flying
to the country. The numbers of the sick multiplied beyond
all example ; even in the pest-affected cities of the Levant.
The malady was malignant and unsparing.
The usual occupations and amusements of life were at an
end. Terror had exterminated all the sentiments of nature.
Wives were deserted by husbands, and children by parents.
Some had shut themselves in their houses, and debarred
themselves from all communication with the rest of man-
kind. The consternation of others had destroyed their un-
derstanding, and their misguided steps hurried them into the
midst of the danger which they had previously laboured to
shun. Men were seized by this disease in the streets ; pas-
sengers fled from them ; entrance into their own dwellings
was denied to them ; they perished in the public ways.
The chambers of disease were deserted, and the sick left
to die of negligence. None could be found to remove the
lifeless bodies. Their remains, suffered to decay by piece-
meal, filled the air with deadly exhalations, and added ten-
fold to the devastation.
Such was the tale, distorted and diversified a thousand
ways, by the credulity and exaggeration of the tellers. At
first I listened to the story with indifference or mirth. Me-
thought it was confuted by its own extravagance. The
enormity and variety of such an evil made it unworthy to
be believed. I expected that every new day would<detect
the absurdity and fallacy of such representations. Every
new day, however, added to the number of witnesses, and
the consistency of the tale, till, at length, it was not possi-
ble to withhold my faith.
This rumour was of a nature to absorb and suspend the
whole soul. A certain sublimity is connected with enormous
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 129
dangers, that imparts to our consternation or our pity a tinc-
ture of the pleasing. This, at least, may be experienced
by those who are beyond the verge of peril. My own per-
son was exposed to no hazard. I had leisure to conjure
up terrific images, and to personate the witnesses and suf-
ferers of this calamity. This employment was not enjoin-
d upon me by necessity, but was ardently pursued, and
must therefore have been recommended by some nameless
charm.
Others were very differently affected. As often as the
tal3 was embellished with new incidents, or 'enforced by
new testimony, the hearer grew pale, his breath was stifled
by inquietudes, his blood was chilled, and his stomach was
bereaved of its usual energies. A temporary indisposition
was produced in many. Some were haunted by a melan-
choly bordering upon madness, and some, in consequence
of sleepless panics, for which no cause could be assigned,
and for which no opiates could be found, were attacked by
lingering or mortal diseases.
In proportion as I drew near the city, the tokens of its
calamitous condition became more apparent. Every farm-
house was filled with supernumerary tenants ; fugitives from
home, and haunting the skirts of the road, eager to detain
every passenger with inquiries after news. The passen-
gers were numerous ; for the tide of emigration was by no
means exhausted. Some were on foot, bearing in their
countenances the tokens of their recent terror, and filled
with mournful reflections on the forlornness of their state.
Few had secured to themselves an asylum ; some were
without the means of paying for victuals or lodging for the
coming night ; others, who were not thus destitute, yet
knew not whither to apply for entertainment, every house
being already overstocked with inhabitants, or barring its
inhospitable doors at their approach.
Families of weeping mothers, and dismayed children,
attended with a few pieces of indispensable furniture, were
carried in vehicles of every form. The parent or husband
had perished ; and the price of some moveable, or the pit-
tance handed forth by public charity, had been expended
130 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
to purchase the means of retiring from this theatre of disas-
ters ; though uncertain and hopeless of accommodation in
the neighbouring districts.
Between these and the fugitives whom curiosity had led
to the road, dialogues frequently took place, to which I was
suffered to listen. From every mouth the tale of sorrow
was repeated with new aggravations. Pictures of their own
distress, or of that of their neighbours, were exhibited in all
the hues which imagination can annex to pestilence and
poverty.
My preconceptions of the evil now appeared to have
fallen short of the truth. The dangers into which I was
rushing seemed more numerous and imminent than I had
previously imagined. I wavered not in my purpose. A
panic crept to my heart, which more vehement exertions
were necessary to subdue or control ; but I harboured not a
momentary doubt that the course which 1 had taken was
prescribed by duty. There was no difficulty or reluctance
in proceeding. All for which my efforts were demanded
was, to walk in this path without tumult or alarm.
Various circumstances had hindered me from setting out
upon this journey as early as was proper. My frequent
pauses, to listen to the narratives of travellers, contributed
likewise to procrastination. The sun had nearly set be-
fore I reached the precincts of the city. I pursued the
track which 1 had formerly taken, and entered High Street
after night-fall. Instead of equipages and a throng of pas-
sengers, the voice of levity and glee, which I had for-
merly observed, and which the mildness of the season
would, at other times, have produced, I found nothing but
a dreary solitude.
The market-place, and each side of this magnificent ave-
nue were illuminated, as before, by lamps ; but between
the verge of Schuylkill and the heart of the city, I met not
more than a dozen figures; and these were ghost-like, wrap-
ped in cloaks, from behind which they cast upon me glances
of wonder and suspicion; and, as I approached, changed their
course, to avoid touching inc. Their clothes were sprin-
kled with vinegar ; and their nostrils defended from conta-
gion by some powerful perfume.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PIIOSE. 131
I cast a look upon the houses, which I recollected to have
formerly been, at this hour, brilliant with lights, resounding
with lively voices, and thronged with busy faces. Now, they
were closed, above and below ; dark, and without tokens of
being inhabited. From the upper windows of some, a gleam
sometimes fell upon the pavement I was traversing, and
showed that their tenants had not fled, but were secluded
or disabled.
These tokens were new, and awakened all my panics.
Death seemed to hover over this scene, and I dreaded that
the floating pestilence had already lighted on my frame. I
had scarcely overcome these tremours, when I approach-
ed a house, the door of which was opened, and before
which stood a vehicle, which I presently recognised to be
a hearse. .
The driver was seated on it. I stood still to mark his
visage, and to observe the course which he proposed to take
Presently a coffin, borne by two men, issued from the house
The driver was a negro, but his companions were white
Their features were marked by ferocious indifference to
danger or pity. One of them, as he assisted in thrusting the
coffin into the cavity provided for it, said, " I'll be damned
if I think the poor dog was quite dead. It was'nt the fever
that ailed him, but the sight of the girl and her mother on
the floor. I wonder how they all got into that room. What
carried them there ?"
The other surlily muttered, " Their legs, to be sure."
" But what should they hug together in one room for .'"
" To save us trouble, to be sure."
" And I thank them with all my heart ; but damn it, it
was'ut right to put him in his coffin before the breath was
fairly gone. I thought the last look he gave me, told me
to stay a few minutes "
" Pshaw : He could not live. The sooner dead the better
for him, as well as for us. Did you mark how he eyed us,
when we carried away his wife and daughter ? I never cried
in my life, since I was knee-high, but curse me if I ever felt
in better tune for the business than just then. Hey !" con-
tinued he, looking up, and observing me standing a few
paces distant, and listening to their discourse, " What's
wanted? Any body dead ?"
132 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
I stayed not to answer or parley, but hurried forward.
My joints trembled, and cold drops stood on my forehead.
I was ashamed of my own infirmity ; and, by vigorous ef-
forts of my reason, regained some degree of composure.
The evening had now advanced, and it behooved me to pro-
cure accommodation at some of the inns.
These were easily distinguished by their signs, but many
were without inhabitants. At length I lighted upon one, the
hall of which was open, and the windows lifted. After
knocking for some time, a young girl appeared, with many
marks of distress. In answer to my question, she answered
that both her parents were sick, and that they could re-
ceive no one. I inquired, in vain, for any other tavern at
which/ strangers might be accommodated. She knew of
none such; and left me, on some one's calling to her from
above, in the midst of my embarrassment. After a mo-
ment's pause, I returned, discomforted and perplexed, to
the street.
I proceeded, in a considerable degree, at random. At
length I reached a spacious building in Fourth Street, which
the sign-post showed me to be an inn. I knocked loudly
and often at the door. At length a female opened the
window of the second story, and in a tone of peevishness
demanded what I wanted. I told her that I wanted
lodging.
" Go hunt for it somewhere else," said she ; " you'll find
none here." I began to expostulate ; but she shut the
window with quickness, and left me to my own reflec-
tions.
I began now to feel some regret at the journey I had
taken. Never, in the depth of caverns or forests, was I
equally conscious of loneliness. I was surrounded by the
habitations of men ; but I was destitute of associate or
friend. I had money, but a horse shelter, or a morsel of
food, could not be purchased. I came for the purpose of
relieving others, but stood in the utmost need myself.
Even in health my condition was helpless and forlorn ;
but what would become of me, should this fatal malady
be contracted ? To hope that an asylum would be afford-
ed to a sick man, which was denied to one in health, was
unreasonable.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 133
Importance of Knowledge to the Mechanic.
G. 15. EMERSON.
LET us imagine for a moment the condition of an indi-
vidual, who has not advanced beyond the merest elements
of knowledge, who understands nothing of the principles
even of his own art, and inquire what change will be
wrought in his feelings, his hopes, and happiness, in all
that makes up the character, by the gradual inpouring of
knowledge. He has now the capacity of thought, but it
is a barren faculty, never nourished by the food of the
mind, and never rising above the poor objects of sense.
Labour and rest, the hope of mere animal enjoyment,
or the fear of want, the care of providing covering and
food, make up the whole sum of his existence. Such
a man may be industrious, but he cannot love labour, for
it is not relieved by the excitement of improving or chang-
ing the processes of his art, nor cheered by the hope of a
better condition. When released from labour, he does not
rejoice, for mere idleness is not enjoyment ; and he has no^
book, no lesson of science, no play of the mind, no interest-
ing pursuit, to give a zest to the hour of leisure. Home
has few charms for him ; he has little taste for the quiet,
the social converse, and exchange of feeling and thought,
the innocent enjoyments that ought to dwell there. Soci-
ety has little to interest him, for he has no sympathy for
the pleasures or pursuits, the cares or troubles of others,
to whom he cannot feel nor perceive his bonds of relation-
ship. All of life is but a poor boon for such a man ; and
happy for himself and for mankind, if the few ties that hold
him to this negative existence be not broken. Happy for
him if that best and surest friend of man, that messenger
of good news from Heaven to the poorest wretch on earth,
Religion, bringing the fear of God, appear to save him.
Without her to support, should temptation assail him, what
an easy victim would he fall to vice or crime ! How little
would be necessary to overturn his ill-balanced principles,
and throw him grovelling in intemperance, or send him
abroad on the ocean or the highway, an enemy to himself
and his kind !
12
134 COMMON-PLACE HOOK OF PROSE.
But let the light of science fall upon that man ; open to
him the fountain of knowledge ; a few principles of phi-
losophy enter his mind, and awaken the dormant power of
thought ; he begins to look upon his art with an altered
eye. It ceases to be a dark mechanical process, which he
cannot understand ; he regards it as an object of inquiry,
and begins to penetrate the reasons, and acquire a new mas-
tery over his own instruments. He fmds other and belter
modes of doing what he had done before, blindly and with-
out interest, a thousand times. He learns to profit by the
experience of others, and ventures upon untried paths.
Difficulties, which before would have stopped- him at the
outset, receive a ready solution from some luminous princi-
ple of science. He gains new knowledge and new .-kill,
and can improve the quality of his manufacture, while he
shortens the process, and diminishes his own labour. Then
labour becomes sweet to him; it is accompanied by the
consciousness of increasing power ; it is leading him for-
ward to a higher place among his fellow men. Relaxa-
tion, too, is sweet to him, as it enables him to add to
his intellectual stores, and to mature, by undisturbed
meditation, the plans and conceptions of the hour of labour.
His home has acquired a new charm ; for he is become a
man of thought, and feels and enjoys the peace and seclu-
sion of that sacred retreat ; and he carries thither the hon-
est complacency which is the companion of well-earned
success. There, too, bright visions of the future sphere
open upon him, and excite a kindly feeling towards those
who are to share in his prosperity. Thus his mind and
heart expand together. He has become an intelligent be-
ing, and, while he has learnt to esteem himself, he has also
learnt to live no longer for himself alone. Society opens
like a new world to him , he looks upon his fellow-crea-
tures with interest and sympathy, and feels that he has a
place in their affections and respect. Temptations assail
him in vain. He is armed by high and pure thoughts.
He takes a wider view of his relations with the beings
about and above him. He welcomes every generous vir-
tue that adorns and dignifies the human character. He
delights in the -exercise of reason he glories in the con-
sciousness and the hope of immortality.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 135
Humorous Description of the Custom of Whitewash-
ing. FRANCIS HOPKINSON.*
Mr wish is to give you some account of the people of
these new States, but I am far from being qualified for the
purpose, having as yet seen little more than the cities of
New York and Philadelphia. I have discovered but few
national singularities among them. Their customs and
manners are nearly the same with those of England, which
they have long been used to copy. For, previous to the
revolution, the Americans were from their infancy taught
to look up to the English as patterns of perfection in all
things. I have observed, however, one csutom, which,
for aught I know, is peculiar to this country : an account
of it will serve to fill up the remainder of this sheet, and
may afford you some amusement.
When a young couple are about to enter into the matri-
monial state, a never-failing article in the marriage treaty
is, that the lady shall have and enjoy the free and unmo-
lested exercise of the rights of whitewashing, with all its
ceremonials, privileges and appurtenances. A young wo-
man would forego the most advantageous connexion, and
even disappoint the warmest wish of her heart, rather than
resign the invaluable right. You would wonder what this
privilege of whitewashing is : 1 will endeavour to give
you some idea of the ceremony, as I have seen it per-
formed.
There is no season of the year, in which the lady may
not claim her privilege, if she pleases ; but the latter end
of May is most generally fixed upon for the purpose. The
attentive husband may judge by certain prognostics when the
storm is nigh at hand. . When the lady is unusually fretful,
finds fault with the servants, is discontented with the chil-
dren, and complains much of the filthiness of every thing
about her these are signs which ought not to be neglect-
ed ; yet they are not decisive, as they sometimes come on
and go off again without producing any further effect. But
* This piece has been incorrectly ascribed to the pen of Dr. Franklin.
Hopkinson possessed much of that ease and humour, which have ren-
dered I he writings of the former go universally admired. ED.
136 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
if, when the husband rises in the morning, he should ob-
serve in the yard a wheelbarrow with a quantity of lime
in it, or should see certain buckets with lime dissolved in
water, there is then no time to be lost ; he immediately
locks up the apartment or closet where his papers or his
private property are kept, and, putting the key in his pocket,
betakes himself to night : for a husband, however beloved,
becomes a perfect nuisance during this season of female
rage ; his authority is superseded, his commission is sus-
pended, and the very scullion, who cleans the brasses in
the kitchen, becomes of more consideration and importance
than him. He has nothing for it but to abdicate, and .run
from an evil which he can neither prevent nor mollify.
The husband gone, the ceremony begins. Tin- w. ill-
are in a few minutes stripped of their furniture ; paintings,
prints and looking-glasses lie in a huddled heap about the
floors ; the curtains are torn from the testers, the beds
crammed into the windows ; chairs and tables, bedsteads
and cradles crowd the yard ; and the garden fence bends
beneath the weight of carpets, blankets, cloth cloaks, old
coats and ragged breeches. Here may be seen the lumber
of the kitchen, forming a dark and confused mass; for the
foreground of the picture, gridirons and frying-pans, rusty
shovels and broken tongs, spits and pots, and the fractured
remains of rush-bottomed chairs. There, a closet has dis-
gorged its bowels, cracked tumblers, broken wine-glasses,
phials of foi gotten physic, papers of unknown powders,
seeds and dried herbs, handfuls of old corks, tops of teapots
and stoppers of departed decanters ; from the rag hole in
the garret to the rat hole in the cellar, no place escapes un-
rummagcd. It would seem as if the day of general doom
was come, and the utensils of the house were dragged forth
to judgment. In this tempest the words of Lear naturally
present themselves, and might, with some alteration, be
made strictly applicable :
I t the great gods,
That keep this dreadful puddero'er our heads,
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
That hast within thce undivulged crimes
L'nwhipp'd of Justice !
Close pent-up Guilt,
Raise your concealine continents, and ask
These dreadful summoners grace !"
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 137
This ceremony completed, and the house thoroughly
evacuated, the next operation is to smear the walls and ceil-
ings of every room and closet with brushes dipped in a solu-
tion of lime, called whitewash ; to pour buckets of water
over every floor, and scratch all the partitions and wain-
scots with rough brushes wet with soap-suds, and dipped
in stone-cutter's sand. The windows by no means escape
the general deluge. A servant scrambles out upon the pent-
house, at the risk of her neck, and, with a mug in her hand
and a bucket within reach, she dashes away innumerable
gallons of water against the glass panes, to the great an-
noyance of passengers in the street.
1 have been told, that an action at law was once brought
against one of these water-nymphs, by a person who had
a new suit of clothes spoiled by this operation ; but, after a
Jong argument, it was determined by the whole court, that
the action would not lie, inasmuch as the defendant was in
the exercise of a legal right, and not answerable for the
consequences ; and so the poor gentleman was doubly non-
suited ; for he lost not only his suit of clothes but his suit
at law.
These smearings and scratchings, washings and dashings,
being duly performed, the next ceremony is to cleanse and
replace the distracted furniture. You may have seen a
house-raising, or a ship-launch, when all the hands within
reach are collected together; recollect, if you can, the
hurry, bustle, confusion and noise of such a scene, and you
will have some idea of this cleaning match. The misfor-
tune is, that the sole object is to make things clean ; it mat-
ters not how many useful, ornamental or valuable articles
are mutilated, or suffer death under the operation ; a ma-
hoijaiiy chair and carved frame undergo the same discipline ;
they are to be made clean at all events ; but their preserva-
tion is not worthy of attention. For instance, a fine large
engraving; is laid flat upon the floor ; smaller prints are piled
upon it, and the superincumbent weight cracks the glasses
of the lower tier; but this is of no consequence. A
valuable picture is placed leaning against the sharp cor-
ner of a table; others are made to lean against that,
until the pressure of the whole forces the corner of the
table through the canvass of the first. The frame and
12*
138 COMMON-PLACE BOOR OF PROSE.
glass of a fine print are to be cleaned ; the spirit and oil
used on this occasion are suffered to leak through and spoil
the engraving; no matter, if the glass is clean, and the
frame shine, it is sufficient ; the rest is not worthy of con-
sideration. An able mathematician has made an accurate
calculation founded on long experience, and has discovered
that the losses and destruction incident to two whitewash-
ings are equal to one removal, and three removals equal to
one fire.
The cleaning frolic over, matters begin to resume their
pristine appearance. The storm abates, and all would be
well again, but it is impossible that so great a convulsion,
in so small a community, should not produce some further
effects. For two or three weeks after the operation, the
family are usually afflicted with sore throats or sore eyes,
occasioned by the caustic quality of the lime, or with
severe colds from the exhalations of wet floors or damp
walls.
I know a gentleman, who was fond of accounting for
every thing in a philosophical way. He considers this,
which I have called a custom, as a real periodical disease
peculiar to the climate. His train of reasoning is ingenious
and whimsical, but I am not at leisure to give you the detail.
The result was, that he found the distemper to be incura-
ble ; but, after much study, he conceived he had discovered
a method to divert the evil he could not subdue. For this
purpose he caused a small building, about twelve feet
square, to be erected in his garden, and furnished with ,
some ordinary chairs and tables ; and a few prints of the
cheapest sort were hung against the walls. His hope was,
that, when the whitewashing frenzy seized the females of
his family, they might repair to this apartment, and scrub
and smear and scour to their hearts' content ; and so spend
the violence of the disease in this outpost, while he enjoy-
ed himself in quiet at head-quarters. But the experiment
did not answer his expectation; it was impossible it should,
since a principal part of the gratification consists in the la-
dy's having an uncontrolled right to torment her husband
at least once a year, and to turn him out of doors and take
the reins of government into her own hands.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 139
There is a much better contrivance than this of the
philosopher, which is, to cover the walls of the house with
paper : this is generally done ; and, though it cannot abolish,
it at least shortens, the period of female dominion. The
paper is decorated with flowers of various fancies, and made
so ornamental, that the women have admitted the fashion
without perceiving the design.
There is also another alleviation of the husband's dis-
tress ; he generally has the privilege of a small room or
closet for his books and papers, the key of which he is al-
lowed to keep. This is considered as a privileged place,
and stands like the land of Goshen amid the plagues of
Egypt. But then he must be extremely cautiou.,, and ever
on his guard ; for should he inadvertently go abroad and
leave the key in his door, the housemaid, who is always
on the watch for such an opportunity, immediately "enters
in triumph with buckets, brooms and brushes ; takes pos-
session of the premises, and forthwith puts all his books and
papers to rights to his utter confusion, and sometimes
serious detriment. For instance :
A gentleman was sued by the executors of a tradesman,
>n a charge found against him in the deceased's books, to
the amount of thirty pounds. The defendant was strongly
impressed with the idea, that he had discharged the debt
Mid taken a receipt ; but, as the transaction was of long
standing, he knew not where to find the receipt The suit
went on in course, and the time approached when judgment
would be obtained against him. He then sat seriously
down to examine a large bundle of old papers, which he
had untied and displayed on a table for that purpose. In
the midst of his search, he was suddenly called away on
business of importance ; he forgot to lock the door of his
room. The housemaid, who had been long looking out for
such an opportunity, immediately entered with the usual
implements, and with great alacrity fell to cleaning the
room, and putting things to rights. The first object that
struck her eye was the confused situation of the papers on
the table ; these were without delay bundled together as
so many dirty knives and forks ; but in the action, a small
piece of paper fell unnoticed on the floor, which happened
to be the very receipt in question : as it had no very re-
140 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE .
epectable appearance, it was soon after swept out with the
common dirt of the room, and carried in the rubbish-pan
into the yard. The tradesman had neglected to enter the
credit in his book ; the defendant could find nothing to ob-
viate the charge, and so judgment went against him for the
debt and costs. A fortnight after the whole was settled
and the money paid, one of the children found the receipt
among the rubbish in the yard.
There is another custom, peculiar to the city of Phila-
delphia, and nearly allied to the former. I mean, that of
washing the pavement before the doors every Saturday
evening. I at first took this to be a regulation of the police ;
but, on further inquiry, find it is a religious rite prepara-
tory to the Sabbath ; and is, I believe, the only religious
rite, in which the numerous sectaries of this city perfectly
agree. The ceremony begins about sunset, and continues till
about ten or eleven at night. It is very difficult for a stran-
ger to walk the streets on those evenings ; he runs a con-
tinual risk of having a bucket of dirty water thrown against
his legs ; but a Philadelphian born is so much accustomed
to the danger, that he avoids it with surprising dexterity
It is from this circumstance that a Philadclphian may bo
known any where by his gait. The streets of New York
are paved with rough stones; these indeed are not washed,
but the dirt is so thoroughly swept from before the doors,
that the stones stand up sharp and prominent, to the grout
inconvenience of those who are not accustomed to so rough
a path. But habit reconciles every thing. It is diverting
enough to see a Philadelphian at New York , he walks
the streets with as much painful caution as if his toes were
covered with corns, or his feet lamed with the gout ; while
a New Yorker, as little approving the plain masonry of
Philadelphia, shuffles along the pavement like a parrot on
a mahogany table.
It must be acknowledged, that the ablutions I have men-
tioned are attended with no small inconvenience ; but the
women would not be induced, on any consideration, to resign
their privilege. Notwithstanding this, I can give you the
strongest assurances that the women of America make the
most faithful wives and the most attentive mothers in the
world ; and I am sure you will join me in opinion that
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 141
*f a married man is made miserable only one week in a
whole year, he will have no great cause to complain of the
matrimonial bond.
May you die among your Kindred. GREENWOOD.
IT is a sad thing to feel that we must die away from our
home. Tell not the invalid who is yearning after his dis-
tant coQntry, that the atmosphere around him is soft ; that
the gales are filled with balm, and the flowers are spring-
ing from the green earth ; he knows that the softest air
to his heart would be the air which hangs over his native
land ; that more grateful than all the gales of the south,
would breathe the low whispers of anxious affection ; that
the very icicles clinging to his own eaves, and the snow
beating against his own windows, would be far more pleas-
ant to his eyes, than the bloom and verdure" which only
more forcibly remind him how far he is from that one spot
which is dearer to him than the world beside. He may,
indeed, find estimable friends, who will do all in their pow-
er to promote his comfort and assuage his pains ; but they
cannot supply the place of the long known and long loved ;
they cannot read as in a book the mute language of his
face ; they have not learned to wait upon his habits, and
anticipate his wants, and he has not learned to communi-
cate, without hesitation, all his wishes, impressions, and
thoughts, to them. He feels that he is a stranger ; and a
more desolate feeling than that could not visit his soul.
How much is expressed by that form of oriental benedic-
tion, May you die among your kindred !
Description of a Death Scene. Miss FRANCIS.
GRACE, agitated by these events, and her slight form
daily becoming more shadowy, seemed like a celestial spir-
it, which, having performed its mission on earth, melts into
a misty wreath, then disappears forever. Hers had always
142 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PUOSE.
been the kind of beauty that is eloquence, though it speaks
not. The love she inspired was like that of some fair infant,
which we would fain clasp to our hearts in its guileless beau-
ty ; and when it repays our fondness with a cherub smile, its
angelic influence rouses all that there is of heaven within
the soul. Deep compassion was now added to these emotions ;
and wherever she moved, the eye of pity greeted her, as it
would some wounded bird, nestling to the heart in its timid
loveliness. Every one who knew her felt the influence
of her exceeding purity and deep pathos of character ; but
very few had penetrated into its recesses, and discovered
its hidden treasures. Melody was there, but it was too
plaintive, too delicate in its combination, to be produced by
nn unskilful hand. The coarsest minds felt its witching ef-
fect, though they could not define its origin ; like the ser-
vant mentioned by Addison, who drew the bow across every
string of her master's violin, and then complained that she
could not, for her life, find where the tune was secreted.
Souls of this fine mould keep the fountain of love sealed
deep within its caverns ; and to one only is access ever
granted. Miss Osborne's affection had been tranquil on
the surface, but it was as deep as it was pure. It was a
pool which had granted its healing influence to one, but
could never repeat the miracle, though an angel should
trouble its waters. Assuredly he that could mix death in
the cup of love which he offered to one so young, so fair,
and so true, was guilty as the priest who administered
poison in the holy eucharist.
Lucretia, now an inmate of the family, read to her, sup-
ported her across the chamber, and watched her brief, gen-
tle slumbers with an intense interest, painfully tinged with
self-reproach. She was the cause of this premature de-
cay, innocent, indeed, but still the cause. Under such
circumstances, the conscience is morbid in its sensibility,
unreasonable in its acuteness ; and the smiles and forgive-
ness of those we have injured, tear and scorch it like*burn-
ing pincers. Yet there was one who suffered even more
than Lucretia, though he was never conscious of giving
one moment's pain to the object of his earliest affection.
During the winter, every leisure moment which Doctor
Willard's numerous avocations allowed him, was spent in
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE* 143
Miss Osborne's sick chamber ; and every tone, every look
of his went to her heart with a thrilling expression, which
seemed to say, " Would I could die for thee ! Oh ! would
to God I could die for thee !"
Thus pillowed on the arm of Friendship, and watched
over by the eye of Love, Grace languidly awaited the re-
turn of spring ; and, when May did arrive, wasted as she
was, she seemed to enjoy its pure breath and sunny smilei
Alas ! that the month, which dances around the flowery
earth with such mirthful step and beaming glance, should
call so many victims of consumption to their -last home !
Towards the close of this delightful season, the invalid,
bolstered in her chair, and surrounded by her affectionate
family, was seated at the window, watching the declining
sun. There was deep silence for a long while ; as if her
friends feared that a breath might scare the flitting soul
from its earthly habitation. Henry and Lucretia sat on
either side, pressing her hands in mournful tenderness ;
Doctor Willard leaned over her chair and looked up to the
unclouded sky, as if he reproached it for mocking him with
brightness ; and her father watched the hectic flush upon
her cheek with the firmness of Abraham, when he offered
his only son upon the altar. Oh ! how would the heart
of that aged sufferer have rejoiced within him, could he too
have exchanged the victim !
She had asked Lucretia to place Somerville's rose on the
window beside her. One solitary blossom was on it ; and
she reached forth her weak hand to pluck it ; but its
leaves scattered beneath her trembling touch. She looked
up to Lucretia with an expression, which her friend could
never forget, and one cold tear slowly glided down her
pallid cheek. Gently as a mother kisses her sleeping babe,
Doctor Willard brushed it away ; and, turning hastily to
conceal his quivering lip, he clasped Henry's hand with
convulsive energy as he whispered, " Oh ! God of mer-
cies, how willingly would I have wiped away all tears from
her eyes!"
There is something peculiarly impressive in manly grief,
The eye of woman overflows as readily as her heart ; but
when waters gush from the rock, we feel that they are
extorted by no gentle blow.
144 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
The invalid looked at him with affectionate regret, as if
she thought it a crime not to love such endearing kindness;
and every one present made a powerful effort to suppress
painful, suffocating emotion. Lucretia had a bunch of pur-
ple violets fastened in her girdle, and with a forced smile
she placed them in the hands of her dying friend. She
looked at them a moment with a sort of abstracted atten-
tion, and an expression strangely unearthly, as she said,
" I have thought that wild flowers might be the alphabet
of angels, whereby they write on hills and fields myste-
rious truths, which it is not given our fallen nature to un-
derstand. What think you, dear father ?"
" I think, my beloved child, that the truths we do com-
prehend are enough to support us through all our trials."
The confidence of the Christian was strong within him,
when he spoke ; but he looked on his dying daughter, the
only image of a wife dvarly beloved, and nature prevail-
ed. He covered his eyes, and shook his white hairs mourn-
fully, as he added, " God in his mercy grant, that we may
find them sufficient in this dreadful struggle." All was
again still, still, in that chamber of death. The birds
sung as sweetly as if there was no such thing as discord
in the habitations of man ; and the blue sky was as bright
aa if earth were a stranger to ruin, and the human soul
knew not of desolation. Twilight advanced, unmindful
that weeping eyes watched her majestic and varied beauty.
The silvery clouds, that composed her train, were fast sink-
ing into a gorgeous column of gold and purple. It seemed
as if celestial spirits were hovering around their mighty
pavilion of light, and pressing the verge of the horizon
with their glittering sandals.
Amid the rich variegated heaps of vapour, was one spot
of clear bright cerulean. The deeply coloured and heavy
masses that surrounded it, gave it the effect of distance ;
so that it seemed like a portion of the inner heaven. Grace
fixed her earnest gaze upon it, as a weary traveller does
upon an Oasis in the desert. That awful lustre which the
soul beams forth at its parting was in her eye, as she paid,
" I could almost fancy there are happy faces looking down
to welcome me."
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 145
" It is very beautiful," said Lucretia in a subdued tone.
" It is such a sky as you loved to look upon, dear Grace."
" It is such an one as we loved," she answered. " There
was a time when it would have made me very happy ; but
my thoughts are now beyond it."
Her voice grew faint, and there was a quick gasp, as
if the rush of memory was too powerful for her weak
frame.
Doctor Willard hastily prepared a cordial, and offered
it to her lips. Those lips were white and motionless ; her
long, fair eyelashes drooped, but trembled not. Me placed
his hand on her side ; the heart that had loved so well,
and endured so much, throbbed its last.
The Rose. MRS. SIGOURNEY.
I SAW a rose perfect in beauty ; it rested gracefully
upon its stalk, and its perfume filled the air. Many stopped
to gaze upon it, many bowed to taste its fragrance, and its
owner hung over it with delight. I passed it again, and be-
hold it was gone its stem was leafless its root had with-
ered ; the enclosure which surrounded it was broken down.
The spoiler had been there ; he saw that many admired it ;
he knew it was dear to him who planted it, and beside it he
had no other plant to love. Yet he snatched it secretly
from the hand that cherished it ; he wore it on his bosom
till it hung its head and faded, and, when he saw that its
glory was departed, he flung it rudely away. But it left a
thorn in his bosom, and vainly did he seek to extract it;
for now it pierces the spoiler, even in his hour of mirth.
And when I saw that no man, who had loved the beauty
of the rose, gathered again its scattered leaves, or bound
up the stalk which the hands of violence had broken, I
looked earnestly at the spot where it grew, and my soul
received instruction. And I said, Let her who is full
of beauty and admiration, sitting like the queen of flow-
ers in majesty among the daughters of women, let her
watch lest vanity enter her heart, beguiling her to reft
13
146 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
proudly upon her own strength ; let her remember that
she standelh upon slippery places, " and be not high-
minded, but fear "
Influence of Female Character. THACHEK.
THE influence of woman on the intellectual character
f the community, may not seem so great and obvious as
upon its civilization and manners. One reason is, that
hitherto such influence has seldom been exerted in the
most direct way of gaining celebrity the writing of books.
In our own age, indeed, this has almost ceased to be the
case, and, if we should inquire for those persons, whose
writings for the last half century have produced the most
practical and enduring effects, prejudice itself must con-
fess, that the name of more than one illustrious woman
would adorn the catalogue.
That the society and influence of woman has often prompt-
ed and refined the efforts of genius, may be granted by the
most zealous advocate for the superiority of our sex. From
the hallowed retreats of the Port Royal issued the immor-
tal writings of Pascal, Nicole and Racine ; and the heav-
enly muse of Cowper had its inspiration nourished almost
exclusively in the society of females. But, whatever may
be thought of the influence of the sex in these particu-
lars, there is one point of view in which it is undeniably
great and important. The mother of your .children is
necessarily their first instructor. It is her task to watch
over and assist their dawning faculties in their first expan-
sion. And can it be of light importance in what manner
this task is performed ? Will it have no influence on the
future mental character of the child, whether the first
lights, which enter its understanding, are received from
wisdom or folly ? Are there no bad mental habits, no last-
ing biases, no dangerous associations, no deep-seated pre-
judices, which can be communicated from the mother, the
fondest object of the affection and veneration of the child ?
In fine, do the opinions of the age take no direction and
no colouring from the modes of thinking which prevail
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 147
among one half of the minds that exist on earth ? Unless
you are willing to say that an incalculably great amount
of mental power is utterly wasted and thrown away ; or
else, with a Turkish arrogance and brutality, to deny that
woman shares with you in the possession of a reasoning
and immortal mind ; you must acknowledge the vast impor-
tance of the influence, which the female sex exerts on the
intellectual character of the community.
But it is in its moral effects on the mind and the heart
of man, that the influence of woman is most powerful and
important In the diversity of tastes, habits, inclinations
and pursuits of the two sexes, is found a most beneficent
provision for controlling the force and extravagance of hu-
man passions. The objects which most strongly seize and
stimulate the mind of man, rarely act at the same time
and with equal power on the mind of woman. While he
delights in enterprise and action, and the exercise of the
stronger energies of the soul, she is led to engage in calmer
pursuits, and seek for gentler enjoyments. While he is
summoned into the wide and busy theatre of a contentious
world, where the love of power and the love of gain, in
all their innumerable forms, occupy and tyrannise over the
soul, she is walking in a more peaceful sphere ; and though
I say not that these passions are always unfelt by her, yet
they lead her to the pursuit of very different objects. The
current, if it draws its waters in both from the same source,
moves with her not only in a narrower stream, and less
impetuous tide, but sets also in a different direction. Hence
it is that the influence of the society of woman is almost
always to soften the violence of those impulses, which
would otherwise act with so constant and fatal an influ-
ence on the soul of man. The domestic fireside is the
great guardian of society against the excesses of human
passions. When man, after his intercourse with the world,
where, alas ! he finds so much to inflame him with a fe-
verous anxiety for wealth and distinction, retires at even-
ing to the bosom of his family, he finds there a repose for
his tormenting cares. He finds something to bring him
back to human sympathies. The tenderness of his wife
and the caresses of his children introduce a new train of
softer thoughts and gentler feelings. He is reminded of
148 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
what constitutes the real felicity of man ; and, while his
heart expands itself to the influence of the simple and in-
timate delights of the domestic circle, the demons of ava-
rice and ambition, if not exorcised from his breast, at least
for a time, relax their grasp. How deplorable 'would be the
consequence if all these were reversed ; and woman, in-
stead of checking the violence of these passions, were to
employ her blandishments and charms to add fuel to their
rage ! How much wider would become the empire of
guilt ! What a portentous and intolerable amount would
be added to the sum of the crimes and miseries of the hu-
man race !
But the influence of the female character on the virtue
of man, is not seen merely in restraining and softening the
violence of human passions. To her is mainly coinmitK'cl
the task of pouring into the opening mind of infancy its
first impressions of duty, and of stamping on its susceptible
heart the first image of its God. Who will not confess the
influence of a mother in forming the heart of a child ? What
man is there who cannot trace the origin of many of the best
maxims of his life to the lips of her who gave him birth ;
IIovv wide, how lasting, how sacred is that part of woman's
influence ! Who that thinks of it, who that ascribes any
moral effect to education, who that believes that any good
may be produced, or any evil prevented by it, can need
any arguments to prove the importance of the character
and capacity of her, who gives its earliest bias to the in-
fant mind ?
There is yet another mode, by which woman may ex-
ert a powerful influence on the virtue of a community. It
rests with her, in a pre-eminent degree, to give tone and
elevation to the moral character of the age, by deciding
the degree of virtue that shall be necessary to afford a
passport to her society. The extent of this influence has
perhaps never been fully tried ; and, if the character of
our sex is not better, it is to be confessed that it is in no
trifling degree to be ascribed to the fault of yours. If all
the favour of woman were given only to the good ; if it
were known that the charms and attractions of beauty, and
wisdom, and wit, were reserved only for the pure ; if, in
one word, something of a similar rigour were exerted to
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 149
exclude the profligate and abandoned of our sex from your
society, as is shown to those, who have fallen from virtue
in your own, how much would be done to reenforce the
motives to moral purity among us, and impress on the
minds of all a reverence for the sanctity and obligations of
virtue !
The influence of woman on the moral sentiments of so-
ciety is intimately connected with her influence on its re-
ligious character ; for religion and a pure and elevated
morality must ever stand in the relation to each other of
effect and cause. The heart of woman is formed for the
abode of Christian truth ; and for reasons alike honourable
to her character and to that of the Gospel. From the na/-
ture of. Christianity this must be so. The foundation of
evangelical religion is laid in a deep and constant sense of
the invisible presence, providence and influence of an in-
visible Spirit, who claims the adoration, reverence, grati-
tude and love of his creatures. By man, busied as he is
in the cares, and absorbed in the pursuits of the world, this
great truth is, alas ! too often and too easily forgotten and
disregarded ; while woman, less engrossed by occupation,
more " at leisure to be good," led often by her duties to
retirement, at a distance from many temptations, and endued
with an imagination more easily excited and raised than
man's, is better prepared to admit and cherish, and be
affected by, this solemn and glorious acknowledgment of a
God.
Again ; the Gospel reveals to us a Saviour, invested with
little of that brilliant and dazzling glory, with which con-
quest and success would array him in the eyes of proud
and aspiring man ; but rather as a meek and magnanimous
sufferer, clothed in all the mild and passive graces, all the
sympathy with human wo, all the compassion for human
frailty, all the benevolent interest in human welfare, which
the heart of woman is formed to love ; together with all
that solemn and supernatural dignity, which the heart of
woman is formed peculiarly to feel and to reverence. To
obey the commands, and aspire to imitate the peculiar vir-
tues, of such a being, must always be more natural and
easy for her than for man.
13*
150 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP FROSE.
So, too, it is with that future life which the Gospel UD-
veils, where all that is dark and doubtful in this shall be
explained ; where penitence shall be forgiven, and faith
and virtue accepted ; where the tear of sorrow shall be
dried, the wounded bosom of bereavement be healed ;
where love and joy shall be unclouded and immortal. To
these high and holy visions of faith I trust that man is not
always insensible ; but the superior sensibility of woman,
as it makes her feel more deeply the emptiness and wants
of human existence here, so it makes her welcome with
more deep and ardent emotions the glad tidings of salvation,
the thought of communion with God, the hope of the puri-
ty, happiness and peace of another and a better world.
In this peculiar susceptibility of religion in the female
character, who does not discern a proof of the benignant
care of Heaven of the best interest of man ? How wise
it is, that she, whose instructions and example mu-t have
so powerful an influence on the infant mind, should be
formed to own and cherish the most sublime and important
of truths ! The vestal flame of piety, lighted up by Heaven
in the breast of woman, diffuses its light and warmth over
the world ; and dark would be the world if it should ever
be extinguished and lost.
Character of James Monroe* WIRT.
Itr his stature, he is about the middle height of men,
rather firmly set, with nothing further remarkable in his
person, except his muscular compactness, and apparent
ability to endure labour. His countenance, when grave,
has rather the expression of sternness and irascibility : a
smile, however, (and a smile is not unusual with him in a
social circle,) lights it up to very high advantage, and gives
it a most impressive and engaging air of suavity and be-
nevolence. Judging merely from his countenance, he is
between the ages of forty-five and fifty years. His dress
From " Letters of the British Spy," flnrt published in 1806.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 151
and personal appearance are those of a plain and modest
gentleman. He is a man of soft, polite, and even assidu-
ous attentions ; but these, although they are always well
timed, judicious, and evidently the offspring of an obliging
and philanthropic temper, are never performed with the
striking and captivating graces of a Marlborough or a
Bolmgbroke. To be plain, there is often in his manner an
inartificial and even an awkward simplicity, which, while
it provokes the smile of a more polished person, forces him
to the opinion, that Mr. Monroe is a man of a most sin-
cere and artless soul.
Nature has given him a mind neither rapid nor rich ,
and, therefore, he cannot shine on a subject which is en-
tirely new to him. But, to compensate him for this, he is
endued with a spirit of restless and generous emulation, a
judgment solid, strong and clear, and a habit of application,
which no difficulties can shake, no labours tire. With
these aids, simply, he has qualified himself for the first
honours of this country ; and presents a most happy illus-
tration of the truth of the maxim, Quisque, sues fortunes
faber. For his emulation has urged him to perpetual and
unremitting inquiry ; his patient and unwearied industry
has concentrated before him all the lights which others
have thrown on the subjects of his consideration, together
with all those which his own mind, by repeated efforts, is
enabled to strike ; while his sober, steady and faithful judg-
ment has saved him from the common error of more quick
and brilliant geniuses the too hasty adoption of specious,
but false conclusions.
These qualities render him a safe and an able counsel-
lor. And by their constant exertion he has amassed a store
of knowledge, which, having passed seven times through
the crucible, is almost as highly corrected as human knowl-
edge can be ; and which certainly may be much more safe-
ly relied on, than the spontaneous and luxuriant growth
of a more fertile, but less chastened mind, " a wild, where
weeds and flowers promiscuous shoot." Having engaged
very early, first in the life of a soldier, then of a statesman,
then of a laborious practitioner of the law, and finally
again of a politician, his intellectual operations have been
almost entirely confined to juridical and political topics.
152 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PKOSE.
Indeed, it is easy to perceive, that the mind of a man en-
gaged in so active a life must possess more native supple-
ness, versatility and vigour, than that of Mr. Monroe, to be
able to make an advantageous tour of the sciences in the
rare interval of importunate duties. It is possible that the
early habit of contemplating subjects as expanded as the
earth itself, with all the relative interests of the great na-
tions thereof, may have inspired him with an indifference,
perhaps an inaptitude, for mere points of literature. Al-
gernon Sydney has said, that he deems all studies unwor-
thy the serious regard of a man, except the study of the
principles of just government ; and Mr. Monroe, perhaps,
concurs with our countryman in this as well as in his other
principles. Whatever may have been the occasion, his
acquaintance with the fine arts is certainly very limited
and superficial ; but, making allowances for his bias towards
republicanism, he is a profound and even an eloquent states-
man.
Knowing him to be attached to that political party, who,
l'_v their opponents, are sometimes called democrats, some-
times jacobins ; and aware also that he was a man of warm
and even ardent temper, I dreaded much, when 1 first en-
tered his company, that I should have been shocked and
disgusted with the narrow, virulent, and rancorous invec-
tives of party animosity. How agreeably, how delightfully,
was I disappointed !, Not one sentiment of intolerance
polluted his lips. On the contrary, whether they be the
oflspring of rational induction, of the habit of surveying
men and things on a great scale, of native magnanimity,
or of a combination of all those causes, his principles, as
far as they were exhibited to me, were forbearing, liberal,
widely extended, and great. As the elevated ground
which he already holds has been gained merely by the
lint of application ; as every new step which he mounts
becomes a mean of increasing his powers still further, by
opening a wider horizon to his view, and thus stimulating
his enterprise afresh, re-invigorating his habits, multiplying
the materials, and extending the range, of his knowledge,
it would be no matter of surprise to me, if before his death
the world should see him at the head of the American ad-
ministration. So much for the governor of the common'
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 153
wealth of Virginia, a living, an honorable, an illustrious
monument of self-created eminence, worth and greatness!
The Stout Gentleman. A Stage-coach Romance.
IRVING.
IT was a rainy Sunday in the gloomy month of Novem-
ber. I had been detained, in the course of a journey, by
a slight indisposition, from which I was recovering ; but I
was still feverish, and was obliged to keep within doors
all day, in an inn of the small town of Derby. A wet
Sunday in a country inn whoever has had the luck to ex-
perience one can alone judge of my situation. The rain
pattered against the casements ; the bells tolled for church
with a melancholy sound. I went to the windows in quest
of something to amuse the eye ; but it seemed as if I had
been placed completely out of the reach of all amusement.
The windows of my bed-room looked out among tiled roofs
and stacks of chimneys, while those of my sitting-room
commanded a full view of the stable-yard. I know of
nothing more calculated to make a man sick of this world
than a stable-yard on a rainy day. The place was littered
with straw, that had been kicked about bv travellers and
stable-boys. In one corner was a stagnant pool of water
surrounding an island of muck ; there were several half-
drowned fowls, crowded together under a cart, among
which was a miserable crest-fallen cock, drenched out of
all life and spirit, his drooping tail matted, as it were, into
a single feather, along which the water trickled from his
back ; near the cart was a half-dozing cow, chewing the
cud, and standing patiently to be rained on, with wreaths
of vapour rising from her reeking hide ; a wall-eyed horse,
tired of the loneliness of the stable, was poking his spec-
tral head out of a window, with the rain dripping on it
from the eaves ; an unhappy cur, chained to a dog-house
hard by, uttered something every now and then between
a bark and a yelp ; a drab of a kitchen wench tramped
backwards and forwards through the yard in pattens, look-
ing as sulky as the weather itself; every thing, in short.
154 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
was comfortless and forlorn, excepting a crew of hard-drink-
ing ducks, assembled like boon companions round a puddle,
and making a riotous noise over their liquor.
I was lonely and listless, and wanted amusement. My
room soon became insupportable : I abandoned it, and sought
what is technically called the travellers' room. This is it
public room set apart at most inns for the accommodation
of a class of wayfarers, called travellers, or riders, a kind
of commercial knights-errant, who are incessantly scour-
ing the kingdom in gigs, on horseback, or by coach. They
are the only successors that I know of, at the present day,
to the knights-errant of yore. They lead the same kind
of roying, adventurous life, only changing the lance for a
driving-whip, the buckler for a pattern-card, and the coat
of mail for an upper-Benjamin. Instead of vindicating
the charms of peerless beauty, they rove about, spreading
the fame and standing of some substantial tradesman or
manufacturer, and are ready at any time to bargain in his
name ; it being the fashion now-a-days to trade instead of
fight with one another. As the room of the hostel, in the
good old fighting times, would be hung round at night
with the armour of way-worn warriors such as coats of
mail, falchions and yawning helmets ; so the travellers'
room is garnished wun the harnessing of their successors,
with box-coats, whips of all kinds, spurs, gaiters, and oil-
cloth covered hats.
I was in hopes of finding some of these worthies to talk
with, but was disappointed. There were, indeed, two or
three in the room; but I could make nothing of them-
One was just finishing his breakfast, quarrelling with his
bread and butter, and huffing the waiter ; another button-
ed on a pair of gaiters, with many execrations at Boots for
not having cleaned his shoes well ; a third sat drumming
on the table with his fingers, and looking at the rain as it
streamed down the window-glass ; they all appeared in-
fected with the weather, and disappeared, one after the
other, without exchanging a word.
I sauntered to the wipdow, and stood gazing at the peo-
ple picking their way to church, with petticoats hoisted
mid-leg high, and dripping umbrellas. The bell ceased to
toll, and the streets became silent. I then amused myself
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PttOsK. 155
with watching the daughters of a tradesman opposite, who,
being confined to the house for fear of wetting their Sun-
day finery, played off their charms at the front windows
to fascinate the chance tenants of the inn. They at length
were summoned away by a vigilant, vinegar-faced mother,
and I had nothing further from without to amuse me.
What was I to do to pass away the long-lived day ? I
was sadly nervous and lonely ; and every thing about an
inn seems calculated to make a dull day ten times duller :
old newspapers, smelling of beer and tobacco smoke, and
which I had already read half a dozen times ; good-for-
nothing books, that were worse than rainy weather. I
bored myself to death with an old volume of the Lady's
Magazine. I read all the common-place names of ambi-
tious travellers scrawled on the panes of glass ; the eternal
families of the Smiths and the Browns, and the Jacksons
and the Johnsons, and all the other sons ; and I deciphered
several scraps of fatiguing inn-window poetry, which I
have met with in all parts of the world.
The day continued lowering and gloomy ; the slovenly,
ragged, spongy clouds drifted heavily along ; there was no
variety even in the rain ; it was one dull, continued, mo-
notonous patter patter patter, except that now and then
I was enlivened by the idea of a brisk shower, from the
rattling of the drops upon a passing umbrella.
It was quite refreshing (if I may be allowed a hack-
neyed phrase of the day) when, in the course of the morn-
ing, a horn blew, and a stage-coach whirled through the
street, with outside passengers stuck all over it, cowering
under cotton umbrellas, and seethed together, and reeking
with the steams of wet box-coats and upper Benjamins. The
sound brought out from their lurking-places a crew of vag-
abond boys and vagabond dogs, and the carroty-headed
hostler, and that non-descript animal yclept Boots, and all
the other vagabond race that infest the purlieus of an inn :
but the bustle was transient ; the coach again whirled on
its way, and boy and dog, and hostler and Boots, all slunk
back again to their holes ; the street again became silent,
and the rain continued to rain on. In fact there was no
hope of its clearing up : the barometer pointed to rainy
weather ; mine hostess' tortoise-shell cat sat by the fire
156 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
washing her face, and rubbing her paws over her ears ;
and, on referring to the almanac, I found a direful predic-
tion stretching from the top of the page to the bottom,
through the whole month, ' Expect much rain about
this time."
I was dreadfully hipped. The hours seemed as if they
would never creep by. The very ticking of the clock be-
came irksome. At length the stillness of the house was
interrupted by the ringing of a bell. Shortly after, I heard
the voice of a waiter at the bar, " The stout gentleman in
No. 13 wants his breakfast. Tea and bread and butter,
with ham and eggs ; the eggs not to be too much done."
In such a situation as mine, every incident was of impor-
tance. Here was a subject of speculation presented to my
mind ; and ample exercise for my imagination. I am prone
to paint pictures to myself, and on this occasion I had some
materials to work upon. Had the guest up stairs been men-
tioned as Mr. Smith, or Mr. Brown, or Mr. Jackson, or
merely as " the gentleman in No. 13," it would have been
a perfect blank to me ; I should have thought nothing of
it ; but " the stout gentleman !" the very name had
something in it of the picturesque. It at once gave the
size ; it imbodied the personage to my mind's eye, and my
fancy did the rest. He was stout, or, as some term it,
lusty ; in all probability, therefore, he was advanced in
life, some people expanding as they grow old. By his
breakfasting rather late, and in his own room, he must be
a man accustomed to live at his ease, and above the neces-
sity of early rising ; no doubt a round, rosy, lusty old gen-
tleman.
There was another violent ringing ; the stout gentleman
was impatient for his breakfast. He was evidently a man
of importance ; " well to do in the world ;" accustomed to
be promptly waited upon ; of a keen appetite, and a little
cross when hungry. " Perhaps," thought I, " he may be
some London alderman ; or who knows but he may be a
member of parliament."
The breakfast was sent up, and there was a short inter-
val of silence ; he was doubtless making the tea. Presently
there was a violent ringing, and, before it could be answered,
another ringing still more violent. " Bless me ! what a
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 157
choleric old gentleman !" The waiter came down in a huff.
The butter was rancid ; the eggs were overdone ; the ham
too salt. The stout gentleman was evidently nice in his eat-
ing; one of those who eat and growl, and keep the waiter on
the trot, and live in a state militant with the household. The
hostess got into a fume. I should observe that she was a
brisk, coquettish woman ; a little of a shrew, and something
of a slammerkin, but very pretty withal ; with a nincompoop
for a husband, as shrews are apt to have. She rated the
servants roundly, for their negligence in sending up so bad
a breakfast, but said not a word against the stout gentle-
man ; by which I clearly perceived that he must be a man
of consequence, entitled to make a noise, and to give trouble
at a country inn. Other eggs and ham, and bread and
butter, were sent up. They appeared to be more gracious-
ly received ; at least there was no further complaint. I
had not made many turns about the travellers' room, when
there was another ringing. Shortly afterwards there was
a stir and an inquest about the house. The stout gentle-
man wanted the Times or Chronicle newspaper. I set
him down therefore for a whig ; or rather, from his being
so absolute and lordly where he had a chance, I suspected
him of being a radical. Hunt, I had heard, was a large
man ; " Who knows," thought I, " but it is Hunt himself ?"
My curiosity began to be awakened. I inquired of the
waiter, who was this stout gentleman, that was making all
this stir ; but I could get no information. Nobody seemed
to know his name. The landlords of bustling inns seldom
trouble their heads about the names or occupations of tran-
sient guests. The colour of the coat, the shape or size of
the person, is enough to suggest a travelling name. It is
either the tall gentleman, or the short gentleman, or the
gentleman in black, or the gentleman in snuff colour, or,
as in the present instance, the stout gentleman : a des-
ignation of the kind once hit on, answers every purpose,
and saves all further inquiry. Rain rain rain ! pitiless,
ceaseless rain ! No such thing as putting a foot out of
doors, and no occupation or amusement within. By and by
I heard some one walking over head. It was in the stout
gentle/nan's room. He evidently was a large man, by the
heaviness of his tread ; and an old man, from his wearing
14
158 COMMON-PLACE 11OOK OF PROSE.
uch creaking soles. " He is doubtless," thought I, " somo
rich old square-toes, of regular habits, and is now taking
exercise after breakfast."
I had to go to work at this picture again, and to paint
him entirely different. I now set him down for one of
those stout gentlemen, that are frequently met with, swag-
gering about the doors of country inns : moist, merry fel-
lows, in Belcher handkerchiefs, whose bulk is a little as-
sisted by malt liquors : men who have seen the world, and
been sworn at High-gate ; who are used to tavern life ; up
to all the trkks of tapsters, and knowing in the ways of
sinful publicans ; free livers on a small scale, who are prod-
igal within the compass of a guinea ; who call all the wai-
ters by name, tousle the maids, gossip with the landlady at
the bar, and prose over a pint of port, or a glass of negus
after dinner. The morning wore away in forming of these
Jtnd similar surmises. As fast as I wove one system of
belief, some movement of the unknown would completely
overthrow it, and throw all my thoughts again into confu-
sion. Such are the solitary operations of a feverish mind.
I was, as I have said, extremely nervous ; and the continual
meditation on the concerns of this invisible personage began
to have its effect. Dinner time came. I hoped the stout
gentleman might dine in the travellers' room, and that I
might at length get a view of his person ; but no, he had din-
ner served in his own room. What could be the meaning
*f this solitude and mystery ? He could not be a radical ;
there was something too aristocratical in thus keeping him-
self apart from the rest of the world, and condemning
himself to his own dull company through a rainy day. And
then, too, he lived too well for a discontented politician.
He seemed to expatiate on a variety of dishes, and to sit
over his wine like a jolly friend of good living. Indeed,
my doubts on this head were soon at an end ; for he could
not have finished his first bottle, before I could faintly hear
him humming a tune; and, on listening, I found it to be
" God save the King." 'Twas plain, then, he was no
radical, but a faithful subject ; one that grew loyal over
his bottle, and was ready to stand by King and Con-
stitution when he could stand by nothing else. But who
could he be ? My conjectures began to run wild. Was
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 159
he not some person of distinction travelling incog. ? " Who
knows ?" said I, at my wit's end ; " it may be one of the
royal family, for aught I know, for they are all stout gen-
tlemen !" The weather continued rainy. The mysterious
unknown kept his room, and, as far as I could judge, his
chair, for I did not hear him move. In the mean time, as
the day advanced, the travellers' room began to be frequent-
ed. Some, who had just arrived, came in buttoned up in
box-coats ; others came home, who had been dispersed
about the town. Some took their dinners, and some their
tea. Had I been in a different mood, I should have found
entertainment in studying this peculiar class of men. There
were two, especially, who were regular wags of the road,
and up to all the standing jokes of travellers. They had
a thousand sly things to say to the waiting maid, whom
they called Louisa and Ethelinda, and a dozen other fine
names, changing the name every time, and chuckling
amazingly at their own waggery. My mind, however,
had become completely engrossed by the stout gentleman.
He had kept my fancy in chase during a long day, and it
was not now to be diverted from the scent.
The evening gradually wore away ; the travellers read
the papers two or three times over ; some drew round the
fire, and told long stories about their horses, about their ad-
ventures, their overturns and breakings down. They dis-
cussed the credit of different merchants and different inns.
And the two wags told several choice anecdotes of pretty
chambermaids and landladies. All this passed as they were
quietly taking what they called their night-caps, that is to
say, strong glasses of brandy and water and sugar, or some
other mixture of the kind, after which they, one after
another, rang for Boots and the chambermaid, and walked
off to bed in old shoes cut down into marvellously uncom-
fortable slippers. There was only one man left a short-
legged, long-bodied, plethoric fellow, with a very large,
sandy head. He sat by himself with a glass of port-wine
negus and a spoon ; sipping and stirring, and meditating
and sipping, until nothing was left but the spoon. He
gradually fell asleep, but upright in his chair, with the
empty glass standing before him ; and the candle seemed
to fall asleep too, for the wick grew long, and black, and
160 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
cabbaged at the end, and dimmed the little light that re-
mained in the chamber. The gloom that now prevailed
was contagious. Around hung the shapeless and almost
spectral box-coats of the travellers, long since buried in
deep sleep. I only heard the ticking of the clock, with
the deep-drawn breathings of the sleeping toper, and the
drippings of the rain, drop drop drop, from the eaves
of the house. The church bells chimed midnight. All at
once the stout gentleman began to walk over head, pacing
slowly backwards and forwards. There was something ex-
tremely awful in all this, especially to one in my state of
nerves, these ghastly great-coats, these guttural breath-
ings, and the creaking footsteps of this mysterious gentle-
man. His steps grew fainter and fainter, and at length
died away. I could bear it no longer. I was wound up
to the desperation of a hero of romance. " Be he who or
what he may," said I to myself, "I'll have a si^ht <,t
him !" I seized a chamber-candle, and hurried up to No.
18. The door stood ajar. I hesitated, I entered. The
room was deserted. There stood a large broad-bottomed
elbow-chair at a table, on which was an empty tumbler,
and a Times newspaper ; and the room smelt powerfully
of Stilton cheese. The mysterious stranger had evidently
just retired. I turned off, sorely disappointed, to my room,
which had been changed to the front of the house. As I
went along the corridor, I saw a large pair of boots, with
dirty, waxed tops, standing at the door of a bed-chamber.
They doubtless belonged to the unknown ; but it would
not do to disturb so redoubtable a person in his den. He
might discharge a pistol, or something worse, at my head.
I went to bed, therefore, and lay awake half the night in
a terribly nervous state, and, even when I fell asleep, I
was still haunted by the idea of the stout gentleman and
his wax-topped boots.
I slept rather late the next morning, and was awakened
by some stir or bustle in the house, which I could not at
first comprehend ; until, getting more awake, I found there
was a mail coach starting from the door. Suddenly there
was a cry from below, " The gentleman has forgotten his
umbrella ! look for the gentleman's umbrella in No. IS !"
I heard an immediate scampering of a chambermaid along
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 161
the passage, and a shrill reply as she ran, " Here it is !
here's the gentleman's umbrella !" The mysterious stran-
ger was, then, on the point of setting off. This was the
only chance I could ever have of knowing him. I sprang
out of bed, scrambled to the window, snatched aside the
curtains, and just caught a glimpse at the rear of a person,
getting in at the coach-door. The skirts of a brown coat
parted behind, and gave me a full view of the broad disk
of a pair of drab breeches. The door closed. " All
right !" was the word, the coach whirled off, and that
was all I ever saw of the stout gentleman.
Patriotism and Eloquence of John Adams. WEBSTER.
HE possessed a bold spirit, which disregarded danger,
and a sanguine reliance oil the goodness of the cause and
the virtues of the people, which led him to overlook all
obstacles. His character, too, had been formed in troubled
times. He had been rocked in the early storms of the con-
troversy, and had acquired a decision and a hardihood,
proportioned to the severity of the discipline which he had
undergone.
He not only loved the American cause devoutly, but
had studied and understood it. He had tried his powers,
on the questions which it involved, often, and in various
ways ; and had brought to their consideration whatever
of argument or illustration the history of his own country,
the history of England, or the stores of ancient or of legal
learning could furnish. Every grievance enumerated in
the long catalogue of the Declaration, had been the sub-
ject of his discussion, jind the object of his remonstrance
and reprobation. From 1760, the colonies, the rights of
the colonies, the liberties of the colonies, and the wrongs
inflicted on the coloni.es, had engaged his constant atten-
tion ; and it has surprised those, who have had the oppor-
tunity of observing, with what full remembrance, and with
what prompt recollection, he could refer, in his extreire
old age, to every act of parliament affecting the colonies,
distinguishing and stating their respective titles, sections
11*
1C2 COMMON-l'LACE BOOK OF PROSE.
and provisions ; and to all the colonial memorials, remon-
strances and petitions, with whatever else belonged to the
intimate and exact history of the times, from that year to
1775. It was, in his own judgment, between these years,
that the American people came to a full understanding
and thorough knowledge of their rights, and to a fixed res-
olution of maintaining them ; and, bearing himself an ac-
tive part in all important transactions, the controversy with
England being then, in effect, the business of his life, facts,
dates and particulars made an impression which was never
effaced. He was prepared, therefore, by education and
discipline, as well as by natural talent and natural temper-
ament, for the part which he was now to act.
The eloquence of Mr. Adams resembled his general
character, and formed, indeed, a part of it. It was bold,
manly and energetic ; and such the crisis required.
When public bodies are to be addressed on momentous oc-
casions, when great interests are at stake, and strong pas-
sions excited, nothing is valuable in speech, further than it
is connected with high intellectual and moral endcnvmc'iits
Clearness, force and earnestness are the qualities which
produce, conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not
consist in speech. It cannot be brought from far. Labour
;md learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain.
Words and phrases may be marshalled in every way, but
they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the
subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense ex-
pression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it
they cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the
outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting
forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native
force. The graces taught in the schools, the costly orna-
ments, and studied contrivances of speech, shock and dis-
gust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their
wives, their children, and their country, hang on the de-
cision of the hour. Then words have lost their power,
rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible.
Even genius itself then feels rebuked, and subdued, as in
the presence of higher qualities. Then patriotism is elo-
quent ; then self-devotion is eloquent. The clear concep-
tion, out-running the deductions of logic, the high purpose,
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 163
the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the
tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every feature,
and urging the whole man onward, right onward to his
object this, this is eloquence ; or, rather, it is something
greater and higher than all eloquence it is action, noble,
sublime, godlike action.
In July, 1776, the controversy had passed the stage of
argument. An appeal had been made to force, and oppos-
ing armies were in the field. Congress, then, was to de-
cide whether the tie, which had so long bound us to the
parent State, was to be severed at once, and severed forever.
All the colonies had signified their resolution to abide by this
decision, and the people looked for it with the most intense
anxiety. And surely, fellow-citizens, never, never were
men called to a more important political deliberation. If
we contemplate it from the point where they then stood,
no question could be more full of interest ; if we look at
it now, and judge of its importance by its effects, it appears
in still greater magnitude.
Let us, then, bring before us the assembly, which was
about to decide a question thus big with the fate of empire.
Let us open their doors, and look in upon their deliberations
Let us survey the anxious and care-worn countenances,
let us hear the firm-toned voices, of this band of patriots.
Hancock presides over the solemn sitting ; and one of
those not yet prepared to pronounce for absolute indepen-
dence, is on the floor, and is urging his reasons for dissent-
ing from the Declaration.
It was for Mr. Adams to reply to arguments like these.
We know his opinions, and we know his character. He
would commence with -his accustomed directness and ear-
nestness.
." Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my
hand, and my heart, to this vote. It is true, indeed, that,
in the beginning, we aimed not at independence. But
there's a Divinity which shapes our ends. The injustice
of England has driven us to arms ; and, blinded to her own
interest, for our good, she has obstinately persisted, till in-
dependence is now within our grasp. We have but to
164 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
reach forth to it, and it is ours. Why then should we de-
fer the Declaration ? Is any man so weak as now to hope
for a reconciliation with England, which shall leave either
safety to the country and its liberties, or safety to his own
life, and his own'honour ? Are not you, sir, who sit in that
chair, is not he, our venerable colleague near you, are you
not both already the proscribed and predestined objects of
punishment and of vengeance ? Cut off from all hope of
royal clemency, what are you, what can you be, while
the power of England remains, but outlaws ? If we post-
pone independence, do we mean to carry on, or to give up
the war ? Do we mean to submit to the measures of par-
liament, Boston port-bill and all ? Do we mean to submit,
and consent that we ourselves shall be ground to powder,
and our country and its rights trodden down in the dust ?
I know we do not mean to submit. We never shall sub-
mit. Do we intend to violate that most solemn obligation
ever entered into by men, that plighting, before God, of
our sacred honour to Washington, when, putting him forth
to incur the dangers of war, as well as the political haz-
ards of the times, we promised to adhere to him, in every
extremity, with our fortunes and our lives ? I know there
is not a man here, who would not rather see a general
conflagration sweep over the land, or an earthquake sink
it, than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith fall to the
ground. For myself, having, twelve months ago, in this
place, moved you that George Washington be appointed
commander of the forces, raised or to be raised, for defence
of American liberty, may my right hand forget her cun-
ning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if
I hesitate or waver, in the support I give him. The war,
then, must go on. We must fight it through. And if the
war must go on, why put off longer the Declaration of In-
dependence ' That measure will strengthen us. It will
give us character abroad. The nations will then treat with
us, which they never can do while we acknowledge our-
selves subjects, in arms against our sovereign. Nay, I
maintain that England herself will sooner treat for peace
with us on the footing of independence, than consent, by
repealing her acts, to acknowledge that her whole conduct
towards us has been a course of injustice and oppression.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 165
Her pride will be less wounded, by submitting to that
course of things which now predestinates our independence,
than by yielding the points in controversy to her rebellious
subjects. The former she would regard as the result of for-
tune ; the latter she would feel as her own deep disgrace.
Why then, why then, sir, do we not, as soon as possible,
change this from a civil to a national war ? And, since we
must fight it through, why not put ourselves in a state to
enjoy all the benefits of victory, if we gain the victory ?
" If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall
not fail. The cause will raise up armies ; the cause will
create navies. The people, the people, if we are true to
them, will carry us, and will carry themselves, gloriously
through this struggle. I care not how fickle other people
have been found. 1 know the people of these colonies, and
I know that resistance to British aggression is deep and
settled in their hearts, and cannot be eradicated. Every
colony, indeed, has expressed its willingness to follow, if
we but take the lead. Sir, the Declaration will inspire
the people with increased courage. Instead of a long and
bloody war for restoration of privileges, for redress of
grievances, for chartered immunities, held under a British
king, set before them the glorious object of entire inde-
pendence, and it will breathe into them anew the breath
of life. Read this Declaration at the head of the army ;
every sword will be drawn from its scabbard, and the solemn
vow uttered, to maintain it, or to perish on the bed of hon-
our. Publish it from the pulpit ; religion will approve it,
and the love of religious liberty will cling round it, re-
solved to stand with it, or fall with it. Send it to the pub-
lic halls ; proclaim it there ; let them hear it, who heard
the first roar of the enemy's cannon ; let them see it, who
saw their brothers and <heir sons fall on the field of Bunker
Hill, and in the streets of Lexington and Concord, and the
very walls will cry out in its support
" Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs, but I see,
I see clearly, through this day's business. You and I,
indeed, may rue it. We may not live to the time when
this Declaration shall be made good. We may die ; die,
colonists ; die, slaves ; die, it may be, ignominiously, and
on the scaffold. Be it so. Be it so. If it be the pleasure
166 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OK PROSE.
of Heaven that my country shall require the poor offering
of my life, the victim shall be ready, at the appointed hour
of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But, while I do
live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a coun-
try, and that a free country.
" But, whatever may he our fate, be assured, be assured,
that this Declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, and
it may cost blood ; but it will stand, and it will richly com-
pensate for both. Through the thick gloom of the present,
I see the brightness of the future, as the sun in heaven.
We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When
we are in our graves, our children will honour it. They
will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festivity, with
bonfires and illuminations. On its annual return they will
shed tears, copious, gushing tears, not of subjection and
slavery, not of agony and distress, but of exultation, of
gratitude, and of joy. Sir, before God, I believe the hour
is come. My judgment approves this measure, and my
whole heart is in it. All that I have, and all that I am,
and all that I hope in this life, I am now ready here to
stake upon it ; and I leave off, as I begun, that, live or die,
survive or perish, I am for the Declaration. It is my liv-
ing sentiment, and, by the blessing of God, it shall be my
dying sentiment independence now ; and INDEPEN-
DENCE FOREVER !"
Description of the Speedwell Mine in England.
SlLLIMAN.
WE entered a wooden door, placed in the side of a hill-
and descended one hundred and six stone steps, laid like
those of a set of cellar stairs. The passage was regularly
arched with brick, and was in all respects convenient.
Having reached the bottom of the steps, we found a
handsome vaulted passage cut through solid limestone.
The light of our candles discovered that it extended hori-
zontally into the mountain, and its floor was covered with an
unruffled expanse of water, four feet deep. The entrance
of this passage was perfectly similar in form to the mouth
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 167
of a common oven, only it was much larger. Its breadth,
by my estimation, was about five feet at the water's sur-
face, and its height four or five feet, reckoning from the
same place.
On this unexpected, and to me, at that moment, incom-
prehensible canal, we found launched a large, clean and
convenient boat.
We embarked, and pulled ourselves along, by taking
hold of wooden pegs, fixed for that purpose in the walls.
Our progress was through a passage wholly artificial, it
having been all blasted and hewn out of the solid rock.
You will readily believe that this adventure was a delight-
ful recreation. I never felt more forcibly the power of
contrast. Instead of crawling through a narrow, dirty pas-
sage, we were now pleasantly embarked, and were push-
ing along into I knew not what solitary regions of this rude
earth, over an expanse as serene as summer seas. We
had not the odours nor the silken sails of Cleopatra's barge,
but we excelled her in melody of sound, and distinctness
of echo ; for, when, in the gayety of my spirits, I began
to sing, the boatman soon gave me to understand that no
one should sing in his mountain, without his permission ;
and, before I had uttered three notes, he Wroke forth in
such a strain, that I was contented to listen, and yield the
palm without a contest.
His voice, which was strong, clear and melodious, made
all those silent regions ring ; the long, vaulted passage
augmented the effect ; echo answered with great distinct-
ness, and had the genii of the mountain been there, they
would doubtless have taken passage with us, and hearken-
ed to the song. In the mean time we began to hear the
sound of a distant water-fall, which grew louder and loud-
er, as we advanced under the mountain, till it increased
to such a roaring noise that the boatman could no longer
be heard. In this manner we went on, a quarter of a mile,
till we arrived in a vast cavern formed there by nature.
The miners, as they were blasting the rocks, at the time
when they were forming the vaulted passage, accidentally
opened their way into this cavern. Here I discovered how
the canal was supplied with water ; I found that it com-
municated with a river running through the cavern at
168 COMMON-PLACE DOOK OF PROSE.
right angles with the arched passage, and falling down a
precipice twenty-five feet into a dark abyss.
After crossing the river, the arched way is continued a
quarter of a mile farther, on the other side, making in the
whole half a mile from the entrance. The end of tho
arch is six hundred feet below the summit of the moun-
tain. When it is considered that all this was effected by
mere dint of hewing and blasting, it must be pronounced
a stupendous performance. It took eleven years of con-
stant labour to effect it. In the mean time the fortune of
the adventurer was consumed, without any discovery of
ore, except a very little lead, and, to this day, this great
work remains only a wonderful monument of human la-
bour and perseverance.
During the whole period of five years that they contin-
ued this work, after they crossed the cavern, they threw
the rubbish into the abyss, and it has not sensibly filled
it up.
They have contrived to increase the effect of the cataract
by fixing a gate along the ledge of rocks over which the
river falls. This gate is raised by a lever, and then the whole
mass of water in the vaulted passage, as well as that in
he river, presses forward towards the cataract. I asccnd-
>d a ladder made by pieces of timber fixed in the sides of
the cavern, and, with the aid of a candle elevated on a pole,
I could discover no top ; my guide assured me that none
had been found, although they had ascended very high.
This cavern is, without exception, the most grand and sol-
emn place that I have ever seen. When you view me as
in the centre of a mountain, in the midst of a void, where
the regularity of the walls looks like some vast rotunda ;
when you think of a river as flowing across the bottom of
this cavern, and falling abruptly into a profound abyss,
with the stunning noise of a cataract ; when you imagine,
that, by the light of a fire-work of gun-powder, played off
on purpose to render this darkness visible, the foam of the
cataract is illuminated even down to the surface of the
water in the abyss, and the rays emitted by the livid blaze
of this preparation are reflected along the dripping walls
of the cavern till they are lost in the darker regions above,
you will not wonder that such a scene should seize on my
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PKOSE. 169
whole soul, and fill me with awe and astonishment, caus-
ing me to exclaim, as I involuntarily did, Marvellous art
thy works, Lord God Almighty !
After ascending from the navigation mine, I attempted
to go up the front of one of the mountains, with the double
purpose of obtaining a view of the valley from an elevated
point, and of reaching the ancient castle. But my labour
proved fruitless; the mountain, which from the valley
seemed not difficult to ascend, proved to be exceedingly
steep. I toiled on, two thirds of the way up, still finding
it steeper and steeper, and still resolved not to relinquish
my purpose ; in the mean time it grew dark, with the de-
cay of twilight, and I was suddenly enveloped in mist and
rain ; the steep side of the mountain became very slippery
I fell frequently, and, at length, a deep and abrupt chasm
torn by the floods, completely arrested my progress, and
compelled me to make the best of my way down, which I
did with no small difficulty. In the midst of darkness and
rain, I reached the Castle-Inn, completely drenched and
exhausted with fatigue.
Effects of the modern Diffusion of Knowledge.
WAYLAWD.
Iw consequence of this general diffusion of intelligence,
nations are becoming vastly better acquainted with the
physical, moral and political conditions of each other.
Whatever of any moment is transacted in the legislative
assemblies of one country is now very soon known, not
merely to the rulers, bui also to the people, of every other
country. Nay, an interesting occurrence of any nature
cannot transpire in an insignificant town of Europe or
America, without finding its way, through the medium of
he national journals, to the eyes and ears of all Christen-
dom. Every man must now be in a considerable decree
a spectator of the doings of the world, or he is soon very
jar in the rear of the intelligence of the day. Indeed, he
has only to read a respectable newspaper, and he may be
termed of the discoveries in the arts, the discussions ia
170 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE,
the senates, and the bearings of public opinion all over
the world.
The reasons of all this may chiefly be found in that in-
creased desire of information, which characterizes the mass
of society in the present age. Intelligence of every kind,
and specially political information, has become an article of
profit ; and when once this is the case, there can be no
doubt that it will be abundantly supplied. Besides this, it
is important to remark, that the art of navigation has been
within a few years materially improved, and commercial
relations have become vastly more extensive. The estab-
lishment of packet ships between the two continents has
brought London and Paris as near to us as Pittsburgh and
New Orleans. There is every reason to believe, that,
within the next half century, steam navigation will render
communication between the ports of Europe and America
as frequent, and almost as regular, as that by ordinary
mails. The commercial houses of every nation are estab-
lishing their agencies in the principal cities of every
other nation, and thus binding together the people by every
tie of interest ; while at the same time they are furnishing
innumerable channels, by which information may be cir-
culated among every class of the community.
Hence it is, that the moral influence which nations are
exerting upon each other, is greater than it has been at
any antecedent period in the history of the world. The
institutions of our country are becoming known, almost of
necessity, to every other country. Knowledge provokes
to comparison, and comparison leads to reflection. The
fact that others are happier than themselves prompts men
to inquire whence this difference proceeds, and how their
own melioration may be accomplished. By simply looking
upon a free people, an oppressed people instinctively feel
that they have inalienable rights ; and they will never af-
terwards be at rest, until the enjoyment of these rights
is guarantied to them. Thus one form of government,
which in any pre-eminent degree promotes the happiness
of man, is gradually but irresistibly disseminating the prin-
ciples of its constitution, and, from the very fact of its exist-
ence, calling into being those trains of thought, which must
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 171
in the end revolutionize every government within the sphere
of its influence, under which the people are oppressed.
And thus is it that the field, in which mind may labour,
has now become wide as the limits of civilization. A doc-
trine advanced by one man, if it have any claim to interest,
is soon known to every other man. The movement of one
intellect now sets in motion the intellects of millions. We
may now calculate upon effects, not upon a state or a people,
but upon the melting, amalgamating mass of human na-
ture. Man is now the instrument which genius wields at
its will ; it touches a chord of the human heart, and nations
vibrate in unison. And thus he who can rivet the atten-
tion of a community upon an elementary principle hitherto
neglected in politics or morals, or who can bring an acknowl-
edged principle to bear upon an existing abuse, may, by his
own intellectual might, with only the assistance of the
press, transform the institutions of an empire or a world.
In many respects the nations of Christendom collective-
ly are becoming somewhat analogous to our own Federal
Republic. Antiquated distinctions are breaking away, and
local animosities are subsiding. The common people of
different countries are knowing each other better, esteem-
ing each other more, and attaching themselves to each
other by various manifestations of reciprocal good will. It
is true, every nation has still its separate boundaries, and
its individual interests ; but the freedom of commercial in-
tercourse is allowing those interests to adjust themselves
to each other, and thus rendering the causes of collision of
vastly less frequent occurrence. Local questions 'are be-
coming of less, and general questions of greater impor-
tance. Thanks be to God, men have at last begun to
understand the rights, and feel for the wrongs, of each
other. Mountains interposed do not so much make ene-
mies of nations. Let the trumpet of alarm be sounded,
and its notes are now heard by every nation, whether of
Europe or America. Let a voice, borne on the feeblest
breeze, tell that the rights of man are in danger, and it
floats over valley and mountain, across continent and ocean,
until it has vibrated on the ear of the remotest dweller in
Christendom. Let the arm of oppression be raised to crush
the feeblest nation on earth, and there will be heard every
172 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
where, if not the shout of defiance, at least the deep-toned
murmur of implacable displeasure. It is the cry of ag-
grieved, insulted, much-abused man. It is Human Nature
waking in her might from the slumber of ages, shaking
herself from the dust of antiquated institutions, girding
herself for the combat, and going forth conquering and to
conquer ; and wo unto the man, wo unto the dynasty, wo
unto the party, and wo unto the policy, on whom shall fall
the scath of her blighting indignation.
The Love of human Estimation. BUCKMINSTER.
Is it true that a passion of such powerful and various
operation, as that we have now been considering, is no
where recommended in Scripture as a motive of action ?
Are we no where referred to the opinion of the world, no
where expostulated with from a regard to reputation ? Are
there no appeals made by any of the messengers of God's
will to our sense of shame, to our pride, to our ambition,
to our vanity ? Certain it is that such appeals are at least
rarely to be met with. Our Saviour, indeed, seems to have
thought it hazardous, in any degree, to encourage a regard
to the opinion of the world as a motive to action, because,
however advantageous might be its operation in some in-
stances, where a higher principle was wanting, still the
most casual recommendation of a sentiment so natural, so
seducing, and so universal, would have been liable to per-
petual misconstruction and abuse.
Indeed, no man can read the discourses of our Saviour,
or of his apostles, without observing how utterly they are
at war with the spirit of self-aggrandizement. Perhaps,
however, you may expect, that 1 should refer you to ex
amples where this temper is clearly censured or punished
What think you, then, of the history of Herod Agrippa ?
" On a set day," says the historian, " Herod, arrayed in royal
apparel, sat upon his throne, and made an oration unto the
people. And the people gave a shout, saying, It is the
voice of a god, and not of a man. And immediately the
angel of the Lord smote him, because he gave not God
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 173
the glory ; and he was eaten of worms, and gave up the
ghost." I make no comments on this story. It is too sol-
emn. Think only, if such was the punishment of a man
for accepting the idolatrous flattery offered him, can they
be guiltless in the eyes of Heaven, who cannot live but
upon the honey of adulation, and whose whole life is but
a continual series of contrivances to gain the favour of the
multitude, a continual preference of the glory of themselves
to the glory of their Creator ? Is not this example of the
requisitions of the Gospel sufficient ? Read then the dread-
ful woes denounced against the Jewish rulers, not merely
because they did not receive our Saviour, nor merely be-
cause they were continually meditating his destruction ;
but because they did all their works to be seen of men.
But as nothing, perhaps, is gained in point of practical
improvement, by pushing these principles of indifference
to the world to an extreme, or in declaiming indiscrimi-
nately against any prevailing sentiment of extensive influ-
ence, before we consider the restrictions under which the
love of fame should be laid in the mind of a Christian, we
will, as we proposed, endeavour to ascertain, and candidly
to allow, all those advantages, which may result from this
regard to the opinion of others, when more pure and evan-
gelical motives are either wanting or not sufficiently es-
tablished.
Here, then, we will allow, that much of the real as well
as fictitious excellence, which has adorned the world, may
be traced, in some degree, to the principle of emulation.
We allow, that it calls forth the energies of the young
mind ; that it matures in our colleges and schools some of
the earliest products of youthful capacity ; and that it of-
fers incalculable aid to the lessons and to the discipline of
instructors. When we look at our libraries, we can hard-
ly find a volume, which does not, in a measure, owe its
appearance to the love of fame. When we gaze on *the
ruins of ancient magnificence, or the rare remains of an-
cient skill, we are obliged to confess, that we owe these to
the influence of emulation. Nay, more, when we read the
lives of great men, and are lost in wonder at their aston-
ishing intellectual supremacy, we are compelled to ac-
knowledge, that for this we are partly indebted to the love
15*
174 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
of fame. We acknowledge, also, that it often supplies suc-
cessfully the place of nobler motives ; and that, notwith-
standing the evils which grow out of its abuse, the world
would suffer from its utter extinction. For the weight of
public opinion is sometimes thrown into the scale of truth.
We know that the popular sentiment will sometimes con-
trol the tyranny of the powerful, and counteract the influ-
ence of wealth ; that it restrains sometimes the madness
of lust, and sometimes the cunning of malevolence. We
are also sensible, that the influence of a regard to reputa-
tion is often favourable to the improvement of social inter-
course. To a deference to the world's opinion, and to a
love of its good will, are we to attribute much of that po-
liteness and propriety, which are discoverable in manners,
and much of that courtesy, which, by habitual observance,
sheds perhaps, at length, a favourable influence on the dispo-
sition. It is this, which brings down the haughty to con-
descension, and softens the rough into gentleness. It is
this which sometimes checks the ofTensiveness of vanity,
and moderates the excess of selfishness. It causes thou-
sands to appear kind, who would otherwise be rude, and
honourable, who would otherwise be base.
These genial effects upon the intercourse of society are
sufficient to induce us to retain the love of human estima-
tion in the number of lawful motives. It was probably a
view of some of these influences partially supplying the place
of real benevolence, which induced the apostle sometimes
to recommend a regard to human opinion. He advises the
Roman converts to " provide things honourable in the eyes
of all men." To the Philippians, after recommending all
things honest, just, pure, and lovely, he ventures also to
add " whatsoever things are of good report." Nay, more;
he says not only, " if there be any virtue," but " if there
be any praise, think on these things." We believe this is
the most decisive testimony of approbation, which can be
gathered from the Scripture. We will add, also, in favour
of the useful operation of this universal passion, that it
perhaps cannot be completely engaged, like all the other
passions, on the side of vice. For the highest degree of
moral depravity is consistent only with an utter insensi-
bility to the opinion of the world ; and we are willing to
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 175
believe, also that, were it net for this, the form and pro-
ession of Christianity would be more frequently outraged
than it now is, by those who secretly detest it
And now, after all these acknowledgments, what new
merit is conceded to our favourite passion ? After it has
done its utmost, it can only quicken the energies of the
mmd restrain sometimes the other passions, afford occa-
sional aid to the cause of order and propriety, soften some of
ie asperities of social intercourse, and perhaps keep the
sinner from open and hardened profligacy. But it cannot
purity the affections, melt the hardness of the heart and
break its selfishness, or elevate its desires to the reeion of
purity and peace.
We have seen that this regard to human estimation,
:nough a principle of universal, I had almost said of infi-
nite influence, is confined to very narrow limits in the
Gospel of Christ. Is there nothing, then, provided to sup-
ply the place of so powerful an agent in the formation of
the human character? Is there nothing left to awaken
the ambition of the Christian, to rouse him from sloth and
universal indifference, to call forth the energies of his
mind, and to urge him forward in the career of holiness ?
Yes ; if we will listen to the language of an apostle, whose
history proclaims that his passions were not asleep, that his
emulation was not quenched by the profession of Christi-
anity, and whose spirit ever glowed with a most divine
enthusiasm, I say, if we listen to him, we shall find that
there is enough to stimulate all the faculties of the soul,
and, finally, to satiate the most burning thirst of glory.
Yes, " eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered
into the heart of man to conceive, the things which God
hath prepared for them that love him." Yes, our whole
progress here, through all the varieties of honour and of
dishonour, of evil report and of good report, is a spectacle
to angels and to men. We are coming into " an innumerable
company of angels, and to the spirits of the just made per-
fect, and to Jesus, the Mediator of the new covenant, and
to God, the Judge of all." These have been the spectators
of our course, and from such we are to receive glory, and
honour, and immortality.
176 COMMON-PLACE UOOK OF PROSE.
Extract from an Address on retiring from the public
Service of the United Statet of America. WASH-
INGTON.
Irr looking forward to the moment which is intended to
terminate the career of my public life, my feelings do not
permit me to suspend the deep acknowledgment of that
debt of gratitude which I owe to my beloved country, for
the many honours it has conferred upon me ; still more foi
the steadfast confidence with which it has supported me ;
and for the opportunities I have thence enjoyed of mani-
festing my inviolable attachment, by services faithful and
persevering, though in usefulness unequal to my zeal
If benefits have resulted to our country from these services,
let it always be remembered to your praise, as an instructive
example in our annals, that, under circumstances in which
the passions, agitated in every direction, were liable to
mislead, amidst appearances somewhat dubious, vicissitudes
of fortune often discouraging, in situations in which not
unfrequently want of success has countenanced the spirit
of criticism, the constancy of your support was the essen-
tial prop of the efforts, and a guarantee of the plans, by
which they were effected. Profoundly penetrated with this
idea, I shall carry it with me to my grave, as a strong
incitement to unceasing prayers, that Heaven may continue
to you the choicest tokens of its beneficence ; that your
union and brotherly affection may be perpetual ; that tho
free constitution, which is the work of your hands, may be
sacredly maintained ; that its administration, in every
department, may be stamped with wisdom and virtue ; that,
in fine, the happiness of the people of these States, under
the auspices of liberty, may be made complete, by so care-
ful a preservation, and so prudent a use, of this blessing,
as will acquire to them the glory of recommending it to
the applause, the affection, and adoption, of every nation
which is yet a stranger to it.
Here, perhaps, I ought to stop. But a solicitude for
your welfare, which cannot end but with my life, and the
apprehension of danger, natural to that solicitude, urge me,
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 177
on an occasion like the present, to offer to your solemn
contemplation, and to recommend to your frequent review,
some sentiments, which are the result of much reflection,
of no inconsiderable observation, and which appear to me
all-important to the permanence of your felicity as a peo-
ple. These will be offered to you with the more freedom,
as you can only see in them the disinterested warnings
of a parting friend, who can possibly have no motive to bias
his counsel. Nor can I forget, as an encouragement to it,
your indulgent reception of my sentiments on a former,
and not dissimilar occasion.
Of all the dispositions and habits which lead to political
prosperity, religion and morality are indispensable supports.
Iii vain would that man claim the tribute of patriotism,
who should labour to subvert these great pillars of human
happiness these firmest props of the duties of men and
citizens. The mere politician, equally with the pious man,
ought to respect and to cherish them. A volume could not
trace all their connexions with private and public felicity.
Let it simply be asked, where is the security for property,
for reputation, for life, if the sense of religious obligation
desert the oaths, which are the instruments of investiga-
tion in courts of justice ? And let us with caution indulge
the supposition, that morality can be maintained without
religion. Whatever may be conceded to the influence of
refined education on minds of peculiar structure, reason
and experience both forbid us to expect that national
morality can prevail in exclusion of religious principles.
It is substantially true, that virtue or morality is a ne-
cessary spring of popular government. The rule, indeed,
extends with more or less force to every species of free
government. Who, that is a sincere friend to it, can look
with indifference upon attempts to shake the foundation of
the fabric ?
Promote, then, as an object of primary importance,
institutions for the general diffusion of knowledge. In
proportion as the structure of a government gives force to
public opinion, it is essential that public opinion should be
enlightened.
178 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
Observe good faith and justice towards all nations ; cul-
tivate peace and harmony with all ; religion and morality
enjoin this conduct ; and can it be that good policy does not
equally enjoin it ? It will be worthy of a free, enlight-
ened, and, at no distant period, a great nation, to give to
mankind the magnanimous and too novel example of a peo-
ple always guided by an exalted justice and benevolence
Who can doubt, that, in the course of time and things, the
fruits of such a plan would richly repay any temporary
advantages which might be lost by a steady adherence tc
it ? Can it be, that Providence has not connected the per-
manent felicity of a nation with its virtue ? The experi-
ment, at least, is recommended by every sentiment which
ennobles human nature. Alas ! is it rendered imoossible by
its vices ?
In offering to you, my countrymen, these counsels of an
old and affectionate friend, I dare not hope they will make
the strong and lasting impression I could wish ; that they
will control the usual current of the passions, or prevent
our nation from running the course which has hitherto
marked the destiny of empires. But if I may even flatter
myself that they may be productive of some partial bene-
fit, some occasional good ; that they may now and then
recur, to moderate the fury of party spirit, to warn against
the mischiefs of foreign intrigue, to guard against the im-
postures of pretended patriotism ; this hope will be a full
recompense for that solicitude for your welfare, by which
they have been dictated.
How far, in the discharge of my official duties, I have
been guided by the principles which have been delineated,
the public records and other evidences of my conduct
roust witness to you and the world. To myself the assur-
ance of my own conscience is, that I have at least
BELIEVED myself to be guided by them.
Though, in reviewing the* incidents of my administration,
I am unconscious of intentional error, I am nevertheless
tbo sensible of my defects not to think it probable that 1
may have committed many errors. Whatever they may
be, I fervently beseech the Almighty to avert and mitigate
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 179
the evils to which they may tend. I shall also carry with
me the hope, that my country will never cease to view
them with indulgence ; and that, after forty-five years of
my life dedicated to its service with an upright zeal, the
faults of incompetent abilities will be consigned to oblivion,
as myself must soon be to the mansions of rest.
Relying on its kindness in this, as in other things, and
actuated by that fervent love towards it, which is so natu-
ral to a man who views in it the native soil of himself
and his progenitors for several generations, I anticipate
with pleasing expectation that retreat, in which I promise
myself to realize, without alloy, the sweet enjoyment of
partaking, in the midst of my fellow citizens, the benign
influence of good laws under a free government, the ever
favourite object of my heart, and the happy reward, as I
trust, of our mutual cares, labours, and dangers.
United States, September nth, 1796.
Speech over the Grave of Black Buffaloe, Chief of the
Teton Tribe of Indians. BIG ELK MAHA CHIEF.
Do not grieve. Misfortunes will happen to the wisest
and best men. Death will come, and always comes out of
season. It is the command of the Great Spirit, and all
nations and people must obey. What has passed, and can-
not be prevented, should not be grieved for. Be not
discouraged or displeased, then, that, in visiting your father
here, you have lost your chief. A misfortune of this kind
may never again befall you ; but this would have attended
you, perhaps, at your own village. Five times have I
visited this land, and never returned with sorrow or pain.
Misfortunes do not flourish particularly in our path. They
grow every where. What a misfortune for me, that I
could not have died this day, instead of the chief that lies
before us ! The trifling loss my nation would have sus-
tained in my death, would have been doubly paid for by
the honours of my burial. They would have wiped off
every thing like regret. Instead of being covered with a
cloud of sorrow, my warriors would have felt fhe sunshine
180 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
of joy in their hearts. To me it would have been a most
glorious occurrence. Hereafter, when I die at home,
instead of a noble grave and a grand procession the rolling
music and the thundering cannon with a flag waving at
my head, I shall be wrapt in a robe an old robe per-
haps and hoisted on a slender scaffold to the whistling
winds, soon to be blown to the earth my flesh to be de-
voured by the wolves, and my bones rattled on the plain
by the wild beasts.
Chief of the soldiers* your labours have not been in
vain. Your attention shall not be forgotten. My nation
shall know the respect that is paid over the dead. When
1 return I will echo the sound of your guns.
Speech of HO-WA-YU-WUS, or FARMER'S BROTHER.
THE sachems, chiefs, and warriors of the Seneca nation
to the sachems and chiefs 'assembled about the great
council-fire of the state of New York.
Brothers As you are once more assembled in council
for the purpose of doing honour to yourselves and justice
to your country, we, your brothers, the sachems, chiefs,
and warriors of the Seneca nation, request you to open
your ears, and give attention to our voice and wishes.
Brothers You will recollect the late contest between
you and your father, the great king of England. This
contest threw the inhabitants of this whole island into a
great tumult and commotion, like a raging whirlwind,
which tears up the trees, and tosses to and fro the leaves,
so that no one knows from whence they come, or when
they will fall.
Brothers- This whirlwind was so directed by the Great
Spirit above, as to throw into our arms two of your infant
children, Jasper Parrish and Horatio Jones. We adopted
them into our families, and made them our children. We
loved them and nourished them. They lived with us
many years. At length the Great Spirit spoke to the
* Colonel Miller.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 181
whirlwind and it was still.* A clear and uninterrupted
sky appeared. The path of peace was opened, and the
chain of friendship was once more made bright. Then
these, our adopted children, left us to seek their relations.
We wished them to remain among us, and promised, if they
would return and live in our country, to give each of them
a seat of land for them and their children to sit down upon.
Brothers They have returned, and have for several
years past been serviceable to us as interpreters. We still
feel our hearts beat with affection for them, and now wish
to fulfil the promise we made them, and to reward them
for their services. We have therefore made up our minds
to give them a seat of two square miles of land lying on the
outlet of Lake Erie, about three miles below Black Rock.
Brothers We have now made known to you our minds.
We expect and earnestly request, that you will permit our
friends to receive this our gift, and will make the same good
to them, according to the laws and customs of your nation.
Brothers Why should you hesitate to make our minds
easy with regard to this our request ? To you it is but a
little thing ; and have you not complied with the request,
and confirmed the gift, of our brothers the Oneidas, the
Onondagas, and Cayugas, to their interpreters ? and shall
we ask, and not be heard ?
Brothers We send you this our speech, to which we
expect your answer before the breaking up of your great
council-fire.
Abdication of Napoleon, and Retirement of Lafayette.
TICKWOR.
AT last, on the 21st of June, Bonaparte arrived from
Waterloo, a defeated and a desperate man. He was
already determined to dissolve the representative body,
and, assuming the whole dictatorship of the country, play
at least one deep and bloody game for power and success.
Some of his council, and among the rest Regnault de St.
1 God said, Let there be light ; and there was light.
16
182 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
Jean d'Angcly, who were opposed to this violent measure,
informed Lafayette that it would be taken instantly, and
that in two hours the chamber of representatives would
cease to exist. There was, of course, not a moment left
for consultation or advice ; the emperor or the chamber
must fall that morning. As soon, therefore, as the session
was opened, Lafayette, with the same clear courage, and
in the same spirit of self-devotion, with which he had
stood at the bar of the national assembly in 1792, immedi-
ately ascended the tribune, for the first time for twenty
years, and said these few words ; which, assuredly, would
have been his death warrant, if he had not been supported
in them by the assembly he addressed :
" When, after an interval of many years, I raise a voice,
which the friends of free institutions will still recognise, I
feel myself called upon to speak to you only of the dan-
gers of the country, which you alone have now the power
to save. Sinister intimations have been heard ; they are
unfortunately confirmed. This, therefore, is the moment
for us to gather round the ancient tri-colourcd standard ;
the standard of '89 ; the standard of freedom, of equal
rights, and of public order. Permit, then, gentlemen, a
veteran in this sacred cause, one who has always been a
stranger to the spirit of faction, to offer you a few prepar-
atory resolutions, whose absolute necessity, I trust, you
feel as I do."
These resolutions declared the chamber to be in perma-
nent session, and all attempts to dissolve it, high treason ;
and they also called for the four principal ministers to come
to the chamber and explain the state of affairs. Bonaparte
is said to have been much agitated when word was brought
him simply that Lafayette was in the tribune ; and his
fears were certainly not ill founded ; for these resolutions",
which were at once adopted, both by the representatives
and the peers, substantially divested him of his power, and
left him merely a factious and dangerous individual in the
midst of a distrnrU'd state.
He hesitated during the whole day as to the course he
should pursue ; but, at last, hoping that the eloquence of
Lucien, which had saved him on the 18th Brumaire, might
be found no less effectual now, he sfnt him, with three other
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PRO6E. 183
ministers to the chamoer just at the beginning of the
evening ; having first obtaiued a vrte that all should pass
in secret session It was certainly a most perilous crisis.
Reports were spread abroad that the populace of the faux-
bourgs had been excited, and w.ere arming themselves. It
was believed, too, with no little probability, that Bonaparte
would march against the chamber, as he had formerly
marched against the council of five hundred, and dis-
perse them at the point of the bayonet. At all events, it was
a contest for existence, and no man could feel his life safe.
At this moment Lucien rose, and, in the doubtful and
gloomy light which two vast torches shed through the
hall, and over the pale and anxious features of the mem-
bers, made a partial exposition of the state of affairs, and
the projects and hopes he still entertained. A deep and
painful silence followed. At length Mr. Jay, well known
above twenty years ago in Boston, under the assumed
name of Renaud, as a teacher of the French language, and
an able writer in one of the public newspapers of that city,
ascended the tribune, and, in a long and vehement speech
of great eloquence, exposed the dangers of the country,
and ended by proposing to send a deputation to the empe-
ror, demanding his abdication. Lucien immediately fol-
lowed. He never showed more power, or a more impas-
sioned eloquence. His purpose was to prove that France
5vas still devoted to the emperor, and that its resources
were still equal to a contest with the allies. " It is not
Napoleon," he cried, " that is attacked ; it is the French
people. And a proposition is now made to this people to
abandon their emperor ; to expose the French nation,
before the tribunal of the world, to a severe judgment on
its levity and inconstancy. No, sir, the honour of this
nation shall never be so compromised !" On hearing
these words, Lafayette rose. He did not goto the tribune,
but spoke, contrary to rule and custom, from his place.
His manner was perfectly calm, but marked with the very
spirit of rebuke ; and he addressed himself, not to the
president, but directly to Lucien : " The assertion, which
has just been uttered, is a calumny. Who shall dare to
accuse the French nation of inconstancy to the emperor
Napoleon? That 1 nation had followed hi bloody footsteps
184 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
through the sands of Egypt, and through the wastes of
Russia; over fifty fields of battle ; in disaster as faithfully
as in victory ; and it is for having thus devotedly followed
him, that we now mourn the blood of three millions of
Frenchmen." These few words made an impression on
the assembly, which could not be mistaken ; and, as
Lafayette ended, Lucien himself bowed respectfully to
him, and, without resuming his speech, sat down.
It was determined to appoint a deputation of five mem-
bers from each chamber, to meet the grand council of the
ministers, and deliberate in committee on the measures to
be taken. This body sat during the night, under the
presidency of Cambaceres, arch-chancellor of the empire
Lafayette moved, that a deputation should be sent to Napo-
leon, demanding his abdication. The arch-chancellor
refused to put the motion, but it was as much decided as if
it had been formally carried. The next morning, June
22d, the emperor sent in his abdication, and Lafayette was
on the committee that went to the Thuilleries to thank
him for it on behalf of the nation.
A crude, provisional government was now established
by the two chambers, which lasted only a few days, and
whose principal measure was the sending a deputation to
the allied powers, of which Lafayette was the head, to
endeavour to stop the invasion of France. This of course
failed, as had been foreseen ; Paris surrendered on the 3d of
July, and what remained of the representative government,
which Bonaparte had created for his own purposes, but
which Lafayette had turned against him, was soon after-
wards dissolved. Its doors were found guarded on the
morning of the 8th, but by what authority has never been
known ; and the members met at Lafayette's house, entered
their formal protest, and went quietly to their own homes
Lafayette retired immediately to La Grange, from which,
in fact, he had been only a month absent, and resumed at
once his agricultural employments. There, in the midst
of a family of above twenty children and grand children,
who all look up to him as their patriarchal chief, he lives
in a simple and sincere happiness, rarely granted to those
who have borne such a leading part in the troubles and
sufferings of a great period of political revolution. Since
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 185
1817, he has been twice elected to the chamber of depu-
ties, and in all his votes has shown himself constant to his
ancient principles. When the ministry proposed to estab-
lish a censorship of the press, he resisted them in an able
speech ; but Lafayette was never a factious man, and
therefore he has never made any further opposition to the
present order of things in France, than his conscience and
his official place required. That he does not approve the
present constitution of the monarchy, or the political prin-
ciples and management of the existing government, his
votes as a deputy, and his whole life, plainly show ; and
that his steady and temperate opposition is matter of serious
anxiety to the family now on the throne is apparent, from
their conduct towards him during the last nine years, and
their management of the public press since he has been in
this country. If he chose to make himself a tribune of the
people, he might at any moment become formidable ; but
he trusts rather to the progress of general intelligence and
political wisdom throughout the nation, which he feels
sure will at last bring his country to the practically free
government, he has always been ready to sacrifice his life
to purchase for it. To this great result he looks forward,
as Madame de Stael has well said of him, with the entire
confidence a pious man enjoys in a future life ; but when
he feels anxious and impatient to hasten onward to it, he
finds a wisdom tempered by long experience stirring within
him, which warns him, in the beautiful language of Mil-
ton, that " they also serve, who only stand and wait"
Extract from "Hyperion."* JOSIAH QTJINCY, JUN.
WHEN I reflect on the exalted character of the
ancient Britons, on the fortitude of our illustrious prede-
* The first part of this extract was published in the Boston Gazette
in September, 1767, on receiving information of threatening import from
England ; the remainder appeared in October, 1768, when British
troops had landed in Boston, and taken possession of Faneuil Hall,
under circumstances intended to inspire the people with alarm and
terror. ED.
16 *
186 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
cessors, on the noble struggles of the late memorable
period, and from these reflections, when, by a natural
transition, 1 contemplate the gloomy aspect of the present
day, my heart is alternately torn with doubt and hope,
despondency and terror. Can the true, generous magna-
nimity of British heroes be entirely lost in their degene-
rate progeny ? Is the genius of liberty, which so late
inflamed our bosoms, fled forever ?
An attentive observer of the deportment of some partic-
ular persons in this metropolis would be apt to imagine, that
the grand point was gained ; that the spirit of the people
was entirely broken to the yoke ; that all America was
subjugated to bondage. Already the minions of power in
fancy fatten and grow wanton on the spoils of the land.
They insolently toss the head, and put on the air of con-
temptuous disdain. In the imaginary possession of lord-
ships and dominions, these potentates and powers dare tell
us, that our only hope is to crouch, to cower under, and to
kiss, the iron rod of oppression. Precious sample of the
meek and lowly temper of those who are destined to be our
lords and masters !
Be not deceived, my countrymen. Belieye not these
venal hirelings, when they would cajole you by their sub-
tilties into submission, or frighten you by their vapouring*
into compliance. When they strive to flatter you by tin 1 !
terms " moderation and prudence," tell them that calmness
and deliberation are to guide the judgment ; courage and
intrepidity command the action. When they endeavour to
make us " perceive our inability to oppose our mother
country," let us boldly answer ; In defence of our civil
and religious rights, we dare oppose the world ; with tin-
God of armies on our side, even the God who fought our
fathers' battles, we fear not the hour of trial, though the
hosts of our enemies should cover the field like locusts.
If this be enthusiasm, we will live and die enthusiasts.
Blandishments will not fascinate us, nor will threats of
a " halter" intimidate. For, under God, we are deter-
mined, that wheresoever, whensoever, or howsoever we
shall be called to make our exit, we will die freemen.
Well do we know that all the regalia of this world cannot
dignify the death of a villain, nor diminish the ignominy,
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 187
with which a slave shall quit existence. Neither can it
taint the unblemished honour of a son of freedom, though
he should make his departure on the already prepared gib-
bet, or be dragged to the newly erected scaffold for execu-
tion. With the plaudits of his conscience he will go off
the stage. A crown of joy and immortality shall be his
reward. The history of his life his children shall vene-
rate. The virtues of their sire shall excite their emula-
tion.
If there ever was a time, this is the hour, for Americans
to rouse themselves, and exert every ability. Their all is
at a hazard, and the die of fate spins doubtful. In vain
do we talk of magnanimity and heroism, in vain do we
trace a descent from the worthies of the earth, if we inherit
not the spirit of our ancestors. Who is he that boasteth
of his patriotism ? Has he vanquished luxury, and sub-
dued the worldly pride of his heart ? Is he not still drink
ing the poisonous draught, and rolling the sweet morsel
under his tongue ? He who cannot conquer the little van-
ity of his heart, and deny the delicacy of a debauched
palate, let him lay his hand upon his mouth, and his mouth
in the dust.
Now is the time for this people to summon every aid,
human and divine ; to exhibit every moral virtue, and call
forth every Christian grace. The wisdom of the serpent,
the innocence of the dove, and the intrepidity of the lion,
with the blessing of God, will yet save us from the jaws
of destruction.
Where is the boasted liberty of Englishmen, if property
may be disposed of, charters suspended, assemblies dissolv-
ed, and every valued right annihilated, at the uncontrol-
lable will of an external power ? Does not every man, who
feels one ethereal spark yet glowing in his bosom, find his
indignation kindle at the bare imagination of such wrongs ?
What would be our sentiments were this imagination real-
ized.
Did the blood of the ancient Britons swell our veins, did
the spirit of our forefathers inhabit our breasts, should we
hesitate a moment in preferring death to a miserable exist-
188 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
ence in bondage? Did we reflect on their toils, their
dangers, their fiery trials, the thought would inspire
unconquerable couni-'
Who has the front to ask, Wherefore do you complain ?
Who dares assert, that every thing worth living for is not
lost, when a nation is enslaved ? Are not pensioner-, iti-
pendiaries and salary-men, unknown before, hourly multi-
plying upon us, to riot in the spoils of miserable Ainrri<-;i ;
Does not every eastern gale waft us some new insect. \ n
of that devouring kind, which eat up every green thing ?
Is not the bread taken out of the children's mouths and
given unto the dogs ? Are not our estates given to corrupt
sycophants, without a design, or even a pretence, of solicit-
ing our assent ; and our lives put into the hands of those
whose tender mercies are cruelties ? Has not an author-
ity in a distant land, in the most public manner, proclaimed
a right of disposing of the all of Americans ? In short,
what have we to lose ? What have we to fear ? Are not
our distresses more than we can bear ? And, to finish all,
are not our cities, in a time of profound peace, filled with
standing armies, to preclude from us that last solace of the
wretched to open their mouths in complaint, and send
forth their cries in bitterness of heart ?
> But is there no ray of hope ? Is not Great Britain
inhabited by the children of those renowned barons, who
waded through seas of crimson gore to establish their lib-
erty ? and will they not allow us, their fellow-men, to
enjoy that freedom which we claim from nature, which is
confirmed by our constitution, and which they pretend so
highly to value ? Were a tyrant to conquer us, the chains
of slavery, when opposition should become useless, might
be supportable ; but to be shackled by Englishmen, by
our equals, is not to be borne. By the sweat of our
brow we earn the little we possess ; from nature we derive
the common rights of man ; and by charter we claim the
liberties of Britons. Shall we, dare we, pusillanimously
surrender our birthright ? Is the obligation to our fathers
discharged ? Is the debt we owe posterity paid ? Answer
me, thou coward, who hidest thyself in the hour of trial ;
If there is no reward in this life, no prize of glory in the
next, capable of animating thy dastard soul, think and
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 189
tremble, thou miscreant! at the whips and stripes thy
master shall lash thee with on earth, and the flames and
scorpions thy second master shall torment thee with here-
after !
Oh, my countrymen ! what will our children say, when
they read the history of these times, should they find that
we tamely gave away, without one noble struggle, the
most invaluable of earthly blessings ! As they drag the
galling chain, will they not execrate us ? If we have any
respect for things sacred, any regard to the dearest treas-
ure on earth ; if we have one tender sentiment for poster-
ity ; if we would not be despised by the whole world ;
let us, in the most open, solemn manner, and with deter-
mined fortitude, swear We will die, if we cannot live
freemen !
Be not lulled, my countrymen, with vain imaginations
or idle fancies. To hope for the protection of Heaven,
without doing our duty, and exerting ourselves as becomes
men, is to mock the Deity. Wherefore had man his reason,
if it were not to direct him ? wherefore his strength, if it
be not his protection ? To banish folly and luxury, correct
vice and immorality, and stand immoveable in the freedom
in which we are free indeed, is eminently the duty of each
individual at this day. When this is done, we may ration-
ally hope for an answer to our prayers for the whole
counsel of GoJ, and the invincible armour of the Almighty.
However righteous our cause, we cannot, in this period
of the world, expect a miraculous salvation. Heaven will
undoubtedly assist us if we act like men ; but to expect
protection from above, while we are enervated by luxury,
and slothful in the exertion of those abilities, with which
we are endued, is an expectation vain and foolish. With
the smiles of Heaven, virtue, unanimity and firmness will
ensure success. While we have equity, justice and God
on our side, Tyranny, spiritual or temporal, shall never
ride triumphant in a land inhabited by Englishmen.
190 COMMON-PLACE BOOK
The Sabbath in New England* Miss SEDGWICK.
THE observance of the Sabbath began with the Puri-
tans, as it still does with a great portion of their descend-
ants, on Saturday night. At the going down of tin- sun
on Saturday, all temporal affairs were suspended ; and so
zealously did our fathers maintain the letter, as well as the
spirit of the law, that, according to a vulgar tradition in
Connecticut, no beer was brewed in the latter part of the
week, lest it should presume to work on Sunday.
It must be confessed, that the tendency of the age is to
laxity ; and so rapidly is the wholesome strictness of prim-
itive times abating, that, should some antiquary, fifty years
hence, in exploring his garret rubbish, chance to cast his
eye on our humble pages, he may be surprised to learn,
that, even now, the Sabbath is observed, in the interior of
New England, with an almost Judaical severity.
On Saturday afternoon an uncommon bustle is apparent.
The great class of procrastinators are hurrying to and fro
to complete the lagging business of the week. The good
mothers, like Burns' matron, are plying their needles,
making " auld. claes look amaist as weel's the new ;" while
the domestics, or help, (we prefer the national di-sc-riptivi-
term,) are wielding, with might and main, their brooms and
mops, to make all tidy for the Sabbath.
As the day declines, the hum of labour dies away, and,
after the sun is set, perfect stillness reigns in every well-
ordered household, and not a foot-fall is heard in the village
street. It cannot be denied, that even the most scriptu-
ral, missing the excitement of their ordinary occupations,
anticipate their usual bed-time. The obvious inference
from this fact is skilfully avoided by certain ingenious
reasoners, who allege, that the constitution was originally
* This description is executed with admirable' truth and humour ;
yet it has, we fear, in these times of disregard to the sricrednr-- "i tlir
institution, a slight tendency to make the ancient strict observance of
the Sabbath appear somewhat ridiculous. It is not to be regretted, that
the austerity and gloom, which pervaded the character of tin- 1'uriian--,
lias entirely disappeared ; but it i to lie resetted, that so much, \vlik U
was truly religious, should have fled along with it. ED
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PUOSE. 191
so organized, as to require an extra quantity of sleep on
every seventh night. We recommend it to the curious to
inquire, how this peculiarity was adjusted, when the first
day of the week was changed from Saturday to Sunday.
-The Sabbath morning is as peaceful as the first hallowed
day. Not a human sound is heard without the dwellings,
and, but for the lowing of the herds, the crowing of the
cocks, and the gossiping of the birds, animal life would
seem to be extinct, till, at the bidding of the church-going
bell, the old and young issue from their habitations, and,
with solemn demeanor, bend their measured steps to the
meeting-house ; the families of the minister, the squire,
the doctor, the merchants, the modest gentry of the vil-
lage, and the mechanic and labourer, all arrayed in
their best, all meeting oh even ground, and all with that
consciousness of independence and equality, which breaks
down the pride of the rich, and rescues the poor from ser-
vility, envy, and discontent. If a morning salutation is
reciprocated, it is in a suppressed voice ; and if, perchance,
nature, in some reckless urchin, burst forth in laughter
" My dear, you forget it's Sunday," is the ever ready
reproof.
Though every face wears a solemn aspect, yet we once
chanced to see even a deacon's muscles relaxed by the
wit of a neighbour, and heard him allege, in a half-depre-
cating, half-laughing voice, " The squire is so droll, that a
body must laugh, though it be Sabbath-day."
The farmer's ample wagon, and the little one-horse
vehicle, bring in all who reside at an inconvenient walk-
ing distance, that is to say, in our riding community, half
a mile from the church. It is a pleasing sight, to those who
love to note the happy peculiarities of their own land, to
see the farmers' daughters, blooming, intelligent, well-
bred, pouring out of these homely coaches, with their nice
white gowns, prunel shoes, Leghorn hats, fans and para-
sols, and the spruce young men, with their plaited ruffles,
blue coats, and'yellow buttons. The whole community
meet as one religious family, to offer their devotions at the
common altar. If there is an outlaw from the society,
a luckless wight, whose vagrant taste has never been sub-
dued, he may be seen stealing along the margin of some
192 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PKOSE.
little brook, far away from the condemning observation
and troublesome admonitions of his fellows.
Towards the close of the day, or (to borrow a phrase de-
scriptive of his feelings, who first used it) " when the Sab-
bath begins to abate," the children cluster about the win-
dows. Their eyes wander from their catechisms to the
western sky, and, though it seems to them as if the sun
would never disappear, his broad disk does slowly sink be-
hind the mountain ; and, while his last ray still lingers on
the eastern summits, merry voices break forth, and the
ground resounds with bounding footsteps. The village
belle arrays herself for her twilight walk ; the boys gather
on " the green ;" the lads and girls throng to the " singing
school ," while some coy maiden lingers at home, awaiting
her expected suitor ; and all enter upon the pleasures of
the evening with as keen a relish as if the day had been a
preparatory penance.
Description of the Capture of a Whale. COOPER.
THE cockswain cast a cool glance at the crests of foarn
that were breaking over the tops of the billows within a
few yards of where their boat was riding, and called aloud
to his men
" Pull a stroke or two ; away with her into dark
water."
The drop of the oars resembled the movements of a nice
machine, and the light boat skimmed along the water like
a duck, that approaches to the very brink of some imminent
danger, and then avoids it at the most critical moment, ap-
parently without an effort. While this necessary move-
ment was making, Barnstable arose, and surveyed the cliffs
with keen eyes, and then, turning once more in disappoint-
ment from his search, he said
" Pull more from the land, and let her run down, at an
easy stroke, to the schooner. Keep a lookout at the cliffs,
boys ; it is possible that they are stowed in some of the
holes in the rocks, for it's no daylight business they
are on."
ON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 193
The order was promptly obeyed, and they had glided
along for near a mile in this manner, in the most profound
Hence, when suddenly the stillness was broken by a heavy
rush of air, and a dash of water, seemingly at no great dis-
tance from them.
" By heaven ! Tom," cried Barnstable, starting, " there
is the blow of a whale."
" Ay, ay, sir," returned the cockswain, with undis-
turbed composure ; " here is his spout, not half a mile
to seaward ; the easterly gale has driven the creater to
leeward, and he begins to find himself in shoal water.
He's been sleeping, while he should have been working to
windward !"
" The fellow takes it coolly, too ! he's in no hurry to get
an offing."
" I rather conclude, sir," said the cockswain, rolling
over his tobacco in his mouth very composedly, while his
little sunken eyes began to twinkle with pleasure at the
sight, " the gentleman has lost his reckoning, and don't
know which way to head, to take himself back into blue
water."
" 'Tis a fin-back !" exclaimed the lieutenant ; " he will
soon make head-way, and be off."
" No, sir, 'tis a right whale," answered Tom ; " I saw
his spout ; he threw up a pair of as pretty rainbows as a
Christian would wish to look at. He's a raal oil-butt, that
fellow !"
Barnstable laughed, turned himself away from the tempt-
ing sight, and tried to look at the cliffs ; and then uncon-
sciously bent his eyes again on the sluggish animal, who
was throwing his huge carcass at times for many feet from
the water, in idle gambols. The temptation for sport, and
the recollection of his early habits, at length prevailed over
las anxiety in behalf of his friends, and the young officer
inquired of his cockswain
" Is there any whale-line in the boat to make fast to that
harpoon which you bear about with you in fair weather or
foul ?"
" I never trust the boat from the schooner without part
of a shot, sir," returned the cockswain ; " there is some-
thing natcral in the sight of a tub to my old eyes."
17
194 COMMON-PI.ACK HOOK OF PROSE.
Barnstable looked at his watch, and again at the cliffs,
when he exclaimed in joyous tones
" Give strong way, my hearties ! There seems nothing
better to be done ; let us have a stroke of a harpoon at that
impudent rascal."
The men shouted spontaneously, and the old cockswain
suffered his solemn visage to relax into a small laugh, while
the whale-boat sprang forward like a courser for the goal.
During the few minutes they were pulling towards their
game, long Tom arose from his crcuching attitude in the
stern sheets, and transferred his huge frame to the bows
of the boat, where he made such preparation to strike the
whale as the occasion required. The tub, containing about
half of a whale-line, was placed at the feet of Barnstable,
who had been preparing an oar to steer with, in place of
the rudder, which was unshipped in order that, if neces-
sary, the boat might be whirled round when not ad-
vancing.
Their approach was utterly unnoticed by the monster
of the deep, who continued to amuse himself with throw-
ing the water in two circular spouts high into the air, oc-
casionally flourishing the broad flukes of his tail with grace-
ful but terrific force, until the hardy seamen were within
a few hundred feet of him, when he suddenly cast liU hrjnJ
downwards, and, without an apparent effort, reared his im-
mense body for many feet above the water, waving his tail
violently, and producing a whizzing noise, that sounded
like the rushing of winds. The cockswain stood erect,
poising his harpoon, ready for the blow ; but, when he
beheld the creature assume this formidable attitude, he
waved his hand to his commander, who instantly signed to
his men to cease rowing. In this situation the sportsmen
rested a few moments, while the whale struck several
blows on the water in rapid succession, the noise of which
re-echoed along the cliff's, like the hollow reports of so
many cannon. After this wanton exhibition of his terrible
strength, the monster sunk again into his native element,
and slowly disappeared from the eyes of his pursuers.
" Which way did he head, Tom ?" cried Barnstable, the
moment the whale was out of sight.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 195
" Pretty much up and down, sir," returned the cock-
swain, whose eye was gradually brightening with the ex-
citement of the sport; "he'll soon run his nose against
the bottom, if he stands long on that course, and will be
glad to get another snuff of pure air ; send her a few fath-
oms to starboard, sir, and I promise we shall not be out of
his track."
The conjecture of the experienced old seaman proved
true, for in a few minutes the water broke near them, and
another spout was cast into the air, when the huge animal
rushed for half his length in the same direction, and fell
on the sea with a turbulence and foam equal to that, which
is produced by the launching of a vessel, for the first time,
into its proper element. After this evolution, the whale
rolled heavily, and seemed to rest from further efforts.
His slightest movements were closely watched by Barn-
stable and his cockswain, and, when he was in a state of
comparative rest, the former gave a signal to his crew to
ply their oars once more. A few long and vigorous strokes
sent the boat directly up to the broadside of the whale,
with its bows pointing towards one of the fins, which was
at times, as the animal yielded sluggishly to the action of
the waves, exposed to view. The cockswain poised his
harpoon with much precision, and then darted it from him
with a violence that buried the iron in the body of their
foe. The instant the blow was made, long Tom shouted
with singular earnestness
" Starn all !"
"Stern all!" echoed Barnstable ; when the obedient
seamen, by united efforts, forced the boat in a backward
direction, beyond the reach of any blow from their formi-
dable antagonist. The alarmed animal, however, meditated
no such resistance ; ignorant of his own power, and of the
insignificance of his enemies, he sought refuge in flight.
One moment of stupid surprise succeeded the entrance of
the iron, when he cast his huge tail into the air with a vi-
olence that threw the sea around him into increased com-
motion, and then disappeared, with the quickness of light-
ning, amid a cloud of foam
" Snub him !" shouted Barnstable ; " hold on, Tom ; he
rises already."
196 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
" Ay, ay, sir," replied the composed cockswain, seizing
the line which was running out of the boat with a velocity
that rendered such a manoeuvre rather hazardous, and caus-
ing it to yield more gradually round the large loggerhead,
that was placed in the bows of the boat for that purpose
Presently the line stretched forward, and, rising to the sur-
face with tremulous vibrations, it indicated the direction
in which the animal might be expected to re-appear. Barn-
stable had cast the bows of the boat towards that point, be-
fore the terrified and wounded victim rose once more to the
surface, whose time was, however, no longer wasted in his
sports, but who cast the waters aside as he forced his way,
with prodigious velocity, along their surface. The boat was
dragged violently in his wake, and cut through the billows
with a terrific rapidity, that at moments appeared to bury
the slight fabric in the ocean. When long Tom beheld
his victim throwing his spouts on high again, he pointed
with exultation to the jetting fluid, which was streaked
with the deep red of blood, and cried
" Ay, I've touched the fellow's life ! It must be more
than two foot of blubber that stops my iron from reaching
the life of any whale that ever sculled the ocean !"
" I believe you have saved yourself the trouble of using
the bayonet you have rigged for a lance," said his com-
mander, who entered into the sport with all the ardour of
one, whose youth had been chiefly passed in such pursuits ;
" feel your line, Master Coffin ; can we haul alongside of
our enemy ? I like not the course he is steering, as he
tows us from the schooner."
" 'Tis the creator's way, sir," said the cockswain ; " you
know they need the air in their nostrils when they run,
the same as a man ; but lay hold, boys, and let us haul up
to him."
The seamen now seized their whale-line, and .slowly
drew their boat to within a few feet of the tail of the fish,
whose progress became sensibly less rapid as he grew weak
with the loss of blood. In a few minutes he stopped run-
ning, and appeared to roll uneasily on the water, as if suf-
fering the agony of death.
" Shall we pull in and finish him, Tom ?" cried Barn-
stable ; " a few sets from your bayonet would do it."
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 197
The cockswain stood examining his game with cool dis-
cretion, and replied to this interrogatory
" No, sir, no he's going into his flurry ; there's no oc-
casion for disgracing ourselves by using a soldier's weapon
in taking a whale. Starn off, sir, starn off! the creator's
in his flurry !"
The warning of the prudent cockswain was promptly
obeyed, and the boat cautiously drew off to a distance, leav-
ing to the animal a clear space while under its dying ago-
nies. From a state of perfect rest, the terrible monster
threw its tail on high as when in sport, but its blows were
trebled in rapidity and violence, till all was hid from view
by a pyramid of foam, that was deeply dyed with blood.
The roarings of the fish were like the bellowings of a herd
of bulls, and, to one who was ignorant of the fact, it would
have appeared as if a thousand monsters were engaged in
deadly combat behind the bloody mist that obstructed the
view. Gradually these effects subsided, and, when the dis-
coloured water again settled down to the long and regular
swell of the ocean, the fish was seen exhausted, and yield-
ing passively to its fate. As life departed, the enormous
black mass rolled to one side, and when the white and glis-
tening skin of the belly became apparent, the seamen well
knew that their victory was achieved.
Lake George. CLUB-ROOM.
" It was a still
And calmy bay, on the one side sheltered
With the brode shadow of an hoarie hill ;
On the other side an high rock toured still."
" Waiting to pass, he saw whereas did swim
Along the shore, as swift as glaunce of eye,
A little gondelay, bedecked trim,
With boughs and arbours woven cunningly,
That like a little forest seemed outwardly ;
And therein sat a lady fresh and faire."
FABRIB Q.UEK NK.
IF any of my readers have ever visited these transparent
waters, and have wound their way among the thousand
little woody islands which sprinkle their surface from Fort
17*
198 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
George to the Falls of Ticonderoga, they may have remark-
ed, just beyond Bolton, at the bottom of a beautiful inlet,
or bay, formed by-two craggy promontories of the western
shore, a small dwelling-house, upon which the fingers of
Time seem to have wrought more ruinously than man, in
the pride of his dominion, is accustomed to allow them. It
stands lone and desolate. Storms have shattered its roof,
and wild shrubs have already sprung up in dark profusion
over its avenues ; while the white-columned portico, which
was wont to look so cheering to the eye of the passenger,
lias put on the damp and mouldering garment of decay.
Some years ago business led me to the Canadian frontier
by that route. I travelled alone in a light wagon. A part
of the road, which was extremely rugged, stretched along
the bold 'shore of the lake ; sometimes winding up the
craggy side of the mountain, and sometimes running close
to the precipice, which, from the height of two or three
hundred feet, flung its huge and dusky shadow into the
mirror beneath. As I was anxious to reach my inn before
night-fall, and blue mists were already beginning to gather
upon the lake, I quickened the pace of my horse wherever
the smoothness of the road would permit. I had just pass-
ed a young foot-traveller, and was turning a sharp corner
formed by a rock shelving out of the mountain's side, when
my horse started suddenly, and, carrying the wheel of my
wagon over a fallen fragment, dashed me to the ground. I
fell near the edge of the cliff, where its surface was already
considerably inclined. I seized upon a small projection of
the rock. It loosened, and gave way under my grasp. I
slipped downward, and found not even a bramble within
reach, when I felt myself suddenly stayed by I knew not
what. It was the young man 1 had just passed, who
sprang forward, and, not without imminent hazard of fol-
lowing me in my fall, caught the skirt of my coat at the
instant I was rolling over the brink. Supporting himself
by the frail bough of a dwarf-oak which grew a little above,
he held me hanging by a thread over " the dark valley of
the shadow of death." The fragment which I had loos-
ened fell, and the sullen splash of the water which re-
ceived it just reached my ear. From that moment I be-
came insensible.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 199
On recovery I found myself on a bed. Three or four
faces were bending over me with expressions of the deep-
est concern, and a beautiful girl was bathing my temples.
I looked her my thanks it was all I could. Presently
the door opened, and a voice anxiously asked " How is
he ? will he live ?" " Hush !" she replied, in a low whis-
per, " He is well enough to hear you." It was my young
preserver, who entered, and brought with him the doctor
of the neighbouring village. It were tedious to detail all
the symptoms of inward injury, and prognostics of impend-
ing fever, which were found about me by this rustic son
of yEsculapius. Let it suffice that my limbs were pro-
nounced unbroken, though badly bruised that I submit-
ted quietly to remedies, which I had not strength to resist
in short, that I was well enough in a few days, in spite
of all circumstance of delay, to enjoy the society of the
kind friends who attended me, and the beauties of their
romantic residence.
The name of my host was Burton a robust and well-
looking man, just entering life's downward path. He was
by birth an Englishman, and had been a soldier in his
youth served in America during our revolutionary war
was taken prisoner, with many of his countrymen, at Ti-
conderoga fell in love with a young woman in that neigh-
bourhood, whom he married soon after the declaration of
peace and, having acquired a competent fortune in mer-
chandise, hastened to indulge an Englishman's taste for
rural pursuits in this delightful spot.
Mary Burton, his only daughter, was a beautiful girl just
turned of eighteen ; adorned with all the sensibilities of
her sex ; and, if she wanted the accomplishments of a fine
lady, she had that, which more than compensates for them
all uniform simplicity and gayety of heart. It was she
whom I first discovered among the group standing about
me, watching with tender anxiety the earliest symptoms
of returning life. ' . '
But my readers would perhaps know something of my
youthful preserver. He was not of the Burton family,
though constantly with them. His name was Arthur Mur-
ray. Of good parentage and liberal attainments, a boyish
romance first led him to that neighbourhood ; for his con-
200 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
tinuance there, you have perhaps already guessed that
something might be attributed to the charms of Mary Bur-
ton. The old folks looked with pleasure on the growing
attachment between them, and had recently granted a glad
consent to their union.
The only other inmates of the parlour were two rosy-
cheeked boys, many years younger, yet constant compan-
ions of the kind-hearted Arthur. Nor let me exclude from
the family roll, Rover, the large Newfoundland dog. who
was allowed to participate in most of the family pleasures.
It was an uncommonly happy circle. Separated from
the rest of mankind unsullied by the cold, selfish pleasures
of the city the absorbing cares of avarice and pride
home was their world ; they indulged not a wish beyond
" the happy valley," but lived peaceful and contented,
with all the sympathies of life wrapped up in the little
compass of a few loving hearts. If this be seclusion, who
would exchange it for the refined vanities of fashion the
turmoils of interest and ambition the modish sensibilities
which wear the semblance of feeling, and obliterate the
feeling itself !
And then the scenery about them was so exquisitely
touching ! In the freshness of the dawn, 1 used to delight,
with Rover only by my side, to climb the neighbouring
hill, and catch the first ruddy tint that gleamed upon the
lake and at noon to stretch myself in some shady recess,
and watch the white sail, now lost behind the bold head-
land, now gliding among the trees, and now cutting the
clear expanse of water or, in the stillness of night, broken
only by the moan of the sad whip-poor-will, and the fret
of waters, to muse upon the wildness of the scene, and
commune with unearthly forms, which seemed to be flitting
in the moonbeam ; but, most of all, I delighted, on a fine
afternoon, to join the little family party, in Arthur's pleas-
ure-boat, sailing from island to island, each beauty present-
ing itself in ever new and varying lights, and the sweet,
artless song of Mary, who seemed to be the fairy spirit of
the lake, warbling in my ear. And I would not, even
now, mingled as my recollections are with melancholy and
sorrow, I would not, for any earthly good, suffer the mem-
ory of this delicious period to fade upon the tablet of my
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 201
heart. It was one of the few, few green and sunny spots,
which lie scattered over the dark waste of time.
But the day at length arrived, when the imperious calls
of business that perpetual intruder on the poetry of life
must tear me from the friends and scenes which I so dear-
ly loved. I had already lingered much longer on the hos-
pitality of the Burtons than necessity required ; and I
know not when I should have left them, had I waited till
either my own inclination, or their friendly importunities,
had ceased. I bade adieu but not without a willing prom-
ise to visit them once more on my return.
About three weeks elapsed. I had despatched my busi-
ness, and was returning homeward light-hearted and free,
when, after toiling up a long and dusty hill, I caught sight
again, at a few miles' distance, of the green, refreshing val-
ley, and the pure crystal within it. My pulse beat high
with expectation. My horse had not forgotten the hospitality
of the Burtons, and we rapidly approached these well-re-
membered scenes. As I descended the last hill, and some
time before I reached the house, Rov^r came bounding
along, with every demonstration of joy, to. welcome my re-
turn. Upon entering, the domestics, who were making
ready their evening repast, informed me, that the whole
family had gone upon the water in Arthur's pleasure-
boat.
Taking Rover with me, I strayed down to the neigh-
bourhood of their landing-place, and seated myself on a
cliff, which overlooked the lake. The waters of Lake
George are peculiarly transparent. I have often looked
out of a boat upon its pebbly bed, and thought I might
easily have waded to the shore, when in truth my oar's
length could not reach the bottom. It was from this singular
beauty, as well as the tout ensemble of witching scenery
about it, that the Indians, who formerly inhabited the adja-
cent territories, believed the bosom of the lake to be the
abode of the Great Spirit ; and the French priests, who
came to convert them, infected with the superstition of the
place, named it the Holy Water ; and, either imagining it
to be uncommonly pure, or else believing it to be really
endowed with a peculiar sanctity, used to send vessels fill-
ed with it to their native country, to be used in the sacred
202 COMMON-PLACE 11OOK OF PROSE.
rites of their church. This afternoon was remarkably
calm and cloudless. The opposite shore hung in the wa-
ter with such truth and life of expression, that it looked
like the scenery of another world, calmer and more lovely
than our own.
Presently, however, a breeze sprung from the east. The
smooth surface just curled beneath its kiss ; and, in a short
time, I observed the full sail of the pleasure-boat emerging
at no great distance from behind a little knoll, that had
concealed it. It was shaping its homeward course. The
sun was fast declining towards the western mountain upon
whose summit was piled a thick mass of snowy clouds.
Every thing promised a glorious sunset.
I sat wrapped in the dream of expectation, measuring
the long ripple which the boat left upon the lake, and think-
ing, within myself, whether they could reach home before
dusk. I turned towards the sun, to judge from his In-i-hi
how many minutes the light of day had yet to live. I u M
immediately struck by the uncommon richness of the white
fleece, which was rolling itself, volume upon volume, into
a thousand wild, fantastic shapes. At the same moment, a
small black cloud seemed suddenly to grow out of the moun-
tain. As it rose, it swelled, and spread itself, like a pall,
over the rich mass of vapours, effacing one by one the
beauties of the gorgeous spectacle. The wind freshened
from the east but the thunder-cloud still steered against
it, and sailed on, in sullen majesty, like some dusky spirit,
regardless of the opposing element. The sun was obscured,
and a cold shade thrown over the lfke. The leaves rustled
through the forest with a noise like the long roll of the
ocean on some distant beach, and a dull, low moaning seem-
ed to move upon the waters. All nature portended one of
those tremendous storms, which there, in seasons of the
profoundest calm, pour in a moment out of the hollows of
the surrounding mountains. I looked back anxiously for
my friends. Their bark had neared the bay, and was still
gallantly cleaving the waves. I thought I could distin-
guish Arthur at the helm, proudly steering his little treas-
ure, fearful but for those whom he loved dearer than life.
I waved my handkerchief, and it was answered. Rover
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 203
stood just Deiow me, snuffing the air, and wagging his tail
in silent expectation.
The heavens were now completely overcast the thun-
ders rolled heavily, nearer and nearer, and big round drops
splashed here and there upon the water. Presently there
was a blinding flash, and an explosion shaking the cliff to
its very root. The long, broken peal, that followed, rever-
berated from crag to crag, and died away in the far dis-
tance. There was a momentary pause ; the gates of
heaven were loosed, and the water fell in sheets, as if
another lake were emptying itself from the sky. I could
just discern the little bark through the thick rain. In spite
of the fury of the storm, it gained its way, and had already
reached the entrance to its harbour. A few moments
more, and it was safe. While I was yet looking at it, a
sudden gust of wind rushed out of the west. The boat
stopped for an instant, as if fixed to the spot and then, with
a slight tremulous motion, settled into the waves.
Rover, who sat watching its progress from a point be-
neath, set up a wild howl, and dashed into the water. I
instinctively followed, leaping from point to point slipping
among the rocks catching at weeds and briers, which
sprang out of the crevices nor was it till I stood upon the
very margin of the lake, that I reflected on the rashness
of my design ; I was wholly unable to swim. Rover,
however, bore him stoutly from the shore, and had almost
reached the spot ; but not a trace of the vessel could be
seen. The .torrents of rain ceased, and I could now clearly
descry a human figure emerging from the waves it w^s
Arthur and he dragged after him, from the bottom, the
dear object, who clung to him when they sunk. Ro-
ver now reached them, and, with all the sagacity of his
tribe, seizing the long tresses of Mary in his mouth, so as
to lift her head out of the water, bore her triumphantly to-
ward the shore. Arthur swam by her side. I could only
wait for them on the shore. They were now within a few
yards of land, when Arthur's strength began to fail. Poor
Arthur sunk. He rose again made a few feeble strokes
and the waters again covered him ; he rose endeav-
oured to speak, cast a mournful look upon Mary folded
204 COMMON-PLACE 1JOOK OP PROSE.
his arms and sunk, forever. " A few noiseless bubbles
struggled to the surface, and his spirit mingled with the
air.
Those who have stood by the bed-side of a dying brother,
and watched the last faint struggle with death, the cold
damps gathering upon the brow the fixing eye the con-
vulsive gasp without the power to repress a single groan,
have felt all that was labouring in my heart. He. was a
fellow being a friend my benefactor and he sunk with-
in a few feet of me into a watery grave.
But it was no time to indulge the selfishness of sorrow.
Rover had come to land, with the body of his mistress pale
and cold. I took it up, and bore it to the house. The ser-
vants were in a state of distraction ; it was with difficulty
I could persuade them to use necessary means for the re-
covery of the unfortunate Mary. After much labour, she
began to breathe, and a few deep groans marked the un-
willingness with which life returned to its deserted tene-
ment. Good God, thought I, what a cruelty do I not com-
mit in restoring this wretched maid to a desolate existence !
Surely she had better, far better, die and sleep quietly
in her grave, than revive to see a few more miserable
years, parentless brotherless alone not a friend on
earth to alleviate the sorrows of life. I almost repented
what I had done. Yet what right had I to sit in judgment
on the mysteries of Providence ? It has pleased God to in
terpose miraculously for her preservation : let not man
attempt to thwart his just, inscrutable designs !
We redoubled our efforts. In a little time she seemed
partially to have recovered her senses. She looked wildly
round, and, extending her feeble hand towards mine, cried,
with a faint voice, " Arthur !" I pressed her hand my
heart was too full to speak. Alas ! she did not know the touch
^but, fixing her glazed eye upon me, repeated the name
of Arthur. " It is not Arthur," said I and the tears gush-
ed as I spoke. " Oh where is he ? where are they all ?"
and then, as if the memory of what had passed had suddenly
flashed upon her mind, she shrieked out, and fell senseless
away. I could restrain my feelings no longer, but, leaving
her in the charge of the weeping domestics, hurried out
of the room.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 205
The storm, which had wreaked its fury, was dissipated
as suddenly as it arose. I determined to walk abroad, and
see if I could calm the violence of my feelings in the still
aoonhght. I passed through the parlour. There the re-
past was spread, and the chairs were standing round the
hospitable board, for those who could never fill them again
I strayed down to the margin of the lake. The faithful
Kover was still swimming about, and whining piteouslv
over the fatal spot. Wherever I went, at every turn, some-
thing arose to refresh the horror of the scene.
Mary recovered to linger a few years a miserable ma-
niac ;
Of T ,h Ugh h, heaIth 8nd bl m returned >
Of thought, once tangled, never cleared again.
She was sensible, however, a few moments before she died
thanked the kind domestics, who had never left her _
and begged to be buried at the bottom of the garden, be-
neath an arbour which Arthur had reared. Her injunction
was obeyed and a small tombstone may yet be found there,
under the long grass, bearing this simple inscription _
" Poor Mary Burton rests beneath this stone :
God suffereth not his saints to live alone."
Hypochondrias!* and its Remedies. RUSH.
THE extremes of low and high spirits, which occur in
the same person at different times, are happily illustrat-
ed by the following case : A physician in one of the cities
f Italy was once consulted by a gentleman, who was much
distressed by a paroxysm of this intermitting state of hy-
pochondriasm. He advised him to seek relief in convivial
company, and recommended him in particular to find out
a gentleman of the name of Cardini, who kept all the ta-
bles in the city, td which he was occasionally invited, in a
roar of laughter. Alas ! sir," said the patient, with a
heavy sigh, I am that Cardini." Many such characters,
alternately marked by high and low spirits, are to be found
in all the cities in the world.
18
2Ub COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
But there are sometimes flashes of apparent cheerfulness,
and even of mirth, in the intervals of this disease, which
are accompanied with latent depression of mind. This ap-
pears to have. been the case in Cowper, who knew all it.
symptoms by sad experience. Hence, in one of his let-
ters to Mr. Hayley, he says, " I am cheerful upon paper,
but the most distressed of all creatures." It was probably
in one of these opposite states of mind, that he wrote his
humorous ballad of John Gilpin.
In proportion as the hypochondriac disease advances, the
symptoms of the hysteria, which are generally combined
with it in its first stage, disappear, and all the systems in
which the disease is seated acquire an uniformly torpid or
irritable state. The remissions and intermissions which
have been described cease, and even the transient blaze
of cheerfulness, which now and then escapes from a heart
smothered with anguish, is seen no more. The distress
now becomes constant. " Clouds return after every rain."
Not a ray of comfort glimmers upon the soul in any of the
prospects or retrospects of life. " All is now darkness
without and within." These poignant words were once
uttered by a patient of mine with peculiar emphasis, while
labouring under this stage of the disease. Neither nature
nor art now possess a single beauty, nor music or poetry
a single charm. The two latter often give pain, and some-
times offence. In vain do love and friendship, and dome
tic affection, offer sympathy or relief to the mind in this
awful situation. Even the consolations of religion are re-
jected, or heard with silence and indifference. Night no
longer affords a respite from misery. It is passed in dis-
tracting wakefulness, or in dreams more terrible than wak-
ing thoughts ; nor does the light of the sun chase away a
single distressing idea. " I rise in the morning," says Cow-
per, in a letter to Mr. Hayley, " like an infernal frog out of
Acheron, covered with the ooze and mud of melancholy."
No change of place is wished for, that promises any allevi-
ation of suffering. " Could I be translated to paradise,"
says the same elegant historian of his own sorrows, in a
letter to Lady Hesketh, " unless I could leave my body be-
hind me, my melancholy would cleave to me there."
u,
t
his
COMMON-PLACE liOOK OF PROSE. 207
Can any thing be anticipated more dreadful than univer-
sal madness ? and yet I once attended a lady in this city,
whose sufferings from low spirits were of such a nature,
that she ardently wished she might lose her reason, in order
thereby to be relieved from the horror of nbr thoughts.
This state of mind was not new in this disease. Shakspeare
has described it in the following lines, in his inimitable his-
tory of all the forms of derangement, in the tragedy of
King Lear. They are as truly philosophical as they are
poetical.
: Better I were distract ;
So should my thoughts be sever'd from my griefs,
And woes, by wrong imaginations, lose
The knowledge of themselves."
A pleasant season, a fine day, and even the morning sun,
often suspend the disease. Cowper bears witness to the
truth of this remark, in one of his letters to Mr. Hayley.
" I rise," says he, " cheerless and distressed, and brighten
as the sun goes on."
Dr. Burton, in his Anatomy of Melancholy, delivers the
following direction for its cure : " Be not idle ; be not sol-
itary." Dr. Johnson has improved this advice by the fol-
lowing commentary upon it : " When you are idle be not
solitary ; and when you are solitary be not idle." The
illu-rtrious Spinola, upon hearing of the death of a friend,
inquired of what disease he died. " Of having nothing to
do," said the person who mentioned it. " Enough," said
Spinola, " to kill a general." Not only the want of em-
ployment, but the want of care, often increases as well as
brings on this disease.
Concerts, evening parties, and the society of the ladies, to
gentlemen affected with this disease, have been useful. Of
the efficacy of the last, Mr. Green has happily said,
" With speech so sweet, so sweet a mien,
They excommunicate tlie spleen."
Those amusements should be preferred, which, while
they interest the mind, afford exercise to the body.
The chase, shooting, playing at quoits, are all useful for
this purpose. The words of the poet, Mr. Green, upon
208 COMMON-PLACE ROOK OP PROSE.
this subject, deserve to be committed to memory by all
physicians :
" To cure the mind's wrong bias, spleen,
Some recommend the bowling-green :
Some, hilly walks ; all, exercise ;
Fling but a stone the giant dies."
hess, checkers, cards, and even push-pin, should be pre-
ferred to idleness, when the weather forbids exercise in
the open air. The theatre has often been resorted to, to
remove fits of low spirits ; and it is a singular fact, that a
tragedy oftener dissipates them than a comedy. The rem-
edy, though distressing to persons with healthy minds, is
like the temperature of cold water to persons benumbed
with frost ; it is exactly proportioned to the excitability of
their minds, and it not only abstracts their attention from
themselves, but even revives their spirits. Mirth, or even
cheerfulness, when employed as remedies iji low spirits,
are like hot water to a frozen limb. They are dispropor-
tioncd to the excitability of the mind, and, instead of ele-
vating, never fail to increase its depression, or to irritate it.
Cowper could not bear to hear his humorous story of John
Gilpin read to him in his paroxysms of this disease. It was
to his heavy heart what Solomon happily compares to the
conflict produced by pouring vinegar upon nitre, or, in other
words, upon an alkaline salt.
Certain objects distinguished for their beauty or grandeur
often afford relief in this disease. Cowper experienced a
transient elevation of spirits from contemplating the ocean
from the house of his friend Mr. Hayley ; and the unfor-
tunate Mrs. Robinson soothed the gloom of her mind, by
viewing the dashing of the waves of the same sublime ob-
ject, in the light of the moon, at Brighton. Certain ani-
mals suspend the anguish of mind of this disease, by their
innocence, ingenuity or sports. Cowper sometimes found
relief in playing with three tame hares, and in observing
a number of leeches to rise and fall in a glass with the
changes of the weather. The poet says,
" Laugh and be well. Monkeys have been
Extreme good doctors for the spleen.
And kitten if the humour hit-
Has harlsquin'd away the fit."
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 209
The famous Luther was cheered under his fits of low
spirits, by listening to the prattle, and observing the sports
and innocent countenances, of young children. The tone
of their voices is probably a source of a part of the relief
derived from their company. Cowper was always exhila-
rated by conversing with Mr. Hayley's son, only because
he was pleased with the soft and musical tones of his voice.
Music has often afforded great relief in this disease.
Luther, who was sorely afflicted with it, has left the fol-
lowing testimony in favour of the art : " Next to Theolo-
gy, I give the highest place to music, for thereby all anger
is forgotten ; the devil, also melancholy, and many tribula-
tions and evil thoughts are driven away." For the same
reason that tragedies afford more relief than comedies,
plaintive tunes are more useful than such as are of a
sprightly nature. I attended a citizen of Philadelphia oc-
casionally in paroxysms of this disease, who informed me
that he was cured of one of them, by hearing the Old
Hundred psalm tune sung in a country church. His dis-
order, he said, instantly left him in a flood of tears.
Dr. Cardan always felt a suspension of the anguish of his
mind from the same cause ; and Cowper tells his friend, in
one of his letters, that he was " relieved as soon as his
troubles gushed from his eyes."
Climate and Scenery of New England. TUDOR.
THE position of our continent, and the course of the
winds, will always give us an unequal climate, and one
abounding in contrasts. In the latitude of 508, on the north-
west coast of America, the weather is milder even than in
the same parallel in Europe ; the wind, three quarters of
the year, comes off the Pacific : in the same latitude on
the eastern side, the country is hardly worth inhabiting,
tinder the dreary length of cold, produced by the succes-
sion of winds across a frozen continent. The wind and the
sun, too, often carry on the contest here, which they exert-
ed on the poor traveller in the fable ; and we are in doubt
to which we shall yield. The changes that cultivation and
18*
210 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
planetary influence, if there be such a thing, can create,
are very gradual. It seems to be a general opinion, that
the cold is more broken now. The totals of heat and cold
may be nearly the same as they were fifty years ago. The
winters particularly have commenced later. The autumn
is warmer and the spring colder. We are still subject to
the same caprices ; a flight of snow in May, a frost in
June, and sometimes in every month in the year ; and
^Eolus indulges his servants in stranger freaks and extrav-
agances here than elsewhere ; yet the severe cold seldom
sets in before January; the snow is less and later, and, on
the sea coast, does not, on an average, aflbrd more than a
month's sleighing.
These contrasts in our climate occasion some very pic-
turesque effects, some that would be considered phenom-
ena by persons unaccustomed to them. It blends together
the circumstances of very distant regions in Europe. Thus,
when the earth lies buried in a deep covering of snow, in
Europe, the clime is so far to the north, that the sun rises
but little above the horizon, and his daily visit is a very
short one ; his feeble rays hardly illumine a chilly sky,
that harmonizes with the dreary waste it covers : but here,
the same surface reflects a dazzling brilliancy from rays
that strike at the same angle, at which they do the dome
of St. Peter's. The plains of Siberia and the Campagna
di Roma are here combined ; we have the snow of the
one and the sun of the other at the same period. While
his rays in the month of March are expanding the flower*
and blossoms at Albano and Tivoli, they are here falling on
a wide, uninterrupted covering of snow, producing a
dazzling brilliancy that is almost insupportable. A moon-
light at this season is equally remarkable, and its effects
can be more easily endured. Our moon is nearly the same
with that moon of Naples, which Carracioli told the king
of England was " superior to his majesty's sun." When
this surface of spotless snow is shone upon by this moon at
its full, and reflects back its beams, the light indeed is not
that of day, but it takes away all appearance of night ; the
witch and the spectre would shrink from its exposure :
" It is not night ; 'tis but the daylight sick ;
It looks a little paler."
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 211
On the sea coast, the winters are milder, but the obnox-
ious east winds are more severely felt in the spring, than
they are in the interior. The whole coast of Massachu-
setts Bay is remarkably exposed to their influence. Some
compensation, however, is derived for their harshness and
virulence in the spring, by their refreshing and salutary
breezes in the summer, when they frequently allay the
sultry heat, and prevent it from becoming oppressive. Al-
though a district favourably situated will enjoy an average
of climate two or three degrees better than those in its
neighbourhood, yet, generally, the progress of the climate is
pretty regular as you follow the coast of the United States
from north-east to south-west. I am induced to think, that
our great rivers have some connexion with the gradations
of climate ; that every large river you pass makes a dif-
ference of two or three degrees in the averages of the
thermometer. The position of mountains will affect the
climate essentially ; but these rivers, whose course up-
wards is northerly, will still, in general, be lines of de-
marcation.
One of the most agreeable peculiarities in our climate,
is a period in the autumn called the Indian Summer. It
happens in October, commencing a few days earlier or later,
as the season may be. The temperature is delightful, and
the weather differing in its character from that of any other
season. The air is filled with a slight haze, like smoke, which
some suppose it to be ; the wind is south-west, and there
is a vernal softness in the atmosphere ; yet the different alti-
tude of the sun from what it has in the summer, makes it, in
other respects, very unlike that season. This singular oc-
currence in our climate seems to be to summer, what a
vivid recollection of past joys is to the reality. The In-
dians have some pleasing superstitions respecting it. " They
believe it is caused by a wind, which comes immediately
from the court of their great and benevolent god Cautan-
towwit, or the south-western god, the god that is superior
to all other beings, who sends them every blessing which
they enjoy, and to whom the souls of their fathers go after
their decease."
In connexion with our climate, the appearance of our
atmosphere may be considered. The lover of picturesque
212 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
beauty will find this a fruitful source of it. The same in-
equalities will be found here, that take place in the meas-
ure of heat and cold, and an equal number of contrasts and
varieties. We have many of those days, when a murky
vapourishness is diffused through the air, dimming the lus-
tre of the sun, and producing just such tones of light and
colour as would be marked, in the calendar of Newfound-
land or the Hebrides, for a bright, fair day. We have
again others, in which even the transparency and purity
of the tropics, and all the glowing mellow hues of Greece
and Naples are blended together, to shed a hue of para-
dise on every object. I have already spoken of the intense
brilliancy of a winter moonlight, when the air has a polar
temperature ; the same brilliancy and a greater clearness are
often found in the month of June, and sometimes in July,
with the warmth of the equator. There are, occasionally, in
the summer and autumn, such magical effects of light, such
a universal tone of colouring, that the very air seems tinned ;
and an aspect of such harmonious splendour is thrown over
every object, that the attention of the most indifferent is
awakened, and the lovers of the beautiful in nature enjoy
the most lively delight. These are the kinds of tints, which
even the matchless pencil of Claude vainly endeavoured
to imitate. They occur a few times every year, a little
before sunset, under a particular state of the air and posi-
tion of the clouds. These beautiful appearances are not
so frequent, indeed, here, as they are at Naples ; all those
warm and delicate colours, which we see in Neapolitan
pictures, occur there more often ; but I have frequently
seen the hills on the south of Boston exhibiting, towards
sunset, the same exquisite hues, which Vesuvius more fre-
quently presents, and which the Neapolitans, in their paint-
ings of it, always adopt. The vivid beauty, which I now
speak of, is rare and transient; but we often enjoy the
charms of a transparent atmosphere, where objects stand
in bold relief, and even distant ones will present all their
hues and angles, clear and sharp, from the deep distant sky,
as on the shores of Greece ; and we 1 gaze at sunset on gor-
geous skies, where all the magnificence, that form and col-
our can combine, is accumulated to enrapture the eye, and
render description hopeless.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. , 213
The scenery of tjiis country will have struck you at
once, as very^ different from that of Europe. This differ-
ence is partly intrinsic, and partly accidental, arising out
of the kinds and degrees of cultivation. The most obvious
and extensive view, in which it differs, is the redundancy
of forest. A vast forest, to a person who had never seen
one, would excite almost as strong sensations, as the sight
of the ocean to him who beheld it for the first time ;
and in both cases a long continuance of the prospect be-
comes tiresome. From some of our hills, the spectator
looks over an expanse of woods bounded by the horizon,
and slightly chequered by cultivation. The view is grand
and imposing at first, but will be more agreeable, and afford
more lasting pleasure, when the relative proportions of wood
and open ground are reversed. The most cultivated parts
of these States approach nearest to some of the most cov-
ered in England, that are not an actual forest. We have
nothing like the Downs on your southern coast, and fa-
tiguing as an eternal forest may be, it is less so than those
dreary wastes, as destitute of objects as the mountain
swell of the ocean. We have still so much wood, that, even
in the oldest cultivated parts of the country, it is difficult
to find a panoramic view of any extent, where some patches
of the native forest are not to be found. I know of but
one exception, which is from the steeple of the church in
Ipswich, in Essex, Massachusetts. This is one of the oldest
towns ; the prospect will put you in mind of the scenery
of your own country ; I need not add, that it is a very
pleasing one, and will repay you for the slight trouble of
ascending the steeple.
The trees, though there are too many of them, at least
in masses, must please 'the eye of an European, from their
variety and beauty, as well as novelty. The richness of
our trees and shrubs has always excited the admiration ol
botanists and the lovers of landscape gardening. There
can be nothing nobler than the appearance of some of the
oaks and beeches in England, and the walnuts and chest-
nuts in France and Italy. The vast size of these spreading
trees is only surpassed by some of our sycamores on the
banks of the Ohio. Our oaks may sometimes be seen of
the same size, and the towering white pine and hemlock
214 COMMON-PLACE COOK OF PROSE.
reach a height, that I had never seen attained by trees in
Europe ; but, for grandeur of appearance, we must rely,
in the first instance, on the American elm, that has been
planted for ornament. Its colour, its form, and its size,
place it much before the European elm ; it is one of our
iuo.it majestic trees. There are many varieties of it veiy
distinct, yet not so numerous as of the oaks, walnuts and
some others. Of the former, you know, we have between
thirty and forty different species, and a great number of
fipecies exist of all our principal trees. This variety, in tlio
hands of taste, would be made productive of the highest
effects in ornamental planting, of which you may find more
specimens in your own country than in this, though only
a part of our riches in this way have been transplanted by
your gardeners. You will remark the fresh and healtliy
look of our forest, as well as fruit trees, compared with
tho>?e of all the northern parts of Europe. The humidity
of that atmosphere nourishes the mosses, and a green coat-
ing over the trunks and branches, that give the aspect of
disease and decay. You will often observe the clean and
smooth bark of our trees of all kinds: among the forest
trees, particularly the walnut, maple, beech, birch, &c. will
be entirely free from moss or rust of any kind, and their
trunks form fine contrasts with the leaves. You will have-
too much of forest in this country to go in pursuit of one ;
but, should you happen to visit Nashawn, one of the Eliz-
abeth Islands, you will see the most beautiful insulated for-
est in the United States, with less of that ragged, lank look,
which our native forests commonly present, from the trees
struggling with each other for the light, and running up to
great height, with few or no branches ; but this one exhibits
the tufted, rounded masses, which are found in the groves
of your parks.
I will mention a peculiarity, which you will witness in
autumn, that will affect a lover of landscape scenery, like
yourself, on seeing it the first time, with surprise as well
as delight. The rich and mellow tints of the forest, at that
season of the year, have often furnished subjects for the
poet and the painter in Europe; but it will hardly prepare
you for the sights our woods exhibit. I have never seen
representation of them attempted in painting ; it would
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 215
probably be grotesque. Besides all the shades of brown
and green, which you have in European trees, there are
the most brilliant and glaring colours, bright yellow, and
scarlet for instance, not merely on single leaves, but in
masses of whole trees, with all their foliage thus tinged.
I do not know that it has ever been accounted for ; it may
perhaps be owing to the frosts coming earlier here than in
Europe, and falling on the leaves while the sap is yet copi-
ous, before they have begun to dry up and fall off. How-
ever this may be, the colouring is wonderful ; the walnut
is turned to the brightest yellow, the maple to scarlet, &c.
Our trees put on this harlequin dress about the first of
October. 1 leave to your imagination, which can never
reach the reality, to fancy the appearance of such scenes
as you may behold at this season. A cloudless sky, and
transparent atmosphere, a clear blue lake, with meadows
of light, delicate green, backed by hills and dales of those
party-coloured, gorgeous forests, are often combined, to form
the most enchanting views.
First and Second Death. GREENWOOD.
THE first death is the death of the body ; the quenching
of that undiscovered spark, which warms and animates the
human frame ; the return of our dust to the earth as it
was ; the event which happeneth unto all men ; " the
sentence of the Lord over all flesh." We cannot prevent
it. Like birth, it is inevitable. Helplessly, and without
our own will, we open our eyes at first to the light of day ;
and then, by an equal necessity, we lie down to sleep,
some at this hour, some at the next, on the lap of our
mother. This death is an ordinance of God. It was
intended for our benefit; and can do us no essential harm.
It disturbs not the welfare of the soul ; it touches not the
life of the spirit.
The second death is more awful and momentous. It is
the death of that which the first death left alive. It is the
death of reputation, the death of love, the death of happi-
ness, the exile of the soul. It has no connexion with the
216 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
first death, for its causes are all engendered in the life of
the body. Unlike the first, it is a death which all men do
not die. Unlike the first, it is a death from which there is
a way of escape. And yet there are more who are terri-
fied with the first death, unimportant as it is, than there
are who fear the second, though it includes every wo. And
almost all men attempt to fly from the first, though they
know it to be impossible ; while few take pains to avoid
the last, though it is within their ability to do so.
The first death, then, is invested with complete power
over all men. It withers human strength, it respects not
human authority. Rank is not exempt from it, art cannot
elude, riches cannot bribe, eloquence cannot soften, nor
can even virtue overcome it. But with that second and
far more dreadful death, it is not so. There are those over
whom it hath no power. Any one may join their number.
There is no mystery, no hardship, in the terms of the
blessed exemption. All may read, all may comply with
them. They arise from the nature of the second death.
For as nothing but vice and disobedience towards God can
affect the life of the spirit, and invest the second death
with its power, so it is righteousness only, and the healthful
fruits of religion, which can defy and render it powerless.
" In the way of righteousness there is life, and in the
pathway thereof there is no death." So little is the first
death considered, and so little account of it is made, in
many parts of Scripture, that we are told, in somc.of its
sublimest strains, that the believer in Jesus, the true
Christian, " shall never die." Goodness carries with it
the eternal principles of life, deeply engrafted into its con-
stitution ; so that it cannot lose it, nor part with it. It is
the good, the benevolent, the pious, and the pure, to whom
life is promised ; and on such " the second death has no
power."
In the sight of men they die ; and so far there is indeed
but one event to the righteous and the wicked. But this
is only the first, the corporeal death ; and in all essential
respects they live.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 217
Posthumous Influence of the Wise and Good. NORTON.
THE relations between man and man cease not with life.
The dead leave behind them their memory, their exam-
pie, and the effects of their actions. Their influence still
abides with us. Their names and characters dwell in our
thoughts and hearts. We live and commune with them in
their writings. We enjoy the benefit of their labours.
Our institutions have been founded by them. We are sur-
rounded by the works of the dead. Our knowledge and
our arts are the fruit of their toil. Our minds have been
formed by their instructions. We are most intimately con-
nected with them by a thousand dependencies. Those
whom we have loved in life are still objects of our deepest
and holiest affections. Their power over us remains.
They are with us in our solitary walks ; and their voices
speak to our hearts in the silence of midnight. Their
image is impressed upon our dearest recollections, and our
most sacred hopes. They form an essential part of our
treasure laid up in heaven. For, above all, we are sepa-
rated from them but for a little time. We are soon to be
united with them. If we follow in the path of those we
have loved, we too shall soon join the innumerable company
of the spirits of just men made perfect. Our affections
and our hopes are not buried in the dust, to which we com-
mit the poor remains of mortality. The blessed retain
their remembrance and their love for us in heaven ; and
we will cherish our remembrance and our love for them
while on earth.
Creatures of imitation and sympathy as we are, we look
around us for support and countenance even in our virtues.
We recur for them, most securely, to the examples of the
dead. There is a degree of insecurity and uncertainty
about living worth. The stamp has not yet been put upon
it, which precludes all change, and seals it up as a just
object of admiration for future times. There is no service
which a man of commanding intellect can render his fel-
low creatures better than that of leaving behind him an
unspotted example. If he do not confer upon them this
benefit ; if he leave a character dark with vices in the
19
218 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
sight of God, but dazzling with shining qualities in the
view of men; it may be that all his other services had
better have been forborne, and he had passed inactive and
unnoticed through life. It is a dictate of wisdom, there-
fore, as well as feeling, when a man, eminent for his vir-
tues and talents, has been taken away, to collect the riches
of his goodness, and add them to the treasury of human
improvement. The true Christian liveth not for himself,
and i! n i/i not for himself ; and it is thus, in one respect,
that he dieth not for himself.
Difficulties encountered by the Federal Convention.
MADISON.
AMONG the difficulties encountered by the convention,
a very important one must have lain, in combining the
requisite stability and energy in government, with the
inviolable attention due to liberty, and to the republican
form. Without substantially fcccomplishing this part of
their undertaking, they would have very imperfectly ful-
filled the object of their appointment, or the expectation
of the public ; yet, that it could not easily be accomplished,
will be denied by no one, who is unwilling to betray his
ignorance on the subject. Energy in government is
essential to that security against external and internal
danger, and to that prompt and salutary execution of the
laws, which enter into the very definition of good govern-
ment. Stability in government is essential to national
character, and to the advantages annexed to it, as well as
to that repose and confidence in the minds of the people,
which are among the chief blessings of civil society. An
irregular and mutable legislation is not more an evil in
itself, than it is odious to the people ; and it may be pro-
nounced with assurance, that the people in this country,
enlightened as they are with regard to the nature, and
interested, as the great body of them are, in the effects
of good government, will never be satisfied till somo
remedy be applied to the vicissitudes and uncertainties,
which characterize the state administrations. On compar-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK. OF PROSE. 219
ing, however, these valuable ingredients with the vital
principles of liberty, we must perceive, at once, the diffi-
culty of mingling them together in their due proportions.
The genius of republican liberty seems to demand, on the
one side, not only that all power should be derived from
the people, but that those intrusted with it should be kept
in dependence on the people, by a short duration of their
appointments ; and that, even during this short period, the
trust should be placed not in a few, but in a number of
hands. Stability, on the contrary, requires that the hands
in which power is lodged should remain for a length of
time the same. A frequent change of men will result
from a frequent return of elections ; and a frequent change
of measures from a frequent change of men ; whilst energy
in government requires not only a certain duration of pow-
er, but the execution of it by a single person.
Not less arduous must have been the task of marking the
proper line of partition between the authority of the gen-
eral, and that of the state governments. Every man will
be sensible of this difficulty, in proportion as he has been
accustomed to contemplate and discriminate objects, exten-
sive and complicated in their nature. The faculties of the
mind itself have never yet been distinguished and denned,
with satisfactory precision, by all the efforts of the most
acute and metaphysical philosophers. Sense, perception,
judgment, desire, volition, memory, imagination, are found
to be separated by such delicate shades and minute grada-
tions, that their boundaries have eluded the most subtile
investigations, and remain a pregnant source of ingenious
disquisition and controversy. x The boundaries between the
great kingdoms of nature, and, still more, between the
various provinces and lesser proportions into which they
are subdivided, afford another illustration of the same
important truth. The most sagacious and laborious natu-
ralists have never yet succeeded in tracing, with certainty,
the line which separates the district of vegetable life
from the neighbouring region of unorganized matter, or
which marks the termination of the former, and the com-
mencement of the animal empire. A still greater obscu-
rity lies in the distinctive characters, by which the object
220 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
in each of these great departments of nature have been
arranged and assorted.
When we pass from the works of nature, in which all
the delineations are perfectly accurate, and appear to be
otherwise only from the imperfection of the eye which
surveys them, to the institutions of man, in which the ob-
scurity arises as well from the object itself, as from the
organ by which it is contemplated, we must perceive the
necessity of moderating still further our expectations and
hopes from the efforts of human sagacity. Experience has
instructed us, that no skill in the science of government
has yet been able to discriminate and define, with sufficient
certainty, its three great provinces, the legislative, the
executive, and the judiciary ; or even the privileges and
powers of the different legislative branches. Questions
daily occur, in the course of practice, which prove the
obscurity that reigns over these subjects, and which puzzle
the greatest adepts in political science.
Besides the obscurity arising from the complexity of
objects, and the imperfection of the human faculties, the
medium through which the conceptions of men are con-
veyed to each other, adds a fresh embarrassment. The
use of words is to express .ideas. Perspicuity, therefore,
requires not only that the ideas should be distinctly formed,
but that they should be expressed by words distinctively
and exclusively appropriated to them. But no language is
BO copious as to supply words and phrases for every com-
plex idea, or so correct as not to include many equivocally
denoting different ideas. Hence it must happen, that, how-
ever accurately objects may be discriminated in themselves,
and however accurately the discrimination may be consid-
ered, the definition of them may be rendered inaccurate
by the inaccuracy of the terms in which it is delivered.
And this unavoidable inaccuracy must be greater or less,
according to the complexity and novelty of the objects
defined. When the Almighty himself condescends to
address mankind in their own language, his meaning,
luminous as it must be, is rendered dim and doubtful
by the cloudy medium through which it ia communi-
cated.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 221
Here, then, are three sources of vague and incorrect
definitions ; indistinctness of the object, imperfection of
the organ of perception, inadequateness of the vehicle of
ideas. Any one of these must produce a certain degree
of obscurity. The convention, in delineating the boundary
between the federal and state jurisdictions, must have
experienced the full effect of them all.
Would it be wonderful if, under the pressure of all
these difficulties, the convention should have been forced
into some deviations from that artificial structure and regu-
lar symmetry, which an abstract view of the subject might
lead an ingenious theorist to bestow on a constitution plan-
ned in his closet or in his imagination ? The real wonder
is, that so many difficulties should have been surmounted ;
and surmounted with unanimity almost as unprecedented
as it must have been unexpected. It is impossible for any
man of candour to reflect on this circumstance without par-
taking of the astonishment. It is impossible for the man
of pious reflection not to perceive in it the finger of that
Almighty Hand, which has been so frequently and signally
extended to our relief in the critical stages of the revolution.
Reflections on the Battle of Lexington. EDWARD
EVERETT.
IT was one of those great days, one of those elemental
occasions in the world's affairs, when the people rise and
act for themselves. Some organization and preparation had
been made ; but, from the nature of the case, with scarce
any effect on the events of that day. It may be doubted,
whether there was an efficient order given the whole day
to any body of men as large as a regiment. It was the
people, in their first capacity, as citizens and as freemen,
starting from their beds at midnight, from their firesides,
and their fields, to take their own cause into their own
hands. Such a spectacle is the height of the moral sub-
lime ; when the want of every thing is fully made up by
the spirit of the cause ; and the soul within stands in place
of discipline, organization, resources. In the prodigious
19*
222 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
efforts of a veteran army, beneath the dazzling splendour
of their array, there is something revolting to the reflecting
mind. The ranks are filled with the desperate, the
mercenary, the depraved ; an iron slavery, by the name
of subordination, merges the free will of one hundred
thousand men in the unqualified despotism of one ; the
humanity, mercy, and remorse, which scarce ever de-
sert the individual bosom, are sounds without a meaning
to that fearful, ravenous, irrational monster of prey, a
mercenary army. It is hard to say who are most to be
commiserated, the wretched people on whom it is let loose,
or the still more wretched people whose substance has
been sucked out, to nourish it into strength and fury. But
in the efforts of the people, of the people struggling for
their rights, moving not in organized, disciplined masses,
but in their spontaneous action, man for man, and heart for
heart, though I like not war, nor any of its works, there
is something glorious. They can then move forward
without orders, act together without combination, and brave
the flaming lines of battle, without entrenchments to cover,
or walls to shield them. No dissolute camp has worn off
from the feelings of the youthful soldier the freshness of
that home, where his mother and his sisters sit waiting,
with tearful eyes and aching hearts, to hear good news
from the wars ; no long service in the ranks of the con-
queror has turned the veteran's heart into marble ; their
valor springs not from recklessness, from habit, from indif-
ference to the preservation of a life, knit by no pledges to
the life of others ; but in the strength and spirit of the cause
alone they act, they contend, they bleed. In this they con-
quer. The people always conquer. They always must con-
quer. Armies may be defeated ; kings may be overthrown,
and new dynasties imposed by foreign arms on an ignorant
and slavish race, that care not in what language the cove-
nant of their subjection runs, nor in whose name the deed
of their barter and sale is made out. But the people never
invade ; and, when they rise against the invader, are never
subdued. If they are driven from the plains, they fly to
the mountains. Steep rocks and everlasting hills are their
castles; the tangled, pathless thicket their palisado ; and
nature, God, is their ally. Now he overwhelms the
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 223
hosts of their enemies beneath his drifting mountains of
sand ; now he buries them beneath an atmosphere of falling
snows ; he lets loose his tempests on their fleets ; he puts
a folly into their counsels, a madness into the hearts of
their leaders ; and he never gave, and never will give, a full
and final triumph over a virtuous, gallant people, resolved
to be free.
Purpose of the Monument on Bunker Hill. WEBSTER.
WE know that the record of illustrious actions is most
safely deposited in the universal remembrance of mankind.
We know, that if we could cause this structure to ascend,
not only till it reached the skies, but till it pierced them,
its broad surfaces could still contain but part of that, which,
in an age of knowledge, hath already been spread over the
earth, and which History charges herself with making
known to all future times. We know that no inscription,
on entablatures less broad than the earth itself, can carry
information of the events we commemorate where it has
not already gone ; and that no structure, which shall not
outlive the duration of letters and knowledge among men,
can prolong the memorial. But our object is, by this edi-
fice, to show our deep sense of the value and importance
of the achievements of our ancestors ; and, by presenting
this work of gratitude to the eye, to keep alive similar
sentiments, and to foster a constant regard to the principles
of the revolution. Human beings are composed not of rea-
son only, but of imagination also, and sentiment ; and that
is neither wasted nor misapplied, which is appropriated to
the purpose of giving right direction to sentiments, and
opening proper springs of feeling in the heart.
Let it not be supposed that our object is to perpetuate
national hostility, or even to cherish a mere military spirit.
It is higher, purer, nobler. We consecrate our work to
the spirit of national independence, and we wish that the
light of peace may rest upon it forever. We rear a memo-
rial of our conviction of that unmeasured benefit, which
has been conferred on our land, and of the happy influences,
224 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PltOSE.
which have been produced, by the same events, on the
general interests of mankind. We come, as Americans,
to mark a spot, which must be forever dear to us, and our
posterity. We wish, that whosoever, in all coming time,
shall turn his eye hither, may behold that the place is not
undistinguished where the first great battle of the revolu-
tion was fought. We wish, that this structure may pro-
claim the magnitude and importance of that event to every
class and every age. We wish, that infancy may learn the
purpose of its erection from maternal lips, and that weary
and withered age may behold it, and be solaced by the
recollections which it suggests. We wish, that labor may
look up here, and be proud, in the midst of its toil. We
wish, that, in those days of disaster, which, as they come
upon all nations, must be expected to come on us also,
desponding patriotism may turn its eyes hither, and be
assured that the foundations of our national power still
stand strong. We wish, that this column, rising towards
heaven among the pointed spires of so many temples dedi-
cated* to God, may contribute also to produce, in all minds,
a pious feeling of dependence and gratitude. We wish,
finally, that the last object on the sight of him who leaves
his native shore, and the first to gladden his who revisits
it, may be something which shall remind him of the liberty
and glory of his country. Let it rise, till it meet the sun
in his coming ; let the earliest light of morning gild it, and
parting day linger and play upon its summit
Albums and the Alps. BUCKMINSTER.
You find, in some of the rudest passes in the Alps,
homely inns, which public beneficence has erected for the
convenience o( the weary and benighted traveller. In
most of these inns albums are kept to record the names
of those, whose curiosity has led them- into these regions of
barrenness, and the album is not unfrequently the only
book in the house. In the album of the Grand Chartreuse,
Gray, on his way to Geneva, recorded his deathless name,
and left that exquisite Latin ode, beginning, " ! tu sever!
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 225
religio loci ;" an ode which is indeed " pure nectar." It
is curious to observe in these books the differences of na-
tional character. The Englishman usually writes his name
only, without explanation or comment. The Frenchman
records something of his feelings, destination, or business ;
commonly adding a line of poetry, an epigram, or some
exclamation of pleasure or disgust. The German leaves a
long dissertation upon the state of the roads, the accom-
modations, &c., detailing at full length whence he came and
whither he is going, through long pages of crabbed
writing.
In one of the highest regions of the Swiss Alps, after a
day of excessive labour in reaching the summit of our
journey, near those thrones erected ages ago for the ma-
jesty of Nature, we stopped, fatigued and dispirited, on a
spot destined to eternal barrenness, where we found one of
these rude but hospitable inns open to receive us. There
was not another human habitation within many miles. AH
the soil, which we could see, had been brought thither, and
placed carefully round the cottage, to nourish a few cabbages
and lettuces. There were some goats, which supplied the
cottagers with milk ; a few fowls lived in the house ; and
the greatest luxuries of the place were new-made cheeses,
and some wild Alpine mutton, the rare provision of the trav-
eller. Yet here Nature had thrown off the veil, and
appeared in all her sublimity. Summits of bare granite
rose all around us. The snow-clad tops of distant Alps
seemed to chill the moon-beams that lighted on them-,
and we felt all the charms of the picturesque, mingled
with the awe inspired by unchangeable grandeur. We
seemed to have reached the original elevations of the
globe, o'ertopping forever the tumults, the vices and the
miseries of ordinary existence, far out of hearing of the
murmurs of a busy world, which discord ravages, and
luxury corrupts. We asked for the album, and a large
folio was brought to us, almost filled with the scrawls of
every nation on earth that could write. Instantly our
fatigue was forgotten, and the evening passed away pleas-
antly in the entertainment which this book afforded us.
I copied the following French couplet :
U26 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
" Dans ces sauvages lieux tout orpueil s'humanise ;
Dieu a'y inontre plus grand ; I'hoinme s'y pulverise !
"c-igned,
" p. ed. tr^nir "
I wish I could preserve the elegance, as well as the con-
densed sentiment of the original :
Rill are these rugged realms ; e'en pride ia hushed ;
God seems more grand ; man crumbles into dust.
Interview with Robert Southey. GRISCOM.
ON alighting at Keswick, I inquired for the house of
Robert Southey ; for it is in this poetic region that the
laureate has fixed his residence; remote from the confusion
and initittfons of the metropolis ; but holding a daily inter-
course, by the rapid conveyance of the mail, with that
great fountain of intelligence, and deriving all that he may
wish from the prolific stores of Paternoster- Row. His
house is situated on an eminence, with a fine prospect
before it ; a plain and unimposing, but comfortable man-
sion. I was introduced to him in his library up stairs. ;md
was met with an ease and politeness, which distinguished
at once the man of kind feeling, of good sense, and good
society. He has still an air of youthfulness in his counte-
nance, and his manners are lively and animated.
There are few men, I should presume, in England, who
are spending their lives more classically, in a more agreea-
bl<4 literary retirement, than Robert Southey. His library
occupies several rooms. The fertility of his mind, and the
activity of his researches, appear to leave him at no loss in
the selection of a subject for the employment of his geni-
us; and the different productions of his pen are too well
known to need any remarks from me upon their various
merits. His early life was spent in Bristol. It uus in
that neighbourhood that Coleridge,* Lovell, and himself, all
* The youthful enthusiasm, which dictated this romantic idea, is very
beautifully referred to in an essay in the first volume of "The Friend,"
by Coleridge ; whose prose writings should be more extensively known
In this country than they are. Ep,
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 227
fellow commoners at Oxford, attached themselves to three
sisters of a respectable family, whom they married ; and,
in the ardour of youthful anticipation, and with those high-
wrought notions of worldly happiness, which always have
much more of poetry than of sober judgment in them, they
resolved, with their wives, to embark for the United States,
to settle themselves in a retired spot on the banks of the
Susquchannah, there to plant an Arcadia, and there to
spend a life of primitive simplicity and Elysian enjoyment
Happily for their comfort, and the credit of English litera-
ture, the scheme was given up.
Southey is about forty-five years of age. His person
is of the middle size, and his looks and manners are indie
.ative of frankness and amiableness of character. In the
same house, but in separate apartments, the two sisters of
his wife, the widow of Lovell, and the wife of Coleridge,
the poet, also reside. The former of these two, who lost
her husband soon after her marriage, has employed herself
in instructing the daughters of her brother-in-law. Cole
ridge lives, I believe, altogether in London ; the separation
from his wife arising more from his eccentricities and sin-
gularities than from any breach of family agreement. His
two 'sons remain with their mother, and I have understood
that Southey, with a liberality that does him the highest
honour, takes upon himself the responsibility of their edu-
cation, and the utmost harmony prevails in the family.
In rising to take leave, after an hour of delightful con-
versation, Southey proposed to walk with- me on the mar-
gin of the lake. We had a charming ramble of half a
mile along a path which presented, at various points, beau-
tiful views of the Dement- water. This end of the lake
is diversified with islands, some of which are adorned with
elegant mansions. Boats, neatly painted, and adapted to
excursions of pleasure, are kept by many of the inhab-
itants of Keswick. The grounds, through which we
walked, belonged formerly to the Earl of Derwent-water ;
but, becoming confiscated to the crown, they were appro-
priated to the support of Greenwich Hospital, to the funds
of which they still contribute. We walked to a point
which gave us a view of the southern termination of the
lake, and the entrance of Bo rowdale. The scenery is
228 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
wild and beautiful, reminding nve of Lake George .n our
own state, but more subdued and enriched by cultivation.
Skiddaw, one of the highest mountains in Cumberland,
rises a little to the north of Keswick. Its summit is
about three thousand feet above the level of the sea,
equalling, in point of elevation, the highest peak of the
High-lands, through which the Hudson passes, just below
Newburgh. Southey informed me that he had mink- an
excursion to the top of this mountain with Sir Humphrey
Davy. Near the summit the latter discovered a mineral
of rare occurrence, (if I recollect rightly, the chiastolito.)
found only in clay-slate, which appears to be the prevailing
formation of this mountain. Our walk along- the Derwent
having extended as far as my limited time would admit,
we returned to one of the village inns, where I parted
with a person, whose conversation and suavity of manners,
more than the poetry and the prose, which have placed
him among the most prominent of living authors, have left
on impression which I shall delight in cherishing.
Christmas. IRVING.
THERE is nothing in England that exercises a more
delightful spell over my imagination than the lingerings of
the holyday customs and rural games of former times.
They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the
May-morning of my life, when as yet I only knew the
world through books, and believed it to be all that poets
had painted ; and they bring with them the flavour of those
honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with equal fallacy,
I am apt to think the world was more home-bred, social,
and joyous, than at present. I regret to say, that they
are daily growing more and more faint, being gradually
worn away by time, but still more obliterated by modern
fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of
Gothic architecture, which we see crumbling in various
parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of
ages, and partly lost in the additions and alterations of lat-
ter days. Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fond-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 229
ness about the rural game and holyday revel, from which
it has derived so many of its themes as the ivy winds its
rich foliage about the gothic arch and mouldering tower,
gratefully repaying their support, by clasping together
their tottering remains, and, as it were, embalming them
in verdure.
Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awak-
ens the strongest and most heart-felt associations. There
is a tone of sacred and solemn feeling, that blends with our
conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and
elevated enjoyment. The services of the church about
this season are extremely tender and inspiring. They
dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and
the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement.
They gradually increase in fervour and pathos during the
season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on
the morning that brought peace and good-will to men. I
do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feel-
ings, than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ
performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling
every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony.
It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of
yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announce-
ment of the religion of peace and love, has been made the
season for gathering together of family connexions, and
drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which
the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are con-
tinually operating to cast loose ; of calling back the chil-
dren of a family who have launched forth in life, and wan-
dered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the
paternal hearth, that rallying place of the affections, there
to grow young and loving again among the endearing
mementos of childhood.
There is something in the very season of the year, that
gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other
times we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the
beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth, and dissipate
themselves over the sunny landscape, and we " live abroad
and every where." The song of the bird, the murmur of
the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft
voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn,
20
230 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
earth, with Its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven,
with its deep, delicious blue, and its cloudy magnificence,
all fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in
the luxury of mere sensation. But in the depth of win-
ter, when Nature lies despoiled of every charm, and
wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our
gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and deso-
lation of the landscape, the short, gloomy days, and dark-
some nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut
in our feelings, also, from rambling abroad, and make us
more keenly disposed for the pleasures of the social circle.
Our thoughts are more concentrated ; our friendly sympa-
thies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of
each other's society, and are brought more closely togeth-
er by dependence on each other for enjoyment, llr.ut
mill-ill unto heart, and we draw our pleasures from the
deep wells of living kindness, which lie in the deep rrrr-srs
of our bosoms, and which, when resorted to, furnish forth
the pure element of domestic felicity. The pitchy gloom
without makes the heart dilate on entering the room tilled
with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy
blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through
the room, and lights up each countenance into a kindlier
welcome. Where does the honest face of hospitality
expand into a broadsr and more cordial smile where is
the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent than by the
winter fire-side ? And, as the hollow blast of wintry wind
rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, wlii-tli's
about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what
can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and shel-
tered security, with which we look round upon the com-
fortable chamber, and the scene of domestic hilarity ?
Declaration of American Independence. JEFFERSON.
WHEN, in the course of human events, it becomes
necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands
which have connected them with another, and to assume,
among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal sta-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 231
tion, to which the laws of nature and of nature's God
entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind
requires that they should declare the causes which impel
them to the separation.
We hold Ihese truths to be self-evident: 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 ; that, to secure these
rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving
their just powers from the consent of the governed ; that,
whenever any form of government becomes destructive of
these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it,
and to institute a new government, laying its foundation on
such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as
to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and
happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate, that govern
ments long established should not be changed for light and
transient causes ; and, accordingly, all experience halh
shown, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while
evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing
the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a
long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably
the same object, evinces a design to reduce them undei
absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to
throw off such government, and to provide new guards for
their future security. Such has been the patient suffer-
ance of these colonies, and such is now the necessity
which constrains them to alter their former systems of
government. The history of the present king of Great
Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all
having in direct object the establishment of an absolute
tyranny over these states. To prove this, let facts be sub-
mitted to a candid worid.
He has refused his assent to laws the most wholesome
and necessary for the public good. He has forbidden his
governors to pass laws of immediate and pressing impor-
tance, unless suspended in their operation till his assent
should be obtained ; and, when so suspended, he has utterly
neglected to attend to them He has refused to pass other
laws for the accommodation of large districts of people,
unless those people would relinquish the right of represen-
232 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
tation in the legislature a right inestimable to them, and
formidable to tyrants only. He has called together legis-
lative bodies, at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant
from the depositories of their public records, for the sole
purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his meas-
ures. He has dissolved representatives houses, repeatedly,
for opposing, with manly firmness, his invasions on the
rights of the people. He has refused, for a long time after
such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected ; whereby
the legislative powers, incapable of annihilation, have re-
turned to the people at large for their exercise ; the state
remaining, in the mean tinte, exposed to all the danger of
invasion from without, and convulsions within. He has
endeavoured to prevent the population of these states ; for
that purpose obstructing the laws for naturalization of for-
eigners ; refusing to pass others, to encourage their migra-
tion hither, and raising the conditions of new appropriations
of lands. He has obstructed the administration of justice,
by refusing his assent to laws for establishing judiciary
powers. He has made judges dependent on his will, alone,
for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and pay-
ment of their salaries. He has erected a multitude of new
offices, and sent hither swarms of officers to harass our
people, and eat out their substance. He has kept among
us, in times of peace, standing armies, without the consent
of our legislatures. He has affected to render the milita-
ry independent of, and superior to, the civil power. He
has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction
foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our
laws ; giving his assent to their acts of pretended legisla-
tion, for quartering large bodies of armed troops among
us ; for protecting them, by a mock trial, from punishment
for any murders which they should commit on the inhabit-
ants of these states ; for cutting off our trade with all parts
of the world ; for imposing taxes on us without our con-
sent ; for depriving us, in many cases, of the benefits of
trial by jury ; for transporting us beyond seas, to be tried
for pretended offences ; for abolishing the free system of
English laws in a neighbouring province, establishing there-
in an arbitrary government, and enlarging its boundaries
so as to render it at once an example, and fit instrument,
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 233
lor introducing the same absolute rule into these colonies ;
for taking away our charters, abolishing our most valuable
aws, and altering fundamentally the forms of our govern-
ments ; for suspending our own legislatures, and declaring
themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all
cases whatsoever. He has abdicated government here, by
declaring us out of his protection, and waging war against
us. He has plundered our seas, ravaged our coast?, burned
our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people. He is at
this time transporting large armies of foreign mercenaries,
Co complete the work of death, desolation, and tyranny, al
ready begun, with circumstances of cruelty and perfidy,
scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally
unworthy the head of a civilized nation. He has con-
strained our fellow-citizens, taken captive on the high seas,
to bear arms against their country, to become the execu-
tioners of their friends and brethren, or to fall themselves
by their hands. He has excited domestic insurrections
amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants
of our frontiers the merciless Indian savages, whose known
rule of warfare is, an undistinguished destruction of all
ages, sexes, and conditions.
In every stage of these oppressions, we have petitioned for
redress in th most humble terms. Our repeated petitions have
been answered only by repeated injury. A prince, whose
character is thus marked by every act which may define a
tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people. Nor have
we been wanting in attention to our British brethren. We
have warned them, from time to time, of attempts made
by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdic-
tion over us. We have reminded them of the circumstan-
ces of our emigration and settlement here. We have ap-
pealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we
have conjured them, by the ties of our common kindred,
to disavow these usurpations, which would inevitably in-
terrupt our connexions and correspondence. They, too,
have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity.
We must therefore acquiesce in the necessity which de-
nounces our separation ; and hold them, as we hold the rest
of mankind, enemies in war, in peace, friends,
20 *
234 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
We, therefore, the representatives of the United States
of America, in general congress assembled, appealing to
the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our
intentions, do, in the name and by the authority of the good
people of these colonies, solemnly publish and declare, that
these united colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and
independent states ; that they are absolved from all alle-
giance to the British crown, and that all political connex-
ion between them and the state of Great Britain is, and
ought to be, totally dissolved ; and that, as free and inde-
pendent states, they have full power to levy war, conclude
peace, contract alliances, establish commerce, and to do all
other acts and things which independent states may of
right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with
a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence,
we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes,
and our sacred honour.
Mementos of the Instability of human Existence.
FITCH.
WE have such a memento in the fact, that others, who
have been sharing with us in our privileges, are constant-
ly leaving the world. They who dwell with us in the city
of our residence on earth beings of Immortality are
constantly bidding us adieu, and entering into eternity. All
our privileges thus become associated with the memory of
former companions, who once had their abode below. They
dwelled with us but a few days, they scarcely made them-
selves known to us, when they gave the farewell look,
pressed the parting hand", bade adieu, and entered on an
abode in eternity. The tolling bell, the mournful proces-
sion, the grave of their relics, the erected monument, sig-
nalized their departure ; and now all around the city of our
abode are the traces of their former presence, reminding us
of our having no continuing residence here. We look back
at the days they passed with us before they entered into
eternity, and they appear to us but a hand breadth ; and,
from their dwelling in eternity, we seem to hear them say,
COMMON- PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 235
as we miss them from the scenes in which they once min-
gled with us, that these are scenes where pilgrims to eter-
nity tarry but a day. When in the habitations where they
once dwelt with us, or in the streets where they walked with
us, or the sanctuary to which they went with us in company,
or at the mercy-seat where they once bent with us the knee
of devotion, or by the Scriptures before which they once
listened with us to the words of Jesus Christ, we look for
them, but they are gone ; the place which they once occu-
pied at our side is vacant ; they are far from us in their
eternal dwelling ; and the places where we once knew
them are now so many mementos, that here we ourselves
have no continuing city.
We have another continual memento of this fact, in the
advancement we are constantly making ourselves towards
eternity. Every thing in the city of our residence on
earth reminds us, that we are never stationary in it, but are
always advancing towards the period of our final departure.
We have entered into a scene of divine wonders, but we
cannot delay to spend our existence here in gazing upon
them; we are constantly in motion, urging our way through
them to an eternal dwelling. Each breaking morn, each
radiant noon, each shadowy eve, as they pass by us, make
no tarrying, but pass us never more to return. The joc-
und Spring, Summer, with his swarms of life, Autumn,
with her golden harvest, Winter, with his icy sceptre and
his snowy robes, as each year they pass us, are in constant
motion, and, while we greet them, take their leave of us
forever. Each changing scene of life arrests our minds,
enlists our feelings ; then takes its final leave of us, the
sons of eternity. Creeping infancy, merry boyhood, as-
piring youth, industrious manhood, decrepit age, we meet
in swift succession ; just greet, and bid adieu for eternity.
In the midst of all the privileges of our city here below,
do our advancing steps towards the eternal world serve
constantly to remind us, that here we have no permanent
dwelling. The aggregate of days that have passed by us,
the yearly seasons, the scenes of life, and periods of age,
since we came into possession of our privileges, since we
first knew our dwellings, walked our streets, and entered
our sanctuaries, and heard the words of God, are so many
236 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
advances towards eternity ; and tell, as they thicken on
the path we leave, how soon we reach the close of our pil-
grimage, and enter upon unknown worlds.
We have another constant memento of the fact, again, in
our inability of prolonging our continuance in the world.
We have constant notices around us of our frailty, and ina-
bility to continue to ourselves our present privileges for the
future. Even in the city of our privileges below, do we
see ourselves hurried on, by an unseen hand we cannot
control ; the almighty Guide who conducts us seems un-
willing we should stay ; the God of our spirits, who goes
with us, designs we should have our settled dwelling in
eternity ; and soon he will bring us to the gates of the
city, and, at the bidding we cannot resist, must we take
our leave of it for eternity. Around us, every thing is be-
tokening his design of our departure, and our inability to
prolong our stay. The frail hold we take of every earthly
possession tells that our grasp on none is for eternity. We
are hurried on from object to object, before we can call
any thing ours. We meet friends, hut, while we cling
to them, the unseen hand of Providence tears us away
from their embrace. Beauty we would linger here to ad-
inire, but, while we look, the grace of the fashion of it
perisheth. Power just takes us by the hand, and bids us
adieu to greet a successor. Fame crowns us with her
wreath, but, while we feel the rising flush of joy, she
plucks it off to sport with others. Wealth comes to feast
us, and roll us in his car of pleasures, and, while accepting
his proposals, he dismisses us to tempt some other pilgrims
on their way to eternity. The unseen hand of Providence
thus tears us away from object after object, to show that
here is not our rest, and that our hold on earth is frail and
giving way. Around the city of our habitation, too, are
the messengers he sends to warn us of this approaching
departure. Decay stands with tottering limbs and feeble
breath, and lisps to us, with dying life, that we draw nigh
the gates of our habitation, and soon will leave it for eter-
nal worlds. Diseases busy messenger? fly here and
there, to tell us of our frail abode, and whisper in our ears
" eternity." Death, armed with resistless power, stands
with his commissions, and their unknown dates, to lead us
COMMON-PLACE HOOK OF PROSE. 237
out of our residence below, and bar on us its gates forever.
Every where in the city of our abode are we reminded,
that we have not the power to prolong our stay in it, and
that soon we shall leave its privileges, its dwellings, its
streets, its sanctuaries, its Scriptures, its busy throng, for
eternity. -^
There is another means reminding us constantly of this
fact, the voice of God. In the city of our habitation be-
low, God has published his glories, his statutes, his offers
of pardon and assistance, for our use as sojourners here,
who are passing to eternity. He, the infinite Being, who
is from everlasting to everlasting himself, has conferred on
us an existence, that is to continue and grow up by the
side of his, through everlasting ages. He has beheld us,
in the first stages of our being here, engaged in unrighteous
rebellion against his authority, and bent on neglect of his
glories ; and, moved with pity, sent his everlasting Son to
atone for our guilt, and to call us to repentance, and his
Holy Spirit to indite his will, and influence us to obedience.
In our habitation we have his word ; here temples are
erected for his service ; a day is appointed by him for men
to assemble ; ministers commissioned to teach ; and they
who love his name speak to one another and to their fellow-
men of his designs. Wherever we go, then, the voice of
God is reaching us, and re-echoing the truth, that we are
beings whose final dwelling-place is eternity, and who have
here no continuing city. The Bible, wherever it meets
our eye, reiterates the voice of God, that we must die and
rise again in other worlds. In each reproof of conscience,
hu awful voice is heard to speak a reckoning day in eter-
nity. In each act we do for God or for his kingdom here,
his voice of love whispers of eternal joys. Each revolving
Sabbath, with its pealing bells, and open sanctuaries, and
solemn rites, bears on its hours his voice, that warns us of
an abode in heaven or hell. Each sermon is the call he
makes to hear his voice to-day. In each season of prayer
we hear him say, that we have not reached our home
that we are pilgrims here. From the throne of glory, on
which he will sit in judgment, and assign us our dwelling
In eternity, the Saviour now sends down the voice of mo-
238 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
nition ; and, while it rolls round the world we dwell in, ten
thousand messengers echo back the voice to our ears, that
" here we have no continuing city."
Description of the Preaching of Whitfield.
Miss FRANCIS.
THERE was nothing in the appearance of this extraor-
dinary man, which would lead you to suppose that a Felix
could tremble before him. " He was something above
the middle stature, well proportioned, and remarkable for
a native gracefulness of manner. His complexion was very
fair, his features regular, and his dark blue eyes small and
lively : in recovering from the measles, he had contracted
a squint with one of them ; but this peculiarity rather ren-
dered the expression of his countenance more remember-
able, than in any degree lessened the effect of its uncom-
mon sweetness. His voice excelled, both in melody and
compass ; and its fine modulations were happily accompa-
nied by that grace of action, which he possessed in an em-
inent degree, and which has been said to be the chief
requisite for an orator." To have seen him when he first
commenced, one would have thought him any thing but
enthusiastic and glowing; but, as he proceeded, his heart
warmed with his subject, and his manner became impetu-
ous and animated, till, forgetful of every thing around him,
he seemed to kneel at the throne of Jehovah, and to be-
seech in agony for his fellow-beings.
After he had finished his prayer, he knelt for a long
time in profound silence ; and so powerfully had it affected
the most heartless of his audience, that a stillness like that
of the tomb pervaded the whole house. Before he com-
menced his sermon, long, darkening columns crowded the
bright, sunny sky of the morning, and swept their dull
shadows over the building, in fearful augury of the storm.
His text was, " Strive to enter in at the strait gate ; for
many, I say unto you, shall seek to enter in, and shall not
be able." " See that emblem of human life," said
pointing to a shadow that was flitting across the floor. " It
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 239
passed for a moment, and concealed the brightness of heav-
en from our view : but it is gone. And where will ye
be, my hearers, when your lives have passed away like
that dark cloud ? Oh, my dear friends, 1 see thousands
sitting attentive, with their eyes fixed on the poor, unwor-
thy preacher. In a few days, we shall all meet at the judg-
ment-seat of Christ. We shall form a part of that vast
assembly th^t will gather before the throne ; and every
eye will behold the judge. With a voice whose call you
must abide and answer, he will inquire whether on earth
ye strove to enter in at .the strait gate ; whether you were
supremely devoted to God ; whether your hearts were ab-
sorbed in him. My blood runs cold when I think how
many of you will then seek to enter in, and shall not be
able. Oh, what plea can you make before the Judge of
the whole earth ? Can you say it has been your whole
endeavour to mortify the flesh, with its affections and Justs ?
that your life has been one long effort to do the will of
God ? No ! you must answer, I made myself easy in the
world by flattering myself that all would end well ; but I
have deceived my own soul, and am lost.
" You, O false and hollow Christian, of what avail will
it be that you have done many things ; that you have read
much in the sacred word ; that you have made long prayers ;
that you have attended religious duties, and appeared holy
in the eyes of men ? What will all this be, if, instead ot
loving Him supremely, you have been supposing you should
exalt yourself in heaven by acts really polluted and un-
holy ?
" And you, rich man, wherefore do you hoard your sil-
ver ? wherefore count the price you have received for him
whom you every day crucify in your love of gain ? Why,
that, when you are too poor to buy a drop of cold water,
your beloved son may be rolled to hell in his chariot pil-
lowed and cushioned around him."
His eye gradually lighted up, as he. proceeded, till,
towards the close, it seemed to sparkle with celestial fire.
" Oh, sinners !" he exclaimed, " by all your hopes of
happiness, I beseech you to repent. Let not the wrath of
God be awakened. Let not the fires of eternity be kin-
dled against you. See there !" said he, pointing to the
240 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PIIOSE.
lightning, which played on the corner of the pulpit " 'Tis
a glance from the angry eye of Jehovah ! Hark !" con-
tinued he, raising his finger in a listening attitude, as the
distant thunder grew louder and louder, and broke in one
tremendous crash over the building. " It was the voice
of the Almighty as he passed by in his anger !"
As the sound died away, he covered his face with his
hands, and knelt beside his pulpit, apparently lost in inward
and intense prayer. The storm passed rapidly away, and
the sun, bursting forth in his might, threw across the heav-
ens a magnificent arch of peace. Rising, and pointing to
the beautiful object, he exclaimed, " Look upon the rain-
bow, and praise him that made it. Very beautiful it is in
the brightness thereof. It compasseth the heavens about
with glory ; and the hands of the Most High have bend-
ed it."
The effect was astonishing. Even Somcrville shaded
his eyes when he pointed to the lightning, and knelt as he
listened to the approaching thunder ; while the deep sen-
sibility of Grace, and the thoughtless vivacity of Lucre-
tia, yielded to the powerful excitement in an unrestrained
burst of tears. " Who could resist such eloquence I" said
Lucretia, as they mingled with the departing throng.
Jlnecdote of Dr. Chauncy. TUDOR.
DR. COOPER, who was a man of accomplished manners,
and fond of society, was able, by the aid of his fine talents,
to dispense with some of the severe study that others en-
gaged in. This, however, did not escape the envy and
malice of the world, and it was said, in a kind of petulant
and absurd exaggeration, that he used to walk to the south-
end of a Saturday, and, if he saw a man riding into town
in a black coat, would stop, and ask him to preach the
next day. Dr. Chauncy was a close student, very absent,
and very irritable. On these traits in the character of the
two clergymen, a servant of Dr. Chauncy laid a scheme
for obtaining a particular object from his master. Scipio
went into his master's study one morning to receive some
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. '241
directions, which the doctor having given, resumed his writ-
ing, but the servant still remained. The master, looking
up a few minutes afterwards, and supposing he had
just come in, said, " Scipio, what do you want ?" " I want
a new coat, massa." " Well, go to Mrs. Chauncy, and
tell her to give you one of my old coats ;" and was again
absorbed in his studies. The servant remained fixed. Af-
ter a while, the doctor, turning his eyes that way, saw him
again, as if for the first time, and said, " What do you want,
Scip. ?" " I want a new coat, massa." " Well, go to my
wife, and ask her to give you one of my old coats ;" and
fell to writing once more. Scipio remained in the same
posture. After a few moments, the doctor looked towards
him, and repeated the former question, " Scipio, what do
you want ?" " I want a new coat, massa." It now flashed
over the doctor's mind, that there was something of repe-
tition in this dialogue. ," Why, have I not told you before
to ask Mrs. Chauncy to give you one ? get away." " Yes,
massa, but I no want a black coat." " Not want a black
coat ! why not ?" " Why, massa, I 'fraid to tell you,
but I don't want a black coat." " What's the reason you
don't want a black coat ? tell me directly." " O ! massa,
I don't want a black coat, but I 'fraid to tell the rea-
son, you so passionate." " You rascal ! will you tell me
the reason ?" "O! massa, I'm sure you be angry." "If
I had my cane here, you villain, I'd break your bones :
will you tell me what you mean ?" " I 'fraid to tell you,
massa ; I know you be angry." The doctor's impatience
was now highly irritated, and Scipio, perceiving, by his
glance at the tongs, that he might find a substitute for the
cane, and that he was sufficiently excited, said, " Well,
massa, you make me tail, but I know you be angry I
'fraid, massa, if I wear another black coat, Dr. Cooper ask
me to preach for him !" This unexpected termination re-
alized the servant's calculation ; his irritated master burst
into a laugh, " Go, you rascal, get my hat and cane, and
tell Mrs. Chauncy she may give you a coat of any colour ;
a red one if you choose." Away went the negro to his
mistress, and the doctor to tell the story to his friend, Dr.
Cooper.
21
242 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
Effects of a Dissolution of the Federal Union.
HAMILTON.
ASSUMING it, therefore, as an established truth, that,
in case of disunion, the several states, or such combination:!
of thorn as might happen to he formed out of the wreck of
the general confederacy, would be subject to those vicissi-
tudes of peace and war, of friendship and enmity with r.ie-h
other, which have fallen to the lot of all other nations not
united under one government, let us enter into a concise
detail of some of the consequences that would attend such
a situation.
War between the states, in the first periods of their sep-
arate existence, would be accompanied with much greater
distresses than it commonly is in those countries where
regular military establishments have long obtained. The
disciplined armies always kept on foot on the continent of
Europe, though they bear a malignant aspect to liberty and
economy, have, notwithstanding, been productive of the
singular advantage of rendering sudden conquests imprac-
ticable, and of preventing that rapid desolation, which used
to mark the progress of war prior to their introduction. The
art of fortification has contributed to the same ends. The
nations of Europe are encircled with chains of fortified
places, which mutually obstruct invasion. Campaigns are
wasted in reducing two or three fortified garrisons, to gain
admittance into an enemy's country. Similar impedi-
ments occur at every step, to exhaust the strength, and
delay the progress, of an invader. Formerly, an invading
army would penetrate into the heart of a neighbouring
country almost as soon as intelligence of its approach could
be received ; but now, a comparatively small force of disci-
plined troops, acting on the defensive, with the aid of posts,
is able to impede, and finally to frustrate, the purposes of
one much more considerable. The history of war in that
quarter of the globe is no longer a history of nations sub-
dued, and empires overturned ; but of towns taken and re-
taken, of battles that decide nothing, of retreats more ben-
eficial than victories, of much effort and little acquisition.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 243
In this country the scene would be altogether reversed.
The jealousy of military establishments would postpone
them as long as possible. The want of fortifications, leav-
ing the frontier of one state open to another, would 'facili-
tate inroads. The populous states would with little diffi-
culty overrun their less populous neighbours. Conquests
would be as easy to be made as difficult to be retained.
War, therefore, would be desultory and predatory. "Plun-
der and devastation ever march in the train of irregulars.
The calamities of individuals would ever make the princi-
pal figure in events, and would characterize our exploits.
This picture is not too highly wrought; though, I con-
fess, it would not long remain a just one. Safety from ex-
ternal danger is the most powerful director of national con-
duct. Even the ardent love of liberty will, after a time,
give way to its dictates. The violent destruction of life
and property incident to war, the continual effort and
alarm attendant on a state of continual danger, will com-
pel nations the most attached to liberty to resort for repose
and security to institutions, which have a tendency to de-
stroy their civil and political rights. To be more safe, they,
at length, become willing to run the risk of being less free.
The institutions chiefly alluded to are STANDING ARMIES,
and the corresponding appendages of military establish-
ments. Standing armies, it is said, are not provided against
in the new constitution ; and it is thence inferred that they
would exist under it. This inference, from the very form
of the proposition, is, at best, problematical and uncertain.
But standing armies, it may be replied, must inevitably re-
sult from a dissolution of the confederacy. Frequent war
and constant apprehension, which require a state of as con-
stant preparation, will infallibly produce them. The weak-
er states or confederacies would first have recourse to them,
to put themselves on an equality with their more potent
neighbours. They would endeavour to supply the inferi-
ority of population and resources by a more regular and
effective system of defence, by disciplined troops, and by
fortifications. They would, at the same time, be obliged
to strengthen the executive arm of government ; in doing
which their constitutions would require a progressive di-
rection towards monarchy. It is the nature of war to in-
244 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
crease the executive, at the expense of the legislative
authority.
The expedients, which have been mentioned, would soon
give the states, or confederacies, that made use of them, a
superiority over their neighbours. Small states, or states
of less natural strength, under vigorous governments, and
with the assistance of disciplined armies, have often tri-
umphed over large states, or states of greater natural
strength, which have been destitute of these advantages.
Neither the pride nor the safety of the important states, or
confederacies, would permit them long to submit to this mor-
tifying and adventitious superiority. They would quickly re-
sort to means similar to those by which it had been effected,
to reinstate themselves in their lost pre-eminence. Thus we
should, in a little time, see established in every part of this
country the same engines of despotism, which have been
the scourge of the old world. This, at least, would be the
natural course of things ; and our reasonings will be likely
to be just, in proportion as they are accommodated to this
standard. These are not vague inferences, deduced from
speculative defects in a constitution, the whole power of
which is lodged in the hands of the people, or their repre-
sentatives and delegates ; they are solid conclusions, drawn
from the natural and necessary progress of human affairs.
If we are wise enough to preserve the union, we may
for ages enjoy an advantage similar to that of an insulated
situation. Europe is at a great distance from us. Her
colonies in our vicinity will be likely to continue too much
disproportioned in strength to be able to give us any dan-
gerous annoyance. Extensive military establishments can-
not, in this position, be necessary to our security. But, if
we should be disunited, and the integral parts should cither
remain separated, or, which is roost probable, should be
thrown together into two or three confederacies, we should '
be, in a short course of time, in the predicament of the
continental powers of Europe. Our liberties would be a
prey to the means of defending ourselves against the
ambition and jealousy of each other.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 245
This is an idea not superficial or futile, but solid and
weighty. It deserves the most serious and mature consid-
eration of every prudent and honest man, of whatever par-
ty. If such men will make a firm and solemn pause, and
meditate dispassionately on its importance ; if they will
contemplate it in all its attitudes, and trace it to all its con-
sequences, they will not hesitate to part with trivial objec-
tions to a constitution, the rejection of which would, in all
probability, put a final period to the union. The airy phan-
toms, that now flit before the distempered imaginations of
some of its adversaries, would then quickly give place to
more substantial prospects of dangers, real, certain, and
extremely formidable.
Sports on New Year's day. PAULDIJNG.
" Cold and raw the north winds blow,
Bleak in the morning early ;
All the hills are covered with snow,
And winter's now come fairly."
WINTER, with silver locks and sparkling icicles, now
gradually approached, under cover of his north-west winds,
his pelting storms, cold, frosty mornings, and bitter, freez-
ing nights. And here we will take occasion to express our
obligations to the popular author of the PIONEERS, for the
pleasure we have derived from his happy delineations of
the progress of our seasons, and the successive changes
which mark their cpurse. All that remember their youth-
ful days in the country, and look back with tender, melan-
choly enjoyment upon their slippery gambols on the ice,
their Christmas pie, and nut-crackings by the cheerful
fireside, will read his pages with a gratified spirit, and
thank him heartily for having refreshed their memory
with the half-effaced recollections of scenes and manners,
labours and delights, which, in the progress of Time, and
the changes which every where mark his course, will, in
some future age, perhaps, live only in the touches of his
pn. If, in the course of our history, we should chance
to dwell upon scenes somewhat similar to those he de-
21*
246 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
scribes, or to mark the varying tints of our seasons with
a sameness of colouring, let us not be stigmatized with
borrowing from him, since it is next to impossible to be
true to nature, without seeming to have his sketches in our
eye.
The holydays, those wintry blessings, which cheer the
heart of young and old, and give to the gloomy depths of
winter the life and spirit of laughing, jolly spring, were
now near at hand. The chopping-knife gave token of good-
ly minced pies, and the bustle of the kitchen afforded shrewd
indications of what was coming by and by. The celebra-
tion of the new year, it is well known, came originally
from the northern nations of Europe, who still keep up
many of the practices, amusements, and enjoyments, known
to their ancestors. The Heer Piper valued himself upon
being a genuine northern man, and, consequently, held the
winter holydays in special favour a,)d affection. In addi-
tion to this hereditary attachment to ancient customs, it was
shrewdly suspected, that his zeal in celebrating these good
old sports was not a little quickened, in consequence of his
mortal antagonist, William Penn, having hinted, in the
course of their controversy, that the practice of keeping
holydays savoured not only of Popery, but paganism.
Before the Heer consented to sanction the projects of
Dominie Kanttwell for abolishing sports and ballads, he
stipulated for full liberty, on the part of himself and his
people of Elsingburgh, to eat, drink, sing and frolic as much
as they liked, during the winter holydays. In fact, the
Dominie made no particular opposition to this suspension
of his blue-laws, being somewhat addicted to good eating
and drinking, whenever the occasion justified ; that is to
say, whenever such accidents came in his way.
It had long been the custom with Governor Piper to
usher in the new year with a grand supper, to which the
Dominie, the members of the council, and certain of the
most respectable burghers, were always bidden. This
year, he determined to see the old year out, and the new
one in, as the phrase was, having just heard of a great vic-
tory gained by the Bulwark of the Protestant Religion, the
immortal Gustavus Adolphus ; which, though it happened
nearly four years before, had only now reached the village
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 247
of Elsingburgh. Accordingly, the Snow Ball Bombie was
set to work in the cooking of a mortal supper ; which,
agreeably to the taste of West Indian epicures, she sea-
soned with such enormous quantities of red pepper, that
whoever ate was obliged to drink, to keep his mouth from
getting on fire, like unto a chimney.
Exactly at ten o'clock, the guests sat down to the table,
where they ate and drank to the success of the Protestant
cause, the glory of the great Gustavus, the downfall of
Popery and the Quakers, with equal zeal and patriotism.
The instant the clock struck twelve, a round was fired from
the fort, and a vast and bottomless bowl, supposed to be the
identical one in which the famous wise men of Gotham
went to sea, was brought in, filled to the utmost brim with
smoking punch. The memory of the departed year, and
the hopes of the future, were then drank in a special bum-
per, after which the ladies retired, and noise and fun be-
came the order of the night. The Heer told his great
story of having surprised and taken a whole picket-guard,
under the great Gustavus ; and each of the guests con-
tributed his tale, taking special care, however, not to outdo
their host in the marvellous, a thing which always put the
Governor out of humour.
Counsellor Langfanger talked wonderfully about public
improvements ; Counsellor Varlett sung, or rather roared,
a hundred verses of a song in praise of Rhenish wine ;
and Othman Pfegel smoked and tippled, till he actually
came to a determination of bringing matters to a crisis with
the fair Christina the very next day. Such are the won-
der-working powers of hot punch ! As for the Dominie,
he departed about the dawn of day, in such a plight, that,
if it had not been impossible, we should have suspected
him of being, as it were, a little overtaken with the said
punch. To one or two persons, who chanced to see him,
he actually appeared to stagger a little ; but such was the
stout faith of the good Dominie's parishioners, that neither
of these worthy fellows would believe his own eyes suffi-
ciently to state these particulars.
A couple of hours' sleep sufficed to disperse the vapours
of punch and pepper-pot ; for heads in those days were
much harder than now, and the Heer. as well as his rois-
248 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
tering companions, rose betimes to give and receive the
compliments and good wishes of the season. The morning
was still, clear, and frosty. The sun shone with the lus-
tre, though not with the warmth, of summer, and his bright
beams were reflected, with indescribable splendour, from
the glassy, smooth expanse of ice, that spread across, and
up and down the broad river, far as the eye could see.
The smoke of the village chimneys rose straight into the
air, looking like so many inverted pyramids, spreading
gradually broader and broader, until they melted away,
and mixed imperceptibly with ether. Scarce was the sun
above the horizon, when the village was alive with rosy
boys and girls, dressed in their new suits, and going forth
with such warm anticipations of happiness, as time and ex-
perience imperceptibly fritter away into languid hopes, or
strengthening apprehensions. " Happy New Year !" came
from every mouth and every heart. Spiced beverages
and lusty cakes were given away with liberal, open hand ;
every body was welcomed to every house ; all seemed to
forget their little heart-burnings and disputes of yore ; all
seemed happy, and all were so ; and the Dominie, who al-
ways wore his coat with four great pockets on new-year
day, came home and emptied them seven times of loads
of new-year cookies.
When the gay groups had finished their rounds in the
village, the ice in front was seen all alive with the small
fry of Elsingburgh, gamboling and skating, sliding and
tumbling, helter skelter, and making the frost-bit ears of
winter glad with the sounds of mirth and revelry. In one
place was a group playing at hurley, with crooked sticks,
with which they sometimes hit the ball, and sometimes
each other's shins ; in another, a knot of sliders, following
in a row, so that, if the foremost fell, the rest were sure to
tumble over him. A little farther might be seen a few, that
had the good fortune to possess a pair of skates, luxuriat-
ing in that most graceful of all exercises, and emulated by
some half a dozen little urchins, with smooth bones fas-
tened to their feet, in imitation of the others, skating away
with a gravity and perseverance worthy of better imple-
ments. All was rout, laughter, revelry and happiness;
and that day the icy mirror of the noble Delaware reflect,
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 249
ed as light hearts as ever beat together in the new world.
At twelve o'clock, the jolly Heer, according to his imme-
morial custom, went forth from the edge of the river, dis-
tributing apples, and other dainties, together with handsful
of wampum, which, rolling away on the ice in different di-
rections, occasioned innumerable contests and squabbles
among the fry, whose disputes, tumbles, and occasional
buffetings for the prizes, were inimitably ludicrous upon
the slippery element. Among the most obstreperous and
mischievous of the crowd was that likely fellow Cupid,
who made more noise, and tripped up more heels, that day,
than any half a dozen of his cotemporaries. His voice
could be heard above all the rest, especially after the arri-
val of the Heer, before whom he seemed to think it his
duty to exert himself, while his unrestrained, extravagant
laugh, exhibited that singular hilarity of spirit, which dis-
tinguishes the deportment of the African slave from the
invariable gravity of the free red man of the western
world.
All day, and until after the sun had set, and the shadows
of night succeeded, the sports of the ice continued, and the
merry sounds rung far and near, occasionally interrupted
by those loud noises, which sometimes shoot across the ice
like a rushing earthquake, and are occasioned by its crack-
ing, as the water rises or falls.
Conclusion of " Observations on the Boston Port Bill."
JOSIAU QUINCY, JtJX.
THUS, my countrymen, from the days of Gardiner and
Morton, Gorges and Mason, Randolph and Cranfield, down
to the present day, the inhabitants of this northern region
have constantly been in dangers and troubles, from foes
open and secret, abroad and in their bosom. Our freedom
has been the object of envy, and to make void the charter
of our liberties the work and labour of an undimiuished
race of villains. One cabal having failed of success, new
conspirators have risen, and what the first could not make
" void," the next " humbly desired to revoke." To this
250 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF THOSE.
purpose one falsehood after another hath been fabricated
and spread abroad with equal turpitude and equal effronte-
ry. That minute detail, which would present actors now
on the stage, is the province of History. She, inexorably
severe towards the eminently guilty, will delineate their
characters with the point of a diamond ; and, thus blazon-
ed in the face of day, the abhorrence and execrations of
mankind will consign them to an infamous immortality.
So great has been the credulity of the British court from
the beginning, or such hath been the activity of false
brethren, that no tale inimical to the Northern Colonies,
however false or absurd, but what hath found credit with
the administration, and operated to the prejudice of the
country. Thus it was told and believed in England, that
we were not in earnest in the expedition against Canada
at the beginning of this century, and that the country did
every thing in its power to defeat the success of it, and
that the misfortune of that attempt ought to be wholly at-
tributed to the Northern Colonies : while nothing could be
more obvious, than that New England had exhausted her
youngest blood, and all her treasures, in the undertaking ;
and that every motive of self-preservation, happiness and
safety must have operated to excite these provinces to the
most spirited and persevering measures against Canada.
The people, who are attacked by bad men, have a testi-
mony of their merit, as the constitution, which is invaded
by powerful men, hath an evidence of its value. The
path of our duty needs no minute delineation ; it lies level
to the eye. Let us apply, then, like men sensible of its
importance, and determined on its fulfilment. The inroads
on our public liberty call for reparation ; the wrongs we
have sustained call for justice. That reparation and that
justice may yet be obtained by union, spirit and firmness.
But to divide and conquer was the maxim of the devil in
the garden of Eden ; and to disunite and enslave hath
been the principle of all his votaries from that period to the
present. The crimes of the guilty are to them the cords
of association, and dread of punishment the in/Hssoluble
bond of union. The combinations of public robbers ought,
therefore, to cement patriots and heroes : and, as the former
plot and conspire to undermine and destroy the common-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 251
wealth, the latter ought to form a compact for opposition,
a band of vengeance.
What insidious arts, and what detestable practices, havfl
been used to deceive, disunite and enslave the good peo-
ple of this continent ! The mystic appellations of loyalty
and allegiance, the venerable names of government and
good order, and the sacred ones of piety and public virtue,
have been alternately prostituted to that abominable pur-
pose. All the windings and guises, subterfuges and doub-
lings, of which the human soul is susceptible, have beeu
displayed on the occasion. But secrets, which were though^
impenetrable, are no longer hid ; characters deeply dis-
guised are openly revealed ; and the discovery of gross
impostors hath generally preceded but a short time their
utter extirpation.
Be not again, my countrymen, " easily captivated with
the appearances' only of wisdom and piety, professions
of a regard to liberty, and of a strong attachment to the
public interest." Your fathers have been explicitly
charged with this folly by one of their posterity. Avoid
this and all similar errors. Be cautious against the de-
ception of appearances. " By their fruits ye shall know
them," was the saying of one, who perfectly knew the
numan heart. Judge of affairs which concern social hap-
piness by facts : judge of man by his deeds. For it is very
certain, that pious zeal for days and times, for mint and
cumin, hath often been pretended by those who were in-
fidels at bottom ; and it is as certain, that attachment to the
dignity of government and the king's service, hath often
flowed from the mouths of men, who harboured the dark-
est machinations againstfthe true end of the former, and
were destitute of every right principle of loyalty to the
latter. Hence, then, -care and circumspection are neces-
sary branches of political duty. And, as " it is much easier
to restrain liberty from running into licentiousness, than
power from swelling into tyranny and oppression," so much
more caution and resistance are required against the over-
bearing of rulers, than the extravagance of the people.
To give no more authority to any order of state, and to
place no greater public confidence in any man, than ia
necessary for the general welfare, may be considered by
252 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
the people as an important point of policy. But though
craft and hypocrisy are prevalent, yet piety and virtue have
a real existence : duplicity and political imposture abound,
yet benevolence and public spirit are not altogether ban-
ished the world. As wolves will appear in sheep's cloth-
ing, so superlative knaves and parricides will assume the
vesture of the man of virtue and patriotism.
These things are permitted by Providence, no doubt, for
wise and good reasons. Man was created for a rational,
and was designed for an active being. His faculties of in-
telligence and force were given him for use. When the
wolf, therefore, is found devouring the flock, no hierarchy
forbids a seizure of the victim for sacrifice ; so, also, when
dignified impostors are caught destroying those whom their
arts deceive, though their stations destined them to pro-
tect, the sabre of justice flashes righteousness at the
stroke of execution.
Yet be not amused, my countrymen ! The extirpation
of bondage and the re -establishment of freedom are not of
easy acquisition. The worst passions of the human heart
and the most subtle projects of the human mind, are leagued
against you ; and principalities and powers have acceded to
the combination. Trials and conflicts you must, therefore,
endure ; hazards and jeopardies of life and fortune will at-
tend the struggle. Such is the fate of all noble exertions for
public liberty and social happiness. Enter not the INts \\ id-
out thought and consideration, lest you arm with timidity,
and combat with irresolution. Having engaged in the con-
flict, let nothing discourage your vigour, or repel your perse-
verance. Remember that submission to the yoke of bondage
is the worst that can befall a people, after the most fierce
and unsuccessful resistance. What can the misfortunes of
vanquishment take away, which despotism and rapine would
spare ? " It had been easy," said the great lawgiver Solon
to the Athenians, " to repress the advances of tyranny,
and prevent its establishment ; but, now it is est;il>lislii'<l
and grown to some height, it would be more glorious to de-
molish it." But nothing glorious is accomplished, nothing
great is attained, nothing valuable is secured, without mag-
nanimity of mind, and devotion of heart to the service. Bru-
tus-like, therefore, dedicate yourselves at this day to th.-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 253
service of your country ; and henceforth live a life of lib-
erty and glory. " On the ides of March," said the great
and good man to his friend Cassius, just before the battle
of Philippi, " on the ides of March I devoted my life to
my country, and since that time I have lived a life of lib-
erty and glory."
Inspired with public virtue, touched with the wrongs,
and indignant at the insults, offered his country, the high-
spirited Cassius exhibits an heroic example ; " Resolved
as we are," replied the hero to his friend, " resolved as
we are, let us march against the enemy ; for, though we
should not conquer, we have nothing to fear."
Spirits and genii like these rose in Rome, and have since
adorned Britain ; such also will one day make glorious this
more western world. America hath in store her Bruti and
Cassii her Hampdens and Sydneys patriots and heroes,
who will form a band of brothers ; men, who will have
memories and feelings, courage and swords, courage, that
shall inflame their ardent bosoms till their hands cleave
to their swords, and their swords to their enemies' hearts.
Necessity of Union between the States. JAY.
IT has often given me pleasure to observe that indepen-
dent America was not composed of detached and distant
territories, but that one connected, fertile, wide-spreading
country was the portion of our western sons of liberty.
Providence has, in a particular manner, blessed it with a
variety of soils and productions, and watered it with innu-
merable streams for the delight and accommodation of its
inhabitants. A succession of navigable waters forms a
kind of chain round its borders, as if to bind it together ;
while the most noble rivers in the world, running at con-
venient distances, present them with highways for the easy
communication of friendly aids, and the mutual transporta-
tion and exchange of their various commodities.
With equal pleasure I have as often taken notice, that
Providence has been pleased to give this one connected
country to one united people ; a people descended from the
22
254 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
same ancestors, speaking the same language, professing the
same religion, attached to the same principles of govern-
ment, very similar in their manners and customs ; and who,
by their joint counsels, arms and efforts, fighting side by
side, through a long and bloody war, have nobly establish-
ed their general liberty and independence.
This country and this people seem to have been made
for each other ; and it appears as if it were the design of
Providence, that an inheritance so proper and convenient
for a band of brethren united to each other by the strong-
est ties, should never be split into a number of unsocial,
jealous and alien sovereignties.
Similar sentiments have hitherto prevailed among all
orders and denominations of men among us. To all gen-
eral purposes we have uniformly been one people each
individual citizen every where enjoying the same national
rights, privileges and protection. As a nation we have
made peace and war; as a nation we have vanquished our
common enemies ; as a nation we have formed alliances,
and made treaties, and entered into various compacts and
conventions with foreign states.
A strong sense of the value and blessings of union in-
duced the people, at a very early period, to institute a fed-
eral government in order to preserve and perpetuate it.
They formed it almost as soon as they had a political exist-
ence ; nay, at a time when their habitations were in
flames, when many of them were bleeding in the field,
and when the progress of hostility and desolation left little
room for those calm and mature inquiries and reflections,
which must ever precede the formation of a wise and well-
balanced government for a free people. It is not to be
wondered, that a government instituted in times so inauspi-
cious should, on experiment, be found greatly deficient,
and inadequate to the purpose it was intended to answer.
This intelligent people perceived and regretted these de-
fects. Still continuing no less attached to union than ena-
moured of liberty, they observed the danger, which im-
mediately threatened the former, and more remotely the
latter ; and, being persuaded that ample security for both
could only be found in a national government more wisely
framed, they, as with one voice, convened the late convcn-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PB.OSE. 255
tion at Philadelphia, to take that important subject under
consideration.
This convention, composed of men who possessed the
confidence of the people, and many of whom had become
highly distinguished for their patriotism, virtue and wis-
dom, in times which tried the souls of men, undertook the
arduous task. In the mild season of peace, with minds
unoccupied by other subjects, they passed many months in
cool, uninterrupted and daily consultations. And finally,
without having been awed by power, or influenced by any
passion except love for their country, they presented and
recommended to the people the plan produced by their
joint and very unanimous counsels.
It is not yet forgotten, that well-grounded apprehensions
of imminent danger induced the people of America to form
the memorable congress of 1774. That body recommend-
ed certain measures to their constituents, and the event
proved their wisdom ; it yet is fresh in our memories how
soon the press began to teem with pamphlets and weekly
papers against those very measures. Not only many of
the officers of government, who obeyed the dictates of per-
sonal interest, but others, from a mistaken estimate of con-
sequences, from the undue influence of ancient attach-
ments, or whose ambition aimed at objects which did not
correspond with the public good, were indefatigable in their
endeavours to persuade the people to reject the advice of
that patriotic congress. Many, indeed, were deceived
and deluded, but the great majority reasoned and decid-
ed judiciously ; and happy they are in reflecting that they
did so.
But if the people a* large had reason to confide in the
men of that congress, few of whom had then been fully
tried or generally known, still greater reason have they
now to respect the judgment and advice of the convention ;
for it is well known that some of the most distinguished
members of that congress, who have been since tried and
justly approved for patriotism and abilities, and who have
grown old in acquiring political information, were also mem-
bers of this convention, and carried into it their accumulat-
ed knowledge and experience.
256 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
It is worthy of remark, lhat not only the first, but every
succeeding congress, as well as the late convention, have
joined with the people in thinking that the prosperity of
America depended on its union. To preserve and perpetuate
it was the great object of the people in forming that con-
vention ; and it is also the great object of the plan, which
the convention has advised them to accept. With what
propriety therefore, or for what good purposes, are attempts
at this particular period made by some men to depreciate
the importance of the union ? or why is it suggested, (hat
three or four confederacies would be better than one ? I
am persuaded in my own mind, that the people have always
thought right on this subject, and that their universal and
uniform attachment to the cause of the union rests on great
and weighty reasons.
They who promote the idea of substituting a number of
distinct confederacies in the room of the plan of the conven-
tion, seem clearly to foresee, that the rejection of it would put
the continuance of the union in the utmost jeopardy. That
certainly would be the case ; and I sincerely wish it may
be as clearly foreseen by every good citizen, that, whenever
the dissolution of the union arrives, America will have
reason to exclaim, in the words of the poet, " Farewell,
a long farewell, to all my greatness !"
Character of Hamilton. AMES.
MEN of the most elevated minds have not always the
readiest discernment of character. Perhaps he was some-
times 1 too sudden and too lavish in bestowing his confidence :
his manly spirit, disdaining artifice, suspected none. But,
while the power of his friends over him seemed to have
no limits, and really had none, in respect to those things
which were of a nature to be yielded, no man, not the Ro-
man Cato himself, was more inflexible on every point that
touched, or only seemed to touch, his integrity and honour.
With him it was not enough to be unsuspected ; his bosom
would have glowed like a furnace at its own whispers of
reproach. Mere purity would hava seemed to him below
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 257
praise ; and such were his habits, and such his nature, that
the pecuniary temptations, which many others can only
with great exertion and self-denial resist, had no attrac-
tions for him. He was very far from obstinate ; yet as his
friends assailed his opinions with less profound thought than
he had devoted to them, they were seldom shaken by dis-
cussion. He defended them, however, with as much mild-
ness as force, and evinced that, if he did not yield, it was
not for want of gentleness or modesty.
His early life we pass over ;. though his heroic spirit in
the array has furnished a theme that is dear to patriotism,
and will be sacred to glory.
In all the different stations, in which a life of active use-
fulness has placed him, we find him not more remarkably
distinguished by the extent, than by the variety and versa-
tility, of his talents. In every place, he made it apparent,
that no other man could have filled it so well ; and in times
of critical importance, in which alone he desired employ-
ment, his services were justly deemed absolutely indispen-
sable. As secretary of the treasury, his was the powerful
spirit that presided over the chaos.
" Confusion heard his voice, and wild Uproar
Stood ruled."
Indeed, in organizing the federal government in 1789,
every man, of either sense or candour, will allow, the diffi-
culties seemed greater than the first-rate abilities could sur-
mount. The event has shown that his abilities were great'
er than those difficulties. He surmounted them ; and
Washington's administration was the most wise and benef-
icent, the most prosperous, and ought to be the most pop-
ular, that ever was intrusted with the affairs of a nation.
Great as was Washington's merit, much of it in plan,
much in execution, will of course devolve upon his min-
ister.
As a lawyer, his comprehensive genius reached the
principles of his profession : he compassed its extent, he
fathomed its profound, perhaps, even more familiarly and
easily than the rules of its practice. With most men law
is a trade ; with him it was a science.
22"
258 COMMON-PLACE BOOK ^>F PROSE.
As a statesman, he was not more distinguished for the
great extent of his views, than by the caution with which
he provided against impediments, and the watchfulness of
his care over the right and liberty of the subject. In none
of the many revenue bills which he framed, though com-
mittees reported them, is there to be found a single clause
that savours of despotic power ; not one that the sagest
champions of law and liberty would, on that ground, hesi-
tate to approve and adopt.
It is rare that a man, who owes so much to nature, de-
scends to seek more from industry ; but he seemed to de-
pend on industry as if nature had done nothing for him.
His habits of investigation were very remarkable ; his
mind seemed to cling to his subject till he had exhausted
it. Hence the uncommon superiority of his reasoning
powers a superiority that seemed to be augmented from
every source, and to be fortified by every auxiliary learn-
ing, taste, wit, imagination and eloquence. These were
embellished and enforced by his temper and manners, by
his fame and his virtues. It is difficult, in the midst of
such various excellence, to say in what particular the ef-
fect of his greatness was most manifest. No man more
promptly discerned truth ; no man more clearly displayed
it : it was not merely made visible, it seemed to come
bright with illumination from his lips. But, prompt and
clear as he was, fervid as Demosthenes, like Cicero full
of resource, he was not less remarkable for the copious-
ness and completeness of his argument, that left little for
cavil, and nothing for doubt. Some men take their strong-
est argument as a weapon, and use no other ; but he left
nothing to be inquired for nothing to be answered. He
not only disarmed his adversaries of their pretexts and ob-
jections, hut he stripped them of all excuse for having
urged them ; he confounded and subdued as well as con-
vinced. He indemnified them, however, by making his
discussion a complete map of his subject; so that his
opponents mipht, indeed, feel ashamed of their mistakes,
but they could not repeat them. In fact it was jno com-
mon effort (hat could preserve a really able antagonist from
becoming his convert ; for the truth, which his researches
so distinctly presented to the understanding of others, was
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 259
rendered almost irresistibly commanding and impressive by
the love and reverence, which, it was ever apparent, he
profoundly cherished for it in his own. While patriotism
glowed in his heart, wisdom blended in his speech her
authority with her charms.
Unparalleled as were his services, they were neverthe-
less no otherwise requited than by the applause of all good
men, and by his own enjoyment of the spectacle of that
national prosperity and honour, which was the effect of
them. After facing calumny, and triumphantly surmount-
ing an unrelenting persecution, he retired from office with
clean though empty hands, as rich as reputation and an
unblemished integrity could make him.
The most substantial glory of a country is in its virtu-
ous great men : its prosperity will depend on its docility to
learn from their example. That nation is fated to ignominy
and servitude, for which such men have lived in vain.
Power may be seized by a nation that is yet barbarous ;
and wealth may be enjoyed by one that it finds or renders
sordid : the one is the gift and the sport of accident, and
the other is the sport of power. Both are mutable, and
have passed away without leaving behind them any other
memorial than ruins that offend taste, and traditions that
baffle conjecture. But the glory of Greece is imperisha-
ble, or will last as long as learning itself, which is its mon-
ument : it strikes an everlasting root, and bears perennial
blossoms on its grave. The name of Hamilton would have
honoured Greece in the age of Aristides. May Heaven,
tlie guardian of our liberty, grant that our country may be
fruitful of Hamiltons, and faithful to their glory !
Morality of Poetty. GEORGE BANCROFT.
IF poetry is the spirit of God within us, that spirit must
1 e a pure one ; if it is the strongest and most earnest ex-
pression of generous enthusiasm, it must be allied with the
noblest feelings of human nature. Genius can, it is true,
of itself, attract attention ; but it cannot win continued and
iniversal admiration, except in alliance with virtue. Who
260 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
can measure the loss, which the world would sustain, if
the sublimest work of Milton were to be struck from the
number of living books ? Yet the world would be the
gainer, if Don Juan were as if it had never been written
The one poet cherishes loftiness of purpose, and tends to
elevate his reader 4p a kindred magnanimity ; while the
other exposes, it may be with inimitable skill and graphic
power, the vices and weaknesses of man, and so tends to
degrade the mind to the level which he establishes for the
race. But we go to poetry as a relief and a support. We
need no books to ring changes to us on man's selfishness ;
and if at times, in a moment of despondency or disappoint-
ment, when the confused judgment cannot rightly estimate
the progress of good amidst the jar of human passions, and
the collision of human interests, we forget the dignity of
our nature, and revile it, the poet should reinstate it in our
favour, and make us forget our disgust with the world.
While on this subject, we cannot forbear to remark on
that tendency to moralize, which many mistake in them-
selves for wi*e observation. True, to the eye of a con-
templative man, books may be found in the running brooks,
and sermons in stones ; but it is the mark of an inferior
mind to be constantly repeating the common-places of mo-
rality : one, who does it often, is sure to be esteemed by
his neighbours as a tedious proser ; and to have this strain
of puny thinking put into verse, and set before us as sub-
lime, is really intolerable. In that which is to produce a
grand effect, every thing must be proportionally grand.
The historians of nature tell us, that gold is diffused
throughout creation, may be extracted from the stones we
tread upon, and enters into the composition of the plants on
which we feed. But it is a very slow and troublesome
process to extract it from most stones and plants ; and, after
all, it is obtained in so small quantities, that it is not worth
the trouble it costs. And it may be so with the elements
of poetry. They exist every where ; the dreams of the
drunkard may sometimes have a gleam of bright fancy ;
mother, setting out in pursuit of an idiot boy, who has run
away on an ass, may have very proper thoughts, and weep
as sincerely as Andromache herself; and the reformation
of a knave like Peter Bell may be psychologically as ro-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 261
mark-able as the downfall of Macbeth, the scepticism of
Hamlet, the madness of Lear. But still it is not the thing
we want. To the observer of the human mind, the mere
collector of facts, one man's experience may offer nearly
as much as another's ; but cannot, in the same degree,
promote the purposes of the poet. At a ball in any village
in the country, there are probably the self-same passions
at work, as were ever called into action on similar occa-
sions. The beauty and pride of a country town, dancing
to an imperfect band, may afford illustrations of all the
moral phenomena of vanity, admiration and love, the
hours whirled away very agreeably in lively dances, and
blushes excited by the praise of loveliness. But all this
is a common, every day sort of business ; and hardly any
one would think of weaving it into poetry. But when the
imagination is wrought up by the expectation of an ap-
proaching battle ; when the capital of Belgium has gather-
ed its own beauty and the chivalry of England ; when the
blow, that is to decide the destiny of empires, is suspended
for a season, while youth and pleasure revel in careless
gayety, till they are recalled from the charm that creeps
over the senses by a peal, which is the death -la rum of
thousands, we find the scenes of the ball room contribut-
ing to heighten the power and the splendour of poetry.
If we hear of a blind boy, who goes to sea in a shell, we
should think the story would make a very curious and
proper paragraph for the miscellaneous department of a
newspaper, provided the fact be well authenticated ; but
what is there of poetry about it .'* If we were to meet a
little girl, who had lost her pet lamb, it would be proper
to be extremely sorry ; and the matter is a fit one for pro-
portionate sympathy. But these are trivial things ; they
hardly claim much attention in life ; they are of no gen-
eral interest for the exercise of the imagination. The
poet must exalt and satisfy the mind ; must fill us with
glorious aspirations and lofty thoughts ; must lead us out
* Trifling as this incident might appear, if related in the com-
mon and desultory manner of a newspaper paragraph, it has yet
been wrought, hy'the ecnius of Wordsworth, into one of the most
beautiful and natural pieces of poetry which it has been our lot to meet
with.- ED.
262 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
through the high heaven of invention, and call up before
us the master passions of man's mind in all their majesty ;
not show us the inside of a baby-house, nor furnish us with
a comment on the catalogue of a toy-shop.
The Consequences of Atheism. CHANNINO.
FEW men suspect, perhaps no man comprehends, the
extent of the support given by religion to every virtue.
No man, perhaps, is aware how much our moral and social
sentiments are fed from this fountain ; how powerless con-
science would become without the belief of a God ; how
palsied would be human benevolence, were there not the
sense of a higher benevolence to quicken and sustain it ;
how suddenly the whole social fabric would quake, and
with what a fearful crash it would sink into hopeless ruins,
were the ideas of a Supreme Being, of accountableness,
and of a future life, to be utterly erased from every mind.
Once let men thoroughly believe, that they are the work
and sport of chance ; that no Superior Intelligence con-
cerns itself with human affairs ; that all their improve-
ments perish forever at death ; that the weak have no
guardian, and the injured no avenger ; that there is no
recompense for sacrifices to uprightness and the public
good ; that an oath is unheard in heaven ; that secret
crimes have no witness but the perpetrator ; that human
existence has no purpose, and human virtue no unfailing
friend ; that this brief life is every thing to us, and death
is total, everlasting extinction, once let men thoroughly
abandon religion, and who can conceive or describe the
extent of the desolation which would follow ?
We hope, perhaps, that human laws and natural sym-
pathy would hold society together. As reasonably might
we believe, that, were the sun quenched in the heavens,
our torches could illuminate, and our fires quicken and
fertilize the creation. What is there in human nature to
awaken respect and tenderness, if man is the unprotected
insect of a day ? and what is he more, if atheism be true ?
Erase all thought and fear of God from a community, and
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 263
selfishness and sensuality would absorb the whole man.
Appetite, knowing no restraint, and poverty and suffer-
ing, having no solace or hope, would trample in scorn on
the restraints of human laws. Virtue, duty, principle,
would be mocked and spurned as unmeaning sounds. A
sordid self-interest would supplant every other feeling, and
man would become in fact, what the theory of atheism
declares him to be, a companion for brutes !
The blind Preacher. WIRT.
IT was one Sunday, as I travelled through the county
of Orange, that my eye was caught by a cluster of horses
tied near a ruinous, old, wooden house in the forest, not far
from the road-side. Having frequently seen such objects
before, in travelling through these States, I had no diffi-
culty in understanding that this was a place of religious
worship.
Devotion alone should have stopped me, to join in the
duties of the congregation ; but I must confess, that curi-
osity to hear the preacher of such a wilderness, was not
the least of my motives. On entering, I was struck with
his preternatural appearance. He was a tall and very
spare old man ; his head, which was covered with a white
linen cap, his shrivelled hands, and his voice, were all
shaking under the influence of a palsy ; and a few moments
ascertained to me that he was perfectly blind.
The first emotions that touched my breast were those of
mingled pity and veneration. But how soon were all my
feelings changed ! The lips of Plato were never more
worthy of a prognostic swarm of bees, than were the lips
of this holy man ! It was a day of the administration of
the sacrament ; and his subject was, of course, the passion
of our Saviour. I had heard the subject handled a thou-
sand times : I had thought it exhausted long ago. Little
did I suppose that in the wild woods of America, I was to
meet with a man, whose eloquence would give to this
topic a new and more sublime pathos, than I had ever be*
fore witnessed.-
264 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF I'KOSK.
As he descended from the pulpit to distribute the mystic
symbols, there was a peculiar, a more than human solem-
nity in his air and manner, which made my blood run cold,
and my whole frame shiver.
He then drew a picture of the sufferings of our Saviour ;
his trial before Pilate ; his ascent up Calvary ; his cruci-
fixion ; and his death. I knew the whole history ; but
never until then had I heard the circumstances so select-
ed, so arranged, so coloured ! It was all new ; and I seem-
ed to have heard it for the first time in my life. His enun-
ciation was so deliberate, that his voice trembled on every
syllable ; and every heart in the assembly trembled in
unison. His peculiar phrases had that force of descrip-
tion, that the original scene appeared to be at that moment
acting before our eyes. We saw the very faces of the
Jews ; the staring, frightful distortions of malice and rage.
We saw the buffet : my soul kindled with a flame of in-
dignation ; and my hands were involuntarily and convul-
sively clinched.
But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiv-
ing meekness of our Saviour; when he drew, to the life,
his blessed eyes streaming in tears to heaven ; his voice
breathing to God a soft and gentle prayer of pardon on his
enemies, " Father, forgive them, for they know not what
they do," the voice of the preacher, which had all along
faltered, grew fainter and fainter, until, his utterance being
entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings, he raised
his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and ir-
repressible flood of grief. The effect is inconceivable.
The whole house resounded with the mingled groans, and
sobs, and shrieks of the congregation.
It was sometime before the tumult had subsided, so far
as to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usu-
al, but fallacious standard of my own weakness, I began
to be very uneasy for the situation of the preacher. For
I could not conceive how he would be able to let his audi-
ence down from the height to which he had wound them,
without impairing the solemnity and dignity of his subject,
or perhaps shocking them by the abruptness of the fall.
But no : the descent was as beautiful and sublime as the
elevation had been rapid and enthusiastic.
COMMON-PLACE liOOK OP PROSE. 265
The first sentence, with which he broke the awful si-
lence, was a quotation from Rousseau : " Socrates died like
a philosopher, but Jesus Christ, like a God !"
I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced
by this short sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive
the whole manner of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis
in the discourse. Never before did I completely under-
stand what Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on
delivery. You are to bring before you the venerable fig-
ure of the preacher; his blindness, constantly recalling to
your recollection old Homer, Ossian, and Milton, and asso-
ciating with his performance the melancholy grandeur
of their geniuses ; you are to imagine that you hear his
slow, solemn, well-accented enunciation, and his voice
of affecting, trembling melody ; you are to remember the
pitch of passion and enthusiasm, to which the congregation
were raised ; and then the few moments of portentous,
deathlike silence, which reigned throughout the house :
the preacher, removing his white handkerchief from hi.s
aged face, (even yet wet from the recent torrent of his
tears,) and slowly stretching forth the palsied hand which
holds it, begins the sentence, " Socrates died like a phi-
losopher" then, pausing, raising his other hand, pressing
them both, clasped together, with warmth and energy, to
his breast, lifting his " sightless balls" to heaven, and
pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice " but Je-
sus Christ like a God !" If he had been indeed and in
truth an angel of light, the effect could scarcely have been
more divine. Whatever I had been ablo to conceive of
the sublimity of Massillon or the force of Bourdaloue, had
fallen far short of the power which I felt from the delivery
of this simple sentence.
If this description give you the impression, that this in-
comparable minister had any thing of shallow, theatrical
trick in his manner, it does him great injustice. I have
never seen, in any other orator, such a union of simplicity
and majesty. He has not a gesture, an attitude, or an ac-
cent, to which he does not seem forced by the sentiment
he is expressing. His mind is too serious, too earnest, too
solicitous, and, at the same time, too dignified, to stoop to
artifice. Although as far removed from ostentation as a
23
266 COMMON-PLACE UUOK OF PROSE.
man can be, yet it is clear, from the train, the style and
substance of his thoughts, that he is not only a very polite
scholar, but a man of extensive and profound erudition. I
was forcibly struck with a short yet beautiful character,
which he drew of your learned and amiable countryman,
Sir Robert Boyle : he spoke of him, as if " his noble mind
had, even before death, divested herself of all influence
from his frail tabernacle of flesh ;" and called him, in his
peculiarly emphatic and impressive manner, " a pure in-
telligence : the link between men and angels."
This man has been before my imagination almost ever
since. A thousand times, as I rode along, I dropped the
reins of my bridle, stretched forth my hand, and tried to
imitate his quotation from Rousseau ; a thousand times I
abandoned the attempt in despair, and felt persuaded, that
his peculiar manner and power arose from an energy of
soul, which nature could give, but which no human being
could justly copy. As I recall, at this moment, several of
his awfully striking attitudes, the chilling tide, with which
my blood begins to pour along my arteries, reminds me of
th emotions produced by the first sight of Gray's intro-
ductory picture of his Bard.
The humble Man and the proud. THACKER.
COMPARE, then, the proud man with the man of hu-
mility, and tell me which is the more dignified being.
Pride, like humility, supposes an act of comparison. But
the comparison of the proud man is not between himself
and the standard of his duty ; between what he is.and what
he ought to be ; but between himself and his fellow-men.
He looks around him, forgets his own defects and weak-
nesses, infirmities and sins, and because he finds, or im-
agines he find?, in some respects, a little superiority to his
fellow-men at the greatest it can be but a little because
he, one worm of the dust, believes himself to be somewhat
more rich, more learned, more successful than another, he
thinks this to be a sufficient ground for swelling with self-
complacency, and regarding those around him with disdain
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 267
and contempt. The humble man, on the contrary, is so
full of the thought of the exceeding breadth of the com-
mandments of God, and of that supreme excellence, to
which his religion teaches him to aspire ; and he so con-
stantly recollects the imperfection of his approaches to it,
that every idea of a vain-glorious comparison of himself
with his neighbour dies away within him. He can only
remember that God is every thing, and that in his august
presence all distinctions are lost, and all human beings re-
duced to the same level. Say, then, my friends ; is it not
pride, that is so mean, so poor-spirited and low ? is it not
pride, that is a mark of a little, and narrow, and feeble
mind ? and is not humility alone the truly noble, the truly
generous and sublime quality ?
There is this further proof of the superior elevation of
the humble man. The man of pride, with all his affected
contempt of the world, must evidently estimate it very
highly ; else, whence so much complacency at the idea of
surpassing others ? Whence that restless desire of dis-
tinction, that passion for theatrical display, which inflames
his heart, and occupies his whole attention ? Why is it
that his strongest motive to good actions is their notoriety,
and that he considers every worthy deed as lost, when it
is not publicly displayed ? It is only because the world
and the world's applause are every thing to him ; and that
he cannot live but on the breath of popular favour. But
the humble man, with all his real lowliness, has yet risen
above the world. He looks for that honour, which cometh
down from on high, and the whispers of worldly praise
die away upon his ear. When his thoughts return from
the contemplation of the infinite excellence of God, and
the future glories of virtue, the objects of this life appear
reduced in their importance ; in the same way as the land-
scape around appears little and low to him, whose eye has
been long directed to the solemn grandeur and wide mag-
nificence of the starry heavens. I appeal to you, my
friends, to decide on the comparative dignity of the char-
acters of the proud and the humble man. I call on you
to say, whether our blessed Master has given to humility
too high a rank in the scale of excellence,
268 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
The Son. From " The Idle Man." RICHARD DAW A.
e THERE is no virtue without a characteristic beauty to
make it particularly loved of the good, and to make the
bad ashamed of their neglect of it. To do what is right
argues superior taste as well as morals ; and those, whose
practice is evil, feel an inferiority of intellectual power and
enjoyment, even where they take no concern for a prin-
ciple. Doing wejl has something more in it than the
fulfilling of a duty?) It is a cause of a just sense of eleva-
tion of characterfu clears and strengthens the spirits ; it
gives higher reaches of thought ; it widens our benevo-
lence, and makes the current of our peculiar affections
swift and deep.
A sacrifice was never yet offered to a principle, that was
not made up to us by self-approval, and the consideration
of what our degradation would have been had we done
otherwise. Certainly, it is a pleasant and a wise thing,
then, to follow what is right, when we only go along with
our affections, and take the easy way of the virtuous pro-
pensities of our nature.
The world is sensible of these truths, let it act as it may.
It is not because of his integrity alone that, it relies on an
honest man; but it has more confidence in his judgment and
wise conduct in the long run, than in the schemes of those
of greater intellect, who go at large without any land-
marks of principle. So that virtue seems of a double na-
ture, and to stand oftentimes in the place of what we call
talent.
The reasoning, or rather feeling, of the world is all right,
for the honest man only falls in with the order of nature,
which is grounded in truth, and will endure along with it.
And such a hold has a good man upon the world, that, even
where he has not been called upon to make a sacrifice to a
principle, or to take a stand against wrong, but has merely
avoided running into vices, and suffered himself to be
borne along by the delightful and virtuous affections of pri-
vate life, and has found his pleasure in practising the du-
ties of home, he is looked up to with respect, as well as
regarded with kindness. We attach certain notions of re-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 269
finement to his thoughts, and of depth to his sentiment. The
impression he makes on us is beautiful and peculiar. Other
men in his presence, though we have nothing to object to
them, and though they may be very well in their way, af-
fect us as lacking something we can hardly tell what
a certain sensitive delicacy of character and manner,
without which they strike us as more or less vulgar.
No creature in the world has this character so finely
marked in him, as a respectful and affectionate son partic-
ularly in his relation to his mother. Every little attention
he pays her is not only an expression of filial attachment,
and grateful acknowledgment of past cares, but is an
evidence of a tenderness of disposition, which moves us the
more, because not looked on so much as an essential prop-
erty in a man's character, as an added grace, which is
bestowed only upon a few. His regards do not appear like
mere habits of duty, nor does his watchfulness of his
mother's wishes seem like taught submission to her will.
They are the native courtesies of a feeling mind, showing
themselves amidst stern virtues and masculine energies,
like gleams of light on points of rocks. They are de-
lightful as evidences of power yielding voluntary homage
to the delicacy of the soul. The armed knee is bent, and
the heart of the mailed man laid bare.
Feelings, that would seem to be at variance with each
other, meet together and harmonize in the breast of a son.
Every call of the mother which he answers to, and every
act of submission which he performs, are not only so many
acknowledgments of her authority, but, also, so many in-
stances of kindness, and marks of protecting regard. The
servant and defender, the child and guardian, are all min-
gled in him. The world looks on him in this way ; and
to draw upon a man the confidence, the respect, and the
love of the world, it is enough to say of him, He is an ex-
cellent son.
In looking over some papers of a deceased acquaintance,
I found the following fragment. He had frequently spoken
to me of the person whom it concerned, and who had been
his school-fellow. I remember well his one day telling
me, that, thinking the character of his friend, and some
circumstances in his life, were of such a kind, that an in-
23"
270 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
teresting moral little story might be made from them, he
had undertaken it ; but considering, as he was going on,
that bringing the private character and feelings of a de-
ceased friend before the world was something like sacrilege,
though done under a fictitious name, he had stopped soon
after beginning the tale ; that he had laid it away amongst
his papers, and had never looked at it again.
As the person it concerns has been a long time dead,
and no relation survives, I do not feel that there can be
any impropriety in my now making it public. I give it
as it was written, though evidently not revised by my
friend. Though hastily put together, and beginning as
abruptly as it ends, and with little of story, and no novelty,
in the circumstances, yet there is a mournful tenderness
in it, .which, I trust will interest others in some portion
as it did me.
" The sun not set yet, Thomas ?" " Not quite, sir. It
blazes " through the trees on the hill yonder as if their
branches were all on fire."
Arthur raised himself heavily forward, and, with his ha-
still over his brow, turned his glazed and dim eyes towards
the setting sun. It was only the night before that he had
heard his mother was ill, and could survive but a day or
two. He had lived nearly apart from society, and, being
a lad of a thoughtful, dreamy mind, had made a world to
himself. His thoughts and feelings were so much in it,
that, except in relation to his own home, there were the
same vague and strange notions in his brain, concerning
the state of things surrounding him, as we have of a foreign
land.
The main feeling, which this self-made world excited in
him, was love, and, like most of his age, he had formed to
himself a being suited to his own fancies. This was the
romance of life, and though men, with minds like his, make
imagination to stand oftentimes in the place of real exist-
ence, and to take to itself as deep feeling and concern, yet,
in domestic relations, which are so near, and usual, and
private, they feel longer and more deeply than those who
look upon their homes as only a better part of the world
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 271
which they belong to. Indeed, in affectionate and good
men of a visionary cast, it is in some sort only realizing their
hopes and desires, to turn them homeward. Arthur felt that
it was so, and he loved his household the more that they
gave him an earnest of one day realizing all his hopes and
attachments.
Arthur's mother was peculiarly dear to him, in having a
character so much like his own. For, though the cares and
attachments of life had long ago taken place of a fanciful
existence in her, yet her natural turn of mind was strong
enough to give to these something of the romance of her
disposition. This had led to a more than usual openness
and intimacy between Arthur and his mother, and now
brought to his remembrance the hours they had sat togeth-
er by the fire light, when he listened to her mild and melan
choly voice, as she spoke of what she had undergone at the
loss of her parents and husband. Her gentle rebuke of his
faults, her affectionate look of approval when he had done
well, her care that he should be a just man, and her moth-
erly anxiety lest the world should go hard with him, all
crowded into his mind, and he thought that every worldly
attachment was hereafter to be a vain thing.
He had passed the night between violent, tumultuous
grief, and numb insensibility. Stepping into the carriage,
with a slow, weak motion, like one who was quitting his
sick chamber for the first time, he began his journey
homeward. As he lifted his eyes upward, the few stars,
that were here and there over the sky, seemed to look
down in pity, and shed a religious and healing light upon
him. But they soon went out, one after another, and as
the last faded from his imploring sight, it was as if every
thing good and holy had forsaken him. The faint tinMn
the east soon became a ruddy glow, and the sun, shooting
upward, burst over every living thing in full glory. The
sight went to Arthur's sick heart, as if it were in mockery
of his misery.
Leaning back in his carriage, with his hand over his
eyes, he was carried along, hardly sensible it was day.
The old servant, Thomas, who was sitting by his side, went
on talking in a low, monotonous tone ; but Arthur only
heard something sounding in his ears, scarcely heeding
272 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
that it was a human voice. He had a sense of wearisome-
ness from the motion of the carriage, but in all things
else the day passed as a melancholy dream.
Almost the first words Arthur spoke were those I have
mentioned. As he looked out upon the setting sun, he
shuddered through his whole frame, and then became sick
and pale. He thought he knew the hill near him ; and, as
they wound round it, some peculiar old trees appeared, and
he was in a few minutes in the midst of the scenery near
his home. The river before him, reflecting the rich even-
ing sky, looked as if poured out from a molten mine. The
birds, gathering in, were shooting across each other, burst-
ing into short, gay notes, or singing their evening songs in
the trees. It was a bitter thing to find all so bright and
cheerful, and so near his own home too. His horses' hoofs
struck upon the old wooden bridge. The sound went to
his heart. It was here his mother took her last leave of
him, and blessed him.
As he passed through the village, there was a feeling of
strangeness, that every thing should be just as it was when
he left it. There was an undefined thought floating in his
mind, that his mother's state should produce a visible change
in 'all that he had been familiar with. But the boys were at
their noisy games in the street, the labourers returning,
talking together, from their work, and the old men sitting
quietly at their doors. He concealed himself as well as
he could, and bade Thomas hasten on.
As they drew near the house, the night was shutting in
about it, and there was a melancholy gusty sound in the
trees. Arthur felt as if approaching his mother's tomb.
He entered the parlour. All was as gloomy and still as a
deserted house. Presently he heard a slow, cautious step,
over head. It was in his mother's chamber. His sister
had seen him from the window. She hurried down, and
threw her arms about her brother's neck, without uttering
a word. As soon as he could speak, he asked, " Is she
alive ?" he could not say, my mother. " She is sleep-
ing," answered his sister, " and must not know to-night
that you are here ; she is too weak to bear it now." " I
will go look at her then, while she sleeps," said he, draw-
ing his handkerchief from his face. His sister's sympathy
WOMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 273
had made him shed the first tears which had fallen from
him that day, and he was more composed.
He entered the chamber with a deep and still awe upon
him ; and, as he drew near his mother's bed-side, and look-
ed on her pale, placid, and motionless face, he scarcely
dared breathe, lest he should disturb the secret commun-
ion that the soul was holding with the world into which it
was about to enter. The loss that he was about suffering,
and his heavy grief, were all forgotten in the feeling of a
holy inspiration, and he was, as it were, in the midst of in-
visible spirits, ascending and descending. His mother's
lips moved slightly as she uttered an indistinct sound. He
drew back, and his sister went near to her, and she spoke.
It was the same gentle voice which he had known and
felt from his childhood. The exaltation of his soul left
him he sunk down and his misery went over him like
a flood.
The next day, as soon as his mother became composed
enough to see him, Arthur went into her chamber. She
stretched out her feeble hand, and turned towards him, with
a look that blessed him. It was the short struggle of a
meek spirit. She covered her eyes with her hand, and the
tears trickled down between her pale, thin fingers. As soon
as she became tranquil, she spoke of the gratitude she felt
at being spared to see him before she died.
" My dear mother," said Arthur but he could not go
on. His voice was choked, his eyes filled with tears, and
the agony of his soul was visible in his face. " Do not be
so afflicted, Arthur, at the loss of me. We are not to part
for ever. Remember, too, how comfortable and happy you
have made my days. Heaven, I know, will bless so good
a son as you have been to me. You will have that conso-
lation, my son, which visits but a few you wilt be able to
look back upon your past conduct to me, not without pain
only, but with a holy joy. And think hereafter of the peace
of mind you give me, now that I am about to die, in the
thought that I am leaving your sister to your love and care.
So long as you live, she will find you a father and brother
to her." She paused for a moment. " I have always felt
that I could meet death with composure ; hut I did not
know," she said, with a tremulous voice, her lips quivering
274 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
" I did not know how hard a thing it would be to leave
my children, till now that the hour has come."
After a little while, she spoke of his father, and said, she
had lived with the belief that he was mindful of her, and
with the conviction, which grew stronger as death approach-
ed, that she should meet him in another world. She said
but little more, as she grew weaker and weaker every hour.
Arthur sat by in silence, holding her hand. He saw that she
was sensible he was watching her countenance, for every
now and then she opened her dull eye, and looked towards
him, and endeavoured to smile.
The day wore slowly away. The sun went down, and
the melancholy and still twilight came on. Nothing was
heard but the ticking of the watch, telling him with a re-
sistless power, that the hour was drawing nigh. He gasp-
ed, as if under some invisible, gigantic grasp, which it was
not for human strength to struggle against.
It was now quite dark, and, by the pale light of the night-
lamp in the chimney corner, the furniture in the room threw
huge and uncouth figures over the walls. All was unsub-
stantial and visionary, and the shadowy ministers of death
appeared gathering round, waiting the duty of the hour
appointed them. Arthur shuddered for a moment with
superstitious awe ; but the solemn elevation which a good
man feels at the sight of the dying, took possession of him,
and he became calm again.
The approach of death has so much which is exalting,
that our grief is, for the time, forgotten. And could one,
who had seen Arthur a few hours before, now have looked
upon the grave and grand repose of his countenance, he
would hardly have known him.
The livid hue of death was fast spreading over his moth-
er's face. He stooped forward to catch the sound of her
breathing. It grew quick and faint. "My mother!"
She opened her eyes, for the last time, upon him a faint
flush passed over her cheek there was the serenity of
an angel in her look her hand just pressed his. It was
all over.
His spirit had endured to its utmost. It sunk down from
its unearthly height ; and, with his face upon his mother's
pillow, he wept like a child. He arose with a violent effort,
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 275
and, stepping into the adjoining chamber, spoke to his aunt.
" It is past," said he. " Is my sister asleep ? Well, then,
let her have rest ; she needs it." He then went to his
own chamber, and shut himself in.
It is a merciful thing that the intense suffering of sensi-
tive minds makes to itself a relief. Violent grief brings
on a torpor, and an indistinctness, and dimness, as from
long watching. It is not till the violence of affliction has
subsided, and gentle and soothing thoughts can find room
to mix with our sorrow, and holy consolations can minister
to us, that we are able to know fully our loss, and see clear-
ly what has been torn away from our afTectibns. It was
so with Arthur. Unconnected and strange thoughts, with
melancholy, but half-formed images, were floating in his
mind, and now and then a gleam of light would pass
through it, as if he had been in a troubled trance, and all
was right again. His worn and tired feelings at last found
rest in sleep.
It is an impression, which we cannot rid ourselves of if
we would, when sitting by the body of a friend, that he has
still a consciousness of our presence , that, though the com-
mon concerns of the world have no more to do with him,
he has still a love and care of us. The face which we had
so long been familiar with, when it was all life and motion,
seems only in a state of rest. We know not how to make
it real to ourselves, that the body before us is not a living
thing.
Arthur was in such a state of mind, as he sat alone in
the room by his mother, the day after her death. It was
as if her soul had been in paradise, and was now holding
communion with pure spirits there, though it still abode in
the body that lay before him. He felt as if sanctified by
the presence of one to whom the other world had been
laid open as if under the love and protection of one made
holy. The religious reflections that his mother had early
taught him, gave him strength ; a spiritual composure stole
over him, and he found himself prepared to perform the
last offices to the dead.
Is it not enough to see our friends die, and part with
them for the remainder of our days ; to reflect that we
276 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF THOSE,
shall hear their voices no more, and that they will never
look on us again ; to see that turning to corruption, which
was but just now alive, and eloquent, and beautiful with
all the sensations of the soul ? Are our sorrows so sacred
and peculiar as to make the world as vanity to us, and the
men of it as strmgers ? and shall we not be left to our af-
flictions for a few hours ? Must we be brought out at such
a time to the concerned or careless gaze of these we know
not, or be made to bear the formal proffers of consolations
from acquaintances who will go away and forget it all ?
Shall we not be suffered, a little while, a holy and healing
communion with the dead : Must the kindred stillness
and gloom of our dwelling be changed for the solemn show
of the pall, the talk of the passers-by, and the broad and
piercing light of the common sun ? Must the ceremonies
of the world wait on us even to the open graves of our
friends ?
When the hour came, Arthur rose with a firm step and
fixed eye, though his whole face was tremulous with the
struggle within him. He went to his sister, and took her
arm within his. The bell struck. Its heavy, undulating
sound rolled forward like a sea. He felt a violent beating
through his whole frame, which shook him that he reeled.
It was but a momentary weakness. He moved on, passing
those who surrounded him, as if they had been shadows.
While he followed the slow hearse, there was a vacancy in
his eye, as it rested on the coffin, which showed him hardly
conscious of what was before him. His spirit was with his
mother's. As he reached the grave, he shrunk back, and
turned deadly pale ; but, sinking his head upon his breast,
and drawing his hat over his face, he stood motionless as a
statue till the service was over.
He had gone through all that the forms of society requir-
ed of him. For, as painful as the effort was, and as little
suited as such forms were to his own thoughts upon the sub-
ject, yet he could not do any thing that might appear to the
world like a want of reverence and respect for his mother.
The scene was ended, and the inward struggle over ; and
now that he was left to himself, the greatness of his loss
came up full and distinctly before him.
COMMON-PLACE HOOK OF PROSE. 277
It was a dreary and chilly evening when he returned
home. When he entered the house from which his mother
had gone for ever, a sense of dreary emptiness oppressed
him, as if his very abode had been deserted by every liv-
ing thing. He walked into his mother's chamber. The
naked bedstead, and the chair in which jshe used to sit,
were all that was left in the room. As he threw himself
back into the chair, he groaned in the bitterness of his
spirit. A feeling of forlornness came over him, which was
not to be relieved by tears. She, whom he had watched
over in her dying hour, and whom he had talked to as she
lay before him in death, as if she could hear and answer
him, had gone from him. Nothing was left for the senses
to fasten fondly on, and time had not yet taught him to
think of her only as a spirit. But time and holy endeav-
ours brought this consolation ; and the little of life that a
wasting disease left him, was past by him, when alone, in
thoughtful tranquillity ; and amongst his friends he appear-
ed with that gentle cheerfulness, which, before his mother's
death, had been a part of his nature.
Neglect of foreign Literature in America. AMERICAN
QUARTERLY REVIEW.
THE curiosity of our nation in literature is not sufficient-
ly expansive ; our public refuses its attention to works writ-
ten for another hemisphere, and a different state of society.
This is natural, but it is not wise.
The facility of receiving enjoyment from a variety of
sources is an advantage of high value. It is well to re-
joice in every exhibition of genius. What should we think
of the man, who not only clings to the pleasures rendered
dear by habit, but denies that there are others to be set in
comparison with them ? And yet we hear hasty judgments
on the merits of whole classes of writers. Every man
has, indeed, the right to choose his own guides to the sum-
mit of Olympus ; but we question the soundness of those,
who deny that there are more ways than one. Such an
24
278 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
opinion could be explained, only as the result of men-
tal imbecility, of a narrowness that submits to the
shackles of prejudice. Born and bred in a temperate
zone, we all admire the loveliness of our landscape, where
the graceful foliage of our trees is mingled with the rich
verdure of our meadows, and the abundance of our har-
vests. But shall we have no eye for other charms ? Shall a
Swiss scene, where the glaciers enter the fertile valley, and
winter and summer are seen side by side, have no power to
please us ? or a scene beneath a southern sky, where the
palm trees lift their heads in slender magnificence, the for-
ests are alive with birds, and glitter with the splendour of
variegated plumage, and earth is gay with all the colours
that gain their deep tints under a tropic sun ? The eye,
that communes with nature, and understands it, discerns
loveliness in all its forms. And shall we, who are certain-
ly not incurious as to the concerns of this world, be indif-
ferent to foreign letters ? Must we be so engrossed with
the language and concerns of business, that we cannot lis-
ten to the language of poetic inspiration ? And must we
forever and unceasingly be deafened by the din of con-
gressional rivalries ? Is there, between the acclamations
aud rebukes of partisans, and the hot warfare of canvass
for office, no happy moment of tranquillity, in which Learn-
ing may raise her head fearlessly, and be respected, and
the pursuits of contemplative life be cheered by the free
expression of general approbation, and quickened into ex-
cellence by the benignity of an attentive nation i We
cannot as yet be said to have a national literature ; but
we already have the promise of one, and the first fruits.
As the literary character of the country is developed, it
should resemble our political institutions in liberality, and
welcome excellence from every quarter of the world.
COMMOX-PLACK BOOK OF PROSE. 279
Death a sublime and universal Moralist. SPARKS.*
No object is so insignificant, no event so trivial, as not
to carry with it a moral and religious influence. The trees
that spring out of the earth are moralists. They are em-
blems of the life of man. They grow up; they put on
the garments of freshness and beauty. Yet these continue
but for a time ; decay seizes upon the root and the trunk,
and they gradually go back to their original elements.
The blossoms that open to the rising sun, but are closed
at night never to open again, are moralists. The seasons
are moralists, teaching the lessons of wisdom, manifesting
the wonders of the Creator, and calling on man to reflect
on his condition and destiny. History is a perpetual mor-
alist, disclosing the annals of past ages, showing the im-
potency of pride and greatness, the weakness of human
power, the folly of human wisdom. The daily occurren-
ces in society are moralists. The success or failure of en-
terprise, the prosperity of the bad, the adversity of the
good, the disappointed hopes of the sanguine and active,
the sufferings of the virtuous, the caprices of fortune in
every condition of life, all these are fraught with moral in-
structions, and, if properly applied, will fix the power of
religion in the heart.
But there is a greater moralist still ; and that is, DEATH.
Here is a teacher, who speaks in a voice, which none can
mistake ; who comes with a power, which none can resist.
Since we last assembled in this place as the humble and
united worshippers of God, this stern messenger, this mys-
terious agent of Omnipotence, has come p.mong our num-
bers, and laid his withering hand on one, whom we have
been taught to honour and respect, whose fame was a na-
tion's boast, whose genius was a brilliant spark from the
ethereal fire, whose attainments were equalled only by the
grasp of his intellect, the profoundness of his judgment,
the exuberance of his fancy, the magic of his eloquence.
* From a Sermon on the death of the Hon. William Pinckney,
preached March 3d, 1822, in the hall of the house of representatives in
congress. Eo.
280 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
It is not my present purpose to ask your attention to any
picture drawn in the studied phrase of eulogy. I aim not
to describe the commanding powers and the eminent qual-
ities, which conducted the deceased to the superiority lie
held, and which were at once the admiration and the pride
of his countrymen. I shall not attempt to analyze his capa-
cious mind, nor to set forth the richness and variety of its
treasures. The trophies of his genius are a sutlicicnt tes-
timony of these, and constitute a monument to his memo-
ry, which will stand firm and conspicuous amidst tin- I'.ul. >!
recollections of future ages. The present is not the time
to recount the sources or the memorials of his greatness.
He is gone. The noblest of Heaven's gifts could not
shield even him from the arrows of the destroyer. And
this behest of the Most High is a warning summons to u*
all. When Death comes into our doors, we ought to feel
that he is near. When his irreversible sentence falls on
the great and the renowned, when he severs the strongest
bonds, which can bind mortals to earth, we ought to feel
that our hold on life is slight, that the thread of existence
is slender, that we walk amidst perils, where the next wave
in the agitated sea of life may baffle all our struggles, and
carry us back into the dark bosom of the deep.
When we look at the monuments of human greatness,
and the powers of human intellect, all that genius has in-
vented, or skill executed, or wisdom matured, or industry
achieved, or labour accomplished ; when we trace these
through the successive gradations of human advancement,
what are they ? On these are founded the pride, glory,
dignity of man. And what are they ? Compared with
the most insignificant work of God, they are nothing, less
than nothing. The mightiest works of man are daily and
hourly becoming extinct. The boasted theories of reli-
gion, morals, government, which took the wisdom, the in-
genuity of ages to invent, have been proved to be shad-
owy theories only. Genius has wasted itself in vain ; the
visions it has raised have vanished at the touch of (ruth.
Nothing is left but the melancholy certainty, that all things
human are imperfect, and must fail and decay. And man
himself, whose works are so fragile, where is he ? The
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 281
history of his works is the history of himself. He existed ;
he is gone.
The nature of human life cannot be more forcibly de-
scribed than in the beautiful language of eastern poetry,
which immediately precedes the text : " Man, that is born
of woman, is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh
forth like a flower, and is cut down ; he flceth as a shadow,
and continueth not. There is hope of a tree, if it be cut
down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch
thereof will not cease. Though the root thereof wax old
in the earth, and the stock thereof die in the ground ; yet,
through the scent of water, it will bud and bring forth
boughs like a plant. But man wasteth away ; yea, man
giveth up the ghost, and where is he ?" Such are the strik-
ing emblems of human life ; such is the end of all that is
mortal in man. And what a question is here for us to
reflect upon ! " Man giveth up the ghost, and where
i he 1"
Yes, when we see the flower of life fade on its stalk,
and all its comeliness depart, and all its freshness wither ;
when we see the bright eye grow dim, and the rose on tho
cheek lose its hue ; when we hear the voice faltering its
last accents, and see the energies of nature paralyzed ;
when we perceive the beams of intelligence grow fainter
and fainter on the countenance, and the last gleam of life
extinguished ; when we deposit all that is mortal of a fel-
low-being in the dark, cold chamber of the grave, and drop
a pitying tear at a spectacle so humiliating, so mournful ;
then let us put the solemn question to our souls, Where is
he ? His body is concealed in the earth ; but where is
the spirit ? Where is the intellect that could look through
the works of God, and catch inspiration from the Divinity
which animates and pervades the whole ? Where are the
powers that could command, the attractions that could
charm ? where the boast of humanity, wisdom, learning,
wit, eloquence, the pride of skill, the mystery of art, the
creations of fancy, the brilliancy of thought ? where the
virtues that could win, and the gentleness that could soothe ?
where the mildness of temper, the generous affections, the
benevolent feelings, all that is great and good, all that is
noble, and lovely, and pure, in the human character,
24*
282 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
where are they ? They are gone. We can see nothing :
the eye of faith only can dimly penetrate the region to
which they have fled. Lift the eye of faith ; follow the
light of the Gospel ; and let your delighted vision be lost
in the glories of the immortal world. Behold, there, the
spirits of the righteous dead rising up into newness of life,
gathering brightness and strength, unencumbered by the
weight of mortal clay and mortal sorrows, enjoying a
happy existence, and performing the holy service of their
Maker.
Let our reflections on death have a weighty and immedi-
ate influence on our minds and characters. We cannot be
too soon nor too entirely prepared to render the account,
which we must all render to our Maker and Judge. All
things earthly must fail us ; the riches, power, possessions
and gifts of the world will vanish from our sight ; friends
and relatives will be left behind ; our present support will
be taken away ; our strength will become weakness; and
the earth itself, and all its pomps, and honours, and attrac-
tions will disappear. Why have we been spared even till
this time ? We know not why, nor yet can we say that a
moment is our own. The summons for our departure may
now be recorded in the book of Heaven. The angel may
now be on his way to execute his solemn commission.
Death may already have marked us for his victims. But,
whether sooner or later, the event will be equally awful,
and demand the same preparation.
One, only, will then be our rock and our safety. The
kind Parent, who has upheld us all our days, will remain
our unfailing support. With him is no change ; he is un-
moved from age to age ; his mercy, as well as his being,
endures forever; and, if we rely on him, and live in obe-
dience to his laws, all tears shall be wiped from our eyes,
and all sorrow banished from our hearts. If we are rebels
to his cause, slaves to vice, and followers of evil, we must
expect the displeasure of a holy God, the just punishment
of our folly and wickedness; for a righteous retribution
will be awarded tp the evil as well as to the good.
Let it be the highest, the holiest, the unceasing concern
of each one of us, to live the life, that we may be pre-
pared to die the death, of the righteous ; that, when they
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 283
who come after us shall ask, Where is he ? unnumbered
voices shall be raised to testify, that, although his mortal
remains are mouldering in the cold earth, his memory is
embalmed in the cherished recollections of many a friend
who knew and loved him ; and all shall say, with tokens
of joy and confident belief, If God be just, and piety be
rewarded, his pure spirit is now at rest in the regions of
the blessed.
Battle of Bunker Hill. COOPER.
THE whole scene now lay before them. Nearly in
their front was the village of Charlestown, with its desert-
ed streets, and silent roofs, looking like a place of the dead ;
or, if the signs of life were visible within its open avenues,
'twas merely some figure moving swiftly in the solitude,
like one who hastened to quit the devoted spot. On the
opposite point of the south-eastern face of the peninsula,
and at the distance of a thousand yards, the ground was
already covered by masses of human beings, in scarlet,
with their arms glittering in a noon-day sun. Between the
two, though in the more immediate vicinity of the silent
town, the rounded ridge, already described, rose abruptly
from a flat that was bounded by the water, until, having
attained an elevation of some fifty or sixty feet, it swelled
gradually to the little crest, where was planted the hum-
ble object that had occasioned all this commotion. The
meadows, on the right, were still peaceful and smiling, as
in the most quiet days of the province, though the excited
fancy of Lionel imagined that a sullen stillness lingered
about the neglected kilns in their front, and over the whole
landscape, that was in gloomy consonance with the ap-
proaching scene. Far on the left, across the waters of the
Charles, the American camp had poured forth its thousands
to the hills ; and the whole population of the country, for
many miles inland, had gathered to a point, to witness a
struggle charged with the fate of their nation. Beacon
Hill rose from out the appalling silence of the town of Bos-
ton, like a pyramid of living faces, with every eye fixed
284 COMMON-l'LACi: 11UUK OF PROSE.
on the fatal point ; and men hung along the yards of the
shipping, or were suspended on cornices, cupolas, and stee-
ples, in thoughtless security, while every other sense was
lost in the absorbing interest of the sight. The vessels of
war had hauled deep into the rivers, or, more properly,
those narrow arms of the sea, which formed the peninsula,
and sent their iron missiles with unwearied industry across
the low passage, which alone opened the means of commu-
nication between the self-devoted yeomen on the hill and
their distant countrymen. While battalion landed after
battalion on the point, cannon-balls from the battery of
Copp's, and the vessels of war, were glancing up the nat-
ural glacis that surrounded the redoubt, burying themselves
in its earthen parapet, or plunging with violence into the
deserted sides of the loftier height which lay a few hun-
dred yards in its rear ; and the black and smoking bombs
appeared to hover above the spot, as if pausing to select
the places in which to plant their deadly combustibles.
Notwithstanding these appalling preparations, and cease-
less annoyances, throughout that long and anxious morn-
ing, the stout husbandmen on the hill had never ceased
their steady efforts to maintain, to the uttermost extremity,
the post they had so daringly assumed. In vain the Eng-
lish exhausted every means to disturb their stubborn foes ;
the pick, the shovel and the spade continued to perform
their offices, and mound rose after mound, amidst the din
and danger of the cannonade, steadily, and as well as if the
fanciful conceits of Job Pray embraced their real objects,
and the labourers were employed in the peaceful pursuits
of their ordinary lives. This firmness, however, was not
like the proud front which high training can impart to the
most common mind; for, ignorant of the glare of military
show ; in the simple and rude vestments of their calling ,
armed with such weapons as they had seized from the
hooks above their own mantels ; and without even a ban-
ner to wave its cheering folds above their heads, they
stood, sustained only by the righteousness of their cause,
and those deep moral principles, which they had received
from their fathers, and which they intended this day should
show were to be transmitted untarnished to their children.
It was afterwards known, that they endured their labours
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 285
and their dangers even in want of that sustenance, which
is so essential to support animal spirits in moments of calm-
ness and ease ; while their enemies, on the point, awaiting
the arrival of their latest bands, were securely devouring
a meal, which, to hundreds amongst them, proved to be their
last The fatal instant now seemed approaching. A gen-
eral movement was seen among the battalions of the Brit-
ish, who began to spread along the shore, under cover of
the brow of the hill the lingering boats having arrived
with the rear of their detachments and officers hurried
from regiment to regiment with the final mandates of their
chief. At this moment a body of Americans appeared on
the crown of Bunker Hill, and, descending swiftly by the
road, disappeared in the meadows to the left of their own
redoubt This band was followed by others, who, like
themselves, had broken through the dangers of the nar-
row pass, by braving the fire of the shipping, and who also
hurried to join their comrades on the low land. The Brit-
ish general determined at once to anticipate the arrival of
further re-enforcements, and gave forth the long-expected
order to prepare for the attack.
The Americans had made a show, in the course of that
fearful morning, of returning the fire of their enemies, by
throwing a few shot from their light field-pieces, as if in
mockery of the tremendous cannonade which they sus-
tained. But as the moment 6f severest trial approached,
the same awful stillness, which had settled upon the de-
serted streets of Charlestown, hovered around the redoubt.
On the meadows, to its left, the recently arrived hands has-
tily threw the rails of two fences into one, and, covering
the whole with the mown grass that surrounded them, they
posted themselves along the frail defence, which answer-
ed no better purpose than to conceal their weakness from
their adversaries. Behind this characteristic rampart,
several bodies of husbandmen, from the neighbouring
provinces of New Hampshire and Connecticut, lay on
their arms, in sullen expectation. Their line extended
from the shore to the base of the ridge, where it termi-
nated several hundred feet behind the works ; leaving a
wide opening, in a diagonal direction, between the fence
and an earthen breastwork, which ran a short distance
286 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSB.
down the declivity of the hill, from the north-eastern angle
of the redoubt. A few hundred yards in the rear of this
rude disposition, the naked crest of Bunker Hill rose unoc-
cupied and undefended ; and the streams of the Charles
and Mystick, sweeping around its base, approached so near
each other as to blend the sounds of their rippling. It was
across this low and narrow isthmus, that the royal frigates
poured a stream of fire, that never ceased, while around
it hovered the numerous parties of the undisciplined Ameri-
cans, hesitating to attempt the dangerous passage.
In this manner Gage had, in a great degree, surround-
ed the devoted peninsula with his power ; and the bold
men, who had so daringly planted themselves under the
muzzles of his cannon, were left, as already stated, unsup-
ported, without nourishment, and with weapons from their
own gunhooks, singly to maintain the honour of their na-
tion. Including men of all ages and conditions, there
might have been two thousand of them ; but, as the day
advanced, small bodies of their countrymen, taking counsel
of their feelings, and animated by the example of the old
partisan of the woods, who crossed and recrossed the neck,
loudly scoffing at the danger, broke through the fire of the
shipping in time to join in the closing and bloody business
of the hour.
On the other hand, Howe led more than an equal num-
ber of the chosen troops of his prince ; and as boats con-
tinued to ply between the two peninsulas throughout the
afternoon, the relative disparity continued undiminislu-d to
the end of the struggle. It was at this point in our narra-
tive that, deeming himself sufficiently strong to force the
defences of his despised foes, the arrangements immediate-
ly preparatory to such an undertaking were made in full
view of the excited spectators. Notwithstanding tin 1 M--
curity with which the English general marshalled his war-
riors, he felt that the approaching contest would be a bat-
tle of no common incidents. The eyes of tens of thousands
were fastened on his movements, and the occasion demand-
ed the richest display of the pageantry of war.
The troops formed with beautiful accuracy, and the col-
umns moved steadily along the shore, and took their assign-
ed stations under cover of the brow of the eminence. Their
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 287
force was in some measure divided ; one moiety attempting
the toilsome ascent of the hill, and the other moving along
the beach, or in the orchards of the more level ground, to-
wards the husbandmen on the meadows. The latter soon
disappeared behind some fruit-trees and the brick-kilns just
mentioned. The advance of the royal columns up the as-
cent was slow and measured, giving time to their field-
guns to add their efforts to the uproar of the cannonade,
which broke out with new fury as the battalions prepared
to inarch. When each column arrived at the allotted point,
it spread the gallant array of its glittering warriors under
a bright sun.
" It is a glorious spectacle," murmured the graceful
chieftain by the side of Lionel, keenly alive to all the po-
etry of his alluring profession ; " how exceeding soldier-
like ! and with what accuracy his ' first-arm ascends the
hill,' towards his enemy !"
The intensity of his feelings prevented Major Lincoln
from replying, and the other soon forgot that he had spoken,
in the overwhelming anxiety of the moment. The ad^
vance of the British line, so beautiful and slow, resembled
rather the ordered steadiness of a drill, than an approach
to a deadly struggle. Their standards fluttered proudly
above them ; and there were moments when the wild mu-
sic of their bands was heard rising on the air, and temper-
ing the ruder sounds of the artillery. The young and
thoughtless in their ranks turned their faces backward, and
smiled exultingly, as they beheld steeples, roofs, masts, and
heights, teeming with their thousands of eyes, bent on the
show of their bright array. As the British lines moved
in open view of the little redoubt, and began slowly to
gather around its different faces, gun after gun became si-
lent, and the curious artillerist, or tired seaman, lay ex-
tended on his heated piece, gazing in mute wonder at the
spectacle. There was just then a minute when the roar
of the cannonade seemed passing away like the rumbling
of distant thunder.
" They will not fight, Lincoln," said the animated leader
at the side of Lionel " the military front of Howe has
chilled the hearts of the knaves, and our victory will lie
bloodless !"
288 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
" We shall see, sir we shall see !"
These words were barely uttered, when platoon after
platoon, among the British, delivered its fire, the blaze of
musketry flashing swiftly around the brow of the hill, and
was immediately followed by heavy volleys that ascended
from the orchard. Still no answering sound was heard
from the Americans, and the royal troops were soon lost to
the eye, as they slowly marched into the white cloud which
their own fire had alone created.
" They are cowed, by heavens ! the dogs are cowed !"
once more cried the gay companion of Lionel, " and Howe
is wiihin two hundred feet of them unharmed !"
At that instant a sheet of flame glanced through the
smoke, like lightning playing in a cloud, while at one re-
port a thousand muskets were added to the uproar. It was
not altogether fancy, which led Lionel to imagine that he
saw the smoky canopy of the hill to wave, as if the trained
warriors it enveloped faltered before this close and appalling
discharge ; but, in another instant, the stimulating war-cry,
and the loud shouts of the combatants, were borne across
the strait to his ears, even amid the horrid din of the com-
bat. Ten breathless minutes flew by like a moment of
time, and the bewildered spectators on Copp's were still
gazing intently on the scene, when a voice was raised among
them, shouting
" Hurrah ! let the rake-hellies go up to Breed's ; the
people will teach 'em the law !"
" Throw the rebel scoundrel from the hill ! Blow
him from the muzzle of a gun !" cried twenty soldiers in
a breath.
" Hold !" exclaimed Lionel " 'tis a simpleton, an idiot,
a fool !"
But the angry and savage murmurs as quickly subsided,
and were lost in other feelings, as the bright red lines of
the royal troops were seen issuing from the smoke, waving
and recoiling before the still vivid fire of their enemies.
" Ha !" said Burgoyne " 'tis some feint to draw the
rebels from their hold !"
" 'Tis a palpable and disgraceful retreat !" muttered the
stern warrior nigh him, whose truer eye detected at a glance
COMMON-PLACE COOK OF PROSE. 289
the discomfiture of the assailants.*" 'Tis another base re-
treat before the rebels !"
" Hurrah !" shouted the reckless changeling again ;
' there come the reg'lars out of the orchard too ! see the
giannies skulking behind the kilns! Let them go on to
Breed's ; the people will teach 'em the law !"
No cry of vengeance preceded the act this time, but fifty
of the soldiery rushed, as by a common impulse, on their
prey. Lionel had not time to utter a word of remonstrance,
before Job appeared in the air, borne on the uplifted arms
of a dozen men, and at the next instant he was seen roll-
ing down the steep declivity, with a velocity that carried
him to the water's edge. Springing to his feet, the un-
daunted changeling once more waved his hat in triumph,
and shouted forth again his offensive challenge. Then
turning, he launched his canoe from its hiding place among
the adjacent lumber, amid a shower of stones, and glided
across the strait ; his little bark escaping unnoticed in the
crowd of boats that were rowing in all directions. But his
progress was watched by the uneasy eye of Lionel, who
saw him land and disappear, with hasty steps, in the silent
streets of the town.
While this trifling by-play was enacting, the great dra-
ma of the day was not at a stand. The smoky veil, which
clung around the brow of the eminence, was lifted by the
air, and sailed heavily away to the south-west, leaving the
scene of the bloody struggle again open to the view. Li-
onel witnessed the grave and meaning glances which the
two lieutenants of the king exchanged as they simultane-
ously turned their glasses from the fatal spot, and, taking
the one proffered by Burgoyne, he read their explanation
in the numbers of the dead that lay profusely scattered in
front of the redoubt. At this instant, an officer from the
field held an earnest communication with the two leaders ;
when, having delivered his orders, he hastened back to his
boat, like one who felt himself employed in matters of life
and death.
" It shall be done, sir," repeated Clinton, as the other
departed, his own honest brow sternly knit under high mar-
tial excitement. " The artillery have their orders, and th
work will be accomplished without delay."
25
250 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
" This, Major Lincoln !" cried his more sophisticated
companion, " this is one of the trying duties of the soldier !
To fight, to bleed, or even to die, for his prince, is his hap-
py privilege ; but it is sometimes his unfortunate lot to be-
come the instrument of vengeance."
Lionel waited but a moment for an explanation the
flaming balls were soon seen taking their wide circuit in
the air, and carrying their desolation among the close and
inflammable roofs of the opposite town. In a very few
minutes, a dense, black suioke arose from the deserted
buildings, and forked flames played actively along the heat-
ed shingles, as though rioting in their unmolested posses-
sion of the place. He regarded the gathering destruction
in painful silence ; and, on bending his looks towards his
companions, he fancied, notwithstanding the language of
the other, that he read the deepest regret in the averted
eye of him, who had so unhesitatingly uttered the fata'
mandate to destroy.
In scenes like these we are attempting to describe, hours
appear to be minutes, and time flies as imperceptibly as life
slides from beneath the feet of age. The disordered ranks of
the British had been arrested at the base of the'hill, and were
again forming under the eyes of their leaders, with admi-
rable discipline, and extraordinary care. Fresh battalions,
from Boston, marched with high military pride into the line,
and every thing betokened that a second assault was at
hand. When the moment of stupid amazement, which
succeeded the retreat of the royal troops, had passed, the
troops and batteries poured out their wrath with tenfold
fury on their enemies. Shot were incessantly glancing
up the gentle acclivity, madly ploughing across its grassy
surface, while black and threatening shells appeared to
hover above the work, like the monsters of the air, about
to stoop upon their prey.
Still all lay quiet and immoveable within the low mounds
of earth, as if none there had a stake in the issue of the
bloody day. For a few moments only, the tall figure of
an aged man was seen slowly moving along the summit of
the ramparts calmly regarding the dispositions of the Eng-
lish general in the more distant part of his line, and, after
exchanging a few words with a gentleman, who joined
COjMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 291
him in his dangerous lookout, they disappeared together
behind the grassy banks. Lionel soon detected the name
of Prescott of Pepperel, passing through the crowd in low
murmurs, and his glass did not deceive him when he thought,
in the smaller of the two, he had himself descried the
graceful person of the unknown leader of the " caucus."
Ail eyes were now watching the advance of the battal-
ions, which once more drew nigh the point of contest. The
heads of the columns were already in view of their ene-
mies, when a man was seen swiftly ascending the hill from
the burning town : he paused amid the peril, on the natural
glacis, and swung his hat triumphantly, and Lionel even
fancied he heard the exulting cry, as he recognised the
ungainly form of the simpleton, before it plunged into the
work.
The right of the British once more disappeared in the
orchard, and the columns in front of the redoubt again
opened with all the imposing exactness of their high dis-
cipline. Their arms were already glittering in a line with
the green faces of the mound, and Lionel heard the expe-
rienced warrior at his side murmuring to himself
" Let him hold his fire, and he will go in at the point
of the bayonet !"
But the trial was too great for even the practised courage
of the royal troops. Volley succeeded volley, and in a few
moments they had again curtained their ranks behind the
misty screen produced by their own fire. Then came the
terrible flash from the redoubt, and the eddying volumes
from the adverse hosts rolled into one cloud, enveloping'the
combatants in its folds, as if to conceal their bloody work
from the spectators. Twenty times, in the short space of
as many minutes, Major Lincoln fancied he heard the in-
cessant roll of the American musketry die away before the
heavy and regular volleys of the troops ; and then he thought
the sounds of the latter grew more faint, and were given at
longer intervals.
The result, however, was soon known. The heavy
bank of smoke, which now even clung along the ground,
was broken in fifty places ; and the disordered masses of
the British were seen driven before their deliberate foes In
wild confusion. The flashing swords of the officers in rain
292 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
attempted to arrest the torrent, nor did the flight cease, with
many of the regiments, until they had even reached their
boats. At this moment a hum was heard in Boston, like
the sudden rush of wind, and men gazed in each other's
faces with undisguised amazement. Here and there a low
sound of exultation escaped some unguarded lip, and many
an eye gleamed with a triumph that could no longer be
suppressed. Until this moment the feelings of Lionel had
vacillated between the pride of country and his military
spirit ; but, losing all other feelings in the latter sensation,
he now looked fiercely about him, as if he would seek the
man who dare exult in the repulse of his comrades. The
poetic chieftain was still at his side, biting his nether lip
in vexation ; but his more tried companion had suddenly
disappeared. Another quick glance fell upon his missing
form in the act of entering a boat at the foot of the hill.
Quicker than thought, Lionel was on the shore, crying, as
he flew to the water's edge
" Hold ! for God's sake, hold ! remember the 47th is in
the field, and that I am its major !"
" Receive him," said Clinton, with that grim satisfaction,
with which men acknowledge a valued friend in moments
of great trial ; " and then row for your lives, or, what is
of more value, for the honour of the British name."
The brain of Lionel whirled as the boat shot along its
watery bed, but, before it had gained the middle of the
stream, he had time to consider the whole of the appalling
scene. The fire had spread from house to house, and the
whole village of Charlestown, with its four hundred build-
ings, was just bursting into flames. The air seemed filled
with whistling balls, as they hurtled above his head, and
the black sides of the vessels of war were vomiting their
sheets of flame with unwearied industry. Amid this tu-
mult, the English general and his companions sprung to land.
The former rushed into the disordered ranks, and by his pres-
ence and voice recalled the men of one regiment to their
duty. But long and loud appeals to their spirit and their an-
cient fame were necessary to restore a moiety of their former
confidence to men, who had been thus rudely repulsed, and
who now looked along their thinned and exhausted ranks,
missing, in many instances, more than half the well-known
COMMON- LACE BOOK OF PROSE. 293
countenances of their fellows. In the midst of the faltering
troops stood their stern and unbending chief; but of all
those gay and gallant youths, who followed in his train as
he had departed from Province-House that morning, not
one remained, but in his blood. He alone seemed undis-
turbed in that disordered crowd ; and his mandates went
forth as usual, calm and determined. At length the panic,
in some degree, subsided, and order was once more restored,
as the high-spirited and mortified gentlemen of the detach-
ment regained their lost authority.
The leaders consulted together, apart, and the disposi-
tions were immediately renewed for the assault. Military
show was no longer affected, but the soldiers laid down all
the useless implements of their trade, and many even cast
aside their outer garments, under the warmth of a broiling
sun, added to the heat of the conflagration, which began to
diffuse itself along the extremity of the peninsula. Fresh
companies were placed in the columns, and most of the
troops were withdrawn from the meadows, leaving merely
a few skirmishers to amuse the Americans who lay behind
the fence. When each disposition was completed, the final
signal was given to advance.
Lionel had taken post in his regiment, but, marching on
the skirt of the column, he commanded a view of most of
the scene of battle. In his front moved a battalion, re-
duced to a handful of men in the previous assaults. Behind
these came a party of the marine guards, from the shipping,
led by their own veteran major ; and next followed the de-
jected Nesbitt and his corps, amongst whom Lionel looked
in vain for the features of the good-natured Polwarth.
Similar columns marched on their right and left, encircling
three sides of the redoubt by their battalions.
A few minutes brought him in full view of that humble
and unfinished mound of earth, for the possession of which
so much Wood had that day been spilt in vain. It lay, as
before, still as if none breathed within its bosom, though
a terrific row of dark tubes were arrayed along its top,
following the movements of the approaching columns, as
the eyes of the imaginary charmers of our own wilderness
are said to watch their victims. As the uproar of the ar-
tillery again grew fainter, the crash of falling streets, and
25*
294 COMMON-I'L.U'E UOOK OV PROSE.
the appalling sounds of the conflagration, on their left, be
came more audible. Immense volumes of black smoke is-
sued from the smouldering ruins, aifti, bellying outward,
fold beyond fold, it overhung the work in a hideous cloud,
casting its gloomy shadow across the place of blood.
A strong column was now seen ascending, as if from out
the burning town, and the advance of the whole became quick
and spirited. A low call ran through the platoons, to note
the naked weapons of their adversaries, and it was follow-
ed by the cry of " To the bayonet ! to the bayonet !"
" Hurrah ! for the Royal Irish !" shouted M'Fuse, at the
head of the dark column from the conflagration.
" Hurrah !" echoed a well-known voice from the silent
mound ; " let them come on to Breed's ; the people wil'
teach 'em the law !"
Men think at such moments with the rapidity of light-
uing, and Lionel had even fancied his comrades in posses-
sion of the work, when the terrible stream of fire flashed
in the faces of the men in front.
" Push on with the th," cried the veteran major
of marines " push on, or the 18th will get the honour of
the day !"
" We cannot," murmured the soldiers of the th ;
" their fire is too heavy !"
" Then break, and let the marines pass through you !"
The feeble battalion melted away, and the warriors of
the deep, trained to conflicts of hand to hand, sprang for-
ward, with a loud shout, in their places. The Americans,
exhausted of their ammunition, now sunk sullenly back, a
few hurling stones at their foes, in desperate indignation.
The cannon of the British had been brought to enfilade
their short breast-work, which was no longer tenable ; and,
as the columns approached closer to the low rampart, it be-
came a mutual protection to the adverse parties.
" Hurrah ! for the Royal Irish !" again shouted M'Fuse,
rushing up the trifling ascent, which was but of little more
than his own height.
" Hurrah !" repeated Pitcairn, waving his sword on
another angle of the work " the day's our own !"
One more sheet of flame issued out of the bosom of the
work, and all those brave men, who had emulated the ex-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 295
amples of their officers, were swept away, as though a
whirlwind had passed along. The grenadier gave his war-
cry once more, before he pitched headlong among his ene-
mies ; while Pitcairn fell back into the arms of his own
child. The cry of " Forward, 47th," rung through their
ranks, and in their turn this veteran battalion gallantly
mounted the ramparts. In the shallow ditch Lionel pass-
ed the expiring marine, and caught the dying and despair-
ing look from his eyes, and in another instant he found
himself in the presence of his foes. As company followed
company into the defenceless redoubt, the Americans eul
lenly retired by its rear, keeping the bayonets of the sol-
diers at bay with clubbed muskets and sinewy arms. When
the whole issued upon the open ground, the husbandmen
received a close and fatal fire from the battalions, which
were now gathering around them on three sides. A scene
of wild and savage confusion then succeeded to the orde-
of the fight, and many fatal blows were given and taken,
the melee rendering the use of fire-arms nearly impossible
for several minutes.
Lionel continued in advance, pressing on the footsteps
of the retiring foe, stepping over many a lifeless body in
his difficult progress. Notwithstanding the hurry, and vast
disorder of the fray, his eye fell on the form of the grace-
ful stranger, stretched lifeless on the parched grass, which
had greedily drank his blood. Amid the ferocious cries,
and fiercer passions of the moment, the young man paus-
ed, and glanced his eyes around him, with an expression
that said, he thought the work of death should cease. At
this instant the trappings of his attire caught the glaring
eye-balls of a dying yeoman, who exerted his wasting
strength to sacrifice one more worthy victim to the manes
of his countrymen. The whole of the tumultuous scene
vanished from the senses of Lionel at the flash of the mus-
ket of this man, and he sunk beneath the feet of the
combatants, insensible of further triumph, and of every
danger.
The fall of a single officer, in such a contest, was a cir-
cumstance not to be regarded ; and regiments passed over
him, without a single man stooping to inquire into his fate.
When the Americans had disengaged themselves from the
296 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PIIOSE.
troops, they descended into the little hollow between the
two hills, swiftly, and like a disordered crowd, bearing off
most of their wounded, and leaving but few prisoners in
the hands of their foes. The formation of the ground fa-
voured their retreat, as hundreds of bullets whistled harm-
lessly above their heads; and, by the time they gained the
acclivity of Bunker, distance was added to their security.
Finding the field lost, the men at the fence broke away in
a body from their position, and abandoned the meadows ;
the whole moving in confused masses behfnd the crest of
the adjacent height. The shouting soldiery followed in
their footsteps, pouring in fruitless and distant volleys ; but,
on the summit of Bunker, their tired platoons were halted,
and they beheld the throng move fearlessly through the
tremendous fire that enfiladed the low pass, as little injured
as though most of them bore charmed lives.
The day was now drawing to a close. With the disap-
pearance of their enemies, the ships and batteries ceased
their cannonade ; and, presently, not a musket was heard
in that place, where so fierce a contest had so long raged.
The troops commenced fortifying the outward eminence,
on which they rested, in order to maintain their barren
conquest ; and nothing further remained for the achieve-
ment of the royal lieutenants, but to go and mourn over
their victory.
JJ ut umn and Spring. PAULDING.
THE Summer passed away, and Autumn began to
hang out his many-coloured flag upon the trees, that, smit-
ten by the nightly frosts, every morning exhibited less of
the green, and more of the gaudy hues, that mark the
waning year in our western climate. The farmers of El-
singburgh were out in their fields, bright and early, gath-
ering in the fruits of their spring and summer's labours,
or busily employed in making their cider ; while the ur-
chins passed their holydays in gathering nuts to crack by
the winter's fire. The little quails began to whistle their
autumnal notes ; the grasshopper, having had his season
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 297
of idle sport and chirping jollity, began now to pay the
penalty of his thoughtless improvidence, and might be seen
sunning himself at mid-day, in melancholy silence, as if
anticipating the period when his . short and merry race
would be run. Flocks of robins were passing to the south,
to seek a more genial air ; the sober cattle began to assume
their rough, wintry coat, and to put on that desperate ap-
pearance of ennui, with which all nature salutes the ap-
proach of winter. The little blue-bird alone, the last to
leave us, and the first to return in the spring, sometimes
poured out his pensive note, as if bidding farewell to the
nest where it had reared its young.
Now the laughing, jolly Spring began sometimes to show
her buxom face in the bright morning ; but ever and anon,
meeting the angry frown of Winter, loath to resign his rough
sway over the wide realm of nature, she would retire again
into her southern bower. Yet, though her visits were but
short, her very look seemed to exercise a magic influence.
The buds began slowly to expand their close winter folds ;
the dark and melancholy woods to assume an almost im-
perceptible purple tint ; and here and there a little chirp-
ing blue-bird hopped about the orchards of Elsingburgh.
Strips of fresh green appeared along the brooks, now re-
leased from their icy fetters ; and nests of little variegated
flowers, nameless, yet richly deserving a name, sprung up
in the sheltered recesses of the leafless woods. By and
by, the shad, the harbinger at once of spring and plenty,
came up the river before the mild southern breeze ; the
ruddy blossoms of the peach tree exhibited their gorgeous
pageantry ; the little lambs appeared frisking and gambol-
ing about the sedate mother ; young, innocent calves be-
gan their first bleatings ; the cackling hen announced her
daily feat in the barn-yard with clamorous astonishment ;
every day added to the appearance of that active vegetable
an! animal life, which nature presents in the progress of
the genial spring ; and, finally, the flowers, the zephyrs, and
the warblers, and the maiden's rosy cheeks, announced to
the eye, the ear, the senses, the fancy, and the heart, the
return and the stay of the veinal year.
298 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
The Storm- Ship. IRVING.
IN the golden age of the province of the New* Nether-
lands, when it was under the sway of Wouter Van Twiller,
otherwise called the Doubter, the people of the Manhat-
toes were alarmed, one sultry afternoon, just about the time
of the summer solstice, by a tremendous storm of thunder
and lightning. The rain descended in such torrents as ab-
solutely to spatter up and smoke along the ground. It seem-
ed as if the thunder rattled and rolled over the very roofs
of the houses ; the lightning was seen to play about the
church of St. Nicholas, and to strive three times, in vain,
to strike its weathercock. Garret Van Home's new chim-
ney was split almost from top to bottom ; and Doffue Mil-
deberger was struck speechless from his bald-faced mare,
just as he was riding into town. In a word, it was one of
those unparalleled storms, that only happen once within
the memory of that venerable personage known in all towns
by the appellation of " the oldest inhabitant."
Great was the terror of the good old women of the Man-
hattoes. They gathered their children together, and took
refuge in the cellars ; after having hung a shoe on the iron
point of every bed-post, lest it should attract the lightning.
At length the storm abated ; the thunder sunk into a growl,
and the setting sun, breaking from under the fringed bor-
ders of the clouds, made the broad bosom of the bay to gleam
like a sea of molten gold.
The word was given from the fort that a ship was stand-
ing up the bay. It passed from mouth to mouth, and street
to street, and soon put the little capital in a bustle. The
arrival of a ship, in those early times of the settlement,
was an event of vast importance to the inhabitants. It
brought them news from the old world, from the land of
their birth, from which they were so completely severed :
to the yearly ship, too, they looked for their supply of lux-
uries, of finery, of comforts, and almost of necessaries.
The good vrouw could not have her new cap nor new
gown until the arrival of the ship ; the artist waited for It
for his tools, the burgomaster for his pipe and his supply
of Hollands, the schoolboy for his top and marbles, and the
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 299
lordly landholder for the bricks with which he was to build
his new mansion. Thus every one, rich and poor, great
and small, looked out for the arrival of the ship. It was
the great yearly event of the town of New Amsterdam ;
and, from one end of the year to the other, the ship- the
ship the ship was the continual topic of conversation.
The news from the fort, therefore, brought all the popu-
lace down to the battery, to behold the wished-for sight.
It was not exactly the time when she had been expected
to arrive, and the circumstance was a matter of some spec-
ulation. Many were the groups collected about the bat-
tery. Here and there might be seen a burgomaster, of
slow and pompous gravity, giving his opinion with great
confidence to a crowd of old women and idle boys. At
another place was a knot of old, weather-beaten fellows,
who had been seamen or fishermen in their times, and were
great authorities on such occasions ; these gave different
opinions, and caused great disputes among their several
adherents : but the man most looked up to, and followed
and watched by the crowd, was Hans Van Pelt, an old
Dutch sea captain retired from service, the nautical oracle
of the place. He reconnoitred the ship through an ancient
telescope, covered with tarry canvass, hummed a Dutch
tune to himself, and said nothing. A hum, however, from
Hans Van Pelt, had always more weight with the public,
than a speech from another man.
In the mean time the ship became more distinct to the
naked eye : she was a stout, round, Dutch built vessel,
with high bow and poop, and bearing Dutch colours. The
evening sun gilded her bellying canvass, as she came riding
over the long waving billows. The sentinel, who had given
notice of her approach, declared, that he first got sight of
her when she was in the centre of the bay ; and that she
broke suddenly on his sight, just as if she had come out
of the bosom of the black thunc'or-cloud. The bystanders
looked at Hans Van Pelt, to see what he would say to this
report : Hans Van Pelt screwed his mouth closer together,
and said nothing ; upon which some shook their heads, and
others shrugged their shoulders.
The ship was now repeatedly hailed, but made no reply,
and, passing by the fort, stood on up the Hudson. A gun
800 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
was brought to bear on her, and, with some difficulty, load-
ed and fired by Hans Van Pelt, the garrison not being ex-
pert in artillery. The shot seemed absolutely to pass
through the ship, and to skip along the water on the other
side ; but no notice was taken of it ! What was strange,
she had all her sails set, and sailed right against wind and
tide, which were both down the river. Upon this Hans
Van Pelt, who was likewise harbour-master, ordered his
boat, and set off to board her ; but, after rowing two or
three hours, he returned without success. Sometimes he
would get within one or two hundred yards of her, and then,
in a twinkling, she would be half a mile off. Some said it
was because his oars-men, who were rather pursy and short-
winded, stopped every now and then to take breath, and
spit on their hands ; but this, it is probable, was a mere
scandal. He got near enough, however, to see the crew;
who were all dressed in the Dutch style, the officers in
doublets and high hats and feathers : not a word was spoken
by any one on board ; they stood as motionless as so many
statues, and the ship seemed as if left to her own govern-
ment. Thus she kept on, away up the river, lessening
and lessening in the evening sunshine, until she faded
from sight, like a little white cloud melting away iti the
summer sky.
.The appearance of this ship threw the governor into one
of the deepest doubts that ever beset him in the whole
course of his administration. Fears were entertained for
the security of the infant settlements on the river, lest this
might be an enemy's ship in disguise, sent to take posses-
sion. The governor called together his council repeatedly,
to assist him with their conjectures. He sat in his chair
of state, built of timber from the sacred forest of the Hague,
and smoking his long jasmin pipe, and listened to all that
his counsellors had to say on a subject about which they
knew nothing ; but, in spite of all the conjecturing of
the sagest and oldest heads, the governor still continued
to doubt.
Messengers were despatched to different places on the
river ; but they returned without any tidings the ship had
made no port. Day after day, and week after week, elapsed,
but she never returned down the Hudson. As, however,
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 301
the council seemed solicitous for intelligence, they had it
in abundance.. The captains of the sloops seldom arrived
without bringing some report of having seen the strange
ship at different parts of the river ; sometimes near the
Palisadoes, sometimes off Croton Point, and sometimes in
the Highlands ; but she never was reported as having been
seen above the Highlands. The crews of the sloops, it is
true, generally differed among themselves in their accounts
of these apparitions ; but that may have arisen from the
uncertain situations in which they saw her. Sometimes
it was by the flashes of the thunder-storm lighting up a
pitchy night, and giving glimpses of her careering across
Tappaan Zee, or the wide waste of Haverstraw Bay. At
one moment she would appear close upon them, as if like-
ly to run them down, and would throw them into great
bustle and alarm ; but the next flash would show her far
off, always sailing against the wind. Sometimes, in quiet
moonlight nights, she would be seen under some high bluff
of the Highlands, all in deep shadow, excepting her top-
sails glittering in the moonbeams ; by the time, however,
that the voyagers would reach the place, there would be
no ship to be seen ; and, when they had passed on for some
distance, and looked back, behold ! there she was again,
with her top-sails in the moonshine ! Her appearance was
always just after, or just before, or just in the midst of un-
ruly weather ; and she was known by all the skippers
and voyagers of the Hudson by the name of " the storm-
ship."
These reports perplexed the governor and his council
more than ever ; and it would be endless to repeat the con-
jectures and opinions that were uttered on the subject.
Some quoted cases in point, of ships seen off the coast of
New England, navigated by witches and goblins. Old
Hans Van Pelt, who had been more than once to the Dutch
colony at the Cape of Good Hope, insisted that this must
be the flying Dutchman, which had so long haunted Table
Bay, but, being unable to make port, had now sought anoth-
er harbour. Others suggested, that, if it really was a super-
natural apparition, as there was every natural reason to be-
lieve, it might be Hendrick Hudson, and his crew of the
Halfmoon ; who, it was well known, had once run aground
26
302 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
in the upper part of the river, in seeking a north-west pas-
sage to China. This opinion had very little weight with the
governor, but it passed current out of doors ; for, indeed,
it had already been reported, that Hendrick Hudson and
his crew haunted the Kaatskill Mountain ; and it appear-
ed very reasonable to suppose, that his ship might infest
the river where the enterprise was baffled, or that it might
bear the shadowy crew to their periodical revels in the
mountain.
Other events occurred to occupy the thoughts and doubts
of the sage Wouter and his council, and the storm-ship
ceased to be a subject of deliberation at the board. It con-
tinued, however, to be a matter of popular belief and mar-
vellous anecdote through the whole *ime of the Dutch gov-
ernment, and particularly just before the capture of New
Amsterdam, and the subjugation of the province by the
English squadron. About that time the storm-ship was
repeatedly seen in the Tappaan Zee, and about Weehawk,
and even down as far as Hoboken ; and her appearance
was supposed to be ominous of the approaching squall in
public affairs, and the downfall of Dutch domination.
Since that time we have no authentic accounts of her ,
though it is said she still haunts the Highlands, and cruises
about Point-no-point. People, who live along the river,
insist that they sometimes see her in summer moonlight;
and that, in a deep, still midnight, they have heard the chant
of her crew, as if heaving the lead ; but sights and sounds
are so deceptive along the mountainous shores, and about
the wide bays and long reaches of this great river, that I
confess I have very strong doubts upon the subject.
It is certain, nevertheless, that strange things have been
seen in these Highlands in storms, which are considered
as connected with the old story of the ship. The captains
of the river craft talk of a little bulbous-bottomed Dutch
goblin, in trunk hose and sugar-loafed hat. with a speaking
trumpet in his hand, which they say keeps about the Dun-
derberg.* They declare that they have heard him, in
stormy weather, in the midst of the turmoil, giving orders
in low Dutch for the piping up of a fresh gust of wind, or
That if, the " Thunder Mountain," to called from Its echoes
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE, 303
the rattling off of another thunder-clap ; that sometimes he
has been seen surrounded by a crew of little imps in broad
breeches and short doublets ; tumbling head over heels in
the rack and mist, and playing a thousand gambols in the
air ; or buzzing like a swarm of flies about Antony's
Nose ; and that, at such times, the hurry-scurry of the storm
was always greatest. One time a sloop, in passing by the
Dunderberg, was overtaken by a thunder-gust, that came
scouring round the mountain, and seemed to burst just
over the vessel. Though tight and well ballasted, yet she
laboured dreadfully, until the water came over the gun-
wale. All the crew were amazed, when it was discovered
that there was a little white sugar-loaf hat on the mast-
head, which was known at once to be the hat of the Heer
of the Dunderberg. Nobody, however, dared to climb to
the mast-head, and get rid of this terrible hat. The sloop
continued labouring and rocking, as if she would have roll-
ed her mast overboard. She seemed in continual danger,
either of upsetting or of running on shore. In this way
she drove quite through the Highlands, until she had pass-
ed Pollopol's Island, where, it is said, the jurisdiction of
the Dunderberg potentate ceases. No sooner had she pass-
ed this bourn, than the little hat, all at once, spun up into
the air like a top ; whirled up all the clouds into a vortex,
and hurried them back to the summit of the Dunderberg ;
while the sloop righted herself, and sailed on as quietly as
if in a mill-pond. Nothing saved her from utter wreck
but the fortunate circumstance of having a horse-shoe nail-
ed against the mast, a wise precaution against evil spirits,
which has since been adopted by all the Dutch captains
that navigate this haunted river.
There is another story told of this foul-weather urchrn,
oy Skipper Daniel Ouslesticker, of Fish Hill, who was nev-
er known to tell a lie. He declared, that, in a severe
squall, he saw him seated astride of his bowsprit, riding the
sloop ashore, full butt against Antony's Nose, and that he
was exorcised by Dominie Van Gieson, of Esopus, who
happened to be on board, and who sung the hymn of St.
Nicholas ; whereupon the goblin threw himself up in the
air like a ball, and went off in a whirlwind, carrying away
with him the night-cap of the Dominie's wife ; which was
304 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
discovered the next Sunday morning hanging on the wea-
ther-cock of Esopus' church steeple, at least forty miles
off! After several events of this kind had taken place,
the regular skippers of the river, for a long time, did not
venture to pass the Dunderberg, without lowering their
peaks, out of homage to the Heer of the mountain ; and it
was observed that all such as paid this tribute of respect
were suffered to pass unmolested.*
Anecdote of James Otis. J. ADAMS.
OTIS belonged to a club who met on evenings ; of
which club William Molineuxt was a member. Moly-
neux had a petition before the legislature, which did not
succeed to his wishes, and he became for several even-
ings sour, and wearied the company with his complaints of
services, losses, sacrifices, &c., and said "That a man
who has behaved as I have should be treated as I am is
* Among the superstitions which prevailed in the colonies, during
the early times of the settlements, there seems to have been a singular
one about phantom ships. The superstitious fancies of men are always
apt to turn upon those objects which concern their daily occupations.
The solitary ship, which, from year to year, came like a raven in the
wilderness, bringing to the inhabitants of a settlement the comforts of
life from the world from which they were cut off, was apt to be present
to their dreams, whether sleeping or waking. The accidental sight
from shore of a sail gliding along the horizon in those, as yet, lonely
seas, was apt to be a matter of much talk and speculation. There is
mention made in one of the early New England writers, of a ship nav-
igated by witches, with a great horse that stood by the mainmast. I
have met with another story, somewhere, of a ship that drove onshore,
in fair, sunny, tranquil weather, with sails all set, and a table spread
in the cabin, as if to regale a number of guests, yet not a living being
on board. These phantom ships always sailed in the eye of the wind,
or ploughed their way with great velocity, making the smooth sea foam
before their bows, when not a breath of air was stirring.
Moore has finely wrought up one of these legends of the sea into :i
little tale, which, within a small compass, contains the very essence of
this species of supernatural fiction. 1 allude to his Spectre-Ship bound
to Deadman's Isle.
t Mr. Molineux was a merchant, but much more of a sportsman and a
ton vivant, than a man of business. His sentiments were warmly in fa-
vour of his country ; and, though often a companion of the Englteh
officers, he was yet an intimate acquaintance of the leading patriots
of the day. TUDOR.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 305
intolerable!" Otis had said nothing; but the company
were disgusted and out of patience, when Otis rose from
his seat, and said " Come, come, Will, quit this subject,
and let us enjoy ourselves. I also have a list of grievan-
ces ; will you hear it ?" The club expected some fun, and
all cried out, " Ay I ay ! let us hear your list."
" Well, then, Will : in the first place, I resigned the
office of advocate-general, which I held from the crown,
that produced me how much do you think ?" " A great
deal, no doubt," said Molineux. " Shall we say two
hundred sterling a year ? " " Ay, more, I believe," said
Molineux. " Well, let it be two hundred ; that, for ten
years, is two thousand.
" In the next place, I have been obliged to relinquish
the greatest part of my business at the bar. Will you set
that at two hundred more ?" " Oh ! I believe it much
more than that." " Well, let it be two hundred ; this, for
ten years, is two thousand more. You allow, then, I have
lost four thousand pounds sterling." " Ay, and much more
too," said Molineux.
" In the next place, I have lost an hundred friends ;
among whom were the men of the first rank, fortune and
power in the province. At what price will you estimate
them ?" " At nothing," said Molineux ; " you are better
without them, than with them." A loud laugh. " Be
it so," said Otis.
" In the next place, I have made a thousand enemies,
among whom are the government of the province and the
nation. What do you think of this item ?" " That is as
it may happen," said Molineux.
" In the next place, you know, I love pleasure ; but I
have renounced all amusement for ten years. What is
that worth to a man of pleasure ?" " No great matter,"
said Molineux ; " you have made politics your amuse-
ment." A hearty laugh.
" In the next place, I have ruined as fine health, and as
good a constitution of body, as nature ever gave to man."
" This is melancholy indeed," said Molineux ; " there is
nothing to be said on that point."
" Once more," said Otis, holding his head down before
Molineux ; " look upon this head !" (where was a scar, in
306 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
which a man might bury his finger ;*) " what do you
think of this ? and, what is worse, my friends think I
have a monstrous crack in my skull."
This made all the company very grave, and look very
solemn. But Otis, setting up a laugh, and with a gay
countenance, said to Molineux " Now, Willy, my ad-
vice to you is, to say no more about your grievances ; for
you and I had better put up our accounts of profit and loss
in our pockets, and say no more about them, lest the world
should laugh at us."
This whimsical dialogue put all the company, and Moli-
neux himself, into good humour, and they passed the rest
of the evening in joyous conviviality.
Interesting Postage in the Life of James Otis.
TUDOH.
OTIS had long been so conspicuous as a leader of the
patriotic party, his power of exciting public feeling was so
irresistible, his opposition to the administration was so bold
and vehement, his detestation against those who were
bringing ruin on the country was so open and mortifying,
that secret representations had long been making to render
him particularly obnoxious to the ministry, and to stimulate
them to arrest and try him for treason. At length, in the
course of this summer, copies of several of the letters of
Governor Bernatd, and of the commissioners, filled with
insinuations, and even charges of a treasonable nature,
were procured at the public offices in England, and trans-
mitted to him ; leaving no doubt, that, if these persons had
ventured on such a crimination in official letters, they had
gone much further in their private correspondence.
He was stung to madness by the discovery and proofs
of these malignant calumnies, and this secret treachery.
Agitated as he was by the actual and impending evils, that
threatened the whole country, and that were more espe-
* Th manner in which he received this wound is related in the fol-
lowiug extract. ED.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 307
daily directed, at this period, against his own province, and
his own town ; penetrated with anxious responsibility for
the expediency of those measures of opposition, of which
^he was one of the chief advisers, and had long been the
ostensible leader ; these attempts to destroy his character,
if not his life, excited the deepest indignation. In defend-
ing the cause of the colonies, he had looked forward to the
time when justice would be done them, and when he should
derive advantage and honour for all his exertions and sac-
rifices. He was not acting as a demagogue, nor as a rev-
olutionist. He was proud of his rank in society ; and in
opposing the ministerial schemes he still felt loyalty to-
wards the sovereign, and affection for England ; and longed
for the period, when he might give proofs of both, not in
opposing, but in supporting the views of government ;
while, at this very time, he found that the crown officers
had been assiduously labouring to blast his reputation, and
endeavouring to have him torn from his home, to undergo
imprisonment and persecution in the mother country. With
the proofs of their conduct in his possession, he could no
longer restrain himself, but hurled his defiance and con-
tempt in the following notice.*
" Advertisement. Whereas I have full evidence, that
Henry Hutton, Charles Paxton, William Burch, and
John Robinson,\ Esquires, have frequently and lately
treated the characters of all true North Americans in a
manner that is not to be endured, by privately and public-
ly representing them as traitors and rebels, and in a general
combination to revolt from Great Britain ; and whereas the
said Henry, Charles, William and John, without the least
provocation or colour, have represented me by name, as
inimical to the rights of the crown, and disaffected to his
majesty, to whom I annually swear, and am determined
at all events to bear true and faithful allegiance; for all
which general, as well as personal abuse and insult, satis-
faction has been personally demanded, due warning given,
but no sufficient answer obtained; these are .humbly to
* Boston Gazette, September 4th, 1769.
f These were the commissioners of the customs.
808 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
desire the lords commissioners of his majesty's treasury,
his principal secretaries of state, particularly my lord
Hillsborough, the board of trade, and all others whom it
may concern, or who may condescend to read this, to pay
no kind of regard to any of the abusive representations of
me or my country, that may be transmitted by the said
Henry, Charles, William and John, or their confederates ;
for they are no more worthy of credit, than those of Sir
Francis Bernard, of Nettleham, Bart., or any of his cabal;
which cabal may be well known, from the papers in the
house of commons, and at every great office in England."
JAMES OTIS.
There were some further documents inserted in the same
Gazette, such as a correspondence with the collector, and
some extracts from the letters of these officers to the treas-
ury and board of trade in England.
The next evening, about seven o'clock, Mr. Otis went
to the British coffee-house, where Mr. Robinson, one of the
commissioners, was sitting, as also a number of army, navy,
and revenue officers. As soon as he came in, an alterca-
tion took place, which soon terminated in Robinson's strik-
ing him with a cane, which was returned with a weapon
of the same kind. Great confusion then ensued. The
lights were extinguished, and Otis, without a friend, was
surrounded by the adherents of Robinson. A young man,
by the name of Gridley, passing by, very boldly en-
*ered the coffee-house to take the part of Otis against so
many foes; but he was also assaulted, beaten, and turned
out of the house. After some time the combatants were
separated, Robinson retreated by a back passage, and Otis
was led home wounded and bleeding.
This affair naturally excited much attention. Various
and contradictory statements were given in the newspapers
respecting it. It was said, that this intentional assault was
the result of a meditated plan of assassination. Five or
six bludgeons and one scabbard were found on the floor
after the struggle. Otis received a deep wound on the
head, which the surgeons, Doctors Perkins and Lloyd, tes-
tified must have been given by a sharp instrument. The
accusation of a preconcerted intention to murder, is doubt-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 309
Jess unfounded ; but, from all the evidence in the case, it
is plain, that it was a brutal and cowardly assault, in which
several persons took part, with a disposition, that, in the fury
of the moment, sought to disable this great patriot, whom
they so rancorously hated. If such was their purpose, it
to a considerable degree succeeded.
The natural indignation that was roused against the au-
thors of this ruffian-like attack, the animosity that existed
towards the revenue officers, for their insolent and oppres-
sive conduct ; the keen feelings natural to a state of violent
political excitement; the sympathy and admiration that were
cherished for the liberal character, powerful talents and
efficient services of the leading patriot of his day, all con-
spired to make the public give this transaction the odium
of a scheme of assassination. Pity for the sufferer made
them also impute the impairment of his reason to this event
exclusively. It is not, however, necessary to believe, that
an assassination had been planned, in order to cover the
perpetrators of this barbarous assault with ignominy. Nor
can the mental alienation, which afterwards afflicted him,
and deprived the world of his great talents, in the vigour
of manhood, for he was at this time only in his forty-sixth
year, be wholly attributed to the wound he received. His
disposition was so ardent, and his mind so excitable, that
its natural tendency, under aggravating circumstances, was
to insanity. Had he lived in ordinary times, in the usual
exercise of professional or political duties, undisturbed by
adverse events, he might have escaped the misfortune that
befell him. His generous and social humour, his wit and
ready talent, would have rendered his career easy and tran-
quil. But he was called upon to act in public affairs at a
most arduous epoch : he had to maintain a continual struggle
against insidious placemen and insolent oppressors : he him-
self was denounced, proscribed, and frequently insulted. The
feelings of his own injuries, joined to those for his country,
kept his mind in constant action, anxiety and irritation.
Having espoused the cause of his fellow-citizens, with all
his strength and all his mind, at a time when new wrongs
and new difficulties were incessantly recurring, he knew
no repose. His faculties were perpetually agitated, and
he did not sufficiently master and subdue his indignation
310 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
against subaltern agents, though prime movers in this mis-
chief, yet who were in reality deserving only of his con-
tempt. It was an unfortunate yielding to his anger, the
placing himself, as he did in some degree, on a level with
the commissioners of the customs, whom he ought merely
to have unmasked and left to public scorn, without degrad-
ing himself to a personal rencounter. The injuries he
sustained in it impaired his power of self-control, and con-
tributed essentially to his subsequent derangement.
Close of the Lives of Adams and Jefferson. WEBSTER.
IN 1820 Mr. Adams acted as elector of president and
vice-president, and in the same year we saw him, then at
the age of eighty-five, a member of the convention of this
commonwealth, called to revise the constitution. Forty
years before, he had been one of those who formed that con-
stitution ; and he had now the pleasure of witnessing that
there was little which the people desired to change. Pos-
sessing all his faculties to the end of his long life, with an
unabated love of reading and contemplation, in the centre
of interesting circles of friendship and affection, he was
blessed in his retirement with whatever of repose and
felicity the condition of man allows. He had, also, other
enjoyments. He saw around him that prosperity and
general happiness, which had been the object of his- public
cares and labours. No man ever beheld more clearly, and
for a Jonger time, the great and beneficial effects of the
services rendered by himself to his country. That liberty,
which he so early defended, that independence, of which
he was so able an advocate and supporter, he saw, we
trust, firmly and securely established. The population of
the country thickened around him faster, and extended
wider, than his own sanguine predictions had anticipated ,
and the wealth, respectability and power of the nation
sprang up to a magnitude, which it is quite impossible he
could have expected to witness in his day. He lived,
also, to behold those principles of civil freedom, which had
been developed, established, and practically applied, in
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 311
America, attract attention, command respect, and awaken
imitation, in other regions of the globe ; and well might,
and well did, he exclaim, " Where will the consequences
of the American revolution end!"
If any thing yet remain to fill this cup of happiness, let
it be added, that he lived to see a great and intelligent
people bestow the highest honour in their gift, where he
had bestowed his own kindest parental affections, and
lodged his fondest hopes. Thus honoured in life, thus hap-
py at death, he saw the Jubilee, and he died ; and with
the last prayers which trembled on his lips, was the fer-
vent supplication for his country, " Independence for-
ever !"
From the time of his final retirement from public life,
in 1807, Mr. Jefferson lived as became a wise man. Sur-
rounded by affectionate friends, his ardour in the pursuit
of knowledge undiminished, with uncommon health, and
unbroken spirits, he was able to enjoy largely the rational
pleasures of life, and to partake in that public prosperity,
which he had so much contributed to produce. His kind-
ness and hospitality, the charm of his conversation, the
ease of his manners, the extent of his acquirements, and
especially the full store of revolutionary incidents, which
he possessed, and which he knew when and how to dis-
pense, rendered his abode in a high degree attractive to
his admiring countrymen, while his high public and scien-
tific character drew towards him every intelligent and ed-
ucated traveller from abroad. Both Mr. Adams and Mr.
Jefferson had the pleasure of knowing, that the respect,
which they so largely received, was not paid to their offi-
cial stations. They were not men made great by office,
but great men, on whom the country, for its own benefit,
had conferred office. There was that in them, which of-
fice did not give, and which the relinquishment of office
did not, and could not, take away. In their retirement, in
the midst of their fellow-citizens, themselves private citi-
zens, they enjoyed as high regard and esteem, as when
filling the most important places of public trust.
There remained to Mr. Jefferson yet one other work of
patriotism and beneficence, the establishment of a univer-
sity in his native state. To this object he devoted years
312 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
of incessant and anxious attention, and, by the enlightened
liberality of the legislature of Virginia, and the co-opera-
tion of other able and zealous friends, he lived to see it ac-
complished. May all success attend this infant seminary ;
and may those who enjoy its advantages, as often as their
eyes shall rest on the neighbouring height, recollect what
they owe to their disinterested and indefatigable benefac-
tor ; and may letters honour him, who thus laboured in
the cause of letters. . .
Thus useful, and thus respected, passed'.the old age of
Thomas Jefferson. But time was 'pn its .ever-ceaseless
wing, and was now bringing the last hour of this illustri-
ous man. He saw its approach with undisturbed serenity.
He counted the moments, as they passed, and beheld that
his last sands were falling. That day, too, was at hand,
which he had helped to make immortal. One wish, one
hope, if it were not presumptuous, beat in his fainting
breast. Could it be so might it please God he would
desire once more to see the sun, once more to look abroad
on the scene around him, on the great day of liberty.
Heaven, in its mercy, fulfilled that prayer. He saw that
sun he enjoyed its sacred light he thanked God for his
mercy, and bowed his aged head in the grave. " Fe-
lix, non vita tantum claritate, sed etiam opportunitatc
mortif."
Morals of Chess. FRANKLIN.
PLAYING at chess is the most ancient and universal
game known among men ; for its original is beyond the
memory of history, and it has for numberless ages been
the amusement of all the civilized nations of Asia, the
Persians, the Indians, and the Chinese. Europe has had
it above a thousand years ; the Spaniards have spread it
over their part of America, and it begins to make its ap-
pearance in these States. It is so interesting in itself as
not to need the view of gain to induce engaging in it ; and
thence it is never played for money. Those, therefore,
who have leisure for such diversions cannot find one that
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 313
is more innocent ; and the following piece, written with a
v-iew to correct (among a few young friends) some little
improprieties in the practice of it, shows, at the same time,
that it may, in its effects on the mind, be not merely inno-
cent, but advantageous, to the vanquished as well as the
victor.
The game of chess is not merely an idle amusement.
Several very valuable qualities of the mind, useful in the
course of human life, are to be acquired, or strengthened,
by it, so as to become habits, ready on all occasions. For
life is a kind of chess, in which we have points to gain,
and competitors or adversaries to contend with, and in which
there is a vast variety of good and ill events, that are, in
some degree, the effects of prudence or the want of it. By
playing at chess, then, we learn,
1. Foresight, which looks a little into futurity, considers
the consequences that may attend an action ; for it is con-
tinually occurring to the player, " If I move this piece,
what will be the advantage of my new situation ? What
use can my adversary make of it to annoy me ? What other
moves can I make to support it, and to defend myself from
his attacks ?"
2. Circumspection, which surveys the whole chess-
board, or scene of action, the relations of the several pieces
and situations, the dangers they are respectively exposed
to, the several possibilities of their aiding each other, the
probabilities that the adversary may take this or that move,
and attack this or the other piece, and what different means
can be used to avoid his stroke, or turn its consequences
against him.
3. Caution, not to make our moves too hastily. This
habit is best acquired by observing strictly the laws of the
game, such as, " If you touch a piece, you must move it
somewhere ; if you set it down, you must let it stand '"
and it is therefore best that these rules should be observed ;
as the game thereby becomes more the image of human
life, and particularly of war ; in which, if you have incau-
tiously put yourself into a bad and dangerous position, you
cannot obtain your enemy's leave to withdraw your troops,
and place them more securely, but you must abide all the
consequences of your rashness.
27
314 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF TRO3K.
And, lastly, we learn by chess the habit of not being
discouraged by present bad appearances in the state of
our affairs, the habit of hoping for a favourable change,
and that of persevering in the search of resources. The
game is so full of events, there is such a variety of turns
in it, the fortune of it is so subject to sudden vicissitudes,
and one so frequently, after long contemplation, discovers
the means of extricating one's self from a supposed insur-
mountable difficulty, that one is encouraged to continue the
contest to the last, in hope of victory by our own skill, or
at least of giving a stale mate, by the negligence of our
adversary. And whoever considers, what in chess he often
sees instances of, that particular pieces of success are apt
to produce presumption, and its consequent inattention, by
which the loss may be recovered, will learn not to be too
much discouraged by the present success of his adversary,
nor to despair of final good fortune, upon every little check
he receives in the pursuit of it.
That we may, therefore, be induced more frequently to
choose this beneficial amusement, in preference to others,
which are not attended with the same advantages, every
circumstance which may increase the pleasure of it should
be regarded ; and every action or word that is unfair, dis-
respectful, or that in any way may give uneasiness, should
be avoided, as contrary to the immediate intention of both
the players, which is, to pass the time agreeably.
Therefore, first, If it is agreed to play according to
the strict rules ; then those rules are to be exactly ob-
served by both parties, and should not be insisted on for
one side, while deviated from by the other for this is not
equitable.
Secondly, If it is agreed not to observe the rules exact-
ly, but one party demands indulgences, he should then be
as willing to allow them to the other.
Thirdly, No false move should ever be made to extricate
yourself out of a difficulty, or to gain an advantage. There
can be no pleasure in playing with a person once detected
in such unfair practices.
Fourthly, If your adversary is long in playing, you ought
not to hurry him, or to express any uneasiness at his delay.
You should not sing, nor whistle, nor look at your watch,
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 315
nor take up a book to read, nor make a tapping with your
feet on the floor, or with your fingers on the table, nor do
any thing that may disturb his attention. For all these
things displease ; and they do not show your skill in play-
ing, but your craftiness or your rudeness.
Fifthly, You ought not to endeavour to amuse and de-
ceive your adversary, by pretending to have made bad
moves, and saying that you have now lost the game, in
order to make him secure and careless, and inattentive to
your schemes ; for this is fraud and deceit, not skill in the
game.
Sixthly, You must not, when you have gained a victory,
use any triumphing or insulting expression, nor show too
much pleasure ; but endeavour to console your adversary,
and make him less dissatisfied with himself, by every kind
of civil expression that may be used with truth ; such as,
" You understand the game better than I, but you are a
little inattentive ; or, you play too fast ; or, you had the
best of the game, but something happened to divert your
thoughts, and that turned it in my favour."
Seventhly, If you are a spectator while others play, ob-
serve the most perfect silence. For if you give advice,
you offend both parties ; him against whom you give it,
because it may cause the loss of his game ; and him in
whose favour you give it, because, though it be good, and
he follows it, he loses the pleasure he might have had, if
you had permitted him to think until it had occurred to
himself. Even after a move or moves, you must not, by
replacing the pieces, show how it might have been placed
better ; for thai displeases, and may occasion disputes and
doubts about their true situation. All talking to the players
lessens or diverts their attention, and is therefore unpleas-
ing. Nor should you give the least hint to either party,
by any kind of noise or motion. If you do, you are. un-
worthy to be a spectator. If you have a mind to exercise
or show your judgment, do it in playing your own game,
when you have an opportunity, not in criticising, or med-
dling with, or counselling the play of others.
Lastly, If the game is not to be played rigorously, ac-
cording to the rules above-mentioned, then moderate your
desire of victory over your adversary, and be pleased with
316 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
one over yourself. Snatch not eagerly at every advantage
offered by his unskilfulness or inattention ; but point out to
him kindly, that by such a move he places or leaves a piece
in danger and unsupported ; that by another he will put his
king in a perilous situation, &c. By this generous civility
(so opposite to the unfairness above forbidden) you may, in-
deed, happen to lose the game to your opponent ; but you
will win what is better, his esteem, his respect, and his
affection ; together with the silent approbation and good
will of impartial spectators.
The Hospital in Philadelphia during the Pestilence.
C. B. BROWN.
I WAS seized with a violent fever. I knew in what manner
patients were treated at the hospital, and removal thither
was to the last degree abhorred.
The morning arrived, and my situation was discovered.
At the first intimation, Thetford rushed out of the house,
and refused to re-enter it till I was removed. I knew not
my fate, till three ruffians made their appearance at my
bedside, and communicated their commission.
I called on the name of Thetford' and his wife. I en-
treated a moment's delay, till 1 had seen these persons, and
endeavoured to procure a respite from my sentence. They
were deaf to my entreaties, and prepared to execute their
office by force. I was delirious with rage and terror. I
heaped the bitterest execrations on my murderer ; and by
turns invoked the compassion of, and poured a torrent of re-
proaches on, the wretches whom he had selected for his
ministers. My struggles and outcries were vain.
I have no perfect recollection of what passed till my ar-
rival at the hospital. My passions combined with my disease
to make me frantic and wild. In a state like mine, the
slightest motion could not be endured without agony. What
then must I have felt, scorched and dazzled by the sun,
sustained by hard boards, and borne for miles over a rug-
ged pavement ?
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 317
I cannot make you comprehend the anguish of my
feelings. To be disjointed and torn piece-meal by the rack,
was a torment inexpressibly inferior to this. Nothing ex-
cites my wonder, but that I did not expire before the cart
had moved three paces.
I knew not how, or by whom, I was moved from this
vehicle. Insensibility came at length to my relief. After
a time I opened my eyes, and slowly gained some knowl-
edge of my situation. I lay upon a mattress, whose condi-
tion proved that a half-decayed corpse had recently been
dragged from it. The room was large, but it was covered
with beds like my own. Between each, there was scarce-
ly the interval of three feet. Each sustained a wretch,
whose groans and distortions bespoke the desperateness of
his condition.
The atmosphere was loaded by mortal stenches. A va-
pour, suffocating and malignant, scarcely allowed me to
breathe. No suitable receptacle was provided for the evac-
uations produced by medicine or disease. My nearest
neighbour was struggling with death, and my bed, casually
extended, was moist with the detestable matter which had
flowed from his stomach.
You will scarcely believe that, in this scene of horrors, the
sound of laughter should be overheard. While the upper
rooms of this building are filled with the sick and the dying,
the lower apartments are the scene of carousals and mirth.
The wretches who are hired, at enormous wages, to tend
the sick and convey away the dead, neglect their duty, and
consume the cordials, which are provided for the patients,
in debauchery and riot.
A female visage, bloated with malignity and drunken-
ness, occasionally looked in. Dying eyes were cast upon
her, invoking the boon, perhaps, of a drop of cold water,
or her assistance to change a posture which compelled him
to behold the ghastly writhings or deathful smile of his
neighbour.
The visitant had left the banquet for a moment, only to
see who was dead. If she entered the room, blinking eyes
and reeling steps showed her to be totally unqualified for
ministering the aid that was needed. Presently, she dis-
27
318 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
appeared, and others ascended the staircase : a coffin was
deposited at the door : the wretch, whose heart still quiver-
ed, was seized by rude hands, and dragged along the floor
into the passage.
Oh ! how poor are the conceptions which are formed, by
the fortunate few, of the sufferings to which millions of their
fellow-beings are condemned ! This misery was more
frightful, because it was seen to flow from the depravity of
the attendants. My own eyes only would make me credit
the existence of wickedness so enormous. No wonder that
to die in garrets, and cellars, and stables, unvisited and un-
known, had, by so many, been preferred to being brought
hither.
A physician cast an eye upon my state. He gave some
directions to the person who attended him. I did not com-
prehend them ; they were never executed by the nurses,
and, if the attempt had been made, I should probably have
refused to receive what was offered. Recovery was equally
beyond my expectations and my wishes. The scene which
was hourly displayed before me, the entrance of the sick,
most of whom perished in a few hours, and their departure
to the graves prepared for them, reminded me of the fate
to which I, also, was reserved.
Three days passed away, in which every hour was ex-
pected to be the last. That, amidst an atmosphere so- con-
tagious and deadly, amidst causes of destruction hourly ac-
cumulating, I should yet- survive, appears to me nothing
less than miraculous. That, of so many conducted to this
house, the only one who passed out of it alive should be
myself, almost surpasses my belief.
Some inexplicable principle rendered harmless those po-
tent enemies of human life. My fever subsided and van-
ished. My strength was revived, and the first use that I
made of my limbs was, to bear me far from the contempla-
tion and sufferance of those evils.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 319
Shipwreck of the Ariel. COOPER.
THE Ariel continued to struggle against the winds and
ocean for several hours longer, before the day broke on the
tempestuous scene, and the anxious mariners were enabled
to form a more accurate estimate of their real danger. As
the violence of the gale increased, the canvass of the
schooner had been gradually reduced, until she was unable
to show more than was absolutely necessary to prevent her
driving, helplessly, on the land. Baraslable watched the
appearance of the weather, as the light slowly opened
upon them, with an intensity of anxiety, which denoted,
thafthe presentiments of the cockswain were no longer
deemed ud4e. On looking to windward, he beheld the
green masses of water that were rolling in towards the
land, with a violence that seemed irresistible, crowned
with ridges of foam ; and there were moments when the
air appeared filled with sparkling gems, as the rays of the
rising sun fell upon the spray that was swept from wave to
wave. Towards the land, the view was still more appal-
ling. The cliffs, but a short half league under the lee of
the schooner, were, at times, nearly hid from the eye by
the pyramids of water, which the furious element, so sud-
denly Restrained in its violence, cast high into the air, as
if seeking to overstep the boundaries that nature had affix-
ed to its dominion. The whole coast, from the distant head-
land at the south, to the well known shoals that stretched
far beyond their course, in the opposite direction, displayed
a broad belt of foam, into which it would have been cer-
tain destruction, for the proudest ship that swam, to have
entered. Still the ArieJ floated on the billows, lightly and
in safety, though yielding to the impulses of the waters,
and, at times, appearing to be ingulfed in the yawning
chasms, which, apparently, opened beneath her to receive
e fabric. The low rumour of acknowledged dan-
ger, had found its way through the schooner, and the sea-
men, after fastening their hopeless looks on the small spot
of canvass that they were enabled to show to the tempest,
would turn to view the dreary line of coast, that seem-
5d to offer so gloomy an alternative. Even Dillon, to whom
320 COMMON-PLACE OOOK OF PROSE.
the report of their danger had found its way, crept from
his place of concealment in the cabin, and moved about
the decks unheeded, devouring, with greedy ears, such
opinions as fell from the lips of the sullen mariners.
At this moment of appalling apprehension, the cockswain
exhibited the most calm resignation. He knew that all
had been done, that lay in the power of man, to urge their
little vessel from the land, and it was now too evident to
his experienced eyes, that it had been done in vain ; but,
considering himself as a sort of fixture in the schooner, he
was quite prepared to abide her fate, be it for better or
for worse. The settled look of gloom, that gathered around
the frank brow of Barnstable, was, in no degree, connect-
ed with any considerations of himself, but proceeded from
that sort of parental responsibility, from which the sea-
commander is never exempt. The discipline of the crew,
however, still continued perfect and unyielding. There
had, it is true, been a slight movement made by two of the
oldest seamen, which indicated an intention to drown the
apprehensions of death in ebriety ; but Barnstable had
called for his pistols, in a tone that checked the procedure
instantly, and, although the fatal weapons were untouched
by him, but were left to lie exposed on the capstan, where
they had been placed by his servant, not another symptom
of insubordination appeared among the devoted crew.
There was even, what to a landsman might seem, a dread-
ful affectation of attention to the most trifling duties of the
vessel ; and the men, who, it should seem, ought to be de-
voting the brief moments of their existence to the mighty
business of the hour, were constantly called to attend to the
most trivial details of their profession. Ropes were coiled,
and the slightest damages occasioned by the waves, that,
at short intervals, swept across the low decks of the Ariel,
were repaired, with the same precision and oKder, as if she
yet lay embayed in the haven from which she had just been
driven. In this manner, the arm of authority was kept
extended over the silent crew, not with the vain desire to
preserve a lingering, though useless exercise of power,
but with a view to maintain that unity of action, that now
could alone afford them even a ray of hope.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 321
" She can make no head against this sea, under that rag
of canvass," said Barnstable, gloomily ; addressing the
cockswain, who, with folded arms, and an air of cool resig-
nation, w;as balancing his body on the verge of the quarter-
deck, while the schooner was plunging madly into waves
that nearly buried her in their bosom ; " the poor little
thing trembles like a frightened child, as she meets the
water."
Tom sighed heavily, and shook his head, before he an-
swered
" If we could have kept the head of the main-mast an
hour longer, we might have got an offing, and fetched to
windward of the shoals ; but, as it is, sir, mortal man can't
drive a craft to windward she sets bodily in to land, and
will be in the breakers in less than an hour, unless God
wills that the winds shall cease to blow."
" We have no hope left us, but to anchor ; our ground
tackle may yet bring her up."
Tom turned to his commander, and replied, solemnly,
and with that assurance of manner, that long experience
only can give a man in moments of great danger
" If our sheet-cable was bent to our heaviest anchor,
this sea would bring it home, though nothing but her
launch was riding by it. A north-easter in the German
Ocean must and will blow itself out ; nor shall we get the
crown of the gale until the sun falls over the land. Then,
indeed, it may lull ; for the winds do often seem to rever-
ence the glory of the heavens too much to blow their might
in its very face !"
- " We must do our duty to ourselves and the country,"
returned Barnstable ; " go, get the two bowers spliced, and
have a kedge bent to a hawser ; we'll back our two an-
chors together, and veer to the better end of two hundred
and forty fathoms ; it may yet bring her up. See all clear
there for anchoring, and cutting away the masts we'll
leave the wind nothing but a naked hull to whistle over."
" Ay, if there was nothing but the wind, we might yet
live to see the sun sink behind them hills," said the cock-
swain ; " but what hemp can stand the strain of a craft
that is buried, half the time, to her foremast in the
water !"
322 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
The order was, however, executed by the crew, with a
eort of desperate submission to the will of their comman-
der ; and, when the preparations were completed, the an-
chors and kedge were dropped to the bottom, and the in-
stant that the Ariel tended to the wind, the axe was ap-
plied to the little that was left of her long raking masts.
The crash of the falling spars, as they came, in succession,
across the decks of the vessel, appeared to product no sen-
sation amid that scene of complicated danger ; but the sea-
men proceeded in silence in their hopeless duty of clear-
ing the wrecks. Every eye followed the floating timbers,
as the waves swept them away from the vessel, with a sort
of feverish curiosity, to witness the effect produced by their
collision with those rocks that lay so fearfully near them ;
but, long before the spars entered the wide border of foam,
they were hid from view by the furious element in which
they floated. It was, now, felt by the whole crew of the
Ariel, that their last means of safety had been adopted,
and, at each desperate and headlong plunge the vessel took
jnto the bosom of the seas that rolled upon her forecastle,
Vhe anxious seamen thought they could perceive the yield-
ing of the iron, that yet clung to the bottom, or could hear
the violent surge of the parting strands of the cable, that
still held them to their anchors. While the minds of the
sailors were agitated with the faint hopes that had been
excited by the movements of their schooner, Dillon had
been permitted to wander about the vessel unnoticed ; his
rolling eyes, hard breathing, and clenched hands, exciting
no observation among the men, whose thoughts were yet
dwelling on the means of safety. But now, when, with
a sort of frenzied desperation, he would follow the retiring
waters along the decks, and venture his person nigh the
group that had collected around and on the gun of the cock-
swain, glances of fierce or of sullen vengeance were cast
at him, that conveyed threats of a nature that he was too
much agitated to understand.
" If ye are tired of this world, though your time, like
my own, is probably but short in it," said Tom to him, as
he passed the cockswain in one of his turns, " you can go
forward among the men ; but if ye have need of the mo-
ments to foot up the reck'ning of your doings among men,
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 323
afore ye're brought to face your Maker, and hear the log*
book of Heaven, I would advise you to keep as nigh as pos-
sible to Captain Barnstable or myself."
" Will you promise to save me, if the vessel is wreck-
ed ?" exclaimed Dillon, catching at the first sounds of
friendly interest that had reached his ears, since he had
been recaptured ; " oh ! if you will, I can secure you
future ease ; yes, wealth, for the remainder of your
days !"
" Your promises have been too ill kept, afore this, for the
peace of your soul," returned the cockswain, without bit-
terness, though sternly ; " but it is not in me to strike even
a whale, that is already spouting blood."
The intercessions of Dillon were interrupted by a dread-
ful cry, that arose among the men forward, and which
sounded with increased horr6r, amid the roaring of the tem-
pest. The schooner rose on the breast of a wave at the
same instant, and, falling off with her broad side to the sea,
she drove in towards the cliffs, like a bubble on the rapids
of a cataract.
" Our ground tackle has parted," said Tom, with his re<
signed patience of manner undisturbed ; " she shall die as
easy as man can make her !" While he yet spoke, he seized
the tiller, and gave to the vessel such a direction, as would
be most likely to cause her to strike the rocks with her bows
foremost.
There was, for one moment, an expression of exquisite
anguish betrayed in the dark countenance of Barnstable ;
but, at the next, it passed away, and he spoke cheerfully
to his men
" Be steady, my lads ; be calm : there is yet a hope of
life for you our light draught will let us run in close to
the cliffs, and it is still falling water see your boats clear,
and be steady."
The crew of the whale-boat, aroused, by this speech,
from a sort of stupor, sprang into their light vessel, which
was quickly lowered into the sea, and kept riding on the
foam, free from the sides of the schooner, by the powerful
exertions of the men. The cry for the cockswain was
earnest and repeated, but Tom shook his head, without re-
plying, still grasping the tiller, and keeping his eyes steatl-
324 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
ily bent on the chaos of waters, into which they were
driving. The launch, the largest, boat of the two, was cut
loose from the " gripes," and the bustle and exertion of
the moment rendered the crew insensible to the horror of
the scene that surrounded them. But the loud, hoarse
call of the cockswain, to " look out secure yourselves !"
suspended even their efforts, and at that instant the Ariel
settled on a wave that melted from under her, heavily on
the rocks. The shock was so violent as to throw all, who
disregarded the warning cry, from their feet, and the uni-
versal quiver that pervaded the vessel was like the last
shudder of animated nature. For a time long enough to
breathe, the least experienced among the men supposed
the danger to be passed ; but a wave of great height fol-
lowed the one that had deserted them, and, raising the ves-
sel again, threw her roughly still farther on her bed of
rocks, and at the same time its crest broke over her quar-
ter, sweeping the length of her decks, with a fury that
was almost resistless. The shuddering seamen beheld their
loosened boat driven from their grasp, and dashed against
the base of the cliffs, where no fragment of her wreck
could be traced, at the receding of the waters. But the
passing wave had thrown the vessel into a position which,
in some measure, protected her decks from the violence o(
those that succeeded it.
" Go, my boys, go," said Barnstable, as the moment of
dreadful uncertainty passed ; " you have still the whale-
boat, and she, at least, will take you nigh the shore ; go
into her, my boys ; God bless you, God bless you all ; you
have been faithful and honest fellows, and' I believe he
will not yet desert you ; go, my friends, while there is
a lull."
The seamen threw themselves, in a mass of human bod-
ies, into the light vessel, which nearly sunk under the
unusual burthen ; but when they looked around them,
Barnstable, and Merry, Dillon, and the cockswain, were
yet to be seen on the decks of the Ariel. . The former was
pacing, in deep, and perhaps bitter melancholy, the wet
planks of the schooner, while the boy hung, unheeded, on
his arm, uttering disregarded petitions to his commander,
to desert the wreck. Dillon approached the side where
% COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 325
the boat lay, again and again, but the threatening counte-
nances of the seamen as often drove him back in despair.
Pom had seated himself on the heel of the bowsprit, where
he continued, in an attitude of quiet resignation, return-
ing no other answers to the loud and repeated calls of
his shipmates, than by waving his hand toward the shore.
" Now hear me," said the boy, urging his request to
tears ; " if not for my sake, or for your own sake, Mr.
Barnstable, or for the hopes of God's mercy, go into the
boat, for the love of my cousin Katherine."
The young lieutenant paused in his troubled walk, and,
for a moment, he cast a glance of hesitation at the cliffs ;
but, at the next instant, his eyes fell on the ruin of his ves-
tel, and he answered
" Never, boy, never ; if my hour has come, I will not
shrink from my fate."
" Listen to the men, dear sir ; the boat will be swamped
along-side the wreck, and their cry is, that withont you
they will not let her go."
Barnstable motioned to the boat, to bid the boy enter it,
and turned away in silence.
" Well," said Merry, with firmness, " if it be right that
a lieutenant shall stay by a wreck, it must also be right for
a midshipman; "shove off; neither Mr. Barnstable nor
myself will quit the vessel."
" Boy, your life has been intrusted to my keeping, and
at my hands will it be required," said his commander, lift-
ing the struggling youth, and tossing him into the arms of
the seamen. " Away with ye, and God be with you ;
there is more weight in you, now, than can go safe to
land."
Still, the seamen hesitated, for they perceived the cock-
swain moving, with a steady tread, along the deck, and
they hoped he had relented, and would yet persuade the
lieutenant to join his crew. But Tom, imitating the ex-
ample of his commander, seized the latter, suddenly, in
his powerful grasp, and threw him over the bulwarks with
an irresistible force. At the same moment, he cast the
last of the boat from the pin that held it, and, lifting his
broad hands high into the air, his voice was heard in the
tempest.
"
326 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
" Ggd's will be done with me," he cried ; " I saw the
first timber of the Ariel laid, and shall live just long enough
to see it torn out of her bottom ; after which I wish to live
no longer."
But his shipmates were swept far beyond the sounds of
his voice, before half these words were uttered. All com-
mand of the boat was rendered impossible, by the num-
bers it contained, as well as the raging of the surf; and,
as it rose on the white crest of a wave, Tom saw his be-
loved little craft for the last time ; it fell into a trough of
the sea, and in a few moments more its fragments were
ground into splinters on the adjacent rocks. The cock-
swain still remained where he had cast off the rope, and
beheld the numerous heads and arms that appeared rising,
at short intervals, on the waves ; some making powerful
and well-directed efforts to gain the sands, that were be-
coming visible as the tide fell, and others wildly tossed, in
the frantic movements of helpless despair. The honest old
seaman gave a cry of joy, as he saw Barnstable issue from
the surf, bearing the form of Merry in safety to the sands,
where, one by one, several seamen soon appeared also,
dripping and exhausted. Many others of the crew were
carried, in a similar manner, to places of safety ; though,
as Tom returned to his seat on the bowsprit, he could not
conceal, from his reluctant eyes, the lifeless forms, that
were, in other spots, driven against the rocks, with a fury
that soon left them but few of the outward vestiges of hu-
manity.
Dillon and the cockswain were now the sole occupants
of their dreadful station. The former stood, in a kind of
stupid despair, a witness of the scene we have related ;
but, as his curdled blood began again to flow more warmly
through his heart, he crept close to the side of Tom,
with that sort of selfish feeling that makes even hopeless
misery more tolerable, when endured in participation with
another.
" When the tide falls," he said, in a voice that betrayed
the agony of fear, though his words expressed the renewal
of hope, " we shall be able to walk to land."
'' There was One, and only One, to whose feet the wa-
ters were the same as a dry deck," returned the cock-
COMMON-PLACE COOK OF PROSE. 327
swain ; " and none but such as have his power will ever
be able to walk from these rocks to the sands." The old
seaman paused, and, turning his eyes, which exhibited a
mingled expression of disgust and compassion, on his com-
panion, he added, with reverence "Had you thought
more of him in fair weather, your case would be less to be
pitied in this tempest."
" Do you still think there is much danger ?" asked
Dillon.
" To them that have reason to fear death : listen ! do you
hear that hollow noise beneath ye ?"
" 'Tis the wind, driving by the vessel !"
" 'Tis the poor thing herself," said the affected cock-
swain, " giving her last groans. The water is breaking
up her decks, and, in a few-minutes more, the handsomest
model that ever cut a wave will be like the chips that fell
from her timbers in framing !"
" Why, then, did you remain here ?" cried Dillon,
wildly.
" To die in my coffin, if it should be the will of God,"
returned Tom : " these waves to me are what the land is
to you ; I was born on them, and I have always meant that
they should be my grave."
" But I 1," shrieked Dillon, " I am not ready to die !
I cannot die ! I will not die !"
" Poor wretch !" muttered his companion ; " you must
go, like the rest of us ; when the death-watch is called,
none can skulk from the muster."
" I can swim," Dillon continued, rushing, with frantic
eagerness, to the side of the wreck. " Is there no billet
of wood, no rope, that I can take with me ?"
" None ; every thing has been cut away, or carried off
by the sea. If ye are about to strive for your life, take
with ye a stout heart and a clean conscience, and trust the
rest to God !"
" God !" echoed Dillon, in the madness of his frenzy ;
" I know no God ! there is no God that knows me !"
" Peace !" said the deep tones of the cockswain, in a
voice that seemed to speak in the elements; "blasphemer,
peace !"
328 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
The heavy groaning, produced by the water, in the tim-
bers of the Ariel, at that moment* added its impulse to
the raging feelings of Dillon, and he cast himself headlong
into the sea.
The water, thrown by the rolling of the surf on the beach,
was necessarily returned to the ocean, in eddies, in differ-
ent places, favourable to such an action of the element.
Into the edge of one of these counter-currents, that was
produced by the very rocks on which the schooner lay, and
which the watermen call the " under-tow," Dillon had,
unknowingly, thrown his person, and when the waves had
driven him a short distance from the wreck, he was met
by a stream that his most desperate efforts could not over-
come. He was a light and powerful swimmer, and the
struggle was hard and protracted. With the shore imme-
diately before his eyes, and at no great distance, he was
led, as by a false phantom, to continue his efforts, although
they did not advance him a foot. The old seaman, who,
at first, had watched his motions with careless indifference,
understood the danger of his situation at a glance, and, for-
getful of his own fate, he shouted aloud, in a voice that
was driven over the struggling victim, to the ears of his
shipmates on the sands
" Sheer to port, and clear the under-tow ! shjcr .to the
southward !"
Dillon heard the sounds, but his faculties were too much
obscured by terror to distinguish their object ; he, how-
ever, blindly yielded to the call, and gradually changed his
direction, until his face was once 'more turned towards the
vessel. The current swept him diagonally by the rocks,
and he was forced into an eddy, where he had nothing to
contend against but the waves, whose violence was much
-broken by the wreck. In this state he continued still to
struggle, but with a force that was too much weakened to
overcome the resistance he met. Tom looked around him
for a rope, but not one presented itself to his hands ; all
had gone over with the spars, or been swept away by the
waves. At this moment of disappointment, his eyes met
those of the desperate Dillon. Calm, and inured to hor
rors, as was the veteran seaman, he involuntarily passed
his hand before his brow, as if to exclude the look of despa
"
:
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 329
he encountered ; and when, a moment afterwards, he re*
moved the rigid member, he beheld the sinking form of
the victim, as it gradually settled in the ocean, still strug-
gling, with regular but impotent strokes of the arms and
feet, to gain the wreck, and to preserve an existence that
had been so much abused in its hour of allotted proba-
tion.
" He will soon know his God, and learn that his God
knows him !" murmured the cockswain to himself. As he
yet spoke, the wreck of the Ariel yielded to an overwhelm-
ing sea, and, after a universal shudder, her timbers and
planks gave way, and were swept towards the cliffs, bear-
ing the body of the simple-hearted cockswain among the
ruins.
Destruction of a Family of the Pilgrims by the Savages.-^
Miss SEDGWJCK.
ALL was joy in Mrs. Fletcher's dwelling. " My
dear mother," said Everell, " it is now quite time to look
out for father and Hope Leslie. I have turned the hour-
glass three times since dinner, and counted all the sands, I
think. Let us all go on the front portico, where we can
catch the first glimpse of them, as they come past the elm
trees. Here, Oneco," he continued, as he saw assent in
his mothers smile, " help me out with mother's rocking
chair : rather rough rocking," he added, as he adjusted
the rockers lengthwise with the logs that served for the floor-
ing, " but mother won't mind trifles just now. Ah !
blessed babe, brother," he continued, taking in his arms
the beautiful infant, " you shall come, too, even though
you cheat me out of my birthright, and get the first em-
brace from father." Thus saying, he placed the laughing
infant in his go-cart, beside his mother. He then aided
his little sisters in their arrangement of the playthings they
nad brought forth to welcome and astonish Hope ; and
finally he made an elevated position for Faith Leslie, where
she might, he said, as she ought, catch the very first glimpse
her sister.
28*
330 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
" Thank, thank you, Evercll," said the little girl, aa she
mounted her pinnacle : " if you knew Hope, you would
want to see her first, too; every body loves Hope. We
shall always have pleasant times when Hope gets here."
It was one of the most beautiful afternoons at the close
of the month of May. The lagging Spring had at last
come forth in all her power ; " her work of gladness" was
finished, and forests, fields and meadows were bright with
renovated life. The full Connecticut swept triumphantly
on, as if still exulting in its release from the fetters of win-
ter. Every gushing rill had the spring-note of joy. The
meadows were, for the first time, enriched with patches
of English grain, which the new settlers had sown scantily,
by way of experiment, prudently occupying the greatest
portion of the rich mould with the native Indian corn.
This product of our soil is beautiful in all its progress, from
the moment when, as now it studded the meadow with hil-
locks, shooting its bright pointed spear from its mother
earth, to its maturity, when the long golden ear bursts from
the rustling leaf.
The grounds about Mrs. Fletcher's house had been pre-
pared with the neatness of English taste ; and a rich bed
of clover, that overspread the lawn immediately before the
portico, already rewarded the industry of the cultivators.
Over this delicate carpet, the domestic fowls, the first civ-
ilized inhabitants of the country of their tribe, were now
treading, picking their food here and there like dainty little
epicures.
The scene had also its minstrels ; the birds, those min-
isters and worshippers of nature, were on the wing, filling
the air with melody, while, like diligent little housewives,
they ransacked the forest and field for materials for their
house-keeping.
A mother, encircled by healthful, sporting children, is
always a beautiful spectacle a spectacle that appeals to
nature in every human breast. Mrs. Fletcher, in obedi-
ence to matrimonial duty, or, it may be, from some lingering
of female vanity, had on this occasion attired herself with
extraordinary care. What woman does not wish to look
handsome in the eyes of her husband !
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 331
" Mother," said Everell, putting aside the exquisitely
fine lace that shaded her cheek, " I do not believe you look-
ed more beautiful than you do to-day, when, as I have
heard, they called you ' the rose of the wilderness.' Our
little Mary's cheek is as round and as bright as a peach,
but it is not so handsome as yours, mother. Your heart
has sent this colour here," he continued, kissing her tender-
ly ; " it seems to have come forth to tell us that our father
is near."
" It would shame me, Everell," replied his mother, em-
bracing him with a feeling that the proudest drawing-room
belle might have envied, " to take such flattery from any
lips but thine." " Oh, do not call it flattery, mother
look, Magawisca for Heaven's sake cheer up look, would
you know mother's eye ? just turn it, mother, one minute
from that road and her pale cheek too with this rich
colour on it ?"
"Alas! alas!" replied Magawisca, glancing her eyes
at Mrs. Fletcher, and then, as if heart struck, withdrawing
them, " how soon the flush of the setting sun fades from
the evening cloud !"
Oh, Magawisca !" said Everell, impatiently, " why
are you so dismal ? your voice is too sweet for a bird of
ill-omen. I shall begin to think as Jennet says though
Jennet is no text book for me I shall begin to think old
Nelema has really bewitched you."" You call me a bird
of ill-omen," replied Magawisca, half proud, half sorrow-
ful, " and you call the owl a bird of ill-omen, but we hold
him sacred ; he is our sentinel, and, when danger is near,
he cries, ' A wake i awake !' "
" Magawisca, you are positively unkind. Jeremiah's
lamentations on a holyday would not be more out of time
than your croaking is now. The very skies, earth, and air,
seem to partake of our joy at father's return, and you only
make a discord. Do you think, if your father was near, I
would not share your joy ?"
Tears fell fast from Magawisca's eyes, but she made no
reply, and Mrs. Fletcher, observing and compassionating
her emotion, and thinking it probably arose from comparing
her orphan state to that of the merry children about her,
called her, and said, " Magawisca, you are neither a stran-
332 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
ger nor a servant ; will you not share our joy ? do you
not love us ?"
" Love you f" she exclaimed, clasping her hands, "love
you ! I would give my life for you."
" We do not ask your life, my good girl," replied Mrs.
Fletcher, kindly smiling on her, " but a light heart, and
a cheerful look. A sad countenance doth not become this
joyful hour. Go and help Oneco ; he is quite out of breath
blowing those soap bubbles for the children." Oneco
smiled, and shook his head, and continued to send off one
after another of the prismatic globes, and, as they rose and
floated on the air, and brightened with the many-colour-
ed ray, the little girls clapped their hands, and the baby
stretched his to grasp the brilliant vapour. " Oh !" said
Magawisca, impetuously covering her eyes, " I do not
like to see any thing so beautiful pass so quickly away."
Scarcely had she uttered these words, when suddenly,
as if the earth had opened on them, three Indian warriors
darted from the forest, and pealed on the air their horrible
yells.
" My father ! my father !" burst from the lips of Ma-
gawisca and Oneco. Faith Leslie sprang towards the In-
dian boy, and clung fast to him, and the children clustered
about their mother ; she instinctively caught her infant,
and held it close within her arms, as if their ineffectual
shelter were a rampart.
Magawisca uttered a cry of agony, and, springing for-
ward with her arms uplifted, as if deprecating his approach,
she sunk down at her father's feet, and, clasping her hands,
" Save them ! save them !" she cried ; " the mother the
children oh ! they are all good : take vengeance on your
enemies, but spare, spare our friends ! our benefactors ! I
bleed when they are struck; oh ! command them to stop !"
she screamed, looking to -the companions of her father, who,
unchecked by her cries, were pressing on to their deadly
work.
Mononotto was silent and motionless : his eye glanced
wildly from Magawisca to Oneco. Magawisca replied to
the glance of fire : " Yes, they have sheltered us they
have spread the wing of love over us save them save,
them oh ! it will be too late," she cried, springing from
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 333
her father, whose silence and fixedness showed that, if his
better nature rebelled against the work of revenge, there
was no relenting of purpose. Magawisca darted before the
Indian, who was advancing towards Mrs. Fletcher with an
uplifted hatchet. " You shall hew me to pieces ere you
touch her," she said, and planted herself as a shield before
her benefactress. The warrior's obdurate heart, untouch-
ed by the sight of the helpless mother and her little ones,
was thrilled by the courage of the heroic girl : he paused,
and grimly smiled on her, when his companion, crying,
" Hasten ! the dogs will be on us !" levelled a deadly blow
at Mrs. Fletcher ; but his uplifted arm was penetrated by
a musket shot, and the hatchet fell harmless to the floor.
" Courage, mother !" cried Everell, reloading the piece ;
but neither courage nor celerity could avail : the second
Indian sprang upon him, threw him on the floor, wrested
his musket from him, and, brandishing his tomahawk over
his head, he would have aimed the fatal stroke, when a
cry from Mononotto arrested his arm.
Everell extricated himself from his grasp, and, a ray of
hope flashing into his mind, he seized a bugle horn, which
hung beside the door, and winded it. This was the con-
ventional signal of alarm, and he sent forth a blast long
and loud a death- cry.
Mrs. Grafton and her attendants were just mounting
their horses to return home. Digby listened for a moment :
then, exclaiming, " It comes from our master's dwelling !
ride for your life, Hutton !" he tossed away a bandbox that
encumbered him, and spurred his horse to its utmost speed.
The alarm was spread through the village, and, in a brief
space, Mr. Pynchon, with six armed men, was pressing
towards the fatal scene. In the mean time the tragedy
was proceeding at Bethel. Mrs. Fletcher's senses had
been stunned with terror. She had neither spoken nor
moved after she grasped her infant. Everell's gallant in-
terposition restored a momentary consciousness; she scream-
ed to him, " Fly, Everell, my son, fly ; for your father's
eake, fly !"
" Never !" he replied, springing to his mother's side.
The savages, always rapid in their movements, were
now aware that their safety depended on despatch. " Fin-
834 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
Ish your work, warriors!" cried Mononotto. Obedient to
the command, and infuriated by his bleeding wound, the
Indian, who, on receiving the shot, had staggered back,
and leaned against the wall, now sprang forward, and tore
the infant from its mother's breast. She shrieked, and
in that shriek passed the agony of death. She was un-
conscious that her son, putting forth a strength beyond na-
ture, for a moment kept the Indian at bay ; she neither
saw nor felt the knife struck at her own heart. She felt
not the arms of her defenders, Everell and Magawisca, as
they met around her neck. She fainted and fell to the floor,
dragging her impotent protectors with her.
The savage, in his struggle with Everell, had tossed the
infant boy to the ground : he fell, quite unharmed, on the
turf at Mononotto's feet ; there, raising his head, and look-
ing up into the chieftain's face, he probably perceived a
gleam of mercy ; for, with the quick instinct of infancy,
that with unerring sagacity directs its appeal, he clasped
the naked leg of the savage with one arm, and stretched
the, other towards him with a piteous supplication, that no
words could have expressed.
Mononotto's heart melted within him : he stooped to
raise the sweet suppliant, when one of the Mohawks fierce-
ly seized him, tossed him wildly around his head, and dash-
ed him on the door-stone. But the silent prayer, perhaps
the celestial inspiration of the innocent creature, was not
lost. " We have had blood enough," cried Mononotto ;
" you have well avenged me, brothers."
Then, looking at Oneco, who had remained in one cor-
ner of the portico, clasping Faith Leslie in his arms, he
commanded him to follow him with the child. Everell was
torn from the lifeless bodies of his mother and sisters, and
dragged into the forest. Magawisca uttered one cry of
agony and despair, as she looked for the last time on the
bloody scene, and then followed her father.
As they passed the boundary of the cleared ground,
Mononotto tore from Oneco his English dress, and, casting
it from him, " Thus perish," he said, " every mark of the
captivity of my children. Thou shall return to our forests,"
he continued, wrapping a skin around him, " with the
badge of thy people,"
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 335
We hope our readers will not think we have wantonly
sported with their feelings, by drawing a picture of calam-
ity that only exists in the fictitious tale. No such events
as we have, feebly related were common in our early an-
nals, and attended by horrors that it would be impossible
for the imagination to exaggerate. Not only families, but
villages, were cut off by the most dreaded of all foes the
ruthless, vengeful savage.
In the quiet possession of the blessings transmitted, we
are, perhaps, in danger of forgetting or undervaluing the
sufferings by which they were obtained. We forget that
the noble pilgrims lived and endured for us ; that, when
they came to the wilderness, they said truly, though, it may
be, somewhat quaintly, that they turned their backs on
Egypt. They did virtually renounce all dependence on
earthly support ; they left the land of their birth, of their
homes, of their fathers' sepulchres ; they sacrificed ease
and preferment, and all the delights of sense and for
what ? to open for themselves an earthly paradise ? to
dress their bowers of pleasure, and rejoce with their wives
and children ? No ! they came not for themselves ; they
lived not to themselves. An exiled and suffering people,
they came forth in the dignity of the chosen servants of
the Lord, to open the forests to the sun-beam, and to the
light of the Sun of righteousness ; to restore man, man,
oppressed and trampled on by his fellow, to religious and
civil liberty and equal rights ; to replace the creatures of
God on their natural level ; to bring down the hills, and
make smooth the rough places, which the pride and cruel-
ty of man had wrought on the fair creation of the Father
of all.
What was their reward ? Fortune ? distinctions ? the
sweet charities of home ? No but their feet were plant-
ed on the mount of vision, and they saw, with sublime joy,
a multitude of people where the solitary savage roamed
the forest ; the forest vanished, and pleasant villages and
busy cities appeared ; the tangled foot-path expanded to
the thronged highway ; the consecrated church was planted
on the rock of heathen sacrifice.
And, that we might realize this vision, enter into this
promised land of faith, they endured hardship, and braved
336 COMMON-PLACE I3OOK OF PROSE,
death, deem.ng, as said one of their company, that " he is
not worthy to live at all, who, for fear of danger or death,
shunneth his country's service or his own honour since
death is inevitable, and the fame of virtue immortal."
If these were the fervours of enthusiasm, it was an en-
thusiasm kindled and fed by the holy flame that glows on
the altar of God ; an enthusiasm that never abates, but
gathers life and strength as the immortal soul expands in
the image of its Creator.
The Emigrant's Abode in Ohio. FLINT.
I?f making remoter journeys from the town, beside the
rivulets, and in the little bottoms not yet in cultivation, I
discerned the smoke rising in the woods, and heard the
strokes of the axe, the tinkling of bells, and the baying of
dogs, and saw the newly-arrived emigrant either raising
his log cabin, or just entered into possession. It has afford-
od me more pleasing reflections, a happier train of associ-
ations, to contemplate these beginnings of social toil in the
wide wilderness, than, in our more cultivated regions, to
come in view of the most sumptuous mansion. Nothing
can be more beautiful than these little bottoms, upon which
these emigrants deposit, if I may so say, their household
gods. Springs burst forth in the intervals between the
high and low grounds. The trees and shrubs are of the
most beautiful kind. The brilliant red-bird is seen flitting
among the shrubs, or, perched on a tree, seems welcoming,
in her mellow notes, the emigrant to his abode. Flocks
of paroquets are glittering among the trees, and gray squir-
rels are skipping from branch to branch. In the midst of
these primeval scenes, the patient and laborious father fixes
his family. In a few weeks they have reared a comforta-
ble cabin and other outbuildings. Pass this place in two
years, and you will see extensive fields of corn and wheat,
a young and thrifty orchard, fruit trees of all kinds, the
guarantee of present abundant subsistence, and of future
luxury. Pass it in ten years, and the log buildings will
have disappeared. The shrubs and forest trees will be
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 337
gone. The Arcadian aspect of humble and retired abun-
dance and comfort will have given place to a brick house,
with accompaniments like those that attend the same kind
)1 house in the older countries. By this time, the occu-
pant, who came there, perhaps, with a small sum of money
and moderate expectations, from humble life, and with no
more than a common school education, has been made, in
succession, member of the assembly, justice of the peace
and finally county judge. I admit that the first residence
among the trees affords the most agreeable picture to my
mind; and that there is an inexpressible charm in the
pastoral simplicity of those years, before pride and self-
consequence have banished the repose of their Eden and
when you witness the first strugglings of social toil with
the barren luxuriance of nature.
Melancholy Decay of the Indians. CASS.
NEITHER the government nor people of the United
States have any wish to conceal from themselves, nor from
the world, that there is upon their frontiers a wretched,
forlorn people, looking to them for support and protection,
and possessing strong claims upon their justice and human-
ity. Those people received our forefathers in a spirit of
friendship, aided them to endure privations and sufferings,
and taught them how to provide for many of the wants with
which they were surrounded. The Indians were then strong,
and we were weak ; and, without looking at the change
which has occurred in any spirit of morbid affectation, but
with the feelings of an age accustomed to observe great mu-
tations in the fortunes of nations and of individuals, we may
express our regret that they have lost so much of what
we have gained. The prominent points of their history
are before the world, and will go down unchanged to pos-
terity. In the revolution of a few ages, this fair portion
of the continent, which was theirs, has passed into our pos-
session. The forests, which afforded them food and security,
where were their cradles, their homes and their craves,
29
838 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
have disappeared, or are disappearing, before the progress
of civilization.
We have extinguished their council fires, and ploughed
up the bones of their fathers. Their population has di-
minished with lamentable rapidity. Those tribes that re-
main, like the lone column of a falling temple, exhibit but
the sad relics of their former strength ; and many others
live only in the names, which have reached through the
earlier accounts of travellers and historians. The causes,
which have produced this physical desolation, are yet in
constant and active operation, and threaten to leave us, at
no distant day, without a living proof of Indian sufferings,
from the Atlantic to the immense desert, which sweeps
along the base of the Rocky Mountains. Nor can we
console ourselves with the reflection, that their physical
condition has been counterbalanced by any melioration in
their moral condition. We have taught them neither how
to live, nor how to die. They have been equally station-
ary in their manners, habits and opinions ; in every thing
but their numbers and their happiness ; and, although ex-
isting, for more than six generations, in contact with a civ-
ilized people, they owe to them no one valuable improve-
ment in the arts, nor a single principle which can restrain
their passions, or give hope to despondence, motive to ex-
ertion, or confidence to virtue.
Efforts, however, have not been wanting to reclaim the
Indians from their forlorn condition ; but with what hope-
less results, we have only to cast our eyes upon them to
ascertain. Whether the cause of this failure must be
sought in the principles of these efforts, or in their appli-
cation, has not yet been satisfactorily determined ; but the
important experiments, which are now making, will proba-
bly, ere long, put the question at rest. During more than
a century, great zeal was displayed by the French court,
and by many of the dignified French ecclesiastics, for the
conversion of the American aborigines in Canada ; and
' learned, and pious, and zealous men devoted themselves,
with noble ardour and intrepidity, to this generous work :
at what immense personal sacrifices, we can never fully
estimate. And it is melancholy to contrast their privations
and Bufferings, living and dying, with the fleeting memori-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 339
als of their labours. A few external ceremonies, affecting
neither the head nor the heart, and which are retained like
idle legends among some of the aged Indians, are all that
remain to preserve the recollection of their spiritual fa-
thers ; and I have stood upon the ruins of St. Ignace, on
the shores of Lake Huron, their principal missionary estab-
lishment, indulging those melancholy reflections, which
must always press upon the mind, amid the fallen monu-
ments of human piety.
Object and Success of the Missionary Enterprise.
WAYLAWD.
OUR object will not have been accomplished till the
tomahawk shall be buried forever, and the tree of peace
spread its broad branches from the Atlantic to the Pacific ;
until a thousand smiling villages shall be reflected from
the waves of the Missouri, and the distant valleys of the
West echo with the song of the reaper ; till the wilderness
and the solitary place shall have been glad for us, and the
desert has rejoiced, and blossomed as the rose.
Our labours are not to cease, until the last slave-ship
shall have visited the coast of Africa, and, the nations of
Europe and America having long since redressed her ag-
gravated wrongs, Ethiopia, from the Mediterranean to the
Cape, shall have stretched forth her hand unto God.
How changed will then be the face of Asia ! Bramins,
and sooders, and castes, and shasters, will have passed away,
like the mist which rolls up the mountain's side before the
rising glories of a summer's morning, while the land on
which it rested, shining forth in all its loveliness, shall,
from its numberless habitations, send forth the high praises
of God and the Lamb. The Hindoo mother will gaze upon
her infant with the same tenderness, which throbs in the
breast of any one of you who now hears me, and the Hin-
doo son will pour into the wounded bosom of his widowed
parent the oil of peace and consolation.
In a word, point us to the loveliest village that smiles
upon a Scottish or New England landscape, and compare
340 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
it with the filthiness and brutality of a Caffrarian kraal,
and we tell you, that our object is to render that Caffrari-
an kraal as happy and as gladsome as that Scottish or New
England village. Point us to the spot on the face of the
earth, where liberty is best understood and most perfectly
enjoyed, where intellect shoots forth in its richest luxuri-
ance, and where all the kindlier feelings of the heart are
constantly seen in their most graceful exercise ; point us
to the loveliest, and happiest neighbourhood in the world,
on which we dwell ; and we tell you, that our object is to
render this whole earth, with all its nations, and kindreds,
and tongues, and people, as happy, nay, happier, than that
neighbourhood.
We do believe, that God so loved the world, that he gave
his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him
should not perish, but have everlasting life. Our object is
to convey to those who are perishing the news of this sal-
vation. It is to furnish every family upon the face of the
whole earth with the Word of God written in its own lan-
guage, and to send to every neighbourhood a preacher of
the cross of Christ. Our object will not be accomplished
until every idol temple shall have been utterly abolished,
and a temple of Jehovah erected in its room ; until this
earth, instead of being a theatre, on which immortal beings
are preparing by crime for eternal condemnation, shall be-
come one universal temple, in which the children of men
are learning the anthems of the blessed above, and be-
coming meet to join the general assembly and church of
the first born, whose names are written in heaven. Our
design will not be completed until
" One song employs all nations, and all cry,
' Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us ;
The dwellers in the vales and on the rocka
Shout to each other ; and the mountain tops
From distant mount tins catch the flying joy;
Till, nation after nation taught the strain.
Earth rolls the rapturous hoaamia round. 1 '
The object of the missionary enterprise embraces every
child of Adam. It is vast as the race to whom its opera-
tions are of necessity limited. It would confer upon every
individual on earth all that intellectual or moral cultivation
can bestow. It would rescue a world from the indignation
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 341
and wrath, tribulation and anguish, reserved for every son
of man that doeth evil, and give it a title to glory, honour,
and immortality. You see, then, that our object is, not
only to affect every individual of the species, but to affect
him in the momentous extremes of infinite happiness and
infinite wo. And now, we ask, what object, ever under-
taken by man, can compare with this same design of evan-
gelizing the world ? Patriotism itself fades away before
it, and acknowledges the supremacy of an enterprise, which
seizes, with so strong a grasp, upon both the temporal and
eternal destinies of the whole family of man.
And now, my hearers, deliberately consider the nature
of the missionary enterprise. Reflect upon the dignity of
its object ; the high moral and intellectual powers which
are to be called forth in its execution ; the simplicity, be-
nevolence, and efficacy, of the means by which all this is
to be achieved ; and we ask you, Does not every other en-
terprise, to which man ever put forth his strength, dwindle
into insignificance before that of preaching Christ crucified
to a lost and perishing world ?
Engaged in such an object, and supported by such an
assurance, you may readily suppose, we can very well
bear the contempt of those who would point at us the fin-
ger of scorn. It is written, " In the last days there shall be
scoffers." We regret that it should be so. We regret that
men should oppose an enterprise, of which the chief object
is, to turn sinners unto holiness. We pity them, and we
will pray for them. For we consider their situation far
other than enviable. We recollect that it was once said
by the Divine Missionary, to the first band which he com-
missioned, " He that despiseth you despiseth me, and
he that despiseth me despiseth him that sent me." So
that this very contempt may, at last, involve them in a
controversy infinitely more serious than they at present
anticipate. The reviler of missions, and the missionary of
the cross, must both stand before the judgment seat of him
who said, "Go ye into all the world, and preach the Gospel
to every creature." It is affecting to think, that, whilst
the one, surrounded by the nation who, through his instru-
mentality, have been rescued from everlasting death, shall
receive the plaudit, " Well done, good and faithful servant!"
29*
342 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
the other may be numbered among those despisers, who
wonder and perish. " O that they might know, even in
this their day, the things which belong to their peace, be-
fore they are hidden from their eyes !"
You can also easily perceive how it is that we are not
soon disheartened by those who tell us of the difficulties,
nay, the hopelessness, of our undertaking. They may
point us to countries once the seat of the church, now
overspread with Mohammedan delusion; or, bidding us
look at nations, who once believed as we do, now contend-
ing for what we consider fatal error, they may assure us
that our cause is declining. To all this we have two an-
swers. First, the assumption that our cause is declining,
is utterly gratuitous. We think it not difficult to prove,
that the distinctive principles we so much venerate, never
swayed so powerful an influence over the destinies of the
human race as at this very moment. Point us to those
nations of the earth, to whom moral and intellectual culti-
vation, inexhaustible resources, progress in arts, and saga-
city in council, have assigned the highest rank in political
importance, and you point us to nations whose religious
opinions are most closely allied to those we cherish. Be-
sides, when was there a period, since the days of the
apostles, in which so many converts have been made to
these principles, as have been made, both from Christian
and Pagan nations, within the last five-and-twenty years ?
Never did the people of the saints of the Most High look
so much like going forth, in serious earnest, to take pos-
session of the kingdom, and dominion, and the greatness of
the kingdom, under the whole heaven, as at the present
day. We see, then, nothing in the signs of the times,
which forebodes a failure, but every thing which promises
that our undertaking will prosper. But, secondly, suppose
the cause did seem declining ; we should see no reason to
relax our exertions ; for Jesus Christ has said, " Preach the
Gospel to every creature." Appearances, whether pros-
perous or adverse, alter not the obligation to obey a posi-
tive command of Almighty God.
Again, suppose all that is affirmed were true. If it must
be, let it be. Let the dark cloud of infidelity overspread
Europe, cross the ocean, and cover our own beloved land.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 343
Let nation after nation swerve from the faith. Let iniqui-
ty abound, and the love of many wax cold, even until there
is on the face of the earth but one pure church of our
Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. All we ask is, that we
may be members of that one church. God grant that we
may throw ourselves into this Thermopylae of the moral
universe.
But, even then, we should have no fear that the church
of God would be exterminated. We would call to remem-
brance the years of the right hand of the Most High. We
would recollect there was once a time, when the whole
church of Christ not only could be, but actually was, gath-
ered with one accord in one place. It was then that that
pl?ce was shaken as with a rushing, mighty wind, and they
were all filled with the Holy Ghost. That same day, three
thousand were added to the Lord. Soon we hear they
have filled Jerusalem with their doctrine. The church
has commenced her march. Samaria has with one accord
believed the Gospel. Antioch has become obedient to the
faith. The name of Christ has been proclaimed through-
out Asia Minor. The temples of the gods, as though
smitten by an invisible hand, are deserted. The citizens
of Ephesus cry out in despair, " Great is Diana of the
Ephesians !" Licentious Corinth is purified by the preach-
ing of Christ crucified. Persecution puts forth her arm to
arrest the spreading " superstition." But the progress of
the faith cannot be stayed. The church of God advances
unhurt, amidst rocks and dungeons, persecutions and death ;
yea, " smiles at the drawn dagger, and defies its point."
She has entered Italy, and appears before the walls of the
Eternal City. Idolatry falls prostrate at her approach.
Her ensigns float in triumph over the capitol. She has
placed upon her brow the diadem of the Caesars !
Mont Blanc in the Gleam of Sunset. GRISCOM.
WE arrived, before sundown, at the village of St. Mar-
tin, where we were to stay for the night. The evening
being remarkably fine, we crossed the Arve on a beautiful
344 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
bridge, and walked over to Salcnchc, a very considerable
village, opposite to St. Martin, and ascended a hill to view
the effect of the sun's declining light upon Mont Blanc.
The scene was truly grand. The broad range of the moun-
tain was fully before us, of a pure and almost glowing
white, apparently to, its very base ; and which, contrasted
with the brown tints of the adjoining mountains, greatly
heightened the novelty of the scene. We could scarcely
avoid the conclusion, that this vast pile of snow was very
near us, and yet its base was not less than fifteen, and its
summit, probably, more than twenty miles from the place
where we stood. The varying rays of light produced by
reflection from the snow, passing, as the sun's rays de-
clined, from a brilliant white through purple and pink, and
ending in the gentle light, which the snow gives after the
sun has set, afforded an exhibition in optics upon a scale of
{grandeur, which no other region in the world could proba-
bly excel. Never in my life have my feelings been so
powerfully affected by merely scenery as they were in
this 'Jay's excursion. The excitement, though attended
by sensations awfully impressive, is nevertheless so finely
attempered by the glow of novelty incessantly mingled
with astonishment and admiration, as to produce on the
whole a feast of delight.
A few years ago, I stood upon Table Rock, and placed
my cane in the descending flood of Niagara. Its tremen-
dous roar almost entirely precluded conversation with the
friend at my side ; while its whirlwind of mist and foam
filled the air to a great distance around me. The rainbow
sported in its bosom ; the gulf below exhibited the wild
fury of an immense boiling caldron ; while the rapids
above, for the space of nearly a mile, appeared like a moun-
tain of billows chafing and dashing against each other with
thundering impetuosity, in their eager strife to gain the
precipice, and take the awful leap. In contemplating this
scene, my imagination and my heart were filled with sub-
lime and tender emotions. The soul seemed to be brought
a step nearer to the presence of that incomprehensible Be-
ing, whose spirit dwelt in every feature of the cataract, and
directed all its amazing energies. Yet in the scenery of
this day there was more of a pervading sense of awtul and
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 345
unlimited grandeur : mountain piled upon mountain in end-
less continuity throughout the whole extent, and crowned
by the brightest effulgence of an evening sun, upon the
everlasting snows of the highest pinnacle of Europe.
Contrast in the Characters of Cicero and Atticus.
BtTCKMINSTER.
THE history of letters does not, at this moment, suggest
to me a more fortunate parallel between the effects of active
and of inactive learning, than in the well known charac-
ters of Cicero and Atticus Let me hold them up to your
observation, not because Cicero was faultless, or Atticus
always to blame, but because, like you, they were the cit-
izens of a republic. They lived in an age of learning and
of dangers, and acted upon opposite principles, when Rome
was to be saved, if saved at all, by the virtuous energy of
her most accomplished minds.
If we look now for Atticus, we find him in the quiet ol
his library, surrounded by his books ; while Cicero was
passing through the regular course of public honours and
services, where all the treasures of his mind were at the
command of his country. If we follow them, we find At-
ticus pleasantly wandering among the ruins of Athens,
purchasing up statues and antiques ; while Cicero was at
home, blasting the projects of Catiline, and, at the head of
the senate, like the tutelary spirit of his country, as the
storm was gathering, secretly watching the doubtful move-
ments of Caesar. If we look to the period of the civil
wars, we find Atticus always reputed, indeed, to belong to
the party of the friends of liberty, yet originally dear to
Sylla, and Intimate with Clodius, recommending himself
to Caesar by his neutrality, courted by Antony, and con-
nected with Octavius, poorly concealing the Epicureanism
of his principles under the ornaments of literature and the
splendour of his benefactions ; till at last this inoffensive
and polished friend of successive usurpers hastens out of
life to escape from the pains of a lingering disease. Turn
346 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
now to Cicero, the only great man at whom Caesar always
trembled, the only great man, whom falling Rome did not
fear. Do you tell me that his hand once offered incense
to the dictator ? Remember, it was the gift of gratitude
only, and not of servility ; for the same hand launched its
indignation against the infamous Antony, whose power was
more to be dreaded, and whose revenge pursued him till
this father of his country gave his head to the executioner
without a struggle, for he knew that Rome was no longer
to he saved. If, my friends, you would feel what learn-
ing, and genius, and virtue, should aspire to in a day of
peril and depravity, when you are tired of the factions of
the city, the battles of Caesar, the crimes of the triumvi-
rate, and the splendid court of Augustus, do not go and
repose in the easy-chair of Atticus, but refresh your vir-
tues and your spirits with the contemplation of Cicero.
Scenery in the Highlands on the River Hudson. IRVING.
IN the second day of the voyage they came to the High-
lands. It was the latter part of a calm, sultry day, that they
floated gently with the tide between these stern mountain*.
There was that perfect quiet, which prevails over nature
in the languor of summer heat ; the turning of a plank,
or the accidental falling of an oar on deck, was echoed
from the mountain side, and reverberated along the shores ;
and if by chance the captain gave a shout of command,
there were airy tongues that mocked it from every cliff.
Dolph gazed about him in mute delight and wonder at
these scenes of nature's magnificence. To the left the
Dunderberg reared its woody precipices, height over height,
forest over forest, away into the deep summer sky. To
the right strutted forth the bold promontory of Antony's
Nose, with a solitary eagle wheeling about it ; while be-
yond, mountain succeeded to mountain, until they seem-
ed to lock their arms together, and confine this mighty riv-
er in their embraces. There was a feeling of quiet luxury
in gazing at the broad, green bosoms here and there scoop-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 347
ed out among the precipices ; or at woodlands high in air,
nodding over the edge of some beetling bluff, and th'eir fo-
liage all transparent in the yellow sunshine.
In the midst of his admiration, Dolph remarked a pile of
bright, snowy clouds peering above the western heights.
It was succeeded by another, and another, each seeming-
ly pushing onwards its predecessor, and towering, with
dazzling brilliancy, in the deep blue atmosphere : and now
muttering peals of thunder were faintly heard rolling be-
hind the mountains. The river, hitherto still and glassy,
reflecting pictures of the sky and land, now showed a dark
ripple at a distance, as the breeze came creeping up it.
The fish hawks wheeled and screamed, and sought their
nests on the high dry trees ; the crows flew clamorously
to the crevices of the rocks, and all nature seemed con-
scious of the approaching thunder-gust.
The clouds now rolled in volumes over the mountain
tops ; their summits still bright and snowy, but the lower
parts of an inky blackness. The rain began to patter down
in broad and scattered drops ; the wind freshened, and curl-
ed up the waves ; at length it seemed as if the bellying
clouds were torn open by the mountain tops, and complete
torrents of rain came rattling down. The lightning leaped
from cloud to cloud, and streamed quivering against the
rocks, splitting and rending the stoutest forest trees. The
thunder burst in tremendous explosions ; the peals were
echoed from mountain to mountain ; they crashed upon
Dunderberg, and then rolled up the long defile of the High-
lands, each headland making a new echo, until old Bull Hill
seemed to bellow back the storm.
For a time, the scudding rack and mist, and the sheeted
rain, almost hid the landscape from the sight. There was
a fearful gloom, illumined still more fearfully by the streams
of lightning, which glittered among the rain drops. Never
had Dolph beheld such #n absolute warring of the elements ;
it seemed as if the storm was tearing and rending its way
through this mountain defile, and had brought all the artil-
lery of heaven into action.
The vessel was hurried on by the increasing wind, until
she came to where the river makes a sudden bend, the only
348 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
one in the whole course of its majestic career.* Just a*
they turned the point, a violent flaw of wind came sweep-
ing down a mountain gully, bending the forest before it,
and, in a moment, lashing up the river into white froth and
foam. The captain saw the danger, and cried out to lower
the sail. Before the order could be obeyed, the flaw struck
the sloop, and threw her on her beam-ends. Every thing
now was fright and confusion : the flapping of the sails,
the whistling and rushing of the wind, the bawling of the
captain and crew, the shrieking of the passengers, all
mingled with the rolling and bellowing of the thunder. In
the midst of the uproar the sloop righted ; at the same time
the mainsail shifted, the boom came sweeping the quarter
deck, and Dolph, who was gazing unguardedly at the
clouds, found himself, in a moment, floundering in the
river.
For once in his life, one of his idle accomplishments was
of use to him. The many truant hours which he had de-
voted to sporting in the Hudson had made him an expert
swimmer ; yet, with all his strength and skill, he found
great difficulty in reaching the shore. His disappearance
from the deck had not been noticed by the crew, who were
all occupied with their own danger. The sloop was driven
along with inconceivable rapidity. She had hard work to
weather a long promontory on the eastern shore, round
which the river turned, and which completely shut her
from Dolph's view.
It was on a point of the western shore that he landed,
and, scrambling up the rocks, he threw himself, faint and
exhausted, at the foot of a tree. By degrees the thunder-
gust passed over. The clouds rolled away to the east,
where they lay piled in feathery masses, tinted with the
last rosy rays of the sun. The distant play of the
lightning might be still seen about their dark bases, and
now and then might be heard the faint muttering of the
thunder. Dolph rose, and sought about to see if any path
led from the shore, but all was savage and trackless. The
rocks were piled upon each other ; great trunks of trees
lay shattered about, as they had been blown down by the
This must have been the tiend at West Point.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 349
strong winds which draw through these mountains, or had
fallen through age. The rocks, too, were overhung with
ild vines and briers, which completely matted themselves
together, and opposed a barrier to all ingress ; every move-
ment that he made shook down a shower from the dripping
foliage. He attempted to scale one of these almost per"
pendicular heights ; but, though strong and agile, he found
an Herculean undertaking. Often he was supported
nerely by crumbling projections of the rock, and some-
times he clung to roots and branches of trees, and hung
almost suspended in the air. The wood-pigeon came cleav-
ing his whistling flight by him, and the eagle screamed
from the brow of the impending cliff. As he was thu^
' clambering, he was on the point of seizing hold of a shrub
to aid his ascent, when something rustled among the leaves,
and he saw a snake quivering along like lightning, almost
from under his hand. It coiled itself up immediately, in
an attitude of defiance, with flattened head, distended jaws
and quickly vibrating tongue, that played like a little flame
ibout its mouth. Dolph's heart turned faint within him,
and he had well nigh let go his hold, and tumbled down
the precipice. The serpent stood on the defensive but for
an instant ; it was an instinctive movement of defence ;
and, finding there was no attack, it glided away into a cleft
of the rock. Dolph's eye followed it with fearful intensi-
ty ; and he saw at a glance that he was in the vicinity of
a nest of adders, that lay knotted, and writhing, and hissing
in the chasm. He hastened with all speed to escape from
so frightful a neighbourhood. His imagination was full of
this new horror; he saw an adder in every curling vine,
and heard the tail of a rattle-snake in every dry leaf that
rustled.
At length he succeeded in scrambling to the summit of
a precipice ; but it was covered by a dense forest. Wher-
ever he could gain a look out between the trees, he saw
that the coast rose into heights and cliffs, one rising beyond
another, until huge mountains overtopped the whole. There
were no signs of cultivation, nor any smoke curling amongst
the trees to indicate a human residence. Every thing was
wild and solitary. As he was standing on the edge of a
precipice that overlooked a deep ravine fringed with trees,
350 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
his feet detached a great fragment of rock ; it fell, crash
ing its way through the tree tops, down into the chasm. A'
loud whoop, or rather a yell, issued from the bottom of the
glen; the moment after there was the report of a gun;
and a ball came whistling over his head, cutting the twigs
and leaves, and burying itself deep in the bark of a chest-
nut-tree.
Dolph did not wait for a second shot, but made a pre-
cipitate retreat; fearing every moment to hear the enemy
in pursuit. He succeeded, however, in returning unmo
lested to the shore, and determined to penetrate no farthei
into a country so beset with savage perils.
He sat himself down, dripping, disconsolately, on a wet
stone. What was to be done ? where was he to shelter
himself ? The hour of repose was approaching ; the birds
were seeking their nests, the bat began to flit about in the
twilight, and the night hawk, soaring high in heaven, seem-
ed to be calling out the stars. Night gradually closed in,
and wrapped every thing in gloom ; and though it was the
latter part of summer, yet the breeze, stealing along the
river, and among these dripping forests, was chilly and
penetrating, especially to a half-drowned man.
Eternity of God. GREENWOOD.
WE receive such repeated intimations of decay in the
world through which we are passing ; decline and change
and loss, follow decline and change and loss in such rapid
succession, that we can almost catch the sound of univer-
sal wasting, and hear the work of desolation going on busily
around us. " The mountain, falling, cometh to nought,
and the rock is removed out of his place. The waters
wear the stones, the things which grow out of the dust of
the earth are washed away, and the hope of man is de-
stroyed." Conscious of our own instability, we look about
for something to rest on, but we look in vain. The heav-
ens and the earth had a beginning, and they will have an
end. The face of the world is changing daily and hourly.
All animated things grow old and die. The rocks cruni-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 351
ble, the trees fall, the leaves fade, and the grass withers.
The clouds are flying, and the waters are flowing away
from us.
The firmest works of man, too, are gradually giving
way ; the ivy clings to the mouldering tower, the brier
hangs out from the shattered window, and the wall-flower
springs from the disjointed stones. The founders of these
perishable works have shared the same fate long ago. If
we look back to the days of our ancestors, to the men as
well as the dwellings of former times, they become imme-
diately associated in our imaginations, and only make the
feeling of instability stronger and deeper than before. In
the spacious domes, which once held our fathers, the ser-
pent hisses, and the wild bird screams. The halls, which
once were crowded with all that taste, and science, and
labour could procure, which resounded with melody, and
were lighted up with beauty, are buried by their own ru-
ins, mocked by their own desolation. The voice of mer-
riment, and of wailing, the steps of the busy and the idle,
have ceased in the deserted courts, and the weeds choke
the entrances, and the long grass waves upon the hearth-
stone. The works of art, the forming hand, the tombs, the
very ashes they contained, are all gone.
While we thus walk among the ruins of the past, a sad
feeling of insecurity comes over us ; and that feeling is b\
no means diminished when we arrive at home. If we turn
to our friends, we can hardly speak to them before they
bid us farewell. We see them for a few moments, and in
a few moments more their countenances are changed, and
they are sent away. It matters not how near and dear
they are. The ties which bind us together are never too
close to be parted, or too strong to be broken. Tears were
never known to move the king of terrors, neither is it
enough that we are compelled to surrender one, or two,
er many of those we love ; for, though the price is so great,
we buy no favour with it, and our hold on those who re-
main is as slight as ever. The shadows all elude our grasp,
and follow one another down the valley. We gain no con-
fidence, then, no feeling of security, by turning to our
contemporaries and kindred. We Itnow that the forms,
which are breathing around us, are as short-lived as those
352 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
were, which have been dust for centuries. The sensation
of vanity, uncertainty, and ruin, is equally strong, wheth-
er we muse on what has long been prostrate, or gaze on
what is falling now, or will fall so soon.
If every thing which comes under our notice has en-
dured for so short a time, and in so short a time will be no
more, we cannot say that we receive the least assurance
by thinking on ourselves. When they, on whose fate we
have been meditating, were engaged in the active scenes
of life, as full of health and hope as we are now, what
were we ? We had no knowledge, no consciousness, no
being ; there was not a single thing in the wide universe
which knew us. And after the same interval shall have
elapsed, which now divides their days from ours, what
ehall we be ? What they are now. When a few more
friends have left, a few more hopes deceived, and a few
more changes mocked us, " we shall be brought to the
grave, and shall remain in the tomb : the clods of the val-
ley ."hall be sweet unto us, and every man shall draw after
us, as there are innumerable before us." All power will have
forsaken the strongest, and the loftiest will be laid low, and
every eye will be closed, and every voice hushed, and
every heart will have ceased its beating. And when we
have gone ourselves, even our memories will not stay be-
hind us long. A few of Ihe.near and dear will bear our
likeness in their bosoms, till they too have arrived at the
end of their journey, and entered the dark dwelling of un-
consciousness. In the thoughts of others we shall live
only till the last sound of the bell, which informs them of
our departure, has ceased to vibrate in their ears. A stone,
perhaps, may tell some wanderer where we lie, when we
came here, and when we went away ; but even that will
soon refuse to bear us record : " time's effacing fingers"
will be busy on its surface, and at length will wear it
smooth ; and then the stone itself will sink or crumble,
and the wanderer of another age will pass, without a sin-
gle call upon his sympathy, over our unheeded graves.
Is there nothing to counteract the sinking of the heart,
which must be the effect of observations like these ? Is
there no substance among all these shadows ? If all who
live and breathe around us arc the creatures of yesterday,
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 353
and destined to see destruction to-morrow ; if the same
condition is our own, and the same sentence is written
against us ; if the solid forms of inanimate nature and la-
borious art are fading and falling ; if we look in vain for
durability to the very roots of mountains, where shall we
return, and on what shall we rely ? Can no support be
offered ? can no source of confidence be named ? Oh yes !
there is one Being, to whom we can look with a perfect
conviction of finding that security, which nothing about us
can give, and which nothing about us can take away. To
this Being we can lift up our souls, and on him we may
rest them, exclaiming, in the language of the monarch of
Israel, " Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever
thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from ever-
lasting to everlasting thou art God. Of old hast thou laid
the foundations of the earth, and the heavens are the work
of thy hands. They shall perish, but thou shalt endure ;
yea, all of them shall wax old like a garment, as a vesture
shall thou change them, and they shall be changed ; but
thou art the same, and thy years shall have no end."
The eternity of God is a subject of contemplation, which,
at the same time that it overwhelms us with astonishment
and awe, affords us an immoveable ground of confidence
in the midst of a changing world. All things which sur-
round us, all these dying, mouldering inhabitants of time,
must have had a Creator, for the plain reason, that they
could not have created themselves. And their Creator
must have existed from all eternity, for the plain reason,
that the first cause must necessarily be uncaused. As we
cannot suppose a beginning without a cause of existence,
that which is the cause of all existence must be self-exist-
ent, and could have had no beginning. And, as it had no
beginning, so also, as it is beyond the reach of all influence
and control, as it is independent and almighty, it will have
no end.
Here then is a support, which will never fail ; here is a
foundation, which can never be moved the everlasting
Creator of countless worlds, " the high and lofty One,
that inhabiteth eternity." What a sublime conception !
He inhabits eternity, occupies this inconceivable duration,
pervades and fills throughout this boundless dwelling.
30"
354 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PUOSE.
Ages on ages before even the dust of which we are form-
ed was created, he had existed in infinite majesty, and ages
on ages will roll away, after we have all returned to the
dust whence we were taken, and still he will exist in infi-
nite majesty, living in the eternity of his own nature,
reigning in the plenitude of his own omnipotence, forever
sending forth the word, which forms, supports and governs
all things, commanding new-created light to shine on new-
created worlds, and raising up new-created generations to
inhabit them.
The contemplation of these glorious attributes of God
is fitted to excite in our minds the most animating and con-
soling reflections. Standing, as we are, amid the ruins of
time, and the wrecks of mortality, where every thing about
us is created and dependent, proceeding from nothing, and
hastening to destruction, we rejoice that something is pre-
sented to our view, which has stood from everlasting,
and will remain forever. When we have looked on the
pleasures of life, and they have vanished away ; when we
have looked on the works of nature, and perceived that
they were changing ; on the monuments of art, and seen
that they would not stand ; on our friends, and they have
fled, while we were gazing ; on ourselves, and felt that
we were as fleeting as they ; when we have looked on
every object to which we could turn our anxious eyes, and
they have all told us that they could give us no hope nor
support, because they were so feeble themselves, we can
look to the throne of God : change and decay have never
reached that ; the revolution of ages has never moved it ;
the waves of an eternity have been rushing past it, but it
has remained unshaken; the waves of another eternity
are rushing toward it, but it is fixed, and can never be dis-
turbed.
And blessed be God, who has assured us, by a revelation
from himself, that the throne of eternity is likewise a throne
of mercy and love ; who has permitted and invited us to
repose ourselves and our hopes on that which alone is ev-
erlasting and unchangeable. We shall shortly finish our
allotted time on earth, even if it should be unusually pro-
longed. We shall leave behind us all which is now fa-
miliar and beloved, and a world of other days and other
COMMON-PLACE BOOK. OP PBOSK. 355
?ill be entirely ignorant that once we lived. But the
dame unalterable Being will still pre'side over the universe,
through all its changes, and from his remembrance we
shall never be blotted. We can never be where he is not,
nor where he sees and loves and upholds us not. He is
our Father and our God forever. He takes us from earth
that he may lead us to heaven, that he may refine our na-
ture from all. its principles of corruption, share with us his
own immortality, admit us to his everlasting habitation, and
crown us with his eternity.
Philosophy and Morality of Tacitus. FRISBIK.
IT is not for his style, that we principally admire this
author : his profound views of the human heart, his just
developement of the principles of action, his delicate touch-
es of nature, his love of liberty and independence, and,
above all, the moral sensibility, which mingles, and incor-
porates itself with all his descriptions, are the qualities,
which must ever render him a favourite with the friends
of philosophy and of man.
Tacitus has been truly called the philosopher of histori-
ans ; but his philosophy never arrays itself in the robe of
the schools, or enters into a formal investigation of causes
and motives. It seems to show itself here and there, in
the course of his facts, involuntarily, and from its own ful-
ness, by the manner of narration, by a single word, and
sometimes by a general observation. Events, in his hands,
have a soul, which is constantly displaying its secret work-
ings by the attitude, into which it throws the body, by a
glance of the eye, or an expression of the face, and now
and then a sudden utterance of its emotions. It is not the
prince, the senator, or the plebeian, that he describes ; it
is always man, and the general principles of human na-
ture ; and this in their nicer and more evanescent, as well
as their boldest and most definite expressions. If we were
not afraid of giving too violent a shock to classical devotees,
we should say, that, in the particulars we have mentioned,
Tacitus in history is not unlike Miss Edgeworth in fiction.
356 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE
There are, indeed, many circumstances, unnecessary to be
pointed out, in which they differ ; but there is in both the
same frequent interspersion in the narrative of short re-
marks, which lay open a principle of human nature, the
same concise developement of character by discrimination
and contrast, and the nice selection of some one trait, or
apparently trifling circumstance, of conduct, as a key to
the whole ; traits and circumstances, which, though none
but a philosopher would have pointed out, find their way
at once to every heart. But the historian has none of the
playfulness, the humour, and the mind at ease, which are
Been in the novelist. He knew himself the register of
facts, and facts, too, in which he took the deepest interest.
He records events, not as one curious in political relations,
or revolutions in empires, but as marking the moral charac-
ter and condition of the age ; a character and condition,
which he felt were exerting a direct and powerful influ-
ence upon himself, upon those whom he loved, and with
whom he lived.
The moral sensibility of Tacitus is, we think, that par-
ticular circumstance, by which he so deeply engages his
reader, and is perhaps distinguished from every other wri-
ter, in the same department of literature ; and the scenes
he was to describe peculiarly required this quality. His
writings comprise a period the most corrupt within the
annals of man. The reigns of the Neros, and of many
of their successors, seemed to have brought together the
opposite vices of extreme barbarism and excessive luxury :
the most ferocious cruelty and slavish submission ; volup-
tuousness the most effeminate, and sensuality worse than
brutal. Not only all the general charities of life, but the
very ties of nature were annihilated by a selfishness, the
most exclusively individual. The minions of power butch-
ered the parent, and the child hurried to thank the empe-
ror for his goodness. The very fountains of abominations
seemed to have been broken up, and to have poured over
the face of society a deluge of pollution and crimes. How
important was it, then, for posterity, that the records of
such an era should be transmitted by one in whose per-
sonal character there should be a redeeming virtue, who
would himself feel, and awaken in his readers, that dipgual
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PHOSE. 357
and abhorrence, which such scenes ought to excite ! Such
a one was Tacitus. There is in his narrative a seriousness,
approaching sometimes almost to melancholy, and some-
times bursting forth in expressions of virtuous indignation.
He appears always to be aware of the general complexion
of the subjects, of which he is treating ; and, even when
extraordinary instances of independence and integrity now
and then present themselves, you perceive, that his mind
is secretly contrasting them with, those vices, with which
his observation was habitually familiar. Thus, in describ-
ing the pure and simple manners of the barbarous tribes
of the north, you find him constantly bringing forward and
dwelling upon those virtues, which were most strikingly
opposed to the enormities of civilized Rome. He could
not, like his contemporary Juvenal, treat these enormities
with sneering and sarcasm. To be able to laugh at vice,
he thought a symptom, that one -had been touched at least
by its pollution ; or, to use his words, and illustrate, at
once, both of the remarks we have just made ; speaking
of the temperance and chastity of the Germans, he says,
" Nemo enim illic ridet vitia, nee corrumpere et corrumpi
saeculum vocatur." Therefore it is, that, in reading Taci-
tus, our interest in events is heightened by a general sym-
pathy with the writer ; and as, in most instances, it is an
excellence, when we lose the author in his story, so, in
this, it is no less an excellence, that we have him so fre-
quently in our minds. It is not, that he obtrudes himself
upon our notice, but that we involuntarily, though not
unconsciously, see with his eyes, and feel with his feel-
ings.
In estimating, however, the moral sentiment of this his-
torian, we are not to judge him by the present standard,
elevated and improved as it is by Christianity. Tacitus
undoubtedly felt the influence of great and prevalent er-
rors. That war with barbarians was at all times just,
and their territory and their persons the lawful prey of
whatever nation could seize them, it is well known, had
been always the practical maxim of the Greeks, as well
as the Romans. Hence we are not to be surprised, that,
in various passages of his work, he does not express that
abhorrence of many wars, in which his countrymen were
358 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
engaged, which we might otherwise have expected from
him. This apology must especially be borne in mind, as
we read the life of Agricola. The invasion of Britain by
the Romans was as truly a violation of the rights of justice
and humanity, as that of Mexico and Peru by the Span-
iards ; and their leader little better in principle, than Cor-
tez and Pizarro. Yet, even here, full as was Tacitus of
the glory of his father-in-law and of Rome, we have fre-
quent indications of sensibility to the wrongs of the op-
pressed and plundered islanders. The well known speech
of Calgaeus breathes all the author's love of liberty and
virtue, and exhibits the simple virtues, the generous self-
devotion, of the Caledonians, in their last struggle for in-
dependence, in powerful contrast with the vices and am-
bition of their cruel and rapacious invaders.
We have mentioned what appears to us the most striking
characteristics of the author before us. When compared
with his great predecessor, he is no less excellent, but es-
sentially different. Livy is only a historian, Tacitus is
also a philosopher ; the former gives you images, the latter
impressions. In the narration of events, Livy produce?
his effect by completeness and exact particularity, Tacitus
by selection and condensation ; the one presents to you a
panorama you have the whole scene, with all its compli-
cated movements and various appearances vividly before
you ; the other shows you the most prominent and remark-
able groups, and compensates in depth for what he wants in
minuteness. Livy hurries you into the midst of the bat-
tle, and leaves you to be borne along by its tide : Tacitus
stands with you upon an eminence, where you have more
tranquillity for distinct observation ; or perhaps, when the
armies have retired, walks with you over the field, points
out to you the spot of each most interesting particular, and
shares with you those solemn and profound emotions, which
you have now the composure to feel.
COMMON-PLACE COOK OF PROSE. 359
The Village Grave- Yard. GKEENWOOD
" Why is my sleep disquieted ?
Who id he that calls the dead ?" BYHOW.
Iw the beginning of the fine month of October, I was
travelling with a friend in one of our northern states, on a
tour of recreation and pleasure. We were tired of the
city, its noise, its smoke, and its unmeaning dissipation ; and,
with the feelings of emancipated prisoners, we had been
breathing, for a few weeks, the perfume of the vales, and
the elastic atmosphere of the uplands. Some minutes be-
fore the sunset of a most lovely day, we entered a neat
little village, whose tapering spire we had caught sight of
at intervals an hour before, as our road made an unexpect-
ed turn, or led us to the top of a hill. Having no motive
to urge a farther progress, and being unwilling to ride in
an unknown country after night-fall, we stopped at the inn,
and determined to lodge there. f
Leaving my companion to arrange our accommodations
with the landlord, I strolled on toward the meeting-house.
Its situation had attracted my notice. There was much
more taste and beauty in it than is common. It did not
stand, as I have seen some meeting-houses stand, in the most
frequented part of the village, blockaded by wagons and
horses, with a court-house before it, an engine-house be-
hind it, a store-house under it, and a tavern on each side ;
it stood away from all these things, as it ought, and was
placed on a spot of gently rising ground, a short distance
from the main road, at the end of a green lane ; and so
near to a grove of oaks and walnuts, that one of the
foremost and largest treec brushed against the pulpit win-
dow. On the left, and lower down, there was a fertile
meadow, through which a clear brook wound its course,
fell over a rock, and then hid itself in the thickest part of
the grove. A little to the right of the meeting-house was
the grave-yard.
I never shun a grave-yard the thoughtful melancholy
which it inspires is grateful rather than disagreeable to
me it gives me no pain to tread ca the green roof of that
dark mansion, whose chambers I must occupy so soon
360 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
and I often wander from choice to a place, where there is
neither solitude nor society something human is there
but the folly, the bustle, the vanities, the pretensions, the
competitions, the pride of humanity, are gone men are
there, but their passions are hushed, and their spirits are
still malevolence has lost its power of harming appetite
is sated, ambition lies low, and lust is cold anger has done
raving, all disputes are ended, all revelry is over, the fell-
est animosity is deeply buried, and the most dangerous sins
are safely confined by the thickly-piled clods of the valley
vice is dumb and powerless, and virtue is waiting in
silence for the trump of the archangel, and the voice of
God.
I never shun a grave-yard, and I entered this. There
were trees growing in it, here and there, though it was
not regularly planted ; and I thought that it looked better
than if it had been. The only paths were those, which
had been worn by the slow feet of sorrow and sympathy,
as they followed love and friendship to the grave ; and this
too was well, for I dislike a smoothly rolled gravel-walk in a
place like this. In a corner of the ground rose a gentle
knoll, the top of which was covered by a clump of pines.
Here my walk ended ; I threw myself down on the slip-
pery couch of withered pine leaves, which the breath of
many winters had shaken from the boughs above, leaned
my head upon my hand, and gave myself up to the feelings
which the place and the time excited.
The sun's edge had just touched the hazy outlines of
the western hills ; it was the signal for the breeze to be
hushed, and it was breathing like an expiring infant, softly
and at distant intervals, before it died away. The trees be-
fore me, as the wind passed over them, waved to and fro,
and trailed their long branches across the tomb-stones, with
alow, moaning sound, which fell upon the ear like the voice
of grief, and seemed to utter the conscious tribute of na-
ture's sympathy over the last abode of mortal man. A
low, confused hum came from the village ; the brook was
murmuring in the wood behind me ; and, lulled by all these
soothing sounds, I fell asleep.
But whether my eyes closed or not, I am unable to say,
for the same scene appeared to be before them, the same
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 361
trees were waving, and not a green mound had changed
3 lorm. I was still contemplating the same trophies of
ic unsparing victor, the same mementos of human evan-
escence. Some were standing upright ; others were in-
med to the ground ; some were sunk so deeply in the
earth, that their blue tops were just visible above the long
grass which surrounded them ; and others were spotted or
covered with the thin yellow moss of the grave-yard I
was reading the inscriptions on the stones, which were
nearest to me they recorded the virtues of those who slept
beneath them, and told the traveller that they hoped for a
happy rising. Ah ! said I or I dreamed that I said so
this is the testimony of wounded hearts the fond belief
t that affection, which remembers error and evil no lon"--
er ; but could the grave give up its dead could they, who
have been brought to these cold dark houses, go back again
into the land of the living, and once more number the
days which they had spent there, how differently would
they then spend them ! and when they came to die how
much firmer would be their hope ! and when they 'were
again laid in the ground, how much more faithful would
be the tales, which these same stones would tell over them !
the epitaph of praise would be well deserved by their vir-
tues, and the silence of partiality no longer required for
their sins.
I had scarcely spoken, when the ground began to trem
ble beneath me. Its motion, hardly perceptible at first
increased every moment in violence, and it soon heaved
and struggled fearfully ; while in the short quiet between
shock and shock, I heard such unearthly sounds, that the
very blood in my heart felt cold subterraneous cries and
groans issued from every part of the grave-yard, and these
were mingled with a hollow crashing noise, as if the moul-
dering bones were bursting from their coffins. Suddenly
all these sounds stopped the earth on each grave was
thrown up and human figures of every age, and clad in
the garments of death, rose from the ground, and stood by
the side of their grave-stones. Their arms were crossed
upon their bosoms their countenances were deadly pale,
and raised to heaven. The looks of the young children
alone were placid and unconscious but over the features
362 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
of all the rest a shadow of unutterable meaning passed and
repassed, as their eyes turned with terror from the open
graves, and strained anxiously upward. Some appeared
to be more calm than others, and when they looked above,
it was with an expression of more confidence, though not
less humility ; but a convulsive shuddering was on the
frames of all, and on their faces that same shadow of un-
utterable meaning. While they stood thus, I perceived that
their bloodless lips began to move, and, though I heard no
voice, I knew, by the motion of their lips, that the word
would have been Pardon !
But this did not continue long they gradually became
more fearless their features acquired the appearance of
security, and at last of indifference the blood came to
their lips the shuddering ceased, and the shadow passed
away.
And now the scene before me changed. The tombs and
grave-stones had been turned, I knew not how, into dwell-
ings and the grave-yard became a village. Every now
and then I caught a view of the same faces and forms,
which I had seen before but other passions were traced
upon their faces, and their forms were no longer clad in
the garments of death. The silence of their still prayer
was succeeded by the sounds of labour, and society, and
merriment. Sometimes, I could see them meet together
with inflamed features and angry words, and sometimes 1
distinguished the outcry of violence, the oath of passion,
and the blasphemy of sin. And yet there were a few
who would often come to the threshold of their dwellings,
and lift their eyes to heaven, and utter the still prayer of
pardon while others passing by would mock them.
I was astonished and grieved, and was just going to ex-
press my feelings, when I perceived by my side a beauti-
ful and majestic form, taller and brighter than the sons of
men, and it thus addressed me " Mortal ! thou hast now
seen the frailty of thy race, and learned that thy thoughts
were vain. Even if men should be wakened from their
cold sleep, and raised from the grave, the world would still
be full of enticement and trials ; appetite would solicit and
passion would burn, as strongly as before the imperfec-
tions of their nature would accompany their return, and
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 363
the commerce of life would soon obliterate the recollection
of death. It is only when this scene of things is exchang-
ed for another, that new gifts will bestow new powers, that
higher objects will banish low desires, that the mind will
be elevated by celestial converse, the soul be endued with
immortal vigour, and man be prepared for the course of
eternity." The angel then turned from me, and with a
voice, which I hear even now, cried, " Back to your graves,
ye frail ones, and rise no more, till the elements are melt-
ed." Immediately a sound swept by me, like the rushing
wind the dwellings shrunk back into their original forms,
and I was left alone in the grave-yard, with nought but the
silent stones and the whispering trees around me.
The sun had long been down a few of the largest stars
were timidly beginning to shine, the bats had left their
lurking places, my cheek was wet with the dew, and I
was chilled by the breath of evening. I arose, and re-
turned to the <nn.
Influence of the Habit of Gaming on the Mind and
Heart. NOTT.
IF an occupation were demanded for the express pur-
pose of perverting the human intellect, and humbling, and
degrading, and narrowing, I had almost said, annihilating,
the soul of man, one more effectual could not be devised,
than the one the gamester has already devised and pre-oc-
cupied. And the father and mother of a family, who, in-
stead of assembling their children in the reading-room, or
conducting them to the altar, seat them, night after night,
beside themselves at- the gaming-table, do, so far as this
part of their domestic economy is concerned, contribute not
only to quench their piety, but also to extinguish their in-
tellect, and convert them into automatons, living mummies,
the mere mechanical members of a domestic gambling ma-
chine, which, though but little soul is necessary, requires a
number of human hands to work it. And if, under such
a blighting culture, they do not degenerate into a state of
mechanical existence, and, gradually losing their reason,
364 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
their taste, their fancy, become incapable of conversation,
the fortunate parents may thank the school-house, the
church, the library, the society of friends, or some other
and less wretched part of their own defective system, for
preventing the consummation of so frightful a result.
Such are the morbid and sickly effects of play on the
human intellect. But intelligence constitutes no inconsid-
erable part of the glory of man ; a glory which, unless
eclipsed by crime, increases, as intelligence increases.
Knowledge is desirable with reference to this world, but
principally so with reference to the next; not because
philosophy, or language, or mathematics, will certainly be
pursued in heaven, but because the pursuit of them on
earth gradually communicates that quickness of perception,
that acumen, which, as it increases, approximates towards
the sublime and sudden intuition of celestial intelligences,
and which cannot fail to render more splendid the com-
mencement, as well as more splendid the progression, of
man's interminable career.
But, while gaming leaves the mind to languish, it pro-
duces its full effect on the passions and on the heart.
Here, however, that effect is deleterious. None of the
sweet and amiable sympathies are at the card-table called
into action. No throb of ingenuous and philanthropic feel-
ing is excited by this detestable expedient for killing time,
as it is called ; and it is rightly so called ; for many a mur-
dered hour will witness, at the day of judgment, against
that fashionable idler, who divides her time between her
toilet and the card-table, no less than against the profli-
gate, hackneyed in the ways of sin, and steeped in all the
filth and debauchery of gambling. But it is only amidst the
filth and debauchery of gambling, that the full effects of
card-playing on the passions and on the heart of man are
seen.
Here that mutual amity that elsewhere subsists, ceases ;
paternal affection ceases ; even that community of feeling
that piracy excites, and that binds the very banditti togeth-
er, has no room to operate ; for, at this inhospitable board,
every man's interest clashes with every man's interest, and
every man's hand is literally against every man.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 365
The love of mastery and the love of money are the
purest loves, of which the gamester is susceptible. And
even the love of mastery loses all its nobleness, and de-
generates into the love of lucre, which ultimately pre-
dominates, and becomes the ruling passion.
Avarice is always base ; but the gamester's avarice is
doubly so. It is avarice unmixed with any ingredient of
magnanimity or mercy ; avarice, that wears not even the
guise of public spirit ; that claims not even the meager
praise of hoarding up its own hard earnings. On the con-
trary, it is an avarice, that wholly feeds upon the losses,
and only delights itself with the miseries, of others ; ava-
rice, that eyes, with covetous desire, whatever is not indi-
vidually its own ; that crouches to throw its fangs over
that booty, by which its comrades are enriched ; avarice,
that stoops to rob a traveller, that sponges a guest, and
that would filch the very dust from the pocket of a friend.
But though avarice predominates, other related passions
are called into action. The bosom, that was once serene
and tranquil, becomes habitually perturbed. Envy ran-
kles ; jealousy corrodes ; angeirages ; and hope and fear
alternately convulse the system. The mildest disposition
grows morose ; the sweetest temper becomes fierce and
fiery, and all the once amiable features of the heart as-
sume a malignant aspect! Features of the heart, did I
say ? Pardon my mistake. The finished gambler has none.
Though his intellect may not be, though his soul may not
be, his heart is quite annihilated.
Thus habitual gambling consummates what habitual play
commences. Sometimes its deadening influence prevails,
even over female virtue, eclipsing all the loveliness, and
benumbing all the sensibility of woman. In every circle,
where cards form the bond of union, frivolity and heart-
lessness become alike characteristic of the mother and the
daughter ; devotion ceases ; domestic care is shaken off,
and the dearest friends, even before their burial, are con-
signed to oblivion.
This is not exaggeration. I appeal to fact, Madame du
Deffand was certainly not among the least accomplished fe-
males, who received and imparted that exquisite tone of
feeling, that pervaded the most fashionable society of modern
31*
366 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
Paris. And yet it is recorded of her, in the correspondence
of the Baron De Grimm, whose veracity will not be ques-
tioned, that when her old and intimate friend and admirer,
M. de Ponte de Vesle, died, this celebrated lady came rather
late to a great supper in the neighbourhood ; and as it was
known that she made it a point of honour to attend him,
the catastrophe was generally suspected. She mentioned
it, however, herself, immediately on entering ; adding, that
it was lucky he had gone off so early in the evening, as
she might otherwise have been prevented from appearing.
She then sat down to table, and made a very hearty ami
merry meal of it.
Afterwards, when Madame de Chatelet died, Madame
du Deffand testified her grief for the most intimate of all
her female acquaintance, by circulating over Paris, the
very next morning, the most libellous and venomous attack
on her person, her understanding, and her morals.
This utter heartlessness, this entire extinction of native
feeling, was not peculiar to Madame du Deffand ; it per-
vaded that accomplished and fashionable circle, in which
she moved. Hence she herself, in her turn, experienced
the same kind of sympathy, and her remembrance was
consigned to the same instantaneous oblivion. During her
last illness, three of her dearest friends used to come and
play cards, every night, by the side of her couch ; and, as
she chose to die in the middle of a very interesting game,
they quietly played it out, and settled their accounts before
leaving the apartment.
1 do not say that such are the uniform, but I do say, that
such are the natural and legitimate, effects of gaming on
the female character. The love of play is a demon, which
only takes possession as it kills the heart. But if such is
the effect of gaming, on the one sex, what must be its ef-
fect upon the other ? Will nature long survive in bosoms in-
vaded, not by gaming only, but also by debauchery and
drunkenness, those sister furies, which hell has let loose,
to cut off our young men from without, and our children
from the streets ? No, it will not. As we have said, the
finished gambler has no heart. The club, with which he
herds, would meet, though all its members were in mourn-
ing. They would meet, though it were in an apartment of
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 367
the charnel-house. Not even the death of kindred can
affect the gambler. He would play upon his brother's cof-
fin ; he would play upon his father's sepulchre.
The Preservation of the Church. MASON.
THE long existence of the Christian Church would be
pronounced, upon common principles of reasoning, impos-
sible. She finds in every man a natural and inveterate
enemy. To encounter and overcome the unanimous hos-
tility of the world, she boasts no political stratagem, no dis-
ciplined legions, no outward coercion of any kind. Yet
her expectation is that she will live forever. To mock
this hope, and to blot out her memorial from under heaven,
the most furious efforts of fanaticism, the most ingenious
arts of statesmen, the concentrated strength of empires,
have been frequently and perseveringly applied. The blood
of her sons and her daughters has streamed like water ;
the smoke of the scaffold and the stake, where they wore
the crown of martyrdom in the cause of Jesus, has ascend-
ed in thick volumes to the skies. The tribes of persecu-
tion have sported over her woes, and erected monuments,
as they imagined, of her perpetual ruin. But where are
her tyrants, and where their empires ? The tyrants have
long since gone to their own place ; their names have de-
scended upon the roll of infamy ; their empires have pass-
ed, like shadows over the rock; they have successively dis-
appeared, and left not a trace behind !
But what became of the Church ? She rose from her
ashes fresh in beauty and might ; celestial glory beamed
around her ; she dashed down the monumental marble of
her foes, and they who hated her fled before her. She has
celebrated the funeral of kings and kingdoms that plotted
her destruction ; and, with the inscriptions of their pride,
has transmitted to posterity the records of their shame.
How shall this phenomenon be explained ? We are, at
the present moment, witnesses of the fact ; but who can
unfold the mystery ? The book of truth and life has made
our wonder to cease. " THE LORD HER GOD IN THE
368 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
MIDST OF HER is MIGHTY." His presence is a fountain
of health, and his protection a " wall of fire." He has
betrothed her, in eternal covenant, to himself. Her living
Head, in whom she lives, is above, and his quickening
spirit shall never depart from her. Armed with divine vir-
tue, his Gospel, secret, silent, unobserved, enters the hearts
of men, and sets up an everlasting kingdom. It eludes all
the vigilance, and baffles all the power, of the adversary.
Bars, and bolts, and dungeons are no obstacles to its ap-
proach : bonds, and tortures, and death cannot extinguish
its influence. Let no man's heart tremble, then, because
of fear. Let no man despair (in these days of rebuke and
blasphemy) of the Christian cause. The ark is launched,
indeed, upon the floods ; the tempest sweeps along the deep;
the billows break over her on every side. But Jehovah-
Jesus has promised to conduct her in safety to the haven
of peace. She cannot be lost unless the pilot perish.
Modern Facilities for evangelizing the World.
BUECHER.
THE means of extending knowledge, and influencing
the human mind by argument and moral power, are mul-
tiplied a thousand fold. The Lancasterian mode of in-
struction renders the instruction of the world cheap and
easy. The improvements of the press have reduced im-
mensely, and will reduce yet more, the price of books,
bringing not only tracts and Bibles, but even libraries,
within the reach of every man and every child. But in
the primitive age, the light of science beamed only on a
small portion of mankind. The mass of mankind were not,
and could not be, instructed to read. Every thing was
transient and fluctuating, because so little was made per-
manent in books and general knowledge, and so much de-
pended on the character, the life, and energy, of the living
teacher. The press, that lever of Archimedes, which now
moves the world, was unknown.
It was the extinction of science by the invasion of the
northern barbarians, which threw back the world ten cen-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 369
turies ; and this it effected through the -want of permanent
instruction, and the omnipotent control of opinion which is
exerted by the press. Could Paul have put in requisition
the press, as it is now put in requisition by Christianity, and
have availed himself of literary societies, and Bible societies,
and Lancasterian schools to teach the entire population to
read, and of Bibles, and libraries, and tracts, Mahomet had
never opened the bottomless pit, and the pope had never
set his foot upon the neck of kings, nor deluged Europe
with the blood of the saints.
Should any be still disposed to insist, that our advan
tages for evangelizing the world are not to be compared with
those of the apostolic age, let them reverse the scene, and
roll back the wheels of time, and obliterate the improve-
ments of science, and commerce, and arts, which now facil-
itate the spread of the Gospel. Let them throw into dark-
ness all the known portions of the earth, which were then
unknown. Let them throw into distance the propinquity
of nations ; and exchange their rapid intercourse for cheer-
less, insulated existence. Let the magnetic power be for-
gotten, and the timid navigator creep along the coasts of
the Mediterranean, and tremble and cling to the shore
when he looks out upon the broad waves of the Atlantic.
Inspire idolatry with the vigour of meridian manhood, and
arm in its defence, and against Christianity, all the civili-
zation, and science, and mental power of the world. Give
back to the implacable Jew his inveterate unbelief, and his
vantage-ground, and his disposition to oppose Christianity
in every place of his dispersion, from Jerusalem to every
extremity of the Roman empire. Blot out the means of
extending knowledge and exerting influence upon the hu-
man mind. Destroy the Lancasterian system of instruc-
tion, and throw back ihe mass of men into a state of un-
rcading, unreflecting ignorance. Blot out libraries and
tracts ; abolish Bible, and education, and tract, and mis-
sionary societies ; and send the nations for knowledge parch-
ment, and the slow and limited productions of the pen. Let
all the improvements in civil government be obliterated,
and the world be driven from the happy arts of self-gov-
ernment to the guardianship of dungeons and chains. Let
liberty of conscience expire, and the Church, now emanci-
8?0 COMMON-PLACE BOOR OF PROSfi.
pated, and walking forth in her unsullied loveliness, return
to the guidance of secular policy, and the perversions and
corruptions of an unholy priesthood. And now reduce the
200,000,000 nominal, and the 10,000,000 of real Chris-
tians, spread over the earth, to 500 disciples, and to twelve
apostles, assembled, for fear of the Jews, in an upper cham-
ber, to enjoy the blessings of a secret prayer-meeting. And
give them the power of miracles, and the gift of tongues,
and send them out into all the earth to preach the Gospel
to every creature.
Is this the apostolic advantage for propagating Christian-
ity, which throws into discouragement and hopeless imbe-
cility all our present means of enlightening and disenthral-
ling the world ? They, comparatively, had nothing to be-
gin with, and every thing to oppose them ; and yet, in
three hundred years, the whole civilized, and much of the
barbarous, world .was brought under the dominion of Chris-
tianity. And shall we, with the advantage of their labours,
and of our numbers, and a thousand fold increase of oppor-
tunity, and moral power, stand halting in unbelief, while
the 1 Lord Jesus is still repeating the injunction, Go ye out
into all the world, and preach the Gospel to every crea-
ture ; and repeating the assurance, Lo I am with you alway,
even to the end of the world ? Shame on our sloth ! Shame
upon our unbelief!
Speech* of the Chief SA-GU-TU-WHAT-HAH, called by
the white People RED JACKET.
FRIEND AND BROTHER It was the will of the Great
Spirit that we should meet together this day. He orders
all things, and Has given us a fine day for our council. He
has taken his garment from before the sun, and caused it
* Delivered in answer to the offer and request of an American mis-
sionary, to teach among the Indians the principles of Christianity.
Some of their speeches have exhibited more of energy and pathos on
occasions specially adapted to excite these qualities ; but we have seen
none which better illustrates the peculiar sagacity and eloquence of this
unfortunate people, than the one before us. ED.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 371
to shine with brightness upon us. Our eyes are opened
that we see clearly ; our ears are unstopped, that we have
been able to hear distinctly the words you have spoken
For all these favours we thank the Great Spirit and him
only.
Brother Listen to what we say. There was a time when
our forefathers owned this great island. Their seats ex-
tended from the rising to the setting sun. The Great
Spirit had made it for the use of Indians. He had created
the buffalo, deer, ^and other animals for food. He had
made the bear and the beaver. Their skins served us for
clothing. He had scattered them over the earth, and
taught us how to take them. He had caused the earth to
produce corn for bread. All this he had done for his red
children, because he loved them. But an evil day came
upon us. Your forefathers crossed the great water, and
landed on this island. Their numbers were small. They
found friends, and not enemies. They told us they had fled
from their own country for fear of wicked men, and had
come here to enjoy their religion. They asked for a small
seat. We took pity on them, and granted their request ; and
they sat down among us. We gave them corn and meat ;
they gave us poison in return.
The white people had now found our country. Tidings
were carried back, and more came among us. Yet we
did not fear them. We took them to be friends. They call-
ed us brothers. We believed them, and gave them a larger
seat. At length their numbers had greatly increased.
They wanted more land. They wanted our country. Our
eyes were opened, and our minds became uneasy. Wars
took place. Indians were hired to fight against Indians,
and many of our people were destroyed. They also brought
strong liquor among Us. It was strong, and powerful, and
has slain thousands.
Brother Our seats were once large, and yours were
small. You have now become a great people, and we have
scarcely a place left to spread our blankets. You have got
our country, but are not satisfied ; you want to force your
religion among us.
Brother Continue to listen. You say that you are sent
to instruct us how to worship the Great Spirit agreeably to
372 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
his mind, and, if we do not take hold of the religion which
you white people teach, we shall be unhappy hereafter.
You say that you are right, and we are lost. How do we
know this to be true ? We understand that your religion
is written in a book. If it was intended for us as well as
you, why has not the Great Spirit given to us, and not only
to us, but why did he not give to our forefathers, the knowl-
edge of that book, with the means of understanding it
rightly ? We only know what you tell us about it. How
shall we know when to believe, being so often deceived by
the white people ?
Brother You say there is but one way to worship and
serve the Great Spirit. If there is but one religion, why
do you white people differ so much about it ? Why not all
agreed, as you can all read the book ?
Brother We do not understand these things. We are
told that your religion was given to your forefathers, and
has been handed down from father to son. We also have
a religion, which was given to our forefathers, and was
handed down to their children. We worship in that way.
It teaches us to be thankful for all the favours we receive ;
to love each other, and to be united. We never quarrel
about religion.
Brother The Great Spirit has made us all, but he has
made a great difference between his white and red chil-
dren. He has given us different complexions and different
customs. To you he has given the arts. To these he has
not opened our eyes. We know these things to be true.
Since he has made so great a difference between us in
other things, why may we not conclude that he has given
us a different religion according to our understanding ? The
Great Spirit does right : he knows what is best for his chil-
dren. We are satisfied.
Brother We do not wish to destroy your religion, or
take it from you. We only wish to enjoy our own.
Brother We are told that you have been preaching to
the white people in this place. These people are our
neighbours. We are acquainted with them. We will wait
a little while, and see what effect your preaching has upon
them. If we find it does them good, makes them honest,
'
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 373
and less disposed to cheat Indians, we will then consider
again of what you have said.
Brother You have now heard our answer to your talk.
This is all we have to say at present. As we are going to
part, we will come and take you by the hand, and hope the
Great Spirit will protect you on your journey, and return
you safe to your friends.
Extract from a Speech on the British Treaty*
AMES.
THIS, sir, is a cause that would be dishonoured and be-
trayed, if I contented myself with appealing only to the
understanding. It is too cold, and its processes are too
slow for the occasion. I desire to thank God, that, since he
has given me an intellect so fallible, he has impressed upon
me an instinct that is sure. On a question of shame and
honour, reasoning is sometimes useless, and worse. I feel
the decision in my pulse : if it throws no light upon the
brain, it kindles a fire at the heart.
It is not easy to deny, it is impossible to doubt, that a
treaty imposes an obligation on the American nation. It
would be childish to consider the president and senate
obliged, and the nation and house free. What is the obli-
gation ? perfect or imperfect ? If perfect, the debate is
brought to a conclusion. If imperfect, how large a part
of our faith is pawned ? Is half our honour put at a risk,
and is that half too cheap to be redeemed ? How long has
this hair-splitting subdivision of goo:l faitli been discovered ?
and why has it escaped the researches of the writers on
the law of nations ? " Shall we add a new chapter to that
* The celebrated speech, from which this extract is taken, was de-
livered in the house of representatives, April 28, 1796, in support of the
following motion: " Resolved, That it is expedient to pass the laws
necessary to carry into effect the treaty lately concluded between the
United States and the king of Great Britain." After the debate, the
votes stood, for carrying the treaty into effect, 51 . against carrying it
into effect, 48.-ED.
32
374 COMMONPLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
law ? or insert this doctrine as a supplement to, or, mora
properly, a repeal of the ten commandments ?
On every hypothesis, the conclusion is not to be re-
sisted : we are either to execute this treaty, or break our
faith.
To expatiate on the value of public faith, may pass with
some men for declamation : to such men I have nothing to
say. To others I will urge, can any circumstance mark
upon a people more turpitude and debasement ? Can any
thing tend more to make men think themselves mean, or
degrade to a lower point their estimation of virtue, and their
standard of action ? It would not merely demoralize man-
krnd ; it tends to break all the ligaments of society, to dis-
solve that mysterious charm, which attracts individuals to
the nation, and to inspire in its stead a repulsive sense of
shame and disgust.
What is patriotism ? Is it a narrow affection for the spot
where a man was born ? Are the very clods where we
tread entitled to this ardent preference, because they are
greener. No, sir : this is not the character of the virtue,
and it soars higher for its object. It is an extended self-
love, mingling with all the enjoyments of life, and twist-
ing itself with the minutest filaments of the heart. It is
thus we obey the laws of society, because they are the
laws of virtue. In their authority we see, not the array
of force and terror, but the venerable image of our coun-
try's honour. Every good citizen makes that honour his
own ; and cherishes it not only as precious, but as sacred.
He is willing to risk his life in its defence ; and is conscious,
that he gains protection while he gives it. For what rights
of a citizen will be deemed inviolable, when a state re-
nounces the principles that constitute their security ? Or,
if his life should not be invaded, what would its enjoyments
be in a country odious in the eyes of strangers, and dis-
honoured in his own ? Could he look with affection and
veneration to such a country as his parent ? The sense of
having one would die within him ; he would blush for
his patriotism, if he retained any, and justly for it would
be a vice. He would be a banished man in his native
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 375
I see no exception to the respect that is paid among na-
tions to the law of good faith. If there are cases in this
enlightened period when it is violated, there are none when
it is decried. It is the philosophy of politics, the religion
of governments. It is observed by barbarians : a whiff
of tobacco smoke, or a string of beads, gives not merely
binding force, but sanctity, to treaties. Even in Algiers,
a truce may be bought for money; but, when ratified, even
Algiers is too wise, or too just, to disown and annul its ob-
ligation. Thus we see, neither the ignorance of savages,
nor the principles of an association for piracy and rapine,
permit a nation to despise its engagements. If, sir, there
could be a resurrection from the foot of the gallows, if the
victims of justice could live again, collect together and
form a society, they would, however loath, soon find them-
selves obliged to make justice, that justice under which
they fell, the fundamental law of their state. They would
perceive it was their interest to make others respect, and
they would, therefore, soon pay some respect themselves,
to the obligations of good faith.
It is painful, I hope it is superfluous, to make even the
supposition that America should furnish the occasion of this
opprobrium. No : let me not even imagine, that a repub-
lican government, sprung, as our own is, from a people
enlightened and uncorrupted, a government whose origin
is right, and whose daily discipline is duty, can, upon sol-
emn debate, make its option to be faithless; can dare to
act what despots dare not avow, what our own example
evinces the states of Barbary are unsuspected of. No :
let me rather make the supposition that Great Britain re-
fuses to execute the treaty, after we have done every thing
to carry it into effect. Is there any language of reproach
pungent enough to express your commentary on the fact ?
What would you say ? or rather what would you not say ?
Would you not tell them, wherever an Englishman might
travel, shame would stick to him ? he would disown his
country. You would exclaim " England, proud of your
wealth, and arrogant in the possession of power, blush for
these distinctions which become the vehicles of your dis-
honour !" Such a nation might truly say to corruption,
thou art my father ; and to the worm, thou art my mother
376 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
and my sister. We should say of such a race of men, their
name is a heavier burden than their debt.
The refusal of the western posts inevitable if we reject
the treaty is a measure too decisive in its nature to be neu-
tral in its consequences. From great causes we are to look
for great effects. Will the tendency to Indian hostilities
be contested by any one .' Experience gives the answer.
The frontiers were scourged with war until the negotia-
tion with Great Britain was far advanced ; and then the
state of hostility ceased. Perhaps the public agents of both
nations are innocent of fomenting the Indian war, and per-
haps they are not. We ought not, however, to expect, that
neighbouring nations, highly irritated against each other,
will neglect the friendship of the savages. The traders
will gain an influence, and will abuse it ; and who is igno-
rant that their passions are easily raised, and hardly re-
strained from violence ? Their situation will oblige them
to choose between this country and Great Britain in case
tlie treaty should be rejected ; they will not be our friends,
tad at the same time the friends of our enemies.
If any, against all these proofs, should maintain that the
peace with the Indians will be stable without the posts, to
them I will urge another reply. From arguments calcu-
lated to produce conviction, I will appeal directly to the
hearts of those who hear me, and ask whether it is not
already planted there ? I resort especially to the convic-
tions of the western gentlemen, whether, supposing no
posts and no treaty, the settlers will remain in security ?
Can they take it upon them to say, that an Indian peace,
under these circumstances, will prove firm ? No, sir, it
will not be peace, but a sword ; it will be no better than a
lure to draw victims within reach of the tomahawk. On
this theme my emotions are unutterable. If I could find
words for them, if my powers bore any proportion to my
zeal, I would swell my voice to such a note of remon-
strance that it should reach every log-house beyond the
mountains. I would say to the inhabitants Wake from
your false security '. your cruel dangers, your more cruel
apprehensions, are soon to be renewed : the wounds yet
unhealed are to be torn open again : in the day time your
path through the woods will be ambushed : the darkness of
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 877
midnight will glitter with the blaze of your dwellings.
You are a father the blood of your sons shall fatten your
cornfield : you are a mother the war-whoop shall wake
the sleep of the cradle.
On this subject, you need not suspect any deception on
your feelings. It is a spectacle of horror, which cannot
be overdrawn. If you have nature in your hearts, they
will speak a language, compared with which all 1 have
said, or can say, will be poor and frigid.
Who will accuse me of wandering out of the subject ?
Who will say that I exaggerate the tendencies of our meas-
ures ? Will any one answer by a sneer, that all this is idle
preaching ? Will any one deny that we are bound and I
would hope to good purpose by the most solemn sanctions
of duty for the vote we give ? Are despots alone to be re-
proached for unfeeling indifference to the tears and blood of
their subjects ? Are republicans unresponsible ? Have the
principles, on which you ground the reproach upon cabi-
nets and kings, no practical influence, no binding force '
Are they merely themes of idle declamation, introduced to
decorate the morality of a newspaper essay, or to furnish
pretty topics of harangue from the windows of that state-
house ? I trust it is neither too presumptuous nor too late
to ask Can you put the dearest interest of society at risk
without guilt and without remorse ?
By rejecting the posts, we light the savage fires, we
bind the victims. This day we undertake to render ac-
count to the widows and orphans whom our decision will
make, to the wretches that will be roasted at the stake, to
our country, and, I do not deem it too serious to say, to
conscience and to God. We are answerable ; and if duty
be any thing more than a word of imposture, if conscience
be not a bugbear, we are preparing to make ourselves as
wretched as our country.
There is no mistake in this case, there can be none
experience has already been the prophet of events, and the
cries of our future victims have already reached us. The
western inhabitants are not a silent and uncomplaining sac-
rifice. The voice of humanity issues from the shade of
the wilderness : it exclaims that, while one hand is held
up to reject this treaty, the other grasps a tomahawk. It
32"
378 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
summons our imagination to the scenes that will open. It
is no great effort of the imagination to conceive that events
so near are already begun. I can fancy that I listen to the
yells of savage vengeance and the shrieks of torture ; al-
ready they seem to sigh in the western wind ; already they
mingle with every echo from the mountains.
I rose to speak under impressions that 1 would have re-
sisted if I could. Those who see me will believe, that
the reduced state of my health has unfitted me, almost
equally, for much exertion of body or mind. Unprepared
for debate by careful reflection in my retirement, or by
long attention here, 1 thought the resolution I had taken
to sit silent was imposed by necessity, and would cost me
no effort to maintain. With a mind thus vacant of ideas,
and sinking, as I really am, under a sense of weakness, I
imagined the very desire of speaking was extinguished by
the persuasion that I had nothing to say. Yet when 1
come to the moment of deciding the vote, I start back with
dread from the edge of the pit into which we are plunging.
In my view, even the minutes I have spent in expostu-
lation have their value, because they protract the crisis,
and the short period in which alone we may resolve to cs
cape it.
I have thus been led by my feelings to speak more at
length than I had intended. Yet I have, perhaps, as little
personal interest in the event as any one here. There is,
I believe, no member, who will not think his chance to be
a witness of the consequences greater than mine. If, how-
'cver, the vote should pass to reject, and a spirit should rise,
as it will with the public disorders, to make " confusion
worse confounded," even I, slender and almost broken as
my hold upon life is, may outlive the government and
constitution of my country.
Appeal in Favour of the Union. MADISON-.
I SUBMIT to you, my fellow-citizens, these considera-
tions, in full confidence that the good sense, which has so
often marked your decisions, will allow them their due
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 379
weight and effect ; and that you will never suffer difficul-
ties, however formidable in appearance, or however fash-
ionable the error on which they may be founded, to drive
you into the gloomy and perilous scenes, into which the
advocates for disunion would conduct you. Hearken not
to the unnatural voice, which tells you that the people of
America, knit together, as they are, by so many cords of
affection, can no longer live together as members of the
same family ; can no longer continue the mutual guar-
dians of their mutual happiness ; can no longer be fel-
low-citizens of one great, respectable and flourishing em-
pire. Hearken not to the voice, which petulantly tells
you, that the form of government recommended for your
adoption is a novelty in the political world ; that it has
never yet had a place in the theories of the wildest pro-
jectors ; that it rashly attempts what it is impossible to ac-
complish. No, my countrymen ; shut your ears against
this unhallowed language. Shut your hearts against the
poison which it conveys ; the kindred blood, which flows
in the veins of American citizens, the mingled blood, which
they have shed in defence of their sacred rights, consecrate
their union, and excite horror at the idea of their becom-
ing aliens, rivals, enemies. And if novelties are to be
shunned, believe me, the most alarming of all novelties,
the most wild of all projects, the most rash of all attempts,
is that of rending us in pieces, in order to preserve our lib-
erties and promote our happiness. But why is the exper-
iment of an extended republic to be rejected, merely be-
cause it may comprise what is new ? Is it not the glory
of the people of America, that, whilst they have paid a de-
cent regard to the opinions of former times and other na-
tions, they have not suffered a blind veneration for antiquity,
for custom, or for names, to overrule the suggestions of
their own good sense, the knowledge of their own situ-
ation, and the lessons of their own experience ? To this
manly spirit, posterity will be indebted for the possession,
and the world for the example, of the numerous innovations
displayed on the American theatre, in favour of private
rights and public happiness. Had no important step been
taken by the leaders of the revolution, for which a prece-
dent could not be discovered ; had no government been estab-
880 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
liehed, of which an exact model did not present itself, the
people of the United States might, at this moment, have
been numbered among the melancholy victims of misguided
councils ; must at best have been labouring under the
weight of some of those forms, which have crushed the
liberties of the rest of mankind. Happily for America,
happily, we trust, for the whole human race, they pursued
a new and more noble course. They accomplished a rev-
olution, which has no parallel in the annals of human so-
ciety. They reared fabrics of government, which have
no model on the face of the globe. They formed the de-
sign of a great confederacy, which it is incumbent on their
successors to improve and perpetuate. If their works be-
tray imperfections, we wonder at the fewness of them.
If they erred most in the structure of the union, this was
the work most difficult to be executed ; this is the work
which has been new-modelled by the act of your conven-
tion, and it is that act, on which you are now to deliberate
and decide.
Grand electrical Experiment of Dr. Franklin.
STUBER.
IN the year 1749, he first suggested his idea of explain-
ing the phenomena of thunder-gusts, and of the aurora
borealis, upon electrical principles. He points out many
particulars in which lightning and electricity agree ; and
he adduces many facts, and reasonings from facts, in sup-
port of his positions. In the same year he conceived the
astonishingly bold and grand idea of ascertaining the truth
of his doctrine, by actually drawing down the lightning,
by means of sharp-pointed iron rods raised into the region
of the clouds. Even in this uncertain state, his passion to
be useful to mankind displays itself in a powerful manner.
Admitting the identity of electricity and lightning, and
knowing the power of points in repelling bodies charged
with electricity, and in conducting their fire silently and
imperceptibly, he suggested the idea of securing houses,
ships, &c. from being damaged by lightning, by erecting
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 381
pointed rods, that should rise some feet above the most ele-
vated part, and descend some feet into the ground or the wa-
ter. The effect of these, he concluded, would be either 6)
prevent a stroke by repelling the cloud beyond the striking
distance, or by drawing off the electrical fire which it con-
tained ; or, if they could not effect this, they would at least
conduct the electric matter to the earth, without any injury
to the building.
It was not until the summer of 1752, that he was ena-
bled to complete his grand and unparalleled discovery by
experiment. The plan which he had originally proposed,
was, to erect on some high tower, or other elevated place,
a sentry box, from which should rise a pointed iron rod,
insulated by being fixed in a cake of resin. Electrified
clouds, passing over this, would, he conceived, impart to it
a portion of their electricity, which would be rendered ev-
ident to the senses by sparks being emitted, when a key,
the knuckle, or other conductor, was presented to it. Phil-
adelphia, at this time, afforded no opportunity of trying an
experiment of this kind. While Franklin was waiting for
the erection of a spire, it occurred to him that he might
have more ready access to the region of clouds by means
of a common kite. He prepared one by fastening two cross
sticks to a silk handkerchief, which would not suffer so
much from the rain as paper. To the upright stick was
affixed an iron point. The string was, as usual, of hemp,
except the lower end, which was sifk. Where the hemp-
en string terminated, a key was fastened. With this ap-
paratus, on the appearance of a thunder-gust approaching,
he went out into the commons, accompanied by his son, to
whom alone he communicated his intentions, well knowing
the ridicule, which, too generally for the interest of sci-
ence, awaits unsuccessful experiments in philosophy. He
placed himself under a shade, to avoid the rain his kite
was raised a thunder-cloud passed over it no sign of
electricity appeared. He almost despaired of success,
when suddenly he observed the loose fibres of his string
to move towards an erect position. He now presented his
knuckle to the key, and received a strong spark. How
exquisite must his sensations have been at this moment! A
On this experiment depended the fate of his theory. If
382 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
he succeeded, his name would rank high among those who
had improved science ; if he failed, he must inevitably be
subjected to the derision of mankind, or, what is worse,
their pity, as a Well-meaning man, but a weak, silly pro-
jector. The anxiety with which he looked for the result
of his experiment may be easily conceived. Doubts and
despair had begun to prevail, when the fact was ascertain-
ed in so clear a manner, that even the most incredulous
could no longer withhold their assent. Repeated sparks
were drawn from the key, a phial was charged, a shock
given, and all the experiments made which are usually per-
formed with electricity.
By these experiments Franklin's theory was established
in the most convincing manner. When the truth of it
conld no longer be doubted, envy and vanity endeavoured
to detract from its merit. That an American, an inhabitant
of the obscure city of Philadelphia, the name of which was
hardly known, should be able to make discoveries, and to
frame theories, which had escaped the notice of the enlight-
ened philosophers of Europe, was too mortifying to be admit-
ted. He must certainly have taken the idea from some
one else. An American, a being of an inferior order, make
discoveries! Impossible. It was said, that the Abb6 Nol-
let, 1748, had suggested the idea of the similarity of light-
ning and electricity in his Lemons de Physique. It is true
that the abbe mentions the idea, but he throws it out as a
bare conjecture, and proposes no mode of ascertaining the
truth of it. He himself acknowledges, that Franklin first
entertained the bold thought of bringing lightning from the
heavens, by means of pointed rods fixed in the air. The
similarity of lightning and electricity is so strong, that we
k need not be surprised at notice being taken of it, as soon
W as electrical phenomena became familiar. We find it men-
tioned by Dr. Wall and Mr. Grey, while the science was
in its infancy. But the honour of forming a regular theo-
ry of thunder-gusts, of suggesting a mode of determining
^ the truth of it by experiments, and of putting these ex-
periments in practice, and thus establishing the theory upon
a firm and solid basis, is incontestably due to Franklin.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
Extrication of a Frigate from the Shoals.
COOPER.
THE extraordinary activity of Griffith, which commu-
nicated itself with promptitude to the whole crew, was
produced by a sudden alteration in the weather. In place
of the well-defined streak along the horizon, that has been
already described, an immense body of misty light appear-
ed to be moving in, with rapidity, from the ocean, while a
distinct but distant roaring announced the sure approach
of the tempest, that had so long troubled the waters. Even
Griffith, while thundering his orders through the trumpet,
and urging the men, by his cries, to expedition, would
pause, for instants, to cast anxious glances in the direction
of the coming storm, and the faces of the sailors who lay
on the yards were turned, instinctively, towards the same
quarter of the heavens, while they knotted the reef-points,
or passed the gaskets, that were to confine the unruly can-
vass to the prescribed limits.
The pilot alone, in that confused and busy throng, where
voice rose above voice, and cry echoed cry, in quick suc-
cession, appeared as if he held no interest in the important
stake. With his eyes steadily fixed on the approaching
mist, and his arms folded together, in composure, he stood
calmly awaiting the result.
The ship had fallen off, with her broadside to the sea,
and was become unmanageable, and the sails were already
brought into the folds necessary to her security, when the
quick and heavy fluttering of canvass was thrown across
the water, with all the gloomy and chilling sensations that
such sounds produce, where darkness and danger unite to
appal the seaman.
" The schooner has it !" cried Griffith ; " Barnstable
has held on, like himself, to the last moment God send
that the squall leave him cloth enough to keep him from
the shore !"
" His sails are easily handled," the commander observ-
ed, "and she must be over the principal danger. We
are falling off before it, Mr. Gray ; shall we try a cast of
the lead ?"
384 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
The pilot turned from his contemplative posture, and
moved slowly across the deck, before he returned any re-
ply to this question like a man who not only felt that
every thing depended on himself, but that he was equal to
the emergency.
" 'Tis unnecessary," he at length said ; " 'twould be
certain destruction to be taken aback, and it is diffi-
cult to say, within several points, how the wind may
strike us."
" 'Tis difficult no longer," cried Griffith ; " for here it
comes, and in right earnest!"
The rushing sounds of the wind were now, indeed, heard
at hand, and the words were hardly passed the lips of the
young lieutenant, before the vessel bowed down heavily
to o'ne side, and then, as she began to move through the
water, rose again majestically to her upright position, as if
saluting, like a courteous champion, the powerful antago-
nist with which she was about to contend. Not another
minute elapsed, before the ship was throwing the waters
aside, with a lively progress, and, obedient to her helm,
was brought as near to the desired course, as the direction
of the wind would allow. The hurry and bustle on the
yards gradually subsided, and the men slowly descended
to the deck, all straining their eyes to pierce the gloom in
which they were enveloped, and some shaking their heads
in melancholy doubt, afraid to express the apprehensions
they really entertained. All on board anxiously waited
for the fury of the gale ; for there were none so ignorant
or inexperienced in that gallant frigate, as not to know,
that they, as yet, only felt the infant efforts of the wind.
Each moment, however, it increased in power, though so
gradual was the alteration, that the relieved mariners be-
. gan to believe that all their gloomy forebodings were not
m to be realized. During this short interval of uncertainty,
* no other sounds were heard than the whistling of the
breeze, as it passed quickly through the mass of rigging
that belonged to the vessel, and the dashing of the spray,
t that began to fly from her bows, like the foam of a
cataract.
" It blows fresh," cried Griffith, who was the first to
speak in that moment of doubt and anxiety ; " but it is no
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 385
more than a cap-full of wind, after all. Give us elbow-
room, and the right canvass, Mr. Pilot, and I'll handle the
ship like a gentleman's yacht, in this breeze."
" Will she stay, think ye, under this sail ?" said the low
voice of the stranger.
" She will do all that man, in reason, can ask of wood
and iron," returned the lieutenant ; " but the vessel don't
float the ocean that will tack under double-reefed topsails
alone, against a heavy sea. Help her with the courses, pi-
lot, and you'll see her come round like a dancing-master."
" Let us feel the strength of the gale first," returned
the man who was called Mr. Gray, moving from the side
of Griffith to the weather gang-way of the vessel, where
he stood in silence, looking ahead of the ship, with an air
of singular coolness and abstraction.
All the lanterns had been extinguished on the deck of the
frigate, when her anchor was secured, and as the first mist
of the gale had passed over, it was succeeded by a faint
light, that was a good deal aided by the glittering foam of
the waters, which now broke in white curls around the
vessel, in every direction. The land could be faintly dis-
cerned, rising, like a heavy bank of black fog, above the
margin of the waters, and was only distinguishable from
the heavens, by its deeper gloom and obscurity. The last
rope was coiled, and deposited in its proper place, by the sea-
men, and for several minutes the stillness of death pervaded
the crowded decks. It was evident to every one, that fheir
ship was dashing at a prodigious rate through the waves ;
and, as she was approaching, with such velocity, the quar-
ter of the bay where the shoals and dangers were known
to be situated, nothing but the habits of the most exact
discipline could suppress the uneasiness of the officers and
men within their own bosoms. At length the voice of
Captain Munson was heard, calling to the pilot.
" Shall I send a hand into the chains, Mr. Gray," he
said, " and try our water ?"
" Tack your ship, sir, tack your ship ; I would see how
she works, before we reach the point, where she must be-
have well, or we perish."
33
386 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
Griffith gazed after him in wonder, while the pilot slow-
ly paced the quarter-deck, and then, rousing from his
trance, gave forth the cheering order that called each man
to his station, to perform the desired evolution. The con-
fident assurances which the young officer had given to the
pilot, respecting the qualities of his vessel, and his own
ability to manage her, were fully realized by the result.
The helm was no sooner put a-lee, than the huge ship bore
up gallantly against the wind, and, dashing directly through
the waves, threw the foam high into the air, as she looked
boldly into the very eye of the wind, and then, yielding
gracefully to its power, she fell off on the other tack, with
her head pointed from those dangerous shoals that she had
so recently approached with such terrifying velocity. The
heavy yards swung round, as if they had been vanes to
indicate the currents of the air, and in a few moments the
frigate again moved, with stately progress, through the
water, leaving the rocks and shoals behind her on one side
of the bay, but advancing towards those that offered equal
danger on the other.
During thia time, the sea was becoming more agitated,
and the violence of the wind was gradually increasing.
The latter no longer whistled amid the cordage of the ves-
sel, but it seemed to howl, surlily, as it passed the compli-
cated machinery that the frigate obtruded on its path. An
endless succession of white surges rose above the heavy
billows, and the very air was glittering with the light that
was disengaged from the ocean. The ship yielded, each
moment, more and more before the storm, and, in less than
half an hour from the time that she had lifted her anchor,
she was driven along, with tremendous fury, by the full
power of a gale of wind. Still, the hardy and experienced
mariners, who directed her movements, held her to the
course that was necessary to their preservation, and still
Griffith gave forth, when directed by their unknown pilot,
those orders that turned her in the narrow channel where
safety was, alone, to be found.
So far, the performance of his duty appeared easy to the
stranger, and he gave the required directions in those still,
calm tones, that formed so remarkable a contrast to the
responsibility of his situation. But when the land was be-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 387
coming dim, in distance as well as darkness, and the agitated
sea was only to be discovered as it swept by them in foam,
he broke in upon the monotonous roaring of the tempest,
with the sounds of his voice, seeming to shake off his apa-
thy, and rouse himself to the occasion.
" Now is the time to watch her closely, Mr. Griffith,"
he cried ; " here we get the true tide and the real danger.
Place 'the best quarter-master of your ship in those chains,
and let an officer stand by him, and see that he gives us
the right water."
" I will take that office on myself," said the captain ;
" pass a light into the weather main-chains."
" Stand by your braces !" exclaimed the pilot, with start-
ling quickness. " Heave away that lead !"
These preparations taught the crew to expect the crisis,
and every officer and man stood in fearful silence, at his
assigned station, awaiting the issue of the trial. Even the
quarter-master at the cun gave out his orders to the men
at the wheel in deeper and hoarser tones than usual, as if
anxious not to disturb the quiet and order of the vessel.
While this deep expectation pervaded the frigate, tBe
piercing cry of the leadsman, as he called, " By the mark
seven!" rose above the tempest, crossed over the decks, and
appeared to pass away to leeward, borne on the blast, like
the warnings of some water spirit.
" "Tis well," returned the pilot, calmly ; " try it
again."
The short pause was succeeded by another cry, " and
a half-five !"
" She shoals ! she shoals !" exclaimed Griffith ; " keep
her a good full."
" Ay ! you must hold the vessel in command, now,"
said the pilot, with those cool tones that are most appalling
in critical moments, because they seem to denote most
preparation and care.
The third call of " By the deep four !" was followed by
a prompt direction from the stranger to tack.
Griffith seemed to emulate the coolness of the pilot, in
issuing the necessary orders to execute thisjnanoeuvre.
The vessel rose slowly from the inclined position into
which she had been forced by the tempest, and the sails
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
were shaking violently, as if to release themselves from
their confinement, while the ship stemmed the billows,
when the well-known voice of the sailing-master was heard
shouting from the forecastle
" Breakers ! breakers, dead ahead !"
This appalling sound seemed yet to be lingering about
the ship, when a second voice cried
" Breakers on our lee-bow !"
" We are in a bight of the shoals, Mr. Gray," said
the commander. " She loses her way : perhaps an anchor
might hold her.''
" Clear away that best-bower !" shouted Griffith through
his trumpet.
" Hold on !" cried the pilot, in a voice that reached
the very hearts of all who heard him ; " hold on every
thing."
The young man turned fiercely to the daring stranger,
who thus defied the discipline of his vessel, and at once
demanded
" Who is it that dares to countermand my orders ? is it
not enough that you run the ship into danger, but you must
interfere to keep her there! If another word "
" Peace, Mr. Griffith," interrupted the captain, bending
from the rigging, his gray locks blowing about in the wind,
and adding a look of wildness to the haggard care that he
exhibited by the light of his lantern ; " yield the trumpet
to Mr. Gray ; he alone can save us."
Griffith threw his speaking trumpet on the deck, and, as
he walked proudly away, muttered in bitterness of feel-
ing
" Then all is lost, indeed, and, among the rest, the foolish
hopes with which I visited this coast."
There was, however, no time for reply ; the ship had
been rapidly running into the wind, and, as the efforts of
the crew were paralyzed by the contradictory orders they
had heard, she gradually lost her way, and, in a few sec-
onds, all her sails were taken aback.
Before the crew understood their situation, the pilot had
applied the trumpet to his mouth, and, in a voice that rose
above the tempest, he thundered forth his orders. Each
command was given distinctly, and with a precision that
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 889
showed him to be master of his profession. The helm was
kept fast, the head yards swung up heavily against the wind,
and the vessel was soon whirling round on her heel, with
a retrograde movement.
Griffith was too much of a seaman, not to perceive that
the pilot had seized, with a perception almost intuitive, the
only method that promised to extricate the vessel from her
situation. He was young, impetuous, and proud ; but he
was also generous. Forgetting his resentment and his
mortification, he rushed forward among the 'men, and, by
his presence and example, added certainty to the experi-
ment. The ship fell off slowly before the gale, and bowed
her yards nearly to 'the water, as she felt the blast pouring
its fury on her broadside, while the surly waves beat vio-
lently against her stern, as if in reproach at departing from
her usual manner of moving.
The voice of the pilot, however, was still heard, steady
and calm, and yet so clear and high as to reach every ear ;
and the obedient seamen whirled the yards at his bidding,
in despite of the tempest, as if they handled the toys of their
childhood. When the ship had fallen off dead before the
wind, her head sails were shaken, her after yards trimmed,
and her helm shifted, before she had time to run upon the
danger that had threatened, as well to leeward as to wind-
ward. The beautiful fabric, obedient to her government,
threw her bows up gracefully towards the wind again, and,
as her sails were trimmed, moved out from amongst the
dangerous shoals, in which she had been embayed, as stead-
ily and swiftly as she had approached them.
A moment of breathless astonishment succeeded the
accom^ishment of this nice manoeuvre, but there was no
time for the usual expressions of surprise. The stranger
still held the trumpet, and continued to lift his voice amid
the bowlings of the blast, whenever prudence or skill di-
rected any change in the management of the ship. For
an hour longer, there was a fearful struggle for their pres-
ervation, the channel becoming, at each step, more com-
plicated, and the shoals thickening around the mariners,
on every side. The lead was cast rapidly, and the quick
eye of the pilot seemed to pierce the darkness, with a keen-
ness of vision that exceeded human power. It was appa-
33
390 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
rent to all in the vessel, that they were under the guidance
of one who understood the navigation thoroughly, and their
exertions kept pace with their reviving confidence. Again
and again the frigate appeared to be rushing blindly on
shoals, where the sea was covered with foam, and where
destruction would have been as sudden as it was certain,
when the clear voice of the stranger was heard warning
them of the danger, and inciting them to their duty.
The vessel was implicitly yielded to his government, and
during those anxious moments, when she was dashing the
waters aside, throwing the spray over her enormous yards,
each ear would listen eagerly for those sounds that had
obtained a command over the crew, that can only be ac-
quired, under such circumstances, by great steadiness and
consummate skill. The ship was recovering from the in-
action of changing her course, in one of those critical tacks
that she had made so often, when the pilot, for the first
time, addressed the commander of the frigate, who still
continued to superintend the all-important duty of the
leadsman.
" Now is the pinch," he said ; " and if the ship behaves
well, we are safe but if otherwise, all we have yet done
will be useless."
The veteran seaman whom he addressed left the chains,
at this portentous notice, and, calling to his first lieuten-
ant, required of the stranger an explanation of his warn-
ing.
" See you yon light on the southern headland ?" re-
turned the pilot; " you may know it from the star near
it by its sinking, at times, in the ocean. Now observe
the hummoc, a little north of it, looking like a shadow in
the horizon 'tis a hill far inland. If we keep that light
open from the hill, we shall do well but if not, we surely
go to pieces."
" Let us tack again !" exclaimed the lieutenant.
The pilot shook his head, aa he replied
" There is no more tacking or box-hauling to be done to-
night. We have barely room to pass out of the shoals on
this course, and if we can weather the ' Devil's-Grip,' we
clear their outermost point but if not, as I said before,
there is but an alternative."
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 391
" If w had beaten out the way we entered," exclaimed
Griffith, " we should have done well."
" Say, also, if the tide would have let us do so," re-
turned the pilot calmly. " Gentlemen, we must be prompt ;
we have but a mile to go, and the ship appears to fly. That
topsail is not enough to keep her up to the wind ; we want
both jib and mainsail."
" 'Tis a perilous thing to loosen canvass in such a tem-
pest!" observed the doubtful captain.
" It must be done," returned the collected stranger;
" we perish, without it see ! the light already touches
the edge of the hummoc ; the sea caste us to leeward !"
" It shall be done !" cried Griffith, seizing the trumpet
from the hand of the pilot.
The orders of the lieutenant were executed almost as
soon' as issued, and, every thing being ready, the enormous
folds of the mainsail were trusted, loose, to the blast. There
was an instant when the result was doubtful ; the tremen-
dous threshing of the heavy sails, seeming to bid defiance
to all restraint, shaking the ship to her centre ; but art and
strength prevailed, and gradually the canvass was distend-
ed, and, bellying as it filled, was drawn down to its usual
place, by the power of a hundred men. The vessel yield-
ed to this immense addition of force, and bowed before it,
like a reed bending to a breeze. But the success of the
measu^ was announced by a joyful cry from the stranger,
that seemed to burst from his inmost soul.
" She feels it ! she springs her luff! observe," he said,
"the light opens from the hummoc already; if she will
only bear her canvass, we shall go clear !"
A report, like that of a cannon, interrupted his excla-
mation, and something resembling a white cloud was seen
drifting before the wind from the head of the ship, till it
was driven into the gloom far to leeward.
" 'Tis the jib, blown from the bolt-ropes," said the com-
mander of the frigate. " This is no time to spread light
duck but the mainsail may stand it yet."
" The sail would laugh at a tornado," returned the lieu-
tenant ; " but that mast springs like a piece of steel."
" Silence all !" cried the pilot. " Now, gentlemen, we
shall soon know our fate. Let her luff luff you can !"
392 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF pnosE.
This warning effectually closed all discourse, and the
hardy mariners, knowing that they had already done all in
the power of man to ensure their safety, stood in breath-
less anxiety, awaiting the result. At a short distance ahead
of them, the whole ocean was white with foam, and the
waves, instead of rolling on, in regular succession, appear-
ed to be tossing about in mad gambols. A single streak
of dark billows, not half a cable's length in width, could
be discerned running into this chaos of water ; but it was
soon lost to the eye, amid the confusion of the disturbed
element. Along this narrow path the vessel moved more
heavily than before, being brought so near the wind as to
keep her sails touching. The pilot silently proceeded to
the wheel, and, with his own hands, he undertook the
steerage of the ship. No noise proceeded from the frigate
to interrupt the horrid tumult of the ocean, and she enter-
ed the channel among the breakers, with the silence of a
desperate calmness. Twenty times, as the foam rolled
away to leeward, the crew were on the eve of uttering
their joy, as they supposed the vessel past the danger ; but
breaker after breaker would still rise before them, follow-
ing each other into the general mass, to check their exul-
tation. Occasionally, the fluttering of the sails would be
heard ; and, when the looks of the startled seamen were
turned to the wheel, they beheld the stranger grasping its
spokes, with his quick eye glancing from the water to the
canvass. At length the ship reached a point, where she
appeared to be rushing directly into the jaws of destruc-
tion, when, suddenly, her course was changed, and her
head receded rapidly from the wind. At the same instant,
the voice of the pilot was heard, shouting
" Square away the yards !- in mainsail !"
A general burst from the crew echoed, " Square away
the yards !" and, quick as thought, the frigate was seen
gliding along the channel, before the wind. The eye had
hardly time to dwell on the foam, which seemed like clouds
driving in the heavens, and directly the gallant vessel is-
sued from her perils, and rose and fell on the heavy waves
of the open sea.
COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 393
Lafayette's first Visit to America. TICKNOR
WHEN only between sixteen and seventeen, Lafayette
was married to the daughter of the Duke d'Ayen, son of
the Duke de Noailles, and grandson to the great and good
Chancellor d'Aguesseau ; and thus his condition in life
seemed to be assured to him among the most splendid and
powerful in the empire. His fortune, which had been
accumulating during a long minority, was vast ; his rank
was with the first in Europe ; his connexions brought him
the support of the chief persons in France ; and his indi-
vidual character the warm, open and sincere manners,
which have distinguished him ever since, and given him
such singular control over the minds of men made him
powerful in the confidence of society wherever he went.
It seemed, indeed, as if life had nothing further to offer
him, than he could surely obtain by walking in the path
that was so bright before him.
It was at this period, however, that his thoughts and feel-
ings were first turned towards these thirteen colonies, then
in the darkest and most doubtful passage of their struggle
for independence. He made himself acquainted with our
agents at Paris, and learned from them the state of our af-
fairs. Nothing could be less tempting to him, whether he
sought military reputation, or military instruction ; for our
army, at that moment retreating through New Jersey, and
leaving its traces of blood from the naked and torn feet of
the soldiery, as it hastened onward, was in a state too hum-
ble to offer either. Our credit, too, in Europe was entire-
ly gone, so that the commissioners, (as they were called,
without having any commission,) to whom Lafayette still
persisted in offering his services, were obliged, at last, to
acknowledge, that they could not even give him decent
means for his conveyance. " Then," said he, " I shall
purchase and fit out a vessel for myself." He did so. The
vessel was prepared at Bordeaux, and sent round to one
of the nearest ports in Spain, that it might be beyond the
reach of the French government. In order more effectu-
ally to conceal his purposes, he made, just before his em-
barkation, a visit of a few weeks in England, (the only
394 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
time he was ever there,) and was much sought in English
society. On. his return to France, he did not stop at all
In the capital, even to see his own family, but hastened,
with all speed and secrecy, to make good his escape from
the country. It was not until he was thus on his way
to embark, that his romantic undertaking began to be
known.
The effect produced in the capital and at court by its
publication was greater than we should now, perhaps, im-
agine. Lord Stormont, the English ambassador, required
the French ministry to despatch an order for his arrest, not
only to Bordeaux, but to the French commanders on the
West India station ; a requisition with which the ministry
readily complied, for they were at that time anxious to pre-
serve a good understanding with England, and were seri-
ously angry with a young man who had thus put in jeop-
ardy the relations of the two countries. In fact, at Pas-
sage, on the very borders of France and Spain, a lettre de
cachet overtook him, and he was arrested end-carried back
to Bordeaux. There, of course, his enterprise was near
being finally stopped ; but, watching his opportunity, ami
assisted by one or two friends, he disguised himself as a
courier, with his face blacked and false hair, and rode on,
ordering post horses for a carriage, which he had caused
to follow him at a suitable distance, for this very purpose,
and thus fairly passed the frontiers of the two kingdoms,
only three or four hours before his pursuers reached them.
He soon arrived at the port where his vessel was waiting
for him. His family, however, still followed him \\iili so-
licitations to return, which he never received ; and the so-
ciety of the court and capital, according to Madame du
Deffand's account of it, was in no common state of excite-
ment on the occasion. Something of the same sort hap-
pened in London. " We talk chiefly," says Gibbon, in a
letter dated April 12th, 1777, " of the Marquis de Lafa-
yette, who was here a few weeks ago. He is about twenty,
with a hundred and thirty thousand livres a year ; the
nephew of Noailles, who is ambassador here. He has
bought the Duke of Kingston's yacht, [a mistake,] and ia
gone to join the Americans. The court appear to be angry
with him."
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 395
Immediately on arriving the second time at Passage, the
wind being fair, he embarked. The usual course, for
French vessels attempting to trade with our colonies at that
period, was, to sail for the West Indies, and then, coming
up along our coast, enter where they could. But this
course would have exposed Lafayette to the naval com-
manders of his own nation, and he had almost as much roa-
son to dread them as to dread British cruisers. When,
therefore, they were outside of the Canary Islands, La-
fayette required his captain to lay their course directly for
the United States. The captain refused, alleging that, if
they should be taken by a British force, and carried into
Halifax, the French government would never reclaim
them, and they could hope for nothing but a slow death in
a dungeon or a prison-ship. This was true, but Lafa-
yette knew it before he made the requisition. He there-
fore insisted, until the captain refused in the most positive
manner. Lafayette then told him that the ship was his
own private property, that he had made his own arrange-
ments concerning it, and that if he, the captain, would
not sail directly for the United States, he should be put in
irons, and his command given to the next officer. The
captain, of course, submitted, and Lafayette gave him a
bond for forty thousand francs, in case of any accident.
They therefore now made sail directly for the southern por-
tion of the United States, and arrived unmolested at Charles-
ton, South Carolina, on the 25th of April, 1777.
The sensation produced by his appearance in this coun-
try was, of course, much greater than that produced in
Europe by his departure. It still stands forth as one of the
most prominent and important circumstances in our revo-
lutionary contest; and, as has often been said by one who
bore no small part in its trials and success, none but those,
who were then alive, can believe what an impulse it gave
to the hopes of a population almost disheartened by a long
series of disasters. And well it might ; for it taught us,
that, in the first rank of the first nobility in Europe, men
could still be found, who not only took an interest in our
struggle, but were willing to share our sufferings ; that
our obscure and almost desperate contest for freedom, in a
remote quarter of the world, could yet find supporters
396 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
among those, who were the most natural and powerful al-
lies of a splendid despotism ; that we were the objects of a
regard and interest throughout the world, which would add
to our own resources sufficient strength to carry us safely
through to final success.
Goffe the Regicide. DWIGHT.
IN the course of Philip's war, which involved almost all
the Indian tribes in New England, and among others those
in the neighbourhood of Hadley, the inhabitants thought
it proper to observe the first of September, 1675, as a day
of fasting and prayer. While they were in the church,
and employed in their worship, they were surprised by a
band of savages. The people instantly betook themselves
to their arms, which, according to the custom of the
times, they had carried with them to the church, and,
rushing out of the house, attacked their invaders. The
panic, under which they began the conflict, was, however,
so great, and their number was so disproportioned to that
of their enemies, that they fought doubtfully at first, and
in a short time began evidently to give way. At this mo-
ment an ancient man, with hoary locks, of a most venera-
ble and dignified aspect, and in a dress widely differing
from that of the inhabitants,, appeared suddenly at their
head, and with a firm voice and an example of undaunted
resolution, reanimated their spirits, led them again to (he
conflict, and totally routed the savages. When the battle
was ended, the stranger disappeared ; and no person knew
whence he had come, or whither he had gone. The relief
was so timely, so sudden, PO unexpected, and so providen-
tial ; the appearance and the retreat of him who furnished
it were so unaccountable ; his person was so dignified and
commanding, his resolution so superior, and his interference
so decisive, that the inhabitants, without any uncommon
exercise of credulity, readily believed him to be an angel,
sent by Heaven for their preservation. Nor was this
opinion seriously controverted, until it was discovered, sev-
eral years afterward, that Goffe and Whalley had been
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 397
lodged in the house of Mr. Russell. Then it was known
that their deliverer was Goffe ; Whalley having become
superannuated some time before the event took place.*
General Washington resigning the Command of the
Army. RAMSAY.
THE hour now approached, in which it became necessa-
ry for the American chief to take leave of his officers, who
had been endeared to him by a long series of common suf-
ferings and dangers. This was done in a solemn manner.
The officers having previously assembled for the purpose,
General Washington joined them, and, calling for a glass
of wine, thus addressed them : " With a heart full of
love and gratitude, I now take leave of you. I most de-
voutly wish that your latter days may be as prosperous and
happy as your former ones have been glorious-and honour-
able." Having drank, he added, " I cannot come to
each of you to take my leave, but shall be obliged to you
if each of you will come and take me by the hand."
General Knox, being next, turned to him. Incapable of
utterance, Washington grasped his hand, and embraced
him. The officers came up successively, and he took an
affectionate leave of each of them. Not a word was ar-
ticulated on either side. A majestic silence prevailed.
The tear of sensibility glistened in every eye. The ten-
derness of the scene exceeded all description. When the
last of the officers had taken his leave, Washington left
the room, and passed through the corps of light infantry to
the place of embarkation. The officers followed in a sol-
emn, mute procession, with dejected countenances. On
his entering the barge to cross the North River, he turned
towards the companions of his glory, and, by waving his
hat, bid them a silent adieu. Some of them answered this
last signal of respect and affection with tears ; and all of
* The magic pencil of Sir Walter Scott has wrought up this roman-
tic incident into a most eloquent and beautiful description. It is con-
tained in Bridgenorth's relation of his adventures in America to Julian
Peveril, in one of the volumes of " Peveril of the Peak." ED.
34
398 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
them gazed upon the barge, which conveyed him from
their sight, till they could no longer distinguish in it the
person of their beloved commander-in-chief.
The army being disbanded, Washington proceeded to
Annapolis, then the scat of congress, to resign his commis-
sion. On his way thither, be, of his own accord, deliver-
ed to the comptroller of accounts in Philadelphia an account
of the expenditure of all the public money he had ever
received. This was in his own hand-wtiting, and every en-
try was made in a very particular manner. Vouchers were
produced for every Hem, except for secret intelligence and
service, which amounted to no more than 1,982 pounds
10 shillings sterling. The whole, which, in the course
of eight years of war, had passed through his hands,
amounted only to 14,479 pounds, 18 shillings 9 pence ster-
ling. Nothing was charged or retained for personal ser-
vices ; and actual disbursements 'had been managed with
such economy and fidelity, that they were all covered by
the above moderate sum.
After accounting for all his expenditures of public mon-
ey, (secret service money, for obvious reasons, excepted,)
with all the exactness which established forms required
from the inferior officers of his army, he hastened to resign
into the hands of the fathers of his country the powers
with which they had invested him. This was done in a
public audience. Congress received him as the founder
and guardian of the republic. : While he appeared before
them, they silently retraced the scenes of danger and dis-
tress, through which they had passed together. They re-
called to mind the blessings of freedom and peace pur-
chased by his arm. They gazed with wonder on their
fellow-citizen, who appeared more great and worthy of
esteem in resigning hU power, than he had done in glorious-
ly using it. Every heart was big with emotion. Tears
of admiration and gratitude burst from every eye. The
general sympathy was felt by the resigning hero, and wet
his cheek with a manly tear. After a decent pause, ho
addressed Thomas Mifflin, the president of congress, in tin-
following words :
" The great events on which my resignation depended
having at length taken place. I have now the honour of
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 399
offering my sincere congratulations to congress, and of pre-
senting myself before them, to surrender into their hands
the trust committed to me, and to claim the indulgence of
retiring from the service of my country.
" Happy in the confirmation of our independence and
sovereignty, and pleased with the opportunity afforded the
United States of becoming a respectable nation, I resign
with satisfaction the appointment I accepted with diffidence ;
a diffidence in my abilities to accomplish so arduous a task,
which, however, was superseded by a confidence in the
rectitude of our cause, the support of the supreme power
of the union, and the patronage of Heaven.
" The successful termination of the war has verified the
most sanguine expectations ; and my gratitude for the in-
terposition of Providence, and for the assistance I have re-
ceived from my countrymen, increases with every review
of the momentous contest.
" While I repeat my obligations to the army in general,
I should do injustice to my own feelings not to acknowledge
in this place the peculiar services and distinguished merits
of, the persons, who have been attached to my person dur-
ing the war. It was impossible that the choice of confi-
dential officers to compose my family should have been
more fortunate. Permit me, sir, to recommend, in partic-
ular, those who have continued in the service to the pres-
ent moment, as worthy of the favourable notice and pat-
ronage of congress.
" I consider it as an indispensable duty to close this last
solemn act of my official life, by commending the interests
of our dearest country to the protection of Almighty God,
and those who have the superintendence of them to his
holy keeping.
" Having now finished the work assigned me, I retire
from the great theatre of action ; and, bidding an affection-
ate farewell to this august body, under whose orders I have
long acted, I here offer my commission, and take my leave
of all the employments of public life."
This address being ended, General Washington advanced
and delivered his commission into the hands of the president
of congress, who replied as follows :
400 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
" The United States, in congress assembled, receive,
with emotions too affecting for utterance, the solemn resig-
nation of the authorities under which you have led their
troops with success through a perilous and doubtful war.
" Called upon by your country to defend its invaded
rights, you accepted the sacred charge before it had formed
alliances, and whilst it was without friends or a govern-
ment to support you.
" You have conducted the great military contest with
wisdom and fortitude, invariably regarding the rights of
the civil power through all disasters and changes. You
have, by the love and confidence of your fellow-citizens,
enabled them to display their martial genius, and transmit
their fame to posterity : you have persevered, till these
United States, aided by a magnanimous king and nation,
have been enabled, under a just Providence, to close the
war in safety, freedom and independence ; on which
happy event we sincerely join you in congratulations.
" Having defended the standard of liberty in this new
world, having taught a lesson useful to those who inflict,
and to those who feel oppression, you retire from the great
theatre of action with the blessings of your fellow-citizens ;
but the glory of your virtues will not terminate with your
military command ; it will continue to animate remotest
ages. We feel with you our obligations to the army in
general, and will particularly charge ourselves with the
interest of those confidential officers, who have attended
your person to this affecting moment.
" We join you in commending the interests of our dear-
est country to the protection of Almighty God, beseeching
him to dispose the hearts and minds of its citizens to im-
prove the opportunity afforded them of becoming a happy
and respectable nation ; and for you we address to him our
earnest prayers, that a life so beloved may be fostered with
all his care ; that your days may be happy as they have
been illustrious, and that he will finally give you that re-
ward, which this world cannot give."
The military services of General Washington, which
ended with this interesting day, were as great as ever were
rendered by any man to any nation. They were at the
fame time disinterested. How dear would not a mercenat
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 401
ry man have sold such toils, such dangers, and, above all,
such successes ! What schemes of grandeur and of power
would not an ambitious man have built upon the affections
of the people and of the army ! The gratitude of Amer-
ica was so lively, that any thing asked by her resigning
chief would have been readily granted. He asked noth-
ing for himself, his family or relations ; but indirectly so-
licited favours for the confidential officers, who were at-
tached to his person. These were young gentlemen, with-
out fortune, who had served him in the capacity of aids-
de-camp. To have omitted the opportunity which then
offered of recommending them to their country's notice,
would have argued a degree of insensibility in the breast
of their friend. The only privilege distinguishing him
from other private citizens, which the retiring Washington
did or would receive from his grateful country, was a
right of sending and receiving letters free of postage.
The American chief, having by his own voluntary act
become one of the people, hastened, with ineffable delight,
to his seat at Mount Vernon, on the banks of the Potomac.
There, in a short time, the most successful general in the
world became the most diligent farmer in Virginia.
To pass suddenly from the toils of the first commission
in the United States to the care of a farm, to exchange
the instruments of war for the implements of husbandry,
and to become at once the patron and example of ingenious
agriculture, would, to most men, have been a difficult task.
To the elevated mind of Washington it was natural and
delightful.
His own sensations, after retiring from public business,
are thus expressed in his letters : " I am just beginning
to experience the ease and freedom from public cares,
which, however desirable, it takes some time to realize ; for,
strange as it may seem, it is nevertheless true, that it was
not until lately I could get the better of my usual custom
of ruminating, as soon as I awoke in the morning, on the
business of the ensuing day ; and of my surprise on find-
ing, after revolving many things in my mind, that I was
no longer a public man, or had any thing to do with public
transactions. I feel as I conceive a wearied traveller must
34"
402 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
do, who, after treading many a painful step with a heavy
burden on his shoulders, is eased of the latter, having
reached the haven to which all the former were directed,
and, from his housetop, is looking back, and tracing with
an eager eye the meanders by which he escaped the quick-
sands and mires, which lay in his way, and into which
none but the all-powerful Guide and Dispenser of human
events could have prevented his falling."
" I have become a private citizen on the banks of the
Potomac ; and, under the shadow of my own vine and my
own fig-tree, free from the bustle of a camp, and the busy
scenes of public life, I am solacing myself with those tran-
quil enjoyments, of which the soldier, who is ever in pur-
suit of fame, the statesman, whose watchful days and
sleepless nights are spent in devising schemes to promote
the welfare of his own, perhaps the ruin of other countries,
as if this globe was insufficient for us all, and the cour-
tier, who is always watching the countenance of his prince,
in the hope of catching a gracious smile, can have very
little conception. I have not only retired from all public
employments, but am retiring within myself, and shall be
able to view the solitary walk, and tread the paths of pri-
vate life, with heartfelt satisfaction. Envious of none, I
am determined to be pleased with all ; and this, my dear
friend, being the order of my march, I will move gently
down the stream of life, until I sleep with my fathers."
Mr. MARSHALL thus finishes this beautiful picture. ED.
For several months after reaching Mount Vernon, al-
most every day brought him the addresses of an affection-
ate and grateful people. . The glow of expression, in which
the high sense universally entertained of his services was
conveyed, manifested a warmth of feeling seldom equal-
led in the history of man. It is worthy of remark, that this
unexampled tribute of applause made no impression on the
unassuming modesty of his character and deportment. The
same firmness of mind, the same steady and well-tempered
judgment, which had guided him through the most peril-
ous seasons of the war, still regulated his conduct ; and
the enthusiastic applauses of an admiring nation appeared
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 403
only to cherish sentiments of gratitude, and to give great-
er activity to the desire still further to contribute to the
prosperity of his country.
Alexander Wilson. NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW.
HE was a Scotchman by birth. The first years of his res-
idence in this country were devoted to school-keeping in
Pennsylvania. An early acquaintance with the venerable
Bar tram kindled within him a love of science ; and after
he commenced his ornithological inquiries, he pursued them
for the remaining short period of his life with an enthusi-
asm, perseverance, and self-devotion, which have rarely
been equalled. He died in Philadelphia, August 23d,
1813, at the age of forty-seven. His American Ornithol-
ogy, executed under every possible disadvantage, and with
encouragement so slender, as hardly to keep him from the
heavy pressure of want, is a monument to his name that
will never decay. The old world and the new will regard
it with equal admiration. " We may add without hesita-
tion," says Mr. Bonaparte, " that such a work as he has
published in a new country, is still a desideratum in Eu-
rope." To accomplish such a work, with all the facilities
which the arts and knowledge of Europe afford, would con-
fer no common distinction. But when it is considered that
Wilson taught himself, almost unassisted, the arts of draw-
ing and engraving ; that he made his way in the science
with very little aid from books or teachers ; that he entered
a path in which he could find no companions, none to
stimulate his ardour by a similarity of pursuits or commu-
nion of feeling, none to remove his doubts, guide his in-
quiries, or to be deeply interested in his success; when these
things are considered, the labours of Wilson must claim a
praise, which is due to a few only of the solitary efforts of
talent and enterprise.
In the strictest sense of the terms, Wilson was a man
of genius ; his perceptions were quick, his impressions
vivid ; a bright glow of feeling breathes through his com-
positions. In the professed walks of poetry, his attempts
404 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF THOSE.
were not often fortunate ; but his prose writings partake
of the genuine poetic spirit. A lively fancy, exuberance
of thought, and minute observation of the natural world,
are strongly indicated in whatever has flowed from his pen.
He travelled for the double purpose of procuring subscrip-
tions to his book, and searching the forest for birds ; and
some of his graphic descriptions of the scenery of nature,
and the habits of the winged tribes, are inimitable. Some-
times he walked ; at others descended rivers in a canoe ;
again he was on horseback, in a stage-coach or a farmer's
wagon, as the great ends of his wanderings could be most
easily attained. The cold repulses of the many from
whom he solicited subscriptions he bore with equanimity ;
undaunted by disappointment, unsubdued by toil and pri-
vation. The acquisition of a new bird, or of new facts
illustrating the habitudes of those already known, was a
fountain of joy in his gloomiest moments ; it poured the wa-
ters of oblivion over the past, and gave him new energy
in his onward course. The following are his descriptions
of the mocking bird and bald eagle
" This distinguished bird, [the eagle,] as he is the most
beautiful of his tribe in this part of the world, and the
adopted emblem of our country, is entitled to particular no-
tice. He has been long known to naturalists, being com-
mon to both continents, and occasionally met with from a
very high northern latitude to the borders of the torrid
zone, but chiefly in the vicinity of the sea, and along the
shores and cliffs of our lakes and large rivers. Formed by
nature for braving the severest cold ; feeding equally upon
the produce of the sea and of the land ; possessing powers
of flight capable of outstripping even the tempests them-
selves ; unawed by any thing but man ; and, from the
ethereal heights to which he soars, looking abroad at one
glance on an immeasurable expanse of forests, fields, lakes
and ocean, deep below him ; he appears indifferent to the
little localities of change of seasons, as in a few minutes
he can pass from summer to winter, from the lower to the
higher regions of the atmosphere, the abode of eternal cold,
and thence descend at will to the torrid or the arctic re-
gions of the earth. He is therefore found at all seasons
in the countries which he inhabits, but prefers such places
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 405
as have been mentioned above, from the great partiality
he has for fish.
" In procuring these he displays, in a very singular man-
ner, the genius and energy of his character, which is
fierce, contemplative, daring and tyrannical; attributes
not exerted but on particular occasions, but, when put
forth, overwhelming all opposition. Elevated upon a high,
dead limb of some gigantic tree, that commands a wide
view of the neighbouring shore and ocean, he seems calmly
to contemplate the motions of the various feathered tribes
that pursue their busy avocations below, the snow-white
gulls, slowly winnowing the air, the busy tringse, cours-
ing along the sands, trains of ducks, streaming over the
surface, silent, and watchful cranes, intent and wading,
clamorous crows, and all the winged multitudes that sub-
sist by the bounty of this vast liquid magazine of nature.
High over all these hovers one, whose action instantly
arrests his attention. By his wide curvature of wing, and
sudden suspension in air, he knows him to be the fish-
hawk settling over some devoted victim of the deep. His
eye kindles at the sight, and, balancing himself with half-
opened wings on the branch, he watches the result. Down,
rapid as an arrow from heaven, descends the distant object
of his attention, the roar of its wings reaching the ear as
it disappears in the deep, making the surges foam around.
At this moment the looks of the eagle are all ardour; and,
levelling his neck for flight, he sees the fish-hawk emerge,
struggling with his prey, and mounting into the air with
screams of exultation. These are the signal for our hero,
who, launching into the air, instantly gives chase, soon
gains on the fish-hawk, each exerts his utmost to mount
above the other, displaying in these rencounters the most
elegaut and sublime, aerial evolutions. The unincum-
bered eagle rapidly advances, and is just on the point of
reaching his opponent, when, with a sudden scream, prob-
ably of despair and honest execration, the latter drops his
fish ; the eagle, poising himself for a moment, as if to take
a more certain aim, descends like a whirlwind, snatches it
in his grasp ere it reaches the water, and bears his ill-
gotten booty silently away to the woods."
406 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
" The plumage of the mocking-bird, though none of the
homeliest, has nothing gaudy or brilliant in it ; and, had
he nothing else to recommend him, would scarcely entitle
him to notice ; but his figure is well proportioned, and even
handsome. The ease, elegance and rapidity of his move-
ments, the animation of his eye, and the intelligence he
displays in listening, and laying up lessons from almost
every species of the feathered creation within his iiearing,
are really surprising, and mark the peculiarity of his genius.
To these qualities we may add that of a voice full, strong
and musical, and capable of almost every modulation, from
the clear, mellow tones of the wood-thrush, to the savage
screams of the bald eagle. In measure and accent, he
faithfully follows his originals. In force and sweetness of
expression, he greatly improves upon them. In his native
groves, mounted upon the top of a tall bush, or half-grown
tree, in the dawn of dewy morning, while the woods are
already vocal with a multitude of warblers, his admirable
song rises pre-eminent over every competitor. The car
can listen to his music alone, to which that of all the others
seems a mere accompaniment. Neither is this strain alto-
gether imitative. His own native notes, which are easily
distinguishable by such as are acquainted with those of our
various song birds, are bold and full, and varied seemingly
beyond all limits. They consist of short expressions of two,
three, or, at the most, five or six syllables, generally in-
terspersed with imitations, and all .of them uttered with
great emphasis and rapidity, and continued with undiniin-
ished ardour for half an hour or an hour at a time ; his
expanded wings and tail, glistening with white, and the
buoyant gayety of his action, arresting the eye as his song
most irresistibly does the ear. He sweeps round with
enthusiastic ecstasy. He mounts and descends as his song
swells or dies away ; and, as my friend Mr. Bartram has
beautifully expressed it, ' he bounds aloft with the celerity
of an arrow, as if to recover or recall his very soul, which
expired in the last elevated strain.' While thus exerting
himself, a bystander, destitute of sight, would suppose that
the whole feathered tribes had assembled together on a
trial of skill, each striving to produce his utmost effect ;
so perfect are his imitations. He many times deceives the
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 407
sportsman, and sends him in search of birds that perhaps
are not within miles of him, but whose notes he exactly
imitates. Even birds themselves are frequently imposed
on by this admirable mimic, and are decoyed by the fan-
cied calls of their mates ; or dive with precipitation into the
depths of thickets, at the scream of what they suppose to
be the sparrow-hawk."
Female Education and Learning. STORY.
IF Christianity may be said to have given a permanent
elevation to woman, as an intellectual and moral being, it
is as true that the present age, above all others, has given
play to her genius, and taught us to reverence its influ-
ence. It was the fashion of other times to treat the liter-
ary acquirements of the sex as starched pedantry, or vain
pretension ; to stigmatize them as inconsistent with those
domestic affections and virtues, which constitute the charm
of society. We had abundant homilies read upon their
amiable weaknesses and sentimental delicacy, upon their
timid gentleness and submissive dependence ; as if to taste
the fruit of knowledge were a deadly sin, and ignorance
were the sole guardian of innocence. Their whole lives
were " sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," and
concealment of intellectual power was often resorted to,
to escape the dangerous imputation of masculine strength.
In the higher walks of life, the satirist was not without
colour for the suggestion, that it was
" A youth of folly, an old age of cards ;"
and that, elsewhere, " most women had no character at all,"
beyond that of purity and devotion to their families. Ad-
mirable as are these qualities, it seemed an abuse of the
gifts of Providence to deny to mothers the power of in-
structing their children, to wives the privilege of sharing
the intellectual pursuits of their husbands, to sisters and
daughters the delight of ministering knowledge in the
fireside circle, to youth and beauty the charm of refined
sense, to age and infirmity the consolation of studies, which
408 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF FHOSE,
elevate the soul, and gladden the listless hours of despon-
dency.
These things have, in a great measure, passed away.
The prejudices, which dishonoured the sex, have yielded
to the influence of truth. By slow but sure advances,
education has extended itself through all ranks of female
society. There is no longer any dr'ead, lest the culture
of science should foster that masculine boldness or restless
independence, which alarms by its sallies, or wounds by its
inconsistencies. We have seen that here, as every where
else, knowledge is favourable to human virtue and human
happiness ; that the refinement of literature adds lustre to
the devotion of piety ; that true learning, like true taste,
is modest and unostentatious ; that grace of manners re-
ceives a higher polish from the discipline of the schools ;
that cultivated genius sheds a cheering light over domestic
duties, and its very sparkles, like those of the diamond,
attest at once its power and its purity. There is not a rank
of female society, however high, which does not now pay
homage to literature, or that would not blush even at the
suspicion of that ignorance, which, a half century ago,
was neither uncommon nor discreditable. There is not a
parent, whose pride may not glow at the thought, that his
daughter's happiness is in a great measure within her own
command, whether she keeps the cool .sequestered vale of
life, or visits the busy walks of fashion.
A new path is thus opened for female exertion, to alle-
viate the pressure of misfortune, without any supposed
sacrifice of dignity or modesty. Man no longer aspires to
an exclusive dominion in authorship. He has rivals or al-
lies in almost every department of knowledge ; and they
are to be found among those, whose elegance of manners
and blamelessness of life command his respect, as much as
their talents excite his admiration. Who is there that does
not contemplate with enthusiasm the precious fragments of
Elizabeth Smith, the venerable learning of Elizabeth Car-
ter, the elevated piety of Hannah More, the persuasive
sense of Mrs. Barbauld, the elegant memoirs of her ac-
complished niece, the bewitching fiction of Madame D'Ar-
blay, the vivid, picturesque and terrific imagery of Mrs.
RadclifFe, the glowing poetry of Mrs. Hemans, the match-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 409
less wit, the inexhaustible conversations, the fine charac-
ter painting, the practical instructions of Miss Edgeworth,
the great Known, standing in her own department by the
side of the great Unknown !
Poetical Character of Gray. BUCKMINSTER.
IT has been the fortune of Gray, as well as of other po-
ets of the first order, to suffer by the ignorance and the
envy of contemporaries, and at last to obtain from posteri-
ty, amid the clamours of discordant criticism, only a divided
suffrage. The coldness of his first reception by the public
has, however, been more than compensated by the warmth
of his real admirers ; for he is one of those few poets, who
at every new reading recompenses you double for every
encomium, by disclosing some new charm of sentiment or
of diction. The many, who have ignorantly or reluctantly
praised, may learn, as they study him, that they have noth-
ing to retract ; and those, who have delighted to depreciate
his excellence, will understand, if they ever learn to ad-
mire him, that their former insensibility was pardonable,
though they may be tempted to wish, that it had never
been known. Gray was not destitute of those anticipations
of future fame, which God has sometimes granted to
neglected genius, as he gives the testimony of conscience
to suffering virtue. His letters to Mason and Kurd show
how pleasantly he could talk of those, who could neither
admire nor understand his odes. He knew, that it was
not of much consequence to be neglected by that public,
which suffered Thomson's Winter to remain for years un-
noticed, and which had to be told by Addison, at the expi-
ration of half a century, of the merit of the Paradise Lost.
Still less could his fame be endangered by Colman's ex-
quisitely humorous parody of his odes, especially since it
is now known, that Colman has confessed to Warton, that
he repented of the attempt ; and, at the present day, I
know not whether it would add any thing to the final rep-
utation of a lyric poet, to have been praised by that great
man, who could pronounce Dryden's ode on Mr?. Killigrew
35
410 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
the finest in our language, and who could find nothing in
Collins' but " clusters of consonants."
If Gray has any claim to the character of a poet, he
must hold an elevated rank or none. If he is not excellent,
he is supremely ridiculous ; if he has not the living spirit
of verse, he is only besotted and bewildered with the fumes
of a vulgar and stupifying draught, which he found in
some stagnant pool at the foot of Parnassus, and which he
mistook for the Castalian spring. But if Pindar and Hor-
ace were poets, so too was Gray. The finest notes of their
lyre were elicited by the breath of inspiration breathing
on the strings ; and he, who cannot enter into the spirit
which animates the first Pythian of Pindar, or the " Quern
virum aut heroa" of Horace, must be content to.be shown
beauties in Gray, which it is not yet granted him to feel,
or spontaneously to discern. I am willing to rest the merit
of Gray on Horace's definition of a poet,
" Ingeniutn cui sit, cui mens divinior, atque os,
Magna sonaturum, sed noiniuis hiijus bonorem."
We shall be more ready to admit, that the sole perfec-
tion of poetry consists not merely in faithful description,
fine sense, or pointed sentiment in polished verse, if we
attend to some curious remarks of Burke, in the last part
of his Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful. He has there
sufficiently shown that many fine passages, which produce
the most powerful effect on a sensible mind, present no
ideas to the fancy, which can be strictly marked or im-
bodied. The most thrilling touches of sublimity and beau-
ty are consistent with great indistinctness of images and
conceptions. Indeed, it is hardly to be believed, before
making the experiment, that we should be so much affect-
ed as we are, by passages which convey no definite picture
to the mind. To those who are insensible to Gray's curi-
ous junction of phrases and hardy personifications, we rec-
ommend the study of this chapter of Burke. There they
will see, that the effect of poetical expression depends more
upon particular and indefinable association?, than upon the
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 411
precise images which the words convey. Thus, of Gray's
poetry, the effect, like that of Milton's finest passages in
the Allegro and Penseroso, is to raise a glow, which it is
not easy to describe ; but the beauty of a passage, when
we attempt to analyze it, seems to consist in a certain ex-
quisite felicity of terms, fraught with pictures which it is
impossible to transfer with perfect exactness to the canvass.
If the perfection of poetry consists in imparting every
impression to the mind in the most exquisite degree, and
the ode has, by the consent of critics in all ages, been in-
dulged in irregularities which are not pardonable in other
kinds of verse, because it is supposed to follow the rapid
and unrestrained passage of images through the mind, it is
surely enough to satisfy even Aristotle himself, that in
Gray's odes the subject is never entirely deserted, and that
a continued succession of sublime or beautiful impressions
is conveyed to the mind, in language the most grateful to
the ear which our English tongue can furnish. For my
own part, I take as much delight in contemplating the rich
hues that succeed one another ^without order in a deep cloud
in the west, which has no prescribed shape, as in view-
ing the seven colours of the rainbow disposed in a form
exactly semicircular. The truth is, that, after having read
any peem once, we recur to it afterwards not as a whole,
but for the beauty of particular passages.
It would be easy to reply in order to the invidious and
contemptible criticisms of Johnson on particular passages
in these odes, and to show their captious futility. This,
however, has been frequently and successfully attempted.
Those faults, which must at last be admitted in Gray's
poetry, detract little from his merit. That only two
flat lines should be found in a whole volume of poems, is
an honour which even Virgil might be permitted to envy.
He who can endure to dwell upon these petty blemishes
in the full stream of Gray's enthusiasm, must be as insen-
sible to the pomp and grandeur of poetic phrase, as that
traveller would be to the sentiment of the sublime in na-
ture, who could sit coolly by the cataract of Niagara, spec-
412 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
ulating upon the chips and straws that were carried over
the fall.
That his digressions are sometimes abrupt, is a character
which he shares with his Grecian master ; and that an
obscurity sometimes broods over his sublimest images, is not
to be denied. But violence of transition, if it is a fault in
this kind of poetry, must be excused by those laws of lyrical
composition, which we have hitherto been content to re-
ceive, like the laws of the drama and the epic, implicitly
from the ancients ; and the obscurity of Gray is never in-
vincible. It is not the fog of dulness ; but, like the dark-
ness which the eye at first perceives in excessive bright-
ness, it vanishes the longer it is contemplated, and when
the eye is accommodated to the flood of light.
The distinguishing excellence of Gray's poetry is, I
think, to be found in the astonishing force and beauty of
his epithets. In other poets, if you are endeavouring to
recollect a passage, and find that a single word still eludes
you, it is not impossible to supply it occcasionally with
something equivalent or superior. But let any man at-
tempt this in Gray's poetry, and he will find that he does
not even approach the beauty of the original. Like the
single window in Aladdin's palace, which the grand vizier
undertook to finish with diamonds equal to the rest, but
found, after a long trial, that he was not rich enough to
furnish the jewels, nor ingenious enough to dispose them,
so there are lines in Gray, which critics and poets might
labour forever to supply, and without success. This won-
derful richness of expression has perhaps injured his fame.
For sometimes a single word, by giving rise to a suc-
cession of images, which preoccupy the mind, obscures
the lustre of the succeeding epithets. The mind is fa-
tigued and retarded by the crowd of beauties, soliciting
the attention at the same moment to different graces of
thought and expression. Overpowered by the blaze of
embellishment, we cry out with Horace, " Parce, Liber !
parce ! gravi metuende thyrso." Hence Gray, more than
any other lyric poet, will endure to be read in detached
portions, and again and again.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 413
Another characteristic of Gray, which, while it detract!
something from his originality, increases the charm of his
verse, is the classical raciness of his diction. Milton is the
only English poet who rivals him in the remote learning
of his allusions, and this has greatly restrained the number
of their admirers. * * * * The meaning of the word
rage, in this line of the Elegy, a poem which all profess
to relish and admire,
" Chill penury repressed their noble rage,"
cannot be understood without reverting to a common use
of the word op^y among the Creeks, to which Gray refers,
signifying a strong bent of genius. The Progress of Poesy
is peculiarly full of allusions to the Heathen Mythology
The sublime imitation of Pindar, in the description of the
bird of Jupiter, in the second stanza, is almost worth the
learning of Greek to understand.
The last perfection of verse, in which Gray is unrivalled,
is the power of his numbers. These have an irresistible
charm even with those, who understand not his meaning,
and without this musical enchantment, it is doubtful
whether he would have surmounted the ignorance and
insensibility, with which he was at first received. His
rhythm and cadences afford a perpetual pleasure, which,
in the full contemplation of his other charms, we some-
times forget to acknowledge. There is nothing, surely, in
the whole compass of English versification, to be compared
in musical structure with the third stanza of his ode on
the Progress of Poesy. The change of movement, in the
six last lines, is inexpressibly fine. The effect of these
varied cadences and measures is, to my ear at least,
full as great as that of an adagio iri music immediately
following a rondo ; and I admire in silent rapture the
genius of that man, who could so mould our untractable
language as to produce all the effect of the great masters
of musical composition. If the ancient lyrics contained
many specimens of numerous verse equal to this, we need
no longer wonder that they were always accompanied with
music. Poetry never approached nearer to painting, than
verse does in this stanza to the most ravishing melody.
35*
414 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
Republics of Greece and Italy. HAMILTON.
IT is impossible to read the history of the petty republics
of Greece and Italy, without feeling sensations of horror
and disgust at the distractions with which they were con-
tinually agitated, and at the rapid succession of revolutions,
by which they were kept perpetually vibrating between
the extremes of tyranny and anarchy. If they exhibit oc-
casional calms, these only serve as short-lived contrasts to
the furious storms that are to succeed. If now and then in-
tervals of felicity open themselves to view, we behold them
with a mixture of regret, arising from the reflection, that
the pleasing scenes before us are soon to be overwhelmed
by the tempestuous waves of sedition and party rage. If
momentary rays of glory break forth from the gloom, while
they dazzle as with a transient and fleeting brilliancy, they
;it the same time admonish us to lament that the vices of
government should pervert the direction and tarnish the
lustre of those bright talents and exalted endowments, for
which the favoured soils that produced them have been so
justly celebrated.
From the disorders that disfigure the annals of those
republics, the advocates of despotism have drawn argu-
ments, not only against the forms of republican government,
but against the very principles of civil liberty. They have
decried all free governments as inconsistent with the order
of society, and have indulged themselves in malicious ex-
ultation over its friends and partisans. Happily for man-
kind, stupendous fabrics, reared on the basis of liberty,
which have flourished for ages, have, in a few instances,
refuted their gloomy sophisms. And I trust America will
be the broad and solid foundation of other edifices not less
magnificent, which will be equally permanent monuments
of their error.
But it is not to be denied, that the portraits they have
sketched of republican government were but too just copies
of the originals from which they were taken. If it had
been found impracticable to have devised models of a more
perfect structure, the enlightened friends of liberty would
have been obliged to abandon the cause of that species of
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 415
government as indefensible. The science of politics, how-
ever, like most other sciences, has received great improve-
ment. The efficacy of various principles is now well un-
derstood, which were either not known at all, or imper-
fectly known to the ancients. The regular distribution of
power into distinct departments the introduction of legis-
lative balances and checks the institution of courts com-
posed of judges holding their offices during good behaviour
the representation of the people in the legislature, by
deputies of their own election these are either wholly
new discoveries, or have made their principal progress
towards perfection in modern times. They are means, and
powerful means, by which the excellences of republican
government may be retained, and its imperfections lessened
or avoided.
Professional Character of William Pinkney.
HENRY WHEATON.
IN tracing the principal outlines of his public character,
his professional talents and attainments must necessarily
occupy the most prominent place. To extraordinary nat-
ural endowments, Mr. Pinkney added deep and various
knowledge in his profession. A long course of study and
practice had familiarized his mind with the science of ju-
risprudence. His intellectual powers were most conspicuous
in the investigations connected with that science. He had
felt himself originally attracted to it by invincible inclina-
tion ; it was his principal pursuit in life ; and he never en-
tirely lost sight of it in his occasional deviations Into other
pursuits and employments. The lures of political ambition
and the blandishments of polished society, or perhaps a
vague desire of universal accomplishment and general
applause, might sometimes tempt him to stray, for a sea-
son, from the path which the original bent of his genius
had assigned him. But he always returned with fresh
ardour and new delight to his appropriate vocation. He
was devoted to the law with a true enthusiasm ; and his
other studies and pursuits, so far as they had a serious ob-
416 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
ject, were valued chiefly as they might minister to this
idol of liia affections.
It was in his profession that he found himself at home ;
in this consisted his pride and his pleasure ; for, as he said,
' ' the bar is not the place to acquire or preserve a false and
fraudulent reputation for talents." And on that theatre
he felt conscious of possessing those powers which would
command success.
This entire devotion to his professional pursuits was con-
tinued with unremitting perseverance to the end of his
career. If the celebrated J)enys Talon could say of the
still more celebrated D'Aguesseau, on hearing his first
speech at the bar, " that he would willingly END as that
young man COMMENCED," every youthful aspirant to
forensic fame among us might wish to begin his profession-
al exertions with the same love of labour, and the same ar-
dent desire of distinction, which marked the efforts of
William Pinkney throughout his life.
What might not be expected from professional emulation,
directed by such an ardent spirit and such singleness of
purpose, even if sustained by far inferior abilities ! But
no abilities, however splendid, can command success at the
bar, without intense labour and persevering application.
It was this which secured to Mr. Pinkney the most ex-
tensive and lucrative practice ever acquired by any Amer-
ican lawyer, and which raised him to such an enviable
height of professional eminence. For many years he was
the acknowledged leader of the bar in his native state ;
and, during the last ten years of his life, the principal pe-
riod of his attendance in the supreme court of the nation,
he enjoyed the reputation of having been rarely equalled,
and perhaps never excelled, in the power of reasoning upon
legal subjects. This was the faculty which most remark-
ably distinguished him. His mind was acute and subtile,
and, at the same time, comprehensive in its grasp, rapid
and clear in its conceptions, and singularly felicitous in
the exposition of the truths it was employed in investi-
gating.
Of the extent and solidity of his legal attainments it would
be difficult to speak in adequate terms, without the appear-
ance of exaggeration. He was profoundly versed in the
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 417
ancient learning of the common law ; its technical pecu-
liarities and feudal origin. Its subtile distinctions and arti-
ficial logic were familiar to his early studies, and enabled
him to expound, with admirable force and perspicuity, the
rules of real property. He was familiar with every branch
of commercial law ; and superadded, at a later period of
his life, to his other legal attainments, an extensive acquaint-
ance with the principles of international law, and the
practice of the prize courts. In his legal studies he pre-
ferred the original text-writers and reporters, (e fontibun
hauriri,) to all those abridgments, digests, and elementary
treatises, which lend so many convenient helps and facilities
to the modern lawyer, but which he considered as adapted
to form sciolists, and to encourage indolence and superficial
habits of investigation. His favourite law book was the
Coke Littleton, which he had read many times. Its prin-
cipal texts he had treasured up in his memory, and his
arguments at the bar abounded with perpetual recurrences
to the principles and analogies drawn from this rich mine
of common law learning.
External Appearance of England. A. H. EVERETT.
WHATEVER may be the extent of the distress in Eng-
land, or the difficulty of finding any remedies for it, which
shall be at once practicable and sufficient, it is certain that
the symptoms of decline have not yet displayed themselves
on the surface ; and no country in Europe, at the present
day, probably none that ever flourished at any preceding
period of ancient or of modern times, ever exhibited so
strongly the outward marks of general industry, wealth
and prosperity. The misery that exists, whatever it may
be, retires from public view ; and the traveller sees no
traces of it except in the beggars, which are not more nu-
merous than they are on the continent, in the courts of
justice, and in the newspapers. On the contrary, the im-
pressions he receives from the objects that meet his view
are almost uniformly agreeable. He is pleased with the
great attention paid to his personal accommodation as a
418 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
traveller, with the excellent roads, and the conveniences
of the public carriages and inns. The country every
where exhibits the appearance of high cultivation, or else
of wild and picturesque beauty ; and even the unimproved
lands are disposed with taste and skill, so as to embellish
the landscape very highly, if they do not contribute, as they
might, to the substantial comfort of the people. From
every eminence extensive parks and grounds, spreading far
and wide over hill and vale, interspersed with dark woods,
and variegated with bright waters, unroll themselves be-
fore the eye, like enchanted gardens. And while the
elegant constructions of the modern proprietors fill the
mind with images of ease and luxury, the mouldering ru-
ins that remain of former ages, of the castles and churches
of their feudal ancestors, increase the interest of the pic-
ture by contrast, and associate with it poetical and affecting
recollections of other times and manners. Every village
seems to be the chosen residence of Industry, and her hand-
maids, Neatness and Comfort ; and, in the various parts of
the island, her operations present themselves under the
most amusing and agreeable variety of forms. Some-
times her votaries are mounting to the skies in manufacto-
ries of innumerable stories in height, and sometimes diving
in mines into the bowels of the earth, or dragging up
drowned treasures from the bottom of the sea. At one
time the ornamented grounds of a wealthy proprietor seem
to realize the fabled Elysium ; and again, as you pass in
the evening through some village engaged in the iron
manufacture, where a thousand forges are feeding at once
their dark-red fires, and clouding the air with their volumes
of smoke, you might think yourself, for a moment, a little
too near some drearier residence.
The aspect of the cities is as various as that of the coun-
try. Oxford, in the silent, solemn grandeur of its numer-
ous collegiate palaces, with their massy stone walls, and
vast interior quadrangles, seems like the deserted capital
of some departed race of giants. This is the splendid sep-
ulchre, where Science, like the Roman Tarpeia, lies buried
under the weight of gold that rewarded her ancient ser-
vices, and where copious libations of the richest Port and
Madeira are daily poured out to her memory. At Liver-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 419
pool, on the contrary, all is bustle, brick and business. Every
thing breathes of modern times, every body is occupied
with the concerns of the present moment, excepting one
elegant scholar, who unites a singular resemblance to the
Roman face and dignified person of our Washington, with
the magnificent spirit and intellectual accomplishments of
his own Italian hero.
At every change in the landscape, you fall upon monu-
ments of some new race of men, among the number that
have in their turn inhabited these islands. The mysterious
monument of Stonehenge, standing remote and alone upon a
bare and boundless heath, as much unconnected with the
events of past ages as it is with the uses of the present, car-
ries you back, beyond all historical records, into the obscurity
of a wholly unknown period. Perhaps the Druids raised it ;
but by what machinery could these half barbarians have
wrought and moved such immense masses of rock ? By
what fatality is it, that, in every part of the globe, the most
durable impressions that have been made upon its surface
were the work of races now entirely extinct ? Who were
the builders of the pyramids, and the massy monuments
of Egypt and India ? Who constructed the Cyclopean
walls of Italy and Greece, or elevated the innumerable
and inexplicable mounds, which are seen in every part of
Europe, Asia, and America ; or the ancient forts upon the
Ohio, on whose ruins the third growth of trees is now more
than four hundred years old ?- All these constructions have
existed through the whole period within the memory of
man, and will continue, when all the architecture of the
present generation, with its high civilization and improved
machinery, shall have crumbled into dust. Stonehenge
will remain unchanged, when the banks of the Thames
shall be as bare as Salisbury heath. But the Romans had
something of the spirit of these primitive builders, and
they left every where distinct traces of their passage.
Half the castles in Great Britain were founded, according
to tradition, by Julius Czesar ; and abundant vestiges re-
main, throughout the island, of their walls, and forts, and
military roads. Most of their castles have, however, been
built upon and augmented at a later period, and belong,
With more propriety, to the brilliant period of Gothic archi-
420 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
lecture. Thus the keep of Warwick dates from the time
of Caesar, while the castle itself, with its lofty battlements,
extensive walls, and large enclosures, bears witness to the
age, when every Norman chief was a military despot wilh-
in his own barony. To this period appertains the principal
part of the magnificent Gothic monuments, castles, cathe-
drals, abbeys, priories and churches, in various stages of
preservation and of ruin ; some, like Warwick and Almvirl.
castles, like Salisbury cathedral and Westminster abbey, in
all their original perfection ; others, like Kenilworth arid
Canterbury, little more than a rude mass of earth and rub-
bish ; and others again in the intermediate stages of decay,
borrowing a sort of charm from their very ruin, and put-
ting on their dark-green robes of ivy to conceal the ravages
of time, as if the luxuriant bounty of nature were purposely
throwing a veil over the frailty and feebleness of art. What
a beautiful and brilliant vision was this Gothic architecture,
shining out as it did from the deepest darkness of feudal
barbarism ! And here again, by what fatality has it hap-
pened that the moderns, with all their civilization and im-
proved taste, have been as utterly unsuccessful in rivalling
the divine simplicity of the Greeks, as the rude grandeur
of the Cyclopeans and ancient Egyptians ? Since the revi-
val of art in Europe, the builders have confined themselves
wholly to a graceless and unsuccessful imitation of ancient
models. Strange, that the only new architectural concep
tion of any value, subsequent to the time of Phidias, should
have been struck out at the worst period of society that
has since occurred ! Sometimes the moderns, in their la-
borious poverty of invention, heap up small materials in
large masses, and think that St. Peter's or St. Paul's will
be as much more sublime than the Parthenon, as they are
larger ; at others, they condescend to a servile imitation of
the wild and native graces of the Gothic ; as the Chinese,
in their stupid ignorance of perspective, can still copy, line
by line, and point by point, an European picture. But the
Norman castles and churches, with all their richness and
sublimity, fell with the power of their owners at the rise
of the commonwealth. The Independents were levellers
of substance as well as form ; and the material traces they
left of their existence are the ruins of what their predeces-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 421
sors had built. They, too, had an architecture, but it was
not in wood nor stone. It was enough for them to lay the
foundation of the nobler fabric of civil liberty. The effects
of the only change in society that has since occurred, are
seen in the cultivated fields, the populous and thriving
cities, the busy ports, and the general prosperous appear-
ance of the country.
All the various aspects, that I have mentioned, present
themselves in turns ; and, having gradually succeeded to
each other, their contrasts are never too rude, and they
harmonize together so as to make up a most agreeable pic-
ture. Sometimes, as at Edinburgh, the creations of ancient
and of modern days, the old and new towns, have placed
themselves very amicably side by side, like Fitz James
and Rhoderic Dhu reposing on the same plaid ; while at
London, the general emporium and central point of the
whole system, every variety of origin and social existence
is defaced, and all are coagulated in one uniform though
heterogeneous mass.
Features of American Scenery. TUDOR.
THE numerous waterfalls, the enchanting beauty of
Lake George and its pellucid flood, of Lake Champlain and
the lesser lakes, afford many objects of the most picturesque
character ; while the inland seas, from Superior to Ontario,
and that astounding cataract, whose roar would hardly be
increased by the united murmurs of all the cascades of
Europe, are calculated to inspire vast and sublime concep-
tions. The effects, too, of our climate, composed of a Si-
berian winter and an Italian summer, furnish new and
peculiar objects for description. The circumstances of re
mote regions are here blended, and strikingly opposite ap-
pearances witnessed in the same spot at different seasons
of the year. In our winters, we have the sun at the same
altitude as in Italy, shining on an unlimited surface of snow,
which can only be found in the higher latitudes of Europe,
where the sun in the winter rises little above the horizon.
The dazzling brilliance of a winter's day and a moonlight
36
422 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
night, in an atmosphere astonishingly clear and frosty, when
the utmost splendour of the sky ie reflected from a surface
of spotless white, attended with the most excessive cold, is
peculiar to the northern part of the United States. What,
too, can surpass the celestial purity and transparency of the
atmosphere in a fine autumnal day, when our vision and
our thought seem carried to the third heaven ; the gor^t-mis
magnificence of the close, when the sun sinks from our
view, surrounded with various masses of clouds fringed
with gold and purple, and reflecting, in evanescent tints,
all the hues of the rainbow !
Literary Character of Jefferson and Adams.
WEBSTER.
THK last public labour of Mr. Jefferson naturally sug-
gests the expression of the high praise which is due, both
to him and to Mr. Adams, for their uniform and zealous
attachment to learning, and to the cause of general knowl-
edge. Of the advantages of learning, indeed, and of lit-
erary accomplishments, their own characters were striking
recommendations and illustrations. They were scholars,
ripe and good scholars ; widely acquainted with ancient as
well as modern literature, and not altogether uninstructed
in the deeper sciences. Their acquirements doubtless were
different, and so were the particular objects of their liter-
ary pursuits ; as their tastes and characters in these re-
spects differed like those of other men. Being also men
of busy lives, with great objects requiring action constant
ly before them, their attainments in letters did not become
showy or obtrusive. Yet I would hazard the opinion,
that, if we could now ascertain all the causes which gave
them eminence and distinction in the midst of the great
men with whom they acted, we should find not among tli
least their early acquisition in literature, the resources
which it furnished, the promptitude and facility which it
communicated, and the wide field it opened for analogy a in I
illustration ; giving them thus, on every subject, a larger
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 423
view and a broader range, as well for discussion as for the
government of their own conduct.
Literature sometimes, and pretensions to it much oftener,
disgusts, by appearing to hang loosely on the character, like
something foreign or extraneous ; not a part, but an ill-ad-
justed appendage ; or by seeming to overload and weigh
it down by its unsightly bulk, like the productions of bad
taste in architecture, when there is massy and cumbrous
ornament, without strength or solidity of column. This
has exposed learning, and especially classical learning, to
reproach. Men have seen that it might exist without
mental superiority, without vigour, without good taste, and
without utility. But, in such cases, classical learning has
only not inspired natural talent ; or, at most, it has but made
original feebleness of intellect and natural bluntness of
perception somewhat more conspicuous. The question, af-
ter all, if it be a question, is, whether literature, ancient
as well as modern, does not assist a good understanding,
improve natural good taste, add polished armour to native
strength, and render its possessor not only more capable
of deriving private happiness from contemplation and re-
flection, but more accomplished also for action in the affairs
of life, and especially for public action. Those, whose
memories we now honour, were learned men ; but their
learning was kept in its proper place, and made subservi-
ent to the uses and objects of life. They were scholars,
not common nor superficial ; but their scholarship was so
in keeping with their character, so blended and inwrought,
that careless observers or bad judges, not seeing an osten-
tatious display of it, might infer that it did not exist ; for-
getting, or not knowing, that classical learning, in men
who act in conspicuous public stations, perform duties which
exercise the faculty of writing, or address popular, judicial,
or deliberative bodies, is often felt where it is little seen,
and sometimes felt more effectually because it is not seen
at all.
424 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
Eloquence and Humour of Patrick Henry. WIRT.
HOOK was a Scotchman, a man of wealth, and suspected
of being unfriendly to the American cause. During the
distresses of the American army, consequent on the joint
invasion of Cornwallis and Phillips in 1781, a Mr. Vena-
ble, an army commissary, had taken two of Hook's steers
for the use of the troops. The act had not been strictly
legal ; and, on the establishment of peace, Hook, on the
advice of Mr. Cowan, a gentleman of some distinction in
the law, thought proper to bring an action of trespass
against Mr. Venable, in the district court of New London.
Mr. Henry appeared for the defendant, and is said to have
disported himself in this cause to the infinite enjoyment of
his hearers, the unfortunate Hook always excepted. After
Mr. Henry became animated in the cause, says a corre-
spondent, he appeared to have complete control over the
passions of his audience : at one time he excited their in-
dignation against Hook : vengeance was visible in every
countenance : again, when he chose to relax, and ridicule
him, the whole audience was in a roar of laughter. He
painted the distresses of the American army, exposed, al-
most naked, to the rigours of a winter's sky, and marking
the frozen ground over which they trod with the blood of
their unshod feet. Where was the man, he said, who had
an American heart in his bosom, who would not have thrown
open his fields, his barns, his cellars, the doors of his house,
the portals of his breast, to have received with open arms
the meanest soldier in that little band of famished patriots ?
Where is the man ? There he stands but whether the
heart of an American beats in his bosom, you, gentlemen,
are to judge. He then carried the jury by the powers of
his imagination to the plains around York, the surrender
of which had followed shortly after the act complained of:
he depicted the surrender in the most glowing and noble
colours of his eloquence the audience saw before their
eyes the humiliation and dejection of the British as they
marched out of their trenches they saw the triumph
which lighted up every patriot face, and heard the shouts
of victory, and the cry of Washington and liberty,' as it
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 425
rung and echoed through the American ranks, and
was reverberated from the hills and shores of the neigh-
bouring river "but, hark! what notes of discord are
these, which disturb the general joy, and silence the accla-
mation of victory they are the notes of John Hook,
hoarsely bawling through the American camp, ' Beef !
beef! beef!' " .
, The whole audience were convulsed : a particular inci-
dent will give a better idea of the effect than any general
description. The clerk of the court, unable to command
himself, and unwilling to commit any breach of decorum
in his place, rushed out of the court-house, and threw him-
self on the grass, in the most violent paroxysm of laughter,
where he was rolling, when Hook, with very different feel-
ings, came out for relief into the yard also. "Jemmy
Steptoe," said he to the clerk, "what the devil ails ye,
mon?" Mr. Steptoe was only able to say that he could
not help it. "Never mind ye," said Hook; "wait till
Billy Cowan gets up; he'll show him the la" !" Mr. Cow-
an, however, was so completely overwhelmed by the tor-
rent which bore upon his client, that, when he rose to re-
ply to Mr. Henry, he was scarcely able to make an intelli-
gible or audible remark. The cause was decided almost by
acclamation. The jury retired for form's sake, and instant-
ly returned with a verdict for the defendant. Nor did the
effect of Mr. Henry's speech stop here. The people were
so highly excited by the tory audacity of such a suit, that
Hook began to hear around him a cry more terrible than
that of beef; it was the cry of tar and feathers ; from the
application of which it is said, that nothing saved him but
a precipitate flight and the speed of his horse.
Valley of the Commanches. FRANCIS BERRIAN.
I AROSE early in the morning to make the circuit of this
lovely vale. At the extremity of the village, the torrent
whose sources were in the mountains, poured down, from
a prodigious elevation, a white and perpendicular cascade,
which seemed a sheet suspended in the air. It falls into
426 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
a circular basin, paved with blue limestone, of some rods
circuit. The dash near at hand has a startling effect upon
the ear. But at a little distance, it is just the murmur to
inspire repose, and it spreads a delicious coolness all around
the place. From the basin the stream seems to partake of
the repose of the valley ; for it broadens into a transparent
and quiet water, whose banks are fringed with pawpaws,
persimon, laurel, and catalpa shrubs and trees, interlaced
with vines, under which the green carpet is rendered gay
with flowers of every scent and hue. The soil is black,
tender, and exuberantly fertile. The coolness of the vale
and the shade, together with the irrigation of the stream,
cover the whole valley with a vivid verdure. The beauti-
ful red-bird, with its crimson-tufted crest, and the nightin-
gale sparrow, pouring from a body scarcely larger than an
acorn a continued stream of sound, a prolonged, plaintive
and sweetly-modulated harmony, that might be heard at the
distance of half a mile, had commenced their morning
voluntary. The mocking bird, the buffoon of songsters,
was parodying the songs of all the rest. Its short and jerking
notes at times imitated bursts of laughter. Sometimes, laying
aside its habitual levity, it shows that it knows the notes
of seriousness, and trills a sweetly-melancholy strain
Above the summits of these frowning mountains, that mor-
tal foot had never yet trodden, soared the mountain eagle,
drinking the sunbeam in the pride of his native indepen-
dence. Other birds of prey, apparently poised on their
wings, swam slowly round in easy curves, and seemed to
look with delight upon the green spot embosomed in the
mountains. They sallied back and forwards, as though they
could not tire of the view. The sun, which had burnished
all the tops of the mountains with gold, and here and there
glistened on banks of snow, would not shine into the val-
ley, until he had almost gained his meridian height. The
natives, licet as the deer when on expeditions abroad, and at
home lazy and yawning, were just issuing from their cabins,
and stretching their limbs supinely in the cool of the morn-
ing. The smoke of their cabin fires had begun to undulate
and whiten in horizontal pillars athwart the valley It
was a charming assemblage of strong contrasts, rocky and
inaccessible mountains, the deep and incessant roar of the
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 427
stream, a valley that seemed to sleep between these im-
pregnable ramparts of nature, a little region of landscape
surrounded by black and ragged cliffs, on every side dotted
thick with brilliant and beautiful vegetation, and fragrant
with hundreds of acacias, and catalpas in full flower, a spot
sequestered like a lonely isle in the midst of the ocean ;
in the midst of it a simple, busy, and undescribed people,
whose forefathers had been born and had died here for un-
counted generations; a people who could record wars,
loves, and all the changes of fortune, if they had had their
historian. Such was the valley of the Commanches.
There are places where I am at once at home with Na-
ture, and where she seems to take me to her bosom with
all the fondness of a mother. I forget at once that 1 am
a stranger in a strange land ; and this was one of those
places. I cannot describe the soothing sensations I felt. I
listened to the mingled sounds of a hundred birds, the bark-
ing of the dogs on the acclivities of the hills, the cheerful
sounds of the domestic animals, and the busy hum of the
savages. The morning was fresh and balmy. The sublime
nature above me, and the quiet and happy animated nature
on my own level, seemed to be occupied in morning orisons
to the Creator. I, too, felt the glad thrill of devotion come
over my mind. " These are thy works, Parent of good."
Here, thought I, in this delightful vale, with a few friends,
is the place where one would choose to dream away his
short day and night, forgetting and forgotten.
" Here would I live, unnoticed and unknown,
Here, unlamented, would I die ;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie."
Pleasures of the Man of a refined Imagination.
IDLE MAN.
WHEN such a one turns away from men, and is left alone
in silent communion with nature and his own thoughts,
and there are no bounds to the movements of the feelings,
and nothing on which he would shut his eyes, but God's
428 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
own hand has made all before him as it is, he feels his
spirit opening upon a new existence becoming as broad
as the sun and the air as various as the earth over which
it spreads itself, and touched with that love which God has
imaged in all he has formed. His senses take a quicker
lif e> his whole frame becomes one refined and exquisite
emction, and the etherealized body is made, as it were, a
spirit in bliss. His soul grows stronger and more active
within him as he sees life intense and working throughout
nature ; and that which passes away links itself with the
eternal, when he finds new life beginning even with decay,
and hastening to put forth in some other form of beauty,
and become a sharer in some new delight. His spirit
is ever awake with happy sensations, and cheerful, and in-
nocent, and easy thoughts. Soul and body are blending
into one the senses and thoughts mix in one delight he
sees a universe of order, and beauty, and joy, and life, of
which he becomes a part, and he finds himself carried
along in the eternal going on of nature. Sudden and short-
lived passions of men take no hold upon him, for he has
sat in holy thought by the roar and hurry of the stream,
which has rushed on from the beginning of things ; and
he is quiet in the tumult of the multitude, for he has watch-
ed the tracery of leaves playing over the foam.
The innocent face of nature gives him an open and
fair mind. Pain and death seem passing away, for all
about him is cheerful and in its spring. His virtues are
not taught him as lessons, but are shed upon him, and enter
into him, like the light and warmth of the sun. Amidst all
the variety of earth, he sees a fitness which frees him
from the formalities of rule, and lets him abroad to find a
pleasure in all things, and order becomes a simple feeling
of the soul.
Religion to such a one has thoughts, and visions, and
sensations, tinged as it were with a holier and brighter
light than falls on other men. The love and reverence of
the Creator make their abode in his imagination, and he
gathers about them the earth, and air, and ideal worlds
His heart is inade glad with the perfectuess in the works
of God, when he considers that even of the multitude of
things that are growing up and decaying, and of those
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PIIOSE. 429
which have come and gone, on which the eye of man has
never rested, each was as fair and complete as if made to
live forever for our instruction and delight.
Freedom, and order, and beauty, and grandeur, are in
accordance with his mind, and give largeness and height to
his thoughts, he moves amongst the bright clouds, he wan-
ders away into the measureless depth of the stars, and is
touched by the fire with which God has lighted them all
that is made partakes of the eternal, and religion becomes
a perpetual pleasure.
Scene 'at Niagara. Miss SEDGWICK.
THE vehement dashing of the rapids ; the sublime falls;
the various hues of the mass of waters ; the snowy white-
ness and the deep bright green ; the billowy spray that
veils in deep obscurity the depths below ; the verdant island
that interposes between the two falls half veiled in a misty
mantle, and placed there, it would seem, that the eye and
the spirit may repose on it ; the little island on the brink
of the American fall, that looks, amidst the commotion of
the waters, like the sylvan vessel of a woodland nymph gayly
sailing onward, or as if the wish of the Persian girl were
realized, and the " little isle had wings," a thing of life
and motion that the spirit of the waters had inspired.
The profound caverns, with their overarching rocks ; the
quiet habitations along the margin of the river, peace-
ful amid all the uproar, as if the voice of the Creator
had been heard, saying, " It is I ; be not afraid ;" the
green hill, with its graceful projections, that skirts and
overlooks Table Rock ; the deep and bright verdure of the
foliage every spear of grass that penetrates the crevices
of the rocks, gemmed by the humid atmosphere, and spark-
ling in the sunbeams ; the rainbow that rests on the migh-
ty torrent a symbol of the smile of God upon his won-
drous work.
" What is it, mother ?" asked Edward, as he stood with
his friends on Table Rock, where they had remained
gazing on the magnificent scene for fifteen minutes
43U COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
without uttering a syllable, " what is it, mother, that makes
us all so silent?"
" It is the spirit of God moving on the face of the wa-
ters; it is this new revelation to our senses of his power
and majesty, which ushers us, as it were, into his visi-
ble presence, and exalts our afl'ections above language.
What, my dear children, should we be, withoutthe religious
sentiment that is to us as a second sight, by which we see,
in all this beauty, the hand of the Creator ; by which we are
permitted to join in the hymn of nature ; by which, I may
say, we are permitted to enter into the joy of our Lord?
Without it, we should be like- those sheep, who are at this
moment grazing on the verge of this sublime precipice,
alike unconscious of all these wonders, and of their Divine
Original. This religious sentiment is, in truth, Edward,
that Promethean fire, that kindles nature with a living spir-
it, infuses life and expression into inert matter, andinvests
the mortal with immortality." Mrs. Sackville's eye was
upraised, and her countenance illumined with a glow of
devotion that harmonized with the scene. " It is, my dear
children," she continued, "this religious sentiment, en-
lightened and directed by reason, that allies you to exter-
nal nature, that should govern your affections, direct you*
pursuits, exalt and purify your pleasures, and make you
feel, by its celestial influence, that the kingdom is within
you: but," she added, smiling, after a momentary pause,
*' this temple does not need a preacher."
Procession of Xuns in a Catholic Hospital.
Miss FRANCIS.
IT was autumn, and the earth, as if weary of the van-
ities of her children, was rapidly changing her varied and
gorgeous drapery for robes as sad and unadorned as those of
the cloister The tall and almost leafless trees stood amid
black and mouldering stumps, like giants among the tomb-
stones : the faint murmuring voice of the St. Lawrence was
heard in the distance, and the winds rustled among the
leaves, ag if imitating the sound of its waters.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK -OF PROSE. 431
The melancholy that we feel when gazing on natural
scenes in the vigour of young existence, is but pleasure
in a softened form. It has none of the bitterness, none
of that soul-sickening sense of desolation, which visits us
in our riper years, when we have had sad experience of
the jarring interests, the selfish coldness, and the heartless
caprice of the world. A rich imagination, like the trans-
parent mantle of light, which the Flemish artists delight
to throw around their pictures, gives its own glowing hues
to the dreariness of winter and the sobriety of autumn, as
well as to the freshness of spring and the verdure of sum-
mer ; and, if the affections are calm and pure, forests and
streams, sky and ocean, sunrise and twilight, will always
bring deep, serene, and holy associations. Under the in-
fluence of such feelings, our young traveller entered Que-
bec, just as the rays of the declining sun tinged the win-
dows and spires with a fiery beam, and fell obliquely on
the distant hills in tranquil radiance. At the sign of St.
George and the Dragon, the horse made a motion to pause ;
and, thus reminded of the faithful creature's extreme fa-
tigue, he threw the bridle over his neck, and gave him
into the care of a ragged hostler, who in bad French de-
manded his pleasure. In the "same language his hostess
gave her brief salutation, " A clever night to ride, please
your honour."
Percival civilly replied to her courtesy, and gave orders
for supper. The inn was unusually crowded and noisy ; and,
willing to escape awhile from the bustling scene, he walk-
ed out into the city. The loud ringing of the cathedral
bells, summoning the inhabitants to evening prayer, and the
rolling of drums from the neighbouring garrison, were at
variance with the quietude of his spirit. He turned from
the main street, and rambled along until he reached the banks
of the little river St. Charles, about a mile westward from the
town. He paused before the extensive and venerable-
looking hospital, founded by M. de St. Valliere, the second
bishop of Quebec. The high, steep roof, and the wide
portals, beneath which various images of the saints were
safely ensconced in their respective niches, were indistinctly
seen in the dimness of twilight ; but a rich gush of sound
432 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
from the interior of the building poured on the ear, min-
gling the deep tones of the organ with woman's sweetest
melody.
All that painting and music, pomp and pageantry, can do
to dazzle the imagination and captivate the heart, has ever
been employed by that tremendous hierarchy, " whose
roots were in another world, and whose far-stretching
shadow awed our own." At this time, the effect was in-
creased by that sense of mystery so delightful to the hu-
man soul. " Ora, ora pro nobis," was uttered by beings
secluded from the world, taking no part in the busy game
of life, and separated from all that awakens the tumult of
passion and the eagerness of pursuit. How, then, could
fancy paint them otherwise than lovely, placid and spotless :
Had Percival been behind the curtain during these sancti-
fied dramas, had he ever searched out the indolence, the
filth and the profligacy, secreted in such retreats, the spell
that bound him would have been broken ; but it had been
riveted by early association, and now rendered peculiarly
delightful by the excited state of his feelings. Resigning
himself entirely to its dominion, he inquired of one who
stood within the door, whether it was possible for him to
gain admittance.
The man held out his hand for money, and, having re-
ceived a livre, answered, " Certainly, sir. You must be
a stranger in Quebec, or you would know that there i.s to
be a procession of white nuns to-night, in honour of M.
de St. Valliere/' So saying, he led the way into the
building.
An old priest, exceedingly lazy in his manner, and mo-
notonous in his tone, was reading mass, to which most of
the audience zealously vociferated a response.
An arch, ornamented with basso relievo figures of the
saints on one side of the chancel, surmounted a door which
apparently led to an interior chapel ; and beneath a similar
one, on the opposite side, was a grated window shaded by a
large, flowing curtain of black silk.
Behind this provoking screen were the daughters of
earth, whom our traveller supposed to be as beautiful a?
angels, and as pure.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 433
For some time a faint response, a slight cough, or a deep-
drawn sigh, alone indicated the vicinity of the seraphic
At length, however, the mass, with all its thousand cer-
emonies, was concluded. There was silence for a moment,
and then there was heard one of the low, thrilling chants
of the church of Rome.
There was the noise of light, sandalled feet. The mu-
sic died away to a delicious warbling, faint, yet earnest ;
then gradually rising to a bold, majestic burst of sound, the
door on the opposite side opened, and the sisterhood entered
amid a glare of light.
That most of them were old and ugly passed unnoticed ;
for whatever visions an enthusiastical imagination might
have conjured up, were certainly realized by the figure
that preceded the procession.
Her forehead was pale and lofty, her expression proud,
but highly intellectual. A white veil, carelessly pinned
about her brow, fell over her shoulders in graceful drape-
ry ; and, as she glided along, the loose, white robe, that
constituted the uniform of her order, displayed to the utmost
advantage that undulating outline of beauty, for which the
statues of Psyche are so remarkable.
A silver crucifix was clasped in her hands, and her eyes
were steadily raised towards heaven ; yet there was some-
thing in her general aspect, from which one would have
concluded that the fair devotee had never known the world,
rather than that she had left it in weariness or disgust.
Her eye happened to glance on our young friend as she
passed near him ; and he fancied it rested a moment with
delighted attention.
The procession moved slowly on in pairs, the apostles
bearing waxen lights on either side, until the last white
robe was concealed behind an arch at the other end of the
extensive apartment.
The receding sounds of " O sanctissima, purissima,"
floated on the air mingled with clouds of frankincense ; and
the young man pressed his hand to his forehead with a be-
wildered sensation, as if the airy phantoms of the magic
lantern had just been flitting before him. A notice from
37
434 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
the porter, that the nuns were now at the altar performing
silent mass, and that the doors were shortly to be closed, re-
called his recollection.
Grandeur of astronomical Discoveries. WIRT.
IT was a pleasant evening in the month of May ; and
my sweet child, my Rosalie, and I had sauntered up to the
castle's top to enjoy the breeze that played around it, ami
to admire the unclouded firmament, that glowed and spar-
kled with unusual lustre from pole to pole. The atmos-
phere was in its purest and finest state for vision ; the
milky way was distinctly developed throughout its whole
extent ; every planet and every star above the horizon,
however near and brilliant or distant and faint, lent its lam-
bent light or twinkling ray to give variety and beauty to
the hemisphere ; while the round, bright moon (so distinct-
ly defined were the lines of her figure, and so clearly vis-
ible even the rotundity of her form) seemed to hang off
from the azure vault, suspended in midway air ; or stoop-
ing forward from the firmament her fair and radiant face,
as if to court and return our gaze.
We amused ourselves for some time, in observing through
a telescope the planet Jupiter, sailing in silent majesty with
his squadron of satellites along the vast ocean of space be-
tween us and the fixed stars; and admired the felicity of
that design, by which those distant bodies had been par-
celled out and arranged into constellations ; so as to have
served not only for beacons to the ancient navigator, but,
. as it were, for landmarks to astronomers at this day ; ena-
bling them, though in different countries, to indicate to
each other with ease the place and motion of those planets,
comets and magnificent meteors, which inhabit, revolve,
and play in the intermediate space.
We recalled and d.welt with delight on the rise and prog-
ress of the science of astronomy ; on that series of aston,
ishing discoveries through successive ages, which display-
in so strong a light, the force and reach of the human
mind : and on those bold conjectures and sublime reveries,
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 435
which seem to tower even to the confines of divinity, and
denote the high destiny to which mortals tend: that
thought, for instance, which is said to have been first start-
ed by Pythagoras, and which modern astronomers approve ;
that the stars which we call fixed, although they appear to
us to be nothing more than large spangles of various sizes
glittering on the same concave surface, are, nevertheless,
bodies as large as our sun, shining, like him, with original
and not reflected light, placed at incalculable distances
asunder, and each star the solar centre of a system of plan-
ets, which revolve around it as the planets belonging to our
system do around the sun ; that this is not only the case
with all the stars which our eyes discern in the firmament,
or which the telescope has brought within the sphere of
our vision, but, according to the modern improvements of
this thought, that there are probably other stars, whose
light has not yet reached us, although light moves with a
velocity a million times greater than that of a cannon ball ;
that those luminous appearances, which we observe in the
firmament, like flakes of thin, white cloud, are windows, as
it were, which open to other firmaments, far, far beyond the
ken of human eye, or the power of optical instruments, lighted
up, like ours, with hosts of stars or suns ; that this scheme
goes on through infinite space, which is filled with thou-
sands upon thousands of those suns, attended by ten thou-
sand times ten thousand worlds, all in rapid motion, yet
calm, regular and harmonious, invariably keeping the paths
prescribed to them ; and these worlds peopled with myri-
ads of intelligent beings.
One would think that this conception, thus extended,
would be bold enough to satisfy the whole enterprise of
the human imagination. But what an accession of glory
and magnificence does Dr. Herschell superadd to it, when,
instead of supposing all those suns fixed, and the motion
confined to their respective planets, he loosens those multi-
tudinous suns themselves from their stations, sets them all
into motion with their splendid retinue of planets and sat-
ellites, and imagines them, thus attended, to perform a stu-
pendous revolution, system above system, around some
grander, unknown centre, somewhere in the boundless abyss
of space ! and when, carrying on the process, you sup-
436 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
pose even that centre itself not stationary, but also coun-
terpoised by other masses in the immensity of spaces, with
which, attended by their accumulated trains of
" Planets, suns, and adamantine spheres
Wheeling unshaken through the void immense,"
it maintains harmonious concert, surrounding, in its vast
career, some other centre still more remote and stupendous,
which in its turn " You overwhelm me," cried Rosa-
lie, as I was labouring to pursue the immense concatena-
tion ; " my mind is bewildered and lost in the effort to
follow you, and finds no point on which to rest its weary
wing." " Yet there is a point, my dear Rosalie the throne
of the Most High. Imagine that the ultimate centre, to
which this vast and inconceivably magnificent and august
apparatus is attached, and around which it is continually
revolving. Oh ! what a spectacle for the cherubim and ser-
aphim, and the spirits of the just made perfect, who dwell
on the right hand of that throne, if, as may be, and proba-
bly is, the case, their eyes are permitted to pierce through
the whole, and take in, at one glance, all its order, beau-
ty, sublimity and glory, and their ears to distinguish that
celestial harmony, unheard by us, in which those vast globes,
as they roll on in their respective orbits, continually hymn
their great Creator's praise !"
Scenes on the Prairies. ANONYMOUS.
ON these level plains some of my dreams of the pleas-
ures of wandering were realized. We were all in the
morning of life, full of health and spirits, on horseback,
and breathing a most salubrious air, with a boundless hori-
zon open before us, and, shaping our future fortune and
success in the elastic mould of youthful hope and imagina-
tion, we could hardly be other than happy. Sometimes
we saw, scouring away from our path, horses, asses, mules,
buffaloes and wolves, in countless multitudes, and we took,
almost with too much ease to give pleasure in the chase,
whatever we needed for luxurious subsistence. The pas-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 437
sage of creeks and brooks across the prairies is marked, to
the utmost extent of vision, by a fringe of woods and count-
less flowering shrubs. Sometimes we ascended an elevation
of some height, swelling gently from the plain. Here the
eye traces, as on an immense map, the formation and grad-
ual enlargement of these rivulets, and sees them curving
their meandering lines to a point of union with another of
the same kind. The broadened fringe of wood indicates
the enlargement of the stream, and the eye takes in at one
glance the gradual formation of rivers. The night brought
us up on the edge of one of these streams. Our beasts
are turned loose to stretch themselves on the short and
tender grass to feed and repose. The riders collect round
a fire in the centre. Supper is prepared with bread, coffee,
and the tenderest parts of the buffalo, venison and other
game. The appetite, sharpened by exercise on horseback
and by the salubrious air, is devouring. The story circu-
lates. Past adventures are recounted, and if they receive
something of the colouring of romance, it may be traced
to feelings that grow out of the occasion. The projects
and the mode of journeying on the morrow are discussed
and settled. The fire flickers in the midst. The wild
horses neigh, and the prairie wolves howl in the distance.
Except the weather threatens storm, the tents are not
pitched. The temperature of the night air is both saluta-
ry and delightful. The blanket? are spread upon the ten-
der grass, and under a canopy of the softest blue, decked
with all the visible lights of the sky. The party sink to a
repose, which the exercise of the preceding day renders
as unbroken and dreamless as that of the grave. I awoke
more than once unconscious that a moment had elapsed be-
tween the time of my lying down and my rising.
The day before we came in view of the Rocky Moun-
tains, I saw, in the greatest perfection, that impressive,
and to me almost sublime spectacle, an immense drove of
wild horses, for a long time hovering round our path across
the prairies. I had often seen gre^i numbers of them be-
fore, mixed with other animals, apparently quiet, and graz-
ing like the rest. Here there were thousands, unmixed,
unemployed ; their motions, if such a comparison might be
allowed, as darting and as wild as those of humming-birds
37*
438 COMMON-PLACE BOOR OF PROSE,
on the flowers, The tremendous snorts, with which the
front columns of the phalanx made known their approach
to us, seemed to be their wild and energetic way of ex-
pressing their pity and disdain for the servile lot of our
horses, of which they appeared to be taking a survey. They
were of all colours, mixed, spotted and diversified with
every hue, from the brightest white to clear and shining
black ; and of every form and structure, from the long and
slender racer to those of firmer limbs and heavier mould ;
and of all ages, from the curvetting colt to the range of
patriarchal steeds, drawn up in a line, and holding their
high heads for a survey of us in the rear. Sometimes they
curved their necks, and made no more progress than just
enough to keep pace with our advance. There was a kind
of slow and walking minuet, in which they performed va-
rious evolutions with the precision of the figures of a coun-
try dance. Then a rapid movement shifted the front to
the rear. But still, in all their evolutions and movements,
like the flight of sea-fowl, their lines were regular, and free
from all indications of confusion. At times a spontaneous
and sudden movement towards us almost inspired the ap-
prehension of a united attack upon us. After a moment's
advance, a snort and a rapid retrograde movement seemed
to testify their proud estimate of their wild independence.
The infinite variety of their rapid movements, their tam-
perings and manoeuvres, were of such a wild and almost
terrific character, that it required but a moderate strctcli
of fancy to suppose them the genii of these grassy plains.
At one period they were formed to an immense depth in
front of us. A wheel, executed almost with the rapidity
of thought, presented them hovering on our flanks. Then
again, the cloud of dust that enveloped their movements
cleared away, and presented them in our rear. They evi-
dently operated as a great annoyance to the horses and
mules of our cavalcade. The frighted movements, tho in-
creased indications of fatigue, with their frequent neighings,
sufficiently evidenced what unpleasant neighbours they
considered their wild compatriots to be. So much did our
horses appear to suffer from fatigue and terror in conse-
quence of theif vicinity, that we were thinking of some
way in which to drive them off; when, on a sudden, a pa-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 439
tient and laborious donkey of the establishment, who ap-
peared to have regarded all their movements with philo-
sophic indifference, pricked up his long ears, and gave a
loud and most sonorous bray from his vocal shells. Instant-
ly this prodigious multitude and there were thousands of
them took what the Spanish call the " stompado." With
a trampling like the noise of thunder, or still more like that
of an earthquake, a noise that was absolutely appalling,
they took to their heels, and were all in a few moments
invisible in the verdant depths of the plains, and we saw
them no more.
Eulogy on William Penn. Du PONCE ATT.
WILLIAM PENN stands the first among the lawgivers,
whose names and deeds are recorded in history. Shall we
compare him with Lycurgus, Solon, Romulus, those foun-
ders of military commonwealths, who organized their citizens
in dreadful array against the rest of their species, taught
them to consider their fellow-men as barbarians, and them-
selves as alone worthy to rule over the earth ? What benefit
did mankind derive from their boasted institutions ? Inter-
rogate the shades of those who fell in the mighty contests
between Athens and Lacedaemon, between Carthage and
Rome, and between Rome and the rest of the universe.
But see W'illiam Penn, with weaponless hand, sitting down
peaceably with his followers in the midst of savage nations,
whose only occupation was shedding the blood of their
fellow- men, disarming them by his justice, and teaching
them, for the first time, to view a stranger without distrust.-
See them bury their tomahawks, in his presence, so deep
that man shall never be able to find them again. See them,
under the shade of the thick groves of Coaquannock, extend
the bright chain of friendship, and solemnly promise to
preserve it as long as the sun and moon shall endure. See
him then, with his companions, establishing his common-
wealth on the sole basis of religion, morality and universal
love, and adopting, as the fundamental maxim of his gov-
ernment, the rule handed down to us from heaven, Glory
440 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
to Ood on high, and on earth peace and good will to
men. Here was a spectacle for the potentates of the earth
to look upon, an example for lln-in to imitate. But the po-
tentates of the earth did not sec, or, if they saw, they turn-
ed away their eyes from the sight ; they did not hear, or,
if they heard, they shut their ears against the voice which
called out to them from the wilderness,
" Discite justitiam moniti, et non temnere Divos."
The character of William Penn alone sheds a never-fad-
ing lustre on our history.
Morbid Effects of Envy, Malice, and Hatred.
RUSH.
ENVY is commonly the parent of malice and hatred. Of
this vice it may be truly asserted, that it is deep-seated,
and always painful ; hence it has been said by an inspired
writer to resemble " rottenness in the bones ;" and by Lord
Bacon " to know no holydays." It is likewise a monopo-
lizing vice. Alexander envied his successful generals,
and Garrick was hostile to all the popular players of his
day. It is moreover a parricide vice, for it not only emits
its poison against its friends, but against the persons, who,
by the favours it has conferred upon those who cherish it,
have become in one respect the authors of their being ; and,
lastly, it possesses a polypus life. No kindness, gentleness
or generosity can destroy it. On the contrary, it derives
fresh strength from every act which it experiences of any
of them. It likewise survives and often forgives the re-
sentment it sometimes occasions, but without ceasing to
hate the talents, virtues or personal endowments by which
it was originally excited. Nor is it satiated by the appa-
rent extinction of them in death. This is obvious from its
so frequently opening the sanctuary of the grave, and rob-
bing the possessors of those qualities of the slender re-
mains it had left them of posthumous fame.
However devoid this vice and its offspring may be of re-
missions, they now and then appear in the form of parox-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 441
ysms, which discover themselves in tremors, paleness and
a suffusion of the face with red blood. The face in this
case performs the vicarious office, which has lately been
ascribed to the spleen. But their effects appear more fre-
quently in slow fevers, and in a long train of nervous dis-
eases. Persons affected with them seldom acknowledge
their true cause. A single instance, only, of this" candour,
is mentioned by Dr. Tissot He tells us he was once con-
sulted by a gentleman, who told him that all his complaints
were brought on by his intense and habitual hatred of an
enemy. Many of the chronic diseases of high life and
of professional men, I have no doubt, are induced by the
same cause.
I once thought that medicine had not a single remedy
in all its stores, that could subdue, or even palliate, the dis-
eases induced by the baneful passions which have been
described, and that an antidote to them was to be found
only in religion ; but I have since recollected one, and
heard of another physical remedy, that will at least palliate
them. The first is, frequent convivial society between
persons who are hostile to each other. It never fails to
soften resentments, and sometimes produces reconciliation
and friendship. The reader will be surprised when 1 add
that the second physical remedy was suggested to me by a
madman in the Pennsylvania hospital. In conversing with
him, he produced a large collection of papers, which he
said contained his journal. " Here," said he, " I write
down every thing that passes in my mind, and particularly
malice and revenge. In recording the latter, I feel my
mind emptied of something disagreeable to it, just as an
emetic relieves the stomach of bile. When I look at what
I have written a day or two afterwards, I feel ashamed and
disgusted with it, and wish to throw it into the fire." I .
have no doubt of the utility of this remedy for envy, malice
and hatred, from its salutary effects in a similar case. A
gentleman in this city informed me, that, after writing an
attack for the press upon a person who had offended him,
he was so struck with its malignity upon reading it, that
he instantly destroyed it. The French nobility sometimes
cover the walls and ceiling of a room in their houses
with looking glasses. The room thus furnished is called
442 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
a boudoir. Did ill-natured people imitate the practice
of the madman and gentleman I have mentioned, by put-
ting their envious, malicious and revengeful thoughts upon
paper, it would form a mirror that would serve the same
purpose of pointing out and remedying the evil dispositions
of the mind, that the boudoir in France serves, in discov-
ering and remedying the defects in the attitudes and dresa
of the body.
To persons who are not ashamed and disgusted with the
first sight of their malevolent effusions upon paper, the
same advice may be given that Dr. Franklin gave to a gen-
tleman, who read part of a humorous satire which he had
written upon the person and character of a respectable cit-
izen of Philadelphia. Afar he had finished reading it, he
asked the doctor what he thought of his publishing it.
" Keep it by you," said the doctor, " for one year, and then
ask me that question." The gentleman felt the force of
this answer, went immediately to the printer who had com-
posed the first page of it, took it from him, and consigned
the whole manuscript to oblivion.
Appearance of the first Settlements of the Pilgrims.
Miss SEDGWICK.
THE first settlers followed the course of the Indians,
and planted themselves on the borders of rivers, the nat-
ural gardens of the earth, where the soil is mellowed and
enriched by the annual overflowing of the streams, and
prepared by the unassisted processes of nature to yield to
the indolent Indian his scanty supply of maize and other
esculents. The wigwams which constituted the village,
or, to use the graphic aboriginal designation, the " smoke,"
of the natives, gave place to the clumsy, but more conve-
nient dwellings of the pilgrims.
Where there are now contiguous rows of shops, filled
with the merchandise of the East, the manufactures of Eu-
rope, the rival fabrics of our own country, and the fruits
of the tropics ; where now stand the stately hall of justice,
the academy, the bank, churches, orthodox and heretic, and
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 443
all the symbols of a rich and populous community, were,
at the early period of our history, a few log-houses planted
around a fort, defended by a slight embankment and pal*
isade.
The mansions of the proprietors were rather more spa-
cious and artificial than those of their more humble associ-
ates, and were built on the well known model of the modest
dwelling-house illustrated by the birth of Milton a form
still abounding in the eastern parts of Massachusetts, and
presenting to the eye of a New Englander the familiar as-
pect of an awkward, friendly country cousin.
The first clearing was limited to the plain. The beau-
tiful hill, that is now the residence of the gentry, (for
there yet lives such a class in the heart of our democratic
community,) and is embellished with stately edifices and
expensive pleasure-grounds, was then the border of a
dense forest, and so richly fringed with the original growth
of trees, that scarce a sunbeam had penetrated to the parent
earth.
Mr. Fletcher was at first welcomed as aa important ac-
quisition to the infant establishment, but he soon proved
that he purposed to take no part in its concerns, and, in spite
of the remonstrances of the proprietors, he fixed his resi-
dence a mile from the village, deeming exposure to the
incursions of the savages very slight, and the surveillance
of an inquiring neighbourhood a certain evil. His domain
extended from a gentle eminence, that commanded an exten-
sive view of the bountiful Connecticut to the shore, where
the river indented the meadow by one of those sweeping,
graceful curves, by which it seems to delight to beautify
the land it nourishes.
The border of the river was fringed with all the water-
loving trees; but the broad meadows were quite cleared,
excepting that a few elms and sycamores had been spared
by the Indians, and consecrated by tradition, as the scene
of revels or councils. The house of our pilgrim was a
low-roofed, modest structure, containing ample accommo-
dation for a patriarchal family ; where children, depen-
dents and servants were all to be sheltered under one roof-
tree. On one side, as we have described, lay an open and
extensive plain ; within view was the curling smoke from
444 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
the little cluster of houses about the fort the habitation
of civilized man ; but all else was a savage, howling wil-
derness.
Never was a name more befitting the condition of a peo-
ple, than " pilgrim" that of our forefathers. It should be
redeemed from the Puritanical and ludicrous associations
which have degraded it in most men's minds, and be hal-
lowed by the sacrifices made by these voluntary exiles.
They were pilgrims, for they had resigned fprever what
the good hold most dear their homes. Home can never
be transferred ; never repeated in the experience of an in-
dividual. The place consecrated by parental love, by the
innocence and sports of childhood, by the first acquaintance
with nature, by the linking of the heart to the visible cre-
ation, is the only home. There, there is a living and a
breathing spirit infused into nature: every familiar object has
a history the trees have tongues, and the very air is vocal.
There he vesture of decay doth not close in and control
the noble functions of the soul. It sees, and hears, and
enjoys, without the ministry of gross, material substance.
Detcription of a Herd of Bisons. COOPER.
" THERE come the buffaloes themselves, and a noble
herd it is. I warrant me that Pawnee has a troop of his
people in some of the hollows nigh by ; and, as he has
gone scampering after them, you are about to see a glori-
ous chase. It will serve to keep the squatter and his brood
under cover, and for ourselves there is little reason to fear-
A Pawnee is not apt to be a malicious savage."
Every eye was now drawn to the striking spectacle that,
succeeded. Even the timid Inez hastened to the side of
Middleton to gaze at the sight, and Paul summoned Ellen
from her culinary labours, to become a witness of the live-
ly scene.
Throughout the whole of these moving events which it
has been our duty to record, the prairies had lain in all the
majesty of perfect solitude. The heavens had been black-
ened with the passage of the migratory birds, it is true,
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 445
but the dogs of the party and the ass of the doctor were
the only quadrupeds that had enlivened the hroad surface
of the waste beneath. There was now a sudden exhibition
of animal life, which changed the scene, as it were by
magic, to the very opposite extreme.
A few enormous bison bulls were first observed scouring
along the most distant roll of the prairie, and then suc-
ceeded long files of single beasts, which, in their turns,
were followed by a dark mass of bodies, until the dun-
coloured herbage of the plain was entirely lost in the deep-
er hue of their shaggy coats. The herd, as the column
spread and thickened, was like the endless flocks of the
smaller birds, whose extended flanks are so often seen to
heave up out of the abyss of the heavens, until they ap
pear as countless as the leaves in those forests, over which
they wing their endless flight. Clouds of dust shot up in
little columns from the centre of the mass, as some animal
more furious than the rest ploughed the plain with his
horns, and, from time to time, a deep, hoyow bellowing
was borne along on the wind, as though a thousand throats
vented their plaints in a discordant murmuring.
A long and musing silence reigned in the party, as they
gazed on this spectacle of wild and peculiar grandeur. It
was at length broken by the trapper, who, having been long
accustomed to similar sights, felt less of its influence, or
rather felt it in a less thrilling and absorbing manner, than
those to whom the scene was more novel.
" There go ten thousand oxen in one drove, without
keeper or master, except Him who made them, and gave
them these open plains for their pasture ! Ay, it is here
that man may see the proofs of his wantonness and folly !
Can the proudest governor in all the States 'go into his
fields, and slaughter a nobler bullock than is here offered
to the meanest hands-.' and, when he has gotten his sirloin
or his steak, can he eat it with as good a relish as he who
has sweetened his food with wholesome toil, and earned it
according to the law of natur', by honestly mastering that
which the Lord hath put before him ?"
" If the prairie platter is smoking with a buffaloe's hump,
I answer, no," interrupted the luxurious bee-hunter.
38
446 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
" Ay, boy, you have tasted, and you feel the genuine
reasoning of the thing. But the herd is heading a little
this-a-way, and it behooves us to make ready for their visit.
If we hide ourselves, altogether, the horned brutes will
break through the place, and trample us beneath their feet,
like so many creeping worms ; so we will just put the
weak ones apart, and take post, as becomes men and hunt-
ers, in the van."
As there was but little time to make the necessary ar-
rangements, the whole party set about them in good earnest.
Inez and Ellen were placed in the edge of the thicket on
the side farthest from the approaching herd. Asinus was
posted in the centre, in consideration of his nerves, and
then the old man, with his three male companions, divided
themselves in such a manner as they thought would enable
them to turn the head of the rushing column, should it
chance to approach too nigh their position. By the vacil-
lating movements of some fifty or a hundred bulls, that led
the advance, it remained questionable, for many moments,
what course they intended to pursue. But a tremendous
and painful roar, which came from behind the cloud of dust
that rose in the centre of the herd, and which was horridly
answered by the screams of the carrion birds, that were
greedily sailing directly above the flying drove, appeared
to give a new impulse to their flight, and at once to remove
every symptom of indecision. As if glad to seek the small-
est signs of the forest, the whole of the affrighted herd
became steady in its direction, rushing in a straight line
toward the little cover of bushes, which has already been
so often named.
The appearance of danger was now, in reality, of a
character to try the stoutest nerves. The flanks of the
dark, moving mass, were advanced in such a manner as to
make a concave line of the front, and every fierce eye,
that was glaring from the shaggy wilderness of hair, in
which the entire heads of the males were enveloped, was
riveted with mad anxiety on the thicket. It seemed as if
each beast strove to outstrip his neighbour in gaining this
desired cover, and as thousands in the rear pressed blindly
on those in front, there was the appearance of an imminent
risk that the leaders of the herd would be precipitated on the
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 447
concealed party, in which case the destruction of every
one of them was certain. Each of our adventurers felt the
danger of his situation in a manner peculiar to his individ-
ual character and circumstances.
The old man, who had stood all this while leaning on his
rifle, and regarding the movements of the herd with a
steady eye, now deemed it time to strike his blow. Lev-
elling his piece at the foremost bull, with an agility that
would have done credit to his youth, he fired. The ani-
mal received the bullet on the matted hair between his
horns, and fell to his knees ; but, shaking his head, he in-
stantly arose, the very shock seeming to increase his exer-
tions. There was now no longer time to hesitate. Throw-
ing down his rifle, the trapper stretched forth his arms, and
advanced from the cover with naked hands, directly towards
the rushing column of the beasts.
The figure of a man, when sustained by the firmness
and steadiness that intellect can only impart, rarely fails
of commanding respect from all the inferior animals of the
creation. The leading bulls recoiled, and, for a single in-
stant, there was a sudden stop to their speed, a dense mass
of bodies rolling up in front, until hundreds were seen
floundering and tumbling on the plain. Then came another
of those hollow bellowings from the rear, and set the herd
again in motion. The head of the column, however, di-
vided ; the immoveable form of the trapper cutting it,
as it were, into two gliding streams of life. Middleton
and Paul instantly profited by his example, and extended
the feeble barrier by a similar exhibition of their own per-
sons.
For a few moments, the new impulse given to the ani-
mals in front served to protect the thicket. But, as the
body of the herd pressed more and more upon the open line
of its defenders, and the dust thickened so as to obscure
their persons, there was, at each instant, a renewed danger
of the beasts breaking through. It became necessary for
the trapper and his companions to become still more and
more alert ; and they were gradually yielding before the
headlong multitude, when a furious bull darted by Mid-
448 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
dleton, so near as to brush his person, and, at the next
instant, swept through the thicket with the velocity of the
wind.
" Close, and die for the ground," shouted the old man,
" or a thousand of the devils will be at his heels !"
All their efforts would have proved fruitless, however,
against the living torrent, had not Asinus, whose domains
had just been so rudely entered, lifted his voice in the midst
of the uproar. The most sturdy and furious of the bulls
trembled at the alarming and unknown cry, and then each
individual brute was seen madly pressing from that very
thicket, which, the moment before, he had endeavoured to
reach with the same sort of eagerness as that with which
the murderer seeks the sanctuary.
As the stream divided, the place became clear ; the two
dark columns moving obliquely from the copse to unite
again at the distance of a mile on its opposite side. The
instant the old man saw the sudden effect which the voice
of Asinus had produced, he coolly commenced reloading
his rifle, indulging, at the same time, in a most heartfelt fit
of his silent and peculiar merriment.
The uproar, which attended the passage of the herd, was
now gone, or rather it was heard rolling along the prairie,
at the distance of a mile. The clouds of dust were already
blown away by the wind, and a clear range was left to the
eye, in that place where, ten minutes before, there existed
such a strange scene of wildness and confusion.
The Character of Jesus. REV. S. C. THACHER.
WE find in the life of Jesus a union of qualities, which
had never before met in any being on this earth. We find
imbodied in his example the highest virtues both of active
and of contemplative life. We see united in him a devo-
tion to God the most intense, abstracted, unearthly, with
a benevolence to man the most active, affectionate and uni-
versal. We see qualities meet and harmonize in his char-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 449
acter, which are usually thought the most uncongenial.
We see a force of character, which difficulties cannot con-
quer, an energy which calamity cannot relax, a fortitude
and constancy which sufferings can neither subdue nor
bend from their purpose ; connected with the most melting
tenderness and sensibility of spirit, the most exquisite sus-
ceptibility to every soft and gentle impression. We see in
him the rare union of zeal and moderation, of courage and
prudence, of compassion and firmness ; we see superiority
to the world without gloom or severity, or indifference or
distaste to its pursuits and enjoyments. In short, there is
something in the whole conception and tenor of our Sa-
viour's character so entirely peculiar, something which so
realizes the ideal model of the most consummate moral
beauty ; something so lovely, so gracious, so venerable and
commanding, that the boldest infidels have shrunk from it
overawed, and, though their cause is otherwise desperate,
have yet feared to profane its perfect purity. One of the
most eloquent tributes to its sublimity, that was ever utter-
ed, was extorted from the lips of an infidel. " Is there
any thing in it," he exclaims, " of the tone of an enthusi-
ast, or of an ambitious sectary ? What sweetness, what
purity in his manners ; what touching grace in his instruc-
tions ; what elevation in his maxims ; what profound wis-
dom in his discourses ; what presence of mind, what skill
and propriety in his answers ; what empire over his pas-
sions ! Where is the man, where is the sage, who knows
how to act, to suffer and to die, without weakness and with-
out ostentation ? When Plato paints his imaginary just
man covered with all the ignominy of crime, and yet wor-
thy of all the honours of virtue, he paints in every feature
the character of Christ. What prejudice, what blindness
must possess us to compare the son of Soproniscus to the
son of Mary ! How vast the distance between them !
Socrates, dying without pain and without ignominy, easily
sustains his character to the last ; and, if this gentle death
had not honoured his life, we might have doubted whether
Socrates, with all his genius, was any thing more than a
sophist. The death of Socrates, philosophizing tranquilly
with his friends, is the most easy that one could desire ;
that of Jesus, expiring in torture, insulted, mocked, exe-
38*
450 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
crated by a whole people, is the most horrible that one can
fear. Socrates, when he takes the poisoned cup, blesses
him who weeps as he presents it ; Jesus, in the midst of
the most dreadful tortures, prays for his infuriated execu-
tioners. Yes ! if the life and death of Socrates are those
of a sage, the life and death of Jesus are wholly divine."
Recollections of Josiah Quincy, Jun. J. QUINCY.
BY the lapse of half a century, the actors in the scenes
immediately preceding the American revolution begin to
be placed in a light, and at a distance, favourable at once
to right feelings and just criticism. In the possession of
freedom, happiness, and prosperity, seldom if ever before
equalled in the history of nations, the hearts of the Amer-
ican people naturally turn towards the memories of those,
who, under Providence, were the instruments of obtaining
these blessings. Curiosity awakens concerning their char-
acters and motives. The desire grows daily more univer-
sal to repay, With a late and distant gratitude, their long
neglected and often forgotten sacrifices and sufferings.
Among the men, whose character and political conduct
had an acknowledged influence on the events of that peri-
od, was Josiah Quincy, Jun. The unanimous consent of
his contemporaries has associated his name in an imperish-
able union with that of Otis, Adams, Hancock, Warren,
and other distinguished men, whose talents and intrepidity
influenced the events which led to the declaration of inde-
pendence. This honour has been granted to him, notwith-
standing his political path was, in every period of its short
extent, interrupted by intense professional labours, and
was terminated by death at the early age of thirty-one
years.
The particular features of a life and character, capable,
under such circumstances, of attaining so great a distinction,
are objects of curiosity and interest. Those, who recollect
him, speak of his eloquence, his genius, and his capacity
for intellectual labour ; of the inextinguishable zeal and
absorbing ardour of his exertions, whether directed to po-
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE 451
litical or professional objects ; of the entireness with which
he threw his soul into every cause in which he engaged ;
of the intrepidity of his spirit, and of his indignant sense
of the wrongs of his country.
It is certain that he made a deep impression on his con-
temporaries. Those who remember the political debates
in Faneuil Hall consequent on the stamp act, the Boston
massacre, and the Boston port bill, have yet a vivid recol-
lection of the pathos of his eloquence, the boldness of his
invectives, and the impressive vehemence with which he
arraigned the measures of the British ministry, inflaming
the zeal and animating the resentment of an oppressed
people.
The true Pride of Ancestry. WEBSTER.
IT is a noble faculty of our nature, which enables us to
connect our thoughts, our sympathies, and our happiness,
'with what is distant in place or time ; and, looking before
and after, to hold communion at once with our ancestors and
our posterity. Human and mortal although we are, we are,
nevertheless, not mere insulated beings, without relation to
the past or the future. Neither the point of time nor the spot
of earth, in which we physically live, bounds our rational
and intellectual enjoyments. We live in the past by a
knowledge of its history, and in the future by hope and
anticipation. By ascending to an association with our an-
cestors ; by contemplating their example and studying their
character; by partaking their sentiments, and imbibing their
spirit ; by accompanying them in their toils ; by sympathiz-
ing in their sufferings, and rejoicing in their successes and
their triumphs, we mingle our own existence with theirs,
and seem to belong to their age. We become their con-
temporaries, live the lives which they lived, endure what
they endured, and partake in the rewards which they en-
joyed. And in like manner, by running along the line of
future time ; by contemplating the probable fortunes of
those who are coming after us ; by attempting something
which may promote their happiness, and leave some not
452 COMMON -PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
dishonourable memorial of ourselves for their regard when
we shall sleep with the fathers, we protract our own earth-
ly being, and seem to crowd whatever is future, as well as
all that is past, into the narrow compass of our earthly ex-
istence. As it is not a vain and false, but an exalted and
religious imagination, which leads us to raise our thoughts
from the orb which, amidst this universe of worlds, the
Creator has given us to inhabit, and to send them with
something of the feeling which nature prompts, and teach-
es to be proper among children of the same Eternal Parent,
to the contemplation of the myriads of fellow-beings, with
which his goodness has peopled the infinite of space ; so
neither is it false or vain to consider ourselves as interested
or connected with our whole race through all time ; allied
to our ancestors ; allied to our posterity ; closely compacted
on all sides with others ; ourselves being but links in the
great chain of being, which begins with the origin of our
race, runs onward through its successive generations, bind-
ing together the past, the present, and the future, and ter-
minating, at last, with the consummation of all tilings
earthly, at the throne of God.
There may be, and there often is, indeed, a regard for
ancestry, which nourishes only a weak pride ; as there is
also a care for posterity, which only disguises an habitual
avarice, or hides the workings of a low and grovelling van-
ity. But there is, also, a moral and philosophical respect
for our ancestors, which elevates the character and im-
proves the heart. Next to the sense of religious duty
and moral feeling, I hardly know what should bear with
stronger obligation on a liberal and enlightened mind, than
a consciousness of alliance with excellence which is de-
parted; and a consciousness, too, that, in its acts and conduct,
and even in its sentiments, it may be actively operating on
the happiness of those who come after it. Poetry is found
to have few stronger conceptions, by which it would affect
or overwhelm the mind, than those in which it presents
the moving and speaking image of the departed dead to the
senses of the living. This belongs to poetry only because
it is congenial to our nature. Poetry is, in this respect,
but the handmaid of true philosophy and morality. It deals
With us as human beings, naturally reverencing those
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 453
whose visible connexion with this state of being is severed,
and who may yet exercise, we know not what sympathy with
ourselves ; and when it carries us forward, also, and shows
us the long-continued result of all the good we do, in the
prosperity of those who follow us, till it bears us from our-
selves, and absorbs us in an intense interest for what shall
happen to the generations after us, it speaks only in the
language of our nature, and affects us with sentiments
which belong to us as human beings.
A Slide in the White Mountains. MRS. HALE.
ROBERT looked upward. Awful precipices, to the height
of more than two thousand feet, rose above him. Near
the highest pinnacle, and the very one over which Abamo-
cho had been seated, the earth had been loosened by the
violent rains. Some slight cause, perhaps the sudden burst-
ing forth of a mountain spring, had given motion to the mass;
and it was now moving forward, gathering fresh strength
from its progress, uprooting the old trees, unbedding the
ancient rocks, and all rolling onwards with, a force and ve-
locity no human barrier could oppose, no created power
resist. One glance told Robert that Mary must perish ;
that he could not save her. " But I will die with her !" he
exclaimed ; and, shaking off the grasp of Mendowit as he
would a feather, " Mary, oh, Mary !" he continued, rushing
towards her. She uncovered her head, made an effort to
rise, and articulated, " Robert !" as he caught and clasped
her to his bosom. " Oh, Mary, must we die ?" he exclaimed.
" We must, we must," she cried, as she gazed on the
rolling mountain in agonizing horror ; " why, why did you
come ?" He replied not ; but, leaning against the rock,
pressed her closer to his heart ; while she, clinging around
his neck, burst into a passion of tears, and, laying her head
on his bosom, sobbed like an infant. He bowed his face
upon her cold, wet cheek, and breathed one cry for mercy ;
yet, even then, there was in the hearts of both lovers a
feeling of wild joy in the thought that they should not be
eparated.
454 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
The mass came down, tearing, and crumbling, and swoop-
ing all before it ! The whole mountain trembled, and the
ground shook like an earthquake. The air was darkened by
the shower of water, stones, and branches of trees, crushed
and shivered to atoms ; while the blast swept by like a
whirlwind, and the crash and roar of the convulsion were
far more appalling than the loudest thunder.
It might have been one minute, or twenty, for neither
of the lovers took note of time, when, in the hush as of
deathlike stillness that succeeded the uproar, Robert looked
around, and saw the consuming storm had passed by. It had
passed, covering the valley, farther than the eye could
reach, with ruin. Masses of granite, and shivered trees,
and mountain earth, were heaped high around, filling the
bed of the Saco, and exhibiting an awful picture of the des-
olating track of the avalanche. Only one little spot had es-
caped its wrath, and there, safe, as if sheltered in the hol-
low of His hand, who notices the fall of a sparrow, and
locked in each other's arms, were Robert and Mary ! Beside
them stood Mendowit ; his gun firmly clenched, and his
quick eye rolling around him like a maniac. He had fol-
lowed Robert, though he did not intend it ; probably im-
pelled by that feeling which makes us loath to face danger
alone ; and thus had escaped.
The Tvrins. TOKEN.
DURING the period of the war of the revolution, there
resided, in the western part of Massachusetts, a farmer by
the name of Stedman. He was a man of substance, de-
scended from a very respectable English family, well edu-
cated, distinguished for great firmness of character in gen-
eral, and alike remarkable for inflexible integrity and stead-
fast loyalty to his king. Such was the reputation he sus-
tained, that, even when the most violent antipathies against
royalism swayed the community, it was still admitted on
all hands, that farmer Stedman, though a tory, was honest
in his opinions, and firmly believed them to be right.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 455
The period came when Burgoyne was advancing from the
north. It was a time of great anxiety with both the friends
and foes of the revolution, and one which called forth their
highest exertions. The patriotic militia flocked to the stand-
ard of Gates and Stark, while many of the tories resorted
to the quarters of Burgoyne and Bauin. Among the lat-
ter was Stedman. He had no sooner decided it to be his
duty, than he took a kind farewell of his wife, a woman
of uncommon beauty, gave his children, a twin boy and
girl, a long embrace, then mounted his horse and depart-
ed. He joined himself to the unfortunate expedition of
Baum, and was taken, with other prisoners of war, by the
victorious Stark.
He made no attempt to conceal his name or character,
which were both soon discovered, and he was accordingly
committed to prison as a traitor. The gaol, in which he
was confined, was in the western part of Massachusetts,
and nearly in a ruinous condition. The farmer was one
night waked from his sleep by several persons in his room
" Come," said they, " you can now regain your liberty
we have made a breach in the prison, through which you
can escape." To their astonishment, Stedman utterly
refused to leave his prison. In vain they expostulated
with him ; in vain they represented to him tfyat life was
at stake. His reply was, that he was a true man, and a
servant of king George, and he would not creep out of a
hole at night, and sneak away from the rebels, to save his
neck from the gallows. Finding it altogether fruitless to
attempt to move him, his friends left him, with some ex-
pressions of spleen.
The time at length arrived for the trial of the prisoner.
The distance to the place where the court was sitting was
about sixty miles. Stedman remarked to the sheriff, when
he came to attend him, that it would save some expense
and inconvenience, if he could be permitted to go alone,
and on foot. " And suppose," said the sheriff, " that you
should prefer your safety to your honour, and leave me tu
seek you in the British camp ?" " I had thought," said
the farmer, reddening with indignation, " that I was speak-
ing to one who knew me." " I do know you, indeed,"
said the sheriff; "I spoke but in jest; you shall have
456 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
your way. Go, and on the third day I shall expect to see
you at S ." * * * * The farmer departed, and
at the appointed time he placed himself in the hands of the
sheriff.
I was now engaged as his counsel. Stedman insisted,
before the court, upon telling his whole story ; and, when
I would have taken advantage of some technical points, he
sharply rebuked me, and told me that he had not employed
me ta prevaricate, but only to assist him in telling the truth.
I had never seen such a display of simple integrity. It was
affecting to witness his love of holy, unvarnished truth, el-
evating him above every other consideration, and presiding
in his breast as a sentiment even superior to the love of life.
I saw the tears more than once springing to the eyes of his
judges ; never before, or since, have I felt such an interest
in a client. I plead for him as I would have plead for my
own life. I drew tears, but 1 could not sway the judgment
of stern men, controlled rather by a sense of duty than the
compassionate promptings of humanity. Stedman was con-
demned. I told him there was a chance of pardon, if lie
would ask for it. I drew up a petition, and requested him
to sign it; but he refused. " I have done," said he, "what
I thought my duty. I can ask pardon of my God, and my
king ; but it would be hypocrisy to ask forgiveness of these
men, for an action which I should repeat, were I placed
again in similar circumstances. No ! ask me not to sign
that petition. If what you call the cause of American
freedom requires the blood of an honest man for a consci-
entious discharge of what he deemed his duty, let me be
its victim. Go to my judges, and tell them that I place
not my fears nor my hopes in them." It was in vain that
I pressed the subject ; and I went away in despair.
In returning to my house, I accidentally called on an
acquaintance, a young man of brilliant genius, the subject
of a passionate predilection for painting. This led him fre-
quently to take excursions into the country, for the purpose
of sketching such objects and scenes as were interesting to
him. From one of these rambles he had just returned. I
found him sitting at his easel, giving the last touches to the
picture which attracted your attention. He asked my
opinion of it. " It is a fine picture," said I ; " is it a fancy
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 457
piece, or are they portraits ?" " They are portraits," said
he ; " and, save perhaps a little embellishment, they are, I
think, striking portraits of the wife and children of your
unfortunate client, Stedman. In the course of my rambles,
I chanced to call at his house in H . I never saw a
more beautiful group. The mother is one of a thousand ;
and the twins are a pair of cherubs." " Tell me," said I,
laying my hand on the picture, " tell me, are they true and
faithful portraits of the wife and children of Stedman ?"
My earnestness made my friend stare. He assured me that,
so far as he could be permitted to judge of his own produc-
tions, they were striking representations. I asked no further
questions ; I seized the picture, and hurried with it to the
prison where my client was confined. I found him sitting,
his face covered with his hands, and apparently wrung by
keen emotion. I placed the picture in such a situation that
he could not fail to see it. I laid the petition on the little
table by his side, and left the room.
In half an hour I returned. The farmer grasped my hand,
while tears stole down his cheeks ; his eye glanced first upon
the picture, and then to the petition. He said nothing, but
handed the latter to me. I took it, and left the apartment.
He had put his name to it. The petition was granted, and
Stedman was set at liberty.
The lone Indian. Miss FRANCIS.
FOR many a returning autumn, a lone Indian was seen
standing at the consecrated spot we have mentioned ; but,
just' thirty years after the death of Soonseetah, he was
noticed for the last time. His step was then firm, and his
figure erect, though he seemed old and way-worn. Age
had not dimmed the fire of his eye, but an expression of
deep melancholy had settled on his wrinkled brow. It was
Powontonamo he who had once been the Eagle of the
Mohawks ! He came to lie down and die beneath the broad
oak, which shadowed the grave of Sunny-eye. Alas, the
white man's axe had been there ! The tree he had planted
was dead ; and the vine, which had leaped so vieorously
39
458 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
from branch to branch, now, yellow and withering, was
falling to the ground. A deep groan burst from the soul of
the savage. For thirty wearisome years, he had watched
that oak, with its twining tendrils. They were the only
things left in the wide world for him to love, and they were
gone ! He looked abroad. The hunting land of his tribe
was changed, like its chieftain. No light canoe now shot
down the river, like a bird upon the wing. The laden boat
of the white man alone broke its smooth surface. The
Englishman's road wound like a serpent around the banks
of the Mohawk ; and iron hoofs had so beaten down the
war path, that a hawk's eye could not discover an Indian
track. The last wigwam was destroyed; and the sun
looked boldly down upon spots he had visited only by
stealth, during thousands and thousands of moons. The
few remaining trees, clothed in the fantastic mourning of
autumn; the long line of heavy clouds, melting away before
the coming sun ; and the distant mountain, seen through the
blue mist of departing twilight, alone remained as he had
seen them in his boyhood. All things spoke a sad language
to the heart of the desolate Indian. " Yes," said he, " the
young oak and the vine are like the Eagle and the Sunny-
eye. They are cut down, torn, and trampled on. The
leaves are falling, and the clouds are scattering, like my
people. I wish I could once more see the trees standing
thick, as they did when my mother held me to her bosom,
and sung the warlike deeds of the Mohawks."
A mingled expression of grief and anger passed over his
face, as he watched a loaded boat in its passage across the
stream. " The white man carries food to his wife and chil-
dren, and he finds them in his home," said he. " Where is
the squaw and the pappoose of the red man ? They are
here!" As he spoke, he fixed his eye thoughtfully upon
the grave. After a gloomy silence, he again looked round
upon the fair scene, with a wandering and troubled gaze. .
" The pale face may like it," murmured he ; " but an In-
dian cannot die here in peace." So saying, he broke his
bow-string, snapped his arrows, threw them on the burial-
place of his fathers, and departed for ever.
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 459
A Scene in the Catakill Mountains. G. MELLEN.
WE first came to the verge of the precipice, from which
the water takes its leap upon a platform that projects with
the rock many feet over the chasm. Here we gazed into
the dell and the basin into which the stream pours itself
from the beetling cliff. But the prospect from this point
is far less thrilling than from below ; and we accordingly
began our descent. Winding round the crags, and following
a foot-path between the overhanging trees, we gradually,
and with some difficulty, descended so far as to have a fine
view of the station which we had just left. The scene
here is magnificent beyond description. Far under the
blackened canopy of everlasting rock, that shoots above to
an alarming extent over the abyss, the eye glances round
a vast and regular amphitheatre, which seems to be the
wild assembling-place of all the spirits of the storms, so
rugged, so deep, so secluded, and yet so threatening does
it appear ! Down from the midst of the cliff that over-
arches this wonderful excavation, and dividing in the midst
the gloom that seems to settle within it, comes the foaming
torrent, splendidly relieved upon the black surface of the
enduring walls, and throwing its wreaths of mist along the
frowning ceiling. Following the guide that had brought
us thus far down the chasm, we passed into the amphithe-
atre, and, moving under the terrific projection, stood in the
centre of this sublime and stupendous work ; the black,
ironbound rocks behind us, and the snowy cataract spring-
ing between us and the boiling basin, which still lay under
our feet. Here the scene was unparalfeled. Here seem-
ed to be the theatre for a people to stand in, and behold the
prodigies and fearful wonders of the Almighty, and feel
their own insignificance. Here admiration and astonish-
ment come unbidden over the soul, and the most obdurate
heart feels that there is something to be grateful for. In-
deed, the scene from this spot is so sublime and so well cal-
culated to impress the feelings with a sense of the power
and grandeur of nature, that, apart from all other consid-
erations, it is worthy of long journeying and extreme toil
to behold it. Having taken refreshment, very adroitly man-
460 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
aged to be conveyed to us from above by John, whom,
by the way, I would name as an excellent guide as
well as a reputable boy, we descended to the extreme
depth of the ravine, and, with certain heroic ladies, who
somehow dared the perils of the path, we gazed from this
place upon the sheet of water, falling from a height of more
than two hundred and fifty feet. This is a matter of which
Niagara would not speak lightly ; and there is wanting
only a heavy fall of water to make this spot not only mag-
nificent, for that it is now, but terribly sublime. Moun-
tains ascend and overshadow it ; crags and precipices pro-
ject themselves in menacing assemblage all about, as though
frowning over a ruin which they are only waiting some
fiat to make yet more appalling. Nature has hewed out a
resting place for man, where he may linger, and gaze, and
admire ! Below him she awakens her thunder, and darts
her lightning ; above him she lifts still loftier summits, and
round him she flings her spray and her rainbows !
The St. Lawrence. N, P. WILLIS.
IT was a beautiful night. The light lay sleeping on
the St. Lawrence like a white mist. The boat, on whose
deck our acquaintances were promenading, was threading
the serpentine channel of the " Thousand Isles," more like
winding through a wilderness than following the passage
of a great river. The many thousand islands clustered in
this part of the St. Lawrence seem to realize the mad girl's
dream when she visited the stars, and found them
" Only green islands, sown thick in the sky."
Nothing can be more like fairy land than sailing among
them on a summer's evening. They vary in size, from a
quarter of a mile* in circumference, to a spot just large
enough for one solitary tree, and are at different dis-
tances, from a bowshot to a gallant leap, from each other.
The -universal formation is a rock, of horizontal stratum ;
and the river, though spread into a lake by innumerable
divisions, is almost embowered by the luxuriant vegetation
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 461
which covers them. There is every where sufficient depth
for the boat to run directly alongside ; and with the rapid-
ity and quietness of her motion, and the near neighbour-
hood of the trees which may almost be touched, the illusion
of aerial carriage over land is, at first, almost perfect. The
passage through the more intricate parts of the channel
is, if possible, still more beautiful. You shoot into narrow
passes, where you could spring on shore on either side,
catching, as you advance, hasty views to the right and left,
through long vistas of islands, or, running round a project-
ing point of rock or woodland, open into an apparent lake,
and, darting rapidly across, seem running right on shore as
you enter a narrow strait in pursuit of the channel.
It is the finest ground in the world for the " magic of
moonlight." The water is clear, and, on the night we
speak of, was a perfect mirror. Every star was repeated.
The foliage of the islands was softened into indistinctness,
and they lay in the water, with their well defined shadows
hanging darkly beneath them, as distinctly as clouds in the
sky, and apparently as moveable. In more terrestrial com-
pany than the lady Viola's, our hero might have fan-
cied himself in the regions of upper air ; but, as he leaned
over the taffrail, and listened to the sweetest voice that ever
melted -into moonlight, and watched the shadows of the
dipping trees as the approach of the boat broke them, one
by one, he would have thought twice before he had said
that he was sailing o'n a fresh water river in the good steam-
boat " Queenston."
" / have seen an End of all Perfection."
MRS. SlGOURNEY.
I HAVE seen a man in the glory of his days and the
pride of his strength. He was built like the tall cedar that
lifts its head "above the forest trees ; like the strong oak that
strikes its root deeply into the earth. He feared no dan-
ger; he felt no sickness; he wondered that any should
groan or sigh at pain. His mind was vigorous, like his
body : he was perplexed at no intricacy ; he was daunted at
39*
462 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE.
no difficulty ; into hidden things he searched, and what
was crooked he made plain. He went forth fearlessly upon
the face of the mighty deep ; he surveyed the nations of
the earth ; he measured the distances of the stars, and call-
ed them by their .names; he gloried in the extent of his
knowledge, in the vigour of his understanding, and strove
to search even into what the Almighty had concealed. And
when I looked on him I said, " What a piece of work is
man ! how noble in reason ! how infinite in faculties ! in
form and moving how express and admirable ! in action
how like an angel! in apprehension how like a God!"
I returned his look was no more lofty, nor his step
proud ; his broken frame was like some ruined tower ; his
hairs were white and scattered ; and his eye gazed vacant-
ly upon what was passing around him. The vigour of his
intellect was wasted, and of all that he had gained by study,
nothing remained. He feared when there was no danger,
and when there was no sorrow he wept. His memory was
decayed and treacherous, and showed him only broken im-
ages of the glory that was departed. His house was to him
like a strange land, and his friends were counted as his ene-
mies ; and he thought himself strong and healthful while
his foot tottered on the verge of the grave. He said of his
son " He is my brother ;" of his daughter, " I know her
not ;" and he inquired what was his own name. And one
who supported his last steps, and ministered to his many
wants, said to me, as I looked on the melancholy scene,
" Let thine heart receive instruction, for thou hast seen an
end of all earthly perfection."
I have seen a beautiful female treading the first stages
of youth, and entering joyfully into the pleasures of life.
The glance of her eye was variable and sweet, and on
her cheek trembled something like the first blush of the
morning ; her lips moved, and there was harmony ; and
when she floated in the dance, her light form, like
the aspen, seemed to move with every breeze. I re-
turned, but she was not in the dance ; I sought her
in the gay circle of her companions, but I found her
not. Her eye sparkled not there the music of her voice
was silent she rejoiced on earth no more. I saw a train,
sable and slow-paced, who bore sadly to an opened grave
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 463
what once was animated and beautiful. They paused as
they approached, and a voice broke the awful silence :
" Mingle ashes with ashes, and dust with its original dust.
To the earth, whence Jt was taken, consign we the body
of our sister." They covered her with the damp soil and
the cold clods of the valley ; and the worms crowded into
her silent abode. Yet one sad mourner lingered, to cast
himself upon the grave ; and as he wept he said, " There is
no beauty, or grace, or loveliness, that continueth in man ;
for this is the end of all his glory and perfection."
I have seen an infant with a fair brow, and a frame like
polished ivory. Its limbs were pliant in its sports ; it re-
joiced, and again it wept ; but whether its glowing cheek
dimpled with smiles, or its blue eye was brilliant with
tears, still I said to my heart, " It is beautiful." It was
like the first pure blossom, which some cherished plant has
shot forth, whose cup is filled with a dew-drop, and whose
head reclines upon its parent stem.
I again saw this child when the lamp of reason first
dawned in its mind. Its soul was gentle and peaceful ; its
eye sparkled with joy, as it looked round on this good and
pleasant world. It ran swiftly in the ways of knowledge ;
it bowed its ear to instruction ; it stood like a lamb before
its teachers. It was not proud, or envious, or stubborn ; and
it had never heard of the vices and vanities of the world.
And when I looked upon it, I remembered that our Saviour
had said, " Except ye become as little children, ye cannot
enter into the' kingdom of heaven."
But the scene was changed, and I saw a man whom the
world called honourable, and many waited for his smile.
They pointed out the fields that were his, and talked of
the silver and gold that he had gathered ; they admired
the staleliness of his domes, and extolled the honour of
his family. And his heart answered secretly, " By my
wisdom have I gotten all this ;" so he returned no thanks
to God, neither did he fear or serve him. And as I passed
along, I heard the complaints of the labourers who had reap-
ed down his fields, and the cries of the poor, whose covering
he had taken away ; but the sound of feasting and revelry
was in his apartments, and the unfed beggar came totter-
ing from his door. But he considered not that the cries
464 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PKOSE.
of the oppressed were continually entering into the ears
of the Most High. And when I knew that this man was
once the teachable child that I had loved, the beautiful
infant that I had gazed upon with delight, I said in my
bitterness, " I have seen an end of all perfection ;" and I
laid my mouth in the dust.
Neatness. DENNIE.
" Let thy garments be always white, and let thy bead lack no
ornament."
THOUGH much occupied in preaching, and noted, as
some of my friends say, for a certain poetical heedlessness
of character, yet, at least every Sunday, if not oftener, I
copy the common custom, and invest my little person in
clean array. As, from a variety of motives, and none of
them, I hope, bad ones, I go with some degree of con-
stancy to church, I choose to appear there decently and
in order. However inattentive through the week, on that
solemn day I brush with more than ordinary pains my best
coat, am watchful of the purity of my linen, and adjust
my cravat with an old bachelor's nicety.
While I was lately busied at my toilet in the work of
personal decoration, it popped into my head that a sermon in
praise of neatness would do good service, if not to the world
at large, at least to many of my reading, writing and think-
ing brethren, who make their assiduous homage to mind a
pretext for negligence of person.
Among the minor virtues, cleanliness ought to be con-
spicuously ranked ; and in the common topics of praise we
generally arrange some commendation of neatness. It
involves much. It supposes a love of order, and attention
to the laws of custom, and a decent pride. My lord Bacon
says, that a good person is a perpetual letter of recommen-
dation. This idea may be extended. Of a well dressed man
it may be affirmed, that he has a sure passport through the
realms of civility. In first interviews we can judge of no
one except from appearances. He, therefore, whose ex-
terior is agreeable, begins well in any society. Men and
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 465
women are disposed to augur favourably rather than other-
wise of him who manifests, by the purity and propriety of
his garb, a disposition to comply and to please. As in
rhetoric a judicious exordium is of admirable use to ren-
der an audience docile, attentive and benevolent, so, at
our introduction into good company, clean and modish
apparel is at least a serviceable herald of our exertions,
though an humble one.
As these are very obvious truths, and as literary men
are generally vain, and sometimes proud, it is singular
that one of the easiest modes- of gratifying self-compla-
cency should by them be, for the most part, neglected ; and
that this sort of carelessness is so adhesive to one tribe of
writers, that the words poet and sloven are regarded as
synonymous in the world's vocabulary.
This negligence in men of letters sometimes arises from
their inordinate application to books and papers, and may
be palliated, by a good-natured man, as the natural pro-
duct of a mind too intensely engaged in sublime specula-
tions, to attend to the blackness of a shoe or the whiteness
of a ruffle. Mr. Locke and Sir Isaac Newton might be
forgiven by their candid contemporaries, though the first
had composed his Essay with unwashen hands, and the
second had investigated the laws of nature when he was
clad in a soiled night-gown. But slovenliness is often
affected by authors, or rather pretenders to authorship,
and must then be considered as highly culpable ; as an
outrage of decorum ; as a defiance to the world ; as a
pitiful scheme to attract notice, by means which are equal-
ly in the power of the drayman and the chimney sweeper.
I know a poet of this description, who anticipates renown
no less from a dirty shirt than from an elegant couplet, and
imagines that, when his appearance is the most sordid, the
world must conclude, of course, that his mind is splendid
and fair. In his opinion " marvellous foul linen" is a
token of wit, and inky fingers indicate humour ; he avers
that a slouched hat is demonstrative of a well stored brain,
and that genius always trudges about in unbuckled shoes.
He looks for invention in rumpled ruffles, and finds high-
sounding poetry among the folds of a loose stocking.
466 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
Slovenliness, so far from being commendable in an
author, is more inexcusable in men of letters than in many
others, the nature of whose employment compels them to
be conversant with objects sordid and impure. A smith
from his forge, or a husbandman from his field, is obliged
sometimes to appear stained with the smut of the one or
the dust of the other. A writer, on the contrary, sitting
in an easy chair at a polished desk, and leaning on white
paper, or examining the pages of a book, is by no means
obliged to be soiled by his labours. I see no reason why
an author should not be a gentleman ; or at least as clean
and neat as a Quaker. Far from thinking that filthy dress
marks a liberal mind, I should suspect the good sense
and talents of him, who affected to wear a tattered coat as
the badge of his profession. Should I see a reputed
genius totally regardless of his person, I should immedi-
ately doubt the delicacy of his taste and the accuracy of his
judgment. I should conclude there was some obliquity
in his mind a dull sense of decorum, and a disregard of
order. I should fancy that he consorted with low society ;
and, instead of claiming the privilege of genius to knock
and be admitted at palaces, that he chose to sneak in at the
back door of hovels, and wallow brutishly in the sty of the
vulgar.
The orientals are careful of their persons with much
care. Their frequent ablutions and change of garments
are noticed in every page of their history. My text is
not the only precept of neatness, that can be quoted from
the Bible. The wise men of the east supposed there was
some analogy between the purity of the body and that
of the mind ; nor is this a vain imagination.
I cannot conclude this sermon better than by an extract
from the works of Count Rumford, who, in few and strong
words, has fortified my doctrine :
" With what care and attention do the feathered race
wash themselves, and put their plumage in order! and how
perfectly neat, clean, and elegant, do they ever appear !
Among the beasts of the field, we find that those which
are the most cleanly are generally the most gay and
cheerful, or are distinguished by a certain air of tran-
quillity and contentment ; and singing birds ore always
COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 467
remarkable for the neatness of their plumage. So great is
the effect of cleanliness upon man, that it extends even to
his moral character. Virtue never dwelt long with filth ;
nor do I believe there ever was a person scrupulously
attentive to cleanliness, who was a consummate villain."
Description of King's College Chapel. SILLIMAN.
THE chapel of King's College is allowed to be the most
perfect and magnificent monument of Gothic architecture
in the world. Its dimensions are length, three hundred
and sixteen feet ; breadth, eighty-four feet ; height of the
top of the battlements, ninety feet ; to the top of the pin-
nacles, one hundred and one feet ; to the top of the corner
towers, one hundred forty-six and a half feet. The inside
dimensions are length, two hundred and ninety-one feet ;
breadth, forty-five and a half feet; height, seventy-eight.
It is all in one room, and the roof is arched with massy
stone ; the key stones of the arch weigh each a ton 4
and there is neither brace, beam, nor prop of any kind,
to support the roof, all the stones of which are of enor-
mous magnitude. Modern architects, and Sir Christopher
Wren among the number, have beheld this roof with
astonishment, and have despaired of imitating it. It is
reported of Sir Christopher, that he used to say, he would
engage to build such an arch, if any one would but show
him where to place the first stone.
When you realize the magnitude of this room, the roof
of which is sustained entirely by the walls, buttresses and
towers, you will say that it is a wonderful monument of
human skill and power. The interior is finished in the
very finest style of Gothic architecture. The roof is fret-
ted with many curious devices raised on the stones, and
the walls are adorned with massy sculpture, where the
figures appear as if growing to the solid structure of the
building; for, while they project into the room on one
side, they remain on the other joined by their natural con-
nexion with the stones from which they were originally
carved. The windows are superbly painted, and the sub-
468 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.
jects are principally from Scripture history. The panes
of glass are separated only by very narrow frames, and the
figures painted upon them often extend over a great many
panes, without any regard to the divisions : it often hap-
pens, therefore, that the figures are as large as the life,
and they are always so large as to be distinct at a con-
siderable distance. The windows in Gothic structures arc
commonly covered, in a great measure, with fine painting,
the colours of which are extremely vivid and beautiful.
You can easily conceive, therefore, that, on entering a
Gothic church, the eye must be immediately arrested and
engrossed by these splendid images : they are rendered
very conspicuous by the partial transmission of the light,
which they soften and diversify, without impairing it so
much as to produce obscurity, while, at the same time,
they give the interior of the building an unrivalled air of
solemnity and grandeur.
When the spectator retires to one end of the chapel of
which I am speaking, and casts his eyes along its beauti-
ful pavements, tessellated with black and white marble,
' along its roof, impending with a mountain's weight, and
along the stupendous columns which support the arch,
surveying at the same time the gorgeous transparencies
which veil the glass, he is involuntarily filled with awe
and astonishment.
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