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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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