STl: 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BEQUEST 
 
 OF 
 
 STEWART HENRY BURNHAM. 
 1943 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 1109.F46 1879 
 
 The scrap-bookxonaiBtIng of tales and a 
 
 3 1924 013 279 975 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tiiis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013279975 
 
THE 
 
 SCRAP-BOOK: 
 
 CONSISTINO OF 
 
 TALES AND ANECDOTES, 
 
 ISingwpliinil, liatnrital, l^tttrintir, jOSnritl. -EiliginM. oi^ 
 ItntiniBntitl Mim, 
 
 IN PROSE AND POETRY. 
 
 COMPILED BY WILLIAM FIELIIS. 
 
 FITTH EDITION— BBTtSEO ADD IMPBOrMllL 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, 
 
 624, 626 & 628 MARKET STREET. 
 
 1879. 
 
 N.TIBBALS & SONS, 
 NEW and OLDB.:OKS, 
 ^PARKBOW. NawYorIc 
 1 
 
Kntored acoorAin^ to the act of Congresa, in tlie year i8»i, Vf 
 
 WILLIAM PIELDS, 
 
 h. ihe Clerk's OSce of the District Ci-iut of the Cnited States fi>r tlw IVjtnH of Texas. 
 
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 The rapid sale of the first edition of the Scrap-book, and 
 the great demand for the work after that edition was exhausted, 
 has induced the compiler to offer the public another edition, re- 
 yised, re-arranged, and greatly improved. It is again sent forth, 
 with an earnest desire that it may be deemed to merit, and with 
 some confidence that it will meet, the favourable consideration 
 of the American reader. This confidence arises mainly from 
 the very flattering reception heretofore given, the work, and the 
 belief that the improvement in the volume now offered, both as 
 respects reading-matter and mechanical execution, will be appa- 
 rent to all. 
 
 Considerable light reading, which appeared in the former 
 edition, has been left out of this one, and many valuable articles, 
 such as were considered likely not only to be read with interest, 
 but calculated to effect the greatesi; good, huve taken its place. 
 The exciting times through which our country has lately passed 
 have been prolific in eloquent appeals in favour of preserving 
 our happy system of government, — our glorious Union ; several 
 of these we have preserved and inserted, supposing no more 
 interesting theme could be presented to the real lover of his 
 sountry. 
 
 Our pages are also adorned with many poetic pieces of thrill- 
 ing interest. ^^ My Some is the World," — " Our Whole Gown- 
 
 8 
 
i PKEFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 (ry" — iiWhat is that, Mother," — '^Love's Immortal Wreath," — 
 "To my Mother," — "The Texas Banger," — "Qalifornia," &c., 
 are gems of unsurpassed beauty. 
 
 Various notices in commendation of the Scrap-book, on its 
 first appearance, might be given ; but it is not considered neces- 
 sary, and is, perhaps, not proper. It has been termed " a look 
 of elegant extracts," and such indeed it is, for we have endea- 
 voured to preserve the essence of all the good things we have 
 read for many years of our life. 
 
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 The Toluntary effusions of genius are often marked by a vigour 
 and raciness that do not belong to more formal productions; It 
 would be out of place here, to investigate the cause of this, which 
 indeed is apparent on the slightest reflection. It has been our 
 object, in this publication, to rescue from oblivion, or at least to 
 imbody in a form suitable for preservation, those gems of our 
 occasional literature which it seemed to us desirable should not 
 be forgotten. Many of the pieces contained in these pages will 
 be found to possess an historical interest that entitles them to a 
 better fate than usually awaits the ephemeral channels through 
 which their authors modestly thought fit to communicate them to 
 the public. The great drama of human life is filled with scenes 
 and with characters which, though deemed too unimportant to 
 figure in the grave pages of history, nevertheless possess a most 
 vivid interest in their day, and never cease to command the sym- 
 pathies of men, however remote in place or time. How many 
 persons and events must be brought upon the theatre by the rude 
 conflict of wars, that history does not, and cannot preserve ! Our 
 two contests with Great Britain were as fertile in these as any of 
 the unhappy disputes that have afflicted mankind. These form 
 what is Called the romance of history ; and, when drawn by the 
 actors themselves, are scarcely less valuable, certainly not less 
 interesting than those affairs which have had appropriated to them 
 the name of History. What can be more moving than to behold 
 how the happiness of individuals and families, to preserve which 
 is the business and end of government, is affected by the fierce 
 collisions of masses ? Indeed, nothing serves so well to distin- 
 guish an age or a period, as pictures of private life, drawn as it 
 18 influenced by public affairs. Many of these are preserved in 
 this volume ; and besides, here will be found several accounts of 
 important battles, written by actors in them, or by those to whom 
 a2 • 5 , 
 
5 PREFACE. 
 
 actors coH-mun'cated the facts, with a force and animation that 
 belong alone to the writings of participants in the scenes described. 
 
 The pieces from Salathiel, though fancy sketches, have, never- 
 theless, a title to be considered as faithful historical pictures, such 
 as a writer of vivid imagination might be supposed to conceive on 
 b«holding the canvas of a powerful painter. 
 
 We have preserved many tales, several of which are of sur- 
 passing interest. That of Lafitte, the Pirate, may challenge 
 comparison with any that this or any other country has produced. 
 Its main incidents are believed to be facts ; and the kind of life 
 and adventure it portrays are by no means to be looked upon as 
 the creatioaa of fancy, but as consequences of the mad persecu- 
 tions with which the ambition of great nations makes them afflict 
 ■each other. Bands of pirates and robbers seldom make their 
 appearan<;e in peaceable times, but are necessarily produced by 
 the unsettling of all the usual occupations of men, occasioned by 
 public commotions. Should unhallowed ambition ever sever the 
 bands of the happy union which binds Americans together as a 
 family of brothers, our country is destined to witness fiercer depre- 
 dations of this kind than are unfolded in the pages of Mate Far- 
 lane. However dissimilar, then, th« pieces may be, he who reads 
 with an observing spirit, will suffer the vivid strokes in th-e pic- 
 ■ture of Lafitte to heighten the value of the eloquent strains in 
 favour of our Unifln from the patriots whose speeches, on th« late 
 crisis in our public affairs, our pages contain. 
 
 Such, however, is the variety of our work, that it would be 
 jinpossible to particularize all that it contains ; but we may be 
 permitted to observe, that while we have endeavoured to consHlt 
 the prepossessions of every class of readers, we do not wish our 
 work to be considered a vain attempt to please fastidious tastes, 
 but as a monument that we have feebly attempted to erect to the 
 memory of those American writers, who, though they have written 
 little, have written that little well. Of one thing we feel sure, 
 ■that if our Miscellany should pass dsown the stream of time to a 
 •remote period, the historian of our Literature will acknowledge 
 his obligations to us for the .preservation of these first traces of 
 its dawn. • 
 
THE SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 LAFITTE, THE BAKATARIAN CHIEF. 
 
 A. TALE FOUNDED ON FACT. 
 
 " P The man is a fool who surrenders himself to such unmanly) such iroitacish 
 weakn 3ss. 
 
 " Z. Hast thou ever loved 7 
 
 ••P. Never. 
 
 " L. Then confine thy reproaches . to subjects thou canst understand. The oak 
 which has bowed to the blast may again become erect and majestic; the country which 
 the earthquake has desolated may again become verdant and beautiful; but the heBTl 
 whose finest feelings have been chiUed by the icy hand of misfortune ; whose fondest 
 hopes have been destroyed in their bud, never recovers from the shock, but remains 
 leafless, ruinous, desolate, and forsaken." Old Play. 
 
 " Mat I never see the white cliffs of old England again, if I am not 
 heartily glad to escape from this horrid hole !" cried, or rather muttered 
 a weather-beaten, rough, hardy-looking seaman, as we seated ourselves 
 - under the awning of the steamboat which was to convey us, with several 
 , other passengers, from the city of New Orleans, to vessels which were 
 waiting for us at the English Turn. " I am an Englishman," continued 
 he, " and I care not who knows it — there is my home, and if I set my 
 foot on that dear shore again, let me go' to Davy's lobker if they again 
 catch me in this land of Frenchmen and Mulattoes, Spaniards and In- 
 dians, Creoles and Negroes, and the cursed, quarrelsome Americans, too : 
 — ^if you look squint at them, you are on your beam-ends in a moment ; 
 tread on their toes, bang's the word, and daylight shines through you." 
 
 As the honest tar appeared to be in a talkative mood, I determined to 
 indulge his loquacity, and replied, " My good fellow, you appear to be 
 quite out of humour to-day. I should conclude that you must have been 
 shamefully misused. I have lived several months among these same 
 Americans, and have no cause to complain of any ill-treatment whatever." 
 
 " Several months !" echoed he, with an air of astonishment ; " why, I 
 had not been in port two days before I happened to tell a Kentuckian 
 he lied, (and, by my soul, he did,) when he gave me a broadside which 
 stove in my lights, and before I could muster to quarters, I was fairly 
 carried by boarding — damn him ! but it was the first time that Anson 
 Humber was obliged to strike his colour^ to a land-lubber." 
 
 " I admit," I 'replied, " that these iKcntuckians are not the most polite 
 
 7 
 
8 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 people ii; the world ; but if you keep on the right side of them, you 
 will find friends till the last moment." 
 
 " May I dangle from the yard-arm this minute," cried the irritated 
 sailor, " if I was ever able to tell the larboard from the starboard side 
 of these fresh-water lobsters ; wear your ship which way you will, they 
 always strike across the beam, and are ready for raking or boarding — 
 and by Nelson's right arm, (peace to his memory !) I had rather ship the 
 heaviest wave of the Atlantic than have one of these madmen to deal with." 
 
 "Perhaps," I replied, "you ought to blame yourself for some of the 
 treatment of which you complain ; you know, when John Bull gets 
 plenty of corn in his garret, he is apt to be proud and dictatorial." 
 
 " Likely enough," said he ; " you know, too, when a sailor gets his 
 ' three sheets spread to the wind,' he fears neither God, man, nor the 
 devil ; all seas are clear, and he cares for neither shores, rocks, nor quick- 
 sands. But what's the reason you have escaped so well ? It must be 
 because you are a gentleman : no, that can't be the cause either, for 
 here gentlemen shoot one another for sport." 
 
 " But that," I answered, " is a kind of sport which I should not like ; 
 and the simple reason why I think there is no difficulty, is, because I 
 have attended to my own affairs." 
 
 " Perhaps so," he replied. " Yesterday morning, I got up early, and 
 took a tour up the river on — what d'ye call it — the lever, lev-lev — hang 
 it, let the name go." 
 
 " The Levee, my good friend, you mean." 
 
 " Yes, that's it — on the Levee — where I saw a boat's crew anchor a 
 wagon and approach the spot where, like a rat in the hold, I was snugly 
 hid behind some orange-trees. A couple of them took their stations in 
 line, and I perceived, that as soon as they could bring their guns to bear, 
 there was likely to he some bloodshed. Good, thought I ; if you will 
 kill each other, the more the merrier. An attempt was made to induce 
 one of them to strike his colours, but they were nailed to the mast, and ' 
 could not be taken down. The battle commenced and the first broadside 
 told well. One was damaged in the rigging, but the other went down 
 to the bottom completely blood-logged." 
 
 " That was a curious affair, indeed ; what became of the rest of the 
 party?" I asked. 
 
 " Why, they made all sail for the city, and as soon as they were out 
 of sight, I steered for the same port, and soon found myself safely lodged 
 in my old berth," was his answer. 
 
 Diiring the latter part of the conversation, a person, whom I had not 
 noticed before, attracted my attention ; his countenance, when I was 
 able to catch a glimpse of it, under the large hat, with its nodding 
 plume, which covered his head and was pulled down with an evident 
 intention of concealment, betrayed considerable agitation; and while 
 Anson was describing, with the carelessness and volubility of an old 
 peaman, the fatal duel he had that morning witnessed, he arose from his 
 scat, and with hasty and irregular movements paced the deck, but main- 
 •ained a steady and total silence. His form was not of that robust and 
 masculine kind which denotes strength purely mechanical, but thors was 
 
LAFITTB, THE BARATARIXN CHIEF. 9 
 
 a firmness in his step, a lightness in his movements, and an ease and 
 {.'I'aoefulness in his carriage, which indicated strength, quickness, and de- 
 cision. He was well dressed, and at his side hung a sabre of the most 
 formidable dimensions; a pair of pistols showed themselves fi;om his 
 belt ; but as at this place all went armed, his appearance in this respect 
 would not excite remark. His complexion had evidently once been fair, 
 but a southern sun had browned his cheeks till few lines were left of 
 that roseate hue, which, from the traces visible where his curling hair 
 had shaded his temples, it was evident had once predominated. His 
 features were femininely regular ; his forehead high and proudly arched, 
 while beneath his eyebrows, black and waving, shone a pair of eyes, 
 which, when agitated, appeared to flash lightning, and at a glance pene- 
 trate the secret recesses of the heart. I confess I trembled involuntarily 
 when my eyes met his, as he started to his feet, when Anson described 
 his position during the duel. Brown as was his complexion, an instant 
 flush passed over his countenance, and he placed his hand on the hilt 
 of the sabre in a manner which showed he was accustomed to its use. 
 It was, however, as instantly dropped to his side, and he resumed his 
 former position with as much indifference as. though nothing had occur- 
 red. A pair of whiskers of the most enormous size shaded his cheeks, • 
 and really met under his chin, proving the service to which he was at- 
 tached, and completed the outline of the person who had so strongly 
 engaged my attention, and who exhibited an appearance of coolness, 
 daring, and intrepidity, which I had never before witnessed. / 
 
 While I was surveying this person, Anson, undisturbed by my inat 
 tention, had continued his chatter, and it was not until I heard the word. 
 pirate, that I was roused from my revery. 
 
 " What is that about pirates ?" I inquired ; " was any thing said about 
 them in the city ?" 
 
 " Nothing," said Anson, " but that there are some of the sharks oft' 
 the river ; and I heard one fellow swear roundly that he yesterday saw . 
 the piratical chief." 
 
 " Why," I replied, " did he not lodge an information against him,_ 
 and let him receive the punishment due such a crime ?" 
 
 "Ah! that's the very question I asked the fellow myself," answered' 
 An^on, " and offered, besides, to assist in securing him, and taking him , 
 to the yard-arm, if necessary; but the fellow said it would be as much; 
 as his head was worth to think of any such thing; besides, he might, 
 want a favour himself in that line some day or other, and it was best ■ 
 not to meddle with other folks' matters." 
 
 " Well, Anson," said I, " if they meddle with us, we must pay them , 
 in their own coin ; and it will not be your fault, I presume, if they do 
 not receive change to the full amount." , 
 
 " No, it will not — but they said," continued Anson, " that the chief 
 of the gang killed a man yesterday, because he recog-recog-recognised,^! , 
 think they called it — and charged the fellow with being the robber, of 
 .lis vessel and cargo. I do not mean he stabbed him in the dark, as a 
 tSpaniard or Frenchman would, but he told him it was false : so tbijyv,, 
 fchot at one another like gentlemen." 
 
iO FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 The ^tranger again rose from bis seat and walked across the deck, but 
 remained silent. By this time, Anson had talked himself out of breath, 
 and concluded to take a bit of a nap on the deck; and as the stranger 
 appeared to shun observation, and showed no disposition to converse, we 
 dropped down the river in silence. 
 
 Evening found us on board the fine stout brig Cleopatra, laden with 
 indigo, cochineal, and a quantity of specie. She was a British vessel, 
 just arrived from Santa Cruz, and employed as a cartel in exchanging 
 some prisoners, by direction of the commanding oflScer on the West 
 India station. From New Orleans she was to proceed to New York, and 
 I gladly availed myself of the opportunity offered to visit my native 
 region, from which business and war had so long kept me. The stranger, 
 on parting with us as we went on board the Cleopatra, bade us adieu with 
 the manners of a gentleman, and, while Anson Humbei; was cursing 
 some of the rigging which had been procured at New Orleans, as a mere 
 Yankee contrivance, he, in a half-suppressed tone of voice, whispered,. 
 " There are rovers on the deep ; should difficulty overtake you, remem- 
 ber Lafitte." As he pronounced these words, he leaped into a small boat 
 which floated alongside the steamboat in which we had descended the 
 river, and, amidst the darkness of the evening, was soon out of sight 
 among the craft which almost covered the surface of the waters. 
 
 " By the powers !" exclaimed Anson, who had caught the tones of 
 the stranger's voice, low as they were uttered, " that is the very man 
 who killed the other up the Levee yesterday morning : ah ! I smell 
 another rat, too; he is the pirate himself," continued Anson, with a kind 
 of shudder — " my head does not feel half so safely seated on my shoul- 
 ders as it did ten minutes ago ; but can we not overhaul him ? I should 
 like to lay alongside of him, well armed as he is." 
 
 " If you should, Anson, brave as you are, it is my opinion you would 
 find yourself in a more disagreeable predicament than when you were 
 boarded by a Kentuckian. If, however, we meet with apirate, we need 
 fear nothing. A dozen such fellows as you are might enable ua to bid 
 defiance to old Neptune himself" " You are right, sir," replied the 
 sailor, " while that flutters,^' (pointing to the colours which streamed 
 gayly in the wind,) " I will insure the safety of the Cleopatra. But I 
 am so sleepy, that if the vessel was striking on breakers, or pirates were 
 boarding, I could hardly keep awake." So saying, he stowed himself 
 in his hammock, and in a few minutes nothing was to be heard but the 
 waves of the Mississippi as they dashed dgainst the vessel, the measured 
 pace of the sentinel as he traversed the quarter-deck, or the heavy 
 breathing of those of the crew, who, after a hard day's labour, were re- 
 freshing themselves in the sweet embraces of sleep. 
 
 I too thraw myself on mj bed, but not to sleep. A thousaad cir- 
 cumstances united to interest my mind and keep me wakeful. I was 
 •about to return to the land of my fathers, the home of my childhood. 
 Home ! that endearing word 1 — what tender recollections crowd upon 
 .'he mind/ when ten thousand charms of that delightful place present 
 themselves in all their sweetness and freshness. Long as I had been 
 • t'jparated from my native State — lon^ as I had traversed the various re- 
 
LAJITTE, THE .BARATARIAN CHIEF, 11 
 
 gions of the gloDc- -long as it had been since half the wide world had 
 interposed between me aod the place where I had first tasted the plea- 
 sures and pains of life, I had not forgotten a sin^e scene arotiiid w^ch 
 memory lingered with snoh interest. The Tillage spire, which threw 
 its s'hadow over the greeii, where with the companioiis of my boyhood 
 we wrestled, jumped, laughed, ran, and sported, while the ball flew rapidly 
 round the circle — the gloomy churchyard, which, when a 'truant boy, 1 
 had so often shudderingly passed, when the pale moon glimmered athwart 
 the marbles which crowded the sacred enclosure, and, to my affrighted' 
 imagination, appeared to people the dreary place with the tenants ,of 
 that world from which no traveller returns — the hills I had often climbed 
 — the green valleys I had often crossed — ^the mountains among which I 
 had so often roved in pursuit of such game as they afforded, all passed: 
 in review ; and I even thought with rapture on the huge rock which was 
 shaded with the branches of my favourite walnut-tree, and where, happy 
 as the squirrel which barked over my head, I had spent many an hour, 
 cracking the nuts which every wind made to rattle down around- me. 
 
 The various countries and scenes through which I had patised sinoe- 
 I first became a wanderer from the land of my childhood, now that my 
 imagination pictured those wanderings as drawing to a close, rose in all 
 their various shades before me, and the pains and pleasures of my. 
 peregrinations were again presented in bold relief by the powerful effect 
 of memory. Over the civilized plains of Europe and the semi-barbarous 
 regions of Asia I had roved. I had seen the aurora borealis dance over 
 the regions of eternal frost — the sun in vain attempt to dissolve the 
 chains which an Arctic winter had formed — and I had felt its fervid 
 heat where equinoctial skies shed their debilitating and perni^ous 
 influence. I had traversed the plains of Orinoco, and the banks of the 
 La Plata : I had climbed the Cordilleras, and, with the enthusiasm of 
 youth, beheld the setting sun gild those bright isles of the Pacific, 
 which are sprinkled in such profusion over the surface of its broad blue 
 waters, and whose inhabitants are as guileless and unsuspecting as their 
 skies are bright and cloudless. I had seen the St. Lawrence rolling 
 its majestic stream, collected from a thousand lakes, to the ocean — and 
 I was then floating on the bosom of the father of the rivers, which, 
 rising among the frozen lakes and interminable forests of the north, 
 discharges its turbid waters into the Mexican Gulf, amid the orange- 
 groves and sugar-plantations of the South ; while, after years of absence 
 had elapsed, I was about to visit the parental roof, with the intention of 
 bringing my wanderings to a close, and spending the remainder of my 
 days in quiet contentment and peaceful happiness. Nor was my inter- ^ 
 view with the stranger of such mysterious character and appearanco 
 forgotten. His apparent connection with the pirates, who, if report 
 stated correctly, frequented the islands which lie off the Mississippi, and 
 whose inhuman atrocities formed a common topic of conversation al 
 New Orleans, I felt to be ominous of the result of our voyage ; and 
 although his words afforded a ray of hope to me, I wished I had unt 
 seen him. 
 
 Such were my feelings, as I in vain wooed the ^od of sle^ i'Or a 
 
12 FIELDS'S SCKAP-BOOK. 
 
 temporary oblmon to my perturbed ideas ; and it was not antil the watoli 
 had been changed the last time that I fell asleep, from which I did not 
 wake in the morning until the vessel was already several miles on her' 
 voyage. When I went upon deck, the vessel was floating along the 
 current between the high woods which covered both banks of the river. 
 Scarcely a breath of wind was to be felt — the sails hung idly against 
 the mast, and Ve depended on the current alone to speed us to the ocean. 
 
 If ever there was a country over which the genius of desolation 
 might be said to hold undisputed dominion, it is the region around the 
 mouth of the Mississippi. Below Plaquemines it is one dreary and deso- 
 late marsh, covered with cane and reeds, and sinking gradually to the 
 dead level of the Grulf. For miles before we reached the mouth of the 
 river, the sea could be distinctly seen from the masthead, stretching 
 away on each side of the point of land formed by the continual deposi- 
 tions of this mighty stream. Subject to overflow by the rise of the 
 lyiississippi or the inundations of the Gulf, and frequently submerged to 
 the depth of six or eight feet by the autumnal tornadoes, no animals are 
 to be seen ; and the cormorant, as he wings his lonely way along these 
 dreary shores, finds a precious resting-place on the banks of sand-shells 
 which the continual breaking of the waves has raised around these pes- 
 tilential marshes. 
 
 At last, the bar was passed, and we found ourselves on the broad 
 bosom of the Gulf. The sailors, delighted with the prosperous com- 
 mencement of the voyage, were all mirth and glee, and while the sails 
 were filled with breezes which were hurrying us as- we fondly imagined 
 to New York, our port of destination, the can of grog circulated freely, 
 and mirth and dance and song swept the hours rapidly away. 
 
 Our captain was an able officer, in whom we could repose the utmost 
 confidence— the subalterns were experienced and attentive — the crew 
 consisted of eleven hardy, rough sons of the ocean, making in all, includ- 
 ing myself and two other passengers, about twenty souls on board. 
 The vessel was a new stout ship, merchant rigged, but mounting six 
 guns and well provided with arms and ammunition, and all the necessary 
 implements of oifensive and defensive war. — The day passed away, and 
 it was not until the forenoon of the second day after leaving the river, 
 that any thing occurred to vary the dull monotony of a sea-voyage. 
 I was sitting in my cabin, arranging some packages of papers, &o., when 
 I was roused by an unusual uproar on the deck, and the boatswain's 
 shrill whistle calling all hands to quarters. I speedily deposited in their 
 trunks the papers I was reviewing, and hastened to the deck — before I 
 reached which, however, I heard severa.1 guns fired. 
 
 The cause of alarm was a vessel of suspicious appearance, which had 
 been bearing down for some time, apparently with the intention of 
 crossing the Cleopatra's course, and though the British colors were at 
 the mast, (and they were within hail,) -they neglected to answer the 
 repeated call of Captain Bowden, who at last ordered a gun to be fired 
 over them. To this no attention was paid — few men were to be seen 
 on deck — and tlie vessel continued her course in a manner ^hich indi- 
 cated an intention to lay the vessel immediately on hoard our ship, in 
 
LAFITTB, THE BAEATAEIAN CHIEF. IS 
 
 this moment, Captain Bowden bailed them and ordered them to ^eep off, 
 or he would fire upon them ; when the decks of the vessel were instantly 
 crowded with armed men, the British colours were hauled down and the 
 red flag displayed, and a heavy fire of musketry opened upon us from 
 the pirate, for such it was evident she was. The guns of the Cleopatra 
 could be brought to bear with admirable effect, and it was soon evident 
 that if they could be prevented from boarding us, the conflict would not 
 long remain doubtful. 
 
 " Three to one, my brave lads," cried Captain Bowden, as through his 
 glass he surveyed his assailants — " but were they five to one; we shall 
 soon make them count one to two — sweep their deck, boys ; we'll teach 
 the rascals to keep a respectful distance." Finding his attempt to boara 
 unavailing, the pirate hauled out of reach of our small arms, which had 
 done great execution among his crowded decks. The cessation of the 
 contest was however but momentary — our assailants returned to the 
 attack with fury, and, in spite of our exertions, succeeded in grappling 
 our vessel. His decks exhibited a motley assemblage of ferocious-look- 
 ing villains, black, white, and yellow, whose horrid imprecatious and 
 oaths were enough to appal the bravest heart, as, repulsed from bur 
 bulwarks in their attempts to board, it was only to renew the assault 
 with double desperation and rage. Several of our bravest fellows had 
 already fallen, when twenty or^ thirty of these tigers took advantage of a 
 swell of the sea which brought the vessels in contact, and sprang on board 
 the Cleopatra, sabre in hand. They were met by our crew with such vigour 
 that scarcely had a nfinute elapsed before their numbers were reduced 
 one half, and the remainder were wavering, when a fellow threw himself 
 on board from the piratical vessel, put himself at the head of the as- 
 sailants, and with shouts and imprecations urged his followers forward. 
 " Hell and furies !" he cried, " shall these few men escape in this way ? 
 Send them to perdition in a moment. Remember, all or nothing." Captaia. 
 Bowden threw himself before the pirate, and a combat of the most ob- 
 stinate kind ensued — terrific and desperate. A pause of some moments 
 ensued among the other combatants, who suspended the work of death 
 to witness a contest on which so much was depending. At last, British 
 valour rose triumphant, and the pirate dropped mortally wounded upon 
 the deck. 
 
 " Captain Bowden for ever !" shouted Anson, as the blood spouted from 
 the mouth of the marauder mixed with curses and execrations, while he 
 flew to finish the work of death upon the remainder. Anson's bravery 
 carried him so far that he was surrounded, and a blow was aimed at him 
 which would have speedily sent him to Davy's Locker, had not' a blow 
 from my sabre dropped the fellow's bead from his body, and his spouting 
 trunk fell lifeless to the deck. 
 
 " That fellow is anchored where he won't slip his cable these hundred 
 years," cried Anson, as he gave the head a kick, which sent it across the 
 deck ; " but never let me taste the roast-beef of old England again, if 
 I don't believe that you have wielded the sabre'before now." 
 
 "Very likely, my good fellow," I replied; "but before we +hink of 
 roas'--beef, we must rid the vessel of these villains." 
 B 
 
14 riELDS'S SCTRAP-BOOK. 
 
 "Have at the rascals, then V shouted Anson, as he thrust his sword to 
 *he hilt through the hody of a hnge negro, and before he had time tr 
 •Irop, seized him and threw him into the ocean. " The sharks may have 
 him %nd welcome, if they can stomach the black d«^ ; I won't have such 
 a stinking fellow on the Cleopatra's deck," said Anson, as the wave 
 splashed against the vessel from the negro's fall. Anson, however, bad 
 no time for soliloquizing, for he was confronted by a tall, weazel -faced 
 Frenchman, whose rapid thrusts and skijful manoeuvres it required all 
 his attention to meet. At last, thin as was the mark, Anson's sabre hit, 
 and the Frenchman fell. 
 
 " Cursed poor !" said Anson, as he placed his foot on the fallen foe 
 and extricated his weapon j " thin as your frog-soup — a fellow might 
 read the Assembly's Catechism through you." 
 
 At this instant, another vessel, which was within a few miles at the 
 commencement of the struggle, and which, as the firing commenced, had 
 approached us rapidly, now neared us suflSciently to enable us to dis- 
 cover, that, like the vessel with which we were already engaged, she was 
 a pirate. When she was within fifty yards of us, her crew gave a shout, 
 which was instantly echoed from our first assailants, and our decks were 
 again crowded with a motley crew of desperadoes. " There is but one 
 alternative," said Captain Bowden to me, " we must conquer or die. 
 Our situation is indeed desperate, but it cannot be so bad as to be hope- 
 less." So saying, he put himself at the liead of the few remaining, and 
 few indeed they were, for of the brave men who were so cheerful and 
 happy in the morning, but six or eight were left^ — the rest lay mixed 
 with the foes who were piled in slaughtered heaps around. Our charge 
 was murderous, and the screams of the wounded and groans of the dying 
 were heard above the dash of the waters, the din of the conflict, or the 
 shouts of the combatants. The tide was quickly turned, and the deck 
 ; was on the point of being speedily cleared, when a figure of tho most 
 athletic appearance, his face covered with blood from a sabre-wound in 
 his head, around which a handkerchief was tightly bound, and his 
 features distorted with rage, leaped from the deck of our first opponent, 
 and, with sabre in hand, rushed upon Captain Bowden. 
 
 " Curse on your cowardice !" cried he to his followers, " shall two 
 men drive you to the devil ? If you want the whole prize, fight ; if 
 not, wait till you are obliged to share it with Lafitte." The conflict was 
 terrible. As Anson endeavoured to parry a blow aimed at Captain Bow- 
 den, the bucanier, by a sudden wheel of his sabre, severed his shouldeis 
 from his body— I was covered with his blood — and giving a single 
 groan, he fell lifeless art my feet. 
 
 " Poor fellow, thou shalt not die unrevenged," I cried, and closed 
 with his murderer. 
 
 By a violent efibrt, and before he could save himself from my impe- 
 taous attack, I bald dashed him to the deck, and was on the point of 
 transfixing him with my sabre, when my feet, which were wet with 
 blood, slipped, and I fell upon my antagonist. He was too much in- 
 jured by the fall to be able to avail himself of the advantage my acci- 
 dent had given him.3 but I was instantly seized by a half-dozen of 
 
LAFITTE, THE BAKATAKIAN CHIEF 1/i 
 
 the pirates, and should have been speedily sacrificed, had not Captain Bow- 
 den thrown himself among them, and with his death-dealing sabre freed 
 me from their grasp. I was hardly on my feet before the cry, " They 
 iire boarding us on the starboard quarter I" was heard ) and I perceived 
 a fresh band of murderers were already on board. 
 
 f If we must die, Jet us sell our lives at as dear a rate as possible," 
 8"aid I to Captain Bowden ; and we rushed upon the gang who were pour- 
 ing upon the ' starboard quarter of the Cleopatra. Our swords soot 
 thinned their numbers, but we were weary with slaughter, and there 
 appeared no end to our toils. Four only of our crew were left, and we 
 felt that we must soon sink under the overwhelming force which was 
 pouring upon us from all sides. At that instant, a volley of tonsketry 
 killed every man of our crew, who had hitherto escaped to assist us in 
 stemming the torrent, and Captain Bowden and myself were surrounded 
 by wretches, whose yells, oaths, and imprecations made them more re- 
 semble demons than human beings. To prevent being placed in a situa- 
 tion where we could not keep our enemies at bay, we retreated, or were 
 rather carried by the crowd of assailants, to the comer of the veSsfel, 
 • where a pile of slain rose around us, and the deck was flooded with gore. 
 ! " Fools, to throw away your lives in this manner," shouted a stento- 
 rian voice, from a person who was seen struggling through the crowd of 
 assailants ; " give them the cold lead !" And this order was obeyed by 
 a volley of balls, which brought Captain Bowden to the deCk, while the 
 life-blood flowed in torrents from his numerous wounds. " Oh, my dear 
 wife and children ! Great God, protect them !" was all he could utter 
 before he was a lifeless corpse. The man who had given the order, and 
 who, from his commanding manner, appeared to be the chief of pirates, 
 had cleared his way through the assailants, and, with his dtawn sabre', 
 now confronted me. I rejoiced to see him, for his strength and tho 
 manner in which he wielded his instrument of death, cbnvinc^d me that, 
 if he conquered, my death could not be lingering^afid if he f^ll, I 
 should have the satisfaction of freeing the world of a monster. 
 
 The combat was obstinate : I fought with the hopelessness of despe- 
 ration, and pressed my assailant so closely, that he found himself unable 
 to resist the assault, when, by an unlucky blow, my sabre was snapped in 
 a dozen pieces, and I stood before him unarmed and defenceless. Baring 
 my bosom, I inwardly commended myself to ihy'Maker, and told him to 
 strike j but, tp my surprise, he dropped the point of his Weapon, and look- 
 ing me earnestly in the face, as he wiped the blood from his brbw, ex- 
 claimed — "Not when unarmed; brave men honour the bravfe^— you are 
 safe — remember Lafitte !" and I instantly recognised him as the person 
 who had so strongly attracted my attention while on our voyage from 
 New Orleans to the English Turn. 
 
 " Who is this, that preaches safety ?" exclaimed a voice half choaked 
 with rage, and in tones that made me shudder ; " may damnation seize 
 me, if he shall not atone with his blood for the murder of my brother I' 
 So saying, he fired a pistol, which would have shattered my brains, had 
 not I^fitte, by an instantaneous and dexterous movement of his sabre^ 
 thrown his pistol int^ the air when the assassin was in the act of firing;, 
 
16 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 by which means I was preserved, although I was so near that my face 
 was severely burnt by the discharge. 
 
 " Were it not, Laborde," said Lafitte, " that I apprehend the injury 
 on your head has made you raving, this act of rebellion to my authority 
 would be your last. But be careful how you tempt my forbearance 
 too far." 
 
 " Cowardly miscreant !" cried Laborde, " you think to rob me of my 
 yictim — but should hell, with all its legions arrayed against me, appear, I 
 would be revenged. This vessel is my prize ! this sabre shall keep posses- 
 sion, and this sabre shall revenge my brother." 
 
 " Touch but a hair of this man's head to injure him," answered La- 
 fitte, in a voice which showed he was accustomed to command, " and 
 your life shall answer for that crime." 
 
 " I care not for your threats — I bid defiance to your power ; this 
 fellow dies — nor shall heaven or hell prevent," cried Laborde, as he 
 flew at me with his sabre, but found his progress arrested by the her- 
 culean strength of Lafitte. " Here," said the latter, calling some of his 
 crew, " take this fellow, and secure him in his vessel till he becomes more 
 rational, and his rage has time to cool, or, by the powers above, he dies ! 
 — my authority shall not be trifled with." He was seized, and by main 
 strength dragged towards his ship, struggling and roaring like a mad 
 bull, when, by a sudden exertion, he freed his arms, plunged a dagger to 
 the heart of one of those who were endeavouring to secure him, and 
 before Lafitte, who was giving some orders about clearing the vessels, 
 was aware of his approach, he received a blow upon' his head, which 
 dropped him, stunned and senseless, to the deck. Lafitte's sabre flew from 
 his hand and fell at my feet, and ere Laborde could reach me, I wag 
 ready to receive him, as he rushed upon his devoted prey with the fury 
 of a tiger. 
 
 ^' Now, cursed wretch, thou shalt die ! — ^Lafitte himself cannot save 
 thee \" cried Laborde, his eyes flashing fire, his features distorted with 
 rage, and yelling like a maniac. His ungovernable rage threw him oflF 
 his guard, and as he made a desperate plunge at my breast, I parried 
 the blow ; his heart received the point of my weapon, and he fell life- 
 less upon the blood-covered deck. What would have been my fate from 
 the rest of these wretches, had not Lafitte at that moment recovered his 
 feet and stilled the commotion which was rising, is unknown. " Brave 
 fellows," said he, " in Laborde you behold the fate of him who dares to 
 disobey my orders — shun his example. Let these vessels be taken to 
 Barataria, and in them we shall find treasure equal to our utmost expecta- 
 tions, and which shall be equally shared by all." A shout of approba- 
 tion, and " Long live Lafitte \" rent the air. The decks were cleared of 
 the dead, who, as well as the badly wounded, were committed to the 
 waves ; and when the setting sun threw his last rays on the topmasts, of 
 the Cleopatra, we were in full sail for the Island of Barataria, which I 
 found was the rendezvous of the pirates who frequented the Gulf, and of 
 whom Lafitte was the acknowledged chief. 
 
 The Island of Barataria, at which we arrived on the day after the cap- 
 i.ure of the Cleopatra, is one of those low, sunken islands, or rather 
 
LAFITTS, tHK BARiTAEIAN CHIEF. 17 
 
 clusters of sand-bars, which are so numerous in the Gulf of Mexico, 
 hardly elevated above the reach of the equinoctial tornado, and, owing 
 to the drought and heat, sCafoely habitable for a considerable part of the 
 year. Here, after considerable difficulty from intricacies of navigation, 
 or unfskilfulness of the pilot, We found ourselves at anchor, and Lafitte, 
 accompanied by myself, immediately went on shore. A few groves of 
 orange-trees, scattered peach-trees, and luxuriant vines were to be seen, 
 which contrasted strongly with the few miserable huts which formed 
 the establishment of these outlaws of civilization — >this congregated 
 mass of refuse from every nation under heaven. Plunder, assassina- 
 tion, and murder were here legalized. Power formed the only law; 
 and every species of iniquity was here carried to an extent, of which 
 no person who had not witnessed a similar den of pollution could form 
 the most distant idea. In this place, which, as one of the pirates him- 
 self observed, " was a hell on earth, and well stocked with devils of all 
 ranks and degrees," were to be seen a few women, who vied with the 
 men in trampling on all deceticy and decorum, and whose language and 
 manners were a compound of all the vileriess and profanity which could 
 be collected from the wretches with whom' they associated.. If my first 
 impressions were unfavourable, subsequent observations did nothing to 
 remove them. The crews of the piratical vessels were landed — and 
 when a division had been made of the plunder, commenced a scene of 
 intoxication, gambling, quarrelling, and murder, which still chills my 
 blood to remember, and which the sabre of Lafitte was required soThe- 
 times to subdue. He alone seemed to possess any command over his 
 passions, and his voice was never heard among them in vain j while he 
 shared the danger equally with the meanest sailor, whatever plunder was • 
 acquired was divided among them with the most scrupulous exactness. His 
 influence over them was great, and their confidence in him unbounded. 
 
 Nearly three weeks passed away, and although I suffered at no time ■ 
 any contumely or insults from the pirates, and Lafitte always treated me 
 in the most respectful manner, frequently requesting me to give myself 
 no uneasiness, as, for whatever loss in property I might have sustained • 
 on board the Cleopatra, I should receive ample compensation, still I felt.- 
 my situation irksome in the extreme. My anxiety was observed by Lafitte. . 
 
 " I see," said'te, " you are anxious to leave us. I do not wish to de- 
 tain you, for such company cannot be agreeable. Be patient a few days' 
 longer, and I will enable you to depart in safety. Would to heaven I 
 could accompany you !" " And why can you not ?" I asked ; " what.. 
 should make you hesitate ? Such a life as this — one unvarying round 
 of danger, fatigue, and crime, surely can possess no charms to a man 
 whose very actions prove that he was born to a nobler, a better fate." 
 
 " How," said he, " can the notorious Lafitte, the chief of pirates, the 
 "Offlmander of outlaws, the companion of murderers, the man whose 
 very name carries terror from Oarthagena to Havana, mix in the society! 
 of civilized men ? Would the laws be silent ? Would not the swofd'i 
 of justice leap from its scabbard at the very mention of my name ? ■ 
 And these men, these pestilential humours in the body politic, is thertf'- 
 uot quite as much hope that justice will be done them, when collected.! 
 
IS FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 in one mass, as when scattered abroad, to pollute the fountains of society, 
 and spread their poisonous influence through the streams of social com- 
 pact and order ? As to this mode of living, it is the danger alone that 
 furnishes to me its only charms ; it is not for the sake of wealth — it is 
 not for the bad eminence of being a sovereign among pirates ; but it is 
 because, when once unfortunate circumstances have made a man an out- 
 law, it is difficult to obtain admission into the pale of society; it is be- 
 cause I would willingly set my life on the hazard of a shot to free my- 
 self from misfortunes, which have followed close upon my heels ever 
 since I had an existence, that you find me"a pirate, a native of Uaia- 
 taria." 
 
 " If I understand you, then," I replied, " you would not hesitate to 
 leave this place and these wretches to their fate, if the past could be 
 buried in oblivion — if your offences against the laws could be cancelled 
 and your safety insured." 
 
 " Were there none concerned but myself," he answered, " you would 
 be perfectly correct j but these men 1 must not forsake — their safety 
 must depend on my own. As to the rest, I can easily hear your implied 
 assertion of guilt without being offended ; it is scarcely possible for you 
 to feel otherwise ; but it is inevitable necessity alone that compels me to 
 endure my present situation ; most gladly would I quit it, but the hope 
 is vain, and I must content myself to use my influence in restraining 
 the atrocities of these men in the most effectual manner possible." 
 " Perhaps not," I replied. " I know the chances are indeed small, but I 
 think there is one in which exists a possibility of effecting your wishes ; 
 and I should be happy could 1 be the instrument of accomplishing them." 
 " Name but the means by which it can be effected," answered he with 
 earnestness, " and I shall feel myself for ever indebted to you." 
 
 " I shall deal frankly with you," I replied : " I know not on which 
 ride your feelings are enlisted in the contest which is at present raging 
 between the United States and Great Britain; but I shall put the ques- 
 tion plainly. "Would you yourself embark in the cause of America, 
 and use your exertions to induce your men to do so, if an act of pardon 
 and oblivion could be obtained under the Presidential seal ?" 
 
 " Most wUlingly," he answered; " let but the name of pirate be buried, 
 and I pledge myself that these men will be found among the bravest 
 defenders of the republic." 
 
 " Then my best exertions shall be used in your behalf — ^your services 
 will soon be wanted where they will produce the most effect. Great 
 Britain is fitting out a powerful fleet in the West Indies, which is proba- 
 bly destined- against New Orleans, and, from your thorough acquaint- 
 ance with the whole -coast of the Gulf, and the necessity of col- 
 lecting a formidable force at that point, the Government of the United 
 States would no doubt listen favourably to whatever overtures might be 
 made in your behalf. There is one favour, however, which I shall in- 
 sist upon from, you, and which you will not refuse — a relation of the 
 circumstances which induced you to become what you now appear to 
 ;. have been from.^outh, a j)irate by profession." 
 
 "- By profession," said he, smiling,. " I am a pirate ; but the time was 
 
THE BARATARIAN CHIEF, 19- 
 
 when I was not. If it will be gratifying to you to have a knowkdgo 
 of some of the events of my past life, I shall cheerfully comply with 
 your request, although the recital will call to my mind scenes which 
 have wrung my heart to its centre. 
 
 The county of Westchester, in the State of New York, was my birth- 
 place : my name is Mortimer Wilson. In what manner I acquired my 
 present name, you will learn from my story : it is sufficient that to the 
 pirate I am known only as Lafitte. If to be born of honest, industrious, 
 and respectable parents, be an advantage, that advantage I enjoyed; — it' 
 to be born of parents destitute of wealth, and compelled by misfortune 
 to use every exertion to support a helpless and dependent family, be a 
 disadvantage, I suffered. One of my earliest impressions, and one that 
 I distinctly remember, was a determination to be rich ; for my parents 
 felt the evils of poverty, and riches, I imagined, furnished the means 
 of gratifying our wishes, of whatever kind they might be. I had an 
 uncle, living in the city of New York, a merchant of respectability, 
 who, when on a visit to my father's, noticed with pleasure my playful- 
 ness, repartee, and independence, and obtained my parents' consent that 
 I should live with him in the city, with the intention of introducing me 
 into the mercantile business, should my progress answer the expectations 
 he had formed of me. I was then ten years old, and my situation with 
 my uncle was as agreeable as I could wish. His family was small, an 
 only son and daughter, affectionate and lovely ; they treated me as a 
 brother, while, bging a few years younger than myself, I obtained a com- 
 plete ascendency over them ; and I can safely say I knew no greater 
 delight than witnessing and partaking in their happiness. I gave my 
 uncle, by my proficiency in my studies, by my tmdeviating attention to 
 business, and the love felt for himself and family, the highest satisfac- 
 tion ; nor do I remember his giving me a single unpleasant word during 
 the whole time I resided under his benevolent and hospitable roof. 
 
 I had now reached my nineteenth year — and my uncle made me 
 proposals of establishing me in the business on my own accountj if T 
 chose ; generously offering to furnish me with whatever capital it might 
 require — but observing, at the same time, that if it was agreeable to 
 me, he should prefer having me continue the head of the establishment 
 with which I was well acquainted, as it was his intention to retire from 
 business, in favour of his son, and that nothing could please him better 
 than to see us together advancing the interest he had laboured to ac- 
 quire and promote. I assured the good man that nothing could be more 
 gratifying to me than such an arrangement, and that his pleasure should 
 always be a law to me ; while I flattered myself that I had secured the 
 great object of my wishesj^ wealth and happiness. 
 
 At this juncture, my uncle received intelligence respecting a mer- 
 cantile oouse in Charleston, with whom he was engaged in extensive 
 transactions, that made it necessary for me to repair immediatcsly to that 
 place — and no time was lost in making preparations for my departure: 
 I sailed for Charleston — reached that city in safety — accomplished the 
 oDject of my mission — transmitted an account of my success to myJuncle 
 *hrough the post-office — and while waiting with impatience the sailing Ji 
 
20 riELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 the vessel wliioh Was to convey me to the place where my fondest wishes 
 were concentrated, I was attacked by the fever of the country, which raged 
 with such violence that I was entirely deprived of my reason, and, for 
 weeks, the friends with whom I resided despaired of my life. A strong 
 constitution, however, enabled me to survive the attack, and, after some 
 time, gleams of returning recollection and reason began to shoot across 
 my bewildered imagination and memory. The first that I can distinctly 
 recollect was a strong impression of a beautiful form which appeared 
 to be hovering around me and administering to my wants. My imagi- 
 nation had converted her into an angelic being } and I faneied that I 
 had already passed the tremendous ordeal which awaits the departed 
 spirit — had been admitted into the mansions of the blessed, and that the 
 form which I had beheld was my guardian angel, sent to console me 
 for the troubles of the world I imagined I had left. Perhaps the sweet 
 music of the piano, which, from the adjoining room, distinctly reached 
 me, as fairy fingers pressed the keys, contributed to the delusion ; for 
 that I conceived to be the music of heaven's minstrelsy. Returning 
 reason, however, soon dispelled all these illusory dreams ; and instead 
 of a disimbodied spirit, I found myself a tenant of earth, and subject 
 to the mutations of time. 
 
 I said all those illusory dreams were dispelled; but it was not 
 so — there was one from which I could not, from which I did not wish 
 to awake ; with steps light and noiseless as those made by fairy feet — 
 eyes brilliant and sparkling, as any that ever sparkled under the delight- 
 ful skies of Italy — a form which, accustomed as I had been to the 
 beauties of the North, far surpassed all that my imagination had ever 
 conceived — this lovely creature watched over my bed, and though to me 
 utterly unknown, manifested a sympathetic feeling for my welfare, a 
 solicitude for my recovery, which endeared her to me, and caused my 
 heart to flutter with an emotion it had never before felt. 
 
 Unable to lift my hand or utter a syllable without the greatest diffi- 
 culty, I lay for hours viewing with rapture the angelic creature who 
 hung over me, as she bathed my burning brow in the cooling fluid, or 
 administered the reviving cordial ; and when I had recovered strength 
 enough to make the attempt of expressing my gratitude, she placed her 
 white taper fingers on my lips, and with an accent which like an electric 
 shock thrilled through every fibre of my own heart, required me to 
 be silent, 
 
 " I am your physician," added she, smiling, " and if you wish restora- 
 tion to health, (heaven knows how much pleasure such an event would 
 give !) you must follow my directions implicitly." I moved my head 
 in token of submission to her will, pressed her hand to my lips, and 
 the Wushinjg girl hastily quitted the chamber. The mystery which I 
 had been unable to solve when reflecting on my fair attendant, ^s before 
 my sickness I had never seen her, was unravelled when I had so far 
 recovered as to be able to converse. I found myself under the hospita- 
 ble roof of Colonel Mornton, a brother to the merchant on whose account 
 I had visited Charleston, and to whose house I had been removed on 
 
LAFITia, THE BAEATAEIAN CHIEF. 21 
 
 account of its more retired character, and where I ehould be less liable 
 to be disturbed by the noise and bustle of the city. 
 
 My fair attendant was an only daughter of the colonel's, who had 
 airived in the city from a visit to Columbia during the first week of my 
 sickness, and by devoting herself to my attendance, had voluntarily 
 derived herself of the charms which that season of the year presentsi 
 to youth, when all its mirth and gayety, and crowded theatres, brilliant 
 assemblies, splendid parties, .and the &6cinating ball-room, more than 
 compensate for the deserted -and dreary appearance of the city during 
 the season when the malaria compels the inhabitants to seek refuge in 
 the elevated parts of the country, or by a journey to the north, combine 
 objects of pleasure and health, which are frequently so widely separated. 
 
 My health returned slowly— but never were days more delightfully 
 passed than those which glided away in the company of Mary Mornton, 
 the lovely person who had obtained so complete an ascendency over my 
 whole soul, that the thought that returning health, much as I desired 
 it, would hasten my separation from one whose presence I felt to be 
 absolutely necessary to my happiness, threw a chill over my feelings ; 
 and I dismissed the unwelcome intruder as an enemy to my peace and 
 happiness. 
 
 I had now so far recovered as to be able to receive company, and 
 even to attend a few select parties, where I was introduced to a young 
 lady, an intimate acquaintance of the lovely Mary's, of the greatest 
 accomplishments, and, as she fondly imagined, unrivalled beauty. On 
 the most friendly terms with Mary, Miss Hanson was always received 
 with pleasure at Colonel Mornton' s, and now that the rounds of pleasure 
 had once been enjoyed, she became a daily visitor. Intent only on the 
 transcendent excellence of the lovely Mary, I had no time to make com- 
 parisons between them ; and had 1 undertaken it, they would undoubt- 
 edly have been partial. A brother of Miss Hanson's, whose name was 
 George, was frequently a visitor at my residence, sometimes in com- 
 pany with his sister, sometimes without ; and although his cold, haughty, 
 supercilious, and overbearing manner was far from agreeable, yet his 
 rank, his station in society, and his prospects in life, contributed to give 
 him an ascendency in all parties, which few felt inclined to dispute. 
 
 He had returned from Europe a short time previous to my arrival 
 in Charleston, and the imposing superiority which a sea-vcyage across 
 the Atlantic enables a man to assume as a judge of manners and men, 
 I concluded might not wholly have been laid aside. As it concerned 
 myself personally, I cared but little about him; but there was one 
 subject which gave me more uneasiness than any other, and that was 
 the marked attention he paid to Mary. Though I closely observed her, 
 I could see nothing in her conduct to justify any apprehensions — ^yet I 
 confess 1 felt it would be morally impossible' for her to reject the supe- 
 •ior advantages which a union with this man presented above any I 
 could offer. 
 
 " That is the most charming creature I ever saw," said George to me, 
 one evening, as we were together sitting on a sofa, while Mary and his 
 sitter were playfally discussing some question of fashion or t-aste, io 
 
22 I'lELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 another part of the room; "I have visited Paris and London, but, 
 among all their fashionable circles and their beauties, I never saw a Mary 
 Mornton. Who could have thought that the rosebud that I so heed- 
 lessly overlooked three years ago, when I left Charleston for Europe, 
 would so soon have expanded into so beautiful a flower ?" 
 
 " Perhaps no one," I replied, with an air of indifference which ill ac- 
 corded with my feelings. The compliment my heart told me was just, 
 and I was inwardly pleased to hear it awarded, although I felt fearful of 
 the result, should his preference be openly avowed. " Mary is indeed a 
 fine girl — but I must be permitted to say the same of the greater part 
 of the Charleston fair with whom I have had the happiness to become 
 acquainted." 
 
 "Ah, Mortimer," said G-eorge, tapping me on the shoulder, "that 
 maidenly blush of yours gives the lie to the pretended coldness of your 
 words ; but you had better be upon your guard, and not suffer her to 
 run away with your heart — for it is well understood that Mary is to be 
 mine." 
 
 I started to my feet as he pronounced the last words, and was in 
 the act of demanding an explanation, when I fortunately reflected that, 
 ^by so doing, I must disclose what I most wished to conceal, and that I 
 ^ had no right whatever to make the demand; so I carelessly answered 
 him, " that I did not consider my heart in so much danger as he sup- 
 posed," and that " Mary, if he obtained her, would doubtless make an 
 agreeable companion." 
 
 At this moment, Mary came laughing up to us, and taking my hand, 
 " Mortimer," said she, " our Miss Hanson insists on our passing the 
 afternoon with her to-morrow, and I have promised you shall comply 
 with her request. May I say you will do so ?" 
 
 " Certainly," I answered ; " I am too much indebted to you to make 
 objections to what you propose." 
 
 " Then I propose," said Mary, " that you invite our friend George to 
 forget Europe and become an American. He talks and acts as stately 
 as if he thought of nothing less than Catholic Cathedrals, London Monu- 
 ments, or Egyptian Pyramids. Now, George," continued she, peeping 
 archly in his face, " tell me seriously and soberly — did the belles of 
 London or Paris eclipse the stars of our Western hemisphere ?" 
 
 " Upon my honour, Mary," he replied, " the question has been fairly 
 put, and shall be as plainly and promptly answered ; it is, no ! no !" 
 
 " Such, I knew, would be your answer," replied the lovely girl. " I 
 give you full credit for the sincerity of your reply." 
 
 " My answer was given in sober earnest," said George ; " and I again 
 repeat, that the most fashionable circles of London or Paris cannot pro- 
 duce a parallel, in loveliness and beauty, to Mary" — 
 
 " Stop," said she, interrupting him, " not another word of your Eu- 
 ropean gallantry. Ilemember, Mary Mornton is a plain American girl, 
 unaccustomed to compliments, and Upon whom all such fine sayings are 
 entirely thrown away." 
 
 " You seem to speak, Mary," he answered, " as if I had forgotten my 
 country ; I protest against such a supposition." 
 
LAFITTB, THE BAKATABIAN CHIEF. 23 
 
 "To-morrow we will see," replied she, smiling, "whether I am 
 correct." 
 
 The caniage at this moment drove up to the door, and as I handed 
 Miss Hanson into it, she pressed my hand and whispered, " You wili 
 not forget your promise — remember, my happiness depends on you I" 
 
 " Be assured I will not," I hastily replied, as she drew her veil over 
 her beautiful features — and the carriage drove off. 
 
 " Mary," said I, after they departed, " you were too unmercifully 
 severe with our friend George ; it is well you are not a man, or you 
 would be called out to answer for your plainness." 
 
 " I know him well," she 'answered ; " at least as well as a person 
 can know such a compound of hauteur and hypocrisy — and I neither 
 fear nor love him. It is a disadvantage under which we girls labour, 
 that we are obliged to listen to the impertinence of fools, and we are 
 charged with doing so because it pleases us." 
 
 She looked down and sighed, as she pronounced the last words ; and 
 I felt so confounded at the consequences I found myself involuntarily 
 drawing from his assertion, " She is to be mine," and her implied ad- 
 mission, " I must endure him," that I had no inclination to speak — and 
 there was a silence of a minute or two. 
 
 " I see," said Mary, " my company is tiresome after that which We 
 have enjoyed this afternoon, and, with your leave, I will bid you good 
 evening." 
 
 " Tou must not .'" I replied, eagerly, taking her by the hand and re- 
 seating her beside me on the sofa ; ." forgive my rudeness ; attribute it 
 to Hi-health ; to ill-breeding ; to want of confidence ; to any thing rather 
 than the cause you have named ; rather than indifference to your com- 
 pany." 
 
 " Well," she replied, "I forget it allj but you must remember that 
 as I am still your physician, you have no right to indulge in reflections 
 which would injure your health by being pursued, and of which I am 
 ignorant. I see," continued she, smiling archly in my face, " you are 
 afflicted with that awful disorder, jealousy ! you are afraid of George — 
 and well you may be, for he is a dangerous fellow." 
 
 " I am not without apprehension on his account," I answered. " You 
 admit that you do not love him, and yet you are to be his." 
 
 " To be his ! Mary Mornton to be his !" interrupted the lovely girl, 
 rising from the sofa, her countenance flushed with animation : " Who 
 told you so ! George has not dared to intimate any thing of the kind — 
 yet why should he not ! He has no idea that any person could differ 
 with him on this subject j but he is mistaken : never, never will Mary 
 Mornton consent to receive that man for a husband : death would be a 
 preferable bridegroom !" 
 
 " But who will blame George for endeavouring to possess such excel- 
 lence ?" I replied. " For desiring the happiness of calling such a trea- 
 sure his own ! Yes, Mary, you will believe me when I tell you, that 
 though I would rather die a thousand deaths than witness such an event, 
 yet his feelings are so far in unison with my own, that I feel more dis- 
 posed to pitv than to blame him." 
 
24 FIELPS'S SCRAP-BOOK, 
 
 " No more, Mortimer, no more ; so far I will believe that you are in 
 earnest, that jou do not intend what you have said to be merely com- 
 plimentary ; yet, let me entreat you to be cautious : should George be- 
 come apprehensive on my account, his suspicions might fall on you, and 
 remember the consequences would be fatal." 
 
 " Only say, Mary, that you would feel an interest in my happiness, 
 and forgive me for doubting it, after the proofs I have already received ; 
 only say that the most ardent attachment of a person as unworthy as I 
 am would not be viewed with indifference by you, and I could venture 
 the displeasure of a world." 
 
 " You are becoming too serious for a si0k man," said Mary, smiling. 
 " But if it would be any pleasure to know that 1 feel interested in your ■ 
 happiness, or willing to contribute to it, (since I have never been in the 
 habit of dissembling my sentiments,) I shall tell you frankly, that if 
 the sincerest wishes for your welfare will be the means of averting evil, 
 you will long be happy." 
 
 I was in the act of attempting to express the emotions of my throb- 
 bing heart, when Mary again placed her finger on her lips, and, blushing 
 in all the loveliness of innocence, half returned my embrace as I clasped 
 her to my bosom. 
 
 The next day came, and, accompanied by tl)0 lovely Mary, we re- 
 paired to the mansion of General Garrett, with whom George and Miss 
 Hanson resided. We were received with all that attention, that ease 
 and courtly politeness, which distinguish the wellbred in all countries 
 Miss Hanson received the compliments that were paid her without em- 
 barrassment, and George almost forgot the air of a man who had seen 
 " vastly fine things in his day." He soon seated himself by me. " Mor- 
 timer," said he, " I vow I would be sick half a year myself, if by that 
 means I could secure the company of Mary, as you have done." 
 
 " There is little pleasure in sickness," I replied, " yet I acknowledge 
 it might be something of a temptation to suffer, if we could be certain 
 of having the hours cheered by the attendance of such girls as Miss 
 Hanson and Mary." 
 
 " But every one," he continued, " would not be noticed as you have 
 been ; it is natural, I believe, for the female sex to bestow their sympathy 
 and their Jove on strangers, with whom they are unacquainted, and of 
 whose character they can know nothing." 
 
 There was an ill-natured emphasis givep to this last sentence, which I 
 suspect slightly crimsoned my countenance ; but instantly regaining my 
 composure, without appearing to notice the manner in which the words 
 were spoken, I replied, " I believed he mugt be mistaken, for, although 
 I was a stranger, and felt most sensibly the favours which had been con- 
 ferred upon me by the polite attentions of the Charleston fair, yet, I 
 never could believe that a man who conducted himself as became a 
 fjentleman, would suffer, in their estimation, by time or acquaintance." 
 
 " Perhaps not," answered he, coldly, " but"-^— 
 
 " Gentlenjen," said Mary, interrupting him, '* I take the liberty of 
 protesting in Miss Hanson's name and my own, against your having all 
 die conversation to yourselves j we must be permitted to assist you." 
 
LAFITTE, THE BAKATARIAS CHIEF. 25 
 
 And her eyes met mine with an expression which said, " Kemomoer— 
 beware !" 
 
 " Certainly," said I, and she took her seat between us on the sofa, 
 while Miss Hanson placed herself beside me, and, with her usual gayety 
 and volubility, commeneed a conversation. But a few minutes, however, 
 elapsed, before a servant entered with a message, requesting Mary to 
 return immediately, as her mother had been taken seriously ill since we 
 had left home. The carriage was immediately ordered, and Mary T;ook 
 advantage of the momentary absence of Mr. Hanson to request me to 
 spend the afternoon where I then was. 
 
 " I shall obey you, though unwillingly," I replied. 
 
 " I know it, I feel it," answered she, smiling ; " still you must obey. 
 Remember, I am to be your guardian angel. Come, .George, (who at 
 that moment entered the room,) you shall be my beau ; Mortimer I 
 fihall. leave to make your sister amends for my absence." 
 
 George bowed apart, and, with little abatement of his customary 
 hauteur, handed Mary into the carriage, who kissed her hand to me as 
 the carriage drove off; and I found myself alone with the beautiful and 
 accomplished Miss Hanson. 
 
 " Ah, Mortimer," said she, as we seated ourselves on the sofa, " how 
 happy am I to have this opportunity of convincing you how much I am 
 interested in your welfare ; any thing that my fortune can command, or 
 my influence accomplish, is at your disposal." 
 
 " I fully estimate the value and kindness of your offer," I replied ; 
 " and should circumstances make it necessary, shall not hesitate to avail 
 myself of its advantages. Now, however, I must think of nothing but 
 my return to my friends at the North, from whom I have been so long 
 absent." 
 
 " Then," said she, " you intend to leave us ; but, when among your 
 friends at the North, you must remember there are some at the South 
 by whom you will never be forgotten." " And, there are some," I re- 
 plied, " who, while this heart shall continue to beat, will be remembered 
 with feelings of purest delight ; and, though I am compelled to leave 
 them now, they will never be effaced from my recollection." 
 
 I spoke with an earnestness and warmth of which I was insensible, 
 till I- perceived the cheek of my fair companion suffiLsed with blushes— 
 and I hastened to correct the impression which I founcl I had made, by 
 saying, " that the kindness and tenderness with which I had been treated 
 since I had arrived in Charleston, could not but leave the most lively 
 impressions on my mind with regard to its inhabitants, and would ever 
 be remembered with gratitude." 
 
 " Is that the only emotion which will be excited by a remembrance 
 of the South ?" asked she, with a look and manner which left no room 
 to mistake the meaning. 
 
 " I can hardly say," I replied, "what feelings will predominate when 
 reason shall be left to her sway : for here I feel more under the influ- 
 ence of my passion than my judgment." 
 
 '' You appear determined," said she, smiling, " to remain ignorant of 
 tixe subject on which I feel a trembling anxiety to know your opinion ; 
 
 e 
 
26 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 but whatever indifference you may manifest, my feelings will not permit 
 me to remain in suspense. Perhaps what I have to say will lessen nie 
 in your estimation ; perhaps will by you be viewed as a violation of fe- 
 male propriety and decorum ; but I throw myself on your mercy for 
 forgiveness. Mortimer, I love you ! — cannot live without you — ^you will 
 love me — you will make me yours — then my whole life shall be spent 
 in making you happy I" 
 
 Heavens ! what a moment ! Her beautiful countenance, flushed with 
 the purple glow of love, reposed on my bosom, and when she threw her 
 arms around my neck, as she finished speaking, her snowy bosom throb- 
 bed against my beating heart with electric effect ; her coral lips almost 
 touched mine, and he must have been more or less than man who could 
 have refrained from invading their vermilion sanctuary. But the hal- 
 lucination was but momentary ; reason assumed her station as umpire, 
 and the passions, victorious as they had been for a moment, now bowed 
 in quiet submission to her sceptre. A single recollection of Mary, lovely 
 Mary, artless and unassuming, would have sufficed to. have broken the 
 chains which a thousand such females might have woven around me. 
 But though I could not love, most sincerely did I pity her. 
 
 " My dear Miss Hanson," I replied, as soon as I could summon reso- 
 lution enough to trust my voice, "most readily do I forgive you. I 
 know full well the emotions of the heart are uncontrollable ; and you 
 must forgive me for saying, that you have addressed me on a subject of 
 which I as yet know nothing, and, therefore, can say nothing, except 
 that I shall always remember with pleasure the happy hours I have 
 spent in your company; and, that in the important affairs of love, I 
 must be guided by the wishes of that man who has been to me a second 
 father, and one on whom I am dependent." 
 
 "And is it money, thed, that influences you in your desires?" she 
 replied with earnestness. " You shall have it, to the extent of your 
 wishes ; why continue to be dependent on him, when it is so easy to be 
 independent ?" 
 
 " Ah, my dear Annette," I answered. " the warmth of your feelings 
 makes you overlook the consequences that would flow from my accept- 
 ance of your proposals ; you have forgottpn that I am young, unsettled 
 in business, destitute of property, without powerful friends, and de- 
 pendent for every thing; -what would the vcrld say ? what would her 
 parents say, should the rich, the gay, and the accomnUshed Annette 
 Hanson throw herself away on a stranger, friendless aud homeless?" 
 
 "Say not," said she, "that you are friendless; that will never be ! 
 All your excuses only show that you do not, that you will not love me ; 
 but I deserve to be miserable. Some more fortunnte, but no+, faithful, 
 girl will be blessed with that affection, that love for which I izi vain 
 have sued. Be that as it may, I trust you will be happy ;" 
 
 She burst into tears, and sobbed aloud. 
 
 " Lovely girl," said I, " my heart bleeds for you. Oh, cease th..if.? \-;r?. 
 I am unworthy of you — forget me — let some more deservins" yMth 
 nhare that worth which kings might be proud to possess." 
 
 My feelings at that moment were indescribable Most s:.neero'.T ■lid 
 
LAFITTB, THE BARATAKIAX CHIEF. 27 
 
 I sympathize with her: I could hardly forbear weeping. At this instant, 
 George entered the room ; he looked at us with tlie greatest surprise. ^ 
 
 " I perceive," said he, " that I hav^ intruded." 
 
 " Not at all," I replied, " your presence will be a relief to us both 
 With your leave, Annette, I will retire,, and call again to-morrow, when 
 ] shall hope to find you in better health and spirits I" 
 
 " Never," she answered ; " but go — ^I shall expect you to-morrow." 
 
 I returned home. But my perturbed imagination forbade mo to rest , 
 and when at last my feverish anxiety overcame my senses, and I slum- 
 bered for a few moments, my terrific visions were far more intolerable 
 than the waking reality. The image of the lovely Mary flitted before 
 me ; but impassable gulfs separated me for ever from her ; while the 
 beautiful and weeping Annette, with dishevelled hair and disordered 
 dress, seemed to reproach me with something of which I was unable 
 to form the most distant idea. Morning at last arrived, and the breakfast- 
 table, with the cheerful influence and delightful company of Mary, soon 
 dispelled these unpleasant impressions, and restored the usual elasticity 
 of my spirits. 
 
 " Well, Mortimer, you had a pleasant visit yesterday," said Mary, as 
 after breakfast, we took our customary walk in the garden, and seated 
 onnselves beneath a cluster of rose-bushes. " Your countenance showed 
 the impression made upon your heart." 
 
 " If my countenance was a true index to my feelings," I answered 
 " I must have looked frightful, for my impressions since yesterday have 
 been none of the most delightful." 
 
 " I cannot say the same," replied Mary, laughing, " for I have fairly 
 obtained a new lover, one who thinks he combines in his own person 
 all the excellences of his sex ; and one who would not hesitate to blow 
 out the brains of any one who should dare to hint that he was mistaken 
 in his estimate of himself; yes, George has at length stooped so low as 
 to tell Mary Morn ton he loves her." 
 
 " If that is the case," I answered in the same careless manner, " I 
 may as well give up my pretensions at once, and the sooner I leave 
 Charleston the better." 
 
 " You have spoken the truth," said Mary, her countenance at once 
 assuming the utmost seriousness ; " the sooner you leave Charleston the 
 better — danger may attend you here — ^perhaps misery to us both." 
 
 " Mary," said I, seizing her hand, " for heaven's sake explain yourself! 
 Suspense is worse than certainty." 
 
 " I have, for some time," continued she, " seen to what point his atten 
 tions were directed, and my object in leaving you with Miss Hanson 
 when I was sent for yesterday, was to give him an opportunity to throw 
 in his declaration, as the lawyers call it, if he chose, and, by at once 
 letting him know his case was hopeless, put an end to the tedious for- 
 malities of such a suitor." ' 
 
 " I have the utmost confidence, Mary, in your management," I replied; 
 " but I have formed a very wrong opinion of George, if he is a person, 
 who, when his pride and will, if nothing more, are interested, will 
 
28 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 quietly take ' no' for an answer, and tamely surrender such an object of 
 pui-suit." 
 
 " You are perfectly correct," answered Mary ; " from all fools, good 
 Lord, deliver me ! but especially from a self-conceited, obstinate one. 
 George looked at me with an air of some surprise, when I coolly and 
 plainly rejected him ; it was but a moment, however. ' I know,' said he, 
 'that you can have no possible objection to me; but perhaps you are 
 already prepossessed in favour of some one else ; perhaps that beggarly 
 speculator from the North has been tampering with your heart, and in- 
 inuating himself into your good graces ; but whoever he may be, he will 
 ere long repent his interference.' ' Mr. Hanson,' I answered, ' you are 
 much mistaken if you suppose that such threats or dictation can produce 
 any effect on the mind of Mary Mornton, except it is contempt for 
 their author — my heart is as yet my own, but when I see fit to bestow 
 that, with my aflFeetion, on any individual, I shall do it without consi- 
 dering myself accountable to you or any other person, my dear parents 
 excepted.' ' You appear so well when angry,' answered George, ' that 
 I am sorry to leave you ; yet before I go, I must assure you, that I 
 will bear no rival in my love to you.' So saying, he left the room, 
 and I feel confident," continued Mary, ''that evil awaits you, if you 
 remain in this place; remember, you are under my directions, and I 
 command you to depart for the North immediately — yes, to-day, if 
 possible — that fellow would not hesitate to sacrifice you to his passions." 
 
 " And is it you, Mary, that commands me to leave you ? Is it you 
 that would bid me forsake the society of the only person that can make 
 life tolerable ? Is it you that would interpose a distance between us, 
 that might for ever prevent our union ? and all because a blustering 
 braggadocio threatens. No, let me perish first— I fear him not." 
 
 " You talk like a boy/' said Mary, smiling. " I am not so willing to 
 part with you as you seem to suppose, and it is to prevent a separation, 
 which I, of all others, should most dread, that I have laid my commands 
 upon you ; and you will obey — I know you will, and live for happiness 
 and — Mary !" 
 
 " Bewitching girl," I replied, " you shall be obeyed, however painful 
 your request — but think not that I can absent myself long from you : 
 I shall soon return, be the consequences what they may." 
 
 " When you receive my leave," said the lovely creature, " when I 
 have fairly disposed of George — not before, remember, not till you have 
 my leave — if you do, it is at your peril." 
 
 At that moment, a servant arrived with a request for me to return to 
 the house, as a gentleman wished to speak with me. I accompanied 
 him, and at the door was met by Mr. Mornton, who informed me that 
 Mr Hanson had called to see me, and was then at my lodging-room, 
 whore I repaired immediately, and found George in waiting. The cold 
 and insolent manner with which he received my salutation, the change- 
 abieness of his countenance, and the snakelike glance of his eyes, in- 
 jJmated plainly the gale of the passions within. 
 
 " I concluded, after you left us, last evening," said he, " to pay tnj 
 
LAFITTBj THB BARATARIAN CHIEF, 2& 
 
 eompliments to you in person, this morning. I presume we shall remsun 
 uninterrupted ?" 
 
 " Certainly, sir, if you wish." 
 
 " I do," he replied, and I stepped to the door and turned the key. 
 
 " Now," said he, " I demand, without circumlocution or equivocation, 
 the reasons of your attempt to ingratiate yourself into the affections of 
 Miss Momton, when you must have known her engagements to me, and 
 especially after you had pledged yourself to my sister." 
 
 " Tour language," I replied, " is so extraordinary and unbecoming a 
 gentleman, that unless you state on what authority you make the de- 
 mand, you will excuse me if I takie no farther notice of it or you, except 
 to show you the door, where the cool air might benefit you, by producing 
 a return of your reason." 
 
 " I will let you know," said he, his countenance pale with rage, 
 " before I leave you, that I am not to be trifled with. I demand the 
 satisfaction of a gentleman, for the imposition you have practised on my 
 sister, and are now trying to react on Miss Mornton." 
 
 " If your sister has given you information that has led to this con- 
 duct, she has grossly belied both herself and me. I, however, do not 
 believe a syllable of it respecting her j and so far as Miss Mornton is 
 concerned, she is at hand, and can speak for herself." 
 
 I moved towards the door, when he sprang from his seat, placed his 
 back to the door, drew a pistol from his pocket, and swore most tre- 
 mendously that but one of us should leave the room alive. 
 
 " I despise you and your threats," said I, " and would leave the room 
 this moment in spite of you, were it not that I have no wish to injure 
 you, and I do not intend to give you the chance of murdering me." 
 
 " I need not," said he, " the information of any one to assist me in 
 detecting your villany; and no one knows my intention of giving it 
 the chastisement it deserves. Tour .impudent coolness shall avail you 
 nothing ; you have affronted me in such a manner, that nothing but 
 blood can efface the stain ; you have stepped between me and happi- 
 ness, and when I thought that I had secured Miss Momton, instead of 
 meeting a return of my love, I found that you, miscreant as you 
 are, had interfered, and I received nothing but cold incivility and 
 reproach !" 
 
 " Tour epithets, of which you are so liberal," I replied, " you had 
 better reserve, in order to apply where they are more needed ; and as 
 to the satisfaction you require, you can have all that the law will give, 
 and that is all that you will get from me. I have no intention of setting 
 myself up as a mark for every coward to shoot at." 
 
 " Hell and furies I" exclaimed he, gnashing his teeth with rage, " do 
 you think to escape me in this manner ? No ! — Miss Momton is too high 
 a prize for me to part with thus easily. I again repeat, that both of us 
 leave not this room alive ; here is a pair of pistols— take your choice, 
 and defend yourself, or, by the powers above, you shall feel the contents 
 of the other." 
 
 I was unarmed — ^my pistols, which lay in the drawer, were unloaded, 
 and he had so much the maniac in his actions, that I thought it pnident 
 
 C2 
 
30 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK 
 
 to accept the weapon offered, but with a determination to use it only in 
 self-defence. He cocked the pistol himself, as he handed it to me, and 
 I had walked part of the distance across the room, to resume my seat, 
 when, happening to cast my eyes towards him, I perceived him in the act 
 of firing. " Stop," said I, as I faced him and almost involuntarily pre- 
 sented my pistol. He fired : the ball slightly grazed the side of my 
 head, and lodged in the wall of the chamber. Perceiving that he had 
 not accomplished his design, and mad with desperation, he threw the 
 pistol with all his might at my head. It struck my right arm near my 
 shoulder, and gave it such a shock that the pistol, which I still held in 
 my hand, was discharged ; the ball passed through his heart ! and he 
 flropped dead upon the floor ! I flew to him, raised him up, placed him 
 on the sofa, and, unlocking the door, cried for help. The report of the 
 pistols alarmed the family, and I was met at the staircase by Mr. Morn- 
 ton, Mary, and the servants that attended the house. 
 
 " For God's sake, Mortimer," said Mr. Mornton, "what is the matter? 
 You are as pale as death !" 
 
 " Follow me, and see for yourselves," I answered. 
 
 The struggles of death had ceased when we entered the chamber ; but 
 the floor was swimming with blood, in the midst of which lay the pistols 
 he had intended should accomplish his murderous design ; while his 
 right hand still grasped the dagger he had convulsively seized at the mo- 
 ment of falling. I briefly related the circumstances that led to the 
 rencounter and its fatal termination, and requested Mr. Mornton to give 
 me his advice respecting the line of conduct I should pursue, promising 
 to abide by his decision, let it be what it might. 
 
 " Mortimer," answered Mr. Mornton, " I believe you to be innocent, 
 and that this man has met the fate he intended for yourself; but can 
 you establish your innocence ? Your declaration will avail you nothing; 
 his friends are powerful ; you are comparatively a stranger ; the penalty 
 of the law will overtake you, unless you prevent it by an instantaneous 
 flight. Most sincerely do I regret this unhappy occurrence, since it 
 leaves but the alternative of flight or disgraceful death ! A vessel of 
 mine has left the wharf this morning, but will not pass the bar till you 
 ean reach it; — it is bound to Havana; — from that place you can reach 
 New York without difSculty — or should circumstances render it possible 
 for you to appear in this place in safety, most gladly would we welcome 
 jrou to our mansion. You will decide immediately ; I will myself make 
 ;he necessary arrangements for seeing you on board the vessel, if you 
 choose — there you will be in safety ; if otherwise" — 
 
 I looked at Mary. She understood my meaning. 
 
 " Fly, Mortimer," said the lovely girl, " fly ! fly ! Would to heaven 
 I could fly with you ! preserve a life dear to others as yourself — this 
 storm' will blow over and we will yet be happy ! Innocence, in thi.s case, 
 will avail you nothing — ^you will find your enemies powerful and im- 
 placable !" 
 
 " Mary," said I, as I clasped her convulsively in my arms, " I go 
 trecause you command ; because you desire ; but I feel as though I 
 should subjc3t myself to a living death by a separation from you. Fare- 
 
LAFITTE, THE BAEATARIAN CHIEF. 31 
 
 well ! and whatever maj happen, remember that Mortimer is yours and 
 yours alone !" 
 
 I carried the fainting girl in my arms to her chamber, again pressed 
 her to my bosom, and again kissed her snowy forehead ; tore myself 
 from her, and, in company with Mr. Mornton, hastened to the wharf. 
 
 " This gentleman," said Mr. Mornton, to a number of boatman, who. 
 were standing on the wharf, "wishes to get on board the Speedwell be- 
 fore she passes the bar — name your price, and huzza for the oars." 
 
 " We would willingly oblige you. sir," answered one of them, " but 
 it is plainly impossible. Father Neptune himself could not work a boat 
 against this swell." 
 
 " It must be done," answered Mr. Mornton. 
 
 •' It cannot be done," answered the other. 
 
 " It will be done," replied Mr. Mornton. " Remember, you make 
 your own termsj" taking, as he spoke, a handful of silver dollars from 
 his pocket. 
 
 " These fellows look tempting — ^to your oars, lads I" 
 
 " But, if we take three times the usual fee, you will not think it un- 
 reasonable; we cannot afford to run the risk of becoming food for 
 sharks, in such a sea as this, for nothing." 
 
 " Here is four times the usual amount — away, as for life or death," 
 said Mr. Mornton. 
 
 I pressed Mr. Momton's hand, entreated him to neglect no exertion 
 in my favour, and sprang into the boat, which immediately shoved off. 
 
 " Mr. Mornton is quite flush with his cash this morning," said the 
 master of the boat, " but he knows his object — some speculations to add 
 to his already overgrown fortune." 
 
 " When George gets Mary, it will go as fast as it comes," answered 
 his companion. 
 
 " George doesn't catch the finest girl in Charleston so easy," replied 
 the other. " I heard one of the clerks say, at the warehouse, this morn- 
 ing, that a young merchant from the North was all the toast now, and, 
 if that is the case, you may depend, George's hopes are all aback." 
 
 " Hard to the starboard 1" exclaimed the master. At that moment a 
 wave struck us, and half-filled the boat with water. " Bale away, lads ! 
 One more such wave as that^ and we shall be drinking grog in Charon's 
 ferry-boat." 
 
 We however reached the Speedwell in safety, at the instant they were 
 getting under way, and I bade a sad adieu to the place where were con- 
 centrated all my hopes, and all my fears ; and I retired to the cabin, re- 
 flecting that I was separated from Mary ! perhaps for ever!. 
 
 Our voyage was prosperous until we arrived at Key West, where we 
 were hailed by a small black-looking vessel, bearing the Spanish colours, 
 and ordered to send our papers on board. Some little delay occurred, 
 and a shot was fired at us, which passed between our masts, without 
 however doing any injury. The mate went on board with the papers, 
 but wae instantly seized and stabbed to the heart, while the rest of the 
 boat's crew attempted to save themselves by jumping overboard, with 
 the hope of reaching the Speedwell by swimming. But one reached us, 
 
32 FIELDS'S SORAP-BOOK. 
 
 as repeated volleys of musketry were fired at them from the pirate, and 
 they sank for ever, while the waves were crimsoned with their blood. It 
 was a dead calm at the time, and two boats, filled with ferocious-looking 
 wretches, had left the vessel, evidently with the intention^ of boarding 
 us ; and they succeeded, after a desperate conflict, in which they lost 
 nearly one-half of their crew. When they at last reached the deck, we 
 were instantly overpowered ; but what was the fate of the vessel I knew 
 not, as I was knocked down at the termination of the conflict, and re- 
 mained senseless for several hours. When I recovered, I found myself 
 on board the pirate, with several of the gang standing round me, and to 
 my inquiries, what had become of the Speedwell and crew, only one 
 answer was given. " We sent them to h-11, together, for their obsti- 
 nate resistance, and you would have been there, too, had we not, owing 
 to the confusion of the moment, and your being covered with blood, 
 mistaken you for our lieutenant, and brought you on board before we 
 discovered our error; but, cheer up, you are now safe, for damn it, bad 
 as we are, we would not murder any one ia cold blood ; but when our 
 blood is up, look to the consequences." 
 
 The vessel, with the plunder, was taken in among the keys, which 
 line the coast of Cuba, and on one of which these villains had an es- 
 tablishment, where myself, a few of the crew, and part of the arma- 
 ment of the vessel were landed, while she proceeded to Havana to dis- 
 pose of the plunder of the Speedwell. Day after day, and month after 
 month, passed heavily away, and no information whatever was received 
 of the vessel which had left us in that desolate and hopeless condition. 
 They became raving, and it required the exertion of all the influence I 
 possessed to keep them from murdering each other. Nor were my sen- 
 sations much more agreeable than those of my companions. I reflected 
 almost to madness, on the opinion that must be formed of me by my 
 indulgent uncle in New York, and my adored Mary and her benevolent 
 father in Charleston. There was no possibility of escaping from this 
 place, as there was not wood enough on the island to construct a raft 
 which would float a man across the waters which separated us from the 
 land. After we had remained nearly half a year, and every project of 
 escape had failed, a boat which had drifted from some wreck, during a 
 storm, had struck upon the island, and its appearance was hailed with 
 rapture by myself and my companions. In this we coasted Cuba, and 
 arrived at Havaua. Here I found the seaman who had taken care of 
 me when on board the piratical vessel, suffering under the effects of the 
 wound received from me, in defending the Speedwell. Prom him I 
 learned, that the piratical vessel, immediately on her arrival at Havana, 
 was seized, on the complaint of a British agent, for an attack upon one 
 of his majesty's vessels, and, in consequence had, with her crew, been 
 sent to Jamaica for trial. They were found guilty of the most barbarous 
 crimes, and every man of them executed. He was himself fortunately 
 on shore at the time of the seizure, and by that means escaped. I had 
 learned from ray companions, that the crew of the Speedwell were all 
 destroyed, and after taking out such articles as were deemed most valua- 
 ble, she was scuttled and sunk. Once at Havana, my resolutions were 
 
LAFITTE, THE BAEATAKIAN CHIEF. 33 
 
 «oon formed, and a favourable opportunity occurring, I determined . to 
 repair immediately to Charleston, in defiance of every danger. The 
 image of the lovely Mary, pale and weeping, as when she bid me fare- 
 well, haunted my imagination, whether sleeping or waking. I had 
 suffered so much during my residence among the morasses of Cuba, 
 and my complexion had by constant exposure become so sunburnt, that 
 I was confident, should secrecy be necessary on my arrival, I stood in little 
 danger of detection. But, be that as it would, there was no danger I 
 would not have cheerfully encountered, to have listened to the sweet 
 accents and enjoyed the delightful company of Mary. I left Havana, 
 and reached Charleston in safety. The vessel anchored in the bay, and, 
 with a palpitatiilg heart, I proceeded in the boat for the city. It was 
 dark when I presented myself at the door of Mr. Mornton's residence, 
 and, with a faltering hand, knocked for admittance. 
 
 The door was opened by the same servant who attended when I had 
 before resided with Mr. Mornton. I was shown into the same room 
 where I had so often sat, but, on inquiry for Mr. Mornton, 1 was in- 
 formed that he was out on business, but would return in an hour. I 
 told the servant I would wait his arrival — took a volume which was 
 lying there, and seated myself with apparent composure. Every thing 
 in the room -reminded me of her I most wished to see ; a beautiful full- 
 length portrait of her was suspended over the mantelpiece, and on 
 opening the book, the first thing that met my eyes were the following 
 lines, in the wfeU-known hand of Mary : 
 
 Ah, why delay his wished return ? Forgive me, 
 Oh, forgive me, Mortimer, but joys deferr'd 
 Make my heart sick, and hope, with all its powers. 
 Can scarce suppress the anguish of my bosom ! 
 But peace each murmur, fate itself may strive. 
 But cannot sever thy faithful heart from mine. 
 
 The agony of suspense was intolerable ; I longed to inquire for Mary, 
 mt prudence forbade. I perceived that the servant had entirely forgotten 
 aie, and I waited impatiently the arrival of Mr. Mornton. I walked the 
 room ; I listened to every step, with the hope of catching the sound of 
 ^he light and fairy footfall of the lovely Mary. The hour passed away, 
 and Mr. Mornton arrived. I spoke ; he knew my voice instantly, and 
 seized me by the hand. 
 
 " Grood heavens ! Mortimer, can it be you ?" exclaimed Mr. Mornton, 
 " or is it only an illusion, to mock my senses and aggravate my misfor- 
 tunes ?" 
 
 *' It is no illusion — I am your own Mortimer," I replied. " Oh ! where 
 is Mary ? for heaven's sake, let me see her ! — ^let me fly to her !" 
 
 " Good God !" answered Mr. Mornton, grasping my hand convulsively, 
 ■' are you yet to hear the fatal story ? are you yet to learn, that Mary is 
 iU heaven ? Yes, she is gone — ^gone for ever !" added he, as the tears 
 trickled down his cheeks, and fell warm upon my hand.. 
 
 I could not weep ; I could not speak ; and it was with difficulty! could 
 support myself from sinking to the floor. The agonies of expiring na- 
 
34 pibLds's scrap-book. 
 
 tttre, I am convinced, will never exceed those of that moment, ■rt'Tien 
 every prospect of happiness was iat one fell blow destroyed, and hope, 
 the last anchor of the wretched, totn from its moorings. 
 
 " Grod !" I cried, when my agitated feelings permitted the power of 
 utterance, " why was I spared to endure this extremity of wretchedness ? 
 why was I preserved to suffer the agonies of a living death ?" 
 
 " My dear Mortimer, accuse not Omnipotence rashly," said Mr. 
 Mornton. " I loved her as well ais you. Ah ! I feel too well I loved 
 her ; my heart was bound up in the happiness cif Maty ; but nothing 
 earthly could save herfrom the conqueror's arms. Oh ! Mortimer, these 
 hands closed her eyes ; this bosom received her last Sigh ; and her dying 
 exclamation, ' My dear father, I am hastening to the company of my 
 dear Mortimer !' still sounds in my ears." 
 
 His grief found vent in tears ; and I, summoning all iny fortitude, 
 ventured to make an inquiry respecting her decease, and the time the 
 heart-rending 'event took place. 
 
 "You well remember," anfiweted Mr. Mornton, "the manner in 
 which you left Charieston. Though it was immediately known that Mr. 
 Hanson fell by your hands, my endeavours were successfully exerted in 
 preventing any attempt to pursue you till you were safe beyond their 
 reach ; and as the event was one of no uncommon occurrence, it soOn 
 ceased to be a subject of remark, and Mary flattered herself that soon 
 you would be able to return to this place, and visit your friends in safety. 
 In the mean time, no information whatever was received of the Speed- 
 well, and we began to fear that she had perished at sea, and all on board 
 had been lost. It was not until after several month's of painful sus- 
 pense, that the account of the execution of the pirates reached us in the 
 papers from Jamaica : — in their confession, the capture of the Speed- 
 well and the murder of all her crew occupied a prominent place, and 
 accounted with awful certainty for yoar long silence." 
 
 I here interrupted Mr. Mornton with a short account of the loss of 
 the Speedwell, the manner in which I was preserved from death, tny 
 residence on the island, and my escape to Ifo'vana. After I had closed, 
 he proceeded : 
 
 " Though I endeavoured to conceal the fatal event from Mary, it was in 
 vain ; the account was copied in the City G-azette, and was immediately 
 noticed by her. This was the termination of Mary's hopes — ^the death- 
 blow to her happiness. The roses fled from her lips ; society lost its 
 charms ; she refused to see company j and was evidently hastening to 
 that place where the weary are at rest. Although I was much alarme<l 
 about her, I could not persuade her to believe she was in danger. Sho 
 always met me with a smile, but it only Served to render more visible to 
 the watchful eye Of parental aniiety the hectic flush of her lily counte- 
 uaiice. Hoping that a change of objects, a sea- voyage to New York, and 
 the diversity of objects which "we should meet with in that' place, migh* 
 have a beneficial effect in restoring her to health, I'propoSed her accom- 
 panying me to the northern metropolis. Accustomed to yield implicit 
 jbedience to my wishes, she made no objection to the proposal, although 
 she assured me it would, do her no good; and theresult verified the r-re- 
 
LAFITTfi, THE BAKATARIAN CHIEF. 35 
 
 diction. She declined rapidly on our voyage home, was carried from the 
 vessel to her chamber, which she never again left. Annette watched 
 over her with the tender anxiety of a sister, and alleviated the weari- 
 some hours of sickness by every consolation in the power <rf friendship 
 to bestow. Not a murmur escaped her. ' My dear father,' she would 
 say, 'weep not for me ! we shall again meet, to be for ever happy.' 
 While life lasted, of earthly objects you were uppermost in her affections, 
 and the last quivering accents of her tongue vibrated with your name !" 
 
 " Lovely martyr i" I exclaimed, when he ceased speaking. "Oh, why 
 could not I have flown to thee ! why could not my bosom have received 
 the fatal arrow, that I might have accompanied thee to a brighter and a 
 better world ! And, «ndeared Annette, heaven will bless thee for thy 
 kindness to my departed Mary. May liy hopes never be blighted, like 
 those of that lovely victim ; but may the smiles of iheaven shower down 
 blessings upon thee, and thy pathway of life be strewed with flowers." 
 
 " Thou^ I would not deny you ike sacred luxury of grief," said Mr. 
 Momton, " I would entreat you not to indulge in it to excess. Tears 
 will relieve your bwstiBg hrart, aTid reflection will give you fortitude to 
 support your loss. Tou will retire to your chamber, for we shall never 
 be tired of conversing and thinking of our Mary." 
 
 "No — never !" I replied, wringing his hand, as he aceompanied me to 
 my -chamber, and left me, as he concluded, to my repose. Vain attempt ! 
 my burning brain forbade the most distant approach of rest. I reflected 
 on my loss until my imagination could bear it no longer. I became be- 
 wildered, and the last that I can recollect was my smiting my forehead 
 and exclaiming— ^♦'i Oh, Mary ! would to heaven I had died with thee I" 
 
 In what manner I left Charleston, is to me utterly unknown. It was 
 on the fifth day after I landed at Charleston, that I found myself within 
 ten miles of Savannah, in Geor^a, nearly destitute of clothing, and ema- 
 ciated almost to a skeleton. 'The events through which I had passed 
 appeared like a distressing dream, from which I had just awakened, and 
 it was a considerable time before I recovered a full sense of .the, distress- 
 ing reality of my situation. I immediately proceeded to Savannah,. where 
 the kindness of a few individuals, among whom was the captain of a 
 South American privateer, then fitting out at that port, relieved my 
 necessities, and by his persuasion I consented to engage in the service, 
 as second in command. I was accordingly, by my request, introduced to 
 the crew, who were alreasdy enlisted, as a brother of the captain, recently 
 amved from the North ; and the name of Lafitte, which I then assumed, 
 I have continued to bear. My fortunes were desperate; life was a 
 burden ; I had nothing to lose ; the sitliation was one which well ac- 
 corded with my feelings, and I did not hesitate to accept. Our com- 
 mission was from the republican government of Buenos Ayres. For 
 »jveral years we were prosperous; I had amassed a considerable fortune, 
 and entertained serious thoughts of returning to New York, when, on« 
 evening, as we were on a cruise off St. Domingo, looking for some 
 merchantmen which we knew were daily expected from Spain, we fell in 
 with a British vessel of sunerior force, who ordered us, under pain of 
 being fired into, to send our boat on board and heave to till morning 
 
&d FIBLDS'S SORAP-BOOK. 
 
 CVptiin Lafitte refused, a short altercation ensued, and an action ot the 
 most desperate kind commenced. The British vessel was carried bv 
 boarding, after great slaughter. Captain Lafitte was killed early in thv< 
 engagement — I was severely wounded by a sabre in the head — and the 
 third in command, vindictive in disposition and exasperated by opposition, 
 ordered no quarters to be given, and the conquered were exterminated. 
 By this time, the government under whose orders we were acting, had 
 been put down by the Royalists, who had eflFected a counter revolution. 
 We were declared to be acting without orders from any government, 
 and, refusing to surrender ourselves for trial, were outlawed and a reward 
 offered for our heads. It became necessary to provide for ourselves. 
 On the death of Captain Lafitte, I succeeded to the command, and we 
 established ourselves on the north-west part of the Gulf, and lived on 
 our enemies. When the South Americans were again found in arms, I 
 espoused their cause, but a majority of my men declined acting in con- 
 cert with their marine, or having our fate linked with theirs. Our 
 numbers had increased so much, that I added two vessels to our esta- 
 blishment, appointed Laborde second in command, and took possession 
 of this island, where We have successfully maintained ourselves against 
 any attempts made against us. My correspondence with New Orleans 
 is direct, and I receive information almost weekly of the important 
 events going on. When the present war broke out between the United 
 States and G-reat Britain, we declared ourselves on the side of the 
 former, and have acted accordingly ; and, though we fight with the halter 
 round our necks, being considered by the government as pirates, still, 
 unless we are driven to extremities, we shall be found faithful friends 
 to the republic. 
 
 " Thus, sir, I have given you a short account of the manner in 
 which I became chief of this establishment ; and I can sincerely say, 
 that if our present disabilities could be removed, most cheerfully 
 would we perform any duty which might be assigned us in aid of the 
 government." 
 
 " My most persevering exertions shall be used in your favour," I re- 
 plied, " and I have reason to believe with success. I am not entirely 
 unknown to some of the officers of the government at Washington, and 
 a representation of your wishes would undoubtedly meet with immediate 
 attention from the executive." 
 
 " For your friendly proposal, I thank you," Lafitte replied ; " it 
 , promises to restore me to that world which was once enlivened by the 
 bewitching influence of Mary." 
 
 " Lafitte," said I, " I shoidd have thought that the perils you have 
 passed through would have obliterated every trace of that victim of love 
 from your memory." 
 
 " When this tide ceases to ebb and flow — when yonder Mississippi 
 rolls its turbid waters to the frozen north — when the needle forgets to 
 point to the pole — when this heart palpitates for the last time — then 
 and' not till then, shall I cease to remember Mary. Forget her ! — im- 
 possible !" 
 
 And he drew from his bosom a small morocco case, suspended by a 
 
LAFITTE, THE BARATARIAN CHIEF. 
 
 37 
 
 ribbon, from which, wrapped in a paper, he took a beautiful miniature 
 portrait of Mary. He kissed it with enthusiasm. 
 
 " This," said Lafitte, " that lovely girl gave me at our last sad parting, 
 and with such a memento daily before me, could I forget her ? Well, 
 well do I remember how the angelic Mary appeared at that moment ; 
 her long hair, with curling tresses, twining around, her snowy neck, and 
 slightly veiling her swelling bosom. Pale, 'ah ! deadly pale were those 
 lips I had so often kissed, in the fervour of unalloyed innocence and 
 love." 
 
 He again kissed the portrait, and was replacing it, when I observed 
 that the envelope contained a number of lines of poetry, in the hand- 
 writing of Lafitte. I extended my hand for the paper. 
 
 ^' You are welcome to read them," said Lafitte, smiling : " it has, I 
 believe, been observed that every poet is a lover, and, by a parity of 
 reasoning, every lover ought to be a poet. To that title, however, I 
 make no pretensions — ^it is my first and last attempt ; they were written 
 during our first cruise, and when my heart bled at every recollection of 
 Mary ! — the evening was beautiful ; the moon rode in silvery splendour 
 through the clear blue heavens; not a breath disturbed the sleeping 
 waters, and from the bosom of the waves the stars which glittered in 
 the skies were reflected in all their brightness. Mary occupied my 
 thoughts; I remembered the evenings I had spent in her delightful 
 society ; I reflected on my loss until my ideas assumed this form ; they 
 were committed to paper, and have since served to enclose this precious 
 relic of former happiness." They were as follows : 
 
 LINES TO THE MEMORY OF MART MORNTON. 
 
 When death, dread monarch I hurls the relents 
 less dart 
 
 Ai;^d lays in dnst the wise, the good, the great, 
 Deep streams of sorrow flow from every heart. 
 
 And nations mourn beneath the stroke of &.te. 
 
 When the dark tomb its jaws insatiate close 
 On th6se dear forms whose souls were twined 
 with ours, 
 
 No stoic's self could blame the tear that flows, 
 Or chase the memory from those painful hours. 
 
 Then let the muse indulge in sighs and tears, 
 O'er love that's past, and joys for ever flown— 
 
 Jh, why so short our bliss F — ^it but appears, 
 Charms our fond hearts, and is for ever gone. 
 
 Prail are our joys as is yon opening flower 
 That spreads its fragrant bosom to the skies : 
 
 Plucked by the intruder's hand, in one short 
 hour 
 Its bloom is wither'd and its fragran($e dies. 
 
 Swift pass the hours where friendship spreads 
 her charms, 
 
 In dreams of bliss the months unheeded roll ; 
 Nor dream we aught that tear from our fond arms 
 
 Those dear delights that twine around the soul. 
 
 Oh, happy moments! still I think I view. 
 That tender bosom, and that mild blue eye, 
 
 Melting in love — ^then blame the joys that flew. 
 With winged haste, to pass away and die. 
 
 Tes; they are deadi yet memory lives to fling 
 Her snowy flngers o'er the engraven heart. 
 
 And trace thoselinesof love, which read, will bring 
 Remembrance of those joys from which ws 
 never part. 
 
 Then all farewell — or bliss, or weal, or wo — 
 All are forgotten, buried — from this hour ; 
 
 The muse resigns her harp to tears that flow 
 O'er love's sweet memory, and her pleasing 
 power. 
 
 As I finished reading, my eye met Lafitte' s, and I saw a tea) trem 
 bling in his eye, which was hastily wiped away. 
 
38 FIBIDS'S SORAP-BOOK. 
 
 " Who ooraes here ?" said Lafitte, lifting hia glass to his eye, and 
 mine took the same direotion. 
 
 A sloop of war had just hove in view, and the British flag was flying 
 at her peak. Lafitte replaced the portrait ita his bosom, and hastened to 
 give orders for clearing his vessels for action. This was speedily done, 
 and all hands were at quarters. In the mean time, the sloop had an- 
 chored, and a boat, fully manned, with the white flag flying, was ap- 
 proaching the shore. The bearer of the flag presented Lafitte with a 
 letter, to which he respectfully requested an answer. Lafitte ordered 
 some refreshments for the boat's crew, as he requested me to accom- 
 pany him to the hut we had just left, and which he always occupied 
 when on shore. He seated himself at the table, and breaking the seal, 
 read as follows: — * 
 
 " To Captain Lafitte, Oommander4n-cMe/ of the Revohtiona/rif Flotilla, 
 in the Gulf of Mexico. 
 
 " Sir — His Britannic Majesty's forces will soon visit the south-west- 
 ern part of the United States with an overwhelming force, and I, as 
 commander of his Majesty's Navy on the American station, am autho- 
 rized to offer you any office in my power to bestow, together with any 
 sum of money you may demand, if you will consent to become chief con- 
 ductor of the flotilla which will be employed on this service, and 
 which your intimate acquaintance with these shores enables you to do 
 with so much honour to yourself and advantage to his Majesty's service. 
 On your answer will depend whether we are to consider and treat you as 
 a friend or an enemy. 
 
 " With sentiments of the greatest respect, I remain your servant, 
 
 " A. Cochran, Admiral, &e. 
 
 « At Sea, September, 1814." 
 
 Lafitte took his pen, and, without saying a word, endorsed on the mar- 
 gin of the letter — ■" No terms with tyrants !" enclosed it in an envelope, 
 redirected it, and handed it to the officer, with " You have my answer !" 
 The boat returned to the vessel, which immediately weighed anchor and 
 stood out to sea. 
 
 " These fellows, if they dared, would destroy us without ceremony," 
 said Lafitte, as they disappeared before a fine breeze ; " but when favour 
 is wanted, they are liberal of their promises to excess, and submissive as 
 lambs. I shall not be troubled with them any more, unless they see fit 
 to make an attempt upon my establishment, when they will find more 
 sand-bars than clear seasy and more iron than silver. But there is 
 another vessel m sight. It is my trader, from New Orleans. I shall 
 now be able to liberate you, and, in a few days, land you at New Orleans 
 or Mobile, as you may choose." 
 
 Lafitte was true to his word. On the third day after the schooner's 
 arrival, for such was her character, I went'^ on board, and sailed for Mo- 
 bile, as from there greater facilities were offered for reaching Washing- 
 ton than from New Orleans. Before I left Lafitte, I was persuaded, 
 should my mission to Washington prove successful, to return myself 
 
LAFITTB, THE BARATARIAN CHIEF. 3\1 
 
 With the. glad news to hiip, in person. I landed at Mobile, reached 
 Washington, succeeded in obtaining full pardon for Lafitte and his asso- 
 MSLtes, and returned to New Orleans just as the storm, which had so lon^r 
 lieen gathering, burst with all its fury upon the coast of Louisiana. ] 
 immediately returned in a government vessel to Barataria, and was re- 
 ceived by Lafitte with the warmest expressions of gratitude. He had, a 
 few days previous, returned ^om a sueoessful eruise, in which, among 
 otheis, he had succeeded in cjipturing a British transport, containing a 
 kjge quantity of eannoii., arms, &e., destined for the attack upon New 
 Orleans. On my arrival, Lafitte called his followers together, commu- 
 nicated to thera t^e intelligence of the free and full pardon guarantied 
 them, and upon what conditions it had been received ; and gave them 
 libepty to accept or reJ<Sct the offer. "-Long live the President of the 
 United States \" and ^"^ Long live Lafitte !" repeatedly rent the air, and 
 they unanimously resolved to follow him as their leader. 
 
 *' Brave fellows," said Lafitte, " we will prove by our swords our high 
 sense of the favour conferred !" 
 
 All hands were now busily engaged in conveying on board the vessels 
 the valuable property which had been collected at that place, and the 
 quantity of specie dragged from its various lurking-places far exceeded 
 in quantity my idea of Lafitte's wealth. We arrived in safety at New 
 Orleans, and were received by Commodore Patterson, who commanded 
 on the station, with every mark of respect. Lafitte had an honourable 
 command assigned him, and his heroic conduct, previous to and on the 
 ever-memorable eighth of January, is already deeply marked on the 
 page of history. 
 
 When the British, confounded at their loss and covered with disgrace, 
 had retired to their shipping, and all apprehension of a renewed attack 
 had subsided, New Orleans exhibited a scene of unbounded gayety and 
 glee. A splendid ball was given in honour of General Jackson, at which 
 most of the o£Seers of the army and navy were present, and all the 
 beauty and bravery of the South appeared to be concentrated on the oc- 
 casion. In the course of the evening, my attention was strongly engaged 
 by the appearance of a young lady who entered the apartment leaning 
 on the arm of the mayor of the eity. She was very beautiful, yet the 
 freshness of youth seemed to have passed away, and a slight shade of 
 melancholy gave her a most interesting appearance. Intimately ac- 
 quainted with the mayor, I was introduced as a friend to Miss Hangon, 
 from Charleston, and chance soon gave me an opportunity of entering 
 into conversation with his fair companion. The conversation turned on 
 the remarkable deliverance New Orleans had received from the invading 
 snemy. 
 
 " I little thought," said Miss Hanson, " when I left Charleston, two 
 years ago, to reside in this city, that I was to witness such a scene of 
 turmoil as that through which we have just passed; and but a few days 
 since, my expectations were still more faint, of beholding such a happy 
 termination of our troubles as this evening affords." 
 
 *• It did appear estremely improbable," I replied, " and our friends in 
 
FIBLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 ifferont parts of the Union will heartily rejoice at our escape from such 
 atchwords as ' Beauty and booty.' " 
 
 " It makes me shudder," she answered, " to think of the danger from 
 hich we have been rescued ! Not a fortnight ago, I sincerely wished 
 lyself at Charleston j but now we are safe and happy." . 
 
 " Are you a native of Charleston ?" I inquired. " A few years ago, 
 was considerably acquainted in that city." 
 
 " I am," she replied ; " it is but two years since, at the earnest en- 
 eaties of my uncle, who is at present mayor of this city, I left Charles- 
 ra, and accompanied him here." 
 
 " Were you acquainted at Charleston with a young lady by the name 
 F Mary Mornton ?" I asked. 
 
 " I was acquainted with her," replied Miss Hanson ; " she was mj 
 lost intimate friend ; but Mary reposes quietly in the grave, the victim 
 F unfortunate love ; often have I wished I could have slept with her." 
 
 " Was her lover a villain 1" I inquired. 
 
 " Oh, no ! he was as far from that, as day is from night," she an 
 vered with earnestness ; " he was one of the most amiable and engaging 
 arsons I have ever seen. An unfortunate affair drove him from Charles- 
 in, and the vessel in which he sailed was taken by the pirates, and 
 .1 OB board murdered ! Mary's tender heart was unable' to sustain 
 le shock, and she added another to the number of those who have 
 ,llen victims to the effect of that pleasing, painful passion, faithful 
 ive. No," she added, " it is impossible for Mortimer "W^ilson to be a 
 llain." 
 
 " You speak with warmth," I replied; "but you are perfectly par- 
 jnable ; it is so difficult to find such a person, that it is no wonder he 
 lould attract universal admiration." She blushed deeply. " Are you 
 jquainted with Lafitte ?" I continued. 
 
 "I have never seen him," she replied, "nor have the least anxiety 
 ) become acquainted with him ; after all his heroism and courage, he 
 
 but a pirate, a murderer." 
 
 " Our hearsay opinions are sometimes incorrect," I answered. " I 
 ace thought as you do. You shall have an opportunity of correcting 
 our unfavourable impressions, as I have done ; pardon my absence a 
 loment." 
 
 I flew to another room, where I found Lafitte in conversation with 
 iveral officers. There was an air of melancholy in his features, and 1 
 eckoned him to follow me. He took my hand and pressed it in his. 
 
 " Once," said he, "I, too, could be happy; but where is Mary !" 
 
 " You can still be hajjpy, if loveliness and disinterested affection can 
 lake you so, without Mary," I replied. 
 
 He was about to speak, but I placed my finger on my lips, and we, in 
 moment, found ourselves alongside of Miss Hanson. 
 
 " Miss Hanson," said I, " I have the pleasure of making you ac- 
 uainted with Captain Lafitte, of the South American service, and a 
 nlunteer in defence of our city." 
 
 She extended her hand with a kind of involuntary shudder ; but at 
 lift moment their eyes met, her countenance was instantly suffuaid wit'i 
 
MARSHAL NEY'S DBATH-SCENB. 41 
 
 the deepest crimson ; but as instantly became deadly pale. She tottered 
 towards him — " Oh, Mortimer !" " Oh, Annette !" — and they were 
 locked in each other's arms. Her sensations were too overpowering, 
 she fainted in his arms, and was carried to another apartment, where, 
 when shf recovered, a full understanding of the remarkable circum- 
 stances in which they found themselves and a reconciliation took place. 
 Annette's friends were not more astonished than delighted. Lafitte had 
 never forgotten Annette ; she was second only to Mary ; and if she 
 could not fill the void in his heart which the death of that lovely victim 
 had caused, he felt towards her all the affection which the warmest feel- 
 ings of gratitude 'could inspire. Annette's attachment remained unal- 
 tered ; and before I left New Orleans, I saw her made the happiest of 
 mortals, by her union with the adored Mortimer Wilson. 
 
 MARSHAL NEY'S DEATH-SCENE. 
 
 The vengeance of the Allied Powers demanded some victims ; and the 
 intrepid Ney, who had well-nigh put the crown again on Bonaparte's 
 head at Waterloo, was to be one of them. Condemned to be shot, he 
 was led to the Garden of Luxemburg, on the morning of the 7th of 
 December, and placed in front of a file of soldiers, drawn up to kill 
 him. One of the officers stepped up to bandage his eyes, but he re- 
 pulsed him, saying, " Are you ignorant that for twenty-five years I have 
 been accustomed to face both ball and bullet ?" He then lifted his hat 
 above his head, and with the same calm voice that had steadied his co- 
 lumns so frequently, in the roar and tumult of battle, said, " I declare, 
 before God and man, that I never betrayed my country ; may my death 
 render her happy. Vive la France !" He then turned to the soldiers, 
 and striking his hand on his heart, gave the order, " Soldiers, fire !" 
 A simultaneous discharge followed, and the " bravest of the brave" sank 
 to rise no more. " He who had fought _/S«e hundred hatUes for Prance, . 
 not one against her, was shot as a traitor \" As I looked on the spot 
 where he fell, I could not but sigh over his fate. True, he broke his 
 oath of allegiance — so did others, carried away by their attachment to 
 Napoleon and the enthusiasm that hailed his approach to Paris. Still, 
 he was no traitor. 
 
 " Abe you not alarmed at the approach of the king of terrors 1" said 
 a minister to a sick man. " Oh, no ! I have been living six and thirty 
 years with the queen of terrors — the king cannot be much worse." 
 
 s2 
 
42 
 
 FIELDS S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 MY HOME IS THE WOELD. 
 
 BT TH0UA3 H. BATLT. 
 
 Bpzi&t; ips»l, my fleet vesgel ! the shore is in Bight. 
 The breezes are fair, we shall anchor to-night; 
 To -morrow, %t sunrise, once more I shall stand 
 Ot> the sea-beaten shore of my dear native land. 
 
 Ah! why does despondenoy weigh down my heart? 
 BtrcH thoughts are for friends who reluotaatly part^ 
 I come from an exile of twenty long years, 
 Tet I gaze en my country through fast-falling tears. 
 
 I see the hills purple with hells of the heath. 
 And my own happy valley that nestles beneath. 
 And the fragrant white blossoms spread over the 
 
 thorn, 
 That grows near the cottage in which I was born. 
 
 It cannot be changed — no, the clematis climbs 
 O'er the gay little porch, as it did in old times. 
 And the seat where my father reclined is still there — 
 But where is my father?— oh, answer me, where? 
 
 My mother's own casement, the chamber she Ipved, 
 Is there — overlooking the lawn where I roved ; 
 She thoughtfully sat with her hand o'er her brow. 
 As she. watched hor ^oungj darling : — ah,, There is she 
 now? 
 
 And THSR& ia my poor iter's garden; bow wild; 
 Were the innocent sports of that beautiful child ! 
 Her voice had a spell in its musical tone. 
 And her cheeks were like roses :— ah, where ifi she 
 gone? 
 
 No father reclines in tba clematis seat! 
 IfQ mother looka forth tton tha shaded retreat! 
 No sister is there stealing slily away. 
 Till the half-suppressed laughter betrayed where she 
 Uy! 
 
 How oft in my exije, whan kint) friends were neu^ 
 I've sjighted their kindness, and sigh'd to be berat 
 How oft, have I said — " Could I once again see. 
 That sweet little valley> how blest should I be 1** 
 
 How blest — oh ! it i^ not a Talley like this. 
 
 That unaided caa realize visions of bliss; 
 
 Foi: voices I listen; ^qd then I look round 
 
 For the light steps that used to trip after the sonndl 
 
 But see ! this green path ; I remember it well — 
 'Tis the way to the church— hark the toll of the bell 1 
 Oh ! oft, in my boyhood, a truant I've strayed 
 To yonder dark yew-tree, and slept in its shade. 
 
 But surely the pathway is narrower now I 
 Nosmooth place is left 'neath the darkyew-tree bough. 
 O'er tablets inscrib'd with sad records I tread, ' 
 And the home I have sought^is the home of the dead ! 
 
 And was it to this I looked forward so long. 
 And shrank from the sweetness of Italy's song? 
 And turned from the daiice of the dark girJ of Spaiitl 
 And wept for my country agai^ and again ? 
 
 And was it for this to my casement I crent 
 To gaze on t^e deep when I dreamed az 1 slept? 
 To think of fond meetings, the welcime, the kiss. 
 The friendly hand's pressure !— bb ! was it for this f 
 
 When those who ao long have been absent, return 
 To the scenes of their cbiHhpo Jt, it is hut to mourn ; 
 Wounds open afresh tjiat time nearly had healed. 
 And the ills of a life at one glance are revealed. 
 
 Speedy speed, my fleet yes^el ! the tempest may rave— 
 There's calm for my heart in the dash of the Tiavo- ■ 
 Speed, speed, my fleet vessel ! the sails are unfni-l'* 
 Ob! ask me not;whit^ca<-7my home is the world 1 
 
 ON THE DEATH OP COLONEL OBOCKETT. 
 
 BT T. r. SUITH. 
 
 Heard ye that sigh with melancholy tale, 
 Borne mournfully on by evening's fitful gale ? 
 Likg some lone whisper from the silent tomb, 
 Shrouding a nation with its sadd'ning gloom ! 
 It comes from Texas, like a dying knell. 
 Where gloriously the immortal Crockett fell. 
 
 Like some tall giant on the ^I<J of blood,. 
 Undaunted, 'midst the gallant slain, he stood. 
 Ha knew no fear ; mid danger's darkfnl storm, 
 He boldly, proudly reared his warrior form. 
 Uifl cause— the cause of freedom and the free — 
 His glorious watchword— Death or Liberty ! 
 
 Sleep, mighty warrior, in thy tombless hod. 
 The bravest hero of the vali&nt dead ! 
 Thy name is cherished in a nation's pride. 
 Whose tears for thy sad fate eta ne'er be dried. 
 Some sculptured marble yet shall rise and tell 
 How Crockett, with hie birare companions, feU. 
 
 Freedom shall ligl(t ^er torch around thy tomh 
 And freemen write the story of thy doom ! 
 Tyrants shall tremtle at thy honcir^d nanw. 
 And blqsh to read the reoord pf thy fame; 
 While millions at their annual jubilee. 
 Shall toast— a Crockett lost— a nation free I 
 
SCENES AT MONTEREY. 
 
 SCENES AT MONTEREY. 
 
 The following scene was described to me b-y ao' officer commandiDg a 
 regiment in the 2d Division, at the battle of Monterey. I give it, al- 
 most in his own language, as he spoke of it, the day after it occurred,. 
 (24th September.) He has declared often since, that it " made him. 
 feel sentimental every time he thought of it;" and I am sure I never 
 thought oi accusing him of weakness, for it gave me the blues to hear 
 him tell the story. 
 
 " And this," said he, in speaking of home, " reminds me of an af- 
 fecting scene of last night. I was ordered by Colonel Childs to take a 
 company of my tegiment and break in the doors of a row of houses in 
 the second plaza. I had gone nearly through, without seeing a soul, 
 when, for a time, the eflForts of my men were exerted in vain to get into 
 one that seemed barricaded with care. As the hiages of the door were 
 about to give way, a tremulous voice on the inside beseeched me not to 
 break the door down— it should be opened. When unlocked, I rushed 
 in, as well as I could, over beds, chairs, cushions, etc. etc., and to my 
 surprise, found the room occupied by about twenty-five women ! Aa 
 soon as they saw me and the soldiers following, they ran around me and 
 fell on their knees, the elder beseeching, in tones of deep distress, my 
 protection, and to have their lives spared ; the younger begging timidily 
 not to be injured. While they were thus kneeling, and I assuring them 
 that no harm or injury should befall them, a pretty little woman slid 
 into the circle and knelt close to my feet. ' Senor,' said she, in a soft. 
 quivering voice, ' for the love you bore your mother, for the love you 
 have for your wife, for the tender affection your heart holds for your 
 children, oh, spare this, my poo'' little babe/ — holding up a bright-eyed, 
 dimpled-cheeked little boy, about a year old. She never asked for her- 
 self. In spite of me, tears rushed to my eyes, and I could only speak 
 with a full heart, as I told her to rise, and assured her that she and her 
 child were perfectly safe. ' Be the Holy Virgin, capting,' remarked 
 a rough Irish soldier, wiping away a tear with the back of his hand, 
 ' won't the ould Seventh purtect them !' 
 
 " That night I watched over that room, which was sacredly kept from 
 intrusion. The next day, we were blessed by these females in their 
 attentions, for the protection we had given them, for they gave us of 
 what they had to eat and drink, and we were nearly famished. Pom 
 creatwes, how much they were distressed ! The young mother will ever 
 be painted in my mind's eye, as the devoted guardian of her babe. Her 
 husband, I learned, was an officer, and was then fighting us in the city. 
 She could not have known whether he was alive or not, and I have not 
 heard of him." 
 
 Many scenes, veiy like that described above, took place in the city. 
 I did not hear of a single outrage being committed, where women were 
 in the question, but heard of many instances in which food was fur- 
 nished to our men and paid for, even when the fight was going on 
 
44 FIELDS'S SCKAP-BOOK. 
 
 A SCENE IN VIRGINIA. 
 
 On a lovely morning towards the close of spring, I found myself in a 
 very beautiful part of the Great Valley of Virginia. Spurred onward 
 by impatience, I beheld the sun rising in splendour and changing the blue 
 tints on the tops of the lofty Alleghany mountains into streaks of the 
 purest gold, and nature seemed to smile in the freshness of beauty. A 
 ride of about fifteen miles, and a pleasant woodland ramble of about two, 
 brought myself and companion to the great Natural Bridge. 
 
 Although I had been anxiously looking forward to this time, and my 
 mind had been considerably excited by expectation, yet I was not alto- 
 gether prepared for the visit. This great work of nature is considered 
 by many as the second great curiosity in our country — ^Niagara Falls 
 being the first. I do not expect to convey a very correct idea of this 
 bridge, for no description can do this. 
 
 The Natural Bridge is entirely the work of God. It is of solid lime- 
 stone, and connects two huge mountains together, by a most beautiful 
 arch, over which there is a great wagon-road. Its length, from one 
 mountain to the other, is nearly eighty feet; its width, about thirty-five; 
 its thickness, about forty-five, and its perpendicular height over the 
 water is not far from two hundred and twenty feet. A few bushes grow 
 on its top, by which the traveller may hold himself as he looks over. 
 On each side of the stream, and near the bridge, are rocks, projecting 
 ten or fifteen feet over the water, and from two hundred to three hun- 
 dred feet from its surface, all of limestone. The visitor cannot give so 
 good a description of this bridge as he can of his feelings at the time. 
 He softly creeps out on a shaggy projecting rock, and looking down a 
 chasm from forty to sixty feet wide, he sees, nearly three hundred feet 
 below, a wide stream, foaming and dashing against the rocks beneath, 
 as if terrified at the rooks above. This stream is called Cedar Creek. 
 The visitor here sees trees under the arch, whose height is seventy feet, 
 and yet, to look down upon them, they appear like small bushes of per^ 
 haps two or three feet in height. I saw several birds fly under the arch, 
 and they looked like insects. I threw down a stone, and counted thirty- 
 four before it reached the water. All hear of heights and depths, but 
 they here see what is high, and they tremble, and feel it .to be deep. 
 The awful rocks present their everlasting butments, the water murmurs 
 and foams far below, and the two mountains rear their proud heads on 
 each side, separated by a channel of sublimity. Those who vi*w the 
 sun, the moon, and the stars, and allow that none but God could make 
 them!, will here be impressed with the conviction that none but Almighty 
 God could build a bridge like this. 
 
 The view of the bridge from below is as pleasing as the top is awful. 
 The arch from beneath would seem to be about' two feet in thickness. 
 Some idea of the distance from the top to the bottom may be formed 
 from the fact, that as I stood on the bridge and my companion beneath, 
 neither of us could speak with sufiB.cient loudnesrt to be heard 'by the 
 
A SCENE IN VIRGINIA. _ 45 
 
 olhe> A man, from either view, does not appear more than four or five 
 iaches in height. 
 
 As we stood under this beautiful arch, we saw the place where visitors 
 Qjive often taken the pains to engrave their names upon the rock. Here 
 Washington climbed up twenty-five feet, and carved his own name, 
 where it still remains. Some, wishing to immortalize their names, have 
 engiaved them deep and large, while others have tried to climb up and 
 insert them high in this book of fame. 
 
 A few years since, a young man, being ambitious to place his name 
 above all others, came very near losing his life in the attempt. After 
 much fatigue, he climbed up as high as possible, but found that the per- 
 son who had before occupied his place was taller. than himself, and con- 
 sequently had placed his name above his reach, but he was not thus to 
 be discouraged. He opens a large jack-knife, and, in the soft limestone, 
 began to cut places for his hands and feet. With much patience and 
 difiSculty, he worked his way upwards, and succeeded in carving his 
 name higher than the most ambitious had done before him. He could 
 now triumph, but his triumph was short, for he was placed in such a 
 situation that it was impossible to descend unless he fell upon the ragged 
 rocks beneath him. 
 
 There was no house near, from whence his companions could get assist- 
 ance. He could not long remain in that condition, and, what was worse, 
 his friends were too much frightened to do any thing for his relief. 
 They looked upon him as already dead, expecting every moment to see 
 him dashed to pieces. Not so with himself. He determined to ascend. 
 Accordingly, he plied himself with his knife, cutting places for his hands 
 and feet, and gradually ascended, with incredible labour. He exerted every 
 muscle. His life was at stake, and all the terrors of death rose before 
 him. He dared riot to look downwards, lest his head should become 
 dizzy ; and perhaps on this circumstance his life depended. His com- 
 panions stood on the top of the rock exhorting, and encouraging him. 
 His strength was almost exhausted ; but a bare possibility of saving his 
 life still remained ; and hope, the last friend of the distressed, had not 
 forsaken him. His course upwards was rather oblique than perpendicu- 
 lar. His most critical moment had now arrived. He had ascended con- 
 siderably more than two hundred feet, and had still further to rise, when 
 he felt himself fast growing weak. He thought of his friends and all his 
 earthly joys, and he could not leave them. He thought of the grave, 
 and dared not meet it. He now made his last effort, and succeeded. 
 He had cut his way not far from two hundred and fifty feet from the 
 water^in a course almost perpendicular; and, in a little less than two 
 hours, his anxious companions reached him a pole from the top and 
 drew him up. They received him with shouts of joy; but he himself 
 was completely exhausted. He immediately fainted away on reaching 
 the top, and it was some time before he recovered ! 
 
 It was interesting to* see the path up these awful rooks, and to follow 
 in imagination this bold youth as he thus saved his life. His name 
 stands fer above all the rest, a monument of hardihood, of rashness, am 
 of folly. 
 
46 FIBLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 We stayed around this seat of grandeur four hours ; but, from my own 
 feelings, I should not have supposed it over half an hour. There is a 
 little cottage near, lately built j here we were desired to write our names, 
 as visitors to the bridge, in a large book kept for this purpose. Two 
 large volumes were nearly filled already. Having immortalized our 
 names by enrolling them in this book, we slowly and silently returned to 
 our horses, wondering at this great work of nature. We could not but be 
 filled with astonishment at the amazing power of Him who can clothe 
 himself in wonder and terror, or throw around his works a ma,ntle of 
 sublimity. 
 
 DOCTOR FRANKLIN. 
 
 The leading property of Dr. Franklin's mind — ^great as it was— 'the 
 faculty which made him remarkable, and set him apart from other men, 
 the generator, in truth, of all his power — was ffood sense — -only plain 
 good sense- — nothing more. He was not a man of genius: there was 
 no brilliancy about him; little or no fervour; nothing lik« poetry or 
 eloquence; and yet, by the sole, untiring, continued operations of his 
 humble unpretending quality of mind, he came to do more in the 
 world of science, more in council, more in the revolution of empires, 
 (uneducated — or self-educated as he was,) than five hundred others might 
 nave done, each with more genius, more fervour, more eloquence, more 
 brilliancy. 
 
 Ho was born of English parents, in Boston, Massachusetts, New 
 England, about 1706, we believe. When a lad, he ran away to Phila- 
 delphia. After a long course of self-denial, hardship, and wearying dis- 
 appointment, which nothing but his frugal, temperate, courageous good 
 sense carried him through, he. became to be successively, a journeyman 
 printer, (or pressman, rather, on account of his great bodily strength,) 
 in a London printing-ofiice ; editor and publisher at home, in Philadel- 
 phia, of many papers, which had prodigious influence on the temper of 
 his countrymen ; agent for certain colonies to this government ; an 
 author of celebrity ; a philosopher, whose reputation has gone over the 
 whole of the learned world ; a very able negotiator ; a statesman, a 
 minister plenipotentiary to France, of whose king he obtained, while the 
 Bourbons were in their glory, by his great moderation, wisdom, and 
 republican address, a treaty, which enabled our thirteen colonies of 
 North America to laugh all the power of Great Britain, yea:r after year, 
 to scorn ; yes, all these things did Benjamin Franklin, by virtue alone 
 .<f his good common sense. 
 
 He died in 1796, " full of years and honours," the pride and glory of 
 that empire, the very foundations of which he had helped into the ap- 
 pointed place, with his own powerful hands. He was one of the few — 
 the priesthood of liberty — that stood up undismayed, unmoved, while 
 ^he ark of their salvation thundered and shook and lightened in their 
 faces ; putting their venerable hands upon it, nevertheless, and abiding 
 
THE CLOSING SCENE OF THE PALL OF JERUSALEM, 47 
 
 the iss-ue while the declaration of Independence went forth lite the noise 
 of a trumpet to the four corners of the earth. He liveduntil he heard the 
 warlike flourish echoing through the genetal solitudes of America^tti'e 
 roar of battle on every side of him — -all Europe in commotion — her over- 
 peopled empires riotous with a new 'Spirit-^his country quietly taking 
 het place among the nations. What more could be wished ? Nothing 
 It was time to give up the ghoSt. 
 
 He was a great, and of course a good man. We have but few things 
 to lay seriously ^o his chai-ge, very 'few ; and aftet all, when we look 
 about us, recollecting, as we do, the great good 'whieh be 'has done euery 
 'ivhure; the little misfehief he has don's, the less than ^little that he ever 
 meditated anywhere, in all his life, to the cause of humanity, we have 
 no heart, we confess it again, to speak unkindly of him. The evil that 
 'Benjamin Fi-anklin did, in the Whole of his fourscore years and Up- 
 wards of life, Was, in comparison with his good worfes, but as the dust 
 in the balanee.-^^^^tecfocood's Magazine. 
 
 THE CLOSING SCENE OF THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 
 
 FBOM SAI.ATHIEL. 
 
 The fall of our illustrious and unhappy city was supernatural. Tb* 
 destruction of the conquered was agMinst the first principles of the 
 Roman policy, and to the last hour of our national existence, Rome 
 held out offers of peace, and lamented our 'frantic determination to be 
 undone. But the decree was gone forth from a mightier throne. During 
 the latter days of the siege, a hostility, to which that of man was as the 
 grain of sand to the tempest that it drives on, overpowered our Strength 
 and senses. Fearful shapes and voices in the air^visions startling us 
 from our short and troubled sleep — lunacy, in its most hideous forms^- 
 sudden death, in the midst of vigour — the fury of the elements let loose 
 upon our unsheltered heads-'— we had every terror and evil that could 
 beset human nature, but pestilence ; the most probable of all in a city 
 crowded with the famishing, the deceased, the wounded, and the dead. 
 Yet, though the streets were covered with the unburied^^-^though every 
 well and trench was teeining — though six hundred thousand corpses lay 
 flung over the ramparts, and naked to the sun-^pestilence came not 5 if 
 it had come, the enemy would have been seated away. But the " abomi 
 nation of desolation," the pagan standard, was fixed, where it was to 
 remain until the plough. passed over the ruins of Jerusalem. 
 
 On this night, this fatal night, no man laid his head on the pillow. 
 Heaven and earth were in conflict — ^meteors bulijied above us ; the ground 
 shook under our feet ; the volcano blazed ; the wind burst forth in irre- 
 sistible blasts, and swept the living and the dead, in whirlwinds, far into 
 the desert. We heard the bellowing of the distant Mediterranean, as if 
 its waters were at our sides. Swelled by a new deluge. The lakes and 
 rivers roared and inundated the land. The fiery sword shot tenfold 
 fire. Showers of blood fell. Thunder pealed from every quarter of tho 
 
48 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 heavens. Lightnings, immense sheets, of an intensity of juration that 
 turned the darkness into noon day, withered eye and soul, burned from 
 the zenith to the ground, and marked its track by the forests on flame 
 and the shattered summits of the hills. 
 
 Defence was uuthought of, for the mortal enemy had passed from 
 the mind. Our hearts quaked for fear; but it was to see the "powers of 
 heaven shaken." All cast away the shield and spear, and crouched 
 before the descending judgment. We were conscience smitten. Our 
 cries of remorse, anguish, and horror, were heard through the roar of the 
 storm. We howled to the earth to hide us; we plunged into the sepul- 
 chres to escape the wrath that consumed the living — we would have 
 buried ourselves under the mountains. 
 
 I knew the cause, the unspeakable cause, and knew that the last hour 
 of crime was at hand. A few fugitives, astonished to see one man 
 among them not sunk in the lowest feebleness of fear, came around me, 
 and besought me to lead them to some place of safety, if such were now 
 to be found on earth. I told them openly that they were to die, and 
 counselled them to die on the hallowed ground of the temple. They 
 followed, and I led them through the streets encumbered with every 
 shape of human suffering to the foot of Mount Moriah. But beyond 
 that, we found advance impossible. Piles of cloud, whose darkness was 
 palpable even in the midnight in which we stood, covered the Holy HilL 
 Impatient, and not to be daunted by any thing that man could overcome, 
 I cheered my disheartened band, and attempted to lead the way up the 
 ascent. But I had scarcely entered the cloud, when I was swept down- 
 ward by a gust that tore the rocks in flinty showers around me. Now 
 came the last and most wondrous sign that marked the fate of rejected 
 Israel. 
 
 While I lay helpless, I heard the whirlwind roar through the cloudy 
 hill, and the vapours began to revolve. A pale light, that of the rising 
 moon, quivered on their edges, and the clouds rose, and rapidly shaped 
 themselves into forms, and battlements, and towers. The sound of 
 voices was heard within, low and distant, yet strangely sweet. Still the 
 lustre brightened, and the airy buildings rose, tower on tower and bat- 
 tlement on battlement. In awe, that held us mute, we knelt and gazed 
 on this more than mortal architecture, that continued rising and spread- 
 ing, and glowing with a serener light, still soft and silvery, yet to which 
 the broadest moonbeam was dim. At last it stood forth to earth and 
 heaven, the colossal image of the first temple, of the buildings raSsed by 
 the wisest of men, and consecrated by the visible glory. All Jerusalem 
 saw the image ; and the shout, that in the midst of their despair, ascended 
 from its thousands and tens of thousands, told what proud remembrancei 
 were there. But a hymn was heard, that might have hushed the world 
 beside. Never fell on my ear, never on human sense, a sound so ma- 
 jestic, yet so subduing; so full of melancholy, yet of grandeur and com- 
 mand. The vast portal opened, and from it marched a host, such as 
 jaan shall never see but once again — the guardian angels of the city oi 
 David ! They came forth glorious, but with wo in all their steps ; the 
 gtars upon their helmets dim; their robes stained; tears flowing down 
 
AN infant's sleep. 49 
 
 thmr celestial beauty — "Let us go hence," was their song of sorrow. 
 "Let us go hence," was answered by the sad echoes of the mountains 
 " Let us go hence" swelled upon the night to the farthest limits of 
 the land. The procession lingered on the summit of the hill. The 
 thunder pealed, and rose over the expanse of heaven. Their chorus wa? 
 heard still, magnificent and melancholy, when their splendour was di- 
 minished to the brightness of a star. Then the thunder roared again — 
 the cloudy temple was scattered on the wiiid and darkness, the omen of 
 her grave, settled upon Jerusalem. 
 
 AN INFANT'S SLEEP. 
 
 De. James Wilson, in a paper upon " AflFeetions of the Heart," read 
 before the Royal College of Physicialis, in London, indulged in the fol- 
 lowing sweet strain, in speaking of an infant's sleep : — " So motionless 
 is its slumber, that, in watching it, we tremble, impatient for some stir 
 or sound that may assure us of its life ; yet is th§ fancy of the little 
 sleeper busy, and every artery and every pulse of its frame engaged in 
 the work .of growth and secretion. Though his breath would not stir the 
 smallest insect that sported on his lip — though his pulse would not lift 
 the flower-leaf of which he dreamed, from his bosom ; yet, following this 
 emblem of tranquillity into after-life, we see him exposed to every climate 
 — contending with every obstacle-7-agitated by every passion.; and, under, 
 these various circumstances, how different is the power and degree of the 
 heart's action, which has not only to beat, but to 'beat time,' through: 
 every moment of a long and troubled life !" 
 
 IS THERE A GOD? 
 
 Look at ourselves. Look at man ; his reason, intelligence, and' dis- 
 coveries. Look at him diving into the depths of the ocean,, calculating, 
 the eclipses of the sun and moon, and making the elements subservient 
 to his interest and his wants. Look at his capacities; jreview the ten 
 thousand arguments that daily, nay hourly arise, and then tell me if 
 there is a shadow of a doubt, that a God, a retributive God, does rule the 
 whirlwind and direct the storm. — B. 'Rikcer. 
 
 Education is a companion which no misfortune can- depress-^no 
 crime can destroy — no enemy can alienate — no despotism enslave. 'At 
 home, a friend — abroad, an introduction — in solitude, a solace— and in 
 society, an ornament. It chastens vice — it guides virtue — it gives at 
 once, grace and government to genius — without it, what is Man? A 
 splendid slave — a reasoning savage ! 
 E * 
 
50 
 
 FIELDS S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 TO "W. M. Gt. ON THE DEATH OF HIS AMIABLE SISTER. 
 
 Ob ! vciep not for her who, from sTifferin^ and BorToW, 
 Hath fled to the olftaie of content and accord ; 
 
 Whose spirit in heaven new brilliance shall borrow. 
 For blessed are thej who have died in the Lord. 
 
 I have stood on the sea-^hore and mnrmured in pity, 
 As my friend the tall ship from my bosom bereft ; 
 
 I'houlih a forest he gave for a flomriBtilng <Jity, 
 And happines> gained for the sorrows he left. 
 
 Then why should we mourn o'er the dead or the dying. 
 
 Who meekly hare how'd to the chastening rod. 
 Who from gloom to the gardens of glory are flying. 
 
 From sorrow to bliss In the city of Godf 
 
 On earth, when our dearly loved friends are a£:i)iring 
 To pleasures and comforts that life may bestow. 
 
 We rejoice, and as cheerfully aid in acquiring; 
 We are pleased at their pleasures, and weep fbr 
 their wo. 
 
 Then weep not that she, for the raptures ef heaven. 
 Hath fled to the climes of content and aocond; 
 
 Mourn not that to her the white garment is given. 
 For blessed' are thdy who have died in the Lord. 
 
 Biiti'ejoioe that the sorrows of life are now ended 
 That she never shall Seel of uffliction the rod ; 
 
 That with angels her spirit to bliss hath afloeoded, 
 To dwell with the Lamb ia the garden of God, 
 
 Kejiioe that, with angsls, afflictions can npvf r 
 Confine her again to a slnmberless bod ; 
 
 And that she shall dwell with the Saviour for ni er, 
 When the last peal of thunder shall waken the dead. 
 
 Oh, thou friend of my heart ! fain, fain would I surru ir. 
 And mingle my^ tears with thine own in accora, 
 
 If death oould no light tiom. eternity borrow ; 
 But blessed dre they who have died in tbe Lord. 
 
 Well, well do Z kaow that the heart of a brother 
 Can never restrain the outpourings of love. 
 
 The regret for the loss df a sister or mother- 
 But fitill «hould rejaicB Uiat they're angels above. 
 
 MiLFORD BABD. 
 
 WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER? 
 
 »r TKB BSEV, CteOHOE W. DOANB. 
 
 WKAT is that, mother ? 
 
 The lark, my chiMI 
 The morn hasbut just looked' (hit, andsmlle^ 
 When he starts from his humble, grassy nest, 
 And is up and away, with the dew on im breaAt; 
 And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere, 
 To warble it out in hia Maker's ear. 
 Ever, my child, be thy niflrn'a first lays 
 Tuned, like the lackSa, to thy Maker's praise. 
 
 What is that, mother? 
 
 The -dove, my son! 
 Anil' that low, sweet voice, like a widow's mean. 
 Is flowing out'from her gentle breaet, 
 OonBtant and pure, by that lonely nest. 
 As the wave is poured "from some crystal ura, 
 for her distant dear one's quick return. 
 £ver, my son, be thoU'like the dove. 
 In friendship as faithful^ as constant in love. 
 
 'Whmt is that, mother f 
 
 The eagle, hey! 
 Proudly ftareeriBg tiis course of joy. 
 Firm, in his own mountain vigour relying. 
 Breasting the 4«Tk storm, t^e red bolt^defying. 
 His wing on the wiad, and his eye in the sun. 
 He swerves not a hair, hut bears onward, right OBt 
 Boy, may the eagle's flight ever he thine. 
 Onward and upward, and true to the line. 
 
 What is that, mother ? 
 
 The swan, my love ! 
 He Is floating 4own from his native grove. 
 No loved one now, no neatling nigh. 
 He is floating down- by himself to die ; 
 Death darkens hifi eye, unpltimes hie wiogs. 
 Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings. 
 Live so, my love, that when death shall comr, 
 Swamlike and sweet, itn4ay waft thae home ! 
 
 .FEMALE FAITH. 
 
 - Sb£ loved you wlien the sunny' light 
 
 ■ -df bliss was on your brow ; 
 ' That bliss has sunk in sorrow's night, 
 .And yet.'she.lov^ you now. 
 
 She loved ydu»T^hea your joyous tone 
 Taught every<heart to thrill: 
 
 The sweetness of that tongue is gone, 
 And yet she loves yonrstill. 
 
 She loved you when yen proudly stept. 
 
 The gayest of the gay ! 
 That pride the blight of time has swept, 
 
 Unlike her love, away. 
 
 She loved you when your home and hean 
 Of fortune's smile eould boast ; 
 
 She saw that smile decay — dtipart^— 
 And then she loved ycu most. 
 
TUB BfiOEEN-HEARTED. Oi 
 
 THE BROKEN-HEARTED 
 
 I HA'/'E seen the infaiit sin'kiog down, like a stricken flower, to the 
 grave — the strong man fiercely breathing out his soul upon the fiel(^ of 
 battle — the niiserable cdnviotj standing upon the scaffold, with a deep 
 curse quivering on his lips^I have viewed death, in all its forms of 
 darkness and vengeance, with a tearless eye — but I never could look on 
 woman, young and lovely woman, fading away from the earth in beauti- 
 fiil and uncomplaining melancholy, without feeling the very fountains 
 of life turned to tears and dust. Death is always terrible — but when a 
 form of angel beauty is passing off to the silent land of the sleepers, the 
 heart feels that something lovely in the universe is ceasing from exist- 
 ence, and broods, with a sense of utter desolation, over the lonely 
 thoughts, that come up, like spectres from the grave, to haunft our mid^ 
 night musings. 
 
 Two years ago, I took up my residence, for a few weeks, in a country 
 village in the eastern part of New England. Soon after my arrivd, I 
 became acquainted with a lovely girl, apparently arbout seventeen years 
 of age. She had lost tiie idol of her pure heart's purest love,, and the 
 shadows of deep and holy memories were resting like the wings of death 
 upon her brow. I first met her in the presence of the mirthful. She 
 was indeed a creature to be worshipped — her brow was garlanded with 
 the young year's sweetest flowers — her yellow locks were hanging beau- 
 tifully and low upon her bosom^and she moved through the crowd with 
 such a fl'oating and' unearthly grace, that the bewildered gazer almost 
 looked to see her fade away- into the air, like the creation of some plea- 
 sant dream. She seemed cheerful, and even gay, yet I saw that her 
 gayety Was but the mookei'y of her feelings. She smified, but there Was 
 something in her smile, which told that its mournful beauty was but 
 the bright reflection of a tear — ^and her eyelids, at times, closed heavily 
 down, as if struggling to repress the tide of agony that was bursting up 
 firom her heart's secret urn. She looked as if she could have left the 
 scene of festivity, and gone out beneath the quiet stars,i and laid her 
 forehead down upon the fresh, green earth, and- poured out her stricken 
 soul, gush after gush, till it mingled with the eternal fountain of life 
 and purity. 
 
 . Days and weeks passed on, and that sweet girl gave me her confidence, 
 an(f I became as her brother. She was Wasting away by disease. The 
 smile upon her lip was fainter, the purple veins upon her cheek grew 
 visible, and the cadences of her voice became daily more weak and tre- 
 mulous. On a quiet evening in the depth of June, I wandered out with 
 her a little distance in the open air. It was then that she first told me 
 the tale of her passion, and of the blight that had come down like mil- 
 dew upon her life. Love had been a portion of her existence. Its ten- 
 drils had been twined around her heart in ,its earliest years, and when 
 they were rent away, they left a wound, which flowed till all the springs* 
 of her soul were blood. "I. am passing away," said she, "and it should 
 
52 FIELDS'S SCKAP-BOOK. 
 
 be so. The winds have gone over my life, and the bright buds of hope 
 and the sweet blossoms of passion are scattered down, and lie withering 
 in the dust, or rotting away upon the chill waters of memory. And yet 
 I cannot go down among the tombs without a tear. It is hard to take 
 leave of the friends who love me — it is very hard to bid farewell to these 
 dear scenes, with which I have held communion from childhood, and 
 which, from day to day, have caught the colour of my life, and sympa- 
 thized with my joys and sorrows. That Ifttle grove, where I have so 
 often strayed with my buried love, and where, at times, even now, the 
 sweet tones of his voice seem to come stealing around me till the whole 
 air becomes one intense and mournful melody — that pensive star, which 
 we used to watch in its early rising, and on which my fancy can still 
 picture his form looking down upon me and beckoning me to his own 
 bright home — every flower, and tree, and rivulet, on which the memory 
 of our early love has set its undying seal, has become dear to me, and 
 I cannot, without a sigh, close my eyes upon them for ever." 
 
 I have lately heard, that the beautiful girl of whom I have spoken, is 
 dead. The close of her life was calm as the falling of a quiet stream — 
 gentle as the sinking of the breeze, that lingers for a time around a bed 
 of withered roses, and then dies, " as 'twere from very sweetness." 
 
 It cannot be that earth is man's only abiding place. It cannot be 
 that our life is a bubble cast up by the ocean of eternity, to float a mo- 
 ment upon its waves and sink into darkness and nothingness. Else why 
 is it, that the high and glorious aspirations, which leap like angels from 
 the temple of our hearts, are. for ever wandering abroad, unsatisfied? 
 Why is it, that the rainbow and the cloud come over us, with a beauty 
 that is not of earth, and then pass ofiF and leave us to muse upon their 
 faded loveliness ? Why is it, that the starSj which " hold their festivals 
 around the midnight throne," are set above the grasp of our limited fa- 
 culties — for ever mocking us with their unapproachable glory ? And, 
 finally, why is it, that bright forms of human beauty are presented to 
 our view and then taken from us — leaving the thousand streams of our 
 afiections to flow back in an Alpine torrent upon our hearts ? We are 
 born for a higher destiny than that of earth. There is a realm where 
 the rainbow never fades, where the stars will be spread out before us 
 like the islands that slumber on the ocean, and where the beautiful 
 beings, which here pass before us like visions, will stay in our presence 
 for ever. Bright creature of my dreams, in that realm I shall see thee 
 again ! Even, now thy lost image is sometimes with me. In the myste- 
 rious silence of midnight, when the streams are -glowing in the lighf of 
 the many stars, that image comes floating upon the beam, that lingers 
 around my pillow, and stands before me in its pale dim loveliness, till 
 its own quiet spirit sinks like a spell from heaven upon my thoughts, 
 and the grief of years- is turned to dreams of blessedness and peace. 
 
 Woman. — How continually, in retirement and in the world, is the 
 lesson of submission forced upon woman. To suffer, and be silent under 
 sufferings, seems the greatest command she has to obey ; while man is 
 allowed to wrestle with calamity, and to conquer or die in the struggle 
 
THE RUINS OF TIME. 53 
 
 THE EUINS OF TIME. 
 
 BT THE MILFOBD BABD. 
 
 The car of victory, the plume, the wreath, 
 Defend not from the bolt of fate the brave ; 
 No note the clarion of renown can breathe 
 T' alarm the long night ofrthe lonely grave. 
 Or cheek the headlong haste of time's o'erwhelming wave. 
 
 Dr. BEATirB. 
 
 Once more hath the earth completed her circuit round the burning 
 and brilliant luminary of heaven. The wheels of time still roll on, and 
 bury every moment in the dust the wrecks of former revolutions. The 
 monuments of art and genius, the temples of ambition, pride and vanity 
 every moment spring up and are hurled to the earth in the path of 
 man, and serve to remind him of the mutability of all human greatness 
 and all human grandeur. To him how pregnant with instruction are 
 the wrecks, and ruins, and revolutions of time. They are the oracles 
 of ages — they speak like a trumpet from the tomb. They speak with 
 a voice of thunder to the heart — a voice more impressive than the tongue 
 of TuUy, more symphonious than the harp of Homer, more picturesque 
 than tjie pencil of Apelles. I feel in my soul the grandeur of my 
 exalted theme. I see the venerable shade of Time, as he stands for a 
 moment on the pedestal of years ; his white locks streaming in the 
 winds of winter, and his aged hand pointing to the ruins of empires, and 
 his trembling form bending over the tombs of oriental genius, where the 
 lamp of glory still burns and the light of immortality streams. 
 
 Roll back the billowy tide of time! — unroll the mouldering record of- 
 ages! What scenes are presented . to the startled imagination of man. 
 He beholds his own destiny, and tbe doom of his noblest achievements. 
 He builds the colossal temple of his renown — he dedicates it to other 
 ages — it stands on a rock, and bathes its high battlements in the blue 
 clouds of heaven ; but, behold, triumphant time hurls it, with all its 
 grandeur, to the dust. So it is with man himself, whose hot and huiried 
 existence precipitates the hour of his own dissolution. And so it is with 
 the empires of the earth — they rise, flourish, and pass away, as if they 
 had never been. Where now is ancient Egypt, the land of science and 
 sacred recollections ? Where are her thousands of cities, her Thebes, her 
 Memphis, her oracle of Ammon ? The red arm of the Goth and the 
 Vandal hath levelled them with the dust ; the serpent now inhabits the 
 temple where the worshipper once bent the knee of adoration — the 
 oracle has been silent for ages, and the priestess long since fled from her 
 falling shrine. And where are the cloud-capt pyramids of Egypt, the 
 wonder of the world? Alas ! they still stand, a mournful monumbut of 
 human ambition. But where are the kings who planned, and the mil- 
 lions of miserable slaves who erected them ? Gone down to the grave ; 
 the rank weed waves over the sepulchre of their mouldering bones 
 And such shall be thf fate of those pyramids which have stood for 
 
rA FIELDS'S &CRAP-B(WK, 
 
 Ages as the beacons of misguided ambition ; the ware of time sbail roll 
 over them and bury them for ever in the general mausoleum of ages. 
 
 And have all the glory and grandeur of the world thus yielded to the 
 victorious tooth of time ? Go seek an answer amid the wrecks of 
 Palmyra, Balbec, and Jerusalem. Behold, the city of G-od hath fallen — 
 through her tottering temples and ruined battlements the shade-born 
 beetle wheels his dreary flight, and the roaring lion of the desert hath 
 made his lair in the sepulchre of the Saviour. The musing traveller in 
 vain searches for the splendid temple of Solomon ; its crumbling columns 
 are beneath his feet ; its sublime imagery is pictured in the landscape 
 of imagination, but the glory of the world hath departed for ever. Oh, 
 where are the naillions of once active beings •who inhabited the sacred 
 city, and whose voices once made the temple vocal with the songs of 
 praise ? Alas, they are lost amid the undistinguishable wrecks of time. 
 Their bones are bleaching on their native hills, even more desolate than 
 their once jielebrated city. 
 
 Time, IJke death, is an impartial conqueror. The monuments of genius 
 and the arts fall alike before him in the path of his irresistible might. 
 He hath uprooted the firm foundation of greatness and grandeur; nor 
 less hath he desolated the gardens of oriental genius. Methinks I see him 
 pointing with triumph to the tottering temples of Greece, and smiling 
 at the ruins of Athens and Sparta, the homes of that illustrious philoso- 
 pher who gave learning to the imperial son of Philip, and where Solon 
 and Lycurgus gave laws to the world. But these cities are in ruins y — 
 their philosophers are dumb in death ; the Academy, the Porch, and the 
 Lyceum no longer resound with the doctrines of Plato, Zeno, and their 
 illustrious competitors. Their fame alone has survived the general 
 wreck. What a lesson is this for the growing empire of the earth ! 
 Greece, the glory of the world, the bright luminary of learning, liberty, 
 and laws, prostrate in the dust ; her light of genius and the arts quenched 
 in the long night of time; her philosophers, heroes, statesmen, and 
 poets mingling with the fragments of her fallen grandeur! Go to 
 the temple of Diana at Ephesus, and the oracle of Delphos, and ask 
 the story of her renown, the story of her dissolution. Alas, that temple 
 hath long since dissolved in a flood of flame, and the last echo of that 
 oracle hath died on the lips of -^olus. But she fell not before the flam- 
 ing-sword of Mahomet without a struggle. It was the last expiring 
 struggle of a brave and illustrious race, and her fall was like that of the 
 Colossus of Rhodes — .she was recognised alone by the fragments of her 
 renown. When the conquering arm of Eome spread the imperial banner 
 above her walls, her literature and learning survived the fall ; but when 
 the second time she fell beneath the Tartar horde, the last gleam of 
 Grecian glory was ^tinguished in Byzantium's tomb. 
 
 Mournful to the mind of man are the records of departed greatness. 
 Where is the imperial city of the Csesars, the once proud mistress of a 
 subjugated world ? She lies low, but still mighty, in the dust. Methinks 
 I am seated amid the melancholy ruins of Eome. Around me are 
 strewed the crumbling fragments of other ages, and before me are the 
 tumbling temples once hallowed by the footsteps of the Csesars. But 
 
THE RUINS OF TIME. 65 
 
 <rhcre is the eottage of Bomulus, the golden palace of N-ero, and the shrine 
 of Apollo and :he Muses ? They are mingling with the wrecks of other 
 times. And where is the great Eoman Forum, in which the thunders 
 of Cicero's eloquence once struci terror to- tyrants ? Th&re the shepherd 
 hoy roams, ami the ieecy flocks now feed. There, where the tribunal 
 and the rostrum, the (Jomitium and the Giiira once stood, the lean lizard 
 now crawls, and the rank grass waves in the night-breeze. Those walls 
 are now silent,, where the tongue of Tully once thundered and the ap- 
 plause of listening senators reverbM-ated. And where is that stupendous 
 pile, the CoBiseum, which stood in ancient da-ys like a mountain of 
 marble, and where the strong-armed gladiator bled and the untamed 
 tigers of the forest died ? Be'hold it stands tobte-ring in decay, but the 
 thousands of spectators have departed, and tb« thunders of applause have 
 died in echoes along the ruined arches. The red sun goes down and 
 sheds its last ray upon its gray battlements, and the mellow moonbeam 
 glimmers through the ivy-crowned walls and gloomy . galleries. The 
 footsteps of the solitary traveller now echo alone where the mighty 
 jOsesars once applauded and the clash of the combat sounded. But is 
 this all ? Alas, Eome is eloquent in ruins — the city of the seven hills is 
 strewed with the fragments of other ages. Go muse over the fallen forums 
 of Trajan, Nerva, and Bomitian — a few pillars of Parian marble alone 
 remain to tell the world that they once have been. Go and gaze on the 
 ruins of the palace of the Caesars — .descend into the catacombs, and 
 ruminate amid the bleaching bones of the parly Christians, persecuted 
 by the demon of superstition even to death. Go climb the lofty towers 
 (rf Rome, and survey the melancholy mementos of other times and other 
 men. And was this the mighty Rome that once stood against the 
 legions of Carthage, led on by the victorious Hannibal ? It is the same, 
 though fallen. And where is .Carthage ? Buried in the vortex of obli- 
 vion. Could the shades of the immortal Cicero, Horace, and Virgil 
 revisit the earth and stray through those scenes which they have immor- 
 talized in song and eloquence, how would they be struck with the muta- 
 bility of all human grandeur ! 
 
 Time, mighty is the strength of thy arm ! The wonders of the 
 world have fallen before thee. Witness, yo walls of Babylon, covered 
 with aerial gardens, and thou great statue of Olympian Jove ! The most 
 celebrated cities of antiquity have been buried by the irresistible waves of 
 time. Go read an example in the fate of Syracuse, the city of Archi- 
 medes, whose single arm repelled the hosts of Rome, and dared to move 
 the world if he might have foundations for his feet. That splendid city 
 is in ruins — her philosopher sleeps in the dust; and where are his 
 mighty engines of war ? They are swept from the recollection of man. 
 Go and read another example, in the fate of far-famed Troy. Seek there 
 for the palaces of Priam, once illumined with the smiles of the fickle 
 though beautiful Helen, for whom Sparta fought and Troy fell. Alas, 
 those palace halls are silent, and the towers of Ilion lie level with the 
 dust. Old Priam hath long since departed from the earth, and the 
 graves of Paris and his paramour are unknown. The mighty Hector, 
 too. the brave antagonist of Achilles, is no more. The glory of the 
 
56 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 house of Priam hath departed forever. The invaders and the invaded 
 sleep together in the common mausoleum of time ; and their deeds live 
 only in the tide of Homer's song. 
 
 Such are a few instances of the ravages of time. Nor less hath our 
 own loved land been the scene of desolation. Here may be seen the 
 ruins of an Indian empire, more extended than the empires of the East ; 
 and though they were the children of the forest, and though they left 
 no monuments of sculpture, painting, and poesy, yet great were they in 
 their fall, and sorrowful is the story of their wrongs. They once had 
 cities, but where are they ? They are swept from the face of the earth. 
 They bad their temple of the sun, but the sanctuary is broken down, 
 and the beams of the deified luminary extinguished. It is true, they 
 worshipped the Great Spirit and the Genius of storms and darkness ; 
 the sacred pages of revelation had never been unrolled to them ; the 
 gospel of the Saviour had never sounded in the ears of the poor children 
 of the forest. They heard the voice of their God in the morning breeze ; 
 they saw him in the dark cloud that rose in wrath from the west ; they 
 acknowledged his universal beneficence in the setting sun, as he sank to 
 his burning bed. Here another race once lived arid loved — here, along 
 these shores, the council-fire blazed, and the war-whoop echoed among 
 their native hills ; here the dark-browed Indian once bathed his manly 
 limbs in the river, and his light canoe was seen to glide over his own 
 loved lakes. Centuries passed away, and they still roved the undisputed 
 masters of the western world. But at length a pilgrim bark, deep- 
 freighted from the East, came darkening on their shores. They yielded 
 not their empire tamely, but they could not stand against the sons of 
 light — they fled. With slow and solitary steps, they took up their 
 mournful march to the West, and yielded with a broken heart their na^ 
 tive hills to another race. They left their homes, and the graves of 
 their fathers, to explore western woods, where no human foot had ever 
 trod, and no human eye ever penetrated. From time to time, they have 
 been driven back, and the next remove will be to the bosom of the 
 stormy Pacific. Unhappy children ! — the tear of pity has been shed 
 over your wrongs and your sufferings. What bosom but beats with 
 sympathy over the mournful story of their woes. As a race of men, 
 they are fast fading from the face of the earth, and ere many centuries 
 shall have passed, they will have been swept from the annals of ages. 
 Ere long, the last wave of the West will roll over them, and their deeds 
 only live in the traditions they shall have left behind them. The march 
 of mind hath been to them the march to the grave. Every age they 
 have rapidly declined, and a lingering remnant is now left to sigh over 
 the ruins of their empire and the memory of their brave progenitors. 
 The golden harvest now waves over the tombs of their fallen fathers, and 
 the forest that once echoed to the war-dance is now covered with the 
 rising city. Where the wigwam once stood, the tall temple, dedicated 
 to God, now glitters in the setting sun j and the river, unrippled but by 
 the Indian canoe, is now white with the sails of commerce. And when 
 they shall have passed away — when the last Indian shall have stood 
 upon his native hills in the West, and sha<H have worshipped the setting 
 
TUE HUNGARIAN EXILES. 57 
 
 sun for the last time, perhaps some youth may rove to the green mound 
 of Indian sepulture, and ask with wonder what manner of beings they 
 were. How must the poor child of the forest weep, and how must his 
 heart throb with anguish, when he muses on the ruins of his race and 
 the melancholy destiny of his children ! The ploughshare hath passed 
 over the bones of his ancestors, and they sleep in the land of strangers, 
 and of the conquerors of their dying race. , Methinks I see the stately 
 Indian, as he bends from the brow of the misty mountain, and surveys 
 with a swelling heai't the once extended limits of the Indian empire. 
 The, grief of years is in his soul, and he bends his knee in meek sub- 
 mission before the Great Spirit in the clouds. Unhappy child ! — my 
 soul mourns over the ruined hopes of your fading race. 
 
 THE HUNGAKIAN EXILES. 
 
 The Hungarian exiles have issued an address to the people of the 
 United States. The following is its concliision : 
 
 " Our sons have poured out their blood on the battle-field ; our wives 
 and little children have been driven from their homes, persecuted, 
 and separated from each other ; many of us have left behind fathers and 
 mothers in misery, or even in the chains of tyrants ; many have no 
 knowledge of the fate of those dearest to them, an^ to none of us is it 
 granted to lighten our grief /by weeping among the ruins over the graves 
 of our dear country. 
 
 " Thus do we, the unfortunate, come to happy, free America. Ameri- 
 cans ! you have already shown us your generous sympathy. The en- 
 couraging voice of that sympathy reached us over the sea, and the warm 
 grasp of American hands with which we were welcomed, tells us that 
 the free American honours the free Hungarian. 
 
 " Thank you, for this* May America calmly and safely advance to that 
 greatness which Providence has appointed for her! 
 
 "As we step upon your hospitable shores, we reach to you our hand in 
 hearty greetings. We hope for a friendly return ; for a reception such 
 as one free people give to another. We count upon such sympathies as 
 must exist between freemen who mutually honour each other. 
 
 " We come to you to seek rest here from the labours of battle ; to find 
 alleviation for our sorrow and calamity; to await the day which Provi- 
 dence has in reserve for the restoration of our country. 
 
 " We look with confideijce for a hospitable reception in this generous 
 land, that may prove to the: tyrants of the earth that free people are 
 closely bound to each other, and firmly resolved to carry on the struggle 
 for the liberation of the human race to a victorious issue. 
 
 " God save America, help the oppressed, and let freedom reign through, 
 out the earth ! 
 
 " May the day soon come when emancipated Hungary may gratefully 
 return, on the banks of the free Danube, the hospitality so fully dis- 
 pensed to her exiled patriots by the noble Americans.- 
 
 " God help Hungary ! God bless America ! A heartfelt greeting to 
 free America from the exiled patriots of Hungary !" 
 
58 FIBLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 "I HAVE SEEN AN END OF ALL PEKFECTION." 
 
 MBS. SIQOrllJIET. 
 
 I HAVE seen a man in the glory of his days and ithe 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 danger ; 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 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 
 called 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 vacantly 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 de- 
 cayed and treacherous, and showed him only broken images of the 
 glory that was departed. His house was to him like a strange land, and 
 his friends were counted as his enemies ; 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 sup- 
 ported 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 aU 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 returned, — 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 re- 
 joiced on earth no more. I saw a train, sable and slow-paced, who bore 
 sadly to an open grave 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 
 it 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 wormy 
 
THE END OF ALL PEBF^CTION. 5&' 
 
 crowded into hei silent abode. Yet one sad mourner lingered, to cast 
 himself upon the grare ; and as he wept, he said, " There is no beauty, 
 or grace, or loTeliness, 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 rejoiced, 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 the dew-drop, and whose heart 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 around 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 nian 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 stateliness of his domes, and extolled the honour of 
 his family. And his heart answered secretly, " By my wisdom ha^e 1 
 gotten all this ;" so he returned no thanks to Grod, neither did he fear 
 or serve him. And as I passed along, I heard the complaints of the 
 labourers who had reaped 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 tottering from bis 
 door. But he considered not that the cries of the oppressed were con- 
 tinually 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 beauti- 
 ful 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. , 
 
 Home. — ^There is a world where no storms intrude, a haven of safety 
 against the tempests of life. A little world of joy and love, of inno- 
 cense and tranquillity. Suspicions are not there, nor jealousies, nor 
 falsehood with her double tongue, nor the venom of slander. Peace 
 embraces it with outspread wings. Plenty broodeth there. When a man 
 entereth it, he forgetteth his sorrows, and cares, and disappointments; 
 he openeth his heart to confidence, and to pleasure not mingled with 
 remorse. This world is the well-ordered home of a virtuous and amia- 
 ble woman. 
 
 Forget not that life is like a flower, which no sooner is blown than 
 it begins to wither. 
 
6f. 
 
 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 " Tbe beautiful little flower, commonly called ' For- 
 COt-me-not,' blooms in luxuriant profusion on the 
 praTes of the heroea of "Waterloo."— Jodehal or A. 
 FviTATE Gentleman. 
 
 Amid the fallen -warriors' tombs. 
 
 Where heroes' ashes rot, 
 A lovely little flower there blooms— 
 
 The sweet "forget-me-not ;" 
 It fair and beautiful appears. 
 Though sown 'mid carnage, groans, and tears. 
 
 There are, whose mould'ring ashes lie 
 
 Wliere banners proudly sweep; 
 Where gilded scutcheons mock the eye. 
 
 And marble statues weep ; 
 Oh ! there is grief enough in stone. 
 But hearts that burst with sorrow none. 
 
 More holy far than these the spot 
 
 Where rest the warriors' bones ; 
 Though marble statues mark it not. 
 
 Nor monumental stones ; 
 
 There needs no sculptural pile to tell 
 Where those who bled for freedom felL 
 
 Oh ! no— beneath her silent pall 
 
 Should dark oblivion hide 
 The fond remembrances of all 
 
 We hold most dear beside. 
 The flowers upon their graves forbid. 
 That their remembrance should be hid. 
 
 Their flowery epitaph Is writ 
 Where Nature's footsteps tread ; 
 
 'Twas Freedom's self indited it, 
 Above the deathless dead ; 
 
 And you may read upon the spot,— 
 
 " Forget-me-not — Forget-me-not." 
 
 I ask no more- unstrung and broken 
 
 My feeble lyre — I crave 
 Of tender grief this one sweet token. 
 
 That on my lowly grave 
 These lovely flow'rets may appear. 
 Planted by those who loved me here. 
 
 THE DREADFUL DRAGON. 
 
 BT THE MILrOBD BABD. 
 
 They tell me of th" Egyptian asp. 
 
 The bite of which is death. 
 The victim yielding with a gasp 
 
 His hot and hurried breath. 
 The Egyptian queen, says history. 
 
 The reptile vile applied ; 
 And, in the arms of agony, 
 
 Victoriously died. 
 
 They tell me tliat in Italy, 
 
 There is a reptile dread,* 
 The sting of which is agony, 
 
 Aud dooms the victim dead. 
 But it is said that music's sound 
 
 May sooth the poisoned part; 
 Yea, heal the galling, ghastly wound. 
 
 And save the sinking heart. 
 
 They tell me too, of serpents vast. 
 That crawl on Afric's shore, 
 
 And swallow men — historians past 
 Tell us of one of yore. 
 
 But there is yet one of a kind. 
 More fatal than the whole, 
 
 That stings the body oind the mind,— 
 Yea, doth devour the soul. 
 
 'Tis found almost all o'er the earth. 
 
 Save Turkey's wide domains. 
 And there, if it e'er hath a birth, 
 
 'Tis kept in mercy's chains. 
 'Tis found in our own gardens gay. 
 
 In our own flow'py fields, 
 Devouring every passing day. 
 
 Its thousands at its meals. 
 
 Tbe poisonous venom withers youth. 
 
 Blasts character and health, 
 AH sink before it,— hope and truth. 
 
 And comfort, joy, and wealth. 
 It is the author too of shame. 
 
 And never fails to kill ; 
 Reader, dost thou desire the name ?- 
 
 The SERPENT OF THE STILL. 
 
 I The Tarantula. 
 
 A FUNERAL HYMN. 
 
 BV BISHOP HEBBR. 
 
 ITHotr art gone to th© grave— but we will not deplore 
 
 thee, 
 ^ough sorrow and darkness encompftss the tomb : 
 The Saviour has passed through its portals before 
 
 thee, 
 And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the 
 
 glo^m. 
 
 Thonart gone to the grave— we no longer behold thee, 
 Unr tread tbe rough paths of the world by thy'side ; 
 
 But the wide arms of memory are spread « eotuM 
 
 thee, 
 And sinners may hope since the Sinless hath died. 
 Thou art gone to the grave— and its mansion forsaking, 
 Perchance thy weak spirit in doubt lingered long; 
 But the sunshine of Heaven beamed bright on thy 
 
 waking, 
 And the sounlwhSc itho* heard'st was tL- Mr*phim'f 
 
 song. 
 
THE JACKDAW. 6T 
 
 THE JACKDAW. 
 
 Tom Moore, the linen-draper, of Fleet street, standing at his dooi 
 one day, a countryman came up to. him with a nest of Jackdaws, and 
 accosting him, said, " Measter, wool ye buoy a nest of daws ?" " No, 1 
 don't want any !" " Measter, (replied the man,) I'll sell cm chape ; ye 
 sholl have the whole nest for noinpence." " I don't want 'em," answered 
 Tom Moore, " so go about your business." As the man was walking 
 away, one of the daws popt up his head, and cried, " Mank, Mauk." 
 " Damn it," says Moore, " the bird knows my name. Halloo, countryman, 
 what will you take for that bird ?" 'IWhoy, you shall have it for three- 
 pence." Tom Moore bought him, had a cage made, and hung it up in 
 the shop. The journeymen took much notice of the bird, and would 
 frequently tap at the bottom of the cage, and say, " Who are you ? who 
 are you ? Tom Moore of Fleet street." In a little time, the jackdaw 
 learnt these words, and, if he wanted victuals or water, he would strike 
 his bill against the cage, turn up the white of his' eye, cock Lis head, 
 and cry, " Who are you ! who are you ! Tom Moore of Fleet street, 
 Tom Moore of Fleet street." Tom Moore was fond of gaming, and often 
 lost great sums of money. . Finding his business neglected in his ab- 
 sence, he had a small hazard-table set up. in one corner of his dining- 
 room, and invited a party of his friends to play at it. The jackdaw 
 had by this time become familiar, his cage. was left open, and he hopped 
 into every part of the house; sometimes he.got into the dining-room, 
 where the gentlemen were at play. One of them being a constant 
 winner, the others would say, "Damn it, how he nicks 'em !" "The bird 
 learnt these words, and, adding them to the former, would call, " Who 
 are you ! who are you ! Tom Moore of Fleet street, damn it, how he 
 nicks 'em." Tom Moore, from repeated losses and neglect of business, 
 failed in trade, and became a prisoner in the Fleet. He topk ; his bird 
 with him, and lived on the Master's side, supported in a decent manner. 
 They would sometimes ask, " What brought you here?" when housed to 
 lift up his hands and answer, " Bad company." The bird learnt these 
 likewise, and at the end of the former words would say, " What brought 
 you here !" and (to imitate his master) lift up his pinions and cry, " Bad 
 company." Some of Tom Moore's friends died, others went abroad, and 
 he removed to the common side of the prison, where the jail distemper 
 had broken out. He caught it; and in the last stage of life, lying on 
 a straw bed, the bird, (which had been two days without food or water,) 
 came to his feet, and striking his bill against the floor, called out, " Who 
 are you ! who, are you ! Tom Moore of Fleet street. Damn it, how he nicks 
 'em ! What brought you here ? Bad company." Tom Moore, who attend- 
 ed to the bird, was struck witjh hiswords, and, reflecting on himself, cried 
 out, " Good God ! to what a wretched situation am I reduced ! My father, 
 when he died, left me a good fortune and an established trade. 1 have 
 spent my fortune, ruined my business, and am now dying in a lonesome 
 jail ; and, to complete all, keeping that poor thing confined without nny 
 
C2 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 supper. I'll endeavour to do one piece of justice before I die, by setting 
 bim at liberty." He made shift to crawl from the straw bed, opened the 
 casement and out the bird flew. A flight of jackdaws from the Temple 
 was going over the jail, and Tom Moore's mixed among them. The 
 gardeners were then latying the plants of the Temple gardens, and as 
 often as they placed them in the day, the jackdaws pulled them up by 
 night. They got a gun and attempted to shoot some of them ; but, 
 being cunning birds, they always placed one as a watch in the Stump of 
 a hollow tree, who, as soon as the gun was levelled, cried, " M"auk, Mauk," 
 and away they flew, so that the men could never shoot o&e of them. 
 The gardeners were advised to get a net, and, the first night it was 
 spread, they caught fifteen. Tom Moore's bird was among them. One 
 of the men took the net into the garret of an uninhabited hoOse, fastened 
 the door and windows, and turned the birds loose. " Now," says he, " you 
 black rascals, Til be revenged on you." Taking hold of the first at 
 hand, he twisted his neck, and throwing him down, cries, " There goes 
 one." Tom Moore's bird, which had hopped upon the beam, in one 
 corner of the room, unobserved, as the man laid hold of the second, 
 calls out, " Damn it,' bow he nicks 'em !" The man dropped the bird he 
 had in his hands, and turning to where the Voice came from, observed the 
 other with his mouth open, and called out, " Who are you !" to which 
 the bird answered, "Toffl Moore of Fleet street." "The devil you are! 
 and what brought you here ?" Tom's bird, lifting up his pinions, answer- 
 ed, " Bad company, ba:d company." The, fellow, frightened almost oilt 
 of his wits, opened the door, ran down staiirs, and out of the house, 
 followed by the birds,- which by this means saved their lives and gained 
 their liberty. 
 
 A SISTER'S LOVE. 
 
 There is no purer feeling kindled upon the alteir of human affection, 
 than a sister's pure, uncontaminated love for her brother. It is unlike 
 all other affection ; so disconnected with selfish sensuality j so feminine 
 in its development, so dignified, atid yet withal, so folld', so devoted. 
 Nothing can alter it, nothilig can suppress it. The wOrld ihay revolve, 
 and its revolution effect changes in the fortunes, in the eharacter, and in 
 the disposition of her brother; yet if he wants, whose hand will so 
 readily stretch out to supply him as a sister's ? And if his character is 
 maligned, whose voice will so readily swell in his advocacy ? Next to 
 a mother's unquenchable love, a sister's is pre-eminent. It rests so ex- 
 clusively on the tie of consanguinity for its sustenance ; it is so wholly 
 divested of passion, and springs from such a deep recess in the human 
 bosom, that when a sister once fondly and deeply regards her brother, 
 that affection is blended with her existence, and the lamp that nourishes 
 it expires only with that existence. In all the annals of crime, it is con- 
 sidered anomalous to find the hand of a sister raised in anger against 
 her brother, or her heart nurturing the seeds of hatred, envy, or revenge 
 in regard to that brother. 
 
THE GAMBLER. 63 
 
 CHARACTER OF A TRUE FRIEND. 
 
 Concerning the man you call your friend; tell me, will he weep 
 with you in the house of distress ? Will he faithfully reprove you tn 
 your face, for actions which others are ridiculing and censuring behind 
 your back ? Will he dare to stand forth in your defence, when detraction 
 is secretly aiming its deadly weapon at your reputation ? Will he ac- 
 kuowlgdge you with the same cordiality, and behave to you with the 
 same friendly attention in the company of your superiors in rank and 
 fortune, as when the claims of pride do not interfere with those of 
 friendship ? If misfortune and losses should oblige you to retire into a 
 walk of life in which you cannot appear with the same liberality as 
 formerly, will he still think himself happy in your society, and, instead 
 of withdrawing himself from an unprofitable connection, take pleasure 
 in professing himself your friend, and cheerfully assist you to support 
 the burthen of your afflictions 1 When sickness shall call you to retire 
 from the gay and busy scenes of the world, will he follow you into your 
 gloomy retreat, listen with attention to your " tale of symptoms," and 
 administer the balm of consolation to your fainting spirits ? And lastly, 
 when death shall burst asunder every earthly tie, will he shed a tear 
 upon your grave, and lodge the dear remembrance of your mutual friend- 
 ship in his heart? 
 
 THE GAMBLER. 
 
 The first principles in gambling" that ever my mind was taught, were 
 received in taking part in that great game, which the inconsistency of 
 our legislators makes lawful — I mean lotteries. It seems unaccountably 
 strange to me, how our lawgivers — many of whom are ministers of the 
 gospel, and all of whom deprecate gambling as one of the most promi- 
 nent curses with Which society is afflicted ; I say, it seems strange, how 
 these men can reconcile to their consciences and to their preaching, the 
 numerous gambling grants they have made and are making. They 
 would shrink from allowing the petition of that man who asked liberty 
 to establish a house where cards and dice liiight be used in games of 
 chance ; but they readily grant the petition of a set of individuals to con- 
 vert the whole slate, or country, into a vast gambling place, wherein to 
 play that game, which is infinitely more ruinous in its consequences than 
 all the other schemes put together. 
 
 I said I received my first principles of gambling from dealing in lot- 
 teries. I reasoned thus : — If that game is not gambling, and if that 
 game is not unlawful, in which we stake a sum of money and depend 
 altogether upon chance for success or defeat ; and in which the proba- 
 bility is much against us of our getting back the sum we ventured' out ; 
 and where there is but a mere possibility of receivmg more than the 
 amount staked j surely then, those games, in which the chance of loss ip 
 
64 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 smaller, and which require skill and judgment to play, cannot be gam 
 bling — cannot be unlawful. So I went to the card-table and to the dice- 
 box. 
 
 I remember the first game of cards that I ever played. I was sixteen 
 years old, and some of my partners were aged men ; men who were old 
 enough to be my father, and who should have cuffed my ears and sent 
 me home. But no — they praised my dexterity in handling the cards — 
 flattered my judgment, and taught me to glory in my skill. Thus, 
 while they made rich my vanity, they made wretchedly poor my pockets. 
 Greater men than myself may with equal truth advance this same senti- 
 ment. It is true I did not play for much ; we only staked a small sum, 
 just to make the game interesting ; we scorned to cast a thought on the 
 loss and gain ; we played for amusement, not for the purpose of making 
 money. This was the language we used to ourselves. But let an unin- 
 terested observer look over the table at which we were playing, and 
 watch the eagerness with which the stake was seized when won, and the 
 working countenances of the losers, and perhaps he would put a different 
 construction than mere amusement on the deep and intense interest 
 each individual manifested. The truth is, profit and loss are the ruling 
 spirits at a game of cards or a throw of dice. I know not which of the 
 two has the most influence to keep a young man at the gaming table. 
 If we are fortunate; the desire is awakened for more, and the hope en- 
 couraged that luck is on our side ; perchance we pride ourselves on our 
 skill in the game, and so we resolve to tri/ again ; and if we are unfor- 
 tunate, we will try again to repair our loss — "luck was against us;" 
 " may be fortunate next time," and a thousand reasons the devotee of 
 play can make to himself for trying again. 
 
 I was then a clerk in a store, and as my funds failed me, I had re- 
 course to my master's drawer. Dollar after dollar of his money went 
 that way, without his knowledge. In a short time I could toss my glass 
 of spirit and whiff my cigar, with as much grace as the most finished 
 gentleman ; and I was perfect in an oath. I became an adept in play; 
 and soon played deeper games. Yet, with all my cunning and judg- 
 ment, many a midnight has seen me hurrying home with a hejirt terribly 
 heavy, in consequence of a pocket proportionably light. 
 
 I was the only son of a widowed mother, and on mo her future hopes 
 rested. Oftentimes would my conscience bitterly reproach me for my 
 conduct, when, on entering the house at a late hour in the night, I 
 found my aged and lone mo.ther sitting up, patiently waiting my coming; 
 and when she expressed her fears that I should injure my health by too 
 close application to my business — for I was so base as to deceive that 
 fond and trusting parent, by telling her that business of the store kept 
 me away from home — and when she advised me to relax a little, awfully 
 did my heart rise up against me and reprove my wickedness; and again 
 and again did I determine to forsake the " evil ways" that I had been 
 treading. But some nights I won ; and then an intense thirst for more 
 led me back to the table ; and other nights I lost — and then I would 
 try again, to make it up. 
 
 Soon, however, was that widowed heart to be shattered and bleeding: 
 
THE GAMBLER. 6." 
 
 soon was it to be overflowed with the gal] of bitterness. For a week or 
 more, I was peculiarly unfortunate; losing every night more or less. It 
 may be supposed that this continued ill luck alFected me considerably, 
 and that my master's drawer had to suffer by it. This was not all. To 
 drown the regret experienced on account of my losses, I had recourse to 
 frequent and liberal potations. The more I lost, the more I drank. 1 
 had often deceived my mother, who frequently detected the smell of 
 spirit when I entered the room, by telling her I had been working 
 among liquor in the store. For a while, this excuse answered. But 
 when every night I entered the room, I brought with me the scent of 
 spirituous liquors, her suspicions becaine awakened. Never — never shall 
 I forget the hour — the terrible hour, when a mother's hopes were blasted, 
 and her fond heart plunged into wo ! I returned from the gaming-tablff 
 at a late hour, past midnight. That night I had been unusually unfor- 
 tunate ; in consequence of which I drank freely and became much ex- 
 cited. To have seen me at the table, shouting and drinking and sing- 
 ing, one would have thought me the happiest fellow in the universe. 
 My purse was completely drained, and I played on ticlc. But in my 
 then frame of mind, money was no object to me; so I played and lost — 
 played and lost — occasionally raising a stake, until I became deeply in- 
 volved iti debt. I cared not.' I kept on my riotous course of shouting, 
 swearing, and singing, until the company broke up. 
 
 My mother was anxiously waiting for me — and " My dear son, how . 
 glad I am you have come !" went to my heart like a burning arrow 
 My excitement had not worn off, and I saw she eyed me suspiciously ; ; 
 so I hurried off to bed as quick as possible. From the effects of the- 
 liquor I had swallowed, I was soon asleep. How long I was asleep I ^ 
 know not, when I was awakened by something dropping on my face. 
 On looking up, I beheld my mother at the head of my bed, with her 
 hands clasped and the big tears of agony rolling down her time-worn 
 cheeks. In a moment I suspected the worst, and I hid my head in the 
 bed-clothes. She had been bending over me — and I was awakened by a 
 mother's tear ! I dared not lift my face to meet her eye ; but I drew 
 the bed-clothes closer around me. Oh ! how my conscience smote me. 
 Oh, how my heart struggled with shame ! Death ! Death ! how I wished 
 for you when I heard my mother's voice, trembling with age and agony. 
 "George, George! that I should have lived to witness this hour! 
 would to God I had followed you to your- grave in your infancy ! my 
 child ! my child I" she frantically and broken-heartedly screamed. " Wo 
 is me, that I have lived to witness my son's shame !" I strove to stop 
 my ears to shut out her voice, but in vain. The words sounded in my 
 ears with, horrid emphasis; and so to my dying day will they ring. The 
 discovery of her son's vileness, the sudden crushing of iher hopes were 
 too fliuch for her ; she sank senseless on the bed. 
 
 It was a long time before she revived ;. and heavilj smote my con 
 science, as I gazed, by the dim light of the lamp, on her pale face, and 
 felt the coldness of her forehead as I. bathed it with vinegar. I was 
 fearful life had entirely forsaken her, but at last • she came to. I could 
 not stand and meet her look, and was turning.to leave the room, wheDj 
 
 J 2 6- 
 
H6 riELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 in a faint voice she requested me to stay by her. I was struck with th9 
 altered tone of her voice ; she did not speak reproachfully, but so calmly 
 and tenderly that the tears gushed from my eyes in torrents; it almost 
 broke my heart to listen to her; and there was something in her tone 
 that thrilled fearfully through me, so that every word she uttered caused 
 a dead, sinking chill at my heart. — it was so hollow and unearthly. " Stay, 
 my son," said she, taking my hand between her own, the icinesa of 
 which made me shudder — " I wish not to chide you. But, Greorgu, 
 if you value your peace here and your eternal happiness hereafter, leave 
 off drinking; 'taste not, touch not' the accursed poison! G-od '" 
 she fervently added, " strengthen him to resist temptation — turn hi.s 
 footsteps from the path that leads to the dark and dreadful pits of aa- 
 struction ! My son," she added in a thicker voice, " if you respect your 
 mother's memory — if you respect your own character — remember and 
 be guided by her last words — taste" — 
 
 "Mother, mother ! what ails you?" I screamed, for I saw her coun- 
 tenance change suddenly. The blood began to settle about the eyes, 
 which became glassy, and a pale streak encircled her mouth, while her 
 breath grew shorter. " I swear — mother — I swear never to touch an- 
 other drop of the accursed stuff !" I uttered in a hurried and trembling 
 voice. A gleam of satisfaction shot across her face for a moment, as she 
 with difiScuIty articulated — " George, remember your oath !" These 
 were her last words ; and barely were they uttered, ere I, the only living 
 being in that still chamber, was bending over her lifeless form. Never, 
 reader, never may you be placed in like situation. I stood bent over the* 
 corpse of my mother in agonizing revery until the gray, cold light of 
 morning broke through the chamber windows, rendering more ghastly 
 J'.er looks, before I was aroused to a full sense of my misery. But why 
 detail all my feelings ? 
 
 I proceeded to a neighbour's house, acquainted them with my mother's 
 death, stating, that she died suddenly in the course of the night, after 
 she had visited me in my chamber and awakened me from sleep. I said 
 not a word respecting the cause, but requested their assistance in laying 
 her out, ,&c. 
 
 * * * * * * *':): 
 
 My mother was buried; and over her new-made grave I renewed the 
 oath I made to her while living ; and also swore to forsake gambling and 
 all wicked practices. Since her death, I have never known a moment's 
 peace of mind. My vicious conduct previous to it is continually risin<r 
 up before me, blasting my happiness. I have kept sacred my oath. Hov? 
 can I forget it? How can I forget that night in which I became mother- 
 Jess ? Never may I forget it ! Although its remembrance is a source 
 of constant .agonizing pain to me, may it always be fresh in my memory, 
 T can make no, other atonement for my early crime, Otho 
 
 - When thou art tempted to throw a stone in anger, try if thou canst 
 f ick it up without bending thy body ; if not, atop thy hand. 
 
MY mother's grave. 67 
 
 MY MOTHER'S aRAVE. 
 
 It was thirteen years since jny mother's death, when, after a long 
 absence from my native village, I stood beside the sacred mound, beneath 
 which I had seen her buried. Since that mournful period, great change 
 had come over me. My childish years had passed away, and with them 
 my youthful character. The world was altered too; and as I stood at 
 my mother's grave, I could hardly realize that I was the same thought- 
 less, happy creature, whose cheeks she had so often kissed in an excess 
 of tenderness. But the varied events of thirteen years had not effaced 
 the remembrance of that mother's smile. It seemed as if I had seen 
 her yesterday — as if the blessed sound of her voice was then in my ear. 
 The gay dreams of my infancy and childhood were brought back so 
 distinctly to my mind, that had it not been for one bitter recollection, 
 the tears I shed would have been gentle and refreshing. The circum- 
 stance may seem a, trifling one — ^but the thought of it even now agonizes 
 my heart— and I. relate it that children who have parents may love 
 them as they ought. 
 
 My mother had been ill a long time; and I had become so much ac- 
 customed to her pale face and weak voice, th&t I was not frightened at 
 them, as children usually are. At first, it is true, I sobbed violently — 
 for they told me she would die ; but when, day after day, I returned 
 from school, and found her the same, I began to believe she would 
 always be spared to me. 
 
 One day, when I had lost my place in the class, and done my work 
 wrong-side outward, I came home discouraged and fretful. I went into my 
 mother's chamber. She was paler than usual, but she met me with the 
 same affectionate smile that always welcomed my return. Alas ! when 
 I look back through the lapse of thirteen years, I think my heart must 
 have been stone, not to have been melted by it. She requested me to 
 go down stairs, and bring her a glass of water — I pettishly asked why 
 she did not call a domestic to do it. With a look of mild jeproaoh, 
 which I shall never forget, if I live to be a hundred years old, " And 
 will not my daughter bring a glass of water for her poor, sick mother ?" 
 
 I went and brought her the water, but 1 did not do it kindly. Instead 
 of smiling and kissing her as I was wont to do, I set the glass down very 
 quick, and left the room. After playing a short time, I went to bed, 
 without bidding my mother " G-ood night;" but when alone in my room, 
 in darkness and silence, I remembered how pale she looked, and how 
 her voice, trembled when she said, "Will not my daughter bring a glass 
 of water for her poor, sick mother ?" I could not sleep — and I stole 
 into her chamber, to ask forgiveness. She had sunk into an uneasy 
 slumber, and they told me I must not waken her. 1 did' not tell any 
 one what troubled me, but stole back to my bed, resolved to rise early 
 ■n the morning, and tell her how sorry I was for my conduct. 
 
 The sun was shining brightly when I awoke, and, hurrying on my 
 i;lothfcs, I hastened to my mother's room. She was dead ! — she nevbr 
 
68 FIKLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK, 
 
 Bpoko to me more — never smiled upon me again ; and when I touched 
 the hand that used to rest upon my head in blessing, it was so cold that 
 it made me start. I bowed down by her side, and sobbed in the bitter- 
 ness of my heart. I then wished I could die, and be buried with her ; 
 and old as I now am, I would give worlds, were they mine to give, could 
 my mother but have lived to tell me she forgave my childish ingratitude. 
 But I cannot call her back, and when I stand by her grave, and when- 
 ever I think of her manifold kindness, the memory of that reproachful 
 look she gave me will " bite like a serpent and sting like an adder " 
 
 THE KOSE. 
 
 BY MRS. SIQ0T7RNET. 
 
 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 again, and, behold, it was gone — its stem was leafless — ^its roots 
 had withered; 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 besides 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 itludely 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 flowers in majesty among the daughters of women, let her 
 watch lest vanity enter her heart, beguiling her to rest proudly upon 
 her own strength; let her remember that she standeth upon slippery 
 places, " and be not highminded, but fear." 
 
 A LITTLE fellow, tired of the monotony of the school-room, began 
 to amuse himself by making faces, blowing through his hands, &c. At 
 last he whistled aloud. " Who whistled ?" '< Bill Cole," answered the 
 boy who sat next him. "Come here, Bill Cole," said the master— 
 " what did you whistle for ?" " Mathter, I didn't whithle." " Master, 
 he did, I saw him do it." " Mathter, I didVt, thertainly," lisped the 
 iittle culprit,. " it whithled itself." 
 
 It is said the eagle can live many weeks without food : and that the 
 period of his life is one hundred years. 
 
THE LAST INDIAN — THE DEITY. 
 
 69 
 
 THE LAST INDIAN. 
 
 Frenzied and wild, he paused 
 ya. the high oliff, heneath whose sagged brow 
 Ueav'd the wide ocean. Bold and majjestia 
 Was his rigid form— like some hroad fetatue 
 Uu the naked rook. Silently h& gazed 
 On the bine deep, as playfoUy its bright 
 Ripples followed one another, as if 
 Unmindfal Of its auditor, from whose 
 "Wild eye flashed vivid ^res of vengeance ! 
 Scorn carled upon his bitter lip, and—'' Death !" 
 Fell from hia parched tongue. " Vengeance !" he ' 
 
 cried, 
 ■*' Vengeance npon the desolating falb face !" 
 And high in the air the glittering tomahawk 
 And Boalping-knifb he raised, and, on th& eve 
 Of rushing forth, he paused. " "What boots it now ?" 
 Thoughtftdly he said, and by his side the 
 Glitt'ring weapons hung — hia arm grew nerveless ; 
 His 'brain grew dizzy — the trees whirled round — 
 A miaty film bedimm'd hia brilliant eye. 
 " Great Spirit !" he cried, " and Bhall my senaea 
 Thus resign their power, and my ono6 dauntless heart 
 Grow sick and &inty at the thought of death ? 
 I, who have braved it where the mad battle 
 Burn'd— where hissing arrows sent back the tide 
 
 Of death, first spread by leaden show'rs from whites i 
 No ! — nerved be my arm — my heatt be bold ! — 
 I've nought to fear— for nought have I to live ! 
 My parents— where are they?— where the long line 
 Of kindred— where the circle of warm friends', 
 Who in other days nestled round my heart, 
 And twined with devoted zeal their cords of 
 Love ?— Where are they ?— Ask of the pale horde 
 Ask of oblivion ! — they will tell thee. 
 Death hath seal'd their doom, and to the Great Spirit 
 Which gave it, their aouls have fled ! Yes ! alone 
 I, of the whole race, am left— to revenge 
 Their death ! — and what can my poor arm, amid 
 Thouaands, do 7— Like the faint stag by bloody houndi 
 Pursued, halts at length, on the last brink, to 
 Conquer there, or— die ! Blood from the ground 
 Seems rising to my eight, and loudly calls for 
 Vengeance ! Then, death, come on; no longer will 
 I flee— or deck to shun the face of the 
 Accursed deatroyer of my native home ! — 
 But glorioua death shall wipe away each atoin, 
 And wing my spirit to the brighter worlds I" 
 
 He spoke. 
 And with a bound he left the crag on high. 
 And Boon was lost amid the gloomy forest. 
 
 THfi; DEITY. 
 
 " Whither shall I go from thy spirit t or 
 Whither shall I flee from thy presence ? 
 If I ascend up into heaven, thou aH there ; 
 If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell 
 In the uttermoat parts of the earth, e'en ihebe 
 Shall thy hand lead me." 
 
 PsAUi cxxxix. V. 7, 8, 9, 10. 
 
 Whbeb am I not ?— Mid the fountain's bright gush, 
 Hie forest's deep music — the noon's quiet hush; 
 With the leaf, when it floats in the sun-setting stream; 
 The autumn-rose, ohaunting its own requiem ; 
 And yon bright-glowing aea, with its islands of light ; 
 That jewel the fkr-blozing coronet of night; 
 From dust, and decay, to yon measureless spot ; — 
 Tellj'tell me, ye voices, oh, where am I not ? 
 
 Would ye ask of the moftiing? — It's life-giving dew? 
 Go gaze on its glories, for there am I too ! 
 With the first blush that brightens the portals of day. 
 Which the lark in hia matin-song, greets with a lay ; 
 ind the laugh of the sunbeam, that, waked from 
 
 repose. 
 Starts forth in its beauty to &rimaon the rose ; 
 Go ask of them all — for thet have not forgot ; 
 And they too wUl answer thee, where am I not ? 
 
 Would ye ask of the evening?— Go view its decline ! 
 (That moat gorgeous of seasons, when earth seems a 
 
 shrine, 
 f;pon which to enkindle the flame of devotion;) 
 <}o number the tints that enliven the ocean ; 
 The music now huah'd. to yon grove that belongs ; 
 
 And the sileuce, more eloquent far than their songs 
 Go, mete out the sweetness o'er hill, tree, and grot. 
 Then tell me, vain mortal, where, where am I not' 
 
 But see ! darkness hastens ; behold it expire, 
 The last, dying flame of day's funeral pyre; 
 Now night to the obsequies comes ! and ahe flings 
 Her dark pall o'er Ms grandeur— hiS loveliest things ; 
 But who calls me absent ? The pale ones, that keep 
 Their sad vigil of tears in yon elumberlesa deep ; 
 Go question them, skeptic, o'er palace or cot, 
 J£ there looketh forth one upon where I am not 1 
 
 Though guUt hide in darkness, thin^ ye not 'twill 
 
 proclaim. 
 In its midnight-voiced murmuringa, the presence of 
 
 shame ? 
 On the wings of the tempeat I come in my pride, 
 And the hoarSe-sounding billows wax wroth at my 
 
 bid. 
 Then think ye the tempe&t dare ihock me— defy 
 The flash of my lightnings— the glance of mine eye 7 
 Or the billows conceal in their treasure-cavea aught I 
 Whilst my Spirit breathes 6Ter th&m, -frhez e am I ndt ? 
 
 I dwell with the humble, I reign with the proud : 
 At the revel thoullt find me, the pillow— l^e shrouds 
 In Heaven, on earth, 'mid the blackness of Hell, 
 Where holy ones anthem, or evil ones dwell; 
 Whatever creation's wide compass confines — 
 Its countleas existences— numberless shrines ; 
 Where'er comprehension ^can being allot; 
 Then tell me, ye voices, o\ where mu I tiot? 
 
 9£N£A. 
 
TO riELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 THE EVE OF BATTLE. 
 
 .It would bo difficult to convey to the mind of nn ordinary reader any 
 thing like a correct notion of the state of feeling which takes possession 
 of a man waiting for the commencement of a battle. In the first place, 
 time appears to move on leaden wings ; every minute seems an hour, 
 and every hour a day. Then there is a strange commingling of levity 
 and seriousness within him ; a levity which prompts him to laugh, he 
 knows not why, and a seriousness which urges him ever and anon, to 
 lift up a mental prayer to the throne of grace. On such occasions, little 
 or no conversation passes. The privates generally lean on their fire-' 
 locks, the officers on their swords; and few words, except monosylables 
 in reply to questions put, are spoken. On these occasions, too, the 
 faces of the bravest often change their colour, and the limbs of the most 
 resolute tremble, not with fear, but with anxiety ; whilst watches are 
 consulted, till the individuals who consult them grow absolutely weary 
 of the employment. On the whole, it is a situation of higher excite- 
 ment and darker and deeper agitation than any other in human life ; 
 nor can he be said to feel all that man is capable of feeling, who has 
 not filled it. — Siege of St. Sebastian. 
 
 HENEY AND CAROLINE. 
 
 My tale is simple, and of humble birth ; 
 A tribute of respect to real worth, 
 
 " You are too parsimonious, Henry," said Mr. Delancy to one of his 
 clerks, as they were together in the counting-house, one morning. " Give 
 me leave to say that you do not dress sufficiently genteel to appear as clerk 
 in a fashionable store." Henry's face was sufiused with a deep blush, 
 and, in spite of. his endeavours to suppress it, a tear trembled on his 
 manly cheek. " Did I not know that your salary was sufficient to pro- 
 vide more genteel habiliments," continued Mr. D., " I would increase it." 
 
 " My salary is sufficient, amply sufficient, sir," replied Henry, in a 
 voice choked with emotion, but with that proud independence of feeling 
 which poverty had not been able to divest him of. His employer no- 
 ticed his agitation, and immediately changed the subject. 
 
 Mr. D. was a man of immense wealth and ample benevolence ; he was 
 a widower, and had but one child, a daughter, who was the pride of his 
 declining years. Shi, was not as beautiful as an angel, or as perfect as 
 Venus; but the goodness, the innocence, the intelligence of her mind, 
 shone in her countenance, and you had but to become acquainted with, 
 to admire, to love her. Such was Caroline Delancy when Henry first 
 became an inmate of her father's house. No wonder, then, that he soon 
 worshipped at her shrine — no wonder that he soon loved her with a deep 
 and devoted affection ; and reader, had you known him, you would not 
 
HENRY AND CAROLINE. 71 
 
 have woLxdered that that love was soon returned, for their souls were 
 congenial : they were cast in virtue's purest mould — and although their 
 tongues never gave utterance to what their hearts felt, yet the language 
 of their eyes was too plain to be mistaken. Henry was the very soul o1 
 honour, and although he perceived with pleasure that he was not indif 
 ferent to Caroline, he still felt he must conquer the passion that glowed 
 in his bosom. "I must not endeavour to win her young , and artless 
 lieart," thought he: "I am penniless, and cannot expect that her father 
 would ever consent to our union. He has ever treated me with kindness, 
 and I will not be ungrateful." Thus he reasoned, thus he heroically 
 endeavoured to subdue what he considered an ill-fated passion. Caroline 
 had many suitors, some of whom were worthy of her, but she refused 
 all their overtures with a gentle, yet decisive firmness. Her father won- 
 dered at her conduct, yet would not thwart her inclination. He was in 
 the decline of life, and wished to see her Jiappily settled ere he quitted 
 the stage of existence. • It was not long ere he suspected that young 
 Henry was the cause of her indifiFerence to others : the evident pleasure 
 she took in hearing him praised, the blush that overspread their cheeks 
 whenever their eyes met, all served to convince the old gentleman, who 
 had not forgotten that he was once young himself, that they felt more 
 than a common interest in each other's welfare. He forbore making 
 any remarks upon the subject, but was not displeased at the supposition, 
 as the penniless Henry would have imagined. 
 
 Henry had now been about a year in his employ. Mr. D. knew no- 
 thing of his family ; but his strict integrity, his irreproachable morals, 
 his pleasing manners, all conspired to make him esteem him highly. 
 He was proud of Henry, and wished him to appear in dress, as well as 
 in manners, as respectable as any one. He had often wondered at the 
 scantiness of his wardrobe : though he dressed with the most scrupulous 
 regard to neatness, his clothes were almost threadbare. Mr. D. did not 
 wish to think that this proceeded from a niggardly disposition, and he 
 determined to broach the subject, and, if possible, to ascertain the real 
 cause — this he did in the manner we have before related. 
 
 Soon after this conversation took place, Mr. D. left home on business. 
 As he was returning, and riding through a beautiful little village, he 
 alighted at the door of a cottage, and requested a drink. The mistress, 
 with an eas^ and politeness that convinced him she had not always been 
 the humble cottager, invited him to enter. He accepted the invitation — 
 end here a scene of poverty and neatness presented itself, such as he had 
 never before witnessed. The furniture, which consisted of nothing more 
 than was absolutely necessary, was so exquisitely clean that it gave 
 aharms to poverty, and cast an air of comfort on all around. A venera- 
 ble looking old man, who had not seemed to notice the entrance of Mr. 
 D., sat leaning his head on his staff, his clothes were clean and whole, 
 but so patched that you could have scarcely told which had been the ori- 
 ginal piece. 
 
 " That is your father ? I presume," said Mr. D., addressing the mistrow 
 of the house. 
 
 " It is, air " 
 
72 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 " He seems to be quite aged." 
 
 " He is in his eighty-third year : he has survived all his children, ex- 
 cepting myself." 
 
 " You have once seen better days ?" 
 
 " I have — my husband was wealthy ; but false friends ruined him ; he 
 endorsed notes to a great amount, which stripped us of nearly all our 
 property, and one misfortune followed another until we were reduced to 
 complete poverty. My husband did not long survive his losses ; and twa 
 of my children soon followed him." 
 
 " Have you any remaining children ?" 
 
 " I have one, and he is my only support. My health is so feeble that 
 I cannot do mSch ; and my father, being blind, needs great attention. My 
 son conceals from my knowledge the amount of his salary ; but I am con- 
 vinced that he sends me nearly all, if not the whole of it." 
 
 " Then he is not at home with you?" 
 
 " No, sir ; he is clerk for a merchant in Philadelphia." 
 
 " Clerk for a merchant . in Philadelphia ! Pray, what's your son's 
 name ?" 
 
 " Henry W ." 
 
 " Henry W !" reiterated Mr. D., " why, he is my clerk !. — I left 
 
 him at my house, not a fortnight since." 
 
 Here followed a succession of inquiries, which evinced an anxiety that 
 a mother only could feel ; to all of which Mr. D. replied to her perfect 
 satisfaction. 
 
 " You know our Henry ?'.' said the old man, raising his head from his 
 staff. " Well, sir, then you know as worthy a lad as ever lived — God 
 will bless him — he will bless him for his goodness to his poor old grand- 
 father," he added in a tremulous voice, while the tears ran down his 
 cheeks. 
 
 " He is a worthy fellow, to be sure," said Mr.- B., rising and placing a 
 well-filled purse in the hands of the old man. " He is a worthy fellow, 
 and shall not want friends." 
 
 " Noble boy !" said he mentally, as he was riding leisurely along, ru- 
 minating on his late interview, — " noble boy, he shall not want wealth to 
 enable him to distribute happiness. I believe he loves my girl, and if 
 he does, he shall have her, and all my property in the bargain." 
 
 Filled with this project, and determined, if possible, to ascertain the 
 irue state of their hearts, he entered the breakfast-room the morning 
 after his arrival at home. 
 
 " So, Henry is about to leave us, and go to England to try his fortune," 
 ne carelessly observed. 
 
 " Henry about to leave us I" said Caroline, dropping the work she hold 
 in her hand — "about to leave us, and going to England !" she added in 
 a lone which evinced the deepest interest. ' 
 
 " To be sure. What if he is, child ?" 
 
 "Nothing, sir, nothing; only I thought we should be rather lone- 
 oome," turning away to hide the tears which she could not suppress. 
 
 " Tell me, Caroline," said Mr. D., tenderly embracing her, " tell me 
 do you not love Henry ? You know I wish your happiness, my ehiH ; [ 
 
HENRY AND CAEOLINE. 78 
 
 liave ever treated you with kindness; and you have never until now hid 
 any thing from your father." 
 
 " Neither will I now," she replied, hiding her face in his bosom. " I 
 do most sincerely esteem him ; but do not, for worlds, tell him so ; for he 
 has never said that it was returned." 
 
 " I will soon find that out, and without telling him, too," replied the 
 father, leaving the room. 
 
 " Henry," said he, as he entered the counting-house, " you expect fo 
 visit the country shortly, do you not ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, in about four weeks." 
 
 " If it will not be too inconvenient," rejoined Mr. D., " I should like 
 to have you defer it a week or two longer." 
 
 " It will be no inconvenience, sir ; and, if it will oblige you, I will wait 
 with pleasure." 
 
 " It will most certainly oblige me ; for Caroline is to be married in 
 about five weeks, and I would not miss of having you attend the wed- 
 ding." 
 
 " Caroline to be married, sir !" said Henry, starting, as if by an elec- 
 tric shock ; " Caroline to be married! — ^is it possible !" 
 
 " To be sure it is. But what is there wonderful in that ?" 
 
 " Nothing, sir, only it is rather sudden, rather unexpected — that's all." 
 
 " It is rather sudden, to be sure," replied Mr. D. ; "but I am an old 
 man, and wish to see her have a protector; and as the man of her choice 
 is well worthy of her, I see no use in waiting any longer, and am very 
 glad that you can stay to the wedding." 
 
 " I cannot, sir, indeed I cannot !" replied Henry, forgetting what he 
 had previously said. 
 
 "You cannot?" rejoined Mr. D. "Why, you said you would." 
 
 " Yes, sir, but business requires my presence in the country, and 1 
 must go." 
 
 " But you said it would put you to no inconvenience, and that you 
 would wait with pleasure." 
 
 " Command me in any thing else, sir ; but, in this respect, I cannot 
 oblige you," said Henry, rising and walking the floor with rapid strides. 
 
 Poor fellow, he had thought his passion subdued ; but when he found 
 that Caroline was so soon, so irrevocably to become another's, the latent 
 spark burst'forth into an unextinguishable flame ; and he found it in vain 
 to endeavour to conceal his emotion. 
 
 The old gentleman regarded him with a look of earnestness : — " Hen- 
 ry," said he, " tell me frankly, — do you not love my girl ?" 
 
 "I will be candid with you, sir," replied Henry, conscious that his 
 agitation had betrayed him. " Had I such a fortune as she merits, — as 
 you, sir, have a right to expect, I should think myself the happiest of 
 men, could I gain her love." 
 
 " Then she is yours," cried the delighted old man. " Say not a word 
 about property, my boy : true worth is better than riches. I was only 
 trying you, Henry, and Caroline will never be married to any other ihan 
 yourself." 
 
 The trai sition from despair to happiness was great. 
 G 
 
74 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 ¥-ir amoment, Henry remained silent; but his looks spoke volumes. At 
 lasst — "I scorn to deceive you, sir," said he, "I am poorer than what 
 you suppose — I have a mother and a grandfather who are — 
 
 " I know It, I know it all," replied Mr. D., interrupting him, " I 
 Know the reason of your parsimony, as I called it, and I honour you for 
 it — it was that which first put it in my head to give you Caroline— so she 
 shall be yours, and may God bless you both !" 
 
 • Shortly after this conversation, Henry avowed his love to Caroline, 
 solicited her hand, and it is needless to say that he did not solicit in 
 vain. Caroline would have deferred their union until the succeeding 
 spring ; but her father was inexorable. He supposed he should have to 
 own one falsehood, he said, and they would willingly have him shoulder 
 two ; but it was too much, entirely too much, and he would not endure 
 it. He had told Henry she was going to be married in five weeks, and 
 he should not forfeit his word — " but, perhaps," added he, apparently 
 recollecting himself, and turning to Henry, " perhaps we shall have to 
 defer it, after all, for you have important business in the country about 
 that time." 
 
 " Be merciful, sir," said Henry, smiling, " I did not wish to witness 
 the sacrifice of my own happiness." 
 
 " I am merciful," replied the old gentleman, " and for that reason 
 would not wish to put you to the inconvenience of staying. You said 
 that you would willingly oblige me, but you could not, indeed you could 
 not." 
 
 " You have once been young, sir," said Henry. 
 
 " I know it," replied he, laughing heartily, " but I am afraid that too 
 many of us old folks forget it — however, if you can postpone your jour- 
 ney, I suppose we must have a wedding." 
 
 We have only to add, that the friends of Henry were sent for, and the 
 nuptials solemnized at the appointed time ; and that, blessed with the 
 filial love of Henry and Caroline, the old people passed the remainder 
 of their days in peaco and happiness. Clarissa. 
 
 Human happiness has no perfect security but freedom ; freedom, none 
 but virtue ; virtue, none but knowledge ; and neither freedom, nor virtue, 
 nor knowledge has any vigour or immortal hope, except in the principles 
 of the Christian faith, and in the sanctions of the Christian religion. — 
 Mr. Quincy. 
 
 A WIFE, joining her husband in a conveyance of real estate, was asked 
 Dy the judge, who examined her in private, according to the act of As- 
 sembly, whether she acted without compulsion on the part of her hus- 
 band. She stuck her arms akimbo, and replied, " He compel me ! no 
 
 nor twenty like him !" 
 
LIBERTY AND KEVCLUTIONS. 
 
 LIBERTY AND EEVOLUTIONS. 
 
 BY THE MILFORD BABD. 
 
 Immoital Washington ! to thee they pour 
 A grateful tribute on thy natal hour, 
 Who strike the lyre to Liberty, and twine 
 Wreaths for her triumph, — for they all are thine. 
 Woo'd by thy virtues to the haunts of men. 
 From mountain precipice and rugged glen, 
 She bade thee vindicate the rights of man, 
 And in her peerless march it was thine to lead the van. 
 
 Ah Ode. 
 
 Let Tis pause for a moment, and contemplate the grand march of revo 
 lution and liberty, which has already gilded the page of the history of 
 our times with the greatest crimes of oppression, and the most glorious 
 achievements of the patriot that ever despot had to mourn or the world 
 to admire. Knowledge, the inclined plane of power and the lever of 
 liberty, hath gone abroad in our age, and it has awakened the world 
 from the deep slumber of slavery in which it had reposed for ages — it 
 hath roused it to its wrongs, and behold ! thrones are crumbling and 
 crowns crushing beneath the wheels of the car of the patriots and pioneers 
 of liberty. The love of liberty is inherent in every creature that breathes 
 and basks in the sunbeam of heaven — every animal that flies in the air, 
 floats in the ocean, and ambulates the earth. The beautiful bird that 
 droops its plumage in the cage pines for the open field and flowery 
 grove, where it may sing its song to its paramour, and lave its pinions 
 in the light of heaven. Who has not seen the tear start from the eye, 
 and listened to the anguish of that gentle creature which gives us its 
 milk, as it mourned over the offspring of its love, immolated on the altar 
 of the rapacious appetite of man? The meanest reptile of the field, 
 or the noblest beast of the forest, either flies in terror from its tyrant, 
 or repels the oppression that would rob its free limbs of liberty. Who 
 hath not seen the majestic lion, the noblest of his nature, strike, in his 
 shame, the bars-of his bondage ; and who hath not heard him groan in 
 agony at his degraded destiny ? Who hath not heard of the huge ele- 
 phant, whose noble and natural disposition is to protect the oppressed 
 and punish the oppressor — the generous creature that never received a 
 benefit without giving some token of gratitude, and never met an enemy 
 without marking him for vengeance ? 
 
 The mind of man illuminated with knowledge naturally sighs to bo 
 free. Infernal tyranny, like the demon of desolation, hath for ages 
 trampled on the glory of the world, and bowed in bondage the noblest 
 of the earth. For some centuries, feudal despotism seems to have been 
 emerging, like the phoenix, from the ashes of ages ; but the argus eye 
 of liberty's eagle hath been watchful — the patriot hath seen the power 
 of the tyrant prostrated, his grandeur degraded, and hath laughed him 
 to scorn as he tumbled from his throne, and the very attributes of his 
 
76 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 greatness became the instruments of his inglorious fall ; the very spies 
 dours of his dignity only serving to cast a melancholy gloom on hi 
 disgrace. 
 
 What is man, when his neck is beneath the foot of the despot, decker 
 and adorned with the spoils of his own industry ? Misery hath eve 
 marked the march of despotism, and despotism hath ever darkened th 
 sunlight of liberty and learning. Europe hath groaned for centurio 
 under the yoke of oppression and the spirit which sprang from th 
 entombed tyrants of the feudal times ; she hath sunk beneath the addei 
 chain which even infernal superstition had left unriveted. And wil 
 man, in ignorance, still continue to weep over his wrongs, and worship 
 through fear, his oppressor ? Nay ; the flame" of revolution is burstiuj 
 and blazing in the capitals of Europe ; a torrent more turbulent an( 
 terrible than Niagara is tumbling from the- Pyrenees and the Alps ; th 
 torch of civil war is streaming in the streets of- those cities ; and th 
 world looks on in amaze, as the splendid meteor of monarchy goe 
 down, and the orb of emancipation lingers for a moment, to illuminat 
 the ruins beneath it. Patriots are preaching, and, as a neoessaTy conse 
 quence, tyrants are trembling for the stability of their thrones, which 
 in a moment, may be blasted ; and, for the safety of their empires, whicb 
 in a moment, may be metamorphosed. Patriot pilgrims have travellei 
 to other climes, to propagate the doctrine of liberty. It hath been tore 
 told by one of these pilgrims, that despotism, ere long, must irrevocabl 
 meet its downfall. I mean Byron, the benevolent and brilliant Byron 
 who immolated his own life on the altar of the liberties of Greece, an 
 left to posterity the melancholy memorials of his mind and his martyi 
 dom. Yes, Byron the benevolent, who aided Greece with his gold, an 
 her congress with his counsels ; who gave her warriors a lesson of foi 
 bearance, and, by his own beautiful example, taught the faithless Moslei 
 to be merciful. As he was a lover of liberty, I admire him for his devc 
 tio'n and, mourn over his doom. I have garlands for his grave, I hav 
 glory for his patriotism, pity for his foibles, and unfading laurels for hi 
 genius and his fame. Greece was the shrine of his glory ; Greece was th 
 beacon of his boyish pleasures. The fame of her ancient philosoph 
 had reached his ear; her forgotten temples, trophies, and triumpl 
 mingled with his midnight reveries, and imparted a merancholy softnes 
 to his song. Peace be to his illustrious shade ! 
 
 Liberty hath already erected her altars in the very gardens of th 
 globe, and the genius of the world will, ere long, worship at her fee 
 France no longer mourns over the mausoleum of her liberties, nor weej 
 at the grave of her glory ; but, like time surveying the trophies of h 
 triumphant arm, she stands upon the tombs of her tyrants, and flourish( 
 over the relics and fragments of fallen despotism. 
 
 Let us pause again, for a moment, and contemplate that mighty trag 
 dian, the terrible scourge of Europe, who crushed, at his caprice, tl 
 thrones of the mighty, and dashed crowns, like playthings, from tl 
 heads of a whole hecatomb of tyrants. In his eye, tyranny had mac 
 a wilderness of the world, and solitude of society ; in his view, the vei 
 virtues and attribute" of man had fallen before the idol of ambition ar 
 
LIBERTTi AND REVOLUTIONS. 77 
 
 the car of crime. So daring were his deeds in the path of desolation, 
 and so brilliant the monuments and landmarks of his labours, that the 
 wondering world knew not whether to censure or celebrate — to immor- 
 talize or mourn. At the same time that he was the very angel of death 
 to despotism, he was unsurpassed in usurpation and m the assumption 
 of unacknowledged power. He not only made himself master of papal 
 supremacy, and seated himself in the palace of the popes ; he not only 
 made Paris the seat of the sciences and the axts, and crowned her the 
 mistress of all Europe ; but he stretched his subduing arm over Egypt 
 and the isles, till the Arab and the Ethiop bowed in bondage, and the 
 triumphs of Alexander became the trophies of the modern Hercules. 
 Yet, wonderful paradox ! he was a friend to liberty ; and, like Alex- 
 ander, who built seventy cities, he was a benefactor to man. 
 
 ^he splendid works of Napoleon's genius will live, when even his 
 fame, like a phantom, shall be seen through the long telescope of time. 
 The very page of history which records the creations of his genius will 
 be. a mirror in which posterity will perceive the reflection of his fame, 
 and his fortunate and fearful, and, may I not say, his unrivalled career. 
 
 Is there any proof of this? Let the sciences, let the arts, let archi- 
 tecture answer. The genius of architecture, groaning for ages beneath 
 the fragments of fallen Rome, was revived and reanimated to gaze 
 with astonishment on that mighty work, the Simplon, and not more to 
 admire that monument of the times than the lofty mind that achieved 
 it. It was like his own giant genius, standing alone in its grandeur, 
 unique in its sublimity, and too mighty to hold communion with the 
 meaner objects that surrounded it. 
 
 Phidias proposed to make a statue of Alexander out of Mount Athos, 
 holding in one hand a beautiful river, embellished with bridges and vil- 
 lages, and in the other a superb city, suspended midway, as it were, be- 
 tween the grandeur of the earth and the glory of heaven. The idea 
 was magnificently sublime in its conception ; and the work would have 
 been wonderfully grand in its creation and execution. It would have 
 been almost an hyperbole on the plastic hand of heaven ; it would have 
 been almost a mockery of the majesty of the Creator j and it would have 
 been a model to the sculptor ever after. In wonder, it would have ex- 
 ceeded the walls of Babylon ; in its ipagnitude, durability, and pomp, it 
 would have surpassed the pyramids of Egypt ; and in its curious creation, 
 it would have far eclipsed even the wonderful Colossus at Rhodes. Yet, 
 as it was only conceived, and not created, it cannot compare with the 
 Simplon, a vast marble bridge, with its mountain base, and cloud-^capt 
 battlements, carved out of the eternal adamant of the Alps. Around its 
 wreathed summit the blue lightnings leap, and far below-, gushing from 
 the rocks, the roar of the torrent ascends, as it tumbles from chasm to 
 chasm, dashing and dazzling the eye of the beholder, till it unites with 
 another, and, with increased momentum, leaps into the foaming abyss 
 below. This is not the revery of fancy, but the very picture of its own 
 peerless sublimity. Hannibal, the glory of Carthage and the terror of 
 Rome, crossed the same grand and gloomy barrier ; b^vit he left no ron- 
 morial of his track, and no monument of his march. 
 
 «2 
 
78 FIELDS'S SCRAP-EOOK. 
 
 The reader must excuse me for so often alluding to and dwelling on 
 the character of the great Alcides of Europe, the " man without a model;" 
 for he was emphatically the telegraph of the times in which he lived, 
 and to posterity, of all that has transpired. 
 
 But we will leave the great tragedian at his home of St. Helena; we 
 will leave him contemplating the spectres of his departed triumphs, as 
 they rise from the tomb of his incarcerated glory. We will leave the 
 high-priest of power to the silence and solitude of the grave, which hum- 
 bles and covers alike the proud achievements of the patriot and the un- 
 hallowed deeds of the despot. 
 
 In France, liberty hath already lighted the funeral pyre of oppression, 
 with a brand snatched from the former ruins of her temple, and con- 
 signed her oppressors to the same dungeon which they had prepared for 
 the patriot. But let her hands never reek with their blood. They have 
 fallen, ay, failed so low, that humanity cannot refuse a tear, nor pity the 
 tribute of a sigh. Buried in the dark and solitary cells of St. Michael, 
 on the coast of Normandy, they are for ever lost to the world ; their 
 wives and their children stripped cf wealth, of title, of honours, and pri- 
 vileges, with no friend to mourn or alleviate their sorrows. Even the 
 marriage tie, which bound them to the loved one of the earth, the charm 
 of their existence, that too is dissolved, and all else, save a bare subsist- 
 ence. Dead, and yet full of life ; buried, and yet conscious of the mise- 
 ries of mortality. 
 
 Such is patriotism's tribute to tyranny, and, .such as it is, certainly 
 just. What a lesson is their fate calculated to teach to the tools of ty- 
 rants ! Even Cardinal Wolsey, the pander of a prince, whose heart was 
 adamant, fell not from such a height, stained with such crimes, as these, 
 the champions of the gray-headed Charles. But well may they sympa- 
 thize with him, and with him exclaim, 
 
 father abbot, 
 An old man, broken with the storms of state. 
 Is come to lay his weary bones among ye : 
 Give him a little earth for charity ! 
 
 Prom sunny Prance, already roused from the sleep of slavery, let us 
 turn, in tears, to unhappy Ireland, the home of patriotism, and of the 
 proudest virtues that deck the mind, or adorn the human heart. Ireland, 
 the clime of generosity and reason; of grossness and grandeur. Ay, let 
 us turn to that isle of the ocean, where nature seems to have scattered - 
 all her beauties and blandishments, and sown, in her profusion, all the 
 elements of talent and turpitude. That isle, the very Eden of eloquence, 
 and the very cradle of all that is calculated to shine ; the birthplace of 
 O'Connell, Curran, and Phillips; of Wolf Tone, and Wellington, and 
 Goldsmith, and Emmet — that land still mourns her unmitigated mise- 
 lies, still groans beneath the yoke of servitude and toil. 
 
 I had rather be like O'Connell, throned in the hearts of his country- 
 men, than wear the robe of that royalty that stamps her sons traitors if 
 they murmur at the-mandates of tyranny. But the daring sons of Ire- 
 land and of liberty have attempted to tear asunder the cords of tyranny 
 which bound them, and alas ! the blood of many a patriotic heart has 
 
LIBERTY AND KEVOLCl'IONS. Ti) 
 
 paid the penaltj" of outraged royalty. Emmet, the eloquent and un- 
 daunted Emmet, died on the scaffold, the victim of valour and of the \en- 
 geance of imperial pride. His daring hand aspired to throw off the 
 yoke, and gather for himself the unfading laurels of liberty; but the bea- 
 con blazed too soon ; and the blinking buzzard of cppression saw the 
 light of its own too precipitate pyre. Alas! fancy portrays that inte- 
 resting and ill-fated youth in his dungeon, leaning in melancholy mood 
 against the wall which he is never to pass but as a criminal or a corj'se. 
 See ! the massive door swings back, and his beautitul betrothed, his 
 weeping and widowed love, rushes wildly to his arms, and their souls, 
 for a moment, are mingled in the ecstasy of misery ! " Oh, vindicate 
 my memory," he cries, " when T am mouldering in the tomb of detrac- 
 tion ! Remember me in solitude and society ; and sometimes visit the 
 scenes where we have so often wandered; and weep for him who can 
 wake not at your sorrows, nor worship your charms !" Fancy, too, por- 
 trays the brave Tone, -the dauntless Theodore Wolf Tone, condemned to 
 the dungeon which holds the despot, to pine and perish by his own hand. 
 But the theme is too melancholy ; his sorrows are too touching and tear- 
 ful to be related to the gay. 
 
 Erin ' what have thy children not suffered for thee ! Though 
 they have emerged from the mountain of bigotry and religious persecu- 
 tion, they still groan under the pressure of civil disability. 
 
 Did I say religious persecution ? Oh, no, religion, heaven-descended 
 religion, never was a despot ; never persecuted and oppressed. 'Tis hers 
 to soothe and to soften ; the harbinger of liberty and love. It is the 
 base-begotten bigotry, sprung from the adulterous connection of church 
 and state, that walks abroad in royal robes, and assumes in itself the at- 
 tributes of the arbiter of faith ; — it is this, which for ages hath oppressed 
 the Eden isle, and persecuted the altar at which her sons bowed down in 
 adoration. Unhappy Ireland ! while her heroic sons have poured into 
 the lap of England her valour and virtue, her talent and treasure, that she 
 might carry her thunder triumphantly over the ocean ; while her brave 
 children have battled for liberty in foreign lands, and seen the flag of 
 victory waving proudly on the walls of the tyrant, she alone still pines 
 in bondage, Jier chain alone remains unbroken. Never can the Ameri- 
 can, while memory remains to record their deeds, forget the heroic devo- 
 tion and daring intrepidity of the heroes of Ireland, during our own 
 unrivalled revolution ; that revolution wh^ch will continue, to the latest 
 posterity, the model of all attempts at emancipation. The feats per- 
 formed by the sons of Erin at Germantown and Trenton, at Brandy wine, 
 and Baltimore, and Orleans, shall be treasured on memory's marble ta- 
 blet, and transmitted, in golden characters, to the monument which records 
 the nation's renown and the decalogue of liberty. And here, in this 
 garden of the West, where revolution first rose in fire, and went down in 
 freedom with the ruins and relics of oppression ; here, in this western 
 world, where the beacon of liberty first hlazed, and the rainbow of free- 
 dom rose on the oloud of war ; yes, here, in this land of aspiring hope, 
 where innocence is equity and talent is triumph, the "exile of Erin" 
 finds a home, where his youth may be crowned with happiness, and 
 
80 FIELDS'S BCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 the sun of life's evening go down in the unmolested hope of immor 
 tality. 
 
 How must the guardian angel of Erin mourn, and turn with tearful 
 eye, when she beholds England sending her ministers of mercy, her 
 iight of religion and learning, to other climes, and sanctioning the free- 
 dom of other countries, yet turning with a cold glance to the very Eden 
 of the ocean ; to Ireland, the clime of glorious recollections and illus- 
 
 trious renown 
 
 Nor has the bosom of Ireland alone been blasted by the simoom of 
 slavery. Turn to Poland,' and it is apparent; turn to Italy, and it is 
 evident. There tyranny has been thundered from the fallen throne of 
 the Poles, and not less from the palace of the popes, reared upon the 
 ruins of the once glorious city of the Caesars. Italy, the clime of every 
 science that can accomplish, and every deed that could adorn ; the first 
 dream of the scholar, and the last track of the traveller, has been sunk 
 for ages, beneath not only the ruins of her columns and temples, but 
 even tfie trophies of her intelligence. And Poland, the dims of Kos- 
 ciusko and Sobieski, hath not only seen her patriots doomed to the loath- 
 some dungeon and languishing in the deserts of Siberia ; not only seen 
 her rack fed to fatness, and her princes made to grace the pageant of 
 Catharine ; but she hath seen herself the victim of legal plunder and 
 legitimate piracy. She hath seen the czar idly surveying her trampled 
 pride, like the pirate Gribbs contemplating the ruins of Carthage. 
 
 But Poland hath at length arisen, and rent asunder, with a giant arm,, 
 her inglorious chains ; and she hath met the locust legions of the auto- 
 crat, who hath threatened to immolate whole hecatombs of her traitors 
 on the pyre of rapacious ambition. She is in arms; and even her maids 
 and matrons have given up their brilliants ; and their beautiful wives, 
 and women of all ranks, turned out in the tide of war. Oh, for another 
 Kosciusko, to lead her beauties to battle and her sons to liberty ! But, 
 alas ! the friend of Washington lies low on the pillow of fame ; he 
 sleeps between the tombs of the illustrious Sobieski and Poniatowski. 
 He hears not the call of his bra,ve countrymen, nor the clash and death- 
 Bong of battle : 
 
 His blade leaps not at the long, loud cry, 
 
 Nor starts and streams with a crimson dye : 
 
 He shouts no " Charge !" nor the brave line leads ; , 
 
 For he lies in the grave of his glorious deeds. 
 
 Ay, he slumbers in glory's grave; he lies mute and motionless, but 
 mighty still. The hero, bowing at his shrine, feels the. inspiration of 
 his valour, and battles for liberty. His very name is the watchword of 
 war ; and were his statue fixed upon the walls of Warsaw, the last Pole 
 would perish or place the flag of triumph on the temple of Freedom. 
 He would wrap the Eussians in the fires of the capitol, and fall him- 
 self beneath the ruins, or rise in majesty, in the car of glorious 
 emancipation. 
 
 The brave of all nations are about to erect a monument over the re- 
 mains of Kosciusko. But such a man needs no monument, for his fame 
 is immortal. His monument is mental, more lasting than marble and 
 
THE GRAVE. 81 
 
 more immutable than brass. The page of history is his cenotaph, which 
 time cannot tarnish or tyranny obliterate ; the page of history is the 
 record of his renown, with which posterity shall be familiar; amd the 
 approval of posterity shall be his reward, which time nor tyrants cau 
 confiscate. 
 
 THE GKAVE. 
 
 BY IBVINQ. 
 
 Oh, the grave ! the grave ! It buries every error, covers every defect, 
 extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom spring nons 
 but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon 
 the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that 
 ever he should have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies 
 mouldering before him ! 
 
 But the grave of those we loved ; what a place for meditation ! Then 
 it is that we call up, in long review, the whole history of virtue and 
 gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us almost un- 
 heeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy ; then it is that we dwell 
 upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene ; 
 the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendance, its 
 mute, watchful assiduities ; the last testimonies of expiring love ; the • 
 feeble, fluttering, thrilling, oh ! how thrilling the pressure of the hand ; . 
 the fond looking of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the 
 threshold of existence; the fkint, faltering accents struggling in death 
 to give one more assurance of affection ! 
 
 Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate ! There settle the 
 accounts with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited — every 
 past endearment unregarded, of that departed being who can never, 
 never return to be soothed by thy contrition ! 
 
 If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul or a 
 furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent. If thou art a 
 husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole 
 happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy 
 truth. If thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought^ word, 
 or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee ; if thou art a lover, 
 and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart that now lies 
 eold and still beneath thy feet ; then be sure that every unkind look; 
 every ungracious word, every iingentle action, will come thronging back 
 upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul ; then be sure 
 that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter 
 the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear, — more bitter because 
 unheard and unavailing. 
 
 Then weave thy chaplet of flbwers, and strew the beauties of nature 
 about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these 
 tender, yet futile tributes of regret ; but take warning by the bitterness 
 of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and be more faithful and 
 affectionate in the discharge of thy duties, to the living., 
 
 6 
 
82 
 
 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 LOVE'S IMMORTAL WEBATH. 
 
 -*Who can separate hearts that have aoited, or divide waters that have met and mingled into on*''* 
 
 rniNK not, beloved, time can break 
 
 Tbe spell around us oast; 
 Or absence from my bosom take 
 
 The memory of the past. 
 My love is not that silvery miat 
 From summer blooms by sunbeams kiss'd— 
 
 Too fugitive to last : - 
 A fadeless flower, it still retains 
 The brightness of its early stains. 
 
 Nor burns it like the raging fire 
 
 In tainted breast whioh glows ; 
 All wild and thorny as the brier 
 
 Without its opening rose : 
 A gentler, holier love is mine. 
 Unchangeable and firm, while thine 
 
 Is pure as mountain snows; 
 Nor yet has passion dared to breathe 
 A -spell o'er Love's immortal wreath. 
 
 And now, when grief has dimm'd thine eye. 
 
 And sickness made thee pale, 
 Think'et thou I could the mourner fly. 
 
 And leave thee to the gale ? 
 Oh, no ! — may all those dreams depart 
 Hope sheds upon a youthful heart, 
 
 If now my bosom fail, 
 Or leave thee, when the storm cornea on. 
 To bear its turbulence alone. 
 
 The ivy round some lofty pile. 
 
 Its twining tendril flings ; 
 Though fled from thence be pleasure's smile. 
 
 It yet the fonder clings ; 
 As lonelier still becomes the place. 
 
 The warmer is its fond embraca 
 
 More firm its verdant rings ; 
 As if it loved its shade to rear^ 
 O'er one devoted to despair. 
 
 Thus shall my bosom cling to thine, 
 
 Unchanged by gliding years ; 
 Through fortune's rise, or her deoliu«, 
 
 In sunshine, or in tears ; 
 And though between us oceans roll. 
 And rocks divide us, still m^ eoul 
 
 Can feel no jealous fears, 
 Confiding in a heart like thine, 
 Love's unoontaminated shrine I 
 
 To me, though bathed in sorrow's dew, 
 
 The dearer far art thou ; 
 I loved thee when thy woes were few. 
 
 And can I alter now ? 
 That face, in joy's bright hour, was fair- 
 More beautiful since grief was there, 
 
 Though somewhat pale thy brow; 
 And be it mine to soothe the pain 
 Thus pressing on the heart and brain.* 
 
 Yes, love ! my breast, at sorrow's call, 
 
 Shall tremble like thine own; 
 If from those eyes the teardrops fall. 
 
 They shall not fall alone. 
 Our souls, like heaven's aerial bow. 
 Blend every light within their glow, 
 
 Of joy or sorrow known: 
 And grief, divided with thy heart. 
 Were sweeter far than joya apart. . 
 
 Albany Advertiner. 
 
 THE AMERICAN EAGLE. 
 
 BtBD of the cliff! thou art soaring on high ; 
 
 Thou hast swept the dense cloud from thy path In 
 
 the sky ; 
 Thou hast breasted the storm in thy heavenward 
 
 flight. 
 And fix'd thy bright eye on the fountain of light; 
 Thou hast braved the keen flash of the lightning in 
 
 sport, 
 And poised thy strong wing where the thunders 
 
 resort; 
 Thou hast follow'd the stars in their pathways above. 
 And chased the wild meteors wherever they rove. 
 
 Bird'of the forest! thou lov'st the deep shade, 
 'Where the oak spreads its boughs in the' mountain 
 
 and glade 
 Where the thicfc-clnster'd ivy enoircles the pine, 
 And -the proud elm is wreath 'd by the close-olinging I 
 
 vine; 
 Thou hast tasted the dew of the untrodden plain. 
 And follow'd the streams as they roll to tbe main ; 
 Thou -hast dipped thy swift wing in the feathery spray, 
 \^'here tne earthquaking cataract roars on its war. 
 
 Bird of free skies ! thou hast sail'd on the cloud. 
 Where ehe battle raged fierce, and the cannon roiir'd 
 
 loud; 
 Thou hast stoop'd to the earth when the foeman was 
 
 slain. 
 And waved thy wide wing o'er the blood-sprinkled 
 
 plain; 
 Thou hast soar'd where the banner of fteedom waa 
 
 borne ; 
 Thou hast gazed at the far dreaded lion in scorn, 
 Thy beak has been wet in the blood of our foes. 
 When the home of the brave has been left to repose- 
 Bird of the clime in which liberty dwells. 
 Nurse the free aoul in thy cliff-shelter'd dells I 
 Hover above the strong heart in its pride. 
 Whisper of those who for freedom have died ! 
 Bear up the free-nurtured spirit of man. 
 Till it soar like thine own, through its earth-bonnded 
 
 span! 
 Waft it above, o'er the mountain and wave- 
 Spread thy ftee wing o'er the patriot's grave ! 
 
 Southern Rfligioua T^lejp iph. 
 
ELOQUENCE OF PATRICK HENRY. S3 
 
 ELOQUENCE OF PATRICK HENEY. 
 
 BY WILLIAM WIRT. 
 
 Hook was a Scotchman, a man of wealth, amd suspected of being 
 unfriendly to the American cause. During the distresses of the Ame- 
 rican army, consequent on the joint invasion of Cornwallis and Phillips, 
 in 1781, a Mr. Venable, 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 
 deported himself ia this cause to the infinite enjoyment of his hearers, 
 the unfortunate Hook always excepted. After Mr. Henry became ani- 
 
 . mated in the cause, says a correspondent, he appeared to have complete 
 control over the passions of the audience. At one time he excited their 
 indignation 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 almost naked to the rigour of a winter's sky, and mark- 
 ing the frozen ground over which they trod with the blood of their 
 unshod feet. " Where was the man, ' who had an American heart in his 
 bosom, who would not have thrown open his fields, his barn, his cellars, 
 the doors of his house, and the portals of his breast, to have received 
 with open arms, the meanest soldier in that little band of patriots ? 
 Where is the man ? There he stands — but whatever of the heart of 
 the American beats in his bosoni, you, gentlemen, are to be the judge." 
 He carried the jury, by the power 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. 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's face, and heard 
 the shouts of victory, and the cry of " Washington and Liberty," as it 
 rung and echoed through the American ranks, and was reverberated from 
 the hills and shores of the neighbouring river — " But, hark ! What 
 notes of discord are these, which disturb the general joy, and silence 
 the acclamations of victory 1 They ar.e the notes of John Hook, hoarsely 
 bawling through the American camp. Beef! heef!" 
 
 The whole audience were convulsed. A particular incident 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 
 himself upon the grass, in the most violent paroxysms of laughter 
 where he was rolling, when Hook, with very different feelings, came out 
 for relief in the yard also. "Jemmy Steptoe," said he to the clerk, 
 " what the devil ails ye, mon ?" Mr. Steptoe could only say that ho 
 
84 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 cuuU not help it. " Never mind ye," said Hook, " wait till Billy Cowan 
 gets up ; he'll show him the la' !" Mr. Cowan, however, was so com- 
 pletely overwhelmed by the torrent which bore upon his client, that, 
 when he arose to reply to Mr. Henry, he wag scarcely able to make an 
 intelligible or audible remark. The cause was decided almost by accla- 
 mation. The jury retired for form's sake, and instantly 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 
 Buch a suit, that Hook began to hear around him a cry more terrible 
 than that of beef— it was the cry of iar and feathers — from the applica- 
 tion of which, it is said, nothing saved him but a precipitate flight and 
 the speed of his horse. 
 
 SINGULAR ADVENTURE OF A BRITISH SOLDIER. 
 
 In the year 1779, when the war with America was conducted with 
 great spirit upon that continent, a division of the British army was en- 
 camped on the banks of a river, and in a position so favoured by nature 
 that it was difficult for any military art to surprise it. War in America 
 was rather a species of hunting than a regular campaign. " If you 
 fight with art," said Washington to the soldiers, "you are sure to be 
 defeated. Acquire discipline enough for concert, and the uniformity 
 of combined attack, and our country will prove the best of the en- 
 gineers." So true was this maxim of the American general that the 
 English soldiers had to contend with little else. The Americans had 
 incorporated the Indians into their ranks, and had made them useful in 
 a species of war to which their habits of life had peculiarly fitted them. 
 They sallied out of their impenetrable forests and jungles, and, with 
 their arrows and tomahawks, committed daily waste upon the British 
 army, surprising their sentinels, cutting off their stragglers, and, even 
 when the alarm was given, and pursuit commenced, they fled with a 
 swiftness that the speed of cavalry could not overtake, into rocks and 
 fastnesses whither it was dangerous to follow them. In order to limit, 
 as far as possible, this species of war, in which there was so much loss 
 and so little honour, it was the custom with every regiment to extend 
 its outposts to a great distance beyond the encampments ; to station 
 sentinels in the woods ; and keep a constant guard around the main 
 body. A regiment of foot was, at this time, stationed upon the confines 
 of the boundless Savannah. Its particular office was to guard every 
 avenue of approach to the main body ; the sentinels whose post pene- 
 trated into the woods were supplied by the ranks, and the service of 
 this regiment was thus more hazardous than that of any other. Its loss 
 was likewise greater. The sentinels were perpetually surprised on their 
 posts by the Indians, and, what was most astonishing, they were borne 
 off their stations without communicating any alarm, or being heard of 
 after. Not a trace was left of the manner in which they had been con- 
 veyed away, except that, upon one or two occasions, a few drops of blood 
 bad appeared upon the leaves which covered the ground. Many im- 
 
SINGULAR ADVENTURE OE A BRITISH SOLDIER. 85 
 
 putnd this unaccountable disappearance to treachery, and suggested, as 
 an unanswerable argument, that the men thus surprised might, at least, 
 have fired their muskets and communicated the alarm to the contiguous 
 posts. Others, however, who could not be brought to consider it as 
 treachery, were content to receive it as a mystery, which time would 
 explain. 
 
 One morning, the sentinels having been stationed as usual over night, 
 the guard went at sunrise to relieve a post which extended a considerable 
 distance into the wood. The sentinel was gone; the surprise was great ; 
 but the circumstance had occurred before. They left another man, and 
 departed, wishing him better luck. " You need not be afraid," said the 
 man, with warmth, " I shall not desert." The relief company returned 
 to the guard-house. The sentinels were replaced every four hours, and, 
 at the appointed time, the guard again marched to relieve -the post. To 
 their inexpressible astonishment, the man was gone ! They searched 
 around the post, but no traces could be found of his disappearance. It 
 was necessary that- the station, from a stronger motive than ever, should 
 not remain unoccupied : they were compelled to leave another man, and 
 returned, ruminating on this strange, circumstance, to the guard-house. 
 The superstition of the soldiers was awakened, and the terror ran through 
 the regiment. The colonel, being apprized of the occurrence, signified 
 his intention to accompany the guard when they relieved the sentinel 
 they had left. At the appointed time, they all marched together ; and 
 again, to their unutterable wonder, they found the post vacant, and the 
 man gone ! Under these circumstances, the colonel hesitated whether he 
 should station a whole company here, or if he should again submit the 
 post to a single sentinel. The cause of these repeated disappearances 
 of men, whose courage and honesty were never suspected, must be dis- 
 covered'; and it seemed not likely that this discovery could be obtained 
 by persisting in the old method. Three brave men were now lost to the 
 regiment, and to assign the post to a fourth seemed nothing less than 
 giving him up to destruction. The poor fellow whose turn it was to 
 take the station, though a man in other respects of unconquerable reso- 
 lution, trembled from head to foot. " I must do my duty," said he to 
 the officer ; " I know that, but I should like to lose my life with more 
 credit." " I will leave no man," said the colonel, " against his will." 
 A man immediately stepped from the ranks, and desired to take the 
 post. Every mouth commended his resolution. " I wUl not be taken 
 alive," said he, " and you shall hear of me on the least alarm. At all 
 events, I will fire my piece if I hear the least noise. If a crow chatters 
 or a leaf falls, you shall hear my musket. You may be alarmed when 
 nothing is the matter ; you must take the chance of that, as the condi- 
 tion of my making the discovery." The colonel applauded his courage 
 and told him he would be right to fire upon the least noise which was 
 ambiguous. His comrades shook hands with him, and left him with '«. 
 melancholy foreboding. The company marched back, and waited the 
 event in the guard-house, with the most anxious curiosity. 
 
 An hour had elapsed, and every ear was upon the rack for the disctaige 
 pf the musket, when, upon a sudden, the report was heard. The guard 
 H 
 
86 MELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 immediately marched, accompanied, as before, by the colonel ana so( 
 of the most experienced oflScers of the regiment. As they approach 
 the post, they saw the man advancing towards them, dragging anotb 
 man on the ground by the hair of the head. When they came up 
 him, it appeared to be an Indian whom he had shot. An explanati 
 was immediately required. " I told your honour," said the man, " th 
 I should fire if I heard the least noise. The resolution I had taken h 
 saved my life, and led to the discovery. I had not been long on r 
 post, when I heard a rustling at some short distance : I looked, and si 
 an American hog, such as are common in the woods, crawling along t 
 ground, and seemingly looking for nuts under the trees, and among t 
 leaves. As these animals are so very common, I ceased to consider 
 for some minutes ; but being on the constant alarm and expectation 
 attack, and scarcely knowing what to consider a real cause of apprehe 
 sion, or not, I kept my eyes vigilantly fixed upon it, and marked i 
 progress among the trees ; still there was no need to give the alarj 
 and my thoughts were, notwithstanding, directed to danger from anoth 
 quarter. It struck me, however, as somewhat singular, to see tl 
 animal making, by a circuitous passage, for a thick coppice, immediate 
 behind my post. I therefore kept my eyes more constantly fixed upi 
 it, and, as it was now within a few yards of the coppice, I hesitati 
 whether I should fire. My comrades, thought I, will laugh at me f 
 alarming them by shooting a pig ! I had almost resolved to let it alon 
 when, just as it approached the thicket, I thought I observed it give i 
 unusual spring. I no longer hesitated ; I took my aim, discharged n 
 piece, and the animal* was instantly stretched before me, with a groi 
 which I conceived to be that of a human creature. I went up to : 
 and judge my astonishment when I found I had killed an Indian ! I 
 had enveloped himself with the skin of one of these wild hogs' so ai 
 fully and completely, his hands and feet were so entirely concealed 
 it, and his gait and appearance was so exactly correspondent to that i 
 the animal's, that, imperfectly as they were always seen through t] 
 trees and jungles, the disguise could not be penetrated at a distance, ai 
 scarcely discovered upon the nearest aspect. He was armed with 
 dagger and a tomahawk." Such was the substance of this man's relatio 
 The cause of the disappearance of the other sentinels was now apparei 
 The Indians, sheltered in this disguise, secreted themselves in the co 
 pice ; watched the moment when they could throw it ofi^; burst up( 
 the sentinels without previous alarm, and, too quick to give them i 
 opportunity to discharge their pieces, either stabbed or scalped thei 
 and bore their bodies' away, which they concealed at some distance 
 the leaves. 
 
 Though the world is wide enough for every one to take a little, ai 
 there appears no reason why we jostle and make one another unhap; 
 as we pass along ; yet so it is, we are continually thwarting and crossii 
 each other at right angles ; and some lose all sense and memory of th 
 temner which governed us at our first setting out. 
 
THE KOSE-BDD. 8T 
 
 THE EOSE-BUD. 
 
 i MARKED the rose-bud of the spring. It was beautiful in the morn 
 iug. It sparkled with the dripping dew; then drooped with the de- 
 scending rain. It hung down in modesty, and seemed to shrink from 
 the approaching storm. It remained uninjured, while the gnarled oak 
 was splintered by thq lightning, and the towering pine uptorn by the 
 tornado. With calmness, I was reflecting upon the moral impressed 
 upon the senses by the sublime workings of nature, when the storm 
 suddenly subsided. The sun darted its cheering rays through the dis 
 parsing clouds ; and light, and warmth, and serenity, again delighted 
 the earth. The pine and the oak no more revived. Their foliage, 
 branches, and trunks lay scattered to decay. With genial heat, the rose- 
 bud expanded its crimson petals and poured forth its fragrance in 
 gratitude to the sun ; delighting the eye of the beholder, and loading 
 the atmosphere with its reviving perfume. I marked it, as it rose upon 
 its stem and expanded its blushing flower. To my imagination, it 
 seemed animated with consciousness, and to smile, as they passed, upon 
 every beholder, with entreaties to spare it yet a little while, that it 
 might wave in the sunshine, display its graceful form, its glowing hues, 
 and pour upon the altar of the air and upon the wandering zephyrs its 
 thankful incense. And yet, thought I, would not its vanity be mortified 
 were it doomed to bloom in a wilderness, instead of the parterre, of 
 which it is the grace and the ornament ? 
 
 Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, 
 The deep, unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; 
 Pull many a flower is bom to blush unseen. 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. • 
 
 Its entreaties spoke to my feelings too plainly to be disregarded. 1 
 was captivated. I suffered no rude hand to pluck it or offer violence 
 to its modest charms. I placed my seat near the parterre, and watched 
 the opening beauties of my little friend. The day passed; and yet 
 another and another witnessed its loveliness. I gazed upon and ad- 
 mired, until my imagination inflamed ; I thought it immortal. Others 
 saw it withering ; I knew it not; saw it not; believed it not! Alas! 
 the laws of nature are immutable. To be changed is stamped upon all 
 her Works ! " All that is made must be destroyed ! all that is born 
 must die !" The fourth day came, and my eyes were opened. The 
 blossom had withered, and the leaves of the flower were strewed on the 
 ground. All its graceful beauty and fragrance were blown away by the 
 winds, and nothing remained of so much loveliness. Weep ! child ot 
 mortality, that Death is in the world ! And yet, without Death, how 
 " ghall all tears be wiped away from our eyes ?" 
 
 tr there is any person to whom you feel a dislike, that is the perscw. 
 of whom you ought never to speak. 
 
«8 FIELDS'S SCRAl?-BOOK. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 With man love is never a passion of such intensity and sincerity as 
 with woman. ' She is a creature of sensibility, existing onlv m the out- 
 pourings and sympathies of her emotions ; every earthly blessing, nay 
 every heavenly hope, will be sacrificed for her affections, bhe will 
 leave the sunny home of her childhood, the protecting roof of her kin- 
 dred, forget the counsels of her sire, the admonishing voice of thai 
 mother on whose bosom her head has been pillowed, forsake all she has 
 clung to in her years of girlish simplicity, do all that woman can dc 
 consistently with honour, and throw herself into the arms of the mai 
 she idolizes. He that would forsake a woman, after these testimonies 
 of affection, is too gross a villain to be called a man. The wrath of 
 Heaven will pursue him, the brand of Cain is upon his brow, and the 
 curse of Judas will rankle at his heart. Unrequited love with man is 
 to him never a cause of perpetual misery ; other dreams will flow ii 
 upon his imagination; the abstraction from business, the meteor of 
 ambition, or the pursuit of wealth will win him away from his earl;) 
 infatuation. It is not thus with woman. Although the scene ma] 
 change, and years, long, withering, and lingering years, steal away th< 
 rose from the cheek of beauty, the ruins of a breaking heart cannot b( 
 amalgamated ; the memories of that idle vision cannot be obliteratec 
 from the soul; she pines, nerves herself anew with pride, and pinei 
 away again, until her gentle spirit bids adieu to the treacheries of earth 
 and flits away into the bosom of her God. 
 
 SISTERS AND MOTHERS. 
 
 These are ties, which, like the invisible strings of conscience, bin( 
 man to the world of kindly affection, and are the last things forgotte: 
 when one leaves life. The married situation nay be one of pure and ue 
 interrupted felicity ; there may be no cloud in its whole happy horizon 
 it may be ever sunny, and flowers spring in it at every season of the age 
 But even these happy ones, who are in this clime of bliss, remember Ion, 
 and late the claims of a sister or a mother to their best affections. 1 
 the life of the solitary and single, those who are«said to be doomed to a: 
 ennui of loneliness, the claims of a sister and a mother should hoi 
 strongly, not only upon their feelings, but duties. Those kindnesse 
 which men bestow upon their offspring and their wives, who posses 
 each, and in whom their best views are concentrated, in the bachelo 
 are given to the (almost) sacred names which constitute this headinj 
 In loving a sister, there is none of that earthliness of passion which df 
 grades the heart — in the devotion due to a mother, there is none of tL 
 selfishness of men. The feelings inspired by both sister and mother ai 
 all derived from sources as pure as the Divinity that inspired them. 
 
aAMBLINQ. — WOMAN. 8Ji 
 
 GAMBLING 
 
 The finished gambler has no heart. The club with which ho herds 
 would meet, though the place of rendezvous were the chamber of the 
 dying ; they would meet, though it were an apartment in the charnel- 
 house. Not even the death of kindred can afi"ect the gambler. He 
 would play upon his brother's coffin j he would play upon his father's 
 sepulchre. 
 
 Yonder see that wretch, prematurely old in infirmity as well as sin. 
 He is the father of afattdly. The mother of his children, lovely in her 
 tears, strives with the tenderest assiduities to restore his .temperance, his 
 love of home, and the long lost charms of domestic life. She pursues 
 him, with her entreaties, to his haunts of vice ; she reminds him of his 
 children ; she tells him of their virtues; of their sorrows; of their wants; 
 and she adjures him, by the love of them, and by the love of God, to re- 
 pent, and return. Vain attempt ! she might as well adjure the whirl- 
 wind ; she might as well entreat the tiger. 
 
 The brute has no feeling left. He turns upon her in the spirit of the 
 demons with which he is possessed. He curses his children and her 
 who bore them ; and as he prosecutes his game, he fills the intervals witJi 
 imprecations on his Maker ; imprecations borrowed from the dialect of 
 devils, and uttered with a tone that befits only the organs of the damned ! 
 And yet in this monster there once dwelt the spirit of a man. He had 
 talents, he had honour, he had even faith. He might have adorned the 
 senate, the bar," the altar. But, alas ! his was a faith that saveth not. 
 The gaming-table has robbed him of it, and of all things else that are 
 worth possessing. What a frightful change of character ! What a tre- 
 mendous wreck is the soul of man in ruins ! Keturn, disconsolate 
 mother, to thy dwelling, and be submissive ; thou shalt become a widow, 
 and thy children fatherless. Further efibrts will be useless. God has 
 forsaken him — ^nor will angels weep or watch over him any longer. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 Perhaps a more just and beautiful compliment was never paid to wo- 
 man than the following, by Judge Story : — 
 
 To the honour, to the eternal honour of the sex, be it said, that in the 
 path of duty no sacrifice is with them too high or too dear. Nothing is 
 with them impossible, but to shrink from what love, honour, innocence, 
 and religion require. The voice of pleasure or of power may pass by un 
 heeded — but <Ae voice of affliction never. The chamber of the sick, ike 
 pillow of the dying, the vigils of the dead, the altars of religion never 
 missed the presence or the sympathies of Woman ! Timid though she be, 
 and so delicate that the winds of heaven may not too roughly visit her, 
 on such occasions she loses all sense of danger and assumes a preterna- 
 lural courage, which knows not and fears not consequences. Then she 
 displays that undaunted spirit which neither courts difficulties nor evades 
 them ; that resignation which utters neither murmurs nor regret ; and 
 that patience in sufiiering which seems victorious even over death itself 
 H 2 
 
90 FIBLDS'S SCRA.P-BOOK, 
 
 THE MAJESTY OF THE OCEAN 
 
 BY PKOTBtJS. 
 
 There is society where none intrudes 
 By the deep sea, and musio in its roar. 
 
 I K MOW of nothing, in the whole compass of Byron's varied produc- 
 tions, which equals, in sublimity of conception and vividness of colouring, 
 his portraitures of the ocean. Though, for the most part, the bold and 
 masterly touches of genius are displayed in every thing which came from 
 his hand, yet, when his imagination fixes upon the "dark-blue sea," 
 he appears to surpass all other poets. As you muse over his immortal 
 sketches, in the hush of midnight and by the waning lamp, the wild note 
 of the sea-bird and the low murmur of whispering waters and their sil- 
 very light — or the death-shriek of the drowning mariner, and the roar of 
 billows, together with the lurid and appalling wave-flash of the reflected 
 lightning, break in upon the silence and dimness of your chamber. Time 
 and space are annihilated by the magic of his numbers, and you feel 
 yourself snatched away to the far-off sea, and regaled by its fresh, cool 
 breezes as you go bounding over its glorious expanse. He was empha- 
 tically the poet of the ocean, for the proudest march of his genius was 
 upon its " mountain waves." He appears to have possessed a delight in 
 its wild scenes, amounting almost to a passionate fondness. In his boy- 
 hood, seated on some retired crag, he hung over it, hour after hour of the 
 still summer evenings, and felt, in the excitement of his .glowing fancy, 
 a yearning towards it; and when in after years the ties which held him 
 to his country were severed, he flew to its trackless solitudes as to a re- 
 fuge and a home. Like a proud vessel, which, after having been be- 
 calmed and ingloriously confined in some narrow bay, has gained the 
 broad deep and the rushing gale, the indignant bard swept forth in the 
 buoyancy of freedom, rejoicing as the breeze freshened, and exulting in 
 the rudest commotion of the elements. At that stirring hour he could 
 " laugh to flee away" even from the land of his fathers, for in the thrill 
 of his emotions there was less of sadness than of joy. I can see him in 
 imagination, as he strode the deck, now soothing the sorrows of his little 
 page, and now sweeping his deep-toned lyre as he poured his farewell 
 to the receding shores, and a welcome to the waves that came dashing 
 pnward from the far stretch O'f the seaward horizon. The void in his 
 heart, which no father's love and no mother's endearing tenderness had 
 preoccupied with images of parental affection, and which had been widen- 
 ing from his boyhood by the death or estrangement of early associates, 
 was now filled with the beauty and stirring majesty of the great deep. 
 The loneliness that brooded like a dark spirit over his melancholy bosom 
 was dispelled for a season by the strange grandeur of the prospects around 
 him; and in the romance of poetical enthusiasm, he regarded the ocean as a 
 living andintellipnt existence. As he bent over the prow in the gentle 
 moonlight,' he discoursed with it as with a friend, and, in its billowy 
 
THE. MAJESTY OE THE OCEAN. 91 
 
 ■loinmctions, he gazed upon it with mingled reverence and joy. And 
 who has not experienced such sensations, even when far away from the 
 ocean, while his thoughts were hovering over its azure domains ? I re- 
 memher what a novel and indescribable feeling used to steal upon me 
 when a boy, whenever I fell in with Virgil's description of the sea. 1 
 hsd never been beyond the mountain boundaries of my native valley — 
 never enjoyed even a remote prospect of the sublime object of his inspi- 
 ration, and, therefore, my young fancy was introduced in those passages, 
 to a fairy world, and left free to expatiate, amid the glorious imagery of 
 the Mantuan bard. After reading of Palinurus " or the s^yeet-voiced Si- 
 rens, I have gazed at the little lake, which lies embosomed in the green 
 hills near my father's cgttage, till my eyes grew dim, and its rippling 
 surface seemed to stretch away to a misty and limitless expanse, whilst 
 the sweep of the winds, among the rough crags and pine-forests of the 
 neighbouring mountains, uttered to my imagination the voice of the 
 sounding deep. But how far short of reality,. both in grandeur and 
 beauty, did I find the conceptions of fancy, when I beheld the object 
 itself, some years after. My first view of it was on a clear, but gusty 
 afternoon of autumn. The winds had been abroad for many hours ; and 
 as I looked seaward from the high promontory, and beheld the long rough 
 surges rushing towards me, and listened to their wild roar as they were 
 flung back from the caverned battlements at my feet, I felt as if the pil- 
 lars of the universe were shaken around me, and stood awed and abased 
 before the majesty of excited nature. Since then, I have been on lofty 
 precipices, while the thunder-cloud was bursting below me — have leaned 
 over the trembling brink of Niagara, and walked within its awful cham- 
 bers, but the thrill of that moment has never returned. The feeling of 
 awe, however, gradually gave place to an intense but pleasing emotion, 
 and I longed to spring away from the tame and trodden earth, to that 
 wild, mysterious world, whose strange scenes broke so magnificently upon 
 my vision. No wonder that our first roving impulses are towards the 
 ocean. No wonder that the romance and adventurous spirit of youth 
 deems lightly of hardship and peril, when aroused by its stirring pre- 
 sentations. There is soinething so winning in the multiplied superstitions 
 of its hardy wanderers — something so fascinating in its calm beauty, and 
 BO animating in its stormy recklessness, that the ties of country and 
 kindred sit looser at our hearts, as curiosity whispers of its unseen won- 
 ders. In after years, when the bloom of existence has lost much ot its 
 brightness, when curiosity has become enervated, and the powers of the 
 imagination palsied, where do we sooner return to renew their former 
 pleasing excitement, than to our remembered haunts by the ocean 'i We 
 leave behind us all the splendour and magnificence of art, all the volup- 
 tuous gratifications of society — we break from the banquet and the dance, 
 and fly away to the solitary clifis, where the sea-bird hides her nest. 
 There the cares, perplexities, and rude jostlings of opposing interests 
 are for a while forgotten. There the turmoil of human intercourse dis- 
 qui«ts no longer. There the sweat and dust of the crowded city are dis- 
 peiieii as the cool sea-brseze comes gently athwart our feverish brow. 
 Tn the exhilaration of the icene, the blood gathers purer at the neart— 
 
9i FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 its pulse-beat is softer, and we feel once more a newness of life, amount- 
 ing almost to a transport. Delightful remembrances, that lie buried up 
 under the dross of the past, are reanimated, and the charm, the peace, 
 and the freshness of life's morning innocence again finds in our bosom a 
 welcome and a home. The elastic spring of boyhood is in our step as 
 we chase the receding wave along the white beach, or leap wildly into 
 Its glassy depths. In the low, billowy murmur that steals out upon the 
 air, our ear catches the pleasant, but long unheard music of other years, 
 like the remembered voice of a departed companion ; and while leaning 
 over some beetling crag, glorious visions pass thronging before our eyes, as, 
 in fancy, we rove through the coral groves, where the mermaids have 
 their emerald bower, or gaze at the hidden beauties, the uncoveted gems, 
 and the glittering argosies that repose amid the stilly waters. The soul 
 goes forth, as it were, to the hallowed and undefiled temples of nature, 
 to be purified of its earthly contaminations. She takes to herself wings, 
 and flies away to the " uttermost parts of the sea," and even there she 
 hears the voice of the Divinity, witnesses the manifestations of his 
 power, experiences the kind guardianship of his presence, and returns 
 cheered and invigorated to renew her weary pilgrimage. 
 
 The ocean is a world by itself, presenting few analogies, either in form 
 or scenery, with the continents it embraces. It seems to stand aloof 
 from the dusty and beaten paths of human ambition in the dignity of 
 conscious independence. Man may bring desolation upon the green 
 earth, or dwarf its gigantic p'nnacles to the stature of his grovelling 
 conceptions, but over the beauty and majesty of the ocean he has no 
 power. He may mine the solid mountains, dig up buried cities upon 
 which the lava has mouldered for centuries, and fix his habitation in 
 their silent courts, but he cannot fathom the abysses of the deep, or 
 walk the lonely streets of St. Ubes or Euphsemia. He may visit the 
 sepulchres of the first patriarchs, he may lift the cerements from the 
 queens of the Ptolomies, but he cannot go down to the ocean-grave of 
 his yesterday's friend to close his eyes or cast the wild-flower upon h?s 
 uncoffined bosom. I do not know whether we are capable of forming a 
 true Platonic attachment for an inanimate object, but I sometimes be- 
 lieve that we may. The shrine in which friendship has treasured up its 
 cherished keepsakes, the ring that sparkled on the finger, and the ringlet 
 that once shaded the brow of the departed — whatever, indeed, serves as 
 a remembrancer of the absent, or a memento of the deadj speaks elo- 
 quently of the existence of such a passion. The home of our childhood 
 has a spell of gladness for our hearts, long after the beloved ones who 
 formed its endearments have passed for ever from its portal. In the de- 
 votion of the idolater, also, there seems too much of reality to be the 
 calculation of hypocrisy. The rivers, the hills, and the deep forests 
 have their worshippers ; the sun and moon listen to the hymn of the 
 Gheber who regards them with the expression of aff'ection and reverence. 
 With feeling akm to these, the astrologer gazes at the star, whose be- 
 mgnant influence, like an invisible guardian, has, in his belief, wrought 
 out wbateve- there has been of nappiness or prosperity in the unfolding 
 of his destiny. Nor nas the ocean lacked its admiring votaries, llyron 
 
THE MAJESTY OF THE OCEAN. 9.'! 
 
 18 I have before remarked, loved it with a poet's fondnjss. He rejoioed 
 in the " coehim undique, et undigue pontus ;" a striking image of his far- 
 reaching mind. The imaginative Shelley passed his brightest hours upon 
 its waters, and at last found a welcome grave in their hidden bosom. I 
 once heard a romantic story of a seaman whose attachment for the ocean 
 was peculiarly striking. He became acquainted with it when young, 
 and, after having spent many years amidst its scenes, he ceased from his 
 wanderings and returned to his native village. The remaining compa- 
 nions of his early days kindly welcomed him back, while his old, fond 
 mother clung tenderly and with tears, to her rough, but warm-hearted 
 son. For a while he forgot the delights of his wild rovings, in the 
 pleasing associations which filled his mind, and in narrating to the lis- 
 tening villagers the wonders of the deep and his own perilous, yet con- 
 genial adventures. At length he grew silent and evidently discontented, 
 and the expression of delight passed from his bronzed and weather-beaten 
 countenance. All perceived the change,, and all strove to dispel his 
 hidden despondency; yet still he continued melancholy and ill at ease. 
 At last, his mother, on entering his chamber one morning, found an 
 affectionate farewell written on an old chart and directed to herself, with 
 the collected earnings of his years of peril. But the endeared inmate 
 had gone. He took his way back to the ocean, and wandered from port 
 to port, but, broken down by age and hardship, he could find no employ 
 among its adventurers. With a heart aching from the dull monotony, 
 the tame, listless quietude of the land, he retired to a small hamlet on 
 the coast, and, with the assistance of some kind fishermen, built him a 
 little bark. Once more he committed himself to the guidance of the 
 rough elements, and once more the look of gladness settled on the hard 
 features of the old sailor. Alone, but not solitary, he went forth upon 
 the deep, and for many years after, the floating home of the ocean 
 hermit was seen at all seasons in the Caribbean Archipelago. No one, 
 not even the ruthless pirate, molested him in his quiet wanderings, but 
 all greeted him with a hearty salutation, and all received a warm God- 
 speed in return. During the day, he sailed gently along the luxuriant 
 islands of the tropics, singing some wild old ballad of the sea, as he cast 
 his fishing-lines into its sparkling depths; and at night, after having 
 filled his can from the fresh spring, and laid in a supply of fruits, he 
 moored his little vessel in some calm bay, and slept as .soundly as under 
 the roof-tree of his mother's cottage. Time passed on, and severer in- 
 firmities began to steal upon his once vigorous frame, so that it was with 
 difficulty he could now provide the common necessaries of life. At 
 length, some soldiers, seeing his boat in the vicinity of their fort, went 
 down to the beach to welcome their old acquaintance. Slowly and regu- 
 larly it drifted ashore, when they found its debilitated possessor stretched 
 insensible, in his narrow cabin. They conveyed the famished man to 
 their quarters, and used the best means in their power for his recovery. 
 He was restored to reason, seemed grateful for their kind attentions, and 
 for a while appeared convalescent. One evening, however, after one of 
 those tremendous hurricanes so common in those latitudes, the roar of 
 the sea swelled up into his silent apartment and fell upon his ear Id 
 
S4 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 the absence of the attendants, he crept languidly from his couch and 
 crawled to the terrace, which overlooked a wide extent of ocean. The 
 winds had died away, not a cloud dotted the bright azure of the horizon, 
 and the moon and stars were lo®king peacefully down upon the troubled 
 deep. Par as the eye could reach, all was one wide, awful commotion. 
 The old mariner bent forward upon the parapet, .as if to spring away 
 toward the scenes he loved so well. Before him, on the strand, lay the 
 wreck of his little shallop, and a groan escaped him as he recognised its 
 shattered form ; but he knew that his wanderings were ended, and he 
 sent his swimming glance far out upon the waters. And there they 
 found him, his gray head resting on his shoulder, his withered arms 
 thrown forth upon the wall, and his eyes fixed intently upon the deep ; 
 but his spirit had passed away in the transport of that fond, lingering, 
 farewell gaze. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 There are scenes in life which the pencil cannot paint, and which the 
 pen cannot describe. The parting of friends torn asunder by stern and 
 invincible fate, the leaving behind family, friends, and your natal soil, 
 the house in which the innocent days of your boyhood have been passed, 
 when the mind, free from the cares incident to an advanced age, is 
 buoyed up with hope, and sweeps along the current of time, reckless of 
 the future — exulting in the past ; the parting from those whom you 
 have loved — the romantic walks, every step hallowed by the remembrance 
 of her on whom you delighted to gaze-^the thought that you press for 
 the last time the hand of her who watched over your infancy, protected 
 and shielded you in every danger — the idea of leaving the beloved as- 
 sociate who was the first to hear — the first to sympathize in all your 
 woes ; to turn from your native land, to throw yourself among strangers, 
 to form new connections : the idea is horrible, is agonizing. I know no 
 misery to equal it. A whole train of recollections rush through the 
 mind, in quick and vivid succession. Hope itself seems denied us, and 
 life appears a thing to be despised. 
 
 Franklin's Toast. — Long after Washington's victories over the 
 French and English had made his name familiar over all Europe, Dr. 
 Franklin chanced to dine with the English and French ambassadors, 
 when the following toasts were drunk : — By the British ambassador — 
 " England — the sun whose beams enlighten and fructify the remotest 
 corners of the earth." The French ambassador, glowing with national 
 pride, drank — " France — the moon whose mild, steady, cheering rays are 
 the delight of all nations ; consoling them in darkness and making their 
 dreariness beautiful." Dr. Franklin then rose, and with his usual dig- 
 nified simplicity, said, " G-eorge Washington — the Joshua, who con.- 
 manded the Sub and Moon to stand still, and they obeyed him." 
 
OUK HOME IS EVERYWHERE. — STANZAS. 
 
 3f 
 
 OUE HOME IS EVEKYWHEKE. 
 
 The following lines, Ijy the Rev. S. Graham, originally appeared in the Richmond Enquirer. They wert 
 «ntten during a passage from New York to Kichmoud, in November, 1826. 
 
 BZAYE ! mighty ocean, heave I 
 And blow, thou boist'romB wind ! 
 
 Onward we swiftly glide, and leave 
 Oar home and fVienda behind. 
 
 Away, away, we steer. 
 
 Upon the ocean's breaat ; 
 And dim the distant heights appear. 
 
 Like olouda along the west. 
 
 There is a loneliness 
 
 Upon the mighty deep; 
 And hnrried thoughts upon us press, 
 
 As onwardly we sweep ! 
 
 Our home— O Heavens, that word ! 
 
 A name without a thing ! 
 We are e'en as a lonely bird. 
 
 Whose home is on the wing. 
 
 My wife and little one 
 
 Are with me as I go ; 
 Aiid they are all, beneath the sun, 
 
 I have of weal or wo ! 
 
 With them, upon the sea 
 
 Or land, where'er I roam, 
 M; all on earth is still with me, 
 
 Aad I am still at home ! 
 
 Heave ! mighty ocean, heave ! 
 
 And blow, thou boist'rons wind ! 
 Where'er we go, we cannot leave 
 
 Out home and friends behind. 
 
 Then eome, my lonely brdde. 
 And come my child of wo ; 
 
 Since we have nought on earth beside, 
 What liSiter where we go ? 
 
 We heed not earthly powers. 
 We heed not wind nor weather; 
 
 For, come irhat will, this joy la onri— 
 We share it still together. 
 
 And if the storms be wild. 
 
 And wo perish in the sea, 
 We'll clasp each other and our ohild— 
 
 Oao grave shal} hold the three !— 
 
 And neither shall remain 
 
 To meet and befir, alone, 
 The cares, the injuries, the pain. 
 
 That we, my love, have known. 
 
 And th.ere'8 a sweeter joy. 
 
 Wherever we may bp ; 
 Danger nor death can e'er destroy 
 
 Our trust, .0 God, jn Thee ! 
 
 Then wherefore should we grievs. 
 
 Or what have we to fear? 
 Though home— and friends- and life, we left"* 
 
 Our God is ever near. 
 
 If He whft made all things, 
 
 And rules them, is our own. 
 Then every grief and triftl brings 
 
 Us nearer to his throne. 
 
 Then come, my gentle bride. 
 
 And come my child of love ; 
 What if we've nought on earth beside 
 
 Our portion is ahovei 
 
 Sweep ; mighty ocean, sweep ! 
 
 Te win^s, blow foul or fair; 
 Our God is with us on the deep 1 
 
 Our home is everywhere ! 
 
 FORGET ME NOT. 
 
 PoBGET me not ! in accents mild. 
 My mother «ays, beloved child : 
 ■Forget me '>•/■■ ^hen, far away. 
 Amidst a thomrhtless world you stray;* 
 forget me not, when fools would win 
 Your footsteps to the paths of sin; 
 Forget me not, when urged to wrong 
 By passions and temptations strong ; 
 Forget me not, wheii pleasure's snare 
 Would lead you from the house of prayer. 
 
 Forget me not, in feeble age, 
 But let me then your thoughts enga^ 
 And think, my child, how fondly I 
 Watched o'er your helpless infancy: 
 Forget me not, when death shall close 
 These eyelids in their last repose, 
 And evening breezes softly wave 
 The grass upon thy mother's grave :— 
 Oh ! then, whate'er thy age and lot 
 May be, my child, foegbt me wot I 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 Tbough height and fair is Beauty's flower, 
 Too soon its fragrance must dflcay ; 
 
 It blooms but for a little hour, 
 Au'j then 'tis doomed to fade away. 
 
 But "Virtue, pure and saorefl, IIv^s 
 
 Beyond the reach of change or tim« 
 Its grace, its loveliness, survives. 
 To blossom in aheave-r'? ilime 
 
96 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 A VIRGIN HEART. 
 
 The author of De Vere has made some beautiful observationa on the 
 worth and devotion of an unpractised, heart. "There is nothing under 
 heaven as delicious as the possession of pure, fresh, and immutable affec- 
 tions. The most felicitous moment of man's life, the most ecstatic of all 
 his emotions and sympathies, is that in which he receives an avowal of 
 affection from the idol of his heart. The springs of feeling, when in 
 their youthful purity, are fountains of unsealed and gushing tenderness — 
 the spell that once draws them forth in the mystic light of future years 
 and undying memory. Nothing in life is so pure and devoted as woman's 
 love. It matters not whether it be for husband or child, or sister or 
 brother, it is the same pure and unquenchable flame, the same constant 
 and immaculate glow of feeling, whose undeniable touchstone is trial. 
 Do but give her one' token of love — one kind word or gentle look, even 
 if it be amid death — the feelings of that faithful heart will gush forth 
 as a torrent, in despite of earthly bond or mercenary tie. More price- 
 less than the gems of Golconda is a virgin's heart; and more devoted 
 than the idolatry of Mecca is woman's love. There is no sordid view, 
 no qualifying self-interest in the feeling. It is a principle and character- 
 istic of her nature — a faculty and an infatuation which absorbs and con- 
 centrates all the fervour of her soul and all the depths of her bosom. I 
 would rather be the -idol of one unsullied and unpractised heart, than the 
 monarch of' empires. I would rather possess the immaculate and in., 
 passioned devotion of one high-souled and enthusiastic virgin than th" 
 sycophantic fawnings of millions. There is more thrilling felicity dC' 
 rived from a union of two guileless and uncontaminated hearts, than all 
 the conquests of Alexander, the wisdom of Socrates, or the wealth of 
 Croesus would afford. The general world knows nothing of these things. 
 None can appreciate the refinements of pure feeling, but those who by 
 nature or some peculiar property of the mind are qualified to drink of 
 the depths of its gushing and sparkling fountains. None can know the 
 elysium of possessing a heart until they know the value of a gem sc 
 priceless — until they can think of its imbodyings as something too holy 
 to be mingled with the grosser images of passion and humanity — until 
 they at least imagine the spirit of a seraph has been clothed with a form 
 of imperishable mortality. When this wild dream mingles with the 
 ■ colder and more calculating visions of life — the world may put forth its 
 anathemas — fortune may shower down its adversities — but in vain — even 
 the rword of A^rael [the angel of death] would scarcely destroy the un- 
 utterable ecstasies of this heaven-descending happiness." 
 
 A WAG, observing a fellow steal a fish and put it under his jacket, 
 wbifb was too short to conceal the theft, hallooed to the purloiner to 
 weur. in future, a longer jacket, or steal a shortt^r flsh. 
 
FILIAL VIRTUE ILLUSTRATED. 97 
 
 FILIAL VIRTUE ILLUSTRATED. 
 
 "This touching story," says the New York Atlas, "is told in al 
 Edinhurgh paper, and deserves, as the relator expresses himself, to he 
 handed down to the latest generations." It will, we think, engage th* 
 feelings and improve the heart of an ingenuous reader. 
 
 Some travellers firom Glasgow were obliged to stop at the small burgh 
 of Lanark, '' and having nothing better to engage our attention," said 
 one of them, ' we amused ourselves by looking at the passengers from 
 the window of our inn, which was opposite the prison. While we were 
 thus occupied, a gentleman came up on horseback, very plainly dressed, 
 attended by a servant. He had • scarcely passed our window when he 
 alighted, left his horse, and advanced towards an old man who was en- 
 gaged in paving the street. After having saluted him, he took hold of 
 the rammer and struck some blows upon the pavement, at the same time 
 addressing the old man, who stood amazed at this adventure : — ' This 
 work seems to be very painful for a person of your age ; have you no 
 sons who could share in your labours and comfort your old age ?' ' Forgive 
 me, sir, I have three lads, who inspired me with the highest hopes, but 
 the poor fellows are not now within reach to assist their father.' ' Where 
 are they, then?' 'The oldest has obtained the rank of captain in 
 India, in the service of the honourable East India Company. The second 
 has likewise enlisted, in hope of rivalling his brother.' The old man 
 paused ; a momentary tear bedimmed his eyes. ' And pray what has ; 
 become of the third?' 'Alas, he became security for me; the poor^ 
 boy engaged to pay my debt, and being unable to fulfil the undertaking, . 
 he is — ^in prison.' At this recital, the gentleman stepped aside a few. 
 paces, and covered his face with his hands. After having thus given 
 vent to his feelings, he resumed the discourse. ' And has the oldest — ^• 
 this degenerate son — this captain — never sent you any thing to extricate 
 you from your miseries ?' 'Ah ! call him not degenerate : my son isvirtu- - 
 ous ; he both loves and respects his father ; he has oftener than once 
 sent me money, even more than was sufiScient for my wants ; but I had 
 the misfortune to lose it by becoming security for a worthy man, my 
 landlord, who was burdened with a very large family. Unfortunately, 
 finding himself unable to pay, he has caused iny ruin. They have taken , 
 my all, and nothing now remains for me.' At this moment, a young 
 man, passing his head through the iron gratings of a window in the 
 prison, began to cry, 'Father! father! if my brother William is still 
 alive, this is he; he is the gentlemen who speaks with you !' 'Yes, my , 
 friend, it is he,' replied the- gentleman, throwing himself into the old ., 
 man's arms, who, like one beside himself, attempting to speak, and sob' 
 bing, had not recovered his senses, when an old woman, decently dressed, 
 rushed from a poor-looking hut, crying, ' Where art thou, my dear Wil- 
 liam ? Come to me — come and embrace your mother !'. The captain nn 
 sooner saw her, than he quit his father and went to throw himself upon . 
 the neck of the good old dame. The scene was now. overpowering ; the., 
 I I 
 
98 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 travellers left their room and increased the number of spectators, wit- 
 
 nesPRS of this most affecting sight. Mr. W , one of the travellers, 
 
 made his way through the crowd, and advancing to the gentleman, thus 
 addressed him : — ' Captain, we ask the honour of your acquaintance ; 
 we would gladly have given a hundred thousand to be witnesses of this 
 tender meeting with your honourable family ; we request the honour of 
 you and yours to dinner in this inn.' The captain, alive to the invi- 
 tation, accepted it with politeness; but at the same time replied, that he 
 would neither eat nor drink until his youngest brother had recovered 
 his liberty. At the same instant, he deposited the sum for which he 
 had been in-jarcerated, and, in a short time after, his brother joined the 
 party. 
 
 " The whole family now met at the inn, where they and the affectionate 
 William sat in the midst of a multitude who were loading him with 
 caresses, all of which he returned with the utmost cordiality. As soon 
 as there was an opportunity for free conversation, the good soldier un- 
 bosomed his heart to his parents and the travellers. ' Gentlemen,' said 
 he, ' to-day I feel, in its full extent, the kindness of Providence, to 
 whom I owe every thing. My uncle brought me up to the business of 
 a weaver, but I requited his attentions badly ; for having contracted a 
 habit of idleness and dissipation, I enlisted in a corps belonging to the 
 East India Company. I was then only a little more than eighteen. My 
 soldier-like appearance had been observed by Lord C , the command- 
 ing officer, with whoso beneficence and inexhaustible generosity all 
 Europe is acquainted. My zeal -for the service inspired him with regard ; 
 and, thanks to his care, I rose, step by step, to the rank of captain, and 
 was intrusted with the funds of the regiment. By dint of economy, 
 and the aid of commerce, I amassed honourably a stock of £30,000. At 
 that time I quit the service. It is true that I made three remittances 
 to my father J but the first only, consisting of £200, reached him. The 
 Beccind fell into the hands of a man who had the misfortune to become 
 insolvent; an^ I intrusted the third to a Scotch gentleman, who died on 
 the passage ; but I hold his receipt, and his heirs will account to me for 
 it.' After the dinner, the captain gave his father £200, to supply his 
 most pressing wants ; and at the same time secured to him, as well as 
 his mother, an annuity of £500, reversible to his two brothers, pro- 
 mising to purchase a commission for the soldier, and to settle the 
 yroungest in a manufactory, which he was about to establish in Scotland, 
 for the purpose of affording employment to his countrymen. Besides, 
 he' presented £500 as a marriage portion to his sister, who was married 
 to a farmer in indifferent circumstances ; and, after having distributed 
 £60 among the poor, he entertained, at an elegant dinner, the principal 
 inhabitants of the burgh. Such a man merited the favours of fortune. 
 Byiihis generous sensibility,; too, he showed, iiideed, that he was worthy 
 uf.the distinguished honouis-so.profusety heaped upon hiru by the illus- 
 triouo liord C ." 
 
BURNING OF THE RICHMOND THEATRE. 99 
 
 BURNING OF THE RICHMOND THEATRE. 
 
 The house was fuller than on any night of the season. The play 
 \^ as over, and the first act of the pantomime had passed. The second 
 and last had begun. All was yet gayety ; all, so far, had been plea- 
 sure ; curiosity was yet alive, and further gratification anticipated ; the 
 orchestra sent forth its sounds of harmony and joy, — when the audience 
 perceived some confusion on the stage, and presently a shower of sparks 
 falling from above. Some were startled, and others thought it was pari 
 of the scenic exhibition. A performer on the stage received a portion 
 of the burning materials from on high, and it was perceived that others 
 were tearing down the scenery. Some one cried out from the stage that 
 there was no danger. Immediately after, Hopkins Robinson ran for- 
 ward and cried out, " The house is on fire !" pointing to the ceiling, where 
 the flames were progressing like wild-fire. In a moment all was ap 
 palling horror and distress. Robinson handed several persons from the 
 boxes to the stage, as a ready way for their escape. The cry of " Fire ! 
 Fire !" ran through the house, mingled with the wailings of females and 
 children. The general rush was to gain the lobbies. It appears, from 
 the following description of the house, and the scene that ensued, that 
 this was the cause of the great loss of life. 
 
 The general entrance from the pit and boxes was through a door not 
 more than large enough to admit three persons abreast. The outer 
 entrance was within a trifling distance of the pit-door, and gave an easy 
 escape to that part of the house. But to attain the boxes from the 
 street, it was necessary to descend into a long passage, and to ascend 
 again by an angular staircase. The gallery had a distinct entrance, and 
 its occupants .escaped. The suffering and death fell on the occupanttfof 
 the boxes, who, panic-struck, did not see that the pit was immediately 
 left vac-ant, but pressed on to gain the crowded and tortuous way by 
 which they had entered. The pit-door was so near the general entrance, 
 that those who occupied that portion of the house gained the street 
 with ease. A gentleman, who escaped from the pit among the last, saw 
 it empty ; and when in the street, looked back again into the general 
 entrance to the pit and boxes, and the door had not been reached by 
 those from the lobbies. A gentleman and lady were saved by being 
 accidentally thrown into the pit ; and most of those who perished would 
 have escaped if they had leaped from the boxes, and sought that avenue 
 to the street. But all darted to the lobbies. The stairs were blocked 
 np. All was enveloped in hot, scorching smoke and flames. The lights 
 were extinguished by the black and smothering vapour, and the shrieks 
 jf despair were appalling. Happy, for a moment, were those who gained 
 a window and inhaled the air of the heavens. Those who had issued to 
 'the street cried to the sufierers at the windows to leap down, and 
 ■jtretched out their arms to save them. Some were seen struggling to 
 gain the apertures to inhale the fresh air. Men, women, and children 
 precipitated themselves from the first and second stories. Some escaped 
 
100 ' FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 unhuit — others were killed or mangled by the fall. Some, with theii 
 clothes on fire, shrieking, leaped from the windows, to gain a short 
 reprieve and die in agonies. 
 
 " Who can picture ?" said a correspondent of the Mirror, " the dis- 
 tress of those who, unable to gain the windows or afraid to leap from 
 them, were pent up in the long narrow passages?" The cries of those 
 who reached the upper windows are described as being heart-sickening. 
 Many who found their way to the street were so scorched or burnt as 
 to die in consequence ; and some were crushed to death under foot, after 
 reaching the outer door. 
 
 Add to this mass of suffering the feelings of those who knew that 
 they had relatives or friends who had gone to the house that night. 
 Such rushed half-frantic to the spot, with the crowds of citizens from 
 all quarters, while the tolling bells sounded the knell of death to the 
 heart of the father or mother whose child had been permitted to visit 
 the theatre on that night of horror. 
 
 " As my father was leading me home," said Mr. Henry Placide, " we 
 saw Mr. Greene, exhausted by previous exertion, leaning on a fence and 
 looking at the scene of ruin. For all was now one black mass of 
 smoking destruction. " Thank G-od !" ejaculated Greene, " thank God ! 
 T prohibited Nancy from coming to the house to-night ! — she is safe I" 
 
 Nancy was his only daughter, just springing into womanhood, still at 
 the boarding-school of Mrs. Gibson, and as beautiful and lovely a girl 
 as imagination can picture. 
 
 Mrs. Gibson and the boarders had made up a party for the theatre 
 that evening, and Nancy Greene asked her father's permission to ao- 
 •company them. He refused — ^but unfortunately added his reason — ■ 
 " The house will be crowded, and you will occupy a ^at that will other- 
 wise be paid for." On these words hung the fate of youth, innocence, 
 and beauty. " I will pay for your ticket," said the kind instructress, 
 " we will not leave you behind." The teacher and the pupil were 
 buried in. the ruins on which the father gazed, and over which he re- 
 turned thanks for the safety of his child ! He went home, and learned 
 the truth. 
 
 An instance of the escape of a family is given. The husband, with 
 three children, were in the second boxes ; his wife, with a female friend, 
 in another part of the house. The wife gained a window, leaped out 
 and escaped unhurt. Her friend followed, and was killed. The 
 father clasped the two helpless girls to his breast, and left a boy of 
 twelve years of age to follow : the boy was forced from the father, ran to 
 a window, sprang out, and was safe. The parent, with his precious 
 charge, followed the stairway, pressed upon by those behind him, and 
 those, who mounted on the heads and shoulders of the crowd befoie 
 them — he became unconscious, but was still borne along; he was taken 
 up, carried to his bed, and opened his eyes to see all his family safe. 
 
 On the contrary, Lieut. Gibbon, of the Navy, as exemplary in life as 
 nerpic in the service of his country, and on the brink of a union with 
 Mis? Conyers, the pride of Richmond for every accomplishment and 
 virtue, was swept into eternity while exerting himself to do all that 
 
EVENING. — THE MOTffER. 101 
 
 DLan should do in such trying circumstances. He was with his mother 
 at the theatre, and carried her to a place of safety ; then ran back to 
 save her in whose fate his own was bound up : he c^,ught her in his arais, 
 and had borne her partly down the staircase, when the steps gave way, 
 and a body of flame swept them to eternity. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 There are two periods in the life of man, in which the evening hour 
 is peculiarly interesting ; youth and old age. In youth, we love its 
 mellow moonlight, its millions of stars, its soothing shade and sweet 
 serenity. Amid those scenes, we can commune with those we love, and 
 twine the wreath of friendship, while there are none to bear witness 
 but the gorgeous heavens, and spirits that hold their endless Sabbath 
 there. We look abroad upon creation, spread in the slumber of a moon- 
 light scene around ; and^ wrapt in contemplation, fancy we see and hear 
 the waving wings and melting songs of other and purer worlds. It 
 accords with the light flow of youthful spirits, the fervency of fancy, 
 and the softer feelings of the heart. Evening is also delightful to vir- 
 tuous age. It affords hours of undisturbed thought. It seems an 
 emblem of the calm and tranquil close of a busy life, serene and mild, 
 with the impress of its great Creator enstamped upon it. It spreads itE 
 quiet wings above the grave, and seems that all shall be peace beyond it. 
 
 THE MOTHER. 
 
 X 
 
 There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of man- 
 hood ; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the feelings of in- 
 fancy. Who that has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness and 
 despondency ; who that has pined on a-weary bed, in the neglect and 
 loneliness of a foreign land, but has thought on the mother " that looked 
 on his childhood," that smoothed his pillow and administered to his 
 helplessness ? Oh ! there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a 
 mother to a son, that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is 
 neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened 
 bj worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every 
 comfort to his convenience; she will surrender every pleasure to his 
 enjoyment; she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity:-— 
 and, if misfortune overtake him, be will be dearer to her from misfor- 
 tune ; and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still lOve and cherish 
 bim in spite of his disgrace ; and if all the world besides east him ofi°, 
 she will be all the world to him. 
 
 . An empty head and a full purse are more respected than the man of 
 sense whose purse has been lightened by the unavoidable shafts of 
 misfortune.* 
 t2 
 
102 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOh. 
 
 THE DKUNKAKD'S SOLILOQUX. 
 
 Having passed by the inn, I obsejyed some one, at a short distance, 
 beneath a lofty buttonwood, apparently holding a dialogue with himself. 
 I drew near unobserved, and heard the following: 
 
 " Who am I ? Ay, and what am I, but a wretched outcast, shunned 
 and despised by the wise and good ? My estate wasted ; constitution 
 destroyed ; affairs in ruin ; friends absconded ; children naked and hun- 
 gry ; wife in tears and comfortless ; appetite none ; visage bloated and 
 disgusting ; hands and knees tremulous ; reason delDased ; and manners 
 become vile ; character annihilated ! My acquaintances pass by me like 
 strangers ! I am tormented by disease ; harassed by lawsuits ; teased 
 by creditors ; collared by sheriffs ; mocked and hunted by truants and 
 blackguards! I am a hated, filthy sot, companion only to the lowest 
 brute! Nay, the vile brute is exalted, is noble compared to a wretch like 
 me ! In all that is esteemed honourable, respectable, and worthy in socie- 
 ty, I am the mere cinder of a crucible ; the very paltry dregs of alem- 
 bics ! Cursed intemperance, these are thy fruits ! Oppressed nature 
 can hold on no longer ! She is about to resign her worthless charge ! 
 The horrid grave opens upon me and yawns for its prey ! Despair seizes 
 me ! My brain is on fire ! Away, then ; let me hasten and sink, unre- 
 membered, down,, down, dowu to !" " Father, father !" exclaim- 
 ed a sudden and wild voice. The knife fell to the ground, and a rag- 
 ged, though lovely boy rushed into his embraces. 
 
 KELIGION. 
 
 The following short and beautiful quotation is from the pen of the 
 elegant, the benevolent, the inspired Mackenzie. Speaking of those who 
 profess a disbelief in religion, he expresses himself in the following heart- 
 touching manner : — 
 
 " He who would undermine those foundations upon which the fabric 
 of our future hope is reared, seeks to beat down that column which sup- 
 ports the feebleness of humanity : — let him but think a moment, and bis 
 his heart will arrest the cruelty of his purpose. Would he pluck its 
 little treasure from the bosom of poverty ? Would he wrest its crutch 
 from the hand of age, and remove from the eye of aflSiction the only 
 solace of its wo ? The way we tread is rugged at best; we tread it, 
 however, lighter by the prospect of the better country to which, we trust, 
 it will lead. Tell us not that it will end in the gulf of eternal dissolu- 
 ■ tion, or break off in some wild, which fancy may fill up as she pleases, 
 but reason is unable to delineate ; quench not that beam, which, amidst 
 the night of this evil world, has cheered the despondency of iU-requited 
 worth, and illumined the darkness of suffering virtue." 
 
THE ANXIOUS WIFE. 103 
 
 THE ANXIOUS WIFE. 
 
 BY S. V. HALL. 
 
 With mournful eyes, and brow of feeling; 
 One hand before her meekly spreading, 
 The other back her ringlets shedding. 
 
 Allan Cunnihohah. 
 
 Why looks the mother so lonely, within her cottage home — her own 
 home — even at the very moment when the prayers of her first-born as- 
 cend to the throne of the Almighty, and her cradled infant is calmly 
 bleeping by her side ? It is a kindly and a quiet evening; the setting sun 
 mingles his rays with light, fleecy clouds that sail along the sky ; the ' 
 gentle breeze wafts the fragrance of a thousand flowers through the open 
 casement ; and the voice of nature is calling upon every heart to be 
 cheerful, to be happy ; yet is the mother more than pensive, as she looks 
 forth along the far-spread heath ; and in her chamber there are tokens 
 that she waits the home-coming of one, in whose presence alone her eye 
 can brighten, and sadness and solitude be felt no more. For hours has 
 she listened -to hear his step along the gravelled pathway that leads 
 from the main road to her humble dwelling on the plain — and she is 
 weary with the heaviness of hope deferred. 
 
 At length, her ear catches the welcome and well-known sound of his 
 tread ; in another moment he had passed the threshold of his door, 
 and the anxious wife is in her husband's arms ; he has kissed her fair 
 forehead, patted her cheek, and gazed intently on his babe ; but he has 
 spoken no word ; and there is a cloud upon his brow ; his eyes appear 
 sunk, and his lips are firmly compressed, as if he broods over some plan 
 of more than ordinary moment, as he takes his accustomed seat by the 
 cheerful fireside, and partakes of food slowly and in silence; looking now 
 and then towards the clock, that, with its melancholy note, alone breaks 
 the dreariness of the scene, giving awful notice that another moment is 
 gone with the past. The wife is sitting opposite the husband ; her clasp- 
 ed hands rest upon her knees; and she is earnestly watching the out-, 
 ward signs of the struggles she knows to be passing within the breast of 
 her beloved ; but she does not intrude her speech upon his thoughts, 
 until, with a deep and heavy sigh, he takes her small hand, gently 
 presses it, and gazes fixedly and anxiously upon her quivering lip. 
 
 " Is there any trouble that I may not share ?" she inquired, in that 
 gentle tone, which comes to a wounded spirit like the summer breeze 
 over a* sick man's brow, when, for the first time, he has left the heavy 
 atmosphere of his chamber, — "or am I less the friend than the wife?" 
 
 "Nothing, nothing, Ellen," he replied, at length, "but my spirits are 
 low — and yet, in truth, I know not why," he continued, assuming a look 
 and attitude of gayety and carelessness — " for my labour of to-night is noi 
 a new thing with me, but one which I have often done with safety and 
 with success. The Bessi/ is expected in to-night/' he added^ in a wbifr 
 
104 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 per; "we have certain news that she will land her cargo when the moon 
 goes down, — but strange does it seem, that what should make me joy- 
 ous, weighs down my heart, as if its veins were filled with molten 
 lead !" ^ , ^ 
 
 " Then go not to-night, Herbert, — oh ! go not with these fearful and 
 reckless men, — pursue no longer a course that may lead to death ; but 
 listen again to the warning you have so often heard from my lips." 
 
 " Nay, Ellen, soon shall thy daily prayer be answered, but to-night 
 mmt see me on the shore. I am pledged to be there before, the midnight 
 comes ; but take the word of one who never deceived you, the morrow's 
 dawn shall see me an altered man — ^never again shall the smuggler hail 
 :ne his companion. And now, farewell; this will be my last night." 
 Herbert kissed his sleeping babe, breathed a parting prayer over the 
 couch of his boy, pressed his wife to his bosom, and paced rapidly from 
 his dwelling. 
 
 She watched him until he had reached the jutting of the road that 
 led down to the beach. Then, sighing heavily, she echoed her husband's 
 last words, " His last night!" and, leaning her head upon the cradle of 
 her child, wept bitterly, as she prayed earnestly that his farewell sen- 
 tence might not have an awful meaning. 
 
 Herbert hurried onward, nor paused, even for a moment, until he 
 stood before a large mansion, that nearly skirted the beach ; its broken 
 windows and unweeded garden showed it to be without inhabitants. It 
 had ottce been his own — it bad descended to him, through a long line 
 of ancestors ; and few years had passed since he had been greeted as 
 one of the wealthiest men along the coast of Devonshire. One of the 
 happiest he had certainly been ; — for his hopes of the future soared 
 but little beyond the possession of the present; his pleasures were those 
 of a domestic hearth, and all his ambition sought for was even in his 
 grasp. 
 
 But it is not the daring and -speculative alone that adversity visits; 
 in an evil hour, but more from a natural kindness of disposition than 
 from feelings of a selfish nature, was Herbert induced to permit a quan- 
 tity of smuggled goods to remain in one of his cellars, until their owner 
 had contrived some means of conveying them to the neighbouring town 
 . of Barnstable. These were discovered by the officers of excise ; the un- 
 fortunate gentleman was prosecuted, exchequered in an enormous sum, 
 and utterly, as it appeared, irretrievably ruined. The lofty mansion in 
 the dale was exchanged for the humble cottage on the moor; but as a 
 recompense for poverty and loss of character, he had then a conscience 
 void of offence, and a knowledge that in adversity and in prosperity his 
 wife was still the same : there was hope in every tone of her sweet, gen- 
 tle voice, in every glance of her mild blue eye ; the smile of affection 
 was never for a moment away from her eloquent countenance ; and the 
 dwelling he had shuddered to think upon became happier and more 
 cheerful than the abode from which he had been driven, an exile with'n 
 sight of home. 
 
 But partlyfrom necessity, and partly because: he conceived himsflf a 
 wronged and injured man, he was induced to form a connection witL one 
 
THE ANXIOUS WIFE. 105 
 
 of the' lawless bauds that infested the seacoast of Devonshire; and from 
 a suspected smuggler, he became one in reality. Notwithstanding the 
 continued exertions of his wife to wean him from a course of crime and 
 danger, he had persevered, until much of the wealth he had lost had re- 
 turned again to his coffers — and when he spoke of the repurchase of his 
 ancient home and estate, it was not as a far-off prospect, but as an event 
 almost within his reach. It was this feeling and this hope that came 
 over him, as he stood before the broken door of the deserted house. 
 
 " Soon shall ye be ray own," said he, as he paused at the threshold — 
 " my own, once more; and in your spacious halls shall my Ellen sit as 
 meekly and as gently as in her humble cottage on the moor — soon will 
 ye be my own again, home of my fathers." 
 
 He whistled; the sound was answered; and in a few moments, he 
 was in the midst of a band of resolute and daring men, who welcomed 
 him as their leader. 
 
 " Comrades ! the moon wanes ; have you any' one on the look-out ?" 
 " Ay, sir, ay," replied a stout, hardy seaman, " Jack Minns is up 
 aloft with the night-glass ; and I warrant me. Jack will see her ten 
 knots off." 
 
 " Is there any one upon the watch on the main road, and the left of 
 the hill?" 
 
 " Ay, sir, ay, all is cared for, and I warrant me the bonny Bess will 
 land her cargo safe enough, long before the morning breaks." 
 
 The gang were carousing merrily ; but Herbert sat apart. His thoughts 
 were with his lone wife in her cottage : well he knew that the night 
 would be to her as sleepless as to him ; and it was with an aching heart 
 and a burning brow that he looked upon the calm heavens, and then 
 towards the moor, that lay shrouded in darkness, and breathed a low and 
 solemn prayer that the innocent might not suffer with the guilty. It 
 was a vain and foolish prayer ; it was a solemn mockery for justice ; and 
 he knew it. The husband and the father should have remembered that 
 in his dishonour was his children's shame; that in his misery they must 
 participate ; and that the consequence of his crime could not be visited 
 alone on him. It was thus he reasoned, when such reasoning could avail 
 him naught. 
 
 In about an hour. Jack Minns descended from the roof of the house, 
 and gave notice that the Bessy was in the offing. Instantly, the party 
 were in motion, and on their way to the shore. . Silently and steadily they 
 passed down the rugged and broken cliffs, and stood at the water's edge. 
 Soon' a solitary spark was seen, dimly burning for an instant, upon the 
 surface of the ocean ; so faint was it, that by those only who looked for 
 it, could it be discerned. It pointed out where the vessel lay. The 
 signal was answered from the shore ; a flash from a pistol-pan informed 
 the smugglers where they might land''— and, in a few moments, the 
 muffled oars were rapidly bearing a boat to land. A brief greeting was 
 exchanged between the seamen and their associates, and the work of un- 
 loading commenced. In a space of time almost incredibly short, she was 
 on her way towards the ship, when a sound that resembled a stifled 
 c'cream passed along the waves; and the boatmen stayed their oais,.fiTBi 
 
106 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 lookiug along the sea, where their own vessel rode tranquilly upon tha 
 waters, and then towards the land, where they could discern, in the 
 dim twilight, an unusual and ominous bustle among the party thev 
 had left. 
 
 It was not the ordinary stir of their employment that engaged the 
 smugglers on shore. Herbert had' given his directions; and along the 
 craggy cliffs were the tubs and bales borne to a place of _ safety, when 
 he perceived a stranger among the group, and instantly pointed him out 
 to Minns, who advanced, laid his hand upon him, and attempted to force 
 his slouched hat from his head. The attempt was resisted, when the 
 smuggler drew a pistol from his belt, and said in a low tone — " Friend 
 or foe ?" 
 
 The stranger replied by knocking the pistol out of the hand that 
 threatened him, and rushed up the cliffs, followed by a number of the 
 party, one of whom fired his pistol at the spy. The sound echoed from 
 rock to rock, and as it died away, the voice of Jack Minns was heard, in 
 a hissing kind of whisper, that passed through the group. 
 
 "Comrades, we are betrayed — off! off!" 
 
 But ere they could resolve on what course to pursue, a party of soldiers 
 bent their bodies over the precipice, and pointed their muskets at the 
 gang beneath. The click of their firearms was distinctly heard, and 
 the gleam of their brightness met 'the gaze of the smugglers, as they 
 looked upward and shuddered. The next sounds were the fearful warn- 
 ing, "Yield, in the king's name !" and the reply of some daring and 
 reckless man, " Come and take us !" 
 
 The smugglers had shrunk under the partial shelter of the overhang- 
 ing cliffs, but, as they looked to the right or left, they saw that every 
 pass was guarded. They had brief time for thought; the soldiers, with 
 their fixed bayonets, were marching in order towards the strand, and a 
 signal-fire was instantly blazing on the heights. 
 
 " They are but a few now, " exclaimed Minns ; " let us fight it out 
 before the rest come on us." 
 
 Herbert made no reply. Every nerve was paralyzed ; his countenance 
 became pale as death ; and a deep and hollow groan came from his bosom, 
 at the very moment when Minns, struggling with the foremost soldier of 
 the band, received the contents of a musket through his heart, aud, with 
 a loud shriek, fell along the shore. 
 
 The contest was brief, but did not -terminate until more than one 
 soldier had been wounded, and several smugglers had been stretched upon 
 the crimsoned sand. Almost broken in heart, and wounded — for he had 
 fought like a tiger in his lair when he found the hunters press hardly 
 upon him — was Herbert led, like a gyved prisoner, along the road 
 towards the dwelling that was once his own. 
 
 The morning was breaking over the earth, and, still as a prisoner, with 
 a felon's death before him, lay Herbert, beside his own once cheerful 
 and happy hearth, when a gentle tap was heard at the casement; — with 
 a faltering step he approached, looked beneath, and beheld his wife. 
 She made a sign to be cautious ; and having first ascertained that his 
 guards were sleeping, Herbert carefully opened the window, and in 
 
THE ANXIOUS WIFE. 107 
 
 another moment she waa in his arms. A few brief whispers served to tel. 
 the purport of her visit : — 
 
 " Oh, Herbert, this is no time for reproach — to save the erring father 
 of my children am I here. Oh, if my warning voice had been heard ere 
 the fatal night that is now fearfully passing !" 
 
 Her object was soon explained, and, in a few seconds, Herbert had 
 taken her cloak, wrapped her in his long and heavy coat, placed his hat 
 on her head, pressed her to his bosom, and was crawling away under the 
 shadow of the trees. In the already dawning twilight, he could perceive 
 her at the window, pressing her hand to her brow, and her raised finger 
 was directing his course towards the beach. '• 
 
 The whole transaction was scarcely the work of a minute, but it waa 
 an eventful one, for she had scarcely closed the window, ere one of the 
 soldiers awoke, turned and looked carefully around the room — the pri- 
 soper was seated in a corner, leaning her head upon her arm; and above 
 an hour passed before the escape of Herbert was discovered. 
 
 In vain did they search every portion of the old mansion, and scour 
 the neighbouring hills and plains — the object they sought was nowhere 
 to be found ; and although Ellen was led to the nearest town and exa- 
 inined, her bondage was brief — she was suffered to return to her 
 children. 
 
 Nearly a year had passed, and she had received no tidings of her hus< 
 band, — hope had at length gone from her, — in sorrow and in solitude did 
 she spend her days, and even the sweet smiles and gentle accents of her 
 children failed to call back comfort to her heart and dwelling. A long 
 weary winter and a cheerful spring had gone by, and summer had again • 
 decked the land in beauty. Driven from her humble cottage, and point- 
 ed at as the smuggler's wife, in the neighbouring town of Barnstable, in 
 which she at first sought refuge, she had travelled along the coast, — 
 poor, and friendless, and deserted, — with no comforter but that religion 
 which had never left her, either in the lofty dwelling on the strand, the 
 humble cottage on the moor, or during her wanderings along the public 
 highways, — depending for existence upon the poor pittance that the cold 
 hand of charity might fling to her. At length, in a dark and cheerless 
 lodging, in the outskirts of Ilfracome, did Ellen Herbert find shelter, 
 and, by the labour of her hands, did she bring up those who were more 
 desolate than orphans. 
 
 Morning, noon, and night, did she fervently pray that, wherever hej 
 husband wandered, the light of truth might visit him, and that deep . 
 adversity might teach him the lesson of honourable contentment he had 
 failed to learn from the precepts and example of his wife. 
 
 One evening, when her children were at rest, she laid aside her work, 
 and the Book of Truth lay open on her table ; she had been cotnforted 
 by its pages, that speak so strongly to the faithful of reward — to the 
 desolate of hope ; when the latch was gently raised, and Herbert met 
 the gaze of his wife. Pale and haggard, and in the garb of extreme 
 poverty, did he stand before her, and listen to the throbs that came from 
 her bosom, mingled with grateful thanks to the Giver of all good that 
 he was yet alive. 
 
108 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 Her prajrers haa been heard. The hand of affliction had been heavj 
 upon him in the far distant land to which he had escaped. The bread 
 that had been cast upon the waters had been returned after many 
 days; the prayer of the righteous had availed much. Changed in heart 
 did he once more tread the shores of his native land, and seek out those 
 beloved ones, from whom he might again hear the blessed words of 
 husband and father. 
 
 Long did they sit, hand in hand, and speak their gratitude to God, 
 who had made adversity the handmaid of religion ; and in calm confi- 
 dence did they speak of the future, as more full of hope than fear. " Stead- 
 fastly purposing to lead a new life," did the outlawed smuggler detail 
 to his virtuous and trusting companion the trials he had encountered — 
 trials that had worked together for his good. And the early morning 
 beheld them, with their boy and babe, journeying from the town. 
 
 In the metropolis, to which they travelled, Herbert, under another 
 name, soon obtained employment, regaining his lost character, and, by a 
 course of unremitting industry and integrity, arrived, step by step, to a 
 respectable and lucrative station in the office of an extensive merchant, 
 whose partner he became, after the lapse of a few years. 
 
 Many persons are there, in the county of Devon, who had received 
 from their fathers the above story of Herbert, the smuggler. The cir- 
 cumstances will be familiar to some of them, although nearly a century 
 has passed over the transaction — for it has been recorded, as nearly as 
 possible, after the manner in which it was related to the writer, as a 
 trv.e tale. 
 
 THE FIRST SHOT. 
 
 AN INTEKESTINQ INCIDENT, SAID TO HAVE OOCUERED IN THE BEGINNIKQ OF THB 
 FKENCH KEVOLUTION, IN 1830. 
 
 "By Jove," cried little Jules, one bright morning in July, "if I only 
 had a gun I" — and he pushed away, with indignation, the chestnut ring- 
 lets that clustered round the youthful forehead, struck the table with 
 his clenched fist, his youthful blood boiling in his veins, at the sight of 
 friends and brothers murdered in cold blood : then he approached the 
 window, and leaning his smooth and burning cheeks against the panes, 
 which shook with the firing of the royal troops, his eyes filled with tea« 
 of grief and indication, as he beheld the terrible massacre in the streets, 
 and gazed on the result of a monarch's stupidity and a court's corruption. 
 " Mamma, mamma !" he exclaimed, " only look ; there are some poor 
 fellows carried off in a litter; they must be dead or dying." "Oh, my 
 God, Jules, come from the window." "And look, look, there are some 
 who have just fallen, bruised and wounded.. By Jove, if I only had a 
 gun!" 
 
 Ilis mother, alarmed at Jules's extreme agitation, drew him from the 
 window, and endeavoured to divert his mind, but he escaped from hef 
 kind solicitude, ran up the stairs, four steps at a time, up into lUa 
 
THE riBST SHOT. lOS 
 
 garret, where, among other antiquities, he found an old and rather rusty 
 musket ; and little Jules clapped his hands in ecstasy, and exclaimed; 
 " By Jove, I have got a gun at last !" It was rather heavy for so youth- 
 ful and inexperienced an arm ; hiit what is impossible to a generous and 
 intrepid heart, though it, beat in the bosom of a boy of twelve ? Little 
 Jules raised the musket, which just suited him, and stepped down-stairs 
 with his precious burden, "pede suspense," for fear of alarming his 
 anxious and watchful mother. But when Jules got into the street, he 
 found his rusty and heavy musket not loaded. Luckily, as he thought, 
 a grocer's store stood next to his mother's house ; he ran into the shop, 
 and exclaimed, " Do not be alarmed, I am your friend Jules ; load my 
 gun, good fellow, and make haste ; by Jove, T will give it to them yet !" 
 " What!" cried the astonished grocer, "you too?" "Load it, load it, 
 and don't talk to me," replied Jules. " But you are too young to 
 fight," remonstrated the friendly grocer ; " they will kill you, Jules ; do 
 you not hear the cannons, and the dreadful firijig? — just listen !" 
 
 But Jules stamped his foot, and answered only, " By Jove, old man, 
 do not chatter so, but load my gun !" And the grocer, finding all entreaties 
 vain, did as he was commanded, and loaded the gun. Jules, after cast- 
 ing one lingering and affectionate glance at the windows of his mother's 
 house, rushed into the street, already strewed with dead bodies. " Oh, 
 my God !" he murmured to hims,elf ; though, even at this dreadful sight, 
 the courage of the boy failed him but for a moment. Just in front of 
 him was a regiment of the king's household troops. An oflGicer, in glitter- 
 ing uniform, with a drawn sword, and threatening gesture, was leading 
 them on to a new and ruthless charge. Jules gazed for a moment at 
 the terrific scowl and imperious voice with which the ofiScer encouraged 
 the massacre, and murmured once more to himself, " By Jove, I have 
 got a gun !" He posted himself behind a low wall, rested his musket 
 on the top of it, took a long and deliberate aim, and fired. The officer 
 in brilliant uniform fell from his horse, shot directly through the heart. 
 Jules rushed into the house, ran to his mother's room, and told her in 
 triumph how he had killed "his country's foe." The trembling mother 
 pressed him in silence to her beating heart ; and had engraved on the 
 old musket these few but expressive words : "Paris,. July 28, 1830." 
 
 Gambling. — The following is a confession written upon the back of 
 a one-dollar bank-bill. Let young men, yea, and old men, follow the 
 advice he gives, and take timely warning from the fate of this " ruined 
 young man !" The original, we are informed, is in the possession of 
 Mr. W. Grenshaw, of this town. 
 
 "MiUedgeville, November 28ih, 1830 
 
 " This is the last dollar which I can call my own, out of an estate of 
 610,000. And what have I lost ! Not only my fortune, but my cha 
 racter is injured, and my health impaired. Now, young man, take warn- 
 ing — beware of gambling ! I am this day twenty-one years old, and 
 far from any friend or relation, and without a place whereon to lay my 
 head. "A Ruined Young Man." 
 
 K 
 
110 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 ANCIENT BABYLON. 
 
 Vert little is recorded of the early history of the city of Babylon 
 [ts foundations were laid, it is supposed, by Nimrod, great grandson of 
 Noah, not long after the dispersion of Babel. It stood on both sides of 
 ihe river Euphrates, on an even and extensive plain. It was surrounded 
 by a wall, incredible as it may seem, of three hundred and fifty feet in 
 height, eighty-seven in thickness, and sixty miles in circumferance ; 
 forming an exact square, fifteen miles on each side. This massive wall 
 was made of large bituminous bricks, so firmly cemented as to render 
 it perfectly solid. An enormous ditch, lined on both sides with brick, 
 and filled with water, encompassed the city — the size of which may be 
 estimated from the fact that the walls of the city were composed entirely 
 of clay taken out of it. 
 
 The city was entered through the walls by one hundred gates, twenty- 
 five on each side, composed of solid brass. Between every two of the 
 gates were three towers ten feet in height; also one on each of the four 
 corners, and three between the several corner towers and the first gate ; 
 making, in all, three hundred and sixteen. From the gates on one side 
 of the city to those on the opposite side, went streets one hundred and 
 fifty feet in width. These fifty streets, crossing each other at right' 
 angles, divided the city into six hundred and seventy-six squares. The 
 houses stood on these squares, a short distance from each other, facing 
 the streets. The central parts of these numerous squares were laid out 
 in gardens, walks, and yards, and occupied for many other useful and 
 ornamental purposes; so that, from the many vacant spaces, not more 
 than half the ground was built upon. Next to the wall, on each side 
 of the city, was a street, two hundred feet wide and fifteen miles (the 
 extent of the city) in length, ffhe houses were built only on one side 
 of this street — on the squares fronting the wall. 
 
 The river Euphrates, or rather a branch of it, ran directly across the 
 city, from north to south. A wall of the same thickness, and similar to 
 that which surrounded the city, was built on each side of the river. In 
 these walls, where the river was intersected by the streets, were massive 
 brazen gates. TTom the several streets there were gradual descents to the 
 river, which was crossed in boats. Through these gates, which were 
 incautiously left open, Cyrus and his army entered, having turned the 
 course of the river, and took this splendid city. 
 
 Such are some of the particulars which have been recorded relative 
 to the once " golden city" and " glory of kingdoms." While her walls 
 were echoing and re-echoing with the sounds of mirth and festivity, and 
 when to all human appearance they were destined to stand to the latest 
 generations, Jeremiah prophesied " that it should become desolate, that 
 it should not be inhabited, that the wild leasts of the field should be 
 there." History has since confirmed the predictions of the prophet. 
 Long before thf Christian era, we are told that it had become a place of 
 « solitude," and that it was " lying waste and neglected." In the fourth 
 century, we are informed that "its walls served as a fence, and the citjr 
 
THE ENCHANTED GUN. Ill 
 
 as a park, in which the King of Persia kept wild beasts for hunting." 
 A traveller, in the twelfth century, found it overrun with serpents and 
 scorpions. In 1743, another traveller states that its "ruins were so 
 efiFaced, that there were hardly any vestiges of them to point out the 
 situation of the city." By one who has recently visited the spot, we arc 
 told that " there is not now a stone to tell where Babylon was situated." 
 
 THE ENCHANTED GUN. 
 
 It once happened, that an honest old simpleton, who had been " to, 
 training," had made money enough by throwing stories at a " peg" to get 
 very comfortably fuddled, even without any draft upon his purse of 
 three " fourpence-ha'penny pieces" laid by for that purpose several months 
 befortf. Some wags, who had kept soberer upon the occasion than our 
 hero, not having had so good luck at gingerbread gambling, loaded his 
 gun to the very mijizle with alternate charges of excellent powder and 
 touchwood, and, starting him homeward, took care to put a red-hot. nail 
 upon the topmost piece of touchwood. Uncle Ichabod, honest old soul, 
 shouldered firelock and took up his "line of march" for home. He had 
 not gone far, however, before pop goes the charge from his gun. Rather 
 singular, thought uncle Ich, but a mere accident, doubtless; a charge 
 being left there carelessly. A few rods farther, bang ! goes the second 
 charge. "Lord a mercy," says Ichabod, "this is tarnal strange, I swag- 
 ger; but I guess it didn't all go off the first time, or else 'twouldn't go 
 off again, and would it though ?" He had hardly finished this dialogue 
 with himself, before off goes the repeater again. "My gracious!" ex- 
 claimed our terrified military man,. " the Old Boy is in the gun. I never 
 heard of sich a thing in my born days !" — an exclamation which he had 
 hardly concluded, before his everlasting musket struck four, and Ichabod, 
 having no longer any fellowship for a weapon . possessing such fearful 
 continuity of explosion, very prudently threw it over the fence, and 
 made rapid strides for the house of the clergyman, having now no doubt 
 that he or his gun was "bewitched. The clergyman .himself was not 
 without his doubts on the subject, after Ichabod had testified to the 
 whole story, the truth of which was corroborated by several distinct dis- 
 charges from the gun, in the place where he had thrown it, which was 
 within plain hearing of the parties. However, while the matter remained 
 entirely unsettled, the mischievous caitiffs, who had caused all the alarm, 
 arrived with the offending musket, which made its last discharge in the 
 clergyman's presence, and refused further service till reloaded. It 
 was never fairly settled, however, between him and Ichabod, whether 
 or not it was a case of real witchcraft — a matter which we are the first 
 to put fairly at rest, by detailing these particulars. 
 
 True Magnanimity. — Hath any wronged thee ? — be bravely re- 
 venged ; slight it, and the work is begun ; forgive it, and 'tis finished 
 He is below himself who is not above an injury. 
 
112 
 
 ITBLDS S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER* 
 
 1*HE following lines are tonohingly beautiful. Wo have seen nothing of late that has ao moved our sympa- 
 thy. The man who can write such poetry, who has such thoughtfi, cannot be utterly depraved. The 
 curse of intemperance, with itfl attending downward influence, has here done its work, and a spirit noble 
 and generous, that might and should be the pride and ornament of the social circle, is now the degraded 
 cinvict in the walls of a penitentiary. How will that fond mother's heart bleed, if she shall hear of her 
 darling boy, the inmate of a prison, in a foreign land ! 
 
 I've wander'd far from thee, mother. 
 
 Far from my happy home ; 
 I've left the land that gave me birth. 
 
 In other climes to roam ; 
 And time, sinoe then, has roll'd its years 
 
 And mark'd them on my brow ; 
 Yet, 1 have often thought of thee— 
 
 I'm thinking of thee now. 
 
 I'm thinking on the day, mother, 
 
 When, at my tender side. 
 Yon watch'd the dawning of my yonth, ^ 
 
 And kiss'd me in your pride ; 
 Then brightly was my heart lit np 
 
 With hopes of future joy, 
 While yonr bright fancy honours wove 
 
 To deck thy darling boy. 
 
 I'm thinking of the day, mother, 
 
 When, with such anxious care, 
 You lifted up your heart to Heaven — 
 
 Your hope, your trust was there : 
 Pond memory brings thy parting words. 
 
 While tears roll'd down your cheek ;" 
 Thy long, last, loving look told more 
 
 Than ever words could speak. 
 
 I'm far away from thee, mother ; 
 
 No friend is near me now, 
 To soothe me with a tender word 
 
 Or cool my burning brow ; 
 The dearest ties affection wove 
 
 Are all now torn from me ; 
 They left me when the trouble came : 
 
 They did not love like thee. 
 
 I'm lonely and forsaken now, 
 
 Unpiticd and nnblest; 
 Yet still I would not have thee know 
 
 How sorely I'm distress'd. 
 I know you would not chide, mother. 
 
 Yon would not give me blame ; 
 fiut soothe me with your tender words. 
 
 And bid mo hope again. 
 
 I ^^Duld not have thee know, mother, 
 
 How briglitest hopes docay ; 
 The tempter wirti his baleful cup 
 
 Has dash'd them all away ; 
 And shame has left its venom sting, 
 
 To rack with anguish wild- 
 Yet, still I would not have thee know 
 
 The sorrows of thy child. 
 
 Oh ! I have wander'd far, mother. 
 
 Since I deserted thee. 
 And left thy trusting heart to break. 
 
 Beyond the deep blue sea. 
 Oh! mother, atill I love thee well, 
 
 And long to hear thee speak. 
 And feel again thy balmy breath 
 
 Upon my careworn cheek. 
 
 But, ah ! there is a thought, mothor. 
 
 Pervades my beating breast, 
 That thy freed spirit may have flown 
 
 To its eternal rest ; 
 And while I wipe the tear away. 
 
 There whispers in my ear 
 A voice, that speaks of heaven and the 
 
 And bids me seek thee there. 
 
 Ohio State J 
 * These lines were written.by a convict in the Ohio Penitentiary. 
 
 THE WORLD TO COME. 
 
 BY BOWRING. 
 
 If all our hopes and all our fears 
 
 Were prison'd in life's narrow bound,— 
 'f, travellers through this vale of tears. 
 
 We saw no better world beyond, — ■ 
 Oh ! what could check the rising sigh, 
 
 What earthly things could pleasure give? 
 Oh! who could venture then to die — 
 
 Or who could venture then to live? 
 Were life a dark and desert moor, 
 
 Where mist and clouds eternal spread 
 Their gloomy veil, behind, before, 
 
 And tempests thunder overhead, — 
 
 Where not a sunbeam breaks the gloom, 
 
 AAd not a flower smiles beneath, — 
 Who could live in such a torab — 
 
 Who dwell in darkness and in death 1 
 And such were life without the ray 
 
 By our divine religion given; 
 'Tis this that makes our darkness day, 
 
 'Tisthis that makes oiir earth a heavea 
 Bright is the golden sun ahovc, 
 
 And beautiful the fiowors thatblooia; 
 And all is joy, and all is loviS, 
 
 Eeflected from the world to coma. 
 
DIGNITY OF THE HCMAN MIND. 113 
 
 DIGNITY OF THE HUMAN MIND 
 
 The dignity of man consists in the elevation of his mind. In propor- 
 tion as this is improved, he rises in the scale of being. Objects are dig- 
 nified either from their intrinsic worth or from their connection with 
 other objects. Through both these mediums we may contemplate the 
 dignity of the human mind. The highest existence in the universe is 
 mind. The material world is beheld with admiration. The heavens 
 and the earth, and many events which result from the Divine power 
 and government, are vast and wonderful — frequently awful and solemn ; 
 in many instances, exquisitely beautiful, eminently sublime. But this 
 outward system is itself the product of mind, and consequently inferior. 
 All its harmony, beauty, and grandeur are the fruits and manifestations 
 of thought. This is the supreme agency which gave being to all worlds ; 
 the unseen power which at first spread out the heavens as a curtain, 
 and hung the earth upon nothing ; which still bears up the pillars of the 
 universe, and controls the destiny of all created beings. 
 
 The human mind is noble in itself, but it assumes a more elevated 
 rank from its intimate relation to the higher intelligences. It is the 
 only existence on earth that bears the likeness of its Creator. It is true, 
 the invisible Being is exhibited in all the works of his hands. His 
 beauty is seen in the verdure, the fruits, and the flowers which adorn the 
 surface of the earth. In all the signatures of order and design are seen 
 the eflFects of his unsearchable wisdom. ' All that is fair in nature shows 
 forth the uncreated excellence of the Eternal. In the spring, his life reani- 
 mates the world. In all that is grand and sublime, his awful majesty is 
 displayed. His way is in the whirlwind and the storm, and the clouds 
 are the dust at his feet. How enhanced is the beauty, how exalted 
 the grandeur, even of material substances, when employed to exhibit the 
 wisdom, the' benevolence, and the power of the Almighty ! But an in^' 
 comparably higher degree of dignity is conferred on the human mindi 
 Other objects of creation are only the works of Jehovah, while this bears 
 the bright impress of Gfod himself; for G-od is mind. 
 
 We usually judge of the dignity of objects and character by the 
 attention which is paid to them. Should we see a stranger receiving to- 
 kens of respect and friendship from the good and the great of the world-, 
 this simple fact would be sufficient to raise him in our estimationv What, 
 then, must be the character of the human mind, which has received the 
 most striking marks of attention from the highest order of beings ! An 
 gels manifest a deep interest in the development of that principle which 
 assimilates man to his Maker ; and it is more than probable that the 
 great design of Nature's works is to furnish a school of instruction to 
 intelligent beings. The book of creation and providence is enriched and 
 embellished by its Author with whatever has a tendency' to improve the 
 mind, please the imagination, and interest the heart. In this exhaust- 
 less fountain'of knowledge, the intellectual and moral powers find their 
 
 Kt 8 
 
114 PIELDS'S SCRiP-BOOK. 
 
 nutriment, strength, expansion, and happiness. The sonieniplative 
 mind sees itself surrounded with sources of the highest enjoyment. In 
 every walk it can draw instruction from nature's pages, and every soli- 
 tude retire within itself and feast upon its own resources. 
 
 A cultivated mind commands the respect and admiration of the world. 
 High intellectual endowments have preserved from oblivion the names 
 of ancient sages, and will perpetuate the only true fame to the end of 
 time. Men who retired from the theatre of action centuries ago, 
 have, by strength and vigour of thought, procured a celebrity which has 
 not only reached the present age, but which will extend in a rising grada- 
 tion through centuries yet to come. 
 
 The tyrant may, indeed, be remembered; but the wise man is remem- 
 bered and admired. The victorious general may retire from the field of 
 battle followed by an applauding multitude j but the mfm who furnishes 
 to the world stores of deep and useful thought, confers a great blessing 
 on his species, and purchases a renown which rests upon a firmer basis. 
 We would by no means detract from the merit which i.s considered due 
 to corporeal strength, or to the beauty of the external form ; but this is 
 not to be compared with that reputation which rests upon superior men 
 tal qualities. Every other criterion is far too low. " The mind is the 
 standard of the man." 
 
 The human mind, viewed as perfect in its intellectual and moral 
 powers, is the greatest gift of God. " The omnipotent Creator, we have 
 reason to think, can bestow nothing greater than intelligence, love, recti- 
 tude, energy of will and of benevolent action ; for these are the splendours 
 of his own nature." In imparting them to the mind, he gives it worth 
 and dignity far superior to the external creation. "In this outward 
 system, magnificent as it is — in the bright day and the starry night, in 
 the earth and in the skies, we can discover nothing so vast as. thought- 
 60 strong as the unconquerable purpose of duty — so sublime as the spirit 
 »f disinterestedness and self-sacrifice." 
 
 In every survey of the mind, whether we view it through the medium 
 of reason or revelation, we are filled with wonder and delight. The more 
 we know of it, the more we shall desire to know. Considering his capa- 
 cities, already great, yet continually enlarging, and that in a progression 
 which knows no limits, we are lost in amazement. We know the powers 
 of the mind, chiefly, as it is connected with material organs. These 
 organs, though greatly instrumental to its acquisition of knowledge and 
 ; pleasure, seem often to weaken its faculties and impede its operations. 
 It can converse with an infinite variety of objects in the material and 
 spiritual worlds. It can compose, combine, distinguish, reason, and judge. 
 It can discover latent truth, and detect the false representations of tha 
 senses. At pleasure it can revive the past and anticipate the future. It 
 ranges the wide creation, penetrates the deep recesses of the earth, and 
 unlocks the mysteries of nature. It enables man to maintain an unri- 
 valled dominion over other classes of existence on the earth ; to explore 
 f he vegetable and mineral kingdoms, and to render their numberless and 
 'iiversified productions subservient to his own use. It can soar away to 
 •-lie planetary orbs, and investigate their laws and revolut'ons. But it 
 
DIGNITY OF THE HUMAN MIND. 115 
 
 stops not here ; it ascends to God himself, and expands its faculties in 
 the contemplation of his eternal nature and transcendent perfections. It 
 can see the Deity sitting independent and alone before the world was ; 
 witness the commencement of time; trace its various revolutions to the 
 end ; and then, rapt in its own peculiar vision, transport itself into futu- 
 rity, and contemplate the world which we inhabit as but a small portion 
 af the empire of God ; time as lost in eternity; and all human affairs as 
 mere incidental circumstances occurring to subserve the designs of the 
 great Creator. By all- this variety of action, its native energies are not 
 impaired, but improved ; not wearied, but refreshed ; not satisfied with 
 its present acquisitions, but stimulated to new and increased exertions •• 
 it asks no pause — it can be restrained by no limits. 
 
 In addition to this, the mind is immortal. The material creation must 
 yield to the wasting hand of time, and eventually dissolve away. Hu- 
 man institutions and works of art inherit human frailty. The body itself 
 is not exempt from the shafts of disease and the resistless hand of death. 
 But the mind bids defiance to them all. It cannot be confined within 
 the narrow boundaries of this life. It carries within itself ample proof 
 of a higher destination. Nor do we think it inconsistent with reason or 
 the religion of the Bible to suppose that its attainments in knowledge 
 will remain unimpaired by the wreck of matter, will survive the last 
 struggle of expiring nature, and continue to exert a growing influence in 
 other worlds. We cannot believe that intellectual culture produces no 
 fruit to be matured by immortality. Knowledge, whether it denote a 
 memory of facts or that intrinsic worth which the mind derives from a 
 careful study of the phenomena of nature, is lasting as the mind itself. 
 Can it be supposed that the mind of an infant enters its future state of 
 existence with the same majesty and strength as the mind of a Newton ! 
 We will not believe in a principle which would break up the mental 
 fabric, reared and adorned with so much care, and cast it in scattered 
 fragments on the wide ocean of eternity. It shall be a consolation to the 
 student, amid the toils and fatigues of mental discipline, that he cherishes 
 an immortal mind — a mind which will enter eternity with the same in- 
 tellectual character that it here possessed ; and which, should he be so 
 happy as to enter the celestial Paradise above, may, by continued ad- 
 vancement, gain a summit in glory and blessedness now far beyond the 
 ken of the brightest seraph around the throne of God. 
 
 I BELIEVE that if Christianity should be compelled to flee from the 
 mansions of the great, the academies of the philosophers, the halls of 
 legislators, . or the throng of busy men, we should find her last and 
 purest retreat with woman at the fireside ; her last altar would be the 
 'emale heart; her last audience would be the children gathered around 
 the knees of a mother; her last sacrifice, the secret prayer, escaping 
 in silence from her lips, and heard, perhaps, only at the throne of 
 &od. 
 
116 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 THRILLING SKETCH. 
 
 FROM SALAIHIEL. 
 
 A P051TAL of the arena opened, and the combatant, with a mantld 
 thrown over his face and figure, was led into the surroundery. The lion 
 roared and ramped against the bars of his den at the sight. The guard 
 put a sword and buckler into the hands of the Christian, and he was left 
 alone. He drew the mantle from his face, and bent a slow and firm look 
 around the amphitheatre. His fine countenance and lofty bearing raised 
 a universal shout of admiration. He might have stood for an Apollo 
 3ncountering the Python. His eye at last turned on mine. Could I 
 believe my senses ? Constantius was before me. 
 
 All my rancour vanished. An hour past, I could have struck the be- 
 trayer to the heart — I could have called on the severest vengeance of man 
 and heaven to smite the destroyer of my child. But to see him hope- 
 lessly doomed, the man whom I had honoured for his noble qualities, 
 whom I had even loved, whose crime was, at the worst, but the crime of 
 giving' way to the strongest temptation that can bewilder the heart of 
 man ; to see the noble creature flung to the savage beast, dying in tor- 
 tures, torn piecemeal before my eyes, and his misery wrought by me, I 
 would have obtested earth and heaven to save him. But my tongue 
 cleaved to the roof of my mouth. My limbs refused to stir. I would 
 have thrown myself at the feet of Nero ; but I sat like a man of stone — 
 pale — paralyzed — ^the beating of my pulse stopped — my eyes alone alive. 
 
 The gate of the den was thrown back, and the lion rushed in with a 
 roar and a bound that bore him half across the arena. I saw the sword 
 glitter in the air: when it waved again, it was covered with blood. A 
 howl told that the blow had been driven home. The lion, one of the 
 largest from Numidia, and made furious by thirst and hunger, an ani- 
 mal of prodigious power, crouched for an instant, as if to make sure of 
 his prey, crept a few paces onward, and sprang at the victim's throat. 
 He was met by a second wound, but his impulse was irresistible. A cry 
 of natural horror rang round the amphitheatre. The struggle was now 
 for an instant, life or death. They rolled over each other ; the lion, rear- 
 ed upon his hind feet with gnashing teeth and distended talons, plunged 
 on the man ; again they rose together. Anxiety was now at its wildest 
 height. The sword now swung round the champion's head in bloody 
 circles. They fell again, covered with blood and dust. The hand of 
 Constantius had grasped the lion's mane, and the furious bounds of the 
 monster could not loose his hold ; but his strength was evidently giving 
 way — he still struck his terrible blows, but each was weaker than the 
 one before ; till, collecting his whole force for a last effort, he darted one 
 mighty blow into the lion's throat and sank. The savage beast yelled, and, 
 spouting out blood, fled howling around the arena. But the hand still 
 grasped the mane, and the conqueror was dragged whirling through the 
 dust at his heels, A universal outcry now arose to save him, if he were 
 
THRILLING SKETCH.^ 117 
 
 •xot already dead. . But the lion, though bleeding from every vein, was 
 still too terrible, and all shrank from the hazard. At last, the grasp gave 
 way, and the body lay motionless on the ground. 
 
 What happened for some moments after, I know not. There was a 
 struggle at the portal j a female forced her way through the guards, 
 rushed in alone, and flung herself upon the victim . The sight of a new 
 prey roused the lion; he tore the ground with his talons; he lashed his 
 streaming sides with his tail ; he lifted up his mane and bared his fangs. 
 But his approaching was no longer with a bound ; he dreaded the sword, 
 and came snuffing the blood on the sand, and stealing round the body in 
 circuits still diminishing. 
 
 The confusion in the vast assemblage was now extreme. Voices in- 
 numerable called for aid. Women screamed and fainted, men burst into 
 indignant clamours at this prolonged cruelty. Even the hard hearts of 
 the populace, accustomed as they were to the sacrifice of life, were roused 
 to honest curses. The guards grasped their arms, and waited but for a 
 sign from the emperor. But Nero gave no sign. 
 
 I looked upon the woman's face ; it was Salome ! I sprang upon my 
 feet. I called on her name ; called on her, by every feeling of nature, to 
 fly from that place of death, to come to my arms, to think of the agonies 
 of all that loved her. 
 
 She had raised the head of Constantius on her knee, and was wiping 
 the pale visage with her hair. At the sound of my voice, she looked up, 
 and, calmly casting back the locks from her forehead, fixed her eyes upon 
 me. She still knelt ; one hand supported the head — with the other she 
 pointed to it as her only answer. I again adjured her. There was the 
 silence of death among the thousands around me. A fire dashed into 
 her eye — her cheek burned — she waved her hand with an air of superb 
 sorrow. 
 
 " I am come to die," she uttered, in a lofty tone. " This bleeding 
 body was my husband — I have no father. The world contains to me but 
 this clay in my arms. Yet," and she kissed the ashy lips before her, 
 " yet, my Constantius, it was to save that father that your generous 
 heart defied the peril of this hour. It was to redeem him from the hand 
 of evil that you abandoned your quiet home ! — Yes, cruel father, here 
 lies the noble being that threw open your dungeon, that led you safe 
 through the conflagration, that, to the last moment of his liberty, only 
 Bought how he might preserve and protect you." Tears at length fell 
 in .floods from her eyes. " But," said she, in a tone of wild power, " he 
 was betrayed, and may the Power whose thunders avenge the cause of 
 his people, pour down just retribution upon the head that dared" — 
 
 I heard my own condemnation about to be pronounced by the lips of 
 my own child. Wound up to the last degree of sufiering, I tore my 
 hair, leaped upon the bars before me, and plunged into the arena by her 
 nde. The height stunned me; I tottered a few paces and fell. The lion 
 gave a roar and sprang upon me. I lay helpless under him, I heard 
 the gnashing of his white fangs above me. 
 
 An exulting shout arose. I saw him reel as if struck — gore filled his 
 jaws. Another mighty blow was driven to his heart. He sprang high 
 
il8 FIBLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 in the aii- with a howl. He dropped; he was dead. The amphitheacni 
 thundered with acclamations. 
 
 With Salome clinging to my bosom, Constantius raised me from the 
 ground : — the roar of the lion had roused him from his swoon, and two 
 blows saved me. The falchion had broken in the heart of the monster. 
 The whole multitude stood up, supplicating for our lives in the name of 
 filial piety and heroism. Nero, devil as he was, dared not resist the ' 
 strength of popular feeling. He waved a signal to the guards; the 
 portal was opened, and my children, sustaining my feeble steps, showered 
 with garlands and ornaments from innumerable hands, slowly led me 
 from the arena. 
 
 CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. 
 
 In the biographical sketch of Mr. Wirt, prefixed to Harper's edition 
 of the " Letters of the British Spy," is related the following case of cir- 
 cumstantial evidence : — 
 
 •'Just after his [Mr. Wirt's] resigning the chancellorship, he was 
 employed, together with Mr. Tazewell and Mr. Semple, afterwards Judge 
 Semple, in the defence of a man apprehended on some points of circum- 
 stantial evidence so curious', that we are tempted to relate them. A per- 
 son named St. George, who resided near Williamsburg, was shot dead, 
 one'night, through the window of his own house. No trace appeared 
 of the assassin, nor any circumstance that could indicate his enemy; 
 only some duck-shot appeared in the wall near the ceiling. While the 
 crowd, called out by the scene, stood confounded around the dead body, 
 a bystander, who had been employed by the late chancellor, a person 
 remarkable to some degree of oddity for his habits of close and curious 
 investigation, went out of the house, and, placing himself in the line of 
 direction that the shot must have taken to the spot where they lodged, 
 endeavoured to ascertain from that circumstance the exact position of 
 the person who discharged the gun. While thus occupied, his eye was 
 caught by a very small piece of paper on the ground, betwixt himself 
 and the window, which appeared, on taking it up, to have been part of 
 the wadding, and had on it what seemed to be two of the three strokes 
 composing the letter m. One of the crowd, Stokes, exclaimed at this 
 moment, " I wonder where Shannon is ; has any one seen Shannon ?" 
 Shannon was the son-in-law of the deceased, and resided on the oppo- 
 site shore of James River; and it was soon ascertained that he had been 
 seen in Williamsburg that day, with a gun on his shoulder. The gun, 
 however, had no lock upon it, and a blacksmith, to whom Shannon had 
 gone to have it repaired, stated that Shannon had left his workshop with 
 it in this condition. The man was pursued, nevertheless, over the river, 
 and to his own house, to which he was found not to have returned ; and 
 was traced at length to a tavern, some thirty miles off, and caught in bed, 
 with all his clothes on, sound asleep. He was seized as he lay, and od 
 being searched, some duck-shot were found about him, and a letter with 
 a part of it torn off. When this letter was afterwards compared with 
 
THE BOHON UPAS TREE. 119 
 
 the fragment of the wadding, the two were found to fit, and the letter 
 m, before mentioned, to forra part of the word thy in the letter. Ok. 
 these circumstances, strengthened by the fact that the death of his father- 
 in-law would have put Shannon in possession of his Wife's fortune, he 
 Was brought to trial. A single juryman " stood out," as the phrase is, 
 for ten days, and the defendant was discharged in consequfenoe of this 
 disagreement among his triers. No other circumstances ever threw light 
 on this transaction." 
 
 THE BOHON UPAS TREE. 
 
 It is rather a, singillar phenomenon in the economy of nature, that the 
 island of Java should produce at the same time the mangdsteen, the most 
 mellow and luscious of fruits, and the deadly upas, the most naalignant 
 of poisons. In the journal of a botanist, lately deceased, whom Napo- 
 leon sent to Java, in 1810, to make collections of plants for the imperial 
 garden at St. Cloud, we find the substance of the following facts. The 
 Bohon Upas is situated in a valley, watered by a rivulet, and encom- 
 passed by hills, at the distance of fourteen leagues from Batavia. The 
 hills and mountains in its vicinage are entirely barren and denuded, as 
 no verdure can vegetate .where the breeze wafts the pestilential vapours 
 that arise from the pestiferous gum of the upas. The French botanist, 
 anxious, on his return to France, to be able to lay before the empe- 
 ror a correct description of the Java tree, made, at the risk of his life, 
 a tour all round this dangerous spot, at about four leagues distance 
 from its deleterious influence ; and in every direction of his circuit, he 
 found vegetation literally annihilated, and the aspect of the country the 
 most dismal and dreary that could be imagined. Near the easiest ascent 
 of one of the hills, about sixteen miles from the station of the tree, 
 there resided then an old Malayan priest, whose office it was to pre- 
 pare for eternity the souls of those who, for different crimes, were 
 sent to procure the poison, which is a commodity that yields the native 
 government a considerable revenue. The poison is a gum, which, like 
 the camphor, issues from the bark. Malefactors under the sentence of 
 death are the only persons who are compelled to gather this deadly and 
 baneful gum. The ministers of the native sovereign provide them with 
 a tortoise-shell box, in which they are to put the pestiferous gum. 
 These devoted criminals proceed to the house of the high-priest, where 
 they remain until the wind blows in a favourable direction, so as to bear 
 the effluvia from them. As soon as the desired breeze arises, the priest 
 prepares them for their approaching fate. At the moment of departure, 
 the priest puts on them a leather cap, with two glasses before their ey^es, 
 which comes down to their breast. Thus equipped, they set out on a 
 journey to that fatal "bourn" from which but few travellers return; 
 The old ecclesiastic assured our traveller, that during a residence of thirty 
 years on this great thoroughfare of death^ he had witnessed the depart- 
 ure to the upas of more than eight hundred unhappy beings, out of 
 whom not more than thirty ever returned. Those who escaped the 
 dreadful influence of the upas described it as a middling-sized tree, 
 
120 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 decorated with branches of the most vivid verdure. It broods sullenly 
 over a rivulet, as a landmark of vegetation, in the barren vale of the 
 wilderness over which it waves its poisoned foliage. 
 
 While our traveller remained in the island of Java, he witnessed the 
 following horrid instance of the destructive power of the upas poison. 
 Id February, 1810, he was present at the execution of twelve of the 
 Javanese king's mistresses, who were convicted of being faithless to 
 him. 
 
 The fair and interesting criminals were led into the great court of the 
 palace of Soura Oharta, where a judge passed sentence of death on 
 them. After going through many religious ceremonies, the executioner 
 stripped their breasts, and- then chaining each ef the hapless delinquents 
 to a post, he proceeded to make an incision on the bosom with a lancet 
 poisoned with the upas. The operation was performed on them all in 
 the space of two minutes j and with such celerity did the poison destroy 
 the vital principle, that these unfortunate women, the victims of a 
 savagd, were all dead in less than a quarter of an hour. 
 
 " Some hours after their death," says our traveller, " their bodies 
 were full of livid spots, their faces swelled, the colour of their skin 
 changed to a kind of blue, and their eyes were completely spotted with 
 yellow hues." 
 
 We believe that medical men estimate the upas as the most deadly 
 of' all vegetable poisons. In times of war, it is the practice of the 
 Malayans to throw the upas gum into the springs and rivulets in order 
 to poison them. The other parts of the island of Java are remarkably 
 healthy ; prolific and rich in a soil that produces an abundance of the 
 finest fruits — such as the cocoa, palm, shaddock, oranges, lemons, citrons, 
 tamarinds, mangoes, pine-apples, bananas, sweet-sops, grapes, custard- 
 apples, ■ melons, pomegranates, figs, and the delicious mangosteen, es- 
 teemed the best fruit of the East. 
 
 THE TIGER'S CAVE. 
 
 AH ADVENTDEE AMONQ THE MOUNTAIHS OF QUITO. 
 
 On leaving the Indian village, we continued to wind round Chimbo- 
 razo's wide base ; but its snow-crowned head no longer shone above us 
 in clear brilliancy, for a dense fog was gathering gradually around it. 
 Our guides looked anxiously towards it, and announced their apprehen- 
 sions of a violent storm. We soon found that their fears were wel. 
 founded. The fog rapidly covered and obscured the whole of the moun- 
 taip ; the atmosphere was suffocating, and yet so humid that the steel- 
 work of our watches was covered with rust, and the watches stopped. 
 The river beside which we were travelling rushed down with still greater 
 impetuosity; and from the clefts of the rooks which lay on the left of 
 our path were suddenly precipitated small rivulets, that bore the roots' 
 >i trees and innumerable serpents along with them. These rivuleth 
 often came down so suddenly and violently, that we had great difficultv 
 
THE tiger's cave. 121 
 
 lu preserving our footing. The tliunder at length began to roll, and 
 resounded through the mountainous passes with the most terrific gran- 
 deur. Then came the vivid lightning, flash following flash — above, 
 around, beneath — everywhere a sea of fire. We sought a momentary 
 shelter in a cleft of the rocks, while one of our guides hastened for- 
 ward to seek a more secure asylum. In a short time he returned, and 
 informed us that he had discovered a spacious cavern, which would afi'ord 
 us sufficient protection from the element. We proceeded thither imme- 
 diately, and with great difficulty, and not a little danger, at last got 
 into it.^ 
 
 The noise and raging of the storm continued with so much violence, 
 that we could not hear the sound of our voices. I had placed mytelf 
 near the entrance of the cave, and could observe, through the opening, 
 which was straight and narrow, the singular scene without. The highest 
 cedar-trees were struck down, or bent like reeds ; monkeys and parrots 
 lay strewed upon the ground, killed by the falling branch^; the water 
 had collected in the path we had just passed, and hurried along it like a 
 mountain stream. From every thing I saw, I thought it extremely pro- 
 bable that we should be obliged to pass some days in this cavern. When 
 the storm, however, had somewhat abated, our guides ventured out, in 
 order to ascertain if it were possible to continue our journey. The 
 cave in which we had taken refuge was so extremely dark, that if we 
 moved a few paces from the entrance, we could not see an inch before 
 us J and we were debating as to the propriety of leaving it, even before 
 the Indians came back, when \ye suddenly heard a singular groaning or 
 growling at the farther end of the cavern, which instantly fixed all our 
 attention. Wharton and myself listened anxiously, but our daring and 
 infonsiderate young friend Lincoln, together with my huntsman, crept 
 about upon their hands and knees, and endeavoured to discover, by 
 groping, from whence the sound proceeded. They had not advanced 
 far into the cavern before we heard them utter an exclamation of sur- 
 prise ; and they returned to us, each carrying in his arms an animal 
 singularly marked, and about the size of a cat, seemingly of great 
 strength and power, and furnished with immense fangs. The eyes were 
 of a green-colour ; strong claws were upon their feet ; and a blood-red 
 tongue hung out of their mouths. Wharton had scarcely glanced at 
 them, when he exclaimed, in consternation, "Good God ! we have come 
 into the den of .a" — He was interrupted by a fearful cry of dismay 
 from our guides, who came rushing precipitately towards us, calling out, 
 " A tiger ! a tiger I" and at the same time, with extraordinary rapidity, 
 they climbed up a cedar-tree, which stood at the entrance of the cave, 
 and hid themselves among the branches. 
 
 After the first sensation of horror and surprise, which rendered me 
 motionless for a moment, had subsided, I grasped my firearms. Wharton 
 bad already regained his composure and self-possession j and he called 
 to us to assist him instantly in blocking up the mouth of the cave with 
 an immense stone, which fortunately lay near it. The sense of approach- 
 ing danger augmented our strength, for we now distinctly heard the 
 growl of the ferocious animal, and we were lost beyond redemption if It 
 L 
 
122 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 reacLed the entrance before we could get it closed. Ere this was done, 
 we could distinctly see the tiger bounding towards the spot, and stooping 
 in order to creep into his den by the narrow opening. At this fearful 
 moment our exertions were successful-, and the great stone kept the wild 
 beaipt at bay. There was a small open space, however, left between the 
 top of the entrance and the stone, through which we could see the head 
 of the animal, illuminated by its glowing eyes, which it rolled, glaring 
 with fury, upon us. Its frightful roaring, too, penetrated to the depths 
 of the cavern, and was answered by the hoarse growling of the cubs, 
 which Lincoln and Frank had now tossed from them. Our ferocious 
 enemy attempted first to remove the stone with his powerful claws, and 
 then to push it with his head from its place ; and these efforts, proving 
 abortive, served only to increase his wrath. He uttered a tremendous 
 heart-piercing howl, and his flaming eyes darted light into the darkness 
 of our retreat. 
 
 " Now is Ae time to fire at him," said Wharton, with his usual calm- 
 ness ; " aim at his eyes ; the ball will go through his brain, and we shall 
 then have a chance to get rid of him." 
 
 Frank seized his double-barrelled gun, and Lincoln his pistols ; the 
 former placed the njuzzle within a few inches of the tiger, and Lincoln 
 did the same. At Wharton's command, they both drew the triggers at 
 the same moment, but no shot followed. The tiger, who seemed aware 
 that the flash indicated an attack upon him, sprang growling from the 
 entrance, but, feeling himself unhurt, immediately turned back again, and 
 stationed himself in his former place. The powder in both pieces was 
 wet; they, therefore, proceeded to draw the useless loading, while 
 Wharton and myself hastened to seek our powder-flask. It was so ex- 
 tremely dark, that we were obliged to grope about the cave ; and, at 
 last, coming in contact with the cubs, we heard a rustling noise, as if they 
 were playing with some metal substance, which we soon discovered was 
 the canister we were looking for. Most unfortunately, however, the 
 animals had pushed off the lid with their claws, and the powder had 
 been strewed over the damp earth and rendered entirely useless. This 
 horrible discovery excited the greatest consternation. 
 
 " All is now over," said Wharton. " We have only now to choose 
 whether we shall die of hunger, together with these animals who are 
 shut up along with us, or open the entrance to the bloodthirsty monster 
 without, and so make a quicker end of the matter." 
 
 So saying, he placed himself close beside the stone, which, for the mo- 
 ment, defended us, and looked undauntedly upon the lightning eyes of 
 the tiger. Lincoln raved and swore; and Frank took a piece of strong 
 cord from his pocket and hastened to the farther end of the cave — I 
 knew not with what design. We soon, however, heard a low, stifled 
 groaning; and the tiger, who had heard it also, became more restless 
 and disturbed than ever. He went backwards and forwards before the 
 antrance of the cave, in the most wild, impetuous manner, then stood still, 
 and stretching out his neck in the direction of the forest, broke forth into 
 a deafening howl. Our two Indian guides took advantage of this oppor- 
 tunity to discharge several arrows from the tree. He was struck more 
 
THE tisek's cave. 128 
 
 thau once, but the light weapons bounded back harmless from bis thiefc 
 skin. At length, however, one of them struck him near the eje, and the 
 arrow remained sticking in the wound. He now broke anew into the 
 wildest fury, and sprang at the tree, and tore it with his claws, as if he 
 would have dragged it to the ground. But, having at length succeeded 
 in getting rid of the arrow, became more ealm, and laid himself down 
 as before in front of the cave. 
 
 Frank now returned from the lower end of the den, and a glance showed 
 us what he had been doing. In each hand, and dangling from the end 
 of a string, were the two cubs. He had strangled them ; and before 
 we were aware what he intended, he threw them through the opening to 
 the tiger. No sooner did the animal perceive them, than he gazed earn- 
 estly upon them, and began to examine them closely, turning them cau- 
 tiously from side to side. As soon as he became aware that they were 
 dead, he uttered so piercing a howl of sorrow that we were obliged to 
 put our hands to our ears. When I upbraided my huntsman for ■ the 
 cruel action he had so rashly committed, I perceived by his blunt and 
 abrupt answers that he also had lost all hope of rescue from our im- 
 pending fate, and, that, under these circumstances, the ties between 
 master and servant were dissolved. For my own part, without knowing 
 why, I could not help believing that some unexpected assistance would 
 yet rescue us from so horrible a fate. Alas ! I little anticipated the 
 sacrifice that my rescue was to cost. 
 
 The thunder had now ceased,' and the storm had sunk to a gentle 
 gale; the songs of birds were again heard in the neighbouring forest, 
 and the sunbeams sparkled in the drops that hung from the leaves. We 
 saw through the aperture that all nature was reviving after the wild war 
 of elements which had so recently taken place ; but the contrast only 
 made our situation the more horrible. We were in a grave from which 
 there was no deliverance ; and a monster, worse than the fabled Cerberus, 
 kept watch over us. The tiger had laid himself down beside his whelps. 
 He was a beautiful animal, of great size and strength, and his limbs 
 being stretched out at their full length, displayed his immense power 
 of muscle. A double row of great teeth stood far enough apart to show 
 his large red tongue, from which the white foam fell in large drops. All 
 at once, another roar was heard at a distance, and the tiger immediately 
 rose and answered it with a mournful howl. At the same instant, our 
 Indians uttered a shriek, which announced that some new danger threat- 
 ened us. A few moments confirmed our worst fears, for another tiger, 
 not quite so large as the former, came rapidly towards the spot where 
 we were. 
 
 "This enemy will prove more cruel than the other," said Wharton ; 
 " for this is the female, and she knows no pity for those who deprive 
 her of her young." 
 
 The howls which the tigress gave, when she had examined the bodies 
 of her cubs, surpassed every thing of horrible that we had yet' heard ; 
 and the tiger mingled his mournful cries with hers. Suddenly her roar- 
 ing was lowered to a hoarse growling, and we saw her anxiously stretch 
 nut her head, extend her wide and smoking nostrils, and look as if she 
 
, 24 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 \[ ero determined to discover immediately the murderers of her young, 
 lier eyes quickly fell upon us, and she made a spring forward withthe 
 intention of penetrating to our place of refuge. Perhaps she might 
 have been enabled by her immense strength to push away the stone, had 
 we not, with all our united power, held it against her. When she found 
 that all her eflForts were fruitless, she approached the tiger, who lay 
 stretched beside his cubs, and he arose and joined in her hollow roar- 
 ings. They stood together for a few moments, as if in consultation, and 
 thun suddenly went oflF at a rapid pace, and disappeared from our sight. 
 Their howling died away in the distance, and then entirely ceased. We 
 now began to entertain better hopes of our condition; but Wharton 
 shock his head. " Do not flatter yourselves," said he, " with the belief 
 that these animals will let us escape out of their sight till they have 
 had their revenge. The hours we have to live are numbered." 
 
 Nevertheless, there still appeared a chance for our rescue, for, to our 
 Burpi ise, we saw both our Indians standing before the entrance, and heard 
 them cail to us to seize the only possibility of our yet saving ourselves 
 by instant flight, for that the tigers had only gone round the height to 
 seek another inlet to the cave, with which they were no doubt acquainted. 
 In the greatest haste the stone was pushed aside, and we stepped forth 
 from what we had considered a living grave. Wharton was the last who 
 left it ; he was unwilling to lose his double-barrelled gun, and stopped 
 to take it up ; the rest of us only thought of making our escape. We 
 now heard once more the roaring of tigers, though at a distance ; and, 
 following the example of our guides, we precipitately struck into a side- 
 path. From the number of roots and branches of trees with which the 
 storm had strewed our way, and the slipperiness of the road, our flight 
 was slow and difficult. Wharton, though an active seaman, had a heavy 
 step, and had great difficulty in keeping pace with us, and we were often 
 obliged to slacken our own on his account. 
 
 We had proceeded thus for about a quarter of an hour, when we found 
 that our way led along the edge of a rocky cliff, with innumerable 
 fissures. We had just entered upon it, when, suddenly, the Indians, 
 who were before us, uttered one of their piercing shrieks, and we imme- 
 diately became aware that the tigers were in pursuit of us. Urged by 
 despair, we rushed towards one of the breaks, or gulfs, in our way, o\-er 
 which was thrown a bridge of reeds, that sprang up and down at every 
 step, and could be trodden with safety by the light foot of the Indians 
 alone. Deep in the hollow below rutshed an impetuous stream, and a 
 thousand pointed and jagged rocks threateiied destruction on every side. 
 Lincoln, my huntsman, and myself, passed over the chasm in safety; 
 but Wharton was still in the middle of the waving bridge, and endea- 
 vouring to steady himself, when both the tigers were seen to issue from 
 the adjoining forest; and. the moment they descried us, they bounded 
 towards us, with dreadful roarings. Meanwhile, Wharton had nearly 
 gained the safe side of the gulf, and we were all clambering the rocky cliff, 
 except Lincoln, who remained at the reedy bridge to assist his friend to 
 step upon firm ground. Wharton, though the ferocious animals were close 
 upon him, never lost his courage or presence of mind. As sc-^n as he 
 
THE TIGER'S CAVE. 12' 
 
 had gained the edge of the cliff, he knelt down, and, with the edge of his 
 Bword, divided the fastenings by' which the bridge was attached to the 
 rock. He expected an effectual barrier would thus be put to the farther 
 progress of our pursuers ; but he was mistaken ; for he had scarcely 
 accomplished his task, when the tigress, without a moment's pause, 
 rushed towards the chasm, and attempted to bound over. It was a fear- 
 ful sight to see the mighty animal, suspended for a moment in the air 
 above the abyss ; but the scene passed like a flash of lightning. Her 
 strength was not equal to the distance : she fell into the gulf, and before 
 she reached the bottom, she was torn into a thousand pieces by the jag- 
 ged points of the rocks. Her fate did not in the least dismay her com- 
 panion : he followed her with an immense spring, and reached the opposite 
 side, but only with his fore-claws, and thus he clung to the edge of the 
 precipice, endeavouring to gain a footing. The Indians again uttered 
 a wild shriek, as if all hope had been lost. But Wharton, who was 
 nearest to the edge of the rock, advanced courageously towards the tiger, 
 aud struck his sword into the animal's breast. Enraged beyond all 
 measure, the wild beast collected all his strength, and, with a violent 
 effort, fixing one of his hind-legs upon the edge of the cliff, he seized 
 Wharton by the thigh. The heroic man still preserved his fortitude ; 
 he grasped the trunk of a tree with his left hand, to steady and support 
 himself, while with his right he wrenched and violently turned the sword 
 that was still in the breast of the tiger. All this was the work of an 
 instant. The Indians, Frank, and myself hastened to his assistance ; 
 but Lincoln, who was already at his side, had seized Wharton's gun, 
 which lay near, upon the ground, and struck so powerful a blow with 
 the butt-end upon the head of the tiger, that the animal, stunned and 
 overpowered, let go his hold, and fell back into the abyss. All would 
 have been well, had it ended thus ; but the unfortunate Lincoln had not 
 calculated upon the force of his blow ; he staggered forward, reeled upon 
 the edge of the precipice, extended his hand to seize upon any thing 
 to save himself — but in vain. His foot slipped ; for an instant he ho- 
 vered over the gulf, and then was plunged into it to rise no more !— 
 Edinburgh lAterary Journal. 
 
 Woman's charms are certainly many and powerful. The expand- 
 ing rose, just bursting into beauty, has an irresistible bewitchingness : the 
 blooming bride, led triumphantly to the hymeneal altar, awakens admi- 
 ration and interest, and the blush of her cheek fills with delight. 
 But the charm of maternity is more sublime than all these. Heaven 
 has imprinted in the mothei^s face something beyond this world, some- 
 thing which claims kindred with the skies — the angelic smile, the tender 
 look, the waking, watchful eye, which keeps its fond vigil orer the 
 slumbering babe. 
 
FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 THE PESTILENCE. 
 
 In my mind, the urn-burial of the ancients has always been saorcdly 
 i pleasantly associated. The clean, white marble, containing the 
 rifled remains of all we have loved, is an object around which iifFeo- 
 n loves to linger ; but the damp, dark grave, with its silent, loathsome 
 rk of corruption, is a revolting subject of contemplation, even where 
 'e is stronger than death. Then there is the fear of being buried 
 fore the vital spark is extinct, and of returning to consciousness with 
 i weight of the earth upon you, and the fresh air of heaven shut oul 
 • ever ! To me this idea is so terribly distinct, that it is the spectre 
 my waking hours and the nightmare of my dreams. Death himself 
 i no horrors for me : though well content with life, and bound to it 
 the strongest ties, I think I could calmly close my eyes beneath its 
 livious touch ; but human nature shrinks at the thought of being 
 ried alive ! Perhaps the vividness of this impression is owing to the 
 nark I frequently heard from an aged relative, while I was yet a very 
 all child, that " hundreds and hundreds were buried before they were 
 id, when the yellow fever raged so terribly in Boston." That period 
 well remembered by our fathers, when pestilence walked abroad at 
 snday, and the hearth-stone was silent and dreary as the tomb. The 
 ith-carts went their continued round through every hour of the day 
 1 night, and, unshrouded and uncoffined, the newly dead were hurried 
 their last home. I knew a man who, during this time of peril, was 
 Itched from the grave merely by the persevering affection of his wife 
 the correctness of the story there is no doubt ; for I have often 
 ird it repeated by both the parties concerned. This awful visitation 
 God came upon them when they were newly married ; when exist- 
 36 was happiness, and separation worse than death. The young hus- 
 ad became a victim to that disease, which was breathing destruction 
 3r the city. The friends of his wife urged her to seek refuge in the 
 intry, and not risk her own life in a useless attempt to save his. , But 
 persuasion could induce her to leave him ; night and day she was by 
 I bedside ; and, in the anguish of her heart, she prayed that the pesti-' 
 ice might likewise rest upon her. But her prayer was not answered — 
 •ely and rapidly it did its work upon all her heart held dear ; but 
 her, death would not come, though she prayed for it, and sought it 
 th tears. She had inhaled the breath of her dying husband • but to 
 r it was harmless ; and, in the madness of despair, she repined at the 
 Tciful decrees of Heaven. 
 
 No one was with her in the house — she was alone with the dead, 
 ddenly, the silence of the deserted streets was interrupted by the rum- 
 ng of the death-carts ; and she knew they had come to take him away 
 m her sight for ever ; and with the thought, it suddenly flashed into 
 r mind, that life might still be in him ! Her entreaties excited com- 
 3sion, and she was permitted to keep the corpse one half-hour longer, 
 e imnression made upon her . mind had the strength of inspiratioa • 
 
THE PESTILENCE. 127 
 
 and though every restorative which icgenuity could devise had failed 
 10 produce effect, she would not relinquish hope. Again the carts came 
 round, aiid the solemn sound, " Bring out the d:ead," disturbed the 
 fearful stillness. Again the young wife entreated, wept, and screamed : 
 the hearth of the men, whose dreadful employment accustomed them 
 io such sc^ aes, were touched ; but they would not yield. They said, 
 " The safei f of the city, required them to be firm in the discharge of 
 their duty ; that they had already disobeyed strict orders, and they dared 
 not do it again ; that the hope of restoring him was mere insanity ; it 
 was evident he had long been dead." 
 
 When she found they would not be moved by her prayers, she threw 
 her arms around the body, and clung to it with the strength of madness ; 
 declaring, if they buried one, they should bury both. The men, after a 
 few gentle attempts to remort her, dashed the tears from their eyes, and 
 saying, " We cannot sepai-aie diem," left her another half-hour of hope. 
 The moments of that interval haii a value, of which mortals under orr 
 dinary circumstances can form uo conception. Kestorative after re- 
 storative was applied; but all in ^ain. With sickening anxiety, she 
 fastened her eyes upon the watch, and then on the stiff, cold form beside 
 her. The half-hour had nearly gone ; in five minutes, they would again 
 come to claim the dead ; and she felt that sie must resist no longer ! 
 She breathed into his nostrils — she moved her iiand upon his chest, to 
 restore the action of the lungs — but no change came over his rigid features. 
 She bathed his temples and moistened his lips wivh sal volatile — the 
 terrible rumbling of carts was heard in the distance — '.jud, in the trem- 
 bling eagerness of the moment, she spilled the contents of the phial 
 into his nostrils — a sudden convulsion passed over the face jf the dead ! 
 a short, quick gasp — and the eyes heavily opened ! 
 
 The men with the death-carts were startled by a loud, siriU shriek, 
 that sounded as if it tore asunder the soul from which it came. When 
 they entered, they found the dead living, and the living senseless. 
 
 Both husband and wife were soon after restored to health. They 
 lived to be the parents of a numerous family ; and the husband now 
 survives her, who, with the strong arm of love, thus snatched him from 
 an early grave. 
 
 General Aknoli). — During the traitor Arnold's predatory opera 
 tions in Virginia, in 1781, he took an American captain prisoner. After 
 some general conversation, he asked the captain, " What he thought the 
 Americans would do with him, if they caugjit him ?" The captain de- 
 clined at first giving him an answer ; but, upon being repeatedly urged, 
 he said, " Why, sir, if I must answer the question, you will excuse my 
 telling you the truth : if my countrymen should catch you, I believe 
 they would first cut off your lame leg, which was wounded in the cause 
 of freedom and virtue at Quebec, and bury it with the honours of war, 
 and afterwards hang the remainder of your body upon a gibbet." 
 
128 
 
 FIELDS 8 SCEAP-BOOK. 
 
 JEPHTHAH'S RASH VOW. 
 
 From the Xlth chapter of Judges. 
 
 BT ailSS HOWARD. 
 
 The battle bad ceased and the Tiotory waa won^ 
 
 The wild cry of horror was o'er; 
 Now arose in his glorj the bright-beaming snn. 
 And with him his journey thewar-ohief begnn^ 
 
 With a Bonl breathing vengeance no more. 
 
 The foes of hia conntry lay strew'd on the plain, 
 
 A tear stole its oonrse from his eje ; 
 The warrior disdain'd every semblance of pain ; 
 He thought of his child— of his country, again. 
 
 And suppress'd, while 'twas forming, a sigh. 
 
 *' Oh ! Father of light !" said the conquering chief, 
 
 " The TOW that I made, I renew ; 
 'Twas thy powerful arm gave the welcome relief, 
 When I oall'd on thy name in the fulness of grief. 
 
 When my hopes were but cheerless and few." 
 
 "An offering of love will I pay to thy name. 
 
 An offering thou wilt not deSpise ; 
 The riEST being I meet, when I welcome again 
 The land of my fathers I left not in vain. 
 
 With the flames on thine altar shall rise." 
 
 ^ow hnsh'd were his words ; through the far-spreading 
 bands, 
 
 Naught was heard, save the footfall around. 
 Till his lips in wild joy press his own native lands. 
 And to Heaven are lifted his trembling hands, 
 
 While the silence is still and profound. 
 f 
 Oh, listen! at distance what wild music sounds. 
 
 And at distance what maiden appears? 
 Gee ! forfvard she comes with a light-springing bound, 
 And casta her mild eyes in fond ecstasy round, 
 
 for a parent is seen through her tears. 
 
 Her harp's wildest strain gave a thrill of delight, 
 
 A moment — she springs to his arms ; 
 "My daughter!— O God!" Not the horror of fight, 
 While legions on legions against him unite, 
 
 Could bring on his soul such alarms. 
 
 In wild horror he starts as a fiend had appear'd ; 
 
 Ilis eyes in mute agony close; 
 His sword o'er his age-frosted visage is rear'd. 
 Which with scars from his many fought battles is 
 sear'd ; ' # 
 
 Nor his country nor daughter he knows. 
 
 But sudden conviction in quick flashes told 
 That his daughter was destined to die ! 
 
 Oh! no longer could nature the wild struggle hold; 
 
 Hia grief issued forth unconstrain'J, uncontroU'd, 
 And the tears dimm'd Us time-wither'd eye. 
 
 His daughter was weeping, and ulasping that form 
 
 She ne'er touch'd, but with t ansport, before ; 
 TTiB daughter v as watchiup tl.c thundering storm. 
 
 Whose quick flashing lightnings so madly defbrm 
 A face beaming sunshine before. 
 
 But how did that daughter, so gentle and fair, 
 Hear the sentence that doom'd her to die 7 
 
 For a moment her eye gave a heart-moving glare. 
 For a moment her bosou heaved high! 
 
 It was BUT a moment — the frenzy was past, 
 
 She SMILINGLY rush'd to his arms ; 
 And, there, as a flower, when chill'd by the blast, 
 Reclines on the oak, till its fury be pasc. 
 
 On his bosom ahe hush'd lier alarms. 
 
 Not an eye saw the scene but was moisten'd with wo, 
 
 Not a voice could a aontence command; 
 Down the soldier's rough cheek teara of agony flow. 
 While the aobs of the maiden boaved mournful and 
 slow: 
 Sad pity wept over"the land. 
 
 But fled was the hope in the maiden's sad breaat ; 
 
 From her fond father's bosom she rose — 
 Mild virtue appear'd in her manner confeat. 
 She look'd like a saint from the realms of the blest. 
 
 Not a mortal encircled with woos. 
 
 She turn'd from the group — and can I declare 
 
 The hope and the fortitude given ? 
 As she sank on her knees, with a sonl-breathing 
 
 prayer. 
 That her father might flourish, of virtue the care. 
 
 Tin with glory he'd flourish in heaven. 
 
 " Oh ! comfort him. Heaven, when low in the dust 
 
 My limbs are inactively laid ; 
 Oh' comfort him. Heaven, and let him then trust 
 That, free and immortal, the souls of the just 
 
 Are in glory and beauty array'd." 
 
 The maiden arose — and can I portray 
 
 The devotion that glow'd in her eye ? 
 Religion's sweet self in its light seem'd to stray 
 With the mildness of night, with the glory of day. 
 
 But 'twas pity that prompted her sigh. 
 
 "My father!"— the chief raised his dim, weeping eye, 
 
 With a look of unspeakable wo— 
 "My father!" her voice seem'd convulsed with a sigh, 
 But the tears, 'as they gush'd from her grief-swollen 
 eye. 
 
 Told more than her words could bestow. 
 
 The weakness was past— and the maiden could say, 
 
 " My father ! for thee I can die !" 
 The bands slowly moved on their sorrowful wav, 
 But never again from that heart-breaking day 
 Was a tear known to force its enlivening ray 
 
 On the old chieftain's grief-speaking eye. 
 
ATTEMPT TO TAKE AfiNOLD. l29 
 
 ATTEMPT TO TAKE AENOLD. 
 
 G-ENEEAL Washington, having learnecivhither Arnold had fled, deem- 
 od it possible still to take him, and bring him to the just reward of his 
 treachery. To accomplish an object so desirable, and at the same time, 
 in so doing, to save Andre, Washington devised a plan, which, although 
 it ultimately failed, evinced the greatness of his powers, and his unwea- 
 ried ardour for his country's good. 
 
 Having matured the plan, Washington ■ sent for Major Lee to repair 
 to head-quarters, (at Tappan, on the Hudson.) " I have sent for you," 
 said General Washington, " in the expectation that you have some one in 
 your corps who is willing to undertake a delicate and hazardous project. 
 Whoever comes forward will confer great obligations on me personally, 
 and, in behalf of the United States, I will reward him amply. No time 
 is to be lost ; he must proceed, if possible, to-night. I intend to seize 
 Arnold and save Andre." 
 
 Major Lee named a sergeant-major of his corps, by the name of 
 Champe, a native of Virginia ; a man full of bone and muscle ; with a 
 countenance grave, thoughtful, and taciturn j of tried courage and inflexi- 
 ble perseverance. 
 
 Champe was sent for by Lee, and the plan proposed. This was for 
 him to desert — to escape to New York — to appear friendly to the ene- 
 my — to watch Arnold, and, upon some fit opportunity, with the assistance 
 of some one whom Champe could trust, to seize him, and conduct him to ■ 
 an appointed place on the river, where boats should be in readiness to • 
 bear them away. 
 
 Champe listened to the plan attentively — but, with the spirit of a man . 
 of honour and integrity, replied, " that it was not danger nor difiiculty 
 that deterred him from immediately accepting the proposal, but the • 
 iynominy of desertion, and the Tiypocrisy of enlisting with the enemy !". 
 
 To these objections, Lee replied that, although he would appear to 
 desert, yet, as he obeyed the call of his commaoder-in-chief, his depar- 
 ture could not be considered as criminal, and that, if he suffered in 
 reputation for a while, the matter should one day be explained to his 
 credit. 
 
 As to the second objection, it was urged, that to bring such a man as 
 Arnold to justice — loaded with guilt as he was — and to save Andre — so 
 young — so accomplished — so beloved — to achieve so much good in the 
 cause of his country — was more than sufficient to balance a wrong exist- 
 ing only in appearance. 
 
 The objections of Champe were at length surmounted, and he accepted i 
 the service. It was now eleven o'clock at night. With his instructions 
 in his pocket, the sergeant returned to camp, and, taking his cloak, valise, . 
 and orderly-book, drew his horse from the picket^.and mounted, putting , 
 himself upon fortune. 
 
 Scarcely had half an hour elapsed before Captain Games, the officer of. 
 the day, waited upon Lee, who was vainly^ attempting to rest, and iu- 
 
J 30 FIELDS'S SCRAP-EOOK. 
 
 formed him that one of the patrol had fallen in with a dragoon, who, 
 being challenged, put spurs to his horse, and had escaped. 
 
 Lee, hoping to conceal the flight of Champe, or at least to delay pur- 
 suit, complained of fatigue, and told the captain that the patrol had 
 probably mistaken a countrynTan for a dragoon. Carnes, however, was 
 not thus to be quieted ; but withdrew to assemble his corps. 
 
 On examination, it was found that Champe was absent. The captain 
 now returned and acquainted Lee with the discovery, adding that he had 
 detached a party to pursue the deserter, and begged the major's written 
 orders. 
 
 After making as much delay as was practicable without exciting sus- 
 picion, Lee delivered his orders — in which he directed the party to take 
 Champe if possible. " Bring him alive," said he, " that he may suffer 
 in the presence of the army; but kill him, if he resists, or if he escapes 
 after being taken." 
 
 A shower of rain fell soon after Champe's departure, which enabled 
 the pursuing dragoons .to take the trail of his horse — his shoes, in com- 
 mon with those of the horses of the army, being made in a peculiar 
 form, and each having a private mark, which was to be seen in the 
 path. 
 
 Middleton, the leader of the pursuing party, left the camp a few 
 minutes past twelve, so that Champe had the start of him but little 
 more than an hour — a period by far shorter than had been contem- 
 plated. 
 
 During the night, the dragoons were often delayed in the necessary 
 halts to examine the road; but on the coming of morning, the impres- 
 sion of the horse's shoes was so apparent, that they pressed on with 
 rapidity. 
 
 Some miles above Bergen, (a village three miles north of New York, 
 on the opposite side of the Hudson,) on ascending a hill, Champe was 
 descried, not half a mile distant. Fortunately, Champe descried his pur- 
 suers at the same moment, and, conjecturing their object, put spurs to 
 his horse, with the hope of escape. 
 
 By taking a different Boad, Champe was for a time lost sight of; but, 
 on approaching the river, he was again descried. Aware of his danger, 
 he^ now lashed his valise, containing his clothes and orderly-book, to 
 his shoulders, and prepared himself to plunge into the river, if ne- 
 cessary. 
 
 Swift was his flight and swift was the pursuit. Middleton and his 
 party were within a few hundred yards, when Champe threw himself 
 from- his horse, and, plunging into the river, called aloud upon some 
 British galleys, at no great distance, for help. 
 
 A boat was instantly despatched to the sergeant's assistance, and a 
 fire commenced upon the pursuers. Champe was taken on board, and 
 soon after carried to New York, with a letter from the captain of the 
 galley, stating the past scene, all of which he had witnessed. 
 
 Adjoining the house in which Arnold resided, and where it was de- 
 signed. *o seize and, -gag him, Champe had taken off several of the 
 palings, ' and replaced them, so that with ease, and without noise, he 
 
ATTEMVl XO TAKE ARNOLD. 131 
 
 cuuld readily open his way to the adjoining alley. Into this alley he 
 intended to convey his prisoner, aided by his companion, one of two 
 associates who had been introduced by the friend to whom Champe had 
 been originally made known by letter from the commander-in-chief, and 
 with whose aid and counsel he had so far conducted the enterprise. 
 His other associate was, with the boat, prepared at one of the wharves 
 on the Hudson river, to receive the party. 
 
 Champe and his friend intended to have placed themselves each under 
 Arnold's shoulder, and to have thus borne him through the most unfre- 
 quented alleys and streets to the boat, representing Arnold, in case 
 of being questioned, as a drunken soldier, whom they were conveying to 
 the guard-house. 
 
 When arrived at the, boat, the difficulties would be surmounted, 
 there being no danger or obstacle in passing to the Jersey shore. These 
 particulars, as soon as made known to Lee, were communicated to the 
 commander-in-chief, who was highly gratified with the much-desired 
 information. He desired Major Lee to meet Champe, and to take care 
 that Arnold should not be hurt. 
 • The day arrived, and Lee, with a party of accoutred horses, — one for 
 Arnold, one for the sergeant, and the third for his associate, who was to 
 assist in securing Arnold, — left the camp, never doubting of the success 
 of the enterprise, from the tenor of the last received communication. 
 The party reached Hoboken about midnight, where they lay concealed 
 in the adjoining wood — Lee, with three dragoons, stationing himself near 
 the shore of the river. Hour after hour passed, but no boat approached. 
 
 At length the day broke, and the major retired to his party, and with 
 his led horses, returned to the camp, where he proceeded to head-quarters, 
 to inform the general of the much-lamented disappointment, as morti- 
 fying as Miexplicable. Washington, having perused Champe's plan and 
 communication, had indulged the presumption that at last the object of 
 his keen and constant pursuit was sure of execution, and did not dis- 
 semble the joy such a conviction produced. He was chagrined at the 
 issue, and apprehended that his faithful sergeant must have been detected 
 in the last scene of his tedious and difficult enterprise. 
 
 In a few days, Lee received an anonymous letter from Champe's patron 
 and friend, informing him, that on the day preceding the night fixed for 
 the execution of their plot, Arnold had removed his quarters to another 
 part of the town, to superintend the embarkation of troops, preparing, 
 as was rumoured, for an expedition to be directed by himself; and that 
 the American legion, consisting chiefly of American deserters, had been 
 removed from their barracks to one of the transports, it being appre- 
 hended that, if left on shore until the expedition was ready, many of 
 them might desert. 
 
 Thus it happened that John Champe, instead of crossing thg Hudson 
 that night, was safely deposited on board one of the fleets of trans- 
 ports, from whence he never departed, until the troops under Arnold 
 landed in Virginia. Nor was he able to escape from the British army 
 until after the junction of Cornwallis at Petersburg, when he deserted , 
 ard proceeding high up into Virginia, he passed into North Ca»'oiiua, 
 
132 FIBLBS's SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 near the faury towns, and keeping in the friendlj districts of that State, 
 safely joined the army soon after it had passed the Congaree, in pursuit 
 of Lord Bawdon. 
 
 His appearance excited extreme surprise among his former comrades, 
 which was not a little increased, when they aaw the cordial reception ho 
 met with from the late major, now Lieutenant Colonel Lee. His whole 
 story was soon known to the corps, which reproduced the love and re- 
 spect of both officers and soldiers, (heretofore invariably entertained 
 for the sergeant,) heightened by universal admiration of his late daring 
 and arduous attempt. 
 
 Champe was introduced to General Greene, who very cheerfully com- 
 plied with the promise made by the commander-in-chief, so far as in his 
 power ; and, having provided the sergeant with a good horse and money 
 for his journey, sent him to General Washington, who munificently 
 anticipated every desire of the sergeant, and presented him with a dis- 
 charge from further service, lest he might, in the vicissitudes of war, fall 
 into the hands of the enemy, when, if recognised, he was sure to die on 
 the gibbet. 
 
 We shall only add, respecting the after-life of this interesting adven- 
 turer, that when General Washington was called by President Adams, in 
 1798, to the command of the army prepared to defend the country 
 against French hostility, he sent to Lieutenant Colonel Lee, to inquire 
 for Champe ; being determined to bring him into the field at the head 
 of a company of infantry. Lee sent to Loudon county, Virginia, where 
 Champe settled after his discharge from the army, when he learned that 
 the gallant soldier had removed to Kentucky, where he soon after died. 
 
 THE EOSE. 
 
 This beautiful shrub is found in almost every country ; and in almost 
 every country, its beauty and fragrance have made it the ornament of 
 the garden, and an object of admiration. Nature, as if delighted with 
 this exquisite production of her hand, has multiplied its species and va- 
 rieties to an almost unlimited extent ; and the poet has sung its praises 
 in all nations and in all ages. It has been wedded to the nightingale, 
 and its fragrance and beauty have been the theme of every tongue. In 
 Shiraz and Cashmere the rose is peculiarly odoriferous, and yields the 
 most fragrant attar, or essential oil. 
 
 Who has not heard of the vale of Cashmere, 
 With its roses, the brightest that earth ever gare ? 
 
 MOOKE. 
 
 Rhodes is said to owe its name to the immense quantity of roses 
 which it .produces. In the East, this flower is particularly esteemed. 
 The Guebers believe that when Abraham was thrown into the fire, by 
 order of Nimrod, the flame turned into a bed of roses. The Turks con- 
 ceive that it sprang from the perspiration of Mohammed, and they cause 
 a rose to be sculptured on the monument of all ladies that die unmarried. 
 The mythological writers say that Apollo caused Rhodante, Queen of 
 
THE ROSE. 133 
 
 Cormtjb, in consequence of her extreme beauty, to be changed into a 
 rose. The first rose is said to have been given by the god of love to 
 Harpocrates, the god of silence, to engage him to conceal the amours 
 of his mother Venus, and hence it was made the symbol of silence. A 
 rose was always placed above the heads of the guests in the banqueting 
 rooms, to banish restraint, and to denote that nothing said there should 
 be repeated elsewhere ; and thus originated the saying sub rosa, under 
 the rose, when a secret was to be kept. The perfume of this flower is 
 thus accounted for by the fabulous authors : Love, at a feast of Olympus, 
 in the midst of a lively dance, overset, with a stroke of his wing, a goblet 
 of nectar, which, falling on the rose, enbalmed it with the delicious 
 fragrance it still retains. And Catullus thus accounts for the colour of 
 this flower, it having been originally white : 
 
 While the enamour'd queen of joy 
 Flies to protect her lovely boy, 
 
 On whom the jealous war-god rushes, 
 She treads upon a thorned rose, 
 And, while the wound with crimson flows, 
 
 The snowy floweret feels her blood, and blushes. 
 
 The petals of the rose are the only part of the flower that imparts the 
 odorous matter to watery both by distillation and infusion. The attar, 
 or essential oil, is obtained from various species of the rose. The odour, 
 though generally agreeable, has in some instances produced faintings, 
 hysterical afiections, inflammations of the eyes, &c. Orfila mentions an 
 instance of a celebrated painter, who could not remain in any room 
 where there were roses, without being in a short time attacked with vio- 
 lent cephalalgia, succeeded by fainting. Dr. Priestley thinks these efiects 
 are owing to the carbonic "acid gas which these flowers exhale. We will 
 conclude this article with an account of the process employed in Asia 
 in making essential oil or attar of roses. Forty pounds of roses, with 
 their ealixes, are put into a still, with sixty pounds of water ; the mass, 
 being well mixed in the still, is placed over a gentle fire, and when 
 fumes begin to rise, the cap and pipe are properly fixed and hated. 
 When the impregnated water begins to come over, the fire is lessened by 
 gentle degrees, and the distillation continued, until thirty pounds of 
 water have come over. This water is to be poured upon forty pounds 
 of fresh roses, and thence are to be drawn from fifteen to twenty pounds 
 of distilled water. It is then poured into earthenware pans or tinned 
 metal, and left exposed to the fresh air for the night : the attar oil will 
 be found in the morning congealed and swimming on the surface of the 
 water. 
 
 A Feenchman, meeting an English soldier with a Waterloo medal, 
 began sneeringly to animadvert on the British government for bestowing 
 such a trifle, which did not cost them three francs. " That is true, ^o 
 be sure," replied the hero, " it did not cost the English government 
 Ihree francs, but it cost the French a Ifapoleon." 
 M 
 
131 FIELDS'S S( RAP-BOOK. 
 
 THE HUNGAKIAN HOKSE-DEALEB. 
 
 On the third night after his departure from Vienna, he stopped at a 
 quiet inn, situated in the suburbs of a small town. He had never been 
 there before, but the house was comfortable, and the appearance of the 
 people a))Out it respectable. Having first attended to his tired horse, he 
 sat down to supper with his host and family. During the meal, he was 
 asked whence he came, and when he said from Vienna, all present were 
 anxious to know the news. The dealer told them all he knew. The 
 host then inquired what business had carried him to Vienna. He told 
 them he bad been there to sell some of the best horses that were ever 
 taken to that market. When he heard this, the host cast a glance at 
 one of the men of the family, who seemed to be his son, which the dealer 
 scarcely observed then, but which he had reason to recall afterwards. 
 When supper was finished, the fatigued traveller requested to be shown 
 to his bed. The host himself took up a light, and conducted him across 
 a little yard at the back of the house to a detached building, which 
 contained two rooms, tolerably decent for an Hungarian hotel. In the 
 inner of these rooms was a bed, and here the host left him to himself. 
 As the dealer threw off his jacket and loosened the girdle around his 
 waist, where his money was deposited, he thought he might as well see 
 whether it was all safe. Accordingly, he drew out an old leathern purse, 
 that contained his gold, and then a tattered parchment pocket-book, that 
 enveloped the Austrian bank notes, and finding that both were quite 
 right, he laid them under the bolster, extinguished the light, and threw 
 himself on the bed, thanking God and the saints, that had carried him 
 thus far homeward in safety. He had no misgivings as to the character 
 of the people he had fallen among to hinder his repose, and the poor 
 dealer was very soon enjoying a profound and happy sleep. 
 
 He might have been in this state of beatitude an hour or two, when 
 he was disturbed by a noise like that of an opting window, and by a 
 sudden rush of cool night air; on raising himself on the bed, he saw, 
 peering through an open window — which was almost immediately above 
 the bed — the head and shoulders of a man who was evidently attempting 
 to make his ingress into the room that way. As the terrified dealer 
 looked, the intruding figure was withdrawn, and he heard a rumbling 
 noise, and then the voices of several men, as he thought, close under 
 the window. The most dreadful apprehensions, the more horrible as 
 they were so sudden, now agitated the traveller, who, scarcely knowing 
 what he did, but utterly despairing of preserving his life, threw himself 
 under the bisd. He had scarcely done so, when the hard breathing of a 
 man was heard at the open wiifdow, and the next moment a robust 
 fellow dropped into the room, and, after staggering across it, groped his 
 way by the walls to the bed. Fear had almost deprived the horse-dealer 
 of his senses, but yet he perceived that the intruder, whoever he mi^ht 
 be, was drunk. There was, however, slight comfort in this, for he might 
 only have swallowed wine to make him the more desperate, and tho 
 
THE HUNGARIAN HORSE-BBALER 135 
 
 ^^aTelle^ was convinced he had heard the voices of other men without, 
 who might climb into the room to assist their brother villain, in case an}- 
 resistance should be made. His .astonishment, however, was great and 
 reviving, when he heard the fellow throw off his jacket on the floor, and 
 then toss himself upon the bed under which he lay. 
 
 Terror, however, had taken too firm a hold of the traveller to be 
 shaken off at once, — his ideas were too confuseiT to permit his imagining 
 any other motive for such a midnight intrusion on an unarmed man wuj 
 property about him, save that of robbery and assassination, and he lay 
 quiet where he was, until he heard the fellow above him snoring with all 
 the sonorousness of a drunkard. Then, indeed, he would have left his 
 hiding-place, and gone to rouse the people in the inn, to get another 
 resting-place instead of the bed of which he had been dispossessed in so 
 singular a manner; but, just as he came to this resolution, he heard the 
 door of the outer room open — then stealthy steps across it. — then the 
 door of the .very room he was in was softly opened, and two men, one 
 of whom was the host and the other his son, appeared onits threshold. 
 
 "Leave the light where it is," whispered the host, " or it may disturb 
 him, and give us trouble." 
 
 " There is no fear of that,'' said the younger man, also in a whisper ; 
 "we are two to one ; he has nothing but a little knife about him — he is 
 dead asleep, too ! hear how he snores I" 
 
 " Do my bidding," said the old man sternly. " Would you have him 
 wake, and rouse the neighbourhood with his screams ?" 
 
 As it was, the horror-stricken dealer under the bed could scarcely sup- 
 press a shriek, but he saw that the son left the light in the outer room, 
 and then, pulling the door partially after them, to screen the rays of 
 the lamp from the bed, he saw the two murderers glide to the bedside, 
 and then heard a rustling motion, as of arms descending on the bed- 
 clothes, and a hissing, and then a grating sound, that turned his soul 
 sick, for he knew it came from knives or daggers penetrating to the 
 he^rt or vitals of a human being like himself, and only a few inches 
 above his own body. This was followed by one sudden and violent start 
 on the bed, accompanied by a moan. Then the bed, which was a low 
 one, was bent by an increase of weight caused by one or both the mur- 
 derers throwing themselves upon it, until it pressed on the body of the 
 traveller. 
 
 There was an awful silence for a moment or two, and then the host 
 said, " He is finished — I have cut him across the throat — take the money, 
 I saw him put it under his bolster." 
 
 " I have it, here it is," said the son ; " a purse and a pocket-book." 
 
 The traveller was then relieved from the weight that had oppressed 
 him almost to suffocation ; and the assassins, who seemed to tremble as 
 they went, ran out of the room, took up the light, and disappeared alto- 
 gether from the apartment. No sooner were they fairly gone, than tho 
 poor dealer crawled from under the bed, took one desperate leap, and 
 escaped through the little window by which he had seen enter the un- 
 fortunate wretch who had evidently been murdered in his stead. Ho 
 ran with all his speed into the town, where he told his horrid story and 
 
136 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 miraculous escape to th'e night-watch. The night-watch conducted hira 
 to the burgomaster, who was soon aroused from his sleep and acquainted 
 with all that had happened. 
 
 [n less than half an hour from the time of his escape from it, th» 
 horse-dealer was again at the murderous inn with the magistrate, and a 
 strong force of the horror-stricken inhabitants and the night-watch, who 
 had run thither in the 'greatest silence. In the house, all seemed as still 
 as death ; but, as the party went round to the stables, they heard a noise. 
 Cautioning the rest to surround the inn and the outhouses, the magis- 
 trate, with the traveller and some half dozen armed men, ran to the 
 stable-door; this they opened, and found within the host and his son 
 digging a grave. The first figure that met the eyes of the murderers 
 was that of the traveller. The effect of this on their guilty souls was 
 too much to be borne ; they shrieked, and threw themselves on the 
 ground, and though they were immediately seized by hard griping hands 
 of real flesh and blood, and heard the voices of the magisft-ate and their 
 friends and neighbours, denouncing them as murderers, it was some 
 minutes ere they could believe that the figure of the traveller that stood 
 among them was other than a. spirit. It was the hardier villain, the 
 father, who, on hearing the stranger's voice continuing in conversation 
 with the magistrate, first gained sufficient command over himself to 
 raise his face from the earth ; he saw the stranger still pale and haggard, 
 but evidently unhurt. 
 
 The murderer's head spun round confusedly-; but, at length rising, he 
 said to those who held him, "Let me see that stranger nearer; let me 
 touch him — only let me touch him !" The poor horse-dealer drew back 
 in horror and disgust. " You may satisfy him in this," said the magis- 
 trate ; " he is unarmed and unnerved, and we are here to prevent his 
 doing you harm." On this, the traveller let the host approach him, and 
 pass his hand over his person, which, when he had done, the villain 
 exclaimed, " I am no murderer ! Who says I am a murderer ?" " That 
 shall we see anon," said the traveller, who led the way to the detacljed 
 apartment, followed by the magistrate, by the two prisoners, and all the 
 part^ which had collected in the stable on hearing what passed there. 
 Both father and son walked with considerable confidence into the room, 
 but when they saw, by the lamps the night-watch and others held over ' 
 it, that there was a body, covered with blood, lying upon the bed, they 
 cried out, " How is this ! who is this !" and rushed together to the bed- 
 side. 
 
 The lights were lowered ; their rays fell upon the ghastly face and 
 bleeding throat of a young man. At the sight, the younger of the mur- 
 derers turned his bead, and swooned in silence ; but the father, uttering 
 a shriek so loud, so awful, that one of the eternally damned alone might 
 equal its effect, threw himself on the bed, on the gashed and bloody 
 body, and, murmuring in his throat, " My son ! I have killed my own 
 son !" also found a temporary relief frt)m the horrors of his situation in 
 insensibility. The. next minute, the wretched hostess, who was innocent 
 of all that had passed, and who was, without knowing it, the wife nf a 
 murderer, the mother of a murderer, and the mother of a murdered son — 
 
THE HUNGARIAN HORSE-DEALER. 137 
 
 of a son killed by a brother and a father — ran to thu apartment, and 
 would have increased tenfold its already insupportable horrors, by enter- 
 ing there, had she not been prevented by the honest townspeople. She 
 had been roused from sleep by the noise made in the stable, and then 
 by her husband's shriek, and was now herself, shrieking and frantic, car- 
 ried back into the inn by main force. 
 
 The two murderers were forthwith bound and carried to the town jail, 
 where, on the examination, which was made the next morning, it 
 appeared from evidence that the person murdered was the youngest son 
 of the landlord of the inn, and a person never suspected of any crime 
 more serious than habitual drunkenness ; that, instead of being in bed as 
 his father and brother had believed him, he had stolen out of the house, 
 and joined a party of carousers in the town ; of these boon companions^ 
 all appeared in evidence, and two of them deposed that the deceased > 
 being exceedingly intoxicated, and dreading his father's wrath, should 
 he rouse the house in such a state, and at that late hour, had said to 
 them that he would get through the window into the little detached 
 apartment, and sleep there, as he had often done before, and that they 
 two had accompanied him, and assisted him to climb to the window. 
 The deceased had reached the window once, and, as they thought, would 
 have got safe through it, but, drunk and unsteady as he was, he slipped 
 back ; they had then some difficulty in inducing him to climb again, for, 
 in the caprice of intoxication, he said he would rather go sleep with one 
 of his comrades. However, he had at last effected his entrance, and 
 they, his two comrades, had gone to their respective homes. The • 
 wretched criminals were executed a few weeks after the commission of 
 the crime. They had confessed every thing, and restored to the horse- 
 dealer the gold and the paper-money they had concealed, and which had 
 led them to do a deed so much more atrocious than even they had con- 
 templated. — The Lives and Exploits of Banditti and Robbers. 
 
 ELEGANT EXTKACT. 
 
 Give me to know that the doctrine of Jesus is bread from heaven, and 
 that it sustains the spirit and prepares it for heaven, and I well may be 
 indifferent whether that bread descended, like the manna in the desert, 
 in nightly dew, or whether, like the food of Elijah, it was brought to 
 my eager hands by the ravens, or whether it was broken for myself and 
 the hungry thousands around me, by the hand endued with miraculous 
 power. So long as I know that it was sent to me by the Father of my 
 spirit, and that, eating it, I shall live for ever, I know that can give it 
 ■'alue, and awaken my gratitude. When some friendly hand presses a 
 cup of cold water to my lips, as I am fainting with thirst in a thirsty 
 land, I will not ask, for I do not care, whether that water was showered 
 from the skies or gushed from a spring. I ask not whether it was brought 
 me in a golden urn, or whether it was presented in a crystal vase or a 
 poljier's helmet. It is water that bids me live, and that h enough for 
 me. 
 
 h2 
 
yS FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 TELESCOPE— MICKOSCOPE— THE INSECT WORLD. 
 
 While the telescope enables us to see a system in every star, tt. 
 microscope unfolds to us a world in every atom. The one tells us thai 
 this great globe on which we live, with its nine hundred millions of 
 people, its various countries, is but a grain of sand in the vast field of 
 immensity; the other tells us that every atom may harbour the tribes 
 and families of a busy population. The one shows us the insignificance 
 of the world we inhabit ; the other redeems it from all insignificance ; 
 for it tells us that in the leaves of every forest, in the flowers of every 
 garden, in the waters of every rivulet, there are worlds teeming with 
 life, and as numberless as the stars in the firmament. The one tells us, 
 that above and beyond all that is visible to man, there may be regions 
 of creation which sweep along in the bounds of space, and carry the 
 impress of the Almighty's hand to the remotest and never-ending scenes 
 of the universe ; the other, that within and beneath all that wonderful 
 minuteness which the eye of man, sided by the microscope, can discover, 
 there may still be a world of invisible beings ; and that could we draw 
 aside the mysterious veil which shrouds it from our senses, we might 
 behold a theatre of as many wonders as astronomy can unfold — a whole 
 universe within the compass of a point so small as to elude observation, 
 even with the aid of a microscope, but yet large enough for the Almighty 
 Ruler of all things to find room for the exercise of his wonderful at- 
 tributes; where he can raise another mechanism of worlds, and animate 
 them with his handiwork, and for his glory. 
 
 A mere glance at the insect world, or so much of it as we can behold, 
 is calculated to fill the mind with astonishment at the wonderful multi- 
 plicity of animal life. In that very large portion of the globe covered 
 by the waters of the Pacific Ocean, are to be found coral islands twelve 
 hundred miles wide. Some of them dip down into the ocean more than 
 seven thousand feet. These immense formations are the result of the 
 labour of an animal so small that they may be compared to the finest 
 threads. They consist of an oval hollow body, without a head. They 
 have stomachs with but one opening, which is armed with feelers ar- 
 ranged around a sort of a mouth. These feelers move about in search 
 of food, which consists of smaller animals which come within their 
 reach. The coral is composed of a secretion of calcareous matter, 
 something like the nails or bones in man. The microscope shows us 
 how it seizes and swallows its prey. If an animalcula passes by, it 
 throws its feelers, tentacula, or arms, around it, and brings it to the 
 mouth. The coral ceases to grow when the animal is not reached by the 
 washing of the sea. In such cases, the rocky skeleton remains, and is 
 continually catching, as they float on the waves, fragments of wood, 
 leaves, and sand. Presently a decomposition of these matters take 
 pla«e, and a soil is produced. Now, from a few stray seeds begin to 
 aprout trees and shrubbery ; in a little while they begin to grow up, and 
 a beautiful island for the habitation of man is produced by the dead 
 
THE EXILE OF SCIO. 139 
 
 jodius of chesc insects of such minute dimensions. What was forifiAy 
 tt sterile lime-rock, once the abode of myriads of these little animals, 
 becomes the home of man. 
 
 The smallest animals yet exhibited by the microscope are the monads. 
 They are generally from the one-twelve hundredth to the one twenty- 
 four thousandth part of an inch in diameter. They have a mouth and 
 a digestive apparatus. A silicious covering of a species of these animals 
 compose the rock known as Tripoli, and the rock on which Richmond 
 in Virginia is built. In Norway, this kind of rock is known as moun- 
 tain meal, and is used as food by some of' the inhabitants. It requires 
 millions of millions of these little creatures to fill the space of a single 
 cubic inch, and yet, by furnishing them witfc a species of coloring matter 
 for food, men have been able to investigate the process of digestion, and 
 arrive at facts relating to their general formation. What innumerable 
 mysteries there are in matter, as well as in mind ! 
 
 THE EXILE OF SCIO. 
 
 The following is one of those splendid productions which occasionally 
 enrich, the pages of the London New Monthly Magazine, conducted by 
 the distinguished T. Campbell. The article is one of a series of letters, 
 written from the Levant, by a gentleman of intelligence and learning, 
 who has spent some time in surveying the ruins of Greece and its ill- 
 fated islands. The slaughter at Scio will long be remembered as a scene 
 of almost unexampled barbarity and cruelty ; and the present instance 
 of fortitude in a young lady, who could summon up philosophy suffi- 
 cient to smear herself with the oozing blood of a lifeless mother, and 
 feign death, while the savage Turk approached, twisted her delicate hand, 
 and sliced the flesh from her finger, is but one of a thousand, which 
 characterize the Grecian heart of steel. — Ulster Repuh. 
 
 The sun was slowly sinking behind the range of Hymettus and the 
 bills of Attica, as we weighed anchor from Cape Collona, and steered 
 for the narrow strait between Zea and Cythnos. The morning we had 
 passed in wandering through the groves of laurel and mastic, which 
 cover the promontory of Sunium, and in lingering among the fast-de- 
 caying ruins of the temple of Minerva. 
 
 The town and temple of Sunium were built during the brightest days 
 of Greece — the age of Pericles ; of the one not a vestige is left, and all 
 that remains of the other are a few shattered columns supporting a frieza 
 which fronts the " island-gemmed .^gean." 
 
 I had seen nearly all the temples now remaining in Greece ; but none, 
 not even Athens itself, is calculated to produce such vivid emotions as 
 ♦hat of Sunium. The greater number of them are seated in frequented 
 ..pots and surrounded by the bustle of the crowd. Sunium stands alone j 
 ite heavy columns look but on the blue hills of Attica or the azure 
 billows of the j3Egean ; all is solitude around it, save the whirl of thii 
 seabird round its summit, or the waving of the olive-groves at its base ; 
 
140 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 and the only sound that awakes its silence is the sigh of the summer 
 wind, or the murmur of the waves that roll into the time-worn eaves 
 beneath it. 
 
 The succeeding day was calm, and we lay almost motionless in the 
 narrow strait which separates the islands of Zea and Cythnos. The 
 former contains now no object of attraction amidst its sunburnt hills 
 and barren valleys, except the snowy walls of its villages, and the 
 vestiges of a temple once dedicated to Minerva, and built, as our pilot 
 said, by Nestor, on his return from Troy. Cythnos is a hilly, fertile 
 mound, rising gently from the sea, and remarkable for nothing but warm 
 springs, from which it takes the modern name of Thermia. We passed 
 the strait, borne slowly along by the current, and, about midday, lay 
 totally becalmed in a^ little bay formed by the islands we had left, and 
 those of G-yarus and Syra. 
 
 There is no spot, not even the very sea, of Greece, that wants its pe- 
 culiar attractions ; every valley has its ruin, every hill its history, and 
 every wave is associated with the naval enterprises and martial spirit of 
 the mighty dead. Even those spots unmarked by earlier memorials of 
 the fame of Greece, are rendered interesting by the after-recollection of 
 her fall. Age has succeeded age but to leave the impress of its events 
 on the shore where true greatness first burst to light. The same soil 
 once trod by the bard and the warrior was again pressed by the feet of 
 those who bore over the earth the pure precepts of the gospel and of 
 Christianity ; and where even these have left no traces of their path, 
 the immortalizing hand of Liberty is now raising on every hill a trophy 
 and inscribing on every rock a triumph. 
 
 In the evening, as there was still no appearance of wind, a few of the 
 officers landed at Syra, within a very short distance of which we were 
 floating on an almost breathless sea. 
 
 The following day a strong head-wind detained us till evening; beat- 
 ing through the Strait of Scio, and alternately tacking from its wooded 
 coast to Chesme and Asia Blinor. This beautiful arm of the sea, once 
 .celebrated as the scene of the defeat of Antioohus, has in later days been 
 rendered doubly interesting by the struggles of Greece. It was at Chesme 
 that, in 1770, the Russian Admiral Orlow destroyed the Ottoman fleet; 
 and it was in this same strait that, in 1822, the modern Themistocles 
 .;onsigned to destruction the author of the Sciote massacre. The view on 
 either side was splendidly beautiful ; but, on both, the associations of me- 
 mory cast a feeling of disgust on every object ; we could not look on the 
 verdant hills of Scio without a shuddering recollection of the slaughter 
 that had so lately stained them, while the opposite and equally beautiful 
 coast was alike detestable as the home of its perpetrators. But while 
 to us the scene was any thing but a pleasing one, there was one indi- 
 vidual on board our vessel to whom the sight of this devoted island 
 served to summon up the most heart-rending reflections. This was a 
 young Greek lady, of twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, a native 
 of the island, a witness oi its massacre, and a destitute exile in conse- 
 quence of the murder of her family. She was now on her way with us 
 io Smyrna, in order to place herself under the protection of a distant 
 
THE EXILE OS 3CI0. 141 
 
 relative, whom she hoped, though faintly, to find still surviving She 
 sat all day upon the deck, watching with wistful eyes the shores of her 
 native island j at every approach which our vessel made towards it, she 
 seemed straining to recognise some scene that had once been familiar, 
 or, perhaps, some now deserted house that had once been the ihelter of 
 her friends; and, when, on the opposite tack, we again neared the 
 Turkish coast,' she turned her back on its hated hills, to watch the retreat- 
 ing shores of her desolated home. I had not been aware of har being on 
 board, as her national retiring habits had prevented her appearing upon 
 deck during the early part of her voyage ; but as she drew near Scio, 
 feeling seemed to overcome education and prejudice, and she sat all day 
 beneath the awning, to satiate herself with gazing, and with recollection. 
 
 Towards evening, we: drew near the ruined town, built on the seashore, 
 at the foot of a wooded hill, which had been the site of the ancient city 
 of Scio. Its houses seemed all roofless and deserted, while the nume- 
 rous groups of tall and graceful cypress, which arose amid them, con 
 trasted sadly with the surrounding desolation. All was solitude and 
 silence ; we could not descry a single living creature on the beach, while 
 *Tom the shattered fortress on the shore the blood-red flag of Mohammed 
 vaved in crimson pride above the scene of its late barbarous triumph. 
 At sunset, the wind changed ; we passed the Spalmadores and Ipsara, 
 and, rounding the promontory of Erythrse, entered the bay of Smyrna. 
 As we caught the last glimpse of the ruins of Scio, the unfortunate lady 
 pointed out the remains of a house, to the north of the town, which had 
 been her father's; it wag now in ruins, and, as clearly as we could dis- 
 cern, appeared to be of large dimensions, and situated on one of the 
 most picturesque points of Scio. Her name she said was Kalerdji, and 
 her father had been one of the commissioners for collecting the revenue 
 of the sultan from the gum-mastic of the island. On the breaking out 
 of the revolution in the Morea, strong apprehensions of a similar revolt 
 in Scio were entertained in the Divan, and a number of the most distin- 
 guished Greeks of the island were selected to be sent to Constantinople 
 as hostages for the loyalty of the remainder; among these were her 
 father and her only brother; herself, her mother, and two elder sisters 
 being left alone at Scio. Tranquillity continued undisturbed in the 
 island for more than a year ; though the accounts of the reiterated suc- 
 cesses of the Moreots were daily stirring up the energies of the inhabit- 
 ants, whose turbulence was only suppressed by the immediate dread of 
 the Turkish garrison in the Genoese fortress on the beach, the only 
 stronghold in Scio. 
 
 One evening, however, a squadron of three vessels, manned with Sami- 
 ans, entered the harbour, attacked the unsuspecting garrison, and, aided 
 by the lowest rabble of the town, succeeded in despatching the guard, 
 and taking possession of the fortress. Bat the deed was done without 
 calculation, and could be productive of no beneficial result : the fort waa 
 untenable, and on the almost immediate arrival of the Ottoman fleet, a 
 capitulation without a blow ensued. The news brought by the hostile 
 armament was of the instant execution of the ill-fated hostages, the mo- 
 vient the accounts reached the Porte. Overwhelmed for the loss of thcii 
 
142 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 only and dearly beloved protectors, the family of Kalerdji spent the 
 few intervening days in vain but poignant regret; and, in the seclusion 
 of their bereft mansion, they knew nothing of what was passing at town; 
 wheii, while the Greeks were occupied in supplications and submissiot 
 to the captain pacha, and the Turks in false protestations of forgiveness 
 and amnesty, the troops of the sultan embarked at the fortress. At 
 length, the preparations for slaughter were completed, and the work of 
 death commenced. 
 
 It was on the evening of the third day from the arrival of the Turkish 
 admiral that the family of the wretched being who lived to tell the 
 tale descried the flames that arose from the burning mansions of their 
 friends, and heard, in the calm silence of twilight, the distant death- 
 screams of their butchered townsmen, while a few flying wretches, 
 closely pursued by their infuriate murderers, told them but too truly of 
 their impending fate. As one of the most important in the valley, their 
 family was almost the first marked for murder, and, ere they had a mo- 
 ment to think of precaution, a party of Turkish soldiers beset the house, 
 which afforded but few resources for refuge or concealment. Prom a 
 place of imperfect security, the distracted Phrosine was an involuntary 
 witness to the murder of her miserable sisters, aggravated by every insult 
 and indignity suggested by brutality and crime, while her frantic mother 
 was stabbed upon the lifeless corpses of her violated offspring. Satiated 
 with plunder, the monsters left the house in search of further victims, 
 while she crept from her hiding-place, to take a last farewell of her 
 butchered parent, and fly for refuge to the mountains. She had scarcely 
 dropt a tear over the immolated remains of all that was dear to her, 
 and made a step towards the door, when she perceived a fresh party of 
 demons already on the threshold. Too late to regain her place of refuge, 
 death, with all its aggravated horrors, seemed now inevitable, till, on 
 the moment, she adopted an expedient. She flew towards the heap of 
 slaughter, smeared herself with the still oozing blood of her mother, and, 
 falling on her face beside her, she lay motionless as death. The Turks 
 entered the apartment, but finding their errand anticipated, were again 
 departing, when one of them discovered a sparkling gem on the finger 
 of Phrosine, and returned to secure it. He lifted the apparently lifeless 
 hand, and attempted to draw it off; it had, however, been too long, too 
 dearly worn ; it was the gift of her affianced husband, and had tarried 
 till it was now only to be withdrawn from the finger by an effort. The 
 Turk, however, made but quick work ; after in vain twisting her delicate 
 hand in every direction to accomplish his purpose, he drew a knife from 
 his girdle, and commenced slicing off the flesh from her finger. This 
 was the last scene she could remember. It was midnight when she 
 awoke from the swoon into which her agony, and her effort to conceal it, 
 iiad thrown her; and she lay cold and benumbed, surrounded by the 
 now clotted blood of her last loved friends. Necessity now armed her 
 .with energy : no time was left for consideration, and day would soon be 
 breaking. She arose, and, still faint with terror and the loss of blood, 
 flew to the spot where the valuables of the house had been concealed. 
 Disposing of the most portable about her person, she took her way t'j 
 
A RIVER THE EMBLEM OF HUMAN LIFE. 143 
 
 the mountains. She pointed out to us the cliff where she had long lain 
 concealed, and the distant track by which she had gained it, through a 
 path at every step impeded by the dead or dying remains of her country- 
 men. By the time she imagined the tide of terror had flowed past, when 
 she no longer observed from her lofty retreat the daily pursuits and 
 murder of the immolated Sciots, and when she saw the Ottoman fleet sail 
 from the harbour, beneath its crimson pennon, now doubly tinged with 
 blood, she descended, with her fugitive companions, to the opposite side 
 of the island. Here, after waiting for many a tedious day, she succeeded 
 in getting on board of an Austrian vessel, the master of which engaged 
 to land her at Hydra, in return for the quantity of jewels and gold she 
 had been enabled to save. She reached the island in safety, where she 
 had remained for nearly two years; but finding or fancying her various 
 benefactors to be weary of their charge, she was now going to seek, even 
 in the land of her enemies, a relative, who had been living at Smyrna, 
 but whom she knew not if she should still find surviving or fallen by 
 the sabre of their common enemy. 
 
 Her tale was toid with the calm composure of oft-repeated and long- 
 contemplated grief ; she shed no tears in its relation; she scarcely heaved 
 a sigh over her sorrows; she seemed, young as she was, to have already 
 made up her alliance with misery. She had now, she said, but one hope 
 left, and if tlfat should fail, she had only death to look to. 
 
 A RIVER THE EMBLEM OF HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 The river, small and clear in its origin, gushes forth from rocks, faLs 
 into deep glens, and wantons and meanders through a wild and pictu- 
 resque country, nourishing only the uncultivated tree or flower by its 
 dew or spray. In this, its state of infancy and youth, it may be com- 
 pared to the human mind, in which fancy and strength of imagination 
 are predominant ; it is more beautiful than useful. When the different 
 rills or torrents join, and descend into the plain, it becomes slow and 
 stately in its motions,; it is applied to move machinery, to irrigate mea- 
 dows, and to bear upon its bosom the stately barge ; in this mature state, 
 it is deep, strong, and useful. As it flows on towards the sea, it loses 
 its force and its motion, and at last, as it were, becomes lost and mingled 
 with the mighty abyss of waters. Pursuing the metaphor farther, we 
 may say, that in its origin, its thundering and foam, when it carries 
 down clay from the bank, and becomes impure, it resembles the youth- 
 ful mind affected by dangerous passions. And the influence of a lake, 
 in calming and clearing the turbid water, may be compared to the effect 
 of reason in more mature life, when the calm, deep, cool, unimpassioned 
 mind is freed from its fever, its troubles, bubbles, noise, and foam. And, 
 above all, the sources of a river, which may be considered as belonging 
 to the atmosphere, and its termination in the ocean may be regarded 
 as imaging the divine origin of the human mind, and its being, ulti- 
 mately, returned to, and lost in, the Infinite and Eternal Intelligence 
 from which it sprang. 
 
144 
 
 FIELDS S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 THE EXILE. 
 
 HOLL on, je white eurges, with dreadful commotion. 
 And swallow me up with this desolate shore ; 
 
 And waft, ye kind winds, o'er the deep-billow'd ocean, 
 A Sigh to the land I shall visit no more. 
 
 Dh, tell me, kind sun, are thy genial rays beaming 
 Where once was the home of the good and the brave 7 
 
 Oh, say, doafc thou find the bright day-star yet gleaming. 
 When thou biddest adieu to the orient wave ? 
 
 Oh, tell me, wild cormorant, thy course art thou 
 bending 
 
 To bring to this hell of keen anguish a smile ?— 
 Oh, say, is a friend — if a friend I hare — sending 
 
 Some news that shall light up this storm-beateu isle ! 
 
 Bat see, in the heavens, the tempest, impending, 
 Has doom'd me afar from my fathers to die ; 
 
 And hark ! the deep thunders the ocean-wave rending, 
 Forbid me to hear from my cottage a sigh. 
 
 Ah! well I remember tne scenen of my ohUdhood, 
 The hawthorn and ivy that twined round the door 
 
 Full well I remember "the deep-tangled" wildwood, 
 And e'en I remember the bleak, howling moor. 
 
 Ah ! well I remember the moss round the fountain, 
 Where many an hour I havA slumber'd away; 
 
 And, ah! the green turf on the oak-shaded mountain, 
 Where I and the watch-dog used often to play. 
 
 But mercy, kind mercy, firom memory sever 
 The country and friends I can never more see: 
 
 The child of misfortune, I'm here doom'd for ever 
 To mourn for a home, that perhaps mourns for me. 
 
 Then roll on, ye surges, with dreadful commotion, 
 Aud swallow me up with this desolate shore ; 
 
 And end this keen misery, O deep-billow'd ocean. 
 For I sigh for a land I shall yisit no more. 
 
 Me:uo. 
 
 TO THE SOUND OP A DISTANT BELL. 
 
 The following effusion is copied, in the Essex Register, from a mauugcript book of poemg, written by a 
 young man under confinement iu the Massachusetts State Prison. 
 
 Again that sad and solemn tone — again that thrilling 
 
 swell ! 
 Those sounds create a Paradise within my dreary 
 
 cell: 
 Rich with the thoughts of other years, their music 
 
 rushes on, 
 And glads my heart, when every joy but memory is 
 
 gone. 
 
 Again, again — ye tell of days, when innocence was 
 
 mine, 
 When I, an infant tendril, clung around my parent 
 
 vine,— 
 When of religion's pure delights my mother loved to 
 
 tell. 
 And bade me list thy solemn voice, thou sad and 
 
 soothing bell. 
 
 Ye speak of glorious transports that my boyish bosom 
 
 fired, 
 When my proud country's victories your pealing 
 
 tongue inspired ; 
 
 When, mid a nation's revelries, my youthful shout 1 
 gave, 
 
 And burn'd to swell the warrior's ranks, or fill a war- 
 rior's grave. 
 
 Once more — and call the worshipp'd dead to her lost 
 lover's side. 
 
 The beauteous one, who, living, would have been my 
 wretched bride ; 
 
 Shroud with thy mild and balmy tone the groans of 
 her despair. 
 
 When she sees her branch of promise wither'd, de- 
 solate, and bare. 
 
 No more— my soul, all overwhelm'd, no more can bear 
 
 thee now ; 
 A freezing horror chills my heart, and lightning 
 
 burns my brow. 
 To hear the sounds that blest my youth, now, like a 
 
 funeral knell. 
 Ring, to my buriod joys and hopes, a deep and last 
 
 farewell. 
 
 •THE DYING .CHRISTIAN. 
 
 AT THE BOSTON BARD. 
 
 Fow peaceful is the closing scene, 
 When virtue yields its breath ! 
 
 How sweetly beams the smile serene 
 Upon Che cheek of denth I 
 
 The Christian's hope no fear can blight. 
 No pain his peace destroy ; 
 
 He views, beyond, the realms of light. 
 Of pure and boundless joy. 
 
 Oh, who can gaze with heedless sigh 
 
 On scenes so fair as this ! 
 Who but exclaims—" Thus let me die. 
 
 And be my end like his* '" 
 
THE SBA. Ii5 
 
 THE SEA. A Fragment. 
 
 BT r. W. p. GBEEDTTOOD. 
 
 There is mystery in the sea. There is mystery in its depths. It is 
 unfathomed, and perhaps unfathomable. Who can tell, who shall know, 
 how near its pits ran down to the central core of the world ? Who can 
 tell what wells, what fountains are there, to which the fountains of the 
 earth are in comparison but drops ? Who shall say whence the ocean 
 derives those inexhaustible supplies of salt, which so impregnate its waters 
 that all the rivers of the earth, pouring into it from the time of the Cre- 
 ation, have not been able to freshen them ? What undescribed monsters, 
 what unimaginable shapes may be roving in the profoundest places of 
 the sea, never seeking, and perhaps from their nature, unable to seek 
 the upper waters, and expose themselves to the gaze of man ! What 
 glittering riches, what heaps of gold, what stores of gems, there must be 
 scattered in lavish profusion on the ocean's lowest bed ! What spoils 
 from all climates, what works of art from all lands have been engulfed 
 by the insatiable and reckless waves ! Who shall go down to examine 
 and reclaim this uncounted and idle wealth ? Who bears the keys of 
 the deep ? 
 
 And, oh ! yet more affecting to the heart and mysterious to the 
 mind, what companies of human beings are locked up in that wide,- 
 watery, unsearchable grave of the sea ! Where are the bodies of those 
 lost ones, over whom the melancholy waves alone have been chanting 
 requiem ? What shrouds were wrapped round the limbs of beauty,' and 
 of manhood, and of placid infancy, when they were laid on the dark floor 
 of that secret tomb ? Where are the bones, the relics of the brave and 
 the fearful, the good and the bad, the parent, the child, the wife, the 
 husband, the brother and sister, and lover, which have been tossed, and 
 scattered, and buried by the washing, wasting, wandering sea ? The 
 journeying winds may sigh, as year after year they pass over their beds. 
 The solitary rain-clouds may weep in darkness over the mingled remains 
 which lie strewed in that unwonted cemetery. But who shall tell the 
 oereaved to what spot their affections may cling ? And where shall 
 human tears be shed throughout the solemn sepulchre ? It is mystery 
 all! When shall it be solved ? Who shall find it out? Who, but He 
 to whom the wildest waves listen reverently, and to whom all nature 
 bows ; He who shall one day speak, and be heard in the ocean's pro- 
 foundest caves ; to whom the deep, even the lowest deep, shall give up 
 all its dead, when the sun shall sicken, and the earth and the isles shah 
 languish, and the heavens be rolled together like a scroll,, and there 
 shall be " no more sea !" 
 
 Ueatjtt, as the flowering blossom, soon fades; but the divine excel- 
 lences of the mind, like the medicinal virtues of the plant, remain in it, 
 when all those charms are lyithered. 
 N 10 
 
148 FIELDS'S SCRAf-BOOK. 
 
 THE STARS. 
 
 Ys little stars that glitter in the firmament— ^that have twinkled upon 
 our forests and follies for so many centuries — that nightly come out from 
 yotir homes to light up the sable countenance of old night — who, or 
 what are ye ? Are you tehining worlds, and have yon bright eyes and 
 broken hearts in your realms, such as shine and break here ? Move 
 you on your immeasurable path thoughtless of eS.rth and its graves, its 
 greatness and its perishability ? Whence come ye; and whither do ye go ? 
 Reck ye of time, or do ye move amidst the endless Bjiarces and intermi- 
 nable paths of eternity ? I see your bright faces reflected in the lake j 
 your silvery brightness resting on the leaves of the forest ; but who and 
 *hat are ye? and who and what is the inquirer? The dust will cover 
 him, but you will shine on. Ambition disappointed, love ruined, the gray 
 of age on him, still will i/e dhinej and gild the headstone of his grave, 
 when he that once lived shall be forgotten. The monarch and his scep- 
 tre will crumble ; the oak grow old and fall ; the river cease to follow its 
 bed ; empires wax and Wane ; but still ye will shine on unruffled, serene, 
 glorious; bfeautiful, as now. Not one ray will flee from your glittering 
 broWs, though it will fall on other eye^; on unborn millions, on dther 
 forests and lands now unknown to those who, in mockery of Sciencej 
 trace out your paths thro'ngh the infinity of heaven. Bright stars, look 
 not in mockery upon mi! but gaze on huma;n powerj on huifaan gehius, 
 and read to both the lesson of human frailty. 
 
 PICTURE GF LIFE. 
 
 In youth, we seem to be climbing a hill on whose top eternal sunshine 
 appears to rest. How eagerly we pant to attain its summit ! But when 
 we have gained it, how different is the prospect on the other side ! We 
 sigh, as we contemplate the dreary waste before us; and look back with a 
 wistful eye upon the flowery path we have passed^ but may never more 
 retrace. Life is like a portentous cloud, fraught with thunder, storm, 
 ' and rain ; but religion, like those streaming rays of sunshine, will clothe 
 it' with light as with a garment, and fringe its shadowy skirts with gold. 
 
 ' WOMAN.— The Rev. Dbctor Griffin, in hi& eloquent igpeech before the 
 'American Education Society, at a meeting in New York, appealed to 
 'that sex, who, like ministering ahgelS; love to hover about the chambers 
 ■'of siekness — who owe so much to Christianity ; and introduced the fol- 
 ' lowing beau*jful' quotation : 
 
 Not she with trait'rous kiss her Saviour stong ; 
 Not she denied him with unholy tongue : 
 She, when Apostles shrank, codld dangers htave, 
 Last at the cross and earliest at the ^rare. 
 
DESCRIPTION OF THE DAY OP JUDGMENT. 147 
 
 DESCKIPTION OF THE i)AY OF JUD&MENT. 
 
 BT PAIET. 
 
 TfiRiiiBLE and alarming prospect ! here the powers of elaquence lose 
 all their efFetet ; and the most elevated geiiius is by far too langiiid, life- 
 less, and insipid, to describe a scene so solemn and tremendoiis. Who, 
 though he spoke with a voice melodious as that of an angel, — though all 
 the graces of "celestial eloquence flowed from his lipsj — cbuld do justice 
 to a subject so awful and amazing ? A scene which so Hr transcends 
 every picture which the most sublinae imagination can form must cer- 
 tainly baflSe every eflFort of description ; biit, ^hbugh it is impossible to 
 convey any but a faint ideaj after all our labouirj let lis, nevertheless, 
 ittempt the task, as it must be highly edifying, and leave a lasting im- 
 pression on the heart Stasceptible of good dispositions. Imagine the day 
 arrited, and all nature waitings in silent expectation, to receive its last 
 doom ; the tutelary and destroying aiigels to have their instructions, 
 and every thing to be feadjr for the fetal hour ; and then, as upon a 
 signal given, the trumpet sounds j thte universe groans at the terrific 
 blast; monuments burst astinder; the tomb surrenders up the dust 
 which has slept there from immemorial time j — the illustrious and the 
 obscure, the virtuous and the bad ; Christiansj infidels, multitudes of 
 svery tribe, people and language ; all who have ever existed from Adam 
 down to the present moment, — all, all arise ! How, every moment, the 
 mighty concourse swells ! ihey pour aroknd like gathering torrents, and 
 overflow the earth) numerous as the drops of rain dr starS of heaven ; 
 millions crowding on millions ; stupendous tumult ! it is all inconceiva-. 
 ble alarm and constetnatibn. But, who is that sublime and beauteous 
 form descending from the skies, encompassed with unnumbered hosts of 
 angels ? Jesus, the Son of G-od ! the Judge of man ! And is this the 
 despised Nazarene, the perseciited wanderer, who, while on earth, had 
 hot where to recline his weary head ? Is this the man of sorrow, who 
 was barbarously crUcified dn Calvary, and expired between two thieves, 
 loaded with disgrace, and exhausted with agonies ? Yesj it is the same ! 
 But what a change ! whai majesty ! what inconceivable magnificence ! 
 Behdld those temples, which were bnce so cruelly torn with thorns, now 
 crowned with a diadem of glofy too dazzling for mortal sense to bear ! 
 Behold that hand, into which his murdering foes bnce put the reed in 
 derision, now holding the sceptre of the universe ! Yet, amidst that 
 blaze of grandeur that surrounds him, the amiable meekness, which dig- 
 nified the man of sorrow, still appears. While traces of complacency and 
 benevolence conspieiiously mark his divine lineaments. He separates 
 the promiscuolis multitude, as a shepherd divides the sheep from the 
 goats; the good are ranged on his ri^ht hand, the wicked on his left: 
 all, even the just themselves, wait in trembling expectation at the dread 
 tribtinal; — but, hoW different are their Sensations from those of the 
 guilty ! Pious confidehee, hdpe, and joy, arising from a consciousness 
 of their integrity, aiid the thotigh* of their Redeemer's atoning ,ibloo(\ 
 
148 riELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 are miaglid wf'.h their fears. But what imagination can conceive the 
 horrors of the latter ! they already hear the dire sentence thundering in 
 their ears ; they anticipate the doom which must soon await them ; what 
 would they give now for a few of those momenta, which they so im- 
 prudently squandered away in gayety and sensual pleasures, to make 
 their peace with Heaven ! — the opportunity is gone for ever ! And now, 
 behold the eternal King of Glory turning towards the assembly on hip 
 right hand, with smiles that inspire inconceivable delight ; — dignity, 
 blended with mildness, in his brow, he addresses them with a voice that 
 breathes immortal love, and invites them to the enjoyment of those beatific 
 scenes which had been prepared for them before the foundation of the world. 
 What language can describe the effect of these reviving accents on the 
 minds of the just ! what gratitude, what triumph, what ecstasy overflow 
 their hearts and sparkle in their eyes ! Ten thousand brilliant convoys 
 from above attend them, and angels congratulate them on their happy 
 destiny, and waft them on their soaring wings to the mansions of eternal 
 day. Oh, what inimitable prospects are here ! Whatever ancient poets 
 have feigned of the Elysian fields; whatever the imagination has formed 
 in her boldest flights, is here more than realized. But how dire a con- 
 trast is exhibited in the looks of those at the left hand of their offended 
 Judge, when, darting at them, from his lowering and indignant brow, 
 the lightning of his vengeance, he pronounces in their ears the decisive 
 and irrevocable sentence, which consigns them to the regions of endless 
 night. They cast one farewell look on the beatific regions, and see the 
 heavenly Jerusalem extending her jasper walls far and wide ; her sun, 
 the glory of the Deity, shining forth with a degree of lustre which ex- 
 ceeds every thing that the most brilliant fancy can conceive of the as- 
 tonishing and sublime. This scene of brightness, more than stupendous, 
 compared with which the splendour of ten thousand suns were dark- 
 ness, but augments their anguish. These are the abodes of infinite de- 
 light ; but, alas ! not for them. They deeply feel and lament their 
 loss, — but, ah ! too late ! 'tis irreparable ! They depart, with inex- 
 pressible reluctance, to begin their dire fate in a ruinous world. Now 
 the scene begins ! all the treasures of fire in heaven and earth are open I 
 Thy final dissolution, world, is begun ! Tremendous thunders roll 1 
 Piercing lightnings dart from every quarter, blaze crowding on blaze in 
 rapid succession ; the mighty pillars of creation tremble ; it is all astonish- 
 ment, confusion, and terror ! Dissolved by the overpowering flame, the 
 solid mountains run down in streams ; and, contrary to the sacred laws 
 of nature, the rivers reverse their course, and hurry back to their 
 fountain-head. Every promontory and island is moved out of its place. 
 What a scene does the face of the earth display ! Towers, palaces, and 
 temples, all sinking in the dire conflagration ! Where are now those 
 mighty cities, the seats of luxury, pomp and magniflcence, whose stately 
 domes and aspiring turrets seemed to threaten heaven ? The melody 
 of the. harper and musician, and the enchanting voice of the singer are 
 heard in them no more. But it is not cities only, the works of men's 
 hands, but the hills, the mountains, and the rocks are melted, as wax 
 before the sun, and their place is nowhere found. Here stood the Alps^ 
 
DESCRIPTION OF THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. 14& 
 
 ft prodigious range, the load of tne earth ; this huge mass is dissolved 
 like a tender cloud into rain. Here stood Atlas, whose lofty top reached 
 the clouds ; — all these are vanished, and swallowed up in one general 
 destruction ; and heaven and earth are mingled together in one pro- 
 digious ruin ! 
 
 Thus have I endeavoured, as far as' my feeble talents will permit, to 
 represent to your imagination the awful appearance of the day of judg- 
 ment, which will sooner or later arrive. And since it is certain, let us 
 fix our aflFections on those eternal things which will recommend us in 
 that awful crisis, and not the transient things of this world, which may 
 be suddenly taken from us, or we from them ; or however long we may 
 retain them, or peaceably enjoy them, we cannot keep them always. 
 Let us take a view of the greatest metropolis, the most favoured by 
 nature, guarded by law, and enlightened by policy : the plague in a 
 week may desolate, a conflagration in a day consume, an earthquake in 
 an hour swallow it up. But why recur to the bodjngs of fear, or the 
 suggestions of fancy, for events so specifically recorded by the historian ? 
 Kingdoms have been broken, cities burned, nations extirpated. Where 
 are Troy, Babylon, Athens, Lacedaemon, Thebes, Jerusalem, Persepolis, 
 and Palmyra? Fallen ! fallen ! Their very ruins sepulchred; some of 
 their places unknown ; their glory a shadow j their names remaining 
 only a reproach to their former greatness. Palmyra, the seat of kings, 
 the emporium of science, the envy of her neighbours, is no more ! 
 Her wreck may form a picture, her fame may point a moral, but her 
 prosperity is no longer dreaded ; there the arm of power is levelled with 
 tbe hand of industry : the pomp of triumph ceases to dazzle, and the 
 song of festivity withdraws its enchantment. Faded are the beautiful, — 
 withered the strong, — humbled the haughty. If a funeral inscription 
 remains, the language is grown unintelligible, the hero forgotten ! He 
 hoped to shine on the pinnacle of renown, but is shrouded in oblivion 
 for ever ! All terrestrial glory is as a flower that fades as we praise it ; 
 it is fanned by the zephyrs of the morning ; brightened by the noon- 
 tide sun ; and sinks with the dew of the evening. Who would write 
 on water ? build on sand ? or trust for happiness to subjunary, shadowy 
 %mbitiou ? 
 
 Guns.— The invention of guns is indisputably German, and was pro- 
 duced in this manner : — One Barthoe Schwatis, a friar, in making chemi- 
 cal experiments, mixed saltpetre and brimstone with other ingredients, 
 and set them upon a fire in a crucible ; but a spark getting into it, the 
 pot immediately broke with great violence and noise ; which event sur- 
 prised him at &st, but he repeated his experimwit, and finding the eflFecl 
 constant, set himself to work to improve it; for which purpose he caused 
 an iron pipe to be made, with a small hole to fire at, and putting in some 
 of his ingredients, together with small stones, set fire to it, and found it 
 answered his expectations in penetrating all before it. This happened 
 about the year 1333, and was sorm improved to the making of great 
 ordnance, &c. 
 ii2 
 
150 FlJl^iHS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 THE KIGHTEOUS NEVER FORSAKEN. 
 
 Hoot tm&j despair! 
 
 ^Never yield to sorrow — 
 The blackest sky may wear 
 
 4 s^mpy face tp-rjorrow. 
 
 It was f^aturday night, and the widow of the pjne cottage sat by hei 
 blazing fagots with her five tattered children at her side, endeavouring, 
 by listening to the artlessness of their juvenile prattle, to dissipate the 
 heavy gloom that pressed upon her mind. For a year, ber own feeble 
 hands had provided for her helpless family, for she had no supporter; 
 she thought of no friend in all the wide, unfriendly world around. But 
 that mysterious Providence, the wisdom of whose ways are above human 
 comprehension, had visited her with wasting sickness, and her little 
 means had become exhausted. It was now, top, . midwinter, and the 
 snow lay heavy and deep through all the surrounding forests, while 
 storms still seemed gathering in the heavens, and the driving wind roared. 
 amidst the bending pines, and rooked her puny mansion. 
 
 The last herring smoked upon the hearth before her: it was the only 
 article of food she possessed ; and no wonder her forlorn desolate state 
 brought up in her lone boson^ ^11 the anxieties of a mother, when she 
 looked upon her children ; and no wonder, forlorn as she was, if she suf- 
 fered the heart-swellings of despair to^rise, even though she knew that 
 He whose promise is to the widow and the orphan cannot forget his word. 
 Many years before, her eldest son had left his forest home to try his for- 
 tune on the billowy wave — of him she had heard no note or tidings ; and 
 in latter times Providence had deprived her of the companion and staff 
 of her worldly pilgrimage, in the person of her husband. Yet to this 
 hour she had been upborne ; she had not only been able to provide for 
 her little flock, but had never lost an opportunity of ministering to the 
 wants of the miserable and destitute. 
 
 The indolent may well bear with poverty while the ability to gain 
 sustenance remains. The individual who has but his own wants to sup- 
 ply may suffer with fortitude the winter of want ; his affections are not 
 wounded, his heart not wrung. The most desolate in populous cities 
 may hope, for charity has not quite closed her hand and heart, and shut 
 her pyes on misery. But the iiidustrious mother of helpless and depend- 
 ing children, far from the reach of human charity, has none of these to 
 console her. And such a one was the widow of the pine cottage ; but 
 as she bent over the fire and took up the last scanty remnant of food to 
 spread before her children, her spirits seemed to brighten up, as by some 
 sudden and mysterious impulse, and Cooper's beautiful lines came 
 ancalled across her mind — 
 
 Judge not the Lord by feeble sense. 
 
 But trust hi^( for his grace ; 
 Behind a froyyning providence 
 
 He hides a smiling face. 
 
THE ElGHTEQpS IStEVE]^ EJi^'^SAKEN. 151 
 
 The smoked herring was scarce laid upon the table, when n gentle 
 rap at the door and loud barking of a dog attracted the attention of t'u^ 
 family. The children flew to open it, and a weary traveller, in tattered 
 garments, and app^rpjitly indifferent healtlj, epteyed and begged a lodg- 
 ing and a mouthful of food. Said he, "It is now twenty-four hours sinco 
 I tested bread." The widow's heart bled anew, as under a fresh compli- 
 cation of distresses; for her sympathies lingered not round her fireside. 
 She Jiesitated not even now ; rest and share of all she had, she proffered 
 to the stranger, f' We shall not be forsaken," said she, " or suffer deeper 
 for an act of charity." 
 
 The traveller drew near the board; but when he saw the scanty fare, 
 he raised his eyes towards heaven with astonishment. " And is this all 
 your store ?" said he ; " and a share of this do you offer to one you know 
 not? Thenjiever saw I charity before ! But, madam." he continued, 
 ?' do you not wrong yojir children by giving a part of your last mouthful 
 to a stranger?" "Ah," said the poor widow, and the tear-drops gushed 
 into her eyes as she said it, " I have a boy, a darling son, somewhiere on 
 the face of tke wide world, unless heaven has taken him away, and I only 
 act towards you as I would that others should act towards him. God, 
 who sent manna from heaven, can provide for us as he did for Israel ; 
 and how should I this night offend him, if my son should be a wanderer, 
 destitute as you, and should have provided for him a home even poor as 
 this, were I to turn you unrelieved away !" 
 
 The widow ended, and the stranger, springing from his seat, clasped 
 her in his arms. " God indeed has provided just such a home for your 
 wandering son, and has given him wealth to reward the goodness of 
 his benefactress. My mother ! my mother !" . 
 
 It was her long-lost son, returned to her bosom from the Indies. He 
 had chosen that disguise, that he might the more completely surprise his 
 family ; and never was surprise more perfect, or followed by a sweeter 
 cup of joy. That humble residence in the forest was exchanged for one 
 comfortable, indeed beautiful, in the valley, and the widow lived long 
 with her dutiful son, in the enjoyment of worldly plenty and in the 
 delightful employments of i irtue ; and at this' day, the passer-by is 
 pointed to the luxuriant willow that spreads its branches broad and 
 green above her grave, while he listens to the recital of this simple and 
 homely, but not altogether worthless tale. 
 
 John Randolph. — ^During some period of Mr. Bandplph's political 
 career, he had the ill-fortune to offend a coxcombish young fellow, who 
 determined to avenge himself by insulting the Koanoke orator on the 
 first opportunity that occurred. At length the opportunity presented 
 itself, when the young sprig, meeting Randolph on the pavement, walked 
 up to hinr very impudently, and said, " I never give thp way to a damned 
 rascal." Mr. Randolph, immediately pulling pff his hat ahd making the 
 gentleman a low bow, replied, " Well, sjr,, I always do," and gave him 
 the pavement. 
 
152 .FIKLDS'S SCllAP-BOOK. 
 
 THE END OP "GKEAT MEN." 
 
 Happening to cast my eyes upon a printed page of miniature por- 
 traits, I perceived that the four personages who occupied the four moat 
 conspicuous places, were Alexander, Hannibal, GoBsar, and Bonaparte 
 I had seen the same unnumbered times before, but never did the same 
 sensations arise in my bosom, as my mind hastily glanced over their seve- 
 ral histories. 
 
 Alexander, after having climbed the dizzy heights of his ambition, and 
 with his temples bound with chaplets dipped in the blood of countless 
 nations, looked down upon a conquered world, and wept that there was 
 not another world for him to conquer, set a city on fire, and died in a 
 scene of debauch. 
 
 Hannibal, after having, to the astonishment and consternation of 
 Rome, passed the Alps — after having put to flight the armies of this 
 "mistress of the world," and stripped "three bushels" of golden rings 
 from the fingers of her slaughtered knights, and made her very founda- 
 tions quake — fled from his country, being hated by those who once exult- 
 ingly united his name to that of their god and called him Hanni Baal — 
 and died at last, by poison administered by his own hands, ualamented 
 and unwept, in a foreign land. 
 
 Ccesar, after having conquered ejghi hundred cities, and dyed his gar- 
 ments in the blood of one million of his foes ; after having pursued to 
 death the only rival he had on earth, was miserably assassinated by those 
 he considered as his nearest friends, and in that very place, the attain- 
 ment of which had been his greatest ambition. 
 
 Bonaparte, whose mandate kings and popes obeyed, after having filled 
 the earth with the terror of his name — after having deluged Europe with 
 tears and blood, and clothed the word in sackcloth — closed his days in 
 lonely banishment, almost literally exiled from the world, yet where he 
 could sometimes see his country's banner waving over the deep, but which 
 would not, or could not bring him aid ! 
 
 f Thus those four men, who, from the peculiar situation of their por- 
 traits, seemed to stand as the representatives of all those whom the world 
 calls great— those four, who each in turn made the earth tremble to its 
 very centre by their simple tread, severally died — one by intoxication, 
 or, as some suppose, by poison mingled in his wine — one a suicide — one 
 murdered by his friends — and one a lonely exile ! — " How are the 
 mighty fallen !" 
 
 Happiness and virtue are twins, which can never be divided ; they are 
 born and flourish, or sicken and die, together. They are offsprings of 
 good sense and innocence ; and while they continue under the tniidance 
 of such parents, they are invulneiablo to injury and incapable jf aocav 
 
i'Ai'KIOTISM AND EI JQUENCB OF JOHN ADAMS. 153 
 
 PATRIOTISM AND ELOQUENCE OF JOHN ADAMS. 
 
 BT WEBSTER. 
 
 He possessed a bold spirit, which disregarded danger, and a sanguine 
 reliance on the goodness of the cause and the virtues of the people, which 
 led him to overlook all obstacles. His character, too, had been formed 
 in troubled times. He had been rocked in the early storms of contro- 
 versy, 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 that it involved, 
 often, and in various ways ; and had brought to their consideration what- 
 ever of argument or illustration the history of his own country, the his- 
 tory of England, or the stores of ancient or of legal learning could fur- 
 nish. Every grievance enumerated in the long catalogue of the Declara- 
 tion had been the subject of his discussion and the object of his remon- 
 strance and reprobation. From 1760, the colonies, the rights of the 
 colonies, the liberties of the colonies, and the wrongs inflicted on the 
 colonies, had engaged his constant attention ; and it has surprised those 
 who have had the opportunity of observing, with what full remembrance, 
 and what prompt recollection, he could refer, in his extreme old age, to 
 every act of parliament affecting the colonies, distinguishing and stating 
 their respective titles, sections, and provisions ; and to all the colonial 
 memorials, remonstrances, 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 resolution of maintaining them ; and, bearing himself an active 
 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 tem- 
 perament, 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 moment- 
 ous occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong passions ex- 
 cited, nothing is valuable in speech further than it is connected with high 
 intellectual and moral endowments. Clearness, force, and earnestness 
 are the qualities which produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does 
 not consist in speech. It cannot be brought from far. Labour and 
 learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases 
 may be marshalled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It must 
 exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, 
 intense expression, the ponip of declamation, all may aspire after it — 
 they cannot reach it. It comes, if it comes at aU, like the outbreaking 
 of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic firee'/wilii 
 
154 FiBLDs's s;kap-book. 
 
 spontaneous, original, native force. The graces taught in the schools, 
 the costly ornaments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and dis- 
 gust men, when their own lives and the fate of their wives, their chil- 
 dren, and their country hang on the decision of the hour. Then words 
 have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory con- 
 temptible. Even genius feels itself rebuked and sub4ued, as in the pre- 
 sence of higher qualities. T^bep patriotism is eloquent j then self-devo- 
 tjon is eloquent. The clear conception, outrunning the deductions of 
 logip, the high purpose, 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, apd opposing armies were in the field. 
 Congress then was to decide whether the tie which had so long bound 
 us to the parent state was to be severed at once, and severed for ever. 
 All the colonies had signified their resolution to ajbide by this decision, 
 and the people looked for it with the most infense anxiety. And, surely, 
 fellow-citizens, never, never were men called to a more important politi- 
 cal 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 noyi, 
 and judge of its importance by its effects, it appears in still greater mag- 
 nitude. 
 
 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 independence is on the floor, and is 
 urging his reasons for dissenting 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 
 ^cpustomed directness and earnestness : 
 
 " Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perjsh, 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 
 pnds. The injustice of JBngland has driven us to arms ; and, blinded to 
 her own interest, for our good, she has obstinately persisted, till inde- 
 pendence is now within our grasp. We have but to reach forth to it. and it 
 }S ours. Why, tjien, should we defer the Declaration ? Is any man so 
 tgedi^ as npw to hppe for a reconciliation with England which shall leave 
 ejither safety to the country and its liberties, or safety to his own life and' 
 Ijis own houour ?' Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair, is not he, our 
 venerable polleagne^ near you^are you not both already the proscribed 
 i^ittd predestined objects of punishment and of ypngeance? Cut off from 
 all )iope of foyal clempncyj Tjrbat are you, jfhat can you be, while tjie 
 
ELOQUENCE AND PATRIOTISM OF JOHN ADAMS. 155 
 
 power of England remains, but outlaws? If we postpone indepenil^ 
 ence, do we mean to carry on or giye up the war? Do we mean to 
 submit to the measures of Parliament, Boston port-bill aiid all ? Do 
 we mean to submit, and consent that we, ourselves, shall be gronnb 
 to powder, and our country and its rights trodden down in the 
 dust ? I know we do not mean to submit. We never shall submit. Do 
 wo intend tp 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 politi- 
 cal hazards of the times, we promised to adhere to him in every extre- 
 mity, with our fortunes and our lives ? I know there is not a man here 
 who would not rather see a general conflagration sweep pver 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 cunning, 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 Independence ? 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 
 independi ace, than consent, by repealing her acts, to acknoTfledge that 
 her whole conduct towards us has been a course of injustice and oppres- 
 sion. 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 fortune ; 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 vic- 
 tory, 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 them- 
 selves, gloriously through this struggle. I care not how fickle other people 
 have been found. I know the people of these colonies, and I know that 
 resistance to British aggression is deep and settled in their hearts, 
 and cannot be eradicated. Every colony, indeed, has expressed ith 
 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 ob- 
 ject of entire independence, and it will breathe into them anew the breath 
 of life. Read this Declaration at the head pf the army: every sword 
 vill be drawn frojr its scabbard, and the solemn vow be uttered to mam- 
 tain it, or perish on the bed of honour. Publish it from the pulpit : x's 
 
156 FIELDS'S SCRAP-JjyJK, 
 
 ligion will approve it, and the love of religious liberty will cling round 
 it, resolved to stand with it, or faJl with it. Send it to the public halls ; 
 proclaim it there ; let them hear it, who heard the first roar of the ene- 
 my's cannon ; let them see it, who saw their brothers and their sons fall 
 on the field of Bunker Hill and in the streets of Lexington and Concord, 
 and the very walls will cry out in its support. 
 
 " Sir, I know the uncertainty of human aflFairs ; 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 jileasure of Heaven that 
 my country shall require the poor ofi'ering 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 be our fate, be assured, be assured that this De- 
 claration will stand. It may cost treasure, and it may cost blood ; but 
 it will stand, and it will richly compensate for both. 'Ihrough the thick 
 gloom of the present, I see the brightness of the future, as the sun in 
 heaven. We shall mate this a gloriflus, 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 sub- 
 jection and slavery — not of agony and distress — 'but of exultation, of gra- 
 titude, and of joy. Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My 
 judgment approves this measure, and my whole heart is in it. All that 
 1 have, and all that I am, and all that I hope, in .this life, I am now 
 ready to stake here upon it; and I leave off, as I began, that, live or 
 die, survive or perish, I am for the Declaration. It is my living senti- 
 ment, and, by the blessing of God, it shall be my dying sentiment — in- 
 dependence noza; and INDEPENDENCE FOE EVER !" 
 
 ANECDOTE OF JOHN ADAMS. 
 
 Before our country took a stand among the nations of Europe, and 
 while we were «uffering by depredations on every hand, the venerable 
 John Adams remarked, that the situation of the United States reminded 
 him of the condition of Daniel Defoe's game-cock — who, on being in a 
 stable with a number of horses, exclaimed, " Take care, gentlemen — 
 don't let us tread upon one another !" 
 
 Filial Duty — There is no virtue that adds so noble a charm to the 
 finest traits of beauty as that which exerts itself in watching over the 
 tranquillity of an aged parent. There are no tears that can give so nolle 
 a lustre to the cheek of innocence as the tears of filial sorrow. 
 
MATERNAL HEROISM. 15? 
 
 MATERNAL HEROISM. 
 
 On the twenty-seventh of January, 1796, a party of Indians killed 
 George Mason, on Flat Creek, about twelve miles from Knoxville, Ten- 
 nessee. During the night, he heard a noise at his stable, and stepped 
 out to ascertain the cause, and the Indians, coming between him and the 
 door, intercepted his return. He fled, but was fired upon, and wounded. 
 He reached a cave, a quarter of a mile from his house, out of which, 
 already weltering in his blood, he was dragged and murdered. Having 
 done this, they returned to the house, to despatch his wife and children. 
 Mrs. Mason, unconscious of the fate of her husband, heard them talking 
 to each other as they approached the house. At first, she was delighted 
 with the hope that her neighbours, aroused by the firing, had come to 
 her assistance. But, perceiving that the conversation was neither in 
 English nor German, the language of her neighbours, she instantly in- 
 ferred that they were savages, coming to attack the house. 
 
 The heroine had, that very morning, learned how the double trig- 
 ger of a rifle was set. Fortunately, the children were not awakened 
 by the firing ; and she took care not to awaken them. She shut the 
 door, and barred it with benches and tables, and took down the well- 
 charged rifle of her husband. She placed herself directly opposite the 
 opening which would be made by forcing the door. Her husband came 
 not, and she was too well aware that he was slain. She was alone, in 
 the darkness. The yelling savages were without, pressing upon the 
 house. She took counsel from her own magnanimity, heightened by 
 afiiection for her children, that were sleeping unconsciously around her. 
 The Indians, pushing with great violence, gradually opened the door 
 sufficiently wide to attempt an entrance. The body of one was thrust 
 into the opening, and just filled it. He was struggling for admittance. 
 Two or three more, directly behind him, were propelling him forward. 
 She set the trigger of the rifle, put the muzzle near the body of the 
 foremost, and in such a direction that the ball, after passing through his 
 body, would penetrate those behind. She fired. The first Indian fell. 
 The next one uttered the scream of mortal agony. This intrepid woman 
 saw the policy of profound silence. She observed it. The Indians, in 
 consequence, were led to believe that armed men were in the house. 
 They withdrew from the house, took three horses from the stable, and 
 set it on fire. It was afterwards ascertained that this high-minded widow 
 had saved herself and her children from the attack of twenty-five as- 
 sailants ! 
 
 The avenues to learning of all kinds were planned and opened by 
 Lord Bacon. The nature and most intimate recesses of the human mind 
 were explained and unfolded by Locke ; and the frame and constitution 
 of the universe by Sir Isaac Newton, in a more perfect manner than evei 
 was done or attempted by human skill since the foundation of the world 
 
158 
 
 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 LINES 
 
 AODBESSED TO PRESIDENT WASHUJGTON ON HIS EIRtH-DAY. 22d OF FEBRUARY, 17M. 
 
 Unprejudiced freemen ! examine, viih mb^ 
 The actions that made him adored — 
 
 Theta mention wha£ people th^ madman Bet tm 
 Or bledt^ by bis ^aeptre or sword. 
 
 l}id conquering Cssdr Rome's soiiato obey f 
 Did the legionii disperse at a word ! 
 
 Did Julius retire f^om a summit of sway 
 That saving his country co'nferr'd 7 
 
 Did Athens — did Sparta one statesman produN 
 To ektinguish their feudis by his itaind. 
 
 Who taught the high import and hallow'dthe nit 
 Of union to Greece and mankind T 
 
 Ah. no * if fall'n Greece but one patriot adept. 
 One leader, like ours, had enjoy'd. 
 
 No lover of science and freedom had wept 
 For science and freedom ddstroy'd I 
 
 Then, TTasfttttyton, hail! Viliom th.ehreat'h 6/ pur* 
 /ams 
 
 With glory more etoeet doth perfume, 
 Than ever embalm'd or exalied a name 
 
 In Macedon, Athena, or Borne ! 3. B. C. 
 
 Nq peerage wo cov^t, no sceptre desire. 
 No gewgaws that garnish a throne ; 
 
 Tet Liberty loves, on her own native lyrA, 
 To celebrate sons of her own. 
 
 Exulting, with Reason his virtue she sings, 
 , And hallows the morn of his birth, 
 Who shakes every throne of despotical kings, 
 Aiid gives a new lesson to earth I 
 
 6h, widely diffuse it, ye winds, as ye blow I 
 oli; waft it, ye waves that they &n ! 
 
 For the choicest of gifts that the gods can bestow 
 Is the blessing of Freedom to man. 
 
 Hail, Washington I thou that the breath of pure 
 fame 
 
 With sweeter renowii doth perAitaie, 
 Than ever embalm'd or exalted a name 
 
 In Macedon, Athens, or Rome. 
 
 Say, what for mankind did th6 lord of his day, 
 
 Alexander, that hero admired ? 
 Let the foe, or the friend that he massacred, say. 
 
 Or the beautiful city he fired. 
 
 THE ANT AND THE CKICKET. 
 
 A. siLLT young cricket, acoustom'd to sing 
 
 Through the warm, sunny Inonthg of gay summer and 
 
 ipring. 
 Began to complain, when he ifonnd that at home 
 His cupboard was empty, and winter was oottie. 
 
 Not a crumb to be found 
 
 On the snow-cover'd ground ; 
 
 Not a flower conld he see ; 
 
 Not a leaf on a tree : 
 *'0h! what will become," (Cays the cricket, "of me?" 
 
 At last, by starvation and famine ttiade bold; 
 
 All dripping with wet, and all trembling with cold. 
 
 Away he set off to a miserly ant. 
 
 To see if to keep him alive he would grant— 
 
 Him shelter from rain— 
 
 A mouthful of grain 
 
 He wished only to borrow ; 
 
 He'd repfty it tb-morrow : 
 If not, he must die of starvation and sorrow. 
 
 Says the ant to the cricket, " I'm your servant aAf 
 
 friend. 
 But we ants never borrow, we ants never lenfl: 
 But tell me, dear cricket; did you lay nothing bV 
 When the weather was warm 1" Quoth thfe cri<!ket, 
 "Not!! 
 
 Sly heart was so light. 
 
 That I sang day and night; 
 
 For all nature looked gay." 
 
 " You SANG, sir. you say ? 
 Go then," says the ant, "and dance winter away." 
 
 Thus ending, he hastily lifted the wickei, , 
 And out of the door kick'd the poor little cricket. 
 Folks call this a fable ; I'll warrant it true: 
 Some crickets have four legs, and some have but tw«. 
 
 WASHINGTON'S DIRaE. 
 
 BT THE BOSTOir BARD. 
 
 tfffY moans the white surge on Potomac's proud tide f 
 ^by droop the green willows that grow by its side ? 
 Why chant Nature's minstrels their numbers so slow. 
 Imparting their songs in the whispers of wo ? 
 
 Ah, why sighs the tall grass o'er Vernon's green breast? 
 Why fitdes the rich splendour on victory's crest ? 
 Why is heard the deep sigh of the summer's bright close, 
 Thile the lily's still blooming, and blushing the rose ? 
 
 My country ! thy saviour,— thy Washington brave,— 
 Lies cold in the earth, midst the gloom of the gram; 
 The arrow of death to his bosom hath sped ;— 
 He mingles with dust— with the durt of the dead! 
 
 The bright bloom of valour, that blazon'd his wortb. 
 Lies prone upon Vernon, and hallows its earth : 
 But the boon of the blest to bis spirit is given, — 
 The tears of a world, and the glory of Heaven.* 
 
 • Motto on medalB struck at the time of bis decease : " He in glaht — the wobld nf xEAns." 
 
PRESIDENTIAL INAUGURATICN. 159 
 
 PRESIDENTIAL INAUGURATION. 
 
 George Washington, having brought the war of the Revolution in 
 an honourable close, retired to private life. On the adoption of the fede- 
 ral constitution, he was twice unanimouBly elected to preside as chief- 
 magistrate ; when, at the end of eight years, he voluntarily lesigned, and 
 returned to his estate on Mount Vernon. John Adams; a memorable 
 patriot of the Revolutionj was chosen by the suffrage of the people to 
 succeed him as President of the United States j and his inauguratidn 
 took place in the hall of Congress, south-east corner of Sixth and Chest- 
 nut streets, Philadelphia, 4th Match, 1797. At an early hour, the 
 lobbies and gallery were well " wedged" with spectators. The floor of 
 the house was occupied by the members, leldies, and other privileged 
 persons, as on all similar occasions, who silently and anxiously waited 
 the coming scene. On that day, Thomas Jefferson was to appear as Vice- 
 President, and George Washington a private citizen. The first novelty 
 that presented itself was the entrance of the Spanish minister^ (the 
 Marquis Yrugo,) in full diplomatic costUme. He was of middle siz6> 
 of round person, florid complexion, and hair powdered like a snowball — 
 dark striped silk coat, lined with satin, white waistcoat, black silk breeches, 
 white silk stockings, shoes and buckles — he had by his side an elegant 
 hilted small sword, and his " chapeau," tipped with white feathers, under 
 his arm. • Thus decorated, he crossed the floor of the hall with the most 
 easy nonchalance possible, and an occasional side toss of the head^ (to 
 him habitual,) to his appointed place. He was viewed by the audience 
 for a short time in curious silence. He had scarcely adjusted himself in 
 his chair, when the attention of the audience was roused by the word 
 " Washington," near the door of the entrance. The word flew like 
 lightning through the assembly, and the subsequent varied shouts of 
 enthusiasm produced immediately such a sound as 
 
 When loud surges lash tlie sonn^iiig shote. 
 
 It was an unexpected and instantaneous expression of " simultaneoiis ' 
 feeling, which made the hall tremble. Occasionally, the word, " Washing- 
 tion ! Washington I" might be heard like guns in a storm. He entered 
 in the midst, and crossed the floor at " quick step," as if eager to escape 
 notice, and seated himself quickly on his chair, near " the Marquis 
 Yrugo," who rose up at his entrance, as if startled by the uncommon 
 scene. He was dressed similarly to all the full-length portraits of him, 
 hair full-powdered, with bkck silk rose and bag pendent behind, as then 
 was usual for elderly gentlemen of the " old school. But on those por- 
 traits, one who had never seen Washington might look in vain for that 
 benign expression of countenance possessed by him, and only sufficiently 
 perceptible in the lith'ographic bust of Rembrandt Peale to cause "a feel- 
 ing, " as Judge Peters, in his certificate to the paiiiter, expresses it. The 
 burst at the entrance had now subsided, when the word "Jefferson !" 
 at the entrance-door, again electrified the audience into another explo- 
 
160 FIELDS'ri SCKAP-BOOK. 
 
 tion of feeling, similar to the first, but abated in force and energy, lie 
 entered, dressed in a long blue frock-coat, single-breasted, and buttoned 
 down to the waist — light, sandy hair, very slightly powdered, and cued 
 with black ribbon a long way down his back ; tall, of benign aspect, 
 and straight as an arrow; he bent not, but, with an erect gait, moved 
 leisurely to his seat, near Washington, and sat down. Silence again 
 ensued. 
 
 Presently, an increased bustle near the door of the entrance, and the 
 words, "President!" "President Adams!" again- produced an explosion 
 of feeling similar to those that had preceded, but again diminished, hy 
 repetition, in its force and energy. He was dressed in a suit of light drab 
 cloth, his hair well powdered, with rose and bag, like that of Washing- 
 ton. He passed slowly on, bowing on each side, till he reached the 
 " speaker's chair," on which he sat down. Again a deep silence pre- 
 vailed, in the midst of which he ro.'ie, and bowing round to the audience 
 three times, varying his position each time — he then read his inaugural 
 address, "in the course of which he alluded to, and, at the same time,, 
 bowed to his predecessor, which was returned from Washington, who, with 
 the members of Congress, were all standing. When he had finished, he 
 sat down ; after a short pause, he rose up, and, bowing round as before, he 
 descended from the chair, apd passed out with acclamation. Washington 
 and Jefiferson remained, standing together, and the bulk of the audience 
 watching their movements in ckutious silence. Presently, with a grace- 
 ful motion of the hand, Washington invited the Vice-President, Jefi^rson, 
 to pass on before him, which was declined by Mr. JefFerson. After a 
 pause, an invitation to proceed was repeated by Washington, when the 
 ''ico-Presidcnt passed on towards the door, and Washington after him 
 A rush for the street now commenced, and the next view of Washington, 
 the " beheld of all beholders," was on the north side of Chestnut street. 
 going down, with the crowd after him, and Timothy Pickering on his 
 right, to " Francis's Hotel," on a visit of congratulation to the President 
 elect. On his arrival at the hotel, in Fourth, above Che.?tnut, now In- 
 dian Queen, they passed in, and the door was closely " wedged in" with 
 people desirous of beholding, to the last, the person of Washington, now 
 passing away from them, and to be seen by them no more for ever. 
 When the door closed, another explosion of feeling from the assembled 
 throng produced a sound like thunder. The efiect was such that the 
 door of the hotel again opened, and again Washington, (to them) " first 
 in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen," stood 
 uncovered before them. A deep silence ensued. He then bowed three 
 times to the spectators, varying his position each time, which was re- 
 turned with a shout by the crowd, and a clapping of hands. Having 
 done so, he slowly retired, seemingly in much agitation, within the door, 
 and the grateful assembly gradually disappeared. 
 
 Let the first action of manhood be to govern your passions, for he 
 who knows how to govern himself always becomes a favourite with 
 bociety 
 
THB UNION. 161 
 
 THE UNION. 
 
 The following excellent remarks in favour of p^erring the Amcricai; 
 LTnion are extracts from yarioos speeches and letters vhich the late ex- 
 oiting times, caused by a discussion of the Slavery question and its eon- 
 oomitants, the Texas Boundary and the admission of California, have 
 nroduced : 
 
 Bi/ Hon. Sam Houston, of Texas, in iRe United States Senate, 
 February 8, 1850. 
 
 But I call upon the friends of the Union, from every quarter, to come 
 forward like men, and sacrifice their differences upon the common altar 
 of their country's good, and to form a bulwark around the Constitution 
 that cannot be shaken. It will require manly effort, sir ; and they must 
 expect to meet with prejudices growing up around them, that will assail 
 them from every quarter. They must stand firm to the Union, regard- 
 less of all personal consequences. Time alone can recompense them ibr 
 their sacrifice and their labours; for devotion to country can never be 
 forgotten, when it is offered freely, and without expectation of a reward. 
 The incense of self-sacrifioe, when thus offered on the altar of their 
 country, will be acceptable to the people. I have no doubt that this 
 question might be easily adjusted, if gentlemen would encourage such 
 disposition and feeling as doubtless actuate a large portion, if not all, 
 of iiua body. K they would come up to the work, I have no doubt 
 ax senators here could be designated, without reference to party, (you 
 may, if you please, disregard the section of country from which they^ 
 come,) who wonld act as a committee of conf^ence, and sit down to-- 
 gether as wayfaring men, and produce satisfactory reconciliation, thereby 
 diffusing universal peace, and calming the agitated waves that are lashing : 
 at the base of our capitol, and speak comfort and solace to millions of 
 freemen. Do not tiie American people love this Union? Are &ej- 
 not devoted to it ? Is not ev^y reminiscence of the past associated '•■ 
 with its glories, and are they not calculated to inspire prayers for its 
 prosperity and perpetuity ? If this were not the case, you might think 
 lightly of our noble confederacy ; but so it is — it stukls connected with < 
 every fibre of the national heart, and interwoven with every glorions 
 recollection of the past^ which affection or reverence can inspire in the 
 minds of the American people. It is not, Mr. President, that twenty- - 
 three millions of souls alone a^e involved in the perpetuity of this 
 Union — ^it is not that every consideration of hs^iness connected - with . 
 country, appertained to it ; but it is because it is the great moral, sooiaij' 
 and political lever that has moved, is moving, and will continue to move 
 the world. Look abroad at foreign nations, and behold the influence of 
 our example upon them — not ours, for I feel a sense of humiliation 
 when I contrast the efforts of any man now living with the illustrious 
 achievements of the departed sages and heroes who performed. thie- 
 mighty work. 
 
 * * * * * * * »- 
 
 o2 11 
 
162 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 I deny the power of all the ultras on earth to dissolve this Union 
 or to rend it in twain. I trust that the wisdom of those who have an 
 estahlished and solid interest in the country will prompt them to rise 
 and rally to its rescue^if it is in danger; and that they will redeem it 
 from all peril, and transmit it to their posterity as a sacred bequest to 
 them, as we have received it from our forefathers. 
 
 Sir, the Union is not dissolved; and I apprehend there will be less 
 danger of it when the people are awakened to the slightest apprehen- 
 sion of real danger. But, has apprehension reached^ the homes of the 
 people ? Have you struck at the remotest verge of this great Union 1 
 Have you roused the farming — the substantial — the solid population ? 
 Have they been awakened, or is the feeling imagined to exist from the 
 newspaper publications of the day, or from the proceedings of leading 
 politicians, who are preparing to mount this hobby, which they expect 
 will carry them so speedily to the goal of popularity ? Are you to de- 
 duce the opinions of the American people from these circumstances ? 
 Consider for a moment, what a large portion of the people are at home, 
 Unexcited and unagitatad on the subject. Do you think, that if there 
 be a real danger of disunion, they will not be awakened from their 
 lethargy ? Do you think they will not feel themselves called upon to 
 act by the apprehension of such danger ? Then, sir, you will have a 
 sincere expression, when you carry it to the hearths of the farmer, the 
 mechanic, who has every comfort of life around him, acquired by industry, 
 or inherited from patriotic ancestry, under the broad segis of this Union, and 
 tell him, you have now to encounter the hazard of civil broils — of a war of 
 desolation — the worst of all wars ; a war, not of race — a war, not of 
 language, or of tongue, or of religion, but a war of brothers — the most 
 sanguinary of mortal strife. Look at Hungary. Consider the civil 
 war that has raged between Austria and Hungary — one nation ; there 
 it has raged with such violence that boys of the age of nine or ten years 
 have been taken as conscripts, torn from their homes and the embraces 
 of their mothers and sisters, and those mothers and sisters herded to- 
 gether, like cattle in a pound, guarded by the bayonets of the soldiery, 
 to keep them from rushing and rescuing their children from the ranks, 
 Then, too, the brutal soldiery, pursuing their fell purpose of vengeance,^ 
 despoil women of all that is sacred, tear from the bosoms of mothers 
 their infant children, and pin them to the posts of ' the doors with swords, 
 and bayonets, and pikes. Can you contemplate, sir, with calmness these 
 scenes— are they not in the perspective, and consequent upon disunion ? 
 And who. more able than yourself [Mr. King, the Senator from Ala- 
 bama^ — then in the chair,] to portray the evil of disunion ? Who dare 
 to-step forward and interpose his influence, his intelligence, his powerful 
 and expanded patriotism, to arrest the progress of this portentous evil ? 
 
 'But, Mr. President, it is not alone the North and the South — not 
 aldne these 'two sections of this vast Union, who are interested. Where 
 are the -Middle States,? Where is the old Keystone ? Will she here- 
 after look indifferently upon a subject so momentous and so deeply im- 
 portant to her ? Will she disregard it ? Will she not interpose her 
 ixtighty influence to arrest it ? Where is the new and manly West, with 
 
THE UNION. 163 
 
 all the vigour of youth, with all the sagacity, wisdom, and strength of 
 maohood, and with all the valour that can inspire the human heart — 
 where is the West to remain, and what its attitude when disunion takes 
 place ? What will the North gain by disunion ? Do not the produc- 
 tions of the South contribute to the employment of their moneyed capital ? 
 Their carrying-trade of the productions of the South is a profitable one ; 
 and their labour and their ingenuity are highly rewarded by the return 
 of our own raw material when fabricated, and the sale of it in the 
 South. What then has the North to gain, looking at their pecuniary 
 interest alone, by pushing the South to the fearful extremity of stand- 
 ing upon their reserved rights? Sir, if the North does not refrain,. if 
 they persist in their threatened aggressions upon the South, and inva- 
 sions upon their rights established under the Constitution, the sin must 
 lie at their own door, and their own threshold will be defiled with the 
 consequences of injustice to their brethren. And I ask of them now 
 calmly to consider upon it, and to reflect that they have gone far enough, 
 that the South has been sufiBciently excited, and that expressions too 
 passionate for reason have been indulged in on both sides. * * * * 
 The passage of the Proviso would be an indignity; and if the North 
 choose to take this firebrand and thrust it into the bosom of Southern 
 society, then they may reproach themselves, and not the South, for the 
 conflagration which they have kindled. The South will be then acting 
 on the defensive and standing on their reserved rights. Sir, it is a peril- 
 ous experiment, and one which ought not to be made. 
 
 I regret exceedingly ever to allude to what I have done. But on 
 this occasion I feel that if it even be regarded as boasting, I will say 
 that when I have been charged with being a deserter from the interests 
 of the South, and courting favour with the North, I pity the beguile- 
 ment which has dictated the suggestion. What ! forget the South ? If 
 I am of the South, can I not recollect the North ? What is our coun- 
 try ? It is a nation composed of parts, East and West, South and 
 North. It is an entirety. There are no fractions in it. It is a unit, 
 and I trust it will so remain. But I have been charged with being an 
 alien — an alien — a " deserter." 
 
 Permit me — and I say it because it is history not embellished, it is 
 truth — when I gave the first evidence of manhood, it was in earnest de- 
 votion to the South. Sir, when a stripling I enlisted, a private soldier, 
 in the ranks of my countrymen ; I took my life in one hand — in my 
 right hand I grasped the weapons of war. We marched in quest of the 
 Indian in his lurking-place; we met the savage in his war-path; we 
 kindled our fires far in the land of our enemy; we sat by them until 
 morning, when the battle came ; we met our enemies, they either fled 
 or fell. There I oflFered the richest libation of my youth, the blood of 
 my early manhood, to consecrate the soil to freedom and the Union, 
 'f his was in the centre of the South. Now, war is no more heard on 
 mr borders — the mountains speak peace, and joy is in all our valleys. 
 The warrior is careless — his arms lie idle — he can now point to them 
 wid speak to his sons of his valiant deeds. In what I have done, if i 
 have contributed ray mite to human freedom, I will let history tell, and 
 
i6i fieldS's scrap-book. 
 
 say to Wha'i extent I have done it ; or, if I have fiikd in the offices vt 
 humstnity, let it, be visited upon me. With my gallant associates, I 
 have stifuek manacles from the limbs oi a cilptive chieftaiti, and restored 
 him, with his Vanquished comrades, to their nation and thfeir homes, 
 ■withoiit ransom. I 4sk no recompeiise. Was not all this done for the 
 South ? And am T to be questioned of having a Sotllhern heiaft, when 
 that heart is large enough, I trtost, to embirace the whol6 Union, if hot 
 the whole world ? 
 
 And, Mr, President, I tiiust say that I am sOrry I cannot ofFei- the 
 pt4yers of the righteous that my petitioh might be heard. -But I be- 
 seech those whose piety will permit them reverentially to petition that 
 they will pray for this Union, and iak that He who buildeth up and 
 pulleth down nations will, in mercy, preseire and unite us. For a 
 nation divided ftgaitist itself canbot statid. I wish, if this Union must 
 be dissolved, that its rains may be the monument of my grave and 
 the gi'aves of my family. I wish no epitaph to be writtetl to tell that 
 I stirvived the iniin of this glorious Union. 
 
 Si/ Hon. Daniel Webster, a/ Massachusetts, in the United States 
 Senate, March 7, 1S50. 
 
 Mr. President, I wish to #peak tO-day, liot as a Massachusetts toa*, 
 nor as a Northern man, but ^s an American, and a member of the 
 Senate of thfe Unitied States. It is fortunate that there is a Senate ol 
 the United States ; a body, not yet moved from its propriety, not lost 
 to a just sense Of its own dignity and its oWli high responsibilities, afid 
 a body to which 'the teountry looks, with eohfidenee, for wise, moderate, 
 patriotic, and healing counsels. It is not to be denied that we live in 
 the midst of strong agitatio&s, and are surrounded by very considerable 
 dangers to our institu-fiions and government. The imprisoned winds are 
 let loose. The fiast, the West, the North, and the stormy South, all 
 combine to throw the whole ocean into commotion, to toss its billoWs to 
 the skies, and disclose its profoundest depths. I dO not- affect to regard 
 raySelf, Mr. President, as holding, ot as fit to hold, the helm in this 
 combat with the political elemefits ; but I have a duty to perform, and I 
 mean to perform it with fidelity, not without a sense of su'rroiHiditig 
 dangers, but not without hope. I have a part to act, not for my owb 
 ■ becurity or safety — for I am looking out for no fragment upon wh'ioli to 
 float away from the wreck, if ii<t6ck thei-e must be — but for the good of 
 the whole, and the preservation of all ; and theife is that which will 
 keep me to my duty during this "slruggle, whether the sun and the start 
 shall appear, ofr shall not appeal, -for many days. I speak to-diiy for 
 the preservation of the Union " Hear me for toy cause.'* I s^peak, t<^ 
 day, out of a solicit^s and anxious heart, for the restoration to the 
 aountry of that quiet and harmony which make the blessings of Miis 
 Union so ridh, and so dear to us all. These are the topics that I pro- 
 pose to myself to discuss; theSe are the motives, and the sole moUVeS, 
 that influence me in the wish to communicate my opinions to the Senate 
 
THE UNION. 16^ 
 
 and the country ; and if I can 4<» *i»y thing, however littje, foi the pro 
 motion of these ends, I sha.U ^ave ^eeomplished all tt^at I expect. 
 
 * * * 4: * * * * 
 
 Mr. Frepident, I shovUd myioh prefer to h^ve heard, froni ^very piem- 
 ber on this floor, declarations of opinion that this Uniqn should never 
 be dissolved, tba4 the declaration pf opiflion th£|.t, in any c^se, under 
 th8 pressure of apy circufliBtances, s(ich a dissp^tion was possible. I 
 hear with pain, snd angft}sh, aqd ^jstreg^, tljp word Sj3oe^,iqn, espepiajly 
 when it f^jlg frqm the lipg of ^ihose who are eminently patriotic, and 
 ^uown to the country, apd known all over the world, for theif political 
 sef vices. ■ Secession ! Peaceable secegsjop ! Sir, your eyes and mine 
 are never ^estjnpd tp gee th^t njiracle. The disineQiberment of this 
 irast country witljout ponvujsion ! The bre^ljing up pf t,hg fountains pf 
 the great deep without y uffling the surface ! Who is so foolish, I beg 
 everybody's pardon, as to expect to see any such thing ? Sir, he w^^o 
 sees these States, now revqlving in harmony around a cqinmon centre, 
 and expects to see them quit their places and fly off without convulsion, 
 may look the next hour to see the heavpnly bodies rush from their 
 spheres, and jostle against eaclj other in the realms pf space, without 
 causing the crush pf the universe. There can be no such thing as a 
 peaceablp secession. Pe^eable secessipn is an vjtter impossibility. Is 
 the gre^t Constitution under whiph we live here, covering this whole 
 country, is it to be thawed and melted away by secession, as the snows on 
 the mountain melt under the influence of a vernal sun ? disappear 
 almost unobserved, and die off? No, sir ! No, sir! I will not state 
 what might produce the disruption of the States ; but, sir, I see it as 
 plfiinly as I see the sun in heaven-^-I see tbat disr^:^ptipn must prpduce 
 such a war as I will npt describe, in its twofold chara,cter. 
 
 Peaceable secession ! — peaceable Recession ! The concurrent agree- 
 ment of all the members of this grefit republic tp separate ! A vplun- 
 taj?y separation, with alimony on one side and on thp other. Why, 
 what would be the result ? Where is tjhe lipe to be drawn ? What 
 States are to secede ? What is to remain Aiiierican ? What am I jio 
 be ? 4-11 American np longer ? Where is ^he flag of thp republic tp 
 remain ? Where is the eagle ptill tp tower ? or is hp to cower and 
 shrink and fall to the ground ? Why, sir, our anQestpr^^rrrOur fathers 
 ^nd pur grandfathers, those of them t^at p,re yet living ainpng us wii\i. 
 prolonged lives, would rebuke and reproach us; and our children an(i 
 pur gra,n4phildren would cry out shame uppn us, if we, of this genera- 
 tiop, should dishonour tjiese ensigpp pf |)h,e power of fhp governpient 
 and the harmony of the Uijipn, wlfiph jp every day felt among us with 
 so much Joy and gratitude. What is to bpoome of the army? What 
 is to become of the navy ? What is to become of the public lands '! 
 How is each of the thirty Statep tp defend itself? I know, although 
 the idea has not been stated distjinctly, there is to be a Southern Con- 
 lederacy. I do not mean, when j a^ude to this statement, that any ono 
 siiripusly contemplates such a st^te pf things. I do not mean tp say 
 tha'' it )s true, but I have heard ij; suggestpd elsewhere, that that idoa 
 
166 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 oas oiiginated a design to separate. I am sorry, sir, that it .laa ':r«i 
 been thotight of, talked of, or dreamed of, in the wildest flights ol hu- 
 man imagination. But the idea must be of a separation, including tho 
 slave States upon one side, and the free States on the other. Sir, tliere 
 is not — I may express myself too strongly, perhaps, but some things, 
 some moral things, are almost as impossible as other natural or physical 
 things ; and I hold the idea of a separation of these States, those that 
 are free to form one government and those that are slav'eholding to form 
 another, aa a moral impossibility. We could not separate the States by 
 any such line, if we were to draw it. We could not sit down here, to- 
 day, and draw a line of separation that would satisfy any five men in 
 the country. There are natural causes that would keep and tie us to- 
 gether, and there are social and domestic relations which we could not 
 break if we would, and which we should not if we could. Sir, nobody 
 can look over the face of the country at the present moment, nobody 
 can see where its population is the most dense and growing, without 
 being ready to admit, and compelled to admit, that ere long America 
 will be in the valley of the Mississippi. 
 
 Well, now, sir, I beg to inquire what the wildest enthusiast has to say 
 on the possibility of cutting off that river and leaving free States at its 
 source, and its branches, and slave States down near its mouth ? Pray, 
 sir, pray, sir, let me say to the people of this country that these things 
 are worthy of their pondering and of their consideration. Here, sir, 
 are five millions of freemen in the free States north of the river Ohio : 
 can anybody suppose that this population can be severed by a line that 
 divides them from the territory of a foreign and an alien government, 
 down somewhere, the Lord knows where, upon the lower banks of the 
 Mississippi ? What would become of Missouri ? Will she join the ar- 
 rondissement of the slave States ? Shall the man from the Yellow Stone 
 iyid the Platte be connected, in the new republic, with the man who 
 lives on the southern extremity of the Cape of Florida ? Sir, I am 
 ashamed to pursue this line of remark. I dislike it, I have an utter 
 disgust for it. I would rather hear of natural blasts and mildews, war, 
 pestilence, and famine, than to hear gentlemen talk of secession. To 
 break up ! to break up this great government, to dismember this great 
 country, to astonish Europe with an act of folly such as Europe for two 
 centuries has never beheld in any government! No, sir; no, sir! 
 There will be no secession. Gentlemen are not serious when they talk 
 of secession. 
 
 Sir, I hear there is to be a Convention held at Nashville. I am 
 bound to believe that if worthy gentlemen meet at Nashville in conven- 
 tion, their object will be to adopt counsels conciliatory, to advise the 
 South to forbearance and moderation, and to advise the North to for- 
 bearance and moderation ; and to inculcate principles of brotherly Iovb 
 and affection, and attachment to the Constitution of the country as it 
 now is. I believe, if the Convention meet at all, it will be for this pur- 
 pose ; for certainly, if they meet for any purpose hostile to the Union, 
 they have been singularly inappropriate in their selection of a plaie T 
 remember, sir, that when the treaty was concluded between France and 
 
THE UNION. 167 
 
 Rngla.id, at the p.-aoe of Amiens, a stern old Englishman and a^ orator, 
 who disliked the terms of the peace as ignominious tO' England, said iti 
 the House of Commons, that if King William could know the terms 
 of that treaty, he would turn in his coffin. Let me commend this saying 
 of Mr. Windham, in all its emphasis and all its force, to any persons^^ 
 who shall meet at Nashville for the purpose of concerting measures for 
 the overthrow of the Union, over the bones of Andrew Jackson. 
 
 And now, Mr. President, I draw these observations to a close. I 
 have spoken freely, and I meant to do so. I have sought to make no 
 display j I have sought to enliven the occasion by no animated discus- 
 sion, nor have I attempted any train of elaborate argument. I have 
 wished only to speak my sentiments, fully and at large, being desirous 
 once, and for all, to let the Senate know, and to let the country know, 
 the opinions and sentiments which I entertain on all these subjects. 
 These opinions are not likely to be suddenly changed. If there be any 
 future service that I can render to the country, consistently with these 
 sentiments and opinions, I shall cheerfully render it. If there be not, 
 I shall still be glad to have had an opportunity to disburden my con- 
 science, from the bottom of my heart, and to make known every political 
 sentiment that therein exists. 
 
 And now, Mr. President, instead of speaking of the possibility or 
 utility of secession, instead of dwelling in these caverns of darkness, 
 instead of groping with those ideas, so full of all that is horrid or hor- 
 rible, let us come out into the light of day; let us enjoy the fresh air 
 of liiberty and Union; let us cherish those hopes which belong to us; 
 let us devote ourselves to those great objects that are fit for our consi- 
 deration and our action ; let us raise our conceptions to the magnitude 
 and the importance of the duties that devolve upon us ; let our compre- 
 hension be as broad as the country for which we act, our aspirations as 
 high as its certain destiny ; let us not be pigmies in a case that calls 
 for men. Never did there devolve on any generation of men higher 
 trusts than now devolve upon us, for the preservation of this Constitu- 
 tion, and the harmony and peace of all who are destined to live under it. 
 Let us m^ke our generation one of the strongest, and the brightest link 
 in that golden chain, which is destined, I fondly believe, to grapple the 
 people of all the States to this Constitution, for ages to come. It is, a 
 great, popular, constitutional government, guarded by law and by judi- 
 cature, and defended by the whole affections of the people. No mo- 
 narchical throne presses these States together ; no iron chain of despotic 
 power encircles them ; they live and stand upon a government popular 
 in its form, representative in its character, founded upon principles of 
 equality, and calculated, we hope, to last for ever. In all its history, it 
 has been beneficent ; it has trodden down no man's liberty; it has crush- 
 ed no Stale. Its daily respiration is liberty and patriotism; its yet 
 jouthful veins are full of enterprise, courage, and honourable love of 
 glory and renown. Large before, the country has now, by recent events, 
 become vastly larger. This republic now extends, with a vast breadth, 
 across the whole continent. The two great seas of the world wash the 
 
168 riELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 one and the other shore. We realize, on a mighty scale, the beautiful 
 description of the ornamental edging of the buckler of Achilles— 
 
 Now the bro4d shield complete, the artist crown'd 
 With his last band, and pour'd the ocean round ; 
 In living silver seem'd the waves to roll. 
 And beat the baokler's verge, and bound the whole. 
 
 Bu Hon. Daniel Webster, m tJie United States Senate, Jvly 17, 1850. 
 
 Mr. President, it has always seemed to me to be a grateful reflection, 
 that, however short and transient may be the lives of individuals, states 
 may be permanent. The great corporations that embrace the govern- 
 ment of mankind, protect their liberties, and secure their happiness, may 
 have something of perpetuity, and, as I might say, of immortality. For 
 my part, sir, I gratify myself by contemplating what in the future will 
 be the condition of that generous State which has done me the honour 
 to keep me in the councils of the country for so many years. I see 
 nothing about her in prospect, less than that which encircles her now. 
 I feel that when I, and all those that now hear me, shall have gone to 
 our last home, and afterwards, when mould may have gathered upon our 
 memories, as it will have done upon our tombs, that State, so early to 
 take her part in the great contest of the Kevolution, will stand, as she 
 has and does now stand, like that column which, near her capitol, per- 
 petuates the memory of the first great battle of the Revolution, firm, 
 erect, and immovable. I believe, sir, that if commotion shall shake the 
 country, there will be one rock for ever, as solid as the granite of her hills, 
 for the Union to repose upon. I believe that if disasters arise, bringing 
 clouds which shall obscure the ensign now over her, and over us, there 
 will be one star that will but burn the brighter amid the darkness of 
 that night ; and I believe that, if in the remotest ages — I trust they 
 ■will be infinitely remote — an occasion shall occur when the sternest 
 duties of patriotism are demanded and to be performed, Massachusetts 
 will imitate her own example ; and that, as at the breaking out of the Re- 
 volution, she was the first to offer the outpouring of all her blood and all 
 her treasure in the struggle for liberty, so she will be hereafter ready, 
 when the emergency arises, to repeat and renew that offer, with a thousand 
 times as many warm hearts, and a thousand times as many strong hands. 
 And now, Mr. President, to return at last to the principal and im- 
 portant question before us : What are we to do ? How are we to bring 
 this emergent and pressing question to an issue and an end ? Here have 
 we been seven and a half months, disputing about points which, in my 
 judgment, are of no practical importance to one or the other part of the 
 country. Are we to dwell for ever upon a single topic, a single idea ? 
 Are we to forget all the purposes for which governments are instituted, 
 snd continue everlastingly to dispute about that which is of no essential 
 consequence ? I think, sir, the country calls upon us loudly and impera- 
 tively to settle this question. I think that the whole world is looking to 
 •CO whether this great popular government can get through such a crisia 
 
THE UNION. 169 
 
 We are the observed of all observers. It is not to be disputed or doubted, 
 that the eyes of all Christeudom are upon us. We have stood through 
 many trials. Can we stand through this, which takes so much the cha 
 racter of a sectional centroversy ? Can we stand that ? There is no 
 inquiring man in all Europe who does not ask himself that question every 
 day, when he reads the intelligence of the morning. Can this countiy, 
 with one set of interests at the South, and another set of interests at Ihe 
 North, these interests supposed, but falsely supposed, to be at variance, can 
 this people see, what is so evident to the whole world besides, that this 
 Union is their main hope and greatest benefit, and that their interests 
 are entirely compatible ? Can they see, and will they feel, that their 
 prosperity, their respectability among. the nations of the earth, and their 
 happiness at home, depend upon the maintenance of their Union and 
 their Constitution ? That is .the question. I agree that local divisions 
 are apt to overturn the understandings of men, and to excite a belligerent 
 feeling between section and section. It is natural, in times of irritation, 
 for one part of 'the country to say, If you do that, I will do this, and so 
 gtt up a feeling of hostility and defiance. Then comes belligerent legisr 
 lation, and then an appeal to arms. The question is, whether we have 
 the true patriotism, the Americanism, necessary to carry us through such 
 a trial. The whole world is looking towards us with extreme anxiety. 
 For myself, I propose, sir, to abide by the principles and the purposes 
 which I have avowed. I shall stand by the Union, and by all who stand 
 by it. I shall do justice to the whole country, according to the best of 
 my ability, in all I say, and act for the good of the whole country in all 
 I do. I mean to stand upon the Constitution. I need no other plat- 
 form. I shall know but one country. The ends I aim at shall be my 
 country's, my God's, and truth's. I was born an American ; I live an 
 American ; I shall die an American ; and I intend to perform the duties 
 incumbent upon me in that character to the end of my'career. I mean 
 to do this, with absolute disregard of personal consequences. What are 
 personal consequences? What is the individual man, with all the good 
 or evil that may betide him, in comparison with the good or evil which 
 may befall a great country in a crisis like this, and in the midst of great 
 transactions which concern that country's fate ? Let the consequence 
 be what they will, I am careless. No man can suffer too much, and no 
 man can fall too soon, if he suffer, or if he fall, in defence of the liberties 
 and constitution of his country. 
 
 By Hon. R. M. T. Huntek, of Yirgirda, in the United States Senate, 
 March 25, 1850. 
 
 Mr. President, this is an unwelcome topic. I have been hurried into 
 it by the announcement of doctrines so contrary to aU that I learned 
 in youth, to all the opinions of my manhood, and so contrary to the sen- 
 iljtients which I would transmit to those who shall come after me, that 
 I could not forbear seizing this occasion to protest against them. Mr. 
 President, there are two classes of the friends of Union — the one who 
 
170 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 see dangers which threaten it, and give warning of thoir existence thai 
 they may be averted — and another who will acknowledge the existenc; 
 of no danger capable of destroying the Union, and thus lull those wbi: 
 conduct the government into a false, and, it may be, a fatal security. 
 It will be for posterity to determine who were the best friends of thi> 
 Union. I will preserve, if I can, the public peace and the union of tho 
 States; but higher than the public peace, higher thanthe Union evpn,. 
 I prize the indispensable rights and liberties of my native State. Short 
 of these last, I would make any sacrifice to save the former. I am a 
 friend of peace — my heart is naturally averse to strife. There is no one 
 who contemplates with more satisfaction than I do the spectacle of 
 peace — peace which reigns in sunshine, almost unbroken by a shadow, 
 throughout the boundaries of this mighty confederacy. But when I see 
 80 little appreciation of the true magnitude of the dangers which threaten 
 us, I oapflot but feel anxious and apprehensive. It is not my purpose 
 to alarm, but it is my duty to warn those with whom I am counselling, 
 that there is danger ; and although I hope for a safe exit, I do not very 
 well see my way out of it. 
 
 This, sir, is a question which I take no pleasure in agitating — I would 
 avoid it, if I could do so consistently with duty. I never speak upon it, 
 if I can help it; but avoid it I cannot — it meets me wherever I go: in 
 whatever business I undertake, it presents itself as the subject that will 
 be uppermost. It is like the plague of darkness that rested on the land 
 of Egypt. It pervades the world without — it fills the home within. It 
 veils the political horizon from the rising to the setting sun ; it obscures 
 the cheerful light of the domestic fire ; it darkens faces which have never 
 known before the shadow of an abiding sorrow ; and if it does not fill 
 the American mind with apprehension, it disturbs and distracts it. It is 
 the word on every lip, and the thought in every mind. I see nothing 
 better to do than to discuss the question fully. It is here — let us deal 
 with it at once. Let us see in what respects we can agree, in what we 
 cannot concur; and if, unhappily, we cannot adjust the controversy our- 
 selves, then we must make up the issue, argue it fully, and present it 
 fairly, and as calmly as we can, to the American people. I shall await 
 their verdict with much of hope, if not with entire confidence. The 
 question will go then to every fireside ; it will be discussed by every head 
 of a household as a matter of the highest political interest to the family ; 
 and the verdict which will then be rendered will be more momentous in its 
 consequences to mankind, than any which a people has ever pronounced. 
 Should it be just and temperate — should it be of a character to settle 
 all differences and compose strife — I, and all who witness it, will feel 
 that the problem of man's capacity for self-government has been fully 
 solved by the American mind, and, what is better, the American heart — 
 a mind which has proved itself capable of pursuing truth, and a heart 
 which has shown that it was animated by feelings of justice and the 
 kindly emotions of fraternal affection. 
 
 Mr. President, the senator from Massachusetts says be will not pause 
 to consider upon what fragment of the wreck he is to float away. Sir, 
 I wish he may always have the whole ship to sustain him, and that the 
 
THE UNION. 171 
 
 stately hull, with which he is so identified in fame, may neither dissolve 
 into fragments nor float away in parcels. And yet, sir, I feel mora 
 •inxious, more apprehensive for its safety, than he seems to do, because, 
 perhaps, I am in a situation more exposed to danger. But he should 
 recoUefit that things have changed, and are changing, since the crew first 
 were shipped. We have lost sight of the old landmark. If there be a 
 voice to command, we hear it not — a hand to steer, we see it not. Dis- 
 trust and suspicion are fast taking the place of the generous confidence 
 which used to animate the crew; a portion of them have been told that 
 they were to have no common interest in the voyage — to share in nothing 
 but its labours, its perils, and difficulties; and this, too, when the night 
 and the storm are gathering around, and an unknown sea is before us. 
 Is there no danger of driving them to despair ? What if they should 
 refuse to touch a rope, to hand a yard, to furl a sail ? Will you threaten 
 them with the pains and penalties of the mutiny act ? What if you do — 
 if you should apply force — if you should overwhelm and master them ? 
 How long afterward before the winds and the waves would master you ? 
 No, sir ; it is not thus that the ship is to be saved. With united hearts, 
 with united hands, with united counsels, we can and ought to save the 
 ship, the crew, and every hope and promise with which it is freighted. 
 We may save mankind, whose gaze is upon us, the pain of beholding 
 the spectacle of so vast a wreck, upon each fragment of which some 
 portion of the crew would indeed float away, but each upon its separate 
 course, and to a destiny all unknown. 
 
 We can and ought to settle this contest upon the principles of justice 
 and of the Constitution — not, sir, by any halfway compromise, which 
 would cover up and conceal the difficulty, without removing it. . Such 
 patchwork would be illusory, and invite false hopes, whose disappoint- 
 ment would increase the bitterness of the dispute when it was again re- 
 newed. The one party or the other might find some supposed ground 
 for charges of bad faith, and thus new elements of strife might " em- 
 broil the fray." On the contrary, a just settlement is a long settlement; 
 it is good to-day, and as good to-morrow, or a hundred years hence. 
 Is it too much, then, Mr. Resident, for the South to ask, that this go- 
 vernment should not be converted, either directly oi: indirectly, into an 
 instrument of warfare on her peace and her property ? Is it too much 
 for her to ask to be permitted to take her seat at the board of family 
 council, without being received with taunts, insults, and denunciation ? 
 Is it extravagant in her to expect that the provisions of the Constitution 
 inserted for her protection, and because it was the condition upon which 
 alone the Union could be formed, should be executed, not according to 
 their letter merely, but in spirit and in truth ? And last, but not least, 
 does she seek more than the Constitution guaranties, when she asks that 
 the property, of every description, of each and all the citizens of the 
 United States, should be protected by the General Government, whcre- 
 ever its jurisdiction is paramount, and its flag floats as the sole emblem 
 of human authority ? Can this last be refused, except by a denial of 
 the right of property ? Now, sir, what is there in all this to offend the 
 well-settled opinions, or even the plausible prejudices, of any large por- 
 
172 FIELDS'S SCKAP-BOOK. 
 
 tion of our fellow-citizens? We do not ask them to establish a new 
 state of things, or to create any thing which did not exist before ; but 
 to recognise facts and to acknowledge obligations created, not by our- 
 selves, but by our fathers, when they formed this Union, to which we 
 are all attached. We ask for peace and justice ; is this too much for one 
 man — for one brother-rt-to expect of another? Can the Southern States 
 exist as the confederated equals of the Northern with less than this ? Mr. 
 President, I am deeply anxious to settlethe exciting questions peaceably 
 and harmoniously, not only now, but for ever, if any satisfactory settle? 
 pient could be made so permanent. For this purpose, I am willing to 
 Baci'ifice feeling, pride of opinion-:-if I have it — rinterests even, if not of 
 too important a character: — any thing, in short, which I can do consist- 
 ently with the honour and safety of my constituents. But there is one 
 thing I never will do : I will not sacrifiee those rights which are necessary 
 to protect the liberties of my native State, be the consequences of that 
 refusal what they may. 'But, sir, I exhaust myself, and weary the 
 Senate. I will pursue the subject no farther. 
 
 By Hon. D. S. Katjpman, of Texas, in the Hovse of Representatives, 
 
 June 10, 1850. 
 
 1 appeal to you, then, my fellow-members, to step forward and dis- 
 charge fearlessly your duty to your country. Not- only are the people 
 of the United States anpously awaiting our action here, but the whole 
 civilized world is looking on with the deepest and most intense interest. 
 Not otily does the Grenius of Liberty, from her elevated place over your 
 speaker's chair, silently point to us, with scroll in hand, and solemnly 
 warn us into the path of duty; but over the main entrance to this hall 
 we see represented Clio, the Muse of History, with pen ip hand, mounted 
 upon the chariot of Time, taking note of the events which daily tranr 
 spire here. She seems to be averting her face from the page of the 
 present ! Oh, may it not be ominous of events, unworthy of record, 
 about to transpire in this sacred hall of freedom ! But may our action 
 be such that she will be enabled, out of the events of this session, to 
 fill the brightest page of human history-;-that which records thetiiumph 
 of a free people over themselves, their passions, and their prejudices. 
 How solemn q,nd impressive the lesson intended to be taught us by this 
 instructive and admonitory symbol ! Our acts and conduct here will 
 not pass unnoticed. They will be transmitted to distant generations ; 
 and ages after we have passed to "the house prepared for all living," 
 will our memories be blessed or cursed in proportion as our acts have 
 blessed or cursed our country. May Heaven enlighten our judgments, 
 purify our motives, and "deliver us from evilj" and may each one of 
 us so act as to transmit to his children, and to posterity, the rich legacy 
 of a. pure and a patnoi name ! 
 
' THE UNION. 17g 
 
 /ij' Hon. James McDoweu., of Virginia, in the Souse o/Eepresentativei. 
 
 II is said, sir, that, at some dark hour of our revolutionai-y contest, 
 when army after army had been lost ; wh^, dispirited, beaten, wretched, 
 the heart of the boldest and faithfulest died within them, and all, for 
 an instant, seemed conquered, except the unconquerable soul of our 
 father-chief, it is said, that at that moment, rising above all the auguries 
 around him, and buoyed up by the inspiration of his immortal work for 
 all the trials it could bring, he roused anew the sunken spirits of his 
 associates by this confident and daring declaration : — " Strip me (said 
 he) of the dejected and suffering remnant of my army — take from me 
 all that I have left — Cleave but a banner, give me but the means to plafit 
 it upon the mountains of West Augusta, and I will yet draw around 
 me the men who will lift up their bleeding country from the dust, and 
 set her free." Give to me, who am a son and representative here of 
 that West Augusta, give to me, as a banner, the propitious measure I 
 have endeavoured to support, help me to plant it lipOn this mountain- 
 top of our national power, and the land of Washington, undivided and 
 unbroken, will be our land, and the land of our children's children, foif 
 ever. So help me to do this at this hour, and generations hence, some 
 future repreSentatiye of the South, standing where I stand, in this same 
 honoured hall, and in the midst of our legitimate successors, will bless 
 and praise and thank God, that he too can say of them, as I of you, 
 and of all around me, These, these, are my brethren, and this, this, oh ! 
 thii too, is iny amntry 1 
 
 J5^ Hon. J. H. Savage, of Tennessee, in the House of Sqiresentativis. 
 
 Sir, I trust I am not more fearful than other meu. If danger com^s, 
 I expect to be as ready to meet it as I am now anxious to avoid it. I 
 pray to God that I may never again witness the wild work of human 
 destruction, called " glorious war." I hope that eternal peace' may bless 
 the world. With me. 
 
 The drying np a single tear Iiath iaore 
 
 Of honest fame, than bedding seas c/l gore. 
 
 But for the remarks of the gentlemen who have precedied me, I should 
 have thought it no part of my duty to allude to the great que^ion of 
 slavery, now agitating this' country from centre to circumference, and 
 threatening a destiny so dark and disastrous. Sir, I have read some- 
 where of a fabled magnet, far in the deep blue sea, whose fatal influence 
 withdrew the nails from every vessel that came within its Sphere, leaving 
 the proud ship and its proudet masters an inglorious wreck amid the 
 solitudes of the ocean. Who cannot see that while this question is tin- 
 settled, each hour will be extracted those fastenings that bind this 
 glorious confederacy together, until our proud ship is left a shaiiered, 
 broken, disunited thing, tc sink beneath the sarge of time, as otkers 
 ■p2 
 
174 FIBLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 that have gone before, with no voice to record our memory, but that 
 which proclaims our folly ? 
 
 * * * * But I want no such issue. I love the people of the 
 North. I have always felt that I would peril all that is dear to my 
 native State to protect from lawless violence Massachusetts' humblest 
 citizen or most barren rock. Those of them who know me, know that 
 I do. I have never imagined, nor can I now imagine, how I could live 
 out of the Union. I have ever hoped that our ship of state, self-poised 
 upon the billows, would gather the tempests in her sails, and fly with 
 lightning speed to the haven of transcendent national glory, amid the 
 plaudits of an admiring world. And for this, I shall still be ready to 
 make every sacrifice, except my honour and my right to be free and 
 equal on every foot of land beneath the " stars and stripes." 
 
 By Hon. Henry Ceay, at ajpvMic meeting in- Baltimore. 
 
 There is one point, however, on which I feel at liberty to express my- 
 self fully — I allude to the Union of the States. This question is, in my 
 view, paramount to every other. There is none of sufficient importance 
 to be considered in connection with it. Under all circumstances, in any 
 and every event, I shall labour for the perpetuity of our Union. Let 
 the storm come from what quarter it may, I am prepared to meet it, 
 and to stand by our glorious confederacy. [Here Mr. Clay arose to his 
 full height, and became exceedingly animated, while his eye flashed 
 with fire, and communicating his enthusiasm to the entire audience, 
 they were deeply moved, and gave vent to their feelings in deafening 
 applause.] Mr. Clay continued, — I look upon the dissolution of the 
 Union as productive of every evil that could possibly befall us as a people. 
 Should so awful an event take place, even those who dare to meditate it . 
 would reap no possible good, but would share the general ruin. In that 
 sad event, our country would need no historian. The history of Greece 
 and of other ancient republics would be her history. Entangling fo- 
 reign alliances and internal commotions of every character would speedily 
 follow. Some daring military chieftain would arise, and play, once 
 more, the part of a Philip or an Alexander. We should be involved in 
 wars, wars, wars — wars most bloody, unrelenting, and devastating, would 
 be entailed upon us. But I trust in God,. gentlemen, that such a time 
 may never arrive, and I assure you that my untiring efforts shall be 
 directed against it. 
 
 £}f Hon William H. Stewart, in the House of Representatives oj 
 the State of Texas, 
 
 I cannot subscribe to the doctrine of disunion, though it should be 
 that of the leading politicians of the South. I am opposed to looking 
 forward and anticipating «uch an event. The time for separation has not 
 Xet come, and- 1 hope never will ; and I cannot but think that such doc- 
 
THE UNION. 175 
 
 trines somewhat evinas a want of true patriotism. When I look at the 
 advent of a dissolution^ when I ponder well the bitter consequences, and, 
 in the future, gaze upon the shattered fragments of this mighty nation, 1 
 feel -like shedding tears. When that sad event comes, I should desire 
 to hide myself in some secluded cave, in the lonely mountain side 
 where I could not witness my country's desolation or get rumour of her 
 distracted state of commotion, civil wars, ruin, destruction, and final 
 annihilation. None can imagine fully the wretched consequences. It 
 seems to me that universal night would envelop the earth and liberty 
 be buried amidst the wreck. The South could derive pcbenefit from it; 
 the North nothing ; bats would cluster about our untenanted dwellings, 
 owls hoot over our deserted villages, and wolves resume their hideous 
 yells in our vacated farm-yards. 
 
 Gentlemen talk of the glorious march of our country, and all feel 
 proud of her pre-eminent position among the nations of the earth. 
 why, then, shall we abandon the Union, under which we have attained 
 this power and greatness, and national superiority ? Abandon it for 
 what ? For an experiment ? Was not the experiment sufficiently tried 
 by our forefathers in the old confederation ? Were they not driven by 
 imperious necessity to the formation of the Constitution which now 
 governs the American people ? If the Union be dissolved, we shall not 
 find ourselves in any better situation than they were in. And what, sir, 
 are we taught by the history of those times ? The old confederation 
 wholly failed to secure the ends its founders had in view. Has each 
 State the elements or the power essential to a separate nationality ? We 
 should make ourselves the laughing-stock of the advocates of monarchical 
 government; we would soon become disaffected among ourselves; civil 
 war would ensue between the several States, and all would be over- 
 whelmed in one total, common ruin. 
 
 I think we should strangle this feeling of disunion in its birth, and 
 we should not pass any resolution that has a squinting that way — -let 
 us wait till the proper time shall come ; and I trust in Grod it may never 
 come. I for one cannot subscribe to any doctrine or action that has a 
 tendency to hurry on a crisis which I so deeply deplore. Instead of 
 fanning the flame of discontent, I am for pouring oil upon the troubled 
 waters. 
 
 By Hon. Joshua F. Johnson, m the House of Representatives of the 
 State of Texas, on the Santa Fe question. 
 
 Sir, nothing less than an imperious necessity shall ever force me tc 
 vote for desperate measures. It shall be the last resort, when every 
 means of reconciliation have been exhausted, and every hope of an 
 honourable compromise is lost. 
 
 The situation of my State, her interest in the perpetuity of the Union, 
 demand it. Sir, Texas is just now relieving herself of the many diffi- 
 culties and embarrassments that have so long oppressed and cramped the 
 energies o? her people. For almost a quarter of a century, slid ha* 
 
176 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 beien exposed to all the dangers, endured all the privations, and submit 
 ted to all the inconveniences incident to frontier life. 
 
 As a pioneer of the wilderness, her life has been one of self-sacrifice, 
 long-suffering and peculiar hardships. She has had not only to subdue 
 the wilderness, but tame the savage and beat back the Mexican. It is 
 the proud boast of the Texan, that his State only, of all the States, 
 Unaided and alone-, achieved her independence. During her short life, 
 Texas has suffered more than every State in the Union together has, for 
 the last fifty years. Then sir, will you, just as Texas is emerging from 
 her past difficulties and entering upon a happy and prosperous career, 
 in full view of that bright and glorious destiny that so surely awaits her, 
 ■ with a folly but little short of madness, blast and destroy for ever all 
 the long-cherished hopes of years of patient toU and long-suffering? 
 Such in all human probability will be the effect of the passage of this 
 bill. Gentlemen may endeavour, but in vaiuj to persuade themselves 
 that this is a dark picture drawn by an over-heated iimagination. Bq't,' 
 sit, I tell you now, that though you have the power to raise the storm 
 and lash the political tempest into fury, it will not be still at your bid- 
 ding : a greater power than yours, and I fear than upon this earth, must 
 hush the convulsed -elements to repose. 
 
 Sir, if an armed force of Texans ever reach the territory of Santa 
 FC) nothing but divine interposition can prevent the collision so much 
 to be deplored. Texans will fight : place but shame and disgrace in 
 their rear, add they caa see no danger in the cannon's mouth. Bragg's 
 flying artillery will have no terrors for them ; and, sir, I Vll you, the 
 bitter taunts, the ill-timed jibes, and insolent criminations of the regular 
 army towards the Texans, will ba the prelude to the darkest and blood- 
 iest day ever recorded in the book of time. Nor will Texas alone be 
 the victim of this fatal and ill-timed policy. The first gun fired upon 
 the plains of Santa Fe sounds the death-knell of this Union. At the 
 signal, the North and South will break into opposing ranks : the sad 
 and gloomy spectade will be presented to the world, of brother arrayed 
 against brother, friend against friend, countryman against countryman, 
 ^(Waiting the signal to commence the work of ruin and death ; and all 
 for what ? Is it for the glory and pride of Texas ? No sir. Kesult 
 as it will, end as it may, no good can result to Texas. If we meet with 
 resistance, we ruin Texas and sacrifice the Union. If the American 
 army, at our first approach, ignobly and disgracefully flee before us, the 
 glory of the American confederacy is tarnished, the charm of the Union 
 is broken ; the spell that knit and bound the souls of twenty millions 
 of freemen together will be loosed for ever. Had not Texas rather 
 sacrifice much, than bring down such a fearful calamity upon the 
 American people ? 
 
 5^ Hon. William Fields., m the House of Representatives 0/ the State 
 of Texas, on the same subject' 
 
 But I am not willing to vote for a war, a civil war, if we may so term 
 it, for it is to be a war between Texas and the United States,,wbile there 
 
THE UNION. 177 
 
 M any hope of peace. No, sir, not while there is anj glimmering of 
 peace, even in the distance, will I vote for a bill calculated to plunge 
 the country into civil commotion — to drench it in blood — to desolate the 
 land, and blast the hopes of the friends of freedom throughout thu 
 world I am told that war is not mentioned in the bill before the 
 House. I know it. The word "war" is not used in the billj yet it is a 
 war measure. You can call it nothing else. Does it not propose to 
 raise an army, and to send it to Santa Fe ? And for what ? Merely to 
 come back again ? No, sir — to fight ; that is the object, of course. And 
 whom are we to fight ? Why, not only New Mexico, but the United 
 States ; for the President says he will order the forces of the United 
 States to oppose us. And shall we rush into this civil war hastily, and 
 without mature reflection ? I hope not. It is a serious affair, and we 
 should reflect much before we act. It is no small matter to array our- 
 selves against the General Government. 
 
 "Where, and when, and how is this conflict to end, if the ball is once 
 put in motion ? Sir, upon this Legislature rests a vast responsibility. 
 In our hands are the destinies of the country. Upon our action on this 
 momentous question, a republic, as it were, is to be lost or won. If a 
 blow be struck and blood flow, dissolution must follow. 
 
 All admit this, and yet gentlemen are not willing to give us time U. 
 hear the proposition for compromise. They would hazard all upon a 
 single throw of the die. They would demolish the best model of re- 
 publican government ever reared by man. Our experiment, so full of 
 interest to us, and to the generations to follow, and upon which the world 
 has looked with so much solicitude, will then prove a failure. And what 
 will we have gained ? Santa Fe will be lost! — the Union will be dis- 
 solved ! ! — and Texas will be millions of dollars deeper in debt ! ! ! 
 
 Bif Hon. James C. Wilson, in the House of Representatives of the Slate 
 of Texas, on the same subject. 
 
 Mr. Speaker, I do not often make a personal. allusion, but I must, say 
 that I feel my position on this question to be very peculiar. I have felt 
 fettered in my action on every question in which the possibility of dis- 
 union was used as an argument ; chained down to the earth, as it werey^ 
 by the peculiar circumstances by which I stand surrounded. 
 
 Yesterday, I had occasion to offer a few remarks, and hardly had I"< 
 taken my seat when I heard the remark from more than one gentleman^ 
 who addressed the House, " I love the Union too much to pursue a course* 
 which will bring Texas in conflict with the troops of the Creneral Go^ 
 vemment. I was born beneath the stars and stripes." But the gentle- 
 man from Smith (Mr. Lott) was more pointed in his remarks. After 
 assuring the House of his own devotion to the Union, and assuming that 
 the course advocated by myself and others might result in dissolution, 
 he speaks of me by name, as avowing an attachment for the Union, and 
 yet recommending preparation for action, which, should it become n«< 
 
 i: 
 
178 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 cessary to adopt, might place the Union in jeopardy ; and he significantly 
 asserts : " /was born in the South, and under the stars and stripes, and 
 T claim to have at least as much love for the Union as the gentleman 
 from Wharton can lay claim to." It may be that the gentleman had 
 no reference to my peculiar situation. I am willing to believe that be 
 has a sufficient sense of propriety, and a sufficient amount of right feel- 
 ing to prevent his intentionally doing so. But if he did not so intend 
 
 it, it only shows 
 
 That many a shaft at random sent, 
 And many a word at random spoken, 
 Finds mark the archer little meant 
 
 To have been born in the sunny South and nurtured under the stars 
 and stripes, is a proud boast. 
 
 Such has not been my fortune. I am a native of a foreign land ; but 
 my constituents, who know me better than the gentleman, are not afraid 
 to trust me, even in these times of trouble ; and, sir, as their represen- 
 tative, I stand here with as many privileges as the most favoured. 
 
 True, sir, that by the accident of birth, I cannot claim the title of 
 American. I became an American citizen from, dwice, and not by 
 accident. 
 
 I feel myself, sir, to be, upon this floor, every inch American, and 
 that every pulsation of my heart, every drop in my veins is devoted to 
 the sustenance of American prosperity and American greatness. 
 
 A devotion to the American Union fills my heart, as true and as in- 
 telligent as that which warms the breast of any man who hears me. I 
 love America, because I can appreciate her mission and her glorious des- 
 tiny. I love her institutions, because I understand them. 
 
 Sir, it is with reluctance that I speak thus of myself j but the remarks 
 to which I have alluded were painful to me in a degree which none can 
 understand who have not experienced. It is not the first time that persons 
 exulting in the mere accident of birth have made me feel that I was 
 not born an American. 
 
 But I have one consolation. My attachment to republican institu- 
 tions and to the American name is not to be proved to-day : I have not 
 said it in the pleasant times of peace, and when the avowal cost me 
 nothing. 
 
 . Seven years ago — more than seven years ago, I was a prisoner in a 
 loathsome cell, loaded with irons, and suffering starvation.* The present 
 was misery, the future was gloom, and from that situation I could have 
 delivered myself by one word. I could have come forth to meet the 
 warm, cheerful, smiling face of day, and to mingle with civilized men 
 of my own nation and speaking my own tongue. I could have changed 
 the bitterness of captivity and chains for the comforts and enjoyments 
 of freedom, and yet I declined. Thrice the representative of my native 
 
 ■ *3Iri Wilson was one of the Mier prisoners, and was for a long time incarcerated in 
 
 the dungeons of Perote. He is an Englishman, and was offered his liberty by the 
 
 . British minister in Mexico, if he would claim British protection ; but he refused, and 
 
 ■ rcraained with bis -unfortunate comrades. California's wea th could not cori'upt such 
 
 ' t' heart.-.yi7fl(»Vo*-. 
 
TEE UNION. 179 
 
 idr.d clFertd me freedom, if I would claim the rights of a British subject 
 and the protection of the British crown — and thriee I declined. Prefer- 
 ring rather to suffer and to starve with the bretjiren of my adoption, 
 than to owe my liberation to the influence of the sbvereigb firom whom 
 I had withdrawn my allegiance. To-day I am rewarded. [Here th« 
 applause so shook the house, that the reporter could not note the remark.^ 
 of the speaker.] 
 
 Mr. Speaker, it is the proudest boast of my life, to be an intelligent 
 freeman, to understand American institutions and to love them. But I 
 love them for their purity, for their equality ; when they are perverted 
 from their purity, I will fight agaiost the perversion; when in their 
 name oppression is resorted to, I will fight against the oppression. This 
 is not striving against, but for the Union. 
 
 But, sir, whatever else I may be, I can claim to be a Texan ; from my 
 boyhood, Texas has been my home. She ia bound to my heart by a thou- 
 sand ties. Here my mind and character were formed. Here my lot i? 
 cast, and here will be the home of my children. All my wishes, all my 
 hopes, all my interests, all my feelings are Texan. Upon the soil of 
 Texas dwell all who are dear to me on earth : in her bosom are the graveis 
 of my dead. When she is threatened with disgrace, when a mightier 
 power would crush her, when the hand that should protect is stretched 
 forth to dismember her, it stirs up feelings in my breast, strong, sir, too 
 strong for utterance. .It wakes emotions in my heart, which, perhaps^ 
 are best confined there. I have no desire that they should sleep. I glory 
 in them. 
 
 By Hon. Jebrt Clemens, of Alabama, at a public meeting in 
 MunUviUe. 
 
 Restless men — men of blind prejudices and headstrong passions — ^will 
 assuredly say and do things calculated to disturb the harmony of the 
 Republic. It may even be that in some States excitement may carry 
 them to the verge of secession. I hope Alabama may not be found 
 armong the number. We have a deep stake in the preservation of the 
 Union, and that must, indeed, be a serious grievance which can justify 
 secession. Not quite twelve months since, I saw for the first time the 
 tomb of Washington. Clouds and darkness then hung over the land. 
 Disunion was a familiar word. Most of us had lost confidence in the 
 friendly disposition of our Northern brethren, and were looking forward 
 to a violent termination of the impending controversy. I gazed upon 
 the spot where the remains of that great and good man repose, and asked 
 to whom will he belong when we are divided ? It was not for the South 
 alone he fought; not for the South alone he spumed a kingly diadem. 
 The South, indeed, gave him to the nation, but he gave to the whole land 
 .iberty and independence, and all alike are the heirs of his glory. The 
 pilgrim ftom Bunker Hill, aa well as he from Camden, has a right to 
 visit that sacred spot, and kneel and worship there. His awful shade 
 
ISO FIBLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 would rise to rebuke tbe section that dared to appropriate him bO itself 
 We cannot divide him, nor can we divide the trophies gathered on the 
 bloody fields of the Bevolution. Many a soiled banner, which once 
 waved above a haughty foe, is now to be seen at the capital of the Re- 
 public, and the American who can look upon them and not feel his heart 
 beat quicker and his step grow prouder and firmer, is unworthy of the 
 name. All these were jointly won, and belong to us in common, in 
 our own times, we have created for our children a bond of amity, which 
 I fervently pray may endure for ever. On more than one glorious field. 
 New England and South Carolina together faced the cannon's mouth, 
 and mingled their blood in a common pool. From the mouth of the 
 Rio Grande to Buena Vista every hamlet is vocal with the story of Ame- 
 rican prowess. From Vera Cruz to the city of Mexico, all along the 
 route the dauntless Spaniard trod — ^upon the very fields of his fame — 
 American valour and American science have eclipsed even the wild 
 romance of " The Conquest," and Hernando Cortez has yielded the laurel 
 crown to "Winfield Scott. It was not by the North or the South that 
 this bright page of our story was written. Side by side they braved 
 the pestilence; 'side by side they won victory after victory, and annihi- 
 lated in one campaign the military power of a mighty nation. 
 
 No one ever thought of asking there whether the eyes of his comrade 
 had first opened to the light of day in Maine or Louisiana. No one in- 
 quired from what section came the hand that stanched his bleeding 
 wounds or held the cup to his. fevered lips. It was a brother's hand, no 
 matter whence it come, and asked no recompense but a brother's love. 
 If there was nothing else to bind this Union together, these are ties that 
 no wise and good man would willingly sever. 
 
 Extract from an address of Hon. Lewis Cass, of Michigan, before the 
 Kalamazoo Agricultural Sodety, October 11, 1850. 
 
 My fellow-citizens, I come to you from a scene far difiorent from this ; 
 from a scene where there was neither eye nor heart for the peaceful and 
 prosperous labourers of agriculture ; but where great interests were com- 
 mitted to doubtful and excited legislators, and where there was too much 
 reason to fear, at one time, that we should sow the wind, while you would 
 reap the whirlwind. And such would have been the harvest of cala- 
 mity, had not a mighty voice been heard, when the tempest raged the 
 loudest, and speaking louder than the tempest, said, "Peace, be still," — 
 and all was still. But this voice did not issue from the seat of your 
 General Government; it came there, borne upon the four winds of hea- 
 ven ; from the east and from the west, from the north and from the 
 south ; from the American people, and almost the whole people, who, 
 feeling the peril of their country, rose up in their power, and rebuking 
 their servants, commanded them, promptly, and by wise legislation, to 
 restore peace and harmony to the republic — and it was done. The great 
 causp of freedom and self-government, not for us alone, but for the irho'e 
 human race, has been tried and gained. 
 
THK UNION. 181 
 
 Mauy an eye walxslied us in Europe. Many a heart throbbed with 
 hope or fear. With hope or fear, as he who watched us believed that 
 man was made to govern himself, or to be governed by hereditary rulers, 
 knowing that for long years to come, for ages, indeed it may be, the 
 great experiment was on trial here, and if it failed by our intestine divi- 
 sions, it failed for mankind, till again renewed by time and blood and 
 oppression. Great was the danger, and great is the success. Blessed 
 be the God of our fathers and our own God, we are yet one country, ono 
 people, one government. And so may we continue, till human institutiom 
 Ehall have fulfilled their functions, and have been succeeded by the 
 advent of that period, foretold by prophecy and foreseen by faith, when 
 " the kingdoms of the world become the kingdoms of our Lord and of 
 his Christ, and he shall reign for ever and ever." 
 
 [The following eloquent passage, rife with the spirit of wisdom and 
 pabiotism, occurs in a letter addressed by General Cass to the Secretary 
 of the recent Union Democratic meeting in New York, in reply to one 
 requesting his presence on the occasion.] 
 
 Let him who wiU, calculate the value of this Union, if he can. I 
 spurn the useless effort. Its value is in the past, in the present, and in the 
 future ; in its promises, iti performances, audits hopes; in all it has done, 
 and is doing, and is destined yet, I trust, to do. Ite value is in the heart 
 of every true American. It has made ours the most prosperous country on 
 the face of the earth ; ^ven us a greater measure of national freedom than 
 any other people ever enjoyed ; placed us among the powerful nations of 
 the world, with nothing to fear but our own follies and crimes and the 
 judgment of God j it has spread an intelligent, a happy, a contented, and a 
 virtuous population over our hills, and valleys, and prairies, from the shores 
 of the Atlantic almost to the base of the Eocky Mountains, which the hardy 
 pioneer is now ascending ; and it has already brought us the great po- 
 litical offering, to be laid upon the altar of our common country, of a 
 constitution from a free people, who have established their home upon 
 the very shores that look out upon China and 'Japan. 
 
 All this our Union has done ; but if left to go on, its work has but just 
 begun. We cannot explore the future ; it is best we should not. But 
 we have reason to hope, with proper humility, indeed, that, if not struck 
 with judicial blindness, the career of this great republic will be as glorious 
 di itself as it will be happy for its people and encouraging to the lovers 
 of freedom throughout the world. The cause of human lihertif depends 
 on us. If lost here hy intestine divisions, it is lost everywhere. 
 
 We have not only our own fate in our hands, but the great question 
 of the power of sdf-govemment is committed to our keeping If we can- 
 not govern ourselves, who can ? If this constitution falls, the next that 
 will govern us may be the sword. My ardent prayer is, that I may 
 never live to see that day 
 
 Q 
 
4fe2 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 THE BABE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 IH'E bi-autiful remarks which follow are extracted from speeches deli- 
 vered in tde House of Representatives of the State of Texas, on a bill pro- 
 posing a donation to the daughter of Almiram Dickinson, one of tbo 
 martyrs who fell at the Alamo, in the beginning of the Texan revolution. 
 
 History will never record a nobler deed-"— a more daring stand — a 
 purer, self-sacrificing devotion to the interests and liberties of their 
 adopted country, than the fight and fall of Travis, Bowie, Crockett, and 
 their gallant compatriots. One hundred and fifty or sixty men, under 
 Travis, were arrayed against thousands of Mexicans, under Santa Anna, 
 the then President of Mexico, who has so often styled himself the second 
 Napoleon: and heroically did they wield the battle blade, till the last 
 man of that glorious band was made to measure his length upon his 
 mother earth. No quarter was asked or given — and not a soul was left 
 to tell the tale but the wife of Dickinson, with her infant daughter. 
 How terribly heart-sickening must have been the sight of that conflict — 
 the massacre of that unaided, devoted few, to this distressed woman — 
 this unwilling witness of such cruel slaughter. 
 
 Such are some of the scenes, the calamities, the woful consequences 
 of, as the Mexicans then pretended to consider it, civil war. It equalled, 
 in atrocity, the wanton cruelty of the Austrians towards the Hungarians, 
 in the late struggle for liberty of that gallant but unfortunate people. 
 Perhaps the eye of Almighty God never witnessed a more terrific struggle, 
 hilt to hilt, than 
 
 On that dreadful night, 
 When Travis had to fight 
 The myrmidons of power and the opposers of right. 
 
 Bjf Hon. Guy M. Bryan. 
 
 I intended, Mr. Speaker, to remain silent on this occasion, but silence 
 now Would be a reproach, when to speak is but a duty. No one has 
 raised a voice in behalf of this orphan child — several have spoken against 
 her claim. I rise, sir, an advocate of no common cause. Liberty was 
 its foundation— heroism and martyrdom have consecrated it. I speak 
 for the orphan child of the Alamo ! No orphan children of fallen pa- 
 triots can send up a similar petition to this House, — none other can say, 
 lam the child of the Alamo ! 
 
 Well do I recollect the consternation which was spread throughout 
 the land, when the sad tidings reached our ears that the Alamo had 
 fallen ! It was here that a gallant few, " the bravest of the brave," 
 threw themselves between the enemy and the settlements, determined 
 " never to surrender nor retreat." They redeemed their pledge to Texas 
 with the forfeit of their lives— they fell the chosen sacrifice to Texan 
 freedom. Texas, unapprized of the approach of the invader, was sleej.in" 
 in fancied security, when the big gun of the Alarac first told that the 
 
THE BABE OF THE ALAMO. ISiS 
 
 Attila of the South was near. Infuriated by the resistance of Travis 
 and his noble band, he halted his whole army beneath the walls, ami 
 rolled wave after wave and surge after surge of his mighty host againsi 
 these stern battlements of freedom. In vain he strove — the flag of 
 liberty, the Lone Star of Texas, still streamed out upon the breeze, and 
 floated proudly fronl the outer wall. Maddened, he pitched his tents and 
 reared his batteries, and, finally, stormed and took a black and ruined 
 mass, the blood-stained walls of the Alamo. The noble, the martyred 
 Eipirits of every^ one of its gallant defenders had already taken their flight 
 to another fortress, not made with hands. 
 
 This detention of the enemy eaabled Texas to recuperate her energies, 
 to prepare for th*at struggle, in which freedom was the prize, and slavery 
 the forfeit. It enabled her to assemble upon the Colorado that gallant 
 band ****** which eventually triumphed 
 upon the plains of San Jacinto, and rolled back the tide of war upon 
 the ruthless invader. 
 
 But for this stand at the Alamo, Texas would have been desolated to 
 the banks of the Sabine. Then, sir, in view of these facts, I ask of this 
 House to vote the pittance prayed for. To whom ? To the only living 
 witness (save her mother) of this awful tragedy — " the bloodiest picture 
 in the book of time," and the bravest act that that ever swelled the 
 annals of any country. 
 
 Grant this boon ! she claims it as the christened child of the Alamo, 
 baptized in the blood of a Travis, a Bowie, a Crockett, and a Bouham ! 
 
 It would be a shame to Texas to turn her away. Grive her what she 
 asks, in order that she may be educated, and become a worthy child of 
 the State, and take that position in society to which she is entitled by 
 the illustrious name of her martyred father — made illustrious because 
 he fell in the Alamo ! 
 
 By Hon. J. C. Wilson. 
 
 But who is this child, sir, and whence her particular claim upon the 
 public coflfers ? It has been attempted on this floor to show that there is 
 no distinction between this case and hundreds of others in the State of 
 Texas. Is this true, sir? What other child is there, even in Texas, 
 whose eyes but opened into consciousness to look upon such a scene of 
 havoc and of blood? What other can urge such claims upon Texas? 
 She is not only the orphan child of one of the bravest patriots who em- 
 braced the cause of infant Texas, the cause of struggling freedom against 
 proud oppression — -the orphan of one of that gallant, devoted, manyred 
 band, who perished to a man, in defence ■'f the Alamo; but, more than 
 this, she is the last remaining vestige of all the American' name and 
 race — the sole survivor, except the mother upon whose breast she hung, 
 of all who looked forth upon the rising of that sun whose setting light 
 shone upon the battered wall and the bloody dust of the Alamo. 
 
 She remains unto us as a trophy and a badge of an hour the blackest, 
 yet the brightest, in the whole calendar of time — of au event which, 
 
184 FIELDS'S SCEAP-BOOIt. 
 
 Bhinlng out in the hallowed radiance of its glory, through all the da.-k 
 and lurid clouds that surrounded it, marks the brightest spot upon the 
 broad page of history. She remdns unto us, sir, as a living link con- 
 necting the present and the future with the past. 
 
 The student of Grecian history in every age, in every land, has fels 
 his bosom glow with a noble fire, while reading of L^onidas and the threo 
 hundred who fell with him at Thermopylae; but when the Alamo fell, 8 
 nobler than Leonidas, a more devoted band than Sparta ever saw, sank 
 among its ruins. 
 
 They shed their blood for us — they poured out their lives as water for 
 the liberties of Texas; and they have left to us of that bloody, yet glo- 
 rious conflict, one sole memento — one frail, perishable keepsake — the 
 child whose petition for assistance is now before us. 
 
 Shall we, in the spirit of cold-hearted parsimony, turn her away from 
 our doors? Shall we say to her, Though your father served the State in 
 life, though he fell amid the ranks of tho.se men whose names history 
 shaill delight to chronicle and nations to honour — though you alone, of all 
 the children of Texas, witnessed that direful scene, whose bare contempla- 
 tion makes the stout heart quail — though the credit and the honour of 
 Texas are concerned in taking care of your childhood and wMohing 
 over your youth, in providing for your happiness and respectability — 
 though you, the babe of the Alamo, will be an object of interest to all 
 who may visit our State in after years, when the pen of the historian 
 shall have shown your connection with the early glories and sufferings 
 of our now happy land ; yet, for all this, we will suffer you to grow up in 
 uncultured wildness, in baneful ignorance, perchance in the fcjetid atmo- 
 sphere of vice, rather than to make this little appropriation to enable you 
 to render yourself capable of occupying that respectable, nay, enviable 
 position in life, to which you are in a peculiar degree entitled, by all the 
 strange and thrilling circumstances of your situation. I trust, such an 
 act will never mar and disfigure the history of Texas. Sure am I, that' 
 by my vote it never shall. 
 
 It is related of Napoleon, that on an occasion when an officer whom 
 he loved was wounded, and, from the narrowness of the defile in which 
 the conflict raged, was in imminent danger of being crushed to death by 
 the feet of contending friends and foes, while the emperor looked on 
 with deep anxiety for his fate, a female, an humble follower of the army, 
 with a babe on one arm, pressed through the melee to the wounded man, 
 and, passing her other arm around him, conveyed him to a place of com- 
 parative safety, near the emperor; but just as she turned away from 
 the object of her benevolent and daring undertaking, a ball struck her 
 in the breast, and she fell dead at the feet of Napoleon. The emperor, 
 taking the motherless babe in Ms arms, called a grenadier, saying, " Bear 
 this child to the rear, guard it carefully, and see that it is well attended, 
 for henceforth it is the child of the Empire." I say, Mr. Speaker, the 
 babe of the Alamo is the child of the, State, and we cannot treat her 
 application with neglect, without entai'ing a lasting disgrace upon 
 Texas. 
 
THK DESTINY OF THIS REPUBLIC. 185 
 
 By Hon. E. H. Winfield. 
 
 PlactJ as I was in 1836, I cannot forego the satisfaction of saying 
 a few words in explanation of the vote I am about to give. Upon 
 the fall of the Alamo, I was selected by General Houston, in company, 
 I think, with Colonel Hockley, or Judge Franklin, to search for the 
 mother and infant daughter, the sole survivors of that deadly struggle. 
 We were ordered not to relax our exertions until we should find them 
 and conduct them into camp. The satisfaction I enjoyed. in the execu- 
 tion of this order it is beyond the power of language to express. When 
 we met them, and heard the widowed mother relate the story of that glo- 
 rious but dreadful day, I looked upon them with feelings allied ^o vene- 
 ration and awe. Plucked as if by a miracle from the hands of a ruthless 
 and infuriated soldiery, I viewed them as sacred and holy. Since that 
 day, I have never lost sight of them. Time and again have I begged 
 the mother in vain to give me that child, that my wife might raise it 
 with my own daughter. 
 
 I am surprised, and it is a matter of great astonishment to me, that 
 men whose faces I have known for fifteen years in Texas, could coldly 
 record their votes, refusing a little pittance to this orphan child. 
 
 It has been remarked that Thermopylae had her messenger of defeat. 
 The AxAMO had none. Where was the man, who could bear arms, 
 to convey the mournful intelligence ? All, all had fallen. Not a soul 
 escaped that massacre. The eye of God ajone could have protected this 
 child. I ^ave. heard many of the Mexicans, not only women and chil- 
 dren, but officers in the Mexican army, express the most unbounded 
 astonishment at her preservation amid all the horrors of that day, 
 ascribing it. to a special interposition of Heaven. 
 
 WHAT IS TO BE THE DESTINY OF THIS REPUBLIC r 
 
 BT JUDGE STORT. 
 
 When we reflect on what has been and what is, how is it possible not 
 to feel a profound sense of the responsibilities of this republic to all fu- 
 ture ages ! What vaat motives press upon us for lofty efforts ! What 
 brilliant prospects invite our enthusiasm! What solemn warnings at once 
 demand our vigilance and moderate our confidence ! 
 
 The old world has already revealed to us, in its unsealed books, the 
 beginning and end of all its marvellous struggles in the cause of liberty. 
 Greece ! lovely Greece ! " the land of scholars and the nurse of arms," 
 where sister republics, in fair processions, chanted the praise of liberty 
 ina the good — where and what is she ? . For two thousand years the op- 
 pressors have bound her to the earth. Her arts are no more. The last 
 «ad relics of her temples are but the barracks of a ruthless soldiery ; the 
 tragments of her columns and her palaces are in the dust, yet beautiM 
 in rain. She fell not when the mighty were upon her. Her sons were 
 a 2 
 
186 FIELDS'S SCKAP-BOOK. 
 
 united ac Thermopylae and Marathon ; and the tide of her triumpn ruJled 
 back upon the Hellespont. She was conquered by her own factions. 
 She fell by the hands of her own people. The man of Macedonia did 
 not the work of destruction. It was already done by her own corrup- 
 tions, banishments, and dissensions. Kome ! republican Rome ! whose 
 eagles glanced in the rising and setting sun, — where and what is she ? 
 The eternal city yet remains, proud even in her desolation, noble in her 
 decline, venerable in the majesty of religion, and calm as in the compo- 
 Bure of death. The malaria has but travelled in the parts won by the 
 destroyers More than eighteen centuries have mourned over the loss 
 of the empire. A mortal disease was upon her before Caesar had crossed 
 the Kubicon ; and Brutus did not restore her health by the deep prob- 
 ings of the senate-chamber. The Goths, and Vandals, and Huns, the 
 swarms of the north, completed only what was begun at home. Romans 
 betrayed Rome. The legions were bought and sold, but the people of- 
 fered the tribute-money. 
 
 And where are the republics of modern times, which cluster around 
 immortal Italy ? Venice and Genoa exist but in name. The Alps, 
 indeed, look down upon the brave and peaceful Swiss, in their native 
 fastnesses ; but, the guarantee of their freedom is in their weakness, and 
 not in their strength. The mountains are not easily crossed, and the 
 valleys are not easily retained. When the invader comes, he moves 
 like an avalanche, carrying destruction in his path. The peasantry sink 
 before him. The country, too, is too poor for plunder, and too rough 
 for a valuable conquest. Nature presents her eternal barrier ou every 
 side, to ch'eck the wantonness of ambition. And Switzerland remains, 
 with her simple institutions, a military road to climates scarcely worth a 
 permanent possession, and protected by the jealousy of her neighbours 
 
 We stand the latest, and, if we fall, probably the last experiment of self- 
 government by the people. We have begun it under circumstances of 
 the most auspicious nature. We are in the vigour of youth. Our growth 
 has never been checked by the oppression of tyranny. Our constitutions 
 never have been enfeebled by the vice or the luxuries of the world. Such 
 as we are, we have been from the beginning; simple, hardy, intelligent, 
 accustomed, to self-government and self-respect. The Atlantic rolls be- 
 tween us and a formidable foe. Within our own territory, stretching 
 through many degrees of latitude, we have the choice of many products, 
 and many means of independence. The government is mild. The press 
 is free. Religion is free — knowledge reactes or may reach every home. 
 What fairer prospects of success could be presented ? What means more 
 adequate to accomplish the sublime end ? What more is necessary than 
 for the people to preserve what they themselves have created ? 
 
 Already has the age caught the spirit of our institutions. It has al- 
 ready ascended the Andes, and snuffed the breezes of both oceanfi. It 
 ias infused itself into the life-bjood of Europe, and warmed the sunny 
 plains of France and the lowlands of Holland. It has touched the 
 philosophy of Germany and the north, and, moving onward to the south, 
 has opened to Greece the lesson of her better days. 
 
 Can it be, that America, under such circumstances, can betray her- 
 
ATHEISM. 187 
 
 self? Thar she is to be added to the catalogue of republics, the inscrip- 
 tion upon whose ruin is. "They were, but they are not!" Forbid it, my 
 countrymen : forbid it, Heaven ! 
 
 I call upon you, fathers, by the shades of your ancestors, by the deai 
 ashes which repose in this precious soil, by all you are, and all you hopo 
 to be, resist every project of disunion ; resist every attempt to fetter 
 your consciences, or smother your public schools, or extingiiish your 
 system of public instruction. 
 
 I call upon you, mothers, by that which never fails in woman, the 
 love of your offspring, to teach them, as they climb your knees, or lean 
 on your bosoms, the blessings of liberty. Swear them at the altar, as 
 with their baptismal vows, to be true to their country, and never forsake 
 her. 
 
 I call upon you, young men, to remember whose sons you are— ;-whose 
 inheritance you possess. Life can never be too short, which brings 
 nothing but disgrace and oppression. Death never comes too soon, if 
 necessary in defence of the liberties of our country. 
 
 ATHEISM. 
 
 The existence of God is stamped in the most legible characters on 
 the whole economy of nature — ^is written on the face of day, in cha- 
 racters of radiant light, by every sunbeam which comes down to earth, 
 and is reflected by every »rb which glitters in the canopy of night. Had 
 inspiration never revealed this truth to man, had the lips of the prophets 
 never been touched with holy fire, still we had not been without evi- 
 dence of the existence, the power, the goodness, and providence of God, 
 " strong as proofs of holy writ." Let the gloomy atheist open his eyes 
 that he may see, and unstop his ears that he may hear, and let him go 
 forth and stand beneath the cerulean arch of heaven, surrounded by all 
 the wonders of creation, and his proud philosophy will be rebuked. 
 "I am" is inscribed on the scroll of nature spread before and around 
 him — there is an admonition which comes from the solitude of the forest 
 — there is a voice in the breath from the hills — there is a language in 
 the rustling leaf — there is a handwriting on the rocks — there is an ex- 
 pression in the silence of inanimate creation, to confute his false reason- 
 ing and reprove his errors; and there is stamped on every object above 
 and around, some attribute of the Creator, to inspire his admiration and 
 command his reverence. 
 
 And not only is the existence of God revealed in his works, but he is 
 made manifest as " the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity." 
 He who creates all things, himself must be uncreated, existing in infi- 
 nite majesty, living in the eternity of his own nature, reigning in the 
 plenitude of his own omnipotence, for ever sending forlii the word wbicn 
 creates, supports, and governs all things. 
 
im 
 
 FIELDS b SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 THE WAVES HAVE WORN THE SOLID ROCK. 
 
 fTB ut and seen one bright wave chase 
 
 Its fellow on the strand. 
 Then fall awaj, nor leave a trace 
 
 Upon the printless aand ; 
 Though scarce the pebbles felt the sbookt 
 The wi^ves have worn the solid rock. 
 
 I've sat and heard the autumn wind 
 
 Amid the branches play, 
 80 softly mild, bo blandly kind. 
 
 It scarcely stirr'd the spray ; 
 Tet soon the winter's cold came on, 
 And blooms of spring when it was gone. 
 
 I've sat and seen the evening sun 
 
 Sink from his golden sky ; 
 Bis long bright race of glory run. 
 
 And close his golden eye; 
 So slow he pass'd, soarce ohang'd the light. 
 And yet he left the world in ni^t. 
 
 And like yon sea is human life- 
 Events like billows roll; 
 Moment on moment, strife on strife. 
 
 That change ns to the soul: 
 And joys, like autumn leaves, fall fast ; 
 Hope sets, and being's light is past. 
 
 I've stood on earth's most daring height 
 
 And seen day's orb aris • 
 In his magnificence of light, 
 
 To triumph through the skies ; 
 And all the darkness of the world 
 Far from his shining presence hurl'd. 
 
 All, too, that fades upon the earth, 
 
 Too weak to linger here, 
 Re-<bIossoms with a second birth 
 
 To deck the ooming year ; 
 Shall hope, then, man's eternal dower, 
 Be frailer than a falling flower ? 
 
 Ah, no ! like autumn leaves that die, 
 
 And bloom again in spring, 
 Fresh joys shall rise from those gone by. 
 
 And purer incense bring: 
 And when, like suns, Hope sets in night, 
 Shall she not beam f^om worlds more brightf 
 
 WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE! 
 
 Wooduan! spare that tree ; 
 
 Touch not a single bough; 
 In youth it shelter'd me, 
 
 And I'll protect it now. 
 'Twas my forefather's hand 
 
 That placed it near his cot: 
 There, woodman, let it stand ; 
 
 Thy axe shall harm it not. 
 
 rtlat old, familiar tree. 
 
 Whose glory and renown 
 Are spread o'er land and sea— 
 
 And wouldst thou hack it downF 
 Woodman ! forbear thy stroke ; 
 
 Cut not its earth-bound ties : 
 Oh ! spare that aged oak. 
 
 Now towering to the skies. 
 
 When but an idle boy, 
 
 I sought its grateful shade; 
 In all their gushing joy, 
 
 Here, too, my sisters play'd, 
 My mother kiss'd me here ; 
 
 My father preas'd ray hand ; 
 Forgive this foolish tear, 
 
 Bub let that old oak stand. 
 
 My heart-strings round thee cling 
 
 Close as thy bark, old friend; 
 Here shall the wild bird sing. 
 
 And still thy branches bend. 
 Old tree ! the storms still brave. 
 
 And, woodman, leave the spot; 
 While I've a hand to save. 
 
 Thy axe shall harm it not. a. p. horril 
 
 BE GENTLE WITH THY WIFE. 
 
 Be gentle ! for you little know 
 
 How many trials rise ; 
 Although to thee they may be small. 
 
 To her, of giant size. 
 
 Hi gentle ' though perchance that lip 
 May speftk a murmuring tone, 
 
 The heart may oeac vnza. kindness yet, 
 hxA joy to be thine own. 
 
 Be gentle ! weary hours of pain 
 "Vis woman's lot to bear; 
 
 Then yield her what support thou canst. 
 And all her sorrows share. 
 
 Be gentle ! for the noblest hearts 
 At times may have some grie^ 
 
 And even in a pettish word 
 May seek to find relief. 
 
 Be gentle ! none are perfect her>:— 
 Thou'rt dearer far than life : 
 
 Then husband, bear, and still forbear— 
 Be gentle to ttf wife. 
 
HOPE. — THE TIES OP LOVE. 18J> 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 In the vicissitudes and changes incident to human life ; in the nu- 
 merous disappointments, sorrows, and afflictions, which in the allotments 
 of Providence we are destined to endure ; in the sudden and untimely 
 loss of our nearest and dearest friends, when the husband, at the moment 
 the sun of happiness begins to shine upon him in all its lustre, is de- 
 prived of his only joy; when the wife is doomed to roam in this wide 
 world alone, unpitied and unknown, what can cheer the mind, raise 
 the drooping soul, calm the agitated bosom, and throw a cheering light 
 on the future ? It is Hope ! Sweet Hope ! thou heaven-descended maid ! 
 visit thou the abode of misery ; wipe the tear from sorrow's eye ; chase 
 away the anguish of despair ; sweeten the cup of affliction with thine all- 
 soothing dregs ! 
 
 When giddy youth shall leave the paths of virtue and honour, to wan- 
 der on the barren, yet alluring fields of vice, when the fond parent be- 
 holds the impending ruin of her darling offspring, do thou remain to 
 afford comfort and consolation ; let thy healing influence take possession 
 of his heart, and yield relief. 
 
 When fickle fortune deserts the good, to leave the tender ones with- 
 out a home or a friend, do thou put underneath them thine all-support- 
 ing arm, and say to them, "I will never desert thee." 
 
 And when mortality shall fail, and the lamp of life shall glimmer in 
 this feeble frame, do thou unveil thyself, and bid me wing my way to 
 worlds beyond the sun, to live and reign in never-ending bliss. 
 
 THE TIES OF LOVE. 
 
 What is it to woman that the tempest is darkening on the path of 
 him she loves ? It is he alone who has power to crush her spirit's 
 strength. It is the breath of unkindness only, the unkindness of him 
 to whom her soul has clung in its deepest trust, that can wither, beyond 
 the power of earthly healing, the energies of her nature. But a portion 
 of him, and she the gentle and the feeble, whom his slightest neglect 
 would crush as with a heel of iron, goes smilingly and gladly forth to be 
 a sharer in tiie fury and the desolation of the storm. AH other ties may 
 be se\-ered — penury, bereavement, the world's scorn, all other agonies 
 may be meted out to her in her cup of bitterness — and yet her heart, 
 however delicately fashioned, hath not utterly lost its capability of sweet 
 harmonies. They will still break forth at his touch- — his whispered words 
 of soothing will pass over the mangled and bleeding tendons of her soul, 
 like the breath of spring healing the wounded vine, and all sufferings 
 will be acccounted as a price of naught for that tenderness which has 
 bound up its wounds. Mad and weak devotion ! Vain, all vain ani 
 unrequited. There is not in man's heart an answering tone to a senti- 
 • ment of such terrible depth. 
 
190 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 EVERARD GRAHAM. 
 
 BY WILLIS u. CLAKK. 
 
 Take back the bowl — take back the bowl- 
 Reserve it for polluted lips — 
 
 1 would not bow a Btainlese soul 
 Beneath its foul and dark eclipse. 
 
 John Gkebnleaf WHiTrrEB. 
 
 There are evils in the world, upon which the eloquence of the orator, 
 tha lyre of the poet, and the deep and overwrought touches of the pencil 
 and the pen have dwelt almost in vain. In their description, the wealth 
 of language is turned into penury ; — the darkest dream of anguish and 
 distress but faintly shadows forth the stern and moving reality. The 
 strong and emphatic language of Holy Writ, the burning words of David 
 and Solomon, are almost impuissant when they are employed in painting 
 the awful horror of infidel unbelief, and that destruction of the body and 
 soul which follows in the train of Protean drunkenness. They are more 
 dire than the fabled Furies; the abysses they open are fiercer than Cocytus 
 or Phlegethon ; their grasp is more powerful than the serpents of Laoeoon ; 
 the burdens whioh they impart are more wearisome than the stone of 
 Sysiphus or the wheel of Ixion ; and their ascendency is unbroken until 
 the understanding is bewildered and the clouded eye becomes tearless; 
 until the heart becomes as adamant, and the spirit is goaded and rest- 
 less beneath the dominion of remorse ; till the ear tingles with the 
 adder-hisses of coward conscience, and the unnerved bosom writhes in the 
 emotions of regret, which pierce like a scorpion's sting. 
 
 Infidelity and intemperance go hand in hand. They bid the spirit of 
 youth bow down at an unholy shrine; and the sweetest affections, the 
 dearest hopes, and fondest visions of earth, are offered up as incense to 
 the mysterious divinity of unbelief. This is no ideal picture; the wide 
 world is full of the afflictions that are summoned up like clouds around 
 the devious pathway of the blasphemer and the drunkard. The red wine 
 brightens alluringly in the goblet; the shadowy illusions of the skeptic 
 come but for a little season with a soothing unction to his mind; but 
 anon there steals to the one the wormwood dregs of bitter regret; to the 
 other, the clouds which obscuro the sunshine of hope ; which spread a 
 mournful curtain over the beautiful scenes of human existence, and cre- 
 ate unutterable forebodings of that undiscovered country beyond the land 
 of death. 
 
 I have little hope that the tale which I am about to relate will cause 
 auy to release the delusions which they have grasped; but I am never 
 without hope. I would that my pen were dipped in the empyreal fire 
 of heaven, that I might show the light which they reject who turn from 
 the world of inspiration. I would I might gather upon canvas the 
 "larkness of the midnight cloud and the fierce lightning of the tempest ; 
 I would form a panorama of terrors, which should shadow forth to the 
 mad votary of Bacchus and the victim of unbelief the abyss of de- 
 
J5VEKARD GRAHAM. 191 
 
 Btruction upon which they are rushing; which should say to them, "Turn 
 ye at my reproof, and heed not the voice of the charmer, charm he never 
 so wisely." 
 
 It was a stormy evening in January, 18 — , when my friend Evekard 
 Graham and myself were seated by our comfortable grate, in the semi- 
 nary of G . The coal was reddening behind the bars of its prison, 
 
 and the cheerfulness of our little room was enhanced by the storm with- 
 out. We had lately come up from recitations and prayers in the chapel ; 
 and had been seated in silence, each indulging in his respective thoughts. 
 The snow came pattering gently against the windows ; and by way of 
 beguiling the time, I arose and breathed upon a pane, and wrote thereon 
 my humble initials. Without, the scene was troublous and uninviting. 
 The wide-stretching inland was obscured by the thick-wing of the wintry 
 tempest ; the wild anthem of the night-wind was loud and dissonant; and I 
 soon found that the shadows of the scene around me were gathering over 
 my mind. My thoughts went forth amid the curtained skies of even^ 
 ing, and mighty ideas of infinity and boundless space, of the mystery of 
 the air — the distance whence the little motes of snow had fallen ; and I 
 was absorbed in meditation. 
 
 I was roused from my revery by the entrance of a lad bearing a letter. 
 I stepped forward ; it was for my friend. His large hazel eye was lit 
 up pleasantly, and a kindly smile of unwonted delight passed over bis 
 brow and cheek. He had for some days been moody and restless ; and 
 I marked his emotions of pleasure with a lively enjoyment, to which an 
 instant before I was a stranger. 
 
 " This is the most lucky moment to receive a letter that I ever ex- 
 perienced," said Graham, indulging in that laugh which comes from the 
 heart. " You see," said he, " that it is from a woman ; — the primce 
 mulieris of my afFections. But I belie'her ; she is not a woman, in the 
 general acceptation of the term — she is an angel." 
 
 I glanced at the letter as he extended it to me, — and the direction was 
 really most beautiful. The blue surface of the epistle seemed to have 
 just passed from beneath the hands of the copperplate-printer. " You 
 see," said Graham, "that it is beautiful; now let me read it; and, as 
 you are my confidant, I will show you the alpha and the omega of it." 
 He broke the seal ; it began with "Dearest Everard," and closed with 
 " For ever yours, Emile Barton." 
 
 " You are not entitled to further freedom," said my friend : " now, go 
 meditate, and let thy greedy eyes ' devour up her discourse ;' or, seeing 
 your curiosity is awakened, I will give you her picture, ' for you to look 
 upon,' as the primer hath it." 
 
 He drew from his bosom a miniature, suspended by a golden chain ; 
 " There," said he, " is one-half of my heart. It is the most beautiful 
 half by far, and, I dare be sworn, the most innocent. Now, if you mf- 
 mire it, let your admiration be unspeakable ; for I shall not be at home 
 during the next half hour to any body. To save inquiries, however, I 
 will say a word or two to you respecting her. She is my intended, I 
 first knew her at the Saratoga cotillons; — her father is an Englishman ; 
 but her mother is one of our cis-atlaniie daughters of Eve. It is the long 
 
192 FIBLDS'S SCKAP-BOOK. 
 
 lapse of time since I have heard from the dear girl, that has given di« 
 the blues so of late." 
 
 I took the miniature, and never shall I forget the unsullied and per- 
 fect beauty that then dawned upon me. The stainless brow was shaded 
 with rich clusters and braids of hair, of the colour of gold in shadow ; the 
 eye was mild and blue, but about the sweet lips, that seemed the balmy 
 prison-gates of delicious kisses, and the dimpled and rose-leaf cheek, there 
 played such a pure and sanctified smile, that the picture seemed to be in- 
 stinct with the life of heaven. I was dumb with exquisite admiration : — 
 and I seemed to be surrounded by the perfect presence of Venus. Little 
 did I imagine, as I gazed upon that delicately moulded face, that the clouds 
 of early sorrow would so soon overshadow the fair brow j that the white- 
 robed bosom would so soon yearn with the pangs of unrequited affection — 
 that the azure eye and matchless cheek would Jbe dimmed and stained with 
 tears shed in secret — that they would be deluged, with the bitter waters 
 of a bursting heart ! But let me not anticipate. 
 
 Half an hour passed without a word having been spoken by either of 
 us. The reflections which the picture had conjured up kept me silent; 
 and Graham read and re-read his letter, without noticing my pleasurable 
 revery. At length, he said, " Well, you seem half-intoxicated — are you 
 dizzy with rapture? If you feel any sensation from that little counter- 
 feit, how could you gaze on the original? You would become an 
 enthusiast and a worshipper at first sight, as I did. But I am too jocose 
 for so sacred a theme j and my pleasure is already damped by the reflec- 
 tion, that my spiritueUe has, ere this, left America, in the packet of the 
 16th, for England. A vast estate has fallen to her father, there, and he, 
 with his whole family, have repaired from Barton Hill to Ludgate Hill, 
 or some other hill in London. Cruel girl! She was toe affectionate to 
 endure the emotions of a farewell, and wrote me late in consequence. 
 She had quoted Scripture to me in her epistle; — something odd for her, 
 but it is certainly expressive. She is not aware that I eschew the whole 
 of that book, which she holds so sacred. But we will not jar each other 
 on that topic. I shall see her by June, in the British metropolis ! I 
 might as well make my couch on that ardent grate as to remain where 
 she is not." 
 
 I returned to him the treasure he had shown me, and if I indulged in 
 unmingled encomium upon its pervading loveliness, I trust it was not 
 undeserved or hypocritical. The eye of my friend glistened with grati- 
 fication. 
 
 " There is never a sweet without its bitter," he said ; " often when 
 that beloved girl and I have walked along the vernal shore of the lake 
 which stretches along by the mansion of her father, as I gazed upon her 
 speaking eye and sinless brow, I have thought myself utterly unworthy 
 of her affection. She is too full of ethereal purity for my guilt stained 
 soul. You know, what she does not, that I am a skeptic. Her ductile 
 and elastic spirit is full of praise to God when she looks upon his works. 
 Often has she spoke to me of the mercies of Heaven, in making us so 
 supremely happy in our love ; and, like all her sex, her woman's heart 
 seems to forbode evil from the transitory nature of the things of this world. 
 
EVERARD GRAHAM. 193 
 
 How many times, as we have reposed beneath the trellised vines of hei 
 father's garden, have I pressed her to my throbbing bosom, and kissed 
 away the tears which sensibility had drawn to her cheek ! But I am 
 half-moralizing. It is a sombre theme, with all its delight, and I'll give 
 it up for something more exhilarating. Do you love Burgundy ?" 
 
 As he made this interrogation, he went to his closet, and drew forth 
 a bottle of the material therefrom ; he cut the wax from its top, and 
 drawing the long cork from a locum tenens which it had held while in 
 the south of France, and while tilted upon the Atlantic, he filled a glassy 
 and presenting it to me, filled another for himself. I refused his offer 
 to renew my draught, and soon after retired. 
 
 When I awoke in the morning, the room was full of the smoke of the 
 lamp, and Graham had not been in bed. The wine had disappeared 
 from {he bottle, and the lamp was upset upon the miniature, which he 
 had laid upon the table, and it was broken. G-raham was stupified with 
 wine, and his face looked feverish and sick. The loss of his miniature 
 was a source of deep regret; and he lamented it as a fearful omen for the 
 future. 
 
 Three months from that morning, Graham sailed for England. His 
 education was by no means complete, but he was the idol of an indul- 
 gent and wealthy father, who had long favour^ his determination of 
 making the tour of Europe. If I ever parted firom a friend with regret, 
 it was from Everard Chraham. He had his faults; but, maugre them ally 
 I loved him. We vowed mutual and abiding friendship, and a constant 
 correspondence; and as my design of visiting England was well known 
 and approved of by my parents, I hesitated not to pledge myself to meet 
 him in the British metropolis, as soon as my minority should have 
 expired. 
 
 Two years after, during which time I had not heard a word from my 
 friend, I was in London. I will not attempt to describe my feelings as 
 our majestic vessel glided up the Thames. It was a beautiful day in 
 September when I first saw at a distance the great cloud of smoke which 
 overhung the British capital. Oddly enough, the weather was clear, and 
 the yellow sun lit up the countless sails that were passing to and fro, 
 with singular beauty. In a short space, I found myself in Picket street, 
 in the neighbourhood of Waterloo Bridge and Temple Bar; anon,. I wag 
 mingling with the restless crowd that moved along Fleet stieet to Lud- 
 gate Hill. I soon saw St. Paul's — that mighty edifice, whose towering 
 dome looks down upon the riches and poverty — the happiness and misery 
 of nearly two millions of immortal souls. 
 
 I pass over the pleasure and newness of enjoyment, with which I 
 looked upon the wonders of London, after my letters of introduction had 
 been delivered, and my check had been honoured by my banker. It wag 
 to me a kind of epoch, when I first saw the joave of Regent street Quadr 
 rant, and when I walked Great Bussell street to Drury Lane Theatrot 
 The inquiries I had made among my friends for Graham, however, bad 
 all proved ineffectual. He had brought introductory letters to some of 
 them, and was known as a lounger at the New-England Coffer Hoiue^ 
 previous to his leaving London for the continent. 
 B 13 
 
194 FIELDS'S SCKAP-BOOK. 
 
 I was one day returning to my hotel, after a visit to the famous Abbey 
 of Westminster, when the thought struck me that I would return on the 
 river. I accordingly chartered a small boat near Westminster Stairs, 
 requesting to be "set down" at Waterloo Bridge. Through the dulnsss 
 of my gondolier, who seemed a half-intoxicated, song-singing varlet, I 
 was taken even past Blackfriars, and left at the foot of an obscure lane 
 leading into Thames street, whose lamps, already lighted, were twinkling 
 in the distance. The first large and heavy drops of an approaching thun- 
 der-shower excited me to haste; and the vivid flashes of lightning that 
 ever and anon darted athwart the gloom were "spurs to prick the sides 
 of my intent." I hurried on ; but the storm had already burst above 
 me, and, in a moment of hesitation, I padsed and knocked at the low docir 
 of an obscure and dingy dwelling, whence the only light issued that I 
 had witnessed since 1 left my tuneful Arion of the Thames. It was 
 opened by a bloated, fierce-looking female, who, in a gruflf voice, asked 
 me what I wanted. A loud peal of thunder drowned my reply. I 
 pointed without; and the action seemed to content her. She marshalled 
 me into a low back-room, requesting me to step lightly as I entered. I 
 followed her on tiptoe, and seated myself on a broken bench, by the 
 dying embers of a flickering fire. 
 
 The apartment preseated a cheerless picture of poverty and desolation. 
 One or two mutilated chairs stood near a scantily-furnished table in the 
 centre of the room. In one corner, on a low mat, lay a poor> emaciated 
 form, apparently grofining in a troubled sleep. I drew near, and as the 
 woman re-entered with a lamp, I was struck with astonishment. The 
 face was pale, but interesting ; the eyelids were of a dark purple, and 
 -the cheek hollow. Pressing his lips, as if to nerve him to some imagi- 
 nary conflict, he opened his eyes full upon me, as the light shone over 
 his lowly pallet. Never shall I forget that look ! The blood rushed 
 rapidly to his high forehead — it retreated again to his heart, and left 
 him deadly pale. He reached forth his hand, and, in faltering accents, 
 pronounced my name. I looked for a moment in doubtful recognition ; 
 it was but for a moment ; he pronounced the name of Eoerard Graham. 
 My head grew dizzy — my sight failed me, and I was insensible. 
 
 When I recovered, my once high-souled and honourable friend was a 
 lifeless corpse before me. The struggle had been too powerful for him 
 to endure, and lite had ceased in its mighty influence. I made inquiries 
 of the unseemly being under whose roof I had taken shelter, and learned 
 that he had for the past two months been an inmate of her miserable 
 dwelling. His last half-crown had been paid her the day before, and 
 there remained no effects to compensate her for her attentions, if he had 
 lived longer. There was only a packet in his hat, she said, and that 
 she had made him a solemn promise to take to the London Post-office. 
 She took down the hat, and handed me the packet. It was sealed with 
 black, and bore my direction, with a line to the overseer of the London 
 Post'Office, requesting it to be sent to America. Finding my efforts 
 ineffectual to persuade the woman that the packet bore my name, I pur- 
 '^hased it from her at the price of a guinea, and, leaving her a sufficient 
 
EVERAEB GRAHAM. 196 
 
 mm to defray the funeral obseqnies of Grabara, and promising to call 
 e.irly the next day, I departed on the cessation of the storm. 
 
 Un reaching my hotel, I dismissed my valet from my room, and 
 Growing myself on a sofa, I opened the packet and devoured its eon- 
 tentB. It was smoky and mutilated, but I overcame the inte>liiieations, 
 and read as follows : 
 
 "Lcmdotij October, 18 — . 
 
 " To y(Mi, my dearly cherished friend, now that ail hc^e of seeing you 
 has passed away for ev 3r, may I now confide the secrets of the last two 
 years of my awful life. I shudder to look back upon them, but there 
 is no alternative. If this faintly-written record should ever reach you, 
 let it be to you the beacon of a mi^ity wamiag. I am dying in a foreign 
 land, surrounded by many to whom I might apply for relief, were I not 
 a midnight murderer, shunning the day, and an irreclaimable sot. The 
 weight of my crimes has recoiled back upon my heart, with a keen and 
 undying retribution. I have sown the winds of iatemperance and un- 
 belief — ^I am reaping the whirlwinds of unutterable monition. The fires 
 of agonizing remorse are bnmng in my blood ; the monitory voice of a 
 struggling conscience is thundering in my ears, and I experience the en- 
 kindled pangs of a mental hell. God ! with what direful punish- 
 ment have my iniquities overwhelmed me ! But I must on. 
 
 " Tou know the secret of my early love. Ton know the embarkation 
 of Emile Barton for England, and that I followed her soon. Oh, that I 
 could describe to you the Eden -of happiness that dawned upon me the 
 first summer I spent in England. We were married ; and time went 
 by with his wings glittering in the pearls of hope, and his brow clothed 
 in sunshine. We made a delightful 'tour on the continent, and returned 
 with joyful hearts to our metropolitan home, and a lovely daughter was 
 at last the pledge of our affection. But, in an evil hour, I surrendered 
 myself to the demon of drunkenness, and he bound my bosom in fetters 
 ef iron. I became the frequenter of the AeZfe in St. James's; a tippler of 
 Johnson's spirits at the Surry Theatre, and a stranger to my home. 
 I wasted all my patrimony, and the splendid estate of my kipd Emile, 
 in one short week, at the gaming-table. I reviled the Scriptures in her 
 presence ; I neglected our darling child — ^in short, I became a madman. 
 
 "I returned home one night, and found the bailiffs at my threshold. 
 Our mansion in town was sold, and we rented a pleasant cottage in 
 Hampstead. Here, if I had not been more remorseless than the grave, 
 I should have paused upon my dark careei . Bat I was too much depraved 
 I became more and more estranged from '.he angel of my youth ; I re- 
 pulsed her overflowing affection, and saw her fading away under the 
 influence of my cruelty. She had renounced fashionable life for my 
 sake, and it had been our intention to return to America, whither her 
 parents had already gone, expecting us soon to follow. 
 
 "Let me be brief. As I opened, one moonlit evening, the little gate that 
 jed up to our Hampstead residence, I saw my Emile leaning upon the 
 shoulder of a young man, apparenfly weeping. A hellish suspicion that 
 she had. dishonoured me rushed upon my brain ; and, stealthily approach- 
 ing, I drew a stiletto from my bosom and s-tabbed her to the heart She 
 
196 FIELDS'S SCKAP-BOOK. 
 
 turned and fixed u^on me a look of alternate surprise, reproach, and fur- 
 giveness — shrieked, and fell lifeless at my feet. It was ter brother ! 
 
 " I cannot long proceed. Since that fatal hour, I have been scorched 
 with the lightnings of reproachful thought — I have been a scathed and 
 skulking fugitive in the house of a miserable fish-woman. •! have quaffed 
 deeply of the delirious cup of intoxication ; I have found its dregs to be 
 gall and wormwood. My health is wasted-r-my hopes are dead — ^and 
 the earth seems yawning to clasp me t6 its icy bosom. Would that 
 I were dead ! Would to God, that I could find that annihilation 
 in which I once believed, but for which I have long ceased to hope. 
 Twice have I swallowed poison; the potent drug has lain harmless within 
 me, and God still bids me live and suffer. My wife is buried in a quiet 
 church-yard at Hampstead ; and my weakness has at last prevented me 
 from indulging the mournful office of weeping at midnight over her 
 peaceful grave. My child still lives ; and is the fair and sunny image 
 of her sainted mother. If she ever visits America, and this should reach 
 you, do not — oh ! do not acquaint her with the unhappy fate of her 
 parents ; of that father who was a wreteh,-;-of that spotless mother who 
 loved me 'not wisely, but TOb well.' I can" — 
 
 Here the MS. ended. I give it to the reader as I received it. The 
 next day the remains of Graham were interred in the potters-fie.ld of 
 one of the almshouses in Kingsland Road. 
 
 The little daughter of my lost friend is with the parents of her mother, 
 in America. She is the counterpart of her who bore her ; and like Ker 
 mother in her youth, beloved by all, and caressed with enthusiasm. She 
 is the only light thrown upon the sombre history of her mother's sorrow 
 and her father's guilt. 
 
 MISTAKES. 
 
 In the olden time, when it was a custom in many parts of New England, 
 to sing'the psalms and hymns by "deaconing" them, as it was called, that 
 is, by the deacon's reading each line previous to its being sung, one of these 
 church dignitaries rose, and, after looking at his book for some time,. and 
 making' several attempts to spell the words, apologized for the difficulty 
 he experienced in reading, by observing, 
 
 " My eyes, indeed, are very blind." 
 
 The choir, who had been impatiently waiting for a whole line, think- 
 ing this to be the first of a common-metre hymn, immediately sang it. 
 The good deacon exclaimed, with emphasis, 
 " I cannot see oJ all." 
 
 This, of course, was also sung; when the astonished pillar of the church 
 cried out, 
 
 " I really b'lieTe you are bewitched !" 
 
 Response by the choir : "I really b'lieve you are bewitched." — Deacon : 
 
 "The dense is in you all." 
 The choir finished the verse by echoing the last line, and the deacon 
 sat down in despair. 
 
PARTING INTERVIEW WITH EMMBTT. 
 
 197 
 
 PARTING INTERVIEW WITH EMMETT. 
 
 The evening before his death, while the workmen were busy with the 
 scaffold, a young lady was ushered into his dungeon. It was the girl 
 whom he so fondly loved, and who had now come to bid him her eternal 
 farewell. He was leaning, in a melancholy mood, against the window- 
 frame of his prison, and the heavy clanking of his irons smote dismally 
 on her heart. The interview was bitterly affecting, and melted even the 
 callous soul of the jailer. As for Emmett, he wept and spoke little ; 
 but, as he pressed his belpved in silence to his bosom, his countenance 
 betrayed his emotions. In a low voice, half-choked by anguish, he be- 
 sought her not to forget him ; he reminded her of their former happi- 
 ness, of the long past days of their childhood, and concluded by re- 
 questing her sometimes to visit the scenes where their infancy was 
 spent, and, though the world might repeat his name with scorn, to cling 
 to his memory with affection. At this very instant, the evening bell 
 pealed from the neighbouring church. Emmett started at the sound ! 
 and as he felt that this was the last time he should ever hear its dismal 
 echoes, he folded his beloved still closer to his heart, and bent over her 
 sinking form with eyes streaming with affection. The turnkey entered 
 at the moment; ashamed of- his weakness, he dashed the rising drop 
 from his eye, and a frown again lowered on his countenance. The man, 
 meanwhile, approached to tear the lady from his embraces. Overcome 
 by his feelings, he could make no resistance ; but, as be gloomily re- 
 leased her from his hold, gave her a little miniature of himself, and, 
 with this parting token of attachment, he imprinted the last kisses of a 
 dying man upon her lips. On gaining the door, she turned round, as 
 if to gaze once more on the object of her widowed love. He caught 
 her eye as she retired — it was but for a moment; the dungeon-door 
 swung back upon its hinges ; and',^as it closed after her, informed him 
 too surely, that they had met for the last time on earth. 
 
 ******** 
 
 Oh ! cold IB the grave where he silently slnmbers. 
 
 Where naught bat the wild-bird his reqniem eings ; 
 There sad let the minstrel-boy breathe the vild 
 numbers 
 
 Of grief o'er the plaintive harp's sorrowingstrings. 
 Calm, calm is his sleep, and unsullied his glory. 
 
 In the shade of the laurels his martyrdom won. 
 And long let his name be emblazon'd in story — 
 
 Green Isle of the ocean ! thy patriot son. 
 
 Oh, sweet be his rest, while in sorrow we wail him, 
 
 And mourn o'er his fate in our tremulous songs ! 
 
 Green Erin ! oh, soft let thy bards proudly hail him 
 
 As tlie hero who bled for thy desolate wrongs ; 
 
 Twine, twine the sad harp with cypress and willow. 
 
 That shade, with their foliage, his mouldering 
 
 um, 
 
 09dewedwitii the tear-drops that bathe bis cold pillow, 
 
 IHiere sleep the lone relics of him whom we mourn. 
 
 b2 
 
 With nanght bnt the Terdnre that decks his cold bosom 
 
 And springs through the damp sod that corers hit 
 breas^ 
 Or the fragrant perfame of the wild heather blosson 
 
 In the blaze of his glory, oh, there let him rest ! 
 Bnt his spirit has fled to a happier heaven — 
 
 Where the bright shades of heroes meet never t« 
 part: 
 O write not his epitaph— let it he graven, 
 
 "By Gratitude deep on each patriot heart. 
 
 Sweet harp of my country ! let thy sorrowing numbeit 
 
 Breathe o'er the cold grave of him whom we weep, 
 And hallow with music the spot where he slnmbers. 
 
 And wake the wild anthem of grief o'er his sleep; 
 Then calm be his rest^let him dwell in his glory 
 
 In the shade of the lanrela if? martyrdom -won • 
 Oh ! long shall his name be recorded in story, 
 
 Qreen Is'^nd of song, m thy patriot soo. 
 
198 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BCOK. 
 
 THE SUNSET OF BATTLE. 
 
 The shadotrs of evening are thickening, twilight closes, and the thin 
 mists are rising in the valley ; the last charging squadron yet thunders 
 in the distance, hut it presses only on the foiled and sobttered foe. For 
 this day, the fight is over ! 
 
 And those who rode foremost in its fields at morning, where are they 
 now ? On the banks of yon little stream there lies a knight — his life- 
 blood is ebbing faster than its tide. His shield is rent, and his lance 
 is broken. Soldier, why faintest thou ? The blood that swells from 
 that deep wound shall answer. 
 
 It was this morning that the sun rose bright upon his hopes — it sets 
 upon his grave. This day he led the foremost rank of spears, that were in 
 their long row levelled. When they had crossed the foe's dark line, death 
 shouted in the onset ! It was the last blow that reached him. He has 
 conquered, though he shall not triumph in the victory. 
 
 Hi.s breastplate is dinted — his helmet has the trace of well-dealt 
 blows. The scarf on his breast — she who placed it there would shrink 
 to touch it now ! Soldier, what will thy mistress say ? She will say 
 that her knight died worthily. 
 
 Ay, rouse thee^for the fight yet chafes in the distance ! Thy friends 
 are shouting — thy pennon floats on high. Look on yon crimsoned field, 
 that seems to mock the purple clouds above it ! — prostrate they lie, 
 drenched in their dark red pool — thy friends and enemies — the dead 
 and dying ! The veteran, with the stripling of a day. The nameless 
 troops, and the leader of a hundred hosts. Friend lies by friend, 
 the steed with his rider, and foes linked in their long embrace — 
 their first and last — the grip of death. 
 
 Far o'er the field they lie, a gorgeous prey to ruin ! White plume 
 and steel morion ; sabre and ataghan ; crescent and cross ; rich vest and 
 bright corselet — we came to the fight, as we had come to a feasting — 
 glorious and glittering, even in death, each shining warrior lies. 
 
 His last glance still seeks that Christian banner. The cry that shall 
 never be repeated cheers on its last charge. Oh, but for strength to 
 reach the field once more ! — to die in the foe's front ? Peace, dreamer ! 
 Thou hast done well. Thy place in the close rank is filled — and yet 
 another waits for his who holds it. 
 
 Knight, hast thou yet a thought — bend it on Heaven ! The past is 
 gone ; the future lies before thee. Graze on yon gorgeous sky — home 
 should lie beyond it ! 
 
 Life — honour- lofre — they pass to Him that gave them. Pride — 
 that came on like ocean's billows^see around thee, how it lies mute 
 and passive. The wealthy here are poor. The high-bom have no pre- 
 cedence. The strong are powerless ; the mean, content. The fair and 
 lovely have no followers. Soldier, she who sped thee on thy course to- 
 day — her blue eye shall seek thee in the conquering ranks to-morrow, 
 but it shall seek thee in vain ! Well ! thus it is thou shouldst have 
 
THE FEMALE HEART. 19S 
 
 died ! — ^witli all to live for. Wouldst thou be base, to have thy death a 
 blessing ? Proud necks shall mourn for thee — bright eyes shall weeji 
 for thee. They that live shall envy thee. Death ! glory takes o'lt thy 
 sting. 
 
 The shades of night are drawing on — soldier, thine eyes are dajrkec- 
 ing. A last ray of the sun yet lies upon the distant bill — even as he 
 sinks, thy soul shall follow him ! See how thy steed feeds beside thee. 
 His dark eye falls mildly on his master — ^and he pauses. Poor wretch ! 
 thine instinct sees some wrong, yet knows it not. Browse oh, and 
 Heaven, which guards its meanest creatures, send thee a kind protector ! 
 
 Warrior ! — ay, the stream of that rill flows cool ; but thy lip no more 
 shall taste it. The moonlight that silvers its white foam shall glitter 
 on thy corselet when the eye is closed and dim. Lol now the night is 
 coming — the mist is gathering on the hill — the fox steals forth to. seek 
 his quarry — and the gray owl sweeps whirling by, rejoicing in the still- 
 ness. soldier ! — how sweetly now sounds thy lady's lute — how 
 fragrant are the dew-sprinkled flowers that twine round the casement 
 from which she leans ! That lute shall enchant thee, those flowers shall 
 'delight thee no more. 
 
 One other charge ! — Soldier, it may not be. To thy saint and thy 
 lady commend thee ! Hark to the low trumpet that sounds the recall ! 
 Hark to its long note — sweet is that sound in the ear of the spent and 
 routed foe ! 
 
 The victor hears it not. When the breath rose that blew that note, 
 he lived — ^its peal has rung, and his spirit has departed. Heath ! — thou 
 shouldst be a soldier's pillow. Moon ! let thy cold light this night fall 
 upon him. But, morning ! — thy soft dews shall tempt him not — the 
 soldier must wake no more. He sleeps in the sleep of honour. His 
 cause was his country's freedom, and her faith. He is dead ! The 
 cross of a Christian knight is on his breast— his lips are pressed to his 
 ladv's token ! — Soldier, farewell. 
 
 THE FEMALE HEAET. 
 
 The female heart may be compared to a garden, which, when well 
 raltivated, .presents a continued succession of fruits and flowers, to regale 
 the soul and delight the eye ; but, when neglected, producing a crop 
 of the most noxious weeds; large and flourishing, because their growth 
 is in proportion to the warmth and richness of the soil from which they 
 spring. Then let this ground be faithfully cultivated; let the mind Df 
 the young and lovely female be stored with useful knowledge, and the 
 influence of woman, though undiminished in power, will be like " the 
 diamond of the desert," sparkling and pure, whether surrounded by the 
 sands of desolation, forgotten and unknown, or pouring its refreshing 
 streams through every avenue of the social and moral fabric. 
 
200 
 
 FIELDS S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 THE TEXAS RANGER. 
 
 8T J. T. LTTLB. 
 
 MoniTT, mount, and awftj', o'or th« e:reen prairie wide ; 
 The eword is our Boeptre— the fleet steed our pride : 
 0p, np, vith our flag; let ita bright folds gleam oat; 
 Mount, mount, and awaj on the wild border soout. 
 
 We care not for danger, we heed not the foe, 
 ?Vliere our brave steeds bear us, right onward we go ; 
 And never, as cowards, will we fly from the fight. 
 While our belts bear a blade— our Star sheds its light. 
 
 Then mount and away, give the fleet steed the rein; 
 The Ranger's at home on his prairie again: 
 Spur, spur, in the chase, dash on to the fight — 
 Cry, Vengeance for l^xaa, and Qod speed the right. 
 
 The might of the foe gathers thick on our way ; 
 They hear our wild shout, as we rush to the &ay; 
 
 What to ui is the fear of the death-etriolcen plai&r 
 We've braved it before, and we'll brave it again. 
 
 The death-dealing bullets around nii may fall; 
 They may strike— they may kill— but they caoMi 
 
 appal: 
 Through the red field of carnage, right onward well 
 
 wade, 
 Wiiile our guns carry ball— our hands wield a jlada. 
 
 Hurrah, my brave boys! — you may fare as you 
 
 please, 
 No Mexican banner now floats in the breeze ; 
 'Tis the Flag ot Columbia that waves o'er eaob 
 
 height. 
 While on its proud folds our Sxar sheda ita light. 
 
 AFFECTION'S TEAR. 
 
 There is a tear more pure and bright, 
 Than even morn's first blushing light; 
 It sparkles with a milder glow. 
 Than sunbeam on the woven snow ; 
 It is a sweeter, purer gem, 
 
 Than ever breath 'd on rose-bud stem : 
 Oh, yes, 'tis even lovelier far 
 Than evening's first bright glittering atar ; 
 For 'tis that holy, sacred tear, 
 Afiiection claima her offspring dear. 
 
 "THEY BORE HIM FROM THE WATERS." 
 
 An in^dent of the wreck of tTie Steamer Atlantic, on Fiaher'a Island, November 26, 1846. 
 BT V. D. GALLAGHER. 
 
 When little Jacob Walton was informed that he alone of all his family had escaped from the wreck of the 
 Atlantic, he turned to Mr. Gould, who had saved so many, and exclaimed in substapce — " Oh! take me back 
 and throw me into the sea! Oh! let me drown with my parents and my brothers and 8isters."—PAi7. Amer. 
 
 " Pray, tell me of my father. 
 
 Thet bore him frota the waters 
 
 Where they dashed against the rock. 
 When the proud and strong Atlantic 
 
 Broke in the tempest's shock. 
 The wet locks from his forehead 
 
 They gently laid aside : 
 ** Where, oh, where is my mother ?" 
 
 Beviving soon he cried. 
 ** Where, oh, where is my mother — 
 
 And my sisters, where are they?" 
 *• They're gone, poor boy, they've perish' d— 
 
 By the wild waves waahed away." 
 "Then carry me back to the waters! 
 
 Oh ! bury me in the sea ! 
 In death I would aleep, with my mother— 
 
 And with my sisters be !" 
 
 From the wreck, another runner. 
 Weary and pale, drew nigh ; 
 
 " And where, oh, where is my father?" 
 He asked with gleaming eye. 
 
 And my brother, bold and strong: 
 Why, oh, why do they linger 
 
 Beside the w'ave so long 7" 
 Alas, poor boy! they battled 
 
 Most nobly wind and wave : 
 The tempest's arm is mighty — 
 
 In the deep they have their grave. 
 *• Oh, pity me, pity me, stranger. 
 
 And bury me In the sea! 
 With my mother, and father, and sisten, 
 
 And brothers, I would be." 
 
 High over the snrge'e wild rolling, 
 
 As it broke on the desolate shore, 
 A knell for the perish'd was tolling ;* 
 
 He heard it, and question'd no more. 
 He lives : — but oh, many a morrow 
 
 Will dawn with its sigh and tear. 
 For his soul hath a phantom-like sorrow 
 
 That will haunt it through many a year. 
 
 It w ^ singular and affecting circumstance, confirmed by the latest visitor to the shore of Fisher'i Island, 
 (thi Bcene of the late disastrous wreck of the steamer Atlantic,) that the bell of the steamer Btill tolla over 
 the scene of desolation. That part of the wreck to which it is attached, happened to lodge in such apositioB 
 Ehat the bell was supported out of the water, and, at the motion f eT.ery wave, strikes twice : ijw* ao, night 
 «qd day, tolls on its doleful uotea.-r- National Intelligencer. 
 
rXELDS'S SCKAP-BOOK. 201 
 
 A LION FIGHT. 
 
 FROM SAI.ATHIEL. 
 
 Dismounting, for the side of the hill was almost precipitous, I led 
 my panting Arab through beds of myrtle, and every lovely and sweet- 
 gmelling bloom, to the edge of a valley that seemed made to shut out 
 every disturbance of man. 
 
 A circle of low hills, covered to the crown with foliage, surrounded a 
 deep space of velvet turf, kept green as the emerald by the flow of 
 rivulets, and the moisture of a pellucid lake in the centre, tinged with 
 every colour of the heavens. The beauty of this sylvan spot was en- 
 hanced by the luxuriant profusion of almond, orange, and other trees, 
 that, in every stage of production, from the bud to the fruit, covered 
 the little knolls below, and formed a broad belt around the lake. 
 
 Parched as I was by the intolerable heat, this secluded haunt of the 
 spirit of freshness looked doubly lovely. My eyes, half-blinded by the 
 glare of the sands, and even my mind exhausted by perplexities of the 
 day, found delicious relaxation in the verdure and dewy breath of the 
 silent valley. My barb, with the quick sense of animals accustomed to the 
 travel of the wilderness, showed her delight by playful boundings, the 
 prouder arching of her neck, and the brighter glancing of her bright eye. 
 
 " Here," thought I, as I led her slowly towards the deep descent, 
 "would be the very spot for the innocence that had not tried the world, 
 or the philosophy that had tried it, and found all vanity. Who could 
 dream that, within the borders of this distracted land, in the very hear- 
 ing, almost in the very sight of the last miseries that man could inflict 
 on man, there was a retreat which the foot of man, perhaps, never yet 
 defiled ; and in which the calamities that afliict society might be as little 
 felt as if it were among the stars !" 
 
 A violent plunge of the barb put an end to my speculation. She ex- 
 hibited the wildest signs of terror, snorted and strove to break from me; 
 then, fixing her glance keenly on the thickets below, shook in every 
 limb. But the scene was tranquillity itself; the chameleon lay basking 
 in the sun, and the only sound was that of the wild doves murmuring 
 under the broad leaves of the palm trees. 
 
 But my .mare still resisted every effort to lead her downwards ; her 
 ears were fluttering convulsively, her eyes were starting from their 
 sockets; I grew peevish at the animal's unusual obstinacy, and waa 
 about to let her suffer for the day, when my senses were paralyzed by 
 a ti"-nendous roar. A lion stood on the summit which I had but just 
 quitteu. '^e was not a dozen yards above my head, and his first spring 
 must have t^rrl'^d me to the bottom of the precipice. The barb burst 
 away at once, i drew the only weapon I had — a dagger — and hopeless 
 as escape was, grasping the tangled weeds to sustain my footing, awaited 
 the plunge. But the lordly savage probably disdained so ignoble a prey, 
 and continued on the summit, lashing his sides with his tail, and tearing 
 ap the ground. He at length stopped suddenly, listened, as to some ap- 
 
202 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 proaching foot, and then, with a hideous yell, sprang over me, and wa* 
 in the thicket below at a single bound. 
 
 The whole thicket was instantly alive ; the shade which I had fixed 
 on for the abode of unearthly tranquillity was an old haunt of lions, and 
 the mighty herd were now roused from their noonday slumbers. Nothing 
 oould be grander or more terrible than the disturbed majesty of the 
 forest kings. In every variety of savage passion, from terror to fury, 
 they plunged, and tore, and yelled, darted through the lake, burst through 
 the thicket, rushed up the hills, or stood baying and roaring defiance 
 against the invader ; the numbers were immense, for the rareness of 
 shade and water had gathered them from every quarter of the desert. 
 
 While I stood clinging to my. perilous hold, and fearful of attracting 
 their gaze by the slightest movement, the source of the commotion ap- 
 peared in the shape of a Eoman soldier issuing, spear in hand, through 
 a ravine at the further side of the valley. He was palpably unconscious 
 of the formidable place into which he was entering, and the gallant 
 clamour of voices through the hills showed that he was followed by others 
 as bold and as unconscious of their danger as himself. 
 
 But his career soon closed ; his horse's feet had scarcely touched the 
 turf, when a lion was fixed with fangs and claws on the creature's loins. 
 The rider uttered a cry of horror, and, for the instant, sat helplessly 
 gazing at the open jaws behind him. I saw the lion gathering up his 
 flanks for a second bound, but the soldier, a figure of gigantic strength, 
 grasping the nostrils of the monster with one hand, and with the other 
 shortening his spear, drove the steel, at one resistless thrust, into the lion's 
 forehead. Horse, lion, and rider fell, and continued struggling together. 
 
 In the ^ext moment, a mass of cavalry came thundering down the 
 ravine. They had broken oft' from their march, through the accident of 
 rousing a straggling lion, and followed him in the giddy ardour of the 
 chase. The sight now before them was enough to appal the boldest in- 
 trepidity. The valley was filled with the vast herd : retreat was impos- 
 sible, for the troopers came, still pouring in by the only pass ; and from 
 the sudden descent of the glen, horse and man were rolled head foremost 
 among the lions ; neither man nor monster could retreat. The conflict 
 was horrible ; and the heavy spears of the legionaries plunged through 
 bone and brain. The lions, made more furious by wounds, sprang upon 
 the powerful horses, and bore them to the ground, or flew at the troopers' 
 throats, and crushed or dragged away cuirass and buckler. The valley 
 was a struggling heap of human and savage battle; man, lion, and 
 charger, writhing and rolling in agonies, till their forms were undistin- 
 guishable. The groans and cries of the legionaries, the screams of the 
 mangled horses, and the roars and bowlings of the lions bleeding with 
 the sword and spear, tearing the dead, darting up the sides of the hilla 
 in terror, and pushing down again with a fresh thirst cf gore, baffled all 
 conceptions of fury and hoiror. 
 
 But man was the conqueror at last; the savages, scared by the spear, 
 and thinned in their numbers, made a rush in one body towards the 
 ravine,. overthrew every thing in their way, and burst from the valley, 
 awaking the desert for many a league with their roar. 
 
pbabody's leap. 20? 
 
 PEABODY'S LEAP.— A LEGEND OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN. 
 
 Many are the places, scattered over the face of our beautiful country, 
 whose wild and picturesque scenery is worthy of the painter's pencil or 
 the poet's pen. Some of them, which were once celebrated for their rich 
 stores of " legendary lore," are now only sought to view their natural 
 scenery, while the traditions which formerly gave them celebrity are 
 buried in oblivion. Such in the scene of the following adveniure, — a 
 romantic glen, bounded on the north side by a high and rocky hill, which 
 stretches itself some distance into the lake, terminating in a precipice, 
 some thirty feet in height, and once known by the name of " Peabody's 
 leap." 
 
 At the time of this adventure, Timothy Peabody was the only white 
 man that lived within fifty miles of this place, and his was the daring 
 spirit that achieved it. In an attack on one of the frontier settlements, 
 his family had all been massacred by the merciless savages, and he had 
 sworn that their death fihould be revenged. The better to accomplish 
 this dread purpose, he had removed to this solitary place, and constructed 
 the rude shelter in which he dwelt, till the blasts of winter drove him 
 to the homes of his fellow-men, again to renew the contest when spring 
 had awakened nature into life and beauty. He was a man who possess- 
 ed much rude cunning, combined with a thorough knowledge of Indian 
 habits, by which he had always been enabled to avoid the snares of his 
 subtle enemies. Often when they had come with a party to take him,, 
 he escaped their lures, and after destroying his hut, on their return 
 homeward, some of their boldest warriors were picked off by his unerring 
 aim, — or, on arriving at their town, they learned that one of their swiftest 
 hunters had been ambushed by him, and fallen a victim to his deadly 
 rifle. He had lived in this way for several years, and had so often baflied 
 them, that they had at last become weary of the pursuit, and, for some 
 time, had left him unmolested. 
 
 About this time, a party of Indians made a descent on one of the 
 small settlements, and had taken three men prisoners, whom they were 
 carrying home to sacrifice, for the same number of their men that had been 
 shot by Peabody. It was towards the close of day when they passed 
 his abode ; most of the party in advance of the prisoners, who, with their 
 hands tied, and escorted by five or six Indians, were almost wearied out 
 by their long march, and but just able to crawl along. He had observed 
 this advance guard, and suspecting there were prisoners in the rear, had 
 let them pass unmolested, intending to try some " Yankee trick" to efiiect 
 their rescue. He accordingly followed on in the trail of the party, keep- 
 ing among the thick trees which on either side skirted the path. He 
 had proceeded but a short distance, before he heard the sharp report of 
 a rifle, apparently very near him, and which he knew must be one of the 
 Indians, who had strolled from the main body, to procure some game 
 for their evening meal. From his acquaintance with their habits and 
 language, he only needed a disguise, to enable bim to join with the 
 
204 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 party if necessary, and aided by the darkness, which was fast approachlr•^, 
 with but little danger of detection. The resolution was quickly formal, 
 and as quickly put into operation, to kill this Indian and procure -his 
 dress. 
 
 He had got but a few paces before he discovered his intended victiui, 
 who had just finished loading his rifle. To stand forth and boldly con- 
 front him, would give the savage an equal chance, and if Tim proved 
 the best shot, the party on hearing the report of two rifles at once, would 
 be alarmed and commence a pursuit. The chance was, therefore, two to 
 one against him, and he was obliged to contrive a way to make the Indian 
 fire first. Planting himself, then, behind a large tree, he took oflF his fox 
 skin cap, and placing it on the end of his rifle, began to move it to and 
 fro. The Indian quickly discovered it, and was not at a loss to recollect 
 the owner by the cap. Knowing how often the white warrior had eluded 
 them, he determined to despatch him at once, and without giving him 
 notice of his dangerous proximity, he instantly raised his rifle, and its 
 contents went whizzing through the air. The ball just touched the bark 
 of the tree, and pierced the cap, which rose suddenly, like the death- 
 spring of the beaver, and then fell amid the bushes. The Indian, like 
 a true sportsman, thinking himself sure of his victim, did not go to pick 
 up his game till he had reloaded his piece, and dropping it to the ground, 
 he was ■calmly proceeding in the operation, when Timothy as calmly 
 stepped from his hiding-place, exclaiming — " Now, you tarnal kritter, 
 Bay yer prayers as fast as ever you can." 
 
 This was a short notice for the poor Indian. Before him, and scarcely 
 ten paces distant, stood the tall form of Peabody, motionless as a statue 
 —his rifle to his shoulder — his finger on the trigger, and his deadly aim 
 firmly fixed upon him. He was about to run, but he had not time to 
 burn round, ere the swift-winged messenger had taken his flight; his 
 first moment was his last — the ball pierced his side — hfe sprang in the 
 air, and fell lifeless on the ground. 
 
 No time was now to be lost. He immediately proceeded to strip the 
 dead body, and to array himself in the accoutrements, consisting of a 
 hunting shirt, a pair of moccasins, or leggings, and the wampum belt 
 and knife. A little of the blood besmeared on his sunburnt counte- 
 nance served for the red paint, and it would have taken a keen eye, in 
 the gray twilight and thick gloom of the surrounding forest,»to have de- 
 tected the counterfeit Indian. Shouldering his rifle, he again started in 
 the pursuit, and followed them till they arrived in the glen, where their 
 eanoes were secreted Here they stopped, and began to make prepara- 
 tions for their expected supper, previous to their embarkation for the 
 opposite shore. The eanoes were launched, and their baggage deposited 
 in them. A fire was blazing brightly, and the party were walking 
 around, impatiently waiting the return of the hunter. 
 
 The body of Timothy was safely deposited behind a fallen tree, where 
 he could see every motion, and hear every word spoken in the circle. 
 Here he had been about half an hour. " Night had drawn her sable 
 eurtain around the scene ;" or, in other words, it was dark. The moon 
 'ihone fitfully through the clouds which almost covered the horiaon, only 
 
peabody's leap. 205 
 
 serving cxxsaeios&lly to render the " darkness visible." The Indians now 
 l)egan to evince manifest signs of impatience for the return of their com- 
 rade. They feared that a party of the whites had followed them, an(? 
 tiiken him prisoner, and at last resolved to go in search of him. The 
 plan, which was fortunately overheard by Timothy, was to put the 
 captives into one of the canoes, under the care of five of their number, 
 who were to secrete themselves in case of an attack, massacre the pri- 
 soners, and then go to the assistance of their brethren. 
 
 As soon as the main body had started, Peabody cautiously crept from 
 his hiding-place to the water, and sliding in feet foremost, moved along 
 on his back, his face just above the surface, to the canoe which contained 
 the rifles of the guard. The priming was quickly removed from these, 
 and their powder-horns emptied, replaced, and the prisoners given notice 
 of their intended rescue ; at the same time warning them not to show 
 themselves above the gunwale till they were in safety. He next, with 
 his Indian knife, separated the thong which held the canoe to the shore, 
 intending to swim off with it, till he had got far enough to avoid obser- 
 vation, then get in, and paddle for the nearest place where a landing 
 ■ could be effected. All this was' but the work of a moment, and he was 
 slowly moving off from the shore, as yet unobserved by the guard, who 
 little expected an attack from this side. But, unfortunately, his rifle 
 had been left behind, and he was resolved not to part with "old plumper," 
 as he called it, without at least one effort to recover it. He immediately 
 gave the captives notice of his intention, and directed them to paddle 
 slowly and silently out, and in going past the head-land, to approach as 
 near as possible, and there await his coming. 
 
 The guard, by this time, had secreted themselves, and one of the 
 number had chosen the same place which Timothy himself had previously 
 occupied, near which he had left his old friend. He had almost got to 
 the spot, when the Indian discovered the rifle, grasped it, and springing 
 upon his feet, gave the alarm to his companions. Quick as thought, Tim 
 was upon him, seized the rifle, and wrenched it from him with such vio- 
 lence as to throw him breathless on the ground. The rest of the In- 
 dians were alarmed, and, sounding the war-whoop, rushed upon him. 
 
 It was a standard maxim with Timothy, that " a good soldier never 
 runs till he is obliged to," and he now found that he should be under 
 the necessity of suiting his practice to his theory. There was no time 
 for deliberation ; he instantly knocked down the foremost with the butt 
 of his rifle, and bounded away through the thicket like a startled deer. 
 The three remaining Indians made for the canoe in which the rifles were 
 deposited, already rendered harmless by the precaution of Timothy. 
 This gave him a good advantage, which was not altogether unnecessary, 
 as he was much encumbered with his wet clothes, and before he reached 
 the goal, he could hear them.snapping the dry twigs close behind him. 
 The main body had likewise got the alarm, and were but a short distance 
 from him when he reached the head4and. Those who were nearest 
 he did not fear, unless they came to close action, and he resolved t< 
 send one more of them to his long home,, before he leaped, from the pre 
 eipice. 
 
 S 
 
206 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 "It's a burning shame to wet so much powder," exclaimed he, "Fit 
 have one more pop at the tarnal red-skins." Tim's position was quickly 
 arranged to put his threat in execution. His rifle was presented, his 
 eye glanced along its barrel, and the first one that showed his head 
 received its deadly contents. 
 
 In an instant Tim was in the water, making for the canoe. The 
 whole party had by this time come up, and commenced a brisk fire upon 
 the fugitives. Tim stood erect in the canoe, shouting in the voice of a 
 Stentor, " Ye'd better take care, ye'll spile the skiff. Old plumper's 
 safe, and you'll feel him yet, I tell ye !" 
 
 They were quickly lost in darkness, and, taking a small circuit, effected 
 a landing in safety. Many a man's life verified his last threat, and Paa- 
 body lived to a good old age, having often related to his friends and 
 neighbours the adventure which gave to this place the name of " Peabo- 
 dy's leap." 
 
 The following beautiful eulogium on the father of our country is said 
 to have made its first appearance oh the side of a common Liverpool 
 pitcher : — 
 
 WASHINGTON, 
 
 The defender of his country, the founder of liberty, the friend of man. 
 History and tradition are explored in vain for a parallel to his character. 
 In the annals of modern greatness, he stands alone; and the noblest 
 names of antiquity lose their lustre in his presence. Born the benefac- 
 tor of mankind, he united all the qualities necessary to an illustrious 
 career. Nature made him great ; he made himself virtuous. Called by 
 his country to the defence of her liberties, he triumphantly vindicated 
 the rights of humanity ; and on the pillars of National Independence, laid 
 the foundation of a great republic. Twice invested with supreme magis 
 tracy by the voice of a free people, he surpassed in the cabinet the glories 
 of the field ; and voluntarily resigning the sceptre and the sword, retired 
 to the shades of private life. A spectacle so new and so sublime was 
 contemplated with the most profound admiration ; an3 the name of Wash- 
 ington, adding new lustre to humanity, resounded to the remotest regions 
 of the earth. Magnanimous in youth, glorious through life, and great 
 in death. His highest ambition the happiness of mankind ; his noblest 
 victory the conquest of himself. Bequeathing to posterity the inherit- 
 ance of his fame, and building his monument in the hearts of his coun- 
 trymen ; he lived, the ornament of the eighteenth century ; he died, 
 regretted by a mourning world. 
 
 To the lovers of nature every season has its charms. The summer is 
 the high noon of the year ; the autumn its sober decline ; the winter its 
 .■^igbt of gloom, while the spring is the fresh morning, the day-dawr. of 
 je annual circle. 
 
BATTLES OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. 
 
 20" 
 
 JiATTLES OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 
 
 Viih the names of the principal oymmanders in each, the loss in killed, 
 wounded and prisoners', and the year in which each battle occurred. 
 
 lexington, 1775. — A skirmish here began tbe Revolutionaiy War. 
 
 VICTOB. 
 
 Howe, 
 
 bunker Hill, 
 
 "lot Bush, or 
 
 \roohlyn, 
 
 Vhite Plains, 
 
 \enten, 
 
 \inceton, 
 
 iennington, 
 
 irandywine, 
 
 lermantovm, 
 
 UiRwater, 
 
 TEAR. 
 
 1775 
 
 1 1776 
 
 1776 
 1776 
 1777 
 1777 
 1777 
 1777 
 1777 
 
 LOSS. 
 
 1054 
 1400 
 
 LOSS. 
 
 Bo, 
 
 Howe, 3 or 400 
 
 Washington, 9 
 Washington, 100 
 
 Starke, 100 
 
 Hoioe, 500 
 
 Hmoe, 600 
 
 Gates, 350 
 
 DEFEATED. 
 
 Prescott, 453 
 
 Putnam,Sullivan,2000 
 
 Washington, 3 or 400 
 Rahl, 1000 
 
 Mawhood, 400 
 
 Baum & Br&rnin, 600 
 
 Washington, 
 Washington, 
 Burgoyne, 
 
 Saratoga, — Surrender of Burgoyne. to Gates, with 5752 men 
 
 fonmouth, 1778 
 
 ihode Island, 1778' 
 
 lamden, 1780 
 king's Mountain,nSO 
 
 lowpens, 1781 
 
 Tnilford a H. 1781 
 
 lutaw Springs, 1781 
 
 Washington, 230 
 
 Sullivan, 211 
 
 Comwallis, 325 
 
 Campbell, 90 
 
 Morgan, 72 
 
 Comwallis, 523 
 
 Greene, 555 
 
 Clinton, 
 
 Pigott, 
 
 Gates, 
 
 Ferguson, 
 
 Tarleton, 
 
 Greene, 
 
 Stewart, 
 
 1000 
 
 1200 
 
 600 
 
 400 
 260 
 730 
 
 1055 
 800 
 400 
 
 1100 
 
 'brktown. Surrender of Comwallis to Washington, with 7073 men ; the 
 closing scene of the Revolution — 1781. 
 
 British commanders in italics. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 The celebrated Segur, in his " Essay on Education," remarks, " Hea- 
 en, in creating woman, seemed to say to man, Behold either the torment 
 r delight of your pitesent and future existence. It is another self which 
 offer you ; in taking charge of her, you ought, in a certain degree, to 
 lentify her with yourself !" She sustains and nourishes us ; her hands 
 irect our earliest steps ; her gentle voice teaches us to lisp our first im- 
 ressions ; she wipes away the first tears we shed — and soothes the bed 
 f death. 
 
 An Englishman in Philadelphia, speaking of President Washington, 
 as expressing a wish to an American to see him. While this conver- 
 ttion passed, " There he goes," replied the American, pointing to a tali, 
 rect, dignified personage, passing on the other side of the street. " Thut 
 reneral Washington J" exclaimed the Englishman, — "where is hi? 
 uard ?" " Here," replied the American, striking his breast with era 
 basis. . 
 
208 FIELDS'S SCRAP-FOOK 
 
 RUNNING FOR LIFE. 
 
 On the arrival of the exploratory party of Messrs. Lewis and Clark* 
 at the head waters of the Missouri, one of their number, of the nami 
 of Colter, observing the appearance of abundance of beaver, got pel 
 mission to remain and hunt for some time, which he did, in companj 
 with a hunter named Potts. Aware of the hostility of the Blackfeet In 
 dians, one of whom had been killed by Lewis, they set their traps at 
 night, and took them up early in the morning, remaining concealed 
 during the da:y. They were examining their traps early one morning 
 in a creek, about six miles from that branch of the Missouri called Jef 
 ferson's Fork, and were ascending in a canoe, when they suddenly heard 
 a great noise, resembling the trampling of animals, but they could not 
 ascertain the fact, as the high perpendicular banks on each side of the 
 river impeded their view. Colter immediately pronounced it to be oecBr 
 gioned by Indians, and advised an instant retreat, but was accused ol 
 cowardice by Potts, who insisted that the noise was caused by buffaloes, 
 and they proceeded on. ' In a few minutes afterwards their doubts werT 
 removed, by a party of Indians making their appearance on both side', 
 of the creek, to the amount of five or six hundred, who beckoned them 
 to come on shore. As retreat was now impossible. Colter turned the head 
 of the canoe to the shore, and at the moment of its touching, an Indian 
 seized the rifle belonging to Potts; but Colter, who is a remarkably 
 strong man, immediately retook it, and handed it to Potts, who remained 
 in the canoe, and on recovering it pushed off into the river. He had 
 scarcely quitted the shore, when an arrow was shot at him, and he cried 
 out, " Colter, I am wounded." Colter remonstrated with him on the 
 folly of attempting to escape, and urged him to come on shore. Instead 
 of com'plying, he instantly levelled his rifle at an Indian, and shot him 
 dead on the spot. This conduct, situated as he was, may appear to have 
 been an act of madness, but it was doubtless the effect of sudden but 
 sound enough reasoning, for, if taken alive, he must have expected to 
 be tortured to death, according to the Indian custonj. He was instantly 
 pierced with arrows so numerous, that, to use the language of Colter, "he 
 was made a riddle of." They now seized Colter, stripped him entirely 
 naked, and began to consult on the manner in which he should be put to 
 death. They were first inclined to set him up as a mark to shoot at ; but 
 the chief interfered, and, seizing him by the shoulder, asked him if he 
 could run fast. Colter, who had been some time among the Kee Katsa, 
 or Crow Indians, had in a considerable degree acquired the Blackfoot 
 language, and was also well acquainted with Indian customs ; he knew 
 that he had now to run for his life, with the dreadful odds of five or six 
 hundred against him, and these armed Indians ; he therefore cunningly 
 replied, that he was a very bad runner, although he was considered by 
 the hunters as remarkably swift. The chief now commanded the pariy 
 to remain stationary, aod led Colter out on the prairie, three or four 
 hundred yards, and released him, bidding him to save himself if Jie could. 
 
RmmiNG FOR LIFE. 20? 
 
 At iiac instant the \rar-whoop sounded in the ears of poor Colter, whoj 
 urged with the hope of preserving life, ran with a speed at which he 
 was himself surprised. He proceeded towards the Jefferson Fork, having 
 to traverse a plain six miles in breadth, abounding with the prickly pear 
 on which he was every instant treading with his naked feet. He ran 
 nearly halfway across the plain before he ventured to look over his 
 shoulder, when he perceived that the Indians were very much scattered, 
 and that he had gained ground to a considerable distance from the main 
 body ; but one Indian, who carried a spear, was much "before all the rest, 
 and not more than a hundred yards from him. A faint gleam of hope 
 now cheered the heart of Colter ; he derived confidence from the belief 
 .that escape was within the bounds of possibility, but that confidence was 
 nearly fatal to him ; for he exerted himself to such a degree, that the 
 blood gushed from his nostrils, and soon almost covered the fore part of 
 his body. He had now arrived within a mile of the river, when he dis- 
 tinctly heard the appalling sound of footsteps behind him, and every 
 instant expected to feel the spear of his pursuer. Again he turned his 
 head, and saw the savage not twenty yards from him. Determined, if 
 possible, to avoid the expected blow, he suddenly stopped, turned round, 
 and spread out his arms. The Indian, surprised by the suddenness of 
 the action, and perhaps at the bloody appearance of Colter, also attempt- 
 ed to stop, but exhausted with running, he fell while endeavouring to 
 throw his spear, which stuck in the ground, and broke in his hand. 
 Colter instantly snatched up the pointed part, with which he pinned him 
 to the earth, and then continued his flight. The foremost of the Indians, 
 on arriving at the place, topped till others came up to join them, when 
 they set up a hideous yell. Every moment of this time was improved 
 by Colter, who, although fainting and exhausted, succeeded in gaining 
 the skirting of the cotton-wood trees on the border of the Fork, to 
 which he ran and plunged into the river. Fortunately for him, a little 
 below this place there was an island, against the upper point of which a 
 raft of drift timber had lodged ; he dived under the raft, and, after several ' 
 efforts, got his head above water, among the trunks of trees, covered' 
 over with smaller wood, to the depth of several feet. Scarcely had he 
 secured himself, when the Indians arrived on the river, screeching and 
 yelling, as Colter expressed it, " like so many devils.'' They were fre- 
 quently on the raft during the day, and were seen through the chinks by 
 Colter, who was congratulating himself on his escape, until the idea 
 arose that they might set the raft on fire. In horrible suspense he re- 
 mained until night, when, hearing no more of the Indians, he dived from- 
 under the raft, and swam instantly down the river to a considerable 
 distance, when he landed, and travelled all night. Although happy in^ 
 having escaped from the Indians, his situation was still dreadful ; he 
 was completely naked, under a burning sun ; the soles of his feet were 
 filled with the thorns of the prickly pear; he was hungry and haJ no 
 means of killing game, although he saw abundance around him, and was 
 at a great distance from the nearest settlement. Almost any man but an 
 American hunter would have despaired under such circumstances. The- 
 fortitude of Colter continued unshaken. After seven days' sore travel.. 
 
 8 2 14 
 
■210 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 during which he had no other subsistence than the root known by i^tu 
 ralists uniler the name of psoralea esculenla, he at length arrived lii 
 safety at Lisa's fort, on the Bighorn branch of the Boche Jaune rivef *- 
 Bradbury's Travels in the Interior of North America 
 
 THE TREACHEROUS HOSTS. 
 
 Many years since, a seafaring man called at a village on the coast of 
 >formandy, and asked for supper and a bed ; the landlord and landlady ^ 
 were elderly people, and apparently poor, i He entered into conversation 
 with them— invited them to partake of his cheer — asked many questions 
 about them and their family, and particularly of a son, who had gone to 
 ^ea when a bey; -wnd whom they had long given over as dead. The land- 
 lady showed him to his room, and when she quitted him, he put a purse 
 of gold into her hand, and desired her to take care of it till morning — 
 pressed her affectionately by the hand, and bade her good-night. She 
 returned to her husband, and showed him the accursed gold ; for its sake 
 they agreed to murder the traveller in his sleep, which they accom- 
 plished, and buried the body. In the morning earlyj came two or three 
 relations, and asked in a joyful tone for the traveller who had arrived 
 the night before. The old people seemed greatly confused, but said, that 
 he had risen early and gone away. " It is your own son, who has lately 
 returned from sea, and is, come to make happy the evening of your 
 days, and resolved to lodge with you one night as a stranger, that he 
 might see you unknown, and judge of your conduct to wayfaring mari- 
 ners." Language would be incompetent to describe the horrors of the 
 murderers, when they found they had dyed their hands in the blood of 
 their long-lost child. They confessed their crime, the body was found, 
 and the wretched murderers expiated their offence by being broken alive 
 on the wheel. 
 
 CLOSING SCENES OF LIFE. 
 
 The last w^rds of Thomas Jefferson were, " I resign my soul to ray 
 Ood, and my^daughter to my country." John Adams, near his end, 
 roused by the firing of cannon, and being told the people were rejoicing 
 for the fourth of July, said, "^It is a great and glorious day" — and ex- 
 pired with the words "Independence forever!" trembling on his lips' 
 The Commercial Advertiser states, that *hen the noise of the firing' 
 began at midnight, the dying Monroe " opened his cyeS inquiringly, 
 Hud when the cause was communicated to him, a look of intelligence 
 'iidicatcd tliat he understood what the occasion was." We know not if 
 rliere be upon record more striking instances than these, of the -'ruling 
 fission strong in death " 
 
riOLONEL CKOSHAN. 211 
 
 COLONEL CROGHAN. 
 
 Mr. BaECKENRiDGE, in his history of the late war, thtfS describes 
 the gallant defence of Fort Sandusky :— 
 
 The transactions which are now to he related may justly rank among 
 the most pleasing to our feeling and national pride, of any which took 
 place during the contest. The campaign opened with an affair, which, . 
 though comparatively of smaller consequence than some others, is in its' 
 eii-cumstances one of the most brilliant that occurred during the war. 
 This was the unparalleled defence of fort Sandusky, by a youth of twenty- 
 one years of age. In August, and before the arrival of the Ohio and 
 Kentucky volunteers, which did not take place until the following month, 
 threatening movements had been made upon all the different forts, esta- 
 blished by the Americans on the rivers which fall into lake Erie. After 
 the siege of fort Meigs, the British had been considerably reinforced by 
 regulars, and an unusual number of Indians, under their gfeat leader 
 Tecumseh. It was all-important to reduce these forts before the arrival 
 of the volunteers. Major Croghan, then commanding at Upper San- 
 dusky, having received intimation that the enemy were about to invest 
 the fort of Lower Sandusky, had marched to this place tfith some addi- 
 tional force, and had been occupied with great assiduity in placing it in 
 the best posture of defence. But the only addition of importance, which 
 the time would allow him to make, was a ditch of six feet deep and nine 
 feet wide, outside the stockade of pickets by which these hastily-con- 
 structed forts are enclosed, but which can afford but a weak defence 
 a^inst artillery. He had but one six-pounder, and about one hundred 
 and sixty men, consisting of regulars, and detachments of the Kttsburg 
 and Petersburg volunteers. General Hafrison, not Conceiving it practi- 
 cable to defend the place. Ordered yOung Croghafl to retire on the • 
 approach of the enemy, after having destroyed the works. This our 
 young hero, taking the responsibility upon himself, determined to dis^ 
 obey. 
 
 On the first of August, General Proctor, having left a large body of 
 Indians under Tecumseh, to keep up the appearance of a siege of fort 
 Meigs, arrived at Sandusky with about five hundred regulars, seven 
 hundred Indians, and some gun-boats. After the General had made 
 such dispositions of his troops as to cut off the retreat of the garrison, , 
 he sent a flag by Colonel Elliot and Major Chambers, demanding a sur- 
 render, accompanied with the usual base and detestable threats of butcherj 
 and cold-blood massacre, if the garrison should hold out. A spirited 
 answer was returned by Croghan, who found that all his companions, 
 chiefly striplings like himself, would support him to the last. 
 
 When the flag returned, a brisk fire was opened from the gun-boats 
 and a howitzer, which was kept up during the night. In the morniiig, 
 they opened with three sixes, which had been planted, under cover of 
 ■'he night, within two hundred and fifty yards of the pickets, but not 
 with much effect. About foui o'clock in the afternoon, it Was discovered 
 
212 FIELDS 3 SCRAP-BOaK. 
 
 that the enemy had concentrated his fire against the north-west angle, 
 with the Intention of making a breach. This part was immediately 
 strengthened by the apposition of bags of flour and sand, so that the 
 pickets sttflFered but little injury. During this time, the six-pounder 
 ■was carefully concealed in the bastion which covered the point to be ■ 
 assailed, and it was loaded with slugs and grape. About five hundred 
 of the enemy now advanced in close column to assail the part where it 
 was supposed the pickets must have been injured, at the same time 
 making several feints to draw the attention of the besieged to other 
 parts of the fort ; their force being thus divided, a column of three 
 hundred and fifty men, which were so enveloped in smoke as not to be 
 seen until they approached within twenty paces of the lines, advanced 
 rapidly to the assault. A fire of musketry from the fort for a moment threw 
 them into confusion, but they were quickly rallied by Colonel Short, their 
 commander, who, now springing over the outer works into the ditch, 
 commanded the rest to follow, crying out, " Give the damned Yankees 
 no quarter !" Scarcely had these detestable words escaped his lips, and 
 the greater part of his followers landed in the ditch, when the six- 
 pounder opened upon them a most destructive fire, killing and wounding 
 the greater part, and among the first the wretched leader, who was 
 sent into eternity before his words had died upon the air. A volley 
 of musketry was, at the same time, fired upon those who had not ven- 
 tured. The officer who succeeded Short, exasperated at being thus 
 treated by a few boys, formed his broken column, and again rushed to 
 the ditch, where he, and those who dared to follow him, met with the 
 same fate as their fellow soldiers. The small arms were again played 
 on them, the whole British force was thrown into confusion, and in spite 
 of the exertions of their officers, fled to the woods, almost panic-struck, 
 whither they were soon followed by the Indians. Thus were these men, 
 confident of success, and detestable in the intended use of victory, most 
 signally chastised, under Providence, by a force scarce a tenth part of 
 their numbers. Terror indescribable took possession of the assailants, 
 and they retreated towards their boats, scarcely daring to look back upon 
 the fatal spot ; while they were followed by their allies in sullen silence. 
 If this gallant defence deserves the applause of the brave, the subse- 
 quent conduct of the besieged deserves the praise of every friend of 
 humanity. The scene which now ensued deserves to be denominated 
 sublime. The little band, forgetting in a moment that they had been 
 assailed by merciless foes, who sought to massacre them, without regard- 
 ing the laws of honourable war, now felt only the desire of relieving 
 wounded men, and of administering comfort to the wretched. Had 
 they been friends, had they been brothers, they could not have expe- 
 vienced a more tender solicitude. The whole night was occupied in en- 
 deavouring to assuage their sufferings ; provisions and buckets of water 
 were handed over the pickets, and an opening was made, by which many 
 of the sufferers were taken in, who ivere immediately supplied with 
 surgical aid ; and this, although a firing was kept up with small arms 
 by the enemy until some time in the night. The loss of the garrison 
 amounted to on« killed and seven wounded ; that of the enemy, it is 
 
INFANCY. 213 
 
 Bapposed, to at least two hundred. Upwards of fifty were found in and 
 aboat the ditch. It was discovered next morning, that the enemy had 
 hastily retreated, leaving a boat and a considerable quantity of military 
 stores. Upwards of seventy stand of arms were taken, besides a quan- 
 tity of ammunition. The Americans were engaged during the day in 
 burying the dead with the honours of war, and providing for the 
 wounded. 
 
 This exploit called forth the admiration of every party in the United 
 States. Croghan, together with his companions, Captain Hunter, , and 
 Lieutenants Johnson, Baylor,, and Meeks, of the seventeenth j Anthony, 
 of the twenty-fourth ; and Ensigns Ship and Duncan, of the seventeenth, 
 together with the other officers and volunteers, were highly compli- 
 mented by the general. They afterwards received the thanks of Con- 
 gress. Croghan was promoted to the rank of lieutenant-colonel, and 
 was presented with an elegant sword by the ladies of Chillicothe. 
 
 mFANCY. 
 
 What is more beautiful than an infant ? Look at its spotless brow, 
 at its soft and ruddy lips, which have never uttered an unholy word — 
 and at its blue laughing eye, as it lies on the breast of its fond mother ! 
 Look, it has stretched out its white hand, and is playfully twisting her 
 hair around its tiny fingers. Look at an infant ! It is innocence endued 
 with life; the counterpart of holiness. It requires nothing but the 
 pleasant look of its mother, and her warm kiss upon its lily cheek, to 
 make it happy. You may talk to it of sorrow, of misery, of death, but 
 your words are unmeaning. It has never felt the chills of disappoint- 
 ment ; it has never writhed beneath the pang of affliction, and its guile- 
 less heart knows nothing of the emptiness, the hollow professions, and 
 cold-heartedness of the world ; and would to God that the cup may be 
 broken ere it be lifted to its lips. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 All the influence which women enjoy in society, — their right to the 
 exercise of that maternal care which forms the first and most indelible 
 species of education ; the wholesome and mitigating restraint which they 
 possess over the passions of mankind ; their power of protecting us when 
 young and cheering us when old,— -depend so entirely upon their per- 
 sonal purity, and the charm which it oasts around them, that to insinuate 
 .1 doubt of its real value is wilfully to remove the broadest corner-stone 
 on which vivil society rests, with all its benefits, and with all its com- 
 forts. — Scoa. 
 
214 
 
 FIELDS S SCKAP-BOOK, 
 
 THE "WANDEKER'S RETURN. 
 
 The day was gono, ^nd the night was dark. 
 
 As the howling winds went by. 
 And the blinding sleet fell thick and fast 
 
 From a stern and stormy sky. 
 Wheaa mournful wail, through the rushing gale. 
 
 Was heard at the cottage door— 
 Oh ! carry me back— oh ! carry me back 
 
 To my mother's home, once more. 
 
 'Twas a youth who had left his mountain honie. 
 
 He had wander'd far and long ; 
 He had drain'd the goblet> fiery tide. 
 
 At the festal midnight t^iVQS : 
 Sut a dream of home oame o'er his heart. 
 
 As he crept to the cottage door— 
 Oh ! carry me book — oh ! carry me back 
 
 To my mother's home, once more. 
 
 J hare left the hall of the tempter's pow«. 
 
 And the revel wild and high— 
 They cared not in their reckless mirto 
 
 If I wandered alone to die. 
 Doth the fire still bum on the household heuU, 
 
 By the elm-tree, old and hoarf 
 Oh ! carry me back — oh ! carry me back 
 
 To my mother's home, once more. 
 
 Like the weary bird that has wander'd lon^ 
 
 I will seek jny mountain nest, 
 And lay this aching head onoe z^ore. 
 
 On my gentle mother's breast. 
 Once more will I seek the household hearth. 
 
 By the elm-tree, old and boar — 
 Oh ! carry me back — oh ! carry me back 
 
 To my mother's home, onoe more. 
 
 [From the GalTeston News.] 
 
 THE MIER PRISONER'S LAMENT. 
 
 Air — "Bonnie Doon." 
 
 Te warbling birds, in shady bowers, 
 
 Your thrilling melodies, how gay ! 
 They bring to mind the rapturous hours 
 
 I've spent with one who's far away : 
 When wand'ring by some crystal rill, 
 
 Where fragrance floats on every breeze, 
 I oft have heard those notes so shrill. 
 
 Mid sylvan groves of spreading trees. 
 
 Those very notes I oft have heard, 
 
 In deep wild-wood on summer's day. 
 When I was with my gentle bird. 
 
 My Isabel, who's far away. 
 Those blissful hours of peace have passed, 
 
 Which I so happily enjoy'd. 
 And I am pow in prison cost. 
 
 With even worse than death annoy'd. 
 
 Whene'er ye waft on airy wing. 
 
 And through the blue expansion stray. 
 Go to my love and say, " We bring 
 
 A tear from one who's far away." 
 Tour freedom, birds, I envy not ; 
 
 But to my fate am reconciled : 
 If to be freed should be my lot, 
 
 I oft may hear your warblings wild. 
 
 If this dull frame be doomed to death, 
 
 Ere time shall bring another day. 
 Go, tell my wife my latest breath 
 
 Wag spent for ope who's far away : 
 Go, tell her that her husband died 
 
 At peace with God— hie sins forgiven— 
 That the last words his spirit sigh'd, 
 
 Were—" Mat we meei again is beaten T 
 
 BROTHER, COMB HOME. 
 
 Tai following beautiful lines were addressed by a sister t<r her brother, now residing in Califomifc 
 
 Come home— 
 Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep — 
 
 Would I conld wing jt like a bird to thee, 
 To commune with thy thoughts, to flII thy sleep 
 With these unwearying words of melody- 
 Brother, come home. 
 
 Come home — 
 Conje to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes 
 
 That beam in brightqess but to gladden thine ; 
 Come where fend thoughts like holiest incense rise; 
 Where cherish'd memory rears her altar's shrine — 
 Brother, come home. 
 
 Come home — 
 Come to the hearthstone of thy eailier days; 
 
 Come to the ark, like the o'er wearied dove j 
 Come with the ^qnlight of thy heart's warm ra/a,' 
 Com9 to the fireside circle of thy love- 
 Brother, come houHk 
 
 Comp home — 
 It is not home without thee — the lone seat 
 
 Is still unclaimed where thou wast wont to be ; 
 In every echo of returning feet. 
 In vain we list for what should herald thee — 
 
 Brother, come hom& 
 
WBITE-HB/iDED, OR liALD EAGLE. 215 
 
 WHITE-HEADED, OR BALD EAGLE. 
 
 BY WILSON. 
 
 TiiTS distinguished bird, as he is the most beautiful of his tribe in thi!^ 
 fart of the world, and the adopted emblem of our country, is entitlea 
 to particular notice. The celebrated cataract of Niagara is a noted place 
 of resort for the bald eagle, as well on account of the fish procured there, 
 as for the numerous carcasses of squirrels, deer, bears, and various othei' 
 animals, that, in their attempts to cross the river above the falls, have 
 been dragged into the current, and precipitated down that tremendous 
 gulf, where, among the rocks that bound the rapids below, they furnish 
 a rich repast for the vulture, the raven, and the bald eagl«, the subject 
 of the present account. He has been long known to naturalists, being 
 common to both continents, and occasionally met with from very high 
 northern latitudes 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 
 on the produce oj the sea and of the land ; possessing powers of flight capa- 
 ble of outstripping even the tempests themselves ; 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 indifierent to the little localities of 
 change of season ; 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 from thence descend at will to the torrid or the arctic 
 regions of the earth. He is, therefore, found at all seasons in the coun- 
 tries he inhabits, but prefers such places as have been mentioned above, 
 from the great partiality he has for fish. 
 
 In procuring these, he displays, in a very singular manner, the genius 
 and energy of his character, which is contemplative, daring, and tyranni- 
 cal; attributes not exerted but on particular occasions, but, when put 
 forth, overpowering all opposition. Elevated on the 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 feathered 
 tribes that pursue their busy avocations below; the snow-white gulls 
 slowly winnowing the air ; the busy tringas coursing 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 subsist by the bounty of this vast liquid magazine of nature. High 
 above these, hovers one whose action instantly arrests his whole, atten- 
 tion. 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, maku g 
 
216 PIELDS'S SCKAP-BOOK. 
 
 the surges foam around ! At this moment, the eager looks of the eagle 
 are all ardour,; and, levelling his neck for flight, he sees the fish-hawk 
 once more emerge, struggling with his prey, and mounting into the air 
 with screams of exultation. These are the signals for our hero, who, 
 launching into the air, instantly gives chase and soon gains on the fish- 
 hawk ; each exerts his utmost to mount above the other, displaying in 
 these rencounters the most elegant and sublime aerial evolutions. The 
 unencumbered eagle rapidly advances, and is just on the point of reach- 
 ing his opponent, when, with a sudden scream, probably 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. 
 
 These predatory attacks and defensive manoeuvres of the eagle and 
 the fish-hawk are matters of daily observation along the whole of our 
 seaboard, from Georgia to New England, and frequently excite great 
 interest in the spectators. Sympathy, however, on this as on most other 
 occasions, generally sides with the honest and laborious sufierer, in oppo- 
 sition to the attacks of power, injustice, and rapacity, qualities for which 
 our hero is so generally notorious, and which, in. his superior, man, are 
 certainly detestable. As for the feelings of the poor fisfl, they seem alto- 
 gether out of the question. 
 
 When driven, as he sometimes is, by the combined courage and perse- 
 verance of the fish-hawks from their neighbourhood, and forced to hunt 
 for himself, he retires more inland, in search of young pigs, of which he 
 destroys great numbers. In the lower parts of Virginia and North Ca- 
 rolina, where the inhabitants raise vast herds of those animals, com- 
 plaints of this kind are very general against him. He also destroys 
 young lambs in the early part of spring, and will sometimes attack old 
 Bickly sheep, aiming furiously at their eyes. 
 
 GOD SEES ME. 
 
 Persons inclined to the sin of stealing are satisfied if they can only 
 be certain they shall not be discovered. I once heard it related, that a 
 man who was in the habit of going to a neighbour's cornfield, to steal the 
 ears, one day took with him his son, a boy of eight years of age. The 
 father told him to hold the bag, while he looked if any one was near to 
 see him. After standing on the fence, and peeping through all the com 
 rows, he returned to take the' bag from the child, and began his guilty 
 worl.. ''Father," said the boy, "you forgot to look somewhere else." 
 The man dropped the bag in affright, and said, " Which way, chiXd ?" sup- 
 posing he had seen some one. " You" forgot to look up to the sky, to 
 see if God was noticing you." The father felt this reproof of ihe child 
 so much, that he left the corn, returned home, and never again ventured 
 to steal; remembering the truth his child had taught him, that the eye 
 of God always beholds us. " God sees me," is a thought that would keep 
 us from evil acts, if we would try, constartly, to feel its truth. 
 
THE MOCKING-BIRD. 217 
 
 THE MOCKING-BIKD. 
 
 BY WILSON. 
 
 The intelligence whijh the American mocking-bird displays in listen- 
 ing to, and laying up lessons, from almost every species of the feathered 
 creation within his hearing, is really surprising, and marks the pecu- 
 liarity of his genius. He possesses a voice full, strong, and musical, 
 and capable of almost every modulation, from the clear mellow notes of 
 the wood-thrush, to the savage scream of the bald-headed eagle. In 
 the measure and accent, he faithfully follows his originals. In force 
 and sweetness of expression, he greatly improves upon them. In hia 
 native groves, mounted on the top of a tall bush or half-grown tree, in 
 the dawn of a dewy morning, while the woods are already vocal with a 
 multitude of warblers, his admirable song rises pre-eminent over every 
 competitor. Neither is this strain altogether imitative. His own native 
 notes, which are easily distinguishable, are bold and full, and varied 
 seemingly beyond all limits. They consist of short expressions of two, 
 three, or at most five or sis syllables, generally interspersed with imita- 
 tions, and all of them uttered with great emphasis and rapidity, and 
 continued with undiminished ardour. The buoyant gayety of his action 
 arresting the eye, as his song most irresistably does the ear, he sweeps 
 around with an enthusiastic ecstasy ; he mounts and descends as his 
 song swells or dies away, and, as it has been beautifully expressed, " he 
 bounds aloft with the celerity of an arrow, as if to recover or recall his 
 very soul, expired in the last elevated strain." While exerting himself, 
 » bystander, destitute of sight, would suppose that the whole feathered 
 •ribe had assembled together on a trial of skill, each striving to produce 
 his utmost effect, so perfect are his imitations. He many times de- 
 ceives the 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 fancied calls of their mate, or dive with precipi- 
 tation into the depth of the thickets, at the scream of what they sup- 
 pose to be the sparrow-hawk. 
 
 The mocking-bird loses little of the power and energy of his song by 
 eonfinement. In his domesticated state, when he commences his career 
 of song, it is impossible to stand by uninterested. He whistles for the 
 dog ; Caesar starts up, wags his tail, and runs to meet his master. He 
 squeaks out like a hurt chicken, and the hen hurries about with hang- 
 ing wings and bristled feathers, clucking to protect her injured brood. 
 The barking of the dog, the mewing of the cat, the creaking of a pass- 
 ing wheelbarrow, follow with great truth and rapidity. He repeats the 
 tune taught him by his master, though of considerable length, fully 
 and faithfully. He runs over the quiverings of the Canary and the 
 oiear whistlings of the Virginia nightingale, or redbird, with such su- 
 perior execution and effect, that the mortified songsters feel tb^ir own 
 T 
 
'218 FIBLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 inferiority, and become altogether silent, while he seems to triumph in 
 their defeat by redoubling his exertions. 
 
 This excessive fondness for variety, however, in the opinion of some 
 injures his song. His elevated imitations of the brown-thrush are fre- 
 quently interrupted by the crowing of cocks ; and the warblings of the 
 bluebird, which he exquisitely manages, are mingled with the screaming 
 of swallows or the cackling of hens ; amid . the simple melody of the 
 robin, we are suddenly surprised-by the shrill reiterations of the whip- 
 poor-will ; while the notes of the killdeer, bluejay, martin^ and twenty 
 others, succeed with such imposing reality, that we look around for the 
 originals, and discover, with astonishment, that the sole performer in 
 this singular concert is the admirable bird now before us. During this 
 exhibition of his powers, he spreads his wings, expands his tail, and 
 throws himself around the cage in all the ecstasy of enthusiasm, seem- 
 ing not only to sing, but to dance, keeping time to the measure of his 
 music. Both in his native and domesticated state, during the solemn 
 stillness of night, as soon as the moon rises in silent majesty, he begins 
 his delightful solo, and serenades us the livelong night with a full dis- 
 play of his vocal powers, making the whole neighbourhood ring with 
 his inimitable medley. 
 
 THE COAT OF MAIL. 
 
 Just before Napoleon set out for the court of Belgium, he sent to 
 the cleverest artisan of his class in Paris, and demanded of him whether 
 he would engage to make a coat of mail, to be worn under the ordinary 
 dress, which should be absolutely bullet-proof; and that if so, he might 
 name his own price for such a work. The man engaged to make the 
 desired object, if allowed proper time, and he named eighteen thousand 
 francs as the price of it. The bargain was concluded, and in due time 
 the work was produced, and its maker honoured with a second audience 
 of the emperor. " Now," said his imperial majesty, " put it on." 
 The man did so. " As I am to stake my life on its efficacy, you will, I 
 suppose, have no objections to do the same." And he took a brace of 
 pistols, and prepared to discharge one of them iX the breast, of the. 
 astonished artisan. There was no retreating, however, and, half-dead 
 with fear, he stood the fire, and, to the infinite credit of his work, with 
 perfect impunity. But the emperor was not content with one trial ; he 
 fired the second pistol at the back of the trembling artisan, and after- 
 wards discharged a fowling-piece at another part of him, with similar 
 effect. "Well," said the emperor, "you have produced a capital work, 
 undoubtedly — what is the price of it?" "Eighteen thousand francs 
 were, named as the agreed sum." " There is an order for them," said 
 the emperor, " and here is another, for an equal sum, for the fright 
 that I have given you." 
 
THE HAZLEWOCD FAMII.T. 219 
 
 THE HAZLEWOOD FAMILY. 
 
 A TALE OF THE BEVOLUTIOR. 
 
 "Alas, what lofty devotion — what bliesfal recollections — ^what high hopes — "»hai 
 ansnllied lore — ^what pure affection — what ardent patriotism, has been swallowed nf 
 by thee, thoa anrelenting past!" — ^Airos. 
 
 "0 MOTHER, they are coming, they are coming!" shouted little 
 Maria Hazlewood, as she came flying into the apartment where her mo- 
 ther and sister were preparing tea ; her dark hair floating loose around 
 her white neck, her blue eyes sparkling with pleasure, and her fine 
 countenance lighted up with animation, as she threw herself into hex 
 mother's arms. 
 
 " Who, my dear Maria, are coming?" 
 
 "Why, brother Charles, and Arthur: I saw them on the hill beyond 
 the river," replied the happy girl, as she hastened down the avenue to 
 meet her brother. 
 
 " Heaven be praised !" said Mrs. Hazlewood, as she heard the wel- 
 come news ; and the quick flush that passed over the features of the 
 eldest sister, the beautiful Ellen, plainly told that Maria's intelligence 
 was no less agreeable to her. 
 
 The last two days had been days of fearful anxiety with the Hazle- 
 wood family. They had heard of the conflict and victory of the Cow- 
 pens — the defeat and flight of Tarleton's invincibles, as they had hitherto 
 been deemed — and the paft that Lieutenant-Colonel Washington's troop 
 took irf that brilliant affair was proclaimed by every tongue. But in 
 that gallant troop, was a son and a friend ; and was it not probable that, 
 among the brave men who had sealed the victory with their blood, 
 Charles or Arthur had fallen ? 
 
 Captain Hazlewood had early enlisted with all his heart in the service 
 of his country, and fell, mortally wounded, in the disastrous attack on 
 Savannah. He left one son and two daughters ; Charles, who, although 
 scarcely twenty, inherited his father's spirit, and had already distin- 
 guished himself as one of the bravest in Washington's daring band ; 
 the dark-eyed Ellen, now sixteen — and Maria, a bright, innocent, playful 
 creature, five years of age. When the British army threatened the oc- 
 cupation of Charleston, Captain Hazlewood's family removed to their 
 plantation, on the main branch of the Santee, about forty miles above 
 Camden. If their residence here was marked with few appearances of 
 that splendour and wealth to which they had been accustomed in the 
 city, it was worthy of the amiable family that made it their home. The 
 neat, low, white buildings rose at a considerable distance from the 
 highway, on an eminence covered with fruit and forest trees, and wild 
 grape-vines, which threw their luxuriant tendrils from one to the other, 
 had, in the course of years, converted the carriage-way that led from the 
 gate into a continued bower. From the house, through the opening trees, 
 might be seen the hills of the Santee, the meandering Catawba, and, at 
 a little distance below, the road that led to the low country, as it dty 
 
220 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 Boended a hill, and crossed the plain and river in front of the huildings. 
 At this hour the sun threw his last rays over the successive ranges of 
 blue hills that rose in the west — the river lay in the vale like a broken 
 thread of silver, now hid by the sycamores and red-cedars that fringea 
 its banks, and now sparkling in the bright rays — the low, soft-soothing 
 tones of the wood-dove and the clear magical notes of the mocking- 
 bird mingled in sweet concert in the oaks, locusts, and magnolias, thai 
 surrounded the mansion, and every thing seemed combined to present a 
 picture of perfect quietness and beauty. 
 
 " What is the matter with you, my dear Ellen ?" said Mrs. Hazle- 
 wood, alarmed at the paleness of her daughter, who had been watching 
 with intense interest the two horsemen, as they crossed the plain, and 
 were now ascending the eminence on foot, with the delighted JSlaria 
 laughing and prattling between tjiem. 
 
 " It is Charles, but not Arthur," replied Ellen, as she turned away 
 from the window to conceal an emotion she could not suppress ; — but 
 there was little time for explanation or conjecture, as at that instant the 
 door opened, and Ellen was clasped to the bosom of her brother, while 
 his mother shed tears of joy, as he pressed b r hand. 
 
 " My dear mother, I have the pleasure of presenting to you Cornet 
 Clifford, a British officer," said Charles, as he led the stranger forward. 
 
 " And your prisoner, you ought to have added," said Clifford, with a 
 smile, as he returned the salutation of Mrs. Hazlewood. 
 
 Charles did not notice the remark, for at the instant he was whispering 
 something in Ellen's ear, which covered her face with blushes, while it 
 at the same time removed an immense weight from her bosom, and re- 
 stored her usual sprightly cheerfulness. 
 
 " Charles, what is the matter with your arm ?" inquired Maria, as 
 she clun^ around her brother's neck ; and Ellen at that moment saw 
 that his left arm was suspended in a military sash. 
 
 " A scratch from such a weapon as that," he carelessly replied, point- 
 ing to his sabre that hung against the wall ; " a mere accident, that sol- 
 diers are every day liable to, and which might have been much worse." 
 
 " I must be satisfied the wound is not severe," said Mrs. Hazlewood. 
 
 " I appeal to my friend here, who made it," answered the young sol- 
 dier, with a smile, while a shudder ran over the ladies as they glanced 
 at Clifford. 
 
 " A mere flesh-wound, and is doing well I assure you," was the reply 
 to Charles's appeal. 
 
 "Is that man your friend ?" inquired Maria, seriously; "if he could 
 Btrike you with his sword, he shall never be my friend." 
 
 " My sister does not understand the casuistry of war, or perceive, that 
 because men are sometimes enemies, there is no necessity for their b».ing 
 always so," said Hazlewood to the officer. 
 
 " She is quite pardonable," replied Clifford, as he kissed the reluctant 
 girl; then, pulling off a handkerchief that was tied around his head, 
 said, as he pointed to a deep sabre-gash in it, " you must allow, my 
 sweet girl, that since your brother cut this, he is at least as bad as I 
 am." 
 
THB HAi-iiiiWOOD FAMILY. 221 
 
 '"No; you are a royalist, and an enemy to my country, and mj 
 brother is not," answered Maria. 
 
 " Rebel to the very core," said Clifford, with a bitter smile, as he re- 
 leased the little girl from his arms, and the conversation was turned into 
 another channel. 
 
 The fatigue of the day, added to the effect of the wound he had re- 
 ceived, made it necessary for Clifford to retire at an early hour, and lefi 
 ChaTles at liberty to explain the manner in which he became acquainted 
 with that oflScer at the siege of Charleston, their meeting at the Cow- 
 pens, and the desperate conflict that ensued — the wound he himself re- 
 ceived, and the manner in which he fortunately disabled, disarmed, and 
 made him a prisoner. 
 
 " And why has he come with you ?" asked Ellen. 
 
 " Because he was not exchanged ; and as there Was a probability that 
 I should be unfit for service a month "or two, he chose, instead of fol- 
 lowing the retreat of the army, to come home with me on his parole of 
 honour, I being security for his appearance." 
 
 "I do not like him; I can see in his countenance that he hates our 
 cause and country ; I wish he had not come here." 
 
 " I know, sister," said Charles, as he gayly tipped his sister's cheek, 
 " that you would much rather have seen Arthur ; but he is in the pur- 
 suit of glory and fame, and when he has acquired enough, he too, shall 
 come and see my Ellen.'.' , 
 
 A deep blush, which suffused with crimson the countenance of the 
 beautiful Ellen, was all the reply she made to her sportive brother. 
 
 A week, a month passed away — the wound in the head of the royal 
 officer was healed, and he was able to join in all the amusements 
 which Charles projected, in and out of doors. To a commanding ap- 
 pearance, Comet Clifford added a winning manner, which, when he chose, 
 he could mingle with the attractive frankness of a soldier, and even the 
 republican Maria began to regard him with less dislike than she at first 
 felt. By carefully avoiding all mention of topics that might give pain, 
 he succeeded in securing the favourable opinion of Mrs. Hazlewood; but, 
 in spite of his endeavours to please, there was one of the family that 
 continued to regard him with distrust and aversion. That one was the 
 lovely Ellen, who could not help fancying that, through the polished and 
 gentlemanlike exterior he assumed, she could discover traces of the 
 unprincipled villain — the profligate libertine. Though he strove with 
 all the art of which he was master to make a favourable impression 
 upon her heart, to his mortification he found she was invulnerable, and 
 while he was in his heart cherishing the most dishonourable intentions, 
 he found himself more and more fascinated by her charms. Still there 
 was in his language and in his eye that which alarmed Ellen and induced 
 her, while she avoided him as much as possible, to hint her dislike to 
 her brother. 
 
 " Give yourself no uneasiness about this royalist," said Charles. " To 
 speak, ay, or to think disrespectfully of you, shall be as much as his 
 head is worth." 
 
 Clifford was a man too well versed in duplicity to excite needles 
 
 t2 
 
222 FIELDS'e SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 alarm, whatever black designs lie miglit meditate. The younger son of 
 a respectable English family, he had chosen the army for a profession; 
 *nd, attached to the light troops under Tarleton, none was more dis- 
 tinguished for his bravery, or his unbounded licentiousness. Prom the 
 moment he saw the beautiful Ellen Hazlewood, he had marked her for 
 his victim, and his resolution did not falter when he saw she was the 
 pride of her brother and the loved one of all around her. He knew 
 that he was disliked by her, and he exulted in the thought that while 
 he humbled the proud girl, a deep blow would be struck at the happi- 
 ness of some of the sturdiest rebels in Carolina. In the midst of his 
 plans, however, he received a notice of his exchange, and a summon to 
 join Lord Rawdon at Camben. Charles, although his arm was not en- 
 tirely healed, was unwilling, at the prospect of active service, to remain 
 idle, and, soon after Clifford depafted, hastened to join his corps under 
 Washington. In the rapid succession of marches and countermarches, 
 skirmishes and battles that ensued, Clifford, though he did not forget the 
 prize he was still determined to possess, found no time for maturing his 
 projects — and a blow from the sabre of another of Washington's troopers, 
 at the hard-fought battle of the Eutaw Springs, at once banished the re- 
 collection of Ellen, and every thin-g else, from his head for a while. In 
 that struggle. Colonel Washington was wounded, and fell into the hands 
 of the royalists, and, in a furious onset to rescue him, young Hazlewood's 
 horse was killed 'under him, and he shared the fate of his superior, by 
 being made a prisoner. When, after the lapse of two days, Clifford 
 recovered his reason, and found that Charles was a prisoner, and in his 
 power, his joy was unbounded ; for, by having him at his disposal, he 
 felt certain of being able to subdue the high-souled and virtuous Ellen j. 
 and the breathing-time the royal army enjoyed after that battle, gave 
 him an opportunity of putting his nefarious plans in a train of execution. 
 Tarleton, who comprehended the nature of his designs, if not the parti- 
 culars of the plan,, granted him permission to leave the army for a few 
 days, and, with two tory citizens of the State for his instruments, hfi 
 departed in disguise for the neighbourljood of his victim. 
 
 It was late in the evening when a stranger knocked at Mrs. Hazle- 
 wood's and made himself known as a bearer of a message from Charles, 
 mforming them that he had been severely wounded, and was a prisoner, 
 and entreated, as a favour, that Ellen would visit him before his death, 
 which, under the guidance of the messenger, he assured her she might do 
 in safety. The man produced a passport from Cornwijlis, and played 
 the part assigned him so well, that not a suspicion passed the mind of 
 Ellen or her mother y and, although she was sensible of the dangerous 
 nature of the undertaking, her love for her brother did not permit her to 
 hesitate — and as soon as some refreshment' had been provided for the 
 messenger, and she had made a few hurried preparations, they set out. 
 They had not ridden many miles before day began to break, and while 
 they were joined by another horseman who appeared to be travelling the 
 same road with themselves, Ellen's suspicions were excited by the pains 
 h?r guide took to avoid those places where their appearance might have 
 attracted notice. Some trifling reasons were assigned for this course, and 
 
THE HAZLEWOOD FAMILT. 223 
 
 ft was not until the forenoon was far advanced, and they paused for the 
 first time at a small log-hut in a thick pine-wood, that Ellen's fears weio 
 converted into reality, by the appearance of the detested CliflFord to assisi 
 Ler in alighting. Ellen rejected his offered hand, and en'tered the hut. 
 A chill of horror passed over her as she saw, from its desolate appear- 
 ance, that it was uninhabited, and the full conviction that she was in 
 the power of a villain flashed upon her mind. \ 
 
 "Where is my brother ?" demanded Ellen, turning to Clifford. 
 
 " Your brother is not here ; but you shall soon have the pleasure of 
 seeing him, and that, too, safe and well." 
 
 " Safe and well \" repeated Ellen, fixing a searching look on the royal 
 officer, who met it unmoved. 
 
 " Yes, dearest Ellen, both, though a prisoner ; forgive me, Ellen," he 
 continued, as he attempted to take her hand, " if to obtain the company 
 of one I shall ever love, I have been compelled to resort to stratagem : 
 and. allow me to hope the sight of your brother will not be the leas 
 welcome because obtained through my means." 
 
 " My brother needs not my presence under such circumstances, and I 
 must insist on being permitted to return immediately to my home," re- 
 plied the undaunted girl. 
 
 " No, Miss Hazlewood, I cannot part with you so easily ; but you 
 may rely upon the word of an officer and a gentleman, that in the camp 
 of his majesty's troops, you shall be perfectly safe." 
 
 Ellen's remonstrances were unavailing, and she was compelled to 
 proceed ; and, while treated with much respect by Clifford, she, trembled 
 for the result. Once with her brother, she determined to appeal to 
 Clifford's superiors, confident they would never refuse protection to inno- 
 cence, or fail to deliver her from the power of a man she believed capa- 
 ble of any enormity. 
 
 During the journey, and after their arrival at the little village in which 
 the royal army was encamped, Clifford sawthat nothing was wanting to 
 make Ellen's situation as agreeable as possible, although it was easy for 
 her to see that she was under the strict surveillance. She found her 
 brother not only a prisoner, but, to her surprise, in close custody; 
 and, when she remonstrated with Clifford on the subject, and reminded 
 him of the treatment he had experienced when in her brother's power, 
 he answered that circumstances he could not then explain rendered 
 such a measure necessary. She was not permitted to see him, except 
 in the presence of Clifford or one of the guard. 
 
 Though Clifford had now succeeded in getting Ellen within his 
 clutches, the difficulties in his way, he found, were not all overcome. She 
 refused to listen for a moment to his fine-spun falsehoods — she treated 
 his professions of love with contempt, and his offers of marriage with 
 indignant silence. The building in which Clifford resided, and which 
 served as a prison for both Charles and Ellen, was at a little distance 
 from any other, although considerably within the line of sentries and 
 outposts around the British camp. There was a fine garden attached k. 
 it, and in this, as a mark of particular favour, Ellen, accompanied by 
 her female attendant, was allowed to walk; the high-picketed fencv 
 
224 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 being deemed a sufficient security against any attempts at escape. Onf 
 mild evening, just as the sun was setting, Ellen and her servant ob' 
 served an old woman on the outside of the garden, who appeared to be 
 waiting their nearer approach. " It's Peggy McFarknd," said the girl, 
 as Ellen inquired whether she knew her ; " and she lives by furnishing 
 the officers of his majesty with such vegetables as they will purchase 
 and she can procure." 
 
 As they came up to the enclosure, Ellen perceived she had some clusters 
 of wild-flowers and sweet-smelling herbs, which she offered to sell to 
 them. In the one, which, in consideration of a few pence, she handed 
 to Miss Hazlewood, the latter observed her slip a small piece of paper; 
 and, while the eyes of the attendant were directed another way by the 
 woman, Ellen managed to read as follows : — " You are in the power of 
 a villain, but despair not — ^your motions are watched by those who will 
 save you at every hazard; trust in Heaven, be firm, and you are safe." 
 This scrap of paper was signed " A. L. ;" and, with emotions which 
 almost overcame her, Ellen, having first flung the woman another piece 
 of money, and told her, when she had any thing else to sell, she should 
 be glad to see her, followed the attendant to the house. She found 
 Clifford within, who requested a few minutes' conversation with her. 
 Ellen seated herself in silence. 
 
 " It has fallen to my lot to be the bearer of unpleasant tidings at 
 this time," said he, as he seated himself near her. You have not, I pre- 
 sume, seen your brother to-day ?" 
 
 " No : he told mcj yesterday, that he was to appear before a court- 
 martial as a matter of form, preparatory to his discharge from confine- 
 ment ; and I have been hourly expecting to be called to him." 
 
 " You remember that your brother was one of the garrison of Charles- 
 ion, and made a prisoner at the surrender of that city ?" 
 
 "Yes, perfectly well." 
 
 " You may also remember, that, after remaining in the royal camp 
 for some time, and gaining all the information possible, he forfeited his 
 parole of honour, and, by bribing the sentry, made his escape." 
 
 " I remember no such thing, nor do I believe Charles would have 
 been guilty of so dishonourable an act," replied Ellen, with spirit. 
 
 Clifford was unmoved. "You have dot, my dear Ellen, made suffi- 
 cient allowance for the pressure of circumstances. Much as I respect 
 your brother's bravery and honour, I am compelled, by the decision of 
 the court-martial, to believe the charge was correct." 
 
 " Charles will defend his honour with his life," said Ellen. 
 
 "In the field, he undoubtedly would, but I am obliged to say there is 
 little chance of his ever again joining his rebel countrymen." 
 
 " What am I to understand by these words ?" said Ellen, turning 
 pale. 
 
 " This is a subject on which I would willingly avoid explanation, but" 
 • —he hesitated. 
 
 " Keep me not in suspense, I can bear the worst," eagerly interrupted 
 Rllen. 
 
THE HAZLEWOOD FAMILY. 22 i 
 
 "ToTJ must be sensible, my dear girl," he proceeded, that such a viola- 
 tioJ of the laws of war could not be overlooked. The fortune of wa/ 
 threw your brother into our hands, as well as several others, equally cul- 
 pable. It was deemed necessary to make an example; lots were cast, 
 and it fell upon your brother." 
 
 " And the penalty is death I" said Ellen, in a voice which emotion 
 rendered scarcely audible." 
 
 "It is." 
 
 " Oh, my mother !" was all that the distressed girl could utter for 
 pome minutes. At last, she collected strength to inquire whether there 
 was no hope for him. 
 
 " I fear not," was the reply. " The case is clear, and it is the opinion 
 of the court that an example is indispensable, though all regret that it 
 should have fallen on so young and gallant an officer as Lieutenant 
 Hazlewood." 
 
 " Yoii can save him — ^you will save him — ^you will not see him die 
 for such a trifle — ^remeiiber, he saved "your life." 
 
 " I am sorry to say," replied CliflFord, coldly, " that all my influence 
 has already been exerted in his favour, but in vain." 
 
 "Do not despair — -plead for his sake — for my mother's — for my own 
 — ^they cannot refuse to hear you." 
 
 " Though I fear it will be useless, I shall comply with your wishes ; 
 but it must be on the condition that, if I am successful, you will grant 
 me one fevour— one request." 
 
 " Ask any thing — any thing consistent with honour — any thing a sis- • 
 ter's love, a sister's gratitude can perform and it shall be done," ex- 
 claimed the fair girl in breathless eagerness." 
 
 " It is said in few words ; you must consent to be mine !" 
 
 Ellen, in the earnestness of her entreaty, had drawn towards him — her ■ 
 graceful neck was bent forwards — her dark eyes, in which were tears ■ 
 trembling, were fixed — fixed anxiously upon Clifibrd, to catch the least' 
 words of hope he might utter ; but, when she heard his reply, she re- 
 coiled as though she had suddenly trod upon a rattlesnake, and, with a- 
 shudder, exclaimed — " Never, never !" 
 
 "Ellen," said Clifibrd, in a tone of assumed indiflerence, " ia this • 
 affair I shall not attempt to influence your feelings — ^you will- see your 
 brother, and it will be for you to say whether he lives or dies." So say- 
 ing, he left her, and she was soon summoned to the chamber in which 
 Charles was confined. 
 
 The sentinel who was stationed at the door, had, it was evident, re- 
 ceived his instructions, for he allowed Ellen to pass without a question 
 — and, while the door was bolted behind her, she found herself in the 
 arms of Charles and pressed to his bosom. 
 
 " Ellen," said he, " I must die. The influence of a few cowardly 
 tories has been too much for innocence ; and though I would willingly 
 have lived for the sake of my mother, my sisters, my country, yet, thank ■ 
 Heaven, I fear not death." 
 
 Ellen's heart sank within her; she could not see a brother so young, - 
 80 full of bright hopes and high expectations, ga down to the grave . 
 
 15 
 
226 FIELDS'S SCEAP-BOOK. 
 
 when, by sacrificing herself, she could save him to her family and her 
 country. Her resolution was instantly taken : — " No, Charles, you must 
 not, you shall not die — another victim will be found." 
 
 Charles looked her wildly in the face, for a moment, as if he would 
 read her inmost soul : " Accursed wretch I" he exclaimed, " I see the 
 whole. That villain, Clifford, has procured my condemnation, and thinks 
 by playing with my love of life, to obtain you on his own terms — bui 
 I would sooner be drawn in quarters than live to see 'you the slave — 
 the wife — -of that vile man." 
 
 " Do not, my dear brother, talk so wildly ; you know not what a sister's 
 love will enable her to endure : think of your mother" — 
 
 "Not another word, Ellen, if you love me; my mind is made up; if 
 they choose to put me to death, God will avenge my blood, and my 
 friends I leave to the care of Heaven. That hypocrite dared to hint to 
 me the terms on which my life might be spared — they were rejected 
 with disdain ; they will ever be rejected." 
 
 The distressed girl was aware 'that expostulation was useless; she 
 could only pray that Heaven would avert the threatened evil; and, the 
 hour having expired, she was summoned by the sentry to leave the- 
 chamber. 
 
 " I shall see you once more," said Charles^ as h« kissed his sister, and 
 led her to the door ; " and then, at to-morrow's sunset, I shall show them 
 how a rebel can die." 
 
 Ellen, at a late hour, retired to her room, but not to skep ; and, aftei 
 passing the night in framing a thousand resolutions to save her brother, 
 she rose early in the morning, to refresh her wearied spirits by a walk 
 in her favourite garden. The sun was rising clear and bright ; all the 
 various and confused sounds of a large encampment-:— the rattle of drums, 
 the neighing of chargers, the hasty galloping of horses, and the march 
 of guards to relieve the outposts — all mingled at once, and gave an air 
 of life and activity to the scene, that ill accorded withi the state of 
 dejection under which Ellen laboured. Gladly would she have met the 
 old woman again, that she might have communicated to her the perilous 
 ■ situation of her brother ; but she too, Ellen thought, had deserted her, 
 and again she summoned all her fortitude to meet the evils she consi- 
 'dered inevitable. 
 
 In. the c."'urso of the forenoon, the detested Clifford entered Ellen's 
 apartment, and, beating himself, inquired, " Whether she had made a 
 decision on his ptoposal." 
 
 " My brother has," she answered, for her tongue refused to utter a 
 word from which might be inferred an unwillingness to save her brother, 
 whatever might be the price. 
 
 "Very well, and what says he?" 
 
 " He refuses life oa such terms." 
 
 " Obstinate fool !" exclaimed Clifford, forgetting his usual coolness and 
 caution. " He may die, if he chooses, but it shall avail you nothing; yes, 
 he shall die to-night, and, before to-nioirvw's sun rises, you are mine, and 
 that on my own terms — remember, it vill be on my own terms." 
 
 Ellen tremblAd, when she saw the exoresbl^n of ferocious licentious- 
 
THE HAZLEWOOD FAMILY. 227 
 
 aess his countenance assumed ; but she replied not. Her eyes were dowri- 
 cast, her -head was bowed on her white hand; and when, after a moment, 
 as she heard the door close, she raised her eyes and wiped away the 
 tears that almost blinded her, to her great relief she saw that she was 
 left alone. 
 
 Never, to Ellen and Charles, did a day appear to haste away with such 
 fearful rapidity; and, as the evening came on, the latter could plainly 
 see from his window the praparations making for his. execution. It was 
 an inexpressibly bitter moment. Life, with its ten thousand charms, 
 the claims of his mother and sisters — and, more than all, those of his 
 country — came over his mind with such painful distinctness, that he 
 wept ; and, had Ellen then repeated her offer that she had before made, 
 he might have Jived. It was but a moment, ho*ever, and the proud 
 consciousness of innocence and reliance on the justice of his country 
 enabled him to rise above his fears and his regretsl 
 
 The place selected for his execution was on the verge of an open pinen 
 wood, at a little distance from the garden-walls ; and as the discending 
 sun cast his last yellow rays on the' green tree-tops, the roll of the muf- 
 fled drum, and the slow and heavy tread of the troops that had been 
 drawn out for the occasion, announced to the prisoner that his hour had 
 come; and, surrounded by bayonets, he proceeded to the designated 
 place. The grave was already dug, and as it was evidently the wish of 
 the royal officers to make as deep an impression as possible by the death 
 of the rebel, however unjust his sentence might have been, the ground 
 was thronged by an immense multitude, both of citizens and soldiers who 
 were not on duty. When Charles arrived, a deep and suppressed mur- 
 mur ran through the crowd, but this expression of pity was instantly 
 silenced by the guard. The file of men were drawn up for his execution ; 
 a venerable clergymen had administered the consolations of religion, 
 and he was directed to kneel to meet his fate. To do this, or to be 
 blindfolded, young Hazlewood refused, and, with his arms folded on his 
 bosom, stood motionless as a statue. 
 
 The fatal moment had almost arrived, when the gate of the garden 
 opened, and Clifford, with the pale and beautiful Ellen on his arm. was 
 observed approaching. Passing through the guard, who stood with their 
 arms at rest, Ellen no sooner saw Charles than she threw herself into 
 his arms, and, with all that passionate eloquence which belongs to woman, 
 besought him to live. 
 
 "That you may become the slave and victim of Clifford's vile pas- 
 sions ?" said he, in a tone which reached only her ear. 
 
 " God ! No, never !" she hastily exclaimed ; " but when you are 
 saff!, I can die, and my" — 
 
 " I know what you would say, my dear sister," said Charles, tenderjy 
 kissing her, as he interrupted her words ; " but I must not hear them 
 now. Heaven will bless and keep you — farewell ! Then, releasing her 
 from his arms, he turned to the officer of the guard, and said, in a voice 
 firm as when in his father's house, " I am ready." 
 
 But the fearless girl clasped her arms around his neck, and, placiijg 
 herself between her brother and the file of men, declared she would 
 
228 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOB.. ' 
 
 die with him. It was in vain that Charles remonsti ited; she was Im- 
 movable. 
 
 " Tear them apart !" cried Clifford, to two or three of his ready mi- 
 nions. " Tear them apart !" he sternly repeated, as he saw that reluctance 
 was evinced, and that all around were sensibly affected by the spectacle 
 of generosity and affection before them. 
 
 The peremptory tone in which he spoke had the effect of rousing the 
 attention of some of his followers, and the rough hands of two or three 
 of the soldiers were already on the fair girl, when a sudden shout 
 was heard on the verge of the wood, mingled with a scream, as the senti- 
 nel of that place was cut down, and, in an instant, the terrible cry of 
 " The rebels ? — the rebels '" was echoed from every quarter. All eyes 
 were instantly turned to a party of horsemen, which ha'd burst from the 
 wood, and, with their sabres flashing around their heads, were bearing 
 down all before them like a torrent. They stayed not to kill : those of 
 the multitude who could not get out of the way were trampled beneath 
 the feet of their horses, and, before Clifford could credit the evidence of 
 his senses, the fiery horsemen, which ,were instantly known as a part of 
 Washington's daring band, were upon him. Jammed together by the 
 rush of the crowd, the guard could make no resistance ; they were swept 
 away by the torrent — and a blow from the sabre of Arthur Lee cleft 
 Clifford's head to his shoulders, and cut short the order which was 
 on his lips : " Shoot the damned" — an order which was intended to 
 insure the destruction of both Charles and his sister. What had passed 
 was the work of a moment — in Another, Charles was mounted on a fresh 
 horse, the half-insensible Ellen was in Lee's arms, and the whole party 
 disappeared by the same route and as rapidly as they had advanced. So 
 daring was the attack, that the British legion, of which the fallen Clifford 
 was an officer, and which was instantly under arms, conceiving it impos- 
 sible that so hazardous an exploit would be attempted, unless backed by 
 a formidable force, lost so much time in reconnoitring, that, aided by 
 his superior knowledge of the country, Lee and his rescued friends got 
 off safe, and without losing a man. 
 
 The remainder of our narrative may easily be conjectured. No sooner 
 had the surrender of Cornwallis secured the independence of America, 
 than Charles and Arthur hastened to the happy quiet of their home, 
 where the union of the highminded and heroic Lee, with the beautiful 
 and constant Ellen Hazlewood united in still closer ties these respect- 
 able families. Happy in the love and respect of all around them, with 
 a consciousness that the smiles of an approving Heaven were over them — 
 Arthur and Ellen long enjoyed the pleasure of seeing their country free 
 and prosperous ; and, in the bliss of the present, forgot the dangers and 
 fH-jvations of the past. W. G-. 
 
 ON SOME SNOW THAT MELTED ON A LADY's BREAST. 
 
 Those envious flakes came down in haste, 
 
 To prove her breast less fair ; 
 But, grieved, to find themselves surpass' d, 
 
 Dissolved into a tear. 
 
JOE HATNBS, THE COMEDIAN. 220 
 
 JOE HATNES, THE COMEDIAN. 
 
 The life of Joe Haynes, as he was familiarly called, is a curious 
 medley. Born of obscure parents in Westminster, the brilliant talents 
 which he displayed at St. Martin's school, induced several liberal gentle- 
 men to join in sending him to Oxford, where he completed his education. 
 He was next employed by Sir Joseph Williamson, then member for that 
 university, who, on becoming one of the ministry, made him his private 
 secretary. Being, however, rather indiscreet in talking to his com- 
 panions of the secrets of office, he was again restored to Oxford, where 
 he took the degree of master of arts. But his native turn for the stage 
 became irresistible upon the appearance of a strolling company in that 
 city. He joined them, and wandered with them for some time through 
 the country. In due course, he obtained an engagement at Drury Lane, 
 where he was raised to the pinnacle of fame by his performance of Bayes, 
 in the Rehearsal. He thus won the patronage of its author, the Duke 
 of Buckingham, who took him in his suit when he went upon his embassy 
 to Prance, and treated him in every respect as a pleasant companion. 
 Haynes became enamoured of his new situation, and was delighted with 
 the French, to whom his volatile manners were particularly acceptable. 
 So, when the Duke returned to England, Joe set up in the world as a count, 
 and lived for some months upon borrowed money in great splendour. But, 
 his resources at length exhausted, he was obliged to fly, and returned to 
 the London stage, where he was exceedingly well received. He now figured 
 as a dancer, but, growing tired of flinging his legs about, he had again re- 
 course to the borrowing system ; but that again failing, he turned fortune- 
 teller. Having been sent by Hart to Paris, for the purpose of gaining 
 some insight into the machinery of the French stage, Joe spent, before 
 leaving London, all the money that was given to him for his expenses : 
 he went to Paris, however, raising the .wind on the way, as secretary to 
 the Duke of Monmouth, engaged upon an important confidential mis- 
 sion ! But the ci-devant count was recognised by his creditors there, and 
 he was obliged to decamp, as ignorant of French dramatic machinery 
 as he was when he left England. One or two anecdotes, connected with 
 this incident in Joe's career, are highly amusing. 
 
 Hart, who was a person of respectable conduct, and had not been too 
 well pleased with Joe's negotiations in France, and with his having 
 squandered so much money, in Paris, to no purpose, had some natural 
 <inger against him, and this was cause enough for Joe to cherish spite in 
 return. In the play of Gatalin^s Conspiracy, acted about this time, a 
 great number of senators of Home were wanted, and Hart made Joe one, 
 although his salary, being fifty shillings a week, freed him from any 
 obligations to accept the dignity. Joe, however, after some sym[itoms of 
 rebellion, complied. He got a scaramouch dress, a large full ruff', made 
 himself whiskers from ear to ear, put on his head a merry-andrew'^ cap. 
 
230 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOQK. 
 
 and, wilh a short pipe in his mouth, bearing a three-legged stool in iiis 
 band, he followed Hart on the stage, set himself down behind him, and 
 began to laugh and point at him. This ludicrous figure put the wimie 
 theatre in a roar of laughter. Hart, who was a man of such self-pos- 
 session and equanimity that, happen what might, he never discomposed 
 himself, continued his part without being aware of his behaviour, won- 
 dering, however^ at the seemingly unaccountable mirth. At last, hap- 
 pening to turn his head, he beheld Joe, and in great wrath instantly 
 made his exit, swearing he never would set his foot on the stage again, 
 unless Joe was instantly dismissed. Joe was accordingly sent off, but, 
 nothing down-hearted, he instantly joined a company of strollers at 
 Greenwich, where he acted and danced for some time^ but, tiring soon, 
 he lampooned them all and came to London. 
 
 Joe had not forgotten that Hart had been the cause of his dismissal, 
 and resolved to be revenged; accordingly, as he was one day walking 
 in the strpets, he met a parson of an odd, simple appearance, whom 
 he accosted in a friendly manner, as if they had been formerly ac- 
 quainted, although he had never seen him before, and they adjourned 
 together to a tavern, where the parson informed Joe that he had been 
 chaplain to the ship Monke, but was then in lack of employment. Joe 
 expressed great satisfaction at hearing the news, as it was in his power 
 to help him to a place of sixty pounds a year, bed, board, and washing, 
 besides gifts at Christmas, and Easter, only for officiating one hour in the 
 four and twenty, from nine to ten o'clock in the forenoon. The marine 
 priest was delighted, and, returning his warmest thanks, entreated Joe 
 to inform him of the particulars. Upon which Joe told him that his 
 name was Haynes, and that he would make him chaplain to the play- 
 house. 
 
 " Against to-morrow,'' said Joe, "I would have you provide your- 
 self with a bell, and there is half-a-crown to buy one ; and, at nine 
 o'clock, go to the play-house and ring your bell, and call them all to 
 prayers, saying, in an audible voice, ' Players, come to prayers ! players, 
 come to prayers.' This you must do, lest they mista,ke you for the 
 dustman, both bells being so much alike. But there is one that I par- 
 ticularly desire you to take care'of; on the third door on the left, lives 
 one Mr. Hart ; that gentleman, whether he be delirious or frantic, or 
 whether he be possessed of some notions of atheism, if you mention 
 prayers, will laugh at you, perhaps swear; curse, and abuse you. If it 
 proceed from the first, the poor unhappy gentleman ought to be pitied ; 
 but if from the ktter, he shall quit the house, for I will never suffer 
 such wickedness in any play-house where I am concerned ; and do, my 
 good sir, let it be your earnest endeavour to find out the cause, and, by 
 your ghostly exhortations, to remove the effects ; — such weeds must not 
 be permitted to grow in a vineyard where you are the gardener; abuse 
 you must expect, but your reward will be a great gain : go to his house 
 and oblige him to come along with you to prayers." 
 
 Being thus advised, the parson, after a parting cup, withdrew and 
 .bought the bell. 
 
 Next morning, according to orders, his reverence went to tLe theatre 
 
JOB HATNBS, THE COMEDIAN. 281. 
 
 ringing his bell, and calling aloud, " Players, come to prayers ! players, 
 fiome to prayers !" Finding Hart's door open, he went in, bawling, 
 " Players, come to prayers." Hart came down in a violent passionj and 
 demanded to know why he was so disturbed. 
 
 The parson replied, " Players, come to prayers !" 
 
 Hart, seeing no help, bridled his passion, and said "that he wondered 
 that a gentleman of his gown and seeming sense could make himself 
 so ridiculous;" The parson looked at him with an eye of doubt, then 
 rang his bell again, and bawled at the pitch of his voice, " Players) come 
 to prayers!" Hart, in desperation, now began to swear; but the othei 
 informed him, " I bave been told of your cursing and swearing, and 
 atheistical blasphemies; but, nevertheless, I will do my duty;" and 
 accordingly laid hands on Hart to drag him away, exclaiming, " Players, 
 uome to prayers !" 
 
 At this new absurdity, Hart began to suspect that his reverence was 
 mad, or that some trick was played upon him, and asked him to walk 
 into his room, when, after they had drunk a cup of sack together, the 
 parson told the whole story of his engagement. The poor man was 
 soon undeceived ; the story, taking wings, reached the ears of King 
 Charles, who was so mightily pleased with the joke, that he sent for 
 Joe, and had him reinstated in the theatre. 
 
 This was not all. A scene followed that would have cut a capital 
 figure in the part of Boh Acres. The son of the deceived parson, who 
 was reputed to be a dangerous swordsman, and conducted himself in 
 consequence as a swaggering bully, declared that he must have satisfac- 
 tion for the insult which Haynes had offered his father. Meeting Joe 
 in the street, they came to high words, and adjourned to a tavern to end 
 the dispute. Before they fell to fighting, Joe required a few minutes to 
 .Bay his prayers, for which purppse he adjourned to an adjacent room, 
 where, in language sufficiently loud, to be heard by his opponent, he 
 fervently sought forgiveness for having killed seventeen men in different 
 duels, and for being about to add another to that formidable number. 
 The parson's son was perfectly satisfied, and took to his heels without 
 further ceremony. 
 
 Joe, in his most eccentric course, next figured as Signer Salmatius, (a 
 mountebank, according to his report, celebrated all over Europe,) and 
 proceeded into the country, attended by a numerous retinue of tumblers 
 and dancers. His adventures in this new capacity are of the most lu- 
 dicrous description, as indeed are all those in which he is subsequently 
 concerned, he being at one time obliged to enlist as a soldier, now re- 
 suming the sock, now figuring as a dancer, in which quality we find him 
 at Florence, teaching the grand-duke's family; now acting the great 
 count once more, and that, too, under the auspices of the Pope of Rome, 
 who had his portrait painted. Eeturning to England, he next became 
 successively an attorney, a puritan, and a quaker, and, finally, died an 
 actor. 
 
232 FIELDS'S SCRAi'-BOOK 
 
 MAJOR ANDRE. 
 
 In the year 1780, General Arnold, who from his rank and talents had 
 been in great favour with the Americans, quitted their ranks, and joined 
 the British army. This, though a valuable acquisition, was too dearly 
 purchased by the degradation and death of the brave and amiable Major 
 Andre, who volunteered his services to make arrangements with Arnold 
 on the occasion. By some accident. Major Andre was compelled to re- 
 main disguised within the American lines all night, and next morning 
 was discovered, after he had passed them, on his way to New York. He 
 was seized, confined, tried, and sentenced to be hanged as a spy, notwith- 
 standing every remonstrance that could be urged against it. An Ame- 
 rican captain, and a Lieutenant Bowman, of the republican army, were 
 selected as his guard the day before his execution. The latter officer, 
 who died in 1818, describes Major Andre as maintaining the utmost 
 firmness and composure ; so much so, that when his attendants were 
 silent and melancholy, he would, by some cheerful remark, endeavour 
 to dispel the gloom. 
 
 Although not a murmur nor a sigh escaped him, his composure was 
 the result, not of the want of sensibility, or a disregard of life, but of 
 those proud and lofty feelings, the characteristics of true greatness of 
 mind, which raise the soul above the influence of events, and enable the 
 soldier, with unfaltering nerve and steady eye, to meet death, in what- 
 ever form it may approach him ; for in his sleep, nature would play her 
 part ; and home and friends — his country and his fame — his sisters and 
 his love, would steal upon his heart, contrasting their fancied pleasures 
 with his certain pain, and render his dreams disturbed, and his sleep 
 fitful and troubled. 
 
 Early in the morning, the hour of his execution was announced. His 
 countenance did not alter. His servant, on entering the room, burst into 
 tears. " Leave me," said he to him with great sternness, " until you 
 can behave more manfully." The breakfast was furnished from the 
 table of General Washington. He ate as usual, then shaved and dressed 
 himself; placed his hat upon the table, and cheerfully said, " I am ready 
 at any moment, gentlemen, to wait upon you." 
 
 Lieutenant Bowman described it as being a day of settled melancholy, 
 and that Major Andre was, apparently, the least affected. To Gene- 
 ral Washington it was a trial of excruciating pain. It was with groat 
 difficulty that he placed his name to the warrant of his execution. 
 
 Captain and Lieutenant Bowman walked arm-in-arm with Major 
 
 Andre. It is well known that he had solicited to be shot j and it was 
 not until he came within sight of the gallows, that he knew the manner 
 of his death. " It is too much," said he, momentarily shrinking. " I 
 nad hoped," added ho, recovering himself, "that it might have been 
 otherwise ; but I pray you to bear witness that I die like a soldier." 
 
MR. OGILVIE. 233 
 
 MR. OGILVIE. 
 
 Mr. Ogilvie, formerly so well known in Virginia as a supporte.' of 
 the Godwenian philosophy, conceiving a vehement desire to see the West- 
 ern country, set off from Richmond, for Lexington, in Kentucky. It 
 was in the month of October, after a most lonely and wearisome day's 
 ride, that, a little before sunset, he came to a small cabin on the road, 
 and, fearing he should find no other opportunity of procuring refreshment 
 for himself and his jaded horse, he stopped and inquired if he could be 
 accommodated for the night. An old woman, the only person he saw, 
 civilly answering him in the affirmative, he gladly alighted, and going in 
 to a tolerable fire, enjoyed the luxury of rest, while his hostess was dis- 
 charging the duties of ostler and cook. In no long time, she set before 
 him a supper of comfortable, but homely fare, of which, having liberally 
 partaken, and giving divers significant nods, the old woman remarked, 
 she " expected" he " chose bed," and, pointing to one which stood in 
 the corner of the room, immediately went into the yard awhile, to give 
 him an opportunity of undressing. Before he had been long in bed, and 
 while he was congratulating himself on his good fortune, the latch of the 
 door was drawn, and there entered a dark-looking man, of gigantic stature 
 and form, with stiff, black hair, eyebrows, and beard. He was apparently 
 about eight-and-twenty, was dressed in a brown hunting shirt, which 
 partly concealed a pair of dirty buckskin overalls, and he wore moccasins 
 erf the same material. Mr. 0. thought he had never seen any thing half 
 so ferocious. As soon as this man entered the room, his mother, for so 
 she proved to be, pointing to the bed, motioned him to make no noise j 
 on which, with inaudible steps, he walked to the chimney, put his gun 
 upon a rude rack provided for that and other arms, and sat softly down 
 to the fire, then throwing a bright blaze around the room. 
 
 Our traveller, not liking the looks of the new-comer, and not caring to 
 be teazed by conversation, drew his head under the bed-clothes, so 
 that he could see what was passing, without leaving his own face visible. 
 The two soon entered into conversation, but in so low a voice, that Mr. 
 0. could not distinguish what was said. His powers of attention were 
 wrought up to the most painful pitch of intensity. At length, the man, 
 looking towards the bed, made some remark to his mother, to which Mr. 
 0. heard her reply, " No, I hardly think he's asleep yet," — atid they 
 again conversed in a low voice, as before. After a short interval, while 
 the man sat with his feet stretched out towards the fire, on which he was 
 intently gazing — 
 
 " Don't you think he's asleep now ?" he was heard to say. 
 
 "Stop," says she, " I'll go and see j" and, moving near the bed, under 
 the pretext of taking something from a small table, she approached so 
 near as to see the face of our traveller, whose eyes were indeed closed, 
 but who was any thing but asleep. On her return to the fireplace, she 
 said, " Yes, he's fast asleep now." 
 
 On this, the mountaineer, rising from his stool, rsached up to the rack, 
 vi 
 
234 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOZ. 
 
 and, taking down, with his right hand, an old greasy cutlass, walked with 
 the same noiseless step towards the traveller's bed, and, stretching out the 
 other hand, at the moment that Mr. 0. was about to implore his pity, 
 took down a venison ham which hung on the wall near the head of the 
 bed, walked softly back to the fire^ and began to slice some pieces for 
 his supper; and Mr. 0., who lay more dead than alive, and whose 
 romantic fancy heightened the terrors of all he saw, had the unspeaka- 
 ble gratification to find that these kind-hearted children of the forest had 
 been talking low, and that the hungry hunter, who had eaten nothing 
 since the morning, had forborne making a noise, lest they should inter- 
 rupt the slumbers of their wayworn guest. The next day, Mr. 0., who 
 was an enthusiast in physiognomy, discovered remarkable benevolence in 
 the features of the hunter, which, by the false and deceitful glare of the 
 fire-light, had escaped him, and in his recital of this adventure, which 
 furnished him with a favourite occasion of exercising his powers of decla- 
 mation to great advantage, in a matter of real life, he often declared that 
 he had never taken a more refreshing night's rest, or made a more grate- 
 ful repast, than he had done in this humble cottage. 
 
 We cannot forbear to add that the subject of our memoir was reserved 
 for a different, though not less tragical fate, than that which seemed 
 here to threaten him. After having been an object of criticism or ad- 
 miration, as a professed rhetorician and declaimer, in all the principal 
 cities of the Union— ^after trying his oratorical powers in the Surrey In- 
 stitute — after encountering, in various forms, disappointment, obloquy, 
 and, to use one of his own alliterations, the miseries of debt and desti- 
 tution, he became heir to a title and a large estate, in Scotland, and, 
 unable either to do without the use of opium, or to bear that deteriora- 
 tion of the faculties which its habitual use superinduced, he very soon 
 afterwards put an end to his weary existence, by a pistol. 
 
 The following eloquent and beautiful extract is from " the Village 
 .Graveyard," written by the Eev. Mr. Greenwood, of Bo^on : 
 
 I never shun a graveyard — the thoughtful melancholy which it in- 
 spires is grateful rather than disagreeable to me ; it gives me no pain to 
 tread on tlie green roof of that dark mansion, whose chambers I must 
 occupy so soon — 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 the passions are hushed, and 
 their spirits are still — malevolence has lost its power of harming, appe- 
 tite is sated, ambition lies low, and lust is cold ; anger has done raving, 
 all disputes are ende^, ^11 revelry is over, the fellest 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 wf 
 "vi-pd 
 
GENERAL PUTNAM. — TIME. 235 
 
 GENERAL PUTNAM 
 
 Is known to have been decidedly opposed to duelling, qu .principle. 
 It once happened that he grossly affronted a brother officer. The dis- 
 pute arose at a wine-table, and the officer demanded instant reparation. 
 Putnam, being a little elevated, expressed his willingness to accommo- 
 date the gentleman with a fight; and it was stipulated that the duel 
 should take place on the following morning, and that they should fight 
 without seconds. At the appointed time, the officer advanced to the 
 ground, armed with sword and pistols. On entering the field, Putnam, 
 who had taken a stand at the opposite extremity, and at a distance of 
 about thirty rods, levelled his musket, and fired at him. The gentleman 
 now ran towards his antagonist, who deliberately proceeded to reload his 
 gun. 
 
 "What are you about to do?" exclaimed he; "is this the conduct 
 of an American officer and a man of honour ?" 
 
 " What are you about to do V exclaimed the general, attending only 
 to the first question ; " a pretty question to put to a man whom you in- 
 tended to murder. I'm about to kill you, and if you don't beat a retreat 
 in less time than 'twould take old Heath to hang a tory, you are a gone 
 dog;" at the same time returning his ramrod to its place, and throwing 
 the breech of his gun into the hollow of ^is shoulder. 
 
 This intimation was too unequivocal to be misunderstood, and our 
 valorous duellist turned and fled for life. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 Ninety years hence, not a single man or woman, now twenty years 
 of age, will be alive. Ninety years ! Alas ! how many of the lively 
 actors at present on the stage of life will make their exit long ere ninety 
 years shall have rolled away ! And could we be sure of ninety years, 
 what are they ? "A tale that is told ;" a dream ; an empty sound, that 
 passeth on the wings of the wind away, and is forgotten. Years shorten 
 as man advances in age. Like the degrees in longitude, man's life de- 
 clines as he travels towards the frozen pole, until it dwindles to a point 
 and vanishes for ever. Is it possible that life is of so short duration ! 
 Will ninety years erase all the golden names over the doors in town and 
 country, and substitute others in their stead ? Will all the new bloom- 
 ing beauties fade and disappear, all the pride and passion, the love, hope, 
 and joy, pass away in ninety years and be forgotten ? — " Ninety years '" 
 says Death; " do you think I shall wait ninety years 1 Behold, to-day, 
 and tc(-morrow, and every day is mine. When ninety years are past, 
 this generation will have mingled with the d'^st and be remembered 
 not." 
 
236 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 MATERNAL ^FPECTION. 
 
 What other friend has watched, like a mother, over the helpless and 
 >ineasy hours of sickness — borne with its petulance — ministered to its 
 infirmities — soothed its pains, and smoothed its feverish pillow ? Where 
 are the friends of our prosperity when " the evil days come, and the 
 years draw nigh in which we must say we have no pleasure in them ?" 
 When the clouds of misfortune descend, and poverty and want overtake 
 us — when the heart is sick with the unfulfilment of hope, and the spirit 
 droops over its blasted expectations — when the cup of life is poisoned 
 by mischance or guile — when the storm hath no rainbow, and the mid- 
 night no star — where then are the flatterers of our cloudless skies and 
 our sunbright hours ? When the schemes of earthly ambition fail, and 
 the hiss of the multitude follows our downfall, whither have they de- 
 parted? Where is the shadow that attended us, when the sun hath 
 veiled his beams ? Where are the summer birds, when the voice of 
 winter sighs in the leafless forests ? Alas ! it is too often but interest — 
 or convenience — or habit — or fashion — that preserves the friendship of 
 mankind. 
 
 But the attachment of a mother no change of fortune, no loss of in- 
 fluence, not even the loss of character, can destroy. As the triumph of 
 her children is her own, so is their downfall and their dishonour. Her 
 heart bleeds for them instinctively — her tears flow unbidden for their 
 sorrows. Her eye follows them while present, and her soul goes with 
 them while absent. • With patience that never tires, and self-denial that 
 never ceases, she cheerfully sacrifices for them her own comforts and 
 pleasures. Her sympathy is felt, not obtruded ; her consolation is never 
 officious, and always soothing to the spirit ; her friendship is unalterable 
 in life, and strong in death — and she breathes her last sigh in a prayer 
 for the welfare of her children. 
 
 Remembrance hovers over every incident in those calm and blissful 
 days when her presence gave life its charm. That affection which 
 turned aside the arrows of misfortune — that gentleness which alleviated 
 the pangs of distress — that tenderness which smoothed the pillow of 
 sickness— that hand which held the aching head of pain — that piety and 
 sanctity which kindled in our heart the pure flame of devotion — those 
 smiles which beamed upon us, and ever the brightest when the world 
 was frowning — and that unalterable love which supported us amidst its 
 unkindness and ingratitude — can these ever be forgotten ? 
 
 Spunk. — Let ancient or modern history be searched, they will not 
 afford a more heroic display than the reply of the Yankees at Stoning- 
 lon to the British commanders. The people were piling the balls which 
 the enemy had wasted, when the foe applied to them : — "We want balls- 
 will you sell them ?" They answered, " We want powder — send us 
 powder, and we'll return you balls." 
 
ESSAY ON DEATH. 237 
 
 ESSAY ON DEATH. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
 
 Await alike the inevitable hour; 
 The paths of glftry lead but to the grave. 
 
 Grat. 
 
 There is, in my opinion, nothing calculated to make so deep an im- 
 ression on the mind as reflections on death. The generality of mankind 
 re seldom disposed to think at all upon this subject j they dislike to 
 well on it for a moment, important and interesting as it undoubtedly is 
 ) all. The cause of this' dislike is very obvious. It might naturally 
 e supposed that the man who has never thought of a hereafter, and 
 'hose whole life has been one continued scene of deviations from the 
 aths of moral rectitude, would dread the very idea of death, because jt 
 rould cut him off for ever from all that he held most dear. Having been 
 onstantly forgetful of his God, of virtue and religion, he flies from every 
 bing that might force the remembrance of that hour on his mind when 
 e shall be severed from the world and plunged into an eternity of hap- 
 iness or misery. The man who has spent his whole life, toiling day 
 fter day, in accumulating riches, is unwilling to suppose that he must 
 hortly be separated from them, and that every tie which binds him to 
 he earth must be broken asunder. Thus it is with most persons. But, 
 owever indifferent and callous man may appear to be on this subject, 
 le must encounter those moments, in the course of a long life, in which 
 he thoughts of eternity will insensibly force themselves upon his mind;— 
 le must, one time or another, hearken to that " still small voice" that 
 lids him view the lonely grave to which he is fast approaching, and from 
 Fhich there is no retreat. Happy is he who reflects frequently on his 
 ast hour, — who, often withdrawn from the busy world, is led to take 
 ralks " beneath death's gloomy, silent cypress shades," there to medi 
 ate ! No spot, however retired or abandoned, has such an influence on 
 he feelings as the last resting-place of man. To walk pensively among 
 he tombs, to gaze upon those mounds under which the bones of thou- 
 ands have long since mouldered away, and to think we must, ere long, 
 eturn to our kindred dust, and mingle with those who have gone before 
 ig^ — these are calculated to preach a solemn lesson, to still every pas- 
 ion, and elevate our souls to the contemplation of that immortality for 
 rhich we are all destined. 
 
 " Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return," is a serious and 
 mportant admonition ; — it teaches us, that however happy we may con- 
 ider ourselves here, our enjoyments must be fleeting, and that the day 
 s not far distant when death shall place us on a level with the clod 
 inder which we shall repose. What awful sensations do we experience 
 )n beholding a being about to depart from this world ! — ^but when we 
 itand beside the bed of an affectionate parent or relative, on the very 
 )oint of dissolution — when we take a lasting farewell of those who are 
 inked to us by the dearest ties of affection and love, and who constitute 
 
288 FIBLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 v'»ur chief happiness on earth, we are overwhelmed with sorrow, and de- 
 prived of all consolation — our grief and anguish know no' bounds whei 
 we reflect that we can never, in this world, hope to retrieve the loss Wii 
 have just sustained. 'Tis then that we shall be compelled to meditate 
 on death, — at the very thought of which all the pleasures of this world 
 will instantly vanish. • 
 
 In the " narrow house," there is no distinction ; the rich, the poor, 
 the learned and ignorant, — all shall there one day alike repos?, and 
 moulder in their original clay. The most beautiful that now adorn the 
 face of creation must, before long, become the prey of worms. No 
 voice will burst forth from the silence of the grave to tell how fair a 
 form lies there interred. Every one will ther^ be placed on an equality, 
 — but how diflferent will be their spiritual doom ! That grave, over 
 which a grand ajid stately monument has been erected, may yield up 
 the hardened reprobate ; while that, overspread with thorns and bram- 
 bles, may send forth the being destined for paradise. Death can only 
 entomb the body; the soul is immortal; and, to the virtuous man, the 
 hour that separates him from this world is truly welcome. Death to 
 him is the " messenger of glad tidings," as it takes him from a world 
 where perhaps he had experienced nothing but sorrow, disappointment, 
 and affliction, to place him in the regions of everlasting felicity. He 
 can behold its approach with calm delight ; having ever followed the 
 dictates of virtue and religion, he fears nothing ; and when life's weary 
 journey is closed, though his body be consigned to the earth, his soul 
 will mount triumphantly above, and there repose in safety on the bosom 
 of its Grod. 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 At a banquet given by the Seventh Legion of the National Guards 
 of Paris to General Lafayette, a speech was pronounced by General 
 Matthew Dumas, from which we make the following extract : 
 
 Fifty years since, at the same season of the year, and, if my memory 
 is faithful, almost on the same day. General Washington came, accom- 
 panied by General Lafayette, to pay his first visit to the French army 
 disembarked at Rhode Island, and to unite the arms and standards of 
 the United States with the arms and standards of France. He returned 
 to his head-quarters, and I had the honour to form part of his escort. 
 On the way, we passed near a small town, now become a very considera- 
 ble one, when a crowd of children met us, each carrying a flambeau and 
 tilling the air with acclamations : they compelled the General to stop, 
 and embraced his knees. Much afi^ected, Washington turned to us, and 
 said these memorable words :---" We are about to open the campaign — 
 (xod only knows what will be the fate of war ; we shall perhaps be 
 bo-iten —but here, (putting his hands on the heads of the young chil 
 dren,) here is an army which our enemies will never conquer." 
 
THE ANGEL S ■WIKG. 
 
 239 
 
 THE ANGEL'S WING. 
 
 BT SAUUEL LOTER. 
 
 TUEltE ia a G irmaa superstition, that when a sndden silence takes place in a companj, an angel at that 
 moment makes a circuit aroniid them, and the first person who breaks ttao lilence is supposed to hare bees 
 touched by the wiag of the seraph. For the purpose of poetry, I thought two persons preferable to manv 
 in illustrating this very beautiful superstition. 
 
 When by the evening's qniet light 
 
 There sit two silent lovers, 
 They say, while in such tranquil plight^ 
 
 An angel round them hovers : 
 And further still old legends tell — 
 The first who breaks the silent spell. 
 To say soft and pleasing thing, 
 Hath felb the passing angel's wing. 
 
 Thus, a musing minstrel sfcray'd 
 
 By the summer ocean, 
 Gazing on a lovely maid. 
 
 With a bard's devotion : 
 Yet his love he never spoke. 
 Till now the silent spell he broke. 
 The hidden fire to flame did spring. 
 Fanned by the passing angel's wing. 
 
 Z have loved thee well and long, 
 
 With love of heaven's own making ! 
 This is not a poet's song, 
 
 But a true heart's speaking: 
 I willjove thee, still nntired ! 
 He felt— he spoke— aa one-inapirefl— 
 The words did from truth's fountain spring, 
 Unwakened by the angel's wing ! 
 
 Sileilce.o'eT the maiden fell. 
 
 Her beauty lovelier making, 
 And by her blush, he knew full well 
 
 The dawn of ldv6 was breaking: 
 It came like sunshine o'er his heart! 
 He felt that they should never part — 
 He spoke — audi oh : the lovely thing 
 Had felt the passing angel's wing. 
 
 AN ANGEL IN THE CLOUDS. 
 
 Methonght the clouds in heaven so fair 
 
 Were isles with cities filled, — 
 With spires and turrets gleaming there. 
 Just like the castles in the air, 
 
 We often build. 
 
 BT GEORGE W. BUNGAT. 
 
 She was a pleasant angel here, 
 
 Before wings had been given 
 To bear her to that blissful sphere. 
 Beyond the silver cloud so near 
 
 Her native heaven. 
 
 These islands, in the realms of space. 
 Sailed on, through seas of blue. 
 And there I could distinctly trace — 
 The azure wing and angel face 
 
 Of one I knew. 
 
 She sat upon a radiant throne, 
 
 And wore a crown of light. 
 More glorious than the sun of noon — 
 A heavenly halo round her shone — 
 
 Her robes were white. 
 
 I've seen her, at the sick child's bed, 
 
 Watch with unsleeping eye. 
 Until its gentle spirit fled. 
 On rosy pinions, from the dead. 
 
 To God on high. 
 
 When sunlit eloudsare floating by, 
 
 I often bow to hear 
 The sweep of wings from yonder sky. 
 Where ministering spirits fly 
 
 From sphere to sphen. 
 
 TO MARY. 
 
 Ijinea written in an ATbufm, 
 
 BY "VniXIAH FIELDS. 
 
 Mart, may thy life for ever. 
 
 Be a constant scene of joy: 
 May the ties of friendship ever 
 
 Grow in strength without alloy. 
 
 My fond wish, dear friend, believe me, 
 (Through life's frail and chequer'd chart,* 
 
 Is— that naught may ever grieve thee ;. 
 Nothing pain thy generous heart. ' 
 
 When thy days on earth are ended. 
 When thy life-sands waste away, 
 
 Then — oh, then I — may'st thou find blenled 
 With thy hopes — eteunal dat. 
 
 These, truly these, my lady friend. 
 
 Are the wisheS'of my hefi-rt, 
 And so shall be, till time shall end. 
 
 My prayer that God more bliss impart. 
 
 That while thou pass life's fearful storm, 
 ■ O'er mountain land or deep blue sea. 
 Thy sister angels round thee form 
 A chain of love— of hope to thee. 
 
 Tes, friend, God grant thy heing's sun 
 The rainbow's beauteous hues may givr, 
 
 A long bright race of glory run. 
 An endless beam of light may liv4. 
 
240 
 
 "SOCRATES DIED LIKE A PHILOSOPHER, BIJT JESUS 
 CHRIST LIKE A GOD." 
 
 It was on Sunday, as I travelled through the county of Orange, Vir- 
 ginia, that my eyes were caught by a cluster of horses tied near a 
 ruinous old wooden house in the forest not far from the roadside. Hav- 
 ing frequently seen such objects before, in travelling in these States, 
 I had no difficulty 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 curiosity 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 a very 
 spare 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 minutes ascertained to me that he- was perfectly blind. 
 The first emotions that touched my heart were those of mingled pity 
 and veneration. But, ah ! sacred Grod ! how soon were my feelings 
 changed ! The lips of the apostles appeared never more touched with 
 holy fire than were those of this holy man ! It was a day of the admi- 
 nistration of the sacrament — the subject was, of course, the passion of our 
 Saviour. I had heard the subject handled a thousand 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 
 the subject a new and more sublime pathos than I had ever before wit- 
 nessed. 
 
 As he descended from the pulpit to distribute the mystic symbols, 
 there was a peculiar, a more than human solemnity in his air and man- 
 ner, which made my blood run cold and my whole frame shiver. 
 
 He then drew a picture of the sufl^erings of our Saviour ; his trial 
 before Pilate ; his ascent up Calvary ; his crucifixion and death. I knew 
 the whole history, but never, until then, had I heard the circumstances 
 so selected, so arranged, so coloured! It was all new, and I seemed to 
 have heard it for the first time in my life. His enunciation was so deli- 
 berate, that his voice trembled on every syllable, and every heart in the 
 assembly was 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 faces of the Jews ; the staring, frightful 
 distortions of malice and rage^ — we saw the buffet ; my soul kindled with 
 a flame of indignation, and my hands were involuntarily and convul- 
 sively clenched. * 
 
 But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiving 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 
 
CHRIST AND SOCBATES. 241 
 
 tbey do" — tlie 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 inexpressible flood of grief The effect was inconceivable. 
 The whole house resounded with the mingled groans, the sobs and shrieks 
 of the congregation. It was some time before the tumult had subsided 
 so far as to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual 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 down his audience 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. 
 
 The first sentence with which he broke the awful silence was a quota- 
 tion 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 understand what Demosthenes meant by laying stress on deli- 
 very. You are to bring before you the venerable figure of the preacher; 
 his blindness constantly calling to your recollection old Homer, Ossian, 
 and Milton, and associating with his performance the melancholy gran- 
 deur of these geniuses; you are to imagine that you hear his slow, solemn, 
 and well-accented enunciation, and his voice of affecting, trembling me- 
 lody ; you are to remember the pitch of passion and enthusiasm to which 
 the congregation were raised ; and then, the few minutes of portentous, 
 deathlike silence, which reigned throughout the house; the preacher- 
 removing his white handkerchief from his aged face, (even yet wet with . 
 the recent torrent of tears,) and, slowly stretching forth his palsied-hand 
 which holds it, begins the sentence : " Socrates died like a philosopher" — 
 then pausing, raising his other hand, pressing them both together, with . 
 warmth and energy, to his breast, lifting his sightless eyelids to heaven, 
 and pouring his whole soul into his voice — "but Jesus 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 able to conceive of the sublimity df Massillon, 
 or the force of Bourdaloue, it had fallen far short of the power which 1 
 felt from the delivery of this sentence. The blood which just before had 
 rushed in a hurricane upon my brain, and, in the violence and agony of 
 my feelings, had held my whole system in suspense, now ran. back into 
 my heart with a sensation which I cannot describe ; a kind of shudder- 
 mg, delicious horror! The paroxysm of blended pity and indignation, 
 to which I had been transported, subsided into the deepest self-abase- 
 ment, humility, and adoration. I had been lacerated 3.nd dissolved by , 
 sympathy for our Saviour as a fellow-creature, but now-, with fear and . 
 treinbling, I adored him^as a God ! 
 
 If this description gives the impression that this incomparable minisp- 
 
 16 
 
242 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK, 
 
 ter 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 accent, 
 to which he does not seem forced by the sentiment which he is express- 
 ing. His mind is too serious, too earnest, too dignified, to stoop to 
 irtifice. Although as far removed from ostentation as a man can be, yet 
 it is clear, from the train and style of his thoughts, that he is not only 
 1 polite scholar, but a man of extensive and profound erudition. I was 
 Forcibly struck with a short, yet beautiful character, which he drew of, 
 5ur learned and amiable countryman. Sir Robert Boyle : he spoke nf 
 him as' if his " noble mind had, even iDefore death, divested itself of all 
 influence from his frail tabernacle of flesh ;" and called him, in his pecu- 
 iiarly emphatic and impressive manner, " a pure intelligence — the link 
 between man and angels." 
 
 This man has been before my imagination ever since. A thousand 
 times, as I rode along, I dropped the reins of my bridle, and tried to imi- 
 tate his quotation from Rousseau; a thousand times I abandoned the 
 ittempt in despair, and felt persuaded that his peculiar manner arose 
 From an energy of soul, which nature could give, but which no human 
 being could justly copy. In short, he seems to be altogether a being of 
 I former age, or of a totally different nature from the rest of men. ^ 
 
 MAJOR ANDRE. 
 
 It is certainly a very singular circumstance, that Andre should, in a 
 rery satirical poem, have foretold his own fate. It was called the "Cow 
 0/iase," and was published by Rivington, at New York, in consequence 
 )f the failure of an expedition undertaken by Wayne for the purpose of 
 sollecting cattle. Great liberties are taken with the American officers 
 jmployed on the occasion, — with 
 
 Harry Lee, and his dragoons, and Proctor with his cannon. 
 
 But the point of his irony seemed particularly aimed at Wapie, whose 
 ;ntire baggage, he asserts, was taken, containing 
 
 His Congress dollars and his prog, 
 
 His military speeches ; 
 His cornstalk whiskey for his grog, 
 
 Black stockings and blue breeches. 
 
 \nd concludes "by observing, that it is necessary to check the current 
 )f satire. 
 
 Lest the same warrior-drover Wayne 
 Should catchy — and hang the poet. 
 
 He was actually taken by a party! from the division of the army imme- 
 llately under the command of Wayne. 
 
THE SACRED SCRIPTURES. 243 
 
 MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL EFFICACY OF THE SACRED 
 SCRIPTURES. 
 
 BY WATLAND. 
 
 As to the powerful, I had almost said miraculous, effect of the Sacred 
 Scriptures, there can no longer be a doubt in the mind of any one on 
 whom the 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-govern- 
 ment ; and, finally, that they teach him to aspire after a conformity to a 
 Being of infinite holiness, and fill him with hopes infinitely more puri- 
 fying, more exalting, jnore suited to his nature, than any other, which 
 this world has ever known, — are facts incontrovertible as the laws of 
 philosophy 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 
 everywhere around us. There is scarcely a neighbourhood in our coun- 
 try, where the Bible is circulated, in which we cannot point you to a 
 very considerable portiou of its population, whom its truths have re- 
 claimed 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 dimi- 
 nished ; 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 the most unpro- 
 mising 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 accomplished 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 aborigines 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 addition to its moral efficacy, the 
 bible may not exert a powerful influence upon the intellectual charactei 
 of man. 
 
•-'44 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 And here it is scarcely necessary that I should remark, that, of ai. 
 the hooks 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 contemporaries, unnoticed and un- 
 known. Not many a one has made its little mark upon the generation 
 that produced it, though it sank with that generation to utter forgetful- 
 ncss. But, after the ceaseless toil of six thousand years, how few have 
 been the works, the adamantine basis of whose reputation has stood un- 
 hurt amid the fluctuations of time, and whose impression can be traced, 
 through successive centuries, on the history 6f our species. 
 
 When, however, such a work appears, its effects are absolutely incal- 
 culable ; 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 firstborn 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 slumber of ages. It was Homer who gave law-s to the artist ; 
 it was Homer who inspired the poet ; it was Homer who thundered in 
 the senate ; and, more than all, it was Homer 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 Scio had 
 kindled in Greece, shed its radiance over Italy, and thus did he awaken 
 a second nation into intellectual existence. And we may form some 
 idea of the power which this one work has to the present day exerted 
 over the mind of man, by remarking, that " nation after nation, and 
 century after century has been able to do little more than transpose his 
 incidents, new-name his characters, and paraphrase his sentiments." 
 
 But, considered simply as an intellectual production, who will com- 
 pare 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 his poem has not observed how he strove 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, sank power- 
 less beneath him ? It is the unseen world, where the master-spirits of 
 our race breathe freely, and are at home ; and it is mournful to behold 
 the intellect of Honier striving to free itself from the conceptions of 
 
INGENIOUS DEVICE. 245 
 
 materialism, and then sinking down in hopeless despair, to weave the 
 idle tales about Jupiter and Juno, Apollo and Diana. But the difficul- 
 ties under which he laboured are abundantly illustrated by the fact, that 
 the light which he poured upon the human intellect 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 
 describes dissensions, jealousies, tears, imprisonments, and other afflic- 
 tions 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 effijrt of a single 
 mind, what may we not expect from the combined eflForts 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 not look for from the universal dissemination of those writings, on 
 whose authors was poured th'e full splendour of eternal truth ? If un- 
 assisted human nature, spell-bound by a childish mythology, have done 
 so much, what may we not hope for from the supernatural effects of 
 pre-eminent genius, which spake as it was moved by the Holy Grhost ! 
 
 INGENIOUS DEVICE. 
 
 The following curious story is told of an old lady living in Bucking- 
 hamshire. The husband of this ancient dame died without making his 
 will, for the want of which very necessary precaution his estate would 
 have passed away from his widow, had she not resorted to the following 
 expedient to avert the loss of the property. She concealed the death 
 of her husband, and prevailed upon an old cobbler, her neighbour, who 
 was in person somewhat like the deceased, to go to bed at her house 
 and personate him, in which character it was agreed that he should dic- 
 tate a will, leaving the widow the estate in question. An attorney was 
 sent for to draw up the writing. The widow, who on his arrival ap- 
 peared in great affliction at her good man's danger, began to ask ques- 
 tions of her pretended husband, calculated to elicit the answers she ex- 
 pected and desired. The cobbler groaned aloud, and looking as much 
 like a person going to give up the ghost as possible, feebly answered, 
 " I intend to leave you half my estates, and I think the poor old shoe- 
 maker who lives opposite is deserving the other half, for he has always 
 been a good neighbour." The widow was thunderstruck at receiving a 
 soply so different to that which she expected, but dared not negative the 
 cobbler's will, for fear of losing the whole of the property, while the 
 old rogue in bed (who was himself the poor old shoemaker Imng op- 
 posite) laughed in his sleeve, and divided with her the fruits of a pr(v 
 ject which the widow had intended for her sole benefit. 
 v2 
 
i40 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 "Who does not love the natie? Who is so close to the heart of any 
 being as his mother ? — for whom would he die so soon — and whose lov 
 is like hers ? What cares she for his disgrace or even his sin ? Her 
 love is ever the same ! She will joy in his prosperity and weep for his 
 sin and shame — but never, never forsake him. She will watch over his 
 bed of sickness and impoverish herself to raise him to health. Nor is 
 she the only being whose love is thus deep and constant. She who has 
 once plighted her faith and given her love to man will- never withdraw 
 it — in disgrace — in poverty — in prison even — she is still the same. 
 She will love him in his degradation, and the deeper he sinks she will 
 bind him the closer to her heart. Will man do so ? Will he love till 
 death, through reverse and misery ? Not he — let but the report of 
 shame spot the fair character of the woman he has loved, and iis mockery 
 of faith is broken — he loves no longer. Alas ! what tales might woman 
 tell, of broken vows and severed hearts — of withered hopes and bruised 
 affections — if she held but the pen. I thank Grod, woman has a power 
 of her own, to which, some day or other, every man must bow : he may 
 revile, he may, like a coward, attack her fair fame ; but sooner or later 
 he must bow at the footstool of her beauty and confess to the loveliness 
 which he has assailed and the heart which he has insulted. It is well 
 for the world that woman has a power arising frqjn her beauty and 
 virtue, which binds in a chain of invisible power the strong to the weak. 
 That love — that tremendous power — still exists, and is as strong and 
 as reckless as ever — and it would be well for the revilers of woman to 
 remember that a day must come when they will bow in shame before 
 the unsullied altar of love and beauty, whose flames they have tried to 
 extinguish for ever. 
 
 THE FARMEK. 
 
 It does one's heart good to see a merry, round-faced farmer. So inde- 
 pendent, and yet so free from vanities and pride. So rich, and yet so 
 industrious ; so patient and persevering in his calling, and yet so kind, 
 social, and obliging. There are a thousand noble traits about him 
 which light up his character. He is generally hospitable : eat and drink 
 with him, and he wont set a mark on you, and sweat it out of you with 
 a double compound interest at another time-f-you are welcome. He 
 will do you a kindness without expecting a return by way of compensa- 
 tion; it is not so with everybody. He is. generally more honest and 
 sincere — less disposed to deal in a low and underhand cunning, than 
 many I could name. He gives to society its best support — he is the 
 edifice of government and the lord of nature. Look at him in home- 
 spun gray and black, gentlemen ; laugh, if you will — but, believe me, 
 he can laugh back, if he pleases. 
 
TVASHINGTON. 2-1-7 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 The person of George Washington was uncommonly tall. Mountain 
 air, abundant exercise in the open country, the wholesome toils of the 
 chase, and the delightful scenes of rural life expanded his limbs to an 
 unusual, but graceful and well-proportioned size. His exterior suggested 
 to every beholder the idea of strength, united with manly gracefulness. 
 His form was noble and his port majestic. No man could approach him 
 without respect. His frame was robust, his constitution vigorous, and 
 he was capable of enduring great fatigue. His passions were naturally 
 strong ; with them was his first contest, and over them his first victory. 
 Before he undertook to command others, he had thoroughly learned to 
 command himself. The powers of his mind were more solid than bril- 
 liant. Judgment was his forte. To vivacity, wit, and the sallies of a 
 lively imagination, he made no pretensions. His faculties resembled 
 those of Aristotle, Bacon, Locke, and Newton, but were very unlike those 
 of Voltaire. Possessed of a large proportion of common sense, directed 
 by a sound practical judgment, he was better fitted for the exalted sta- 
 tions to which he was called, than many others, who, to a greater bril- 
 liancy of parts, frequently added the eccentricities of genius. 
 
 Truth and utility were his objects. He steadily pursued and generally 
 obtained them. With this view, he thought much, and closely examined 
 every subject on which he was to decide, in all its relations. Neither 
 passion, party-spirit, prejudice, ambition, nor interest influenced his deli- 
 berations. In ma,king up his mind, on great occasions, many of which 
 occurred, in which the fate of the army or nation seemed involved, he 
 sought for information from all quarters; resolved the subject by night 
 and by day, and examined it in ever}' point of view. Guided by these 
 lights, and influenced by an honest and good heart, he was imperceptibly 
 led to decisions which were wise and judicious. Perhaps no man ever 
 lived who was so often called upon to form a judgment in cases of real 
 difficulty, and who so often formed a right one. Engaged in the busy 
 scenes of life, he knew human nature, and the most proper method of 
 accomplishing proposed objects. Of a thousand propositions, he knew 
 how to distinguish the best, and to select among a thousand the indivi- 
 dual most fitted for his purpose. 
 
 As a military man, he possessed personal courage, and a firmness which 
 neither danger nor difficulties could shake. His perseverance overcame 
 every obstacle ; his moderation conciliated all opposition ; his genius 
 supplied every resource. He knew how to conquer by delay, and de- 
 served true praise by despising unmerited censure. Inferior to his 
 adversary in the numbers, the equipment, and discipline of his troops, no 
 great advantage was ever obtained over him, and no opportunity to strike 
 an important blow was ever neglected. In the most ardent moments of 
 the contest, his prudent firmness proved the salvation of his country. 
 
 The whole range of history does not present another character on which 
 
248 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 we can dwell with entire, unmixed admiration. His qualities were so 
 happily blended and so nicely harmonized that the result was a great 
 and perfect whole 
 
 THE EXISTENCE OF GOD. 
 
 BT MISS WINCHESTER. 
 
 Look on the broad and glorious face of the sky, atheist ! when suns 
 are there' in their splendour, and innumerous worlds wheel their cease- 
 less and eternal course through the regions of infinite space : dost thou 
 not there discover the hand of a superior power, pointing out their path- 
 way and upholding the structure of the august universe ? Look, when 
 clouds are there, piled up in the awfulness of their grandeur, and the 
 lightning rides forth on the oar of destruction ; listen to the roll of the 
 thundef, and to the rush of the tempest, as he sweeps through the shud- 
 dering earth — seest thou no God there ? Hearest thou not the sound of 
 his voice, and the rolling of his chariot-wheels ? Look on the bosom of 
 the ocean, when not a breath disturbs its deep repose, and it lies stretched 
 out like a vast mirror reflecting the firmament of heaven — seest thou 
 there no traces of Deity ? Look, when the spirit of the deep has arisen 
 in his anger ; when billow wars with billow ; when the mountain waves 
 seem to mingle with the sky, and darkness flings its awful shroud over 
 the contending waters, leaving no cheerful ray to guide the hapless mari- 
 ner to his haven — seest thou not there a being of infinite power and great- 
 ness ? 
 
 Look on the beautiful earth, when she puts on her rich j-obes of fruits 
 and flowers; when the fragrance of all that is grateful to the senses is in 
 her nostrils, and her voice is full of songs and melodious hymning — dost 
 thou not there discern a power of love, and mercy, and holiness ? 
 
 Look, when dreadful winter comes forth from his prison of the north 
 dealing out ruin and terror, and covering the glorious sky with angry 
 frowns and threatening ; all that is beautiful in the earth retire before 
 him, and he rides on triumphantly, marking his footsteps with grandeur 
 and desolation ! Seest thou there no august — no mighty hand? 
 
 Look, yet once again, and behold the creature that walks upright in 
 the midst of creation, and is master of all that surrounds him ; mark the 
 immortality that beams from his countenance, and his look which pene- 
 trates the skies : — then turn thy thoughts within, and listen to the voice 
 of thy own bosom — observe all its workings; its fears; its hopes; its 
 susceptibility of the most exquisite enjoyment and wretchedness; its 
 anxious thirst for still greater and greater knowledge ; its earnest, con- 
 stant and undying cravings after something still unobtained, and still 
 buried in the mysterious future ; and abovse all, its convulsive clingings 
 to life, and its unutterable dread of ceasing to be. Atheist— art thwj 
 not immortal? — and is there not a God? 
 
EXTKACT FROM HYPERION. 249 
 
 EXTRACT FROM "HYPERION."* 
 
 BY JOSIAH dTHNCT, JUN. 
 
 When I reflect on the exalted character of the ancient Britons, on the 
 fortitude of our illustrious predecessors, on the noble struggles of the 
 late memorable period, and, from these reflections, when, by a natural 
 transition, I contemplate the gloomy aspect of the present day, my heart 
 is alternately torn with doubt and hope, despondency and terror. Can 
 the true, generous magnanimity of British heroes be entirely lost in their 
 degenerate progeny ? Is the genius of liberty, which so lately inflamed 
 our bosoms, fled for ever ? 
 
 An attentive observer of the deportment of some particular 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 instantly 
 toss the head, and put on the air of contemptuous disdain. In the ima- 
 ginary possession of lordships 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 tem- 
 per of those who are destined to be our lords and masters ! 
 
 Be not deceived, my countrymen. Believe not these venal hirelings, 
 when they would cajole you by their subtilties into submission, or frighten 
 you by their vapourings into compliance. When they strive to flatter 
 you by the 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 the 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 enthu- 
 siasts. 
 
 Blandishments will not fascinate us, nor will threats of a "halter" 
 mtimidate. For, under God, we are determined, that wheresoever, when- 
 soever, 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 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 gibbet, or be dragged to the newly-erected scaffold for execu- 
 
 * The first part of this extract was pablished in the Boston Gazette, in September, 
 1767. on receiving information of threatening import from England; the remainder 
 appeared in October, 1768, when the British troops had landed in Boston and taken 
 (x ^session of Eanenil Hall, nnder circumstances intended to inspire \ho petple viUh 
 ^arm and terror. 
 
250 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 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 hia 
 
 life his children shall venerate. The virtues of their sire shall excite 
 
 their emulation. 
 
 ******* 
 
 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 inhe- 
 rit not the spirit of our ancestors. Who is he that boasteth of his pa- 
 triotism ? Has he vanquished luxury, and subdued the worldly pride 
 of his heart ? Is he not still drinking the poisonous draught, and rolling 
 the sweet morsel under his tongue ? He who cannot conquer the little 
 vanity 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 di- 
 vine ; to exhibit every moral virtue, and call forth every Christian grace. 
 The wisdom of the serpent, the innocence of the dove, and the intrepi- 
 dity of the lion, with the blessing of Grod, will yet save us from the jaws 
 of destruction. 
 
 Where is the boasted liberty of Englishmen, if property may be dis- 
 posed of, charters suspended, assemblies dissolved, and every valued 
 right annihilated at the uncontrollable 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 pre- 
 ferring death to a miserable existence in bondage ? Did we reflect on 
 their toils, their dangers, their fiery trials, the thought would inspire 
 unconquerable courage. 
 
 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 pensioners, stipendiaries, and salary-men, unknown 
 before, hourly multiplying upon us, to riot in the spoils of miserable 
 America ? Does not every eastern gale waft us some new insect, even 
 of that devouring kind which eat up every green thing ? Is not the 
 bread' taken out of the children's mouths and given unto the dogs ? Are 
 not our estates given to corrupt sycophants, without a design, or even a 
 pretence of soliciting our assent; and our lives put into the hands of 
 those whose tender mercies are cruelties ? Has not an authority 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, t'/ 
 finish all, are not our cities, in a time of profound peace, filled with stand- 
 ing armies, to preclude from us that last solace of the wretched — to 
 open their mouths in complaint, and send forth their cries in bitterntss 
 of heart ? 
 
EXTKACT FROM HYPERION. 251 
 
 but 13 ther3 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 liberty ? and will they not allow us, their fellow- 
 men, to enjoy that freedom which we claim from nature,- which is con- 
 firmed 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 pusinanimously 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 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 hereafter ! 
 
 my countrymen ! what will our children say, when they read the 
 history of these times, should they find that we tamely gave away, with- 
 out one noble struggle, the most invaluable of earthly blessings ! As 
 they drag the galling chain, will they dot execrate us ? If we have any 
 respect for things sacred, any regard to the dearest treasurfe on earth ; 
 if we have one tender sentiment for posterity ; if we would not be de- 
 spised by the whole world ; — let us, in the most open, solemn manner, 
 and with determined fortitude, swear — we will die, if we cannot live, free- 
 men ! 
 
 Be not lulled, my countrymen, with vain imaginations or idle fancies. 
 To hope for the protection of Heaven, without doing our duty and ex- 
 erting 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 immovable 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 rationally hope for an answer to our prayers — fo* 
 the whole counsel of God, and the invincible armour of the Almighty. 
 
 However righteous our cause, we cannot, in this period of the world, 
 expect a miraculous salvation. Heaven will, undoubtedly, assist us, if we 
 act like men ; but to expect protection from above, while we are ener- 
 vated 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 insure success. 
 While we have equity, justice, and God on our side, tyranny, spiritual 
 or temporal, shall never ride triumphant in a land inhabited by English- 
 men. 
 
 Tbue Magnanimity. — Hath any wronged thee ! — be bravely re- 
 venged; slight it, and the work is begun; forgive it, and 'tis finished 
 He is below himself who is not above an injury. 
 
252 FIKLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 PATRICK HENRY. 
 
 The moment that the United States had established their independ* 
 enee on a firm basis, Patrick Henry, so renowned for the bold and active 
 part he took in effecting this revolution, was the first to forget all pre- 
 vious animosities, and to hold out the hand of reconciliation and peace. 
 He was a strong advocate for every measure which could induce the 
 return of the refugees, who had espoused the cause of the mother-coun- 
 try, and made a proposition in their favour, which wus very severely 
 animadverted upon by some of the most respected members of Congress. 
 Among others, Judge Tyler, the speaker of the Assembly, vehemently 
 opposed him, and, in a committee of the House, demanded " how he, above 
 all other men, could think of inviting into his family an enemy from 
 whose insults and injuries he had suffered so severely ?" The following 
 was his prompt and beautiful reply : 
 
 " I acknowledge, indeed, sir, that I have many personal injuries of 
 which to complain; but when I enter this hall of legislation, I endeavour, 
 as far as human infirmity will permit, to leave all personal feelings behind 
 me. This question is a national one, and, in deciding it, if you act 
 wisely, you will regard nothing but the interest of the nation. On the 
 altar of my country's good, I. am willing to sacrifice all personal resent- 
 ments, all private wrongs ; and I am sure I should most absurdly flatter 
 myself, if I thought that I was the only person in this house capable of 
 making such a sacrifice." 
 
 Mr. Henry then proceeded to show, in a very forcible manner, the 
 policy of using every possible means of augmenting the population of a 
 country as yet so thinly inhabited as America, whose future greatness 
 he thus prophetically depicted : 
 
 " Encourage emigration — encourage the husbandmen, the mechanics, 
 the merchants of the Old World, to come and settle in this world of pro- 
 mise — make it the home of the skilful, the industrious and happy, as 
 well as the asylum of the distressed — fill up the measure of your popu- 
 lation as speedily as you can, by the means which Heaven hath placed in 
 your power, and, I venture to" prophesy, there are those now living who 
 will see this favoured land among the most powerful on earth. Yes, sir, 
 they will see her great iu arts and in arms — her golden harvests waving 
 over immeasurable extent — her commerce penetrating the most distant 
 seas, and her cannon silencing the vain boast of those who now affect to 
 rule the waves." 
 
 Mr. Henry's proposition was carried, and every succeeding year proves 
 that his anticipations were well founded. America soon experienced the 
 Dolicy of his counsels; and, tide after tide, emigration has ever since con- 
 iiinued to roll wealth and improvement over her provinces. 
 
 A TALSE friend is like a shadow on a dial : it appears in clear w Ba- 
 ther, but vanishes as soon as a cloud approaches. 
 
ANECDOTE OF A KENTUCKY PIONEEK. 25S 
 
 ANECDOTE OF A KENTUCKY PIONEEK. 
 
 The late John Haggin, Esq., of Mercer county, came to Kentucky at 
 an early period. On his arrival, the few inhabitants resided principally 
 at Harrodsburg and Boonsborough. Lexington had not then been settled. 
 Mr.. Haggin, desirous of commencing the cultivation of the fertile land 
 in this region of country, made some entries, that is, purchased several 
 tracts from government; among the rest, one at a place near where Harri- 
 son, Bourbon, and Fayette counties unite. He commenced the improve- 
 ment of the place, removed some of the trees, erected a small log-house 
 and brought to his new residence some furniture ; among other things, 
 a few iron kettles, to be used m making sugar from the sugar-trees, 
 which were then and are now abundant in that country. Owing to the 
 want of roads and means of transportation, heavy iron utensils were of 
 great value, and but few persons had or could procure them. Shortly 
 after Mr. Haggin commenced working on his new place, the hostility of 
 the savages became so alarming, that he was constrained to abandon his 
 cabin and seek security in the fort at Harrodsburg. Previously, how- 
 ever, to his departure, he used the precaution of burying his kettles. 
 He was accompanied to Harrodsburg by his wife and one child, a daugh- 
 ter, who is now residing in Woodford county, united in marriage to a 
 gentleman of respectability. ■ 
 
 Mr. Haggin spent the winter with his family in the fort, where they were 
 somewhat incommoded by the crowd of persons within so small a place. 
 In the spring, perceiving no indication of the savages in the vicinity, 
 and desirous of getting out of the fort, he erected a cabin in a valley 
 near the stream from the big spring towards the fort, on the side next to 
 where the town of Harrodsburg now is, situated less than a quarter of a 
 mile distant from the fort, (the fort being on an eminence,) but directly 
 in view. Mr. Haggin and family spent the summer at their little tene- 
 ment, engaged in domestic concerns and in cultivating a small portion 
 of land, released, to be sure, from the confinement of the fort, but under 
 continual apprehensions of a visit from the Indians. Each morning 
 before the door was unbarred, they peeped- out of the cabin, " illumined 
 by many a cranny," to spy out the insidious enemy, who it was feared might 
 be lurking about behind logs and trees ready to rush in a,nd murder the 
 family. They remained, however, in a great measure, uninterrupted 
 until fall, when Mr. Haggin determined to revisit his place on this sido 
 of the river, for the purpose of removing some of his kettles to Harrods- 
 burg, preparatory to making sugar in winter. He set out in company 
 with an active woodsman that he had hired to assist him. On the second 
 day they came in sight of Mr. Haggin's .place, on the edge of what is 
 now Harrison county; they were riding slowly and cautiously along, 
 watching for enemies, when, looking forward to the place where the 
 cabin had stood, they perceived that it had just been bumed.down, and 
 saw three or four Indians sitting near the ruin. 
 
 Haggin proposed to his companion that they should fall back and pre- 
 
254 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 pare themselves, and return and give the Indians battle. They retreated 
 a few hundred yards, dismounted, took off their exterior clothing, retain- 
 ing only their shirts, leggings, and moccasins, tied the other clothing on 
 their horses and turned them loose, intending, in case of a retreat, to 
 regain their horses, but, if they could not succeed in that, they deemed 
 it prudent to be lightly clothed that they might fly with more celerity. 
 Having examined their rifles and seen that every thing was in order, 
 they set out to attack the enemy. It was arranged that Haggin should 
 proceed on foremost, fire his gun at the savages, and retreat to a tree ; 
 that his companion should reserve his shot until the enemy approached, 
 and then fire and retreat : thus they would flre and load alternately. 
 But this well-arranged plan, like many others equally sagacious, proved 
 abortive. While Haggin and his companion were engaged in a council 
 of war, it did not occur to them that the savages had seen them and 
 were concerting plans also. 
 
 Mr. Haggin, agreeably to the mode of attack agreed on, advanced 
 slowly, his body bent down, casting his eye forward, intently watching 
 for a sight of an Indian to get a shot at. He heard a low voice behind 
 him ; he listened ; his companion cried out in a quick under-tone, " Hag- 
 gin, don't you see we are about to be surrounded ? Let us retreat." Haggin 
 cast his eyes around and saw hundreds of Indians rise up from among 
 the cane, having nearly surrounded him. He immediately fled, they 
 pursued, but did not then fire, lest, in shooting across, they should kill 
 each other. The two flanks of the ambuscade began rapidly to close 
 upon Haggin. He directed his steps towards his horse, which was quietly 
 feeding on the cane ; Haggin was a very active man, and a fleet runner, 
 but some of the savages appeared to equal him. He reached his horse, 
 and sprang from the ground, intending to leap into the saddle from 
 behind. As he placed his hands on his horse's rump, an Indian ran the 
 muzzle of his gun against Haggin's side and fired. That moment Hag- 
 gin leaped ; at the same instant the horse, being alarmed, sprang also. 
 Haggin fell and thought he was mortally wounded, but, feeling no pain, 
 rebounded to his feet and fled, exerting his whole strength ; the savages, 
 perceiving that he had escaped, and was ahead of them, commenced firing 
 on him, and perhaps one hundred bullets were thus commissioned to kill, 
 but none took effect. The chase was kept up for some hours, when the 
 Indians, finding it fruitless, ceased the pursuit. Haggin, being very hot 
 and much fatigued, went into a creek to cool his limbs. After he came 
 out, he sat down at the root of a tree and fell asleep ; when he awoke 
 he discovered that it was snowing ; the air had become cold, and he was 
 much chilled. Having time now to think, the horrors of his situation 
 rose to his view; he had lost his horse, gun, and clothes; he was 
 forty miles from Harrodsburg, and twenty-five from the nearest other 
 station', which was Bootisborotagh, without food or the means of getting 
 any, night coming on, snow falling, no blanket to. keep him warm, nor 
 means of striking flre : he might perhaps freeze to death. He determintJ 
 to steer for Boonsborough. After indescribable difficulty in making his 
 way through the cane, loaded with snow and suffering from cold, loss of 
 sleep, and fatigue, be reached Boonsborough the next morning. Hwing 
 
ANKCDOTE OF A KENTUCKY PIONEER. 255 
 
 eaten something, he lay down, and slept from that time until the follow- 
 ing morning. 
 
 In the mean time the man who accompanied Mr. Haggin had got to 
 Harrodsbnrg, and reported that he was killed, overwhelming his wife 
 with the distressing intelligence. 
 
 Haggin, on the day after his arrival at Boonsborough, set out, accompa- 
 nied by a Mr. Pendegrast, (the same whose family afterwards lived in 
 Jefferson or BuUit county,) for Harrodsbnrg. The wife of Mr. 'Pende- 
 grast had been staying for some time with Mrs. Haggin in a little 
 tenement near the fort at Harrodsbnrg. Haggin had supplied himself 
 with clothing and a gun before he left Boonsborough. The two friends 
 journeyed on' without interruption until they arrived at a little eminence 
 near Mr. Haggin's residence. On casting their eyes to the spot where 
 they expected to find what was most dear to them on earth — their wives 
 and children — what must have been their astonishment and horror when 
 they beheld the cabin a smoky ruin, and one or two hundred savages 
 around the place ! Haggin's feelings were now wrought up to despera- 
 tion : he called on Pendegrast to follow, saying he no longer valued life, 
 now his wife and children were all murdered ; that he would die, but 
 sell his life dear to the enemy. Pendegrast accompanied him. They 
 jmshed directly up to where the Indians were standing. The reckless 
 manner in which they approached excited the surprise of the savages, 
 who stood inactive, not making any attempt to injure the two desperate 
 men. At this moment, one or both of them cast a look towards the 
 fort, and saw, or thought they saw, their wives on the walls of the fort 
 waving their handkerchiefs to them. The desire of living immediately 
 returned to their hearts. They changed their course, and sprang towards 
 the fort. The Indians raised the yell, darted after them, and many guns 
 were fired. Both of the white men fell in full view of the fort; the 
 wives screamed, believing their husbands were slain. In a moment 
 Haggin was on his feet again ; he rushed forward, the savages in close 
 pursuit ; one struck him on the back with his tomahawk : it proved 
 harmless. The gate flew open, and he was received with a shout of joy 
 in the arms of his wife, having escaped entirely unhurt; his fall had 
 been accidental. But poor Pendegrast fell to rise no more. His friends 
 from the fort saw the savages take the scalp from his head. 
 
 A Religious Life. — ^The beauty of a religious life is one of its 
 greatest recommendations. What does it profess ? Peace to all man- 
 ■kind. It teaches us those arts which will render us beloved and respected, 
 which will contribute to our present comfort as well as our future happi- 
 ness. Its greatest ornament is charity — ^it inculcates nothing but love 
 and simplicity of affection ; it breathes nothing but the purest spirit of 
 delight : in short, it is a system perfectly calculated to benefit the heart, 
 improve the mind, and enlighten the understanding. 
 
256 
 
 FIELDS S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 GKEEK SONG. 
 
 MOVNT, soldier, mount thy gallant steed— 
 
 Seek, seek the 'auks of war ; 
 'Tls better thore in death to bleed. 
 
 Than drag a tyrant's oar. 
 Strike ! strike ! nor think the blow unseen 
 That fftes the limba where chains have been. 
 
 Oh no ! each dying shout that peals 
 
 From continent or isle ; 
 Each smoke that, curlins slow, reTeals 
 
 A city's faneral pile, — 
 Are heard and seen among the free, 
 Whose hearts are struggling, Gieeoe, with thee. 
 
 On, on, for Earaiskaki's hand I 
 
 Look where the crescents wave ; 
 Thfiy glance above a ruin'd land. 
 
 Like death-lights o'er a grave ; 
 One prayer, one thought of Marathon, 
 And they are quenoh'd — on, soldier, on ! 
 
 But yet, if not the glorions pas^ 
 
 For hope of future fame. 
 No chains of steel around thee oasi. 
 
 Urge thee to war with shame ;— 
 Think that beyond the parting 86% 
 The prayers of beauty rise for thee. 
 
 Nay, cast not on thy infant child 
 
 That look of fond regret,— 
 Mind not that shriek of sorrow wild,— 
 
 Thy wife shall clasp thee yet; — 
 Qod, and the fair across the wave. 
 Watch o'er the children of the brave. 
 
 Then, soldier, mount thy gallant steed— 
 Seek, seek the ranks of war; 
 
 *Tis better there in death to bleed. 
 Than drag a tyrant's car. 
 
 One clasp — one kiss — then soldier on— 
 
 And win another Marathon. 
 
 ON LAYING THE COKNER-STONE OF THE BUNKER 
 HILL MONUMENT. 
 
 BT PIERPONT. 
 
 Oh, is not this a holy spot! 
 
 'Tia the high place of freedom's birth 1 
 God of our fathers ! is it not 
 
 The holiest spot of all the earth ? 
 
 Quench'd is thy fiame on Horeb's side ; 
 
 The robber roams o'er Sinai now; 
 And those old men, thy seers, abide 
 
 No more on Ziou's mournful brow. 
 
 But on this hill thou. Lord, hast dwelt. 
 Since round his head the war-cloud ourl'd,. 
 
 And wrapp'd our fathers, where they knelt 
 In prayer and battle for a world. 
 
 Here sleeps their dust : 'tis holy ground: 
 And we, the children of the brave. 
 
 From the four winds are gather'd <connd. 
 To lay oar offering on their grave. 
 
 Free as the winds around us blow. 
 Free as the waves below us spread. 
 
 We rear a pile, that long shall throw 
 Its shadow on their sacred bed. 
 
 But on their deeds no shade shall fall, 
 While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame. 
 
 Thine ear was hound to hear their call. 
 And thy right hand shall guard their fame. 
 
 NAME IN THE SAND. 
 
 Alone I walk'd on the ocean strand, 
 A pearly shell was in my hand : 
 I stoop'd and wrote upon the sand 
 
 My name, the year, the day; 
 As onward from the spot I paas'd. 
 One lingering look behind I cast, 
 A wave came rolling high and fast. 
 
 And wash'd my lines away. 
 
 And so, metbought, 'twill quickly be 
 With every mark on earth with me ! 
 4 wave of dark oblivion's sea 
 
 Will sweep across the place 
 
 Where I have trod the sandy shore 
 Of time, and been to be no more ; 
 Of me, my day, the name I bore. 
 
 To leave no track or trace. 
 
 And yet with Him who counts the sands. 
 And holds the waters in his hands, 
 I know a lasting record stands 
 
 Inscribed against my name ; 
 Of all this mortal part has wrought. 
 Of all this thinking soul has thought. 
 And from these fleeting moments caught^ 
 
 For glory or for shame I 
 
THE DREAlrf'oF LOVE. 
 
 THE DEEAM OF LOVE. 
 
 BT C. LUDLOW. 
 
 I HAVE seen a bubble blown into its circular and indescribable beautj ; 
 on its brilliant surface were painted the most inimitable pictures JDf light 
 and life; 'graceful clouds floated in the bosom of the mimic sky; a tiny 
 sun irradiated the little world, and cast all the magic of light an-d shade 
 over a landscape of most bewitching splendour. A creation bright as a 
 poet could imagine glowed before me ; but a wave of the air broke the 
 spell of its transitory but beautiful existence, and it was gone. It was 
 like a dream of love. If there is one happy being in creation, it is the 
 lover in the luxury of his visionary aspirations : if there is a single 
 blissful moment, like a star sparkling in the shadowy firmament of life, 
 it is that which discovers a long-nourished affection to be mutual. 
 
 The moon, as she rides on through her infinity of space, has not a 
 greater effect upon the ocean-tide than has the passion of love upon the 
 tide of human thought — now permitting it to settle down into a state 
 of temporary tranquillity — again, bidding it heave and swell, by the 
 magic of its viewless power. Without it, what would be the world ? As 
 a creation without light; yet possessing it, as we do, how does it dis- 
 compose the soberest plans of reason ! How do the loftiest bulwarks 
 of stern philosophy bow down and disappear before the fragrance of its 
 breath' ! It is the poetry of thought, when reason slumbers on her stately 
 throne, or wanders away in happy dreams. It is scarcely to be defined, . 
 for it seems in a perpetual halo of soft light, which dazzles while it fasci- 
 nates the mind's eye. It is to the spirit what sunshine is to the flower 
 
 luring the fragrance from its bosom, and bringing out all the energies ■ 
 of its young nature, or as the hand of beauty to the slumbering lute • 
 passing over the silent chords, tiU "it doth discourse most eloquent, ; 
 music." 
 
 I had a young friend, just rising into manhood — fiery and unsettled 
 as the warrior-steed in battle, his career was unguided by prudence or .• 
 
 thought. A never-failing flow of spirits made him always agreeable 
 
 he was full of sense and frolic. He could bring a tear into your eye 
 before the smile had left your lip — he was all hope and happiness. 
 
 Suddenly he stood before me an altered being— his eye had grown ■ 
 melancholy and full of meditation. Its moisture was often succeeded i 
 by a flash ; and its fire again extinguished in the trembling tear. H« 
 shunned the rude clamour of the bustling world, and would steal aw-ay 
 into some solitary recess, and in the still shade of the forest ponder on 
 the sweetness of his oWn sorrow. His mind became almost a world, of 
 itself, and thousands of visions rose obedient, at the call of crea.tivp 
 thought : his soul, lifted high on fancy's wing, would explore, in iss 
 wild and beautiful career, the fathomless regions of imagination, through . 
 all the variety of its magnificent domain. He loved deeply, devotedly.. 
 It was more than love; it was adoration. The object of his passion, 
 was all that woman could be. There is no object, in all creation^ half fi& 
 
25ti FIELDS S UCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 splendid as such a being : the charms that are diffused through the wnoie 
 universe seemed gathered together in her. 
 
 When the sun is going down in the west, he leaved behind him a 
 track of bright light; but it is insipid when compared to the light of her 
 eye. The fragrance of the rose was not so delicious as the warmth of 
 her breath — music could make no melody like the thrilling tones of her 
 voice. Her motion was more graceful than the heave of the sea or the 
 change of the cloud; and the magic of mind, gleaming through all her 
 words, and looks, and actions, shed around her a charm more grateful 
 than Arabian incense. 
 
 No wonder my hero bowed down before her; no wonder that the 
 sound of her voice was always in his ear, that her image was before him 
 in his daily occupations, and bore a part in the mysterious changes of 
 his dreams. There was no affectation in her nature, and she confessed 
 she loved him. They seemed created for each other — and who would 
 have believed that fate — but I am digressing. 
 
 There is something very melancholy in the reflection that any woman 
 can die ; but to Mm, that she should perish, was the very agony of de- 
 spair. He had left her for a few days, intending when he returned to 
 ask her hand. On the morning of his return, he sprang into the stage- 
 coach, in a most delicious revery. He held no discourse with his fellow 
 passengers, but wrapped himself up in a rich dream of anticipation. 
 His heart was full of happiness. He thought himself, as he entered hia 
 house, too happy for a martal man. He was preparing to pay her the 
 first visit, and dwelling in his mind on her pleasing welcome, when her 
 brother came to see him. He did not observe any thing peculiar about 
 him at first, and not until the warm affectionate shake of the hand was 
 over, did he notice that his eyes were filled with tears, and a dismal, 
 gloomy, black crape hung from his hat. He started, and, in a hollow 
 voice, that had a desolate dreariness in the very tone, he said, 
 
 "Elizabeth is dead!" 
 
 At first he was not comprehended. A vacant, horrid laugh, that 
 echoed strangely through the still room, was his only answer; then he 
 repeated the words, and the features of my friend became pale and mo- 
 tionless as marble ; then he sat down in a chair, and covered his face 
 with his hands, but not a word — a breath broke the silence. There was 
 something alarming in his calmness ; it seemed like the silence of the 
 heavy, black cloud, just before it launches its destructive lightning from 
 its bosom. 'He beckoned and wished to be alone. He was left in solitude. 
 I would not profane the subject by any attempt at describing his feel- 
 ings. There was a dark, horrible confusion in his mind, like some 
 accursed dream glaring around him, and the night rolled away its long 
 hpurs of sleepless agony. 
 
 The next day was the funeral ; and when the sun rose in his own 
 glory, and all. the "pomp and circumstance" of day-began to beam upon 
 tbe face of nature, and the merry voice of men sometimes came upon 
 the breeze, and the carts rattled rudely along, and all around was busi- 
 ness and adventure, unaffected by the great event that had come like 
 an ocean of scorching fire upon the paradise of his heart — he recollected, 
 
THE DREAM OF LOVE. 259 
 
 and he said, " To-day is her funeral — her funeral !" His benumbed mind 
 dwelt upon the words, but there was something undefined and almost 
 incomprehensible in them. She was to be buried at five in the after- 
 noon. The clock struck fout' — he put on his hat, and went steadily 
 to her house. He thought twenty times he heard her sweetly-toned 
 laughing voice, as he passed along. He turned his head once or twice 
 to see if she was not at his shonlder, but there was nothing, and he 
 walked on. He saw the house, and sought every window — ^but Elizabeth 
 was not there. He rang the bell — the servant came, weeping — ^he looked 
 at him, and walked on. He passed into the parlour — the chair which she 
 had occupied when he was there before was standing in the very same 
 place — and there was her piano — ^he almost thought he heard music. He 
 listened; a sob from the next room came like ice upon his heart, and 
 he sat down. Her mother came into the room, — ^her face was serene in 
 grief, but the first burst was over, and she was comparatively calm. She 
 asked him if he would look at the corpse. He knew she was dead, but 
 the blunt question shook every nerve in his frame, and seemed to breathe 
 death upon his soul. He arose and followed the bereaved mother. There 
 was an air of death in the apartment ; and a varnished coffin was on the 
 table, a white cloth hung carefully at the head ; a few friends sat and 
 wept in silence, musing on the beauties and virtues of the being they 
 were about to consign to the cold earth. He walked up to the table, 
 and stood as still, and pale, and motionless, as the form that lay stretched 
 before him. He would have torn away the veil that covered that face, 
 but he could not : he felt that he might as well have attempted to heave 
 a mountain from its rocky base. The mother saw — she felt — a mother 
 can feel — and she silently uncovered that beautiful countenance. It 
 broke upon him in all its loveliness. There was the same white fore- 
 head — the sleeping eye — the cheek that he had kissed so fondly — the 
 lips that had spoken such sweet sounds. He gazed at her corpse with 
 intensity of thought. Her living image was before him — he saw her 
 smiling — ^he beheld her in the graceful motion — now her figure passed 
 before him, beautiful in the mazy dance — and now he gazed into her full 
 black eyes, and read unutterable things. He had a ring on his finger, a 
 present from her — he tried to speak — he looked at the ring, then at her — 
 agony swelled his heart ; he gave one long gaze — and looked no more. 
 
 T* 3JC rfC J|* 3p ^ ^ ^ 
 
 He knew not hgw, but he stood by her grave, and they were bearing 
 the coffin towards the dark narrow pit — a heap of fresh earth was piled 
 at its side. Some one said " Where are the cords ?" He heard the 
 answer, " Here they are ;" and then the coffin was gradually let down 
 into the bottom of the grave. It sat firmly on the ground, and he heard 
 a voice say, " There that is right — throw up the rope." Then there was 
 the sound,' as if the orders were obeyed : in the act of doing it, a few 
 grains of sand and pebble dropped upon the coffin — then all was still — 
 then a handful of soft, damp, heavy clay, was shovelled down. Oh, 
 that sound ! that solemn, dreary sound of utter desolation ! It broke 
 the horrid spell that kept his voice silent, and his eye dry : his lip 
 began to quiver — a sob heaved his aching breast — large tears gushed 
 
2G0 FIKLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 from Jiis fcjes — ^he stretched out his hands in an agony of weeping, and 
 grasped an old gentleman's nose, in the stage-coach, where he was sleep- 
 ing, and gave occasion for Obadiah to observe, 
 
 "Verily, friend, when thou hast sufficiently amused thyself with my 
 nose, perhaps thou wilt return it to its rightful owner." 
 
 The whole horrible creation of his fancy passed away like a mist; his 
 heart bounded within him, and he soon took sweet revenge upon those 
 wicked lips that had been so cold and still, yet eo beautiful, in the dark- 
 ness of his dream. 
 
 THE MIRKOE OF LIFE. 
 
 The following observations on a looking-glass, made at an advanced 
 period of life, convey a moral reflection, which, if duly weighed, may 
 prove a salutary warning against indulging. those deceitful dreams which 
 too frequently grow on the mirthful scenes and careless indolence of 
 youth : — "This piece of furniture brings before me an epitome of life. 
 When I first looked on it, this identical article, being then such as it 
 now appears, presented to my view a rosy-faced, laughing little boy. A 
 few years passed away, and it reflected the image of a growing heedless 
 youth, full of health, and exhibiting all the animation of joyous hope. 
 At a subsequent period I again looked on it, and saw a man. Boundless 
 expectation had now been brought down to calm satisfaction. I had no 
 further good to expect ; the first throb of exultation was over, but fear 
 and disgust were unknown. More advanced in years, I saw one of 
 middle-aged appearance, whose aspect was soured by the disappoint- 
 ments and vexations of the world, but yet cheered with hope and elate 
 with conscious integrity. Now this object, which originally reflected 
 my infant mirth, enables me to see a picture of declining life, a faded 
 remnant of humanity, and a living record of mournful error." 
 
 HAPPINESS OF HEAVEN. 
 
 Dr. Dwight closes a sermon "on the happiness of heaven," with the 
 following beautiful simile : — "To the eyes of man the sun appears a pure 
 light ; a mass of unmingled glory. Were we to ascend with a continued 
 flight towards this luminary, and could, like the eagle, gaze directly on 
 its lustre, v^e should in our progress behold its greatness continually 
 enlarge, and its splendour become every moment more intense. As we 
 rose through the heavens, we could see a little orb, changing gradually, 
 into a great world; and, as we advanced nearer and nearer, should behold 
 it expanding every way, until all that was before us became a universe 
 of excessive and Universal glory. Thus the heavenly inhabitant will, at 
 the commencement of his happy existence, see the divine system filled 
 with magnificence and splendour, and arrayed in glory and beauty; and, 
 as he advances over and through the successive periods of duration, will 
 behold all things more and more luminous, transporting, and sun-like 
 for ever." 
 
DEATH OF JOHN ADAMS. 261 
 
 DEATH OF JOHN ADAMS. 
 
 At length the day approached when this eminent patriot was to be 
 tnmmoned to another world ; and, as if to render that day for ever me- 
 morable in the annals of American history, it was the day on which the 
 illustrious Jefferson was himself, also, to terminate his distinguished 
 earthly career. That day was the fiftieth anniversary of the declaration 
 of independence. 
 
 Until within a few days previous, Mr. Adams had exhibited no indi- 
 cations of a rapid decline. The morning of the fourth of July, 1826, he 
 was unable to rise from his bed. Neither to himself, or his friends, 
 however, was his dissolution supposed to be so near. He was asked to 
 suggest a toast, appropriate to the celebration of the day. His mind 
 seemed to glance back to the hour in which, fifty years before, he had 
 voted for the Declaration of Independence, and with the spirit with which 
 he then raised his hand, he now exclaimed, " Independence for ever." 
 At four o'clock in the afternoon he expired. Mr. Jefferson had departed 
 a few hours before him. 
 
 They departed cheered by the benediction of their country-, to whom 
 they left the inheritance of their fame, and the memory of their bright 
 example. If we turn our thoughts to the condition of their country, in 
 the contrast of the first and last day of that half century, how resplen- 
 dent and sublime is the transition from gloom to glory! Then, glancing 
 through the same lapse of tiilie, in the condition of the individuals, we 
 see the first day marked with the fulness and vigour of youth, in the 
 pledge of their fives, their fortunes, and their sacred honour, to the cause 
 of freedom and of mankind; and on the last, extended on the bed of 
 death, with but sense and sensibility left to breathe a last aspiration to 
 Heaven of blessing upon their country. May we not humbly hope, that 
 to them, too, it was a pledge of transition from gloom to glory, and 
 that while their mortal vestments were sinking into the clod of the 
 valley, their emancipated spirits were ascending to the bosom of their 
 ftod?" 
 
 Mabriagb Ceeemont. — ^To see two rational beings, in the glow of 
 youth and hope, which invests life with the halo of happiness, appear 
 together, and openly acknowledging their preference for each other, 
 voluntarily enter into a league of perpetual friendship, and call heaven 
 and earth to witness the sincerity of the solemn vows — to think of the 
 endearing connection, the important consequences, the final separation, 
 the smile that kindles to eestacy at their union must at length be 
 quenched in the tears of mourning ! — but while life continues, they are 
 to participate in the same joys, to endure the like sorrows, to rejoice 
 and weep in unison. This is the mofit interesting spectacle that social 
 life exhibits 
 
2(>2 riELDS'S JCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM AN ADDRESS ON TEMPERANCE. 
 
 BT BET I. A. BOSS. 
 
 The evils which strong drink has brought upon us are so tremendong, 
 and threaten such overwhelming ruin to the morals and the liberties of 
 our country, that good men tremble in all the land. Intemperance, like 
 every other mischief, has been as the letting out of waters. It was, com- 
 paratively, a trifling nuisance a few years ago. Every man felt confi- 
 dent, he could, with ease, and when he pleased, turn the polluted stream 
 from hij own door. But a flood 'is now rolling over our fields. It has 
 swelled into a mighty inundation. In some parts of the land the low 
 grounds are almost covered. And on every high place we see our wisest 
 men gathered together. We hear their warning voices. The trumpet 
 notes of the patriot and the Christian are rolling through the valleys 
 and swelling to the tops of the mountains. They tell us the fountains 
 of the great deep are breaking up. They call for the help of every man, 
 and for the help of the Lord. Yes, for .the help of the Lord. For the 
 heavens have gathered blackness, and the thunders of Grod proclaim that 
 he has watched upon our iniquities, and poured this curse upon us ; and 
 that he has opened the windows of his wrath, and holds in the hollow of 
 his hand the waters of a more awful storm. 
 
 Drunkenness, it is said by those who have looked into the subject, is 
 a greater scourge to the United States, than the sword of an invading 
 army. I believe the fact. And you will not think the remark too 
 strong, when I sum up only a few of the particulars which compose that , 
 mass of misery, of which intemperance is the cause. What think you 
 of the quantity of ardent spirits drunk every year in the United States ? 
 It is sixty millions of gallons ! Suppose that you see this flood of liquor 
 collected into a river flowing from one end of the land to the other, and 
 kept up to the high-water mark, by streams incessantly running into it 
 from the cellars of the merchant and from the distilleries of the farmer. 
 Suppose that you see two hundred thousand common drunkards, and 
 three hundred thousand occasional drunkards, crowding the shores of 
 this river, men and women, from every rank in society, and from 
 almost every age. See, while some drink, and laugh, and drink again, 
 and the eye begins to redden and to reel, and the step to totter, and the 
 tongue to grow thick — others are prostrated in all the disgusting circum- 
 stances of brutal intoxication. Listen to the shouts of riot — the oaths 
 and blasphemy. Look upon the hideous pollutions, the contentions, the 
 babblings, the wounds and blood which fill this region of the shadow of 
 death. 
 
 We hear there is a river which winds through the beautiful plains of 
 Hindostan, and that millions gather around it, and worship the waters. 
 And we shudder when wt are told that thousands of human beings are 
 the offerings of this superstition. But this stream I have shown you, 
 haunted by drunkards, is a more awful flood than the Ganges. The 
 
EXTRACT FROM AN ADDRESS ON TEMPERANCE. 2f^S 
 
 Hindoo believes when he drinks of this river, that health, and beauty, 
 and long life will be given to him. The drunkard knows that disease^ 
 and deformity, and death, are in the streams he quaffs. The Hin- 
 doo is persuaded his sins are washed away in the consecrated water ; 
 and although the blood of men is the price of his imaginary bliss, he 
 believes the victims live again in heaven, and he thinks he sees the 
 favour of his god, in brighter skies, and greener fields, and more abun- 
 dant harvests. But the drunkard has not this faith. He looks around 
 him on a shore that is cursed, and scorched, and withered. He looks 
 up to a sky of blackness, and darkness, and tempest — that burns with 
 fire, and is horrid with shapes of despair. He knows he drinks damna- 
 tion. For every wretch, swept off by the burning billows which roll at 
 his feet, utters shrieks that are full of the torments of hell. This river, 
 surrounded by drunkards in horrid worship, is not in our land. But 
 what if it is not ? Is the quantity of ardent spirits the less enormous, 
 because we do not see it gathered together in one canal, running from 
 Maine to Louisiana, but collected in the hogshead, in the cask, in the 
 bottle, in every city, in every village, in every tavern by the wayside, 
 on the sideboards of the rich, and on the tables of, the poor ? Is the 
 number of drunkards the less appalling, because they are not mustered 
 into a vast reeling and roaring crowd, around one great reservoir of grog, 
 but cover all the land, and, like the frogs of Egypt, have crawled into 
 every house, and pollute our kitchens, our parlours, and our beds ? Are 
 the habits of drunkards the less abominable that they are not confined to 
 one place, but are exposed to the pure eye of the sun everywhere ? That 
 ten thousand places where their god is found are crowded with wretched 
 worshippers ? That the morning and evening light witnesses the deep 
 tavern debauch — the silent closet dram ? That every hour of the night 
 sees drunkards, in crowds, stumbling out of damp and smoky cellars — 
 floundering from the muddy swine-tramped doors of distilleries — groping 
 their way in fence corners — stretched out in piles of living filth — spurned 
 at by every passing fool — here furious in quarrel and bloodshed — there 
 more brutal in abuse of wife and children ? In one word, is drunkenness 
 fraught with any the less ruin to the body and the soul, because we see 
 it at the court-house — on the muster-ground — at the place of election — 
 along the street — in the road — in our most private rooms — that it is 
 a familiar acquaintance; so familiar, that, even moral men — yea, reli- 
 gious men, can, not only look upon a drunkard without abhorrence, but 
 can even laugh at his staggering steps, his bloated face, his stupid speech, 
 and all the other melancholy circumstances, which exhibit man, in this, 
 
 his most degraded state ! 
 
 *)* * * * * * * 
 
 Allow me to dwell for a moment upon one of these consequences of 
 intemperance. Have you ever visited a mad-house ?. Then you remem- 
 ber with what painful curiosity, mingled with fear, you followed the 
 keeper along the solemn passages — and your oft-repeated question : Sir, 
 is there no danger ? At length the key grates in the lock of a small 
 door It opens ; and with beating heart, and breath suspended by awe, 
 you found yourself in the cell of the maniac. He stands judt Iw-forf 
 
264 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 you — a man in the prime of life; his form is grand; his high and polishad 
 brow, and every' other expressive feature, indicate the powerful mind 
 nature had given hira. You know him. Yes, you remember when he 
 was blessed with wealth, an affectionate wife, and happy children ; — when 
 senates hearkened to his wisdom, and when his integrity and kindness 
 had drawn around him many friends. You now see him ch^lined. That 
 eye, which shone with the lustre of reason, now rolls upon you iij the 
 wildness of phrenzy. That mouth, which poured words of fire into the 
 hearts of patriots, or spoke of things true, and honest, and just, and pure, 
 to listening sons and daughters, now curses man, and blasphemes Grod. 
 Strong drink has bound this noble man. His estate is gone. His wife 
 is dead of a broken heart ; and his children receive their bread from the 
 hand of charity. 
 
 There are many thousands of deranged men and women, confined in 
 these houses of wo, in the United States, and from examination it is 
 ascertained that one-third of their number have been brought to that 
 most melancholy state by intemperance. 
 
 Let me conduct you to another house peopled with the victims of 
 strong drink. It is a more awful place than the one we have just left. 
 See the arched gateway frowns before us. Two enormous doors — one 
 of iron, the other of oak, creak upon their huge hinges for our quick en- 
 trance. They are instantly relooked behind us, and we stand by the side 
 of the stern overseer within the walls of a penitentiary. It is a dismal 
 place. The towering walls are too high to be scaled — too thick for the 
 crow-bar; and the resolute guard, with his musket and bayonet, stands 
 ready to kill. All around are rows of cells, one above another. Some 
 of them dungeons; made for the worst among the bad— from whose dark 
 chambers we hear the clanking of fetters. Into these we will not go-. 
 We see villains enough around us. How numerous they are ; — how hard 
 they labour; — how coarse the bread they eat; — how ignominious they 
 look ! A coarse woollen cap conceals, but cannot hide their shaved 
 heads. Their faces are fair from long confinement. Their eyes are 
 turned away from us, in shame, in remorse, in sullen contempt ; and yet 
 as we pass by them, see how industriously they ply the chisel, the saw, 
 and the sledge. We can hardly realize that they are not fit to mix with 
 honest men. But they are not fit to be free ; the whole State has said 
 so. Here are thieves of every name. Here is the wretch who fired his 
 neighbour's house, and stood afar off, and laughed when he saw the ascend* 
 ing flames, and heard the screams of the burning children. Here 
 is the son who shot his father, and the father who murdered his son. 
 Here is the husband who killed his wife ; — the wife who poisoned her 
 husband. Here is the adulterer, who slew her whom he had disho- 
 nored. Here is he who stabbed the virgin whom he found where there 
 was no'nn to save her when she cried. Under that cap we see the face 
 of the boy. There is the old man whose trembling walk belies the 
 fierceness of his soul. Here is he who did the deed from ruffian thirst 
 o^ blood. And look ! there is one poor, haggard, miserable wretch, 
 whose bearing shows he was once a gentlemanr 
 
 There are many of these huge asylums of guilt. There is a jail in 
 
EXTRACT FROM AN ABDRESS ON TEMPERANCE. 265 
 
 tyecj county. The number of criminals is not less than forty-five thou- 
 sand ! What a multitude of rniserable men ! What inconceivable wo 
 they have caused — the blood, the tears, the broken hearts — ^alas ! we 
 cannot grasp the enormous wretchedness. 
 
 But it seems walls of stone, pallets of straw, years of hard labour, the 
 dungeon, and the chain, are not enough to show the crime of him who 
 has sinned against the laws. Ever and anon we hear the deep sound 
 of the muffled drum ; we see the vast crowd, the long files of soldiers in 
 measured march, the cart, the coffin, the condemned man, the rope, the 
 gallows tree. One moment of awful silence — and — all is over. " He 
 who sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed !" Who 
 can console the mother ? Where shall the degraded father hide his 
 head ? 
 
 Strong drink has filled these prisons, and built that gallows. The 
 vast majority of criminals are such from intemperance. Ye who love 
 the bottle, consider wha-t may be your end. Ye who hold the bottle to 
 your neighbour's mouth — hearken to the truth ! Ye are accountable to 
 Almighty God for all this ruin ! 
 
 Awful is the malefactor's end ; yet the ordinary death of the drunk- 
 ard is scarcely less miserable. His wild cry for help, rising over the mid- 
 night water, startles the traveller. An empty boat drifts past, — ^for a 
 moment, by the moonlight, the stranger sees a hand and an arm above 
 a dark struggling mass — ^it utters a bubbling sound, and sinks. How 
 many drunkards are frozen to death every winter ! See that crowd rush- 
 ing into a house from which the screams of a woman and her children 
 are heard. The husband in a fit has fallen into the fire, and lies half 
 consumed on his own hearth. See that melancholy light which streams 
 from the shattered windows of yonder old dilapidated shed. It is mid- 
 night. A drunkard is dying, surrounded by his wretched family. He 
 has not been sober before for years. His constitution can .bear the burn- 
 ing stream no longer. He must die. He knows it. He knows he has 
 blasted the earthly hopes of the woman who kneels weeping by his bed. 
 He knows he has reduced his children to rags. He knows he has sin- 
 ned against God. He dares not think of heaven. Time, probation, in- 
 finite mercy, have been despised. Eternity, dark, fiery, interminable 
 eternity, rolls its horrors over his soul. Let us not hear his execrations 
 of despair. Let us not look upon the agonies of his end. 
 
 Ten thousand men die annually from the efiects of ardent spirits. 
 " Some are killed instantly ; some die a lingering, gradual death ; some 
 commit suicide ; and some are actually bhrnt up with internal fire ! The 
 combustion of the human body from the use of ardent spirits is a. well- 
 authenticated fact." Ten thousand drunkards go every year from this 
 land to the bar of God ! Ten thousand drunkards annually swell the 
 army of the fearful, and unbelieving, and abominable, and murderers) 
 and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and liars, which have 
 their part in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone ; which is the 
 second death ! I have not time to speak of the misery of one hundred 
 ard fifty thousand paupersj more than half of whom owe their degradation 
 to intemperance ! I cannot count the widows and orphans stript of coro- 
 
 X 
 
266 riBLDS'S SCKAP-BOOK. 
 
 fort and affluence ! I cannot estimate the wounded spirits of extended 
 relatives ! I cannot sum up the wealth thrown away, of which the mil- 
 lions paid for the poison constitute but an item ! I cannot bring yfeu 
 the dockets of every court, and show you that drunkenness has piled the 
 suits that are there. "I cannot show you all the stains of this moral 
 leprosy which has streaked society with spots, redder, and more indelible 
 and infectious than those which polluted the houses of Israel ! I have 
 given you only a few facts. But I have given enough to make every 
 good man deeply consider what he ought to do, to help to remove this 
 evil from the land. I have given you my opinion — and would to God I 
 could lift up my voice, loud and omnipotent as that which shall wake 
 the dead, and stamp the solemn admonition, not only upon every heart 
 in this house, but upon every heart in the land — touch not, taste 
 
 NOT, HANDLE NOT THE CUP OP DEATH. 
 
 
 Banish ardent spirits from your houses. Do not drink them — do not 
 sell them — do not make them, and we shall become a sober people. 
 The fearful men, and the hostile men, tell us we cannot put down the 
 evil. But we can. Much has been done already. More than one hun- 
 dred thousand men are now organized in temperance societies. And 
 whole states are beginning to feel the blessed influence of their exertions. 
 The waves of death have swelled high, and foamed, and roared; but a 
 voice has said, "Peace, be still." 
 
 The dove has come back to the ark with the olive sign, that the 
 waters are abating. Let us then not be faithless, but believing. Let us 
 hear the warning call. Let us come up to the help of the Lord against 
 the mighty ; and we shall see all the face of the ground dry. The long 
 covered valleys shall be green. And God will spread his bow from 
 mountain top to mountain top, all radiant with the promise, that the 
 vial which he has poured out upon us shall not be poured out again. 
 We shall prevail. The evil which has crushed the hopes of so many 
 families — the evil which has clothed the children of God in deepest 
 mourning — the evil which has oftenest insulted, grieved, quenched, 
 blasphemed the Spirit of mercy — the evil that with widest sweep has 
 depopulated earth and peopled hell, shall be put down. This land, 
 overshadowed by the wings of the Almighty, shall not belong to drunk- 
 ards. Five hundred thousand drunkards now pollute it ; but their places 
 shall be filled by men of temperance. The victims of intemperance fill 
 our asylums of penury, and madness, and crime ; but the gospel shall 
 be preached to the poor; liberty shall be proclaimed to the captive, and 
 the prison shall be opened to them that are bound. Thirty millions of 
 dollars annually are now expended for strong drink; but this wealth 
 shall be scattered over the land, to cause men to be sober, industrious, 
 moral, and religious. Our children's children shall see all sober men. 
 They shall not behold a drunkard. They shall know intemperance only 
 as the crime of their fathers. ' 
 
 My hearers, will you all help us ? Ye, who have lived long, and 
 whom the Lord has preserved from this great temptation, will yov, help 
 us ? Ye, who make and expound our laws, and defend our liberties and 
 our live?, will yov, help us ? Ye young men, whom God especially ad- 
 
A DKEADFUL WOl.M. 267 
 
 aiiislies to be sober-minded, and of whose blood the destroyer is most 
 eedy, will you help us ? Ye, whom we love as mothers, as wives, and 
 sisters, and whose influence is mightier than all, will YOU help us ? 
 ask your help upon 'the principle I have advocated — the principle if 
 ITIRE ABSTINENCE. Adopt this maxim ; — adhere to it faithfully — 
 ■ge it upon your children- — press it upon your neighbors — pray for 
 e aid of God ] and we shall prevail. 
 
 A DKBADFUL WOEM. " 
 
 Who has not heard of the rattlesnake or copperhead ? An unex- 
 icted. sight of either of these reptiles will make even the lords of 
 eation recoil. But there is a species of worm found in various parts 
 this state, which conveys a poison, of a nature so deadly, that, when 
 mpared with it, the venom of the rattlesnake is harmless. To guard 
 ir readers against this foe to human kind, is the object of the present 
 mmunication. 
 
 This worm varies much in size. It is frequently an inch through ; 
 it as it is rarely seen, except wljen coiled, its length can hardly be 
 njectnred. It is of a dead lead colour, and generally lives near a spring, 
 ' small stream of water, and bites the unfortunate people who are in 
 e habit of going there to drink. The brute creation it never molests, 
 bey avoid it with the same instinct that teaches the animals of Peru to 
 lun the deadly Cova. Several of these reptiles have long infested our 
 ttlement, to the misery and destruction of many of our citizens. 1 
 ive therefore had frequent opportunities of being the melancholy spec- 
 tor of the effects produced by the subtle poison which this worm 
 fuses. The symptoms of its bite are terrible. The eyes of the patient 
 icome red and fiery, his tongue swells to an immoderate size, and 
 )structs his utterance, and delirium of the most horrid character quickly 
 Hows. 
 
 Sometimes, in his madness, he attempts the destruction of his dearest 
 lends. If the sufferer has a family, his weeping wife and helpless 
 fants are not unfrequently the objects of his frantic fury. In a word, 
 ! exhibits to the life all the detestable passions that rankle in the bo- 
 rn of a savage; and such is the spell in which his senses are bound, 
 lat no sooner is the unhappy patient recovered from the paroxysm of 
 sanity, occasioned by one bite, than he seeks out his destroyer, for the 
 le purpose of being bitten again. I have seen a good old father, his 
 cks as white as snow, his step slow and trembling, beg in vain of his 
 ily son to quit the lurking-place of the worm. My heart bled when 
 i turned away, for I knew the hope fondly cherished, that his son would 
 ! to him the staff of his declining years, had supported him through 
 any a sorrow. Youths of Missouri ! would you know the name of thi* 
 ptile ? It is the worm of the still. — Missouri Paper. 
 
268 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 GENEKAL HAMILTON.^ 
 
 IN the year 1804, General Hamilton, who had just been appointed 
 ambassador from the United States to Paris, got involved in a political 
 dispute with Colonel Aaron Burr, then Vice President. Dr. Cooper had 
 published a pamphlet, in which he said, " General Hamilton and Dr. 
 Kent say, that they consider Colonel Burr as a dangerous man, and one 
 unfit to be trusted with the reins of government." In another place the 
 same writer says, " General Hamilton has expi-essed of Colonel Burr opi- 
 nions still more despicable." / 
 
 The last passage excited the resentment of Colonel Burr, who de- 
 manded from General Hamilton "a prompt and unqualified acknowledg- 
 ment or denial of the expression, which could justify this ipterferenoe 
 on the part of Dr. Cooper." General Hamilton admitted the first state- 
 ment, which he contended was fairly within the bounds prescribed in 
 cases of political animosity, and objected to being called on to retrace 
 every conversation which he had held either publicly or confidentially in 
 the course of fifteen years opposition. This would not satisfy Colonel 
 Burr, who demanded satisfaction, and a meeting. 
 
 On the evening before the. duel. General Hamilton made his will, in 
 which he enclosed a paper, containing his opinions of duelling, and ex- 
 pressive of the reluctance with which he obeyed a custom so repugnant 
 to his feelings. He says : 
 
 " On my expected interview with Colonel Burr, I think proper to 
 make some remarks, explanatory of my conduct, motives, and views. I 
 was certainly desirous of avoiding this interview, for the most cogent 
 reasons. 
 
 " First. My religious and moral principles are strongly opposed to the 
 practice of duelling ; and it would ever give me pain to shed the blood 
 of a fellow-creature, in a private combat, forbidden by the laws. 
 
 " Secondly. My wife and children are extremely dear to me ; and my 
 life is of the utmost importance to them, in various views. 
 
 " Thirdly. I feel a sense of obligation towards my creditors, who, in 
 case of accident to me, by the forced sale of my property, may be in some 
 degree sufiferers. I did not think myself at liberty, as a man of probity, 
 lightly to expose them to hazard. 
 
 " Fourthly. I am conscious of no ill-will to Colonel Burr, distinct from 
 political opposition, which, as I trust, has proceeded from pure and up- 
 right motives. 
 
 " Lastly. I shall hazard much, and can possibly gain nothing, by the 
 issue of the interview." 
 
 The parties met, and Colonel Burr's shot took fatal effect. General 
 Hamilton had determined not to return the fire, but,'on receiving the 
 shfick of a mortal wound, his pistol went off involuntarily in an opposite 
 direction. Few individuals died more lamented than General Hamilton, 
 whose funeral at New York was observed at that place with unusual 
 respect and ceremony. All the public functionaries attended j \he bellBj 
 
4MBITI0JJ BLASTED. 2G9 
 
 muffled, tolled during the day; all business was suspended; and the 
 principal inhabitants wore mourning for six weeks. No death since 
 that of Washington filled the republic with such deep and universal 
 regret. 
 
 AMBITION BLASTED. 
 
 Evert one acquainted with the public men of our country must know 
 something of Aaron Burr, of this city, once Vice President of the United 
 States. His history exhibits a striking instance of blasted ambition. 
 Of a most persuasive eloquence and bland manners, with a deep know- 
 ledge of the human heart, Aaron Burr looked forward in his earlier days to 
 the highest-offices and distinctions of the republic. He had attained the 
 highest but one. But before his dark and searching eye there stood one 
 obstacle to his ascent ; it was Hamilton. The illustrious Hamilton — who 
 had weathered the storms of the Revolution by the side of Washington, 
 and who had saved the nation in her councils that Washington saved by 
 his sword and Fabian prudence — was a patriot too incorruptible to look 
 coldly on and see the rise of an unprincipled spirit^, whose intellectual 
 capacity only equalled his want of principle. To the eye of Hamilton, 
 Burr was, in politics, what Benedict Arnold had been in the field ; and 
 his opposition to his designs partook of that keen and stern character 
 which ever made Hamilton so terrible to the enemies of the true rights 
 of the country. 
 
 They met, at length, on " the dark and bloody ground," about two 
 miles above Hoboken, on the Jersey shore, opposite this city. Hamilton 
 fell; and as he fell, the earthly prospects of Burr darkened irretriev- 
 ably. 
 
 Immediately after this catastrophe, the conduct of Burr began to excite 
 attention. He frequently took sudden, and rapid, and distant journeys, 
 disguised so as not to be known on the road. One week he would be 
 seen in his office in New York ; the next in a distant city as if he had 
 dropped from the clouds. It was at first supposed that he was suffering 
 the agonies of remorse, for the murder of Hamilton ; but the eye of 
 government soon detected the preparation for some design of violence. 
 Arms and men had- been gathered at diffisrent points, either for a divi- 
 sion of the United States, or for a descent upon Mexico, or for both 
 objects blended. He was arrested in the remote West, and carried in 
 irons for many hundred miles through a country over whose senate he 
 had presided as the second officer of government, to the place designated 
 for his trial. He was acquitted of the charge of treason, but the irrever- 
 sible sentence of public opinion had gone forth against him. He became 
 a wanderer in foreign lands. 
 
 Over a few of these vagrant years of his life a deep obscurity rests. 
 He returned, however, to New York, the scene of his former glory and 
 aspirations. H^re he has spent his life with but little notice or distinc- 
 tion ; and without any more influence over the public mind, than if he 
 
 x2 
 
"270 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 had been frozen into a statue of stone the moment that he sent (.\h death- 
 shot to the bosom of Hamilton. 
 
 Sometimes, now, a little, bowed-down man, with his eyes fastened on 
 the pavement, may be seen hurrying along in the vicinity of Reed street. 
 His hair, which was once black as the raven's wing, is now blanched 
 with the whiteness of snow. His eyes, which once shot lightning in 
 their soul-searching glances, are now lustreless and dull. That man is 
 Aaron Burr. — New York Paper, 1833. 
 
 FEMALE INTREPIDITY. 
 
 When the war of extermination between the Indians and Kentuckians 
 was at its height, those who inhabited the back parts of the state of 
 Kentucky were obliged to have their houses built very strong, with 
 loopholes all around, and doors always fastened, so as to repel any 
 attack from the Indians. While the owner of one of these domestic 
 fortresses was with his slaves, at work on th^ plantation, a negro who 
 was posted near the house saw a party of Indians approaching. He 
 immediately ran to the house, and the foremost Indian after him. The 
 Indian was the fleetest, and as the door opened to admit the negro, they 
 both jumped in together. The other Indians being some distance be- 
 hind, the door was instantly closed by the planter's wife within, when the 
 Indian and negjo grappled. Long and hard was the struggle, for, as in 
 the case of Fitz James and Roderick Dhu, the one was the strongest and 
 the other more expert, but strength this time was the victor, for they 
 fell, the Indian below ; when the negro, placing his knees on his breast, 
 and holding his hands, kept him in that position, until the woman, seizing 
 a broad axe, and taking the Indian by his long hair, at one blow severed 
 his head from his body. The negro, then seizing the guns, fired them at 
 the other Indians, which, as fast as discharged, were loaded again by the 
 planter's wife, until the party from the field, hearing the firing, arrived, 
 and the Indians took to flight. 
 
 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 BT DK. ARNOTT. 
 
 The following picture is not overcharged, and might be much extended. 
 Nearly each individual of the civilized millions that cover the earth, 
 may have the same enjoyments as if he were the single lord of all 
 A single man of small fortune may cast his looks around him, and sa/ 
 with truth and exultation, I am lodged in a house that affords me con- 
 veniences and comforts which even a king could not command some 
 centuriee ago. Ships are crossing the seas in every direction, to bring 
 me what is useful from all parts of the earth. In China, men are gather- 
 
IMMEIISITT OF CREATION. 271 
 
 ing thp tea-leaf foi- me ; in America, they are planting cotton for me ; 
 in the West mdia Islands, they are preparing my sugar and my coffee ; 
 in Italy, they are feeding silkworms for me; in Saxony, they are shear- 
 ing the sheep to make me clothing ; in England, powerful steam engines 
 are spinning and weaving for me, and making cutlery for me, and pump- 
 ing the mines, that minerals useful to me may be produced. I have 
 post-coaches running day and night, on all the roads, to carry my cor- 
 respondence; I have roads, and canals, snd bridges, to bear the fuel for 
 my winter fire. Then I have editors and printers, who daily send what 
 is going on throughout the world among all these people who serve me. 
 And in a corner of my house, I have hooks ! the miracle of all my pos- 
 sessions, more wonderful than the wishing-cap of the Arabian tales ; for 
 they transport me instantly, not only to all places, but to all times. By 
 my books I can conjure up before me the vivid existence of all the great 
 and good men of antiquity ; and for my individual satisfaction, I can 
 make them act over again the most Renowned of their exploits ; the ora- 
 tors declaim for me ; the historians recite ; the poets sing ; and from 
 the' equator to the pole, or from the beginning of time until now, by my 
 books I can be where I please. 
 
 IMMENSITY OP CREATION. 
 
 He who through vast immensity can pierce, 
 
 See worlds on worlds compose one universe; 
 
 Observe how system into system runs, 
 
 What other planets circle other suns ; 
 
 What varied beings people every star, 
 
 May tell why God has made us as we are. — Pope. 
 
 Some astronomers have computed that there are no less than 
 75,000,000 of suns in this universe. The fixed stars are all suns, 
 having, like our sun, numerous planets revolving round them. The 
 solar system, or that to which we belong, has about thirty planets, pri- 
 mary and secondary, belonging to it. The circular field of space which 
 
 occupies is in diameter three thousand six hundred millions of miles, 
 and that which it controls much greater. That sun which is nearest 
 neighbour to ours is called Sirius, distant from our sun about twenty- 
 two billions of miles. Now, if all the fixed stars are as distant from 
 each other as Sirius is from our sun; or if our solar system be the 
 average magnitude of all the systems of the 75 millions of suns, what 
 imagination can grasp the immensity of creation ! Every sun of the 
 75 millions controls a field of space about 10,000,000,000 of miles in 
 diameter. Who can survey a plantation containing 75 millions of cir- 
 cular fields, each ten billions of miles in diameter ! Such, however, is 
 one of the plantations of Him " who has measured the waters in the 
 hollow of his hand, and meted out heaven with a span, and compre- 
 "hended'the dust of the earth in a measure, weighed the mountains in 
 scales, and the hills in a balance;" he who " sitting upon the orbit of 
 the earth, stretches out the heavens as a curtain, and spreadeth them 
 out ag a tent to dwell in." 
 
272 
 
 riELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF TRENTON. 
 
 Wild was the night, and roaring wide 
 Itoll'd on Delaware's stormj tide, 
 The drifting ice from side to side. 
 
 Driving and crushing fearlessly. 
 
 Then, through the wintry tempest's moan, 
 Flourish'd the swelling tmmpet tone, 
 Their little barks, the host unknown. 
 
 Are launching forth impetnonsly. 
 
 )fli o'er the flood was heard to roar. 
 As through the drift some barges bore. 
 With clanging axe and clashing oar. 
 
 Bursting theinray reaistlessly. 
 
 For high the chieftain's signal bright. 
 Blazed ahead, and who to-night 
 Would tamely lag behind that Lgh^ 
 
 That leads to death or Tictory. 
 
 Oh I what's this lonely martial power. 
 That in this wild unwonted hour, 
 While darkness and wild tempests lower. 
 Puts forth so stern and fearlessly ? 
 
 *Tis IMerty'a last hope below. 
 
 Through flood and storm they seek the foe. 
 
 To strike the bravest, mightiest blow. 
 
 That e'er was struck for Tiotory. 
 
 This awful hour the die i^ cast, 
 For Trenton they are toiling fast. 
 When every heart must bleed its last, 
 Or save expiring Liberty. 
 
 Loud was the storm o'er all the land. 
 And cold it swept the darksome strand. 
 
 When, struggling from their barks, the band 
 Muster'd In dread serenity. 
 
 Then roar'd a shot— who would not die. 
 To mix with hearts so bold and high? 
 For "Battle!" "Battle!" was the cry 
 
 That thunder'd loud and cheerfallj 
 
 " On !" was the word— and grim, and dreaH 
 While all is silent as the dead. 
 Save the quick march's hurried tread^ 
 The host is rushing rapidly. 
 
 What do yon glimmering watch-fires tell' 
 What distant sounds so faintly swell' 
 What lonely voices cry " All's well,' 
 Amid the night's solemnity? 
 
 Huzza!— 'Tis Trenton!— Hark! that cry- 
 That snnok of death !— The picket die !— 
 A foeman's trump is pealing high! 
 
 His drums are rolling fariously. ' 
 
 " Qn ! on ! — we conquer or we die," 
 Was Washington's resounding cry. 
 And glorious was the glad reply, 
 
 The shout of " Death or Victory." 
 
 Oh, charge ! charge ! on !— The strife is o'er. 
 Swell, swell the burst of joy once more — 
 Shout it to every sea and shore, 
 
 The morning sun of Liberty. 
 
 Millions, mid tyranny's alarms, 
 Shall start to hear that music's charms. 
 And shouting thousands shine in arms, 
 To rival Trenton's chivalry. 
 
 THE DEVOTED. 
 
 It was a beautiful turn given by a great lady, who, being asked where her husband was, when he lay con- 
 <K:aled for having been deeply concerned in a conspiracy, resolutely answered, that she had hidden him. Thii 
 confession caused her to be carried before the governor, who told her that nothing but confessing where she 
 had hidden hjm could save her from the torture. " And will that do?" said she. "Yes," replied the gover> 
 nor, " I will pass my word for your safety on that condition." — " Then," replied she, " I have hidden mm in, 
 my HEART, where you may find him." 
 
 Stsrn faces were around her bent, and eyes of venge- 
 ful ire. 
 
 And fearful were the words they spake, of torture, 
 stake, and fire ; 
 
 Tet calmly in the midst she stood, with eye nndimm'd 
 and clear, 
 
 And though her lip and cheek were white, she wore 
 no sign of fear. 
 
 " Where is thy traitor-spouse ?" they said— a half- 
 form'd smile of scorn. 
 
 That onrl'd upon her haughty lip, was back for an- 
 swer borne ! — 
 
 " Where is thy traitor-spouse ?" again in fiercer tone 
 they said, 
 
 And sternly pointed to the rack, all rusted o'er with red. 
 
 Her heart and pulse beat firm and firee — but in a crim- 
 son flood 
 
 O'er pallid lip, and cheek, and brow, rush'd np the 
 burning blood! 
 
 She spake;— but proudly rose her tones as when in 
 hall or hower. 
 
 The haughtiest chief that round her stood had meekly 
 own'd her power. 
 
 "My noble lord is placed within a safe and sure re- 
 treat." 
 
 " Now tell us where, thon lady bright, as thou wouldst 
 mercy meet ! 
 
 Nor deem thy life can purchase his — he cannot 'scape 
 our wrath. 
 
 For many a warrior's watchfnl eye is placed o'er 
 every path. 
 
 " But thou mayst win his broad estates to grace thin« 
 infant heir. 
 
 And life and honour for thy8elf-~so thou his haunts 
 declare." 
 
 She laid her hand uponher heart ; her eye flash'd prcnd 
 and clear, 
 
 And firmer grew her haughty tread — " My lord is hid- 
 den here ! 
 
 " And if ye seek to view his form, ye first must tear away 
 
 From round his secret dwelling-place theSe walls of • 
 living clay !" 
 
 They quail'd beneath her lofty glance — they silen'" 
 turn'd aside, 
 
 And left her all unharm'd amidst her loveliness and 
 pride. 
 
DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 273 
 
 DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 
 
 If a happy marriage has given and ensures to man peace at home, let 
 there he no dread of the caprices of chance ; his happiness is sheltered 
 from the strokes of fortune. A wife, gentle and afiWctionate, sensible 
 and virtuous, will fill his whole heart, and leave no room for sadness. 
 What will he care for the loss of property when he possesses this 
 treasure ? Is not his house sufficiently magnificent as long as she com- 
 mands respect to it — splendid enough, as long as her presence adorns it ? 
 A cottage where virtue dwells, is far superior to a palace ; it hecomes a 
 temple. 
 
 If he were deprived of a high and valuable office, he would scarcely 
 notice it, for he occupies the jirU and heit place in the heart of her he 
 loves. If he be not separated from her, banishment itself cannot become 
 to him an entire exile j for in her person he views an image of hi 
 country. 
 
 Through her exertions, order reigns in his household, as well as peace 
 to the soul. If injustice or ingratitude irritate or grieve him, her caresses 
 will appease, and her smiles console him. 
 
 Her commendation is glory; she, too, is his conscience; he thinks 
 himself good when he raises her affections, and great when she admires ■ 
 him. He sees in her reason personified, and wisdom in action, for she- 
 feeh all that the philosophers of every age have only thought. 
 
 As modest as the violet, she shuns display, and diffuses in the shades 
 around her, the perfume of virtue and happiness. 
 
 Labours, pains, pleasures, opinions, sentiments and thought are in 
 common between them ; and, as she never expresses more or less than 
 what she feels, he reads at a glance her thoughts, in her gestures ; and, 
 even in her eyes, he can apply to her what used to be said of Pompey, 
 when young: "The thought was uttered before the voice had sounded." 
 
 Jf he be ill, the double balm of love and friendship comes to his aid;^ 
 numberless delicate and affectionate attentions dispel uneasiness, and 
 waken hope. Pain itself smiles upon tenderness, and again knowa 
 pleasure. 
 
 If poverty should compel him to labour for a livelihood; if the 
 fatigues of war or of state affairs should have exhausted his strength, 
 or enfeebled his health, she alleviates the toil by sharing it. 
 
 How easy and short does the voyage of life appear with such a com- 
 panion ! As in the Fortunate isles, he always finds in the same time 
 buds, flowers, and fruits ! His summer has retained and preserved tha 
 charms of his spring; and old age has drawn near without his perceiv- 
 ing its approach. 
 
 EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. 
 
 He took the cup of life to sip. 
 
 For bitter 'twas to drain ; 
 He put it meekly from his lip, 
 
 And went to sleep again. 
 18. 
 
274 FIELDS'S SCRAV-BOOK. 
 
 PASSAGE OF THE POTOMAC THROUGH THE BLUB 
 
 EIDGE. 
 
 BT 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, havi-rg ranged along 
 the foot of the mountain a hundred miles to seek a r-iUt. On your left 
 approaches the Potomac, seeking a passage also. In the moment of theit 
 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 fhis earth has been created in time ; that the moun- 
 tains 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, continuing 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 
 I if 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 
 finishing which Nature has given to the picture is of a very diflerent 
 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, 
 inviting you, as it were, from the riot and tumult roaring around, to 
 pass through the breach, and participate of the calm below. Here the 
 eye ultimately composes itself; and that \Yay, too, the road happens actu- 
 ally 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 Atlantic. Yet here, as in the neighbourhood 
 of the Natural 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. 
 
 The Mechanic. — If there is any situation truly enviable, it is that of 
 an industrious mechanic, who, by his own unaided exertions, has esta- 
 blished for himself a respectable place in society ; who, commencing in 
 poverty, has been able by his skill and perseverance to overcome every 
 obstacle, vanquish every prejudice, and build up for himself a reputation 
 whose value is enhanced for others. And let it be remembered that 
 this situation is attainable by all who have health and practical know- 
 ledge of their business. It is a mistaken idea that fortune deals about 
 \ier favours blindly, and with a reckless hand. Industry and virtuous 
 ambition are seldom exerted in vain. 
 
tlKANDEUE or ASTRONOMICAL DISCOVERIES. 275 
 
 GRANDEUR OP ASTRONOMICAL DISCOVERIES 
 
 It was a pleasant evening in the month of May, and my sweet child, 
 my Rosalie and I, had saftntered up to the castle's top to enjoy the 
 breeze that played around it, and to admire the unclouded firmament 
 that glowed and sparkled with unusual lustre from pole to pole. The 
 atmosphere was in its purest and finest state of 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 lamhent light or twinkling ray to give variety and beauty 
 to the hemispneie ; while the round, bright moon, so distinctly defined 
 were the lines ot her figure, and so clearly visible, (even the rotundity 
 of her_ form,) seemed to hang oft from the azure vault, suspended in 
 midway air ; or stooping 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 Jupiier, sailing in silent majesty with his squadron of satellites 
 along the vast ocean of space between us and the fixed stars; and admired 
 the felicity of that design, by which those distant bodies had been par- 
 celled out and arianged into constellations, so as to have served not only 
 for beacons for the ancient navigator, but, as it were, for landmarks to 
 astronomers of this day, enabling them, though in different countries, 
 to indicate to each other with ease the place and motion of these planets, 
 comets, and magnificent meteors which inhabit, revolve, and play in the 
 intermediate space. 
 
 We recalled and dwelt with delight on the rise and progress of the 
 science of astronomy ; on that series of astonishing 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, 
 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 started by Pythagoras, and which modern astro- 
 nomers 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 incal- 
 culable distances asunder, and each star the solar centre of a system of 
 planets, which revolve around it, as the planets belonging to our system 
 io 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 improve- 
 ments of this thought, that there are probably other stars whose light 
 has not yet reached us, although light moves with velocity a million 
 ticeg greater than that of a cannon-ball ; that those luminous appear- 
 ances which we observe in the firmament, like flakes of thin, white cloud, 
 are windows, as it were, which open to other firmaments, far, far beyoad 
 
276 FIBLDS'S SCRAP-BOOH. 
 
 the ken "^f human eye, or the power of optical instruments, ligHid up, 
 like ours, with hosts of stars or suns ; that this scheme goes on through 
 infinite space, which is filled with thon|and3 upon thousands of those 
 suns, attended by ten thousand 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 jayriads 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 Doctor Herschel super- 
 add, when, instead of supposing all those suns fixed, and the motion 
 confined to their respective planets, he loosens those multitudinous suns 
 themselves from their stations, sets them all into motion with their 
 splendid retinue of planets and satellites, and imagines thetn, thus at- 
 tended, to perform a stupendous revolution, system above system, around 
 , some grander unknown centre, somewhere in the boundless abyss of 
 space ! — and when, carrying on the process, you suppose even that centre 
 itself not stationary, but also counterpoised by other masses in the im- 
 mensity of space 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 Rosalie, as I was labouring to pursue 
 the immense concatenation ; " my mind is bewildered and lost in the 
 effort to follow you, and finds no point on which to rest its weary wings." 
 "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 apparatus is attached, and around which it is continually 
 revolving. Oh ! what a spectacle for the cherubim and seraphim, and 
 the spirits of the just made perfect, who dwell on the right-hand of that 
 throne, if, as may be, and probably is the case, their eyes are permitted 
 to pierce through the whole, and take in, at one glance, all its order, 
 beauty, sublimity, and glory, and their ears to distinguish that celestial 
 harmony, unheard by us, in which those vast globes, as they roll in their 
 orbits, continually hymn their Creator's praise." 
 
 HISTORY OF THE PESTILENCE. 
 
 There are seasons, in the history of nations and individuals, when 
 the cup of their iniquity is full, and when God can no longer mitigate 
 or defer his anger. This period had come upon the Old World, when the 
 waters of the universal deluge overfiowed it. It had come upon Sodom, 
 Tyre, Babylon, Carthage, and Jerusalem, when God so fearfully destroyed 
 ^hem. It had come upon the Amorites, Israelites, and Assyrians, wien 
 God swept them away in his fury. He is not wanting in means and 
 instruments to accomplish the purposes of his indignation. AH second 
 
niSTORr OF THE PESTILENCE. 277 
 
 *ry causes are in his hands, and he employs them to accomplish hi» 
 designs of judgment, as well as mercy. Sometimes he makes use of 
 men as the tad of his anger. Think of the millions that have been 
 swept into eternity by such men as Cyrus, Alexander, Julius Caesar, 
 Tamerlane, Louis XIV., and Napoleon. Sometimes he employs the mate- 
 rial creation to promote his vengeful designs. The sun, moon, and stars, 
 the earth, the ocean, and the elements all conspire as the ministers of hig 
 rebuke. Fire and hail, snow and vapour, stormy winds and tempestuous 
 billows, fulfil his word. Sometimes he withholds the rain of heaven, and 
 takes away the fruits of the earth. Sometimes he sends the earthquake, 
 the lightning, and the pestilence. 
 
 The pestilence is emphatically his own messenger. It was so in va- 
 rious epochs of the Jewish history, and has been so ever since. God 
 has made the bodies of the dead lie in heaps before the eyes of the 
 living, to admonish them of his displeasure. In an instance of the 
 Jewish history, he destroyed seventy thousand men in the short space of 
 a few hours. In another instance, the destroying angel cut off one 
 hundred and eighty-Jive thousand in a night. In the reign of Tarquini- 
 us, the fifth king of Home, a pestilence cut off the greater part of the 
 Roman empire. About the time that Nehemiah repaired the walls of 
 Jerusalem, not far from four hundred and thirty years before Christ, and 
 about the second year of the Peloponnesian war, that pestilence called 
 the great plague of Attica overran Ethiopia, Lydia, Egypt, Judea, 
 Phoenicia, Syria, the whole Persian and Koman empires, Greece, and 
 the Athenian States, and continued to rage for fifteen years. This is 
 the plague of which Thucydides wrote, and Lucretius and Virgil sang, 
 and is the first universal plague. Upon the ruin of' Carthage, a pesti- 
 lence spread over all Africa, and destroyed in Numidia alone eight hun- 
 dred thousand. So grievous was this pestilence, that upwards of fifteen 
 hundred dead corpses were carried through one gate of a single city in 
 one day, and upwards of two hundred thousand died in a few days. 
 Two years before the birth of Christ, a pestilence spread over all Italy, 
 and raged with such fury that few or none remained to till the ground. 
 
 Since the commencement of the Christian era, and in latter years, 
 severe plagues have raged in England, Scotland, and "Wales ; sometimes 
 almost depopulating the principal cities of those kingdoms. In the 
 second year of Claudius, the Eoman emperor, so fearfully did the 
 pestilence rage in England, that the living were scarcely able to bury 
 the dead. In the year 180, in the reign of Commodus, and during the 
 persecution of the Christians in the Roman Empire, a pestilence spread 
 over all Italy, Greece, and almost all the Roman empire. In the city 
 of Rome alone, there were, for a considerable time together, twenty 
 thousand buried a day. In the year 256, a pestilence raged in Ethiopia 
 so universally, that it was impossible to calculate the number of the 
 dead. In the year 311, during the persecutions under Maximilian, a 
 pestilence raged that cut off from the army of that monarch Jive thou- 
 sand a day. In the year 544, a universal pestilence began at Pelusium, 
 in Egypt, and thence spread over the whole world, sparing neither age 
 nor sex, family nor country, island nor mountain. In the second year 
 
 V 
 
278 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 jf its fury it visited Constantinople, with such violence that, for a coc 
 uiderable time together, five and sometimes ten thousand and upwards 
 died daily. In one part of the world or another, it continued fifty-two 
 years, so that the greatest part of mankind then living may be said to 
 have been destroyed by it. In the year 717, a pestilence again visited 
 Constantinople, and cut off in three years three hundred thousand soids. 
 In 82ft, in the reign of Louis the Pious, a plague destroyed almost all 
 the inhabitants of France and Germany. In 88(5, it raged in Wales to 
 guch a degree that the country was covered with the carcasses of men 
 and beasts. In 1346, a malignant disease broke out in Asia, that over- 
 spread and wasted the inhabited earth. Three parts out of four scarcely 
 survived, and in some places not one-twentieth part remained alive. 
 Beginning with the year 1348, the same plague raged in England nine 
 years; and in London alone, from January 1st to the 1st of July, de- 
 stroyed one million five hundred and seventy-three thousand and seventy- 
 four. In the year 1611, a pestilence again visited Constantinople, and 
 destroyed tuio hundred thousand in five months. And still later, in the 
 year 1665, was the great plague in London, which raged the year before 
 in Egypt, Greece, Germany, Holland, and other kingdoms, and which 
 destroyed in that city alone ninety-seven thousand in a single year. In 
 the year 1720, in the city of Marseilles, from the 25th of August to 
 the end of September, one thousand were swept off in a day. And in 
 our own times, (during the year 1831,) the plague raged so irresistibly 
 at Bagdad, that the city is almost desolated, and cannot probably be re- 
 populated for ages. 
 
 NUMBEK OP DEATHS IN A YEAK. 
 
 It is generally supposed that this earth is inhabited by one thousand 
 millions of human beings, or thereabouts, and that thirty-three years 
 make a generation; and that therefore in thirty-three years die on« 
 thousand million. Thus the number who die on earth amounts to 
 
 Each year thirty millions ; 
 
 Each day eighty-six thousand ; 
 
 Each hour thirty-six hundred ; 
 
 Each minute sixty ; 
 
 Each second one. 
 This calculation must necessarily strike us. If the mortality be git 
 great every year and every hour, is it not probable that he who reflecw 
 on it may himself bo one of those soon to swell the list of the dead f 
 It is at least certain that it ought to lead us to think seriously and ofthn 
 on this subject. Now, at this moment, one of our fellow-creatures is 
 going out of thtf world, and before another hour is past, more than thvee 
 thousand souls will have entered into an eternal state. 
 
BORROKS OF BATTLE. 
 
 HORRORS OP BATTLE. 
 
 The battle took place on the margin of the Niagara river, an exten 
 give plain, which had. once been covered with fine farms ; but now, for- 
 saken by the inhabitants, and desolated by war, it exhibited only a 
 barren waste. The river at that place begins to acquire some of that 
 terrific velocity with which it rushes over the awful precipice three 
 miles below, creating one of the grandest natural curiosities in exist- 
 ence ; the noise of the cataract is heard, and the column of foam dis- 
 tinctly seen, from the battle-ground. On the other side, the field is 
 bounded by a thick forest, but the plain itself presents a level smooth 
 surface, unbroken by ravines, and without a tree or bush to intercept 
 the view, or an obstacle to impede the movements of the hostile bodies, 
 or to afford to either party an advantage. From this plain the Ame- 
 rican camp was separated by a small creek. In the full glare of the 
 summer sun on the morning of the 5 th of July, the British troops were 
 seen advancing to our camp, across the destined field of strife ; their 
 waving plumes, their scarlet uniforms, and gilded ornaments exhibited 
 a gay and gorgeous appearance. Their martial music, their firm and 
 rapid step, indicated elastic hopes and high conrage. The Americans, 
 inferior in number, were easily put in motion to meet the advancing 
 foe : they crossed a small rude bridge, the only outlet from, the camp, 
 under a heavy fire of the enemy's artillery, and moved steadily to the 
 spot selected for the engagement. The scene at this moment was beau- 
 tiful and imposing. The British line, glowing with crimson hues, was 
 stretched across the plain, flanked by pieces of brass ordnance, whose 
 rapid discharge spread death over the field, and filled the air with thun- 
 der ; while the clouds of smoke enveloped each extremity of the line, 
 left the centre only exposed to the eye, and, extending on to the river 
 on the one hand, and the forest on the other, filled the whole back- 
 grounds of the landscape. The Americans were advancing in columns. 
 They were new recruits, now led for the first time into action, and ex- 
 cept a few officers, none of that heroic band had ever before seen the 
 banner of a foe. But they moved steadily to their ground, unbroken 
 by the galling fire ; and platooij after platoon wheeled into line with the 
 same graceful accuracy of movement which marks the evolution of the 
 holiday parade, until the whole column was deployed into one extended 
 front ; the officers carefully dressed the line with technical skill, and 
 the w6ole brigade evinced, by its deep silence, and the faithful preci- 
 sion of its movements, the subordination of strict discipline, and the 
 steady firmness of determined courage. Now the musketry of the 
 enemy began to rattle, pouring bullets as thick as hail upon our ranks 
 Still not a trigger was drawn, not a voice was heard on our -side, save 
 the quick peremptory tones of command. G-eneral Scott rode along the 
 line cheering and restraining his troops, then passed from flank to flank 
 to see if all was as be wished : he wheeled his steed into the rear of the 
 troops, and gave the command to ".Fire." A voice was immediateljr 
 
280 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 heard in the British ranks — supposed to be that of their commander- 
 exclaiming, " Charge the Yankees ! charge the Buffalo malitia ! charge 
 charge "' The American general ordered his men to " Support arms 1" 
 
 The British rushed forward with bayonets charged, but they were 
 struck with amazement when they beheld those whom their commander 
 tauntingly called "malitia" standing motionless as statues ; their muskets 
 erect, their arms folded across their breasts, gazing calmly at their hostile 
 ranks advancing furiously with levelled bayonets. It was a refinement 
 of discipline rarely exhibited, and here altogether unexpected. The 
 Americans stood until the enemy approached within a few paces ; until 
 the foemen could see the fire flashing from each other's eyes, and each 
 could read the expression of his adversary's face ; then deliberately as 
 the word was given, the Americans levelled their pieces and fired — and 
 the whole of the enemy's line seemed annihilated ! — Many were killed, 
 many wounded, and some, rushing forward with powerful momentum, 
 fell over their prostrate companions, or were thrown down by the weight 
 of succeeding combataints. In one instance the ground occupied by that 
 gallant line was covered by flying Britons j in another, a second line 
 had advanced to sustain the contest ; while the broken fragments of the 
 first were rallied behind it. The " Buffalo malitia" were now the 
 assailants, advancing mth. charged bayonets. Then it was ifta.t the 
 young American chiefs who led that gallant host displayed the skill of 
 veterans, and the names of Scott, Jessup, Leavenworth, McNeil, and 
 Hinman, were given to their country to adorn the proudest page of its 
 history. Five-and-thirty minutes decided the contest, and the retiring 
 foe was pursued and driven to his fortress. None who saw will forget 
 the terrific beauty of this scene ; the noble appearance of the troops — 
 the dreadful precision of every movement — the awful fury of the battle 
 — its fatal severity — its brief continuance — its triumphant close. 
 
 As the victors returned from the pursuit of the retiring enemy, a scene 
 of intense interest was presented. They traversed the field which a few 
 minutes before had sparkled with the proud equipage of war. There 
 had been gallant men, and gay uniforms, and waving banners ; and there 
 had been drums and trumpets, and the wild notes of the bugle, stirring 
 the soul to action. There had been nodding plumes, and beating hearts, 
 and eyes that gleamed with ambition. 
 
 There too had been tempestuous chiefs, emulous of fame, dashing 
 their fiery steeds along the hostile ranks ; and there had been all the 
 spirit-stirring sighs and sounds that fill the eye and the ear and the 
 heart of the young warrior, giving more than the poet's fire to the 
 entranced imagination. What a change had a few brief minutes pro- 
 duced ! Now the field was strewed with ghastly and disfigured forms, 
 with the wounded, with the mutilated and the dying. The ear was filled 
 with strange and melancholy and terrific sounds ; the shouts of victory 
 had given place to groans of anguish, the complaints of the vanquished, 
 the prayers or the imprecations of the dying. Here was one who called 
 upon Heaven to protect his children, another raved of a bereaved wife, 
 -. third tenderly aspired a beloved name, consecrated only by that tie — 
 whiie others deprecated their own suffering or pleaded piteously foi ^he 
 
PASSAGES IN THE HISTORY OF SARAH CURRAj.'^-, 281 
 
 pardon of their sins. Here were those who prayed ardently for death, 
 and some who implored a few minutes more of life. Complaints of 
 bodily pain, and confession of unrepented crimes, burst forth from the 
 souls of many in heart-rending accents ; while some, as they gazed upon 
 the fast-flowing crimson torrent, wasted the brief remains of breath in 
 moralizing upon the shortness of life, and man's careless prodigality of 
 existence. 
 
 Many gallant spirits there were on that ensanguined plain who pray- 
 ed silently ; and some who dared not pray, and yet scorned to murmur. 
 Their compressed lips bespoke their firmness ; their eyes wandered wist- 
 fully over the bright scene that was fading before them, and they grasp- 
 ed fervently the hands of those who bade them farewell. 
 
 SOME PASSAGES IN THE HISTOKY OF SARAH CURliAN 
 
 Sarah Cthiran has already been the theme of story and of scng : 
 and as long as the Broken Heart, by Washington Irving, be read, tnd 
 the exquisite melody of " She is far from the Land," by our national 
 poet, Moore, shall preserve its popularity — so long must the real history 
 of the inspirer of these pathetic records continue to interest the syii;f.a- 
 thies of the gentle and the good. When first I saw her, she was in ber 
 twelfth year, and was even at that age remarkable for a pensive charac- 
 ter of countenance which she never afterwards lost. A favourite sister 
 (to the best of my recollection, a twin) died when she was eight years 
 old, and was buried under a large tree in the lawn of the Priory, (Mr. 
 Curran's seat, near Dublin,) directly opposite to the window of the 
 nursery. This tree had been a cTiosen haunt of the affectionate pair — 
 under its sna.de they had often sat together — pulled the first primroses 
 at its root — and watched, in its leaves, the earliest verdure of the spring. 
 Many an hour, for many a year, did the affectionate survivor take her 
 silent stand at the melancholy window, gazing on the well-known spot 
 which constituted all her little world of joys and sorrows. To this cir- 
 cumstance she attributed the tendency to melancholy which formed so 
 marked a feature of ier character through life. , Fondly attached to 
 both her parents, her grief may be imagined, when, at the period of her 
 attaining her fourteenth year, Mr. Curran publiclyendeavoured to obtain 
 a divorce from his wife. As there .exist@d no ground but his caprice of 
 (temper for this disgraceful proceeding, he, of course, failed in his 
 attempt; and as the public were acquainted with his early history, 
 and the sacrifices which had attended Mrs. Curran's acceptance of 
 his hand, his conduct attracted no small share of popular odium Mr 
 Curran's origin was humble, and even his splendid talents might not 
 have been found sufficient to have raised him to the position in society 
 which he subsequently occupied, had it not been for his marriage with 
 c. lady of family and fortune. He began his career as pri^/ate tutor in 
 the family of Dr. Creagh, of Creagh Castle, in the county of Cork — » 
 
282 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 gentleman of krge property, as well as an enlightened and eminent phy- 
 sician. Miss Creagh, a young lady of considerable taste and acquire- 
 ments, proved but too sensible of the genius and talents of this accom- 
 plished inmate of her paternal dwelling, and a private marriage was the 
 consequence. After a short time subsequent to its discovery had elapsed, 
 Dr. Creagh consented to forgive his daughter, received her once more 
 beneath his roof, and allowed her fortune to be expended on Mr. Curran's 
 studies at the Temple. 
 
 That he requited the affection of this amiable woman by attempting 
 to repudiate her, will surprise no one in the least acquainted with the 
 general details of his domestic conduct. The breaking up of his estab- 
 lishment, the dispersion of his family, and his own loss of character, 
 were the consequences of this unhappy step. His appeal to a court of 
 justice was heard with impatience, and repelled with indignation. 
 
 In this perplexing position, my young friend shone conspicuous, and 
 was as much distinguished among the members of her own family as 
 they were from the ordinary ranks of society. Her engaging manners 
 and amiable qualities attracted the attention of many whose friendship 
 never afterwards deserted her. Among these was the Rev. Thomas 
 Crawford, of Lismore, one of the earliest of Mr. Curran's friends. To 
 be unhappy was in itself a letter of introduction to which he was never 
 inattentive. He was acquainted with every member of Mr. Curran's 
 family, and the youth, the amiable disposition, and deep affliction with 
 which his youngest and favourite daughter was overwhelmed by the 
 separation of her parents, induced Mr. Crawford to offer her an asylum 
 in his house. If any thing could have caused her to forget her father, 
 it would have been the part this worthy man so generously acted towards 
 her. She was to him, indeed, as a daughter; he loved her, and valued 
 her as such. Under his protecting care, she remained, until Mr. Curran 
 recalled his banished children once more to their home, and formed a 
 new establishment for their reception. But, alas i my poor friend's life 
 was but an April day ; or rather, it consisted of drops of joy, with 
 draughts of ill between. The two or three years she spent under the 
 paternal roof were the last she was permitted to number of enjoyment 
 and happiness. 
 
 During the long war in which England — often single-handed — strug- 
 gled, with glory and success, for her own integrity and the liberty of 
 Europe, her peaceful shores were repeatedly threatened with the in- 
 vasion of a foreign foe. The rumours of such an event, becoming very 
 prevalent about the year 1802, reached the ear of a young enthusiast, 
 at that time an exile from his native country, in Switzerland. In that 
 cradle of liberty, did Robert Emmett, as he said, endeavour to forget 
 the miseries of his native country, and the dishonour with which his 
 soul beheld her branded, and live the life of a freeman ! 
 
 When Switzerland, after a vain resistance, was fettered by the shackles 
 of Bonaparte, Ireland was immediately menaced with a Gallic descent : 
 and Emmett, in an ill-fated hour, landed on her shores, as he affirmed, 
 w avert the calamity of her becoming a French province. His plans, 
 *)y the little that is known of them, appear to have been perplexed and 
 
PASSAGES IN THE HISTORV OF SAR^H CURRAN. 283 
 
 incoherent in the extreme ; and had they been otherwise, the prematura 
 commencement of the insurrection would have rendered them abortive 
 After a slight disturbance of only a few hours' duration, on the night 
 of July 23, 1803, in which Lord Kilwarden and some other loyalists 
 were unfortunately assassinated, peace and good order were again re- 
 stored. A few of the ringleaders were punished ; and among the 
 number, this unhappy worshipper of Utopian freedom became a sacrifice 
 to his romantic dreams of liberty and patriotism. Previously to this 
 eventful period of his life, Mr. Curran's eldest son, Kiehard, had been 
 intimate with Robert Emmett, at Trinity College ; and their youthful 
 friendship, on his return to Ireland, was unfortunately renewed. He 
 introduced his friend to his father and sisters, and Emmett became a 
 constant visitor at the Priory. An attachment, as ardent as it was un- 
 fortunate, was soon formed between him and Mr. Curran's youngest 
 daughter. In the outpouring of his soul to this object of his idolatry, 
 the enthusiast revealed all his plans and intentions respecting the medi- 
 tated overthrow of the Irish government; happy would it have been 
 for him, had he attended to the words of vfisdom and of warning that 
 fell from her gentle lips ; but, alas ! on this occasion they were of no 
 avail. Dazzled with the splendour thrown by Roman story over deeds 
 admired because they were successful, he persuaded himself that, a-s 
 tyranny was weakness, those whom he considered the enslavers of his 
 aountry could be easily subdued ; and he rushed with heedless impetu- 
 osity into the struggle. 
 
 Mr. Curran's politics had formerly been what are called liberal ; but, 
 from the time that his party had succeeded to power, he attached him- 
 self to the government, under which he enjoyed a post of honour and 
 emolument. His surprise and indignation could hardly be wondered at, 
 when it was announced to him that he was an object of suspicion to his 
 former firiends, and that he was supposed to be implicated in Emmett's 
 designs. He repaired instantly to the Castle of Dublin, and insisted on 
 remaining in custody there, until every person arrested for the plot 
 should be examined. As his loyalty had always been so apparent, it 
 was a severe trial to his feelings, both as a parent and. a man of honour, 
 to be assured, beyond all doubt, that at least one of his family was im- 
 plicated; that letters from his daughter had been found among Em- 
 mett's papers, and that an order had been issued from the Lord Lieu- 
 tenant to have his house and correspondence examined ! As Mr. Curran 
 was conscious of his own innocence, he only felt as a father whose eyes 
 were thus suddenly opened to domestic injury and affliction. Without 
 taking time to inquire into the extent of his misfortune, he pronounced 
 sentence of banishment for ever from the paternal roof on the innocent 
 cause of his temporary vexation. Among Emmett's papers were 
 found various letters from Sarah Curran, all warning him against his 
 fatal desigu, and pointing out to him its folly and impracticability 
 There was also one letter refusing the offer of his hand, and giving, as 
 her reason, the impossibility of leaving a father she so fondly loved. 
 
 For a short time after the explosion of the .plot, Emmett was con- 
 eealed in a safe retreat in Dublin — his passage secured on board an 
 
284 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 American vessel — and the last time I saw my friend happy, she believed 
 him to be far away on the billows, beyond the power of his enemies, and 
 destined to reach in safety the more hospitable shores of America. That 
 very day he was arrested ! I shall not attempt to describe her feelings 
 on receiving a letter from Emmett, informing her that, as she had re- 
 fused to accompany him, he was determined to remain in Ireland and 
 abide his fate. This, if possible, was another barb, added to the 'arrow 
 that smote the hapless lovers ; nor could my poor friend ever forgive 
 herself for being, as she thoughtj the certain though innocent cause of 
 Emmett's unhappy end. Her arguments were not vrholly disregarded 
 by him, as, in one of his. replies, he remarks: — "I am aware of the 
 chasm that opens beneath my feet, but I keep ray eyes fixed on the 
 visions of glory which flit before them, and I am resolved to clear the 
 gulf, desperate as may be the attempt." 
 
 The circumstances of Emmett's trial and condemnation are too well 
 known to render it necessary for me to recapitulate them in this place. 
 After the delivery of his animated and affecting defence, Lord Norbury 
 pronounced sentence of death upon him, and the ill-fated man was exe- 
 cuted the following day in Thomas street, near the place on which he had 
 established the revolutionary depot of arms and ammunition. Before his 
 death, (when removed to Newgate, after lis trial,) he authorized a gentle- 
 man to announce to government, as his own declaration, that he was the 
 chief mover and instigator of the insurrection, and out of the sum of 
 £2500, which he had received on the death of his father, he had ex- 
 pended no less than £1400 in the preparatory outlay. 
 
 A loss of reason, of some months' continuance, spared my poor friend 
 the misery of travelling, step by step, through the wilderness of wo 
 which Emmett's trial and execution would have proved to her, and when 
 she recovered her senses, her lover had been for some time numbered 
 among the dead. As soon as her health permitted, she left the residence 
 of her father, whose heart remained untouched by those misfortupes and 
 sufferings which excited the pity and sympathy of every one besides. Mr. 
 Curran refused to see his daughter after her recovery, and she was again 
 thrown on the world, which, with more than poetic truth, had proved a 
 hrnken reed, and pierced her to the heart. But God raised up friends to 
 this stricken deer ; and, in a letter of hers now before me, written at the 
 time, she says, speaking of that kind, amiable family,, who received 
 her when deserted by her father, — " I find a pleasure in reflecting, that 
 my father introduced me to the dear Penroses, as if it were to atone for 
 his continued severity towards me." I received several letters from her 
 during her residence at Woodhill, near Cork, the seat of Mr. Cowper 
 Penrose, of whose tenderness and afl"ection, as well as the kindness of 
 the whole family, she makes constant mention. While under the pro- 
 tection of this gentleman's roof, she again became the object of an ardent 
 and disinterested attachment. Among the many who met and admired 
 her, was Colonel Sturgeon,* a gentleman of peculiarly engaging manneis 
 
 * Colonel Henry Sturgeon was the son of Lady Anne Weatworth, .and grandson, by 
 hie mattrna' des-jent, of the celebrated Marquis of Kodrngham. 
 
1»ASSAQES IN THE HISTOKT OF SARAH CURRAN. 28 
 
 and deportment, and who, with the gay, good-humour of the militai 
 profession, possessed discernment and sensibility enough to apprecia 
 and esteem merits such as hers, and, had not her heart been seared b 
 ^early grief and disappointment, one who could not have failed to hai 
 experienced a most flattering reception. When he first made his propi 
 sals. Miss Curran did every thing in her power to induce him to desii 
 from a pursuit, which she assured him could only terminate in disa] 
 pointment. She confided to him every particular of her sad, eventful life- 
 her love, and her devotedness to Emmett — and the utter impossibility c 
 her ever being able to return any other afiection, however it might dcser\ 
 the best efibrts pf her heart; while, at the same time, she was not insei 
 sible to Colonel Sturgeon's merits — ^well calculated, under other circun 
 stances, to make the impression he desired. 
 
 The constancy and tenderness of her attachment to Emmett seeme 
 to have rendered her more interesting to Colonel Sturgeon, and as b 
 continued a welcome guest at Mr. Penrose's, an intimacy still subsiste 
 between them. She hoped that his passion had settled into the moi 
 placid sentiment of friendship, when a sudden call of military duty in 
 distant land proved to her how fallacious had been her hopes. Th 
 peaceful but deceitful calm of her expectations was suddenly interrupte 
 by Colonel Sturgeon's arrival, in haste, at Woodhill, and an announci 
 ment, that in four days he must leave Cork for London, and thence fc 
 immediate foreign service. He again renewed his suit with all the energ 
 of despair. He had a friend in every member of the Penrose famih 
 all of whom were anxious that the union of two persons so calculated 1 
 make each other happy should not be deferred. They united their ei 
 treaties to Miss Curran to give a favourable answer, and in three days sh 
 became the wife of a gallant soldier, than whom no second suitor coul 
 better deserve her hand. 
 
 After yielding thus, as it were, a surprised consent, her heart faile 
 her, and the morning of her wedding-day she implored her kind friend 
 to allow her to proceed no farther. They remonstrated with her, an 
 told her she would be trifling with the feelings of one of the most amii 
 ble of men, should she manifest such a disposition. She was married s 
 Glanmire church, near Woodhill, and was, in truth, a mourning brid( 
 One of our female friends who accompanied her in the coach to Glai 
 mire, told me, that she knew not who shed most tears on the road. Afte 
 a year's residence in England, Colonel Sturgeon was ordered to Sicilj 
 where my poor friend endeavoured to make him happy and herself cheei 
 ful. Some, perhaps, who have casually met her, both before and aftc 
 marriage, have not considered her so remarkable a person as she reall 
 was; forgetful that the refinement of true genius is opposed to all inte! 
 lectual ostentation ; that talents, in one so afllicted as she had been, mus 
 often be veiled by the darkness of cherished sorrow ; and that genuin 
 sensibility flourishes not on the rugged highway of common life, bo 
 delights to expand its blossom in the shelter and secrecy of fosterin 
 kindness. 
 
 A sudden descent of the French on the Sicilian shores, in the yea 
 180S, obliged the English to leave that country in haste. After a storm 
 
'286 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 and dangerous passage of several weeks, exposed to all the inconve- 
 niences of a crowded transport, Colonel and Mrs. Sturgeon arrived at 
 Portsmouth. A short time before they landed, Mrs. Sturgeon had given 
 birth to a delicate and drooping boy, whose death^ soon after, at Hythe," 
 in the county of Kent, seems to have put a finishing stroke to her own 
 sufferings. 
 
 The last request Mrs. Sturgeon made of her father was, that sho 
 might be buried under her favourite tree at the Priory. She was spared the 
 cruelty of a refusal, and was buried at the little village of Newmarket, 
 in the county of Cork, where her father was born. Colonel Sturgeon 
 did not very long survive her — he was killed in Portugal during the 
 Peninsular war. — Blaclcwood' s Magazine. , 
 
 "THE FASHION OF THIS WOELD PASSETH AWAY." 
 
 EXTRACT FKOM PIEB.PONT. 
 
 While you are contemplating these melancholy changes, and the 
 chill of disappointment is going through your heart, the feeling comes 
 upon you, in all its bitterness, that the mournful ravages which time 
 has wrought upon the scenes and the objects of your attachment, will 
 not and cannot be repaired by time, in any of his futlire rounds. Re- 
 turning years can furnish you with no proper objects for the fresh and 
 glowing affections of youth ; and even if those objects could be fur- 
 nished, it is too late now to feel for them the correspondent affection. 
 The song of your mountain stream can never more soothe your ear. 
 The grove that you loved shall invite you to meditation and to worship 
 no more. Another may, indeed, spring up in its place, but you shall 
 not live to see it. It may shade your grave, but your heart shall never 
 feel its charm. Your affections are robbed of the treasures to which 
 they clung so closely and so long, and that for ever. The earthy where 
 it had appeared most lovely, is changed. The things that were nearest 
 to your heart have changed with it. The fashion in which the world 
 was arrayed when it took hold on you with the strongest attachment, 
 has passed away ; its mysterious power to charm you has fled ; all its 
 holiest enchantments are broken, and you see that nothing remains as 
 it was, but the abiding outline of its surface, its valleys where the still 
 waters find their way, and the stern visage of its everlasting hills. 
 
 Nor does the fashion of the world pass away in regard to the ever- 
 varying appearances of its exterior alone ; its vegetable productions flou- 
 rish and fade with every year, or those that endure for ages beyond the 
 utmost limit of animal life. It is, indeed, an eloquent commentary 
 upon the apostle's remark, to see the oak, that shaded one generation 
 of men sS*c,x another, even before it attained its maturity, and in the 
 fulness of its strength had stretched forth its giant arms over many 
 hucceedmg generations, yield to decay at last, and fall of its own weight, 
 after having gloried in its strength for centuries. It is an eloquent 
 (commentary to see the fashion of those things passing away in which 
 tlie proudest efforts of numan power have been displayed; to see the 
 
THE FASHION OF THIS WORLD. 287 
 
 jnrlous traveller inquiring and searching upon the banks of the Euphrates 
 for the site of ancient Babylon, or measuring the huge masses of rock 
 that composed the temples of the sun at Palmyra, or digging in the 
 valley of the Nile to bring to light the stupendous relics of ancient 
 architecture, that have, for thousands of years, been buried in the sands 
 of the deserts It is even an eloquent exposition of the apostle's remark 
 to see the towers that were raised by the power of feudal princes, and 
 the abbeys and cathedrals that were the scenes of monastic devotion, 
 now that they are crumbling and falling away, their tottering walls cur • 
 tained with ivy, and the bird of night the only tenant of those for- 
 saken abodes of a stern despotism, and of a still more stern superstition . 
 
 But not the. products of the earth, nor yet the works of man, ilon 
 ehange and pass away. In many particulars the great mass of earth 
 itself is liable to change, and has been moulded into different forms. 
 Hills have been sunk beneath the depths of the sea, and the depths of 
 the sea, in their turn, have been laid bare, or thrown up into stupendous 
 mountains. 
 
 We, who are the creatures of a day, talk of everlasting hills. But 
 when we stand upon the very hills that we call so, or when we go down 
 into their masses of rock, they tell us that they, too, have basked in 
 the light but for a time ; that once the great waters rolled over them, 
 and that they now hold the treasures of the deep locked up in their 
 impenetrable caverns. 
 
 If, then, the beauties of the year are so fading, and its bounties so 
 soon perish ; if the loveliest scenes of nature lose their power to charm, 
 and a few revolving years break the spell that binds us to those whom 
 we love best ; if the very figure of the earth is changed by its own con- 
 vulsions ; if the forms of human governments and the monuments of 
 human power and skill cannot endure ; if even the religions that pre- 
 dominate in one age are exploded in another; if nothing on "the earth 
 beneath or the waters under the earth" preserves its form unchanged, 
 what is there that remains for ever the same ? What is there over 
 which autumnal winds and wintry frosts have no power? What that 
 does not pass away while we are contending with wayward fortune, or 
 struggling with calamity ? What that is proof against the fluctuations 
 of human opinion, and the might of ocean's waves, and the convulsions 
 by which mountains are heaved up from the abyss, or thrown from their 
 deep foundations ? 
 
 'It is the God by whom these mighty works are done, by whose hand 
 this great globe was first moulded, and has ever since been fashioned 
 according to his will. Hast thou not known, hast thou not heard that 
 the Everlasting God, Jehovah, the Creator of the ends of the earth, 
 fainteth not, neither is weary ? 
 
 To him, then, we can go, and to him let us go, in a filial assurance 
 that there is no variableness in him. Though the glories of the yeai 
 fade, though our young affections are blighted, and our expectations from 
 this world are disappointed; we kn?w that he has the power to make all 
 inese melancholy scene« of salutary influence, and conducive to " the 
 goal's eternal health." Though the opinions of the world, and our own 
 
288 FIBLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 opinions in respect to him, may change, there is no change in the love 
 with which he regards and for ever embraces us. God passeth nnt 
 away, nor do his laws. Those laws require that we, and all that is 
 around us, should change and pass away. Those laws govern us, and 
 will do so for ever. They bind us to our highest good. Then let us 
 yield them a prompt and perpetual obedience. 
 
 ROUSSEAU'S OPINION OF THE BIBLE AND ITS AUTHOR. 
 
 This divine book, the only one which is indispensable to the Christian, 
 needs only to be read with reflection to inspire love for its Author, and 
 the most ardent desire to obey its precepts. Never did virtue speak so 
 sweet a language ; never was the most profound wisdom expressed with 
 so much energy and simplicity. No one can arise from its perusal 
 without feeling himself better than he was before. 
 
 The majesty of the Scriptures strikes me with astonishment, and the 
 sanctity of the gospel addresses itself to my heart. Look at the volumes 
 of the philosophers, with all their pomp ; how contemptible do they 
 appear in comparison to this ! Is it possible, that a book, at once so 
 simple and sublime, can be the work of man ? Can he who is the sub- 
 ject of its history be himself a mere man ? Was his the tone of an 
 enthusiast, or of an ambitious sectary ? What sweetness ! What purity 
 in his manners ! What an affecting gracefulness in his instructions ! 
 What sublimity in his maxims ! What profound wisdom in his dis- 
 courses ! What presence of mind, what sagacity and propriety in his 
 answers ! How great the command over his passions ! Where is the 
 man, where the philosopher, who could so live, suffer, and die, without 
 weakness, and without ostentation ! When Plato described his imaginary 
 good man, covered with all the disgrace of crime, yet worthy of all the 
 rewards of virtue, he described exactly the character of Jesus Christ. 
 The resemblance was so striking, it could not be mistaken, and all the 
 Fathers of the Church perceived it. What prepossession, what blind- 
 ness must it be to compare the son of Sophronicus to the son of Mary ! . 
 What an immeasurable distance between them ! Socrates, dying with- 
 out pain, and without ignominy, easily supported his character to the 
 last; and if his death, however easy, had not crowned his life, it might 
 have been doubted whether Socrates, with all his wisdom, was any thing 
 more than a mere sophist. He invented, it is said, the theory of moral 
 science. Others, however,, had before him put it in practice ; and he 
 had nothing to do but to tell what they had done, and to reduce their 
 examples to precept. Aristides had been just, before Socrates defined 
 what justice was. Leonidas had died for his country, before Socrates 
 made it a duty to love one's country. Sparta had been temperate be- 
 fore Socrates eulogized sobriety ; and before he celebrated the praises of 
 virtue, Greece had abounded in virtuous men. But from whom of all 
 his countrymen could Jesus have derived that sublime and pure morality, 
 of which he only ban given us both the precept and the example ? In 
 Ihe midst of the most licentious fanaticism, the voice of the sublimesi 
 
REFLECTIONS ON DEATH. 28 P 
 
 wisdom was heard ; and the simplicity of the most heroic virtue crowned 
 one of the humblest of all the multitude. 
 
 The death of Socrates, peaceably philosophizing with his friends, is 
 the most pleasant that could be desired ! That of Jesus, expiring in 
 torments, outraged, reviled, and execrated by a whole nation, is the 
 most horrible that could be feared. Socrates, in receiving the cup of 
 poison, blessed the weeping executioner who presented it ; but Jesus, in 
 the midst of excruciating torture, prayed for his. merciless tormentors 
 Yes ! if the life and death of Socrates were those of a sage, the life and 
 death of Jesus were those of a God. Shall we say that the evangelic 
 history is a mere fiction ? — ^it does not bear the stamp of fiction, but the 
 contrary. The history of Socrates, which nobody doubts, is not as 
 well attested as that of Jesus Christ. Such an assertion, in fact, only 
 shifts the difficulty, without removing it. It is m"ore inconceivable that 
 a number of persons should have agreed to fabricate this book, than that 
 one only should have furnished the subject of it. 
 
 The Jewish authors were incapable of the diction, and strangers to 
 the morality contained in the gospel, the marks of whose truth are so 
 striking, so perfectly inimitable, that the inventor would be a more 
 astonishing man than the hero. 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON DEATH. 
 
 Heavens ! what a moment must be that, when the last flutter ex- 
 pires on our lips ! What a change ! Tell me, ye who are deepest read I 
 in nature and in God, to what new worlds are we borne ? What new" 
 being do we receive ? Whither has that spark, that unseen, that un- ■ 
 comprehended intelligence fled? Look upon the cold, livid, ghastly;- 
 corpse that lies before you ! That was but a shell, a gross and earthly.; 
 covering, which held for a while the immortal essence that has now left 
 it ; — left it, to range, perhaps, through illimitable space ; — to receive 
 new capacities of delight ; new powers of perception ; new glories of ' 
 ■ beatitude ! Ten thousand fancies rush upon the mind as it contem* 
 plates the awful moment between life and death ! It is a moment big 
 with imagination's greatest hopes and fears ; it is the consummation ■■ 
 that clears up all mystery — resolves all doubts — which removes coatra- 
 diction, and destroys error. Great God ! what a flood of rapture may, 
 at once burst upon the departed soul ! The unclouded brightriess- of ■ 
 the celestial regions — the pure existence of ethereal beings — the solemn . 
 secrets of nature may then be divulged ; the immediate unity of the 
 past, the present, and the future ; strains of unimaginable harmony^ 
 forms of imperishable beauty may then suddenly disclose themselves, . 
 bursting upon the delighted senses, and bathing them in measureless 
 bliss ! The mind is lost in this excess of wondrous light,, and. dares not 
 turn from the heavenly vision to one so gloomy, so tremendous as the 
 departure of the wicked ! Human fancy shrinks back . applied j wlule 
 hope and charity whisper to the bleeding heart that thrre. where all i 
 mercy is, there too will be forgiveness l 
 Z IW 
 
290 
 
 FIKLDS'S SCKAP-BOOK. 
 
 FAME. 
 
 BT THE HILrORD BARD. 
 
 Htoh on the orimaon car of fame 
 
 I saw the' victor ride, 
 He came from far through flood and flame. 
 
 In all the pomp of pride ; 
 And lend the war-trump pierced the skies. 
 
 All bail ! the conqueror comes ! 
 From every hill let shoute arise, 
 
 Ajod smind, ye doubling drums. 
 
 The crimson crown the conqueror wore 
 
 Waved o'er the warrior's head; 
 But his right arm was red with gore 
 
 A liundred hearts had shed*: 
 A hundred hills in echoes rang 
 
 O'er ocean's sounding surge: 
 A hundred harps awoke and sang 
 
 Of Europe's dreadful scourge. 
 
 They sang the fnme of him whose scroll 
 
 A tide of tears had wet ; 
 They sang the fame of him whose soul 
 
 Had oft in murder met, 
 
 And oft had spread dark midnight o'W 
 
 Thtf weeping widow's mind^ 
 And wrote her grief with gushing gonu 
 
 Dread vampire of mankind. 
 
 Not so with him who wore the pWmA 
 
 When fkir Columbia Ued ; 
 The sun that set on Vernon's tomli 
 
 Smiled on the mighty dead : 
 The blood that dyed Columbia's land 
 
 Was paid for liberty— 
 The great, the good, and glorious band, 
 ' The western world set free. 
 
 The scroll of him T^'ho sleeps in eanli, 
 
 Gave liberty a name: 
 And virtue's heroes then had birth, 
 
 And virtuous valour fame. 
 Gore gnah'd through many a hundrtsa reini 
 
 On that immortal morn ; 
 Great God ! 'twas then ^vere rent tb haiie 
 
 Of millions yet unborn. 
 
 SUNEISE OF THE SOUL. 
 
 BY COFFIN. 
 
 There is a land where strength decays, 
 Where wisdom comes to naught ; 
 
 Where vice claims virtue's honest praise— 
 ' Where love with gold is bought. 
 
 There is a. land where genius dies. 
 Where science meets its doom — 
 
 Where all that's great, or good, or wise, 
 Sinks in oblivion's gloom. 
 
 There is a land whereon the brave 
 
 Do perish in..their fame — 
 Sink silently within the grave, 
 ■■ Retaining but a name 
 
 There is a land where beauty fades 
 
 Upon its icy breast ; 
 While penury the heart pervades. 
 
 And pain's a constant guest. 
 
 And there's a world where love and tmih 
 
 Perennial rise and bloom: 
 Where virtue, in unfading yonth, 
 
 Shall triumph o'er the tomb. 
 
 How gladly would my tortured breaat 
 
 Reject earth's base control; 
 And hail afar, in regions blest. 
 
 The sunrise of the soul ! 
 
 'TIS SWEET TO THINK. 
 
 BT RET. J. BREXIEL. 
 
 -'Tis^ sweet to'think that when I die, 
 There's one will hold my languid head, 
 
 ' And let me on her bosom lie. 
 Till every breath of life is fled. . 
 
 And-when these beamifig eyes shall close, 
 
 Aiid lose at last their fading ray, 
 ' For ever fix'd in deej, lapos'., 
 
 *ibe'll watch beside my lifelesn <^!a?. 
 
 'Tis sweet to think that whtm I'm dejUi, 
 Her eye will pour its softest tear. 
 
 Her hand upon my green turf sued 
 The sweetest flowerets of the year. 
 
 'Tis sweet to think we both shall lie 
 Ere long within one common tomb. 
 
 Till, from death's bonds released, -we flj 
 To those best realms beyond its g) i a. 
 
CHRISTIANITY IN THE HOUR OF DEATH, 291 
 
 CHRISTIANITY IN THE HOUE OP DEATH. 
 
 Tfe consolations of Christianity form one of its most delightful as 
 woU as salutary accompaniments. Their value is not generally appre- 
 ciated till heart and flesh begin to fail, and the world to pass away. 
 Then, in the absence of health and strength, when all earthly sensations 
 lose their charms, and the springs of nature cease to act with their 
 wonted force, these friendly visitors from the cross encircle the dying 
 saint, and throw over and around" him the everlasting arms of divine 
 mercy. How sad and lonely the couch where the emaciated, strength- 
 less form is stretched unaccompanied by those dawnings of eternal day ! 
 Over the poor, unhappy, wasted* clay no starlight brightens, no cherub 
 wings are hovering. In vain are arms of friendship extended, the bosom 
 of love opened. The rays of hope may gleam a brief moment in £he 
 borizon of his mind, but they are cold and cheerless. No vivifying in- 
 fluence passes over the feverish brain — no holy gust of ecstatic joy subli- 
 mates the mind. Oh, it is hard dying when these comforts are wanting 
 — when the past, the present, and the future bring in the dreadful 
 sentence that all is lost — ^when no uplifted arm makes strong the soul, 
 nor points with unerring truth the bright way up to the mansions of 
 felicity ! But oh, how soft the bed of death ; what easy, pleasant dying, 
 when the comfortable assurances of God's word are brought home to the 
 heart of the stricken one in the language that cannot be misunderstood ! 
 When the soul, feeling after the promises, finds itself suddenly clinging 
 to the Rock of Ages, and, rising up in the strength of the Lord of hosts, 
 grapples with the monster on ground consecrated by the Son of Clod, 
 and prevails and triumphs ! It is then that he looks upon the fallen 
 pillars in which he has only gloried, with a smile, and beholds 
 unmoved the crumbling tabernacle, falling down in ruins, while, new- 
 fledged, he breaks his bonds, and towers away to dip his pinions in the 
 fount of light. 
 
 Sure the last end 
 Of the good man is peace ! How calm his exit! 
 Night dews fall not more gently to the ground. 
 Nor weary, worn-out winds, expire so soft. 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 
 ■Where dwells the being in whose bosom affection's tender call meets 
 with a responsive throb of feeling, that does not cherish with pleasure the 
 remembrance of a mother's love, and the assiduous attention of a mother' is 
 devotedness ? When the first half-meant glistening of the infant eye 
 bespoke " the first dawn of reason ;" when the puny arms first clasped 
 the maternal neck, and the sweet babe seemed " a pearl of price" on the 
 bosom; who with soul-exhausting fervour, pressed the dear treasure ti. 
 
292 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 its faithful home ? And when the chuckling laugh, an J the little, rest. 
 less, elastic limbs of her dearest, in its playful humour, won her smile, 
 who caressed the sportive child, and gave back kiss for kiss ? It was 
 the MOTHER. If some gloomy foreboding, some cloud of care, came over 
 the sunlight of her hope, telling her that the bright being next her heart 
 would smile no more — the tears that bathed the polished brow beneath 
 her look of love were a baptism that would gain it a heaven. 
 
 When the tottering limbs essayed to move in the harmony of nature, 
 the goal of the infant trial was the parent knee, the reward the parent 
 embrace. The first faint lisp of language, that seems to be taught by 
 an augel, comes on the mother's ear like undefined music; and the first 
 trial is to sound a mother's name. Oh ! thought-enkindling word-! con- 
 nected with every remembered pang of sorrow, and every association of 
 former happiness. 
 
 The maternal knees are the first altar of devotion ; and the clustering 
 head of childhood, bowed in its mother's lap, pours out the sweet and 
 acceptable prayer of innocence. The kind hand that falls with blessings 
 on the youthful brow smooths the couch of sleep ; while the eternal 
 principle of a mother's love, like a guardian spirit, ever watches over its 
 repose. 
 
 The heyday of youth has passed ; and with it have been separated 
 the closer ties that bound me to my mother. Yet the chain of affection 
 has been but loosened — not a link of it has been broken. When the 
 wild war of passion rages, the memory of her love comes like magic over 
 ray soul, and, like " oil on the troubled waters," calms it to rest. 
 
 Oh, my mother ! may he who has felt love like thine, never know 
 love from any, if he once forgets thee. And may the rich blessings of 
 Heaven descend on thee, as thou hast often prayed for them to come upon 
 thy child ! 
 
 ETEKNAL HOPE. 
 
 If we contemplate the ravages of time but for a single year, and re- 
 flect upon the changes and events that have taken place even in our own 
 limited sphere, we must be sensible of the insecurity of all things earth- 
 ly, and feel that this world is not our home, and cannot long be our 
 abiding place. By casting our eye back to the years when our feeble 
 existence commenced, we learn, that when a few more friends have left, 
 and a few more changes mocked us, our voices too must be hushed, our 
 hearts must cease to beat, and our heads must be placed on that pillow 
 from whence they will be raised only when " time shall be no longer." 
 
 In this situation then, and with this belief, we are doubtless ready to 
 cry out. Is there no substance among all these shadows ? If the pleasures 
 of life are vanishing away — if the works of nature are changing, and the 
 monuments of art crumbling to the dust — if, while looking upon oar 
 friends, they are fled from our anxious gaze, and we have felt that we are 
 
MEMORY. 293 
 
 US transient as they — if we have looked in vain for durability on every 
 object to which we can turn our eyes, on what shall we rest ; on what 
 can we place our trust ! Can there be no support ? Can nothing be 
 named to sustain our sinking hearts ? Thanks to the Author of all 
 good, we are not left without a guide. There is a point to which we 
 may direct our eyes. Though all created substances perish, " hope is 
 eternal." The hope of future happiness is a never-failing source of con- 
 solation to the Christian. Under any troubles, however grievous, it 
 soothes his mind. When memory brings to' view joys that are past and 
 gone, departed friends that were near and dear, every spring of painful 
 sensibility is touched ; yet in these moments, how relieving is the hope 
 that th^ separation is not eternal — that the time will come when those 
 former connections with his virtuous friends will be renewed — when 
 those whose piety and virtue once cheered him, shall be united to him, 
 and they shall dwell together on that peaceful shore where the revolu- • 
 tions of nature can never come. 
 
 Who of us are to leave this world before the close of another year, is 
 known only in the counsels of eternity. Doubtless there are many, who, 
 looking forward to the opening year, are ready to promise themselves 
 much, from the friendships and connections they have secured, and from 
 the plans of prosperity which they have formed. But while they are 
 doating upon these dreams of happiness, and saying in secret to their 
 hearts, " To-morrow shall be as this day, and much more abundant," we 
 feel constrained to say to them, " Boast not yourselves of to-morrow, for 
 you know not what a day may bring forth." But the sincere Christian, 
 the man who places his hope on the Rock of Ages, will not be anxious 
 to build his treasures where moth and rust do corrupt, or eager to scan 
 the mysteries of futurity. It_ is enough for him to know that God 
 reigneth, and that he can with truth exclaim — " Eternal hope !" 
 
 When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow, 
 And heaven's la«t thunder shakes the world below ; 
 Thou undismay'd ehalt o'er the ruins smile. 
 And light thy torch at nature's funeral pile. 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 lltimory, that mirror, which affection dashes to the earth, and, looking down upon the 
 fragments, only beholds the reflection multiplied. 
 
 I SEATED myself on the old trunk on which I had so often rested— [ 
 iast my eyes over the surrounding landscape — the sun was sinking, and 
 the water seemed blazing with its refulgence ; the mild, the balmy breath 
 of evening swept across my face — the distant call of the boatmen fell 
 upon mine ear. Such a breeze had I felt — such sounds had I heard, 
 often — often in purer, happier hours ! All seemed the same as when I 
 last was there — the very shadow of the elms — the solitary bi^d that 
 
29.1: FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 sw.'pt its lonfc^y way through the sky — the form of the clouds that hung 
 i^olden-fringed around the setting orh ; they were there — uncharged 
 even in. the minutest circumstance. I looked towards the banks of the 
 stream ; there, and on such an eve, had I wandered with Mary ; there 
 had I felt her ' leaning on my arm in all the confiding gentleness of 
 affection ; there had my heart throbbed wildly with delight, as I gazed 
 upon her ; and there, alas ! — and even in that blissful moment did the 
 conviction that it was the happiest hour of my existence cast its mist 
 over my enjoyment. Every word she uttered rushed upon my memory ; 
 even the very thoughts of the moment came fresh and glowing before 
 me. I could almost fancy I again heard her voice, and, as it were, 
 instinctively turned to meet her look. The illusion vanished — the fairy 
 web of fancy was broken, and I aw'oke to consciousness, and an aching 
 — a despairing heart. 
 
 The avenue of elms, through whose thick foliage, enwreathed with 
 woodbine, the sun's rays now shot, next caught my attention. On the 
 jame spot from which I now took my sad glance in the perspective of 
 memory, often had I sat, anxiously expecting to see the form of her, my 
 heart's loved one, hastening along that path. How often, on beholding 
 her, had I started from my seat, to greet her with the kiss of affection ! 
 Not a charm of nature had faded — the rude hand of time seemed to have 
 spared even the simple hedge flower — but where was she who first ren- 
 dered that scene dear to me ? I cast a wild look around me — in vain ! 
 — and I felt the chill of loneliness rush deathlike over my heart ! 
 
 Reflection — the gift that constitutes man's fatal superiority over the 
 rest of the creation, by teaching him to sum up the extent of his 
 wretchedness — so absorbed my senses, that for some time I perceived 
 not the change that had taken place in the heavens. Clouds, black and 
 heavy, were gathering thickly together j the last rays of the sun shot 
 blood-red between them ; the rain began to fall in large and rapidly, 
 increasing drops ; and all told the approach of a terrific conflict of the 
 elements. I arose and turned to seek some shelter ; the loud thunder 
 burst in awful peals above my head, and the lightning shot its vivid rays 
 around my path — emblem, too faithful emblem, of my present lot ! A 
 few hours, and your powers will be spent, and serenity again preside ; 
 but when shall the storm cease that rages in the brain ? When shall 
 .•serenity return to the withered, the broken heart ? 
 
 Religion. — Man, in whatever state he may oe considered, as well 
 as in every period and vicissitude of life, experiences in religion an effica- 
 cious antidote against the ills which oppress him, a shield that blunts 
 the darts of his enemies, and an asylum into which they can never enter. 
 In evei-y evept of fortune it excites in his soul a sublimity of ideas, by 
 pointing out to him the just Judge, who, as. an attentive spectator of his 
 conflicts, is about to reward him ^ with his inestimable approbation. 
 Religion also, in the darkest tempest, appears to man as the iris of 
 peace, and, dissipating the dark and angry storm, restores the wished-for 
 calm, and brings him to the port of safety. 
 
•WAV.. 295 
 
 WAR. 
 
 The following beautiful extract is from tie pen of Dr. Chalmers, ^ lio 
 has written with such force and energy in defence of the Christian 
 religion. It presents in so strong a light the ferocious aspect of war. 
 when undisguised by the false splendours which surround it, that nothing 
 ought to be read with greater delight, by a people whose duty, interest, 
 and desire it is to encourage and adopt a pacific policy towards other 
 nations : — 
 
 One great obstacle to the extinction of war is the way in which tht 
 heart of man is carried off from its barbarities and its horrors by the 
 splendour of its deceitful accomplishments. There is a feeling of the 
 sublime in contemplating the shock of armies, just as there is in con- 
 templating the devouring energy of a tempest ; and this so elevates and 
 engrosses the whole man, that his eye is blind to the tears of bereaved 
 parents, and his ear is deaf to the piteous moait of the dying, and thS 
 shriek of their desolated families. There is a gracefulness in the picture 
 of a youthful warrior, burning for distinction in the field, and lured by 
 this generous aspiration to the deepest animated throng, where, in the 
 fell work of death, the opposing sons of valour struggle for remembrance 
 or a home; and this side of the picture is so much the exclusive object 
 of our regard as to disguise from our view the mangled carcasses of the 
 fallen, and the writhing agonies of the hundreds, and the hundreds more, 
 who have been laid on the cold ground, where they are left to languish 
 and to die. There is no eye to pity them ! po sister to weep over them ! 
 There no gentle hand is present to ease the dying posture or bind up 
 the wounds, which, in the maddening fury of the combat, have been 
 given and received by the children of one common Father ! There 
 death spreads his pale ensigns over every countenance ; and when night 
 comes on, and darkness is around them, how many a despairing wretch 
 must take up with the bloody field as the untented bed of his last suf- 
 ferings, without one friend to bear the message of tenderness to his 
 distant home — without one companion to close his eyes ! 
 
 I avow it — on every side of me I see causes at work which go to 
 spread a most delusive colouring over war, and to remove its shocking 
 barbarities to the background of our contemplations altogether. I see 
 it in Iho history which tells me of the superb appearance of the troops 
 and the brilliancy of their successive charges ; I see it in the poetry 
 which lends the magic of ■ its numbers to the narrative of blood, and 
 transporting its many admirers, as by its images, and its figures, and its 
 nodding plumes of chivaby, it throws its treacherous embellishments 
 over a scene of legalized slaughter. I see it in the music which repre- 
 sents the progress of the battle, and where, aftet being inspired by the 
 trumpet-notes of preparation, the whole beauty and tenderness of a 
 drawing-room are seen to bend over the sentimental entertainment ; nor 
 do I hear the utterance of a single sigh to interrupt the death-tones of 
 the sickening contest, and the moans of the wounded men, as they fade 
 »way upon the ear and sink into lifeless silence ! All, all goes to prr've 
 
29ft FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 what strange and half-sighted creatures we are. Were it not so, war 
 would never have been seen in any other aspect than that of unmingled 
 hatefulness ; and I can look to nothing but the progress of Christian 
 sentiment upon earth to arrest the strong current of its popular and pie- 
 vailing partiality for war. Then only will an imperious sense of duty 
 lay the check of severe principle on all the subordinate tastes and 
 faculties of our nature. Then will glory be reduced to its right esti- 
 mate ; and the wakeful benevolence of the gospel, chasing away every 
 spell, will be turned by the treachery of no delusion whatever from its 
 simple but sublime enterprises, for the good of the species. Then the 
 reign of truth and quietness will be ushered into the world; and war, 
 cruel, atrocious, unrelenting war, will be stript of its many and its 
 bewildering fascinations. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 Op all the myriad sources of enjoyment which nature unfolds to man, 
 [ know few equal to those elicited by a balmy summer sunset. The 
 idea is old, but the reflections it excites are perpetually varying. 
 There is something in this hour so tender, so holy, so fraught with sim- 
 ple, yet sublime associations, that it belongs rather to heaven than to 
 earth. The curtain that drops down on the physical, also descends on 
 the moral world. The day, with its selfish interests, its common-place 
 distractions, has gone by, and the season of intelligence, of imagination, 
 of spirituality, is dawning. Yes, twilight unlocks the Blandusian foun- 
 tain of fancy ; there, as in a mirror, reflecting all things in added love- 
 liness, the heart surveys the past, the dead, the absent ; the estranged 
 come thronging back on memory; the paradise of inexperience, from 
 which the flaming sword of Truth has long since exiled us, rises again 
 in all the pristine beauty of its flowers and verdure ; the very spot where 
 we breathed our first vows of love; the slender, girlish figure, that, 
 gliding like a sylph beside us, listened entranced to that avowal, made 
 in the face of heaven, beneath the listening evening-star ; the home that 
 witnessed her decline; the churchyard that received her ashes; the 
 grave wherein she now sleeps, dreamless and happy, deaf alike to the 
 siren voice of praise and the withering sneers of envy — such sweet but 
 solemn recollections sweep, in shadowy pomp, across the mind, conjured 
 up by the spells of twilight, as he waves his enchanted wand over the 
 earth. 
 
 GrOOD-NATtTRE. — Good-nature is the best feature in the finest face. 
 Wit may raise admiration, judgment may command respect, and know- 
 ledge attention ; beauty may inflame the heart with love : but good- 
 nature has a more powerful effect — it adds a thousand attractions to the 
 fharms of beauty, and gives an air of beneficence to the most homely fiice. 
 
WASHINGTON AND ADAMS. 297 
 
 WASHINGTON AND ADAMS. 
 
 Anecdotes cannected with the appointment of General Washington to the 
 command of the Army, June \^th, 1775. 
 
 In a manuscript jojirnal, under date of November 4, 1 825, I find a 
 record of a conversation had with the venerable John Adams, at that 
 time, relative to ^the appointment of General Washington. It was in 
 substance as follows :— 
 
 The army was assembled at Cambridge, Massachusetts, under General 
 Ward, and Congress was sitting at Philadelphia. Every day arrived 
 new applications in behalf of the army. The country was urgent that 
 Congress should adopt the army, for until they had, it must be consi- 
 dered, and was in law considered, only as a mob, a band of arnjed rebels. 
 The country was placed in circumstances of peculiar delicacy and danger. 
 The struggle had begun, and yet every thing was at loose ends. The 
 great trial now seemed to he in this question — who should he commander- 
 in-chief? It was exceedingly important, and was felt to be the hinge 
 on which the whole might turn for or against us. The Southern and 
 ' Middle States, warm and rapid in their zeal, for the most part were jea- 
 lous of New England, because they felt that the real physical force was 
 here. What, then, was to be done ? All New England adored General 
 Ward; he had been in the French war, and came out laden with laurels. 
 He was a scholar and a gentleman. All the. qualifications seemed to 
 cluster in him, and it was confidently believed that the army could not 
 receive any commander over him. What, then, was. to be done? Diffi- 
 culties thickened at every step. The struggle was to be long and bloody. 
 Without union all was lost. Union was strength. The country, and 
 the whole country, must come in. One pulsation must beat through all 
 hearts. The cause was one, and the arm must be one. The members 
 had talked, debated, considered, and guessed, and yet' the decisive step 
 had not been taken. A* length, Mr. Adams came to his conclusion, and 
 the manner of developing it was nearly as follows : — He was walking 
 one morning before Congress Hall, apparently in deep thought, when his 
 cousin, Samuel Adams, came up to him, and said, " What is the topic 
 witii you this morning, cousin ?" " Oh, the army, the army," he replied. 
 "I am determined what to do about the army at Cambridge," he con- 
 tinued — " I am determined to go into the hall this morning, and enter 
 on a full detail of the state of the colonies, in order to show the abso- 
 lute need of taking some decisive steps. My whole aim will be to induce 
 Congress to appoint a day for adopting the army as the legal army of 
 these United Colonies of North America, and then to hint at an election 
 of a commander-in-chief." 
 
 " Well," said Samuel Adams, " I like that, cousin John ; but on whom 
 have you fixed as this commander ?" "I'll tell you — George Washington, 
 ■jf Virginia, a member of this house." " Oh," replied Samuel Adan»s, 
 quickly, " that will never do, never, never." " It must do, it shaU do," 
 
298 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 said John, " and for these reasons : the Southern and Middle States aro 
 loath to enter heartily into the cause, and their arguments are potent 
 they see that New England holds the physical power in her hands, and 
 they fear the result. A New England army, a New England commander, 
 with New England perseverance, all united, appal them. For this cause 
 they hang back. Now the only way is, to allay their fears, and give 
 them nothing to complain of; and this can be done in no other way but 
 by appointing a Southern chief over this force. Then all will feel secure; 
 then all will rush to the standard. This policy will blend us in one 
 mass, and that mass will be resistless." At this Samuel Adams seemed 
 greatly moved. They talked over the preliminary circumstances, and 
 John asked his cousin to second his motion. Mr. Adams went in, took 
 the floor, and put forth all his strength in the delineations he had pre- 
 pared, all aiming at the adoption of the army ! He was ready to own 
 the army, appoint a commander, vote supplies, and proceed to business. 
 After his speech, some doubted, some objected, and some feared. His 
 warmth mounted with the occasion, and to all these doubts and hesita- 
 tions he replied, " G-entlemen, if this Congress will not adopt this army, 
 before ten moons have set. New England will have a Congress of her 
 own which vnll adopt it, and she, she will undertake the struggle alone ; 
 yes, with a strong arm, and a clear conscience, will front the foe alone." 
 This bad the desired effect. They saw New England was not playing, » 
 and was not to be played with ; they agreed to appoint a day. The day 
 was fixed. It came. Mr. Adams went in, took the floor, urged the 
 measure, and, after debate, it passed. 
 
 The next thing was to get a lawful commander for this lawful army, 
 with supplies, &c. All looked to Mr. Adams, on this occasion, and he 
 was ready. He took the floor, and went into a minute delineation of 
 the character of General Ward, bestowing on him the epithets which 
 then belonged to no one else. At the end of this eulogy he said, " But 
 this is not the man I have chosen." He then went into a delineation 
 of the character of a commander-in-chief, such as was required by the 
 peculiar situation of the colonies at that juncture ; and, after he had 
 presented the qualifications in his strongest language, and given the 
 reasons for the nomination he was about to make, he said — " Gentlemen, 
 I know these qualifications are high, but we all know they are needful 
 at this crisis in this chief. Does any one say they are not to be obtained 
 in the country ? I reply, they are; they reside in one of our own body, 
 and he is the person whom I now nominate — George Washington, of 
 Virginia." 
 
 Washington, who sat on Mr. Adams's right hand, was looking him 
 intently in the face to watch the name he was about to announce ; and 
 not expecting it would be his own, he sprang from his scat the moment 
 he heard it, and rushed into an adjoining room as quickly as though 
 m 3ved by a shock of electricity. 
 
 Mr. Adams had asked his cousin Sara to move for an adjournment as 
 soon as the nomination was made, in order to give the members time to 
 deliberate in private. They did deliberate, and the result is before the 
 world. 
 
DEATH OF GEXERAL WASOINGTON. 299 
 
 r asked Mr. Adams, among other questions, the following : — " Did 
 you never doubt of the success of the conflict ?" " No, no," said he, 
 "not for a moment. I expected to be hung and quartered, if I wag 
 caught; but no matter for that, my country would be free; I knew 
 G«orge m. could not forge chains long enough and strong enough t« 
 reach round these States." 
 
 DEATH OF GENERAL WASHINGTON. 
 
 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. Unapprehensive of danger from this 
 circumstance, he passed the afternoon in his usual manner, but, in the 
 night, he was seized with an inflammatory afiection of the windpipe. The 
 disease commenced with a violent ague, accompanied 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 despatched 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 con- 
 sulting physicians should be immediately sent for. The utmost exer- 
 tions 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 ; respiration 
 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. 
 
 Befieving, 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 
 desire 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, " Doctor, I am dying, and havB been dying for a long 
 time, but I am not afraid to die." 
 
 During the short period of his illness, he economized his time in ar- 
 ra.nging, with the utmost serenity, those few concerns which required 
 his attention, and anticipated his approaching dissolution with every 
 demonstration of that equanimity for which his life was so uniformly 
 and singularly conspicuous. 
 
 Th<-. deep and wide-spreading grief, occasioned by this melancholy 
 
300 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 event, assembled a great concourse of people, for the purpose of paying 
 the last tribute of respect to the first of Americans. On Wednesday, 
 the 18th of December, attended by military honours and the ceremo- 
 nies of religion, his body was deposited in the family vault at Mount 
 Vernon. 
 
 So short was his illness, that, at the seat of government, the intelli- 
 gence of his death preceded that of his indisposition. It was first com- 
 municated by a passenger in the stage to an acquaintance whom he met 
 in the street, and the report quickly reached the House of Kepresentatives, 
 which was then in session. The utmost dismay and affliction were dis- 
 played for a few minutes, after which a member stated in his place the 
 melancholy information which had been received. This information, he 
 said, was not certain, 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 Kepresentatives can be but ill-fitted 
 for public business." He therefore moved an adjournment. Both 
 houses adjourned until the next day. 
 
 On the succeeding day, as soon as the orders were read, the same 
 member addressed the chair, and afterwards oflFered the following reso- 
 lutions : 
 
 " Resolved, That this house will wait upon the President, in condolence 
 of this mournful event. 
 
 " Resolved; That the speaker's chair be shrouded with black, and that 
 the members and officers of the house wear black during the session. 
 
 "Resolved, That a committee, in conjunction with one from the Senate, 
 be appointed to consider on the most suitable 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." 
 
 WASHINGTON AND ADMIRAL VEENON. 
 
 When the admiral was attacking Porto Bello, with his six ships only, 
 as is described on the medal struck on the occasion, he observed a fine 
 young man in appearance, who, with the most intrepid courage, attended 
 with mosi perfect calmness, was always in that part of the ship which 
 was most engaged. After the firing had ceased he sent his captain to 
 request he would attend him ; which he immediately obeyed : and the 
 admiral, entering into conversation, discovered by his answers and ob- 
 servations, that he possessed more abilities than usually fall to the lot 
 of mankind in general. Upon his asking his name, the young man 
 told him it was George Washington; and the admiral, on his way home, 
 strongly recommended him to the attention of the admiralty. This 
 great man when he built his house in America, out of gratitude to his 
 first benefactor, named it Mount Vernon, and i>t this moment it !*• iio 
 railed 
 
WASHINGTON. 301 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 The following eloquent and beautiful address was delivered by Mr 
 Webster at the celebration, in Washington City, of the centennial birth- 
 day of George Washington : — 
 
 I rise, gentlemen, to propose to you the name of that great man,- in 
 commemoration of whose birth, and in honour of whose character and 
 services, we have here assembled. 
 
 I am sure that I express a sentiment common to every one present 
 when I say, that there is soinething more than ordinarily solemn and 
 affecting in this occasion. 
 
 We are met to testify our regard for him, whose name is intimately 
 blended with whatever, belongs most essentially to the prosperity, the 
 liberty, the free institutions, and the renown of our country. That 
 name was of power to rally a nation, in the hour of thick-thronging 
 public disasters and calamities; that name shone, amid the storm of 
 war, a beacon light, to cheer and guide the country's friends ; its flame, 
 too, like a meteor, to repel her foes. That name, in the days of peace, 
 was a loadstone, attracting to itself a whole people's confidence, a whole 
 people's love, and the whole world's respect; that name, descending 
 with all time, spread over the whole earth, and uttered in all the' lan- 
 guages belonging to the tribes and races of men, will for ever be pro- 
 nounced with affectionate gratitude by every one in whose breast there 
 shall arise an aspiration for human rights and human liberty. 
 
 We perform this grateful duty, gentlemen, at the expiration of a 
 hundred years from his birth, near the place so cherished and beloved 
 by him, where his dust now reposes, and in the capital which bears his 
 own immortal name. 
 
 All experience evinces, that human sentiments are strongly affected 
 by associations. The recurrence of anniversaries, or of longer periods 
 of time, naturally freshens the recollection, and deepens the impres- 
 sion of events with which they are historically connected. Renowned 
 places, also, have a power to awaken feeling, which all acknowledge. 
 No American can pass by the fields of Bunker Hill, Monmouth, or 
 Camden, as if they were ordinary spots on the earth's surface. Who- 
 ever visits them, feels. the sentiment of love of country kindling anew, 
 as if the spirit that belonged to the transactions which have rendered 
 these places distinguished, still hovered round, with power to move and 
 excite all who in future time may approach them. 
 
 But neither of these sources of emotion equals the power with which 
 great moral examples affect the mind. When sublime virtues cease to 
 be abstractions ; when they become embodied in human character, and 
 exemplified in human conduct, we should be false to our own nature if 
 we did not indulge in the spontaneous effusions of our gratitude and our 
 admiration. A true lover of the virtue of patriotism delights to con- 
 template its purest models ; and that love of country may be well sus- 
 pected which affects to soar so high into the regions of sentiment as to 
 2A 
 
302 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK.' 
 
 be lost and absorbed in the abstract feeling ; and becomes too elevated, 
 or too refined, to glow either with power in the commendation or the 
 love of individual benefactors. All this is immaterial. It is as if one 
 should be so enthusiastic a lover of poetry as to care nothing for Homer 
 or Milton ; so passionately attached to eloquence as to be indifferent to 
 Tully and Chatham ; or such a devotee to the arts, in such an ecstasy 
 with the elements of beauty, proportion, and expression, as to regard tho 
 master-pieces of Raphael and Michael Angelo with coldness or contempt. 
 We may be assured, gentlemen, that he who really loves the thing itself 
 loves its finest exhibitions. A true friend of his country loves her 
 friends and benefactors, and thinks it no degradation to commend and 
 commemorate them. The voluntary outpouring, of the public feeling, 
 made to-day, from the North to -the South, and from the East to the 
 West, proves this sentiment to be both just and natural. In the cities 
 and in the villages, in the public temples and in the family circles, 
 among all ages and sexes, gladdened voices, to-day, bespeak grateful 
 hearts, and a freshened recollection of the virtues of the Father of his 
 country. And it will be so, in all time to come, so long as public virtue 
 is itself an object of regard. The ingenuous youth of America will hold 
 up to themselves the bright model of Washington's example, and study 
 to be what they behold ; they will contemplate his character till all its 
 virtues spread out and display themselves to their delighted vision, as 
 the earliest astronomers, the shepherds on the plains of Babylon, gazed 
 at the stars till they saw them form into clusters and constellations, 
 overpowering at length the eyes of the beholders with the united blaze 
 of a thousand lights. 
 
 Gentlemen, we are at the point of a century from the birth of Wash- 
 ington ; and what a century it has been ! During its course the human 
 mind has seemed to proceed with a sort of geometric velocity, accom- 
 plishing more than had been done in fives or tens of centuries preceding. 
 Washington stands at the commencement of a new era, as well as at the 
 head of the New World. A century from the birth of Washington 
 has changed the world. The country of Washington has been the 
 theatre on which a great part of that change has been wrought; and 
 Washington himself a principal agent by which it has been accomplished. 
 His age and his country are equally full of wonders ; and of both he is 
 the chief. 
 
 If the prediction of the poet, uttered a few years before his birth, be 
 true ; if indeed it be designed by Providence that the proudest exhibi- 
 tion of human character and human afiairs shall be made on this theatie 
 of the Western world ; if it be true that 
 
 The four first acts already past, 
 
 A fifth shall close the drama with the day : 
 
 Time's noblest offspring is the last — 
 
 how could this imposing, swelling, final scene be appropriately opened, 
 how could its intense interest be adequately sustained, but by the intro- 
 "duction of just such a character as our Washington ? 
 
 Washington had attained his manhood when that spark of liberty was 
 
WASHINGTON. 303 
 
 Btmck out in his own country, which has since kindled into a flame, and 
 shot its heams over the earth. In the flow of a century from his birth, 
 the world has changed in science, in arts, in the extent of commerce, in 
 the improvement of navigation, and in all that relates to the civilization 
 of man. But it is the spirit of human freedom, the new elevation of 
 individual man, in his moral, social^ and political character, leading the 
 whole long train of other improvements, which has most remarkably 
 distinguished the era. Society, in this century, has not made its pro- 
 gress, like Chinese skill, by a greater acuteness of ingenuity in trifles ; 
 it has not merely lashed itself to an increased speed round the old circle.s 
 of thought and action ; but it has assumed a new character, it has raised 
 itself from benealh governments to a participation in governments ; it 
 has mixed moral and political objects with the daily pursuits of indi- 
 vidual men, and, with a freedom and strength before altogether un- 
 known, it has applied to these objects the whole power of the human 
 understanding. It has been the era, in short,- when the social principle 
 has triumphed over the feudal principle ; when society has maintained 
 its rights against military power, and established, in foundations never 
 hereafter to be shaken, its competency to govern itself. 
 
 It was the extraordinary fortune of Washington, that, having been 
 intrusted in revolutionary times with the supreme military command, 
 and having fulfilled that trust with equal renown for wisdom and foi 
 valour, he should be placed at tlie head of the first government in which 
 an attempt was to be made, on a large scale, to rear the fabric of social 
 order on the basis of a written constitution, and of a pure representa- 
 tive principle. . A government was to be established, without a throne, 
 without an aristocracy, without castes, orders, or privileges ; and this 
 government, instead of being a democracy existing and acting within the 
 walls of a single city, was to be extended over a vast country, of difier- 
 ent climates, interests, and habits,, and of various sects and sentiments 
 of the Christian religion. The experiment certainly was entirely new. 
 A popular government, of this extent, it was evident, could be framed 
 only by carrying into fiill efiect the principle of representation, or of 
 delegated power; and the world was to see whether society could, by 
 the strength of this principle, maintain its own peace and good govern- 
 ment, carry forward its own great interests, and conduct itself to politi- 
 cal renown and glory. By the benignity of Providence, this experiment, 
 BO full of interest to us and to our posterity for ever — so full of interest 
 to the world, in its present generation, and in all its generations to come, 
 was sufiered to commence under the guidance of Washington. Destined 
 for this high career, he was fitted for it by wisdom, by virtue, by patriot- 
 ism, by discretion, by whatever can inspire confidence in man toward 
 man. In entering on the untried scenes, early disappointment and the 
 premature extinction of all hope of success would have been certain, 
 had it not been that there did exist throughout the country, in a most 
 extraordinary degree, an unwavering trust in him whose hand held the 
 helm of affairs. 
 
 I remarked, gentlemen, that the whole world was and is interested 
 in the result of this experiment. And is it not so? Do we deceive 
 
304 FIBLDS'S SCRAP-BOOTJ. 
 
 ourselves, or is it true, that at this moment the career whish this govern 
 ment is running is among the most attractive objects to the civilizuil 
 world ? Do we deceive ourselves, or is it true, that at this moment that 
 love of liberty and that understanding of its true principles, which are 
 flying over the whole world, as on the wings of all the winds, are really 
 and truly of American origin ? 
 
 At the period of the birth of Washington, there existed in Europe 
 no political liberty, in large communities, except the Provinces of Hol- 
 land, and except that England herself had set a great example, so far 
 as it went, by her glorious Revolution of 1688. Everywhere else, 
 despotic power was predominant, and the feudal or military principle 
 held the mass of mankind in hopeless bondage. One half of Europe 
 was crushed beneath the Bourbon sceptre, and no conception of political 
 liberty, no hope even of religious toleration, existed among that nation 
 which was America's first ally. The king was the state, the king was 
 the country, the king was all. There was one king, with power not 
 derived from his people, and too high to be questioned ; and the rest 
 were all subjects, with no political right, but obedience — all above was 
 intangible power; all below quiet subjection. A recent occurrence in 
 the French Chambers shows us how human sentiments on these subjects 
 have changed. A minister had spoken of the " king's subjects." 
 " There are no subjects," exclaimed hundreds of voices at once, " in a 
 country where the people make the king." . 
 
 Gentlemen, the spirit of human liberty and of free government, nur- 
 tured and grown into strength and beauty in America, has stretched its 
 course into the midst of the nations. Like an emanation from Heaven, 
 it has gone forth and it will not return void. It must change, it is fast 
 changing the face of the earth. Our great, our high duty, is to show, 
 in our own example, that this spirit is a spirit of health, as well as a 
 spirit of power ; that its- benignity is as great as its strength ; that its 
 efficacy to secure individual rights, social relations, and moral order, is 
 equal to the irresistible force with which it prostrates principalities and 
 powers. The world, at this moment, is regarding us with a willing, but 
 something of a fearful admiration. Its deep and awful anxiety is to 
 learn whether free states may be stable, as well as free ; whether popular 
 power may be trusted, as well as feared. In,short, whether wise, regular, 
 and virtuous self-government is a vision, for the contemplation of theo- 
 rists, or a truth, established, illustrated, and brought into practice, in 
 the country of Washington. 
 
 Gentlemen, for the earth which we inhabit, and the whole circle of 
 the sun — for all the unborn races of mankind, we seem to hold in our 
 hands, for their weal or wo, the fate of this experiment. If we fail, 
 who shall venture the repetition ? If our example shall prove to be 
 one, not of encouragement, but of terror — not fit to be imitated, but fit 
 only 10 be shunned, where else shall the world look for free models '! If 
 this great Western Sun be struck out of the firmament, at what other 
 fountain shall the lamp of liberty hereafter be lighted ? What other 
 orb shall emit a ray, to glimmer even, on the darkness of the world ? 
 
 Gentlemen, there is no danger of our overrating or overstating the 
 
■WASHINGTON. 306 
 
 important part which we are now acting in human affairs. It should 
 not flatter our personal self-respect, but it should reanimate our patriotic 
 virtues, and inspire us with a deeper and more solemn sense both of oui 
 privileges and of our duties. We cannot wish better for our country, 
 nor for the world, than that the same spirit which influenced Washington 
 Miay influence all who succeed him ; and that that same blessing from 
 above which attended his efforts may also attend theirs. 
 
 The principles of Washington's administration are not left doubtful. 
 They are to be found in the Constitution itself — in the great measures 
 recommended and approved by him — in his speeches to Congress, and 
 in that most interesting paper, his Farewell Address to the People of 
 the tJnited States. The success of the government under his adminis- 
 tration is the highest proof of the soundness of their principles. And, 
 after an experience of thirty-five years, what is there which an enemy 
 could condemn — what is there which either his friends, or the friends 
 of the country, could wish to have been otherwise ? I speak, of course, 
 of great measures and leading principles. 
 
 In the firs' p}sce, all his measures were right in intent. He stated 
 the whole basis of his own great character, when he told the country, 
 in the homely phrase of the proverb, that honesty is the best policy. 
 One of the most just and most striking things ever said of him, is, that, 
 " he changed mankind' s idea of political greatness." To commanding 
 talent, and to success, the common elements of such greatness, he added 
 a disregard of self, a spotlessness of motive, a steady submission to every 
 public and private duty, which threw far into the shade the whole crowd 
 of vulgar great. The object of his regard was the whole country. No 
 part of it was enough to fill his enlarged patriotism. His love of glory, 
 so far as that may be supposed to have influenced him at all, spumed 
 every thing short of general approbation. It would have been nothing 
 to him, that his partisans or his favourites outnumbered, or outvoted, or ■ 
 outmanaged, those of other leaders. He had no favourites — ^he rejected 
 all partisanship ; and, acting honestly for the universal good, he deserved 
 what he has so richly enjoyed, the universal love. 
 
 His principle it was, to act right, and to trust the people for support ; , 
 his principle it was not, to follow the lead of sinister and selfish ends, , 
 and to rely on the little arts of party delusion to obtain public sanction . 
 for such a course. Born for his country, and for the world, he did not 
 give up to party what was meant for mankind. The consequence is, , 
 that bis fame is as durable as his principles, as lasting as truth and virtue 
 themselves. While the hundreds whom party excitement, and tem- 
 porary circumstances, and casual combinations, have raised into tran- 
 sient notoriety, sink again, like their bubbles, bursting and dissolving- 
 into the great ocefan, Washington's fame is like the rock, which bounds, 
 that ocean, and at whose feet its billows are destined to break harmlessly 
 for ever. 
 
 The maxims upon which Washington conducted our foreign relations 
 were few and simple. The first was, an entire and indisputable impar- 
 tiality towards foreign states. He adhered to this rule of public conduct, . 
 against very strong inducements to depart from it, and when th« popu- 
 2a^ 20 
 
306 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 larity of the moment seemed to favour such a departure. In the next 
 place, he maintained true dignity and unsullied honour in all commu- 
 nications with foreign states. It was among the high duties devolved 
 upon him, to introduce our new government' into the circle of civilized 
 states and powerful nations. Not arrogant or assuming, with no unbe- 
 coming or supercilious bearing, he yet exacted for it, from all others, 
 entire and punctilious respect. He demanded, and he obtained at once, 
 a standing of perfect equality for his country in the society of* nations ; 
 nor was there a prince or potentate of his day, whose personal charaot.r 
 carried with it, into the intercourse with other states, a greater degree 
 of respect and veneration. 
 
 He regarded other nations only as they stood in natural relations to 
 us. With their internal affairs, their political parties and dissensions, 
 be scrupulously abstained from all interference ; and, on the other hand, 
 he spiritedly repelled all such interference by others with us or our con- 
 cerns. His sternest rebuke, the most indignant measure of his whole 
 administration, was aimed against such an attempted interference. He 
 felt it as an attempt to wound the national honour, and resented it 
 accordingly. 
 
 The reiterated admonitions in his Farewell Address show his deep 
 fears, that foreign influence would insinuate itself into our counsels, 
 through the channels of domestic dissension, and obtain a sympathy 
 with our own temporary parties. Against all such dangers, he most 
 earnestly entreats the country to guard itself. He appeals to its patriot- 
 ism, to its respect, to its own honour, to every consideration connected 
 with its welfare and happiness, to resist, at the very beginning, all ten- 
 dencies toward such connection of foreign interests with our own affairs. 
 With a tone of earnestness nowhere else found, even in kis last affec- 
 tionate farewell advice to his countrymen, he says — " Against the insi- 
 dious wiles of foreign influence, (I conjure you to believe me, fellow- 
 c.tizens,) the jealousy of a free people ought to be constantly awake; 
 since history and experience prove that foreign influence is one of the 
 most baneful foes of republican government." 
 
 Lastly, on the subject of foreign relations, Washington never forgot 
 that we had interests peculiar to ourselves. The primary political con- 
 cerns of Europe, he saw, did not affect us. We had nothing to do with 
 her balance of power, her family compacts, or her successions to thrones. 
 We were placed in a condition favourable to neutrality during European 
 wars, and to the enjoyment of all the great advantages of that relation. 
 " Why, then," he asks us, " why forego the advantages of so peculiar 
 a situation ? Why quit our own to stand upon foreign ground ? Why, 
 by interweaving our destiny with that of any part of Europe, entan- 
 jrle our peace and prosperity in the toils of European ambition, rival- 
 ghip, interest, humour, or caprice 1" 
 
 Indeed, gentlemen, Washington's Farewell Address is full of truths, 
 
 important at all times, and particularly deserving consideration at the 
 
 present. With a sagacity which brought the future before him, he saw 
 
 and pointed out the dangers that even at this moment most imminently 
 
 ■ t.lireat'in us I hardly know how a greater favour of that kind could 
 
WASaiNGTON. 307 
 
 DOW be done to the community than'by a renewed and wide diffusion of 
 that admirable paper, and an earnest invitation to every man in the 
 country to re-peruse and consider if. Its political maxims are inva- 
 luable ; its exhortations to love of country and to brotherly affection 
 among citizens, touching; and the solemnity with which it urges the 
 observance of moral duties, and impresses the power of religious obli- 
 gation, gives to it the highest character of truly disinterested, sincere, 
 parental advice. 
 
 The domestic policy of Washington found its pole-star in the avowed 
 objects of the Constitution itself. He sought so to administer that con- 
 stitution as to form a more perfect union, establish justiue, ensure do- 
 mestic tranquillity, provide for the common defence, promote the ge^neral 
 welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty. These were objects inte- 
 resting in the highest degree to the whole country, and his policy em- 
 braced the whole country. 
 
 Among his earliest and most important duties was the organization 
 of the government itself, the choice of his confidential advisers, and the 
 various appointments to office. This duty, so important and delicate, 
 when a whole government was to be organized, and all its offices for the 
 first time filled, was yet not difficult to him ; for he had no sinister ends 
 to accomplish, no clamorous partisans to gratify, no pledges to redeem, 
 no object to be regarded, but simply the public good. It was a plain, 
 straightforward matter- — a mere honest choice of good men, for the 
 public service. 
 
 His own singleness of purpose, his disinterested patriotism, were 
 evinced by the selection of his first cabinet, and by the manner in which 
 he filled the courts of justice, and other plaees of high trust. He 
 sought for men fit for offices ; not for offices which might suit men. 
 
 Above personal considerations, above local considerations, above party 
 considerations, he felt that he could only discharge the sacred trust 
 which the country had placed in his hands, by a diligent inquiry after 
 real merit, and a conscientious preference of virtue and talent. The 
 whole country was the field of his selection. He explored that whole 
 field, looking only for whatever it contained most worthy and distin- 
 guished. He was, indeed, most successful, and he deserved success, for 
 the purity of his motives, the liberality of his sentiments, and his en- 
 larged and manly policy. 
 
 Washington's administration established the national credit, made 
 provision for the public debt, and for that patnotic army whose interests' 
 and welfare were always so dear to him ; and by laws wisely framed, 
 and of admirable effect, raised the commerce and navigation of the 
 country, almost at once, from depression and ruin, to a state of pros- 
 perity. Nor were his eyes open to these interests alone. He viewed 
 with equal concern its agriculture and manufacture? ; and so far as they 
 came within the regular exercise of the powers of this government, they 
 experienced regard and favour. 
 
 It should not be omitted, gentlemen, even in t]jis slight reference to 
 the general measures and general principles of the first president, that 
 ■16 saw and felt the full value and importance of the judicial departn-eu; 
 
808 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 cf the government. An upright and able adrainistratiun of the ia,yr», 
 he held to be indispensable to public happiness and public liberty. The 
 temple of justice, in his judgment, was a sacred place, and he would 
 profane and pollute it, who should assign any to minister in it, not spot- 
 less in character, not incorruptible in integrity, not competent by talent 
 and learning, not fit objects of unhesitating trust. 
 
 Among other admonitions, Washington left us, in his last communi- 
 cation to his country, an exhortation against the excesses of party spirit. 
 A fire not to be quenched, he yet conjures us not to fan and feed the 
 flame. Undoubtedly, gentlemen, it is the greatest danger of our system 
 and of our time. Undoubtedly, if that system should be overthrown, 
 it will be the work of excessive party spirit, acting on the government, 
 which is dangerous enough, or acting in the government, which is a 
 thousand times more dangerous — for government then becomes nothing 
 but an organized party ; — and in the strange vicissitudes of human 
 affairs, it may come at last, perhaps, to exhibit the singular paradox of 
 government itself being in oppositio^i to its own powers, at war with the 
 very elements of its own existence. Such cases are hopeless. As men 
 may be protected against murder, but cannot be guarded against suicide, 
 so government may be shielded from the assaults of external foes, but 
 nothing can save it when it chooses to lay violent hands on itself. 
 
 Finally, gentlemen, there was in the breast of Washington one senti- 
 ment so deeply felt, so constantly uppermost, that no proper occasion 
 escaped without its utterance. From the letter which he signed, in be- 
 half of the convention, when the Constitution was sent out to the people, 
 to the moment when he put his hand to that last paper in which he ad- 
 dressed his countrymen, the Union, the Union, was the great object of 
 his thoughts. In that first letter, he tells them that to him, and his 
 brethren of the convention, union is the greatest interest of every true 
 American ; and in that last paper he conjures them to regard that unity 
 of government, which constitutes them one people, as the very palladium 
 of their prosperity and safety, and the security of liberty itself. He 
 regarded the union of these States, not so much one of our blessings 
 as the great treasure-house which contained them all. Here, in his 
 judgment, was the great magazine of all our means of prosperity ; here, 
 as he thought, and as every trjie American still thinks, are deposited all 
 our animating prospects — all' our solid hopes for future greatness. He 
 has taught us to maintain this government, not by seeking to enlarge 
 its powers on the one hand, nor by surrendering them on the other ; 
 but by an administration of them, at once firm and moderate, adapted 
 for objects truly national, and carried on in a spirit of justice and equity. 
 
 The extreme solicitude for the preservation of the union, at all timfes 
 manifested by himj shows not only the opinion he entertained of its use- 
 fulness, but his clear perception of those causes which were likely to 
 spring up to endanger it, and which, if once they should overthrow the 
 present system, would leave little hope of any future beneficial re-union. 
 Of all the presumptions indulged by presumptuous man, that is one of 
 the rashest, which looks for repeated and favourable opportunities for 
 the deliberate establishment of a united government over distinct and 
 
WASHINGTON, 309 
 
 widely extended communities. Such a thing has happened once in 
 human affairs, and but once; the event stands out as a prominent 
 exception to all ordinary history, and, unless we suppose ourselves run- 
 ning into an age of miracles, we may not expect its repetition. 
 
 Washington, therefore, could regard, and did -regard, nothing as of 
 paramount political interest, but the integrity of the union itself. With 
 a united government, well administered, he saw we had nothing to fear ; 
 and without it nothing to hope. The sentiment is just, and its moment- 
 ous truth should solemnly impress the whole country. If we might 
 regard our country as personated in the spirit of Washington j if we 
 might consider him as representing her, in her past renown, her present 
 prosperity, and her future career, and as in that character demanding of 
 us all to account for our conduct, as political men, or as private citizens, 
 how should he answer him who has ventured to talk of disunion and 
 dismemberment ? Or, how should he answer him who dwells perpe- 
 tually on local interests, and fans every kindling flame of local prejudice ? 
 How should he answer him who would array state against state, interest 
 against interest, and party against party, careless of the continuance of 
 that unitif of government which constitutes us one people ? 
 
 Gentlemen, the political prosperity which this country has attained, 
 and which it now enjoys, it has acquired mainly through the instrumen- 
 tality, of the present government. While this agent continues, the 
 capacity of attaining to still higher degrees of prosperity exists also. 
 We have, while this lasts, a political life, capable of beneficial exertion, 
 with power to resist or overcome misfortunes, to sustain us against the 
 ordinary accidents of human affairs, and to promote, by active efforts, 
 every public interest. But dismemberment strikes at the very being 
 which preserves these faculties ; it would lay its rude and ruthless hand 
 on this great agent itself. It would sweep away, not only what we pos- 
 sess, but all power of regaining lost, or acquiring new possessions. It 
 would leave the country, not only bereft of its prosperity and happiness, 
 but without limbs, or organs, or faculties, by which to exert itself here- 
 after, in the pursuit of that prosperity and happiness. 
 
 Other misfortunes may be borne, or their effects overcome. If 
 disastrous war sweep our commerce from the ocean, another generation 
 may renew it ; if it exhaust our treasury, future industry may replenish 
 it ; if it desolate and lay waste our fields, still, under a new cultivation, 
 they will grow green again, and ripen to future harvests. It were but 
 a trifie even if the walls of yonder Capitol were to crumble; if its lofty 
 pillars should fall, and its gorgeous decorations be all covered by the 
 dust of tlis valley. All these might be rebuilt. But who shall recon- 
 struct the fabric of demolished government 1 Who shall rear again the 
 well-proportioned columns of constitutional liberty ? Who shall frame 
 together the skilful architecture which unites national sovereignty with 
 state rights, individual security, and public prosperity ? No, gentle- 
 men, if these columns fall, they will, be raised not again. Like the 
 Colosseum and the Parthenon, they will be destined to a mournful, a 
 melancholy immortality. Bitterer tears, however, will fiow over them, 
 than were ever shed over the monuments of Roman or Grecian art ; for 
 
31() FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 they will be the lemnants of a more glorious edifice than Greece orliome 
 ever saw — the edifice of Constitutional American Liberty. 
 
 But, gentlemen, let us hope for better things. Let us trust in that 
 gracious Being, who has hitherto held our country as in the hollow of 
 his hknd. Let us trust to the virtue and the intelligence of the people, 
 and to the efficacy of religious obligation. Let us trust to the influence 
 of Washingtnfi's example. Let us hope that that fear of Heaven which 
 expels all other fear, and that regard to duty which transcends all other 
 regard, may influence public men and private citizens, and lead our coun- 
 try still onward in her happy career. Pull of these gratifying anticipa- 
 tions and hopes, let us look forward to the end of that century which is 
 now commenced. A hundred years hence, other disciples of Washington 
 will celebrate his birth, with no less of sincere admiration than we now 
 commemorate it. When they shall meet as we now meet, to do them- 
 selves and him that honour, so surely as they shall see the blue summits 
 of his native mountains rise in the horizon ; so surely as they shall 
 behold the river on whose banks he lived, and on whose banks he rests, 
 still flowing to the sea ; so surely may they see, as we now see, the flag 
 of the Union floating on the top of the Capitol ; and then, as now, may 
 the sun in his course visit no land more free, more happy, more lovely 
 than this our own country. 
 
 YOUTHFUL FRIENDSHIPS. 
 
 In youthful minds there is commonly a strong propensity for particu- 
 lar intimacies and friendships. Youth, indeed, is the season when friend- 
 ships are sometimes formed, which not only continue through succeeding 
 life, but which glow to the last with a tenderness unknown to the con- 
 nections begun in cooler years. This propensity, therefore, is not to be 
 discouraged, though at the same time it must be regulated with circum- 
 spection and care. Too many of the pretended friendships of youth are 
 mere combinations of pleasure. They are often founded on capricious 
 likings, suddenly contracted, and as suddenly dissolved. Sometimes 
 they are the efieet of interested complaisance and flattery on the one side, 
 and of credulous fondness on the other. Beware of such rash and dan- 
 gerous connections, which may afterwards load you with shame and 
 dishonour. Remember, that by the character of those whom you choose 
 for your friends, your own is likely to be formed, and will certainly be 
 judged of by the world. Be slow, therefore, and cautious in contracting 
 intimacy ; but when a virtuous friendship is once established, consider it 
 as a sacred engagement. Expose not yourselves to the reproach of lightness 
 and inconstancy, which always bespeaks either a trifling or base mind. 
 Reveal none of the secrets of your friend. Be faithful to his interests 
 Forsake him not in danger. Abhor the thought of acquiring any advan- 
 tage by his prejudice or hurt. 
 
WHAT IS LIFE? — THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH. 
 
 311 
 
 WHAT IS LIFE? 
 
 AJT eagle flew np ir hia heavenward flight, 
 
 Far out of the reach of human sight, 
 
 Ahd gazed on the earth from his lordlj height 
 
 In the clouds of the upper air: — 
 And this is life, he exultingly screams ; 
 To soar without peer where the lightning gleams, 
 And look unblenched on the sun's gorgeous beams, 
 
 And know of no harrowing care. 
 
 A lion leap'd forth from his bloody bed, 
 
 Aitd roar'd till it seem'd he vonld wake the dead ; 
 
 And man and beast from him tremblingly fled^ 
 
 As though there was death in the tone : — 
 Ami this is life, he triumphantly cried ; 
 To hold my domain in the forest wide, 
 Imprison'd alone by the ocean's tide 
 
 And the ice of the frozen zone. 
 
 It is life, said a whale, to swim the deep ; 
 O'er hills submerged and abysses to sweep. 
 Where the gods of ocean their vigils keep 
 
 In the fathomless gulf below : — 
 To bask on the bosom of tropic seaa. 
 And inhale the fragrance of Ceylon's breeze. 
 Or sport where the turbulent waters freeze. 
 
 In the climes of eternal snow. 
 
 It is life, saya a tireless albatross. 
 
 To skim through the air when the black waves toss. 
 
 In the storm that has swept the earth across. 
 
 And never to wish for rest: — 
 To sleep on the breeze as it softly flies. 
 My perch in the air, my shelter the skies. 
 And build my nest on the billows that rise, 
 
 And break with a beautiful crest. 
 
 It is life, said a wild gazelle to leap 
 From crag to crag of the mountainous steep. 
 Where the cloud's icy tears in purity sleep. 
 Like the marble brow of death :— 
 
 To stand unmoved on the uttermost verge 
 
 Of 'the perilous height, and hear the surge 
 
 Of the waters beneath, that onward urge. 
 
 As if sent by a demon's breath. 
 
 It is life, I hear a butterfly say, 
 
 To revel in blooming gardens by day. 
 
 And nestle in cups of flowerets gay. 
 
 When the stars the heavens illume:— 
 To steal from the rose its delicate hue ; 
 To sip from the hyacinth glittering dew. 
 And catch from the beds of the violet blue 
 
 The richest and sweetest perfume. 
 
 It is life, a majestic war-horse neigh'd. 
 To prance in the glare of battle and blade. 
 Where thousands in terrible death are laid. 
 
 And to scent of the streaming gore : — 
 To rush nnappall'd through the fiery heat. 
 And to trample the dead beneath my feet. 
 To the trumpet's clang, and the drum's loud beat* 
 
 And hear the artillery roar. 
 
 It is life, said a savage, with hideous yell, 
 To roam unshackled the mountain and dell. 
 And feel my bosom with majesty swell. 
 
 As the primal monarch of all: — 
 To gaze on the earth, the sky, and the sea. 
 And know that like them I am chainless and free. 
 And never, while breathing, to bend the knee, 
 
 But at the Manitou's call. 
 
 An aged Christian went tottering by. 
 
 And white was his hair, and dim was his eye. 
 
 And his broken spirit seem'd ready to fly 
 
 While he said, with faltering breath ; — 
 It is life, to move, from the heart's first throes, 
 Through youth and manhood to .Tge's snows. 
 In a ceaseless circle of joys and woes : — 
 
 It is life to prepare for death ! 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN OP MAEAH. 
 
 BT MRS. HEM ANS. 
 
 * And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter. 
 ' And the people murmured against Moses, saying, What shall we drink? 
 
 ** And b e cried unto the Lord, and the Lord showed him a tree, which, when, he bad cast into the waloi^, 
 the waters were made swoet." — Ex. xv. 22—25. 
 
 Where is the tree the prophet threw 
 
 Into the bitter wave 7 
 Left it no scion where it grew, 
 
 The thirsty soul to save 7 
 
 Hath nature lost the hidden power. 
 
 Its precious foliage shed 7 
 Is there no distant extern bower, 
 
 With such sweet leaves o'erspread f 
 
 Nay, wherefore ask 7— since gifts are our% 
 
 Which yet may well imbue 
 Earth's many troubled founts with showor* 
 
 Of Heaven's own balmy dew. 
 
 Oh ! mingled with the cup of grief 
 
 Let faith's deep spirit be. 
 And every prayer shall win a leaf 
 
 From that blevt healing tree. 
 
312 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 SOUTH CAROLINA. 
 
 The following patriotic sentiments are extracted from speeches dtili- 
 vered in the Senate of the United States, on subjects connected with the 
 lamentable disturbances in South Carolina, some years since, in relation 
 to nullifying certain laws of the United States. 
 
 BY MR. WEBSTER. 
 
 What are the oppressions experienced under the Union, calling for 
 measures which thus threaten to sever and destroy it ? What invasions 
 of public liberty, what ruin to private happiness, what long list of rights 
 violated, or wrongs unredressed, is to jufitify to the country, to posterity, 
 and tc the world, this assault upon the free Constitution of the United 
 States, this great and glorious work of our fathers ? At this very mo- 
 ment, sir, the whole land smiles in peace, and rejoices in plenty. A 
 general and high prosperity pervades the country; and, judging by the 
 common standard, by increase of -population and wealth ; or judging by 
 the opinions of that portion of her people not embarked in those danger- 
 ous and desperate measures, this prosperity overspreads South Carolina 
 herself 
 
 Thus, happy at home, our country at the same time, holds high the 
 character of her institutions, her power, her rapid growth, and her future 
 destiny, in the eyes of all foreign states. One danger, only, creates 
 hesitation; one doubt, only, exists to darken the otherwise unclouded 
 brightness of that aspect which she exhibits to the view and to the 
 admiration of the world. Need I say, that that doubt respects the per- 
 manency of our Union ? And, need I say, that that doubt is now caused, 
 more than by any thing else, by these very proceedings of South Caro- 
 lina ? Sir, all Europe is, at this moment, beholding us, and looking for 
 the issue of this controversy; those who hate free institutions, with 
 malignant hope ; those who love them, with deep anxiety and shivering 
 fear. 
 
 The cause, then, sir, the cause ! Let the world know the cause which 
 has thus induced one State of the Union to bid defiance to the power of 
 the whole, and openly to talk of secession. 
 
 Sir, the world will scarcely believe that this whole controversy, and, 
 all the desperate measures which its support requires, have no other 
 foundation than a difference of opinion, upon a provision of the Consti- 
 tution, bettveen a majority of the people of South Carolina, on one side, 
 and a vast majority of the whole people of the United States on the 
 other. It will not credit the fact, it will not admit the possibility that, 
 in an enlightened age, in a free, popular republic, under a government 
 where the people govern, as they must always govern under such systems, 
 by majorities, at a time of unprecedented happiness, without practical 
 oppression, without evils, such as may not only be pretended, but felt 
 and experienced — evils, not slight or temporary, but deep, permanent, 
 and intolerNhle — a single State should rush into conflict with all the rest, 
 
SOUTH CAROLINA. 313 
 
 attempt to put down the power of the Union by her own laws, and to 
 support those laws by hermilitary power,- and thus break up and destroy 
 the world's last hope. And well the world may be incredulous. We, 
 who hear and see it, can ourselves hardly yet believe it. Even after all 
 that had preceded it, this ordinance* struck the country with amaze- 
 ment. It was incredible and inconceivable, that Sputh Carolina should 
 thus plunge headlong into resistance to the laws on a matter of opinion, 
 and on a question in which the preponderance of opinion, both of 
 the present day and of all past time, was so overwhelming against 
 her. The ordinance declares that Congress has exceeded its just powers, 
 by laying duties on imports intended for the protection of manufactures. 
 This is the opinion of South Carolina ; and, on the strength of that 
 opinion, she nullifies the laws. Yet, has the rest of the country no right 
 to its opinions also ? Is one State to sit sole arbiters ? She maintains 
 that those laws are plain, deliberate, and palpable violations of the Con- 
 stitution ; that she has a sovereign right to decide this matter ; and, that, 
 having so decided, she is authorized to resist their execution, by her own 
 sovereign power; and she declares that she will resist it, though such 
 resistance shatter the Union into atoms. 
 
 Mr. President, I do not intend to discuss the propriety of these laws 
 at large ; but I will ask, how they are shown to be thus plainly and 
 palpably unconstitutional ? Have they no countenance at all in the 
 Constitutioniitself ? Are they quite new in the history of the Govern- 
 ment ? Are they a sudden and violent usurpation on the rights of the 
 States ? Sir, what will the civilized world say ; what will posterity sayy 
 when they learn that similar laws have existed from the very foundation 
 of the Government; that for thirty years the power was never ques- 
 tioned ; and that no State in the Union has more freely and unequivoeally 
 admitted it than South Carolina herself? 
 
 *,* * * * * * * 
 
 Mr. President, if the friends of nullification should be able to propa- 
 gate their opinions, and give them practical effect, they would, in my 
 judgment, prove themselves the most skilful " architects of ruin," the 
 most effectual extinguishers of high-raised expectation, the greatest 
 blasters of human hopes which any age has produced. They would 
 stand up to proclaim, in tones which would pierce the ears of half the 
 human race, that the last great experiment of representative government 
 had failed. They would send forth sounds, at the hearing of which this 
 doctrine of the divine right of kings would feel, even in its grave, a return- 
 ing sensation of vitality and resuscitation. Millions of eyes, of those who 
 now feed their inherent loVe of liberty on the success of the American 
 example, would turn away from beholding our dismemberment, and find 
 ao place on earth whereon to rest their gratified sight. Amidst the inoan- 
 '.ations and orgies of nullification, secession, disunion, and revolution, 
 would be celebrated the funeral rites of constitutional and republican 
 liberty. 
 
 * The Ordinanos paaned by the South Carolina CoBvention, purporting to nullify eer- 
 tain laws of the United States. 
 2B 
 
314 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 But, s.r, if t ae government do its duty ; if it act with firmness and 
 with moderation, these opinions cannot prevail. Be assured, sir, be 
 assured, that, among the political sentiments of this people, the love of 
 union is still uppermost. They will stand fast by the Constitution, and 
 by those who defend it. I rely on no temporary expedients — on no 
 political combination — but I rely on the true American feeling, the 
 genuine patriotism of the people, and the imperative decision of the 
 public voice. Disorder and confusion, indeed, may arise ; scenes of com- 
 motion and contests are threatened, and, perhaps, may come. With my 
 whole heart, I pray for the continuance of the domestic peace and quiet 
 of the country. I desire most ardently the restoration of affection, and 
 harmony to all its parts. I desire that every citizen of the whole country 
 may look to this government with no other sentiments but those of 
 ' grateful respect and attachment. But I cannot yield, even to kind feel- 
 ings, the cause of the Constitution, the true glory of the country, and the 
 great trust which we hold in our hands for succeeding ages. If the 
 Constitution cannot be maintained without meeting these scenes of com- 
 motion and contest, however unwelcome, they must come. 
 
 We cannot, we must not, we dare not omit to do that which, in our 
 judgment, the safety of the Union requires. Not regardless of conse- 
 quences, we must yet meet consequences; seeing the hazards which 
 surround the discharge of public duty, it must yet be discharged. For 
 myself, sir, I shun no responsibility justly devolving on me, here or 
 elsewhere, in attempting to maintain the cause. I am tied to it by in- 
 dissoluble bands of affection and duty, and I shall cheerfully partake of 
 its fortunes and its fate. I am ready to perform my own appropriate 
 part whenever and wherever the occasion may call on me, and to take 
 my chance among those upon whom blows may fall first and fall thick- 
 est. I shall exert every faculty I possess in aiding to prevent the Con- 
 stitution from being nullified, destroyed, or impaired ; and even should 
 I see it fall, I will still, with a voice, feeble perhaps, but earnest as ever 
 issued from human lips, and with fidelity and zeal which nothing shall 
 extinguish, call on the PEOPLE to come to its rescue. 
 
 BY MR. RIVES. 
 
 It is time, Mr. President, to put an end to our unhappy divisions. 
 It has been my fortune, in another situation, to witness the effects they 
 have produced on the character and consideration of our government 
 abroad, and on the generous efforts of the friends of liberty in other 
 parts of the .world. Sir, my heart has swollen with a pride and exultation 
 which can be appreciated only by those who have felt them in a foreign 
 land, when I have heard my country the theme of every longue — its 
 institutions, with the glorious results of liberty and happiness they have 
 produced, the subject of universal envy and admiration, rebuking, on 
 the one hand, the gloomy spirit of despotism, and animating, on the 
 other, the generous aspirations of freedom. But, in a few short months, 
 how has this scene been changed ! The language of admiration and 
 
SOUTH CAROLINA. 315 
 
 rospeet lost in that of indifference and distrust ; the votaries of liberty 
 discouraged and confounded; the disciples of legitimacy exulting in the 
 failure of the only system of free government which ever promised a 
 perfect success ; all Europe filled with predictions of a speedy dissolu- 
 tion of our Union, and consigning us henceforward to the same rank 
 of impotence and anarchy as the unhappy and distracted States of the 
 southern part of our own continent. 
 
 These have been the bitter fruits of our divisions abroad. What have 
 they been at home ? In the midst of unexampled prosperity, anxiety 
 and alarm pervading every bosom — that sacred Union, in regard to 
 which we were taught, by the father of our country, to " discountenance 
 whatever might suggest even a suspicion that it could, in any event, be 
 abandoned," openly questioned and decried, and millions trembling for 
 its fate. Sir, let us put an end to these divisions — let us disappoint the 
 malignant predictions of the enemies of free government — let us restore 
 confidence to the patriot at home, and hope to the votary of freedom 
 abroad. I do, in my conscience, believe that the preservation of tho 
 Union is our only security for liberty. If we are to be broken into 
 separate confederacies, constant wars and collisions with each other must 
 ensue, out of which will grow up large military establishments, perpetual 
 and burdensome taxes, and overshadowing executive power; and amid 
 these deleterious influences, what hope can there be that liberty will 
 survive ? 
 
 It is here, I confess, that I see the danger of military despotism, and 
 not where the imagination of the Senator from South Carolina (Mr. 
 Calhoun) has found it. Is not the actual condition of South Carolina, 
 in this respect, an impressive admonition to us on this subject — the 
 whole State converted into a camp, the executive and other authoritiesi 
 armed with dictatorial powers, the rights of conscience set at naught, 
 and an unsparing proscription ready to disfranchise one half of her 
 population ! Sir, this is but a prefiguration of the evils and calamities 
 to which every portion of this country would be destined, if the Union 
 should be dissolved. Let us, then, rally round that sacred Union, fixing 
 it anew, and establishing it for ever on the immutable basis of equal 
 justice, of mutual amity and kindness, and an administration at once 
 firm and paternal. Let us do this, and wc shall carry back peace to our 
 distracted country, happiness to the affrighted fireside, restore stability 
 to our threatened institutions, and give hope and confidence once more 
 to the friends of liberty throughout the world. Let us do this, and we 
 shall be, in short, what a bountiful Providence has heretofore made us, 
 and designed us for ever to remain, the freest and happiest people undei 
 the sun. 
 
 BY MR. CLAYTON. 
 
 The honourable Senator from South Carolina (Mr. Calhoun) has told 
 us that all human institutions, like those who form them, contain within 
 themselves the elements of their own destruction, and that our own go- 
 
816 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. ' - 
 
 vernmeDt is now exhibiting their operation. To the general philosopbia 
 remark I would not have objected, but for its application. All the 
 works of man are destined to decay, but while the great body of the 
 people shall remain true to themselves, our government can never be 
 destroyed, for it contains within itself endless and ever renascent ener- 
 gies, which must bring it out in triumph against every effort to destroy 
 it. From foreign force it can have nothing to fear; it dreads nothing 
 now from any section of the Union which shall ever seek to protect 
 itself from the just operation of our laws by foreign intervention. Yes, 
 sir, a foreign alliance, sought by any member of this confederacy for the 
 purpose of making war upon us, would be the means, under heaven, of 
 immediately rallying every patriot, of every political party, under the 
 broad banner of the republic. I agree, however, sir, that the mortal 
 blow to our liberties may be struck by a hand which has been indebted 
 to us for existence. The shaft which shall stretch the American eagle 
 bleeding and lifeless in the dust must be feathered only from his own 
 pinions ; and, oh ! how bitter will be the curses of men, in all ages to 
 eome, against the traitorous heart and the parricidal hand of him who 
 jihall loose that fatal arrow from the string. 
 
 Uemember him^ the villain, righteous hea/ven, 
 In the great day'of vengeance ! Blast the traitor, 
 / And his pernicious counsels, who, for wealth, 
 
 For power, the pride of greatness, or revenge, 
 Would plunge his native land in civil wars. 
 
 BY MR. CLAY, ON THE BILL OJO MODIFY THE TARIFF. 
 
 The difference between the friends and the foes of the compromise, 
 under consideration, is, that they would, in the enforcing act, send forth 
 alone a flaming sword. We would send out that also, but, along with it, the 
 olive-branch, as a message of peace. They cry out, The law ! the law ! the 
 law ! Power ! power ! power ! We, too, reverence the law, and bow to 
 the supremacy of its obligation ; but we are in favour of the law executed 
 in mildness, and of power tempered with mercy. They, as we think, 
 would hazard a civil commotion, beginning in South Carolina and extend- 
 ing, God only knows where; while we would vindicate the authority of 
 the Fede'ral Uovernment. We are for peace, if possible, union and 
 liberty. We want no war, above all, no civil war, no family strife. We 
 want to see no sacked cities, no desolated fields, no smoking ruins, no 
 streams of American blood shed by American arms ! 
 
 I have been accused of ambition in presenting this measure. Ambi- 
 tion ! inordinate ambition ! If I had thought of myself only, I nevei 
 should have brought it forward. I know well the perils to which I ex- 
 'pose myself; the risk of alienating faithful and valued friends, with but 
 too little prospect of making new ones, if any new ones could compen- 
 sate for the loss of those whom we have long tried and loved : and the 
 honest roiscomeptions both of friends and foes. Ambition ! If I had 
 listenea to its soft and seducing whispers; if I had yielded myself to th/> 
 
SOUTH CAROLINA. 317 
 
 dictates of a cold, calculating, and prudential policy, I woald have stood 
 still and unmoved. I might even have silently gazed on the raging storm, 
 enjoyed its loudest thunders, and left those who are charged with the 
 care of the vessel of state to conduct it as they could. * * * 
 * * * I am the candidate for no office. I never expect 
 
 to he the candidate for any office the American people can give me, 
 united or separated. If I can but appease the storm now raging in this 
 Union, my ambition is gratified — gratified — gratified. I ask for no 
 more — I desire no more than to see ns once more, as a band of brothers, 
 linked in a common fraternity. Let me do this — pass this bill — and 1 
 will retire with content to the lawns and groves of my own Ashland. 
 I will there, among those I love, solace a heart too often wounded in 
 public life — ^with the calmness and repose of domestic tranquillity^ — ^and 
 firom my friends and my family, I shall meet that cordiality and that 
 sympathy I now so ardently desire. They know me — they understand 
 me. I appeal to my God and to them for the sincerity of my motives. 
 Yes, I have ambition, but it is the ambition of being the humble instru- 
 ment, in the hands of Providence, to reconcile a divided people — once 
 more to revive concord and harmony in a distracted land. The pleasing 
 ambition of contemplating the glorious spectacle of a &ee, united, pros- 
 perous, and fraternal people ! 
 
 EXTRACT rROM MR. POINSETT'S SPEECH, DELIVERED IN CHABLESTON, 
 SOUTH CAROLINA, DURING THE NULLIFICATION EXCITEMENT. 
 
 Wherever I have been, I have been proud of being a citizen of this 
 republic, and to the remotest comers of the earth, have walked erect and 
 secure under that banner which our opponents would tear down and 
 trample under foot. I was in Mexico when the town was taken by 
 assault. The house of the American ambassador was then, as it ought 
 to be, the refuge of the distressed and persecuted ; it was pointed out to 
 the infuriated soldiery as a place filled with their enemies. They rushed 
 to the attack. My only defence was the flag of my country, and it was 
 flung out at the instant that hundreds of muskets were levelled at us. 
 Mr. Mason (a braver man never stood by his friend in the hour of dan- 
 ger) and myself placed ourselves beneath its waving folds, and the attack 
 was suspended. We did not blench, for we felt strong in the protecting 
 arm of this mighty republic. We told them that the flag that waved 
 over ns was the banner of that nation to whose example they owed their 
 liberties, and to whose protection they were indebted for their safety. 
 The scene changed as by enchantment ; those men who were on the point 
 of attacking and massacring the inhabitants, cheered the flag of our 
 country, and placed sentinelis to protect it from outrage. Fellow-citizens, 
 in such a moment as that, ^ould it have been any protection to me and 
 mine to have proclaimed myself a Carolinian ? Should I have been here 
 to tell- you this tale if I had hung out the Palmetto and single star ? 
 Be assured that, to be respected abroad, we must maintain oui place ii; 
 the Union. 
 2b2 
 
318 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOR. 
 
 SINGULAK INCIDENT. 
 
 Sever.VL years ago there was a charity sermon given out to be 
 preached, one Sabbath evening in a dissenting chapel, at a seaport town 
 in the west of England. When the preacher ascended the pulpit, he 
 thus addressed his hearers : — " My brethren, before proceeding to the 
 duties of this evening, allow me to relate a short anecdote. Many years 
 have now elapsed since I was last within the walls of this house. Upon 
 that evening the pastor of the congregation (of which many now present 
 must have formed a part) addressed his hearers for the same benevolent 
 purpose as that for which I am now about to appeal to you. Among 
 the hearers came three evil-disposed young men, with the intention not 
 only of scoffing at the minister of Grod, but with their pockets filled with 
 stones for the purpose of assaulting him. After the minister had spoken 
 a few sentences, one of the three said, 'Damn him, let us be at him.' 
 But the second replied, ' No, stop till we hear what he makes of this 
 point.' The minister went on for some time, when the second said, 
 ' We've heard enough now — throw !' But the third interfered, saying, 
 * He's not so foolish as I expected; let us hear him out.' The preacher 
 concluded his discourse without being interrupted, and went home amidst 
 the blessings of his hearers, and the approbation of God to his heart. 
 Now mark me, my brethren — of these three young men, one of them 
 was executed a few months ago, at Newgate, for forgery — the second at 
 this moment lies under sentence of death in the jail of this city for mur- 
 der — the other," continued the minister, with great emotion — " the third, 
 through the infinite goodness of God, is even, now about to address you — 
 listen to Mm !" 
 
 VALUE OF THE UNION. 
 
 As individuals, we have no more interest in preserving the union of 
 these States than those who are ready to sacrifice it rather than see pro- 
 tection withdrawn or withheld from any one branch of domestic industry. 
 ]?ut, nevertheless, we have so much interest at stake, that we regard dol- 
 lars and cents, even though swelled to millions, as unworthy of a thought, 
 when contrasted with our hitherto unbroken and happy union. When 
 once this golden chain shall be dissolved — if such is to be its fate — we 
 shall not only be disgraced in the eyes of all civilized nations, but we 
 shall feel the shock through " every vein of this wide empire," palsying 
 industry, depreciating property, and preparing the way for new disas- 
 ters. If " freedom shrieked as Kosciusko fell," what will be her emo- 
 tions when she sees that nation, fall for which Kosciusko considered his 
 blood a sacrifice almost too mean to be offered ? — New TorJe Journal of 
 Commerce-. 
 
LAST WORDS OP EMMETT. — SATUKDAT NIGHT. 319 
 
 LAST WORDS OF ROBEET EMMETT. 
 
 If the spirit of the illustrious dead participate in the concerns and 
 cares of those who were dear tp them in this transitory life — Oh ! ever 
 dear and venerated shade of my departed father, look down with scrutiny 
 upon the conduct of your suffering son, and see if I have even for a 
 moment deviated from those principles of morality and patriotism which 
 it was your care to instil into my youthful mind, and for which I am 
 now to offer up my life. My lords, you seem impatient for the sacrifice; 
 the blood for which you thirst is not congealed by the artificial terrors 
 which surround your victim : it circulates warmly and unruffled through 
 the channels which God created for nobler purposes, but which you are 
 bent to destroy for purposes so grievous, that they cry to Heaven. Be 
 ye patient ! I have but a few words more to say. I am going to my 
 cold and silent grave ; my lamp of life is nearly extinguished ; my race 
 is run ; the grave opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom. I 
 have but one request to ask at my departure from this world — it is the 
 charity of its silence. Let no man write my epitaph, for as no man who 
 knows my motives dares now vindicate them, let not prejudice or igno- 
 rance asperse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity, and my tomb 
 remain uninscribed, until other times and other men can do justice to 
 my character. When my country takes her place among the nations of 
 the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written. . I have 
 done! 
 
 SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 It is good, when the week is ended, to look back upon its business 
 and its toils, and mark wherein we have failed of our duties or come 
 short of what we should have done. The close of the week should be 
 to each one of us like the close of our lives. Every thing should be 
 adjusted, with the world and with our God, as if we were about to leave 
 the one and appear before the other. The week is, indeed, one of the 
 regular divisions of life, and when it closes it should not be without its 
 moral. From the end of one week to the end of another, the mind can 
 easily stretch onward to the close of existence. It can sweep down the 
 stream of time to the distant period when it will be entirely beyond 
 human power to regulate human affairs. Saturday is the time for moral 
 reflection. When for the mercies of the week we are thankful, and 
 when our past months and years come up in succession before us — we 
 see the vanity of our youthful days and the vexations of manhood, and 
 tremble at the approaching winter of age. It is then we should with- 
 draw from the business and the cares of the world, and give a though; 
 to our end, and to what we are to be hereafter. 
 
iJ20 PIKLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF T-KENTON. 
 
 YotJ have heard of General Knox, then Colonel — and of his stento- 
 rian voice. I assure you that no justice can be done to him or ft ; my 
 ears rang, for a fortnight after, at the same hour of the night, and do 
 yet, when I remember how he galloped about, cursing, swearing, dis- 
 mounting every five minutes, and lifting his own artillery, like a giant. 
 He was a gallant fellow — full of blood — with all the blunt, strong New 
 England hardihood. And Greene himself was there — the only man of 
 all our troops capable, I believe, in case of any disaster, to take the 
 place of Washington ; there he sat full of deep religious composure — 
 his broad forehead fronting the fires, that were kindled near the place 
 of embarkation. 
 
 At last, though not until three o'clock in the morning, we were fairly 
 landed upon the Jersey shore, and by five had taken up our line of 
 march. 
 
 Our whole army passed, softly and silently by, two or three officers, 
 posted upon the road-side, continually waving their swords with a mo- 
 tion as if to enjoin the most deathlike stillness; and deathlike it was, 
 for nothing could be heard but the blowing of horses, a jolting sound 
 now and then in the wet snow where the artillery wagons and gun 
 carriages cut through the ground — and a general rush, deep, heavy, as 
 water. 
 
 A few moments after, a troop of Virginians under Captain Washing- 
 ton, (afterwards so distinguished at the South,) paraded in beautiful 
 style through the heavy snow, and brought us intelligence which tended 
 to accelerate our march. Before his arrival, we had hoped (as I after- 
 wards found) to surprise the enemy at Trenton, while yet overpowered 
 by the festivities of the preceding night — aud make his morning sleep 
 the sleep of death; but now that hope was abandoned, for Captain 
 Washington had encountered his picket, exchanged a few shots, and left 
 him prepared for what it is remarkable that he had heard a vague ru- 
 mour of — our intended attack. Yet this very affair, which at first 
 threatened to be so disastrous, the frolic of Captain Washington, was 
 probably the chief reason why we succeeded in surprising the enemy 
 at last ; for, as that was not followed up, he retired to quarters, after 
 waiting a reasonable time, as we afterwards found, thinking the whole a 
 Virginia roic. 
 
 Our troops were now thrown into two divisions. We were separated 
 from our father — who was detailed under Sullivan and St. Clair to take 
 the river road — while we, under Washington himself, Greene, Morris, 
 and Stevens, pushed onward through what ia called the Pennington 
 road. 
 
 A few moments afterwards — just while I thought my heart had lost 
 Its motion entirely — for I felt, in looking about me, and seeing the dark 
 array of substantial but noiseless creatures, horses and wagons — as if 
 the whole army were an apparition — a cavalcade of dead men — march- 
 
THE BATTLE OP TRENTON. 321 
 
 ing from oiifi place of burial to another. I heard a shot so near ine 
 that my horse leaped out of my rank. This was foil )wed by a loud cry 
 —two or three words — a volley — and then shot after shot, as if a line 
 ■if sentinels, sleeping upon their posts, had suddenly started up, one 
 after the other, fired oflF their pieces and run in. 
 
 Our advance were well furnished with bayonets — and they immedi- 
 ately charged upon the picket, and we dashed after them, trampling 
 them to death with our horses, riding over them like a whirlwind, with- 
 out speaking-a word or firing a shot. This was scarcely done, when we 
 ueard the firing of the other division, at the opposite quarter — so ad- 
 mirably timed had been the arrangement — and we immediately galloped 
 into the centre of the town, horse and foot, determined to ride the enemy 
 down, or bayonet them, before they had time to form. Washington 
 was dreadfully exposed. The first picket, thinking this a second attack 
 of the same little skirmishing party that had fired into them befo'd, 
 neglected to give the alarm, — and the outposts, though they fought most 
 gallantly, retreating step by step, behind the houses, disputing every 
 inch, and presenting their bright bayonets, without a flash of powder, 
 wherever we rode in upon them — so that we could not, with all our 
 cutting and spurring, force our horses upon them — and then the moment 
 we had faced about, blazing away upon us, and running to the next 
 house — were driven in. 
 
 At last we had an opportunity for fair play ; the Hessians were formed, 
 and forming, with the whole glittering with bayonets. A tremendous ■ 
 struggle was going on at our right, under the very eye of Washington, . 
 with the enemy's artillery, which was taken, when, with a troop of" 
 horse, Archibald rode down, his cap ofij his sword flashing like a fire- ■ 
 brand, in the light and smoke of the musketry — " Charge ! charge !" 
 he cried — " charge ! my brave fellows ! and provoke them to fire."' 
 Another troop ! another ! and another ! thundered down, from the rightT 
 and left, but with no efiect at all upon the invincible Germans — the< 
 front rank kneeled all around — while the rest were forming, and' pre- 
 sented their bayonets, without firing a shot. 
 
 " By heavens !" said Archibald, shouting as if his heart would break, , 
 to Captain Washington — " I will try them again !" And, as he said so,, . 
 he rode at full speed, so near that it appeared to me that he could have 
 struck the enemy with his sword — and fired his pistol into their faces. 
 Our front rank followed the example — and the next moment, all the 
 Hessians brought their pieces up to their checks, and poured a tre- 
 mendous volley in upon us. I saw my father fall — Arthur reel in his 
 stirrups — but Archibald, as if prepared for this very thing, shouted,'. 
 " Wheel and charge !" 
 
 " Wheel and charge I" repeated a -hundred voices in our rear — " wheel • 
 and charge !" 
 
 We obeyed and the snow flew — and the swords flashed — and the next 
 moment, a hundred of the enemy — the whole of his front rank — were- 
 trampled to death before us, and twenty human heads rolled upon the 
 ground, among the feet of our horses. 
 
 The infantry under Greene poured in volley afters volley, ^t the sama" 
 
 21 
 
822 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 time ; and Knox, having brought round his light field-pieces to bear, as 
 if they had been blunderbusses, plajed in upon them an uninterrupted 
 roll of thunder and smoke. 
 
 It was impossible to stand it — ^no human being could have endured 
 the hurricane of fire bullets longer. They threw down their arms — and 
 then it was — then — ^when it was necessary to move about the quiewr 
 operations of strife, that we began to feel th^ intense coldness of tie 
 night — the keen air cutting into our new woi^nds, like rough broken 
 glass. 
 
 DE KALB. 
 
 This good man was major-general in the American army during the 
 revolutionary war. He was a German by birth, a brave and meritori- 
 ous oflScer. He had attained a high reputation in military service, and 
 was a knight of the order of military merit, and a brigadier general in 
 the armies of Prance. He accompanied the Marquis de la Fayette to 
 this country, and, having proffered his services to Congress, he was ap- 
 pointed to the office of major-general. He repaired to the main army, 
 in which he served at the head of the Maryland division, very much 
 respected. 
 
 Possessing a stout frame, with excellent health, no officer was more 
 able to encounter the toils of war. Moderate in mental powers, as in 
 literary acquirements, he excelled chiefly in practical knowledge of men 
 and things, gained during a life of close and accurate investigation of the 
 causes and effects of passing events. 
 
 At the battle of Camden, in South Carolina, the Baron de Kalb com- 
 manded the right wing of the American army. At the commencement 
 (if the action the great body of militia who formed the left wing of the 
 army, on being charged with fixed bayonets by the British infantry, 
 tiirew down their arms, and with the utniost precipitation fled from the 
 field. In this battle the Americans suffered a severe defeat and loss. 
 The continental troops, who formed the right wing of the army, inferior 
 as they were in numbers to the British, stood their ground, and main- 
 tained the conflict with great resolution. Never did men acquit them- 
 -selves better. The Americans lost the whole of their artillery, eight 
 field-pieces, upwards of two hundred wagons, and the greater part of 
 'their baggage. The royal army fought with . great bravery, but their 
 victory was in a great measure owing to their superiority in cavalry, and 
 
 ■ the precipitate retreat of the American militia. 
 
 De Kalb, sustaining by his splendid example the courageous effort of 
 our inferior force, in his last resolute attempt to seize victory, received 
 eleven wounds, and was made prisoner. His lingering life was rescued 
 
 ■ from immediate death by the brave interposition of Lieutenant-colonel 
 <.le Buysson, one of his aide-de-camps, who embraced the prostrate general 
 and received into his own body the bayonets pointed at his friend. 
 Ohevalier de Buysson rushed through the clashing bayonets, and, stretoli- 
 
 ■ tng his arm's over the body of the fallen hero, exclaianed, "Save the 
 
COLONEL HORRY. 323 
 
 baron de Kalb ! save the Baron de Kalb !" The British officers inter- 
 posed and prevented his immediate destruction ; but be survived the 
 action but a few hours. To a British officer, who kindly condoled with 
 him in' his misfortune, he replied, " I thank you for your generous sym- 
 pathy, but I die the death I always prayed for; the death of a soldier 
 fighting for the rights of man." 
 
 The heroic veteran, though treated with every attention, survived but 
 a few hours. Never were the last moments of a soldier better employed. 
 He dictated a letter to General Smallwood, who succeeded to. the com- 
 mand of his division, breathing in every word his sincere and ardent 
 affection for his officers and soldiers, expressing his admiration of their 
 late noble, though unsuccessful stand; reciting the eulogy which their 
 bravery had extorted from the enemy ; together with the lively delight 
 such testimony of their value had excited in his own mind, then hov^ng 
 on the shadowy confines of life. Peeling the pressure of death, he 
 stretched out his quivering hand to his friend and aide-de-camp Chevalier 
 de Buysson ; proud of his generous wounds, he breathed his last bene- 
 dictions on his faithful brave division. 
 
 Greneral Washington, many years after, on a visit to Camden, inquired 
 for the grave of De Kalb. After looking on it a while, with a counte- 
 nance mailed with thought, he breathed a deep sigh, and exclaimed, 
 " So there lies the brave De Kalb ; the generous stranger who came 
 from a foreign land to fight our battles, and to water with his blood the 
 tree of our liberty. Would to God he had lived to share its fruits !" 
 
 On the 14th of October, 1780, Congress erected a monument to his 
 memory, in the town of Annapolis, in the State of Maryland. 
 
 COLONEL HORRY. 
 
 A LUDiCEOUS story is told of Col. Horry, who was once ordered to 
 await the approach of a British detachment in ambuscade ; a service he 
 performed with such skill, that he had them completely within his 
 power, when, from a dreadful impediment in his speech, by which he 
 was afflicted, he could not articulate the word " Fire." In vain he made 
 the attempt — ^it was fi, fi, fi, fi, — but he could get no further. At 
 
 length, irritated to almost madness, he exclaimed, " Shoot, you, — 
 
 shoot— you know very well what I would say — shoot, shoot, and be 
 
 to you I" He was present in every engagement of consequence, 
 
 and on all occasions increased his reputation. At Quinby, Col. Baxter, 
 a gallant soldier, possessed of great coolness, and still greater simplicity 
 of character, calling out, "I am wounded, colonel !" Horry replied, 
 " Think no more of it, Ba:^ter, but stand to your post." " But I can't 
 stand, colonel — I am wounded a second time !" " Then lie down, 
 Baxter, but quit not your post." " Colonel," cried the wounded man, 
 " they have shot me again, and if I remain any longer here I shall be 
 shot to pieces." " Be it so, Baxter, but stir not." H,e obeyed the 
 order, and actually received the fourth wound before this engage- 
 ment ended. 
 
324 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 THE GENIUS OF COLUMBIA. 
 
 BY DB. L. W. BAKEB. 
 
 Wandeiung, in meditative mood, along the solitary banks of a wind- 
 ing stream, in the month of December, my attention became arrested 
 by the radiance of the moon and spangled firmament, whose clear and 
 enchanting lights were unobscured, save by a few fleecy fragments that 
 floated above the southern horizon. I paused — cast my eyes downward, 
 and, for a moment, gazed on the countless multitude of heavenly bodies, 
 reflected on the surface of the limpid water ; and again, looking aloft, 
 thanked my God that I had been born under an American sky — in a 
 land of liberty, not less prolific than Egypt's boasted Delta — in a coun- 
 try characterized by the excellence of its institutions, and the harmony 
 and loyalty of its people. 
 
 Contemplating the majesty of the scenery around me, in connection 
 with the probable destiny of our political Uniouj I found myself invo- 
 luntarily exclaiming, If there be a spot in the universe where human 
 rights are justly appreciated and enjoyed, it is here ! If there be a 
 place on earth where the human mind, unfettered by tyrannical institu- 
 tions, may rise to the summit of intellectual grandeur, it is here ! If 
 there be a country in which the human heart, in public and in private, 
 may burst forth in unrestrained adoration to the God that made it, it is 
 
 here ! And proceeding, in a half-audible soliloquy, to enumerate the 
 
 blessings that result from the union of the States, I was suddenly 
 startled by a voice from the south, ringing discordantly in the air, and 
 
 sounding the tocsin of rebellion and war ; and lo ! the dark-browed 
 
 tempest was gathering. Instead of the fieecy fragments that lately ho- 
 vered over the southern border, impended a dark and stormy cloud, 
 apparently surcharged with thunder and electric fire. — Forbid it, Heaven ! 
 I exclaimed ; " forbid it, at least, until the ej'e.s of the last soldier of 
 the Eevolution shall have been closed in death ! Let Mm not see the 
 political fabric, for which he toiled and bled, crumbling into ruins !" 
 
 Shocked at the aspirations of unholy ambition, and afilieted by this 
 additional evidence of the uncertainty of human afiairs, I continued to 
 gaze, in silent amazement, at the inauspicious signal, till, hearing a 
 rustling noise above me, I looked upward, and behold ! an apparition, 
 in human form, was descending on one of the fleecy fragments. — Con- 
 founded, I thought of Hamlet's ghost, and sprang forward; but in- 
 stantly checked by the consciousness of some benign influence, I stood, 
 and calmly surveyed the ethereal visitant, as it approached me, with a 
 hlow and solemn air. The countenance was that of a female, marked 
 by dejection, but infinitely surpassing our boldest conceptions of the 
 majesty of woman. Her costume was of the richest satin, exquisitely 
 adornea with stars and stripes. In her left hand she clasped an olive 
 branch, and in her right perched the American eagle, holding in its 
 talons a bow and quiver. "I am," said she, " the Genius of Columbia ! — 
 
THE TOMB OF A WOMAN. 325 
 
 When Washington, sustained by the statesman and the soldier, suc- 
 ceeded in establishing these United States, 'as the land of the free and 
 the home of the brave' — a refuge from persecution and tyranny, it was 
 hoped they had planted my standard on a permanent basis. But, alas ! 
 one of my children, reckless of consequences, threatens to divide, and 
 to furnish a precedent for future divisions of the stars and stripes upon 
 that banner, which has hitherto waved triumphantly in the field and on 
 the mast-top." — For a moment, the crystal tear-drop trickled down 
 her fading cheek ; but suddenly rising aloft, as if recalled in haste to 
 her native sphere, she exclaimed, " Oh ! that my people would remem- 
 ber the salutary motto, 'United we stand ! Divided we fall !'" 
 
 The gloom from the face of the hearens retired ; 
 The winds ceased to murmur, the thunders expired; 
 Perfomes, as of Eden, flow'd sweetly along. 
 And a voice, as of angels, exultingly sung, 
 Columbia ! Columbia i to glory arise. 
 The queen of the world, m d the child of the skies. 
 
 THE TOMB OB" A WOMAN. 
 
 Foe myself, I can pass by the tomb of a man with somewhat of indif- 
 ference ; but wl),en I survey the grave of a female, a sigh involuntarily 
 escapes me. With the name of woman I associate every soft, tender, 
 and delicate affection. I think of her as the young and bashful virgin, 
 with eyes sparkling, and cheeki crimsoned with each impassioned feeling 
 of her heart ; as the kind affectionate wife, absorbed in the exercises of 
 her domestic duties ; as the chaste and virtuous matron, tired of the 
 follies of the world, and preparing for that grave into which she must so 
 soon descend. Oh ! there is something in contemplating thtf character 
 of a woman that raises the soul far above the vulgar level of society. — 
 She is formed to adorn and humanize mankind, to soothe his cares and 
 strew his path with flowers. In the hour of distress she is the rock on 
 which he leans for support, and when fate calls him from existence, her 
 tears bedew bis grave. Can I look down upon her tomb without emotion ? 
 Man has always justice done to his memory — ^woman never. The pages 
 af history lie open to the one ; but the meek and unobtrusive excellencies 
 of the other sleep with her unnoticed in, the grave. In her have shone 
 the genius of the poet, with the virtue of the saints ; the energy of the 
 man, with the tender softness of the woman. 
 
 Sleep. — Sleep has often been mentioned as the image of death : " So 
 like it," says Sir Thomas Brown, " that I dare not trust it withouf 
 prayer." Their resemblance is, indeed, striking and apparent; they 
 both when they seize the body leave the soul at liberty ; and wise is he 
 that remembers both, and that he can be made safe and happy only by 
 « living faith in Jesus Christ. 
 
 20 
 
S2-3 FIELDS'S SCftAP-BOOK. 
 
 W^ASHINGTON LOVED HIS MOTHKK 
 
 IMMEDIATELY after the organization of tHe present government, Ge- 
 neral Washington repaired to Fredericksburg, to pay his hunible duty to 
 his mother, preparatory to his departure for New York. An affecting 
 scene ensued. The son feelingly remarked the ravages which a tortur- 
 ing disease had made Upon the aged frame of his mother, apd thus 
 addressed her : 
 
 " The people, madam, have been pleased, with the most flattering 
 unanimity, to elect me to the chief magistracy' of the United States; but 
 before 'I can assume the functions of my office, I have come to bid you 
 an affectionate farewell. So soon as the public business which must 
 necessarily be encountered in arranging a new government, can be dis- 
 posed of, I shall hasten to Virginia, and" — 
 
 Here the matron interrupted him : " You will see me no more ; my 
 great age, and the disease which is fast approaching my vitals, warn me 
 that I shall not be long of this world. I trust in God, I am somewhat 
 prepared for a better. But go, George, fulfil the high destinies which 
 Heaven appears to have assigned you ; go, my son, and may that Heaven's 
 and your mother's blessing be with you always." 
 
 The president was deeply affected. His head rested upon the shoulder 
 of his parent, whose aged arm feebly yet fondly encircled his neck. 
 That brow on which fame had wreathed the purest laurel virtue ever 
 gave to created man, relaxed from its lofty bearing. That look which 
 could have awed a Boman senate in its Pabrician day, was bent in filial 
 tenderness upon the time-worn features of the venerable matron. 
 
 The great man wept. A thousand recollections crowded upon his 
 mind, as memory, retracing scenes long past, carried him back to the 
 paternal mansion and the days of his youth, and there the centre of 
 attraction was his mother, whose care, instructions, and discipline had 
 prepared him to reach the topmost height of laudable ambition ; yet how 
 were his glories forgotten while he gazed upon her, from whom, wasted 
 by time and malady, he must soon part to meet no more ! 
 
 The matron's predictions were true. The disease which had so long 
 preyed upon her frame completed its triumph, and she expired at the 
 age of eighty-five years, confiding, in the promises of immortality to the 
 humble believer. 
 
 A Faithful Soldier. — One day in the middle of winter, General 
 Greene, when passing a sentinel who was barefooted, said, " I fear, my 
 good fellow, yoa suffer much from the severe cold." " Very much," 
 was the reply, " but I do not complain ; I know I should fare better, had 
 our general the means of getting supplies. They say, however, that in 
 a few days we shall have a fight, and then I shall take care t» secure a 
 pair of shoes." 
 
SUSPICION, — ^THERl! IS A GOD. 327 
 
 SUSPICION. 
 
 J KNOW of no persons more miserable themselves and despised bi 
 others, than those of a suspicious disposition. Tbey are miserable them- 
 selves, as they are ever imagining some designs are plotting against theii 
 persons, their characters, or their property — the most innocent, nay, the 
 best-int«nded act they pervert into a covert snare to entrap them : they 
 see an enemy in every face — a traitor in every friend — a rogue and liar 
 in every man they deal with. They act on the principle that every man 
 is to be considered dishonest — and that too in every particular transac- 
 tion — till at its termination he has proved himself otherwise. How can 
 it be that such are not — and justly too — despised by others ? Even the 
 suspicious man himself must, and does despise suspicion in others. He 
 is willing enough to indulge in it himself, but he can never bear to be 
 suspected by others. But he who is free from this suspicious disposi^ 
 tion ; he who, acting with frankness and candour, expects the same from 
 others — who, knowing himself to be honest and sincere, believes that 
 others are so too — must secretly despise the man who he finds has re- 
 garded him as dishonest, treacherous, and deceitful, in even the minutest 
 afiairs of life. I know of no excuse for a man of suspicious disposition, 
 except that it is an obliquity of mind, arising from constitutional defect, 
 or a habit occasioned by a most untoward series of misfortunes, which 
 has had the effect to alienate or dry up all the finer feelings of the soul. 
 
 THEKE IS A GOD. 
 
 Have you walked abroad into the fields ? Have you Isurveyed the 
 expanse of waters ? Have you examined the earth, its structure, and 
 its form — its surface, its mountains and valleys — its springs and its rivers 
 — its medicinal waters — its plains, wide and extensive ? Hasfe you 
 attentively considered the structure and uses of vegetables and flowers ? 
 Have you become familiar with natural history — with the varieties of 
 animals, birds, insects, and reptiles ? Have you duly reflected upon the 
 uses and phenomena of the atmosphere ? Upon the changes of the 
 seasons, and the vicissitudes of day and night ? Have you raised your 
 wondering eyes to the heavens — have you considered the magnitude of 
 the planets — ^their distance from- us — ^the velocity and regularity of their 
 motions — the awful magnitude of worlds upon worlds — the vastness of 
 systems on systems ? Have you done all this ? And do you tell me 
 that the result of your investigation is, that there mai/ and may not be a 
 God ? No — if you have improved your opportunities, or exercised your 
 powers of mind with any degfee of faithfulness, the fact that there is a 
 God has been riv»ted in your minds ; and youcanfiot, if you would, get rid 
 of it! If you fiave thought at all, you have felt the conviction, that your 
 outgoing and incoming have been beneath the eye of Omnipotence t 
 
328 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK 
 
 FIDELITY. 
 
 Desert not your friend in danger or distress. Too many there are 
 in the world whose attachment to those they call friends is confined 
 to the day of their prosperity. As long as that continues, they are, or 
 appear to be, affectionate and cordial. But as their friend is under a 
 cloud, they begin to withdraw and separate their interests from his. fn 
 friendship of this sort, the heart assuredly has never had much concern. 
 For the great test of true friendship is, constancy in the hour of danger — 
 adherence in the season of distress. When your friend is calumniated, 
 then is the time openly and boldly to espouse his cause. When his situ- 
 ation is changed, or misfortunes are fast gathering around him, then is 
 the time of affording prompt and zealous aid. When sickness or infirm- 
 ity occasions him to be neglected by others, that is the opportunity which 
 every real friend will seize of redoubling all the affectionate attention 
 which love suggests. These are the important duties, the sacred claims 
 of friendship, which religion and virtue enforce on every worthy mind. 
 To show yourselves warm in this manner in the cause of your friend, 
 commands esteem, even in those who have personal interests in opposing 
 him. This honourable zeal of friendship has, in every age, attracted the 
 veneration of mankind. It has consecrated to the latest posterity the 
 names of those who have given up their fortunes and have exposed their 
 lives in behalf of the friends whom they loved ; while ignominy and dis- 
 grace have ever been the portion of those who deserted their friends in 
 the hour of distress. 
 
 TKUTH IS POWEK. 
 
 Some men say that " wealth is power," and some " that knowledge is 
 power ;" above them all, I would assert that " truth is power." Wealth 
 cannot purchase — talent cannot refute — knowledge cannot overreach- 
 authority cannot silence her; they all, like Felix, tremble at her pre- 
 sence. Fling her in the most tremendous billows of popular commotion; 
 cast her into the sevenfold heated furnace of the tyrant's wrath ; she 
 mounts aloft in the ark upon the summit of the deluge; she walks with 
 the Son of Grod untouched through the conflagration. She is the minis- 
 tering spirit which sheds on man that bright and indestructible principle 
 of life, light, and glory, which is given by his mighty Author to animate, 
 to illumine, and to inspire the immortal soul, and which, like himself, " is 
 the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever." When wealth, and talent, 
 ind knowledge, and authority-:— when earth, and heaven itself shall have 
 passed away, truth shall rise like the angel of Manoah's sacrifice, upon 
 the flame of nature's funeral pyre, and ascend to her source, her heaven 
 and her home— the bosom of the holy and et rnal God. 
 
HUMAN LIFE. 329 
 
 HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 Swiftly glide our years — they follow each other like the waves of 
 Acean. Memory calls up the persons we once knew, the scenes in which 
 we once were actors ; they appear before the mind like the phantoms of 
 a night vision. Behold the boy rejoicing in the gayety of his soul — the 
 wheels of time cannot roll too rapidly for him — the light of hope dances 
 in his eye — the smile of expectation plays upon his lip — he looks for- 
 ward to long years of joy to come — his spirit burns within him when he 
 hears of great men and mighty deeds — he wants to be a man — he longs 
 to mount the hill of ambition, to tread the path of honour, to hear the 
 shout of applause. Look at him again — he is now in the m^eridian of 
 life — care has stamped wrinkles upon his brow — disappointment has 
 dimmed the lustre of his eye — sorrow has thrown its gloom upon his 
 countenance — he looks back upon the waking dreams of his youth, and 
 sighs for their futility : each revolving year seems to diminish something 
 from his little stock of happiness, and he discovers, that the season of 
 youth — when the pulse of anticipation beats high — is the only season of 
 enjoyment. Who is he of the aged locks ? His form is bent and totters 
 -T-his footsteps move more rapidly towards the tomb — he looks back 
 upon the past — his days appear to have been few, and he confesses that 
 they were evil : the magnificence of the great is to him vanity — the 
 hilarity of youth, folly : he considers how soon the gloom of death must 
 overshadow the one, and disappointment end the other : the world pre- 
 sents little to attract, and nothing to delight him : still, however, he 
 would linger in it ; still he would lengthen out his days ; though of 
 '' beauty's hloom," of " fancy's flash," of " music's breath," he is forced 
 to exclaim, " I have no pleasure in them." A few years of infirmity, 
 manity, and pain, must consign him to idiocy or the grave : yet this 
 was the gay, the generous, the high-souled boy, who beheld his ascend- 
 ing path of life strewed with flowers without a thorn. Such is human 
 life ; but such cannot be the ultimate destinies of man. 
 
 AMEKICAN LIBERTY. 
 
 Extract from a speech, delivered in the United States Senate, by Mr. 
 G-EUNDT, of Tennessee : — 
 
 " If ever the liberties of America are lost, the last great battle will 
 be fought upon this floor — ^in all time to come, here will be found some 
 American Catos, who will be ready to say with the good old patriot 
 Bomans, We will hold it out and fight to the last ; Heaven and earth 
 shall witness, if America must fall, that we are innocent. Yes, Mr. . 
 President, when the goddess of liberty shall find no resting-place in the 
 executive mansion — when the spirit of anarchy or despotism shall expel 
 her from the Jther end of this Capitol, she will still linger in and about thig 
 chamber, unwilling to be gone ; and when compelled to take her final 
 flight from our land, the last impress of her feet will be on the top of 
 that canopy which overshadows the America i Senate." 
 2c2 
 
S30 FIELDS'S S.aAP-BOOE. 
 
 CHRIST ON CALVARY. 
 
 BT THE HILFOBD BABD. 
 
 There stands the messenger of truth ; there stands 
 
 The legate of the skies ! His theme dlTine, 
 
 His office sacred, his credentials clear. 
 
 By him the violated law speaks out 
 
 Its thunders ; and by him in strains as sweet 
 
 As angels use, the gospel whispers peace. 
 
 He 'stablishes the strong, restores the weak, 
 
 Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart; — Cowpeb. 
 
 I AM iuvited to record my opinion of the most illustri.ous and glorious 
 character that ever condescended to tread the earth— of the most bril- 
 liant and beautiful doctrine that ever illuminated the mind of man. I 
 am solicited to draw the picture of a scene which millions of mankind 
 have contemplated with feelings the most tender and terrific — a scene that 
 the eter.nal Founder of the universe could not view unmoved — a scene of 
 all others the most touching and irresistibly sublime. That character so 
 noble, so magnificent and divine, is no other than the all-glorious and 
 sacred Saviour of the world — that doctrine no less than the luminous and 
 everlasting oracle of his lips-^-that scene so touching, so tremendous and 
 terrific, and which none may rival but the final dissolution of nature, is 
 no other and no less than the crucifixion of a God for the redemption of 
 the insignificant, though immortal creature, man. 
 
 I feel the grandeur of my subject; a theme of all others the most 
 sublime, the most sympathetic and susceptible of melting the heart of 
 man. In contemplating so magnificent a character, I am at a loss for 
 language sufficiently elevated to do justice to his immortal fame; even 
 the pen with which I write, plucked from the wing of the heaven-soaring 
 eagle, is inadequate to the task of portraying the attributes of the Saviour 
 of mankind. The melting story of our Saviour's sufferings, of our 
 Redeemer's wrongs in the prelude, and consummation on Calvary, what 
 human fancy may delineate, what human language describe ? The bril- 
 liant history of that unrivalled character exhibits the deepest traits of 
 human nature that are recorded on the pages of fame, or enrolled in the 
 archives of ages. Whether we behold him in the temple or tribunal, in 
 solitude or society, in pleasure or in pain, he is the same grand and 
 glorious character, the same benevolent and blessed being. He was 
 emphatically the child of humility. Born in a manger, cradled in 
 obscurity, and bred to human industry, he was an example, a striking 
 model of retiring, modesty. We survey him scorned, scourged, and 
 trampled upon, without complaining, and almost without reproof, meek 
 , as the lamb beneath the knife of the butcher. And yet he was a God, 
 the King of kings, whose power was omnipotent, and whose knowledge 
 was unbounded ; who could have shaken the throne and darkened the 
 destiny of even the tyrant that condemned him. Would that I could 
 inherit, at this moment, the electric eloquence of a Summerfield, the 
 unrivalled pencil of a West or a Leonardo di Vinci, that I might do jus- 
 tice to the glorious doctrine and picture of human jedemption. 
 
CHKIST ON CAUART. 331 
 
 N'eitlier the Talmud nor the Koran, nor any other doctrine ever promul- 
 gated by the mouth of man, is so replete in mildness and mercy so full 
 of grandeur and glory, of sublimity and song, as that which our Lord 
 and Saviour gave to a dying world. The saint and the savage, thi« 
 philosopher and the fool, alike have felt its influence and testified to the 
 superb sentiments and living language which it contains. Its influence, 
 what telescopic eye can foresee, what human intelligence recapitulate ? 
 From that great and gloomy though glorious era, when the Saviour came 
 to redeem a fallen world, it has swayed the minds of men, and its influence 
 will continue over millions of men unborn. The cold and treacherous 
 assassin, as he stole at midnight to the couch of sleeping innocence, hath 
 felt its power when the undipped dagger fell from his conscience-stricken 
 hand, and the savage tomahawk has found a grave, by the secret and 
 mysterious influence of its godlike power. It hath bidden the stream of 
 charity to flow from the closed and withered heart of avarice, and it hath 
 released the grip of oppression from the pale and piteous form of penury. 
 Yea, it bath even softened the adamantine heart of the tyrant, and severed 
 the chains which rattled on the arms of the guiltless sons of Africa. The 
 pale and pensive suicide hath called upon it for aid, ere he lifted the 
 weapon to the tottering throne of {-eason, nor did he call in vain ; beneath 
 the influence of its present balm, and promised bliss, the troubled sea of 
 passion subsided, and the wrecks of disappointed hopes broke with the 
 next wave, on the shore of oblivion. Who hath not seen the condemned, 
 the outcast of the earth, whose hands were still reeking with the gore 
 of his fellow man, chained in the deep dark dungeon ? And who hath 
 not seen that dungeon become the happiest home that had ever held that 
 wretch, by the influence of the gospel, making his heart a heaven, and 
 casting a sunshine even on the hour of dreadful dissolution ? Who then 
 but a demon would sigh to see so glorious a gift cut off from the reach 
 of man ? Lives there a wretch who would wish to see the splendid sun 
 of redemption go down for ever in the eternal night of infidelity ? Ay, 
 what man, even a friend to society, would smile to see the flimsy and 
 fanciful philosophy of infidelity triumph over the ruins of the superb 
 system of Christianity. Until something more sublime, something more 
 consoling and conciliatory, can be substituted in the place of the annihi- 
 lating philosophy of infidelity, let the ancient and venerable temple of 
 Christianity still tower over the fallen pyramids of pagan superstition, 
 the safeguard of morals and the harbinger of hope and happiness here- 
 after. I would rather bow at the humble altar of the Christian, than be 
 the priest of the rites and ceremonies of the Delphic oracle — I would 
 rather trust to the merciful promises of the gospel, than be versed in all 
 the splendid and specious philosophy of the French llluminati — I would 
 rather wear the crown of the humblest of the martyrs, than tha,t of the 
 proudest potentate of earth. Where was the brilliant and fine-spun 
 philosophy of Voltaire at the fearful moment of dissolution ? Where 
 were the splendid and sophistical reasonings of Mirabeau, Maupertuis, 
 and D'Alembert, when the last trump sounded in their dying ears ? 
 Gone, like the airv fabric of a noonday dream. As well might sueb 
 
332 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 systems be compared to Christianity as the meteor of the night to the 
 brilliant and beautiful luminary of the day. 
 
 Other characters have arisen, flourished, and fallen — other conquerors 
 have shaken the world with the tumult of their triumphs, and dazzled 
 the imaginations of men with the brilliancy of their achievements, and 
 the rapidity of their career — other patriots have severed the chains and 
 dispelled the Gothic darkness of slavery, entered the temple of fame and 
 recorded the freedom of a nation ; but none may compare with the rising 
 of that illustrious luminary, for he not only shed a light upon succeed- 
 ing ages — he not only conquered the hearts and fallen hopes of man — 
 he not only carried captive the king of terrors and the sins of the world^ 
 but he triumphed over the tomb, and achieved a revolution in the very 
 nature and nothingness, in the very destiny and dignity of man. The 
 splendour of his victories cast a shade upon the exploits of a Scipio and 
 Caesar, for without a sword he revolutionized the world, and beheld the 
 nations kneeling before him — the thunders of Sinai surpassed the elo- 
 quence of a Cicero in its grandeur and power, for it was more irresistible 
 than the clash of arms and the tumult of battle, and the manner of his 
 warfare reversed the order of revolution, giving new life to the combat- 
 ants. And by what means did he achieve so brilliant and beneficial a 
 revolution ! Go muse amid the melancholy and mouldering wrecks of 
 Jerusalem, and ask the genius of those solitudes. Go and ascend the 
 summit of the far-famed Calvary — go to the sepulchre of the Saviour, 
 to the tomb of the triumphant Redeemer, and to the garden where his 
 disciples slept under the influence of grief, and methinks an inspiration 
 from those scenes will recite the story of his sufferings and sorrows, the 
 history, of the redemption of man. 
 
 Let us turn for a moment and survey that scene which eventuated 
 in the emancipation of a world. Let us contemplate that character of 
 all others the most illustrious and divine. We behold the man! to 
 appearance but a man, yet in fact endowed with all the attributes of a 
 God. The prophetic tongues of men long mouldered into dust have 
 foretold his dawning and his doom, and his own intuitive knowledge, 
 his own prophetic soul, is looking forward to that hour which must 
 bring the consummation of that grand catastrophe which was destined 
 to rescue millions from misery; but he shrank not from the sacrifice 
 which was necessary to the consummation. The agonies of the cross 
 could not alarm him, neither had the tomb any terror for him, for he 
 was confident of the triumph, and that he could descend, without fear, 
 to that gloomy repository which covers alike all human hopes and all 
 human anticipations. No human animosity or resentment dwelt in his 
 heavenly heart ; for with kindness and consideration, he designated the 
 man who should betray him. Firmness and dignity were characteristic 
 of him, who was not ignorant that the most cruel and ignominious of all 
 deaths awaited him. Behold him bound and dragged before the high- 
 priest I adjure thee, says Caiaphas,. in the name of the living God, to 
 tell me whether thou art the Christ or not ? If I tell thee, returned 
 the Saviour, thou wil* not believe me ; but nevertheless, 1 say to you, 
 hereafter you shall see the Son of man sitting at the right hand of '.h<^ 
 
CHRIST ON CALVARY. 333 
 
 powei of God, and coming in the clouds of heaven. The priest hearing 
 his words, that he was the Son of God, cried out — He hath blasphemed, 
 and is worthy of death. Ah ! see how meekly he bears the indignities 
 heaped upon him. How melts the heart at the recollection, that he 
 who was at that moment preparing to redeem poor fallen man by the 
 sacrifice of his own sublime life, was also suffering the scorns, the taunts, 
 and buffetings of those same creatures for whom his blood was to be 
 shed. The fall of Peter at that period was a conspicuous example of 
 the weakness of human nature and the strength of human resolution, for 
 he no sooner became conscious of his fall, than he attempted to rise by 
 repentance. " I hear not the voice of St. Peter lamenting his fall," 
 says St. Ambrose, " but I see his tears." Blessed tears that can correct 
 the heart. 
 
 Let us survey the Saviour before Pilate, whom the crowd is calling 
 upon the judge to condemn. Let his blood fall upon us and our chil- 
 dren, cried the Jews; and never was an imprecation more faithfully 
 fulfilled, more avengingly executed. Pilate, borne down by the torreni 
 of his passions, stopped not to listen to the dictates of duty, the plead- 
 ings of pity, or the cries of injured innocence. Here is one of those 
 strong and touching traits of human nature. Though his heart inclined 
 to pity the distressed and succour the innocent, yet the tumult of con- 
 tending passions, the love of wealth, of grandeur and power, the fear of 
 immolating popularity on the altar of humanity, and the dread of the 
 resentment of the mighty Caesar, the autocrat of the earth, opposed the 
 pious dictates of his heart, and resisted the philosophy of pity. 
 
 In mournful silence, let us follow the condemned Saviour to the sum- 
 mit of Calvary, and witness that spectacle, which struck terror to the 
 spectators, and melted even the heart of adamant. Methinks I see him 
 with his crown of thorns, and bending beneath the weight of his cross. 
 The prophecy of Isaiah is fulfilled, for he is ranked with sinners. Me- 
 thinks I see him nailed to the cross. It was the sixth hour of the day, 
 and what a dreadful hour ! We are informed, by the incontestable evi- 
 dence of sacred writ, that a mournful darkness overspread the face of 
 heaven, and shrouded the earth as in mourning. There hung, at that 
 tremendous hour, the adorable Mediator between God and man, a spec- 
 tacle for men and angels, an example of undying love and mercy. There 
 he hung, bleeding and in agony; and though his sufferings were in- 
 sulted, he sought no revenge, for his thoughts were the thoughts of 
 peace. Father, forgive them, for they hnow not what they do. How 
 tender, how touching were his words ! -Covered with wounds, he was, 
 emphatically, that man of sorrows and pains that Isaiah had described. 
 Knowing that all things which had been foretold were fulfilled, that 
 all things were accomplished, and that the grand consummation was at 
 hand, he said, / thirst ; and having drunk the vinegar, he said. It is 
 '.■onsummated. Three hours had this glorious though ghastly spectacle 
 continued, and every thing which the prophets had said of the Saviour 
 and his sufferings being accomplished, nothing remained but to pay the 
 last tribute for the redemption of the world. What an hour was that 
 of sublimity ard sorrow — what a moment of terror and triumnh ! That 
 
334 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 grand type of the Saviour, the glorious sun in the heaven, was eclipsed, 
 as though unwilling to illuminate the earth when the greater light of 
 the world was darkening in death. A universal gloom, as of midnight 
 or the grave, covered the earth until the ninth hour. The globe shook 
 iis with an earthquake, the eternal rocks cracked and split asunder, and 
 the marble jaws of the grave opened and gave up its gloomy dead. 
 Methinks I see the terrific scene, and hear the exclamations of the mul- 
 titude as they gaze with ghastly countenance upon the veil of the temple 
 I'snt in twain. Jesus Christ, at that moment of agony, cried with a 
 loud voice. Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit. Spent with 
 suflFering, he bowed his head and died. 
 
 What a glorious, yet gloomy moment was that ! The world was 
 redeemed ; the accumulated sins of man, which had been darkening his 
 destiny from the Eden era to the Christian, were now washed away by 
 the blood of him, of whom an elegant writer observes, that with the 
 ♦^ery spear which they crucified him, he crucified the world. The very 
 implements of fheir vengeance became the trophies of his victory. At 
 that moment the sting of death was obliterated, and the triumph taken 
 from the grave. At that moment the idol tumbled from the pagan 
 temple, and the genius of its superstitions vanished for ever. The 
 tongues of the heathen oracles, which for ages had held dominion over 
 the intellect of man, became silent, and their inspiration was eclipsed in 
 the glory of the gospel of Grod. While the last words yet quivered upon 
 the lips of the dying Saviour, the mighty revolution was achieved, the 
 law became void, the mysteries and mandates of Moses passed away, 
 and the new dispensation commenced. That dispensation, that gospel, 
 was not for the few, but the many; not for the virtiious alone, but the 
 vicious. The miser bowing before his golden god, the monarch seated 
 in grandeur on his glittering throne, and the beggar bending beneath 
 his woes, are alike the subjects of its denunciations, alike the objects 
 of its ofi"ered mercy. 
 
 How great is our necessity to seize with avidity the benefits which have 
 resulted from this grand catastrophe and glorious consummation ! We 
 are told, by that same illustrious character whom we have contemplated, 
 that the hour is approaching with incredible velocity, when not only we 
 ourselves shall cease to exist, but even the splendid fabric of the universe 
 shall pass away. We have his own word, that he will be present at the 
 august and terrific scene. That he will come in his chariot of fire on 
 tbe clouds, and sit as a spectator of the grand fabric in flames. If that 
 universal alarm were to break forth at this moment in the heavens, what 
 a consternation and confusion would it not produce in the concerns and 
 pursuits of miserly man ! In the resurrection of the Saviour we see a 
 type of that terrific consummation, when every grave shall give up its 
 dead, the sea roll forth its millions, and the tombs of oriental genius 
 and the sepulchres of ancient saints and sages, priests and prophets, 
 teem with life. What a sublime assemblage ! What a magnificent 
 TOultitude : It is impossible for the finite imagination of man to conceive 
 the sublimity of that scene, which Christ has declared shall be exhibited 
 '0 the assembled millions of mankind. The idea of a single planflt 
 
CHKIST ON CALVARY. 335 
 
 wrapt in flames, is too grand to be admitted into the mind ; but to be- 
 hold the millions of those vast globes, which make up the universe, on 
 fire, to behold them released from the restraint of attraction and gravity, 
 and rushing by each other like mighty comets, and bursting with the 
 explosion of their materials, is a picture too great for the mind of man 
 to conceive, or conceiving to describe. 
 
 Let it be sufficient for us to know, that the gospel has come down to 
 us with glad tidings, and that he who rests upon that rock need neither 
 fear to look forward to the dissolution of nature, nor the wreck and ruin 
 of the universe. That he who builds upon that rock need neither fear 
 the gloom of the grave nor the last loud blast which shall announce the 
 cessation of the revolution of time. That doctrine upon which we rest 
 our hopes is destined to be more lasting than the proud Pyramids of 
 Egypt — it has already resisted the test and tooth of time, and stood 
 unhurt amid the whirlwinds of passion. While the empires of the earth 
 have passed away, and the thrones of despots have crumbled into dust, 
 the temple of Christianity hath still stood unhurt by the war of pagan 
 si^rstition, or the incendiary of modern infidelity. Even if it had no 
 relation to futurity, and only exerted its influence in the correction of 
 society, it were a blessing not to be exchanged for heartless infidelities ; 
 it were a blessing the greatest and most glorious ever given to man. 
 That it is founded in truth needs no other proof than the destiny and 
 present dilapidated state of the Jews. The heart of sensibility bleeds 
 for their fate, but it is the eternal fiat of Heaven. That unhappy race 
 is now scattered over the earth, a mark is set upon them, they have 
 become a by-word, and they are the suspected of all men. But they are 
 not forgotten, they are still full of hope and faith, that the Messiah will 
 yet make his appearance, and replace them again in the land of beautiful 
 Palestine — that he will yet come in majesty and mercy to redeem the 
 fallen favourites of Heaven, and to build up the broken-hearted children 
 of Israel. 
 
 How astonishing, how startling is the fact, that Christianity should 
 have been opposed at the very dawn, when every circumstance was 
 fresh in the mind, and by men who had witnessed the very spectacle of 
 an expiring God. " Socrates died like a philosopher," says Bousseau, 
 " but Jesus Christ like a God." Alas ! the catacombs of ruined Rome 
 still exhibit the relics of the illustrious martyrs, who expired under the 
 most excruciating torments, or lingered out a miserable existence in the 
 dungeons of superstitious tyranny. Methinks the agonizing groans of 
 the persecuted Christians still echo along the mouldering walls of the 
 Colosseum, where the unfeeling multitude looked unmoved upon the 
 mangled martyr beneath the tooth of the tiger, and the gore as it gushed 
 from the heart of the dying gladiator. There thousands of the primitive 
 Christians expired sad spectacles of amusement for their pagan persecu- 
 tors. But a subject so sublime, a doctrine so divine, could not be obliter- 
 ated by the paltry attempts of tyrants, and it has descended the tide of 
 time, to us the same brilliant and imperishable gift, as when promulgated 
 to the world. The millions of men who will come after us, will see thi' 
 same beauty and beatitude in its pronises^ the same grandeur and glorv 
 
336 riELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 in its doctrine. No second Judas can arise to betray it, though thou • 
 sands have attempted it ; no second traitor can triumph over the down 
 fall of his doctrine. It is fixed on the rock of ages. 
 
 But to conclude my lofty theme. Every prophecy in the gospel of 
 our God is fulfilling with astonishing rapidity and precision — the gift 
 of glad tidings has gone forth to the very depths of our wilderness, and 
 the savage sons of the forest, as the consequences, have forgotten their 
 ferocious pursuits, and are seen bowing the knee to God, and no longer 
 paying adoration to the setting sun. The gospel has gone forth to the 
 Arab and the Hindoo, and woman is gradually emerging from the long 
 night of her slavery, to fill the station to which she is entitled. The 
 very destiny of that heathen inheritance has undergone a change, for 
 the hunter is seen cultivating the land, and the war-chief making laws 
 to govern his civilized posterity. Truly has the desert blossomed like 
 the rose. No ]onger does the benighted mind of the Indian pay hia 
 devotions to the genius of clouds, or look for the coming of the Great 
 Spirit in the storm of night; but he sees an evidence of the living God 
 m all his works, in every leaf and every grain that vegetates on the 
 earth. Such were the efiects intended to be produced by that groat 
 consummation on Calvary. In every lane of life, and in every avocation 
 of our concerns, may we not forget, that for us this grand sacrifice was 
 made, and that the Saviour rendered up his own life, that we might live 
 for ever ! 
 
 Thia tTuth how certain, when this life'is o'er 
 Man dies to live^ and lives to die no more. 
 
 SUNSET. 
 
 Who is there who has ever looked up to the " golden gates of the 
 resplendent West," and beheld them arrayed in all their magnificence, 
 and watched the beautiful departure of the god of day, and has not felt 
 himself lifted from earth to Heaven, and his feelings spiritualized by 
 the contemplation of the scene ? The glories of sunset can be seen and 
 enjoyed in their greatest' fulness only in the country. The winds are 
 now hushed among the foliage — the birds of heaven have ceased their 
 warbling — the voice of the labourer is no longer heard — silence hangs 
 like a canopy upon the scene. At such a season, go walk abroad in the 
 country — carry along with you no book to aid your reflections — go alone 
 or with a friend — let your heart be open to the influence of the scene — 
 let its home-felt delights rise up unrepressed — resign yourself freely and 
 entirely to the emotions of your own bosom — and if you have not been 
 too far corrupted and contaminated by intercourse with the world, you 
 will return a better, happier, and a holier man. 
 
 A FALSE friend is liKe a shadow on a dial ; it appfiirs in clear weather, 
 but vanishes as soon as a cloud appears. 
 
A DIRGE. — ABGKESS TO A BtJSBAND. 
 
 m 
 
 A DIRGE. 
 
 tfT BSt. G-. CBOWXT. 
 
 ■*£# B.ra to earth and dost to dost!" 
 Hexe tiie bwU and tiiejnst. 
 Here the yootfafal »Ai the' old, 
 fierft tiw fe^ol ancT tite bold, 
 HcTe the matron and tiie maid 
 Xfl one silent bed are laid ; 
 Here the Tsssal and Uie Kin^ 
 Side by aide lie withering; 
 MeT*^e sword and sceptre mst— 
 *'Earth to earth and dost ti> da< !** 
 
 Age on age shall roll along 
 
 O'er this pale and mighty. throng; 
 
 Those that wept them, those that weep. 
 
 All shall with these sleepers sleep. 
 
 Brothers, sisters of the worm. 
 
 Song of peace or battle's roar 
 
 Ne'er shall break their slumbers more 
 
 Death shall keep his snllen tmst — 
 
 ** Earth to etatb. and dnst to dast." 
 
 Bnt a day is eoming &5t, 
 £artb, thy mistiest and thy last ! 
 It shall come in fear and wonder. 
 Heralded by tromp and thnnder; 
 It shall come in strife and toil. 
 It shall come in blood and spoil. 
 
 It shall come in empire's grouii^ 
 Bnming temples, fcnttqpled thronM: 
 Then, ambition, me thy Inst! 
 ** Earth to earth and dnst to dnifc'r 
 
 Then shall eome the judgment sigto ; 
 In the east the Kurc shall shine ; 
 Flashing firom Heaven's golden gate» 
 Thousands, thousands round his stale 
 ^irits with the crown and plume; 
 Tremble then, tbon sullen tomb ! 
 Heaven shall open on our aigfaty 
 Earth be tom'd to living li^^ 
 Kingdom of the ransonk'd just— 
 *' Earth to earth and dust to dust !" 
 
 Then lAky mount, Jerusalem, 
 Shall be gorgeous as a gem ! 
 Then shall in the desert rise 
 Fruits of more than Paradise; 
 Earth by angel feet be trod. 
 One great garden of her God! 
 Till are dried the martyr's tears 
 Huraugh a thousand ^orions years! 
 Now in hopes of Him we trusty 
 " 'Earth to earth and dust to dost!" 
 
 DOCTOR SPUEZHEIM. 
 
 > following ode, written by Mr. Kerpont, was sung by the Handel and Hayden Society with great e^M 
 at the foneral of Dr. Spunheim. 
 
 ftrKAHGXB, there is bending o'er thee 
 
 Many an eye with sorrow W<et; 
 ^1 our stricken hearts deplore thee; 
 
 Who that knew tiiee can forget t 
 Who forget what thou ha«t spoken T 
 
 Who, thine eye — thy noble frune 1 
 But that golden bowl is broken. 
 
 In the greatness of thy f^e. 
 
 Autumn's leaves shall fhll and wither 
 
 On the spot where thon sbalt rest; 
 Tis in love we bear thee thitiier. 
 
 To tfay monming mother's breast. 
 For the stores of science brought us. 
 
 For the charms thy goodness gave. 
 For the lessons thbu hast ianghfe us^ 
 
 &m we give thee but a grave? 
 
 Nature's priest, how pure and fervent 
 
 Was 'thy worship at her shrine ! 
 Friend of man, of Cvod the servant, 
 
 Advocate of truths divine— 
 Taught and charm'd as by no other 
 
 We have been and hope to be : 
 But, while waiting-round thee, brother. 
 
 For thy light— 'tis dark with thee. 
 
 Dark with thee !— no ; thy Creator, 
 
 All whose creatures and whose laws 
 Thou didst love, shall g^ve thee greater 
 
 Light than earth's, as earth withdraws. - 
 To thy God thy god-like spirit 
 
 Back we give, in filial tmst; 
 Thy cold elay— we grieve to beair it 
 
 To its chamber ; but we must. 
 
 ADDRESS TO A HUSBAND. 
 
 BT VISS FOBTXB. 
 
 Oh < grant my prayer and let me go. 
 Thy toils to share, thy path to smooUi; 
 
 li there a want, a wish, a wo. 
 Which wedded love can fail to soothe 7 
 
 At mom, when sleep still seAls thine eyed, 
 My hand thy temperate meal shall spread; 
 
 2D 
 
 22 
 
 At night my smiles shall check thy sigbc 
 And my fbnd arms support thy head. 
 
 And if thy vexing cares should dart 
 Some hasty word, my zeal to ohilt. 
 
 Still this unchanging, tender heart. 
 The sacred vow I made shall filL 
 
.^38 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 MATERNAL INFLUENCE. 
 
 The mental fountain is unsealed to the eye of a mother ere it has 
 chosen a channel or breathed a murmur. She may tinge with sweet- 
 ness or bitterness the whole stream of future life. Others have to eon- 
 tend with unhappy combinations of ideas. Of her, we may say, she 
 hath entered into the magazine of snow, and seen the treasures of the 
 hail. In the moral field, she is a privileged labourer. Ere the dews of 
 morning begin to exhale, she is there. She breaks up a soil which the 
 root of error and the thorns of prejudice have not pre-oocupied. She 
 plants germs whose fruit is for eternity. While she feels that she is 
 required to educate not merely a virtuous member of society, but a 
 Christian, an angel, a servant of the Most High, how does so holy a 
 charge quicken piety, by teaching the heart its own insufficiency ! 
 
 The soul of her infant is uncovered before her. She knows that the 
 images which she enshrines in that unoccupied sanctuary, must rise be 
 fore her at the bar of mercy. Trembling at such tremendous responsi- 
 bility, she teaches the little being, whose life is her dearest care, of the 
 God who made him ; and who can measure the extent of a mother's 
 lessons of piety, unless his hand might remove the veil which divides 
 terrestrial things ? 
 
 " When I was a little child," said a good man, " my mother used to 
 bid me kneel beside her, and placed her hand upon my head while she 
 prayed. Ere I was old enough to know her worth, she died, and I was 
 left much to my own guidance. Like others, I was inclined to evil 
 passions, but often felt myself checked, and, as it were, drawn back by 
 the soft hand upon my head. When I was a young man, I travelled in 
 f iieign lands, and was exposed to many temptations. But when I would 
 liave yielded, that same hand was upon my head, and I was saved. I 
 Seemed to feel its pressure as in days of my happy infancy, and some- 
 times there came with it a voice in my heart, a voice that must be obey- 
 ed : ^Ohl do not this wickedness, my sOn, nor sin against thy God.'" 
 
 Ostentatious Epitaphs. — Charpentier has the following eloquent 
 passage. " Whenever," says he, " I cast my eyes on ostentatious epi- 
 taphs, I feel a wish to write under them, ' As man is composed of pride 
 and infirmities, passenger, you here behold them fully exemplified. 
 I'Thig tomb indicates the feebleness, and this epitaph the pride of his 
 I'ljature.' How just a picture is this of the character of the deceased 
 L person when alive ! Under robes of silk and embroidery he concealed 
 from the eyes of the world the weakness and diseases of his decaying 
 
 ■ body. A wounded conscience, a feeble understanding, and eternal toil 
 
 ■ of solicitude and sorrows, were hidden beneath the mask of a tranquil 
 countenance, a steady and penetrating eye." 
 
COMMODORE DECATUR. 339 
 
 COMMODORE DECATUR. 
 
 Stephen Decatub, a celebrated American naval officer, was bom 
 January 5, 1779, on the eastern shore of Maryland, whither his parents 
 had retired while the British were in Philadelphia. He entered the 
 American navy in March, 1798, and was soon promoted to the rank of 
 first lieutenant. While at Syracuse, attached to the squadron of Com- 
 modore Preble, he was first informed of the American frigate Philadel- 
 phia, which, in pnrsning a Tripolitan corsair, ran on a rock about four 
 and a half miles from Tripoli, and was taken by the Tripolitans, an^ 
 towed into the harbour. Lieut. Decatur conceived the project of attempt- 
 ing her recapture or destruction. He selected, for this purpose, a ketch, 
 and manned her with seventy volunteers. February 16, 1804, at seven 
 j' clock at night he entered the harbour of Tripoli, boarded the frigate, 
 though she had all her guns mount«d and charged, and was lying within 
 half-gun shot of the bashaw's castle and of his principal battery. Two 
 Tripolitan cruisers were lying within two cables' length on the starboard 
 quarter, and several gunboats within half gun-shot on the starboard 
 bow, and all the batteries on shore were opened upon the assailants. 
 Decatur set fire to the frigate and continued alongside until her destruc- 
 tion was certain. For this exploit, the American Congress voted him 
 thanks and a sword, and the president immediately sent him a captaincy. 
 The next spring it being resolved to make an attack on Tripoli, Commo- 
 dore Preble equipped six gunboats and two bombards, formed them into 
 two divisions, and gave the command of one of them to Captain Decatur. 
 The enemy's gunboats were moored along the mouth of the harbor, 
 under the batteries and within musket-shot. Captain Decatur deter- 
 mined to board the enemy's eastern division, consisting of nine. He 
 boarded in his own boat, and carried two of the enemy's boats in suc- 
 cession. When he boarded the second boat, he immediately attacked 
 the commander, who was his superior in size and strength, and, his 
 sword being broken, he seized the Turk, when a violent scuffle ensued. 
 The Turk threw him, and drew a dirk fur the purpose of stabbing him, 
 when Decatnr, having a small pistol in his right pocket, took hold of it, 
 and turned it as well as he could, so as to take effect upon his antago- 
 nist, cocked it, fired through his pocket, and killed him. When Com- 
 modore Preble was superseded in the command of the squadron, he gave 
 the frigate Constitution to Decatur, who was afterwards removed to the 
 Congress ; and returned home in her when peace was concluded with 
 Tripoli. He succeeded Commodore Barron in the command of the 
 Chesapeake, after the. attack made upon her by the British man-of-war 
 Leopacd. He was afterwards transferred to the frigate United States. In 
 the war between Great Britain and the United States, while commanding 
 the frigate United States, he fell in (Oct. 25, 1812) with the Macedonian, 
 mounting forty-nine carriage guns, one of the finest of the British vessels 
 of her t/lass, and captured her after an engagement of an hour and a 
 half. When Captain Carden, the commander of the Macedowari, teu- 
 
;H0 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK 
 
 dered him his sword, he observed that he could not think of taking the 
 i9word of an officer who had defended his ship so gallantly, but should 
 be happy to take him by the hand. In a letter written five days after 
 the capture, he says, "I need not tell you that I have done everything 
 in my power to soothe and console Captain Garden ; for really, one-half 
 the pleasure of this little victory is destroyed in witnessing the mortifi- 
 cation of a brave man, who deserved success quite as much as we did 
 who obtained it." In January, 1814, Commodore Decatur, in the 
 United States, with his prize the Macedonian, then equipped as an 
 American frigate, was blockaded at New London by a British squadron 
 greatly superior in force. A challenge wh»ch he sent to the commander 
 ^ the British squadron, Sir Thomas Hardy, offering to meet two of the 
 British frigates with his two ships was declined. In January, 1815, he 
 attempted to set sail from New York, which was blockaded by four 
 British ships, but the frigate under his command, the President, was 
 injured in passing the bar, and was captured by the whole squadron, after 
 having maintained a running fight of two hours and a half with one of 
 <th« frigates, Endymion, which was dismantled and silenced. 
 
 After the conclusion of peace, he was restored to his country in 1815. 
 Th« conduct of the Barbary powers^ and of Algiers in particular, having 
 been insulting to the United States, on the ratification of peace with 
 Great Britain, war was declared against Algiers,, and a squadron was fitted 
 out, under the command of Commodore Decatur, for the purpose of ob- 
 taining redress. In the spring of 1815 he set sail, and June 17, off Cape 
 De G-att, captured an Algerine frigate, after a running fight of twenty- 
 five minutes, in which the famous admiral Rais Hammida, who had long 
 been the terror of the Mediterranean sea, fell. The American squadron 
 arrived at Algiers, June 28. In less than forty-eight hours, Decatur ter- 
 rified the regency into his own terms, which were, mainly, that no tribute 
 should ever be required by Algiers from the United States of America ; 
 that all Americans in slavery should be given up without ransom ; that 
 compensation should be made for American property seized; that all 
 citizens of the United States, taken in war, should be treated as prisoners 
 of war are by other nations, and not as slaves, but held subject to an 
 exchange without ransom. After concluding this treaty, Jie proceeded 
 to Tunis, where he obtained indemnity for the outrages exercised or per- 
 mitted by the bashaw. Thence he went to Tripoli, where he made a 
 similar demand with like success, and procured the release of ten cap- 
 tives, Danes and Neapolitans. He arrived in the United States, Novem- 
 ber 12, 1815, was subsequently appointed one of the board of navy 
 commissioners, and was residing at Washington in that capacity, when 
 he was killed in a duel with Commodore Barron, March 22, 1820, occa- 
 sioned by bis animadversions on the conduct of the latter. Courage, 
 sagacity, energy, self-possession, and a high sense of honour, were the 
 characteristic traits of Decatur. From his boyhood he was remarkable 
 for qualities which presage eminence in naval warfare. He enjoyed the 
 sea as his element. He possessed an active, muscular frame, a quick, 
 penetratmg' eye, and a bold, adventurous, and ambitious spirit. 
 
aEVOLCTIONART REMINISCENCE. 341 
 
 REVOLXJTIONARY REMINISCENCE. 
 
 In tbe early part of tke revolutionary wax, a sergeant and twelve 
 armed men undertook a journey through the wilderness in the State of 
 New Hampshire. Their route was remote from any settlements, and they 
 were under the necessity of encamping over night in the woods. In the 
 early part of our struggle for independence, the Indians were numerous, 
 and did not stand idle spectators to a conflict carried on with so much 
 zeal and ardour by the whites. Some tribes were friendly to our cause, 
 while many upon our border took part with the enemy, and were very 
 troublesome in their savage kind of warfare, as our countrymen often 
 learned from the woful experience of their midnight depredations. The 
 leader of the above-mentioned party was well acquainted with different 
 tribes ; and from much intercourse with them previous to the war, was 
 not ignorant of the idiom, physiognomy, and dress of eaeh^ and at the 
 commencement of hostilities was informed for which party they had 
 raised the hatchet. 
 
 Nothing material happened the first day of their excursion ; but early 
 in the afternoon of the second, they, from an eminence, discovered a 
 body of armed Indians advancing towards them, whose number rather 
 exceeded their own. As soon as the whites were perceived by their red 
 brethren, the latter made signals, and the two parties approached each 
 other in an amicable manner. The Indians appeared to be much grati- 
 fied with meeting the sergeant and his men, whom they observed they 
 considered as their protectors; said they belonged to a tribe which had 
 raised the hatchet with zeal in the cause of liberty, and were determined 
 to do all in their power to injure the common enemy. They shook hands 
 in friendship, and it was, " How d'ye do, proP how d'ye do, pro ?" that 
 being their pronunciation of the word brother. When they had eon- 
 versed with each other for some time and exchanged mutual good wishes 
 they at length separated, and each party travelled in different directions. 
 After proceeding to the distance of a mile or more, the sergeant halted 
 his men and addressed them in the following words : " My brave com- 
 panions, we must use th€ utmost caution, or this night may be our last. 
 Should we not make some extraordinary exertions to defend ourselves, 
 to-morrow's sun may find us sleeping never to wake. You are surprised, 
 comrades, at my words ; and your anxiety will not be lessened when I 
 inform you that we have just passed our most inyeterate foe, who, under 
 the mask of pretended friendship you have witnessed, would lull us into 
 security, and by such means, in the unguarded moments of our midnight 
 slumber, without resistance, seal our fate." 
 
 The men with astonishment -listened to this short harangue; and their 
 surprise was greater, as not one of them had entertained the suspicion 
 but they had just encountered friends. They all immediately resolved 
 to enter into some scheme for their mutual preservation and the destruc- 
 lion of their enemies. By the proposal of thei»' leader, the following 
 plan was adopted and executed. 
 2d2 
 
S4i FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 The spot selev.ufid for their night's encampment was near a stream of 
 water, which served to cover their rear. They felled a large tree, before 
 which, on the approach of night, a brilliant fire was lighted. Each indi- 
 vidual cut a log of wood about the size of his body, rolled it nicely in his 
 blanket, placed his hat upon the extremity, and laid it before the fire, 
 that the enemy might be deceived, and mistake it for a man. Aftei 
 logs equal in number to the sergeant's party were thus fitted out, and si 
 artfully arranged that they might easily be mistaken for so many sol- 
 diers, the men with loaded muskets placed themselves behind the fallen 
 tree, by which time the shades of the evening began to close around. 
 The fire was supplied with fuel, and kept burning brilliantly until late in 
 the evening, when it was suffered to decline. The critical time was 
 now approaching, when an attack might be expected from the Indians ; 
 but the sergeant's men rested in their places of concealment with great 
 anxiety till near midnight, without perceiving any movement of the 
 enemy. 
 
 At length a tall Indian was discovered, through the glimmering of the 
 fire, (which was now getting low,) cautiously moving towards them, 
 making no noise, and apparently using every means in his power to con- 
 ceal himself from any one about the camp. For a time, his actions 
 showed him to be suspicious that a guard might be stationed to watch 
 any unusual appearance, who would give the alarm in case of danger ; 
 but all appearing quiet, he ventured forward more boldly, rested upon 
 his toes, and was distinctly seen to move his finger as he numbered each 
 log of wood, or what he supposed to be a human being quietly enjoying 
 repose. To satisfy himself more fully as to the number, he counted them 
 over a second time and cautiously retired. He was succeeded by another 
 Indian, who went through the same movements and retired in the same 
 manner. Soon after the' whole party, sixteen in number, were disco- 
 vered, cautiously approaching and greedily eying their supposed victims. 
 The feelings of the sergeant's men can better be imagined than de- 
 scribed, when they saw the base and cruel purposes of their enemies, 
 who were now so near that they could scarcely be restrained from firing 
 upon them. The plan, however, of the sergeant was, to have his men 
 remain silent in their places of concealment till the muskets of the 
 savages were discharged, that their own fire might be more effectual and 
 opposition less formidable. 
 
 The suspense was not of long duration. The Indians, in a body, cau- 
 tiously approached, till within a short distance ; they then halted, took 
 deliberate aim, discharged their pieces upon inanimate logs, gave the 
 dreadful war-whoop and instantly rushed forward with tomahawk and 
 soalping-knife in hand to despatch the living and obtain the scalps of the 
 dead. As soon as .they had collected in close order, more effectually to 
 execute these horrid intentions, the party of the sergeant, with unerring 
 aim, . discharged their pieces, not on logs of wood, but on perfidious 
 savages, not one of whom escaped destruction by the snare into whict 
 their cowardly and bloodthirsty dispositions had led them. 
 
THE MIGRATION OF BIRbS. 43 
 
 ■THE MIGKATION OP BIKDS. 
 
 One of the most special appointments of the Creator, as to birds, aTid 
 which nothing but his chosen design and corresponding ordainment can 
 explain, is the law, that so many kinds shall migrate from one country 
 to another, and most commonly at vast distances from each other. They 
 might have been all framed to breed, be born, live, and die in the same 
 region, as occurs to some, and as quadrupeds and insects do. But he 
 has chosen to make them travel from one climate to another, with uner- 
 ring precision, from an irresistible instinct, with a wonderful courage, 
 with an untiring mobility, and in a right and never-failing direction. 
 For this purpose, they cross oceans without fear, and with a persevering 
 exertion that makes our most exhausting labours a comparative amuse- 
 ment. Philosophy in vain endeavours to account for the extraordinary 
 phenomenon. It cannot discover any adequate physical reason. Warmer 
 temperatures are not essentially necessary to incubation, nor always the 
 object of the emigration ; for the snow-bunting, though a bird of song, 
 goes into the frozen zone to breed and nurture its young. The snow-bird 
 has the same taste or constitution for the chilling weather which the 
 majority recede from. We can only resolve all these astonishing jour- 
 neys into the appointment of the Creator, who has assigned to every bird 
 the habits as well as the form, which it was bis gctod pleasure to ima- 
 gine and to attach to it. The watchful naturalist may hear, if not see 
 several migrations of those which frequent our island, both to and fro, 
 as spring advances, and as autumn declines ; but as they take place chiefly 
 at night or at early dawn, Snd in the higher regions of the atmosphere, 
 they are much oftener audible than visible to us on the surface of the 
 earth. — Turner's Sacred History. 
 
 THE BIBLE. 
 
 The Bible is a history of Him who groaned on Calvary. From that 
 sacred summit a flood of light broke forth upon the world. It was the 
 dawn of redemption ! Superstition fled affrighted before the glorious 
 appearance of Christianity, and the church of the living God arose on 
 the ruins of the heathen altar. The automatons of pagan idolatry 
 tumbled to the dust, and the false deities perished on Olympus. That 
 glorious gospel -which effected this great work is contained within the 
 Bible. Like the rainbow which is hung out in the heavens, it was sent 
 as a token that God would be mindful of us. Glorious token ! I rejoice 
 when I read it, and I would recommend it to all my fellow-travellers to 
 the grave. The waves of time are rolling on to sweep us away, and ad 
 we pass through the dark vale of death, the light of Calvary will illu- 
 aiinate our path to the superb palaces of God. Darkness and death are 
 horrific to the lonely mind, but the Bible will overcome those terrors, 
 and infuse a calm serenity in the.darkest hour of existence. 
 
344 'FIELDS S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 CKQSSING THE DELAWARE. 
 
 The following extract, giving a description of the crossing of the 
 Delaware, by Washington and his troops, is taken from an address 
 delivered in New York, on the hundredth anniversary of Washington's 
 birth-day, by Eli Moore, Esq : — • 
 
 In no one instance, perhaps, was Washington's influence with the 
 arniy so strikingly exemplified as in his attack on the enemy at Trenton. 
 Over and over have I listened with intense anxiety, in the days of my 
 boyhood, while my now departed sire, who fought and bled on that 
 proud field, recited with thrilling interest all that related to the enter- 
 prise. It was on a December night, (would he say,) when our little 
 heart-broken army halted on the banks of the Delaware. That "night 
 was dark — cheerless — tempestuous — and bore a .strong resemblance toi 
 our country's fortunes ! It seemed as if heaven and earth conspired 
 for our destruction. The clouds lowered— darkness and the storm oame 
 apace. The snow and the hail descended, beating with unmitigated 
 violence upon the supperless, half-clad, shivering soldier; and in the 
 roaring of the flood and the wailings of the storm, was heard, by fancy's 
 ear, the knell of our hopes and the dirge of liberty ! The impetuous 
 I'iyer was filled with floating ice: an attempt to cross it at that time, and 
 under such circumstances, seemed a desperate enterprise — ^yet it was 
 undertaken, and thanks be to God and Washington, was successfully 
 accomplished. 
 
 From where we landed, on the Jersey shore, to Trenton, was about 
 nine miles, and on the whole line of march there was scarcely a word 
 uttered, save by the officers when giving some order. We were well- 
 nigh exhausted (said he) — many of us frost-bitten — and the majority of 
 us so badly shod the blood gushed from our frozen and lacerated feet at 
 every tread — yet we upbraided not, complained not — but marched steadily 
 and firmly, though mournfully, onward, resolved to persevere to the utter- 
 most — not for our country — our country, alas ! we had given up for 
 lost. Not for ovrtelves — life for us no longer wore a charm ; but because 
 sftch wq,s the will of our Ixloved chief- — 'ttwas fox Washington alone 
 we were willing to make the sacrifice. When we arrived within sigh^ 
 of the enemy's encampments, we were o.rde;;ed to form a line, when 
 Washington reviewed us. Pale and emaciated^-djspirited and exhausted 
 — we presented a most unwarlike and melancholy aspect. The paternal 
 eye of our chief was quick to discover the extent .of our sufierings, and 
 acknowledge them with his tears j .but suddenly .checking his emotions, 
 he rejminded us that our country and all that we held dear were staked 
 upon the coniing battle. As he spoke we began to gather ourselves up 
 and rally our energies ; every man grasped his arms more firmly ; and 
 the clenched hand, and- the compressed lip, and the steadfast look, 
 and th*" knit brow, told the soul's resolve, Washington observed us 
 well, then did he exhort us, with all the fepvour of his soul, "on yonder 
 field to conquer, or die the death of the brave " 
 
CEOSSINiG THE DELAWARE. 34S 
 
 At that instant the glorious sun, as if in prophetic token of our suc- 
 Bss, burst forth in all its splendour, bathing in liquid light the blue hills 
 f Jersey. The faces which but a few moments before were blanched 
 rith despair, glowed with martial fire and animation. Our chief with 
 xultation hailed the scene ; then casting hia doubts to the winds, and 
 ailing on the God of battle and his faithful soldiers, , led on the 
 harge. The conflict was fierce and bloody. 'For more than twenty 
 ilnutes not a gun w-as fired ; the sabre and the bayonet did the work 
 f destruction ; it was a hurricane of fire, and steel, and death. There 
 id we stand, (would he say,) there did we stand, " foot to foot, and hilt 
 hilt," with the serried foe ! and where we «tood we died or con- 
 uered. Such was that terrifiq scene. 
 
 ■The result of tha.* action, gentlemen, is known to you all — as are also 
 ts bearings upon the fortunes of America. Had defeat attended our 
 rms at this trying crisis, our eause was lost — for ever lost — and freedom 
 lad found a grave on the plains of Trenton ! But the wisdom and 
 irudence of Washington secured us the victory — and consequently our 
 iberty. 
 
 How great our obligation then, and how mucli it behoves us at this 
 ime to show our gratitude by erecting to his memory a monument, 
 hat shall tell to after^ages, not only that Washington was great, but 
 bat we were grateful ! Let it no longer be de'layed ! To pause is to 
 avite defeat-^ — ^to persevere, to insure success. 
 
 The following beautiful'extract is from Biddle's eulogium on Jeffergoa : 
 
 There lies in the depths of every heart, that dream of our youth, and 
 he chastened wish of manhood, which neither cares nor honours can ever 
 xtinguiah, the hope of one day resting frow the pursuits which absorb 
 s } of interposing between our old age and thfi tomb some tranquil 
 fiterval of reflection, when, with feelings not subdued but softened, with 
 ^sions not exhausted but mellowgd, we jsnay lo.ak calmly on the past 
 dthout regret, aad on the future withwt appreh^sion. But in the 
 umult of the world, this vision for ever recedes as we approach it j tbp 
 lassions whiph h^yp agitated our life disturb our latest hour; and we 
 ;o down to the tomb, like the sun iuto the ocean, with no gentle anjJ 
 jrad^al withdjrawiBg. of the lighit of life back to the source which gave 
 i, but, sullen in its be8.Bll^ss descent, with ajl its fiery ^ow, Iwg after 
 t ihas lost its p.ow«r mi its apl^dour. 
 
 FORTITUPE is one of the noblest virtues appertaining to the human 
 haracter, and stamps upon those who possess it an unfading lustre, 
 rhich does honour to the name of man. He who labors under the lash 
 f adversity, mad bears up against his misfortunes with a pious resigna- 
 ion, must be pleasing to the Supreme Being, while his conduct is uni 
 ersally admired by his fellow-creatures. 
 
S46 FIBLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 THE SOLDIEK'S FtlNEKAL. 
 
 The day was calm and clear — not a cloud appeared in any part of the 
 heavens, and the. flag hung motionless ov^r the walls. Groups of sol- 
 diers were gathered on the ramparts, whispering among themselve>i — 
 none dared to speak above his breath — even the sergeant, when uttering 
 his orders, seemed to lay aside half his authority. Soon the muffled 
 roll of a drum was heard — silent and dejected, with their eyes fixed on 
 the ground, a party marched past me — another company appeared — 
 their muskets, the muzzles being pointed, downwards, were crossed upon 
 their backs. The coffin, plain, and covered with a large black pall, was 
 carried along by the immediate comrades of the deceased ; on it there 
 was thrown part of his accoutrements — then came another party equally 
 pale and dejected. I mingled with the procession, and accompanied it 
 to the grave. Slowly was the black pall removed, and the coffiri was 
 lowered into the earth. A part of the troops removed to a little dis- 
 tance, but the remainder encircled the grave. The word of command 
 was given, and the discharge of musketry announced, to those withjn 
 hearing, that a soldier's remains had now been deposited in the cold 
 tomb — the firing of three several rounds convinced me that the warrior 
 had died as a soldier ought to die — full of honour, though not on tHf 
 "field of battle. Then the sexton approached, and as the mould sounded 
 on the hollow coffin, the noise, though less loud, sank deeper into the 
 hearts of the audience ; all seemed to shrink away from the unearthly 
 murmur. 
 
 The deceased had been a favourite in the regiment, and every one 
 was ready to sound his praises — his warm and aflFectionate heart, his 
 mild and endearing manners, were greatly spoken of. Yet, though calm 
 and serene in the barracks, he was ardent and enthusiastic in the field ; 
 his bravery had particularly attracted the notice of his officers, and they, 
 even as his comrades, felt as if deprived of a brother. The soldiers 
 retired ; and, as I saw them walk mournfully away, casting back many 
 a lingering look on the newly heaped-up mound, I asked myself if such 
 were the heroes who had carried the fame of the American arms to the 
 farthest bounds of the earth ; if men, who could not witness, without 
 the deepest emotion, the burial of a comrade, could ever have rushed to 
 the charge. I knew that they had ; and even at a moment of this kind, 
 which generally brings humility along with it, I was proud of my coun- 
 trymen, I rejoiced to see that those who could fight ardently could also 
 grieve bitterly. But such have always been the feelings and sentiments 
 uf an American soldier. 
 
 All the teeth of a certain scolding lady being loose, she asked a phy- 
 sician the cause of it, who answered that it proceeded from the violent 
 shocks she gave them with her tongue. 
 
TDB MAJESTY OF GOD. 347 
 
 THE MAJESTY OF GOD. 
 
 Nothing is more difficult than to endeavour to lorm 4uch ideas of 
 God as are in any degree worthy of his greatness and majesty. It is 
 as impossible for us to comprehend him perfectly, as it would be to bold 
 the sea in the hollow of our hand, and compass the heavens with a span. 
 Of God it may be justly said; he is both well known to and concealed 
 ■from us. He is very nigh and yet infinitely beyond us — well known 
 and very nigh in respect to his being, and. infinitely distant and hidden 
 in 'respect to his nature, perfections, and purposes. But on this very 
 account it is our duty to endeavour to know his greatness, as it is neces- 
 sary that we should form those sentiments of veneration, for they are 
 his due. To assist our weakness in this respect, let us compare him 
 with what men esteem and admire most, and we shall see that God is 
 infinitely above all. 
 
 We admire the power of kings, and we are filled with astonishment 
 when we find they have conquered vast empires, taken cities and for- 
 tresses, erected superb buildings, and have been the means of the happi- 
 ness or misery of whole nations. But if we are struck with the powers 
 of a man, who is but dust and ashes, the greater part of whose exploits 
 as due to other agents, how shall we admire the power of God, who has 
 founded the earth and formed the heavens, who holds the sun in his 
 -liand, and upijolds the immense fabric of the universe by the word of 
 •Ais power. We are, with reason, astonished at the heat of the sun, the 
 impetuosity of the winds, the roaring of the sea, the peals of thunder, 
 and the inconceivable rapidity of the lightning; but it is God who lights 
 up the solar fire, who thunders in the clouds, makes the winds his mes- 
 sengers, the flames of fire his ministers, and who raises and calms the 
 waves of the sea. 
 
 We justly respect those who have distinguished themselves by the 
 extent of their knowledge ; but what is the knowledge that the whole 
 human understanding can acquire, in comparison to the wisdom of that 
 august Being before whom all is uncovered and all known — who counts 
 the stars of heaven and numbers the sands of the sea — knows the path 
 of every drop that falls from' the atmosphere — and who, with one look, 
 beholds' the past, the present, and the future, in the present moment. 
 How much wisdom shines in the construction of the universe, in the 
 revolutions of the planets, in the arrangement of our globe, and in the 
 smallest flower ! They are so many masterpieces, which infinitely sur- 
 pass the most magnificent and most perfect work of man. 
 
 We are dazzled with the splendour of riches, we admire the palaces 
 of kings, the magnificence of their furniture, the pomp of their clothing, 
 the beauty of their apartments, and the abundance of gold, silver, the 
 precious stones, which lie on every side; but how little is all this 
 compared with the riches of the Lord our God, whose throne is in the 
 heavens, and whose footstool is the earth ! The heavens are his, and 
 the earth also: the habitable world and all that dwell therein. He has 
 
348 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 fitted up dwellings for all creatures, he has established stores for all men 
 and all animals, he causes grass to grow for cattle and corn for the ser- 
 ■vice of man. AH that is useful and ezeellent in the world is drawn 
 from his treasures. Life, health, riches, glory, happiness, every thing 
 that can constitute the good of his creatures, all are in his hands, and 
 he distributes them according to his good pleasure. 
 
 We respect the great men of the earth when they command a multi- 
 tude of subjects, and reign over many countries ; but what is that spot 
 which is subject to them, in comparison with the empire of the universe, 
 of which our globe is but a small province, which extends over all the 
 heavenly bodies and their inhabitants'! How great must that Mastei; be 
 who has all monarchs of the universe for his servants, and who beholds 
 around his throne the cherubim and seraphim ever ready to fly to execute 
 his orders! 
 
 We judge of the greatness bf men by their actions. We celebrate 
 kings who have built cities and palaces, who have governed their estates 
 well, and. who have successfully accomplished great designs. But how 
 astonishing are the works of the Most High ! How wonderful the crea- 
 tion of the immense universe, the preservation of so many creatures, the 
 wise and beautiful government of innumerable worlds, the redemption 
 of the human race, the punishment of the wicked, and the recompense 
 of the good ! " 
 
 Who is like unto thee, Lord ! Thou art great, thy name is greal!| 
 and thy works proclaim thy grandeur ! Nothing can be imagined equal 
 to the greatness of our God. Should not a religious revefence ever pos- 
 sess our souls at the thought of the presence of the Ruler of the world, 
 the Lord, who encompasses all our paths ! The brightness of the stars 
 is absorbed by the presence of the sun. Thus all the glory, all the know- 
 ledge, all the power and all the riches of the world vanish when com- 
 pared with the glory and majesty of God. The soul exults and is 
 ennobled in meditating on the greatness of the Most High. Such sublime 
 meditations delightfully exercise all our spiritual faculties — we are filled 
 with reverence, admiration, and joy, when, in a holy transport, we repre- 
 sent to our mind the Being of beings, the Eternal, Almighty, the Infi- 
 nite ! Can we help exclaiming with ecstasy, The Lord he is God 1 The 
 Lord he is God ! Give glory to him for ever and ever ! 
 
 Judge Parsons. -^-The following anecdote, illustrative of the character 
 of the late Judge Parsons, is, both in thought and language, sublime. 
 A gentleman named Time had been concerned in a duel ; the ball of 
 his antagonist struck his watch, and remained there. It thus saved his 
 life. The watch was afterwards exhibited, with the ball remaining in it, 
 in a company where Judge Parsons was present. It was observed by 
 .ieveral, that it was a valuable watch. "Yes," ^aid Parsons, " very e?- 
 sellent; it has kept Time from. Eteenity." 
 
TUB DAT OP JUDGMENT. — ^THE GREAT DAT. 
 
 849 
 
 THE DAT OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 Win, heaveDlj muse, attane thy noblest lay. 
 And ang the glorious, long-predicted day. 
 When, robed in majesty, oar God shall come. 
 Throned on a clond, to call bis children home. 
 
 The time shall come, when numerous yeafs are o'er. 
 The eternal day rtiall dawn, to close no more ; 
 Q glorions day ! O morning most BObBmff ! 
 The brightest era of reTolving time ! 
 
 IMven ftvm their orbs, the a^ghted stars s&all fly, 
 lake angry meteors, down the trunbled sky; 
 Bright lightnings flash* and awful thnnder roll. 
 
 And peals on peals reverberate to the' pole. 
 
 Fierce storms' shall beat the lofty monntain's side. 
 Back to its scarce each rapid riTcr glide ; 
 The snn grow dim, the moon be tom'd to blood. 
 And all creation, teembling, own her God. 
 
 Hark ! fi'om the skies, the tmmpet's piercing sound 
 Rends the' dark tombs, and cleaves the solid ground ; 
 An angel voice proclaims, " Ye mortals, come. 
 Attend the judgment, and receive your doom." 
 
 Roused by his potent voice, the dead obey, 
 
 AAd life reanimates the torpid clay ; 
 
 The graves yawn wide, the tombsgive up their dead. 
 
 And ocean heaves them from his deepest bed, 
 
 III Aowding ranks the deathless forms arise. 
 While awful thunders rend the vaulted skies. 
 And, robed in terror, from his bright abode. 
 The Judge descends, the eternal Son of God. 
 
 High seated on a throne of heavenly light. 
 Above the sun's meridian splendour bright; 
 Millions of seraphim before him fly. 
 And angel-bands attend him down the sky. 
 
 A starry diadem his head tfdoms. 
 That once was circled with a wreath of thorns. 
 When, the blest herald of redeeming grace. 
 He veil'd in flesh the bri^tness of his face. 
 
 When erst by bland compassion's inflnence moved, 
 A pilgtim-steanger o'er the earth he roved, 
 A life of pain and Buffering he led, • 
 
 Add'faad not wherer to lay his sacred head. 
 
 ffow round that head a sun's bright glories blaze. 
 Id arrowy circles and unnumber'd rays; 
 Beneath his feetk careering storms are driven ; 
 And in his fcrtim are all the hosts of heaven. 
 
 Judgment begins ; the books are open'd wide ; 
 On either hand thfr gathering crowds divide ; 
 While all in heaven, in earth, and hell draw near. 
 Their great-decisive destiny to hear. 
 
 Ranged on^ the right, the just in order stand, 
 Robed all in white, and palms in every hand ; 
 While on the teft promiBcuous crowds appear; 
 Fale with afi'ri^t, and chHl'd with tortnriiig fevr 
 
 Judgment prooeeds, the Saviour claims his own. 
 And granefnl rising from his glittering throne, 
 " All hail, ye blest," he cries, " to you are given 
 Crowns of bright glory, and a seat in heaven. 
 
 " Tour race is run, the conflict well snatain'd. 
 The warfare over, and the prize obtain'd; 
 Yon who have borne the cross the crown shall wear 
 Yon who have shared my shame, my gloiy share. 
 
 " For you ^tiH streams of joy eternal roll. 
 
 And floods of glory burst upon the soul ; 
 
 For yon angelic choirs their harps employ. 
 
 And heaven's high vaults resound with songs of jey." 
 
 , He speaksj and lo! the happy millions raise 
 Loud h^elujafas and immortal praise ! 
 Angelic' harps the grateful strain prolong. 
 And heaven's high arches echo with the song ! 
 
 But, ohr unhappy race, to wisdom blind. 
 Enslaved to sin, to endless wo consign'd ! 
 In vain for grace and mercy now they cry; 
 The time is past, the guilty soul must die. 
 
 In vain, in hopeless agony they call, 
 " Hide us, ye rocks ! Ye mountains, on us fall !" 
 Once mercy call'd, but these refused to hear, 
 Now justice frowns, in majesty severe. 
 
 Dawn, down they sink to realms of endless nighty 
 Where anguish wails aloud, and spectres fHght! 
 Where no bright beams of hope or mercy glow. 
 To gild the shadows of the house of wo ! 
 
 Oh ! if the Judge, from his eternal throne. 
 Shall not condemn the deeds that I have done; 
 Oh ! if I find my humble name impress'd 
 In the bright archives of my Saviour's breast; 
 
 Then shall my heart in grateful transport raise 
 Harmonious anthems of ecstatic praise ; 
 With joy divine, my God and Saviour meet. 
 And cast my blood-bought triumphs at his feet. 
 
 THE GREAT DAT. 
 
 BT' HACKSLLAB. 
 
 TnX sMver'd skies flee fast away; and flame 
 Aild smoke burst out, and horrid noises roar 
 Aj if a bnroing sea surged on the' shore. 
 And rack'd old Nature's perishable frame. 
 CfQatien shuddey ; and the trembling sun 
 Turns red like blood, and oasts a crimson glare 
 Thronphout the heaving billows of the air ; 
 
 2E 
 
 The moon and stars, as if afMghted, run 
 
 In wild confusion ; while the trump of God 
 
 Resounds, and all the dead are call'd to life, 
 
 And—hnsh'd at once the elemental strife— 
 
 In solemn stillness men await his nod. 
 
 Ah, day of doom! Redeemer 1 Brother! Friend t 
 
 Protect thine own— whose hopes on Thee depAOfd ' 
 
350 FIKLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM THE PRIVATE LETTERS OF A LATE 
 TRAVELLER IN EUROPE. 
 
 Rome, Jan. 1st. — You heard from us ^t Venice. Our next journey 
 was to Florence, Ijy.the way of Bologna, which took six days, including 
 one spent at Bologna, where are some of the finest paintings in Italy 
 Here we had' the good-fortune to meet Madame Pasta, the most cele- 
 brated singer of her time and country. The day after we heard her, we 
 commenced crossing the Apennines, a much more laborious task than 
 crossing theSimplon. We were obliged to stop over night on the moun- 
 tains in a storm of rain and snow, and such a place as the inn you never 
 conceived of, and I hope you will never see such a den of thieves and 
 dirt. We could neither-get any thing fit to eat or fire to warm us, and 
 the water came into the house by night, and wet the garments we had 
 taken ofi", in the hope of finding rest. To complete the whole, the inn- 
 keeper had the insolence to demand double the price of a respectable and 
 comfortable hotel. But we had, been long enough in Italy to know what 
 knaves the innkeepers are. The only way to get along with them and 
 not quarrel is, to bargain sharply for every thing you want, before yon 
 consent to stay. This jockey knew that we could not get away that 
 night, and thought us in his power. We, however, escaped being mur- 
 dered and got off safely, which is more than others have done on this 
 road. Indeed, we slept the next night where, a few years ago, a 
 whole family were murdered and every vestige of them carefully con- 
 cealed. But this we did not know till we had left the house the next 
 day. I forgot in my last letter to tell you that at Perrara we saw some 
 of the manuscripts of the poets Tasso and Ariosto, and a chair and ink- 
 stand that once belonged to the latter. We also visited the gloomy and 
 damp dungeon in which the Duke Alphonso kept Tasso confined for 
 seven years, under pretence of his insanity, but, in fact, because there 
 was an attachment between the duke's sister and the poet. 
 
 At Florence we passed a week. This is the capital of the Grand-duke 
 of Tuscany's dominions ; it is situated bn the river Arno, and is sur- 
 rounded by the most delightful regions imaginable. A wide amphithe- 
 atre of hills or mountains, principally the Apennines, is covered with 
 vineyards and olive-groves. Nothing can be conceived finer than the 
 view of this enchanting valley of the Arno, as one descends from the 
 ' enowy regions of the Apennines into this terrestrial paradise. The olive- 
 tree, you know, is an evergreen, and the harvest of the olives is late. When 
 we crossed the mountains about the middle of November, the trees were 
 loaded with iruit. The transition as one descends from the Apennines 
 is so sadden, that the change seems like enchantment. We passed Val- 
 ombrosa on the left, and came suddenly into the midst of these vineyards 
 and olive-groves T had never seen the olive-tree before, an4 now they 
 stretched their green branches as far as the eye could reach. 
 
 The olive grows on the same ground and is interspersed with the vines. 
 
EXTRACT FROM A PRIVATE LETTER. 351 
 
 At Florence, we found many superb galleries of paintings, and in the 
 public gallery are some of the finest specimens of statuary in the world. 
 There is the " unimitated and inimitable" Venus de Medici, which is 
 considered the finest work of art, sharing this glory only with the Apollo 
 Belvidere at Rome. 
 
 Rome. — But we have at length reached the "eternal city," seven- 
 hilled Rome, and are now at our " own hired house," on the banks of the 
 Tiber, in the heart of the city, with St. Peter's in full view. It is the 
 custom here to let rooms already furnished, and we have taken very 
 pleasant apartments for the winter. * * * * 
 
 We have made some progress in seeing the wonders of Rome, but have 
 yet much to do. Most pf the ancient city is in ruins ; the modern city 
 is partly over them and partly on one side. The most stupendous of 
 these ruins is the Colosseum. This vast pile, of an oblong form, which 
 could contain about one hundred thousand spectators to see the games, 
 is still in suf&cient preservation to show its height and greatness. We 
 visited it by moonlight the night after we arrived at Rome. But who 
 can give utterance to the emotions that are called forth by the first visit 
 to the Colosseum ? No monument of human greatness, no relic of the 
 past ages speaks so- forcibly to the heart or seems so intimately to connect 
 the present with the ancient world, as this mighty ruin, this gigantic 
 structure, formed by man for eternity, but which now serves only to 
 show how perishable are his works, even in the plenitude of his power. 
 On the day when this amphitheatre was first opened, Titus Vespasian is 
 said to have caused five thousand wild beasts to be slain in the arena, in 
 the sport of that single day. It was here, too, that the early Christians 
 suffered martyrdom by hundreds, being exposed to wild beasts for the 
 amusement of infidel spectators. In consequence of this, Benedict XIV. 
 proclaimed the Colosseum consecrated ground, and thereby arrested the 
 progress of demolition that was going on, by using the stones and mar- 
 ble of this exhaustless pile for the building of other edifices. It is to 
 him that the world is indebted for the present state of this magnificent 
 ruin. The .centre wall of the Colosseum, which is nowhere broken 
 down nearer than thirty or forty feet from the ground, is sixteen hun- 
 dred and fifty feet in circumference, and one hundred and fifty-seven in 
 height. 
 
 The galleries or seats were one above another, all around, receding 
 from the arena in the centre, till they slanted back and upward nearly 
 to the top of the outer wall. 
 
 The arena, where the beasts and gladiators fought, was two hun- 
 dred and seventy-eight feet long and one hundred and seventeen feet 
 wide. 
 
 Now, there is a cross erected in the centre of the arena, and an inscrip- 
 tion promising two hundred days of indulgence to those who kiss it. 
 Theie are sentinels on duty by night and day around the Colosseum to 
 prevent abuse, and to make it safe to visit the ruins in the evening, an 
 many robberies were formerly committed here. This ruin is about a 
 mile out of the inhabited part of the modern city, but within the waj's, 
 
352 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 and surrounded with the ruind of temples, triumphal areheR, and the 
 
 proud palaces of the Csesars. 
 
 Of St. Peter's I can now say nothing;, to describe it would fill a 
 
 volume. It is, without d<)ubt^:the most spacious, most perfect, and moSt 
 
 sublimely beautiful temple ever raised to the worship of the-Eternal God. 
 
 Man dwindles into nothing within its walls. It comes nearer than any 
 
 thing I had ever imagi'ned) td a " house not made with hands." 
 ******** 
 
 Hampton Court. — This is. the residence oi the former kings of Eng- 
 land. The palace and royal establishment are kept up,, although the 
 present king never stays there. Indeed, no use has been made of the 
 royal apartments since George IT. The nobility and gentry occupy the 
 splendid buildings attached to the king's apartments, but no one ever 
 occupies them. The situation is beautiful ; the gardens, pleasure-grounds,, 
 canals, &c. are charming, and one is at a loss why so delightful a- place 
 should not be honoured,, at least, by an occasional visit from his ma- 
 jesty. 
 
 We were conducted through all the apartments of state,, which are 
 hung with beautiful paintings on every side. The bedeha.mber of King 
 William III. remains with its. furniture, aiad even the damask bed-hang- 
 ings, just as they were in his day. There is a clock in his room which 
 goes by being wound up once a year. There is a beautiful lawn, with 
 one of the handsomest sheets of water I have ever seen facing the saloon.- 
 Near the palace is likewise a labyrinth or maze, forlned by a hedge of 
 closely interwoven hornbine, which is not allowed to grow more than six 
 feet high. Between the windings of this hedge is a footpath, which, if 
 rightly followed, leads to an arbour in the centre. But the diflScuity is 
 to find the way in, or out,, if once in. This can only be done by know- 
 ing the principle of the windings, which are so constructed as to mislead 
 any one who follows merely the appearance of right. 
 
 This extensive palace, with its costly appurtenances, was built and pre- 
 sented to Henry VIII. by Cardinal Wolsey. This proud prelate must 
 have amassed immense wealth, for he did great things in this way ; and 
 among others founded one of the principal colleges in Oxford, viz. Christ 
 Church College, of whose extent and magnificence I can give you no ade- 
 ■ quate idea. 
 
 Windsor Castle, the residence of George IV. This, I believe, is 
 considered the strongest castle in England. The palace, church, &c. 
 are within the fortress, which is situated on an eminence commanding a 
 varied, beautiful, and extensive prospect. The royal apartments are 
 very superb, and the paintings they contain numerous and valuable. 
 The king left the castle for London the evening we arrived. He is • 
 very shy, and is seldom seen except by his own household. It is said 
 he has been the finest-looking man in England, but since he has lost his 
 good looks he does not like to appear in public. St. George's Chapel, 
 or the Church of Windsor Castle, is a beautiful and finished edifice. In 
 one corner of it, in a recess, not obvious from the body of the church, is 
 a splendid and very afiecting monument of the Princess Charlotte. It 
 is of white marble, and the figures are nearly or quite as large as life 
 
GOOD HUSSANDS MAITE GOOD WIVES. 35S 
 
 The lifeless body is represented as stretched on a -coucb, and overspread 
 with a thin serai-tranSparent dra'pery ; one hand and arm had fallen oflF 
 from the couch and are hanging down by its side. At the head and feet 
 ^'two kneeling figures, Covered with veils'; abbvfe 'the whole, is a female 
 figniro in an erect position, as if about to ascend, while on each side of 
 her is an angel with wings expanded. The angel on her right has 'a 
 yOung infant in its hands. The moral of this, I Suppose to "be, that these 
 angels are conveying the jfrinoess and her child to heaven, though she is 
 dead to human senses. The light is admitted from -behind, through 
 stained glass, which, imparting to the marble something of its own colours, 
 gives the whole group ah xinearthly appearatice. 
 
 GOOD HUSBANDS MAKE GOOD WIVES. 
 
 There is somethirig very lovely in seeing a woman overcome those 
 little domestic disquiets Whi6'h every rriistress of a family has to contend 
 with, sitting down to her bresikfast-table in the morning with a cheerful 
 countenance, and endeavo'nring to protnote innocent and pleasant conver- 
 sation among -her little circle. But vain will be her amiable efforts at 
 pleasure, unless she is assisted by her husband and other members 
 around ; and truly it is an unpleasant sigb't to see a family, when col- 
 lected together, instead of enlivening the quiet scene with a little good- 
 humotrred chat, sitting like statues, as if each is unworthy the attention 
 of the other. And then, when a stranger comes in, dear ! such smiles, 
 and animation, and loquacity ! An ingenious writer says, '' If a painter 
 wished to draw the finest object in the world, it would be the picture of 
 a wife, with eyes expressing the serenity of her mind, and a countenance 
 beaming with benevolSnoc; one hand lulling to rest on her arm a lovely 
 infant, the other employed in presenting a moral pagfe to another ^weet > 
 babe, who stands at her knee listening to the words of truth and wisdom ; 
 from its incomparable mother." 
 
 Sadness. — There is a rnysteridus feeling that frequeiitly passes like 
 a cloud over the spirits. It comes ipon the soul in the busy bustle of 
 life, in the social circle, in the calm and silent retreats of solitude. Its 
 powers are alike supreme over the weak arid the iron-h'ea'rted. At one 
 titae it is caused by the flitting of a sirigle thought across the mind- 
 Again, a sound will come boomiiig across the Ccean of memory, gloomy 
 and solemn as the death-knell, overshadowing all the bright hopes and 
 sunny feelings of the heairt. Who can desciribe it, arid yet vrho has not 
 felt its bewildering influence ? Still it is a delicious sort of sorrow ; and 
 like a cloud dimming the sunshine of the river, although causing a , 
 momentary shade of glootn, it enhances the beauty of returning bright' 
 
 ness. 
 
 2e2 23 
 
364 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 CONSTITUTION AND GUERRIERE, 
 
 The Guerriere was lying to. The Constitutio'n was leisurely bearing 
 down upon the enemy under her topsails — every man was at his respec- 
 tive station, and all on board were eager for the contest, — when the 
 Guerriere commenced the action at long shot. Commodore Hull gave 
 a peremptory order to his officers not to apply a single match until he 
 gave the word. In a few minutes a forty-two pounder from the Guer- 
 riere took effect, and killed and wounded some of our brave tars. 
 Lieutenant Morris immediately left his station on the gun-deck to report 
 the same to the commodore, and requested permission to return the fire, 
 as the men were very anxious to engage the enemy. 
 
 " Mr. Morris," was the commodore's reply, " are you ready for action 
 on the gun-deck ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Well, keep so — but don't let a gun be fired till I give the word." 
 
 In a few moments Mr. Morris again appeared, and stated thathe could 
 with difficulty restrain the men from giving the enemy a broadside, so 
 anxious were they to commence the engagement. 
 
 " Mr. Morris," reiterated the commodore, intently gazing on the 
 English frigate, " are you ready for action on the gun-deck ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; and it is impossible for me any longer to restrain the men 
 from firing on the foe. Their passions are wrought up to the highest 
 possible pitch of excitement. Several of our bravest seamen are already 
 killed and wounded" — 
 
 " Keep cool, Mr. M<)rris — ^keep cool. See all prepared, and do not 
 suffer a gun to be fired till I give the word." 
 
 The gallant lieutenant went below. In a few minutes, the vessels 
 having neared each other to within pistol-shot distance, Morris was sent 
 £'r to appear on the quarter-deck. 
 
 "Are you all ready for action, Mr. Morris?" again demanded the 
 commodore. 
 
 "We are all ready, sir — and the men are uttering horrid imprecations 
 because they are not suffered to return the fire of the enemy." 
 
 "Fire then, in God's name !" shouted the commodore, in a voice of 
 thunder. 
 
 It is added, that he wore at the time a pair of nankeen tight! ; and 
 he accompanied this said-cheering order with such a tremendous stamp 
 on the deck with his right foot, that the unfortunate pantaloons were split 
 open from the knee to the waistband. 
 
 The conduct of Dacres, before and during the actiouj was such as 
 might have been expected from a brave and generous enemy. Mr. Eeed, 
 a young man belonging to Brewster, Massachusetts, at present a respecta- 
 lile shipmaster out of Boston, had been pressed on board the Guer- 
 riere a few weeks previous to the engagement. Several other American 
 seamen were also on board. When the Constitution was bearing down 
 >~in iBuch gallant style, and it became evident that a severe action with au 
 Jmen'c'aii frigate was inevitable, young Reed left his station and pro 
 
CONSTITUTION AND QUEERIERE. 355 
 
 ceeded to the quarter-deck, and respectfully but firmly represented to 
 Captain Dacres, that he was an American citizen, who bad been un- 
 justly detained on board the English frigate ; that he had hitherto 
 faithfully performed the duties which were assigned him ; and that it 
 could not reasonably be expected he would fight against his countrymen ; 
 he therefore begged leave to decline the honour of participating in the 
 engagement. 
 
 The English captain frankly told him that he appreciated his patriotic 
 feelings ; that he did not wish the Americans on board to use arms 
 against their countrymen ; and he ■ subsequently ordered them all into 
 the cockpit, to render assistance to the surgeon, if it should be neces- 
 sary. Reed left the spar-deck after the Gruerriere had commenced the 
 action. Several shot were known to have taken effect, but the Consti- 
 tution had not yet fired a gun — much to the amusement of the British 
 tars, who predicted that the enemy would be taken without resistance, 
 with the exception of a veteran man-of-war' s-man, who was in the battle 
 of the Nile, and gruffly observed, with a significant shake of the head — 
 " That damn'd Yankee knows what he's about." 
 
 A few moments passed away, and the Constitution poured in her tre- 
 mendous broadside — every gun was double-shotted and well pointed, and 
 the effect which it had on the enemy can hardly be conceived. Mis- 
 timed jests and jeers at the . imperturbable but harmless Yankeesfgave 
 place to the groans of the wounded and dying, and sixteen poor mutilated 
 wretches were tumbled down into the cockpit, from the effects of the 
 first broadside ! 
 
 Dacres fought as long as a spar was standing and a gun could be 
 brought to bear upon the enemy ; but when his masts were completely 
 swept away, his officers and men mostly killed and wounded, encumber- 
 ing the decks ; while the scuppers were streaming with gore ; when the 
 Guerriere, which a few hours before was justly considered one of the 
 most splendid specimens of naval architecture which belonged to the 
 British navy, lay on the water an unsightly, unmanageable mass ; when 
 he had no longer the stump of a mast left from whichto display the 
 proud flag of his country, the gallant Briton began to think he had got 
 into an vgly scrape, from which he could not possibly extricate himself. 
 He could no longer oppose even a feeble resistance to his more fortu- 
 nate foe. 
 
 Captain Hull sent an officer to take possession of the Guerriere. 
 When he arrived alongside, he demanded of the commander of the 
 English frigate, if he had struck. 
 
 Dacres was extremely reluctant to make this concession in plain terms, 
 but with a shrewdness which would have done honour to a Yankee, 
 endeavoured to evade the question. 
 
 " I do not know, that it would be pi-udent to continue the engagement 
 any longer," said he. 
 
 "Do I understand you to say that you have struck?" inquired tLo 
 American lieutenant. 
 
 " Not precisely," returned Dacres ; " but I don't know that it witt 
 ^f worth while to fight any longer." 
 
85ti FIELPS'S SCEAP-BOOR. 
 
 " If you think it stdvisable, I will retarn aboai-d)" replied the Sankee, 
 "and we will resume the CDgageraent." 
 
 " Why, I am pretty much hors de combat already," said Daores ; " I 
 have hardly men enough left to work a gun and my ship is in a sinking 
 condition." 
 
 " I wish to know, sir," peremptorily demanded the American officer^ 
 " whether I am to consider you as a prisoner of war, or an enemy. I 
 have no time for further parley." 
 
 " I believe there is now no alternative. If I could fight longer, I would 
 with pleasure— ^but I — must — surrender— myself — a prisoner of war !" 
 
 THE <3^RAVE of JEFFERSON. 
 
 The following description of the .place where rest the mortal remama 
 of the Sage of Monticello, will doubtless be interesting to every reader : — 
 
 I ascended the winding road, which lea'ds from Charlottesville to 
 Monticello. the path leads a circuitous ascent of about two miles up the 
 ininiature mountain, to the farm and the Jgrave of Jefferson. On enter- 
 ing the gate which opens into the enclosure, numerous spairhs diverge in 
 various directions, winding through beautiful groves to the summit of 
 ithe hill. From the peak on which the house BtaAds, a, graTid and nearly 
 unlimited view opens to the thickly wooded hills and fertile valleys 
 which stretch out on either side. The university, with its dome, por- 
 ticoes, and colonnade, looks like a fair city in the plain. Charlottesville 
 seems to be directly beneath. No spot can be imagined, combining 
 ■grefater advantages of grandeur, healthfulness, and seclusion. The house 
 is noble in its appearance; two large columns support a portico, which 
 extends from the wings, and into it the front doc* opens. The apart- 
 ments are neatly furnished, and embellished with statues, busts, portraits, 
 and natural curiosities. The gl:ounds and outhouses have been neglected ; 
 Mr. Jefferson's attention being absorbed from such personal concerns 
 by the cares attendant on the superintendence of the university, which, 
 when in health, he visited daily since Its erection (iommenced. 
 
 At a short distance behind the mansion, in a quiet 'shaded spot, the 
 visitor sees a square enclosure, surrounded by a low unmortared stone 
 wall, which he enters by a neat wooden gate. This is the family burial- 
 gi'ound, containing teh or fifteen gravefe, none 'of them marked by epi- 
 taphs, and only a few distinguished by any memorial. On one side of 
 this simple cemetery is the 'resting-pliace of the Jiatriot and philosopher. 
 When I saw it, the Vault was just arched, and in readiness for the plain 
 stone which is to cover it. May it ever continue, like Washington's, 
 without any a'dventitious attractions or eonspicuonsuess; for, when we 
 or our posterity need any other memento of our debt of honour to those 
 names, than tneir simple inscription on paper, wood, or stone, gorgeous 
 tombs would be a mockery to their memories. When gratitude shall 
 cease to tonsecrate their remembrance in the hearts of our citizens, no 
 penotaph will inspire the reverence we owe to them. 
 
MEMORY. — VIRTUE. 3g7 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 "Whatever has once givea uapiaji^ or pleasure is remembered long, 
 and recurred to ofteuj as we pass down the journey of life to the gray 
 hairs and solitude of our last years. Love has been to every one the 
 source of both. Every one has treasured away on the sacred pages of 
 memory a thousai^ Httle incidents, ever to be. revealed in time, td which,, 
 as to some fescinatiag fiction, it returns, whenever a gkomy or. an idle, 
 unsocial hour, oalfe up the musing spirit, and turns the mind upon the 
 papt. Life, reviewed through the mists of bygon?. years, seems rather a 
 curiously wrought fiction, or a feverish dream, than a stern reality. Wie 
 are sipTOunded by mementos of the affection of friends, but these friends 
 themselves are gona. We remember the. coviBsels of wisdom, the sage 
 instructions of experience, by which our minds were formed, and a 
 direction given to the current of our thoughts and habits ; but the lips 
 from whence they flowed have long been mute as the still valley where 
 they lie mouldering. We have danced and sung with the gay and g^ddy, 
 and been enraptured at the thrilling voice and kindling eye of beauty, 
 hut we are ahne. The visions have passed from us. In one graveyard 
 and another there are little hillocks, and white stones bearing remember- 
 ed names, and this is all, all that is left to us. But it is among the 
 melancholy ruins of the past that we gajiher the richest stores for the 
 future. It is there we learn how very vain are earthly hopes — how 
 fleeting earthly friends — how frail even the strongest chords of affection 
 It is there we le^rn to prepare for another state of being. 
 
 VIETUE. 
 
 ViETirE is the brightest ornament of youth. As, on the ofte hand, 
 religion never appears more lovely and engaging, than when it dTyells. on 
 the lips and is exhibited in the lives of young people; so, on the othex 
 hand, young persons never appear so amiable, and deserve so much 
 esteem and confidence, as when they are religious ; when they walk in 
 the paths of virtue, honesty, sobriety, and integrity. Always interestr 
 ing in itself, youth is rendered doubly so when associated with the graces 
 and tempers of the gospel. A young man or a young woman, destitute 
 of religion, may- be very estimable and worthy on account of the amiablcr 
 ness of their dispositions and the propriety of their deportment. B^t 
 where the spirit and the graces of Christianity are %dded, it is like add- 
 ing life and motion to a statue whioh we b^^ve admired for its proportion 
 and decoration. But a young person of elegant form and engaging 
 manners, who Kves in profligacy, impurity, and blasphemy, desjerves tjf 
 ^e compared to a finished statue, streaming forth porruptioi) ap.d poisgj!, 
 ing the atmosphere with contagion and death 
 
358 riELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 THE NEW AKMY BILL. 
 
 KnXriid from Mr. Clay's Speech in the House of RepretvnUitivet, 
 January, 1813. 
 
 I OMITTED yesterday, sir, when speaking of a delieate and painful 8ul>- 
 ject, to notice a powerful engine which the conspirators against the inte- 
 grity of the Union employ to effect their nefarious purposes — I mean 
 Southern influence. The true friend to his country, knowing that our 
 Constitution was the work of compromise, in which interests apparently 
 conflicting were attempted to be reconciled, aims to extinguish or allay 
 prejudices. But this patriotic exertion does not suit the views of those who 
 are urged on by diabolical ambition. They find it convenient to imagine 
 the existence of certain improper influences, and to propagate, with their 
 utmost industry, a belief of them. Hence the idea of Southern preponder-; 
 ance, — Virginia influence, — the yoking of the respectable yeomanry of 
 the North, with negro slaves, to the car of southern nabobs. If Virginia 
 really cherish a reprehensible ambition, an aim to monopolize the chief 
 magistracy of the country, how is such a purpose to be accomplished ? 
 Virginia, alone, cannot elect a president, whose elevatioo depends upon 
 a plurality of electoral votes, and a consequent concuirence of many 
 States. Would Vermont, disinterested Pennsylvania, the Carolinas, 
 independent Georgia, Kentucky, Tennessee, Ohio, Louisiana, all consent 
 to become the tools of inordinate ambition ? — But the present incumbent 
 was designated to the office before his predecessor had retired. How ? 
 By public sentiment, — public sentiment which grew out of his known 
 virtues, his illustrious services, and his distinguished abilities. Would 
 the gentleman crush this public sentiment, — is he prepared to admit 
 that he would arrest the progress of opinion ? 
 
 The war was declared because Great Britain arrogated to herself the 
 pretension of regulating our foreign trade, under the delusive name of 
 retaliatory orders in council, — a pretension by which she undertook to 
 proclaim to American enterprise, — " Thus far shalt thou go, and no 
 farther," — orders which she refused to revoke after the alleged cause 
 of their enactment had ceased ; because she persisted in the practice of 
 impressing American seamen ; because she had instigated the Indians to 
 commit hostilities against us; and because she refused indemnity for past 
 injuries upon our commerce. I throw out of the question other wrongs. 
 The war in fact was announced, on our part, to meet the war which she 
 was waging on her part. So undeniable were the causes of the war, — 
 so powerfully did they address themselves to the feelings of the whole 
 American people, that when the bill was pending before this house, 
 gentlemen in the opposition, although provoked to debate, would not, or 
 could not, utter one syllable against it. It is true they wrapped them- 
 selves up in sullen silence, pretending they did not choose to debaif 
 such a question in secret session. While speaking of the proceedings 
 on that occasion, I beg to be permitted to advert to another fact which 
 transpired; — an important fact, material for the nation to know, and 
 
THE NEW ARMY EIH. 359 
 
 wbich 1 have often regretted had not heen spread upon our journals 
 My honourable colleague (Mr. McKee) moved, in committee of the whole, 
 to comprehend France in the war ; and when the question was taken 
 upon the proposition, there appeared but ten votes in support of it, o. 
 whom, seven belonged to this side of the House, and three only to the 
 other ! It is said that we were inveigled into the war by the pei-fidy of 
 France ; and that had she furnished the document in time, which was 
 first published in England, in May last, it would have been prevented. 
 I will concede to gentlemen every thing they ask about the injustice of 
 France towards this country. I wish to God that our ability was equal 
 to our disposition to make her feel the sense that we entertain of that 
 injustice. The manner of the publication of the paper in question was 
 undoubtedly extremely exceptionable. , But I maintain that, had it made 
 its apjjearance earlier, it would not have had the effect supposed ; and 
 the proof lies in the unequivocal declarations of the British government. 
 I will trouble you, sir, with going no further back than to the letters of 
 the British minister, addressed to the secretary of state just before the 
 expiration of his diplomatic functions. It will be recollected by the 
 committee that he exhibited to this government a despatch from Lord 
 Castlereagh, in which the principle was distinctly avowed, that to produce 
 the effect of a repeal of the orders in council, the French decrees must 
 be absolutely and entirely revoked as to all the world, and not as to 
 America alone. A copy of that despatch was demanded of him, and he 
 very awkwardly evaded it. But on the tenth June, after the bill declaring 
 war had actually passed this house, and was pending before the Senate, 
 (and which, I have no doubt, was known to him,) in a letter to Mr. 
 Monroe, he says : " I have no hesitation, sir, in saying that Great 
 Britain, as the case has hitherto stood, never did, nor ever could engage, 
 without the greatest injustice to herself and her allies, as well as to other 
 neutral nations, to repeal her orders as affecting America alone, leaving 
 them in force against other states, upon condition that Franca would 
 except, singly and specially, America from the operation of her decrees." 
 On the fourteenth of the same month, the bill still pending before the 
 Senate, he repeats : " I will now say, that I feel entirely authorized to 
 assure you, that if you can at any time produce s,f}dland unconditional 
 repeal of the French decrees, as you have a right to demand it in your 
 character of a neutral nation, and that it be disengaged from any question 
 concerning our maritime rights, we shall be ready to meet you with a 
 revocation of the orders in council. Previously to your producing such 
 an instrument, which I am sorry to see you regard as unnecessary, you 
 cannot expect of us to give up our orders in council." Thus, sir, you 
 see that the British government would not be content with a repeal of 
 the French decrees as to us only. But the French paper in question 
 was such a repeal. It could not, therefore, satisfy the British govern- 
 ment. It could not, therefore, have induced that government, had it 
 been earlier promulgated, to repeal the orders in council. It could not, 
 therefore, have averted the war. The withholding of it did not occasion 
 the war, and the promulgation of it would not have prevented the war 
 But gentlemen have contended that, in point of fact, it did produce a 
 
360 PIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK-. 
 
 repeal of the- arders in council. Tbis I deny. After it made rtg 
 appearance in England, Jt was declared by one of the British ministry, 
 in parliament, not to be satisfactory. And all the world knows that the 
 repeal of the orders in council resulted from the inquiry, reluctantly 
 acceded to by the ministry, into the effect upon their manufacturing 
 establishments, of our non-importation law, or of the warlike attitude 
 a.sgumed by this government, or of both. But it is said, that the orders 
 in council are withdrawn, no matter from what cause ; and that having 
 been the sole motive for declaring the war, the relations of peace ouight 
 to be restored. This brings me to. the examination of the grounds, for 
 continuing the present hostilities between this country and Great Britain. 
 I am far from acknowledging that, had the orders in council been 
 repealed, as they have been, before the war was declared, the declaration 
 of hostilities would of course have been prevented. In a body so nu- 
 merous as this is, from which the declaration, emanated, it is impossible 
 to say, with, any degree of certainty, what would have been the effect of 
 such a rp»^od,l. Bach member must answer for himself As to myself 
 I havo no hesitation in saying, that I have always considered the im- 
 pressment of American seamen as much the most serious aggression. 
 But, sir, how have those orders at last been repealed ? Great Britain, 
 it is true, has intimated a willingness to suspend their practical opera- 
 tion, but she still arrogates to herself the right to revive them upon certain 
 contingencies, of which she constitutes herself the sole judge. She waives 
 the, temporary use of the rod, but she suspends it: in terrorem over our 
 heads. Supposing it to be conceded to« gentlemen that such a repeal of 
 the orders in council as took place on the twenty-third June last, ex- 
 ceptionable as it is, being known before the war was proclaimed, would 
 have prevented it,;- doesi it follow that it ought to induce us to lay down 
 our arms, without the redress of any other injuiy of which we complain ? 
 Does it follow, in all cases, that that which would in the first instance 
 have prevented would also terminate the war? By mo means. It re- 
 quires a strong and powerful effort in a nation prone to peace as this is, to 
 burst through its habits and encounter the difficulties and privations of 
 war. Such a nation ought, to but seldom embark in a belligerent contest; 
 but when it doesj it should be for obvious and essential rights alone, and 
 should firmly resolve, to extort, at all hazards, their recognition. The war 
 of the Revolution is an example of a. war begun for one object and prose- 
 cuted for another. It was waged, in its commencement, against the right 
 asserted by the parent country to tax the colonies. Then no one thought 
 of absolute independence. The idea of independence was repelled. But 
 the British government would have relinquished the principle of taxa- 
 tion. The founders of our liberties saw, however, that there was no s&r 
 curity short of independence, and they achieved thaC independence. 
 When nations are engaged in war, those rights in controversy which 
 are not acknowledged by the treaty of peace are abandoned. And 
 who is prepared' to say, that American seamen shall be surrendered, as 
 victims to ttie British principle of impressment ? And, sir, what is this 
 principle ? She contends that she has a right to the services of her own 
 subjects: and that, in the exercise of this righ', she may lawfully in*- 
 
THE KEW AEMT BILE. 361 
 
 press them, even although she finds them in American vessels, up m the 
 high seas, without her- jurisdiction. Now, I deny that she has any 
 right, beyond her jurisdiction, to come on board our vessels, upon the 
 high seas, for any other purpose than in the pursuit of enemies, or their 
 goods, or goods contraband of war. But she farther contends that her 
 subjects cannot renounce their allegiance to her, and contract a new 
 obligation to other sovereigns. I do not mean to go into the general 
 question of the right of expatriation. If, as is contended, all nations 
 deny it, all nations at the same time admit and practise the right of 
 naturalization. Great Britain herself does this. Great Britain, in the 
 very case of foreign seameo, imposes,' perhaps, fewer restraints upon, 
 naturalization than any other nation. Then, if subjects cannot break 
 ^ their original allegiance, they may, according to universal usage, con- 
 tract a new allegiance. What is the effect of this double obligation ? 
 Undoubtedly, that the sovereign having the possession of th^ subject 
 would have the right to the services of the subject. If he return within 
 th« jurisdiction of his primitive sovereign, he may resume his right to 
 his services, of which the subject, by his. own act, could not divest 
 himself. But his primitive sovereign can have no right, to go in quest of 
 him, out of his own jurisdiction, into the jurisdiction of another sovereign, 
 or upon the high seas, where there exists either no jurisdiction, or it is 
 possessed by the nation owning the ship navigating them. But, sir, this 
 discussion is altogether useless. It is ixot to the British principle, objec- 
 tionable as it is, that we are alone to liook, — it is to her practice, — no 
 matter what guise she puts on. It is in vain to assert the inviolability 
 of the obligation of allegiance. It is in vain to set up the plea of neces- 
 sity, and to allege that she cannot exist without the impressment of 
 HER seamen. The naked truth is, she comes, by her pressgangs, on 
 board of our vessels, seizes OUR native as well as naturalized seamen, 
 and drags them into her service. It is the case, then, of the assertion 
 of an erroneous principle, — and of a pj'actiQe not conformable to the 
 asserted principle, — a principle which, if* it were theoretically right, must 
 be for ever practically wrong — a praclape which cg^n obtain countenance 
 from no principle whatever, and to subnuit to which, on our part, woui4 
 betray the most abject degradation. We are told by gentlemen in the 
 opposition, that government has not done all that was incumbent on it 
 to do, to avoid just cause of' complaint on the part of Great Britain, — 
 that, in particuhtr, the certificates of protection, authorized by the act of 
 1796, are fraudulently used. Sir, government has done too much in 
 granting those paper protections. I can never think of them without 
 being shocked. They resemble the passes which the mastei grants to 
 his negro slave, " Let the bearer^ Mungo)^ pass- and repass without mo- 
 lestation." What do they- imply-?- That Great Evitain has a right to 
 seize all who are not provided with them. Erom their very nature they 
 must be liable to abuse on both sides. If Great Britain desires a marS 
 by which she can know her own subjects, let her give them an ear mark. 
 The colours that float from the mast-hoadi should be the credentials o/ cu, 
 seanxn. There is no safety to us, and the gentlemen have shown it, b»: 
 in *he rule that all who sai\ under the flag,, (nor being enemies,} ar« 
 
 2 S 
 
362 FIELDS'S SCK\P-BOOK. 
 
 protected by the flag. It is impossible that this country should t/a 
 abandon the gallant tars who have won for us such splendid trophies. 
 Let me suppose that the genius of Columbia should visit one of them ic 
 his oppressor's prison, and attempt to reconcile him to bis forlorn and 
 wretched condition. She would say to him, in the language of gentlv- 
 men from the other side : " Groat Britain intends you no harm ; she 
 did not mean to impress you, but one of her own subjects, having taken 
 you by mistake ; I will remonstrate, and try to prevail upon her, by 
 peaceable means, to release you, but I cannot, my son, fight for you." 
 If he did not consider this mere mockery, the poor tar would address 
 her judgment, and say, " You owe me, my country, protection ; I owe 
 you, in return, obedience. I am no British subject, I am a native of 
 old Massachusetts, where live my aged father, my wife, my children. I 
 have faithfully discharged my duty. Will you refuse to do yours ?" ' 
 Appealing to her passions, he would continue : " I lost this eye in fight 
 ing under Truxtun, with the Insurgente; I got this scar before Tripoli, 
 I broke this leg on board the Constitution, when the G-uerriere struck." 
 If she remained still unmoved, he would break out, in the accents of 
 mingled distress and despair, 
 
 Hard, hard is my fate! once I freedom enjoy'd. 
 
 Was as happy as happy could be ! 
 
 Oh ! how hard is my fate, how galling these chains ! 
 
 I will not imagine the dreadful catastrophe to which he would be 
 driven, by an abandonment of him to his oppressor. It will not be, it 
 cannot be, that his country will refuse him protection. 
 
 LIBEETY AND UNION. 
 
 Extract from Mr. Webster's speech, in reply to Mr. Hatnsi, of 
 South Carolina, on Foot's resolution, relative to the public lands. De- 
 livered in the Senate, January 26, 1830. 
 
 But, sir, although there are fears, there are hopes also. The people 
 have preserved this, their own chosen Constitution, for forty years, and 
 have seen their happiness, prosperity, and renown grow with its growth, 
 and strengthen with its strength. They are now, generally, strongly 
 attached to it. Overthrown by direct assault, it cannot be ; evaded, un- 
 dermined, NULLIFIED, it will not be, if we, and those who shall succeed 
 us here, as agents and representatives of the people, shall conscientiously 
 and vigilantly discharge the two great branches of our public trust^- 
 faithfully to preserve, and wisely to administer it. 
 
 Mr, President, I have thus stated the reasons of my dissent to the 
 doctrines which have been advanced and maintained. I am conscious 
 of having detained you and the Senate much too long. I was drawn 
 Into the debate, with no previous deliberation, such as is suited to th« 
 
LIBEKTT AND UNION. 365 
 
 discussion ot so grare and important a subject. But it is a suDJect of 
 which my heart is full, and, I have not been willing to suppress the 
 utterance of its spontaneous sentiments. I cannot, even now, persuade 
 myself to relinquish it, without expressing once more my deep convic- 
 tion, that, since it respects nothing less than the Union of the States, 
 it is of most vital and essential importance to the public happiness. I 
 profess, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in view the 
 prosperity and honour of the whole country, and the preservation of our 
 Federal Union. It is to that Union we owe our safety at hoine> and 
 our consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that Union that we ate 
 chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our country. 
 That Union we reached only by the discipline of our virtues in the, 
 severe school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of disor- 
 dered finance, prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign 
 influences, these great interests immediately awoke, as from the dead, and 
 sprang forth with newness of life. Every year of its duration has 
 teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and its blessings ; and although 
 our territory has stretched out wider and wider, and our population 
 spread farther and farther, they have not outrun its protection or its bene- 
 fits. It has been to us all a copious fountain of national, social, and 
 personal happiness. I have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the 
 Union, to see what might lie hidden in the dark recess behind. I have 
 not coolly weighed the chances of preserving liberty, when the bonds 
 that unite us together shall be broken asunder. I have not accustomed 
 myself to hang over the precipice of disunion, to see whether, with my 
 short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss below ; nor could I 
 regard him as a safe counsellor in the afiairs of this government, whose 
 thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the Union should 
 be best preserved, but how tolerable might be the condition of the people 
 when it shall be broken up and destroyed. While the Union lasts, we 
 have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us 
 and our children. Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. God 
 grant that, in my day at least, that curtain may < not rise. God grant 
 that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind. When my 
 eyes shall be turned to behold, for the last time, the sun in heaven, may 
 I not see him shining on the broken and dishonoured fragments of a 
 once glorious Union; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent; on a 
 land rent with civil feuds ; or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood ! 
 Let that last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous 
 Ensign of the Republic, now known and honoured throughout the earth, 
 still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original 
 lustre, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured, bearing 
 for its motto no such miserabler interrogatory as. What is all this worth ? 
 nor those other words of delusion and folly. Liberty first and Union 
 afterwards ; but everywhere, spread all over in characters of living light, 
 blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the 
 land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, 
 dear to every true American heart — ^Liberty and Union, now and for 
 ever, one and inseparable 1 
 
864 
 
 FIELDS S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 THE FLAG OF THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 Nk'er waved beneath, the goldea sun 
 
 A lovelier banner for the ))raTe, 
 Thi^n that onr bleeding fathers won, 
 
 And proudly to their children gave ; 
 Nor earth a fairer gem can bring. 
 
 Or fteedom claim a brighter soroU, 
 Than that to which onr free hearts,oli^— 
 
 The flag which lights the freeraan'e soul ! 
 
 Ita glorione etars in azure Bhine* 
 
 The radiant heraldry of heaven. 
 Its stripes in beauteous order twine. 
 
 The emblems of our union given; 
 And tyrants with a trembling gaze 
 
 Survey its bright and meteor glare ! 
 While glory's beams around us blaze, 
 
 An,d rest in fadeless splendour there ! 
 
 Look, freemen ! on its streaming folds, 
 
 As gallantly they range afar, 
 Where freedom's bird undaunted holds 
 
 The branch of peace and spear of war ; 
 While high amid the rolling stars. 
 
 With words which every heart expand. 
 Within her beak serene she bears 
 
 The badge of our united land ! 
 
 Behold thy star'-wraught ensign sweep, 
 
 Thy country's pride, the tyrant's bane ; 
 Cnrivall'd on the foaming deep, 
 
 Unconquer'd on the batfcle-pl9.in.^ 
 Along the exulting mountain gale 
 
 *Tis borne with wild majestic flow. 
 As trailing meteors skyward, sail. 
 
 And leave the dazzled world, below ! 
 
 From shore to shore, ftrom hill to hill. 
 
 Where freedom's voice has yet been heard, 
 'Tia welcomed with a^boly thriU> 
 
 And oft rebellion's flam^ hath stirr'd 
 Around the globe, through every clime. 
 
 Where commerce wafts or man hath, trod, 
 ^t( floats ajU>f!t uustain'd wii-h^ crime, 
 
 But hallow'd by heroic blooc^ 
 
 Thought Kranee has orush'd hei; Bourbop flow^t'i' 
 
 And seized the flag her valofir sought. 
 She holds it as oppression's dower — 
 
 A name is all the boon it brought. 
 Though Albion boasts her cross of blood, 
 
 Encrimson'd on a thousand plains. 
 Yet freedom's cause she hath withstood, 
 
 A,nd ma^k'd it ^th redee)uleflB.Bta4n8. ' 
 
 But thins, Columbia ! thine's the prize. 
 
 To ohaer the free and guide the b^ave, 
 To wave through earth's remotest skies. 
 
 And plant upon oppression's grave. 
 Thine is the standard freedoiiaL wrought, 
 
 To rear above the Iiqa's fy'^VK, 
 Whose flame their martyr'd fa&ers sought, 
 
 To cheer them through the battle's storm. 
 
 Flag of the free ! still bear thy way, 
 
 Undimm'd, through ages yet untold ; 
 O'er earth's prond realms thy stars display 
 
 Like morning's radiant clouds unroU'd. 
 Flag of the skies, still peerless shine. 
 
 Through ether's azure vault unfurl'd, 
 Till every hand and heart entwine 
 
 To sweep oppression, froip the world ! 
 
 TQ ELLEN. 
 
 BT THE MILrcRD BAEDp 
 
 fiLLEW, on thy red lip lingers 
 Silver tones that toujch'd my he^rt, 
 
 When thy soft an,d snojvy fiifgers 
 Woke the harp with angel art; 
 
 Still I hear that heavenly la/, 
 
 As it softly floats away. ■ 
 
 Oh, there is no music stealing 
 On the soul by sorrow wru;*|!;, 
 
 Like those lays of love and f-e^l^ng. 
 Woman's music-melting tongue 
 
 Witrbles when he; heart, in glee. 
 
 Tastes of love the luxury. 
 
 Ellen, in thy bright eye'a bea,ming 
 Light that shone upon my heart, 
 
 When of love my soul was dreaming. 
 And the joys it did injpart ; 
 
 £till I see that glance of gladness. 
 
 Still it drives me on to madness. 
 
 Oh, there is. no lighi.that sfif eamoth 
 From yon glorious globus on high, 
 
 Like the blessed ray that beameth 
 In the an^el azure eye. 
 
 Of fpnd wopa,n when she's feejing. 
 
 Love within he^ bosom s^alii^g. 
 
 Ellen, on thy ch^ek 80 ch^xjm^a.g. 
 
 Dwells a blush that won mv Bonl, 
 When love, all my bosom warming, 
 \ Bow'd mcto thy ble^toontrO;!; 
 Still I see that blush, of beauty. 
 Tell-tale both of love and duty. 
 
 Oh, there is no hue that gushes 
 Or from Nature or from art 
 
 Like the rich and rosy blushes. 
 Spninging np from woman's hei^ 
 
 When she (eels wi^h ecstasy 
 
 Love's delicious luxury. 
 
VAtEDieTION. 365 
 
 VALEDICTION, 
 
 Addressed to ike ytnivg ladies of the KnooeviUe Female AcMlemy joho, 
 having completed the course of studies pi'escribed in the institution, 
 were about to receive the testimonials due to their respective merits — 30/A 
 September, 1831. 
 
 BY JOSEPH BASTABBOOE, FRLNCIPAL. 
 
 Through tbe farour of an indulgent Providenpe, the year has rolled 
 round and finds us actors on the occasion of another anniversary ; and 
 I am again required, in behalf of the Trustees and Instructors of the 
 Seminary, to present yon, .young ladies, with the testimonials of our 
 confidence. And though, in -so doing, we express our unqualified ap- 
 proval of the past, we are not without solicitude. We are anxious for 
 the future, — ^we ar« solicitous that the expectations of your friends and 
 of society concerning you should not be disappointed. We hope here- 
 after to find you distingliiehed for your intelligence, an honour to your 
 parents, the delight -and ornament in the circle of your associates. The 
 rudiments of literature and science which you have here acquired are 
 to be regarded as only a prelude to further progress. The mind as well 
 as the body is formed for activity. It acquires strength and energy 
 from vigorous exercise. If that be suspended, its powers are paralyzed 
 and enfeebled, and it gradually sinks into the imbecility of infancy. To 
 this cause more frequently than to any other, is to be attributed the 
 wide difierence in mental energy observable in the advanced periods of 
 life. You meet with an individual, once capable of no ordinary efi'ort, 
 now exhibiting the intellect of a child. You meet with another who 
 has seen many a dart and stormy winter, whose earthly tenement is 
 about tumbling to ruin, but whose internal edifice is without spot or 
 blemish, — ^retaining all ^e beauty, order, and grandeur of manhood and 
 of youth. 
 
 The enterprise and liberality which erected these walls and spread 
 around you these advantages; this crowded, respected, and intelligent 
 assembly, who have listened with so much candour and politeness to our 
 exercises, indicate how interesting to the community and how very im- 
 portant to you is the cultivation of your minds and hearts.. The period 
 of human life is often exhausted on a science which has occupied your 
 attention only for a few months, — and that too without discovering but a 
 small part of what is capable of being tnown. I make the remark for 
 the purpose of showing you how much there is yet to learn in relation 
 to every branch that has been an object of pursuit. Do not abandon 
 your books; but persevere in your attention to such authors and in such 
 manner as vrill tend to your advancement. A man is known by the 
 company he keeps. The same is true of books. Like confidential asso- 
 ciates, they exert a secret powerful influence, and their impress, good or 
 bad, is legibly stamped upon the character ; when of an unfavourable ten- 
 dency, the poison is often unseen and unfelt, till it has infected every 
 avenue of moral life, till resistance and remedy are alike unavailing. 
 
ii66 riELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 Works of fiction are by no means to be exdudvdy condemned. Fa- 
 miliar stories, interesting tales adapted to the capacities of children, 
 have a happy influence in withdrawing their minds from toys and trifles 
 to something intellectual, and, at the same time, in conveying useful and 
 important instruction. There is another class of fictitious writings, many 
 of them as to moral tendency wholly unexceptionable, which have too 
 much attraction for youth. The imagination is so perfectly charmed 
 and the sympathy so keenly excited in the perusal, that whatever of 
 truth or error they contain passes unheeded, the mind being intent only 
 on the sequel. There are those who peruse these productions without 
 detriment, perhaps to advantage, but it is in cases where the love or the 
 pursuit of truth is the moving principle of the soul. Such a one will 
 find her out, though obscured by the subtleties of skepticism or clad in 
 the trappings of folly. But when the fondness for knowledge is just 
 budding into life, where the labour of useful acquirement is no longer 
 irksome, but begins to be a pleasure, how much to be deprecated is any 
 circumstance tending to obstruct so happy a prospect, or blight such 
 high-raised hopes. I am not using the language of fancy, — I have seen 
 numbers whose diligence and industry had given rise to the highest ex- 
 pectations, but the mind, from injudicious reading, receiving an unfavour- 
 able impulse, they never after advanced one step in the path of wisdom 
 and knowledge. A taste for fictitious writings, too early and too eagerly 
 indulged, is a fatal impediment. You will inevitably acquire a distaste 
 for profitable employment, and abandon that kind of pursuit which is 
 suited to give you eminence in society. While connected with the semi- 
 nary, the requisitions of the teachers, the anxiety of your parents, your 
 own emulation and pride of character, all concur to compel your atten- 
 tion ; but when these circumstances cease to operate, then comes the 
 hour of trial. There is more danger to be apprehended in relation to 
 you than to youih of the other sex. They are subjected to a longer 
 and severer course of study, and may be afterwards entirely dependent 
 on their talents and learning for the means of living, or, at least, for 
 their standing and influence in society. Experience soon teaches them 
 that the exclusive perusal of novels is not the rough and thorny road to 
 the temple of fame. Nor is the reading of such authors requisite to 
 give you a knowledge of human nature, or to guard you against 'the 
 wiles of the designing and the wicked. If called upon to select a sub- 
 ject for imposition, I would point to that individual whose days and 
 ~ nights were devoted to works of fiction. We sometimes hear* it re- 
 marked that they afibrd relaxation, and are useful in giving an impulse 
 to the imagination Tnis may be true where a habit of application has 
 become so firmly rooted as to render it, in a manner, a constituent of the 
 mind itself. But youth have too much imagination. They already live 
 an ideal life, and it is the object of academic discipline to give the 
 Hscendency to the powers of the understanding. And here, were the dis- 
 tinction philosophical, I could point you out two kinds or states of the 
 imagination as fai divergent, as unlike in their effects and operations as 
 tmth and error, wisdom and folfy. The one is a wayward fancy, in- 
 aulging in revery, the companion of ignorance, bearing us hither and 
 
VALEDICTION, 367 
 
 thither at will, rendering the thinking faculties wholly unmanageahle 
 and incapable ofliterary effort. But when this "creative power" is 
 chastened by reflection ; and from continued and severe application sub- 
 jected to control, its utility and importance cannot be overrated or con- 
 ceived. It is the source of every embellishment, of whatever is rich 
 and luxuriant in language. It is the foundation of every thing beautiful 
 in description or sublime in conception, — ^in fine, it is genius herself, 
 "riding abroad on the whirlwind and storm," collecting her materials, 
 and laying at the feet of her master all that is grand in nature or capti- 
 vating in art. 
 
 You will therefore appreciate the importance of being watchful, of 
 being sufficiently guarded against the pursuit of any course which will 
 carry you downward, instead of upward, in the scale of improvement. 
 In your further progress, I would not, in the first instance, advise the read^ 
 ing of voluminous works, in which there is as much speculation as 
 historical record; but rather those histories which are condensed or 
 abridged. Voyages and travels, well-selected poetry, interesting annals, 
 or biographical sketches will sufficiently amuse, and at the same time 
 instruct you. And whenever a question of interest occurs on any of 
 the sciences to which you have here been attending, recur to your books, 
 nor leave them till the difficulty be solved. Pursue this course for a 
 comparatively short period, and your love of knowledge will acquire such 
 strength that, whether you read fiction or fact, nothing will eradicate that 
 heaven-born principle. 
 
 However important may be the culture of the understanding, that of 
 the heart is still more so. Not only your own peace of mind and your 
 ascendency in society materially depend on this, but the happiness also 
 of all around you. It is not enough to appear amiable, to affect those 
 qualities -which mankind so highly and so justly appreciate ; it is indis- 
 pensable you should possess them. Though you may be blessed with 
 the talents and learning of a Newton, and the graces and accomplishments 
 of the fabled Houries, without mildness of temper, amiableness and 
 gentleness of disposition, your influence, if you exert any, will be transient. 
 Were we on this subject to form our opinion from the fancy of the 
 poet, and not from observation in real life, we might be led into error. 
 The power there spqken of is not of woman as she always is, but »8 she 
 always ought to be. She is the constituted guardian of morals and 
 manners, — ^in virtue and refinement the guide. She is looked upon as 
 the source and centre of all the kind and gentle qualities, which mitigate 
 the misery aitd soften the wretchedness of human life ; and which seem 
 to constitute the only redeeming circumstance, the only luminous spot 
 on the dark page of our history. No wonder then that in her mankind 
 will tolerate no departure from decorum, nor forgive the absence of those 
 celestial virtues to which she is indebted for her ascendency over us 
 The one is an offence against society, the other against herself Lei 
 there be manifest an unamiable sentiment, a single outbreaking of tempei 
 or deviation from propriety, and the spell is broken, her power and 
 dominion are gone. But, on the other hand, if to a cultivated under- 
 Ftanding be added " the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit," " a charitv 
 
868 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 ■that seeketh not het owd," a heart overflowing with every good and kind 
 and gentle quality, — suoh a one has a hold on the affections of society, 
 an involuntary unsought-for influence, an empire over the hearts of 
 others, imperishable and illimitable. It is at the fireside of home, rather 
 than here, that the forming of character to social and domestic virtue is 
 to be perfected. There you may be aided by parental solicitude, and 
 profit by the counsel of those friends who are your elders in age and 
 knowledge. " Children, obey your parents in all things," is the language 
 of inspiration. It is the language of reason and experience, and the only 
 safe road to lasting happiness. The intense anxiety with which they 
 watch over your growing minds and increasing years, their hopes and 
 fears, their joys and d'espondencies, may be felt, but they cannot be 
 described. They live, if I may so speak) only for you. In sickness their 
 cares are redoubled, nor remitted in health. They doubly feel what yon 
 feel, and suffer what you suffer. No danger or difficulty is avoided, no 
 labour or expense spared, if it may contribute to your happiness or result 
 to your advantage. Since, then, it is within your power, how great are 
 your obligations, how urgent the motive to be all that your parents 
 desire ! Such being the fact, who can estimate the happiness you will 
 impart ? Whatever be their toils and troubles in this ever- varying, ever- 
 changing world, they will then meet them with courage and endure 
 tbem with fortitude. And when called to their final account j " when 
 their toils are all ended, their troubles all over," the bright bow of 
 promise which appears in the prospects of their children, sheds a mild 
 and genial radiance over the soul. It soothes their departing spirits 
 and kindles the smile of satisfaction and peace in defiance of the fell 
 destroyer. 
 
 To contrast the scene, go with me to an apartment in yon mansion, 
 where the king of terrors has likewise entered ; where the gray hairs of 
 an affectionate parent are about to be brought with sorrow to the grave 
 by the vices and ingratitude of his children. As he lies stretched on 
 the bed of suffering, you see in his careworn visage the expression of 
 pangs far keener than are extorted by expiring agony. You turn your 
 eye for the cause — and there stands by bis bedside a dissolute son, — 
 on whose countenance the bold impress of vice is too legible to escape 
 even that dim eye which is now about closing for ever ! The thought is 
 too painful — I cannot place beside him an unfeeling, an undutiful 
 daughter. And Heaven grant the last clay-cold sweat may never be 
 wiped from my forebead by the band of an unfeeling child ! 
 
 However deeply I would impress on your minds the duty you owe to 
 others, I would not omit that which you owe to your Father in heaven. 
 In short, by promoting the happiness of all around you, you best perforni 
 what is required by him. Your expectations of earthly bliss are liable 
 to be too sanguine. Human life is a checkered scene, an alternate suc- 
 cession of weal and wo. In the cup of the most prosperous are mingled 
 " the wormwood and the gall." Disappointments and afflictions are not 
 sent as the final reward of our deeds. They are designed to lessen our 
 attachment to things here, to render our transition from time less poignant 
 •ir more desirable-^an event we are inevitably to expect, and for which 
 
THE HOURS. 369 
 
 we aro daily to prepare. With us there is much cause of gratitude to 
 the forbearance of a kind and indulgent Providence. No one of our 
 number since the opening of the seminary, within my knowledge, has 
 fallen a prey to the great enemy of human life. But in the mean time, 
 has the destroyer been without his victims? Has his hand been 
 slackened in carrying desolation and wo into the abodes of felicity and 
 peace? No — he has been active elsewhere. And though we have been 
 spared, other and worthier victims were selected. In looking round upon 
 the circle of friends who are wont on such occasions to encourage you by 
 their presence, I remark — they are not all here. They are absent- 
 mothers — and a daughter in Israel ! If the most active piety, — if the 
 practice of all the virtues that bless our race, — if prayers — if tears could 
 have availed, they had now been with us. But they are gone ! Affection 
 weeps, society mourns their loss ! And is there no consolation ? What 
 mean those effulgent rays now penetrating this dark cloud of affliction 
 and sorrow ? It is the light of their example, illumining the pathway 
 of the just, and guiding to those mansions of eternal rest where affliction 
 and sorrow never enter. Let me say then to yon, my young friends, 
 imitate them m pieti/, practise their virtues, so shall your end be joyous 
 and your rest eternal. 
 
 THE HOURS. 
 
 BY T E ZOLLICOFFES. 
 
 NfilTHEB substance quite nor shadow. 
 Courting lonely moor and meadow, 
 Basking round the bubbling spring, 
 Biding on the whirlwind's wing. 
 
 How systematically beautiful is the order of the hours ! Withi- 
 what harmony they move on in the bright tenor of their way; and what 
 a moral do they teach to the reflecting and meditative mind ! They arc 
 the symbols of human happiness. They are the vignette and the em- 
 blem of life, fairly pointing out to the intelligent eye those purer models 
 of earthly excellence which are too beautiful to last. Like the tran-^ 
 sient bubbles of a boundless ocean which for a moment reflects on its 
 surface the fair imagery of heaven, they burst in the plenitude of their., 
 mimic beauty, and depart, forgotten, and for ever returnless. With all, 
 their terrible responsibility — ^with all their weight of human happiness 
 and of human wo — with all the anxieties, impulses, conquests, and 
 overthrows of desultory life — ^with the hope, the phrenzy, the ambition 
 and despair, that move and agitate a boundless creation, they depart 
 from us and are gone for ever — they move off into the oblivious ocean 
 of the past, and not a wreck nor a shadow remains of that influence ■ 
 which for a period filled haaven, and held the destiny of the universe. 
 
 They are the book of nature, in whuse harmonious foldings and- 
 enamelled pages w.e read the existence of an Omnipotent Author . 
 Who has D)t felt th", divinity of the hours, warm and fresh, upon hi», 
 
 24 
 
870 riELDS'S SCKAP-BOOK. 
 
 Boul, when life was joung. and innocence abroad in bis spirit ? Who 
 has not been made glad with their enlivening influence when fortune 
 frowned, and adversity with her scorpion sting plied the sore and de- 
 sponding soul ? Who has not> in prosperity, gazed on the morning 
 hour, and admired the hand that modelled it ? There is not a monur 
 ment of nature in which the beauty of creation is more apparent, or the 
 existence of an overruling Divinity made more manifest,- than in tiie 
 wonderful order and, perpetual harmony of the HOUBS. Their regular 
 departure and return' — their voiceless modulationsi through the varied 
 egress of day — the imperceptible, changes from the sombre to the beau- 
 tiful, from the shadow of darkness to the unmoiled, effulgence, of light 
 —and their happy and intuitive influences over the impulses of the 
 heart, point clearly to the origin of that matchless design, that beautiful 
 system which has no parallel. With the limpid! freshness of the rising, 
 morn, they blend the rich ray of meridian splendour, and in the lap of 
 sable night repose they the lovely twilight: The colours of the rainbow 
 are not more varied, more fleeting, or more beautiful., than theyj and 
 yet they are the counterpart of human feeling; How peculiarly adapted 
 to the diversity, of the mind, and how happily apportioned: to the differ 
 ent pursuits and diversions of man ! As varied as the tinselling of a 
 summer cloud, as variegated as the leaves of an autumnal forest, are the 
 hues of human impulse aud of human feeling; but there is not a mould 
 of mortal mind, from an Addison to a Voltaire, from a Byron to a Guy, 
 which has not found its kindred hour. Thetre is an hour of fellowship 
 for the high-born soul — and for the most grovelling spirit that prowls 
 the earth, there is a period of hallueination. The most buoyant dispo- 
 sition — and yet the most melancholy — are equally companioned ; and 
 we are forced to exclaim» as we reflect oB: the peculiar and wonderful 
 harmony which characterizes their respective tendencies, that there is a 
 ■Divinity above which shapes the soul, and moulds its elysium to the 
 l.alcyon hour! 
 
 How grateful to the young and, ardent spirit is the hour ofi dawn-. — 
 the fresh; , cool dawn of a summer morning I The early swallow, high 
 twittering on his airy spire, feels, the heavenly influence, and wheels 
 headlong down the abyss; then breasting the healthy, current, again 
 speeds upward, in a thousand fickle turns, till, resting on his chosen 
 height, he melodiously warbles his psean to the morning air. The 
 humble hare now frisks out to sip the limpid dew. 'Tis Heaven's beni- 
 son — and enough for him; ,he drinks and is refreshed. And fain would 
 he now await the rising orb of the east^ and gambol in his mellow ray ; 
 — -but why does he fly ? — rhark ! the pleasures he meditates are denied 
 him. The wild blast of the hunter? s horn breaks over the hills, and the 
 jedoubling cry of the opening, pack brings a fearful warning to his little 
 bosom. It is the signal of d«ath ! .Oh, can it be that man may so bar- 
 barously pervert the use of this happy hour, — that he may, turn from 
 - the. holy embrace of moral purity, and^seek to bathe his hands in: the 
 life-blood of a harmless creature? Ah ! this is the price of innocence, 
 and this is. a history of its fate. 
 
 But let. us turn from this meiancholjj fangy to the full appreciation, of 
 
THE HWRSv &71 
 
 the luorning hour. Let ua picture to. ourselves the. littler village^gTeen 
 or rural lawn over which we ran in childish, innocence, and youdly 
 planted' the first footprint on the hillock green. It i^ now the orison 
 hour — and a thousand souls are mingled in prajer. The sun is just 
 bursting away from the blue mountains, and as hisradlance shopts broad 
 and long over the wide expanse of" farm and. forest, a thousand shape- 
 less sh^lows start,, aijd perform their, lowly revolution about, the ac- 
 knowledged lord of day.. The bird's are siiiging in the adjoining, grove 
 — the peasant adds his rural strain, and^ with the sweet symphony of 
 nature's song, is now commingled the low but lovely chime of the dis- 
 tant village bell. How refreshing: — how delightful is the morning hour ! 
 "With what an enrapturing consonance of sound and sight, of woodland., 
 song and' woodland scenery, does it reg?.le the soul ! It is the hour of 
 joy — the paragon of nature's beauty — the. emblem of'yovith ! It is a 
 subject for a poet's fancy, and happy, happy may he. be, who can weave 
 into the meshes of his song the spirit of the man.tUng morn. 
 
 "We are dazzled with the splendour of noon. ' We beholcT the sun, 
 glorying in the zenith of his power, the sole n^onarch of a. cloudless 
 heaven, and our conceptions are filled with the bright and beautiful. Tt . 
 is the hour of adorative feeling. The mind delights to associate it 
 vrith a more effulgent light, and' we readily behold in it a symbol of the 
 glory of God. It is a, beautiful hour — calm and unrufiled'as a martyr's 
 mind, and bright as the hope that animates his bosom. Uiifanned.by a. 
 breeze, unrefreshed by a shower, nature sleeps. Silent are the meadows 
 and silent are the mountaiits — there is not a sound in this " sameness 
 of splendbur," save the solitary, tiiikle of the distant bell, or the cease- 
 less hum of the little honey-bee, as he bestows a gentle kiss ou the 
 nectared'petal of each adjoining flower. The lazy voluptuary now lolls 
 upon his gilded sofa, and the mountain shepherd' as happily reclines him 
 on the green-sward 'beside his panting charge; the sturdy plqughmanj 
 parched' with thirst, retires to the sequestered brook, where, .falling upon 
 his breast,. he qiiaffb ftiU freely of the refreshing. current ; while the idle 
 school-boy, proud of his hour of freedom, flies to the far-off'rivuleit, and 
 sinks deep in its ambling, bosom. This is the hour of fainting nature, 
 — ^vegetation shrinks, and the spirit of the little flower is g9ne ere it is 
 h'alf-'blown. Then how grateful the zephyr, how welcome the intervening 
 clondi which for a moment hovers over the drooping field and pours in 
 its fleet but refreshing sympathy, as if heaven itself had wept the splen- 
 did ruin. 
 
 The hour of stjnset, how beautiful ! It is as the last hope of the 
 dark and erriiig spirit, stricken out at the hour of 'death. The mind is 
 stung by the association, but the imagination is held captive by the 
 beauty of truth, and' we fondly linger on the sweet yet pensive idea. 
 H'ow often, when the west has gathered in its golden fragments, , and 
 earth put on her emerald green, have I gazed on this pantomime of 
 nature with the idolatry of a fervid imagination ! How often, with 
 fall and rapturous feeling, hav» I contemplated the ethereal imagery 
 impressed on a western horizon, till the glowing picture, faded from my 
 view, and I was forced to know it as a mockery I I have seen it o^ an 
 
{?72 MELDS'S' SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 herculean battlement reared by furies and flaming wiCh the heat of io - 
 ternal warfare. I have gazed on its crimsoned vapours, piled broad anu 
 high, and based on a band of western mountains, and pictured to myself 
 the gigantic towers of a golden bastion built by nature's architect anc 
 planted on the rock of ages. I have fancied it a " giant emerald set in 
 sapphire," or as a sardine stone in the wreath of a vestal, and, with the 
 caprice of imagination, have held it up as the distant illumination of a 
 sea of glory, or as the bright abode of a world of cherubim. But, false 
 a.s my fancy, it hath faded away, and nature is putting on her soberest 
 attire. 
 
 'Tis the tranquil hour of evening twilight. How still is earth — 
 how serene the aspect of heaven ! How transcendently lovely, to the 
 meditative mind, are all objects at this hour ! The pensive spirit sinks 
 into a haven of rest; the high-born but neglected soul now pillows itself 
 on a bosom of conscious innocence, and the stern and rational mind 
 calmly siyveys the puissant and happy operations of nature's laws. 
 With what facility does the mind now collate and amalgamate the hap- 
 piness of the past ! with what fondness do we now turn to the recollec- 
 tion of better days and fairer prospects ! and how often and with what 
 fidelity does memory recall the shadows of departed friendship, that 
 never will — never can bless us more ! The tomb, that cheerless habita- 
 tion of the dead, has received our friend ; the little ones that loved us 
 in our youth, the fond ones that smiled on us in health and smoothed 
 our fevered brow in illness, those guardian ones who watched over us 
 with a parent's care and caressed us as a noble boy — the tendei*, solicit- 
 ous father — the dear, devoted mother — all are gone ; and as the gnarled 
 and withered oak on the mountain's brow, all friendless and companion- 
 less, we weather the storm alone. 
 
 Hop beautiful is the departure of the twilight hour ! Like the hopn 
 that makes lovely the death-bed of a Christian, as darkness impales the 
 realms of earth, heaven's light is serene above, and soothes the pertur- 
 bations of the soul. The orb of day has sunk to rest, the crimson sky 
 has faded, night's sable influence rushes boldly up from her holes and 
 crannies, and all is apparently lost, when, behold ! the prospect brightens, 
 the scenery of heaven is changed. It is Nature at her evening toilet. 
 The dim and hazy curtain of the past is rolled away, and the bespangled 
 livery of night now decks the hour. How I love, at such an hour, to 
 move along the dusky shore of the silver lake, till I reach the summit 
 of some unfrequented rock, and there, alone, in the plenitude of melan- 
 oholy feeling, gaze abroad over its translucent bosom. How beautiful 
 to behold the anomaly of heaven above, reflecting so accurately a firma- 
 ment below, that one would almost fancy himself suspended in mid-air, 
 in the centre of a system of interminable worlds ! How lovely, then, to 
 see the little sail skimming into port, or to mark the course of the light 
 canoe splitting the clear surface with a noiseless facility, and disappear- 
 ing as the shadow of a vision. I have listened to the night-bird's even- 
 ing carol, blended with the distant plash of the sturdy oar, and thought 
 it harmony. I have listened to the zephyr and the boatman's whistle, 
 and thsy were music to my ear ; I :it I shall never forget the hour when 
 
REMEMBER MB. 373 
 
 I first caught the sound of the patriot's song over the waters. The night 
 was calm and all was still, when it rose from the bosom of the bay. I 
 looked about me, and beheld I was alone, with 
 
 A boundless heaTeii, a beauteous sea, 
 A crescent moon, a little boat, 
 And the spirit of the song. 
 
 Three boatmen plied their oars, while three more stood erect, and my 
 country's ditty, with the breathings of the flute, gave wings to the light 
 sea vessel. They reached their little haven — the sound of the concert 
 ceased — and, as an echo from a distant battlement, the brazen voice of 
 MIDNIGHT rose lonely on the gale. 
 
 KEMEMBER ME. 
 
 There are not two other words in the language that call back a more 
 fruitful train of past remembrances of friendship, than these. Look 
 through your library, and when you cast your eye upon a volume that 
 contains the name of an old companion, it will say — remember me. 
 Have you an ancient album, the repository of the mementos of early 
 affection ? turn over its leaves, stained by the finger of time — sit down 
 and ponder upon the names enrolled upon them ; each says — remember 
 me. Go into the crowded churchyard, among the marble tombs — ^read 
 the simple and brief inscriptions that perpetuate the memory of departed 
 ones; they, too, have a voice that speaks to the hearts of the living, 
 and it says — remember me. Walk, in the hour of evening twilight, amid 
 the scenes of your early rambles ; the well-known paths, the winding 
 streams, "the overspreading trees, the green and gently-sloping banks, 
 will recall the dreams of juvenile pleasure, and the recollections of 
 youthful companions; they, too, bear the treasured injunction — remem^ 
 ber m,e. . 
 
 And this is all that is left at last of the wide circle of our early 
 friends. Scattered by fortune, or called away by death, or thrown with- 
 out our band by the changes of circumstance or of character, in time 
 we find ourselves left alone with the recollection of what they were. 
 Some were our benefactors, and won us by their favours ; others were 
 kind, and amiable, and affectionate, and for this we esteemed them ; 
 others, again, were models of virtue, and shared our praise and admira- 
 tion. It was thus a little while, and then the chances of the world broke 
 in upon the delighted intercourse ; it ceased. Yet still we do all we 
 can to discharge the one sacred, and honest, and honourable debt — we 
 remember them. 
 
 The tribute, too, of remembrance which we delight to pay to others wfl 
 desire for ourselves. The wish for applause ; the thirst for fame , the 
 desire that our names should shine down to future posterity in the glory 
 of recorded deeds, is a feverish unhappy passion, compared with the 
 anawbitious desire to retain, even beyond the span of life, the affections 
 
 2G 
 
374 fieeBS's scr/p-book. 
 
 oif the trarm-heartefl 'few 'Who siiEred csir joys rand sorrows in the w-iria 
 I once read the bricff inscription " Bemember me," on a tombBtonc^ in 
 a country churchyard, with -a teai, that the grave of JSonapai^ wouiii 
 not have called forth. 
 
 But whom do we always remember with affection ? The virtuous, the 
 kind, the warm-hearted;, those who have endeared themselves to us by 
 the amiableness of their characters. It is the mind, the disposition, the 
 habite, the feelings of our friends Which attach us to them most strongly ; 
 which form the only lasting bond of affection ; which alone can secure 
 pur affectionate remembrances. 
 
 Then, if we would be remembered with the kindliest feelings; if we 
 would be embalmed in the memory of those we love ; if we desire that, 
 when fortune, or fate, shall separate us from our friends, they may long 
 think of us; we must possess ourselves the same character we love in 
 others. Never was a more noble line written in the history of man 
 than this — " The first emotion of ,pain he ever caused was caused by 
 his departure." 4 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 A CRABBED acgtfairitance of ours has juSt Repeated touB, " Frailty, thy 
 name is woman." We "were trying to get him to call with us on a very 
 beautiful lady of our acquaintance. He is a scholar, a wit, and a gentle- 
 man, and yet dares to repeat that villainous line in our hearing. Alas 
 for him ! we fear he i's paSt redemption. We cannot conceive ^why the 
 fair sex have been so often vilified. We declare it unjust, and we enlist 
 ourselves in their defence ; notwithstanding Virgil hath said, " Woman 
 always various and changeable"- — and Shakspeare, " Frailty, ihj name is 
 woman." 
 
 Woman is not more variable than man. Her constancy has Stood the 
 test of fire, and blood, and torment, in thousands of instances, and shall 
 she be called fickle? We verily believe that woman's friendship is 
 infinitely more disinterested, infinitely more pure than man's. She Hfill 
 follow her loVer throngh weal and wo^thvough evil report and good 
 report — :tbrough poverty, through sorrow, and misery, and death. She 
 will love him ita his sin, and in his glory, and in his shame, and in bin 
 degradation; and shcwill bind him the closer ito her heart, as he Jails 
 the lower. Will man do so? No — let but the breath of evilireport'dim 
 the brightness of the pure name of th^ 'being 'whom he loves, let her 
 sin but once, and he will forsake 'her for ever. Will ^he love heriin abase 
 and ill-treatment ? But suppose she cocpiet, and trifle with fthe affiections 
 of the worthy ? Has she not been taught by example ? How many 
 hearts tave broken and bled to 'death when forsa/ken by man ! How 
 many women have given their whole affections away, -and poured out 
 thoir wnole hearts upon a iover,and th^en been forsaken! How often 
 have attentions been offered to gratify -vanity, and to please pride ! JIow 
 often ? Alas ! who shall answer the question ?—.2VeM York paper. 
 
VALLEY Of JBHOSHAPHAT. 875 
 
 YALLEY OF JEHOSHAPHAT. 
 
 Blackwood's Magazine, in -an artiflle entitled Chateaubriand, contains, 
 among other extracts from his works, the following beautiful description 
 tif the valley cK Jehoshaphat : — 
 
 The valley of Jehosbaplutt has in alleges served as the burying-plaw.) 
 to Jerusalem^ you meet tliere, 'side by side, monuments of the most 
 distant times and ef the present century. The Jews still come there to 
 die, from the corners of the earth. A stranger sells to them, for almost 
 its weight in golij, the land wiich contains the bones of their fatheus. 
 'Solomon planted that valley.; the shadow of the 'temple by which it was 
 overhung — the torrent, called after grief, -which ttra versed it — the Psalms 
 which David there com,posed — the Lamentations of Jeremiaii, which its 
 rocks re-echoed under it, the fitting abode of the tomb. Christ com- 
 menced his passion in the same place-; that innocent David there shed, 
 for the expiation of our sins, tears which the guilty David let fall ior 
 his own transgressions. Few names awaken in our mind recollections 
 80 solemn as the valley of Jehoshaphat. It is so full of mysteries, tha*, 
 according to the ,prophet Joel, .all mankind will be assembled there 
 before the Eternal Judge. 
 
 The aspect of this celebrated valley is desolate ; the -western side is 
 bounded by a ridge of lofty rocks which support the walls of Jerusalem, 
 above which the towers of the city appear. The eastern side is formed by 
 the Mount of Olives, arid another eminence called the Mount of -Scandal, 
 from the idolatry of Solomon. These two mountains, which adjoin each 
 other, are almost bare, and of a red and sombre hue ; on their desert 
 side you see here and there some black and withered vineyards, some 
 wild olives, some ploughed land, covered with byssqp, and a few ruined 
 chapels. At the "bottom of the valley, .you perceive a torrent, traversed 
 bj a single arch, whicb appears of great antiquity. The stones of the 
 Jewish cemetery appear like a mass of rains with which they are sur- 
 rounded. Three ancient monuments are ^particularly conspicuous, those 
 of Zachariah, Jehoshaphat, and Absalom. The siadness of Jerusalem, 
 from which no smoke ascends, and in which no sound is beard ; the boU- 
 • tude of the surrounding mountains, where -not a living -creature is to be 
 . seen ; the disorder of these tombs, ruined, ransacked, and half exposed 
 - to view, would almost induce one to believe that' the last trump had 
 been heard, and that the dead' were about to rise in the valley of J-eliO- 
 8haphat. 
 
 HOM-E. 
 
 BiNG a sweet meloaious measure, 
 ■Waft enBhaiiting lays around ; 
 
 Home^a theme replete with pleasure, 
 HoBte— a.grateiultheme resound. 
 
 Home, sweet home ! an ample treasure I 
 ^ome, with every blessing crown'd, 
 
 -Borne, perpetual source of pleasure, 
 -Home, a noble strain rjssuimd. 
 
376 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 BLENNEKHASSET'S ISLAND, AND BURK'S CONSPIRACF 
 
 BY JUDGE HALL. 
 
 But I know that you are by this time ready to ask me, whether 1 am 
 seriously endeavouring to convince you that Burr was a true and loyal 
 subject to the sovereign people of these United States. I have no such 
 design, though, I must confess, that if I had the power to execute so dif- 
 ficult a project, I would with pleasure employ it. I should be happy to 
 obliterate a stain from the annals of my country, and a blot from the 
 fame of a fellow-citizen. I should be glad also to be always victorious 
 in argument, if I could admit that success was the test of truth. But 
 this I do not believe. I will tell what I do believe. I believe that nine- 
 tenths of Burr's adherents knew no more of his projects than you, and 
 I, and all the world, and that those who do know any thing will be wise 
 enough to keep their own counsel. But if I cannot tell you what Colo- 
 nel Burr intended to do, I can relate what he did ; for here I am in sight 
 of the deserted fields and dilapidated mansion of thrt unfortunate Blen- 
 nerhasset ! That this fairy spot, created by nature in one of her choicest 
 moods, and embellished by the hand of art, was once the seat ofa philo- 
 sophic mind, has already been told in language which I need not attempt 
 to emulate. But, alas ! I cannot recognise the taste of Blennerhasset, 
 or realize the paradise of Wirt. All is ruin, solitude, and silence! 
 They are gone who made the wilderness to smile. 
 
 Blennerhasset was an Irish gentleman of easy fortune — a man devoted 
 to science, who retired from the world, in the hope of finding happiness 
 in the union of literary and rural occupation. He selected this island as 
 his retreat, and spared no expense in beautifying and improving it. He 
 is described as having been retired in his habits, amiable in his propen- 
 sities, greatly addicted to chemical studies, and a passionate lover of 
 music. In this romantic spot and in these innocent pursuits he lived ; 
 and to crown the enchantment of the scene, a wife, who is said to have 
 been lovely, even beyond her sex, and graced with every accomplishment 
 that could render it irresistible, had blessed him with her love, and made 
 him the father of her children. But Blennerhasset, in an evil hour, 
 became acquainted with Burr — he imbibed the poison of his ambition, 
 became involved in his intrigues, and shared his ruin — a ruin as com- 
 plete, desolate, and hopeless, as his former state had been serene and 
 bright. 
 
 Whatever were Burr's intentions, it is certain that they embraced 
 schemes so alluring, or so magnificent, as to win the credulous Blen- 
 nerhasset from the abstractions of study and the blandishments of love. 
 This island became the centre of operations — here arms were deposited 
 and men collected; and here, assembled round their watch-fires, young 
 gentlemen, " who had seen better days," and " sat at good men's feasts," 
 endujed all the rigours of the climate and the privations of a campaign, 
 rewarding themselves in anticipation with the honours of war and the 
 wealth of Mexico. Burr and Blennerhasset were the master-spirits who 
 
blennerhasset's island. 377 
 
 planned their labours ; Mrs. Blennerhasset was the light and life of all 
 their social joys. If treason matured its dark designs in her mansion, 
 here also the song, the dance, and the revel displayed their fascinations. 
 The order of arrest was the signal of dispersion to this ill-fated band ; and 
 it is said that the lovely mistress of this fairy scene, the Calypso of this 
 enchanted isle, was seen at midnight " shivering on the winter banks of 
 the Ohio," mingling her tears with its waters, eluding by stratagem the 
 ministers of justice, and destitute of the comforts of life and the solace 
 of that hospitality which she had once dispensed with such graceful libe- 
 rality 
 
 I believe it is not doubted that Burr intended to attempt the conquest 
 of Mexico. A large portion of the people of that country were supposed 
 to be waiting only for a favourable opportunity to throw off the Spanish 
 yoke. The Americans, as their neighbours, and as republicans, would, 
 it was thought, be received without suspicion ; nor would Burr have 
 unfolded his ultimate design, until it should be too late to prevent its 
 accomplishment. He would have established a monarchy, at the head 
 of which would have been King Aaron the First. I am told that the 
 young gentlemen who were proceeding to join him often amused them- 
 selves on this subject — talking, half in jest, and half in earnest, at the 
 offices and honours which awaited them. 
 
 Titles and places were already lavishly distributed in anticipation ; and 
 Mrs. , who was an accomplished and sprightly woman, had ar- 
 ranged the dresses and ceremonies of the court. When the. alarm was 
 given, and orders were given for the arrest of Burr and his adherents, 
 they were obliged to resort to a variety of expedients to escape detection. 
 At Fort Massac, and other places, all boats descending the river were 
 compelled to stop and undergo strict examination, to the great vexation 
 cf boatmen and peaceable voyagers, who were often obliged to land at 
 unseasonable hours. Very diligent inquiry was made for the lady I 
 have just mentioned, who several times narrowly escaped detection, 
 through her own ingenuity and that of her companions. — ^Adieu. 
 
 CURIOUS HISTORICAL FACT. 
 
 DuKiNG the troubles in the reign of Charles I., a ccmntry girl came 
 to London in search of a place as a servant-maid ; but not succeeding, 
 she hired herself to carry out beer from a brew-house, and was one of 
 those called tub-women. The brewer, observing a good-looking girl in 
 this low occupation, took her into his family as a servant, and after a 
 short time married her; but he died while yet she was a young woman, 
 and left her the bulk of his fortune. The business of the brewery was 
 dropped, and to the young woman was recommended Mr. Hyde, as a 
 skilful lawyer to arrange her husband's affairs. Hyde, who was after- 
 wards the great- Earl of Clarendon, finding the widow's fortune very 
 considerable, married her. Of this marriage there was no other issue 
 than a daughter, who was afterwards the wife of James II., and mother 
 of Mary and Anne, queens of England. 
 HaZ 
 
3T3 
 
 FIELDS S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 IHE BAMSEL OF PEKtJ. 
 
 BT BRTAKT. 
 
 WHERE oUve let^es trOTe twinkling 'hi, itetywind' 
 
 fchftt blew, 
 rfaete sat beneath the pleasant shftde a damsel' of) 
 
 Peru. 
 Betwixt the slender tottghfl/as they opeii'd'tothe air, 
 Came glimpses of her ivory neck and of her glossy 
 
 hair; 
 I -. d sweetly rang her fiilvfer "voice within that shady 
 
 nooTc, 
 Su> from the shrubhygUnis heard thesonnd of hidden 
 
 brook. 
 
 Tip a poDg of loveiand valonr in -the noble Spanish , 
 
 tongue, 
 t'hat once tipon the flutfny'iA&Sns of old'Cflsfcile was 
 
 sang ; 
 When, from their mountain holds, on the JVIoorish 
 
 rout below, 
 Bod rnsh'd the Christians, li'ke a flood, and swept 
 
 away the' foe. 
 A while that melody is still, and Ihen breaks forth 
 
 anew; 
 K, wilder rhyme, a livdliev note, uf freedom and 
 
 Peru. 
 
 A White hand partB" the branches, a lovely face looks 
 
 forth, 
 Ind bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly 
 
 towards the -notth, 
 .Tbon look'st in vain, -sweet maiden, the -sharpest 
 
 sight would fail 
 To spy a sign of human' life abroad in all the vale ; 
 i^t the noon is coming on, and -the'sunbeams fiercely 
 
 beat. 
 And the silent hills and forest-tops seem reeiling in 
 
 the heat. 
 
 Hiat'whlte band Is withdrawn, that fair ss4 fac«' b 
 
 gone, 
 But themasifl of that silrer Toioe is flowing sweetly 
 
 on; 
 Not as of late, tbOhefiffUl'tontfs, tnit mournfully and 
 
 low: 
 A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago— 
 Of hitn who died In battle, the youthful and tht 
 
 brave. 
 And her who died of sorrow upon his early grave. 
 
 But see, along that monntaln's slope, ft fiery horae- 
 
 mata ride ; 
 Mark hiS'tofn^plume, his tamish'd belt, the sabre ai 
 
 his-side. 
 Hie spurs ave buried mtrel deep, he rides with lOosenM 
 
 rein; 
 There's blood upon bis charger's flank, and foam 
 
 upon his mane: 
 He speeds towards the oil ve-gro'^e,' along that shaded 
 
 hill; 
 God shield the helpless maiden there, if he iho&ld 
 
 mean her ill ! 
 
 And suddenly that song has ceased, and suddenly;! 
 
 hear 
 A shriek sent up amid the shade, a shriek— but Dot 
 
 of fear. . 
 For tender accents follow, and tender pauses speak 
 The overflow of gladness, when words are all to» 
 
 weak : 
 "I lay Tny good sword at thy feet, for, now Pern li 
 
 A-ee, 
 And I am come to dwell beside the olive-grove wilk 
 
 thee." 
 
 THE DEAD TKUMPETER. 
 
 "Wake, soldier ! wake ! thy W ar-hovss ^oits, 
 
 To bear thee to the battle back ; 
 Thou slumborest at a'foemffin's'gatfis;-^ 
 Thy dog would break'thy bivonui;— 
 Thy plume is trailing in the dust, 
 And thy red falchion 'gathering rust! 
 
 Jeep, soldier ! sleep ! — thy warfare o'er. 
 Not thine own bugle's' loudest strain 
 Shall ever break thy alumbefs'tnoM 
 With' summons to the'bat)t)le--7lain; 
 A trumpet note more lend and deep 
 Must roufie thee' flrom- that leaden'slecp ! 
 
 <Thou need'st not helm -nor cuirass now. 
 Beyond the Gretuan hero'sboast, — 
 
 Thon wilt not quail thy naked btOw, 
 Nor shrink before a myriad host— 
 
 For head and beel alike are sonnd, 
 A-thousand arrows cannot wound! 
 
 'Thy mother is not in thy dreams, 
 
 -With tbflt wild wither'd look she won 
 The day — how long to her it seems !— 
 * . She kiss'd thee at the cottage^oor. 
 
 And sickened at the sounds of joy 
 
 That bore away her only boy ! 
 
 Sleep, soldier ! let thy mother wait, 
 
 To hear thy bugle on the blast ; 
 Thy dog, perhaps, may find the gate. 
 And bid "her home -to thee at last ; — 
 He cannot tell a-sadder tale 
 Than did thy ohirtcn, on the gale, 
 TVhen -last— arid far away,— she heard its Ungerisj 
 echoes foil. 
 
WHAT or THE TIMES? 37P 
 
 WHAT OF THE TIMES ? 
 
 BT DK. JOHN BEllL. 
 
 What <tt &e timeB, my kind Mentor? What but agitation, com- 
 motion, and revolution, was the reply. And, he add«d, after a pause, 
 was it ever otherwise in the history of the world ? If we reflect ever so 
 little, we cannot but discover that the mind {^nations, like that of indi- 
 viduals, must have unceasingly wherewithal to exercise and ,even to 
 waste its ipoweiB. When superstition and war fail to furnish aliment, 
 commercial enterprise, or liie exercise of the fine and Msefal arts and atll 
 their .pomp and circumstance, are next had recourse to. These obtained, 
 new sources of agitattion are opened ; ^people ;begiiB to cast anxious and 
 inquiring glances at their ;gituatioil; and their i«lativ« position to each 
 other and to their possessions is next scrutinized. They are restive under 
 attempts made by their rulers and superiors to alter the value of pro- 
 perty, and to abridge their sphere of .personal movement, fhej now 
 discuss the questions of right and privilege.; and amid t^eir perplexity, 
 growing out of the sophisms of courtiers and hirelings, and the evident 
 differences among men in physical, moral, and intellectual endowment, 
 as well as inthe unequal possession of ithe.goods of fortune by those who 
 originally had, similar and'^qaal opportunities for acquiring them, they 
 find it difficult to know themselves what to ask for, andstill more difficult 
 to know how they can obtain their claim, and how insure permanency 
 to its objects. In this dilemma are the nationsof the earth at the present 
 time ; and hence the universal anxiety and perturbation. But was the 
 world pver quiet, were mankind ever free from the influence of some 
 strong impulse ? Let the past, .however briefly told, be the reply. 
 
 When Europe had recovered from the shock produced by the irruption 
 of the barbarians and the subversion of the Boman empire, the people 
 began to be agitated by the claims of riv.al monasteries for influence and 
 endowment, and the marauding excursions of neighbouring barohs and 
 castellains. .Superstition and war often assumed more imposing forms by 
 involving the whole nation ; but they did not appear on that grand scale 
 which gave them the semblance of religion -and justice, until the period 
 in which Europe ipoured not only her armed legions, shut millions of her 
 people over the plains of Asia. Piety and genuine devotion ihad little 
 to do with the Crusades, although they were ostensibly engaged in for 
 the recovery of the Holy Land from the infidels. The .mainspring of 
 action, the incitement with the many, was a spirit of adventure, a love of 
 change, and a desire to escape from present regtriotionS) whethertyrannical 
 or legal, by which the breast of man is ever agitated. Atheists, robbers, 
 and pirates made common cause with bishops, <knigkts, and barons So 
 motley was the .group, and of such disreputable mitterials wasiit, at least 
 in part, composed, that one writer rather quaintly exclaims, ".A 
 lamentable case, that the devil's blackguards should be God's soldiers." 
 On one occasion the crusaders could allow themselves to attack and 
 capture Constantinople — at another the island of Cyprus. It -mattered 
 
.180 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 little, provided they found employment for their arms, and gratification 
 of the love of wild adventure which impelled most of them to leave their 
 homes. Knight-errantry was but another mode in which this restless 
 spirit of mankind displayed itself. They who had not patience of dispo- 
 sition to act the part of monks, to chant hymns, copy manuscripts, and 
 get up miracles for the benefit of their monastery ; nor yet who possessed 
 castles and retainers in suflGlcient force to tyrannize over their serfs and 
 plunder their neighbours, took to the high road as knights errant; arbi- 
 trators, according to their own law, of disputes, and righters, after their 
 own whims, of wrongs, whether real or imaginary. As men always 
 must have some banner and motto under which to battle, theirs was 
 chastity and valour, with impassioned regard for some fair dame, or one 
 whom at least they persuaded themselves was fair, and to prove which, 
 they would at any time dare a doubter to the combat, although it may 
 have happened that they had never seen the object of their enthusiastic 
 regard. These knights errant were about as sincere in their vocation as 
 the younger sons of nobility and gentry, who enter the army to win 
 honours and glory and the gratitude of their sovereign and the country. 
 Place and profit are, of course, mere incidents in this brilliant and disin- 
 terested career. 
 
 It has been made a matter of reproach to the Italian republics, that 
 they did not engage as zealously in the crusades as the people of Eranoe, 
 Germany, and England. The reason is obvious ; they had not less of an 
 orthodox spirit than their northern neighbors ; but they found active 
 employment in fighting with each other at home and trading abroad. They 
 were not very solicitous to visit Syria and Egypt as soldiers, when they 
 could more easily and profitably do it as merchants and mariners. They 
 did not stand in need of any new impulse to agitate them — revolution was 
 ever busy, and kept them fully occupied. An all-powerful duke this 
 month, was a wanderer and an outcast the next ; a triumphant faction in 
 the city one day, were driven out as ignominious exiles the next. Even 
 in the more regular, because absolute, governments of Kome and Naples, 
 the vicissitudes of fortune among the rulers and the general agitation 
 among the ruled, were scarcely inferior to the commotions experienced 
 as a matter of course among the republics in middle and northern Italy. 
 The episodes in the histories of those countries of the short revolutions 
 accomplished by Cola di Eienzi in Kome, aud at a later period by 
 Massaniello in Naples, were evidences and effects of the restless aud agi- 
 tating spirit among the people, still more than the result of any precon- 
 certed plan for the ameliorating of their condition. 
 
 The fever of the crusades having subsided by the immense loss of 
 lives on both sides, and the pallid sense of novelty of the surviving 
 crusaders, the people of Europe found excitement and occupation in the 
 struggles between sovereigns and their feudal barons for power and rule, 
 in which the popes played a part by an occasional interdict and excom- 
 munication. The successful resistance of the English barons gave them 
 the Magna Oharta, which served as a precedent and a stimulus to the 
 body of the people to put, after a time, a check both on them and the 
 king. In France the power of the crown became paramount, and 
 
WHAx OF THE TIMES ? 381 
 
 Bwallowed up both the privileges rf the nobles and the rights of the 
 commons. Some diversion to the public mind was of course given from 
 time to time by a foreign war — as, for example, between France and 
 England, and France and Germany. But cordially as the French and 
 English hated each other, and bitter as was the rivalry bptween Francis 
 the First and his imperial brother Charles the Fifth, these hates and 
 jealousies had not in them enough of the leaven of change and revolution 
 to rouse the people to a suitable pitch of general phrensy. This season- 
 able ferment was, however, soon to be brought on by the Reformation of 
 Luther and Calvin, the workings of which were shown in the long wars, 
 miscalled, of religion, in Germany, France, Holland, Belgium, and finally 
 in England, Scotland, and Ireland; for the bloody struggle between 
 Charles the First and his parliament, which cost that prince his crowu 
 and his head, was as much a war of religion as one waged to determine 
 the respective rights of the parties in the conduct of the government. 
 
 Europe might have been compared to an immense ship in shallows, 
 without a rudder. She had leaned during the storm of the crusades 
 to the East, and righted by part of her company throwing themselves 
 on shore, to battle their way among the infidels. The discovery of the 
 new world by Columbus drove the tumultuous crew to the other side ; 
 she now careened to the West, and poured out detachment after detach- 
 ment of restless beings, many of whom would submit to no discipline, 
 whether it was attempted to be enforced by the captain or the chaplain — ■ 
 king or hierarchy. Others would, it is true, say prayers and repeat 
 aves, but they were not on this account the less turbulent and piratical. 
 
 The Spanish grandees, overshadowed by the growth of royal power, 
 so as no longer to be able to tell their king, at his coronation, that they 
 were each of them as good, and altogether more powerful than he, must 
 have looked to the Western Hemisphere with peculiar pleasure, as a region 
 in which they could, without more than nominal check, exercise sway 
 ovflr vast countries, and eventually return home with immense wealth 
 and augmented influence. The mind of Spain, whether displayed in 
 conquest, personal adventui..- or commerce, found in the new world ample 
 scope for the exercise of its activity. It languished at home, it is true, 
 and sauk into a state of apathy, from which it has not yet recovered; but 
 the cause is obviously the one which we have just stated, since we find, 
 that, coincident with, if not directly produced by the severance of the colo- 
 nies from the mother country, and the consequent interruption to tho 
 active and profitable employment of the leading personages of the latter, 
 wore the popular agitation and commotion indicative of a desire for a 
 new and more liberal form of government. 
 
 England, the next to participate in the benefits of discovery and com- 
 mercial adventure in the new world, became engaged in a different 
 manner, which was productive also of different results from those which 
 followed Spanish occupancy and possession. At first she amused hei 
 self, with plundering the Spaniards, in war by her regular navy, and in 
 peace by her buccaneers ; among the former of whom Drake, among the 
 latter Morgan appears most conspicuous. Both had, it may be in- 
 fprred, nearly equal claims to posthumous ^'^me Raleigh, more coo- 
 
882 PIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 pcientious and less suocessftil, was brought to the block for incnrsioiiS 
 on Spanish America, that were not so illegal as those for which Drake 
 had been received with acclamations by the people and knighted by his 
 sovereign. In the latter case, however, it was the energetic Elizabeth, 
 in the former the pusillanimous James who ntade the award. Finding 
 that it could not divide empire with Spain in Southi America, the govern- 
 ment of England allbwied rather than actually planned and fostered emi ■ 
 gration to North America. The temptations to settlement wore infinitely 
 lie.ss alluring for the English nobility and influential personages of the 
 country than those which had induced the Spanish grandees and' hidalgos 
 to plan and execute their schemes of colonisation. And fbrtunately for- 
 the people of America that it was so ; otherwise there might have beeu 
 a class of nobility and 'an extensive church establishment, which, leagued 
 with royalty at home, would have been powerful enough to smother df* 
 mocracy in its infancy, or at least to have retarded for ar length of timcj 
 far beyond our own day, its ^owth and maturity. 
 
 Settlement -and colonization in North America were essentially the 
 result of agitation and discontent in England among those who felt 
 themselves oppressed by religious and political intolerance. It was un- 
 der these feelings that the Puritans landed in New England; Penn and the 
 Friends in Pennsylvania, and Lord Baltimore and the Catholics in Mary- 
 land. Unlike the Spaniards in South America, who obtained immense 
 wealth from gold and silver mines, and' who were soothed to luxurious 
 repose by a mild and enervating climate^ the English settlers were of 
 necessity compelled to cultivate a soil which did not always yield a full 
 harvest to their labour. They were, also, kept almost continually on the 
 alert, to repel, the incursions of the Indians, and after a while of the 
 French, reinforced by their savage allies. With such causes of agita- 
 tion and excitement; there was little risk of the leaven of repttblicanism 
 and religious zeal, not to say fanaticism, being allowed to lose its fer- 
 menting power. The first settlers in New England, the pilgrims who 
 landed at Plymouth, were in fact republicans — not by abstract doctrinal 
 belief, but forced thereto by long; angry, and agitating discussions in 
 their fatherland. The new colony soon came to be regarded as the 
 asylum of the oppressed, and a cradle of liberty. Of this no stronger 
 evidence can be furnished, than the fact that CromweHj Hampden, Pym, 
 Haselrigg, and other men, who afterwards took such a conspicuous and 
 decisive part' in. the civil war between Charles and the Parliament, were 
 on the point of embarking with their families for New England. The 
 government in an evil hour prevented the emigration. Of the result of 
 this prohibition the after service and exploits of the three first-named 
 characters abundantly testify. 
 
 When the peace of 1763, which gave England possession of Ca- 
 nada, found the colonies of North America freed from all danger from 
 French invasion and depredation, nothing more seemed to be requisite 
 than for them to enjoy all the advantages promised by such a state of 
 things* But the spirit of the colonists, though soothed by success, was 
 Btill essentially the same. A few blunders on the part of the English go 
 v.irnment were sufficient to set in motion the elements of agit3,tion, which 
 
WHAT OP THE TIMES ? 
 
 ftjon assumed snch a sbape as- to constitute revolution, secession, and in- 
 dependence. Is the spirit of <^hange, the love of strong perturbating 
 excitement stilled among us ? We fear not. But we are narrators, not 
 prophets. 
 
 France, which had aided, by arms and' money, young America in ob- 
 taining her independence, was fated to realize the force of the mytholo- 
 gical fiction, that supposed those who caressed Gupid, as an object of 
 pity, should receive in return from the ungrateful boy, into theii- bosomf , 
 the flame of passion ti^torture and consume them. France joined America 
 in winning for the latter Liberty ; but she was not allowed to retire after 
 the victory without herself receiving some of the spirii? of this goddess. 
 The materials for agitation and commotion were abundant; -little was 
 reqaiate to set; them in motion, and to give them a fearfhl and over-. 
 powering influence. France had had her wars of religion, and her whole 
 populafion had been thoroughly stirred up on tbeoecasion : cruelties and- 
 enormities of the blackest' dye were committed by both Catholics and* 
 Huguenots. It ought not, however, to be forgottanj that refinements of 
 barbarity exercised by royal command were, in more instances than one, 
 eseniplars and prototypes of scenes which in after years were thought' 
 to have had their origin in Jacobinical ingenuity. 
 
 Unfortunately, for France, the Huguenots weve not allowed to become 
 an influential party in the state. Whatever privileges had been con- 
 ceded to them, the result of long and arduous strn^les on their partj 
 were abrogated by the perfidy of Louis XIV. : andthey and their indus^ 
 try: and capital were lost to the country, and transferred to foreigners; 
 The long wars under- Louis XIV. and Louis XV. and an extensive- 
 foreign commerce furnished food for excitement to the French people ; 
 but oppressive taxes- — an impoverished treasury — defeats on land and' 
 ocean — mortified their vanity, and fbrced them to reflection first, and to; 
 new. means of agitation afterwards. The corruptions of the government, 
 the* oppressions and poverty of the people, the inquiries and agitating 
 spirit of the philosophers, were all conspiring to produce a change, when 
 an additional impulse was given by the return of the troops which had 
 served in America^ Their enthusiasm in favour of liberty, their ardent 
 aspirations after the enjc^ment of this blessing by Frenchmen, and the 
 means by which to attain it, were concentrated, embodied, as it were, in 
 the person of the young Lafayette. Lafayette, however, was compelled 
 after a time to retire before the demon of destruction, with impiety, 
 cruelty, and all the horrors and revolting scenes in its train, which the 
 worst features in the Crusades, the fierce intolerance of the wars of the 
 Reformation, and the cupidity of piratical avarice, had ever engendered 
 and called into action. With the worst vices, human nature, when 
 strongly excited, seldom fails, however, to exhibit a contrast (which, 
 as on this oocasion, prodneeda lurid ^ brightness) of the greatest virtues. 
 When a whole nation is in a state of feverirfj agitation and the majority 
 have been long ignorant and debased, a reaction is the fiiry of insanity; 
 the many, the mass, for a time must prevail ; and their power will be to 
 level and destroy; and so it was with the French revolution. Excess 
 brought weariness — agitation had not ceased ; but a new direction -was 
 
384 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 given to it by a successful soldier ; and France in arms flattered herself 
 for a while in the illusion, that, while conquering other nations, she was 
 overthrowing old systems, and sanctioning at least the practice of revi. 
 lution, though she herself failed to give permanency to its principles. 
 But even this time the French people, to the minutest ramification of 
 the commonalty, had not only felt the shock of the revolution, but they 
 enjoyed tangibly its fruits. Crown a,nd church domains and the pro- 
 perty of the nobles had changed owners. From the privileged few it 
 had been transferred to the many. Hundreds of ^lousands of peasants, 
 whom the beginning of the revolution found ignorant and enslaved, were 
 left at its termination with a knowledge of at least their personal rights, 
 and in possession of landed estate. They felt that this was no meta- 
 physical abstraction, no governmental illusion ; and it was because they 
 felt this, and were well aware how they became landed proprietors, that 
 they underwent the more willingly such enormous sacrifices of comfort 
 and repose, and often of life, to gratify the ambition of their great leader. 
 Whether consul or emperor, they saw in him, like themselves, an inhe- 
 ritor of the revolution. When wearied by his interminable wars, they at 
 length abandoned him, they never forgot, however, their real position with 
 the Bourbons; nor the light in which they were regarded by the returned 
 emigrants. It was their continued suspicions and fears from this soutce, 
 which kept them in a state of seldom-ceasing agitation, and which gave 
 the leaders of the liberal party and the Bonapartists, who rallied under 
 their banner, such a strong hold on their confidence and affections. Tho 
 charter which Louis XVIII. was compelled to grant the French people 
 before they would agree to receive him, even supported as he was by 
 the bayonets of the allies, guarantied some of the principles of the 
 revolution and the possession of property to its actual occupants. To 
 attempt, therefore, to annul the provisions of the charter, was not only 
 to curtail freedom of speech and of writing, but to dispossess, at least to 
 affirm the after-right of dispossessing of their property the holders of the 
 national domain and confiscated church and seignoral lands. Entire and 
 satisfactory security on this point will insure the support of a majority 
 of the people of France to their government. Wanting this security, no 
 ruler, whether king, emperor, or president, can promise himself any per- 
 manency of office. 
 
 Every nation has within itself an impelling principle by which it tends 
 to progressive change in its social and political condition. Its his 
 lory, like the life of an individual, exhibits it in youth, maturity, and 
 decrepitude. At times, it passes through these . several stages in a com- 
 paratively brief period. In other cases, centuries must elapse before a 
 similar course is gone through. The history of one nation is a fallacious 
 guide in forming an opinion of the probable career of another. There 
 are primitive inherent differences among the races of mankind as well as 
 among the people of the same race. The African, the Mongolic or Tar- 
 tar, and the Caucasian or white race, could not be expected to adopt 
 the same forms of social and political organization even under similar 
 circumstances of free and unrestrained action. Nor can even two adjoin- 
 ing nations be expected to- be equally pliant to similar impulses and 
 
WHAT OF THE TIMES? 385 
 
 theories of government. The true constitutional systvin has only so far 
 been thoroughly adopted by the Anglo-Saxon stock. It is under course 
 of trial in France ; it has failed with the Spaniards ; and has never yet 
 been fully carried out in Germany, that very country from which oui 
 Saxon ancestors came. It remains for time to show how far the primary 
 principles of the rights of man can be carried into full and general ope- 
 ration. It would bfe uncharitable, perhaps unphilosophical, (the terms 
 ought to have more frequently the same meaning,) to say that any people 
 are incurably unfitted for the possession and enjojment of their rights. 
 But one may say that an education is necessary for enabling them tc 
 understand the principles which are involved, and to make a suitable 
 and practical application of them. And, after all, differences in primi- 
 tive or inherent aptitude, the predominance of one order of faculties over 
 the others, or acuter sensibilities will give rise to great modifications of first 
 principles, and cause no little varieties of ingrafted practices on the ori- 
 ginal stock. Constitutional law and representative government will 
 receive very different applications according as it shall be adopted by 
 Spaniards, or by Germans or Italians. There is not then any patent pro- 
 cess by which the social and political ills of every people are to be cured. 
 Agitation is necessary, but the precise kind of crisis cannot be foreseen. 
 Since the invention of printing and the immense circulation given to the 
 opinions and practices of nations and individuals, a new element of agi- 
 tation is introduced from without to add to the materials for the same 
 end within. The problem becomes consequently of more difficult solu- 
 tion, to tell how far a people are agitated by causes inherent in their 
 institutions or by the influence of the sentiments of another and neigh- 
 bouring people; and next, if a reform be determined on, to know what 
 ought to be elicited from their own experience and what borrowed 
 from their neighbours. The Portuguese have copied the system of a 
 limited monarchy and constitutional government; but as a mere copy, 
 and not springing up from among themselves, it turned out to be a dead 
 letter. The South Americans have copied our institutions, but having 
 had no republican education themselves, they are strangers to the spirit 
 of republicanism ; and their resolves are mere holiday declamatinns, with- 
 out the force of law or conviction of right. Are we to infer that theso- 
 people are unfitted for freedom and liberal institutions ? By no means. 
 Only they must agitate yet longer, and work out their belief by the evi- 
 dence of their own observation and experience. It is now upwards of 
 six centuries since England obtained her Magna Charta. Within the 
 last two of these, she has brought one of her kings to the block,. and 
 banished another, for tyrannical encroachments on the liberties of the 
 people ; and yet, after all, she is far from the enjoyment of equal laws, 
 and has not yet realized a fair representative system — despite free dis- 
 cussion, and the most elaborate and continued investigation of the prin- 
 ciples of her constitution and the relative powers of her three estates — 
 king, lords, and commons. Of her injustice to Ireland, and the neces- 
 sity of the people of this latter country to agitate, as they are now doing/ 
 under the guidance of that arch-agitator, O'Connell, one must be con- 
 vinced, on a very superficial glance at the state of things in. the Bnfcsfi 
 2H 25 
 
386 
 
 FIELDS S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 empire. Ireland has sufficient inherent energy and knowledge of her 
 rights, to take a place among nations, as a republic ; and some of thesu 
 days she will do so. 
 
 We have now shown, we believe, that the spirit of agitation, tending 
 to change and revolution, has been always active among mankind ; and 
 if we measure the future by the past, ever will be. It was signally dis- 
 played in the crusades, in knight-errantry and the practices of chivalry ; 
 in the wars between different nations, and the rivalry between cities and 
 provinces of the same nation or people, as among the cities of the Han • 
 seatic League, those of the Netherlands and Italy in the middle ages ; 
 afterwards, in the wars of the Reformation, in the conquest and settle- 
 ment of America, and the partial possession of India by Europeans. 
 This spirit, showing itself with peculiar fierceness in England about the 
 time of the first Charles, crossed the Atlantic, impelled into existence 
 the democracies of these United States, gave rise to the memorable 
 incidents of the first French revolution, and, though checked, it never 
 was laid, and finally has consummated another, and is now diffusing 
 itself through every other civilized land. Spain begins again to feel it — 
 this time, however, the wife of a dying king takes on herself the task 
 of leading and directing it. Italy is agitated. Italy, which has already 
 been the theatre for two great empires — the first of arms — ^the second 
 of religion, arts, and learning. Greece is again, after the slumber of 
 more than two thousand years, agitated and "called into existence as an 
 independent nation ; G-ermany, the nursery of philosophy, of all kinds 
 of systems, the country of domestic virtues and simple energy of cha- 
 racter, is distracted with the claims and intrigues of her numerous sec- 
 tional kings and princes. But her regeneration must take place — as 
 will eventually that of Poland — not to independence alone, but to free- 
 dom — rational and well understood freedom. It is just as impossible for 
 the general as for the individual mind to be stationary, and to exist 
 without excitement aud agitation, whether for good or for evil. If religion 
 011(1 moral and intellectual culture be not sedulously given to a people, 
 its energies will take a wrong direction, and display themselves in a fear- 
 ia\ power, destructive finally of itself, and involving neighbouring nations 
 111 war and revolution. 
 
 DBAEEST LOVE, BELIEVE MK 
 
 Dearest love, telieve me, 
 
 Though all else depart, 
 Nanght shall e'er deceive thee 
 
 In this faithful 'aeart. 
 Beaut; may.be blighted — 
 
 Touth may pass away — 
 • But the T«ws we plighted 
 
 Ke'er shall know decay. 
 
 Tempests may assail us 
 
 From affliction's coast — 
 
 Portune's breeze may fail us 
 
 'When i-e.Deed.it most; 
 
 Fairest hopes may perish — 
 Firmest friends may ahaxige — 
 
 But the lore we cherish 
 Nothing shall estrange. 
 
 Dreams of fame and grandeur 
 
 End in bitter tears — 
 iLoye grows only fonder, 
 
 With the lapse of years ; 
 Time, and change, and trouble, 
 
 Weaker ties unbind — 
 But the bauds redouble 
 
 .True affection t*«lned. 
 
A NIGHT ON THE DOME OF THE CAPITOL. 38" 
 
 A NIGHT ON THE DOME OF THE CAPITOL. 
 
 There was a calm lustre in the sky as I surveyed it from the towering 
 height on which I stood. The blue expanse was scarcely tarnished with 
 a cloud : around and beneath me, all presented the glorious beauties of 
 a summer's afternoon. The placid Potomac stretched its glassy arms 
 on my left, — before me lay the broad avenue decked with its rows of 
 poplars, and presenting a busy assemblage of industrious carters, min- 
 gled with the pomp and parade of carriages and other vehicles of pleasure. 
 The President's house, with its white walls and majestic appearance, 
 enriched the grandeur of the scene ; while on my right, a wide though 
 gently undulating plain seemed checkered with a hundred roads. The 
 .scene was one too rich for description — the spot, sacred as the temple 
 of American rights,- and fancy led me away to a contemplation 'of the 
 future glory of my country. I felt as if I were overlooking the destinies 
 as well as the vast surface of the States. My thoughts roamed until I 
 could trace the dawning of the sun upon our shores from the bosom of 
 the Atlantic, and follow his course until he sank in the peaceful waters 
 of the Pacific. I stood upon the proudest pinnacle the world ever saw — ' 
 the work of hands — ^but the work of freemen. I <!0uld trace the labourer 
 who wrought the granite into shape for its construction, until I saw him 
 within its walls, pouring forth the eloquence of conscious independence, 
 and breathing the fires of exalted patriotism. How long I thus remained 
 absorbed in reflection, I know not ; but when I awoke from my revery, 
 my companions had left me, and I stood alone upon the dome of the 
 GapUol! I attempted to descend, but what was my astonishment when 
 I discovered that the entrance had been closed ! I found no fault with 
 the keeper: he had been more than kind in his attentions, and probably 
 thought I had descended with my company. I shouted, but all in vain. 
 Bewildered, I looked around the fearful height, waving my handkerchief 
 in hopes of being seen ; but if my signal was observed, it was looked 
 upon only as a freak.of playfulness. " Great God !" I involuntarily 
 exclaimed, " and must I remain here all night ?" 
 
 The sun was just setting in the west, and for a moment diverted my 
 thoughts from the situation in which I was placed ; but they returned, 
 in a paroxysm of agony, as I beheld the gray twilight setting in, and 
 fhe lights that, one by one, broke on my view along the avenue below 
 me. What would I not have given to be tracing its quiet pave- 
 ment ? A fearful wish came over me — ^I wished to be floating in the 
 air; and it required every mental as well as bodily exertion to .prevent 
 me from leaping over the railing into eternity. I grasped the iron rail 
 that encircled the skylight over the vast rotunda, lest I should accom- 
 plish the dreadful purpose, while the cold sweat dropped from mv brow 
 like a November's rain, and my whole frame shook until I fancied the 
 very building tottered beneath me. I dared not look below, but cast 
 my eyes upward to the sky; — 'twas garnished with a million of stars, 
 and the pale moon shed a dim light around rae, as, floating towards the 
 
rS38 FIELDS'S iCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 west, sLe promised soon to leave me in utter darkness. I alwajs loved 
 10 look upon the heavens, and mark the dim globes as they rolled along 
 their unknown spheres in the regions of space, but a glance now filled 
 me with horror ; for I seemed as if, like one of them, I was wavering 
 in the mid-air, and the edifice on which I stood was whirling about 
 like the fabled palace of Aladdin under the power of the magician's 
 lamp. I closed my eyelids in hopes to shut out the appalling vision, but 
 it hung upon me like an incubus, and the occasional rattling of carriage- 
 wheels below me rushed over my brain like circular traces of fire. In 
 vain did I attempt to calm my feelings ; they were tumultuous as the 
 ocean. Reason was powerless, and at length I feared had forsaken me. 
 I doubted in the reality of all around me, and strove to shake it off as 
 a horrific dream. Vain effort ! I fancied myself deranged in intellect. 
 Terrible fancy ! — I felt that madness held me in its withering grasp, and 
 I howled in the torments of the thought. Wild visions floated before 
 me ; I fancied myself a monarch, and that I was sitting on my throne, 
 ■weeping over the cares incident to power ; then, again, that I was chained 
 to the Promethean rock, with a myriad of vultures flapping their dark 
 wings ready to devour me. My thoughts were bewildered, and though 
 all my sufferings are indelibly impressed upon my brain, I was mad, 
 both with terror and with anguish. Anon, I thought myself sailing 
 upon the deep blue sea, — the white canvas gracefully bellying to the 
 breeze, and the light spray dashing from the vessel's prow like snow- 
 flakes whirling in spiral eddies of air. The " stripes and the stars" 
 waved resplendently above me. The broad pennant lashed the breeze 
 in its vibrations at .mast-head, and our sea-boat sported upon the waters 
 like a bird. Presently, the heavens lowered, and the ocean boiled around 
 us like a whirlpool — the wild blast brought destruction with every gust ; 
 then, with one plunge, down went the noble bark in the devouring 
 and remorseless tide. I found myself upon a solitary rock, — the waters 
 rising around me with inconceivable rapidity. With a faint hope, I 
 looked around for relief. There was no sign of deliverance — all was 
 dark, tumultuous, and fearful. The wild surge dashed over me, and 
 roared dreadfully around ; already had the waves encircled me ; — they 
 rose above my breast. I strove, by an effort at swimming, to save my- 
 self from being drowned ; but what was my agony when I found myself 
 riveted to the rock as firmly as if fettered with chains ? A loud and 
 tremendous crash of thunder as it trembled over the city aroused me 
 again to a sense of my situation. I had slept ; — how long, I know not; 
 but, awakened by the warring elements, I still found myself on the dome 
 of the Capitol! 
 
 All was dark, save a few dim lamps which yet burned in the avenue, 
 but they told me it was not more than midnight. It was four long hours 
 still ere I could hope for day, and the lightning, which now became vivid, 
 .showed thick and dark masses of clouds, as they rolled up the west, 
 -barged with thunders, which boomed around me, and made the very 
 Capitol tremble, as they reverberated along the plain and over the deep. 
 Then came the quick rush of the wind, followed by pattering drops of 
 rain, which succeeded one another, thicker and faster, until the very 
 
A NIGHT ON THE DOME OF THE CAPITOL. 389 
 
 gates of heaven seemed opened upon me. Chaos seemed again to have 
 asserted its supremacy, so deep and convulsive was the elemental strife. 
 But now my feelings had become more composed, and I looked upon the 
 tumult, and listened to the pattering of the rain, with a firmness that at 
 that moment surprised me, and I laughed at the terrors my imagination 
 had so lately conjured up. I even felt pleasure in viewing the sublimity 
 of the scene, which opened upon my eyes at every flash in fairy bright- 
 ness, heightened in its effects by the impenetrable darkness which suc- 
 ceeded. By and by the storm passed away; the faint, but distant 
 mutterings of thunder soon ceased to fall upon the ear. Then again 
 all was dark ! — not one twinkling lamp could be seen afar. The heavens 
 themselves were hid, and one thick veil of gloom was thrown over every 
 object far and near. Darkness ! you revived my terrors. 1 had 
 read Byron's " Darkness," and its memory drew me within its horrific 
 sphere. All, too, was silent as the grave ; not a carriage-wheel disturbed' 
 the awfiil stillness — not a breath of air ; and it was not without an effort 
 that I spoke aloud to be certain that sound had not forsaken the universe. 
 / spoke-rhvit the words fell from my lips dead upon the air, and sounded 
 in my ears, an instant, like the sepulchral whisperings of spirits. I 
 drummed with my fingers on the railing, till sound seemed to cease with 
 the motion, and motion seemed but mockery of silence ; there was not 
 a clock to toll the wasting of Time. Oh that the hours had been marked 
 by a bell, and the terrible interval between them I could have passed 
 away in hopes of a recurrence of sound. But not a rustling leaf — not a 
 cricket disturbed the lone gloomy silence. I felt as if Eternity had 
 begun its reign, and I was stationed in my allotted corner of endless 
 duration. It appeared as if I were in the centre of darkness, where 
 light was never again doomed to penetrate, and the soul-sickening 
 reflection clung around my heart as firmly as the fibres of which it is 
 composed. Long, eager, and anxiously did I look around me to catch 
 the first dawning of light. I could have wept with joy to behold a 
 single star — a single spark, though it were but the transient light of the 
 fire-fly ; but I saw nothing! Ages of time appeared to have rolled away, 
 and yet day came not; — I feared "the sun had set to rise no more." 
 Fluttering and incoherent thoughts of death came over my brain. " Was 
 I in my grave ?" I mentally inquired ; " can this be death ? Can these 
 iancies be the dreamings of nothingness V I struggled to burst the 
 toffin in which I now fancied myself enclosed ; but nothing but the thin 
 air — the waste of darkness resisted my exertions. I felt my dress, as if 
 to prove whether I were really encircled in a shroud. Strange thought ! 
 — ^I could not satisfy myself. I doubted of my capacity to move; motion 
 itself seemed phantasy, and the surrounding silence and gloom betokened 
 tf'e dread quiet of the grave ! I strove to remember the cause of my 
 dissolution — the attendance of friends — the last moment of existence ; — 
 but memory was like the dim shades of night, and the mist was impe- 
 netrable. Oblivion had stretched her pall over me. Heaven and earth 
 seemed to have passed away — memory was dead — recollection had forsaken 
 me — I knew not even where I then was. I -vas lost — an atom in space 
 —a something in interminable nothingness. 
 2a2 
 
i>90 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK 
 
 At length the thick clouds began to disperse. A faint, feeble hgbt 
 seemed to rise in the east. Judge, ye that can, how intensely I watched 
 it; yet I trembled lest it should prove a delusion. God ! it was not. 
 In a moment of time the thick vapours burst asunder, and displayed 
 the full beauties of the Morning Star ! How my heart throbbed ! I 
 was in a delirium of delight. Oblivion ! Darkness ! Silence ! Death ! 
 all had fled before the light of that blazing planet. The aged one 
 •eturning to the scenes of his childhood, when he beholds the beloved 
 iipot after an absence of threescore years — the mariner touching the 
 haven of all his hopes, after a voyage of despairing — the Christian under 
 the first dawning of the smiles of his Creator, — oh, these only, or such 
 as these, can fed the ecstasy of my bliss. That star shone upon me like a 
 dawning of hope over the brows of the despairing. 
 
 But still I was on the dome of the Capitol, There was even pleasure 
 in the thought that I was yet there. How anxiously I watched that star 
 as I stretched myself along the pavement on the dome ! How fearful 
 seemed each passing vapour that threatened to obscure it ; but it was 
 not obscured. There it shone, brighter than I had ever before seen it. 
 It lit up the gay park beneath me, and shed its pure rays over the east 
 branch of the Potomac, till its waters sparkled like diamonds. Joy, 
 joy — it was a world to give me light ; — it was not a taper — nor a beacon 
 light, — it was a pure bright world ! and it shone on till the great god 
 of day burst upon me in a blaze of fire. Then it was lost, and I wept 
 when I could see it no more. But the glories of that rising sun, as it 
 threw its red reflection over every object around. and beneath me, it is 
 not in my power to describe. The broad shadow of the building on 
 which I stood seemed girt with liquid fire; and the long, but half- 
 finished mall presented a crimson instead of verdant hue. 
 
 Soon, however, the busy hum of the industrious fell upon my ears, 
 and my attention was riveted with admiration of the liliputian figures 
 moving along the avenue to their daily avocations. Every movement 
 below inspired me with the thought that my hour of deliverance was 
 near at hand. The tumult of my feelings had subsided ; a sweet calm 
 came over me ; but hour after hour passed on, and I was not relieved. 
 Impatience at length became anxiety — anxiety, agony ; when I recol- 
 lected the appalling fact, that, unless strangers should wish to visit the 
 dome, it was not probable that the keeper would ascend to my relief. 
 
 The day was fast waning away, hunger and thirst asserted their claims, 
 but they were swallowed up in the bewildering thought that another 
 night might pa.ss away, and find me a tenant of the terrific summit on 
 which 1 stood. I could distinguish, occasionally, some admiring finger 
 below me, pointing, as if in envy of my " pride of place ;" but gazers 
 and groups passed on, and their momentary admiration of my state 
 seemed but mockery of my situation. My agony became intense; I 
 looked around in hopes of finding that a descent was possible ; there 
 was no possibility, and I again gave myself up to despair. At length 
 I heard voices, — visitors were ascending ; my heart sprang to my throat, 
 and I leit, as if respiration was leaving me. The entrance-door was 
 opennd ; and with the wildness of a maniac, I rushed past the astonished 
 
INDIANS. ENJOYMENT OF LIFE. 391 
 
 keeper, and those he was conducting to the dizzy height. He called — 
 but I stopped not ; it seemed as if fiends were following to retard my 
 escape. I reached the pavement, and rushed onward like one let loose 
 from Bedlam. I hurried to my hotel ; 1 spoke to no one, though n. / 
 wildness was evidently observed ; but hurrying to my room, locked the 
 door, threw myself upon my bed, and returned sincere thanks to my 
 Maker, that I was once again master of my actions. Several years have 
 rolled by since the occurrence, but I sRall never forget that / passed a 
 night on the dome of the Capitol. 
 
 INDIANS. 
 
 No two races on the face of the earth ever differed more than the In- 
 dians of North and South America. The former are among the most 
 intractable of the human species ; the latter, except in their sacrifice of 
 human victims to their gods, appear to have been the most mild, indo- 
 lent, and easy-tempered of all mankind. The Spanish writers, one and 
 all, with the exception of Las Casas, represented them as the most stupid 
 and unenlightened beings in existence, but one remove from the animals 
 of the field. Don Antonio de Ulloa, after indulging himself in a yarietj 
 of invectives against this harmless race, proceeds to give the following 
 picture, which, it will be observed, exactly describes a nation of philoso- 
 phers : — " Nothing," he says, " disturbs the tranquillity of their souls, 
 equally insensible to disasters and prosperity. Though half-naked, they 
 are as contented as a monarch on his splendid throne ; riches do not 
 elate them in the smallest degree, and the authority of dignities, to which 
 -they are permitted to aspire, is one so little the object of their ambition, 
 that an Indian will receive with the same indifference the office of a 
 judge or that of a hangman, if deprived of the former, and appointed 
 to the latter. Nothing can move or change them. Interest has no 
 power over them ; and they often refuse to perform a small service for 
 a sum of money, pointing to their mouths and saying they are not 
 hungry. Fear makes no impression on them, respect as little." 
 
 ENJOYMENT OF LIFE. 
 
 How small a portion of our life it is that we enjoy ! In youth we 
 are looking forward to things that are to come ; in old age we are look- 
 ing backward to things that are gone past; in manhood, although we 
 appear indeed to be more occupied in things that are present, yet even 
 that is too often absorbed in vague determination to be vastly happy on 
 some future day when we have time. When young we trust ourselves 
 too much, and we trust too little when old. Eashness is the srror of 
 youth, timid caution of age. Manhood is the isthmus between the two 
 extremes ; the ripe, the fertile seaso4 of action when alone we ?an hope 
 to find the head to contrive united with the hand to execute. 
 
892 
 
 FIKLDS S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 THE ALPINE HOEN. 
 
 Ths following passage hu induced more than one poetical fancy to pour forth its eOTasionB : — 
 
 "When the last rays of the sun gild the eummit of the Alps, the shepherd who lives on the highest pMk 
 
 ot the mountains takes his horn, and cries with a loud voice, " Praised be the Lord !" As soon as the nelgh- 
 
 Muring shepherds hear him, they leave their huts and repeat the words. 
 
 Thk sunbeams tinge your icy brows, ye- glwious 
 
 Alpine heights, 
 And quiver on your pathless snows with many tinted 
 
 lights, 
 A halo crowns the glowing west, where sinks the 
 
 eeEting sun, 
 t The born proclaims the hourof rest. The shepherd's 
 
 work is done. 
 
 "Praised be the Lord!" The anthem swells on 
 
 many a gratefnl tongue. 
 And echo, from. her mountain cells, "repeats the 
 
 praises sung;" 
 The Alpine shepherd winds his horn: "Praised be 
 
 the Lord on high I" 
 From heart to heart the theme is borne in thrilling 
 
 harmony. 
 
 Mother! the babe within yonr arms, whose fever'd 
 
 eye is dim. 
 May smile away your fond alarms ! if yon will trust 
 
 in Him ! 
 •* Praise ye the Lord" with tremor'd voice, but with 
 
 confiding heart; 
 Your anxious soul may yet rejoice — your sorrows 
 
 may depart. 
 
 Child ! by a parent's dying bed, dost thou in anguish 
 
 pine? 
 Remember who has truly said, " The fatherless are 
 
 mine !" , 
 
 Arise and echo back the sound, " Praise y« the Lord 
 
 above I" 
 In him the orphan still hath found a father ftill of 
 
 love, 
 
 *' Praise ye the Lord," poor widow'd one, whose in- 
 ward wounds are deep, 
 
 Praise him in faith's confiding tone — yon too may 
 cease to weep; 
 
 Arise and hear the gratefnl sound I repeat the holy 
 strain ! 
 
 It hath a balm for every wound, a charm for every 
 pain! 
 
 From Alps to Alps the notes are heard, through each 
 
 resounding vale. 
 In cadence sweet, the strain is puur'd upon the 
 
 evening gale ; 
 When slumber comes in holy peace to soothe eaoh 
 
 boding fear. 
 And whisper, " Let your troubles cease, the Lord of 
 
 love is near." 
 
 How sweetly calm each lowly home within that icy 
 
 realm ! 
 No anguish to their souls can come ! no sorrows 
 
 overwhelm ! 
 " Praised be the Lord !" the Alpine horn ; ascunds 
 
 o'er dale and hill. 
 From heart to heart its notes are borne, wh^re & i 
 
 is worshipp'd still. 
 
 ELIJAH'S INTEKVIEW. 
 
 BY THOHAS CAUPBELL. 
 
 God not in the vthirheind, nor in the thunder^ nor in the Jlame, but in the bHU sTnall v 
 
 Om Horeb's rock the prophet stood — 
 
 The Lord before him past ; 
 A hurricane in angry mood 
 
 Swept by him strong and fast ; 
 The forest fell befors its force. 
 The rocks wer^ shiver'd in its course, 
 
 (rod was not in the blast; 
 *Twas but the whirlwind of his breath. 
 Announcing danger, wreck, and death. 
 
 It ceased. The air grew mute— a cloud 
 
 Came, muffling up the sun. 
 When, through the mountain, deep and loud^ 
 
 An earthquake thunder'd on ; 
 The aflFrighted eagle sprang in air. 
 The wolf ran howling from his lair- 
 God was not in the storm ; ^ 
 'Twas but the rolling of his car. 
 The trampling of his steeds from far. 
 
 *Twas still again — and nature stood 
 
 And calm'd her rutfled frame; 
 When swift from heaven a fiery flood 
 
 To earth devouring came, 
 Down to the depths the ocean fled, — 
 The sickening sun look'd wan and dead ; 
 
 Yet Ood fill'd not the flame ; 
 *Twas but the terror of His eye 
 That lighten'd through the troubled ik^ 
 
 At last a voice, all still and small. 
 
 Rose sweetly on the ear ; 
 Yet rose so shrill and clear, that all 
 
 In heaven and earth might hear; 
 It spoke of peace, it spoke of love. 
 It spoke as angels speak above; 
 
 And (^od himself was there; 
 For, oh '. it was a Father's voice. 
 That bade the trembliiig heart rejoio* 
 
THE VAKITT OF PRIDE. 
 
 THE VANITY OF PRIDE. 
 
 BT THE MILFOBD BARD. 
 
 Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? 
 
 What though we wade in wealth, or soar in fame, 
 
 Earth's highest station ends in, " here he lies ;" 
 
 And " dust to dust" concludes her noblest song. — De. Touno. 
 
 Pride may be considered one of the strongest passions or emotions 
 of the hu nan mind ; but we more frequently see it united with igno- 
 rance than with sense. There is a portion of vanity and pride necessary 
 to the preservation of the human character ; but when it is carried to 
 an extent beyond that medium, it becomes disgusting in the sight of 
 modesty and humility, and never fails to render the possessor contempt- 
 ible in the eyes of the chaste and uncorrupted. Adversity is necessary 
 to the state of man, to prevent that redundance of pompous independ- 
 ence, and to reduce that plethora of the soul, by which he forgets the 
 true source from whence his blessings flow. Prosperity continued, soon 
 wraps him up in his own conscious greatness, and he disdains the humble 
 avocation of offering up thanks to that Being who has strewed his path 
 with plentiful abundance, and given him the means by which he may 
 be happy. 
 
 What is man ? Is he a being of celestial origin, and are the destinies 
 of time and eternity in his own hands ? Did he command creation to 
 be framed from nothing, and did he say, " Let there be light," which 
 was immediately obeyed ? Did he snatch that flaming sphere, the sun, 
 from the dark caverns of chaos, and hurl it, with ponderous arm, to be 
 fixed for ages in the vast wilderness of the universe ? . I say, did he bid 
 order and regularity pervade the immensity of space, and did he form 
 those immutable laws which everywhere exist thVoughout the vast pro- 
 found of nature's arcana? No, he did not. So far from having the 
 sceptre of command in his own hands, he was formed after the great 
 fabric of the universe was framed. He has but one circumstance con- 
 nected with his formation of which he may boast, which is that he was 
 made in the image of his great Architect, the Sovereign of the Uni- 
 verse. Man is but a worm. He is superior to the different orders and 
 genera which surround him in point of intellect, but like them he falls 
 by the winter of age, by casualties, by disease, and by many other 
 frailties incident to animal matter. He is seen no more upon the earth. 
 Scarcely has he embarked upon the tempestuous waves of time, before 
 the current turns from the course which he was pursuing, and finally 
 lands him, with all his boasted greatness, on the unknown shore of an 
 awful eternity. From the moment he makes his entrance on the stage 
 of action, he is gradually undergoing the process of decay, and hastening 
 along, without perceiving his rapidity, to a final dissolution. The par- 
 ticles of nature, or the atomic portions of animal matter, are continually 
 ^han^ing, and the same flesh whicli covers his bones to-day will, in the 
 course of a few years, be entirely carried away by the astonishing pro- 
 
8&4 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 cess of nature, and be imperceptibly replaced by a new formation 
 Thus, he is ever changing, until the final scene <)f life is closed, when 
 he is given up a prey to the insects of the earth, and there to be trans- 
 formed, and his semblance lost in the clods of the valley. How hu- 
 miliating the thought ! Shall man then presume to be proud of that 
 body which is destined to be food of loathsome worms ? Surely not ! 
 He is but a traveller on this terraqueous ball, and already are the shades 
 of evening beginning to gather around him, and the dark mantle of 
 night will envelope the torch of day, upon which he is delighted to 
 gaze ! It is the night of death !• Soon will he cease to behold the daz- 
 zling forms of youth dance in festivity around him, and soon will he 
 cease to hear the sweet melody of music, or the song of the warbler in 
 the solitary grove. Scenes which delight, and scenes which inspire, will 
 be shut out from his vision for ever. Nor is it hoary age alone which 
 is doomed to this melancholy catastrophe. The tender flower of youth 
 is often cut down by the keen-edged scythe of time, and laid in the cold 
 arms of death. No age, sex, or condition is exempt, but all alike are 
 levelled in the dust. Let us approach yon wide repository of the dead, 
 and seek there for distinction. There is the tomb of the ambitious man, 
 whose aspiring soul once plunged a nation in wo, and whose name is 
 written in human blood upon the tablet of remembrance, handed down 
 to posterity ! But behold, here he lies in his own insignificance. Here 
 is the grave of the proud man, who considered himself superior to his 
 fellow mortals, and looked down with degrading contempt upon those 
 who considered themselves equal by the ties of nature. What is pre- 
 SQnted now ? Let us wrench the firm portals which lock him from our 
 sight, and search after the diflference between him and the pauper at his 
 side. Lo, it is done I Ah me ! what an appalling spectacle his remains 
 present to the astonished sight ! A ghastly skeleton is all that is left, 
 and even that cannot be recognised to have belonged to so boastful a 
 being. See, his bones' are beginning to crumble into dust, and then 
 where will be the proof that he ever existed on the earth ? None, none 
 will then be found. He will have returned to his mother earth, and his 
 pride be all forgotten. The clownish ploughman will pass by his grave 
 unconscious of his greatness, and whistle his lullaby at the evening hour. 
 A short space is allotted to his relics in this solitary ground, and the 
 same circumference is given to the beggar who slumbers at his side. 
 Miserable thought to the proud man, but, alas! he cannot deny it. 
 There in his sight sleeps the skull which once was filled with as many 
 Utopian dreams as that which gazes with vacant stare upon it. Heart- 
 rending idea to the proud man ! He there views the state to which hie 
 own frame must be subjected, which he now thinks is too good almost 
 to tread the earth beneath him. Thus sleeps great Caesar, and thus 
 slumbers Tarquin the proud. Their pride could not retrieve their fall, 
 and their boasted superiority could not escape the yawning jaws of the. 
 grave. Death is no respecter of persons, but devours, without remorse, 
 his millions at one meal, and slays youth, beauty, pride, and grandeur, 
 nor casts a single glance on his indiscriminate choice. What rivers of 
 briny tears have swept their course from the eyes of relatives, for the 
 
JORDAN. 895 
 
 loss of their dearest friends. Pride was carrit i away in the overwhelm- 
 ing deluge, and its brother ambition sank at its side. There is not a 
 single day swallowed np in the vortex of time that does not carry with 
 it to the vast labyrinth of eternity the lives of about eighty thousand 
 of the human family. Where is pride in this deathly famine ? Alas f 
 it is de.stined to fill the famished maw of death. The brilliant eye, the 
 blooming cheek, and the blushing lips of beauty, before whom the great 
 and the grand have bowed down in adoration, are all destined to perish 
 in the gloom of the grave. How strong is the admonition to improve 
 the mind, and prepare it for the enjoyment of supernal felicity, instead 
 of lavishing on the frail body of dust the gaudy trappings of earthly 
 vanity, which vanishes into nothing the moment that death lays bis cold 
 hand on the warm brow of beauty! Thus we see -that pride is unbe- 
 coming such frail mortals, and when life comes to a conclusion, we are 
 convinced of its vanity. Let not the proud critic say, as Voltaire said 
 of Rousseau, that I give virtue in words, and. vice in deeds; for his own 
 reason will teach him that I write the truth, unvarnished with sophistry, 
 without the embellishments of false imagery, and unpolluted by the 
 golden gloss of fascinating fiction. Go ask the grave — ^go ask the silent 
 slumberer wrapped in his pale cold shroud — go ask the mighty dead who 
 once swayed the sceptre of a world, and at whose nod the millions of 
 mankind trembled, and they shall tell, as with the voice of inspiration, 
 as with a voice of thunder, the vanity and the insignificance of all human 
 pride. 
 
 JORDAN. 
 
 The Jordan, the celebrated river of Palestine, the only considerable 
 one in the country, rises in Mount Hermon, passes through lakes Mer- 
 men and G-enesareth ; then flowing almost due south, through an exten- 
 sive plain, till, passing to the east of Jericho, it flows into the Dead Sea. 
 Near Jericho, it is deep and very r3,pid, wider than the Tiber at Rome. 
 Its length is about 150 miles. The banks are steep, about fifteen feet high ; 
 so that it is diflScult to bathe in it ; which, however, curiosity or super- 
 stition impels almost every pilgrim to do; some vainly imagining it 
 cleanses them from all sin. 
 
 " I had surveyed," Says Chateaubriand, " the great rivers of America, 
 with that pleasure which solitude and nature impart ; I had visitefd the 
 Tiber with enthusiasm, and sought with the same interest the Eurotas 
 and Cephissus ; but I cannot express what I felt at the sight of the Jor- 
 dan. Not only did this river remind me of a renowned antiquity,v and 
 one of the most celebrated names that the most exquisite poetry ever 
 confided to the memory of man ; but its shores likewise presented to my 
 view the theatre of the. miracles of my religion. Judea is the only 
 country in the world that revives in the traveller the memory of humau 
 affairs and of celestial things, and which, by this combination, produces 
 in the soul a feeling which no other region is capable of exciting." — 
 Worcester's Sketches. 
 
396 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 AMERICAN AND BRITISH OFFICERS. 
 
 There are few that hear of the achievements of distinguished men wil 
 out forming some idea of their persons and features, and it is alwa 
 pleasing to know whether the reality answeis to the idea. 
 
 Washington has been described so often that his whole appearai 
 must be familiar from our infancy, A person six feet two inches in si 
 ture, expanded, muscular, of elegant proportions, and unusually graoei 
 in all his movements : his head moulded somewhat on the model of t 
 Grecian antique ; features sufficiently prominent for strength or come 
 ness — a Roman nose and large blue eyes; deeply thoughtful, rather thi 
 lively. With these attributes, the appearance of Washington was stri 
 ing and august. A fine complexion being superadded, he was accounte 
 when young, one of the handsomest of men. But his majesty consist 
 in the expression of his countenance, much more than in. his comely ft 
 tures, his lofty person, or his dignified deportment. It was the emanatii 
 of his great spirit through the tenement it occupied. 
 
 Major- General Greene, in person, was rather corpulent and above t 
 common size; his complexion was fair and florid; his countenance serei 
 and mild, indicating a goodness which seemed to shade and soften the fi 
 and greatness of its expression. His health was delicate, but preserv 
 by temperance and regularity. 
 
 General Lafayette was one of the finest-looking men in the army, nc 
 withstanding his deep-red hair, which then, as now, was rather in disi 
 pute. His forehead was fine, though receding; his eyes, clear and hazt 
 his mouth and chin delicately formed, and exhibiting beauty rather thi 
 strength. -The expression of his countenance was strongly indicative 
 the generous and gallant spirit which animated him, mingling with som 
 thing of the pride of conscious manliness. His mien was noble, 1 
 manners frank and amiable, and his movements light and graceful. I 
 wore his hair plain, and never complied so far with the fashion of tl 
 times as to powder. 
 
 General Wayne was about the middle size, with a fine ruddy coani 
 nance, commanding port, with an eagle eye. His looks eorrespondi 
 well with his character ; indicating a soul noble, ardent, and daring, l 
 this time, he was about thirty-two years of age; a period of life whic 
 perhaps as much as any other, blends the graces of youth with the m 
 jesty of manhood. In his intercourse with his officers and men, he w 
 affable and agreeable, and had the art of communicating to their bosot 
 the gallant and chivalrous spirit which glowed in his own. 
 
 General Sullivan was a man of short stature, well formed and activ 
 his complexion dark — his nose prominent — his eyes black and piercin 
 and his face altogether agreeable and well-formed. 
 
 Lord Sterling was short and thick-set; somewhat pursy and corp 
 lent. His face was red, and looked as though coloured by bran( 
 rather than sunburnt, and his appearance in no manner either nilita 
 or commanding. 
 
AMERICAN AND BRITISH OFFICERS. 397 
 
 Cohnd Moryan was stout and active, six feet in height, not too much 
 encumbered with flesh, and exactly fitted for the toils and pomp of war. 
 The features of his face were strong and manly, and his brow thought- 
 ful. His manners plain and decorous, neither insinuating nor repulsive ; 
 his conversation grave, sententious and considerate, unadorned and 
 uncaptivating. 
 
 Cohnd Samilton is thus described by Mr. Delaplaine : " Although in 
 person below the middle stature, and somewhat deficient in elegance of 
 figure, Hamilton possessed a very striking and manly appearance. By 
 the most superficial observers, he could never be regarded as a common 
 ' individual. His head was large, formed on the finest model, resembling 
 somewhat the Grecian antique. His fgrehead was spacious and elevated ; 
 his nose projecting, but inclined to the aquiline; his eyes gray, keen at 
 all times, and when animated by debate, intolerably piercing, and his 
 mouth and chin well-proportioned and handsome. These two latter, 
 although his strongest, were his most pleasing features; yet the form 
 of his mouth was expressive of eloquence, more especially of persuasion. 
 He was remarkiable for a deep depression between his nose and forehead, 
 and a contraction of his brows, which gave to the upper part of his coun- 
 tenance an air of sternness. The lower part was an emblem of mildness 
 and ingenuity." 
 
 Major Lee, one of the most vigilant and active partisan oflSoers in the 
 American army, was short in stature, and of light make, but agile and 
 active. His face was small and freckled; his looks eager and sprightly. 
 He was then quite young, >and his appearance was even more youthful 
 than his years. 
 
 Sir William Howe, the British general, was a fine figure, full six feet 
 high, and admirably well-proportioned. In person, he a good deal resem- 
 bled Washington, and at a little distance might have been easily mis- 
 taken for the American general ; but his features, though good, were 
 more pointed, and the expression of his countenance was less benignant. 
 His manners were polished, graceful, and dignified. 
 
 iSiV Henry Clinton was short and fat, with a full face, prominent nose, 
 and animated intelligent countenance. In his manners, he was polite and 
 courtly, but more formal and distant than Howe, and in his intercourse 
 with his officers was rather punctilious, and not inclined to intimacy. 
 
 General Maxwell was about the common size, without any thing pecu- 
 liar, either in features or the expression of his face. He was a man of 
 merit, though of obscure origin. His manner was not conciliatory, and 
 it was his misfortune to be often at variance with his officers. ' 
 
 Ignorance draws a thick, dark curtain before our eyes ; we hear the 
 noises behind the veil, and see the strange gleams of light reflected ou 
 the stage, and, unable to account for the one or the other, we fall pros- 
 trate in terror, when the lifting of the curtain would only invite u.« to 
 admire. 
 
398 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 REVOLUTIONARY ANECDOTE 
 
 It was a fine Sabbath morning in the year 1777, that the inhabitant's 
 of a little parish in the State of Vermont, and on the borders of New 
 Hampshire, assembled in their accustomed place of worship. The cares 
 and turmoils of that fearful and long-to-be-remembered summer had im- 
 printed an unusually serious look upon the rough, though not unpleasing 
 countenances of the male members of that little congregation. The rigid 
 features relaxed, however, as they entered that hallowed place, and felt 
 the genial influence of a summer's sun, whose rays illuminated the sanc- 
 tuary and played upon the desk, and upon the fine, open comntenance 
 of him who ministered there. He was a venerable man, and his whitened 
 locks and tottering frame evidenced that he had numbered his threescore 
 and ten years. Opening the sacred volume, the minister of Christ was 
 about to commence the services of the morning, when a messenger, 
 almost breathless, rushed into the church and exclaimed, " The enemy 
 are marching upon our western counties !" The aged soldier of the cross 
 slowly looked around upon his little band, and announced the text : " He 
 who hath a garment, let him sell it and buy a sword." After a few pre- 
 liminary and patriotic remarks, he added, in substance, as follows : "Go 
 up, my friends, I beseech you, to the help of your neighbours against 
 the mighty. Advance into the field of battle, for €rod will muster the 
 hosts of war. Religion is too much interested in the success of this day 
 not to lend your influence. As for myself, age sits heavily upon me, 
 and I cannot go with you; neither have I representatives of my family 
 to send. My daughters (pointing at the same time to the pew where 
 sat his aged consort and his two daughters, the only remnants of his 
 family) cannot draw the sword nor handle the musket in defence of their 
 country ; but they can do something — they can use the hoe — so that the 
 toil-worn soldier, when he returns from the field of battle, may not suf- 
 fer for the want of the necessaries of life." The venerable pastor bowed 
 his head in devotion, and in prayer gave further flow to his deep emo- 
 tions. When he again looked round, his audience were gone. One by 
 one they had silently left the house of God, and ere the sun had that 
 day set, the male inhabitants of that little parish, who were able to bear 
 arms, were far on their way to meet the enemies of their country on the 
 field of Bennington. 
 
 The sea-elephant, when lying on the shore, and threatened with death, 
 will often make no eflbrt to escape into the water, but lie still and shed 
 tears, only raising his head to look at the assailant, and will wait with 
 composure +he club or lance which is to take his life. In close contact 
 'fvery human efibrt would be of little avail for the destruction of this ani- 
 mal, unwieldy as it is, were it to rush forward and exert the power of 
 its jaws; for this, indeed, is so enormous, that in the agony of death, 
 stoiles are ground to powder within its teeth. — Weddel's Voyage toward* 
 the South Pole. 
 
MATERNAL AFIECTION. 399 
 
 MATERNAL AFFECTION. 
 
 The chains of friendship may be joined together by years of unshrink- 
 ing experience, and the ties of natural love be tested by the strong gales 
 of adversity j yet, \rhen contrasted with that self-existent, all-enduriug 
 emotion of a mother's love, they, with all other mortal affections, shrink 
 into comparative insignificance before the fervent devotion of its impe- 
 rishable features. 
 
 The instant one .trembling respiration upheaves the tender bosom of 
 her child, and the glad expression of life flits across its tiny countenance 
 — ^the moment one infantile accent falls from its little lips, breathing the 
 primal language of young nature, and seeming already to say, Mother ! 
 Mother ! from that moment of exalted felicity or entailed sorrow, an 
 everlasting feeling leaps into the bosom of the parent, expands with the 
 growth of her child, and increases with its strength. 
 
 The immutable fidelity and soul-subduing tenderness of a mother's affec- 
 tion, as we see it in our recollections of childhood and in our dreams of 
 adolescence, and as we behold it smoothing away the thorns of life in our 
 own rising offspring, is like a divine feeling which has been sent from 
 Heaven, to soften human nature, and prove that it yet has an affinity to 
 things above the earth. Trace a mother's regard from the pillow of 
 infancy, her own faithful bosom, to the death-couch of her child, when 
 sorrow and sickness surround it, and you will find her unchangeable and 
 unchanged. 
 
 Other affections may be founded upon passion, may wither away tc 
 nothing as time travels down to oblivion — friendships may decay and 
 youthful loves be superseded by infatuation, but this one feeling predo- 
 minates to the latest breathings of existence, knowing no shadow, seeing 
 DO blight. 
 
 Who that has seen an anxious mother watching over the cradle of her 
 sick or slumbering child, fanning the flies from its features, and marking 
 with most intense interest the faintest change of its countenance — who, 
 I ask, that has seen the fluctuating expression of that parent's sleepless 
 eye, can hesitate in declaring that the emotion which prompts her actions, 
 has no parallel in the bosoms of mankind. Nights of unmurmuring 
 watchfulness, days of unwearied fatigue, and a lifetime of numberless 
 'deprivations, will all be patiently borne by a mother, if her child but 
 reaps the benefit of such unearthly weariness and trial. Oh ! that love 
 cannot be less than a relic of paradise, a pure and unhallowed perception 
 coming from the treasury of woman's fioul, a beacon light to her offspring 
 in the dark days of misfortune, when all other consolations have sunk back 
 into chaos. Yea, when our youthful friends and the school companions 
 of childhood have forsaken us ; when shame and poverty have descended 
 heavily and witheringly upon our names and fortunes ; and even when 
 a father's voice has exclaimed, " Away ! I know you not," a mother's 
 love, like, an imperishable sun, cannot go out ; its nature is co-essential 
 with her life, and one is extinguished only with the other. Her pathetic 
 
400 FIKLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 tongue will say, " Thou art my child ; and though the hard-hearted world 
 may spurn thee ; though thou art friendless and covered with shame, 
 thy mother cannot forget the artless prattling of thine infancy ; cannot 
 drown the remembrances of thy childish years, in the dark waves of 
 iniquity which have flowed around thy later ones." She will still hope 
 that the day of repentance is approaching ; still believe that earthly 
 misfortunes have led her oflfepring from the paths of virtue, and fervently 
 pray that a reformation may speedily take place, to obliterate the sinful 
 doings of her child. In a mother's love there is no insincerity ; there 
 are no modulations by fortune, but it lives and is nourished as intensely 
 in the rural habitation of a peasant as among the noble and the great, 
 and by the inheritors of a diadem. Its residence is in the centre of her 
 heartj from whence it flows through every avenue of feeling, quickening 
 with its blessed influence the slightest thoughts and actions. And he 
 that would repay all the faithful tenderness of a mother's devoted afiection 
 with uukindness and ingratitude, 
 
 " is a wretch 
 Whom 'twere base flattery to call a coward." 
 
 EXCEKPTS. 
 
 The words.and desolation of parting are not felt in their full bitterness 
 by man. He plunges in business or resorts to amusements ; new scenes 
 attract his notice, new friends solicit his favour, and the smile he at first 
 only affects, soon images the real gayety of his heart. But woman, sad 
 and secluded, sits alone and muses on joys that are past; in every dream 
 of her fancy is blended the image of her lover, and every tear she' sheds 
 hallows the remembrance of friendship. She mtist be faithful; " she can- 
 not choose but weep." ^ 
 
 The cold snows that wrap the frozen earth like the shroud of nature, 
 are not more unlike the soft dews which sparkle on the bosom of the 
 summer rose, than are the feelings of selfish age and generous youth. 
 The dews and snows both descend from the same skies, yet who can 
 trace their similitude ? 
 
 There are riches in reciprocated affection, there is wealth in superior 
 intellect, which cannot be estimated or transferred, and the possessor of 
 cither has a jewel that the man of gold can never purchase. 
 
 Moralists and philosophers have consumed much time in advancing^ 
 arguments' to prove that disappointments are not always evils ; but per- 
 haps we might not yield our assent to such self-denying propositions, did 
 not daily experience confirm the theory. Even the annihilation of our 
 dearest hopes, although fraught with keen agony at the moment, often 
 proves in the end a precious blessing, and well worth the price we have 
 been compelled to pay. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A LADY.— BY BEN JONSON. 
 Underneath this stone doth lie 
 As much virtue as could die j 
 Which when alive did vigour give 
 To as much beauty as could live. 
 
IHE DEAD. 401 
 
 THE DEAD. 
 
 How few there are (as has been remarked by a forcible and impressive 
 writer) who read the ordinary list of deaths who know any thing of the 
 depth of human feeling, or the intensity of human sufiFering, which is 
 recorded in the simple and brief notices which we read with so much 
 carelessness and so coldly in the newspapers. Finding no familiar name 
 to arrest attention, or awaken sympathy, we think no more of the matter, 
 for what care we for the long midnight vigils of watchful, affectionate 
 friendship — ^the weary, aching head — the afflicted, desponding heart ? We 
 do not feel the pain the languishing sufferer has experienced, and we 
 know nothing of the agony which exhausted his frame and wore out his 
 weary nature ; nor care we for the spirit which has fled its frail tene- 
 ment, and uttered its last, final, gasping farewell. We know nothing 
 of the heartbreaking anguish which is felt, or the hot burning tears which 
 gush out, in the agony of severed friendship, from bosoms swollen and 
 bursting with an excess of passionate grief. We know nothing of the 
 bitterness of parting, of the strength of affections which have been torn 
 asunder, of the hopelessness of the first flood of tears, of the depth of 
 protracted suffering, or of the intensity of the afflictions which real 
 friends have been called upon to suffer and endure. 
 
 It is a melancholy though instructive consideration, that the tendency 
 of every thing is to decay ; that the happiest prospects and brightest 
 visions of future bliss are but delusive fancies, which become extin- 
 guished when they shine out most vividly, and give the strongest evidence 
 of permanent duration. "Hopes which were angels in their birtb," 
 become, from their intimacy and close connection with human frailty 
 and decay, but things of earth ; and thus it is, that those dear objects 
 upon which we have lavished most flattering hopes of future happiness 
 and bliss are removed from us before we are conscious of the palsying 
 illness which quenched the spirit and laid them low. We grieve that they 
 are taken from us so suddenly — that they could not have been spared a 
 little longer ; then we could have appreciated their worth, returned their 
 manifold kindnesses, and gradually prepared ourselves for that event 
 which, from its sudden occurrence, unmans our resolutions and prostrates 
 us in the dust by the sternness and severity of the blow. There is 
 another sad thought, but, nevertheless, a true one — that the more friend- 
 ships we form, the more attachments we make,' the more tender and 
 endearing connections we weave around us and invest ourselves. with, in 
 this world, the more of grief and suffering we shall be called, to endure. 
 A time will come when ail earthly attachments must be severed, and the 
 more fond we have been of friends and the more devoted to connections, 
 the more agonizing and severe will be the struggle which separates us 
 and tears us away from among them. It may be that the stoic's life is 
 productive, eventually, of less pain and suffering than, that individual 
 endures who possesses more delicate sensibility, and is alive to the 
 generous impulses of nature and the finest feelings of the. human hears . 
 
 212 26 
 
402 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 it may be so, but yet his cold enjoyments and benumbing sympathies 
 afford him but poor comfort, when moat he needs the sympathy, the 
 sustaining hand, and upholding arm of ardent and enduring friendship. 
 Life would not be worth possessing if this polar star did not illuminate 
 its dark paths, and throw around its dreariness some evidence of sympa- 
 thetic love for each other; and though separatioft, when it comes, crush 
 the heart and tear asunder its very fibres, yet how eagerly we taste of 
 its delicious sweets and exult in the particination of its delirious enjoy- 
 ments. 
 
 KEFLECTIONS ON MARRIAGE. 
 
 The leading featiQres in the chara'cter df a go<jd woman are mildness, 
 complaisance, and equanimity of temper. The man, if he be a worth;f 
 and provident husband, is ifnmei-sed in a thousand cares. His mind is 
 agitated, his memory loaded, and his body fatigued. He retires from 
 the bustle of the world, chagrined perhaps by disappointment, angry at 
 insolept and perfidious people, and terrified lest his unavoidable connec- 
 tions' with such people should make him appear peffidious himsdf. Is 
 this the time for the wife of his bosom, his dearest and most intimate 
 friend, to add to his vexations, to increase the fever of an overburdened 
 mind, by a contentious tongue or a discontented brow ? Business, in 
 its most prosperous State, is full of anxiety and turmoil. Oh ! how dear to 
 the memory of man is the wife who clothes her face in smiles, *ho uses 
 gentle expressions, and who makes her lap soft to receive and hush his 
 cares to rest. There is not in nature so fascinating an object as a faith- 
 ful, tender, and aflfectionate wife. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 It waits for no man — it travels onward with an '6ven, uninterrupted, 
 inexorable step, without accommodating itself to the delays of mortals. 
 The restless hours pursue their course — moments press after moments — 
 day treads upon day — ^year rolls after year. Does man loiter ? procrasti- 
 nate ? Is he listless or indolent ? Behold the days, and months, and 
 years, unmindful of his delay, are never sluggish, but march forward in 
 silent and solemn procession. Our labours and toils, our ideas and feel- 
 ings, may be suspended by sleep — darkness, and silence, and death, may 
 reign around us, but time rests not — slumbers never, but presses along, 
 and knows no stoppages We may dam up mighty rivers — stop them 
 in journeying to the ocean — ^press them ba«k to their source ; but the 
 arrest of time is beyond the power of any human being, besides Omnipo- 
 tence. The clock may cease to strike, the bell to toll ; the sun may 
 ecase to shine, the moon stand still ; but the busy hours pass on. The 
 inont'ns and jears must move for ever forward. 
 
JA'JKSON'S VICTORY AT NEW ORLEANS 403 
 
 GENERAL JACKSOFS VICTORY AT NEW ORLEANS. 
 
 Tn the month of December, 1814, fifteen thousand British troops, 
 under Sir Edward Packenham, were landed for the attack of New Orleans. 
 The defence of this place was" intrusted to General Andrew Jackson, 
 whose force was about six thousand men, chiefly raw militia. Several 
 slight skirmishes occurred before the enemy arrived before the city; 
 during this time General Jackson was employed in making prepara- 
 tion for his defence. His front was a straight line of one thousand 
 yards, defended by upwards of three thousand infantry and artillerists. 
 The ditch contained five feet of water, and his front, from having been 
 flooded by opening the levees, and by frequent rains, was rendered slip- 
 pery and muddy. Eight distinct batteries were judiciously disposed, 
 mounting in all twelve guns of different calibres. On the opposite side 
 of the river was a strong battery of fifteen guns. 
 
 At daylight on the morning of the 8th of January, the main body 
 of the British, under their commander-in-chief, General Packenham, 
 were seen advancing from their encampment to storm the American 
 lines. On the preceding evening they had erected a battery within eight 
 hundred yards, which now opened a brisk fire to protect their advance, 
 The British came on in two columns, the left along the levee on the, 
 bank of the river, directed against the American right, while their right 
 advanced to the swamp, with a view to turn General Jackson's left. The 
 country being a perfect level, and the view unobstructed, their march 
 was observed from its commencement. They were suflSered to approach, 
 in silence and unmolested, until within three hundred yards of the lines. 
 This period of suspense and expectation was employed by General 
 Jackson and his ofiieers in Btationiug every man at his post, and airang- 
 ing every thing for the decisive event. When the British columns had 
 advanced within three hundred yards of the lines, the whole artillery at 
 once opened upon them a most deadly fire. Forty pieces of cannon, 
 deeply charged with grape, canister, and musket-balls, mowed them 
 down by hundreds ; at the same time the batteries on the west bank 
 opened their fire, while the riflemen, in perfect security behind their 
 . works, as the British advanced took deliberate aim, and nearly every 
 shot took effect. Through this destructive fire, the British left column, 
 ander the immediate orders of the commander-in-chief, rushed on with 
 their fascines and scaling ladders, to the advance bastion on the Ameri- 
 can right, and succeeded in mounting the parapet ; here, after a clo.«!e 
 conflict with the bayonet, they succeeded in obtaining possession of the 
 bastion ; when the battery planted in the rear for its protection opened 
 its fire, and drove the British from the ground. On -the American left, 
 the British attempted to pass the swamp, and gain the rear, but the 
 works had been extended as far into the swamp as the ground would 
 permit. Some who attempted it sank in the mire and disappeared ; 
 those behind, seeing the fate of their companions, seasonably retreated 
 iod gained the hard ground. The aasault continued an hour and a 
 quarter; daring the whole time the British were exposed to the d^libc- 
 
«0-4 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 rate and de'-tructive fire of the American artillery and musketry, whieb 
 lay in perfect security behind their breastworks of cotton bales, which 
 no balls could penetrate. 
 
 At eight o'clock, the British columns drew ofi' in confusion, and re- 
 treated behind their works. Flushed with success, the militia were eager 
 to pursue the British troops to their intrenchments, and drive them im- 
 mediately from the island. A less prudent and accomplished general 
 might have been induced to yield to the indiscreet ardour of his troops ; 
 but General Jackson understood too well the nature both of his own 
 and his enemy's force, to hazard such an attempt. Defeat must inevi- 
 tably have attended an assault made by raw militia, upon an intrenched 
 camp of British regulars. The defence of New Orleans was the object; 
 nothing was to be hazarded which would jeopardize the city. The 
 British were suffered to retire behind their works without molestation. 
 The result was such as might be expected from the different positions of 
 the two armies. General Packenham, near the crest of the glacis, re- 
 ceived a ball in his knee. Still continuing to lead on his men, another 
 shot pierced his body, and he was carried off the field. Nearly at this 
 time, Major-General Gibbs, the second in command, within a few yards 
 of the lines, received a mortal wound, and was removed. The third in 
 command, Major-General Keane, at the head of his troops near the 
 glacis, was severely wounded. The three commanding generals, on mar- 
 shalling their troops at five o'clock in the morning, promised them a plen- 
 tiful dinner in New Orleans, and gave them booty and beauty as the 
 parole and countersign of the day. Before eight o'clock, the three 
 generals were carried off the field, two in the agonies of death, and the 
 third entirely disabled ; leaving upwards of two thousand of their men, 
 dead, dying, and wounded, on the field of battle. 
 
 On the 9th, General Lambert and Admiral Cochrane, with the sur- 
 viving officers of the army, held a council of war, and determined to 
 abandon the expedition. To withdraw the troops in the face of a victo- 
 rious enemy, would have been difficult and hazardous. To withdraw in 
 safety, every appearance of a renewal of the assault was kept up, till the 
 night of the 18th, when the whole army moved off in one body, over a 
 road which had been previously constructed through a miry slough, in 
 which a number of the troops perished by sinking into the mire. On 
 the 27th, the whole land and naval forces which remained of this disas- 
 trous expedition found themselves on board of their ships, with their 
 ranks thinned, their chiefs and many of their companions slain, their 
 bodies emaciated by hunger, fatigue and sickness. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A BEAUTIFUL AND VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADT.— BY DRYDEN 
 
 Sleep soft in dust, wait the Almighty's will. 
 Then rise unchanged, and be an angel stilL 
 
 f ON AN INFANT. 
 
 Taught the first duties to obey and love, 
 It's gone to act them in the realms above. 
 
THE FIKST BATTLE NEAR NEW OELEANS. 
 
 THE FIEST BATTLE NEAR NEW ORLEANS. 
 
 A LANDiNa was made, and the army inarched onward to the attack 
 in the dead of night. Such a battle then ensued as the annals of 
 modern warfare can hardly match ; all order and discipline were lost. 
 Each officer, as he was able to collect twenty or thirty men around him, 
 advanced into the middle of the enemy, when it was foaght, hand to 
 hand, bayonet to bayonet, and sword to sword, with the tumult and 
 ferocity of one of Homer's combats. 
 
 To give some idea of this extraordinary combat, I shall (says the 
 narrator) detail the adventures of a friend of mine, who chanced to 
 accompany one of the first parties that set out. Dashing through the 
 bivouac, under a heavy discharge from the vessels, his party reached.the 
 lake, which they forded, and advanced as far as the house where General 
 Keane had fixed his head-quarters. The moon had by this time made 
 her way through the clouds, and, though only in her first quarters gave 
 light enough to permit their seeing, though not distinctly. Having gone 
 far enough to the right, the party pushed on to the front, and entered a 
 sloping field of stubble, at the upper end of which they could distinguish 
 a dark line of men ; but whether they were friends or foes, it was impos- 
 sible to determine. Unwilling to fire, lest he should kill any of our 
 own people, my friend led on the volunteers whom he had got around 
 him, till they reached some pile of reeds, about twenty yards from 
 the object of their notice. Here they were saluted by a sharp volley, 
 and being now confident that they were enemies, he commanded his 
 men to fire. 
 
 But a brother officer, who accompanied him, who was not convinced, 
 assured him that they were soldiers of the 95th ; upon which they agreed 
 to divide the force ; that he who doubted should remain with one pari 
 where he was, while my friend with the rest should go around upon the 
 flank of this line, and discover certainly to which army it belonged. 
 
 Taking with him about fourteen men, he accordingly moved off to the 
 right, when, falling in with some other stragglers, he attached them like- 
 wise to his party and advanced. Springing a high rail fence, they came 
 down upon the left of those of whom the doubt had existed, and found 
 them to be, as my friend had supposed, Americans. Not a moment was 
 lost in attacking, but having got unperCeived within a few feet of where 
 they stood, they discharged their pieces and rushed on to the charge. 
 Some soldiers, having lost their bayonets, laid about them with the butt- 
 end of their firelocks, while many a sword, which, till to-night, had not 
 drank of blood, became in a few minutes crimsoned enough. 
 
 The English and Americans were so mingled, that they scarcely knew 
 friends from foes ; and more feats of individual gallantry were performed 
 in the course of the night than many campaigns might have afforded. 
 We lost more than five hundred men, and the field of battle was dread- 
 'jil. I have frequently beheld a greater number of dead bodies in a» 
 small a compass, though these, indeed, were numerous enough ; but wounds 
 
iOb riELDa'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 more disfignrJHg or more horrible, I oertainly nercr witnessed. A maii 
 shot through the head or heart, lies as if he was in a deep slumber, 
 iasomuch, t)iat when you gaze upon him, you experience little less than 
 pity. But of these, many had met their deaths from bayonet wounds, 
 sabre cuts, or heayy blows from the butt-end of muskets ; and the conse- 
 quence was, that not only were the wounds exceedingly frightful, but 
 the early countenances of the dead exhibited most savage and ghastly 
 expressions. Friends and foes lay together in small groups, of four or 
 six, nor was it difficult to tell almost the very hand by which some of 
 them Lad fallen. Nay, such bad been the deadly closeness of the strife, 
 that in one or two places, an English and American soldier might be 
 seen with the bayonet of each fastened in the other's body. — From a 
 London Magazine. 
 
 LAFAYETTE'S FIKST VISIT TO AMEKICA. 
 
 BY TICKSOR. 
 
 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 connections brought him the support of the chief persons in France; 
 and his individual 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 pfier 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 feelings 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 afi"airs. 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 humble to offer either. Our credit, too, in Europe was entirely gone, 
 so that the commissioners, (as they were called, without having any 
 commission,) to whom Lafayette sti'U persisted in offering his services, 
 were obliged, at last, to acknowledge that they could not even give hira 
 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 raort 
 
LAFAYETTE'S FIRST VISIT TO AMERICA. 407 
 
 pffeetually to conceal his purposes, he made, just before his embarkation, 
 a visit of a few weeks in England, (the only 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, ev^n 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, imagine. Lord Stormont, the 
 English ambassador, required the French minister 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 com- 
 plied, for they were at that time anxious to preserve a good understand- 
 ing with England, and were seriously angry with a young man who had 
 thus put in jeopardy the relations of the two countries. In fact, at 
 Passage, on the very borders of France and Spain, a lettre de cachet 
 overtook him, and he was arrested and carried back to Bordeaux. There, 
 of course, his enterprise was near being finally stopped ; but, watching 
 his opportunity, and assisted by one or two friends, he disguised himself 
 as a courier, with his face blacked and false hay-, and rode on, ordering 
 post-horses for a carriage, which he had cau.sed 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 with solicitations to re- 
 turn, which he never received ; and the society of the court and capital, 
 according to Madame du Deffand's account of it, was in no common state 
 of excitement on the occasion. Something of the same sort happened in 
 London. " We talk chiefly," says Gibbon, in a letter, dated April 12, 
 1777, "of the Marquis de Lafayette, 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 is gone to join the Ameri- 
 cans. The court appear to be angry with him." 
 
 Immediately on arriving the second time at Passage, the wind being 
 fair, he embarked. The usual course for French vessels attempting to 
 trade with the 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 commanders of his 
 own nation, and he had almost as much reason to dread them as todread 
 British cruisers. When, therefore, they were outside of the Canary 
 Islands, Lafayette 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 
 Lafayette knew it before he made the requisition. He therefore insisted, 
 until the captain refused in the most positive manner. Lafayette thep 
 told him that the ship was his own private property, that he had mad^ 
 
408 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 his own arrangements concerning it, and that if he, the captain, wuald 
 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 Charleston, South 
 Carolina, on the 25th of April, 1777. 
 
 The sensation produced by his appearance in this country was, oi 
 course, much greater than that produced in Europe by his departure. It 
 still stands forth as one of the most prominent and important circum- 
 stances in our revolutionary 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 suiferings; that our obscure 
 and almost desperate contest for freedom, in a remote quarter of the 
 world, could yet find supporters among those who were the most 
 natural and powerful allies 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. 
 
 SOLEMNITY OF DEATH. 
 
 There is, perhaps, no feeling of our nature so vague, so complicated, 
 so mysterious, as that with which we look upon the cold remains of our 
 fellow-mortals. The dignity with which death invests even the meanest 
 of his victims, inspired us with an awe no living thing can create. The 
 monarch on his throne is less awful than the beggar in his shroud. The 
 marble features — the powerless hand — the stiffened limbs — oh ! who can , 
 contemplate these with feelings that can be defined ? These are the 
 mockery of all our hopes and fears, our fondest love, our fellest hate. 
 Can it be, that we now shrink with horror from the touch of that hand 
 which but yesterday was fondly clasped in our own ? Is that tongue, 
 whose accents even now dwell in our ear, for ever chained in the silence 
 of death ? These black and heavy eyelids — are they for ever to seal 
 up in darkness the eyes whose glance no earthly power could restrain ? 
 And the spirit which ' animated the clay, where is it now ? Is it wrapt 
 in bliss or dissolved in wo ? Does it witness our grief, and share our 
 sorrows ? Or is the mysterious type that linked it with mortality for 
 ever broken ? And the remembrance of earthly scenes' — are they indeed 
 tv^ the enfranchised spirit as the morning dream, or the dew upon the 
 early flower ? Reflections such as these naturally arise in every breast. 
 Their influence is felt, though their import cannot always be expressed. 
 The principle is the same, however it may differ in its operations. 
 
THE FOLLY OF WAR. 409 
 
 TKANSPARENCY OF THE SEA. 
 
 There is nothing, perhaps, that strikes a northern traveller more 
 than the singular transparency of the waters ; and, the farther he pene- 
 trates into the Arctic regions, the more forcibly is his attention riveted 
 To this fact. At a depth of twenty fathoms, or one hundred and twenty 
 feet, the whole surface of the ground is exposed to view. Beds, com- 
 posed entirely of shells, sand lightly sprinkled with them, and sub- 
 marine forests, present, through the clear medium, new wonders to the 
 unaccustomed eye. It is stated by Sir Capel de Brooke, and fully con- 
 firmed by my observation in Norway, that sometimes on the shores of 
 Norland the sea is transparent to a depth of four or five hundred feet ; 
 and that when a boat passes over subaqueous mountains, whose* summits 
 rise above that line, but whose bases are fixed in an unfathomable abyss, 
 the visible illusion is so perfect that one who has gradually in tranquil 
 progress passed over the surface, ascended wonderingly the rugged steep, 
 shrinks back with horror as he crosses the vortex, under an impression 
 that he is falling headlong down the precipice. The transparency of 
 tropical waters generally, as far as my experience goes, is not comparable 
 to that of the sea in these northern latitudes ; though an exception be 
 made in favour of the China seas, and a few isolated spots on the Atlantic. 
 Every one who has passed over the bank known to sailors as the Saya de 
 Malha, ten degrees north of the Mauritius, must remember with pleasure 
 the worlds of shell and coral which the translucid water exposes to view, 
 at a depth of thirty to five-and-thirty fathoms. — Elliotts Letters from 
 the North of Europe. 
 
 THE FOLLY OF WAR. 
 
 Oh, how much wiser to refer national disputes to some high umpire — ' 
 Jp " a congress of nations," for instance — than attempt their settlement 
 by ^he sword ! Such reference would best secure the rights of the 
 parties. The weaker could then meet the stronger on more equal terms. 
 If I'ranklin had not seen the folly of war, the following sentence would 
 scansely have come from his pen, eight days after the treaty of peace 
 was signed at the close of our Revolution : "May we never see another 
 war ' for, in my own opinion, there never was a good war or a bad 
 pea>>e." If the Lord Chancellor of England, Mr. Brougham, had not 
 regarded war as unwise, would he have said, " But my principles — they 
 maj be derided, they may be unfashionable, but I hope they are spread- 
 ing ^ar and wide; my principles are summed up in one word, which was 
 ,)ften uttered by a noble patriot of yours, ' Peace, Peace, Peace.' I abo- 
 mio-te war as unchristian — I hold it the greatest of human crimes— -I 
 dee>Q it to include all others, violence, blood, rapine, fraud; every ^hing 
 which can deform the character, alter the nature, and debase the name 
 of man." 
 
 2K 
 
410 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 « HAVE I COME TO THIS." 
 
 How painful must be the reflections of a young man who has enjoyea 
 the privileges of society, moral instructions, and faithful admonition, to 
 find himself arrested in his wicked career by the arm of justice, and 
 about to receive the penalty of the law for his crimes, while compariag 
 his advantages with his present circumstances. Indeed, he may well say, 
 "Have I come to this f" 
 
 This is not altogether an imaginary case. It so happened that the 
 writer of this was present when several convicts arrived at one of our 
 State penitentiaries. Among the number was a young man of about 
 the age of twenty-four years, of good appearance, and well dressed. In 
 going into the prison he involuntarily exclaimed, " Have I come to this?" 
 Alas ! too late to avoid the punishment justly due him for his crimes. 
 What instructions such a scene and such language are calculated to 
 afford to youth ! It should teach them to obey the first command with 
 promise ; to honour their parents ; to avoid vain company ; in a word, 
 to remember their Creator in the days of their youth. And, to a parent 
 who possesses a deep interest in the welfare of a son just entering upon 
 the scenes of active life — who knows the evil propensities of the' natural 
 heart, and the exposedness of youth to the snares of the world — a scene 
 like this must occasion a degree of anxious solicitude, lest on some 
 future day he may have occasion to hear from that son the melancholy 
 reflection, "Rave I come to this?" 
 
 THE GKEEK KEVOLUTION. 
 
 The following is an extract from Mr.Webster's speech in the House 
 of Representatives of the United States, January, 1824, on the Greek 
 Revolution : — • 
 
 It may be asked, What can we do ? Are we to go to war ? Are we to 
 interfere in the Greek cause, or any other European cause ? Are we tc 
 endanger our pacific relations ? — No, certainly not. What, then, the 
 question recurs, remains for us ? If we will not endanger our own peace, 
 if we will neither furnish armies, nor navies, to the cause which we 
 think the just one, what is there within our power ? 
 
 Sir, this reasoning mistakes the age. The time has been, indeed, 
 when fleets, and armies, and subsidies were the principal reliances even 
 in the best cause. But, happily for mankind, there has come a great 
 change in this respect. Moral causes come into consideration, in pro- 
 portion as the progress ot knowledge is advanced ; and the public opinion 
 of the civilized world is rapidly gaining an ascendency over mere brutal 
 force. It is already able to oppose the most formidable obstruction to 
 the progress of injustice and oppression ; and, as it grows more intelli- 
 gent and more intense, it will be more and more formidable. It may be 
 
' THE GREEK REVOLTITIOIT. 411 
 
 gileneed bv milita^ power, but it cannot be conquered. It is elastic, 
 irreprebsible, and invulnerable to the weapons of ordinary warfare, h. 
 is that impassible, unextinguishable enemy of mere violence and arbitrary 
 rule, which, like MUton's angels, 
 
 Vital in every part. 
 
 Cannot, but by annihilating, (lie. 
 
 Until this be propitiated or satisfied, it is vain for power to talk either 
 of triumphs or of repose. No matter what fields are desolated, what 
 fortresses surrendered, what armies subdued, or what provinces overrun. 
 In the history of the year that has passed by us, and in the instance of 
 unhappy Spain, we have seen the vanity of all triumphs, in a cause 
 which violates the general sense of justice of the civilized world. It is 
 nothing, that the troops of France have passed from the Pyrenees to 
 Cadiz; it is nothing that an unhappy and prostrate nation has fallen 
 before them ; it is nothing that arrests, — that confiscation and execution 
 sweep away the little remnant of national existence. There is an enemy 
 that still exists to check the glory of these triumphs. It follows the 
 conqueror back to the very scene of his ovations : it calls upon him to 
 take notice that Europe, though silent, is yet indignant ; it shows him 
 that the sceptre of his victory is a barren sceptre ; that it shall confer 
 neither joy nor honour, but shall moulder to dry ashes in his grasp. In 
 the midst of his exultation, it pierces his ear with the cry of injured 
 justice, it denounces against him the indignation of an enlightened and 
 civilized age ; it turns to bitterness the cup of his rejoicing, and wounds 
 him with the sting which belongs to the consciousness of having outraged 
 the opinion of mankind. 
 
 Extract from Mr. Clay's speech, in the House of Eepresentatives, 
 January, 1824, on the same subject : — 
 
 What appearance, Mr. Chairman, on the page of history, would a 
 record like this exhibit ? " In the month of January, in the year of 
 our Lord and Saviour, 1824, while all European Christendom beheld 
 with cold and unfeeling indifference the unexampled wrongs and inex- 
 pressible miseries of Christian Greece, a proposition was made in the 
 Congress of the United States, .almost the sole, the last, the greatest 
 depository of human hope and human freedom, the representatives of a 
 gallant nation, containing a million of freemen ready to fly to arms, 
 while the people of that nation were spontaneously expressing its deep- 
 toned feeling, and the whole continent, by one simultaneous emotion, 
 was rising, and solemnly and anxiously supplicating and invoking high 
 Heaven to spare and succour Greece, and to invigorate her arms in her 
 glorious course, while temples and senate-houses were alike resounding 
 with one burst of generous and holy sympathy : in the year of our Lord 
 and Saviour — that Saviour of Greece and of us— a proj)osition was offer- 
 ed in the American Congress to send a messenger tp Greece, to in<juire 
 into her state and condition, with a kind expression of our good wishes 
 and our sympathies — ^aiid it was rejected I" Go home, if you can — go 
 
412 riELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. « 
 
 home, if you dare, to your constituents, and tell them that you voted ii 
 down — meet, if you can, the appalling countenances of those who sent 
 you here, and tell them that you shrank from the declaration of your own 
 sentiments — that you cannot tell how, but that some unknown dread, 
 some indescribable apprehension, some indefinable danger, drove you from 
 your purpose — that the spectres of oimetars, and crowns, and crescents, 
 gleamed before you, and alarmed you ; and that you suppressed all the 
 noble feelings prompted by religion, by liberty, by national independ- 
 ence, and by humanity. 
 
 ELOQUENT APPEAL IN FAVOUR OF THE GEEEKS. 
 
 Should the Turks prevail in the present contest, an amalgamation of 
 victor and vanquished would be as impracticable now as when Grreece 
 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 eflfecting 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 exemplified in the island of Scio. On "the soil 
 of Greece, thus swept of its present population, will be settled the 
 Egyptian and Turkish troops, by whom it shall have been subdued. 
 Thus will have been cut ofi^, 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 distinct 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 identity. In them will be exterminated a 
 people apt and predisposed for all the improvements of civilized life; a 
 people connected with the rest of Europe by every moral and intellectual 
 association, and capable of being reared up into a prosperous and culti- 
 vated state. Finally, in them will perish one whole Christian people ; 
 and that the first that embraced Christiai\ity ; churches actually founded 
 by the apostles in person, churches for whose- direct instruction a con- 
 siderable part of the New Testament was composed, after ' abiding all 
 the storms of eighteen centuries, and surviving so many vicissitudes, are 
 now at length to be razed ; and, in the place of all this, an uncivilized 
 Mohammedan 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 disaflFection of the Portu- 
 ^;icse ultra-royalists. To preyent a change in the governments of Pied- 
 
APPKAL IN FAVOUR OF THE GREEKS. 413 
 
 utont, 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? la there a faded 
 parchment in the diplomatic archives of London or Lisbon, that binds 
 the English government more imperiously than the great original obli- 
 gation to rescue an entire Christian people from the cimetar 1 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 liberty, humanity, 
 and religion, take up this cause, as one that concerns them, all and each, 
 in his capacity as a Christian and a man. Let them malfe strong the 
 public sentiment on this subject, and it will prevail. Let them remember 
 what, ere now, has been done, by the perseverance and resolution of 
 small societies, and even individual men. Let them remember how 
 small a company of adventurers, unpatronised, scarcely tolerated by 
 their government, succeeded in laying the foundations of this our happy 
 country 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 faint- 
 ing 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 ecclesi- 
 astical empire of Europe. Let them bear 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 Christendom ; an expedition, wild indeed, 
 and unjustifiable, according to our better lights, but lawful and meri- 
 torious in those who embarked in it. Let them, in a word, never forget, 
 that when, on those lovely islands and once happy shores, over which a 
 dark cloud of destruction now hangs, the foundations of the Christian 
 church were first laid, it was by the hands of private, obscure, and per- 
 secuted individuals. It was the people, the humblest of the people, that 
 took up the gospel, in defiance of all the j^tronage, the power, and the 
 laws of the government. Why should not Christianity be sustained in 
 the same country, and by the same means, by which it was originally, 
 established ? 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 allowed to perish, it cannot be that this senti- 
 ment wUl remain inoperative. The very existence of this sentiment is 
 a tower of strength. It will make itself felt by a thousand manifesta- 
 tions. 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 strengthened 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 fathers ? And can any one 
 doubt that the Grecian patriots will hold out, so long as the Christian 
 world will cheer them with its sanction ? 
 
 2s2 
 
414 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 Let, then, the public mind be disabused of the prejudices which mis- 
 lead 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 progress of the revolution be multiplied. Let its well-wishers and 
 its well-hopers declare themselves in the cause. Let the tide of pious 
 and Christian charity be tui^ed into this broad and thirsty channel. Let 
 every ardent and high-spirited young man, who has an independent sub- 
 sistence of two or three hundred dollars a year, embark personally in 
 the cause, and aspire to that crown of glory, never yet 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. — North American, 
 Review. 
 
 MANNERS. 
 
 I MAKE it a point of morality never to find fault with another for his 
 manners. They may be awkward or graceful, blunt or polite, polished 
 or rustic, I care not what they are, if the man means well and acts from 
 honest intentions, without eccentricity or affectation. All men hare not 
 the advantages of "good society," as it is called, to school themselves 
 in all its fantastic rules and ceremonies, and if there is any standard of 
 manners, it is one founded in reason and good sense, and not upon these 
 artificial regulations. Manners, like conversation, should be extempora- 
 neous, and not studied. I always suspect a man who meets me with 
 the same perpetual smile on his face, the same congeeing of the body, 
 and the same premeditated shake of the hand. Give me the hearty — it 
 may be rough — ^grip of the hand — the careless nod of recognition, and, 
 when occasion requires, the homely but welcome salutation—^" How are 
 you, my old friend ?" 
 
 SELF-RESPECT. 
 
 Teach a man to think meanly and contemptibly of himself, to cast 
 off all sense of character and all consciousness of a superior nature, and 
 moral persuasion can no more act upon such a man than if he were dead. 
 A man may be addicted to many vices, and yet there may be a hope of 
 reclaiming him. But the moment he loses all sense of character and 
 all consciousness of a superior nature — that is, the moment he begins 
 to look upon himself and his vices as worthy of one another, that 
 moment all hope of reclaiming him perishes ; for the last ground is 
 fiurrendere I on which it is possible for his remaining good principles to 
 rally and make a stand. We have often known men who have retained 
 their self-respect long after they had lost their regard for principle ; but 
 never one who retained his regard for principle after he had lost his self- 
 respect. Destroy this, and you destroy every thing; for a man who 
 does not respect himself respects nothing. 
 
THE GRAVE OF THE TEAR. — LOOK ALOFT. 
 
 415 
 
 THE GRAVE OF THE YEAR. 
 
 fix Qomposed, trvtity toil and eaoh tnrbnleat motion, 
 
 Th&t onoirole the heart in life's treaeheroaB Bnftres. 
 And the honr that iuTites to the oalm of devotion, 
 
 Undistnrb'd hj regrets, anencnmber'd with cares ; 
 How cheerless the lata hlooming face of oreation— 
 
 Weaiy time seems to panse in his rapid career, 
 ind fotigaed with the work of his own desolation, 
 
 Loolu behind with a smile on the grave of the year. 
 
 Suk! the wind whistles mdelj, the shadows are 
 closing. 
 That enwn^) his broad path in the mantle of nighty 
 nrhile pleasure's gay sons are in qniet reposing, 
 tJndismay'd at the works thai have nnmber'd her 
 flight. 
 From yon temple where fashion's gay tapers are 
 lighted 
 Her votaries iacrowdsdeck'dwith garlands appear. 
 And as yet their warm hopes by no spectre affrighted, 
 Assemble to dance round the grave of the year. 
 
 Oh ! I hate the stale cnp which the idlers have tasted, 
 When I think on the ills of life's comfortless day. 
 
 How the flowers of my chUdhood their verdure have 
 wasted. 
 And the firiends of my youth have been stolen away. 
 
 They think not how fmltless the warmest endeavour 
 To recall the kind moments neglected when near. 
 
 When the honrs that oblivion has cancell'd for ever 
 Are interr'd by her hand in the grave of the 
 yean 
 
 Since the last solemn reign of this day if reflection. 
 
 What throngs have relinquish'd lifo i perishing 
 breath ; 
 How many have shed their last tear of dejeotiob. 
 
 And closed the dim eye in the darkness of death. 
 How many have sndden their pilgrimage ended. 
 
 Beneath the low pall that envelopes the bier, 
 Or to death's lonesome valley have gently descended, 
 
 And made their cold beds with the grave of the 
 year. 
 
 Yet a while, and no seasons aronnd us shall flonTi4t^ 
 
 But silence for each her dark mansion prepare ; 
 When beauty no longer her roses shall nonrish, 
 
 Nor the lily o'erspread the wan cheek of despair ; 
 But the eye shall with lustre unfading be brighten '4, 
 
 When it wakes to true bliss in yon orient sphere. 
 By sunbeams of splendour immortal enlighten'd. 
 
 Which no more shall go down on the grave of ih« 
 year. 
 
 TO THE DEPARTED. 
 
 Lips I have kiss'd, ye are faded and cold ; 
 Hands I have press'd, ye are cover'd with mould ; 
 Form I have clasp'd, thon art crumbling away ; 
 A.nd soon on thy bosom my breast I will lay. 
 
 Friends of my youth, I have witness'd your bloom ; 
 Bhades of the dead, I have wept at your tomb : 
 Tomb, I have wreaths, were they worthy of thee ; 
 But who will e'er gather a garland for me ? 
 
 Friends of my youth, ye are hasting aWay : 
 Grave, is there room in thy chamber of clay t 
 7e who have hither so hastily fled, 
 6ay, is there room in the green-cnrtain'd bed J 
 
 Preams of my youth, ye are fiided and gone : 
 Mists of tiie vale, ye have clouded the morn : 
 
 Death, will your yaponrs imeessantly roll ? 
 And life, must it pass in the night of the seolT 
 
 Souls of the bleat, from the mansions of day. 
 Look on the pilgrim and lighten his way : 
 Wing your swift liight to the death prepared bed. 
 With visions of glory to circle his bead. 
 
 Stars, ye are thick in the pathway of light: 
 Visions of bliss, ye are banishing night: 
 Pilgrim, arise, for the journey yon tread 
 Is leading to regions whence sorrow has fled. 
 
 Buds of the spring, ye are blasted and dead : 
 Leaves of the summer, your beauty has fled: 
 Winter of grief, from the night of the tomb. 
 The pole-star, Bdigion, will ecatter the gloom. 
 
 LOOK ALOFT. 
 
 In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale 
 Are aronnd and above, if thy footing should fail— 
 If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart, 
 "Look aloft" and be firm, and be fearless of heart. 
 If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow. 
 With a smile for each joy and a tear for each wo, 
 Should betray thee when sorrow like douds are ar- 
 
 ray'd, 
 ** Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade. 
 
 Should th*- Tiaions which hope spreads' in light to 
 
 thine eye, 
 Likf the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly. 
 
 Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret, 
 " Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set. 
 
 Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart— 
 
 The wife of thy bosom — in sorrow depart, 
 
 "Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of tt« 
 
 towib. 
 To that soil where " afiiection is over in bloom." 
 
 And, oh ! when death comes, in terrors to ca»* 
 His fears on the future, his pall on the past, 
 In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart, 
 And a smile in thine eye. "look alof" - on'^ depart' 
 
416 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 MOTION OF THE PLANETS. 
 
 These bodies, vast in magnitude, infinite in number, and the tenants 
 of space, are in rapid motion; but what imagination can possibly con- 
 ceive of that power which impels the movement ? An idea may be 
 acquired of this rapid motion by a reference to familiar objects, this 
 velocity of a ship impelled by wind, particularly if urged over the 
 rolling billows by a furious tempest ; the swiftness of a bird winging 
 its flight through the air, especially if pursued by an eagle ; the motion 
 of a ball projected from a cannon, which, in some cases, is at the rate 
 of 800 miles an hour. But these are creeping things. Saturn, one of 
 the most tardy in its course of any of the planets, a globe 900 times 
 larger than the earth, is impelled at the rate of 22,000 miles in an hour, 
 carrying with him a system of stupendous rings, and seven moons larger 
 than the earth's satellite. Jupiter, whose vast circumference would 
 comprise within it a thousand such globes as we inhabit, moves at the 
 rate of 20,000 miles in an hour. This earth is urged forward at the rate 
 of 68,000 miles in an hour ; and Mercury still faster, being 107,000 miles 
 in the same time; but even these motions are slow when compared with 
 that of the comet of 1680, which went half round the sun in ten hours 
 and a half, and its tail (at least a hundred millions of miles in length) 
 turning round in the same time, keeping nearly in the direction opposite 
 to the sun ; the velocity of this comet, at this part of its orbit, (its peri- 
 helion,) was 830,000 miles in an hour; and so closely did it approach 
 the sun, that, supposing the centrifugal or projectile force to have been 
 annihilated at this point of its course, it would have fallen into the sun 
 in less than three minutes ! In the sphere of the fixed stars there is 
 reason to believe that bodies are in motion whose velocities are propor- 
 tionably greater than any in the planetary system. 
 
 One of the double stars completes its revolution in fifty-seven years ; 
 in estimating the orbit described by a less sun about a greater, it will 
 not be necessary to suppose (though probably it is the case) that the 
 two bodies are as remote from each other as the nearest fixed star is from 
 our sun, namely, twenty millions of miles ; were it even ■ admitted that 
 the line of -separation between them was only a twentieth part of tins 
 distance, the revolving star would then move at the rate of 12,000,000 
 miles in an hour. This motion, observed among many of the fixed stars, 
 confirms the belief, that our sun, with its bright retinue of comets, pla- 
 nets, and satellites, is moving forward' through space with a velocity 
 past conjecture. It is, therefore, probable, that the solar system will 
 never, in the course of its most protracted duration, revisit any part of 
 the same curve or line it has moved over since the creation. — Time's 
 Telescope. 
 
 The diameter of the comet of 1811 was estimated by Schroeter at 
 50,000 miles; its coma or envelope, 947,000 miles; and its tail or train 
 of light, sixty millions of miles in length, or more than half the distance 
 between the earth and the sun. — Diclc. 
 
VriLB HORSBS. 41T 
 
 WII^D HORSES. 
 
 The follQwing paragraph, in rela.tjcni t,o the droves of wild hprsos fre- 
 quently met with in the prairies near the Sjocky Mountains, is copied 
 from a work written by the Rev. Timothy Funt: — 
 
 The day before we came- in view of the Rocky Mountains, I paw, in 
 the greatest perfection, that impressive and, to me, almost sublime spec- 
 tacle, an immense drove of wild horses, for a long time hovering mund 
 our path across the prairie. I had often seen great numbers of them 
 before,' mixed with othev animals, apparently quiet, and grazing like the 
 rest. Here there were thousands, unmixed, unemployed; their motions, 
 if such a comparison might be allowed, as darting and as wiM as those 
 of lumming-birds on the flowers. The tremendous snort witlr which 
 the' front columns of the phalanx made known their approach to us 
 seemed to be their wild and energetic way of expressing their pitv 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 diver- 
 sified with every hue, from the brightest white to clear and shining black; 
 and of every form and structure, from the long and slender race to those 
 of firmer limbs and heavier mould; and of all ages, from the curvetting 
 colt to the range of the patriarchal steeds, drawn up in a line, and hold- 
 ing up their high heads'for a survey of us in the rear. Somctim "S they 
 curved their necks, and made no more progress than just enough to keep 
 pace with our {advance. Then there was a kind of slow and walking 
 minuet, in which they performed various evolutions, with the precision 
 of the figures of a country-dance. Then a rapid movement shifted the 
 front to the rear. But still, in all their evolutions and movements, like 
 the flight of searfowls, their lines were regular and free from all indica- 
 tions of confusion. At tinies a spontaneous and sudden movement 
 towards us almost inspired the apprehension of a united attack upon 
 us. After a moment's advance, a short and retrogade movement seemed 
 to testify their proud estimate of their wild independence. The infinite 
 variety of their rapid movements, their tamperings, and manoeuvres were 
 of such a wild and almost terrific character, that it required but a mode- 
 rate stretch of fancy to suppose them the genii of these grassy phuns. 
 At one period, they were formed, for an imnjense 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 
 evidently operated a^ a> great annoyance to the horses and mules of our 
 cavalcade. The frighted movements, the increased indications of fatigue, 
 sufficiently evinced, with their frequent neighings, what unpleasant nc'igh- 
 bours they considered their wild cgmpatriots to be. So much did our 
 horses appear to suffer from fatigue and terror, in coDsoquence of their 
 vivacity, that we were thinking of some way in which to drive them off; : 
 when on a sudden a patient and laborious donkey of the establishment", 
 that appeared to have regarded all their movement with philosophic in- 
 
418 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 diflFerence, pricked up his long ears, and gave a loud and most sonoroni^ 
 bray from his vocal shell. Instantly this prodigious multitude, and there 
 were thousands of them, took what the Spaniards called 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 w*e all in a few moments invisible, in the verdant depths of 
 the plains, and we saw th( m no more. 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 There is no virtue more acceptable to God, and in practice mote coii 
 ducive to human happiness, than resignation to the divine will. He who 
 presumes to question the wisdom, the goodness, and the paternal solici- 
 tude of the Supreme Being for the felicity of man, is guilty of the most 
 heinous of crimes, and deserving of the most severe punishment. That 
 wisdom which is displayed in the economy of the vast system of creation 
 — that goodness which every page,. in the volume of nature exhibits in 
 language the most forcible and endearing — that paternal solicitude which 
 the scheme of redemption and pardon so gloriously illustrates, should 
 silence every murmur when we are afflicted, and teach us to consider 
 that we are chastised for the most benevolent purpose, and corrected 
 that we may be worthy of those unfading joys for which we are ulti- 
 mately designed. This globe is not constructed for the eternal abode of 
 an eternal soul. . We should view all its perplexities as equally short- 
 lived and transitory. He who uses the good things of this world, with- 
 out abusing them ; whom prosperity cannot elate ; who puts a just value 
 upon what he possesses, and is ready to resign the blessings with which 
 he is favoured into the hands of Him by whom they were bestowed, will 
 surely receive an abundant reward. Resignation can alleviate the dis- 
 tress of this lift', culm its varied troubles, pour a ray of comfort to en- 
 liven the vale of tears through which our pilgrimage must be made, and 
 cliter with consoling expectations the gloom that lowers over the pillow 
 (if death. Who then would have the hardness to doubt the justice of 
 the dispensations of Providence, or arraign Omniscience at the. tribunal 
 of human presumption, . 
 
 REPLY TO ATHEISM. 
 
 1 r DESIRE no greater certainty in reasoning than that by which chance 
 is excluded from the present disposition of the natural world. Universal 
 experience is against it. What dqes chance ever do for us ? In the 
 human body, for iastance, chance, i. e. the operation of causes without 
 design, may produce a wen, a wart, a mole, a pimple, but never an 
 eye. Among iaanimate substances, « clod, a pebble, a liquid drop, 
 might be; but never- was a -watch, a telescope, an organized body of any 
 kind, answering a valuable purpose by a complicated mechanism, the 
 effect of chance, iln no assignable instance has such a thing existed 
 with«ut.intentifln^ somewhere.— rPafey. 
 
A VISIT TO KEDBANK. 419 
 
 A VISIT TO KEDBANK. 
 
 Of days gone by I love to speak, 
 
 And .hear from others tales of battle, — Anon. 
 
 I DELIGHT to visit the battle-ground of the Revolution, not because 
 it is stained with the blood of friends or foes, but because the germs of 
 liberty were nurtured there. The wounded, the bleeding patriot, received 
 there the oil to heal the scars obtained in freedom's cause ; that oil was 
 the gladdening anticipation of our country's future glory, and her future 
 greatness. 'Twas here (and I oast my eyes around the hallowed scene) 
 the weary and exhausted soldier reposed, and here the tree of liberty 
 grew to diffuse her gigantic blessings throughout the western world. I 
 enjoyed many pleasing reflections on a late visit to the Eed Banks, on the 
 river Delaware ; although this spot is not famed, as many, for bloody 
 battles, or the loss of zealous patriots in our country's cause, yet it tells 
 the same tale, whispers the endearing fact, that the shackles of tyraniiy 
 were removed by the heroic exertions of our fathers — 
 
 And breathes the language of our land. 
 Here fought-a chosen littie band. 
 
 This spot is about six miles below the city of Philadelphia, on the 
 Jersey side, and fifteen minutes ride from the pleasant village of Wood- 
 bury. 
 
 At that gloomy periocl of the Revolution, when the British army oc- 
 cupied Philadelphia, a part of the American army were here encamped; 
 the ground presents a beautiful eminence, rising about one hundred feet 
 above the bed of the river; the trenches, or breastworks, are of a circu- 
 lar form, enclosing near three acres of land, on which many traces are 
 seen of deeds performed a half century ago, such as the intrenchments 
 spoken of, and the appearance of little mounds of earth, raised over the 
 body of some near and dear friend, by those who remained to tell their 
 melancholy fate ; but, alas ! where are they ? A large field-piece still 
 remains, (or did at the time I visited the spot,) which is supposed to 
 have burst.* One rude stone is also seen, on whose uphewn front are 
 marked the rude traces of friendship, recording the fate of a martyr in 
 our country's cause, who fell no doubt upon that very spot ; the letters 
 appear to have been done with a bayonet or tomahawk, which are these, 
 
 " Count De Knap, died 17 ;" the other part of the stone being much 
 
 disfigured by time and abuse, I could decipher no more. 
 
 Many incidents have occurred here worth recordiilg, but I have nor 
 been able to obtain them correctly ; one, however, I beg leave to mention 
 A large party of Hessians were sent out to reconnoitre the American 
 .lamp, they were discovered by a party of heroes, who immediately attack- 
 ed them ; a skirmish ensued ; the Americans finally retreated. The Hes- 
 
 * Since writing the above I am told it has been taken away, by those who valued a 
 few pounds of old iron more than the pi iasii^g recollections which ite ancient appearanc 
 invariably created. 
 
426 HKLDS'S SC»AP-BDOK 
 
 sians,* believing they had cut off their retreat, rushed, with all possib'.o 
 speed, to take the encampment 3 the Americans had, however, by a 
 circuitous route, regained their fortification^, and lay silent and breathless 
 on their arms, like the fierce tiger, ready to bound upon the enemy ; the 
 Hessians rushed towards the ramparts, the ^ r«80unding with their 
 shouts of supposed victory. It was the scream, the shout of death ! The 
 Americans rose fron: their lurking plaices, sfid, lo ! their foes fell lik'> 
 grass before the scythe, scarce Icnowing from whiom they repejved their 
 death — 
 
 ^joA silence reign'd above t^etn. 
 
 About fifty years ago, scenes like this were acted here; now, traces of 
 such scenes alone are left — some fifty years ago the noble stream thftl 
 washes the base of this bank, bore on its bosom &e light canvas ; but 
 now, ships with swelling sails glide along, lad©n with the riches of the 
 east, the n(»ih, and south : the west has presented her open ports for 
 th« luxuries of every clime. Prom the extreme height of the batnk, we 
 have a full view of Philadelphia on one hand ; whik, on the other, a 
 short distance below, are the means of its defence, (a fort^), from whose 
 encircled point, eacircled by the waters of the Delaware, rises the na- 
 tional flag of our country, presepting the emblem of her liberty, and 
 the pride of the first and greatest free republic in the world ! 
 
 They who can appreciate the 5eoollectioji of such (Jeeds, and, while they 
 drop a tear over the sacred tombs of departed heroes, consider their blood 
 sealed our country's charter of freedom ; the bones that whiten here, and 
 enrich the soil, are the remains of those who pledged their lives, their 
 fortunes, and their sacred honours in its causej'upon lyhose fallen bodje?, 
 from whose mouldering graves the goddess Liberty arose in all her nata) 
 purity, a being from the skies — they who can recall such scenes ?.nd such 
 deeds had better visit this romantic spot ; there are many traces here to 
 repay the traveller and amuse his fancy, not with fiction's dreapi, but 
 the ples^g recollections of reality. 
 
 A MIDNIGHT REFLECTION. 
 
 'Tis midnight ! and midnight silence reigns triumphaQt o'er the 
 world. This is the hour when man most feels his nothingness^-^-this is 
 the houir when splejnnity gains possession of the untutored spul— !-this is 
 the hour when the guilty conscience shudders, beneath the pressure of its 
 preponderous load— ^and this is the hour when the hardened sinner sees 
 himself unpainted, and feels his soul shrink back from the prospects of 
 eternity. But this, ah 1 yes, this is the hour whep the Christian holds 
 communion with his God^ or sleeps in undisturbed repose, while guar- 
 dian angels watch aroq.nd his bed, and, in the spirit of their Lord, they 
 seem to say — " Sleep, child of heaven, thy Father's eye is on thee ! No 
 ill awaits thee here, but peace eterna.1 waits for thee in heaven." ; 
 
 * It is a notorious fact in history, that the Hessians were totajly ignorant of apj mode 
 »f warfare, sayp what depend*^d on strength and nambers. 
 
THE LAST SHOT. 421 
 
 ITHP! LASf SfiOT. 
 
 1 HAVE been ioWa to Redbaak, on the JeJsey side of the Delaware,, 
 below Philadelphia, to look at the remaitis of that BtUe folitressj within 
 whose tudely^constrtieted walls so terrible a blow was grven to British 
 eduf ^e. Only a fetf retnaifts <>{ that memorable fettt are now to be seen. 
 the breastworks ate neai'Iy leVellled to the eairth, and over some, the 
 plonghshare of the indtaStfJonts farmef has already passed. Nothing but 
 a fe"* *iiis-shape*i mounds are visible to poiat out to the stranger the site 
 frlrere so much blood was Spilt, where so many gallamt spirits breathed 
 their last. The neighbouring farmer, however, will point yon to the 
 battte-^roiiiid. Sis louse Stood within pistol-shot of the f&rt, and dtar- 
 ing the attack, the balls *his(3ed atottnd his roof in shrill aAd freque-at 
 showers. He will tell yo«ii a3>l that ean now be told of it* He saw the 
 battle ffom bis farm-hoftse; he saw the foreign foe advance; he beard 
 their ishottt as they catered tie Ouftef- wall, and in a moment afte*, he sa* 
 them hurrying back, bearing with them the body of their lamented and 
 ill-fated Donop. 
 
 The fort at Redbank was ttirown up hastily by a handful of Ame- 
 ricans. They constructed two walls, or two forts, one within the other ; 
 the outer one of which was no* Completed when the enemy attacked it. 
 At the head of a chosen band of men, Donop entered the outer wall, and 
 thinking the fort taken by surprise, gate a shout df exultation, which 
 was re-ecboed by his men. They entered with shouldefed arms. Th« 
 feeble garrison, commatided by the gallant Greene, opened at once a brisk 
 and murderous fire. I kftew a JerSeyman who was in the' fortress. He 
 told me every particular. The narrow limits in which the assailants 
 were confined, and the tttil<Joked-foT repulse, threw them into irt-emediable 
 confusion. They fired a few shots, and hastily retired, jtiSt as the Ame- 
 ricans had fired their eighth roA&d of ammunition^^anid' they had but 
 nine rounds to a man. As the enelny turned about, a Volunteer in th« 
 fort, Whose miisket had snapped, pulled the trigger a Second time-^the 
 last shot from the fort — ^aud the gallant, the misguided, the aecomplished 
 Donop fell, among a breastwork of Ms own dying men ! 
 
 The enemy retreated to Philadelphia iti thS greatest eofifnsion. Ter- 
 rible slaughter had been made in their ranks, aad tbey trembled for the 
 whizzing of the nett platoon of balls. Four pieceif of bra^ eannon, Whioh 
 they brought to the assault, were either buried in the earth on their way 
 bome, or thrown, into the neighbouring creek. Searches have been made 
 for them, but they are lost for ever. Donop was carried to the nearest 
 farm-house, his wounds dressed, and consolation given him. It was then 
 that the gallant Hessian first saw his error. He was a mere hireling in 
 the enemy's ranks. He had no enmity to Americans, for he was of an- 
 other country, and we had never injured him. Bitterly did he regret, in 
 the agonies of that tremendous and humbling fliomeut, that he had lent 
 his aid to smother the bursting flame of freedom, and deeply did he weep 
 jver the ignominy of his end. He felt there was none to pity him. Iht 
 2L, 
 
422 iTIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 British did not ; for they paid his king for his services ; his ling did 
 not, for his death insured to him a stipulated compensation ; and Ame 
 rica could not, for he was a chosen enemy. Thus did the dying count 
 depiit his situation, and cried, " I, who might have flourished in the pa- 
 laces of kings,' am here, the victim of a mercenary bargain, left to die in 
 a solitary hut, in the wilderness of America I" 
 
 A solitary mound, with a bit of rough stone at the head, in the mar- 
 gin of a wood, is all that now remains to point the stranger to the grave 
 of Count Donop. His name has been rudely carved upon it; but the 
 wanton sportsman makes the melancholy memento his favourite mark, 
 and a few summers more will do away the slightest trace of where he 
 now I eposes. Such, alas !. is military glory ; such is the reward of daunt- 
 less bravery and misguided virtue ! 
 
 The hickory on which the banner of our country floated on that memo- 
 rable day is still rocked by the breeze that sweeps across our happy 
 country. Long may it flourish in undying prime ! I have cut a frag- 
 ment from it, and it now stands before me in the fashion of an inkstand, 
 from which the ink is drawn that wrote these transient reminiscences of 
 that ever-memorable scene. 
 
 HAPPINESS. 
 
 The happiness of this life is to us what the sun was said to be es- 
 teemed by a certain race of savages — an object that will one day be 
 within our reach. These untaught beings resolved at length to meet it, 
 and with eager expectation they began their march towards the east, in the 
 hope of catching the glorious luminary ere it appeared to them to raise 
 itself from the earth, and every morning they anxiously stretched out 
 their arms, exclaiming : " Ah ! when shall we attain it ?" They travel- 
 led for a considerable time supported by their hopes, which only vanished 
 when they found, their career inevitably terminated by an immense 
 ocean. And thus it will be with us all. We fix our eyes upon some 
 point or object in which we believe happiness to consist, and journey on 
 through cultivated tracts and through deserts ; we traverse flowery val- 
 leys, and overleap rocks and precipices ; no difficulty or danger can arrest 
 our steps, and ere we reach what we have sought, we are checked by the 
 ti}mb opened before us, which is the immense ocean that swallows us all up. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A SCOLD, BT HER HUSBAND. 
 
 We lived one-and-twenty years 
 
 As man and wife togethec; 
 At last siie's left me quiet here. 
 
 And gone — I care not whither. 
 I rather thinly she's soar'd aloft. 
 
 For in the last great thunder, 
 Methought I heard her very Toiee 
 
 Bending the clouds asunder. 
 
Washington's address to the army. 42S 
 
 WASHINGTON'S ADDRESS TO THE ARMY. 
 
 Extract from General Washington's Address to the American Army, in 
 relation to an insidious attempt to seduce them from their allegiance 
 to their country, in 1783. 
 
 Gentlemen : — ^If my conduct heretofore has not evinced to you that I 
 have been a faithful friend to the army, my declaration of it at this time 
 would be equally unavailing and improper. But as I was among the first 
 who embarked in the cause of our common country ; as 1 have never left 
 your side one moment but 'when called from you on public duty ; as I 
 have been the constant companion and witness of your distresses, and 
 not among the last to feel and acknowledge your merits; as I have ever 
 considered my own military reputation as inseparably connected with that 
 of the army ; and my heart has ever expanded with joy when I heard its 
 praises, and my indignation has risen when the mouth of detraction has 
 been opened against it — it can scarcely be supposed, at this last stage of 
 the war, that I am indifferent to its interests. 
 
 With respect to the advice given by the author to suspect the man 
 who shall recommend moderation and longer forbearance, I spurn it, 
 as every man, who regards that liberty, and reveres the justice for which 
 wc contend, undoubtedly must; for, if a man is to be precluded from 
 offcting his sentiments on a matter which may involve the destiny of our 
 country, reason is of no use to us. I cannot, in justice to my own belief, 
 conclude this address, without giving it as my decided opinion, that 
 Congress entertain exalted sentiments of the services of the army, and, 
 from a full conviction of its merits and sufferings, will do it complete 
 justice ; that their endeavors to discover and establish funds have been 
 unwearied, and that they will never cease till they have succeeded. 
 
 Why should we distrust them ? And why, in consequence of tha't 
 distrust, adopt measures which will cast a shade over that glory which 
 has been so justly acquired, and tarnish the reputation of an army 
 which has been celebrated throughout all Euiope for its fortitude and 
 patriotism ? 
 
 While I pledge mygelf in the most unequivocal manner to exert what- 
 ever ability I am possessed of in your favour, let me entreat you, gen- 
 tlemen, on your part, not to take any measures which, viewed in the 
 calm light of reason, will lessen the dignity and sully the glory you have 
 hitherto maintained. Let me request you to rely on the plighted faith 
 of your country, to place a full confidencein the purity of the intentions 
 of Congress, and to assure yourselves that they will adopt the most 
 effectual measures in their power to render ample justice to you for 
 your faithful and meritorious services. 
 
 By thus determining, and thus acting, you will pursue the plain and 
 direct road to the attainment of your wishes : you will give one more 
 proof of unexampled patriotism and patient virtue, rising superior to thn 
 pressure of the most complicated sufferings ; and 7 bu will, by the dignity 
 
424 flELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 of your conduct, afford occasion for posterity to say, when speaking of 
 the glorious example you have exhibited to mankind, " Had this day 
 been wanting, the wotld had never seen the last stage of perfection to 
 which human nature is capable of attaining." 
 
 WAR OP THE REVOLUTION ADVOCATED. 
 
 Boctract from the Speech of Patrick Henry, ill the Convention of Vir- 
 ginia, March) 1775, in favour of resistance hy the Colonies. 
 
 Mr. President — It is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of 
 hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth — and listen 
 to the song of that siren, till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the 
 pWt of wise men, engaged in a great and atduous struggle for liberty ? 
 Are we disposed to be of the number of those, who having eyes, see not, 
 and having ealrs, hear not, the things which so nearly concern our tem- 
 poral salvatiiDn ? For my fart, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, 
 I am willing to know the whdle truth ; to know the worst, and to ptb- 
 fide for it. 
 
 1 have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that is the lamj) 
 jf experience. I know of no Way of judging of the future but by the 
 past. And judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in 
 the conduct of the British ministry fbr thfe lastten years to justify those 
 hopes with which gentlemen have been pleksed to solace themselves and 
 the house ? Is it that insidious smile with which our petition | has been 
 lately received? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet. 
 Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves hbW 
 this grucious reception of our petition comports with those warlike pre- 
 parations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and 
 tomies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation ? Have we shown 
 ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled, that Force must be called in to 
 win back our love 1 Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the 
 implements of war and subjugation — the last arguments to which 
 kings resort. 
 
 I ask gentlemen. Sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be 
 not to force us to submission ? Can gentlemen assign any other possible 
 liiotive for it ? Has Great Britain any enem,^ in this quarter of the 
 world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and afhiies ? No, sir, 
 She has none. They are meant for us ; they can ie meant for no othef. 
 They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us tlibse chains which the 
 British ministry have been so long forging. And what have we to 
 oppose to them? Shall we try argument? Sir, we have 'been trying 
 that for the last ten years. Have we any thitig new tO offer upon the 
 subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of 
 which it is capable ; but it has been all in vain. 
 
 Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication ? What teffn 
 shall we find, which have not been already exhausted? Let vs not 1 
 
WAR OF THE EE VOLUTION ADVOCATED. 4^6 
 
 beseecli you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done every thing 
 that could be done to avert the storm which is now coining on. We 
 have petitioned, we have remonstrated, we have supplicated ; we have 
 prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition 
 to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and parliament. Our 
 petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances have produced additi(jftal 
 Violence and insult ; our supplications have been disregarded ; aad *b 
 have been spumed with contempt from the foot of the throne. 
 
 Ill vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and 
 reconciliation. Tlure is no longer any roomfar hope. If we wish to be 
 ftee-^if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for 
 which we have been so long contending — ^if we mean not basely to abandon 
 the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which 
 we have pledged ourselves never to abandon uhtil the glorious object of 
 oul- contest shall be obtained, we must fight ! — I repeat it, sir, we must 
 fight ! ! An appeal to af ms and to the Grod of hosts is all that is left us. 
 
 They tell us, sir, that we are we^- — ^unable to cope with so formidable 
 afl adversary. But when shall we be stronger f Will it be the next 
 week or the next year ? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and 
 when a British gdard shall be statiofied in every house f Shall \^ gather 
 strength by irresolution and inaction ? Shall we acqaire the means of 
 effectual resistance by lying supinely on our ba^s, ^nd hugging the 
 delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand 
 and foot ? Sir, we are not wea&, if we make a proper use of those means 
 which the God of nature hatii placed in our power. 
 
 Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in 
 such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force 
 which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall liot fight 
 our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies 
 of nations, and who wiU raise up friends to fight our littles for us. The 
 battle, sir, is not to the strong alone ; it is to the vigilant, the active^ 
 the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough 
 to desire it, it is now too late to retifft from the contest. There is no 
 retreat but in submissioU and slavery ! Our chains are fttrged. Their 
 claaking may be heard on the plains t)f Bostoft ! The war is inevitable, 
 &nd let it come ! ! I repeat it, sir, let it come ! ! ! 
 
 It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry peace, 
 peace ; but there is no peace. The War is actually begun ! The next 
 gale tha.t sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of re- 
 sounding arms ! Our brethreti are already in the field ! Why stand we 
 here idle ? What is it that gentlemen wish ? What would they have ? 
 Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be-purchased at the price of chaifls 
 and slavery ? Forbid it, Almighty God ! I know not what course others 
 tU'ay take ; but, as for me, give me liberty, of give me death. 
 
 The number of st&rs, 6t suns, comprehended in that portion of the 
 firmament which id within the re&ch of our telescopes would be 
 20,000,000,000, or twinty thousand miiliong, which is twenty milliona 
 of times the numbet of all the stars visible to the naked eye. — iHck. 
 
 21.2 
 
426 PIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK, 
 
 SPEECH ON THE DEATH OF HAMILTON. 
 
 BY DK. MASON. 
 
 Sad, my fellow-oitizens, are the recollections and forebodings which 
 the present solemnities force upon the mind. Five years have not elapsed 
 since your tears flowed for the father of your country, and you are again 
 assembled to shed them over her eldest son. No, it is not an illusion ; 
 would to God it were ! Your eyes behold it ; the urn which bore the 
 ashes of Washington is followed by the urn which bears the ashes of 
 Hamilton. 
 
 Fathers, friends, countrymen ! the grave of Hamilton speaks. It 
 charges me to remind you that he fell a victim, not to disease or acci- 
 dent ; not to the fortune of glorious warfare ; but, how shall I utter it ? 
 to a custom which has no origin but superstition, no aliment but depra- 
 vity, no reason but in madness. Alas ! that he should thus expose his 
 precious life. This was his error. A thousand bursting hearts reite- 
 rate, This was his error. 
 
 Shall I apologize ? I am forbidden by his living protestations, by his 
 dying regrets, by his wasted blood. Shall a solitary act, into which he 
 was betrayed an(> dragged, have the authority of a precedent ? The plea 
 is precluded by the long decisions of his understanding, by the principles 
 of his conscience, and by the reluctance of his heart.- Ah ! when will 
 our morals be purified, and an imaginary honour cease to cover the most 
 pestilent of human passions ? 
 
 My appeal is to military men. Your honour is sacred. Listen. Is 
 it honourable to enjoy the esteem of the wise and good ? The wise and 
 good turn with disgust from the man who lawlessly aims at his neigh- 
 bour's life. Is it honourable to serve your country ? That man cruelly 
 injures her who, from private pique, calls his fellow-citizen into the 
 dubious field. 
 
 Is fidelity honourable? The man forswears his faith who turns 
 against the bowels of his countrymen weapons put into his hand for 
 their defence. Are generosity, humanity, and sympathy honourable? 
 That man is superlatively base who mingles the tears of the widow and 
 orphan with the blood of a husband and father. Do refinement and 
 courtesy and benignity entwine with the laurels of the brave ? The 
 blot is yet to be wiped from the soldier's name, that he cannot treat his 
 brother with the decorum of a gentleman unless the pistol or the dagger 
 be every moment at his heart. Let the votaries of honour now look 
 at their deed. Let them compare their doctrine with this horrible com- 
 ment. 
 
 My countrymen, the land is defiled with blood unrighteously shed. It 
 cry, disregarded on earth, has gone up to the throne of God ; and this 
 day does our punishment reveal our sin. It is time for us to awake. 
 The voice of moral virtue, the voice of domestic alarm, the voice of the 
 fatherless and widow, the voice of a nation's wrong, the voice of HamU- 
 ton's blood, the voice of impending judgment, calls for a remedy. 
 
ETERNITY OF SOD. 427 
 
 At this hour Heaven's high reproof is sounding from Maine to Geor- 
 ^a, and from the shores of the Atlantic to the banks of the Missis- 
 sippi. If we refuse obedience, every drop of blood spilled in sipgle 
 combat will lie at onr door, and will be recompensed when our cup^is 
 full. We have, then, our choice, either to coerce iniquity, or prepare 
 for desolation ; and in the mean time, to make our nation, though infant 
 in years, yet mature in vice, the scorn and the abhorrenxje of civilized 
 man ! 
 
 Fathers, friends, countrymen ! the dying breath of Bdmiltm recom- 
 mended to you the Christian's hope. His single testimony outweighs 
 all the cavils of the sciolist and all the jeers of the profane. 
 
 Who will venture to pronounce a fable, that doctrine of " life and im- 
 mortality" which his profound and irradiating mind embraced as the 
 truth of God ? When you are to die, you will find no source of peace but 
 in the faith of Jesus. Cultivate for your present repose and your future 
 consolation what our departed friend declared to be the support of his 
 expiring moments : " A tender reliance on the mercies of the Almighty 
 through the merits of the Lord Jesus Christ." 
 
 ETEENITY OF GOD. 
 
 BY 6BEENW00D. 
 
 Ip all who live and breathe around us are the creatures of yesterday, 
 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 in- 
 animate nature and laborious art are fading and falling ; if we look in vain 
 for durability to the very roots of the mountains ; where shall we turn, 
 and on what can 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 onr 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 everlasting 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 shalt 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 
 immovable ground of confidence in the midst of a changing world. All 
 things which surround 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 e.uat- 
 
428 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 ence, that which is the cause of all existence must be self-existent, and 
 could have had no beginning. And, as it had no beginning, so also, as 
 it is beyond the reach of all influence and contro'l, as it is independent 
 and almighty, it will have no end. Here then is a support which ■will 
 never fail ; here is a foundaition TSrhich caft never fee moved^-=4;he ever- 
 lasting Creator of countless worlds, " the higli and lofty One that inh^ 
 biteth eternity." What a sublime conoeptio* ! He inhabits eternity, 
 occupies this inconceivable duration, pervades and fills throughout this 
 boundless dwelling. Ages on ages before even the dust of which we 
 are formed was cfea.ted, he had existed in infinite majefsty, and ages on 
 ages will roll away after we have all retuiTned to the dust whence we 
 were taken, and still he will exist in infiiiite majesty, living in the eter- 
 nity of his own nature, reigning in the plenitude of his own omnipotence, 
 for ever sending forth the word, which fcvrms, supports, and governs all 
 things, commanding new-erea;ted light to shine on new-created worlds, 
 and raising up new-created generations to inhabit them. 
 
 The contemplation of this glorious attribute of God is fitted to exdite 
 in our minds the most animating and consoling 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 presented to 
 our view which has stood frotii everlasting, and will remain for ever. 
 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 cOuid give us no hope nor support, because they 
 were so feeble themselves ; we can look to the throne of Grod : 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 disturbed. 
 
 HOW TO LIVE. 
 
 A MAN should live in the world like a true citizen ; he taay be allowed 
 to have a preference to the particular quarter, or square, or even alley in 
 which he lives ; but he should have a generous sytopathy for the Welfare 
 of the whole ; and if, in his rambles through this great city, the world;, 
 he chances to meet a man of different habit, language, or complexion 
 from his own, still he is his fellow-creature, a short sojourner, in common 
 with himself; subject to the same wants, infirmities, ar&d necessities ; 
 and one who has a brother's claim on him for his charity, comfort, and 
 relief. 
 
THE BBRO or THS FLAaUB. 429 
 
 THE HERO OF THE PLAGUE. 
 
 Whsn the plaga« i^ged violently ^t Marseilles, every link of affeo- 
 tfim was broken ; th« £a,ther turned fi^Mu the child — i-tbe child from the 
 father ; cowardice and ingratitude no longer esi/eited indignation. Miserv 
 is at its height when it thns destroys every generous feeling — thus dis- 
 solves every tie of fanmanity ! The Qity became a desert ; the grass 
 grew in the streets ; a fiin^yal met yon at every step ! 
 
 The physLeians assembled in a body at the Hc^l de Ville, to hold a 
 consultation on the fearful disease, for which no remedy had yet been 
 discovered. After a long consultation, they decided unanimously, thai 
 the malady- had a pecnli^ and myateiioos character, which opening a 
 corpse might develope — -an operation which it was impossible to attempt, 
 ^ee the operator must infallibly become a victim, in a few hours, be- 
 yond the power of human art to save him, as the violence of the attack 
 would preclude thenr admink^ing th^ customary remedies. A dead 
 pause succeeded tiiis fatal declaration. Suddenly, a surgeon by the 
 name of Gi^yon, in the priwe of life, of great celebrity in his profession, 
 rose, and said finsdy, " Be it ^ : I devote myself for the safety of the 
 country. Before 1^ numierous assembly, I promise in the name of 
 hmsaaity and religion, that to-morrow, at the break of day, I will dis- 
 sect a corpse, and write down, as I proceed, what I observe." 
 
 He left Iks assembly instantly. Th^y admired him, lamented his 
 fate, and doabted whether he would persist in his design. The intrepid 
 ^od pious Guyon, animated by aU the sublime energy that religion or 
 'l^tj'iotism can inspire, acted up to his word. He had married, and was 
 .ich ; and he immediately made his will, dictated by justice and piety. 
 
 A man had died in his house within four-and-twenty hours. Guyon, 
 at daybreak, shut himself up in the same room j he took with him ink, 
 paper, and a little crucifix. Full of enthusiasm, never had he felt more 
 firm or collected. Kneeling beside the corpse, he wrote — " Mouldering 
 tenement of an immortal soul — ^not only can I gaze on thee without 
 terror, but even with joy and gratitude. Thon wilt open to me the 
 ^tes of a gloriwis eternity. In discovering to me the secret cause of 
 the terrible plague which destroys my native city, thou wilt enable me 
 to point out some salutary remedy ; thon wilt render my sacrifice useful. 
 God I" continued he, " thou wilt bless the action thou hast thyself 
 aspired." 
 
 He began — ^he finished the dreadfnl operajtion, and recorded in detail 
 bis surgical observations. He then left the room, threw the papers into 
 a vase of vinegar, and immediately sought the La^retto, where he died 
 in twelve hours — a death ten times more glorious than the warrior who, 
 to save his country, rushes on the enemy's ranks, since he advances with 
 hope, at least, and sustained, admired, and seconded by a whole army. 
 
 Physicians who remain firm in the dispbarge of their duties, while the 
 fears of their fellow^itiaens are prompting them to fly from contagion, 
 dwplay that moral courage which is as far superior to the physical energy 
 which sustains the soldier in battle, as the mind is superior to matter 
 
430 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 RETROSPECTION. 
 
 Come and let us muse on days that have past; days, whose remembrance 
 iwakens thoughts melancholy and sad ; yet, days which we love to view 
 through the v|pta of memory. 
 
 Transported by fancy to the scenes of our childhood, how delightful 
 is retrospection. There we again act each playful humour of our youth 
 — each innocent pastime of our boyhood. We think of the friends who 
 joined in our mirth — of the parents who promoted our enjoyment. Wn 
 wander through the same woods consecrated to friendship — through the 
 same avenues sacred to youthful romance. We listen to the rustling 
 murmurings of the foliage of the forest — to the purling of the shady 
 stream, upon whose banks we formerly rioted in unalloyed pleasure, till 
 we alilnost fancy those days to have returned with all their joyous, glad- 
 some hours. 
 
 But memory also brings with it a feeling of pensive sadness, when 
 she reminds us that these have passed away, and with them the compa- 
 nions of our social glee. Then all was bright with hope ; the heart was 
 joyous and gay ; the little troubles which a moment clouded our happi- 
 ness were soon forgotten; and the cares of the world were unknown 
 and unregarded ; but now we see hope blighted — former intimacies 
 destroyed — and thorns, where we imagined nothing but roses and flowers 
 grew. But still we delight to think on the moments of bliss that have 
 passed, the friends that have become estranged, and the hearts that once 
 " were near and dear." We cherish their remembrance, and, while we 
 admire their virtues, almost forget that we are alienated and become as 
 strangers. 
 
 IMAGINATION. 
 
 To thee, goddess of fancy, I would fain address my lay. 
 
 Reason may teach us to dive into the dark recesses of nature, and 
 philosophy lead us to examine her hidden works ; science may throw 
 open the portals of truth, and wisdom guide us to a knowledge of our 
 fellow-man ; but it is for thee, imagination, to soar above all these, and, 
 by thy magic power, to glide through the wide range of possibility. 
 
 Aided by thfee, man can perform within the narrow sphere of his 
 own mind all that the pen of the historian has transcribed, or the hand 
 of the poet depicted. He can range his armies, fight his battles, and 
 display to his delighted fancy his character as a mighty man of valour ; 
 or, inspired by the heavenly muse, he can languish in the soft twilight, 
 or breathe in the sweet beauty of a moonlight vision. 
 
 Borne on the wings of the morning, wafted by the perfumes of Arabia, 
 he knows no boundary to his flight, no curtailment to his fancy. Roving 
 through the boundless extent of infinite space, he discovers new spheres, 
 new suns, with all their attendant planets. He traces the fiery comet 
 .through its vast unmeasured orbit ; at one time on the utmost ^ erge of 
 
THE MISEE OUTWITTED. 431 
 
 the universe— at another, scorched by the fervent heat of a summer 
 solstice. 
 
 He travels back to the source of time, and beholds the mighty void, 
 from whence 
 
 These worlds were eaU'd to light, 
 and sees them arise in beauty and harmony at the voice of the Almighty 
 and commence their magnificent courses through the wide range of 
 heaven's domains. ****** 
 
 Such is the imagination of man. Confined within the bounds of 
 reason, what are we not capable of viewing or performing, when we 
 court its influence ? But, like the airy vision of a dream, it vanishes with 
 the morning's dawn, leaving nothing behind, but the idea of its power 
 and a knowledge of the unwarrantable scope of the human mind. 
 
 THE MISER OUTWITTED. 
 
 It was observed that a certain covetous rich man never invited any 
 one to dine with him. " I'll lay a wager," said a wag, " I get an invi- 
 tation from him." The wager being accepted, he goes the next day to 
 the rich man's house, about the time he was known to sit down to dinner, 
 and tells the servant that he must then speak with his master, for that 
 he could save him a thousand pounds. " Sir," said the servant to his 
 master, " here is a man in a great hurry wishing to speak with you, who 
 says he can save you a thousand pounds." Out came the master — 
 " What is that you say, sir — that you can save me a thousand pounds ?" 
 " Yes, sir, I can — but I see you are at dinner ; I will go myself and 
 dine, and call again." " Oh, pray, sir, come in and take dinner with 
 me." " Sir, I shall be troublesome." " Not at all." The invitation 
 was accepted. As soon as dinner was over, " Well, sir," said the man 
 of the house, " now to our business. Pray let me know how I am to 
 save a thousand pounds." "Why, sir," said the other, "I hear you 
 have a daughter to dispose of in marriage." " I have." "And that 
 you intend to portion her with ten thousand pounds." " I do so." 
 " Why, then, sir, let me have her, and I will take her with nine thou- 
 sand." The master of the house rose in a passion, and turned him out 
 of doors in a hurry. 
 
 Difference between Simple and CoMPOtJND Interest. — From 
 the birth of Christ to the 25th of December, 1815, one penny, at five 
 per cent, simple interest, amounts to 7s. 3Jd; at compound interest, it 
 would be £1,227,742,357,141,817,589,060,967,240,755,491 9s. 9d. 
 
 Allowing a cubic inch of gold to be worth £38, 16s. 6d., and the 
 above sum to be condensed into a globe of gold, its diameter will be 
 6,193,604 miles, 540 yards, 1 foot, 6 inches and a fraction, which would 
 exceed in magnitude all the planets in the solar system ; and supposing 
 this earth to be solid jold, it would not pay one hour's interest of the 
 above @um. 
 
*'&i FIBLDS'S SORAP-BOOE. 
 
 THE EXPKESS. 
 
 Di."RiNf} that disastrous period of the Kevolution which suoceeded the 
 defeat of Washington at Brandywine, and his subsequent repulse at Ger- 
 mantown, the excitement of the pabjic mind was deep and anxious, and 
 the spirits of the whole nation seeaied depressed and paralyzed by the 
 overthrow of their sagacious leader in two successive battles. The public 
 expectation was on tiptoe for every breath of news, in hopes that it might 
 bring accounts of some achievement which would wipe away the stain 
 of Brandywine and Germantown, or lest it should infotw, theni of some 
 equally disastrous battle. Towards the close of a, wet, uncomfortable 
 day, a week or two after the defea,t at Germantown, a horseman, heavily 
 armed, and clad in a thick overcoat, which was nearly covered with mud, 
 was observed to ride up from the river, through the main street of Easton. 
 He stopped at the first tavern in sight, and inquired for the commanding 
 officer of the station. It was presently noised through the town that 
 an express had arrived, and the citizens flocked in crowds to the house 
 of the commandant, to learn the news. The stranger quickly informed 
 him that he carried an express of great importance, and that he must be 
 immediately furnished with guides to conduct him to the camp of Wash- 
 ington. Two trusty men were forthwith selected, and just at candle- 
 light the three started for Whitemarsh, whither Washington had re- 
 treated after his unfortunate attack upon the enemy at Germantown. 
 Pursuing an unfrequented path, they were descending a little eminence 
 which overlooked the encampment, just as the sun rose, after a wet and 
 fatiguing ride during the whole night. 
 
 As their jaded horses sjowly descended the eminence, the bearer of 
 the express and his companions could observe the line of sentries pacing 
 to and fro upon the wet grass, some distance from the tents, and a few 
 officers and soldiers performing their morning ablutions. Three horse- 
 men of their mysterious character were an unusual sight at Whitemarsh, 
 and the officers and men regarded them with fixed and anxious attention. 
 The fact of their approach was passed into the tents, and a crowd of 
 officers and soldiers soon appeared, all intently watching their designs. 
 As they neared the sentries, they dropped their muskets to a charge and 
 bade them halt. An officer, approaching the group at this moment, was 
 told by one of the guides in a loud voice, that they had an express for 
 General Washington ; upon which they were instantly allowed to pass. 
 Their business reaching the ears of the troops, an immense crowd was 
 BOon collected around them, so great as to .prevent their proceeding only 
 at a very slow pace. The impatience of the troops to hear the news could 
 not be restrained, and they called loudly to be informed. An officer 
 approached one of the guides, and, putting his hand to his mouth, beg- 
 ged him, for heaven's sake, just to tell him whether it was good or bad. 
 The guide, who was himself ignorant of the news he was carrying, but 
 ashamed to let others know it, put his finger beside his nose with a most 
 important manner, and gave the officer a significant shake of the head, 
 1)V way of reply, and which might be safely interpreted either way. He 
 
THE EXPRESS. 433 
 
 chose to receive it as favourable; and, pulling off his Lat, gave three 
 hearty cheers, which the surrounding troops immediately joined with 
 laudable good-humour — not one of them knowing what he was cheering 
 ahnnt ! The noise reaching the ears of those in the tents, they too gave 
 i.iee cheers, although no whit wiser than the others, and immediately 
 joined the formidable cavalcade. 
 
 While the express and his guides were advancing, the afore-mentioned 
 officer hastened across the fields to apprize Washington that an express 
 was near at hand. When the concourse reached his lodgings, the mul- 
 titude, dying with impatience to have their curiosity gratified, in their 
 eagerness, tore the three from their horses, and bore them upon their 
 shoulders up the steps of the house where Washington was quartered. 
 At that instant, the commander-in-chief appeared from the far end of 
 the entry, and beckoned them in. They entered a spacious room, in 
 which was a large table covered with smoking dishes, and to which 
 Washington, with all his staff, was about sitting down to breakfast. The 
 door was instantly shut, and the bearer of the express stepped forward 
 to General Washington, informed him that he bore important despatches, 
 and opening his coat, pointed to the left lapel, in which he stated they 
 were concealed. Instantly a dozen knives were in operation, and in a 
 few moments the despatches were exhibited — cleaving the poor bearer 
 with a ruined coat upon his back. 
 
 A stiUness, unbroken but by the half-suppressed breathings of the 
 spectators, succeeded. Washington, seating himself at the head of the 
 table, unfolded the mysterious document, and perused it silently. Not a 
 muscle of his noble features moved — but his eye was seen to lighten up 
 a little. Around him sat the flower of the army — Kbox, Pulaski, and- 
 Greene, with Hamilton, his first aid-de-camp, on his right hand. While 
 the general read the paper, the impatience of his officers, burning to be- 
 gratified, was with the utmost difficulty restrained ; yet a solemn and ' 
 death-like silence reigned within the room. At the window might be 
 seen the equally impatient troops, endeavouring to catch some certain' 
 signal from the group within. When Washington had finished, he turned' 
 to Hamilton, and desired him to read the document aloud. Hamilton 
 began with a voice already thick with joy — for his quick eye in an in- 
 stant had caught the contents of the paper. But he began. It was the 
 official report from General Gates, communicating the original intelli- 
 gence of the total defeat and capture of the British army, commanded 
 by Burgoyne, at Saratoga ! 
 
 When Hamilton had read merely enough to inform the company, the 
 whole staff rose from the table with tears in their eyes, and in the-pro- 
 sence of their dignified commander, gave three hearty cheers. Washing- 
 ton, in a voice made indistinct and tremulous with joy, commanded' 
 them to order, which with extreme difficulty he succeeded in restoring^ 
 He then requested Hamilton to read the whole. When he had done 
 so, the officers again rose, and, in the excess of their delight, upset the 
 table, stamped upon the dishes and the untasted meats, and, in spite of 
 Washington's repeated calls to order, broke the breakfast table and iU 
 burden into atoms. 
 
 2M 28 
 
434 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 Unable to restore silence, or careless to repress ifte honest ^oy of hiH 
 friends, tbe general retired with Hamilton to another room, to iiisue new 
 instructions suitable to the emergency. Meanwhile, the assembled mul- 
 titude at tbe windows, the unsatisfied spectators of these extravagant 
 demonstrations of joy, still ignorant of the cause, renewed their shout- 
 ings, and the air rang with the acclamations of five thousand veterans, 
 not a man of them knowing what he was shouting for ! 
 
 When the uproar had in a degree subsided, Washington returned to 
 greet a second time the bearers of these welcome tidings. Addressing 
 them with the kindest language, he told them they must be wet and 
 hungry from travelling all night, and that whatever they might wish 
 should be set before tbem. One of them, an honest German, proud of 
 the attention shown him by that noble man, replied, with his arms 
 akimbo, and with quite a consequential air, as if the fate of the nation 
 depended upon what he had for breakfast, " Why, please your excellency, 
 I'll have some ham and eggs !" — and accordingly ham and eggs were 
 given to him. A suitable reward was given to the guides, one of whom 
 boasted, as he told the story with tears in his eyes, that for that night's 
 service he received five pounds in hard nw»n'ey. 
 
 The news was soon communicated to the neighbouring detachments, 
 who were quartered in the vicinity, and orders given to stop all strag- 
 glers going in to the enemy, who had then possession of Philadelphia. 
 Accordingly, an old woman, dressed as a market-woman, and bearing 
 some panniers on her horse, was stopped the same day by Captain Craig, 
 at Moorstown, a few miles from the city, and examined. On taking off 
 her bonnet, to which she made a stout resistance, a bundle, was discovered 
 in her hair. It proved to be the ofiioial despatches from Burgoyne tt 
 General Howe, informing him of his disastrous capture. They had beer, 
 brought as far as Baskingridge, in Jersey, by express, but, fearful of 
 detection if attempted to be delivered by a man, were there intrusted tc 
 a female disguised as a market-woman. The heroine was immediately 
 Vemounted on her horse with uncomfortable quickness, and started ofl 
 for Philadelphia with this satisfactory ejaculation, " That if she had 
 ?uch news to take General Howe, she might be off with it as soon ae 
 she pleased." 
 
 SHEKIDAN. 
 
 This gentleman called one morning on Miss McFadden, to take his 
 leave of her for a few days j the young lady asked, in a tone that well 
 expressed more than the words which accompanied it, how long he in- 
 tended to stay .away ? To which he immediately replied : — 
 
 Tou ask how long I'll stay from thee ? 
 
 Snppiess these rising fears ; 
 -If you should reckon time like me, 
 F«rhaps ten thousand years. 
 
THB PERSON OF JESUS CHKIST. — JUDBA. 485 
 
 A DESCRIPTION OE THE PERSON OF JESUS CHRIST, 
 
 As it was found in, an ancient manuscript, which was sent hy PMiui 
 Lentidus, President cf Judea, to tlie Senate of Rome. 
 
 There lives at this time in Judea a man of singular character, whose 
 name is Jesus Christ. The barharians esteem him a prophet, but his 
 followers adore him as the immediate offspring of the Immortal God. 
 He is endowed with such unparalleled virtue as to call back the dead 
 from their graves, and to heal every kind of disease with a word or a 
 touch. His person is tall and elegantly shaped ; his aspect amiable and 
 reverend ; his hair flows in beautiful shades, which no united colours 
 can match, falling into graceful curls below his ears, agreeably couching 
 on his shoulders, and parting on the crown of his head, like the head- 
 dress of the sect of the Nazarites. His forehead is smooth, and his 
 cheeks without a spot, save that of a lovely red. His nose and mouth 
 are formed with exquisite symmetry ; his beard is thick, and suitable to 
 the hair of his head, reaching a little below his chin, and parted in the 
 middle like a fork ; his eyes are bright, clear, and serene. He rebukes 
 with majesty, counsels with mildness, and invites with the most tender 
 and persuasive language. His whole address, whether in word or deed, 
 being elegant, brave, and strictly charjicteristic of so exalted a being. 
 No man has seen him laugh, but the whole world has frequently beheld 
 him we6p; and so persuasive are his tears, that the multitude cannot 
 withhold theirs from joining in sympathy with him. He is very modest, 
 temperate, and wise. In short, whatever this phenomenon may be in 
 the end, he seems at present a man of excellent beauty and divine per- 
 fections ; every way surpassing the children of men. 
 
 JUDEA. 
 
 M. Chateaubeiand remarks, that when you travel in Judea, the 
 heart is at first filled with profound melancholy. But when, passing 
 from solitude to solitude, boundless space opens befqre you, this feeling 
 wears off by degrees, and you experience a secret awe, that, so far from 
 depressing the soul, imparts life and elevates the genius. Extraordinary 
 appearances everywhere proclaim a land teeming with miracles. The 
 burning sun, the towering eagle, the barren fig-tree, all the pictures of 
 Scripture, are here. Every name commemorates a mystery ; every grotto 
 announces a prediction ; every hill re-echoes the accent of a prophet. 
 God himself has spoken in these regions, dried up rivers, rent the rocks, 
 and opened the grave. The desert still appears mute with terror: and 
 you would imagine that it had never presumed to interrupt the silence 
 since it heard the awful voice of the Eternal. 
 
436 
 
 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 FARE THEE WELL. 
 
 FARE thee we.l! lud if for eTor, 
 
 fitill for ever, fare thee well t 
 Even though nnforgiTing, never 
 
 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 
 Would that breast were bared before thea 
 
 Where thy head so oft hath lain, 
 While that placid sleep came o'er thee, 
 
 Which thou ne'er canst know again ; 
 Would that breast, by thee glanced over^ 
 
 Every inmost thought could show I 
 Then thou wonldst at last discover 
 
 'Twas not well to spurn it so. 
 Though the world for this commend thee. 
 
 Though it smile upon the blow. 
 Even its praises must offend thee. 
 
 Founded on another's wo, 
 Though my many faults defaood me, 
 
 Conld no other arm be found 
 Than the one which once embraoed me. 
 
 To infliot a onrelesB wound ? 
 Yet, oh ! yet, thyself deceive not. 
 
 Love may sink by slow decay. 
 But by sudden wrench, believe not 
 
 Hearts can thus be torn away: 
 Still thine own its life retaineth— 
 
 Still must mine, though bleeding, beat ; 
 And the undying thought whloh paineth 
 
 Is — that we no more may meet. 
 These are words of deeper sorrow 
 
 Than the wail ^bove the dead ; 
 
 Both shall live, but every morrow 
 
 Wake us from a widow'd bed. 
 And when thou wouldat aolaoe gather. 
 
 When our child's first accents flow. 
 Wilt thou teach her to say " Father 1" 
 
 Though his oare she mast forego J 
 When her little hands shall press thes. 
 
 When her lip to thine is press'd. 
 Think of him whose prayer shall bless ttM^ 
 
 Think of him thy love had bless'd ! 
 Should her lineaments resemble 
 
 Those thou never more mayst see. 
 Then thy heart will softly tremble 
 
 With a pulse yet true to me. 
 All my faults perchance thou knowest. 
 
 All my madness none can know ; 
 All my hopes where'er thou goest. 
 
 Wither— yet with tTiee they go. 
 Every feeling hath been shaken ; 
 
 Pride, which not a world could bow. 
 Bows to thee~by thee forsaken. 
 
 Even my soul forsakes me now 1 
 But 'tis done — all words are idle- 
 Words from me are vainer still; 
 But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
 
 Force their way without the will.— 
 Fare thee well !— thus disunited. 
 
 Torn from every nearer tie, 
 Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted— 
 
 More than this I scarce can die. 
 
 A VOICE FROM MOUNT VERNON. 
 
 OxDisrnEB'D let the dust of the loved warrior lay. 
 Where, living, he wish'd in his death to repose ; 
 
 Where o'er him the leaves in the summer wind 
 play. 
 And beneath the Potomac in majesty flows, 
 
 liOt the spot where he died when his honours were 
 full. 
 
 Ever shield in its shade the renown*d of his race; 
 The blaze of whose glory shall never grow dull. 
 
 Nor the ravage of ages his triumph deface. 
 
 Ever bless'd in his sleep, unprofaned be his grave. 
 Where man may in silence his honours bestow ; 
 
 While the tributes which nature accords to the brave 
 Above him profuse in sweet solitude grow. 
 
 Though humble his tomb, yet sublime is his name. 
 Immortal in blessings he will'd to mankind; 
 
 And time, to eternity bearing his fame. 
 Shall tell with his triumphs the worth of hiamind. 
 
 Sars '■'hen luU'd by the song of the sky-cleaving 
 bfrd, 
 
 The splash of the stream, or the rush of the wind; 
 Or the pace of the pilgrim in solitude heard— 
 
 There pillow'd in peae^ and in glory reclined. 
 
 As the oak, that in majesty spread to the skiei 
 Sinks, cumher'd with honours and aga, to the 
 ground; 
 
 So, proud in his fall, let him sleep where he lies. 
 His dust with no vain mausoleum he crown'd. 
 
 The chisel-wrought statue may sink to decay; 
 
 The monument fall where it tower'd sublime; 
 The column to ruins slow orumble away. 
 
 But his name shall outlast all the trophies of timt. 
 
 Though the transports of praise, and the triumphi 
 
 of art. 
 
 And tributes may swell the renown of his name ; 
 
 Yet the homagoi that flows from the free-throbbing 
 
 heart 
 
 Is the meed of his worth and the test of his fome. 
 
 Revered by his country, the pride of mankind; 
 
 Earth in him doth the richest of relics contain ; 
 Then, in Vernon's green bosom for ever enshrined, 
 
 Let his bones as removoless as mountains remain. 
 
 As calm as the river that rolls by his tomb. 
 As fix'd as theTocks on his green-swelling bhore. 
 
 Let him slumber enshrouded in silence and gloom. 
 While freedom survives, or the world shall endure. 
 
THE DISCOVERT OF AMERICA. 437 
 
 THE DISCOVERT OF AMERICA BY COLUMBUS. 
 
 BY WASHINGTON IBVINO. 
 
 On the morning of the 7th of October, at sunrise, several of the ad- 
 miral's crew thought thej beheld land in the west, but so indistinctly 
 that no one ventured to proclaim it, lest he should be mistaken, and 
 forfeit all chance of the reward ; the Nina, however, being a good sailor, 
 pressed forward to ascertain the fact. In a little while a flag was hoisted 
 at her mast-head, and a gun discharged, being the preconcerted signals 
 for land. New joy was awakened throughout the little squadron, and 
 every eye Was turned to the west. As they advanced, however, their 
 cloud-built hopes faded away, and before evening the promised land had 
 faded into air. The crews now sank into a degree of dejection propor- 
 tioned to their recent excitement, when new circumstances occurred to 
 arouse them. Columbus, having observed great flights of small field- 
 birds going towards the south-west, concluded they must be secure of 
 some neighbouring land, where they would find food ana a resting-place. 
 He knew the importance which the Portuguese voyagers attached to 
 the flight of birds, by following which they had discovered most of 
 their islands. He had now come seven hundred and fifty leagues, the 
 distance at which he had computed to find the island of Cipango ; as 
 there was no appearance of it, he might have missed it through some 
 mistake in the latitude. He determined, therefore, on the evening of 
 the 7th October to alter his course to the west-south-west, the direction 
 in which the birds generally flew, and continue that direction for at 
 least two days. After all, it was no great deviation from his main course, 
 and would meet the wishes of the Pinzons, as well as be inspiring to 
 his followers generally. For three days they stood in this direction, and 
 the further they went the more frequent and encouraging were the signs 
 of land. Flights of small birds of various colours, some of them such 
 as sing in the fields, came flying about the ships, and they continued 
 towards the south-west, and others were heard also flying by in the 
 night. Tunny-fish played about the smooth sea; and a heron, a pelican, 
 and a duck were seen, all bound in the same direction. The herbage 
 which floated by the ships was fresh and green, as if recently from land ; 
 and the air, as Columbus observes, was sweet and fragrant as April 
 breezes in Seville. All these, however, were regarded by the crews as 
 so many delusions beguiling them on to destruction ; and when, on the 
 evening of the third day, they beheld the sun go down*upon a shoreless 
 horizon, they broke f/>rth in clamorous turbulence. They exclaimed 
 ■»gainst this obstinacy in tempting fate by continuing on into a bound- 
 less sea. They insisted upon turning homeward, and abandoning the 
 voyage as hopeless. Columbus endeavoured to pacify them by gentle 
 words, and promises of large rewards; but finding that they only in- 
 creased in clamour, he assumed a decided tone. He told them it was 
 useless to murmur; the expedition had been sent iy the sovereigns to 
 2ji2 
 
438 PIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 seek the iDdies ; and happen what might he was determined to perse 
 vera, until, by the blessing of God, he should accomplish the enterprise 
 Columbus was now at open defiance with his crew, and his situation be- 
 came desperate. Fortunately, however, the manifestations of neigh- 
 bouring land were such on the following day sta no longer to admit of a 
 doubt. 
 
 Besides a quantity of fresh weeds, such as grow in rivers, they saw a 
 green-fish, of a kind which keeps about rocks j then a branch of thorns 
 with berries on it, and recently separated from the tree, floated by them ; 
 then they picked up a reed, a small board, and above all a stafij artifi- 
 cially carved. All gloom and mutiny now gave way to sanguine expec- 
 tation ; and throughout the day ecieh one was eagerly on the watch, in 
 hopes of being the first to discover the long-sought-for land. In the 
 evening, when, according to invariable custom on board the admiral's 
 ship, the mariners had sung the salve regina, or vesper hymn to the 
 Virgin, he made an impressive address to his crew. He pointed out 
 the goodness of God in thus conducting them by such soft ancj favoura- 
 ble breezes, across the tranquil ocean, cheering their hopes continually 
 with fresh signs, increasing as their fears augmented, and thus guiding 
 them to a promised land. He now reminded them of the orders he had 
 given on leaving the Canaries, that after sailing westward seven hun- 
 dred leagues, they should not make sail after midnight. Present ap- 
 pearances authorized such a precaution. He thought it probable that 
 they would make land that very nigh*; he ordered, therefore, a vigilant 
 look-out to be kept from the forecastle, promising to whomsoever should 
 make the discovery a doublet of velvet, in addition to the pensions 
 given by the sovereigns. . The breeze had been fresh all day, with more 
 sea than usual, and they had made great progress. At sunset they had 
 stood again to the west, and were ploughing the waves at rapid rate, 
 the Pinta keeping the lead, from her superior sailing. The greatest 
 animation prevailed throughout the ships ; not an eye was closed that 
 night. As the evening darkened, Columbus took his station at the top 
 of the castle or cabin, on the high poop of his vessel. However he 
 might carry a cheerful and confident countenance during the day, it was 
 to him a time of the most painful anxiety ; and now, when he was 
 wrapped from observation by the shades of night, he maintained an in- 
 tense and unremitting watch, ranging his eye along the dusky horizon, 
 in search of the most v&gue indications of land. Suddenly about ten 
 he thought he beheld a light glimmering at a distance. Fearing that 
 his eager hopes might deceive him, he called to Pedro Gutierez, a gen- 
 tleman of the king's bed-chamber, and inquired whether he saw a light 
 in that direction ; the latter replied in the affirmative. 
 
 Columbus, yet doubtful that it might be some delusion of the fancy, 
 called Rodrigo Sanchez of Segovia, and made the same inquiry. By the 
 time the latter had ascended the round-house, the light had disappeared. 
 They saw it once or twice afterwards in sudden and passing gleams, as 
 if it were a torch in the bark of a fisherman, rising and sinking with the 
 waves, or in the hand of some person on shore, borne up and down as 
 h« walked from house to house. So transient and uncertain were these 
 
THE DISCOVERT OF AMERICA. 4b» 
 
 gleams that few attached any importance to them ; Columbus, however, 
 considered them as certain signs of land, and, moreover, that the land 
 was inhabited. They continued their course until two in the morning, 
 when a gun from the Pinta gave the joyful signal of the land. It was 
 first discovered by a mariner named Kodrigo de Triana; but the reward 
 was afterwards adjudged to the admiral, for having previously perceived 
 the light. 
 
 The land was now clearly seen about two leagues distant, whereupon 
 they took in sail, and lay to, waiting impatiently for the dawn. The 
 thoughts and feelings of Columbus in this little space of time must have 
 been tumultuous and intense. At length, in spite of every dif&culty 
 and danger, he had accomplished his object. The great mystery of the 
 ocean was revealed ; his theory, which had been the scoff of sages, was 
 triumphantly established ; he had secured to himself a glory which must 
 be as durable as the world itself. It it difficult even for the imagination 
 to conceive the feelings of such a man at the moment of so sublime a 
 discovery. What a bewildering crowd of conjectures must have thronged 
 upon his mind as to the land which lay in darkness ! That it was fruit- 
 ful was evident from the vegetables which floated from its shores. He 
 thought, too, that he perceived in the balmy air the fragrance of aromatic 
 groves. The moving light which he had beheld proved that it was the 
 residence of man. But what were its inhabitants ? Were they like 
 those of the other parts of the globe? or were they some strange and mon- 
 strous race, such as the imagination in those times was prone to give all 
 remote and unknown regions ? Had he come upon some wild island 
 far in the Indian sea ? or was this the famed Cipango itself, the object 
 of his golden fancies ? A thousand speculations of the kind nlust have 
 swarmed upon him, as, with his anxious crews, he waited for the night 
 to pass away ; wondering whether the morning light Would reveal a 
 savage wilderness, or dawn upon spicy groves, and glittering fanes, and 
 gilded cities, and all the splendour of oriental civilization. It was on the 
 morning of Friday, the 12th of October, 1492, that Columbus first beheld 
 the New World. When the day dawned he saw before him a level and 
 beautiful island, several leagues in extent, of great freshness and verdure, 
 and covered with trees like a continual orchard. Though every thing 
 appeared in the wild luxuriance of untamed nature, yet the island was 
 evidently populous, for the inhabitants were seen issuing from the woods, 
 and running from all parts of the shore, where they stood gazing at the 
 ships. They* were all perfectly naked; and from their attitude and 
 gestures, appeared to be lost in astonishment. Columbus made signal 
 for the ships to cast anchor, and the boats to be manned and armed. 
 He entered his own boat, richly attired in scarlet, and bearing the royal 
 standard; whilst Martin Alonzo Pinzon, and Vincent Janez his brother, 
 put off in company in their boats, each bearing the banner of the enter- 
 prise, emblazoned with a green cross, having on each side the letter F. 
 and I., the initials of the Castilian monarchs, Fernando and Isabel, sur- 
 mounted by crowns. As they approached the shores they were refreshed 
 by the sight of the ample forests, which in those climates have extraordi- 
 nary beauty of vegetation. They beheld fruits of tempting hue, but 
 
440 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 unknown kind, growing among the trees which overhung the shores. 
 The purity and suavity of the atmosphere, the crystal transparency of 
 the seas which bathe these islands, give them a wonderful beauty, and 
 must have had their effect upon the susceptible feelings of Columbus. 
 No sooner did he land than he threw himself upon his knees, kissed the 
 earth, and returned thanks to God with tears of joy. His example was 
 followed by the rest, whose hearts indeed overflowed with the same 
 feelings of gratitude. Columbus then, rising, drew his sword, displayed 
 the royal standard, and assembling round him the two captains, with 
 Kodrigo de Escobid, notary of the armament, Rodrigo Sanchez, and the 
 rest who had landed, he took solemn possession in the name of the 
 Castilian sovereigns, giving the island the name of San Salvador. 
 Having complied with the requisite forms and ceremonies, he now called 
 upon all present to take the oath of obedience to him as admiral and 
 viceroy, representing the persons of the sovereigns. The feelings of the 
 crew now burst forth in the most extravagant transports. They had 
 recently considered themselves devoted men, hurrying forward to destruc- 
 tion ; they now looked upon themselves as favourites of fortune, and 
 gave themselves up to the most unbounded joy. They thronged round 
 the admiral in their overflowing zeal. Some embraced him," others 
 kissed his hands. Those who had been most mutinous and turbulent 
 during the voyage were now most devoted and enthusiastic. Some 
 begged favours of him as a man who had already wealth and honours in 
 his gift. Many abject spirits who had outraged him by their insolence, 
 now crouched as it were at his feet, begging pardon for all the trouble 
 they had caused him, and ofiering for the future the blindest obedience 
 to his commands. The natives of the island, when, at the dawn of day, 
 they beheld the ships, with their sails set, hovering on their coast, had 
 supposed them some monsters which had issued from the deep during 
 the night. They had crowded to the beach, and watched their move- 
 ments with awful anxiety. Their veering about apparently without 
 effort, the shifting and furling of their sails, resembling huge wings, filled 
 them with astonishment. When they beheld their boats approach the 
 shore, and a number of strange beings clad in glittering steel, or raiment 
 of various colours, landing upon the beach, they fled in affright to their 
 woods. Finding, however, that there was no attempt to pursue nor molest 
 them", they gradually recovered from their terror, and approached the 
 Spaniards with great awe; frequently prostrating themselves on the 
 earth, and making signs of adoration. During the cerembny of taking 
 possession they remained gazing in timid admiration at the complexion, 
 the beards, the shining armour, and splendid dress of the Spaniards. 
 This admiral particularly attracted their attention, from his commanding 
 height, his air of authority, his dress of scarlet, and the deference which 
 viHH paid him by his companions ; all of which pointed him out to be the 
 commander. 
 
 When they had still further recovered from their fears, they approached 
 the Spaniards, touching their beards, and examined their hands and faces, 
 admiring their whiteness. Columbus, pleased with their simplicity, their 
 gentleness, and the confidence they reposed in beings who must have 
 
ENORMOUS CANNON. 441 
 
 appeared to them so strange and formidable, sufiFered their scrutiny with 
 perfect acquiescence. The wondering savages were won by this benig- 
 nity ; they now supposed that the ships had sailed out of the crystal 
 firmament which bounded their horizon, or that they had descended from 
 abo?e on their ample wings, and these marvellous beings were inhabi- 
 tants of the skies. 
 
 ENOKMOUS CANNON. 
 
 One Orban, an Hungarian metal-founder, having passed over from the 
 emperor's into the svdtan's service, received so many gifts and such a 
 liberal appointment from his new master, that had he been offered but a 
 fourth part as much by the Greek ministry, he would never have 
 dreamed of quitting the imperial city. Mohammed inquired of him 
 whether he could cast a cannon capable of crumbling the walls of Con- 
 stantinople ? " It is in my power," replied the Hungarian, " to cast a can- 
 non of any calibre that is desired, and grind the walls of Constantinople 
 and Babylon into powder j I will answer for my science extending thus 
 far, but I cannot pronounce to what extent the shot will range." The 
 sultan gave him dvections to proceed with the casting, but not to trouble 
 himself about the range of the shot, which should be subsequently deter- 
 mined. As a specimen of his skill, Orban cast a cannon for the great 
 tower on the Bosphorean Channel, and a trial of its range was made upon 
 the first vessel which sailed past without hauling in her sails. A Vene- 
 tian ship, commanded by one Bici, was made use of as a target, and 
 afforded satisfactory evidence of the perfectness of the casting, as well as 
 the range of the shot. It was struck, severed asunder, and sunk. The 
 captain and thirty of his crew escaped the dangers of the turbulent cur- 
 rent in a boat, but, on reaching the shore, fell into the hands of the 
 Turkish garrison. They were loaded with fetters, and brought before 
 the sultan at Didymotichon ; by his orders the saUors were beheaded, 
 the captain impalpd, and their dead bodies exposed to rot in the open 
 air. This barbarous scene was witnessed by Ducas the historian, who 
 was a resident at Didymotichon at that period. 
 
 Mohammed was so perfectly satisfied with the founder's skill, and the 
 result of the trial, that he directed the construction of a prodigious bat- 
 tering piece, twice as large as the first; in fact, the largest which is 
 recorded in the annals of the " tormentorum bellicorum." ' It vomited 
 stone balls twelve spans in circumference and twelve hundred pounds 
 in weight; was moved with great difficulty by fifty pair of oxen, and was 
 committed to the manipulation of seven hundred men. 
 
 When the casting was completed, the piece was transported to the 
 gate of the palace Dechthannuma, (or the spectacle of the world,) a lofty 
 )ile which had just been finished at Adrianople ; and on this spot it was, 
 »r the Srst time, loaded with infinite trouble. 
 
 Notice was then given to the inhabitants, that it would be dischargeiJ 
 
 I 
 
442 FIELDS 'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 the next morning ; it was feared that without such a warning, the terror 
 occasioned by its report might have been attended with the most disas- 
 irons consequences. The morning dawned, the piece was fired off, au 
 immense cloud of smoke enveloped the whole city, its thunders were 
 heard for several hours in the distance, and the shot buried itself a fathom 
 deep in the ground, at the distance of a mile from the spot whence it 
 was discharged. By the trepidation which it spread far and wide, 
 this enormous masterpiece of pyrotechny at least bespoke the gigantic 
 schemes of conquest on which the grasping mind of its owner was 
 intent. 
 
 This cannon, together with two smaller pieces, which discharged balls 
 of 160'pounds weight, was subsequently employed at the siege of Con- 
 stantinople, where it was stationed opposite the gate of St. Roman's, which 
 was afterwards denominated the " Cannongate," a name it has retained 
 to the present day. It consumed two hours in loading, and, on the first 
 day, was discharged seven times, the eighth firing was on the second day, 
 when it gave the signal for an attack. Though it afterwards bursted, 
 and destroyed its founder, it was speedily repaired and continued to be 
 used seven times a day, but without producing the effects which had 
 been anticipated from it. — Von Hammer's History of the Turks. 
 
 SUNDAY-SCHOOLS. 
 
 BY THE MILI'OBD BARD. 
 
 "Light M travelling to the West." 
 
 "A large and highly respectable meeting of the citizens of Washington, of Tarioua 
 religious denominations, was held in that city on the 16th of October, 1831, to take into 
 consideration the resolution of the American Sunday-school Union, adopted at the an* 
 niversary of May, 1831, to iny^ply the valley of the MiasiaHppi toith Sunday-Bchoola in 
 two years from that time, 
 
 " The attendance of a large number of the members of both Houses of Congress (seve- 
 ral of whom took part in the proceedings) gave peculiar interest to the occasion. The 
 chairman, Mr. Grundy, Member of Congress from Tennessee, stated the object of the 
 meeting to be to carry the following resolution into effect : — Resolved, That the Ameri- 
 can Sunday-school Union, in reliance upon Divine aid, will, within two years, establish 
 A Sunday-school in every destitute place, where it is practicable, throughout the valley 
 of the Mississippi." — Supplement to the Saturday Evening Poet, 
 
 It is with peculiar pleasure that I take up the pen, just relinquished, 
 to add another trophy to the modern march of mind— to add another 
 tribute to the triumphs of learning and liberty. The heart of the phil- 
 anthropist leaps with pleasure at the prospect that religion, hand in 
 hand with learning, is about to illuminate the minds of more than three 
 hundred thousand children, scattered in the vales and villages of the 
 great valley of the Mississippi. Most glorious undertaking ! The cynic 
 may smile at the idea, and the infidel laugh to scorn the noble intention ; 
 but there is perhaps many a germ of genius in that valley, destined, by 
 the aid of a Sunday-school, to rise to the pinnacle of human glory. Go 
 search the records of renown. It is not to colleges we are to look alone 
 for great and good men. The Saviour of mankind chose his disciples 
 
SUNDAY-SCHOOLS. 443 
 
 from Uie fishing-boat; and many (rf the most illnstriona jharaclera that 
 over illuminated the world, rose by the aid of as bumble an institution 
 as that which we are contemplating. Doctor Herschel, who with th» 
 eye of a philosopher searched out and added another world to the solar 
 system, was a fifer-boy in the army ; Ferguson, the very sun of science, 
 was a poor weaver, and learned to read by hearing his father teach an 
 elder brother. Search the record of our Revolution, and the names of 
 Sherman, of Franklin, and many others may be adduced as evidence o. 
 the truth of the position. 
 
 Upon the culture of the intellect depends the glory of nations and the 
 stability of empires. When Homer sang and Hesiod wrote, Greece 
 was ascending that pinnacle from whence the flood of her glory gushed 
 and still gleams upon the minds of men. When Seneca laid down the 
 grand principles of morality, and Cicero shook the forum with the 
 thunders of his eloquence, then Rome, the city of the Caesars, flourished, 
 and Virgil sang her the glory of the globe. But when the red sons of 
 rapine rushed from the bills, when the Goths and vile Vandals beat like 
 a cataract at the gates of Italy, she fell like the Colossus at Rhodes, and 
 became the " Niobe of nations," recognised alone in the renown of her 
 relics and the grandeur of her ruins. The destiny as well as durability 
 of a nation depends upon the culture of the mind. Rome held, even in 
 the dark ages, and still holds, a respectable standing among the nations 
 for her science ; but Greece, unhappy Greece, the very last gleam of 
 her glory was extinguished in the blaze of Byzantium. The last star of 
 her learning that had enlightened the world went down in the long 
 night of barbarism, and the last remnant of her renown was annihilated 
 in the ravages of the unrelenting and merciless Moslem. The tyrant 
 Turk left her nothing by which she might recognise her former great- 
 ness and triumphs, but the tombs of her saints and sages, and the page 
 of her imperishable fame. But the luminary of liberty hath again risen 
 on her shores, and the light of learning and religion again gladdens her 
 bosom ; she may shine again among the noblest of nations. 
 
 That knowledge is power may be read in every page of history and 
 every achievement of man. The rise and ruin of empires, the flourishing 
 and fall of rulers, are pregnant with the truth of this aphorism. We 
 are informed that the single arm of 'Archimedes was enabled by his 
 knowledge to defend Syracuse against the legions of Rome, and to defy 
 the wrath of the world. To him alone the launch of a ship was but 
 pastime, and for his amusement he set fire to whole navies. The press, 
 that mighty engine of iutelligence, and the compass, the polar-star of 
 commerce and curiosity, are the ofisprings of human knowledge and 
 invention. By the aid of steam we are enabled to resist the elements, 
 and matter even on the land is transported over space with the velocity 
 of mind. Printing, the great pioneer of knowledge, has disseminated 
 intelligence in a tenfold ratio. All the glory of ancient times, all the 
 oracles of Athens, of Ephesus, and the world, may not be compared to 
 this in the greatness of its design and the brilliance of its benefits. 
 
 Nor less is the power of knowledge in other respects. Why does 
 gigantic Russia, the ten-or of the Turks, tremble at the armies of Eng- 
 
444 FIELDS'S SOEAP-BOOK. 
 
 land ? Why, when the cloud of battle shrouds the heavens and darkens 
 the orb of day, does the savage fly from the sons of civilization ? Ay 
 why did the Tartar hordes and Arab armies of Africa sink beneath the 
 valour of the fair cheeked children of Prance ? And why did the sunburn ' 
 Gothics of the Ganges yield when the British battle-cry was heard on 
 the banks of the golden river ? — On the contrary, why was the Eussian 
 successful in triumphing over the Turk, and planting his standard on 
 the walls of Stamboul, when a thousand sabres started and streamed 
 with the blood of the bravest heroes ? It was the result of the superior- 
 ity of mind over matter, of intelligence over ignorance and barbarity. 
 This same superiority of mind enabled one man to rule Sparta, and lay 
 down a code of laws for her future government. That illustrious man 
 was Lycurgus, the best benefactor of his country. 
 
 In the dark ages, the era of feudal despotism, when learning was 
 locked up in the convent, the closet, and the castle, when man was the 
 absolute master of his fellow-man, and the chains of tyranny rattled on 
 the arms of the slave, the light and power of knowledge were made more 
 evident by the great circle of darkness which surrounded them. In 
 those days of romance, the infant was cradled amid the clash of arms 
 and the tumult of battle ; to him valour was virtue, and a knowledge of 
 war was wisdom. Then came the crusades, and religion consisted in 
 grappling with the Mohammedan for the sepulchre of the SaviouT. Then 
 the aspiring youth knew no piety but patriotism, no science but super- 
 stition, and his education taught him that to conquer on the field of fight 
 was the very essence of philosophy. About this era arose the orders of 
 knighthood, among which the Knights Templar were distinguished. 
 Learning became hereditary among them, and never was the might of 
 mind more terribly triumphant. The great Charles of Germany was 
 their patron, and, headed by the venerable Valette, they shook the throne 
 of the incensed Solyman, and bade defiance to the tyrants of Turkey. 
 For six or seven hundred years they struck terror to the infidels, and 
 hung out their banner in the cause of Christianity. During that long 
 period of despotism and decay, they were the aegis of Europe, and a 
 shield to the Christian world against which the spear of oppression rattled 
 in vain. In the eleventh century, when the cloud of war darkened the 
 East, and a volcano broke from the mountains of Imaus — when the 
 Saracen crescent was waved by Saladin on the walls of the holy city, 
 then was seen a tempest even more terrible rolling up from the West. 
 Then the dark Iberian, the gay Gaul, and the gentle German were seen 
 battling amid the burning sands of Syria ; and then the Albanian and the 
 Arab unsheathed their glittering swords for the glorious combat. Then, 
 too, did the victorious sword of the Templar gleam and glitter in the 
 sunbeam, and mighty was its blow. Jerusalem may bear. witness. Ay, 
 go and meditate amid her melancholy ruins — go survey the tall temples 
 of Askelon laid low in the dust, and muse amid the scenes of Samaria, 
 celebrated in the annals of that proud and imperious age. The sublimi- 
 ty of those solitudes only exists now in the ruins of their former renown, 
 and the recollection of departed grandeur. The flowery fields and pavi- 
 lions of Palestine, where mirth and music once resounded, wa:" hatb 
 
SUNDAY-SCHOOLS. 4t5 
 
 desolated; and Calvary, the covert of the lamb, hath become the laji 
 of the lion. 
 
 Nor is learning more powerfal and beneficial to the state than pure 
 religion and her handmaid morality. But, in the language of the elo- 
 quent Phillips, " I wotdd have her pure, unpensioned, onstipendiary ; I 
 would have her, in a word, like the bow of the firmament : her summit 
 should be the sky ; her boundaries the horizon ; but the only colour 
 that adorned her should be caught from the tear of earth as it exhaled, 
 and glowed and glittered in the sunbeams of the heavens." Yes, and I 
 would have her bright as the crystal current from the rock, and sincere 
 as the smile of infant innocence when it slumbers on the bosom that 
 bore it. I would have it great, but not gloomy ; magnificent, but not 
 mercenary ; and powerful, but not ambitious. 
 
 It is not pure religion — that blissful harbinger of hope and dove of hea- 
 ven — that aims at dominion, and to unite, the congress to the conference, 
 and the crosier to the crown. No ; it is political hypocrisy that hath no 
 hope ; it is restless, ruthless bigotry that knows no blush. Pure religion 
 never instituted the Inquisition, never sanctioned the murdering of the 
 martyrs, or introduced the fagot and the fire. No, she never sighed for 
 a union of the church and state. These crimes have been committed 
 by those who looked with anxious eyes upon the glittering grandeur 
 of a throne, and bowed down before the shrine of superstition and 
 bigotry. 
 
 But it is strange that the effort to educate the children of the West 
 should beget fears for the safety of the state. As well might we assert 
 that to sever the cbaint> of a slave would excite vengeance in his soul, 
 and enlist him an enemy against his liberator. Does learning shed no 
 light on the human intellect ? Does gladness in the benefited beget no 
 gratitude to the benefactor ? To decide to the contrary is inconsistent 
 with reason. Enlighten the minds of those children, and they will see 
 the dangers they are to avoid ; they will be so many bulwarks to the 
 state in the day of darkness and danger. 
 
 But who are the men who advocate the measure of the Sunday-school 
 Union, which proposes to send light into the wilderness of the West ? 
 Who are those who are in favour of cherishing the germs of genius now 
 scattered over the prairies of the great valley of the Mississippi ? They 
 are some of the most illustrious statesmen and heroes our state 'or repub- 
 lic hath produced ; some of the most eloquent and eminent divines en- 
 rolled in the cause of Christianity. They are men of various sects and 
 societies, men whose only ambition is to fix the permanency of our insti- 
 tutions on the firm foundation of education and liberty. They are men 
 of piety and patriotism ; they are philosophers and philanthropists. They 
 are men who look with delight upon the temple of our devotion as it 
 kisses the clouds and dips its head in heaven ; but they will never agree 
 that the flag of our freedom shall jnove upon its walls. The cause of 
 education is the cause of Christianity and of our country. The present 
 measure is advocated by the great and the good; by the wise and the 
 wealthy. Ay, a voice from the tombs of oriental saints and sages — a 
 voice from the gory graves of the Revolution — a voice from the sepulchres 
 2N 
 
446 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 of the saviours of our country, and a voice from the vault of Vernon 
 come stealing on the Sabbath silence, approbating the grand and glorious 
 enterprise. The very simplicity of the undertaking makes it sublime. 
 How cheering the idea, that iflore than three hundred thousand children 
 shall be made moral; be taught to read the most beautiful of books, and 
 discharged with a Testament for the paltry sum of what, as one of the 
 gentlemen at the meeting observed, we would pay for a pin, a feather, 
 or a flower. , The retrenchment of a single riband; the sacrifice of a sin- 
 gle ticket to the theatre or ball-room, might raise up and give the impulse 
 in the West to another Washington in war, or another Wirt in eloquence, 
 to another Jefferson in the presidential chair, or to another Jay in the 
 councils of his country. There is talent among the children of those 
 pioneers who subdued the wild wilderness, and peopled those sublime 
 solitudes of the West, where no human foot had trod and no «ye pene- 
 trated, save those of the unhappy children of the forest, the aborigines of 
 the country. Man is naturally a religious creature. Had the light of the 
 gospel never illuminated his mind, and the knowledge of his own destiny 
 and dignity hereafter never dawned upon his understanding, still reason 
 would have taught him a belief in the existence of a superior Being. He 
 would have admired his wisdom in every leaf and every flower that 
 adorns the earth; like the Hindoo, he would have seen him in the set- 
 ting sun ; and like our own Indians, he would have worshipped the Great 
 Spirit as he passed in his chariot on the storm of night. But happily 
 for us, the gospel has gone forth with glad tidings. The story of the 
 Saviour's sufiferiBgs and sorrows — of his crucifixion on Calvary — was one 
 of the first lessons imprinted upon our minds in the hours of infancy. 
 A.S first impressions last through life, it is our duty to extend and imprint 
 this necessary knowledge on the minds of the rising generation. The 
 gospel has been sent to the heathen children of Hindostan and Japan ; 
 to the Arab and the South Sea Islander ; and the time is rapidly arriving 
 when the JBthiop and the Arab will own the same faith with the English- 
 man and American ; when the Hottentot and Tartar will extend the hand 
 of good fellowship to the Protestant and the Pope. But in thase glorious 
 triumphs abroad, the darkness which enshrouds the intellect of our own 
 country should not be forgotten. Infidelity is abroad, and the brilliance 
 of her tenets and the beauty of her blandishments are bowing the minds 
 of men. She hath erected her altar, and she hath her oracles, her 
 priests, and her divinities. The doctrines of Plato and Pythagoras have 
 burst from the billow of oblivion which had buried them beneath the 
 rubbish of three thousand years, and are again taught by the pagan 
 priests of modern times. 
 
 But nay, there are those who are up and doing. There are those whose 
 lives have almost been spent in disseminating the light of religion and 
 Jearning to the sons of darkness. Most high shall be their reward in 
 heaven. The pride of ancestry, as an incentive to emulation, may be 
 just ; to read over a long list of illustrious predecessors may be laudable ; 
 but when man looks back to a long existence devoted to the glory of 
 G-od and the henefit of his country, then it is that life becomes truly 
 illustrious, and the grave glorious. Such are some of those who advo- 
 
suNDAT-scnootS. 447 
 
 cate the measure which I have endeavoured to delineate. Such are those 
 who would enlighten the intellect and moralize the mind of one of the 
 fairest and most flourishing sections of our country. When the foam of 
 the last wave of time shall whiten their heads, and the hlast of the last 
 trump shall echo in their ears, the recollection of the past shall light up 
 the gloom of the grave, and soothe and soften the pangs of dissolution. 
 And when they shall have long slumbered in the city of the silent ; when 
 every trace of the unhappy Indian shall have been buried in oblivion ; 
 when other cities shall arise in the great valley of the Mississippi, and 
 this republic shall rival and surpass the ancient glories of Greece and 
 Rome, then shall the memory of their labours still Uvey and their monu- 
 ments be inscribed with characters of imperishable fame. Ages hence, 
 when some youth shall point to a modem Athens ; to another Borne on 
 the rivers of the West, and ask of what manner of people the fallen race 
 of the forest were, and concerning those who enlightened the minds that 
 achieved the glorious foundations of greatness ; then will some venerable 
 sire, some Plato, Cicero, or Seneca, point with pride to the catalogue of 
 renowned names, names of those now living, who disseminated the gos- 
 pel and the light of learning in the West. 
 
 Mind constitutes the majesty of man — virtue his true nobility. The 
 tide of improvement, which is now flowing like another Niagara through 
 the land, is destined to roll on downward to the latest posterity; and it will 
 bear to them on its bosom our virtues, our vices, our glory, or our shame, 
 or whatever else we may transmit as an inheritance. It, then, in a great 
 measure depends upon the present, whether the moth of immorality and 
 the vampire of luxury shall prove the overthrow of the republic ; or 
 knowledge and virtue, like pillars, shall support her against the whirl- 
 winds of war, ambition, corruption, and the remorseless tooth of time. 
 Let no frown fall upon the hopes of the philanthropist in the cause of the 
 Sunday-school. If its power individually is humble, so is the labour of 
 the silkworm ; but the united product is immense, it becomes the wealth 
 of a whole empire. We despise the single insect crushed wantonly in 
 our path ; but, united, they have depopulated cities, destroyed fertile 
 fields, and struck terror to nations, becoming more formidable than Cae- 
 sar or Seipio ; than Hannibal or Alexander^ The united effort of Sunday- 
 schools may carry intelligence and virtue to millions of minds, nor does 
 the accumulation of influence cease with their labours, for millions yet 
 unborn may reap the tenfold harvest. Active education is ever on the 
 increase ; like money, its interest becomes compound, doubles, and in the 
 course of years, becomes a vast national treasury. Give your children 
 fortunes without education, and at least half the number will go down to 
 the tomb of oblivion, perhaps to ruin. Give them education, and they 
 will accumulate fortunes; they will be a fortune themselves, to their coun ■ 
 try. It is an inheritance worth more than gold, for it buys true honour ; 
 they can neither spend nor lose it ; and through life it proves a friend — 
 in death, a delicious consolation. Give your children education, and no 
 tyrant will triumph over your liberties. Give your children education, 
 and the silver-shod horse of the despot will never trample on the ruins 
 rf the fabric of your freedom. 
 
448 PIELDS'S SCKAP-BOOK 
 
 FEMALE HEKOISM. 
 
 A CORRESPONDENT of the New York Evening Post, in a letter dated 
 Natchez, on the 19th of August, 1825, gives the following account of a 
 transaction which occurred twelve or fifteen years ago in Indiana, soou 
 after the first settlement of that country by the whites. The writer 
 states that the story was related to him a short time since by one of the 
 parties concerned. William and Mary, the persons here alluded to, were 
 a young farmer and his wife, who were very pleasantly situated on a fine 
 farm, and with three beautiful children, were in the ■enjoyment of bless- 
 ings which rarely fall to the lot of the settlers of a new country. 
 
 " In this situation," says the account, " matters stood at the memora- 
 ble battle of Tippecanoe, when the whole frontier, and- indeed the whole 
 state, was thrown into commotion and alarm. Many depredations and 
 massacres were committed by the Indians, and some deeds of dreadful 
 note were done, which never could be satisfactorily accounted for. 
 The brave and humane G-eneral Harrison, who commanded at that time, 
 had erected in various parts of the state what were termed lines of block- 
 houses, in which were posted detached parties of soldiers and militia, 
 who acted as picket guards to the frontier inhabitants ; they also served 
 as a line of communication from post to post, and as a place of refuge 
 for the weak and defenceless from the approach of an enemy. One of 
 these lines of block-houses extended through the settlement in which 
 William lived, and most of the inhabitants had taken shelter within their 
 walls. He, however, from some cause or other, had neglected so to do, 
 as well as one of his nearest neighbours. One morning, William had 
 taken his rifle and gone some miles on business, promising to return 
 home as early in the evening as" possible. He had not been gone more 
 than an hour, when Mary, who was a few rods from the house with her 
 children, was alarmed by the sudden and horrid yell of the savages — two 
 of them at the same time appearing in the skirts of a wood, a few hun- 
 dred yards distant. She instantly caught up the two children that were 
 nearest her, and fled to the house : having placed them within the door, 
 she was returning for the other, when she saw with agony that one of 
 the Indians had already seized up her hapless child, while the other was 
 making toward the house with lengthened strides, terrific yells, and 
 uplifted tomahawk. What was to be done ? There was no alternative, 
 and she retreated precipitately within, and scarce a moment left to secure 
 the door on the inside with a wooden bar, when the Indian' was at it, 
 endeavouring to force it open ; but finding it much better secured than 
 he had anticipated, he began to utter the most horrid execrations, and 
 called his companion to his assistance. They both seemed to speak the 
 English language perfectly, which not a little surprised Mary. They 
 made various efforts to force open the door, all the while uttering the 
 nosi dreadful threats, thst if she did not open it and let them in, they 
 would murder her child, and then burn down the house over her head. 
 Alas, poor Mary ! she knew but too well that death was her portion, and 
 
FEMALE HEROISM. « 44P 
 
 pcrasted in keeping the door barred. They at length became desperate, 
 finding themselves much foiled, and actually dashed the child's brain* 
 out against a tree that stood before the house, while the mother was look- 
 ing through a small opening between the logs of the building. A dark- 
 ness came over her eyes, her heart ceased to beat for a moment, and she 
 sank upon her knees, for she could support herself no longer, and had 
 almost fainted. She, however, soon rallied her faculties, offered up a fer- 
 vent ejaculation to that Omnipotent Being who is all powerful to save, 
 and arose. Her first thought was to conceal her children, open the door, 
 and give herself up as a sacrifice to their vengeance, in hopes that her 
 offspring might possibly be saved. This idea, however vain it might 
 appear, was prevented from being put into execution, by one of the 
 Indians exclaiming that he would come down the chimney. The Indian 
 who had murdered the child had ascended the comer of the house by 
 means of the projecting ends of the logs, and commenced descending the 
 chimney. In this extremity, Mary . had given up all for lost ; she was 
 stooping to embrace her children, as she believed for the last time, when 
 she thought of her straw bed. She immediately flew to it with the 
 strength of an Amazon, tore open the ticking, and threw its contents upon 
 the fire ; a full column of blaze and smoke ascended the chimney, while 
 the murderous wretch was about midway between the top and bottom, 
 and could neither ascend nor descend to extricate himself, before he had 
 drawn into his lungs that fiery draft, which instantly suffocated him to 
 death. He fell into the fire, and rolled upon the hearth a black and 
 lifeless corpse; it now seemed as if the whole energy of Mary's mind 
 had burst upon her ; she caught up the tomahawk, which he still held in 
 his ' death grasp,' and went deliberately and opened the door. The 
 Indian on the outside, thinking it was his comrade, entered entirely off 
 his guard, when the tomahawk of his accomplice was buried in the back 
 of his head, and he fell dead on the floor. Mary instantly took her two 
 remaining children in her arms, and fled to the nearest neighbour, and 
 gave the alarm. The woman of the house seemed much agitated, and 
 said her • husband had gone out about half an hour before. She then 
 proceeded on to another settler's, about a mile farther, and told what she 
 had done. Three or four men who happened to be there at the time 
 caught up their rifles, and proceeded immediately to William's residence, 
 when on examination it was found — but it was too horrible to relate, 
 they found that these worse than savage monsters were not Indians, but 
 white men ! and that one of them was William's nearest neighbour, the 
 owner of the house to which Mary had flrst fled for protection. It 
 would seem, that knowing William was possessed of a few hundred dol- 
 lars, he, in company with another wretch, who had been' but a few 
 weeks in the settlement, formed the horrid design of murdering the 
 whole family in the disguise of Indians, and possessing themselves of 
 the money. But a merciful God prevented them from entirely accom- 
 plishing their object." 
 
 The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon me; and.I 
 caused the widow's heart to sing for joy.— Job xxix. 13 
 
 !iK2 2y 
 
450 
 
 FIELDS S SCEAP-BOOK. 
 
 MARY* TO HER FALSE LOVER. 
 
 Oo, false one, go ; I will not Bhed 
 
 A tear for one like thee ; 
 What though my oheriah'd hopes have i 
 
 The world is still for me. 
 
 I will not shun the ^iQ;nds who etill 
 Would -bid bright hope awake ; 
 
 No, no, I'll wear contentment's smile. 
 Although my heart should break. 
 
 Thy broken faith, thy cold adieu 
 
 I nerer can forget ; 
 But deem not, false one, that for yea 
 
 I cherinh a regret. 
 
 "Pis truQ, no other form ^nt thine 
 
 E'er had a charm for me ; 
 'Tis true, lore rear'd a holy ehrine, 
 
 4t which I worshipp'd 4>hu«. 
 
 And, oh ! Hope's fairy vtsions briith^ 
 
 Pictur'd a joyons day; 
 Till falsehood came its hues to bli|[hft. 
 
 And then— it poss'd away. 
 
 Thou oamast— it was not for tby brida. 
 
 Ah ! no, it was to tell 
 The love of other days b<id died, 
 
 And bid a-eold tarewcU. 
 
 Well, be it BO ; I did not say, 
 
 Bemember pUi^ted faith ; 
 Nor urge t'uee, faithless .one, to stay, 
 
 I'd rathe): welcome de;Uh, 
 
 I did not weep^ that ve did part 
 
 For ever — be it so ; 
 If thou should win another's heart, 
 
 -Be f&ithfal— false one, go. 
 
 THE WIFE. 
 
 "She flung her White arms around bim : 'Thon sKall that this poor beart can cling to." 
 
 I COULD have stemm'd misfortune's tide. 
 
 And borne the rich one^ sneer ; 
 Have braved the haughty glance of pride. 
 
 Nor shed a single tear ; 
 I could have emiled on every -blow 
 
 From life's full quiver thrown. 
 While I might gaze on thee, and know 
 
 I should' not be nlmis. 
 
 I eou\d—Tthiiil- rcou?d— have'brook'd 
 
 E'en for a time that thou 
 Upon my fading Ctbee had looked 
 
 With loss of love than now: 
 For then, I should at least have felt 
 
 The sweet hope still my own 
 To win thee back— and whil« I dwe&t 
 
 On earth, not be alone. 
 
 6u<j l^us to see, fVom day to day. 
 
 Thy brightening «ye and cheek. 
 And watch thy Jife-sands waste away 
 
 Unnumber'd, slowly, meek ; 
 To meet thy smile of tenderness. 
 
 And catch the feeble tone 
 Of kiudness ever breath'd to bless. 
 
 And feel, I'll he alone : 
 
 To mark thy strength each hour decay. 
 
 And yet thy hopes grew stronger, 
 As, fiU'fl with heavenward trust, th^say, 
 
 " Earth may not claim thee longer;" 
 Nay, dearest, 'tis too much — this heart 
 
 (HuBt break when thou art gone ; ' 
 It must -not be, we may not part, 
 
 Z could not live alone. 
 
 WAEEEFS ADDRESS 
 
 TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIEKS BEFOBE THE BATTLE OF BUNEES'S HILL. 
 BT PtERPONT. 
 
 bTARD ! the ground's your own, my 'braves ! 
 Will ye give it up to slaves? 
 Will ye look for greener graves-? 
 
 Hope ye mercy still 7 
 What's the mercy despots ftel ! 
 Hear it in that battle peal! 
 Read jt on yon bristling stedl ! 
 
 Ask it— ye who will. 
 
 Fear ye foes who kill for hire? 
 Will ye to your homes retire ? 
 t^ok behind you ! they're a fire! 
 And, before you, see 
 
 • On the 17th of June, 1825, half a centurytfrom -theday of thf battle,-the corner-stone o' a grtoite d 
 BfAt 7-as laid on the ground where Warren fell. 
 
 Who have done it ! — From the vale 
 ■On they come [—and vrill ye quail T— 
 L^den rain and iron bail 
 Let their welcome be 1 
 
 In the Ood of tattle trust ! 
 
 \Die we may — and die we must :— 
 
 But, oh where can -dvst to dust 
 
 Be consign'd so well. 
 As where hearen its dafre ahall shed 
 On the martyr'd patriot'^ bed, 
 And the rooks shall raise their head* 
 
 Of his deeds to tell ! 
 
6AND-ST0RM IN THE DESERT. 451 
 
 SAND-STORM IN THE DKSERT, 
 
 Morning found me still in a wide and trackless waste of sand ; which, 
 as -the sun arose, was bonndiag by those flittering vaponrs which deceive 
 the tbMty teaveller with the belief that water is near; and have thence 
 3btained the name of the water of the desert. In vain I looked for the 
 marks by which my friend Selim had taught me to recognise a place of 
 refreshment. Thwe was hut too much cause to fear that I was now in 
 one of those terrible tracts of dry and moving sand, in which no water 
 is ever found, and which, sometimes, when set in motion by the wind, 
 swallowa up whole caravans and their conductors. Alas ! the morning 
 light, so earnestly expected, only dawned to prove that I was surrounded 
 by dangers I had never dreameid of. 
 
 The wind, which blew so piercingly all night, lulled, as it generally 
 does, towards morning ; but the haey vapour, loaded with Ught particles 
 of sand, through which the sun rose red as blood, gave warning that the 
 calm would not continue long; nor had I pursued my course another 
 hour before the roar of the desert^wind was heard, columns of dust 
 began to rise in the horizon, and the air became gradually filled with 
 driving sand. 
 
 As the wind ino-eased, the whole plain around me, which had been 
 heaped by former tempests into ridges, like the waves of a troubled sea, 
 now got into motion ; the sand blew from off their crests, like spray 
 from the face of the waters, and covered myself and horse with its dense 
 eddies; while, often unable to distinguish the true course, my horse 
 toiled oyer the ridges, sinking up to the very girths in. the deep baffling 
 substance. 
 
 I continued for some hours to persevere, struggling against the fury 
 of the gale, when my alarm increased, by observing ^^at my horse, 
 which Mtherto had stood it out with admirable perseverance, even when 
 his progress was most painfully impeded by the deep sand, now became 
 terrified and restive. He snorted, reared, and appeared unable, as well 
 as unwilling, to face the sharp drifting of the still increasing storm. In 
 vain I soothed him, or urged him on with heels and hand; the animal, 
 which had hitherto obeyed my voice almost like an intelligent being, 
 now paid no attention to caresses or blows. In the several squalls that 
 drove past at intervals, he fairly turned his back to them, and would not 
 move ; and, even when the wind lulled for a little, he could hardly be 
 forced to advance a step. 
 
 I scorned to yield my life .without a struggle, yet saw not the means 
 «f .preserving it. To abandon my horse would have been in fact to give 
 up hope ; for I eould not proceed a single mile on foot ; yet to remain 
 stationary, as I was forced to do by the terror of the animal, involved 
 manifest destruction. Every thing that offered resistance to the torrent 
 of sand, which sometimes poured along the earth like a rapid stream of 
 water, was overwhelmed in an incredibly short time : even when my 
 honse ntood still but for a few moments, the drift mounted higher than 
 
4-'i2 FIELDS'S SCKAP-BOOK. 
 
 his knees ; ai d, as if sensible of the danger, he made furious efforts to 
 extricate himself. 
 
 Quite certain that my only hope lay in constant motion, and in thn 
 chance of gaining the leeward side of some hillock or mass of rocks 
 that might afford a shelter till the storm should blow over, I gave up 
 my true course, turned my back to the wind, and made all possible efforts 
 to press forward ; and, at last when man and horse were exhausted, 
 during a partial lull, I observed something like a rock, or mound of earth, 
 looming through the dusky atmosphere. On approaching it, I discovered 
 that it was the bank of an inconsiderable hollow, which was now nearly 
 filled with sand, and the opposite side of which, being exposed to the 
 wind, had, by the same means, become merely an inclined plane ; beneath 
 this bank I fortunately retired, resolved to trust to its protection, rather 
 than run the risk of a further progress with the imminent peril of perish- 
 ing in the drifting sand, where vision could not extend for a space of 
 many yards. — Frazer's Travels in Khorasan. 
 
 OEIGIN OF YANKEE DOODLE. 
 
 It is a known matter of history, that in the early part of 1755, great 
 exertions were made by the British ministry, at the head of which was 
 the illustrious Earl of Chatham, for the reduction of the French power 
 in the provinces of the Canadas. To carry the object into effect. General 
 Amherst, referred to in the letters of Junius, was appointed to the com- 
 mand of the British arms in North-western America; and the British 
 colonies in America were called upon for assistance, who contributed 
 with alacrity their several quotas of men to effect the grand 'object of 
 British enterprise. It is a fact still within the recollection of some of 
 our oldest inhabitants here, that the British army lay encamped, in the 
 summer of 1755, on the eastern banks of the Hudson, a little south of the 
 city of Albany, on the ground now belonging to John I. Van Rensselaer, 
 Esq. To this day vestiges of their encampment remain, and after a 
 lapse of so many years, when a great proportion of the actors of those 
 days have passed away, like the shadows from the earth, the inquisitive 
 traveller can observe where they boiled their camp-kettles. It was this 
 army, that, undBr the command of Abercrombie, was foiled with a severe 
 loss in the attack on Ticonderoga, where the distinguished Howe fell 
 at the head of his troops, in an hour that history has consecrated to his 
 fame. In the early part of June, the eastern troops began to pour in, 
 company after company ; and such a motley assemblage never before 
 thronged together on such an occasion, unless an example may be found 
 in the ragged regiment of Sir John Falstaff, of right merry and facetious 
 memory. It would, said my worthy ancestor, who related to me the 
 story, have relaxed the gravity of an anchorite to have seen the descend- 
 ants of the Puritans marching through the streets of our ancient city, 
 to take their stations on the left side of the British army, some with 
 small coats, and others with no coats at all, as varied as the rainboW; 
 
IXNIEL BOONE. 453 
 
 gome with their hair cropped, like the army of Cromwell, and others with 
 wigs whose curls flowed with grace around their shoulders. Their march, 
 their accoutrements, and the whole arrangement of the troops, furnished 
 matter of amusement to the wits of the British army. The music 
 played the airs of two centuries ago ; the tout ensemhle exhibited a sight 
 to the wondering strangers that they had been unaccustomed to in their 
 native land. Among the club of wits that belonged to the British army, 
 there was a physician attached to the stafiF, by the name of Doctor Shack- 
 burg, who combined with the science of the surgeon the skill and talents 
 of a musician. 
 
 To please brother Jonathan, he composed a tune, and with much 
 gravity recommended it to the officers, as one of the most celebrated 
 airs of martial music. The joke took, to the no small amusement of 
 the British corps. Brother Jonathan exclaimed it was nation fine, and 
 in a few days nothing was heard but Yankee Doodle. Little did the 
 author and his coadjutors then suppose that an air made for the purpose 
 of levity and ridicule would be marked for such destinies. In twenty 
 years from that time, our national march inspired the hearts of the heroes 
 of Bunker's Hill, and, in less than thirty, Lord Comwallis and his army 
 marched into the American lines to the tune of Yankee Doodle. 
 
 DANIEL BOONE. 
 
 The Illinois Magazine publishes the following letter, from a venerable 
 citizen of Kentucky, relative to the hardy and adventurous huntsman 
 who is so justly and universally regarded as the patriarch of that State. 
 The brief narrative which it gives of the life and adventures of the fear- 
 less and single-hearted father of the great West cannot fail to interest 
 the general reader : — 
 
 I received your letter, a few days since, requesting me to state what 
 I knew of CoiiONEL Daniel Boone. When a boy I knew him. He 
 lived within a mile and a half of my father's, in Culpepper county, 
 Virginia, for two years, and 1 frequently set up targets for him to shoot 
 at. From thence he moved to North Carolina, and I saw no more of 
 him until I met him in Kentucky in 1781. 
 
 We were frequently together afterwards, and several times in the 
 woods, surveying, in company, and a more agreeable, friendly companion 
 I have never seen. In stature, I think he was about five feet ten inches 
 high, and well proportioned. His appearance was fine, his manners 
 easy, his mind strong and philosophic, his disposition mild and placid, 
 and his character unimpeachable. A more friendly and hospitable man 
 never lived. 
 
 I will now inform you of what he told me relative to his first discovery 
 of Kentucky. He said that himself, his brother Squire, and a servant 
 boy came to North Carolina, to cake a fall hunt in Powell's valley, 
 having hunted there the year before. He was hunting along the side 
 of the Cumberland mountain, and discovered a gap or low place in the 
 p-uuntain, which he ascended to the top, and thence he imagined ho 
 
'15 1 riELDS'^S SCKAP^BOOK. 
 
 could see the Ohio river. He thought in his own mind, that it was the 
 most beautiful country in the world. He returned to the camp, and 
 informed his brother what he had seen, telling bim that they must up 
 and go across the mountain. Tbey did so, and travelled on to^ Scagg's 
 Creek, where the deer were so plenty that they soon loaded their seven 
 horses with shaved skins, and he started his brother and the servant boy 
 back with them to North Carolina. He told hi» brother to bring baek 
 to him as many horses as he eould get, and he would have their load's 
 ready against his return. He staiyed and hunted there, and never saw 
 the face of man for eight months to a day. He declared that he never 
 enjoyed himself better in his life ; he had three dogs that kept his camp 
 while he was hunting, and, at night, he would often lie by his fire and 
 sing every song he could think of, while the dogs would sit round him, 
 and give as much attention as if they understood every word he was 
 saying. 
 
 At the end of eight months, his brother and servant boy came to him 
 with fourteen horses. His brother informed him that when he got into 
 North Carolina with his peltry, the Indians had fallen upon the fron- 
 tiers, and that he had to go, with others, against them. Boone had the 
 packs nearly all ready, and, in a day or two, they loaded the horses and 
 started for home. They travelled the first day, and until about ten 
 o'clock the next- day, when he saw four Indians, with as many horses, 
 loaded with beaver fur. They were crossing each other, and seeing 
 plainly that they must meet, he cautioned his brother and the servant 
 boy not to let the Indians have their guns out of their hands ; for they 
 would be sure to make an attempt to get them, under the pretence of 
 wanting to examine them. The Indians endeavoured to get their guns, 
 but they would not let them get possession of them. The Indians then 
 went round Boone's horses, and drove them off with their own. Boone 
 said he looked hard after them a while, and then (not thinking it prudent 
 to attack four men, on their guard,- with but one man and a boy to back 
 him) he put off for home. They went on that day, and until nine or 
 ten o'clock of the next. He then observed to his brother and the boy 
 that if they would stick to him, he would turn about and follow the 
 Indians even to their towns but he would have his skins and horses 
 back. They agreed to it, and immediately pursued hard after them> 
 and came in sight of them the fourth day. " Now," said Boone, " we 
 must trail them on,, until they stop to ea.t." 
 
 The Indians at length halted, hoppled their horses, cooked, and ate ; 
 Boone and his companions watching them all the whUe. He well knew 
 that, having eaten, they would all lie down to sleep except one. They 
 did so ; and the one who was on guard sat on a log at the head of the 
 others, and Boone and his boys had to creep on all-fours for a hundred 
 yards to get near enough to shoot. Boone then told his brother that 
 he would take for his own mark the one on. the log ; that he (the brother) 
 must aim at the one on the right, and the boy at the one on the left ; 
 and that, when he gave the signal, they must fire, and keep loading, and 
 shooting, making as much noise and using as many different tones as 
 they could They fired, and he tilted his man over the log ; but tho 
 
BURNING OF THE WESTERN PRAIRIES. 455 
 
 Others bore him off. The Indians fled, and they followed fol ihree- 
 qnarters of a mile, shooting and yelling; then came back, gathered their 
 own horses and those of the Indians, put on their packs and the packs 
 of beaver fur, and drove them safe to his own house, in North Carolina. 
 The above is just as he told it to me himself. 
 
 BURNING OF THE WESTERN PRAIRIES. 
 
 We have no means of determining at vhat period the flres began to 
 sweep over these plains, because we know not when they began to be 
 inhabited. It is quite possible that tbey might have been occasionally 
 fired by lightning previous to the introduction of that element by human 
 agency. At all events, it is very evident that as soon as fire began 
 to be used in this country by its inhabitants, (he annual burning of the 
 prairie must have commenced. One of the peculiarities of this climate 
 is the dryness of its summers and autumns. A drought often commences 
 in August, which, with the exception of a few showers towards the close 
 of that month, continues throughout the fall season. The immense 
 mass of vegetation with which this fertile soil loads itself during the 
 summer, is suddenly withered, and the whole surface of the earth is 
 covered with combustible materials. This is especially true of the prai- 
 ries, where the grass grows to the height of from six to ten feet, and, 
 being entirely exposed to the sun and wind, dries with great rapidity. 
 A single spark of fire &lling anywhere upon the plains, at such a time, 
 would instantly kindle a blaze, which would spread on every side, and 
 continue its destructive course as long as it should find'fuel. Travellers 
 have described these fires as sweeping with a rapidity which renders it 
 hazardous to fly before them. Such is not the case, or is true only of a 
 few rare instances. The thick sward of the prairie presents a considerable 
 mass of fuel, and offers a barrier to the progress of the flame, which is 
 not easily surmounted. The fire advances slowly and with power. The 
 heat is intense. The flame often extends across a wide prairie, and 
 advances in a long line. No sight can be more snblime than to behold, 
 in the night, a stream of several miles in breadth advancing across 
 these wide plains, leaving behind it a black cloud of smoke, and throwing 
 before it a vivid glare which lights up the whole landscape with the 
 brilliancy of noonday. A roaring and crackling sound is heard like the 
 rashing of a hurricane. The flame, which, in general, rises to the height 
 of about twenty feet, is seen sinking and darting upwards in spires, 
 precisely as the waves dash against each other, and as the spray flies up 
 into the air ; and the whole appearance is often that of a boiling and 
 flaming sea violently agitated. The progress of the fire is slow, and the 
 heat- so .great that every combustible object in its course is consumed. 
 Wo to the farmer whose ripe corn-fields extend into the prairie, and 
 who suffers the tall grass to grow in contact with his fences ! The whole 
 labour of the year is swept away in a few hours. But such accidents 
 s-re comparatively unfrequent^ as the preventive is simple and easily 
 applied. — minds Magazm4p. 
 
456 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 TREASURES OF THE DEEP. 
 
 When we reflect on the number of curious monuments consigned to 
 the bed of the ocean in the course of every naval war from the earliest 
 times, our conceptions are greatly raised respecting the multiplicity of 
 lasting memorials which man is leaving of his labours. During our last 
 great struggle with France, 32 of our ships of the line went to the bot- 
 tom in the space of twenty-two years, besides seven 50 gun ships, 86 fri- 
 gates, and a multitude of smaller vessels. The navies of the European 
 powers, France, Holland, Spain, and Denmark, were almost annihilated 
 during the same period, so that the aggregate of their losses must have 
 many times exceeded that of Great Britain. In every one of these ships 
 were batteries of cannon constructed of iron or brass, whereof a great num- 
 ber have the dates and places of their manufacture inscribed upon them 
 in letters cs^st in metal. In each there were coins of copper, silver, and 
 often many of gold, capable of service, as valuable historical monuments ; 
 in each were an infinite variety of instruments of the arts of war and 
 peace, many formed of materials, such as glass and earthenware, capa- 
 ble of lasting for indefinite ages, when once removed from the mechani- 
 cal action of the waves, and buried under a mass of matter which may 
 exclude the corroding action of sea-water. But the reader must not 
 imagine that the fury of war is more conducive than the peaceful hum of 
 commercial enterprise to the accumulation of wreck of vessels in the bed 
 of the sea. From an examination of Lloyd's lists, from the year 1793 
 to the commencement of 1829, it has appeared that the number of 
 British vessels alone lost during that period amounted, on an average, 
 to no less than one and a half daily, a greater number than we should 
 have anticipated, although we learn from Moreau's tables, that the num- 
 ber of merchant vessels employed at one time in the navigation of Eng- 
 land and Scotland amounted to about 20,000, having, one with another, 
 a mean burden of 120 tons. Out of 551 ships of the royal navy lost to 
 the country during the period above mentioned, only 160 were taken or 
 destroyed by the enemy, the rest having either stranded or foundered, 
 or having been burnt by accident ; a striking proof that the dangers of 
 our naval warfare, however great, may be far exceeded by the storm, 
 the hurricane, the shoal, and all the other perils of the deep. — LyelVt 
 Qeology. 
 
 EPITAPH, BY BURNS. 
 Whoe'er thou art, reader, know, 
 
 That Death has murder'd Johnnie ; 
 And here his hody lies in' low. 
 
 For ioul he ne'er had ony 
 
 EPITAPH ON SIR JOHN GUISE. 
 Here lies the body of Sir John Guise ; 
 Nobody laughs and nobody cries ; 
 Where his soul is and how it fares, 
 Nobody knows and nobody cares. 
 
THE BLISS OF MATRIMONY. 457 
 
 THE BLISS OF MATRIMONY. 
 
 The charming society, the tender friendship it affords ! Without a 
 friend, it is not for man to be happy. Let the old Madeira sparkle in 
 his goblets, and princely dainties smoke upon his table, yet if he have to 
 sit down with him no friend of the love-beaming eye, alas ! the banquet 
 is insipid, and the cottager's dinner of herbs where love is, is to be envied. 
 
 Let the pelf-scraping bachelor drive on alone towards heaven in his 
 solitary sulky; Lord help the poor man, and send him good speed ! But 
 that's not my way of travelling. No ! give me a sociable, dear, good 
 angel by my side, the thrilling touch of whose sweetly folding arm may 
 flush my spirits into rapture, and inspire a devotion suited to the place ; 
 that best devotion, gratiiude and love ! 
 
 Yes, the sweetest drop in the cup of life is a friend ; but where on 
 earth is the friend that deserves to be compared with an affectionate 
 wife ! that generous creature, who, for your sake, has left father and 
 mother — ^looks to you alone for happiness, wishes in your society to 
 spend her cheerful days — in your beloved arms to draw her latest breath ! 
 The marriage of two such fond hearts, in one united, forms a state of 
 friendship of all others the most perfect and delightful. 'Tis marriage 
 of souls, of persons, of wishes, and of interests. 
 
 Are you poor ? Like another self she toils and saves the better of your 
 fortune. Are you sick ? She is the tenderest of all nurses ; she never 
 leaves your bedside ; she sustains your fainting head, and strains your 
 feverish cheeks to her dear and anxious bosom. How luxurious is sick- 
 ness with such a companion ! 
 
 Are you prosperous ? It multiplies your blessings ten thousand fold, 
 to share them with one so beloved. Are you in her company ? Her 
 very presence has the effect of the sweetest conversation, and her looks, 
 though silent, convey a something to the heart, of which none but happy 
 husbands have any idea. Are you going abroad ? She accompanies you 
 to the door — the tender embrace — ^tbe fond, lengthened kiss-r-the last, 
 soul-melting look — precious evidences of love ! — these go along with you 
 — they steal across your delighted memory, soothing your journey, while 
 dear, conjugal love gives a transport to every glance at home and 
 sweetens every nimble step of your glad return. There, soon as your 
 beloved form is seen, she flies to meet you. Her voice is music — the 
 pressure of her arms is rapture, while her eyes, heaven's sweetest mes- 
 sengers of love ! declare the tumultuous joy that heaves her generous 
 bosom. Arm in arm she hurries you into the smiling habitation, where 
 the fire blazing, and the vestment warm, the neat apartment and delicious 
 repast, prepared by her eager love, fill your bosom with a joy too big 
 for utterance. 
 
 Compared with a life like this, merciful God ! how disconsolate is the 
 
 condition of the old bachelor ! How barren of all joy ! Solitary and 
 
 comfortless at home, he strolls abroad into company. Meeting with nf> 
 
 tenderness nor affection to sweeten company, he soon tires, and with a 
 
 30 
 
458 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 eigh geti up to go home again. Poor man ! his eyes are upon the 
 ground, and his steps are slow ; for, alas ! home has no attractions. He 
 sees nothing there but gloomy walls and lonesome chambers. Alone 
 he swallows his silent supper — he crawls to his bed, and, trembling, coils 
 himself up in cold sheets, sadly remembering, with to-morrow's joyless 
 sun the same dull round begins again. 
 
 SPKINGf. 
 
 To the lovers of nature every season has its charms. The summer is 
 the high noon of the year ; the autumn its sober decline ; the winter its 
 night of gloom, while the spring is the fresh morning, the day-dawn of 
 the annual circle. 
 
 We hazard no truth in saying, that each season has its peculiar associa- 
 tions of thought — its alliances of matter to mind. Thus, although man 
 and his mind may be the same, unchanged by the revolutions of time, 
 the phases of his soul may be as various in the eye of the philosopher 
 as those of the moon to the spectator who contemplates her disk under 
 the- changes of relative position. The mind that is oppressed with 
 unaccountable gloom and forebodings in the sober time of autumn, may 
 be light as the wings of the gossamer in the vernal season. Soaring 
 then through the soft clouds and alternate smiles and tears of an April 
 day, it may feel a joy as unaccountable as its former depression. 
 
 But, without reference to mental associations, the physical or natural 
 renovations of the spring season are subjects of wonder and astonishment. 
 Like some huge animal, torpid under the blasts and snows of winter, th« 
 earth seems to undergo the process of resuscitation as well as revivifica- 
 tion. To carry the similitude still further, the perspiration, long sus- 
 pended, now breaks out through millions of opening pores. Warm 
 vapours and tepid exhalations creep over the beating and throbbing 
 bosom of the soil. The internal channels of the subterranean oceans, 
 like the great arteries of the human body, roll their flooding waters with 
 a roar that mingles undistinguishably with the general voice of nature, 
 and makes up that vast discourse which fills the listening ear of solitude. 
 The' newly-released rivers and murmuring brooks flow like the venous 
 system of the human frame, leaping and playful in the fresh exuberance 
 of life. The soft blue skies, the white fleecy clouds, the genial suns, 
 and the love-beaining stars at night — ^all speak in answering language ; 
 above and below and around alike are teeming with beauty and images 
 of pleasure. 
 
 The spring is an emblem of a better world. The general restoration 
 of grass, and herb, and foliage, and flowers, is typical of the springtime 
 that shall breathe fertility and life into the pale regions of the dead. 
 Now our beloved — although memory cherishes departed friends — are too 
 deeply asleep to hear the voice of the vernal birds carolling on the green 
 bough. The sweet-breathed winds cannot fan those heads that are pil- 
 lowed soundly upon the grave. The beautiful and the pious, the learned 
 and the brave,, are chilled by the winter of death that has not broken up 
 
THB BEOEEN HEART. 459 
 
 for siK thonsand yean. When shall their springtime of immortaLtf 
 come ? When shaJl the frozen veins of death flow with the crimson cur- 
 rents, and when shall the centary-freeted heart palpitate with returning 
 vitality ? 
 
 Aside from the grandeur and beauty of the vernal months, their com- 
 forting and grateful influences on natural organisation slnd on the state 
 of the poor are worthy of attention and merit »ur gratitude. The winter 
 is an enemy to poverty; spring comes as a friend. The blood no longer 
 curdles under the bitter blast. If poverty and want be in the hut or the 
 cottage, the plenty and rejoicing of nature are aH without. 
 
 Standing at the calm evening hour, or in the morning's lovely prime, 
 on some grass-carpeted eminence, the man of no possessions, save the 
 priceless treasures of an humble, and repentant, and admiring heart, may 
 look abroad on all the fragrance and richness of the scenery around him, 
 and exclaim with Goldsmith — 
 
 Creation's heir, the world, the irorld is mine ! 
 
 THE BROKEN HEART 
 
 There was a large and gay party assembled one evening, in the me- 
 morable month of June, 1815, at a house in the remote western suburbs 
 of London. Throngs of handsome and well-dressed women — a large reti- 
 nue of the leading men about town — the dazzling light of chandeliers, 
 blazing like three suns overhead — the charms of music and dancing — 
 together with that tone of excitement then pervading society at large, 
 owing to successful continental campaigns, which maddened England 
 into almost daily annunciations of victory — all these circumstances, I say, 
 combined to supply spirit to every party. In fact, England was almost 
 
 turned upside down with universal fating ! Mrs. , the lady whose 
 
 party I have just been mentioning, was in ecstasy at the eclat with which 
 the whole was going off, and charmed with the buf^ant animation with 
 which all seemed inclined to contribute their quota to the evening's 
 amusement. A young lady of some personal attractions, most amiable 
 manners, and great accomplishments, particularly musical, had been 
 repeatedly solicited to sit down to the pianoj for the purpose of favour- 
 ing the company with the favourite Scottish airj " The Banks of AUan 
 Water." For a long time, however, she steadfastly resisted their impor- 
 tunities on the plea of low spirits. There was evidently an air of deep 
 pensiveness, if not melancholy, about her, which ought to have corrobo- 
 rated the truth of the plea she urged. She did not seem to gather 
 excitement with the rest, and rather endured than shared the gayetie" 
 of the evening. Of course, the young folks around her of her own se^ 
 whispered their suspicions liiat she was in love ; and in point of fact, it 
 
 was well known by several present that Miss was engaged to a 
 
 young oflScer who had earned considerable distinction in the peninsular 
 campaign, and to whom she was to be united on his return from the cou- 
 tiaeBt. It need not, therefore, be wondered at, that a thought of th« 
 
460 FIELDB'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 various casualties to which a soldier's life is exposed — especially a bold 
 and brave young soldier, such as her intended had proved himself — and 
 the possibility, if not probability, that he might, alas ! never 
 Ketam to claim his blushing bride, 
 
 — ^but be left behind among the glorious throng of the fallen, sufficed to 
 overcast her mind with gloomy anxieties and apprehensions. It was, 
 indeed, owing solely to the aflfectionate importunities of her relatives that 
 she was prevailed on to be seen in society at all. Had her own inclina- 
 tions been consulted, she would have sought solitude, where she might, 
 with weeping and trembling, commend her hopes to the hands of Him 
 " who seeth in secret," and " whose are the issues" of battle. As, how- 
 ever, Miss 's rich contralto voice and skilful powers of accompani- 
 ment were much talked of, the company would listen to no excuses or 
 apologies ; so the poor girl was absolutely bailed into sitting down to the 
 piano, when she ran over a few melancholy chords with an air of reluc- 
 tance and displaceney. Her sympathies were soon excited by the fine 
 tones — the tumultuous melody of the keys she touched ; and she struck 
 into the soft and soothing symphony of " The Banks of Allan Water." 
 The breathless silence of the bystanders (for nearly all the company 
 was thronged around) was at length broken by her voice, stealing, "like 
 faint blue gushing streams," on the delighted ears of her auditors, as she 
 commenced singing that exquisite little ballad with the most touching 
 pathos and simplicity. She had just commenced the verse, 
 
 For his bride a soldier sought her, 
 And a winning tongue had he ! 
 
 when, to the surprise of everybody around her, she suddenly ceased 
 playing and singing, without removing her hands from the instrument, 
 and gazed steadfastly forward with a vacant air, while the colour faded 
 from her cheeks, and left them pale as the lily. She continued thus for 
 wme moments, to the alarm and astonishment of the company — motion 
 less, and apparently unconscious of any one's presence. Her elder sister, 
 much agitated, stepped towards her, placed her hand on her shoulder, 
 endeavoured gently to rouse her, and said hurriedly, " Anne, Anne 
 
 what now is the matter !" Miss made no answer ; but a few mo 
 
 ments after, without moving her eyes, suddenly burst into a piercing 
 shriek ! Consternation seized all present. 
 
 " Sister — sister ! — dear Anne, are you ill ?" again inquired her trem- 
 bling sister, endeavouring to rouse her, but in vain. Miss did not 
 
 seem either to see or hear her. Her eyes still gazed fixedly forward, till 
 they seemed gradually to expand, as it were, with an expression of glassy 
 horror. All present seemed utterly confounded and afraid to interfere 
 with her. Whispers were heard, " She's ill — in a fit — run for some water ! 
 Good God, how strange ! — what a piercing shriek !" &c. &c. At length 
 
 Miss r's lips moved. She began to mutter inaudibly ; but, by-and-by 
 
 those immediately near her could distinguish the words, " There ! — there 
 they are with their lanterns I — Oh ! tbey are looking out for the de-a-adt 
 They turn over the heaps. — Ah ! — niw — no ! — that little hill 9^ ilain-r- 
 wvs, see ' they are turning thom ever one by one. — There !- T^iSTB 
 
THE BROKEN HEART. 461 
 
 HE IS !-^0h, horror ! horror ! horror ! horror ! — right through the 
 HEART !" and with a long, shuddering groan she fell senseless into the 
 arms of her horror-struck sister. Of course, all were in confus'-tn and 
 dismay ; not a face present but was blanched with agitation and affright 
 on hearing the extraordinary words she uttered. With true delicacy and 
 propriety of feeling, all those whose carriages had happened to have 
 already arrived instantly took their departure, to prevent their presence 
 embarrassing or interfering with the family, who were already sufficiently 
 bewildered. The room was soon thinned of all except those who were 
 immediately engaged in rendering their services to the young lady, and 
 the servant was instantly despatched with a horse for me. On my arri- 
 val, I found her in bed still at the house where the party was given, 
 which was that of the young lady's sister-in-law. She had fallen into a 
 succession of swoons ever since she had been carried up fi-om the drawing- 
 room, and was perfectly senseless when I entered the bedchamber where 
 she lay. She had not spoken a syllable since uttering the singular words 
 just related, and her whole frame was cold and rigid ; in fact, she seemed 
 to have received some strange shock which had altogether paralyzed her. 
 By the use, however, of strong stimulants, we- succeeded in at length 
 restoring her to something like consciousness ; but I think it would have 
 been better for her, judging from the event, never to have woke again 
 from forgetfulness. She opened her eyes under the influence of the 
 searching stimulants we applied, and stared vacantly for an instant on 
 those standing round her bedside. Her countenance, of an ashy hue, 
 was damp with clammy perspiration, and she lay perfectly motionless, 
 except when her frame undulated with long, deep-drawn sighs. 
 
 '•Oh, wretched, wretched, wretched girl!" she murmured at length, 
 "why have I lived till now ? Why did you not suffer me to expire ? He 
 called me to join him — ^I was going — and you will not let me — ^but I 
 MUST go — ^yes, yes !" 
 
 " Anne, dearest ! why do you talk so ? Charles is not gone. He will 
 return soon ; he will, indeed," sobbed her sister. 
 
 " Oh, never, never ! You could not see what I saw, Jane," she shud- 
 dered; "oh, it was frightful ! How they tumbled about the heaps of 
 the dead ! How they stripped ! — oh, horror ! horror I" 
 
 "My dear Miss , you are dreaming — ^raving — indeed you are," 
 
 said I, holding her hand in mine ; " come, come, you must not give way 
 to such gloomy, such nervous fancies ; you must not, indeed. You are 
 frightening your friends to no purpose." • 
 
 " What do you mean ?" she replied, looking me suddenly full in the 
 face ; " I tell you it is true ! Ah, me ! Charles is dead — I know ity-I 
 saw him ! — Shot right through the heart ! They were stripping him,- 
 when — " and heaving three or four short, convulsive sobs, she agaic 
 
 swooned. Mrs. , the lady of the house, (sister-in-law of Miss . 
 
 as I think I have mentioned,) could endure the distressing scene no 
 longer, and was carried out of the room fainting in the arms of her 
 
 busband. With great difficulty we succeeded in restoring Miss 
 
 once more to consciousness ; but the frequency and duration of her 
 relapses began seriously to alarm me. The spirit, being brought so often 
 2o2 
 
462 FIELDS'S BCKAP-BOOK. 
 
 to the brink, might at last suddenly flit oflF into eternity without auy 
 one's being aware of it. I, of course, did all that my professional 
 knowledge and experience suggested ; and, after eipresMng my readi- 
 ness to remain all night in the house in the event of any sudden altera- 
 tion in Miss for the worse, I took my departure, promising to call 
 
 'very early in the morning. Before leaving, Mr. had acc|uainted me 
 
 with all the particulars above related ; and as I rode home, I could not 
 help feeling the liveliest curiosity, mingled with the most intense sym- 
 pathy for the unfortunate sufferer, to see whether the corroborating events 
 would stamp the present as one of those extraordinary occurrences which 
 occasionally " come o'er us like a summer cloud," astonishing and per- 
 plexing every one- 
 
 The next morning, about nine o'clock, I was again at Miss 's bed- 
 side. 8he was neaiiy in the same state as that in which I had left her the 
 preceding evening, only feebler, and almost continually stupified. She 
 seemed, as it were, stunned with some severe bat invisible stroke. She said 
 scarcely any thing, but often uttered a low, moaning, indistinct sound, 
 and whispered at intervals, " yes — shortly, Charles, shortly — to-morrow." 
 There was no rousing her by conversation j she noticed no one, and would 
 answer no questions. I suggested the propriety of calling in additional 
 medical assistance ; and in the evening met two eminent brother physi- 
 cians in consultation at her bedside. We came to the conclusion that 
 she was sinking rapidly^ and that, unless some miracle intervened to 
 restore her energies, she would continue with us but a very little longer. 
 After my brother physicians had left, I returned to the sick chamber, 
 
 aud sat by Miss 's bedside for more than an hour. My feelings were 
 
 much agitated at witnessing her singular and affecting situation. There 
 was such a sweet and tsorrowful expression about her pallid features, 
 deepening occasionally into such hopelessness of heart-broken anguish, 
 as no one could contemplate without deep emotion. There was besides 
 something mysterious and awing — something of what in Scotland is 
 called second-sight — in the circumstances which had occasioned her illness. 
 
 " Gone — ^gone !" she murmured, with closed eyes, while I was sitting 
 and gazing in alence on her ; " gone — and in glory ! Ah ! I shall see 
 the young conqueror — I shall ! How he will love me ! Ah ! I recol- 
 lect," she continued, after a long interval, " it was the ' Banks of Allan 
 Water' those cruel people made me sing — ^and my heart breaking the 
 while ! What was the verse I was singing when I saw-^" she shud- 
 dered— "Oh! this— 
 
 For his bride a soldier sought her — . 
 
 And a winning tongue had he — 
 On the banks of Allan water 
 
 None so gay as she ! 
 But the summer grief had brought her, # 
 
 And the soldier — false was he — 
 
 Oh, no, no, never, Charles ! my poor, murdered Charles — never !" she 
 groaned, and spoke no more that night. She continued utterly deaf to 
 all that was said in the way of sympathy or remonstrance ; and if her 
 ,i^g moved at all, it was only to uttM faintlj some such words as " Oh, let 
 
THK BROKEN HEART. 463 
 
 me — let me leave in peace t" During the next two days she continucl 
 drooping rapidly. The only circumstance about her demeanour particu 
 larly noticed was, that she once moved her hands for a moment over the 
 counterpane, as though she were playing the piano ; a sadden flush over- 
 spread her features ; her eyes stared, as though she were startled by the 
 sppearanoe of some phantom or other, and she gasped, " There — there !" 
 after which she relapsed into her former state of stupor. 
 
 How will it be credited, that on the fourth morning of Miss 's 
 
 illness, a letter was received from Paris by her family, with a black seal, 
 
 and franked by the noble colonel of the regiment in which Charles 
 
 had served, communieating the melancholy intelligence that the young 
 captain had fallen towards the close of the battle of Waterloo ; for while 
 in the act of charging at the head of his corps, a French cavalry officer 
 shot him with his pistol right thrcmgh the heart! The whole family, 
 with all their acquaintanee, were unutterably shocked at the newa-^ 
 almost petrified with amazement at the strange corroboration of Miss 
 
 's prediction. How to communicate it to the poor sufferer was now 
 
 a serious question, or whether to communicate it at all at present. The 
 family, at last, considering that it would be unjustifiable in them any 
 longer to withhold the intelligence, intrusted the painful duty to me. I 
 therefore repaired to " her bedside alone, in the evening of the day on 
 which the letter had been received : that evening was the last of her 
 life ! I sat down in my usual place beside Tier, and her pulse, counte- 
 nance, breathing, cold extremities, together with the fact that she had 
 taken no nourishment whatever since she had been laid on her bed, con- 
 vinced me that the poor girl's sufferings were soon to terminate. I was 
 at a loss for a length of time how to break the oppressive silence. Ob- 
 Serving, however, her fiiding eyes fixed on me, I determined, as it were, 
 accidentally, to attract them to the fatal letter which I then held in my 
 hand. After a while she observed it; her eye suddenly settled on the am- 
 ple coroneted seal, and the sight operated something like an electric shook. 
 . She seemed struggling to speak, but in vain. I now wished to heaven 
 I had ncTOr agreed to undertake the duty which had been imposed upon 
 rae. I opened the letter, and looking steadfastly at her, said, in as sooth- 
 ing tones as my agitation could command, " My dear girl, now don't be 
 alarmed, or I shall not tell yoij what I am going to tell you." She 
 trembled, and her sensibilities seemed suddenly restored ; for her eye 
 assumed an expression of alarmed intelligence, and her lips moved about 
 like those of a person who feels them parched with agitation, and endea- 
 vours to moisten them. "This letter has been received to-day from 
 
 Paris," I continued. "It is from Colonel Lord- , and brings word 
 
 that — that — ^that — " I felt suddenly choked, and could not bring out 
 
 the words. . 
 
 "That my Charles is deaid ! I know it. Did I not tell you so ? _ said 
 
 Jligg interrupting me, with as clear and distinct a tone of voice as 
 
 she ever had in her life. I felt confounded. Had the unexpected opo 
 ^atio^8 of the news I brought been able to dissolve the spell which had 
 withered her mental energies, and afford promise of her restoration to 
 health 't 
 
464 riELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 Has the reader ever watched a candle, which is flickering and expiring 
 in its socket, suddenly shoot up into an instantaneous brilliance, and 
 then be utterly extinguished ? I soon saw it was thus with poor Miss 
 
 . All the expiring energies of her soul were suddenly collected to 
 
 receive this corroboration of her vision, (if such it may be called,) and 
 then she would, 
 
 Like a lily drooping, 
 Bow her bead, and die. 
 
 To return. She begged me, in a faltering voice, to read her all the 
 letter. She listened with' closed eyes, and made no remark when 1 
 had concluded. After a long pause, I exclaimed, " God be praised, my 
 
 dear Miss , that you have been able to receive this dreadful news so 
 
 firmly !" 
 
 " Doctor, tell me, have you no medicine that could make me weep ? 
 Oh, give it me ; it would relieve me, for I feel a mountain on my breast- 
 it is pressing me," replied she, feebly, uttering the words at long inter- 
 vals. Pressing her hand in mine, I begged her to be calm, and the 
 oppression would soon disappear. 
 
 " Oh — oh — oh, that I could weep, doctor !" She whispered something 
 else, but inaudibly. I put my ear close to her mouth, and distinguished 
 something like the words, " I am — I am — call her — hush," accompa- 
 nied with a faint, fluttering, gurgling sound. Alas ! I too well under- 
 stoodj, it ! With much trepidation I ordered the nurse to summon the 
 family into the room instantly. Her sister Jane was the first that en- 
 tered, her eyes swollen with weeping, and seemingly half-sufflbcated with 
 the efi'ort to conceal her emotions. 
 
 " Oh, my darling, precious, precious sister Anne !" she sobbed, and 
 knelt down at the bedside, flinging her arms round her sister's neck, 
 kissing the gentle sufferer's cheeks and mouth. 
 
 " Anne ! — love ! — darling ! — Don't you know me ?" she groaned, kiss- 
 ing her forehead repeatedly. Could I help weeping ? All who had en- ^ 
 tered were standing around the bed, sobbing, and in tears. 1 kept my 
 fingers at the wrist of the dying sufferer, but could not feel whether or 
 not the pulse beat ; which, however, I attributed to my own agitation. 
 
 " Speak — speak — my darling Anne ! Speak to me — I am your poor 
 pister Jane !" sobbed the agonized girl, continuing fondly kissing her 
 sister's cold lips and forehead. She suddenly started, exclaiming, " 
 G-od, she's dead !" and sank instantly senseless on the floor. Alas ! 
 alas I it was too true ; my sweet and broken-hearted patient was no 
 more ! — From the Diary of a London Physician. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 Oh, what were life's dull, transient honr. 
 Without its sunshine and its showor — 
 Its day of gloom, and doubt's dark dream — 
 And hope's succeeding brightening beam ? 
 
MAXIMS FOS MARRIED LADIES. 465 
 
 MAXIMS FOR MARRIED LADIES. 
 
 Tub following maxims, if pursued, will not only make men love a 
 mamed life, but cause them to be good husbands : — The first is to be 
 good yourself; to avoid all thoughts of managing your husband. Never 
 try to deceive or impose on his understanding, nor give him uneasiness ; 
 but treat him with affection, sincerity, and respect. Remember that 
 husbands, at best, are only men, subject, like yourselves, to error and 
 frailty. Be not too sanguine, then, before marriage, or promise your- 
 selves happiness without alloy. Should you discover any thing in his 
 humour or behaviour not altogether what you expected or wish, pass it 
 over, smooth your own temper, and try to mend his, by attention, cheer- 
 fulness, and good-nature. Never reproach him with misfortunes, which 
 are the accidents and infirmities of life — a burden which each has en- 
 gaged t-o assist the other in supporting, and to which both parties are 
 equally exposed; but, instead of murmurings and reflections, divide the 
 sorrows between yon ; make the best of it, and it will be easier to both. 
 It is the innate office of the softer sex to soothe the troubles of the other. 
 Resolve every morning to be cheerful all day, and should any thing occur 
 to break your resolution, suffer it not to put you out of temper with 
 your husband. Dispute not with him, be the occasion what it may; 
 but much sooner deny yourself the trifle of having your own will, or 
 gaining the better of an argument, than risk a quarrel, or create a heart- 
 burning, which it is impossible to see the end of Implicit submission 
 in a man to his wife, is ever disgraceful to b'oth; but implicit submission 
 in the wife is what she promised at the altar, what the good will revere 
 her for, and what is in feet an honour to her. 
 
 Be assured, a woman's power, as well as her happiness, has no other 
 foundation than her husband's esteem and love, which it is her interest, 
 by all possible means, to preserve and increase. Study, therefore, his 
 temper, and command your own. Enjoy with him satisfaction, share 
 and soothe his cares, and' with the utmost assiduity conceal his infirm- 
 ities. 
 
 Newspapers. — I never derive more benefit, or see more pleasure for 
 the time, says Dr. Johnson, than reading a newspaper which has lately 
 issued from the press. I do really believe that nothing adds so much to 
 the glory of my country as newspapers. Liberty is stamped legibly upon 
 its pages, and even the fold is marked with freedom. Do you want to 
 know how your country thrives, I point you to the press ! There you 
 shall find a piece, perhaps, under the head of legislative ! Are you fond 
 of miscellany, look there ! What book can furnish such good accounts 
 of murder, robbery, accidents, marriages, anecdotes, and many other such 
 things. Such good as well as bad accounts from the Russians, Turks, 
 Dutch, &c. Under all these considerations, who is there in this land of 
 freedom, that will not attend to an object so worthy of his regard ? 
 
466 flKLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 KEVOLUTIONARY ANECDOTE 
 
 In the year 1778, when the combined forces of France and America 
 were contemplating an attack on Newport, Ehode Island, Oeneral Sulli- 
 van arranged his army to march against the British forces. He disposed 
 his troops into three divisions ; the first division was ordered to take the 
 west road, the second to take the east road, and the third to marn.h in the 
 centre. The advanced guard, having arrived within three hundred yard.s 
 of the 'British, commenced throwing up intrenchments. The British 
 then fired a few scattering shot, which passed over the heads of the Ameri- 
 cans without doing any injury. The American guards were placed about 
 thirty rods in advance of the army, and within speaking distance of the 
 guards of the British. In full view were five or six hundred horses 
 feeding, which excited the enterprise of a young man by the name of 
 Mason, about twenty years old. This young man, in open day, and in 
 the presence of both armies, conceived the bold design of bringing one 
 of these horses as a prize. In a low piece of ground between both sen- 
 tinels, were a few scattering elders, by means of which he contrived to 
 pass both lines undiscovered, and made direct for the pasture, where the 
 horses with their saddles on were feeding, and the bridles slipped about 
 their necks. Among these he selected the best horse he could find, 
 which he mounted, and after leaping two or three fences, entered the 
 road which led to the American army. As he approached the British 
 guards he put spurs to his horse, and passed them before they had time 
 to recover their surprise ; when he received the fire of both sentinels at 
 the same tinit^. But our hero had the good fortune to escape unhurt, 
 and arrived safe in the American camp with his noble prize, when he 
 halted, and in a dignified manner, drew from his holster both his pistols, 
 and, extending his arms, discharged them both in triumph. 
 
 But the alarm given by the sentinel called out both armies, and the 
 panic extended even to the British fleet in the harbour. Alarm-guns 
 were fired for many miles up and down the coast, and the whole country 
 was filled with the utmost consternation. The British army paraded in 
 front of the fort, expecting immediate attack. The troops immediately 
 sprang for their horses, when, lo ! one poor red coat was seen wandering 
 alone, destitute of a horse. The cause of alarm was soon discovered, 
 and both armies retired. 
 
 Our hero, after exhibidag his horse in proud triumph for about two 
 hours, sold him to one of the officers for five hundred dollars, a reward 
 worthy one of the most bold, daring, and successful enterprises of which 
 history can boast. 
 
 In the fourteenth century, John de Graddesden, the great court physi- 
 cian of that day, attempted to cure a child of Edward H. of smallpox by 
 hanging scarlet drapery round the bed and before the window. The 
 same worthy doctor knew no better way of curing epilepsy than that of 
 taking his. -patient to chutch to hear mass. 
 
S7ANZA6. — OBR WHOLE COUNTRY. 
 
 467 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 TO H£fi WHO CAN BEST UNDEBSTAND THEM. 
 
 BT LOBD BTBOir. 
 
 ThB fttUo^ng toneliinp Tersas were giveti to na by » Frenoji Udy, who reoeired them. If we remember 
 rightly, from an uqiuiiLtMies of their noble author ilk Faria. They hare never to oor knowledge aH>eare« 
 m any of Byron's published works ; and the readen of the Casket will be pleased to pernse any thinf 
 Mretofore nnread trcoji tiie pen of Hmt dirtiagniflhed ^oet.—'Oiuktt, 1833. 
 
 Wast then bnt a friend, aesnming 
 Flriendship's smile and woman's art* 
 
 And, in borrow'd beauty blooming. 
 Trifling with a trasting heart ? 
 
 By that eye which once eonld gUsteft 
 With opposii^ glance to me ; 
 
 By that ear whicb once eonld listen 
 To each tale I told to thee: 
 
 By that lip, its smile bestowing 
 Whicb eonld soften sorrow's gnsh ; 
 
 By that cheek, once brightly glowing 
 With pore friendship's well-feign' d bloA ■ 
 
 By an those false charms united. 
 Thou hast wrought thy wanton will; 
 
 And without compunction blighted 
 What then wonldst not kindly kill ! 
 
 Yet I cnrse thee not in sadness; 
 
 Still I feel how dear thon wert 
 Oh ! I could not e'en in madness 
 
 l}oom thee to thy just desert ! 
 
 Live ! and when my life is over, 
 
 Should thine own be lengthen'd long; 
 Thou Qiayst then too late discover, 
 . E;y thy feelings, all my wrong! 
 
 When thy beauties all are &ded. 
 When thy flatterers fawn, no more : 
 
 Ere the solemn shroud hath shaded 
 Some regardless reptile's store : 
 
 Ere that hour, &l8e siren, hear me ! 
 
 Thou mayst feel what I do now; 
 While my spirit, hoTering near l^iee. 
 
 Whispers friendship's broken tow. 
 
 Bnt 'tis useless to upbraid thee 
 With thy past or present state : 
 
 What thon wast, my fancy made thee ; 
 What thou art, I know too late. 
 
 Bk it Bo — we part for ever ! ' 
 
 Let the past as Bothlng be ; 
 Had I lightly loTsd thee, never 
 
 Hadst thou been thus dear to me. 
 
 Had I loved and thus been slighted. 
 That I better could tutTe borne : — 
 
 Love is qnell'd, when nnrequit^ 
 By the rising pulse of scorn. 
 
 Fride may cool what passion heated. 
 Time will tame the wayward will ; 
 
 Bnt the heart in friendship cheated 
 l^obs with wo's most maddening tirilL 
 
 Had I loved — I now might hate tiiee. 
 
 In tiiat hatred solace seek; 
 Might exult to execrate thee. 
 
 And in words my vengeance wreak. 
 
 But there is a silent sorrow 
 Which can find no vent in speech. 
 
 Which disdains relief to borrow 
 From the heights that song can reach. 
 
 Like a clankless chain enthraUing, 
 Like the sleepless dreams that meek. 
 
 Like ttie fHgid ice-drop fiiUing 
 From the eurf-surroanded roiA: 
 
 Such the cold, the sickening feeling 
 Thou hast caused this heart to know : 
 
 Stabb'd the deeper by concealing 
 Ttom. the world its bitter wo I 
 
 Once it fondly, proudly deem'd thee 
 All that fancy's self could paint ; 
 
 Once it honour'd and esteem'd thee, 
 Aa ite idol and its saint ! 
 
 More f3ian woman thou wast to me ; 
 
 Not as man I look'd on thee ;— 
 Whj like woman then undo me ? 
 
 l^y heap man's worst curse on me ? 
 
 OUR WHOLE COUNTRY. 
 
 Wj^o would qever freedom's shrine? 
 Wflo would draw the invidious line t 
 3%inigh by birth one spot be mine. 
 Dear is i^ the rest: 
 
 Dear to me the South's fidr land. 
 Dear the central mountain band, 
 Dear New England's roeky strand. 
 Dear the prairied West. 
 
 By our altars, pure and free ; 
 By our laws' deep-rooted tree ; 
 By the past's dread memory; 
 By our WaahingUm; 
 
 By OUT common parent tongue r 
 By our hopes, bright, buoyant, yoaoft 
 By the tie of country strong — 
 We will still be one. 
 
 Fathers ! have ye bled in vain? 
 Ages ! must ye dioop again ? 
 llaker ! shall we rashly stain 
 Blessings sent 1^ thee 7 
 
 27d 1 — receive our aolem/n vow. 
 While before thy shrine we bow. 
 Ever to maintain as now, « 
 
 UinOBT— LlBIETTl 
 
468 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 THE GREAT PLAGUE IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 The memory of the Great Plague in London, has heen rendered im- 
 mortal by the prose of Daniel Defoe and the poetry of John Wilson. 
 But the greater plague which overran almost the whole world, three cen. 
 turies before, is almost forgotten. A slight- sketch of its history, drawn 
 from old chronicles, will show, by comparison, what a small matter is 
 magnified into a pestilence in the present day. 
 
 This dreadful pestilence, like the cholera, made its first appearance in 
 the East. It arose in China, Tartary, India, and Egypt, about the year 
 1345. It is ascribed by the contemporary writers, Mezeray and Giovanni 
 Villani, to a general corruption of the atmosphere, accompanied by the 
 appearance of millions of small serpents and other venomous insects, 
 and in other places quantities of huge vermin, with numerous legs, and 
 of a hideous aspect, which filled the air with putrid exhalations. Some 
 zealous Christian writers of the time derived its origin from the arch- 
 imposter Mohammed ; for they say that, at Mecca, in Arabia Felix, it 
 rained snakes and blood from heaven for three days and nights together; 
 that the temple of Mohammed was beaten down by a terrible tempest, 
 and his sepulchre torn up and broken in pieces ; and that the sulphu- 
 reous vapours, and the stench of the snakes and blood, so corrupted the 
 middle region of the air, that the infectiojis matter spread itself over the 
 world in all directions. Making every allowance for the ignorance and 
 credulity of the age, it appears evident that some natural causes had con- 
 tributed to corrupt the air, and load it with pestiferous vapours. And it 
 is remarkable, that before the disease appeared in Europe, singular me- 
 teorological phenomena, of a similar nature, took place. Thus it came 
 into England in the end of the year 1348 ; and it had rained from the 
 previous Christmas till midsummer almost without ceasing; "so that all 
 the while," to use thg words of an old writer, " it hardly ever held up so 
 much as for one day and night together." Great inundations followed, 
 and accumulations of stagnant water, by which the whole atmosphere 
 was poisoned. In France, several strange meteoric appearances are de- 
 scribed by writers of credit. Giovanni Villani says, that on the 20th of 
 December, 1848, in the morning, after sunrise, there appeared at Avig- 
 non, over the pope's palace, a pillar of fire, which tarried there for the 
 space of an hour, producing general terror and amazement. 
 
 During the same period there were many dreadful earthquakes, some 
 of them in places where such phenomena have since been unheard of. 
 At Rome, an earthquake threw dowp a great number of houses, steeples, 
 nud churches. At Naples there was an earthquake, accompanied with 
 a .tremendous hurricane, which destroyed a large portion of the city. 
 On this occasion it is related, that while a friar was preaching to a 
 crowded congregation, he and his auditory were swallowed up in an 
 instant — all but one individual, who observed the trembling of the earth 
 in time tosave himself by flight A great multitude of the inhabitants 
 were buried in the ruins of their habitations ; and the citizens dursl not 
 
THE GREAT PLAGTTB. 46<* 
 
 vent ore into their honses, but remained terrified in the market-places or 
 fields, till the earthquake (which continued by fits for eight days) had 
 spent its furv. In Greece, particularly in the Morea and the island of 
 Cyprus, whole villages were overwhelmed. Even in Germany, a country 
 not liable to this calamity, there was an earthquake which extended over 
 a great part of Austria and Styria, and destroyed many towns and villages 
 in those districts: "And many other provinces," says an old historian, 
 " suffered such lasting characters of the fury of these strong convulsions 
 of nature, that, lest the joint concurrence of so many authors of those 
 days should not obtain sufficient credit, they might be very plainly read 
 even by late posterity." These earthquakes were generally attended 
 with storms of thunder and lightning, wind and hail. In the year 1348, 
 according to Lampadins, it rained blood in Germany, and meteors and 
 other coruscations appeared in the air. Mock suns were seen, and the 
 heavens sometimes seemed on fire. 
 
 In many of these accounts, we may presume that there is a good deal 
 of exaggeration. But the testimonies are too numerous and respectable 
 to leave any doubt that, before and during the pestilence, the elements 
 were in a state of general convulsion which seems unparalleled in history. 
 
 The plagae extended its ravages from India to the more western parts 
 of Asia, into Egjrpt, Abyssinia, and thence into the northern parts of 
 Africa. It proceeded over Asia Minor, Greece, and the islands in the 
 Archipelago ; almost depopulating the regions over which it stalked. It 
 may be literally said to have decimated the world, even though we were 
 to take this term as implying the destruction of nine, in place of one, 
 out of ten. According to Mezeray, and other writers, where it was most 
 favourable, it left one out of three, or one out of five; but where it 
 raged most violently, it scarce left a fifteenth or twentieth person alive. 
 Some countries, partly by the plague, and partly by earthquakes, were 
 left quite desolate. Giovanni Vfflani says, that in a part of Mesopo- 
 tamia only some women survived, who were driven by extremity and 
 despair to devour one another. 
 
 The pleague appears to have stayed five or six months in one place, 
 and then to have gone in search of fresh victims. Its symptoms are 
 minutely described by many writers, and appear to have been the same 
 in every country it visited. It generally appeared in the groin, or under 
 the armpits, where swellings were produced, which broke into sores, 
 attended with fever, spitting and vomiting of blood. The patient fre- 
 quently died in half a day — generally within a day or two at the most. 
 If he survived the third day, there was hope ; though even then many 
 fell into a deep sleep, from which they never awoke. 
 
 Before the pestilence invaded Christendom, it is recorded in a report 
 made to the pope at Avignon, that it swept away twenty-three millions 
 eight hundred thousand persons throughout the East in the course of a 
 single year. While the Christians remained untouched, their supposed 
 'mmunity, since their neighbours were suffering the extremity of the 
 malady, operated so strongly on the minds of some of the heathen 
 princes, that they resolved to propitiate Heaven by embracmg Chnsii- 
 anity. The King of Tarsis, accompanied by a grct multitude o^ L« 
 2P 
 
i70 riELDS'f SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 princes and nobles, acttially set oiit on his journey to Atignon, to receive 
 baptism from Pope Cldtnent VI. But, hearing on his way that the 
 Christians too had become victims to the destroyer, he returned home, 
 with the loss of about two thousand men, whom the Christians most 
 ungenerously attacked and Cut off in the rear of his army. 
 
 From Greece the plague passed into Italy. The Venetians, having 
 lost 100,000 souls, fled from their cityj and left it almost uninhabited. 
 At Florence 60,000 persons died in one year. Among these was the 
 historian, Griovanni ViLani, whose writings we have already referred to. 
 He was one of the most distinguished men of his age; and his historical 
 works are looked upon as correct and valuable. He was the annalist of 
 this pestilence almost down to the day of his falling a victim to it. 
 France next became exposed to its ravages. At Avignon the mortality 
 ■was horrible. In the strong language of Stow, people died bleeding at 
 the nose and mouth ; so that rivers ran with blood, and streams of putrid 
 gore issued from the graves and sepulchres of the dead. When it first 
 broke out there, no fewer than sixty^six Of the Carmelite friars died 
 before anybody knew how, so that it was imagined they had murder- 
 ed one another. Of the members of the English college at Avignon, 
 not one was left alive j and of the whole inhabitants of the city, not 
 one in five. According to a statement, or bill of mortality, laid before 
 the pope, there died in one day 1212, and in another 400 persons. 
 The malady proceeded northward through France, till it reached Paris, 
 where it cut off 50,000 people. About the same time it spread into 
 Grermany, where its ravages are estimated at the enormous amount of 
 12,400,000 souls. At Lubeck alone, according to the concurring ac- 
 counts of several writers, 90,000 persons were swept away in one year, 
 of whom 1500 are reported to have died in the space of four hours. 
 
 At last this fearful scourge began to be felt in England. About the 
 beginning of August, 1348, it appeared in the seaport t6wns on the 
 coast of Dorset, Devon, and Somersetshire, whence it proceeded to 
 Bristol. The people of Grloucestershire immediately interdicted all in- 
 tercourse with Bristolj but in vain. The disease ran, or rather flew over 
 Grloucestershire. Thence it spread to Oxford ; and about the first of 
 November reached London. Finally, it spread itself all over England, 
 scattering everywhere such destruction, that, out of the whole popula- 
 tioii, hardly one persoU in ten was left alive. 
 
 Incredible as this statement may appear, it seems borne out by the 
 details of contemporary annalists. lu the Churchyard of Yarmouth 
 7052 persons, who died of the plague, were buried in one year. In the 
 city of Norwich, 57,374 persons died in six months, between the 1st of 
 January and the 1st of July. In the city of York the mortality was 
 e(j[ual. We find no general statement of the total amount of the mortal- 
 ity in London ; but there are details sufficient to show that it must have 
 been horrible beyond imiagination. Tb6 dead were thrown in pits, forty, 
 fifty, or sixty, into one ; and large fields were employed as burial-places, 
 ihe ctLurchyards "being insufficient for the purpose. No attempt was 
 made to perform this last office with the usual care and decency. Deep 
 and broad ditches were made^ in which the dead bodies were laid i 
 
THE GREAT PI ASUl;. 4T1- 
 
 rows. snd covered with earth, and surmounted with, another layer of 
 bodies, which also was covered. Sir Warlter Manny (whose name is so 
 irell known from his connection with the affecting incident of the sur- 
 render of Calais to Edward III.) benevolently purchased and appropriated 
 u burial-ground, near Smithfield, in which angle place more than fifty 
 thousand people were buried. 
 
 This pestilence gave occasion to some diplomatic intercourse between 
 England smd France, which is strikingly characteristic of the manners of 
 the age. While the mortality was raging in those countries, Pope. 
 Clement VI. never ceased importuning the monarchs of both to put an 
 end to their mutual hostility, and, by doing so, to avoid the continuance 
 of a calamity sent by Heaven to punish the sins of, mankind. Edward 
 and Philip were induced by these pious exhortations to a|fcpoint commis- 
 ,sioners, who met between Calais and St. Omers to negotiate a treaty. 
 The French insisted on the restoration of Calais, or the razing of its for- 
 tifications ; a proposition which the English would not listen to. At 
 last, however, a truce was agreed upon for six months, till Soptember 
 following, in order to allow time to negotiate for a peace ; and it was 
 further agreed, that if, at the end of the truce, a final treaty was not con- 
 cluded, the crown of France was to be brought to a convenient place 
 within that realm, and the right to it decided by a pitched battle, with- 
 out further appeal. The death of the French king, however, which hap- 
 pened in August, 1350, before the expiration of the truce, put an end to 
 this smooth and amicable plan of accommodation. 
 
 This terrible visitation was everywhere attended by a total dissolu- 
 tion of the bonds of society. An excellent old writer gives the following 
 eloquent description of the state of England : — " We are told the influ- 
 ence of this disease was so coiitagious, that it not only infected by a 
 touch or breathiog, but transfused its malignity into the very beams 
 of light, and darted death from the eyes; and the very seats and garments 
 of such proved fatal. Wherefore parents forsook their children, and 
 wives their husbands; nor would physicians here make their visits, for 
 neither were they able to do good to others, and they were almost cer- 
 tain thereby to destroy themselves. Even the priests also, for the same 
 horrid consideration, forebore either to administer the sacraments or 
 absolve the dying penitent. But yet neither priests, nor physicians,, nor 
 any other who sought thus to escape, did find their caution of any advan- 
 tage ; for death not only raged without doers as well as in chambers, but, 
 as if it took indignation that any mortal shouM think to fly from it, 
 these kind of people died both more speedily and proportionably in 
 gteater numbers. Then was there death without sorrow, affinity with- 
 out friendship, wilful penance and dearth without scarcity, and flying 
 without refuge or succour. For many fled from place to place because of; 
 the pestilence ; some into deserts and places not inhabited, either in hope 
 OF despair. But quick-sighted destruction found them out, and nimble- 
 fOotcd misery was ever ready to attend, them. Others, having hired 
 boats or other vessels, into which they laid up provisions, thought, or at 
 least hoped, so to eliade the pow«r of the infection, but the destroying 
 dngel, like that in the Revelations, had me foot upoa the waters as well 
 
472 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 as on the land ; for, alas ! the very air they breathed being tainted, they. 
 drew in death together with life itself. The horror of these things made 
 others to lock themselves up in their houses, gardens, and sweet retired 
 places ; but the evil they intended to exclude pursued them through all 
 their defences ; and they had this only difference, to die without the com 
 pany of any that might serve or pity them. No physician could tell 
 the cause, or prescribe a cure ; and even what was saving to one was no 
 less than fatal to another. No astrologer could divine how or when it 
 would cease ; the only way left was to be prepared to receive it, and the 
 most comfortable resolution to expeqt it without fear." 
 
 The pestilence extended into Wales, where it raged violently ; and 
 soon afterwards passing into Ireland, it made great havoc among the 
 English settled in that island. But it was remarked ithat the native 
 Irish were little affected, particularly those that dwelt in hilly districts. 
 
 As to the Scots, they were said to have brought the malady upon 
 themselves. Taking advantage of the defenceless state of England, they 
 made a hostile irruption, with a large force, into the country. But they 
 had not proceeded far, when the calamity which they courted, and so 
 well deserved from their ungenerous conduct, overtook them. They 
 perished in thousands; and, in attempting to return home, they were 
 overtaken, before they could reach the border, by a strong body of the 
 English, who routed them with great slaughter. The remnant carried 
 the disease into Scotland, where its ravages were soon as destructive as 
 in the southern parts of the island. " Scotland," says the writer whom 
 we have already quoted, " partook of the universal contagion in as high 
 a degree and in the same manner as other countries had done before ; 
 only in this there was a difference, that whereas other nations sat still 
 and waited for it, the Scots did seem ambitious to fetch it among them- 
 selves !" However much Scotland may have had to complain of the 
 oppression and tyranny of England under the Edwards, it was ungene- 
 rous and unworthy of a brave people to attempt to retaliate on a nation 
 laid prostrate by the hand of Heaven. At the same time, there is no 
 reason to doubt that the general cause, whatever it was, of the pestilence, 
 would at any rate have soon extended to Scotland, as well as Wjales and 
 Ireland. 
 
 Early in the year 1349, the plague began to abate in England ; and 
 by the month of August, it had entirely disappeared. Its consequences, 
 however, continued for some time to be severely felt. During the preva- 
 lence of the disease, the cattle, for want of men to tend them, were 
 allowed to wander about the fields at random, and perished in such num- 
 bers as to occasion a great scarcity. Though the fields, too, were 
 covered with a plentiful crop of corn, much of it was lost for want of 
 hands to reap and gather it in. 
 
 The last dregs of this calamity were drained by that unfortiinate race, 
 the Jews. A belief spread over several countries that they had produced 
 the pestilence by poisoning the wells and fountains, and, in many places, 
 they were massacred in thousands by the infuriated populace. In seve- 
 ral parts ot Germany, where this persecution chiefly raged, tbe Jews 
 we'e literally exterminated. Twulve thousand of them were murdered 
 
TBB GREAT PLAGUE, 47i 
 
 <o 
 
 iu the single city of Mentz; and multitudes of them, in the extremity 
 of their despair, shut themselves up in their houses; and consumed them- 
 selves and their families and property with fire. The extent of such 
 atrocities, in a barbarous age, may well be imagined, when we remem- 
 ber the outrages which were produced by the cholera panic, only a 
 few years ago, in some parts of the continent. 
 
 Though the pestilence ceased in England in 1349, yet the destroying 
 angel continued his progress through other regions for several years 
 longer; marks of his presence remaining on record down to the year 
 1362. The world has suffered no similar visitation since; nor does its 
 older history give any account of a calamity of the same kind, equally 
 extensive and destructive. Even the pestilence, so eloquently described 
 by Gibbon, which ravaged a great part of the Roman empire, seems to 
 have been inferior in magnitude ; and the famous plague of Athens was 
 confined within a still narrower compass. In almost every other memo- 
 rable instance of the plague, it has been limited to a particular district, 
 or even a particular city. 
 
 Our present object has been merely to collect some circumstances of 
 the history of this most remarkable event, and not to enter into the 
 question of the theory of pestilence. We may, however, observe, that 
 not only was the great plague, of which we have heen speaking, preceded 
 and accompanied by disorders of the elements, tending to produce a 
 general corruption of the atmosphere, but the very same phenomena are 
 recorded in the other cases where the plague extended itself over various 
 regions. In those eastern countries, too, where the plague is found to 
 prevail almost constantly, it always occurs at times and places where the 
 atmosphere is corrupted, either by physical causes or by the shockingly 
 filthy habits of the inhabitants, or by both together. That a corrupted 
 state of the atmosphere, therefore, is a cause of the plague, cannot be 
 donbted ; and it is a question, whether to this certain cause it is neces- 
 sary to join the additional cause oi contagion. As the ascertained cause 
 suffices to account for every fact connected with the disease, we confess 
 we do not see the necessity for having recourse to two separate causes 
 for the same effect. And it is a strong circumstance, that in those coun- 
 tries where the disease is most familiarly known, little fear is entertained 
 of contagion. " The more intelligent among the Turks," says a recent 
 writer on this subject, " seem to be aware that the plague is not conta- 
 gious ; and we are assured that they do not destroy the bedding or clothes 
 of those who die of the distemper, but often immediately put them on 
 and wear them, without any ill effects, or the smallest apprehension from 
 contagion." 
 
 <% 
 
 The true value attaching to knowledge is — that it enlarges the dominion 
 of truth and happiness : beings without knowledge of some kind are as 
 wen walking in the dark. How many of the follies of mankind appear 
 to us as'ludicrous and grotesque, only because knowledge has shed round 
 about US a light altogether unknown to the swtors in the farce 3 
 2p2 
 
474 FIBLDS'S SCRAP-B^K. 
 
 DUELLING. 
 
 Life k the gift of G-od, and it never was bestowed to be sported with. 
 To each, the Sovereign of the universe has marked out a sphere to move 
 in, and assigned a part to act. This part respects ourselves no,t onlj, 
 but others also. Each lives for the benefit of all. 
 
 As in the system of nature the sun shines, not to display its own 
 brightness Jlnd answer its own convenience, but to. warm, enlighten, and 
 bless the world; so in the system of animated beings, there is a depend- 
 ence, a correspondence, and a relati&n,, through an infinitely extended, 
 dying, and reviving universe — " in which no man liveth to himself, and 
 no man dieth to himself." Friend is related to friend ; the father to his 
 family; the individual to community. To every member of which, hav- 
 ing fixed his station and assigned his duty, the God of nature says, " Keep 
 this trust — defend this post." For whom ? For*" thy friends ; thy 
 family ; thy country. And having received such a charge, and for such 
 a purpose, to desert it is rashness and temerity. 
 
 Since the opinions of men are as they (ire, do you ask how you shall 
 avoid the . imputation of cowardice, if you do not fight when you arc 
 injured ? Ask your family how you will avoid the imputation of cruelty; 
 ask your conscience how you will avoid the imputation of gui,lt; 
 ask God how you will avoid his malediction, if you do. These are pre- 
 vious questions. Let these first be answered, and it will be easy to reply 
 to any which may follow them. If you only "accept a challenge, when 
 you believe in your ci'Uscience that duelling is wrong, you act the cow- 
 ard. The dastardly fear of the world governs you. Awed by its 
 menaces, you conceal your seiltiments, appear in disguise, and act in 
 guilty conformity to principles not your own, and that too in the most 
 solemn moment, and when engaged in an act which exposes you to 
 dearth. 
 
 But if it be rashness to accept, how passing rash is it in a sinner 
 to give a challenge ? Does it become him, whose life is measured out by 
 crimes, to be extreme to mark and punctilious to resent whatever is amiss 
 in others ? Must the duellist, who, now disdaining to forgive'^ so impe- 
 riously demands satisfaction to the uttermost — must this man himself/ 
 trembling at the recollection of his offences,, preseatly appear a suppliant 
 before the mercy-seat of God ? Imagine this, (and the case is not ima- 
 ginary,) and you cannot conceive an instance of greater inconsistency or 
 of more presumptuous arrogance. Therefore " avenge not ^ourselves, 
 but rather give place unto wrath ; for vengeance is mine, I wifl repay, 
 saith the Lord." Do you ask, then, h'ow you shall conduct towards your 
 «-.nemy who hath lighdiy done you wrong ? If he be hungry, feed him ; 
 if naked, clothe bira ; if thirsty, give him drink. Such, had you pre- 
 ferred your question to Jesus Christ, is the answer he had given you. 
 By observing which-, you will usually subdue, and always act pore Lo 
 nourably than, your enemy. i 
 
riftbQUENT EXTRACT. 475 
 
 '^ ELOQUENT EXTRAoi. 
 
 " The sea is his, and he made it." Itc majesty is God. What Is 
 there more sublime than the trackless, desert, all-surrounding, unfathom- 
 able sea ? _ What is there moi'e peacefully sublime than the calm, gently, 
 heaving, silent sea ? What is there more terribly sublime than the 
 angry, 'dashing, foaming sea ? Power resistlessj overwhelming power, 
 is its attribute, and its expression, whether in the careless, conscious 
 grandeur of its deep rest, or the wild tumult of its excited wrath. It is 
 awful where its crested waves rise up to make a compact with the black 
 clouds, and the howling winds, and the thunder, and the thunderbolt, 
 and they sweep on, in the joy of their dread alliance, to do the Almighty's 
 bidding. And it is awful too, when it stretches its broad level out to 
 meet in quiet union the bended sky, and show in the line of meeting the 
 vast rotundity of the world. There is majesty in its wide expanse, 
 separating and englosing the great continents of the earth, occupying 
 two-thirds of the whole surface of the globe, penetrating the land with 
 its bays and secondary seas, and receiving the constantly pouring tribute 
 of every river, of every shore. There is majesty in its fulness, never 
 diminishing, and never increasing. There is majesty in its integrity, for 
 its whole vast surface is uniform; — ^in its local unity, for there is but 
 one ocean, and. the inhabitants of any one meridian spot may visit the 
 inhabitants of any other in the wide world. Its depth is sublime — who 
 can sound it ? Its strength is sublime — what fabric of man can resist 
 it ! Its voice is sublime,, whether in the prolonged song of its ripple, 
 or the stern music of its roar ; whether it utters its hollow and melan- 
 choly tones within a labyrinth of wave-worn caves, or thunder at the 
 base of some huge promontory ; or beats against some toiling vessel's 
 side, lulling the voyager to rest with its wild monotony j or dies away 
 with the calm and dying twilight, in gentle murmurs on some sheltered 
 shore. What sight is there more magnificent than Jhe quiet or the 
 stormy sea ? What music is there, however artful, which can be com- 
 pared with thp natural and changeful melodies of the resounding sea ? 
 
 Its beauty is of God. It possesses it, in richness of its own ; it 
 borrows it fri n earth, and air, and heaven. The clouds lend it the va- 
 rious dyes of their wardrobe, and throw down upon it the broad masses 
 of their shadows as they go sailing and sweeping by. The rainbow 
 laves in it its many-coloured feet. The sun loves to visit it, and the 
 moon, and the glittering brotherhood of planets and stars ; for they de- 
 light themselves in its beauty. The sunbeams return from it, in showers 
 of diaHf^nds and glances of fire ; the moonbeams find it in a pathway 
 of silver, when they dance to an^z-fro with the breeze and the waves 
 through the livelong night. It has a light, too, of its own, soft and 
 streaming behind a milky-way of dim and uncertain lustre, like that 
 which is shining dimly above. It harmonizes in its forms and sounds 
 both with the night, and the day. It cheerfully reflects the light, and 
 anites^lemnly with the darkness. It imparts sweetness to the mnsiv 
 of men, and grandeur to the thunder of heaven. 
 
476 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BidK. 
 
 ALPINE SCENERY. 
 
 It has always struck me that the ocean is the fittest emblem, and 
 conveys the deepest impression of God's immensity and eternity ;. tho 
 Alps, of his unapproachable power and everlasting unvariableness. In 
 the sea, wave succeeds wave for ever and for ever j billow swells upon 
 billow, and you see no end thereof. But magnificent a spectacle as ocean 
 ever is, at all times, and under all aspects, it still cannot be enjoyed with- 
 out some alloy. It must be seen eithfer from a ship, in which man enters 
 too much ; or from the land, which again breaks the unity of the idea. 
 
 The efiiect of the scenes among which the chamois-hunter lives, is 
 weakened by no such intrusion as this. Man's works enter not there. 
 From the moment he quits the chalet, in which he has taken his short 
 rest, until his return, he sees no trace of man ; but dwells amid scenery 
 stamped only with its Creator's omnipotence and immutability. Nature 
 is always interesting. Elsewhere she is lovely, beautiful : here she is 
 awful, sublime. Elsewhere she shrouds all things in a temporary repose, 
 again to clothe them with surpassing beauty and verdure. But here 
 there is no change : such as the first winter beheld them, after they 
 sprang from the hands of their Great Architect, such they still are — 
 like himself, unchangeable and unapproachable. Nor summer's heat 
 nor winter's cold have any effect on their everlasting hues ; nor can the 
 track or works of man stain the purity of their unsullied snows ! His 
 voice may not even reach that upper air to disturb " the sacred calm 
 that breathes around" — that stilly silence which holds for ever, save 
 when the lauwine wakes it with the voice of thunder! In such situa- 
 tions, it is impossible not to feel as far elevated in mind as in body, 
 above the petty cares, the frivolous pursuits, " the low ambition" of 
 this nether world. If any one desire really to feel that all is vanity 
 here below j if he wish to catch a glimpse of the yet undeveloped capa- 
 bilities of his nature, of those mysterious longings, after which the 
 heart of man so vainly yet so earnestly aspires ; let him wander among 
 the higher Alps, and ^lone. 
 
 Scenes like these must be seen and felt; they cannot be described. 
 Languages were formed in the plain ; and they have no words adequately 
 to represent the sensations which all must have experienced among 
 mountain scenery. A man may pass all his life in towns and the haunts 
 of men, without knowing he possesses within him such feelings as a 
 single day's chamois-hunting will awaken. A lighter and a purer air 
 is breathed there ; and the body, being invigorated by exercise and tem- 
 perance, renders the mind more capable of enjoyment. Thoughf"earthly 
 sounds there are none, I have often remarked, amid this solemn silence, 
 an undefinable hum, which yet is not sound, but seems, as it were, the 
 Mtill small voice of Nature communing with the heart, through other 
 senses than we aie at present conscious of possessing. 
 
 Bat not to analyze the cause of its charm, there is doubtless ^fascina 
 tion in the lonely sublimities of Alpine scenery, which nothing else 
 •iarthly, to my mind, can approach. And if the Arab feels such un- 
 
ALPINE SCENERY. 477 
 
 governable rapture when launching his courser into the bosom of thk 
 desert, is it to be wondered that the same transport should swell tha 
 Alp-hunter's breast, who enjoys the same sensation of freedom, the 
 same absence of man, with the addition of scenery of unparaltalcd 
 magnificence ? 
 
 Seldom or never have I experienced such thrilling yet tranquil de- 
 light as when reposing beneath some over-arching rock, in full view of 
 Mont Blanc, or Monte Rosa, with my chasseurs at my side, and perhaps 
 a dead chamois at my feet. 
 
 All was calm and silent. Nothing near us spoke of animated life, 
 except perchance a butterfly, borne by the storm far from its native 
 flowers. We seemed alone in the world ; but how different is this lone- 
 liness from that felt by those, " who, shut in chambers, think it loneli- 
 ness !" It was a solitude that exalted, not debased, the mental facul- 
 ties} that soothed, that purified, that invigorated the soul; that taught 
 one to forget this world indeed, but that raised the thoughts to anothei 
 and a better world. 
 
 If ever my earthly spirit has been roused to a more worthy contem- 
 plation of the Almighty Author of creation, it has been at such mo- 
 ments as these ; when I have looked around on a vast amphitheatre of 
 rooks, torn by ten thousand storms, and of Alps clothed with the spot- 
 less mantle of everlasting snow. Above me was the clear blue vault 
 of heaven, which at such elevations seems so perceptibly nearer and 
 more azure : far below me, the vast glacier, from whose chill bosom is- 
 sues the future river, which is there commencing its long course to the 
 ocean : high overhead, those icy pinnacles on which countless winters 
 have spread their dazzling honours. Who is there that could see him- 
 self surrounded by objects such as these, and not feel his soul elevated 
 from nature to nature's God ? Yes, land of the mountain and the tor- 
 rent ! land of the glacier and the avalanche ! who could wander amid 
 thy solitudes of unrivalled magnificence, without catching a portion, at 
 least, of the inspiration they are so calculated to excite ? I wonder not 
 that thy sons, cradled among thy ever-matchless scenery, should cling 
 with such filial affection to the mountain-breast that nursed them, and 
 yearn for their native cot amid the luxuries of foreign cities ; when even 
 a stranger, born in softer lands, and passing but a few months' pilgrim- 
 age within thy borders, yet felt himself at once attached to thee as' to a 
 second home j nor yet can hear without emotion the sounds that remind 
 him of thy hills of freedom ! How has my heart beaten as, slinging 
 my rifle at my back, and with walking-staff in hand, I have turned me 
 from the evil cares and worse passions of cities, to meet the breeze, 
 fresh from heaven, upon thy mountain's side, and listen to the Kuhrei- 
 hen of thy pastoral sons ! I would not exchange the recollection of th« 
 hours I have passed among thy more hidden sublimities, for the actual 
 and visible enjoyment of the tamer beauties of other countries ! The 
 future none can command ; but deeply grieved indeed should I be if I 
 thought I were never more to view thy pyramids of eternal snow hung 
 in mid-heaven above me, nor tread again, though perchance with le.v 
 elastic step, thy wide-spread fields of ice. 
 
478 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 VIRTUE. 
 
 Virtue has resoureas buried in itself, which we know not till the 
 invading hour calls -them from their retreats. Suirounded by. hosts 
 without, and when nature itself, turned traitor, is its most deadly enemy 
 within, it assumes a new and superhuman power, which is greater than 
 nature itself. Whatever be its creed, whatever be its sect, frpm what- 
 ever segment of theglobe its orisons arise, virtue is (rod's empire, and 
 from his throne of Jhrenes he will defend it. The ofbs of creation, the 
 islands of light which float in myriads on the ocean of the universe; 
 suns that have no number, pouring lights upon worlds, that, untravelled 
 by the wings of seraphim, spread through the depths of spa^e without 
 end ; these are, to the eye of God, but the creatures of a less exertion 
 of his power born to blaze, to testify his power, and to perish. But 
 virtue is more precious than all worlds, an emanation, an essence of 
 himself, more ethereal than the angels, more durable than the palaces 
 of heaven ; the mightiest masterpiece of Him who set the stars upon 
 their courses, and filled chaos with a universe. Though cast into this 
 distant earth, and struggling on the dim arena of a human heart, all 
 things above are spectators of its conflict or enlisted in its cause. The 
 angels have their charge over it ; the banners of archangels are on its 
 side ; and from sphere to sphere, tjirough the illimitable ether, and 
 round the impenetrable dafkness, at the feet of God, its triumph is 
 hymned by harps which are strung to the glories of its Creator! 
 
 THE INTEMPERATE FATHER. 
 
 Follow him, if you have a heart to do it, as he staggers along, now 
 and then licking the ground, till he reaches his once peaceful home. 
 " He's coming !" cry the little innocents, as they look through the win- 
 dow, but it is not the cry of joy, that welcomes the parent as he ap- 
 proaches his tender family ; ah, no ! it is the cry of fear — of horror. 
 See them flee from him as from a monster — ^look at the broken-hearted 
 mother, as she takes up her afixighted boy and bathes him with her 
 tears. " Ah," says she to her children, " your father once loved you — 
 once he loved me — he was a kind husband, and a provident parent ; but 
 now we are forsaken ; your little tender feet feel the nipping frost ; your 
 bodies shiver with cold ; your tattered clothes are falling from yon, and 
 I have no new ones to give ■; you are hungry, but I have no bread for 
 you ; the necessities of life your father was once wont to bring home to 
 cheer our hearts are now changed for the bottle, which some demon had 
 furnished him with, perhaps as the reward of his day's labour. Oh. 
 cruel employer ! come and behold the fruits of your iniquity ; see the 
 miseries entailed upon the wretched mother, and the worse than father- 
 less children, by your thirst of gain I" Let the imagination supply the 
 Tcm«ining part of the awful picture. 
 
A SEA-SIDE SKETCH. 479 
 
 A SEA-SIDE SKETCH. 
 
 3T MISS HITfOKD. 
 
 IdKE most of the inhabitants of this little island, I have been occa 
 sionally in the habit of spending some of the summer months aad the 
 early part of the autumn by the sea. But, excepting for one twelve- 
 month of my lifie> I was never a resident on the >ooast, and that residenee 
 occurred when I was between the ages of eight and ten, rather short of 
 the one period, and somewhat turned of the other. That was my only 
 opportunity of making acquaintance with the mighty ocean in its winter 
 sublimity of tempest and of storm ; and partly, perhaps, from the striking 
 and awful nature of the impression, partly from some peculiarity of 
 character and of situation, as a lonely, musing, -nsionary child, the reqal- 
 leetion remains mdelibly fixed in my memory, fresh and vivid, as if of 
 yesterday. It was a bold and dangerous coast, and the wintry tempest 
 was as perilous as it seemed. Often and often have I, refusing to go to 
 bed, watched, at an upper window, with the maid whose business it was 
 to attend me, on a December night, striving vo catch a glimpse, through 
 the almost palpable darkness, of some vessel straggling with the gale, 
 whose position was shown momentarily by the brief glare of the minute 
 gun, calling for unavailing aid, or the brighittr flash of the iightniiig, 
 which illumined sea and sky in lurid iiame, only to leave them in a mo£e 
 frightful obscurity. I have gazed through many a midnight, wavh 
 intense and breathless interest, on scenes like these ; and then, in ttie 
 morning, I have seen the cold, bright, wintry sun shining on the dancing 
 sea, still stirred by the breath of the tempest, and on the floating spra.y 
 and parted timbers of the wreck. Once, too, and only once, I saw a 
 human body thrown on shore amid the rocks. I watched the dark and 
 Btrange-lookiag ob^ct (it was the corpse of a sailor) as it lay tossing .on 
 the waves, without, in the slightest degree, suspecting it was a dead 
 body, until a fearful and unearthly shriek from a group of women 
 assembled on the beach informed me, that the helpless and almost shape- 
 less object which the waves had just flung ashore, was no other than the 
 swollen and blackened remains of a fellow-creature. I shall never for- 
 get that shriek. The wreck had beqn a trading vessel belonging to the 
 port, and the women assembled were the wives, mothers, sisters, and 
 children of the crew, one of whom had recognised her father in the dis- 
 figured corpse. I never can forget that cry. 
 
 It is related that when the Roman army topk rSyyacTjsp, Acehimedes, 
 the great geometrioian, was occupied with some gepmetric^l demonstra-- 
 tion. He heard nothing of the sounds of confusion^nd strife, and was 
 wholly insensible to all the scenes of suffering around Ijim; aftd when 
 the soldier who took his life entered the room where he was sitting, 
 calmly drawing the lines of a diagram, and placed a sword to his throat 
 -^" Hold, friend !" said Archimedes : " one moment, apd my demongtra 
 tion will be finished I" 
 
480 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 LIGHTNING RODS. 
 
 . It is most curious to find, that this very conductor or rod, which so 
 many meu of genius, learning, and ingenuity, have been at the pains 
 to complete, — which, in fact, has always been regarded as one o? the 
 proudest trophies of science — was known and employed by a people of 
 no more refined cultivation than the wild peasantry of Lombardy. The 
 Abb6 Berthollet, in his work on the Electricity of Meteors, describes a 
 practice used in one of the bastions of the Castle of Duino, on the 
 shores of the Adriatic, which has existed from time immemorial, and 
 which is literally neither more nor less than the process that enabled 
 Franklin to bring down lightning from the clouds. An iron staff, it 
 seems, was erected on the bastion of this castle during the summer, and 
 it was part of the duty of the sentinel, whenever a storm threatened, to 
 raise an iron-pointed halberd towards this staff. If, upon the approach 
 of the halberd, sparks were emitted, (which, to the scientific mind, would 
 show that the staff was charged with electricity from a thunder-cloud,) 
 then the sentinel made sure that a storm impended, and he tolled a bell 
 which sent forth the tidings of danger to the surrounding country. 
 Nothing can be more delightfully amiable than the paternal care of its 
 subjects which this interesting provision of the local government exem- 
 plified. The admonishing sound of the bell was obeyed like a preterna- 
 tural signal from the depths of the firmament; shepherds were seen 
 hurrying over the valleys, urging their fiocks from the exposed fields to 
 places of shelter. The fishing-boats, with which the coast of the Adri- 
 atic was generally studded, forthwith began to crowd sail and make for 
 the nearest port, while many a ' supplication was put up from many a 
 gentle and devout heart on shore, before some hallowed shrine, for the 
 safety of the little fieet. 
 
 THE HUMAN COUNTENANCE. 
 
 Thkre are few points in natural philosophy more remarkable than 
 the infinite diversity in the human figure and countenance. There are, 
 at this moment, eight hundred millions of human beings in existence, 
 and no two alike, and yet all substantially the same. An extended view 
 of this astonishing variety is obtained from the consideration, that since 
 the creation of the world, there has passed away more than a million 
 times the number now in being, and that no two of them, or any now 
 in life, were alike. And we have reason to believe, that of the endless 
 myriads of those who have preceded us, or those who now exist, and 
 who will follow us, each and every one had a distinguishing mark, either 
 in voice or feature, figure, or a something not to be gauged or measured, 
 and perhaps scarcely to be described. 
 
let's sit down and t/L". together..— the river. 481 
 
 LETS SIT DOWN AND VA^.K TOGETHER. 
 
 BT UAOKSLLAB. 
 
 Let's sit down and talk together 
 
 Of tne things of olden day, 
 VHien we, like lambkina loosed from tether, 
 
 Qayly tripp'd along the waj. 
 Time has tonofa'd na both with lightneu, 
 
 I/eaving farrows here and there. 
 And tinging with peculiar brightness 
 
 SilTerj threads among oar hair. 
 
 Let's sit down and talk together; 
 
 Man^ years away hare past; 
 And fiur and foal has been the weather 
 
 Since we saw each other laai. 
 Many whom we loved are liTing 
 
 In a better world than this; 
 And some among na still are giving 
 
 Toil and thought for present bliss. 
 
 ' Let's sK ^own and talk together; 
 
 Though £ht flowers of yoath are de«i. 
 The ferns atl?\ grow among the heather. 
 
 And for as th»ir ft-agranoe shed. 
 Life has a thonsard Uessings in it 
 
 Even for the aged man ; 
 And OoD has hid in eTez|r minatt 
 
 Something we may wisely scan. 
 
 Let's sit down and talk toge(htf ; 
 
 Boys we were, — we now are men,' 
 Wa meet a while, bat know not wk.'ifair 
 
 We shall meet to talk again. 
 Farting time has come : how fleetly 
 
 Speed the moments when their wingM 
 Are fann'd by breathings issning sweeN^ 
 
 From a tongue that never stings! 
 
 ODE. 
 
 BT THE BOSTON BARD. 
 
 WHZir freedom midst the battle-storm 
 
 Her weary head reclined. 
 And round her fair majestio form 
 
 Oppression fain had twined ; 
 Amidst the din— beneath the elond. 
 
 Great Washington appeared: 
 With daring hand roU'd back the shroad. 
 
 And thus the snfferer oheer'd. 
 
 Spurn, spurn despair ! be great, be f^e \ 
 With giant strength arise; 
 
 Stretch, stretch thy pinions. Liberty, 
 Thy flag plant in the skies! 
 
 Clothe, clothe thyself in glory's robe. 
 Let stars thy banner gem ; 
 
 Bnle, mle the sea — possess the globe- 
 Wear victory's diadem. 
 
 Go tell the world, a world is bom. 
 
 Another orb gives light; 
 Another sun illumes the morn. 
 
 Another star the night ! 
 Be just, be brave !— and let thy name 
 
 Henceforth Columbia be ; 
 Wear, wear the oaken wreath of fame. 
 
 The wreath of Liberty I 
 
 He said, and lo ! the stars of night 
 
 Forth to her banner flew; 
 And mom, with pencil dipt in light. 
 
 The blushes on it drew ; 
 Columbia's chieftain seized the priit^ 
 
 All gloriously nufurl'd; 
 Soar'd with it to his native skies. 
 
 And waved it o'er the world. 
 
 THE RIVEE. 
 
 RivzB ! river ! little river I 
 
 Bright yon sparkle on your way. 
 O'er the yellow pebbles dancing, 
 Throagh the flowers and foliage glancing. 
 
 Like a child at play. 
 
 River ! river ! swelling river ! 
 
 On you mah o'er rough and smooth- 
 Louder, faster, brawling, leaping 
 Over rocks, by rose-bank sweeping. 
 
 Like impetuous youth. 
 
 River! river! brimming river! 
 Broad and deep and still as Time: 
 
 2Q 31 
 
 Seeming still— yet still in motion. 
 Tending onward to the ocean. 
 
 Just like mortal 
 
 Kiver ! river ! rapid river! 
 
 Swifter now you slip away; 
 Swift and silent as an arrow. 
 Through a channel dark and narrow. 
 
 Like life's dosing d 
 
 River! river! headlong river t 
 Down yon dash into the sea; 
 Sea, that line hath never sounded. 
 Sea, that ^oyagfi hath never rounded, 
 like etvmikvl 
 
482 fields' S BCEAP^BOOK. 
 
 MISSISSIPPI VALLEY. 
 
 It is mentioned in the Encyislopsedia Americana, as a cfaaracterintio 
 of the JMississippi, belonging to very few of the long and large rivers, 
 that it rises in very cold regions, and runs towards the equator. By 
 thus flowing through almost every variety of climate, it is .the cnanaei 
 of conveyance to a .corresponding variety of products, and must thus 
 become the scene of the most active internal commerce on the globe, in 
 which the products of the extreme north will be exchanged against those 
 of the almost tropical regions in which it disembogues. " If," says the 
 article qnoted, " we except the Amazon, probably no other valley on the 
 globe will compare in size with that of the Mississippi j and it probably 
 surpasses all others in the richness and variety of its soil, and its general 
 adaptation to the support and comfort of civilized man. In extent, it 
 is like a continent ; in beauty and fertility, it is the most perfect garden 
 of nature." It embraces twenty degrees of latitude, and thirty of longi- 
 tude, which we may observe to be equal to the distance between Gibraltar 
 and Edinburgh, and to that which, in the same latittides in Europe, 
 comprehends Portugal, Spain, and Italy, and the Mediterranean enclosed 
 between them and the western coast of Greece. From the Oleanne point 
 on the Alleghany to the highest point of boat navigation on the Mis- 
 souri, is five thousand miles — by water, of course. What a picture is 
 this of magnitude and prospective wealth! But .how is the conception 
 of it enlarged by the reflection, that it is the demesne of a people whose 
 institutions give the greatest spur to industry, and make life in such a 
 region best worth having ! 
 
 MATERNAL LOVE. 
 
 Ir there is one mortal feeling free from the impurities of earthly frailty, 
 that tells us in its slightest breathings of its celestial origin, it is that of 
 a mother's love — a mother's chaste, overwhelming, and everlasting love 
 of her children. 
 
 The name of a mother is our childhood's talisman, our refuge and 
 safeguard in all our mimic misery ; 'tis the first half-formed word that 
 falls from a babbling tongue ; the first idea that dawns upon the mind ; 
 the first, the fondest, and the most lasting tie in which affection can bind 
 the heart of man. 
 
 It is not a feeling of yesterday or to-day ; it is from the beginning the 
 same, and unchangeable ; it owes its being to this world, but is inde- 
 pendent and self-existent, enduring while one pulse of life animates the 
 breast that fosters it ; and if there be any thing of mortality which sur- 
 vives the grave, surely its best and noble passion will never perish. 
 
 Oh I It is a pure and holy emanation from Heaven's mercy, implanted 
 ir the- breast of woman, for the dearest and wisest purposes^ to be kt 
 
MATBKNAL LOVE. 483 
 
 .lUce her truest and most sacred pleasure, and the safety and blessing of 
 her off8|«ing. 
 
 'Tis not seMsh passion, depending for its pernianeney on the recipro- 
 cation of its advantages ; but in its sincerity it casteth out itself, and 
 when the welfare of that object is at stake, it putteth away fear, and 
 knoweth not .weariness. It is not excited by form nor feature; but 
 rather by a happy perversion of perception, imbues all things with 
 imaginary beauty. It watches over our hel^^ss infancy with the ceaser 
 less benignity of a guardian angel, anticipates every childish wish, 
 humours every childish fancy, soothes every transient sorrow, sings our 
 sweet lullaby to rest, and cradles us on its warm and throbbing breast, 
 and when pain and sickness prey upon the fragile form, what me)dioine 
 is there like a mother's kisses ? what healing pillow like a mother's 
 bosom ? 
 
 And when launched upon the wide ocean of a tempestuous world, 
 what eye gazes on our adventurous voyage with half the eagerness of 
 maternal fondness, amid the sad yet not unpleasing contest of hopes, and 
 fears, and deep anxieties ? 
 
 When the rugged path of life has been bravely, patiently, and nobly 
 trodden — when prosperity has smiled upon us — when virtue has upheld 
 us amid the world's temptations — virtue which she herself first planted 
 in us — and when fame has bound her laurels round us, is there a heart 
 that throbs with a more lively or greater pleasure ? 
 
 Yet it is not prosperity, vith her smiles and ^ejauty, that trie? the 
 purity and fervour of a mother's love ; it is in the dark %nd dreary 
 precincts of adversity, amid the cold frowns of an unfeeling world, in 
 poverty ajid despair, in sickness and in sorrow, that it shines with a 
 brightness beyond mortality, and, stifling the secret agonies of his own 
 bosom, strives but to pour balm and consolatipn on the wounded sufferer ; 
 and the cup of misery, filled to overflowing, serves but to bind them 
 more firmly and dearly to each other, as the storms of winter bid the 
 sheltering ivy twine itself more closely rouqd Jhe withering oak. 
 
 Absence cannot chill a mother's love, nor can even vice itself destrpy 
 a mother's kindness. The lowest degrad,a,tions of human frailty cannot 
 wholly blot out the remembrance of. the first fond yearnings of your 
 affection, or the faint memorial of primeval innocence; nay, it seems as 
 if the very consciousness of the abject state of her erring child more 
 fully .developed the mighty force of that mysterious passion, which can 
 forget and forgive all things ; and though the youth of hqr .feirest hopes 
 may be as one cast off from God and man, yet will she not forsake him, 
 but participate in all things save his wickedness ! 
 
 I speak not of a mother's agonies when bending over the bed of death ! 
 nor of Rachel weeping for her children, because they were not ! 
 
 The love of a father may be as deep and sincere, yet it is calmer, and, 
 perhaps, more calculating, and more fully directed in the great periods 
 and ends of life; it cannot descend to those minutiae of affection, those 
 watchful cares for the minor comforts and gratifications of existence, 
 which a mother, from the finer sensibilities of her nature, can mor<> 
 readily appreciate. 
 
481 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK 
 
 The pages of history ahound with the records of maternal love in 
 every age and clime and evety rank of life ; but it is a lesson of never- 
 ending presence, which the heart can feel and acknowledge, and needs 
 not example to teach how to venerate. 
 
 Can there beia being so vile and odious, so dead to nature's impulse, 
 who, in return for constant care, such unvarying kindness, can willingly 
 or heedlessly wound the heart that cherished him, and forsake th<> 
 lonely one who nursed and sheltered him; who can madly sever tht 
 sweetest bonds of human union, and bring down the gray hairs of his 
 parents with sorrow to the grave ; who can leave them in their old age 
 to solitude and poverty, while he wantons in the pride of undeserved 
 prosperity ? 
 
 If there be, why let him abjure the name of man, and herd with the 
 beasts that perish, or let him feel to distraction that worst of human 
 miseries, 
 
 Hoir sharper than a serpent's tooth it is 
 To have a thankless child. 
 
 EVENING MUSIC AT SEA. 
 
 On one of the delicious afternoons of February, peculiar to the West 
 Indies, as the sun was declining below the western horizon, the beautiful 
 Hornet lay in a calm near the island of Cuba. The sea was uncom- 
 monly smooth, imparting hardly sufficient motion to the buoyant ship, 
 to disturb the sails as they lay listless against the masts. I had never, 
 until then, fully realized the oft-repeated comparison of the bosom of 
 the ocean to a mirror ; but now, the truth of it came home to me, and 
 I felt that there was sublimity even in the calm of the "vasty deep." 
 I could not gaze on it without being reminded, by contrasts, of the 
 tempests that at times sweep over it ; and thus was its stillness associated 
 with its commotion, its quiet with its power. 
 
 But though no breath raised a ripple on its surface, there was a 
 ceaseless, but gentle swell, as if, amid the coral beds beneath, some 
 lonely water-spirit slumbered, while the waters above rose and fell with 
 its steady breathing. Occasionally, " a sorrowing sea-bird" would flit 
 by unheeded, or descending kiss the wave, and soar aloft again till lost 
 in space. Then would a shining dolphin rush in pursuit of the terrified 
 flying-fish, and anon glisten in the fair depths, almost shedding light 
 through the waters with the gloss of his silvery sides. 
 
 The sun was setting. How glowingly came upon me the force of 
 tliuse lines — 
 
 Not, as in northern climes, obseurely bright^ 
 But one unolouded blaze of living light! 
 
 The whole ocean seemed of liquid gold ; and the sky, far up, glowed 
 as if some blazing spirit hovered in the void. The rays of the sun, 
 penetrating the water horizontally, looked like gilded cords, so distinct 
 and brilliant was the refraction. It was a scene to inspire emotions of 
 a lofty character. Before us was the glorious orb of light and life, sink- 
 
KVENINO MUSIC AT SEA. 485 
 
 ing, as it were, to rest in the wave-washed caverns of the deep ; beneath, 
 rolled the limitless ocean — fit emblem of the eternity over which we 
 hovered; and above, spread the viewless. ether, reflecting the deep blue 
 of the wave beneath, unmarred by a single cloud. 
 
 At this hour a few of the officers assembled on the forecastle to con- 
 template the scene ; and, recalling the joys of other days, to hold that 
 converse which in a small degree alleviates the privations of a seaman's 
 life. With characteristic versatility, they passed from topic to topic, 
 seldom dwelling long on one, till the shades of twilight fell around, their 
 feelings assumed a congenial hue, and graver themes were touched. The 
 pall of night, set with -stars, was thrown about the expiring day, and the 
 moon, shading off her watery panoply, rose full and clear, shedding a 
 broad stream of silver light as far as the eye could reach. 
 
 Then it was the remembrance of the past crowded up like odours from 
 a bed of flowers, lulling the feelings to that delicious calmness which 
 pleasant memories always inspire, and which none feel more sensibly 
 than the tempest-tossed mariner. The father dwelt in tenderness on his 
 distant family; the brother recalled the unbidden assiduities of a sister's 
 love ; and the son, as he leaned against the mast, his features set in the 
 sedateness of sober reflection, felt his heart softened by the recollection 
 of a mother's care But few remarks were made. All felt that the 
 silence which reigned above, beneath, and around should not be dis- 
 turbed. Each one had retired to the recess of his own heart — a sanc- 
 tuary too sacred to be violated. 
 
 Such was the state of feeling, when a clear melodious voice slowly 
 poured forth the first line of that exquisite song — " Home, sweet 
 home!" As the words, "Mid pleasures and palaces," swelled upon the 
 air, a single exclamation of pleasure escaped the hearers, and they again 
 relapsed into silence. We had often heard the song, but never t-id it 
 come so thrillingly as then. Had it been sung by even an ordinary per- 
 former, its effect would have been great; but breathed, as it was, with a 
 fervour and feeling I have never known excelled, in a voice full, manly, 
 and touching, it could but produce a powerful impression. As the 
 singer proceeded, the circle was augmented. The sturdy seaman seated 
 himself with calm gravity, and, by the side of the youthful midship- 
 man, listened with enthralled attention. The man whose locks were 
 whitened, equally with the boy whose features were unmasked by the 
 furrows of time and care, seemed to drink in the beautiful words as a 
 healing draught. 
 
 Oh, How magical is mnsic at such an boor ! 
 
 It comes to the heart like a flood of sunshine, dispelling its gathering 
 mists, and causing high aspirations to spring into strength and beauty. 
 The whole elevated above the narrowness of earth, and he seeks in 
 thought to commune with the intelligence of a higher -world, and with 
 
 that Being ' 
 
 Who plants his footsteps in the sea. 
 And rides upon the storm. 
 
 Thus were the feelings of the listenins group when the performer, at 
 2a2 
 
486 riELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 the close of the first yerse, eloquently burst fortb with the worjls, " There's 
 nO place like home !" An emotion was risible in all. There was a 
 tremonr in hiS voice, showing that he felt the influence of the line j an(' 
 when he concluded it, his pause was longer than usual, and a deep sigo 
 escaped him. 
 
 When he recommenced — " An exile from home," — the agitation in 
 those around was merged in attention at the ssng, but his increased. His 
 fcice was slightly averted, and the rays of the moon, as they fell upon it, 
 and glisteiie'd in the tear that rested on his cheek, gave additional effect 
 to the expression almost of agony stamped upon his features. He was, 
 indeed as I know, " an exile from home," thougi from what cause I 
 nevet could discover, — and the smothered grief of years was now loosed, 
 and flowed in unrestrained power over him. 
 
 He continued. As the song drew to a close his emotion increased, 
 with that of every one who listened. At length, as the line, " There's 
 no place like home," rose on the stillness of the hour the last time, a rush 
 of feeling was evident, and in many showed itself in tears ! The man, 
 who from childhood had " braved the foaming brine," and had stood 
 without fear on the brink of eternity ; and he, who, an outcast from the 
 society of the virtuous and the good, knew no home^ alike with the being 
 of turbid passions and unhallowed deeds, gave a tribute to him who had 
 so well-timed and so feelingly executed one of the most grateful songs 
 that ever greets the seaman's ear. Oh ! it was good to look on men I 
 had considered in iniquity, thus throwing open the floodgates of long- 
 pent affections, that they might once more gladden and purify the soul ! 
 I could not think such men entirely lost; I could but look on human 
 nature in a fairer and more pleasing aspect. 
 
 No one spoke ; and after a few moments, in which all else was banished 
 by the one dear thought of the distant home we had exchanged for our 
 " home upon the deep," each one sought his pillow, I do not doubt, a 
 purer and a better' man. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 I AM the child of the morning. I attend the bright spirits of the fairy 
 world, and gize with the eye of an eagle upon the burning sun as it 
 careers on high. I am not the offspring of poetry, althougb I often flit 
 across the poet's world. I drink of the streams that flow from the 
 regions of romance, and refresh myself among mines of sparkling 
 rubies that are scattered along my path. Years are to me as nothing, 
 for I am not the servant of tiine. Go l^'k th^ martyr at the stake ^hat 
 will cheer him when the fagot blazes at Ms feet ? He will answer 
 Hope. Ask the plague-stribken wretch, whOSu very touch is contamina- 
 tion, and the air he breathes is poison, what Sustains him in his agony ? 
 He will answer Hope 1 
 
 Without me, fame would lure but few to her blazing temple, for I cheer 
 them on ; when they are weary I point them onward; when they slumbei 
 I awake them; and when mists surround them, and they know i»ot where 
 
PRACTICAL SCIENCE. 487 
 
 tc tread, rcleai^them a way, I open the path before themy smooth its rug- 
 gednebs, lure them onward' with my "siren song" through, delightful 
 meadows, through- groveg, and by refreshing waters. 
 
 I have seen the being bereft of me hold the dagger in his hand, while 
 his raised arm and bared bosom told his determination : I have then 
 returned— I have whispered in his ear — the dagger has fallen at his feet 
 —the glow of health revisited his cheek — he has embraced his beloved, 
 and shed tears of joy around the home I have thus given him. Think 
 you that the incarcerated in the dungeon broods over nothing but his 
 wrongs ? that he dreams of nothing but revenge ? No, no, 1 hold my 
 magic glass before his vision, and the prison walls expand — flowers blow 
 in his path — music in his ear — and those he loves he again embraces. 
 These are alone for the innocent. I strengthen virtue — I add new hor- 
 rors to vice — I forsake the wretched culprit, he dies not like a man. 
 My habitation is not in the dark soul of the infidel, for I would lead 
 him to virtue, point him to other worlds, reveal floods of light, of life, 
 and of knowledge : he would cease to glory in his nothingness, to ao- 
 •knowledge himself the " dark being of chance." 
 
 PRACTICAL SCIENCE. 
 
 The practical results of the progress of physios, chemistry, and me- 
 chanics are of the most marvellous kind, and to make them all distinct 
 would require a comparison of ancient and modern dates; ships that were 
 moved by human lajjour in the ancient world are transported by the 
 winds ; and a piece of steel, touched by the magnet, points to the mari- 
 ner his unerring course from the old to the new world ; and by the exer- 
 tions of one man of genius, aided by the resources of chemistry, a power 
 which, by the old philosophers could hardly have been imagined, has 
 Deen generated rfbd applied to almost all the machinery of active life ; 
 the steam-engine performs not only the labour of horses, but of man, 
 by combinations which appear almost possessed of intelligence ; wagons 
 are moved by it, constructions made, vessels caused to perform voyages 
 in opposition to wind and tide, and a' power placed in human hands which 
 seems almost unlimited. To these novel and still extending improvements 
 may be added others, which, though of a secondary kind, yet materially 
 afiect the comforts of life — the collection from fossil laatierials of the 
 elements of combustion, and applying them so as to ill'uminate, by a 
 single operation, houses, streets, and even cities. If you look to the 
 results of chemical arts, you will find new substances of the most extra- 
 ordinary nature applied to various novel purposes ; you will find a few 
 experiments in electricity leading to the marvellous results of disarming 
 the thunder-cloud of its terrors, and you will see new instruments created 
 by human ingenuity, possessing the same powers of the electrical organs 
 of living animals. To whatever part of the vision of modem times you 
 cast your eyes, you will find marks of superiority and improvement; and 
 I wish to impress upon you the conviction, that the results of intelleo- 
 
488 JiBLDS'S I'.aM. HOOK. 
 
 tual labour or scientific genius are permanent and incapable of bein^ 
 lost. Monarchs change their plans, governments their objects, a fleet or 
 an army effect their purposes, and then pass away ; but a piece of Hteel 
 touched by the magnet preserves its character for ever, and secures to 
 man the dominion of the trackless ocean. A new period of society may 
 nend armies from the shores of the Baltic to those of the Euxine, and 
 the empire of the followers of Mohammed may be broken in pieces by a 
 northern people, and the dominion of the Britons in Asia may share the 
 fate of that of Tamerlane or Zengiskhan; but the steamboat which 
 ascends the Delaware or the St. Lawrence will continue to be used, and 
 will carry the civilization of an improved people into the deserts of Norti 
 America and into the wilds of Canada. 
 
 THE WIFE. 
 
 Feel'st thou no joy, no quiet bappinee s, ' 
 
 No soothing sense of satisfaction, in 
 
 Loving, and being loved ? Is there n) weight 
 
 Removed from the heart, in knowing there is one 
 
 To share all, bear all with thee ? To soothe grief, 
 
 Tea, to soften away its human pain 
 
 By a superior love, the cup to temper 
 
 "With words of consolation and sweet hope. 
 
 That even its very bitterness shall seem sweet, 
 
 Forgotten in the love that offers it ! — E. L. Ee^de. 
 
 Woman's love, like the rose blossoming in the arid desert, spreads lU 
 rays over the barren plain of the human heart, and while all round it is 
 black and desolate, it rises more strengthened from the absence of every 
 other charm. In no situation does the love of woman appear more beau- 
 tiful, than in that of wife; parents, brethren, and friends have claims 
 upon the affections; but the love of a wife is of a distinct and different 
 nature. A daughter may yield her life to the preservation of a parent, 
 a sister may devote herself to a suffering brother, but the feelings which 
 induce her to this conduct are not such as those which lead a wife to 
 follow the husband of her choice through every pain sCad peril that can 
 befall him, to watch over him in danger, to cheer him in adversity, and 
 even remain unalterable at his side in the depths of ignominy and shame. 
 It is an heroic devotion which a woman displays in her adherence to the 
 fortunes of a hapless husband. When we behold her in her domestic 
 scenes, a mere passive creature of enjoyment, an intellectual toy, bright- 
 ening the family circle with her endearments, and prized for the extreme 
 Joy which that presence and those endearments are calculated to impart, 
 we can scarcely credit that the fragile being, who seems to hold her ex- 
 istence by a thread, is capable of supporting the extreme of human 
 suffering; nay, when the heart of man sinks beneath the weight of 
 agony, that she should maintain her pristine powers of delight, and oy 
 her words of comfort and of patience, lead the distracted murmurer to 
 peace and resignation 
 
VISIT TO A MAD-HOUSE. 489 
 
 VISIT TO A MAD-HOUSE. 
 
 BY MALCOM. 
 
 We approached the asylum through spacious and beautiful grounds, 
 and having passed its gates, were conducted by its superintendent to its 
 secret cells. The first which we entered was tenanted by a raging 
 maniac, who stood before us with fettered hands, and visage fierce and 
 fiendlike, screaming curses upon nature, and shrieking out that there was 
 no God. His eyes glared like balls of fire, and the hell that raged 
 within him had scathed a once sanguine and athletic frame into a gaunt 
 spectre — a ghastly and thunder-stricken ruin. Though but in the sum- 
 mer of his years, his hair was silver gray, and streamed around his 
 brow, in wild and wintery wreaths. His bold and reckless spirit, in the 
 pride of intellectual power, had dared to search the unsearchable — ^to 
 question — to doubt — to disbelieve, till at length he sank into the abyss 
 of atheism, and nature seemed such a fearful and inscrutable mystery 
 to his bewildered mind, that he became horror-struck at his own thoughts, 
 and went raving mad. His fits of blaspheming fury were succeeded by 
 sudden dejection, and trembling terror, and sore dismay, when he would 
 sink down on his knees and weep like a child. We gladly returned 
 from this awful spectacle of a ruined spirit, and proceeded to the next 
 apartment, in which we beheld a victim of the gaming table. 
 
 Heir to a handsome fortune and naturally ambitious, he had associated 
 with the magnates of the land, and " vied in vanities" with the wealthi- 
 est and the worst of its sons. But his means, though great, were not 
 equal to his demands, and ashamed to retrench, he took to the gaming 
 table, where, with hopes deferred, health impaired, and fortune wasted, 
 his days and nights fevered away in agonizing dreams, till at length he 
 was cast out from the haunts of St. James's, a beggar and a maniac. 
 Upon entering the cell we found him seated on the floor, where, in 
 imagination, he pursued a phantom game, and raising his head at our 
 approach, he regarded us with a gaze of horror, and crying, with the 
 voice of despair, " Lost, all lost I" — sti-uck his head with his clenched 
 hands, and fell back upon the floor exhausted with agony. 
 
 " Did you ever see a fairy's funeral, madam ?" said Blake, the cele- 
 brated English painter, to a lady who happened to sit by him in com 
 pany. " Never, sir," was the reply. " I have," said Blake ; " but not 
 before last night. I was walking alone in my garden ; there was great 
 stillness among the branches and flowers, and more than common sweet- 
 ness in the air : I heard a low and pleasant sound, and knew not whence 
 it Came : at last I saw the broad leaf of a flower move, and underneath 
 I saw a procession of creatures the size and colour of green and gray 
 grasshoppers, bearing a body laid out on a rose-leaf, which they buried 
 with songs, and then disappeared." 
 
490 FIBLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 THE PRESIDENT'S RECEPTION AT NEW YORK. 
 
 [The following letter, from the pen of an accomplished foreigner, was intended solel; 
 for the perusal of a London friend; but has been politely handed us for publication.— 
 A'eio York Mirror.] 
 
 LETTER TO A FRIEND IN LONDON. 
 
 1 WISH you were in this country, my dear B., you would have much 
 to learn, and to unlearn. You would be surprised and delighted, al- 
 though you might miss some of your accustomed luxuries. I have not 
 myself forgotten you, nor our friends, nor our merry old England ; and 
 hallowed in my memory is the recollection of that spot, 
 
 ""Where Thames is seen. 
 Gliding between his banks of green, 
 While rival villaa on each side 
 Peep from their bowers to woo his tide, 
 And like a Turk between two rows 
 Of harem beauties, on he goes, 
 A lover, loved for even the grace 
 With which he slides from their embrace !" 
 
 But'here are scenes> although strangely different, yet of wonderful mag- 
 nificence, and a people who have been much misrepresented by foreign 
 bookmakers. I am now in New York, staying at the Mansion-house, 
 kept by a Mr. Bunker. It is in the lower part of Broadway, a large 
 
 building not unlike , where, you remember, we put up together. 
 
 This Broadway is really a fair street, several miles in length, and, al- 
 though not remarkable for any splendid buildings, (the City Hall is a 
 clever thing, surrounded by a small enclosure termed " the Park ;") but 
 throngs of well-dressed people occupy the sidewalks, and give it a 
 fashionable and happy look. There is, at the southern termination of 
 Broadway, a piece of land fenced off, divided into grass plots, and shaded 
 with pleasant trees. It commands a view next to the bay of Naples. 
 It is, indeed, surprisingly beautiful, and provokes continual exclamations 
 of delight from citizens as well as strangers. Before it and around it, 
 stretches the broad bay, studded with islands, and bounded with a bright 
 shore; steamboats, vessels of war, packet ships, sloops, and a great va- 
 riety of small craft, are for ever gliding over it, giving the scene a 
 striking character of animation. Here the military parade, fireworks 
 are exhibited, balloons ascend, and a thousand other little local affairs 
 attract large crowds. 
 
 At present the city is all in commotion. It is quite an era, and a 
 very interesting one,, in the history of the town, from the fact, that the 
 venerable President of the Republic is now, for the first time in many 
 years, a visitor. He is a man of extraordinary character, and, from his 
 earliest boyhood, has continually grown in popularity. You have heard 
 me before speak of General Jackson, the famous hero of New Orleans 
 — a military chieftain — a soldier of courage and genius, and unrivalled 
 firmness and decision — a statesman, prompt, fearless, and energetic. His 
 coming to New York has been for some time a topic of newspaper o<tser 
 
THE PBESIDENT's RECEPTION AT NEW YORK. 4&1 
 
 ment and congratulation, and of drawing-room ais well as tavern dis- 
 cussion. There is not, probably, living, a man so popular as this aged 
 chief; his name is in everybody's- mouth ; his pictures, busts, &o. have, 
 for many years, crowded the streets and print-shops, windows, parlours, 
 libraries, barber-shops, taverns, ~&c. &o. &o., and, on certain public occa- 
 sions, he has been from time immemorial, to the rising generation, repre- 
 sented in the evening on an illuminated transparency, with one war- 
 like hand resting on his unsheathed blade — ^a tremendous affair, .by the 
 way, which might have tested the strength of Sir William Wallace — 
 and the other leaning on the flowing mane of a steed of superb outlines 
 and dimensions, and so nettlesome, that we fancy the youthful Alexander 
 would not have been as ready to Ijack him as he was to mount Bu- 
 cephalus. 
 
 I do not mean to say that the President has been universally popular 
 — no, no; that would be a sad deviation from the custom of republics. 
 There has been against him, as against all others, a party, whose opposi- 
 tion has probably rendered the acclamations of his adherents more loud 
 and apparent. Their watchword is, " Hurrah for Jackson !" There is 
 not a little curly-pated imp of three years old, but will fling up his 
 tattered hat and cry out, " Hurrah for Jackson K' For years and years 
 this has been the state of the city in reference to their present Presi- 
 dent; and many measures of his administration have tended to overflow 
 the cup of his popularity, already full. The fact that, under his direc- 
 tion, a dangerous question, which threatened a dissolution of the Union, 
 has been amicably settled, has elevated the general enthusiasm and curi- 
 osity beyond all bounds. Besides this, a recent personal insult, offered 
 him by a crazy naval officer, has shocked the whole country, and all, 
 friends and foes, appear equally anxious to make every possible repara- 
 tion to him, whose gray hairs might have still protected him from actual 
 assault, if no respect was felt for the dignity of the office and the ser- 
 vices of the man. Hence you may judge, that on the day of his ex- 
 pected arrival, the streets presented a curious spectacle. There are 
 more than two hundred thousand inhabitants in New York, and, I do 
 believe, the greater part of them thronged toward the place where the 
 celebrated soldier and venerable statesman was expected to land. The 
 Scene was imposing, grand, and sublime. It will probably live on the 
 page of history, as one of the most impressive and romantic events of 
 the times. 
 
 Fancy, my dear B., a proud, great city — ^lofty houses — trees — fences 
 — all swarming with multitudes, all anxious to get a glimpse of the hero as 
 he passed from the superb shore. On landing, he was received by. Major 
 General Morton at the head of his column, a gentleman of the old 
 school, to whom I had letters from you, and with whose acquaintance I 
 am greatly pleased. He addressed the President in an appropriate, con- 
 cise, and pointed speech, and the line of march was taken up through 
 the city. The distinguished visitor rode through the most magnificent 
 street on this continent to his hotel. 
 
 The Battery, a large area, was a living mass of human beings ; troops, 
 horse and foot, and thousands and thousands of ditizens ; the bay covered 
 
492 FIBLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 \rith steamboats and' other vessels ; flags floating ; cannon roarinfi; ; 
 music swelling on the wind ; bursts from the trumpet that made the 
 pulses wild, and, over the whole, the cheers and loud acclamations of the 
 crowd. 1 was well accommodated with a seat at the hotel, which is 
 situated (or, as the Americans say, "located") in the widest part of the 
 street, and where the throng, carriages, carts, stages, gigs, horses, and 
 foot-passengers amounted to suffocation, and furnished, certainly, one of 
 the most impressive sights that I ever beheld. The wide street through 
 which, for hours, the tide of human beings had been rushing steadily 
 with the heavy sound and motion of a strong current, was at length filled 
 and dammed up completely, as far as the eye could reach. Windows, 
 up to the fourth story ; nay, the vary house-tops, and the roofs of the 
 churches and all the public buildings were crowded. They were well- 
 behaved folks, and waited patiently till a troop of horse rode through 
 the vast, dense assembly, in order to make way for the principal object 
 of interest, whose arrival had already been announced by the cannon. 
 The trumpeter blew his blast, long and loud ; the hoofs of the horses 
 rattled over the stones; a passage was at length cleared, only wide 
 enough for two or three horsemen . abreast. The President had been 
 much abused ; his face, form, and health had been caricatured and mis- 
 represented. He had been termed a feeble, sickly, dying old man, and 
 by some an " old woman," suflFering under the weakness of age and im- 
 becility, and incapable of acting for himself. The excitement at this 
 moment was really intense, and it was not allayed by a rumour which 
 flew from lip to lip, that, in crossing from a fort a little out in the bay 
 to the main land, the bridge had given way, and also a covered arch, 
 bearing scores of people, a single moment after the President had passed 
 from beneath it. All the great men in company with him had been 
 precipitated, with numbers of others, into the water — and in the confu- 
 sion of the moment, it was said that many were dangerously wounded, 
 that some were killed, and that the escape of the President was miracu- 
 lous. Presently my ears were stunned with the burst of voices which 
 announced that the crowd had caught sight of him. The waving of 
 hats and handkerchiefs grew nearer, till amid the thousands beneath me 
 that rocked and heaved like a tumultuous sea, I saw a group of officers 
 richly dressed, and among them, and distinguished by the simplicity of 
 his attire — ^by his tall, commanding form and dignified demeanor — his 
 bare venerable head and calm expression of face, I saw the President 
 himself mounted — reining his horse with the air of an accomplished 
 rider, and waving his hat continually, and bowing to the thousands and 
 thousands who, above, below, and all around, were greeting his course 
 with thundering cheers. Do you not remember a passage in Shakspeare 
 exactly applicable to this ? 
 
 Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, 
 Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know, 
 With slow but stately pace kept on his course : 
 You would have thought the very windows spake. 
 So many greedy looks of young and old 
 Through casements darted their desiring eyes 
 
THE president's RECEPTION AT NEW TORE. 493 
 
 Upon his visage ; and that all the walls, 
 
 With painted imagery, had said at once, 
 
 " Jesn preserve thee ! Welcome, Bolingbroke !" 
 
 Whilst he, from one side to the other turning, 
 
 Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed's neck, 
 
 Bespake them thus: — "I thank you, countrymen^' 
 
 And thus, still doing, thus he passed along. 
 
 There was, really, in this sight a good deal of the moral sublime. Cin- 
 einnatus from his plough would scarcely appear more unassuming than 
 this great man in his plain black dress. 
 
 The city is all in excitement on this, as well as on one or two other 
 subjects. A balloon has gone up — and an Indian chief with his son, and 
 a prophet of the tribe which have been recently conquered by the go- 
 vernment, are also in town. The Vice President, Mr. Van Buren, is also 
 a sojourner — and some of the Secretaries of the Departments — and yes- 
 terday I ran against a gentleman, whom, upon a nearer view, I recognised 
 as Washington Irving — and the dense knows what else there is to fer- 
 ment the population. What did old mother TroUope mean by saying that 
 the Americans had no enthusiasm ? Why, they are tinder. They burn 
 spontaneously. Eight or ten thousand of them assembled yesterday on 
 the Battery to see a balloon ascend. I am a great friend to balloons; 
 they are so elegant, and airy, and careless, like a fine gentleman, or a 
 poet, or a belle, or a butterfly. They tell odd things of those inflated 
 nachines, too. You have heard of the aeronaut who ascended with hia 
 Jg. The parachute was overturned at an indefinite height, and both 
 were precipitated (that is scarcely the word — overset) into the air. The 
 man fell, was whirled about for a long time by the conflicting currents 
 of wind, and after having been abandoned to his fate for three or four 
 hours, he heard his little dog somewhere near him barking in the air! 
 If I had not seen this story actually printed, I should scarcely believe 
 it. The New York man is a bold fellow; he goes up really in magni- 
 ficent style. The inflation takes place in a fort, (now converted into a 
 public ice-cream garden,) on the shore of the bay. The place itself is 
 generally filled, and also the surrounding stream, walks, streets, &c., 
 with boats, pedestrians, carriages, and all the et ceteras. Imagine a 
 delicious, sunshiny afternoon ; a soft Italian air ; a heaven with scarcely 
 a cloud, all blue and transparent; the thronging thousands waiting 
 around. At length a little balloon — a pioneer — ascends, and is borne 
 off rapidly by the light breeze, till it is lost in the sky. Presently the 
 huge globe of brown silk looms up above the edges of the wall with a 
 beautiful motion; swinging, floating, and displaying all the aspiring 
 impulses of an eagle eager for the flight, and scarcely retainable on 
 earth. 
 
 The arrangements within are at length completed. The huge mass 
 rises slowly, clear and free into the air. The car, with its adventurous 
 pilot, is greieted with multitudinous cheers, and off they float upward 
 and away upon the gale — flags waving, huzzas mingling, cannon firing, 
 horses prancing, and the lonely vessel smoothly gliding into the blue and 
 high distance till it fades to a speck. Among the spectators of this 
 Bcene were Black Hawk and his narty. These Indians are great curio- 
 3R 
 
494 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 gities to mc. Nothing makes me more strikingly realize that I am in 
 America — that a broad ocean rolls between you and me- The savages 
 who infest the frontiers of the republic have no idea that the whites com- 
 prise more than a handful of men, and fancy they may be conquered by 
 perseverance. Several of them were conducted on a tour through the 
 country some years since, and of course were astonished. On going back 
 to their peoftle, they detailed the wonders they had seen ; but such 
 monstrous stories gained no credit ; they were for some time the objectj 
 of ridicule and persecution, till at length, in self-defence, they recanted 
 It is the desire of the government that the present chief may see and 
 judge for himself of the extent of the people with whom they presume 
 to war. 
 
 The President was also on the grouad at the hour for the ascension 
 of the balloon. He was, as before, ever greeted with acclamations, and 
 continues to be the victim of reports. One paper says, " A story has 
 become very current, that President Jackson intends uniting himself to 
 a very amiable and accomplished lady in Connecticut, and that the 
 nuptials are to be celebrated during his present visit. We presume the 
 story, like many similar reports, is without the least foundation in truth." 
 Another announces, that " among other tokens of respect which will be 
 shown to the President and Vice -President, about _/fDe thousand of the 
 fairest of the fair, unmarried, and young, elegantly dressed in white, will 
 join in a procession to meet and greet them on their arrival in Lowell, 
 in the state *of Massachusetts." 
 
 Here is a specimen of the enthusiasm with which his words are 
 observed and reported, from one of the newspapers : 
 
 " When the President appeared on the balcony of the City Hall, and 
 witnessed the countless multitudes of well-dressed, orderiy citizens, who 
 had assembled to do honour to the first magistrate of the republic, and 
 to testify the reverence and affection so well due to the public services 
 and individual character of the incumbent — when he heard the long 
 rolling thunders of their enthusiastic cheering, he felt that it was to their 
 noble and happy institutions that this people were doing honour, and 
 were thus giving the most sincere of all pledges of their endearing attach- 
 ment to, and worthiness of, such high advantages. His forgetfulness of 
 ^elf, and his singleness of devotion to the common weal, were never more 
 strikingly displayed than in the half unconscious remark which fell from 
 his lips, as the magnificent scene presented itself before him. Turning 
 to Governor Marcy, with a quivering lip, but a brightening eye, he said, 
 "Nullification will never talce root here I" Even at that moment, the 
 -proudest and dearest to himself in all his lifetime, he could think only 
 of his country and its welfare. 
 
 As for myself, I have witnessed the entrance into cities of victorious 
 generals and the coronations of kings, but I never saw a sight presenting 
 such a striking example of the moral sublime, as the entrance into New 
 York of that tall old man, in simple attrre, with his gray, uncovered 
 head, bending to the salutations of his countrymen. 
 
 Yours, sincerely, 
 
 F. A. K 
 
THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA. 46^5 
 
 THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA. 
 
 The most stupendous work of ttis country is the great wall that 
 divides it from Northern Tartary. It is built exactly upon the same 
 plan as the wall of Pekin, being a mound of earth cased on each side 
 with bricks or stone. The astonishing magnitude of the fabric consists 
 not so much in the plan of the work as in the immense distance of 
 fifteen hundred miles over which it is extended, over mountains of two 
 and three thousand feet in height, across deep valleys and rivers. The 
 materials of all the dwelling-houses of England and Scotland, supposing 
 them to amount to one million eight hundred thousand, and to average, 
 on the whole, two thousand cubic feet of masonry or brick work, are 
 barely equivalent to the bulk or solid contents of the great wall of China. 
 Nor are the projecting massy towers of stone and brick included in this 
 calculation. These alone, supposing them to continue throughout at 
 bow-shot distance, were calculated to contain as much masonry and brick 
 work as all London. To give another idea of the mass of matter in 
 this stupendous fabric, it may be observed that it is more than sufficient 
 to surround the circumference of the earth on two of its great circles 
 with two walls, each six feet high and two feet thick ! It is to be under- 
 stood, however, that in this calculation is included the earthy part in 
 the middle of the wall. — Barrow's Travels in China. 
 
 6ASPIRINI, THE BANDIT. 
 
 This bandit lived at Rochefort. Foi; some years he was much dreaded 
 by •travellers, 'though never guilty of cruelty. Some years ago, he deter- 
 mined to rob a diligence, as it was passing at nightfall through a wood. 
 He stuffed half a dozen coats, and fixed them on poles, with formidable 
 caps and presented arms. When the diligence arrived, he ordered the 
 postilion to stop ; he then made the conductor and passengers alight, 
 and in a resolute tone, pointing to his supposed companions, whom he 
 had arranged in the skirts of the wood, desired the triftiks to be opened, 
 and took what he thought proper, saying to the affrighted travellers, 
 "Don't be alarmed, allow me to take what I require, and depend upon 
 it my troops shall not advance a step further ; from them, I assure you, 
 you have nothing to fear." When taken, he was sentenced to the gal- 
 leys for life. When the gensd'armes went to scour the wood, they came 
 up with half a dozen robbers, who appeared determined to stand their 
 ground. They simimoned them to surrender; and receiving no reply, 
 fired a volley, and advanced to the attack sword in hand. They then 
 discovered that the' banditti were but stuffed coats. — Statistics of Trance, 
 hy Lewis Goldsmith. 
 
496 FIKLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 INDEPENDENT EXISTENCE -OF MIND. 
 
 We have, in truth, the same kind of evidence for the existence of 
 mind that we have for the existence of matter ; namely, from 'ts pro- 
 perties ; and of the two, the former appears to be the least liable to 
 deception. "Of all the truths we know," says Mr. Stewart, "the 
 existence of mind is the most certain. Even the system of Berkely con- 
 cerning the non-existence of matter is far more conceivable than that 
 nothing but matter exists in the universe." A similar mode of reason- 
 ing may be applied to the modification of materialism more prevalent in 
 modern times, by which mind is considered as a result of organization, or, 
 in other words, a function of the brain ; and upon which has been 
 founded the conclusion, that, like our bodily senses, it will cease to be 
 when the bodily frame is dissolved. The brain, it is true, is the centre 
 of that influence on which depend sensation and motion. There is a 
 remarkable connection between this organ and the manifestations of 
 mind ; and by various diseases of the brain these manifestations are 
 often modified, impaired, or suspended. We shall afterwards see that 
 these results are very far from being uniform ; but even if they were 
 uniform, the facts would warrant no other conclusion than that the brain 
 is the organ of communication between the mind and the external world. 
 When the materialist advances a single step beyond this, he plunges at 
 once into conclusions which are entirely gratuitous and unwarranted. 
 We rest nothing more upon this argument, than that these conclusions 
 are unwarranted ; but we might go farther than this, and contend, that 
 the presumption is clearly on the other side, when we consider the 
 broad and obvious distinctions which are exercised through the means of 
 bodily organization. They do not admit of being brought into compari- 
 son, and have nothing in common. The most exquisite of our bodily 
 senses are entirely dependent for their exercise upon impressions from 
 external things. We see not without the presence both of light and a 
 body reflecting it; and if we could suppose light to be annihilated, 
 though the eye were to retain its perfect condition, sight would be ex- 
 tinguished. But mind owns no such dependence on external things, 
 except in the origin of its knowledge in regard to them. When this 
 knowledge has oace been acquired, it is retained and recalled at pleasure ; 
 and mind exercises its various functions without any dependence upon 
 impressions from the external world. That which has long ceased to 
 exist is still distinctly before it ; or is recalled, after having been long 
 forgotten, in a manner even still more wonderful; and scenes, deeds, 
 or beings, which never existed, are called up in long and harmonious 
 succession, invested with all the characters of truth, and all the vivid- 
 ness of present existence. The mind remembers, conceives, combines, 
 and reasons ; it loves, and fears, and hopes, in the total absence of any 
 impression from without that can influence, in the smallest degree, these 
 emotions ; and we have the fullest conviction that it would continue to 
 exercise the same functions in undiminished activity, though all mate- 
 
INDEPENDENT EXISTENCE OF^MIND, 497 
 
 rial things were at once annihilated. This argument, indeed, may he 
 considered as only negative ; but this is all that the subject admits of. 
 For, when we endeavour to speculate directly on the essence of mind, 
 we -are immediately lost in perplexity, in consequence of our total igno- 
 rance of the subject, and the use of terms borrowed from analogies with 
 material things. Hence the unsatisfactory-nature of every ph/siological 
 or rdetaphysical argument respecting the essence of mind, arising eutirely 
 from the attempt to reason the subject in a manner of which it is not 
 susceptible. It admits not of any ordinary process of logic; for the 
 facts on which it rests are the objects of consciousness only; and tb" 
 argument must consist in an appeal to the consciousness of every man, 
 that he feels a power within totally distinct from any function of the 
 body. What other conception than this can he form of that power by 
 which he recalls the past, and provides for the future — by which he 
 ranges uncontrolled from world to world, and from -system to system — 
 surveys the works of all-creating Power, and rises to the contemplation 
 of the Eternal Cause ? To what function of matter shall he liken that 
 principle by which he loves and fears, and joys and ^rrows — by which 
 he is elevated with hope, excited by enthusiasm, or sunk in the horrors 
 of despair ? These changes also he feels, in many instances, to be equally 
 independent of impressions from without, and. of the condition of his 
 bodily frame. In the most peaceful state of every corporeal function, 
 passion, remorse, or anguish may range within; and, while the body is 
 racked by the most frightfyl diseases, the mind may repose in tranquillity 
 and hope. He is taught by physiology, that every part of his body is 
 in a constant state of change, and that, within a certain period, every 
 particle of it is renewed. But, amid these changes, he feels that the 
 being whom he calls himself remains essentially the same. In particu- 
 lar, his remembrance of the occurrences of his early days, he feels to be 
 totally inconsistent with the idea of an impression made upon a material 
 organ, except he has recourse to the absurdity of supposing that one - 
 series of particles, as they departed, transferred the picture to those 
 which came to occupy their room. If the being, then, which exists- 
 between the ;peculiar phenomena of mind, and those functions which we - 
 call mind or soul, be, to the utmost extent of our knowledge, thus dis- 
 similar to, and distinct from any thing that we know to be a result of ' 
 bodily organization, what reason have we to believe that it should be ■ 
 affected by any change in the arrangement of material organs, except' in v 
 so far as relates to its intercourse with this external world. The effects 
 of that change which we call the death of an animal body are nothing 
 more than a change in the arrangement of its constituent elements; for 
 it can be demonstrated, on the strictest principles of chemistry, that not' 
 one particle of these elements ceases to exist. We have, in fact, no eon 
 ception of annihilation ; and our whole experience is opposed to the belief '' 
 of one atom that ever existed having ceased to exist. There is, there- 
 fore, as Dr. Brown has well remarked, in the very decay of the body, air 
 analogy which would seem to indicate the continued existence of ther 
 thinking principle, since that which we term decay is itself only another.' 
 qame for continued existence. To conceive, then, that any thing. meataii' 
 2r2 32 
 
4&8 FIBLDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 ceases to exist after death, when we know that every thing corporeat 
 continues to exist, is a gratuitous assumption, contrary to every rule of 
 philosophical inquiry, and in direct opposition, not only to all the facts 
 relating to mind itself, but even to the analogy which is furnished by 
 the dissolution of the bodily frame. 
 
 THE FEIENDS 
 
 Forget thee ! in the hannutit halls, 
 G-o nsk my fellow-men j 
 
 Or ask the tear that secret falls, 
 If I forget thee then. 
 
 At a lively pleasant party, towards the close of the fall of 18 — , I 
 
 was introduced to Charles N . It was at the house of an intimate 
 
 friend of mine, some little distance out of town. We had a ball in the 
 evening, and, I re(jpllect,.were uncommonly gay. I never was in better 
 spirits than in moving through a cotilion with the pretty Miss T — ■■ — • 
 we both betrayed our ignorance of one part of the figure. There is 
 something very agreeable, at times, in these mutual mistakes. When 
 we had sat down after the first cotilion, my wandering attention was 
 ■ arrested by a young gentleman whose entrance I had not observed. He 
 was apparently about twenty-seven years of age ; his figure was thin, 
 but fine ; his features were regular, his eye dark and expressive, and but 
 for the gloom that rested on his pale countenance when I first beheld 
 him, I should have called him eminently handsome. But in that gloom 
 there was sn much of mental sufiering; and so much of absolute wreteh- 
 oilness — such an .absence of all hope, and such a shade of settled despair — 
 that you became uneasy while you contemplated it, and turned away as 
 from an inspirer of painful thoughts. I felt the melancholy to be con- 
 tagious, and began to chat and laugh with a group near me to draw ofiF 
 ray attention from that gloomy brow and compressed and sunken lipj 
 but in vain. My eyes involuntarily returned, as under the influence of 
 fascination ; and, even while I talked with some appeara^nce of earnest- 
 ness to the lady who sat next to me, I could not avoid giving a stealthy 
 gjance at the young stranger. There he sat as I first remarked him — 
 near a window, and somewhat retired from the rest of the company ;. 
 his head resting on his hand, which he now and then passed through 
 his rich, dark hair— ^from habit, as it were, for he was evidently in a 
 revery, far from the present scene and its -hilarity. The bright eyes of 
 beautiful women, sparkling with animation and joyous lexcitement, attract 
 ed<him not. Tho soft, half wanton whisper, and the louder tone of festal 
 mirth, were equally unheeded. A lady was called upon to entertain the 
 company with music. I was delighted to see her sit down to the harp — 
 that loveliest of instruments — it shows oflF a fine voice and a fine arm 
 ho well. She conimeneed a sweet and plaintive air. It was an old- 
 fashioned strain that I was fond of when a boy. The deep swell of the 
 iiiiisic apoearedi to have ^.pow^rful effect upon the young stranger. He 
 
TflE FRIENDS. 499 
 
 atartrid from his revery, roused himself, and seemed determined to make 
 up for his former unsociability by striving to be agreeable. I never saw a 
 more sudden change in an individual. I would scarcely have recognised 
 him, so altered was his countenance and manner. He began a gay 
 ctinversation vrith a smiling, rosy-lipped little girl he had not before 
 condescended to notice ; offered her his arm, and they joined b, group 
 around the fair harper. I observed him. It appeared to me that- his 
 gayety was unnatund — unhealthy- -forced. It was not the free flow of 
 heartfelt joy. Probably it appeared the more so to me from contrasting 
 it with the gloomy expression that first caught my notice. His deport- 
 ment was now' elegant and graceful ; and his attentions were evidently 
 by no means unacceptable to the lovely creature who was hanging on 
 his arm, nor to those who joined her for a share of the handsome young 
 gentleman's conversation. This person had deeply interested me, and 
 when the music was over I desired my friend to introduce me. He 
 immediately complied ; and the stranger was introduced to me as Charles 
 
 N , an English gentleman, who had just arrived from a tour through 
 
 GUI' country. Young men are soon acquainted, especially where there 
 is a congeniiality of sentiment and feeling; and it was not long before 
 we were en^ged in an interesting conversation. His language was 
 correct and polished, his address easy and gentlemanly ; he had travelled 
 over the greater part of Europe; and his mind was well stored with 
 information; his observations displayed a knowledge of the world, and, ■ 
 on literary subjects, a refined elegance of taste. I was much pleased 
 with him, for he was decidedly a superior man. When he grew animated 
 on some subject that particularly interested him, and his eyes kindled, 
 and his countenance shon^ with a transient enthusiasm, I thought him 
 one of the niost captivating beings I had ever beheld. But then there 
 was that return of melancholy depression ; and when he had been 
 wrought up to an excitement on any favourite effusion of poetry or 
 romance, his countenance would settle down into an expression of exhaus- 
 tion — a repose of gloom, which seemed natural to it, and the necessary 
 reaction of an unusual excitement; then, by a painful effort, he would 
 endeavour to keep up his share of the spirit of the conversation, and 
 beam forth with some brilliant stroke of wit or lively sarcasm, and be 
 mirthful for a moment ; and I could perceive that he possessed a keen 
 sense of the ridiculous, and that, at a time when his mind was freer and 
 his heart calmer, he must have been a most entertaining companion. 
 I was convinced that there was some hidden grief that lay like an incubus 
 on his soul, and shut out all enjoyment. I felt a powerful sympathy for 
 him — a desire to alleviate his iftelanoholy, not unmingled with a curiosity 
 as to the cause. I kept near him during the remainder of the evening ; 
 I exerted myself to appear cheerful ; 1 endeavoured to lead him into 
 '.onversation on topics in which I thought he would feel an interest, and 
 to prevent the mind from reverting upon itself, and feeding- on its own 
 dark thoughts; I tried to draw himinto the dance, but without effect. 
 " I will enjoy it more by looking on," said he, with a faint smile — " I am 
 »fraid," added he, "my dancing days are over." He sighed. I rsllied 
 b'.m about such a bachelor declaratiw in a fine-looking young fellow tc 
 
500 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOR. 
 
 whom the girls were waiting to be gracious; but I saw it gave pain, and 
 ceused. 
 
 We stole off before the company broke up, and, as it was a beautifu' 
 moonlight night, with a fresh, bracing air, we agreed to walk home. He 
 took my arm, and I accompanied him to his lodgings. Our conversation 
 was on different topics; the persons we had met— the current news of 
 the day; and there were long pauses; and each one appeared to be 
 absorbed in his own meditations. Once we engaged on the subject of 
 youthful hopes and attachments ; but as I perceived it occasioned some 
 painful emotion on his part, I began to chat about the beauty of the 
 evening, and the pretty lady who had listened to his honeyed flatteries, 
 nothing loth. 
 
 An acquaintance was formed, and we frequently met. Sometimes ho 
 was gay, and would give loose to his powers of wit and playful satire; some- 
 times he was reserved, moody, sad. On all occasions he was unequal, 
 and restless and fitful in his mirth. His vivacity would be crossed by 
 that continually returning depth of gloom ; and his- laugh would subside 
 into an indescribable expression of internal suffering. There was a sad- 
 ness that could not be removed ; and there was clearly remorse in it. I 
 could perceive this in his start; his secret shudder, almost imperceptible 
 in his troubled eye; and the slight perspiration on his fine manly brow. 
 The vulture might be scared away for a moment, but was sure to return 
 with a keener glance and a whetted beak. Still he was anxious to amuse, 
 and would open his portfolio of engravings, some of which were very 
 beautifully executed. He would describe such of the scenes as he had 
 himself visited, and would now and then forget his griefs over sonae wild 
 ■and beautiful landscape of Switzerland or Italy. , He possessed a talent 
 for drawing, and showed me a number of sketches he had made of our 
 own scenery ; two of which I recognised, as they were views of scenery 
 in my native state with which 1 was familiar. One of them was a 
 romantic view on the Hudson near Catskill, the mountains in the distance. 
 The other, a lovely, picturesque landscape near the Mohawk, with- an 
 extensive prospect of the river gracefully meandering through a fertile 
 and varied country. He had a true feeling for the beauties of nature, 
 and it was delightful to listen to the remarks that fell from him. 
 
 One winter evening, about a month after our acquaintance had com- 
 menced, we were sitting together in his room before a low fire. Candles 
 had not yet been called ; and we sat for some time in silence, gazing 
 upon the fire, that would kindle up into a bright flame, and then subside, 
 
 in playful wantonness as it were. N was in one of his gloomiest 
 
 reveries ; and I did not feel inclined to disturb him. He turned abruptly 
 
 — "S ," said he, "have you not observed a strange inconsistency of 
 
 conduct about me ?" I knew not what to reply, and he.sitated. " You 
 must — you must," added he, in a mournful tone, " you must have 
 remarked it • but you want to spare my feelings. Alas ! it is not worth 
 wnile." He passed his hand over his brow. " Where is the medicine 
 can minister to a mind diseased, — ^pluck from the heart a rooted sorrow ?" 
 liis voice was tremulous, and his eye was filling. 
 
 " S r, you have no doubt wondered at the cause of my depression 
 
THE FKIBNDS. 501 
 
 Listen to me. It is, this day, a year and six months since Edward 
 
 G- and myself crossed the Atlantic together." He stopped a 
 
 moment. "We were school-fellows — class-mates — companions in the 
 same sports — as fond and as intimate as boys can be— Oh ! those days of 
 joy and disinterested kindness ! Gone, gone, for ever gone !— Well, sir, 
 — our destinations in life were different, but our intimacy continued. 
 Edward went into mercantile life, and I to the studies of a profession. 
 He was high-spirited and rather irascible ; but a generous, noble-hearted 
 
 fellow. Our affection was ardent, and I believe natural." N 
 
 paused, and then went on. " He called on me one morning, and told 
 me that he had an excellent offer to go to America, as an agent, for a 
 very respectable house, and, if I would accompany him, he would accept 
 of it. I had frequently expressed a desire of visiting America ; and we 
 both thought the opportunity a good one. We bade adieu to our rela- 
 tives and friends, and set sail ; we shared the same bed ; we nursed eacL 
 other; poor Ned was uncommonly sea-sick; we were as brothers." His 
 voice trembled, and there was a convulsive motion of his lip. " But I 
 must get over this." He drew his chair closer towards the fire. "•! 
 will get on with my story with more firmness — ^I am almost ashamed of 
 myself, S . We arrived safely in Baltimore, the place of our desti- 
 nation ; and, like most other young men in the heyday of life, mingled 
 occasionally in scenes of dissipation. Edward had often spoken of his 
 skill in a diflScult and somewhat antiquated game of cai-ds, and I thought 
 with something of boasting and ela'tion. I knew nothing of the game ; 
 but for the purpose of tormenting him a little for his vanity, and from a 
 love of mischief, I resolved to apply myself secretly to it, and obtained 
 a pretty good insight into the game without his knowing any thing of 
 the matter. One evening we were sitting together with some acquaintances 
 we had picked up, and to Edward's surprise, I defied him to his favour- 
 ite game at cards. 
 
 " ' Edward,' said I, 'you are always boasting of your skill. I know 
 but little about the game, yet I lay you a wager I'll beat you.' 
 
 " Edward smiled with conscious superiority at my badinage, and pro- 
 duced the cards. We played — Edward was skilful. I exerted myself 
 to the utmost, and succeeded. Edward was surprised and chagrined. I 
 did not bear my victory meekly ; on the contrary, I openly exulted, and 
 gave free scope to my bantering humour. Edward demanded another 
 game — he again lost. He became flushed, and drank several glasses of 
 wine. He still persisted in the contest ; cursed his cards ; and was still 
 unsuccessful. I was too deeply occupied in the game to observe his 
 countenance ; and in my merriment at an uncommon turn of good luck, 
 I let out an unfortunate witticism— it was the drop in the full cup. 
 Edward rose in a passion, dashed the cards from him, struck his clenched 
 hand upon the table, and with eyes flashing fire, accused me of dealing 
 unfairly. I was astonished ; and replied in what I thought a conciliating 
 tone. But it was only adding fuel to the flame. He repeated his charges 
 with vehement rapidity ; and my temper began to rise. I told him he 
 behaved like a child — that he was heated with wine, and that, in the 
 morning, when he had. slept off the effects of it, he would be asbamod 
 
502 FIELDS'S SCBAP-BOOE. 
 
 of his present conduct. He rushed across the t^ble, almost OTerturriing 
 k, and aimed a blow at my face. I received it on my arm. The gen- 
 tlemen present rose, and insisted on his leaving the room. He did so, 
 breathing threats and vengeance against me. As I expected, a challenge 
 was handed me that night : and, I must confess, that, feeling indignant 
 at his behaviour, I received jt without reluctance. I arranged my papers, 
 disposed of the little property I had, and wrote a letter to my parents. 
 If the duel took place, J considered that the chances were against me ; 
 and I endeavoured to prepare my mind for a fatal result. I had no 
 experience with the pistol ; having only fired a few times in my life, at 
 a mark, in sport. I requested a friend to act as my second, and appeared 
 <>n the ground a little before the appointed time. Edward was not yet 
 there. He shortly arrived^ accompanied by a second. When I beheld 
 my old school-fellow — the friend of my youth — and considered the pur- 
 pose of our meeting, I felt a pang at my heart ; and I believe the tears 
 were in my eyes when I went up to him. 
 
 " ' Edward,' said I, ' has it come to this ; must we fight ; we, who 
 have known each other so long; loved each other so dearly; and for 
 such a cause? Is there no way of settling this unhappy diflFerence?' 
 
 " Edward's countenance was fixed and unrelenting. 
 
 " ' Sir,' said he, coldly, ' if you choose to apologize for your unhand- 
 some conduct last evening, I may receive your apology, and let the 
 business go no further.' 
 
 "I felt provoked, but kept down the angry reply that rose to my lips. 
 
 " ' Edwar.d,' said I, 'you have grossly insulted me; struck me; if 
 you will ask pardon for that outrage, I will willingly apologize for any 
 provocation I njay have given you,' 
 
 "He interrupted me-r- 
 
 " 'The blow was deserved, sir; deserved by your insolent sneering and 
 mean conduct. I will not apologize for that.' 
 
 " ' Edward,' said I, ' you wrong me. You encroach too far — by Hea- 
 yen ! too far — the crushed worm will turn. And yet, I cannot — I can- 
 not make up my mind to fire at my old companion.' 
 
 " ' Damn it,' said Edward, with a sneer, turning to his second, ' I 
 believe the man's afraid.' 
 
 " This was enough. 
 
 " ' Take your stand,' said I, sternly, 'and you shall see.' 
 
 "The ground was measured; we took our places, back to back; the 
 -word was given — ' Wheel and fire 1' — I obeyed mechanically ; raised 
 my pistol — I am sure I took po aim — but my hand was firm ; I fired, 
 and the next moment beheld Edward spring from the ground, quiver, 
 and fall. The ball had entered his side. I went up to him. He had 
 just time to falter out — 
 
 '"lam dying — 1 have brought this on oayself. Charles — my dear 
 Charles — make your escape.' 
 
 " He gasped, and died. I stood over him till I was urged off. I saw 
 his body conveyed to the next inn, when the seconds thought me riding 
 off with speed. I secreted myself to give one last look at the remains 
 of my friend. But self-preservation impelled me, and I went away. I 
 
THE FRIENDS. 50? 
 
 travelled thro ijh the country ; I visited every place of note ; I haveheen 
 in every metr )poli8 in the United States ; I have been in the best and 
 the gayest society ; I have entered into scenes of high dissipation ; I 
 have made one of every festive celebration of any importance ; but I 
 never can forget my friend's last look ; the impression will never wear 
 
 off : in the festal hour, the £gure of Edward G bleeding, with his 
 
 countenance of agony, will rise before me. I hear his last words ; I 
 behold him stiffening in death. He is with me when alone; he is with 
 me in my dreams; I fly to«ompany and amusement, but he is with m"^ 
 there ; he follows me with equal step ; I cannot fly from myself, and his 
 image is a portion of my being — no — no — no — I never shall forget 
 Lim." 
 
 He stopped, and leaned his head on the tab^e. 
 
 "Now," said he, "now can you wonder at my deportment ?" 
 
 I was too much affected to reply. He continued — 
 
 " I lead a wretched, wandering, unsettled life. I have no spirits to 
 enjoy any thing. I feel an unwillingness to engage in any active em- 
 ployment; and I take a morbid satisfaction in resigning myself with 
 perfect inertness to the vagaries of my own gloomy fancy. My mind 
 cannot exert itself, even upon those subjects of which it was most fond, 
 and with which it has been most familiar. I am in a mental lethargy 
 My miud has lost its grasp. I read without pleasure. I think with- 
 out improvement. My nerves are unstrung, and I sometimes think my 
 memory fails — on all subjects but one — one, stamped with indelible, 
 with burning characters on my heart and brain. I ought to return 
 home — to my parents — to my profession. But as yet I cannot." 
 
 He ceased. I sat a few minutes; I could not conceal my agitation. 
 I was grieved to see him thus, but knew that the voice of consolation' or 
 any cold reasoning would only prove offensive to him in his present stat<j 
 of mind. I took out my watch; it was near fen. I pleaded that I had 
 some papers to attend to before I went to bed ; and rose to depart. He 
 took my hand. 
 
 " Farewell," said he, " if I can, I will make up my mind to return 
 home in the next packet." 
 
 I whispered something of the soothing influence of time, and the solace 
 of home, sweet home, and friends most dear to the wounded heart. He 
 sighed, and wrung my hand. 
 
 " Farewell," said he, " come and see me often. Do not wait for the 
 ceremony of a return of visits. Between you and me that ceremony 
 may now, I think, be well spared." 
 
 I bade him good-night, and departed. I saw him but twice after- 
 wards. He engaged a passage to the East Indies, and from thence he 
 was to return to his native land. By this time I hope he is with his 
 family, and happier than he was when I took leave of him on board tha 
 " Achilles," bound for Canton. 
 
 When Beau Brummell was qneutioned if he was unwell, he replied 
 with ridiculous affectation, that he had caught cold through being put 
 jato a coffee-room with a damp gfenger I 
 
504 
 
 FIELDS S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 AN EXILE'S DREAM. 
 
 BWEET dream ! io mj pillow return, 
 Tbe heart-weary wanderer cheer ! 
 
 Redeem from the mouldering urn 
 The treasDrea to memory dear. 
 
 Methought I awoke on the hill 
 Where- oft in my boyhood I slept; 
 
 The leaf of the aspen was still — 
 My dog to my pillow had crept. 
 
 The moon, on my kindred's abode, 
 Shono bright as on midsummer's eve. 
 
 When I spr&ng o'er the dew-sprinkled road, 
 The kisses of peace to receive. 
 
 Joy lighted the white-eolumn'd hall, 
 Love smiled on the steps of the door; 
 
 While revelry woke at the call 
 Of her who shall waken no more. 
 
 The woodbine hung gay o'er the thatch, 
 Now sunk with the wrecks of the wave ; 
 
 And I saw on the half-open'd latch 
 The hand that is dust in the grave. 
 
 The corn-reapers sang on the hill 
 Where now the wild wood-pigeon cries : 
 
 How blithe was the hum of the mill 
 Where lonely the winter-wind sighs! 
 
 Blest land ! shall I view thee no more ? 
 Shall my feet never press thee again ? 
 But fancy thy charms shall restore, 
 , For me they unfaded remain. 
 
 Thy dome may be silent and coU, 
 Bnt memory claims it her own :— 
 
 The ruin I cannot behold 
 To me shall he ever unknown. 
 
 Thy groves may be leafless and shor^ 
 Yet fancy still pictures their prima; 
 
 She hears not thy foresters mourn. 
 She sees not the winter of time. 
 
 The axe of the stranger has laid 
 My bower of loved eglantine low, 
 
 Bnt memory visits their shade — 
 Still, still in her Eden they grow. 
 
 The faces I loved in their bloom 
 All furrow'd and faded may be; 
 
 The hearts may be cold in tbe tomb 
 That bounded in gladness with me ; 
 
 But I shall not behold their decay. 
 Nor tread on the turf where they sle* 
 
 Nor see round their mouldering clay 
 The worms of the sepulchre creep. 
 
 No~still I will beckon them near, 
 While through the dim valley I roam ; 
 
 Their voices at midnight I hear— 
 They call the poor wanderer home. 
 
 Beloved, ye assemble there -still. 
 The home of a father to share ; 
 
 My path may be dreary and chill. 
 But soon ye shall welcome me there 
 
 OUR WILLIAM. 
 
 BV MACKELLAR. 
 
 A LiTTtB son — an only son — have we ; 
 
 (God bless the lad, and keep him night and day. 
 
 And lead him softly o'er this stony way!) 
 
 lie is blue-eyed, and flaxen hair has he, 
 
 (Such, long ago, mine own was wont to be — 
 
 And people say he much resembles me.) 
 
 I've never beard a bird or runlet sing 
 
 Po sweetly as he talks. His words are small 
 
 Sweet words — oh ! how deliciously they fall ! — 
 
 Much like tbe sound of silver bells they ring, 
 
 And fill the house with music. Beauty lies 
 
 As naturally upon bis cheek as bloom 
 
 Upon a peach. Like morning vapour, flies 
 
 Before his smile my mind's infrequent gloonL 
 
 A jocund child Is he, and full of ftfn: 
 
 He laughs with happy heartiness; and he 
 
 VjiB half-closed eyelids twinkles roguishly, 
 
 rill from their lashes tears start np and run. 
 
 The drops are bright as diamotis. When they roll 
 
 Adown niD cheek, they leem to be fch* o'erflowing 
 
 Of the deep well of love within his soul— 
 
 The human tendernesses of his nature showing. 
 
 'Tia pleasant to look on him while he sleeps: 
 
 His plump and chubby arms, and delicate fingen,— 
 
 The half-form'd smile that round his red lips crMpI 
 
 The intellectual glow that faintly lingers 
 
 Upon bis countenance, as if he talks 
 
 With some bright angel on his nightly walks. 
 
 We tremble when we think that many a storm 
 May beat upon him in the time to come, — 
 That his now beautiful and fragile form 
 May bear a burden sore and wearisome. 
 Yet, so the stain of guiltiness and shame 
 Be never placed upon his soul and name, — 
 So he preserve his virtue though he die,— 
 And to his God, his race, his country prove 
 A faithful man, whom praise nor gold can buy. 
 Nor threats of vile, designing men can move,— 
 We ask no more. We trust that He who leadf 
 The footsteps of the feeble lamb, will hold 
 This Iamb of ours in mercy's pasture-fold, 
 J y^'bf: 'e every inmate near the loving Shepherd fe«4s 
 
THE CORDILLERAS. 505 
 
 THE CORDILLERAS. 
 
 The snowy peaks of the Andes were now frequently seen, from o^un- 
 ings among the lower mountains leading to them ; and, apparently, op- 
 posed an inaccessible barrier to the entrance into New Grenada. The 
 more, indeed, a stranger gazes on them, the less he can conceive the 
 practicability of passing them. The narrow paths leading to Paramos 
 wind among wild mountains, which are totally uninhabited, and covered 
 with immense forests overhanging the road, and almost excluding the light 
 of day. The trees are of a vast size ; being constantly watered by the 
 clouds they arrest in their passage, which perpetually hang on them, 
 causing an incessant drizzling rain. This had rendered the path so 
 slippery when our army passed, that they became excessively dangerous ; 
 especially to the few tired mules and bullocks, that yet survived the 
 fatigues of the march and a total privation of sustenance; for nothing 
 whatever grows under these forest-trees, but ivy; moss, and lichens. In 
 many parts, the torrents that rage from rock to rock, almost perpendicu- 
 larly beneath the narrow pathway, were so far below, that their roar was 
 scarcely heard ; and, as the wearied animals fell one by one, they could 
 be traced in their descent by the crushing of the shrubs growing in the 
 clefts of the fearful precipice, until they were seen to roll down the foam- 
 ing -stream. * * * fpjjg appearance of the Andes among 
 these elevated ranges is magnificently wild. Although they seem, when 
 viewed from the lower mountains, to be completely covered with snow, 
 yet there is little of it in the Paramos, except where it collects under 
 the shelter of rocks ; for the incessant gusts of wind, that sweep through 
 these bleak passes, prevent it from lodging in them. There are also, on 
 the sides of some of the mighty peaks, precipices of solid rock, on which 
 no snow can rest ; but the general appearance of this range, when near, 
 is that of mountains incrusted with ice, cracked in many places, from 
 whence cascades are constantly rushing. There is no longer any beaten 
 track, for the ground is rocky and broken ; with not the least sign of 
 vegetation, except dark-coloured lichens; and, in some places, covered 
 with patches of frozen snow. Nevertheless, it is not difficult to find the 
 way; for it is strewed with the bones of men and animals, that have 
 perished in attempting to cross the Paramos in unfavourable weather. 
 Multitudes of small crosses are fixed in the rocks, by some pious hands, 
 in memory of former travellers who have died here ; and along the path 
 are strewed fragments of saddlery, trunks, and various articles, that have 
 been abandoned, and resemble the traces of a routed army. Huge pin- 
 nacles of granite overhang many parts of these passes, apparently totter- 
 ing, and on the point of overwhelming the daring traveller ; while terrific 
 chasms, that are appalling to the sight, yawn far -beneath, as if to receive 
 bim. A sense of extreme loneliness and remoteness from the world 
 B".}zes on his mind, and is heightened by the dead silence that prevails ; 
 not a sound being heard, but the scream of the condor, and the monoto 
 aous murmur of the distant waterfall. Clouds are constantly sailing 
 2S 
 
506 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOG«. 
 
 past, so d' nse as to hide completely from the view the lower hills and 
 forests ; and they frequently obscure the path in places, where the con- 
 sequences of losing the way, or even of making one false step, are fear- 
 ful to think of. It is indeed often necessary to lie down, for the purpose 
 of avoiding the violence of the wind, which is most impetuous here. The 
 sky above is one uninterrupted deep blue, and appears actually nearer 
 the spectator than when he saw it from the valleys; but the rays 
 of the sun, although his orb is perfectly cloudless, seem to possess 
 no power of warming, and give a wan sickly light, like that of a full 
 luoon. * * * * During this night the heavens 
 
 appeared of a dark blnCi inclining to black ; the number of the stars was 
 either really, or apparently, much increased, and their twinkling evidently 
 a great deal brighter. The moon was also much more prominent and 
 globular in appearance; almost of a metallic lustre; and the dark map 
 on its surface was far plainer to the naked eye than when seen from 
 below. We saw several very brilliant shooting stars ; but little differ- 
 ence was observable, except in the greater apparent length of their 
 course, and rapidity of their motion. 
 
 MAY YOU DIE AMONG YOUR KINDRED. 
 
 BY GBEENWOOD. 
 
 It is a sad thing to feel that we must die away from our home. Tell 
 not the invalid who is yearning after his distant country, that the atmo- 
 sphere around him is soft; that the gales are filled with balm, and the 
 flowers are springing 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 
 pleasant to his eyes, than the bloom and verdure which only more for- 
 cibly 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 power to promote his comfort and assuage his pains ; but 
 they cannot supply the place of the long known and the 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 communicate, without hesitation, all his wishes, impressions, 
 and thoughts to them. He feels that he is a stranger; and a more deso- 
 late feeling than that could not visit his soul. How much is expressed 
 by that form of oriental benediction — May you, die among your kindred. 
 
 Beau Brummell has always appeared to us to be one of the human fol- 
 lies His was a wasted life ! wit, grace, the keen eye, heart, and mind, 
 were all surrendered, and given up to feshion ; the world was with him 
 only a great show-room, and his body was but the machine on which 
 tailors and drapers exhibited their clothes to the best advantage. 
 
BPORTINQ WITH FEMALE AFFECTIONS 507 
 
 SPOKTING WITH FEMALE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Man cannot act a more perfidious part, 
 Than use his utmost efforts to obtain 
 A confide-;nce in order to deceive. 
 
 Honour and integrity ought to be the leading principles of eveij 
 transaction in life. These are virtues highly requisite, notwithstanding 
 they are too frequently disregarded. "Whatever pursuits individuals are 
 m quest of, sincerity in profession, steadfastness in pursuit, and punctu- 
 ality in discharging engagements, are indispensahly incumbent. A man 
 of honest integrity, and uprightness in his dealings with his fellow- 
 creatures, is sure to gain the confidence and applause of all good men ; 
 while he who acts from dishonest or designing principles obtains de- 
 served contempt. Dishonest proceedings, in word or deed, are very 
 offensive to and unjustifiable in the sight of God and man, even in 
 trivial, but much more so in consequential affairs. The most perfect 
 uprightness is highly requisite between man and man, though it is too 
 often disregarded, and is much more so between the sexes. Every pro- 
 fession of regard should be without dissembling, every promise preserved 
 inviolate, and every engagement faithfully discharged. No one ought 
 to make any offers or pretensions to a lady before he is, in a great mea- 
 sure, certain her person, her temper, and qualifications suit hie circum- 
 stances, and agree perfectly with his own temper and way of thinking. 
 For a similarity of mind and manners is very necessary to render the 
 bonds of love permanent, and those of marriage happy. 
 
 Marriage tbe happiest state of life would be, 
 If hands were only join'd where hearts agree. 
 
 The man of uprightness and integrity of heart will not only observe 
 the beauties of the mind, the goodness of the heart, the dignity of 
 sentiment, and the delicacy of wit, but will strive to fix his affections on 
 such permanent endowments, before he pledges faith to any lady. 
 
 He looks upon marriage as a business of the greatest importance in 
 life, and a change of condition that cannot be undertaken with too 
 much reverence and deliberation. Therefore, he will not undertake it at 
 random, lest he should precipitately involve himself in the greatest diffi- 
 culties. He wishes to act a conscientious part, and consequently cannot 
 think (notwithstanding it is too much countenanced by custom) of sport- 
 ing with the affections of the fair sex, nor even of paying his addresses 
 to any one till he is perfectly- convinced his own are fixed on just 
 principles. 
 
 All imaginable caution is certainly necessary beforehand ; but after a 
 man's profession of regard, and kind services, and solicitations have made 
 an impression on a female heart, it is no longer a matter of indifference 
 whether he perseveres in or breaks off his engagement. For he is then 
 particularly dear to her, and reason, honour, justice, all unite to oblige 
 him to make good his engagementi ■ When the matter is brought to 
 such a crisis, there is no retreating, without manifestly distui bing her 
 
508 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 vjuiet and tranquillity of mind ; nor can any thing but her loss of virtue 
 justify her desertion. Whether marriage has been expressly promised 
 or not, it is of little signification. For if he has solicited and obtained 
 her affections, on the supposition that he intended to marry her, the 
 contract is, in the sight of Heaven, sufficiently binding. In short, the 
 man who basely imposes on the honest heart of an unsuspecting girl, 
 and, after winning her affections by the prevailing rhetoric of courtship, 
 ungenerously, leaves her to bitter sorrow and complaining, acts a very 
 dishonourable part, and is more -to be detested than a common robber. 
 For private treachery is much more heinous than tpen force ; and money 
 must not be put in competition with happiness. 
 
 THE STUDY OF NATUEAL HISTORY. 
 
 The" steady diffusion of taste for the study of natural history in thia 
 country is extremely gratifying. It is this study which teaches us to 
 look up from nature to the Author of nature. Nature is infinitely 
 diversified, and yet each production makes its appearance at the time and 
 under the circumstances which we should be led to expect. A plan 
 so perfect and harmonious, of which the parts are so diversified, and yet 
 so mutually promote the existence of each other — which blend the sea, 
 the land, and the air into one whole, and, though always perishing, are 
 always reproduced — offers a field of contemplation which the longest life 
 and the most active mind cannot exhaust; and it has the advantage 
 over every other subject of study ; it presents or awakens none of those 
 bad passions and imperfections that present themselves when man and 
 his works aro the objects of our inquiry. 
 
 It has these farther advantages, that the study, instead of a labour, is 
 a constant delight ; that the details are quite as interesting as the whole ; 
 that the subjects which are too small to be seen by the naked eye are 
 j Hst as perfect in all their parts, and as wonderful in the use of them, as 
 . those which are of the most huge dimensions. The little green moss that 
 is as a pin's point upon a wall or the bark of a tree, or the fungus that 
 makes a barely visible speck upon a leaf, is as perfect in its structure, 
 and as full of life as the pine or the oak that rises majestically over the 
 forest, and exhibits itself to an entire country, or as a landmark for the sea- 
 man. The aphis, that scarcely crumples the rose-leaf, or the animaloulae, 
 of which myriads do not render a drop of water turbid, are as equally 
 complete, and in some respects much more curious than the horse or the 
 elephant. Of the aphis, nine distinct generations, all females, succeed 
 each other every summer, and yet each produces a numerous progeny ; 
 and some of the animalculae increase in number by a spontaneous divi- 
 sion of the little bodies of those previously existing. 
 
 In order to understand the subject, we must, indeed, study the small 
 as well as the great, the common as well as the rare. The most uncom- 
 mon and majestic animals cannot tell us more than the worm we trample 
 •luder foot, or the caterpillar we destroy as a nuisance. .N'or doe? the 
 
THE STCDl OP NATURAL HISTORY. 509 
 
 ■itility diminish with the size. Silk, the finest substance with which we 
 *re clothed; carmine, the finest colour with which we can paint; and 
 the very ink with which we write, are all the productions of little 
 insects. 
 
 In contemplating the structure of any plant or animal, however com- 
 mon, and however on that account overlooked or disregarded, we may 
 find finer applications of mechanical art, and nicer processes in chemistry, 
 than the collected art of the whole human race can boast of. That the 
 vegetable principle in an acorn should be chemist enough to fabricate 
 oak timber, and bark, and leaves, and new acorns ; and mechanic enough 
 to rear the tree in the air against the natural tendency of gravitation, 
 and in spite of the violence of the winds, and do all this by means of a 
 little portion of matter that can be kept for a considerable time as if it 
 were dead, is truly astonishing. It is equally demonstrative of power 
 and wisdom in Him who gave the impulse, that out of the same soil and 
 the same atmosphere, each plant should elaborate that which properly 
 belongs to it; that the flower of one plant should be crimson, that of 
 the next yellow ; that one should delight us with its perfume, and the 
 very next one offend us by its fetor; or that food, medicine, or a poison, 
 should be found the closest neighbours. 
 
 In the single department of botany, we have thus not only a fund of 
 the most curious information, but of information which is practically 
 useful at every step. Even from the mere forms of vegetables, we have 
 some of the choicest of our ornaments, and have taken some of the most 
 useful hints in our architecture. The engineer who first succeeded in 
 fixing upon the dangerous rocks of Eddystone a lighthouse that resisted 
 the violence of the raging sea, moulded its contour from the bole of a 
 tree which had withstood the tempests of ages ; and the model was found 
 so admirably adapted to the purpose, that it has been copied in similar 
 cases ever since. 
 
 The sure way to become naturalists, in the most pleasing sense of the 
 term, is to observe the habits of the plants and animals we see around 
 us, not so much with the view of finding out what is new or uncommon, 
 as of becoming well acquainted with what is of every-day occurrence. 
 Nor is this a task of difficulty, or one of dull routine. Every change of 
 elevation or of temperature is accompanied by a variation both in plants 
 and animals ; and every season and week, nay almost every day, brings 
 Bomething new; so that while the book of nature is so accessible, it is as 
 varied as the books of a library. In whatever place or at whatever time one 
 may be disposed to take a walk — in the most sublime scenes or on the 
 bleakest wastes, on arid downs or by the margins of rivers or lakes, 
 inland or by the sea-shore, in the wild or on the cultivated ground, and 
 in all kinds of weather and at all seasons of the year — nature is open to 
 our inquiry. . The sky over us; the earth beneath our feet; the scenery 
 around ; the animals that gambol in the open spaces ; those that bide them- 
 selves in coverts; the birds that twitter on the wing; sing in the grove; 
 ride upon the wave, or float along the sky; with the fishes that tenant 
 the waters; the insects that make the summer air alive; all that God nas 
 made is to us for knowledge, and pleasure, and usefulness, and health ; 
 2>» 
 
510 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 •ind when we bave studied and known the wonders of his workmanship, 
 we have made one important step toward the adoration of his omnipo- 
 tence, and obedience to his will. Should our present publication increase 
 the resources of amusement and instruction to the public, or contribute 
 to the results alluded to above, we shall feel amply rewarded for our 
 humble labours in this compilation. 
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 When the shades of solitude have encompassed a man; when 
 the voice of passion is silent, and the song, of pleasure has ceased to 
 vibrate on his ea* j. when reason is restored to her throne, and every 
 avenue is open to reflection ; then, if ever in his days of boyhood he was 
 betrayed into some folly of which he has in vain repented, or led- into 
 some error, the consequences of which he must for ever deplore, the 
 remembrance of those days will rush upon his mind ; those scenes will 
 be re-acted before his eyes ; memory will only add intenseness to the 
 pang of guilt. Disappointment is in itself bitter ; but when the remem- 
 brance of past follies is added to the scene of present suffering, it fills up 
 the cup of agony. But the medicine, though bitter, is salutary, and 
 should be drunk without a murmur. If thou ha^t lost the hope most 
 dear to thy heart, seek not to overpower the voice of conscience by the 
 noise of the world's folly, or to drown the memory of thy disappointment 
 in the tide of dissipation ; but ponder on the vanity of earthly pursuits, 
 and it may be that thy disappointments will lead thee to Him who 
 chasteneth whom he loveth. For he who has lost his hopes of happiness 
 here must feel that it is elsewhere to be sought. There is something in 
 disappointment that forcibly leads the mind to reflect on the delusive 
 nature of earthly pleasures, and the necessity of fixing its hopes of hap- 
 piness on a firmer basis than the vanities of this world. While the first 
 burst of grief continues, we may be tempted to murmur against the hand 
 that has smittenus. But when time has removed the poignancy of sor- 
 row, when we can look around with calmness and resignation, and feel 
 that the hopes we indulged are blasted for ever, then we turn with disgust 
 from the objects of our former desire, and seek for those which are more 
 worthy of our affection ; as the ivy, which has wound itself around some 
 prop, when that is removed, will entwine itself around some favourite 
 object, and seek a more faithful support for its broken fibres. Who can 
 experience the perfidy of a supposed friend, and not feel that he who puts 
 his trust in man leaneth on a broken reed ? Who can be present at that 
 solemn scene when man goeth to his long home, " and the mourners go 
 about the streets," and not realize that " man cometh forth like a flower, 
 and is cut down ?" Yes ! there is a language in disappointment louder 
 than the thunders of heaven; for it speaks to the heart, and not to tho 
 ear. Oh ! he who has lost his hopes of happiness here must indeed feel 
 rhat thev are to be placed on a more <irm foundation than thi» earth can 
 iffor<« 
 
A PRA&MENT 511 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 AFTER THE MANNEB OF 088IAM. 
 
 * * * * Come ! let us sit by the edge of this precipice, and I will 
 tell you of the friend of my soul j him whose bones are now slumbering 
 under that rude heap of stones. What a deep sunless chasm is here ! 
 Hark ! a huge rock has just tumbled, but the noise of its fall is lost in 
 the sullen roar of that smoking torrent, which rushes like a stream of 
 fire through the darkness. Often did my friend lean over this brink, 
 listening to the wild music of the waters, gazing as if he saw heaven in 
 the abyss. 
 
 His soul was gloomy. From his childhood, he shunned the concourse 
 of men, for his delight was to commune with the dark and giant forms 
 of nature. He roamed through pathless woods, over untrodden moun- 
 tains. ^ The treeless cliff and darkened ocean were his pleasure ; his music, 
 the wailing winds of autumn or fierce blasts of winter. A mouldering 
 moss-grown tower, or blasted pine, standing lone on the heath, he would 
 gaze upon, as if looking at the ghosts of the beautiful dead. His stem 
 soul rejoiced with terrible joy as, in fancy, he coursed the clouds with 
 the rolling thunder, or sported with the wild lightning on the bosom of 
 the storm. Yet was his soul generous : his heart tender — tender as the 
 young plant in spring, moist as the dews of the morning. 
 
 _ He loved knowledge, but soon tired of human teaching. Fame called 
 him onward: he grasped her; her gaudy colours fell at the touch, and 
 his soul was withered. He sought where hosts of warriors had met — 
 the lightning of arms and thunder of the battle filled him with raging 
 joy ; at length he departed sickened with slaughter. 
 
 He fled from the face of man, and made his bed in the fields. The 
 heavens were his curtains, the turf his pillow. He dreamed of vanities. 
 Now he pursued Pleasure, and caught her ; suddenly he felt the coil of 
 a serpent about him — ^its red fang was in his heart. Then he saw G-lory 
 on an eminence ; he strove, he toiled, he clambered) he reached forth 
 his hand — she rolled away in vapour. 
 
 He wandered in loneliness. At twilight he sat by the dead trunk of 
 an oak. The wind whistled among its bare branches. It was then I 
 saw him : I heard his plaints. " My soul is as the trunk of this oak — 
 joyless, leafless, lifeless. The world is a waste. The objects of mortals 
 are not mine. Nature once smiled : its charms have gone. Nor wood, 
 nor mountain, nor ocean's wave, nor the rude cliff, nor rocky pass, nor 
 sun, moon, stars, delight me any more. Oh, when shall these eyes close 
 to what no longer can please'^ Mortals had long left the time-worn 
 tower and crumbling castle. Unseen their tottering walls have fallen, 
 and the noise has startled silence alone. So may I fall, for the strength 
 and joy of my soul have departed. earth, earth, here let me die ' 
 Though my bones whiten in all the winds of heaven, yet pleasant to me 
 is the long, dreamless sleep." He threw himself on the ground, and 1 
 approached him. I then knew Min not, but my heart pitied him-, 1 
 
512 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 Bpoke the words of comfort : he raised his head and listened. His coun- 
 tenance was goodly. His eye shone as with the red light of a fire, seen 
 for off through the mists of ocean. Troubled sadness overspread his 
 face, like the storm in the dark forest. Our souls mingled into one, for 
 our thoughts were alike. 
 
 I hrought him to my home. He saw my sister, the oright-brnwed 
 Armina, and love swam in his eye. They met in secret ; their lips told 
 the passion of their souls. Their affections were mingled and blended 
 like the embracing hues of a rainbow. Their walk was often through 
 the lone wood, or by the silent stream. The gloom of his soul was past, 
 for she was the light of his heart. 
 
 They wandered by Casmar's winding stream; they stood whsre grass- 
 grown rocks are overhanging. He was like the tall poplar, seen at set- 
 ting sun on some high hill ; proudly it waves its lofty summit, and still 
 aspires to heaven. She was the drooping willow, bending over the glassy 
 wave: the gentlest gale lifteth its frail branches, that with downcast 
 beauty would stem the blast. Ah ! little thought Thuron, as he gazed 
 on this lovely tree, how soon its frail branches should be trodden in 
 dust, how sudden should wither its beauty, like the lone flower before 
 the burning breath of the desert. 
 
 He gazed : in his gaze, her loveliness grew. Her head rested on bis 
 shoulder; her moist, dark eye was lifted to his; their souls flowed to- 
 gether. Her snowy arm was thrown lightly on his neck; her playful 
 fingers sported with his dark locks, floating in the breeze. A rock stood 
 not far distant ; in it was a little recess, covered with dewy grass. A 
 sparkling stream issued from a cleft ; near it brightly bloomed two wJld 
 flowers, tenderly intertwining their stalks. "Let me pluck them, for 
 sweet-smelling is the flower of the rock." She plucked — the flowers 
 fell from her hand, a faint shriek rose on the air; she fell lifeless on his 
 breast. In horror, he clasps her light form; but the beam of her eye 
 was quenched. Blood stained her snowy robe; a viper was curling in 
 her bosom. 
 
 I pursued the chase in a neighbouring forest, when the cry of agony 
 reached my ear. Hastily I rushed to whence the sound came. I have 
 seen the bent form of a mother over her dead babe. The keen winds 
 of winter scattered her hair; she hears, she feels them not; the tram- 
 pling of the war-horse passed by her ; she raises not her head. Her 
 dishevelled locks play over the cold features of her infant ; her lips 
 press the white brow ; an unfrequent tear falls on the snowy cheek. A 
 pitying hand touched her shoulder, but her unanswering spirit had left 
 the fixed form to seek the ghost of her babe. I have seen the timid 
 maiden on the field of battle. Careless of the frantic rage of warriors 
 -r bright gleaming of swords, she tears her white robe to stanch the 
 blood of her fallen hero. Above his helpless form, she lifts her heav- 
 ing bosom toward the meteor-spears. Her agony, who can tell ? These 
 have I seen — the grief of Thuron I never saw. He had placed her 
 half-reclined against a grassy steep. Her beamless eyes were open, but 
 saw not ; her head had fallen forward on her bosom ; her breast, seen 
 svhen the wind parted the bright hair that hung down carelessly over 
 
A FRAGMENT. 613 
 
 hei' Jentares, was slightly stained with blood. Her light fingers were 
 clenched around a stray ringlet playing over the wound, as if the last 
 thought was, that the reptile still hung at her bosom. And my grief 
 arose, for she was my sister, my only, my lovely sister. But, alas! poor 
 Thuron, thy soul was broken in pieces ; thy heart was crushed ! He 
 ptood at a distance, his lightless eye lifted to heaven, his finger pointed 
 to the lonely dekd. A dagger gleamed in his hand. Sudden, he dropped 
 the weapon and rushed where she lay. He laid his burning palm on het 
 forehead. He parted the shading ringlets and gazed wistfully on her 
 face. A tear fell from his eye. I knelt beside him, and kissed her 
 bloodless cheek. We moved not; we spake not; our eyes were fixed on 
 her unconscious loveliness. The lengthening shadows of the mountains 
 came over us; the mellow twilight hurried around; the darkness of mid- 
 night was abroad ; and we knelt still. The mountain dews moisten us 
 unfelt; the distant voice of. the wind, sighing in the clefts of the rocks, 
 is unheard. But why tell of the agony that is speechless, — of the grief 
 that freezes the soul ? We laid her in the grave ; a rude heap of stonee 
 is her only memorial. Often, they say, is her spirit seen, like the faint 
 flash of twilight lightning, glancing near the rock of wild flowers on 
 Casmar's winding stream. 
 
 But Thuron, unhappy Thuron, again departed from the society of men 
 I alone knew of his haunts. 
 
 It was night. The spirit of the storm was abroad. The old oak of 
 the mountain was uprooted; swelling torrents rushed through narrow 
 chasms ; but the crashing of thunder-riven rocks rose above the noise 
 of the tempest. The wanderings of a bewildered traveller led by this 
 precipice. This is the tale of that night. ' "The blast roared at a- dis- 
 tance, and the storm was lulled. A long, loud, fearful cry burst on my 
 ear. I lifted my eyes, and the lightning revealed a terrible sight. Hor- 
 ror-stricken, I mu£9ed my face in my cloak, and rushed hurriedly over 
 the slippery ground. StUl I saw that terrible sight. He stood on the 
 bare, black rock, gleaming in the storm-light like the spirit of destruc- 
 tion. He knelt on one knee, with one foot resting on the edge of a:. 
 frightful precipice. His head was thrown back in defiance ; his features 
 were reddened and writhing; his hair streamed in the wind. One hand 
 was stretched out as if to seize the flying lightning ; his other, uplifted, 
 clutched a blazing dagger, pointed to his bared bosom. The lightning, 
 flashed fiercer; the thunder rolled deeper; the mountain shook; therocka 
 trembled ; a crash followed, arid a loud shriek was mingled with the 
 blast. I ventured to look again. A sea of flame rolled around th& 
 summit of a pine grove, standing tall on the steep; fiery fragments of 
 shivered rocks darted like meteors through heaven; clouds of smoke 
 curled along the brow of the precipice, like ocean's mist about the craggy 
 clifi's, when first the sun looks forth from the east." 
 
 The tale of the traveller is told. I knew that my friend had departed'.! 
 Trembling, I hurried hither, and black and dismal was the scene. Thn-. 
 Ton was prostrate in death. His high forehead was turned to heaven ; 
 his hand, thrown over his head, had dropped a dagger, whose briffhtnesb 
 
 33 
 
514 FIELDS'S SGRAP-BOOE. 
 
 was covered with rust ; bis locks were a little curfed by tbe ligbtning ; 
 but unmarred was his form by blood or by fir«. Bright was his eye, 
 and his obeek ruddy, as if nature bad courted death by her loneliness. 
 Tbose few stones bide the bones of the unhappy Thuron. 
 
 MAJOR-GENERAL GREENE. 
 
 The immortal meed be tbine, 
 Thait freedom wresiths the patriot's brovr around ! — Sothebt. 
 
 In no respect did Washington display the soundness of bis judgment 
 to more advantage, than in the selection of those in whom be placed his 
 confidence ; and the subject of this sketch, it is well known, was his 
 favourite officer. In military genius, Greene had no superior in the 
 army of the Revolution. His services were unequalled in importance by 
 any but those of his chief; and if we properly consider the difficulties he 
 had to encounter; his deficient education, and assiduous self-instruction ; 
 his unfailing fortitude under the most adverse circumstances — ^tbe firm- 
 ness that never shrank, though the duty was severe; the perseverance 
 that never wavered, though fortune frowned and defeat for a moment 
 pressed heavy on the heart of the patriot soldier ; we must give him a 
 rank, for extent of capacity and strength of mind, with the most distin- 
 guished names of European warfare. 
 
 Nathaniel Greene was born in the town of Warwick, Rhode Island. 
 His father was an anchor-smith, and a member of the society of J'riends. 
 As he intended his son for his own occupation, be gave him but a com- 
 mon education, and of course inculcated upon tbe mind of the future gene- 
 ral tbe pacific tenets of tbe disciples of Fox and Penn. Greene showed 
 an early fondness for reading, and with the little funds he «ouId com- 
 mand, collected a library, not very extensive, but remarkably well 
 selected; and it was observed, that among bis books wer« several on 
 military history, and that to these be was particularly attached. In 
 compliance with tbe wish of his father, Greene became an anchor-smith, 
 and worked at tbe trade far some years. His energetic mind, and the 
 attention he gave to the political discussions of the times, recommended 
 bim to the notice of his neighbours, and be was sent to tbe colonial legis- 
 lature. Here he took a decided stand, and declared for a redress of 
 grievances, or open resistance. The Friends were startled by tbe avowal 
 of such principles in a member of their society., and waited upon him for 
 the purpose of expostulation. As he continued to uphold tbe obnoxious 
 doctrine of resistance in spdte of their reproof, he was dismissed ; and be 
 now prepared himself for the profession of arms. He was instrumental 
 in' forming a military association called the Kentish Guards, into which 
 he entered as a, private, and so continued, until after the affairs of Lex- 
 ington and Concord. In May, 1775, Rhode Island raised three regi- 
 ments of militia, and tbe command was conferred upon Greene, with the 
 litle of brigfidierTgeneral. On the 26th of April, 1776, be was ad- 
 
MAJOK-GEiUEBAL 6EEENE. 615 
 
 vanced %y Congress to the rank of a major-gemcral in tie re^lar army. 
 His history is now identified with that of the Eevalution ; and, in such 
 a sketch as this, we oan scarcely glance at the Taried, but, finally, most 
 prosperous career of this inde&itigable oflEicer. He was with Washington 
 in his retreat through New, Jersey; he was present at the capture of 
 the Hessians in Trerrton ; and Ms sword was 'drawn at Princeton, at 
 Brandy wine, and at Germantown. His eulogy was pronounced by Cm-n- 
 waTlis— ** Greene is as dangerous as Washington. He is vigilant, enter- 
 prising, and full of resources. With but little hope of gaining any 
 adva^itage over him, I never feel secure when encamped in his neigh- 
 bourhood." 
 
 On the second of March, 1778, G-reene was appointed qnarter-master- 
 general. The zealous soldier accepted the appointment on condition that 
 he should not forfeit his right to command in time of action. At the 
 battle of Monmouth, he was intrusted with- the lead of the right wing 
 of the army, and he distinguished himself against the enemy in Bhode 
 Island, when Sullivan was his eommaaider. Desirous of devoting him- 
 self exclusively to the department of the line, he tendered his resignation 
 of tis station in the iStafi^ which was accepted, and the manner in which 
 he had discharged its duties may be' gaithsred from the remarks of one 
 who strictly scrutinized the conduct of his officers, and who was by no 
 means profuse of compliment. "You have rendered," said the com- 
 mander-in<!hief, " the path of duty in the quarter-master's department 
 so broad and plain, that it will not be easy for your successor to mis- 
 take it." 
 
 The firmness with which General Greene discharged his painful duty 
 as president of the tribunal that condemned the unhappy Andr^, ias 
 been a suhje^ of freqaent comment. His opposition to an indulgence 
 of the desire ©f the brave prisoner that he might die a, military death 
 was correct, and his reasoning is conclusive. " Andr6 is either a spy pr 
 an innocent man. If the latter, to execute him in any way wiU be 
 mnrder. If the former, the mode of his death is prescribed by law, and 
 you have no right to alter it." The good sense of Greene is conspicuous 
 in the observations that follow. " Besides, if you shoot the prisoner 
 instead of hanging him, you will excite suspicions which yon will be 
 usable to allay. Notwithstanding all your efforts to the contrary, you 
 will awaken public compassion, and the belief will become general, feat 
 in the ease of Major Andr6 there were exculpatory circumstances en- 
 titling him to lenity beyond what he received — ^perhaps entitling him to 
 pardon." 
 
 Appointed to the command of the army of the South, an immense 
 responsibility devolved upon General Greene, And an extensive field was 
 opened for the exercise of his talents, and those mental qualities of 
 pTomptness, sagacity, and foresight, which assimilated and endeared him 
 ■W the eommander-in-ehief beyond any of his brethren in arms. With 
 an army weakened and dispirited, he had to cope with the ablest gene- 
 rals in the service of Britain. Gates, brave and experienced, the hero 
 of Saratoga, had failed in the campaign ; he superseded him, and now 
 upon him, as the feetto officer, were the expecting eyes of tlie patioi* 
 
516 FIBLDS'S SCllAP-BOOK. 
 
 turned. There was much to raise the exulting whisper of that Hecret 
 vanity, from which no breast is altogether exempt; and still tnore to 
 cause tlie boldest to shudder, and the most sanguine to despond at the 
 gloomy prospect. The southern operations of General Greene form a bril- 
 liant page in our revolutionary history. The battleof the Cowpensj the 
 battle at Guilford court-house ; the battle at Eutaw Springs ; the attack 
 on St. John's Island ; the retreating and pursuing warfare of Greene, and 
 the glorious consummation at Yorktown, to which his exertions mate- 
 rially conduced, these show how completely he fulfilled the highest hopes 
 that were entertained of his skilful management and successful perseve- 
 rance. So far from triumphing over his less prudent and much-cen- 
 sured predecessor, Greene, with a courteous liberality, honourable to his 
 feelings' as a soldier and a gentleman, ever appeared as the defender of 
 the reputation of General Gates. He spoke of the unavoidable misfor- 
 tunes of the campaign, and' found an apology for the hazarded engage- 
 ment and disgraceful defeat at Camden, in the state of the army, the 
 disafiFeotion of the country, and the peculiar situation of the American 
 commander. 
 
 The services of General Greene were appreciated by his country. To 
 him the triumphal arch was raised, and wherever he approached, he was 
 greeted with the sounds of applause and the voice of benediction. South 
 Carolina presented him with an estate on the river Edisto; Georgia with 
 an estate on the river Savannah ; and North Carolina with twenty-five 
 thousand acres of land, now included within the boundary of the State 
 of Tennessee. After the peace, he retired to his native state, where he 
 remained about tWo years, and then with his family set sail for Georgia. 
 Here he took possession of his estate, and engaged in agriculture. But 
 seven months had scarcely elapsed ere death summoned the warrior from 
 his peaceful pursuits. Exposing himself imprudently during a day of 
 extreme heat, he received a stroke of the sun ; a fever was the conse- 
 quence, which, attacking a plethoric habit, baffled all medical eff'ort, and 
 terminated his existence on the nineteenth of June, 1786, after an ill- 
 ness of four days. 
 
 Of General Greene's talents as an officer, mention has been made. 
 Of the pure and patriotic motives by which he was actuated, let Wash- 
 ington speak : " There is not an officer of the army, nor a man in Ame- 
 rica, more sincerely attached to the interests of his country. Could he 
 best promote those interests in the character of a corporal, he would 
 exchange, as I firmly believe, without a murmur, the epaulet for the knot ; 
 for although he is not without ambition, that ambition has not for its 
 object the highest rank, so much as the greatest good." From an indus- 
 trious application to books during the leisure hours of his younger days, 
 Greene obtained a facility of expression, and a flow of correct and appro- 
 priate language. His letters and despatches are ably written, his descrip- 
 tions simple and impressive, and his detail of an engagement lucid, unaf- 
 fected, and minute without prolixity. — To his virtues as a man, those 
 who knew him well have borne testimony ; and they beamed forth on 
 more than one public occasion. We have spoken of his deportment 
 towards General Gates. With becoming compassion — the virtue wj 
 
HALLEY AND SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 517 
 
 ennobling to a soldier, but not always his characteristic — he did his utmost 
 to allay the severities of civil war, and to prevent every thing that savoured 
 of excess and outrage. By judicious argument, and kind, paternal per- 
 suasion, he strove, and in a great degree successfully, to soften the ani- 
 mosity of the Whigs toward those adherents (5f royalty whose weapons 
 were broken, and who were now willing to submit to the existing govern- 
 ment, and to return to their former employments. At a public meeting 
 ofsome of tho leading Whigs of the state of Khode Island, he addressed 
 them on the duty of clemency : he told them that under every form of 
 government it had been found wise and politic to follow even the close 
 of a rebellion by an act of general amnesty, from which none were 
 excluded but the most flagrant offenders. He said they should not con- 
 sider the Tories as rebels, but as deluded citizens, for whose defection 
 many palliations were to he found ; and he firmly believed that most of 
 them had been misled by honest prejudices. He pronounced needless 
 severity, wanton cruelty ; denied the necessity of rigorous measures ; 
 and urged that it would be an evidence of virtue in communities and 
 individuals to express, by deeds of mercy and humanity, their gratitude 
 for the signal favours which Providence had bestowed. Such sentiments 
 require no comment. The malice of the charge, that he was concerned 
 in the speculations of the contractor Banks, was fully developed by the 
 investigation of Congress, and he stood without reproach. He is worthy 
 of his unsullied fame ; worthy of that niche in the temple of history 
 which posterity has awarded him, as a man strong in intellect, resolute 
 of purpose, amiable in private life, and truly devoted to the cause of 
 liberty and his country. 
 
 HALLEY AND SIE ISAAC NEWTON. 
 
 Hallet, the great mathematician, dabbled not a little in infidelity ; 
 he was rather too fond of introducing this subject ; and once, when he 
 had descanted somewhat freely on it, in the presence of his'friend. Sir 
 Isaac Newton, the latter cut him short with this observation : "I always 
 attend to you, Dr. Halley, with the gl-eatest deference, when you do us 
 the honour to converse on astronomy or the mathematics, because these 
 are subjects you have industriously investigated, and which you well 
 understand ; but religion is a subject on which I always hear you with 
 pain, because it is one which you have not seriously examined, and there- 
 fore do not comprehend ; you despise it because you have not studied it, 
 »nd you will not study it because you despise it." 
 
 Man has but to be ignorant, to be foolish, weak, and miserable. 
 " The way not to be led into error," said the judicious Hooker, " is to 
 be thoroughly instructed." To become better, a man must become 
 wiser ; to be wiser, he must be nore thoughtful, he must be trained tc 
 cnink rightly — freely. 
 
 ST 
 
/vis FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 PORTEAIT OF BONAPARTE. 
 
 The person of Bonaparte has served as a model for the most skilful 
 paint-3rs and sculptors ; lAany able French artists have successfully de- 
 lineated his features^ and yet it may be said, that no perfectly faithful 
 portmit of him exists. His finely shaped bead, bis superb forehead, his 
 pale countenance, and his usual meditative look, have been transferred 
 to the canvas ; but the versatility of his expression was beyond tlie 
 reach of imitation. All the various workings of his mind were in- 
 stantaoeously depicted in his countenance ; and his glance changed from 
 mild to severe, and from anger to good-humour, almost with the rapidity, 
 of lightning. It may truly be said, that he had a particular look for 
 every thought that arose in his mind. Bonaparte had beautiful hands, 
 and he was very proud of them ; while conversing he would often look 
 at them with an air of self-complacency. He also fancied he had fine 
 teeth, but his pretension to that advantage was not so well founded as 
 his vanity on the score of his hands. When walking, either alone or in 
 company with any one, in his apartments or in his gardens, he had the 
 habit of stooping a littlej and crossing his hands behind his back. He 
 frequently gave an involuntary shrug of his right shoulder, which was 
 accompanied by a movement of his mouth from left to right. This habit 
 was always most remarkable when his mind was absorbed in the consi- 
 deration of any profound subject. It was often while walking that he 
 dictated to me his most important notes. He could endure great fatigue, 
 toot only on horseback, but on foot : he would sometimes walk for five 
 or six hours in succession, without being aware of it. When walking 
 with any person whom he treated with familiarity, he would link his 
 arm into that of his companion, and lean on it. — Bourrienn^s Memoirs 
 
 BEAUTIFUL EXTRACT. 
 
 I SAW a mourner standing at eventide over the grave of one dearest 
 to him on earth. The memory of joys that were past came crowding on 
 his soul. "And is this," said he, "all that remains of one so loved 
 and so lovely ? I call, but no voice answers. Oh ! my loved one will 
 not hear ! death ! inexorable death ! what bast thou done 1 Let me 
 bow down and forget my sorrows in the slumber of the grave ?" 
 
 While he thought thus in agony, the gentle form of Christianity 
 came by. She bade him look upward, and to the eye of faith the 
 heavens were disclosed. He heard the song and transport of the great 
 multitude which no man can number around the throne. There were 
 the spirits of the just made perfect — there, the spirit of her he mourned ! 
 There happiness was pure, permanent, perfect. The mourner then wiped 
 the tears from his eyes, took courage, and thanked God : — " All the days 
 of ray appointed time," said he, " will I wait till my change come ;" 
 and he returned to the duties of life no longer sorrowing as tho^e who 
 have no hope. 
 
MOUNT CAKMBL. 51l» 
 
 MOUNT CARMEL. 
 
 No part of the I^omised Land creates a deeper interest in the traveller 
 than the rich and extensive bosom of Mount Carmel ; while barrenness 
 spreads on every side, and the curse of the withered soil is felt on hill, 
 valley, and shore, this beautiful mountain seems to retain its ancient 
 excellency of flowers, trees, and a perpetual verdure. The scenes in 
 its interior are often bold and romantic in the highest degree ; deep and 
 verdant precipices descending into lonely glens, through which a rivulet 
 is seen dashing wildly — the shepherd and his flock on the long grassy 
 slopes, that afford at present as rich pasture-ground as in the days when 
 Nabal fed his numerous herds on Carmel. There is indeed a character 
 peculiarly pastoral about the scenery; few gray and naked rocks, 6r 
 sublime but useful cliffs, are here, as in the mountain of the Tempta- 
 tion, or on Pisgah. And this fertility and vivid verdure on so sultry a 
 soil is deeply welcome and refreshing ; more especially so the woods that 
 wave over the summit and sides. It is beautiful to stand beneath their 
 shelter on the brink of the mount, and look far on every side, where 
 naught but a forsaken and shadowless land meets the eye. On the 
 banks of the ancient river, on which the strength of the mighty was 
 broken, and the power of Sisera swept away, no solitary tree spreads its 
 shade ; the stream rolls between its green and naked shores ; these are 
 so low that the river overflows to some extent on each side during the 
 rainy season, and is so deep and rapid as not to be^ fordable. It was 
 most probably during this season that the army of Sisera, in its flight, 
 was in part destroyed by the waters, for in its usual narrow course the 
 stream is not of sufficient width and power to be dangerbus. Wishing 
 to cross it one evening after sunset, and mistrusting the depth, we called 
 to two young Arabs, who were seated on a green knoll on the opposite 
 side, and asked if we could pass with safety. They replied doubtfully ; 
 and, on the promise of a reward, one of them stripped to the'skin, and 
 with a long pole in his hand, entered the river till- it reached his chin 
 and he felt his footing grow unsteady, when he was obliged to retreat. 
 We turned disappointed from the spot, and the Arab youth, chilled and 
 dripping, gained the bank again without his reward, which it was im- 
 possible to pay. Just above, on the side of Carmel, is the spot pointed 
 out by tradition as having been the scene of Elijah's slaying the prophets 
 of Baal. There is much of the picturesque about the place ; the soil 
 is strewed with several masses of gray stone, around which are many 
 fine trees. It is a pleasing and lonely spot, such as the imagination 
 would hardly have selected for so ruthless yet necessary a deed. But 
 if tradition should err here, there can be no illusion with respect to the 
 scene of the memorable descent of the fire from, heaven. When " all 
 Israel was gathered together unto Carmel," it was clearly on this side 
 the mountain, where it descends gradually into the noble plain beneath. 
 The spot was finely chosen by the prophet for the spectacle of his sacri- 
 fice ; 8ince«the midtitude of people, coming from the regions of Samaria, 
 might stand with perfect convenience in the splendid jind open area «1 
 
520 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK, 
 
 Esdraelon, which is here terminated at the foot of Carmel. The de- 
 clivity of the mountain, its brink dark with woods, and its fides covered 
 with the richest pasture, looks over a vast extent of country on every 
 side ; from the hills of Samaria, Cana, and Gilboa, the miracle might 
 have been beheld; and to the eager gaze of the Israelites in the plain, 
 the prophets of the groves, their useless altars, and the avenging mes- 
 sengers of God, were as distinct as if the scene had been acted at their 
 feet. This, too, is the only face of the hill beneath which the Kishon 
 flows. What a jioble subject would this be for a painter ! the sun going 
 down on the mountain declivities, while the eye of despair as well as 
 faith was fixed in maddening suspense or triumph on the fading sky ; 
 the hushed myriads gazed on each dazzling beam and caught every pass- 
 ing sound as if the coming of the God was there ; the infidel king, also, 
 with his chariots and armed men, waiting, moveless, from morn till eve. 
 It was an impressive spot, from which we turned with regret, as the 
 fading light warned us to depart, for the neighbourhood was not alto- 
 gether safe. It is one of the unhappy features of this land that the 
 richest feasts of the memory and fancy are often followed by the pressure 
 of real evils. It was in vain to think of regaining our quarters on the 
 seashore that night; we were at too great a distance; and we thought 
 with regret of our comfortable quarters in the home of the Syrian, when 
 we entered and looked around on the squalid hut and its lawless inmates 
 where we were doomed to repose till morn. — Game's Travels. 
 
 ACTIVE BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 No man existing, be his state what it may, is exempted from the duty 
 of inquiring what good he can do to others. That man must have seen 
 little of mankind who is ignorant of human misery; yet such know- 
 ledge is r>t to be acquired by those who converse merely with persons 
 of their own rank; they must enter into the cottages and garrets of the 
 poor ; they must see them naked, hungry, and thirsty, exposed to the 
 inclemencies of the weather, to the sudden attacks or slow wastings of 
 disease ; they must see the effects of their unruly passions and their 
 grovelling vices ; they must be acquainted with all the consequences of 
 ignorance and poverty. Evils like these must be known before they 
 can be remedied ; yet the generality of the upper ranks know little what 
 their inferiors suffer. 
 
 Piety. — Piety communicates a divine lustre to the female mind ; wit 
 and beauty, like the flower of the field, may flourish and charm for a 
 leason ; but let it be remembered, that like the fragrant blossoms that 
 Dloom in the air, these gifts are fading : age will nip the bloom 6f beauty ; 
 sickness and sorrow will stop the current of wit and humour ; but in 
 that gloomy time appointed for all, piety will support the d^'^oping soul| 
 like the i, freshing dew upon the parched earth. 
 
FULTON AND THE FIRST STEAMBOAT. 521 
 
 FULTON AND THE FIRST STEAMBOAT. 
 
 ^"When," said Mr. Fulton, ."I was building my first steamboi.t at 
 New York, the project was viewed by the public either with indifference 
 or contempt, as a visionary scheme. My friends, indeed, were civil, but 
 they were shy. They listened with patience to my explanations, but 
 with a settled cast of incredulity on their countenances. I felt the full 
 force of the lamentation of the poet, • 
 
 Truths would you teach, to sare a sinking land, 
 All fear, none aid you, and few nnderatand. 
 
 As I had occasion to pass daily to and from the building-yard, while my 
 boat was in progress, I have often loitered unknown near the idle groups 
 of strangers, gathering in little circles, and heard various inquiries as to 
 the object of this new vehicle. The language was uniformly that of 
 scorn, or sneer, or ridicule. The loud laugh often rose at my expense; 
 the dry jest ; the wise calculation of the Fulton folly. Never did a 
 single encouraging remark, a bright hope or a warm wish cross my 
 path. Silence itself was but politeness veiling its doubts, or hiding its 
 reproaches. At length the day arrived when the experiment was to be 
 put into operation. To me it was a most trying and interesting occa- 
 sion. I invited many friends to go on board to witness the first success- 
 ful trip. Many of them did me the favour to attend, as a matter of 
 personal respect ; but it was manifest, that they did it with reluctance, 
 fearing to be the partners of my mortification, and not of my triumph. 
 I was well aware, that in my case there were many reasons to doubt of 
 my own success. The machinery was new and ill-made ; many parts 
 of it were constructed by mechanics unaccustomed to such work; and 
 unexpected di£Sculties might reasonably be presumed to present them- 
 selves from other causes. The moment arrived in which the word was 
 to be given for the vessel to move. My friends were in groups on the 
 deck. There was anxiety, mixed with fear, among them. They were 
 silent, and sad, and weary. I read in their looks nothing but disaster, 
 and almost repented of my efforts. The signal was given, the boat 
 moved a small distance and stopped, and became immovable. To the 
 silence of the preceding moment, now succeeded murmurs of discontent, 
 and agitations, and whispers, and shrugs. I could hear distinctly re- 
 peated, ' I told you it would be so — it is a foolish scheme — I wish wc 
 were well out of it.' I elevated myself upon a platform, and addressed 
 the assembly. I stated that I knew not what was the matter ; but if 
 they would be quiet, and indulge me for half an hour, I would either 
 go on, or abandon the voyage for that time. This short respite was 
 conceded without objection. I went below, examined the machinery, 
 and discovered that the cause was a slight misadjustment of some of the 
 work. In a short period it was obviated. The boat was put again in 
 motion. She continued to move on. All were still incredulous. None 
 seemed willing to trust the evidence of their own senses. We lelt tha 
 fidr city of New York ; we pxssed through the romantic and fcver-varying 
 2t2 
 
.'>22 FIEl-DS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 scenery of the Highlands ; we descried the clustering houses of Albany 
 we reached its shores ; and then, even then, when all seemed achieved, 
 I was the victim of disappointment. Imagination superseded the influ- 
 ence of fact. It was then doubted if it could be done again, it was 
 doubted if it nould be made of any great value." 
 
 Such was the history of the first experiment, as it fell, not in the verj" 
 language which I have used, but in its substance, from the lips of the 
 inventor. He did not live indeed to enjoy the full glory of his invention. 
 It is mournful to say, that attempts were made to rob him in the firsl' 
 place of the merits of his invention, and next of its fruits. He fell a 
 victim to his efforts to sustain his title to both. When already his inven- 
 tion had covered the waters of the Hudson, he seemed little satisfied 
 with the results, and looked forward to far more extensive operations. 
 " My ultimate triumph," he used to say, " will be on the Mississippi. I 
 know indeed that even now it is deemed impossible, by many, that the 
 difficulties of its navigation can be overcome. But I am confident of 
 success. I may not live to see it; but the Mississippi will yet be cover- 
 ed by steamboats ; and thus an entire change be wrought in the course 
 of the internal navigation and commerce of our country." — Nnrth 
 American Review. 
 
 FEMALE INFLUENCE. 
 
 The tollowing striking and eloquent remarks are from " Suggestions 
 on Education," by Catharine E. Beeoher : — 
 
 Woman has been but little aware of the high incitements that should 
 stimulate to the cultivation of her noblest powers. The world is no 
 longer to be governed by physical force, but by the influence which mind 
 exerts over mind. How are the great springs of action in the political 
 world put in motion ? Often by the secret workings of a single mind, 
 that in retirement plans its schemes, and comes forth to execute them 
 only by presenting motives of prejudice, passion, self-interest, or pride, 
 to operate on other minds. 
 
 Now, the world is chiefly governed by motives that men are ashamed 
 to own. When do we find mankind acknowledging that their efforts in 
 political life are the offspring of pride and the desire of self-aggrandize- 
 ment, and yet who hesitates to believe that this is true .'' 
 
 But there is a class of motives that men are not only willing but 
 proud to own. Man does not willingly yield to force ; he is ashamed to 
 own he can yield to fear; he will not acknowledge his motives of pride, 
 prejudice, or passion. But none are unwilling to own they can be 
 governed by reason, even the worst will boast of being regulated by con- 
 science, and where is the person who is ashamed to own the influence of 
 the kind and generous emotions of the heart ? Here then is the only 
 lawful field for the ambition of our sex. Woman in all her relations is 
 bound to " honour and obet/"' those on whom she depends for protection 
 and support, nor does the truly feminine mind desire to exceed this limi- 
 tation of Heaven. But where the dictates of authority may ever ocatro). 
 
ARM£ SCENES. 523 
 
 she voiee of reason and affection may ever conyince and persuade ; and 
 *hile others govern by motives that mankind are ashamed to own, tbo 
 dominion of woman may be based on influenee that the heart is prouJ 
 to acknowledge. 
 
 And if it is indeed the truth that reason and conscienee guide to the 
 only path of happiness, and if affection will gain a hold on these powerfnl 
 principles which can be attained in no other way, what high and holy 
 motives are presented to woman for cultivating her highest powers ! The 
 development of the responding fascinations of a purified imagination, 
 the charms of a cultivated taste, the quick perceptions of an active mind, 
 the power of exhibiting truth and reason by perspicuous and animated 
 conversation and writing, all these can be employed by woman as much 
 as by man. And with these attainable faculties for gaining influence, 
 woman has already received from the hand of her Maker those warm 
 affections and quick susceptibilities, which can most surely gain the 
 empire of the heart. 
 
 Woman has never waked to her highest destinies and holiest hopes. 
 She has yet to leam the purifying and blessed influence she may gain 
 and maintain over the intellect and affections of the human mind. 
 Though she may not teach from the portico nor thunder from the forum, 
 in her secret retirements she may form and send forth the sages that 
 shall govern and renovate the world. Though she may not gird herself 
 for bloody conflict, nor sound the trumpet of war, she may enwrap 
 herself in the panoply of heaven, and send the thrill of benevolence 
 JShrough a thousand youthful hearts. Though she may not enter the list 
 in legal collision, nor sharpen her intellect amid the passions and conflicts 
 of men, she may teach the law of kindness, and hush up the discords 
 and conflicts of life. Though she may not be clothed as the ambassador 
 of Heaven, nor minister at the altar of God, as a secret angel of mercy 
 she may teach his will, and cause to ascend the humble but most accepted 
 sacrifice 
 
 A.RMY SCENES. 
 
 It is with a strange and thrilling sensation — when an enemy is imme- 
 diately in front — that the order for an advance before daybreak is heard 
 in camp, accompanied, as it always is, with the ominous serving out of 
 three days' provisions, and sixty rounds of ball-cartrfdge to each man ; 
 with the bustle of packing up the heavy baggage — ^the noise and hubbub 
 in the camp — the deep and hollow rolls of the great-guns, dragging up 
 from the rear — and the congregating together of the officers in their 
 tents, preparing for the movement ; some speculating upon the results 
 of the coming battle ; some smoking cigars and jesting with death ; some 
 musing upon absent friends, ruminating on the past, or peering into the 
 future j and, perchance, a few — a very few thinking beings, j-ondenng 
 on the final destiny of man, the mystery of death, and the searchless 
 geeret beyond the grave. — John Malcom. 
 
fi24 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 THE ACROPOLIS. 
 
 The Acropolis of Athens is a hill two hundred aud fifty feet high, 
 situated near the centre of the ancient city. It was strongly fortified 
 and ornamented with temples, the chief of which was the splendid temple 
 of Minerva, the glory of Grecian art. The Persians, under Xerxes, took 
 the citadel, put the garrison to the sword, and set fire to the fortress and 
 the tftmple of Minerva. The temple was rebuilt by Pericles with great 
 additional splendour. Within was the statue to Minerva by Phidias, the 
 masterpiece of the art of statuary. It was of ivory, thirty-nine feet in 
 height, and covered with pure gold to the value of 1530,000. In the 
 year 1687, the Venetians attempted to make themselves masters of 
 Athens; in the siege, the Turks having converted the temple of Mi- 
 nerva into a powder magazine, a bomb fell into it, and blew up the 
 whole roof of that famous edifice. The Turks afterwards converted the 
 inside into a mosque. This edifice, mutilated as it is, retains still an air 
 of inexpressible grandeur, and excites the admiration of every beholder. 
 " For these forty years," said the French Consul to Poqueville, " do I 
 behold this matchless structure, and every day do I discover new beauties 
 in it." The Turks fortified the Acropolis, and built a large irregular wall 
 around it. In the year" 1821, soon after the commencement of the revo- 
 lution in Greece, this fortress was unsuccessfully besieged by the Greeks.' 
 The Turks, who had with them about fifty of the principal Greeks, daily 
 cut off the heads of several, and rolled them down the walls of the citadel. 
 The next year it surrendered to Ulysses. 
 
 THE FLOWER FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 Mills, in his work upon chivalry, mentions, that the beautiful little 
 flower called forget- me-not was known in England as early as the time 
 of Edward IV. ; and, in a note, he gives the following pretty incident in 
 explanation of the name : "Two lovers were loitering on the margin of 
 a lake, on a fine summer's evening, when the lady discovered some 
 flowers of the MyosoUs growing on the water, close to the bank of an 
 island, at some distance from the shore. She expressed a desire to pos- 
 sess them, when her knight, in the true spirit of chivalry, plunged into 
 the water, and swimming to the spot, cropped the wished-for plant; but 
 his strength was unable to fulfil the object of his achievement, and feel- 
 ing that he could not regain the shore, although very near it, he threw 
 the flowers upon the bank, and casting a last affectionate look upon his 
 lady-love, L<j said Forget me not, and was buried in the water." 
 
 During a great storm on the Pacific Ocean a vessel was once wrecked, 
 and a Quaker, tossing to and fro on a plank, exclaimed, over the crest of 
 a wave, to another who was drifting by on a barrel, " Friend, dost thou 
 call this Pacific?" 
 
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. — ^VEESES. 
 
 52h 
 
 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 BT H. W. LOHGrELLOT. 
 
 blTBBR a vpreadlng ohestnnfc-tree, 
 
 The Tillage smithy stands ; 
 The smith, a mighty man is he. 
 
 With large and sinewy hands ; 
 And the mnscles of his bravrny artas 
 
 Are strong as iron bands. 
 
 His hair is crisp, and black, and long ; 
 
 His face is like the tan ; 
 Bis brow is wet with honest sweat ; 
 
 He earns whate'er he can. 
 And looks the whole world in the fiiee» 
 
 For he owes not any man. 
 
 Week in, week ont, from morn till night, 
 You can hear his bellows blow; 
 
 Ton can hear him swing his heavy sledge. 
 With measured beat and slow. 
 
 Like a sexton ringing the village bell 
 ■ When the evening sun is low. 
 
 And children coming home from school 
 
 Look in at the open door ; 
 They love to see the flaming forge. 
 
 And hear the bellows roar. 
 And catch the burning eparks that fly 
 
 Like chaff f^m a threshing-floor. 
 
 He goes on Sunday to the church. 
 
 And sita among his boys ; 
 He hears the parson pray and preach. 
 
 He hears his daughter's voice, 
 Singing in the village choir. 
 
 And it makes his heart rejoice. 
 
 It Bounds to him like her mother's Tolot, 
 
 Singing in Paradise \ 
 He needs must think of her ftnce more. 
 
 How in the grave she lies ; 
 And with his hard, rough hand he wipei 
 
 A tear out of his eyea. 
 
 Toiling — rq oicing — sorrowing — 
 Onward throagh life he goes; 
 
 Each morning sees some task begin. 
 Each evening sees it close ; 
 
 Something attempted— eomething done. 
 Has earn'd a night's repose. 
 
 Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend. 
 For the lesson thou hast taught I 
 
 Thus at the flaming forge of Life 
 Our fortunes must be wrought. 
 
 Thus on ite Bounding anvil shaped 
 Each burning deed and thought. 
 
 BE KIND TO EACH OTHER. 
 
 Be kind to each other, through weal and through 
 wo, 
 
 Fmt there's many a sorrow for hearts here below; 
 The storms of this life beat around us in vain, 
 Tf we're kind to each other, in pleasure and pain. 
 
 £e kind to each other when life is all light. 
 When music and mirth please the ear of the night ; 
 When pleasure spreads roses in grandeur's gay hall. 
 Be kind to each other and fear not at all. 
 
 Be kind to each other in sorrow and grie( 
 'Tis tifmpathj/ only can give thee relief; 
 
 Dividing our Borrow but lessens our pain. 
 Be kind to each other — affliction is vain. 
 
 Be kind to eaoh other when aicknesn has come. 
 Let nothing but smiles ever visit your home; 
 Encourage and succour, and soothe the distreea'd. 
 Be kind to each other, and still thou art bless'd. 
 
 Be kind to eaoh other through life to its close, 
 And when thou art freed from its wishes and woes ; 
 When fireed ftom life's tears, fi-om ita sorrow anc 
 
 sigha. 
 Be kind to each other, and meet in the skies. 
 
 VERSES BY ROBERT BURNS, 
 
 WHEN ABOUT TO LEAVE 8C0TI.Ain>. 
 
 (Veb the mist-ahrouded cliffs of the lone mountain 
 Btraying, 
 
 Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave, 
 W hat woes wring my heart while intensely surveying 
 
 The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave ! 
 
 Ye foam-created billows, allow me to waiU 
 Ere you toss me afar from my loved native shore. 
 
 Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's 
 green vale. 
 The pride of my bosom, my Mary's, no Jioce. 
 
 No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wMider, 
 
 And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave ; 
 
 No more shall my arms cling with fondness around 
 
 her. 
 
 For the dew-dropa of morning fall cold on hei 
 
 grave. 
 
 No more shall the soft thrill of Iqye warm my breaffi' , 
 I haste with the storm to a far-distant shoTO, 
 
 Where, unknown, unlamented, my ashes ehsM leaa, 
 And joy shall revisit my bosom no mm ». 
 
a26 FIELOS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 FRIENDS OF MY YOUTH. 
 
 I « turned to my native village, and said, "Friends of my youth — where are they?" 
 And echo answered, " Where are they ?" 
 
 Language could not more touchingly describe the situation of the 
 traveller, who, after years of absence, revisits the scenes of bis youth, 
 and searches in vain for the companions of his early pleasures. Child- 
 hood and youth are the genial seasons for local as well as personal at- 
 tachment. . In maturer years the mind is occupied by the hurry of busi- 
 ness or the abstraction of studies, and those little domestic and neigh- 
 bourhood incidents, which engage the notice of boyish curiosity, and 
 which entwine themselves with such strong and numerous chords round 
 the young affections, pass unregarded by the less inquisitive observation 
 and the less acute sensibility of age. The personal friendships and In- 
 timacies of age are, for the most part, nothing but the formal and calcu- 
 lating civilities of interest — as frail and unsubstantial as their perishable 
 foundation ! The local predilections and partialities contracted late in 
 life spring from no romance of affection — from no 'poetry of heart — 
 no train of tender associations — but from some ignoble idea of present 
 fitness and convenience ! But the affections of childhood are the pure 
 and ingenuous offerings of unsophisticated nature ! Does the tired pil- 
 grim return from the " travel of the world" to his native village ? It 
 is the enthusiasm of early love, clinging with unweaned and unabated 
 attachment to those scenes which witnessed the day-dreams of youthful 
 expectation ! Does he ask for the " friends of his youth ?" They were 
 thfr only friends he has found in his pilgrimage. The companions of 
 yesterday are easily forgotten ! The events of the last year are already 
 obliterated from our memory! But no time, no change can obscure the 
 vivid images of our young days, or efface the deep impression of 
 primeval joys. When we have been for years tossed on the ocean of 
 life, and return once more to seek tranquillity in the haven of home, 
 how intolerable must be the anguish of our disappointment, when we 
 find that home — the residence of our happiest days, and the theatre of 
 our most innocent enjoyments — endeared to us by such strong natural 
 affinities, and by so many interesting moral ties, lone and deserted ! 
 Tho recollection of the happy faces and the affectionate hearts which we 
 left behind us, when we first turned our vagrant feet from the paternal 
 threshold; the image of those dear associates, who partook of our 
 reckless pleasures, and sustained with us the perils of infsint helpless- 
 ness j the vidible proof thus presented of the desolation of time and of 
 the vanity of human happiness ; " the memory of joys that are gone ;" 
 and the whole tide of past events, with all their painful associations, 
 sweep over the soul and leave it a dreary melancholy waste ! ." Friends 
 of my youth ; where are they ?" No voice of affection greets our re- 
 turn ! no smile of enraptured joy welcomes us home ! no ear of interest 
 listens while we recount the story of our perilous voyage ! All is silent 
 dnd desolate ? Echo answers in doleful accents, " Where are they '" 
 
ABSENT-MINDED PHILOSOPHER. 527 
 
 now TO MAKE A GOOD WIFE UNHAPrY, 
 
 See her as seldom as possible. If she is warm-hearted and cheerful 
 in temper ; and if, after days' or weeks' absence, she meets you with a 
 smiling face and in an affectionate manner, be sure to look coldly upon 
 her, and answer her with dry monosyllables. If she force back her 
 tears, and is resolved to look cheerful, sit down and gape in her pr.es«noa 
 till she is fully convinced of your indifierence. Never agree with het 
 in opinion, or consult her in any of your affairs, for that would give her 
 an idea of consequence. Never think you have any thing to do to make 
 her happy ; but that all happiness is to flow from gratifying your ca- 
 prices ; and when she has done all a woman can do, be sure you do not 
 appear gratified. Never take an interest in any of her pursuits, and if 
 she ask your advice, make her feel that she is troublesome and imperti- 
 nent, if she attempts to rally you good-humouredly on any one of your 
 peculiarities, never join in- the laugh, but frown her into silence. If 
 she has faults, (which, without doubt, she will have, and perhaps may 
 be ignorant of,) never attempt with kindness to correct them ; but con- 
 tinually obtrude upon her ears, " What a good wife Mr. Smith has." 
 " How happy friend Smith is with his wife." " That any man would 
 be happy with such a wife." In company never seem to know you have 
 a wife, treat all her remarks with indifference, and be very affable and 
 complaisant to every other lady. If you have married a woman of 
 principle, and will follow these directions, you may he certain of an 
 obedient and a — <hea/ri-broken wife. 
 
 ABSENT-MINDED PHU.OSOPHEK. 
 
 Dr. Robert Hamilton, the author of the celebrated " Essay on the 
 National Debt," was esteemed a profound and clear-headed philosoplier. 
 In the " New Monthly Magazine," after speaking of the profound science, 
 beautiful arrangement, and clear expression manifest in his writings, 
 the writer goes on to say : " Yet in public the man was a shadow : 
 pulled off his hat to his own wife in the streets, and apologized for not 
 having the pleasure of her acquaintance j went to his classes in the col- 
 lege in the dark mornings with one of her white stockings on one Idg, 
 and one of his own black ones on the other j often spent the whole timo 
 of the meeting in moving from the table the hats of the students, whicli 
 they as constantly returned ;• sometimes invited them to call on him, and 
 then fined them for coming to insult him. He would run against a cow 
 in the road, turn round, beg her pardon, ' Madam,' and hope she was not 
 Hart. At other times he would run against posts, and chide them for 
 not getting out of his way ; and yet his conversation at the same time; 
 if anybody happened to be with him, was oerfeet logic and perfect 
 
528 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 EECOLLECTIONS OF INPANCT. 
 
 The following extracts are copied from a volume, published in 1810, 
 entitled " The Savage, hy Piomingo, a headman and warrior of the 
 Muscogulgee Nation," a work of great merit, said to have been written 
 by a citizen of Tennessee : — 
 
 The existence of things is not strange j but the power of perceiving 
 this existence is, beyond comprehension, wonderful. Where shall we 
 look for the origin of mind ? Whence sprang the young idea ? Was 
 it produced by the immediate agency of the Almighty One ? or is it 
 a necessary emanation from the great fountain of nature, the soul of the 
 universe ? Our first thought has perished for ever j no exertion of ours 
 can bring it up from the gulf of oblivion ; yet we may awaken the 
 recollection of times long past ; we may bid the scenes of childhood pass 
 again before us, and remember with pleasure the early excursions of the 
 unfledged mind. 
 
 When we first become conscious of our own existence, every thing is 
 new — every thing delightful. We inquire not whence we came ; we 
 rejoice because we aee. The brisk circulation of the blood and the 
 kindly flow of the animal spirits impel us to action. We find it, impos- 
 sible to control the tumultuous emotions of exultation and joy. We 
 have no power to remain in one place or continue silent : we run, we 
 scream, we leap "like roes or young harts on the mountains of spices." 
 But this blissful period passes away as a dream, and visits us no more. 
 Our prospects become suddenly darkened : some faint idea of evil, of 
 sorrow, and of death, passes through the mind. 
 
 The first thought concerning the final period of our joys and of our 
 existence is inexpressibly distressing. " Must I die also 1" said I to the 
 sage Oconi-mico — *' must I die as well as Quibp ?" " Thou must also 
 die," answered Oconi-mico. " Shall I no more walk ? Shall I no more 
 climb up the mountain of buffaloes ? Shall I no more shake the fruit 
 from the beautiful pawpaw tree, or swim in the waters of Tuckabatchee ? 
 Shall I no more, dear Oconi-mico, shall I no more see the sun rise among 
 the trees of the forest ?" " My dear child," said Oconi-mico, " behold 
 the stalks of maize ; do they flourish longer than one season ? Observe 
 the trees of the forest ; they grow old and become rotten : must a man 
 live for ever ? Thou must become old ; thy hands must tremble, thine 
 eyes become dim, and death put a period to thy existence." " What is 
 death?" " Death is the end of life. Death is — nothing." "I cannot 
 understand that : come let us look at my brother Quibo. Is he asleep ? 
 let us awake him. His face is cold; his eyes are closed; his limbs are 
 stiff : he is dead. If I touch him, he cannot feel me ; if I cry, he cannot 
 hear me ; should I puH open his eyes, he would not see me ; he is dead. 
 Why did he lie down on his bed and die ? Why did he fall asleep and 
 die ? I will run wild on the hills. I will never lie down to sleep ap'^ 
 more. I will not. die." 
 
RBCOELECTIONS 0* INFANCY. 529 
 
 " My dear boy, look at Quibo : he has feet, but he cannot walk j he 
 has. hands, but he cannot bend' his bow or take an arrow from his quiver; 
 he has eyes-, but he cannot see the sun rise among the trees of the forest; 
 the life — the spirit — the thought of Quibo has gone away to the land 
 of souls." Sudden as a flash of lightning from a summer cloud sprang 
 up a new and delightful idea : Quibo is not aU dead ; his thought is 
 gone to another country. " Where is the land of souls?" Oconi-mioo 
 took me by the hand, and led me to the door of our hut. "Kaise your 
 eyes, my son, and observe those red clouds in the heavens." " I observe 
 them." " Do you see those blue mountains, whose towering summits 
 are mixed with the descending clouds ?" " I see them." 
 
 "Beyond these mountains there is a wide river; beyond that river 
 there is a great country; on the other side of that country there is a 
 world of water; in that water there are a thousand islands: the sun is 
 gone down aimong them. These islands are full of fruit trees, and 
 streams of water. A thousand- buffaloes and ten thousand deer graze on 
 the hills or ruminate in the valleys." " When I die, shall I become an 
 inhabitant of those islands?"' " Love your friends; become a great war- 
 rior; and when you die, the good Spirit will convey you to the land of 
 souls, where Quibo is." "Who is the good Spirit? Where is he?" 
 " He is above the stars; he sends down the rain, the hail, and the snow; 
 and he passes by in the wild tornado." " Bad children, like the son of 
 Ottoma, go down into the earth, to a dark place, where dwell the wicked 
 spirits. My child, your mind is fatigued as well as your body. You 
 must go to rest. To-morrow you shall see Quibo." 
 
 He took me in his arms and bore me to my couch ; he wiped away 
 the tears from my cheeks with the back of his band, adding, " Rest in 
 peace; the good Being will send down his angels to watch over your 
 slumbers." I slept ; and' sweet was my repose. What can soothe and 
 calm the mind like the protection of a great and benevolent' being ? The 
 child may repose confidence in the arm of its father; but to whom 
 shall the father look up for support ? He is conscious of his own weak- 
 ness, and feels his dependence on "every thing that surrounds bim. He 
 cannot subject nature to his empire, nor drive the planets from their 
 orbits. Must he submit to the operation of causes and effects? Must 
 he die and be forgotten for ever ? Or is there any truth in the consola- 
 tory invitation : " Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy ladenj 
 and I will give you rest," Christians ! your religion sounds sweetly in , 
 the ears of a weak and erring creature like man. It speaks to the heart, , 
 affords a refuge to the miserable, and provides a remedy for every evil : • 
 but I cannot divest myself of my original opinions. How indelible are 
 the impressions we receive in childhood ! Fifty summers have browned 
 my visage, and fifty winters have furrowed my cheeks ; yet still the 
 maxims of Oconi-mico are deeply engraven on the' tablets of my mind. . 
 The sun of science has striven in vain to dissipate the darkness of my. 
 superstition ; still I see my Gbd in the black cloud, and listen to " the. . 
 voice of his excellency" in the thunder; still he reigns in the tempest, 
 and passes by in the tornado: 
 
 2?avigators inform me that there is no heaven for Indians in the souths 
 2 &i 
 
530 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 ern ■ seas ; yet my fancy can people still a thousand islands with the 
 brave spirits of my forefathers. Still I see their shadowy forms chaso 
 the fleeting deer over visionary hills, and I sigh for their companv'and 
 their joys. 
 
 THE HILL OP LIFE. 
 
 Armine became acquainted with his own existence in the valley of 
 Childhood. His couch was composed of roses, and canopied over by 
 the boughs of the orange and the myrtle. Bubbling springs were seen 
 among the flowers, and the melody of birds was heard amid the branches. 
 The Hill of Life appeared before him, and he set his face toward the 
 summit of the mountain. The ascent is known by the name of Youth: 
 it was easy and delightful. A female form of the most angelic appearance 
 was his constant companion : her name was Hope. She strewed his 
 path with flowers ; and her presence shed abroad the sunshine of cheer- 
 fulness and joy. She led him forward by the hand ; and distant objects, 
 when pointed out by her finger, assumed a supernatural and celestial 
 brilliancy. When he lay down to repose, poppies were strewed on his 
 pillow ; and when he awoke, his heavenly companion entranced his eyes 
 with her magical mirror of ravishing delights. Sometimes he turned 
 aside into the gardens of pleasure, and bathed in the rivers of sensual_ 
 delight ; but when he heard at a distance the loud but mellow voice of 
 the trumpet of Fame, which sounded on the top of the mountain, he 
 broke loose from the allurements of pleasure, determined to acquire 
 more substantial bliss by heroic exertions. 
 
 When he had gained the last stages of the ascent, he was met by a 
 restless being, of a dark and forbidding countenance : her name was Care. 
 She piessed him into her company, and attempted to engross his atten- 
 tion. , But her familiar approaches were forbidden by Hope ; and she 
 contented herself with flitting about in his view at a distance. 
 „ The summit of the mountain is an elevated plain, known by the name 
 of Manhood. It commands an extensive prospect on every side ; but 
 these views are not all equally delightful. When you stand on the 
 mountain and cast your eyes backward to the valley of Childhood, the 
 mind is overpowered by conflicting emotions. You review with delight 
 the wanderings of infancy in the valley of roses; but this enjoyment is 
 mixed with an inexpressible sentiment of sorrow and regret : the thought 
 of joys never to be repeated, and of pleasures for ever gone. 
 
 .The ascent of Youth is viewed with still less complacency. The 
 aberrations in this part of the journey give to the prospect a bitterness 
 and .gloom that cloud -the enjoyment. "Sweet humble vale!" said 
 Armine, looking through the long vista of Youth, to the commencement 
 (if hia journey, " sweet humble vale ! your delights are for ever vanish- 
 "A ! your pleasures can never return !" 
 
 Having thus said, he turned himself around to take a view of the ele- 
 vated plain on which he stood. The face of the country was various : 
 
THE HILL OP LIFE. 531 
 
 wnie parts were covered with thistles and thorns; and others weire 
 crowned with proud forests of oak, iand groves of towering poplars. In 
 some parts were to be seen "cloud-capt towers and gorgeous palaces;" 
 and in others, the sordid and miserable "huts of cheerless poverty." 
 Some of the inhabitants build houses of marble, as though their resi- 
 dence in the place were never to have an end; while multitudes are 
 crowded in cottages of clay. Dark clouds hang continually over the 
 mountain : some contemplate their appearance with calmoess, but others 
 view them with horror and dismay. 
 
 A philosopher who sat, with the utmost composure, on the point of " 
 rock and viewed the shifting of the clouds through a perspective, beck 
 oned Armine to approach. He obeyed. " I perceive," said the phi- . 
 losopher, " by your countenance, that you have lately gained the sum- 
 mit of the mountain." Armine assented. " "Well," continued the sage, 
 " you will remain here a while ; I have, for my part, been many years a 
 resident on this plain, and must speedily descend on the other side of 
 the hill. I observed you just now lookin'g back on the valley of Child- 
 hood ; have you any objection to take a view of the opposite descent ?" 
 Armine was silent. The philosopher took him by the hand, and led him 
 to the brow of the hill. "The declivity," said he, "as you may perceive, 
 is much greater on this side than on the other : it is called the Decline 
 of Life. It has but a dreary appearance. The descent is rapid into the 
 valley of Old Age : and in that valley rolls the black, sluggish, and 
 bottomless River of Death." Having thus spoken, he sighed, and im- 
 mediately began to descend. Armine called after him with a loud voice, 
 saying, " Is the river without a shore ? Are there no green fields oti the 
 other side, where a weary traveller may find lasting repose ?" The phi- 
 losopher turned round, and looked upon Armine. There was an expres- 
 sion of sadness upon his countenance. "No traveller has returned," 
 said he, " to give us any intelligence. There is, without doubt, a country 
 on the other side of the water : I have had a glimpse of it myself; but 
 those who are swallowed up by the River of Death are, in all proba- 
 bility, carried by the rapidity of the current into the Dead Sea of eternal 
 oblivion." Having thus said, he pursued his way down the mountain. 
 Armine observed him for some time in his descent; and took notice 
 that, having proceieded a little way, he found a green place on the side 
 of the hill where there was a spring of water; Having refreshed him- 
 self, he sat down to rest ; and immediately began to examine the nature 
 of the grass, which was the production of so sterile a soil. He continued 
 this employment for some time^ and then took out his pocket-perspective, 
 and observed the movement of the clouds with as much composure as 
 he had formerly done on the summit of the mountain. "Wonderful 
 elasticity of the human mind !" exclaimed Armine, as he turned roiind 
 from the contemplation of the Decline of Life, " wonderful- elasticity 
 of the human mind, which causes it to yield to the pressure of circum- 
 stances !— which enables it to support with tranquillity the greatest pos- 
 sible misfortunes !" - ■ . 
 
 Care now became the coil^tant coihpanion of Armine, though-he wan 
 Still accompanied by Hope. Hope had lost a great part of her'inagic^I 
 
532 riELDS'S SCRAP-BOOjK. 
 
 power, but still was able to soften tho influence of Care, and calm the 
 occasional perturbatiops of his mind. He adopted various schemes for 
 passing tht time of his continuance on the mount j but the issue of every 
 one was the same — disappointment. Sometimes he joined the votaries 
 of pleasure, and sometimes the lovers of wisdom. Pleasure ended in 
 smoke ; and knowledge was the parent^ of despair. Sometimes he em- 
 plpyed himself in gathering together the glittering stones that may be 
 found on the summit of the mountain ; but the exertion necessary in 
 this contemptible pursuit was painful in the extreme. He then endea- 
 voured to derive amusement from dispersing abroad what he tad col- 
 lected together ; and the issue of the whole was " vanity and vexation 
 of spirit." 
 
 The Temple of Fame stood on a rugged promontory of the mountain, 
 which was suspended over the black and putrid waters of Infamy. The 
 l^uilding was magnificent beyond description : its summit was hid in the 
 ejouds. The voice of the gpddess was heard from the temple, inviting 
 the approaches of all; but the attempt to obpy the invitation was attended 
 with dangpr. Every one was desirous to enter, in order to leave some 
 memonal of having performed the journey of life ; but few, very few, 
 were found able to surmount the obstacles which impeded the entrance. 
 The daring adventurer, whose heart beat high with the love of glory, 
 pressed forward through dangers of every, description. Frightful rocks' 
 and yawning caverns, giants of tremendous dimensions and spectres of 
 tjsrrifio forms, opposed his progress. Envy, Malipe, Hatred, Anger, Slan- 
 der, Revenge, and a thousand' others, armed with "firebrands, arrows, 
 and death," stood in array aga,inst him. The hero who broke through 
 their ranks and entered the temple covered with blood was received with 
 shouts of joy and the sound of the trumpet. 
 
 Armine essayed to enter ; but Poverty, a gaunt and haggard monster, 
 efiectually baffled every attempt, and droye him away from the precincts 
 pf the building. Here he was seized by Disease, who hurried him away 
 to the descent of the mountain. 
 
 As he passed down the Decline of Life, every thing wore a gloom of 
 despondence. Dark clouds hung over his head ; and nothing was heard 
 but the screaming of the raven from the " lightning-blasted oak," and 
 the hooting of the owl from the mouldering turret. He entered the 
 valley of Old Age. The air became dark. The funereal cypress over- 
 shadowed his path. 
 
 Weary and dejected, he tottered along, until, ere he was aware, he 
 stood on the banks of the river. A thick fog, an everlasting cloud, 
 rested on the fa,ce of the waters. Nothing was to be seen. Nothing was 
 to be heard. It was the reign of Darkness, Silence, Inanity, Death. 
 While he yet lingeredj he received a last visit from the companion of 
 his youth. Hope appeared, arrayed in a robe of resplendent whiteness. 
 She directed her ^and toward the opposite side of the river. The clouds 
 broke away for, a moment. He had, or fancied he had, a glimpse of a 
 brighter region. Time hurried him into the stream ; and he was heard 
 of no morg. 
 
THE OCEAN. 
 
 THE OCEAN. 
 
 see 
 
 The Ocean surronnds the eartt on all sides, and ]penetrates into the 
 Interior patts of different countries, sometimes by large openings, and 
 frequently by small straits. Could the eye take in this immense sheet 
 of waters at one view, it would appear the most august object under the 
 Whole heavens. It occupies a space on the surface of the globe at least 
 three times greater than that which is occupied by the land ; compre- 
 hending an extent of one hundred and fOrty-eight millions of square 
 miles. Though the ocean, strictly speaking, is but one immense body 
 of waters, extending, in diffetelit directions, yet different . names have 
 been appropriated to different portions of its Surface. Thai portion of 
 its waters which rolls between the western coast of America and the 
 eastern shores of Asia, is called the Pacific Ocean ; and that portion which 
 separates Europe and Africa from America, the Atlantic Ocean. Other 
 portions are termed the Northern, Southern, and Indian Oceans. When 
 its waters penetrate into the land^ they form what are termed gtilfs, and 
 Mediterranean seas. But without following it through all its windings 
 and divisions, I shall simply state a few geueral facts. 
 
 With regard to the depth of this body of water, no certain conclusiops 
 have yet been formed. Beyond a certain depth, it has hitherto been 
 found unfathomable. We know, in general, that the depth of the sea 
 increases gradually as we leave the shore ; btit we have reason to believe 
 that this increase of depth continues only to a certain distance. The 
 numerous islands scattered everywhere thirough the ocean demonstrate 
 that the bottom of the waters, so far from uniformly sinking, sometimes 
 rises into lofty mountains. It is highly probable that the depth of the 
 sea is somewhat in proportion to the elevation of the land 5 for there is 
 some reason to conclude, that the priesent bed of the ocean formed the 
 inhabited part of the ancient world previous to the general deluge, and 
 that we are now occupying the bed of the former ocean ; and, if so-, its 
 jgreatest depth will not exceed four or five miles j for there is no moun- 
 tain that rises highfer above the level of the sea. But the sea has never 
 been actually sounded to a greater depth than a mile and sixty-six feet. 
 Along the coast its dfepth has always been found proportionate to the 
 height of the shore : where the coast is high and mountainous, the sea 
 that washes it is deep ; but where the coast is low> the water is shallow. 
 To ealculate the quantity of water it contaiijB, we must therefore suppose 
 a medium depth. If we reckon its average depth at two miles, it will con- 
 tain two hundred and ninety-Six millions of cubical miles of water. We 
 shall have a more specific idea of this enormous masS of water, if we con- 
 sider that it is sufficient to cover the whole globe to the height of more 
 than eight thousand feet ; and if this water were reduced to one spherical 
 mass, it would form a globe of more than eight hundred miles in diameter. 
 
 With regard to its bottom. As the sea, covers so great a portion of 
 the globe, we should, no doubt, by exploring its interior, discover a vast 
 cumber of int'^resting objects; So far as the bed of the ocean has been 
 2u2 
 
634 fielm's scrap-book. 
 
 »xplorcd, it is found to bear a great resemblance to the surface of tba 
 dry land ; being, like it, full of plains, caverns, rocks, and mountains, 
 some of which are abrupt and almost perpendicular, while others rise 
 with a gentle acclivity, and sometimes tower above the water, and form 
 islands. The materials, too, which compose the bottom of the sea are 
 the same which form the basis of the dry land. It also resembles the 
 land in another remarkable particular ; many fresh springs and even 
 rivers rise out of it : an instance of which occurs near Gor, on the west- 
 ern coast of Hindostan, and in the Mediterranean Sea, not far from 
 Marseilles. The sea sometimes assumes different colours. The materials 
 which compose its bottom, cause it to reflect different hues in different 
 places ; and its appearance is also affected by the winds and the sun, 
 while the clouds that pass over it communicate all the varied and fleeting 
 colours. When the sun shines, it is green ; when he gleams through a 
 fog, it is yellow ; near the poles it is black ; while in the torrid zone, its 
 colour is often brown ; and, on certain occasions, it assumes a luminous 
 appearance, as if sparkling with fire. 
 
 The ocean has three kinds of motion. The first is that undulation 
 which is produced by the wind, and which is entirely confined to its sur- 
 face. It is now ascertained, that this motion can be destroyed, and its 
 surface rendered smooth, by throwing oil upon its waves. The second 
 motion is that continual tendency which the whole water in the sea has 
 towards the west, which is greater near the equator than towards the 
 poles. It begins on the west side of America, where it is moderate ; 
 but, as the waters advance westward, their motion is accelerated ; and 
 after having traversed the globe, they return, and strike with great vio 
 lence on the eastern shore of America. Being stopped by that continent 
 they rush with impetuosity into the Gulf of Mexico, thence they proceed 
 along the coast of North America till they come to the south side of 
 Newfoundland, when they turn off and run down through the Western 
 Isles. This motion is, most probably, owing to the diurnal revolution of 
 the earth on its axis, which is in a direction contrary to the motion of the 
 sea. The third motion of the sea is the tide, which is a regular swell 
 of the ocean every twelve hours. This motion is now ascertained to be 
 owing to the attractive influence of the moon, and also partly to that of 
 the sun. There is always a flux and reflux at the same time in two 
 parts of the globe, and these are opposite to each other ; so that when our 
 antipodes have high water, we have the same. When the attractive 
 powers of the sun and moon act in the same direction, which happens 
 at the time of new and full moon, we have the highest or spring-tides ; 
 but when their attraction is opposed to each other, which happens at 
 the quarters, we have the lowest or neap-tides. 
 
 Such is the ocean — a most stupendous scene of omnipotence, which 
 forms the most magnificent feature of the globe we inhabit. When we 
 stand on the seashore, and cast our eyes over the expanse of its waters, 
 till the sky and the waves seem lo mingle, all that the eye can take in 
 one survey is but an inconsiderable speck, less than the one hundred 
 thousandth part of the whole of this vast abyss. If every drop of water 
 ean be divided into twenty-six millions of distinct parts, as some philo- 
 
jeffeeson's residence. 535 
 
 Bophers have demonstrated, what an immense assemblage of watery par 
 tides must be contained in the unfathomable caverns of the ocean ^, 
 Here the powers of calculation are completely set at defiance ; and an 
 image of infinity, immensity, and endless duration is presented to the 
 mind. This mighty expanse of waters is the grand reservoir of nature 
 and the source of evaporation, which enriches the earth with fertility 
 and verdure. Every cloud which floats in the atmosphere, and every 
 fountain, and rivulet, and flowing stream, are indebted to this inexhaust- 
 ible source for those watery treasures which they distribute through every 
 region of the land. In fine, whether we consider the ocean as rearing 
 its tremendolis billows in the midst of the tempest, or as stretched out 
 ■ into a smooth expanse — whether we consider its immeasurable extent, 
 its mighty movements, or the innumerable beings which glide through 
 its rolling waves — we cannot but be struck with astonishment at the 
 grandeur of the Omnipotent Being who holds its waters " in the hoUow 
 of his band," and who has said to its foaming surges, " Hitherto shalt 
 thou come, and no farther, and here shall thy proud waves be stayed." 
 
 JEFFERSON'S RESIDENCE. 
 
 BY WIBT. 
 
 The mansion-house at Monticello was built and furnished in the days 
 of his prosperity. In its dimensions, its architecture, its arrangements, 
 and ornaments, it is such a one as becomes the character and fortune of 
 the man. It stands upon an elliptic plain, formed by cutting down the 
 apex of a mountain ; and, on the west, stretching away to the north and 
 the south, it commands a view of the Blue Ridge for a hundred and fifty 
 miles, and brings under the eye one of the boldest and most beautiful 
 horizons in the world ; while on the east it presents an extent of prospect 
 bounded only by the spherical form of the earth, in which nature seems 
 to sleep in eternal repose, as if to form one of her finest contrasts with 
 the rude and rolling grandeur of the west. In the wide prospect, and 
 scattered to the north and south, are several detached mountains, which 
 contribute to animate and diversify this enchanting landscape, among 
 them, to the south, Willis's mountain, which is so interestingly depicted 
 in his notes. From this summit the philosopher was wont to enjoy that 
 spectacle, among the gublimest of nature's operations, the looming of the 
 distant mountains ;- and to watch the motions of the planets, and the 
 greater revolutions of the celestial sphere. From this summit too the 
 patriot could look down with uninterrupted vision upon the wide expanse 
 of the world around, for which he considered himself born ; and upward 
 to the open and vaulted heavens, which he seemed to approach, as if to 
 keep him continually in mind of his high responsibility. It is a prospect 
 in which you see and feel at once that nothing mean or little could live. 
 It is a scene fit to nourish those grand and high-souled principles which 
 formed the elements of bis character, and was a most noble and apprc>- 
 vriate post for such a sentinel over the rights and liberties of man. 
 
536 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 A BROTHER'S LOVE. 
 
 There is something transcendently virtuous in the affection of a high* 
 hearted brother towards his gentle, amiable sister. He can feel 
 unbounded admiration for her beauty — he can appreciate and applaud 
 the kindness which she bestows on himself — he can press her bright lips 
 and her fair forehead, and still feel that she is unpolluted ; he can watch 
 the blush steal over her features with pleasure when he tells her of her 
 innocent follies, and he can clasp her to his bosom in consolation when 
 the tears gush from her overloaded heart. With woman there is a feel- . 
 ing of pride mingled with the regard which she has for her brother. She 
 looks upon him as one fitted to brave the tempest of the world, as one 
 to whose arm of protection she can fly for shelter when she is stricken by 
 sorrow, wronged, or oppressed, as one whose honour is connected with her 
 own, and who durst not see her insulted with impunity. He is to her 
 as the oak is to the vine, and, though she may fear all others of mankind, 
 she is secure and confident in the love and countenance of her brother. 
 Nothing affords man such satisfaction, and nothing entwines a sister so 
 affectionately among his sympathies and his interests, as a profound 
 reliance upon her virtue, and a strong conviction of her diffidence and 
 delicacy. As these two latter qualities are far the most delicious quali- 
 ties of a beautiful female, so are they the strongest spells for enticing 
 away the affections of the other sex. A female without delicacy is a 
 woman without principle ; and as an innate and shrinking perception of 
 virtue is the true characteristic of a pure-hearted creature, so it is the 
 most infallible bond of union between hearts that truly beat in response 
 to each other^ There is more tenderness in .the disposition of woman 
 than man ; but the affection of a brother is full of the purest and most 
 generous impulses j it cannot be quenched by aught but indelicacy and 
 unworthiness, and it will outlive a thousand selfish and sordid attach- 
 ments. Byron, in his tragedy of Cain, has beautifully exemplified the 
 sincerity of a brother's regard for his sister. Some of the sentiments 
 which he places in the mouth of the first murderer, while addressing 
 Adah, the partner of his earliest joys, are full of delicate, yet passionate 
 affection. Cain's affection for his children is there also admirably 
 delineated. When conversing with his youthful bride on the sorrows of 
 man's fallen condition, how eloquently he breaks out — 
 
 " My little Enoch and his lisping sister ! 
 Gould I but dream them happy ! I would half 
 Forget"— 
 
 his own unfathomable fate. Mrs. Hemans has also some noble passages 
 on this subject, as has Miss Baillie in the drama of the Bride. A 
 deep-rooted regard for a gentle creature born of the same parents with 
 ourselves is certainly one of the noblest feelings of our nature ; and were 
 every other feeling of the human bosom dead save this, there would still 
 a bright hope remain that the fountain of virtue and principle was Hot 
 vet sealed. 
 
FEATURES OF AMERICAN SCENERY. ^7 
 
 MARINER'S COMPASS. 
 
 It is somewhat uncertain at what precise period this noble discover/ 
 was made; but it appears pretty evident, that the mariner's compasB 
 was not commonly used in navigation before the year 1420, or only a 
 few years before the invention of printing. The loadstone, in all SLgei', 
 was known to have the property of attracting iron ; but its tendency to 
 point towards the north and south seem to have been unnoticed till th'i 
 beginning of the twelfth century. About that time some curious persons 
 seem to have amused themselves by making to swim, in a basin of water, 
 a loadstone suspended to a piece of cork; and to have remarked, that, 
 when left at liberty, one of its extremities pointed to the north. They had 
 also remarked, that, when a piece of iron is rubbed against the loadstone, 
 it acquires also the property of turning towards the north, and of attracts 
 in^needles and filings of iron. From one experiment to another, they 
 proceeded to lay a needle, touched with the magnet, on two small bits 
 of straw floating on the water, and to observe that the needle invariably 
 turned its point towards the north. The first use they seem to have 
 made of these experiments was, to impose upon simple people by the 
 appearance of magic. For example, a hollow swan, or the figure of a 
 mermaid, was made to swim in a basin of water, and to follow a knife 
 with a bit of bread upon its point which had been previously rubbed 
 upon the loadstone. The experimenter convinced them of his power, 
 by commanding, in this way, a needle laid on the surface of the water 
 to turn its point from north to the east, or in any other direction. But 
 some geniuses, of more sublime or reflective powers of midd, seizing 
 upon these hints, at last applied these experiments to the wants of navi- 
 gation, and constructed an instrument by the help of which the mariner 
 can now direct his course to distant lands through the pathless ocean. 
 
 FEATURES OF AMERICAN SCENERY. 
 
 The numerous waterfalls, the enchanting beauty of Lake George and 
 its pellueid flood, of Lake Champlain and the lesser lakes, afibrd 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 conceptions.- The efiects, too, of 
 our climate, composed of a Siberian winter and ail Italian summet, fnii- 
 nish new and peculiar objects for description. The circumstances of 
 remote regions are here blended, and strikingly opposite appearances 
 witnessed in the same spot at difierent seasons of the year. In our win- 
 ters, we have the sun at the same altitudes as in Italy, shining on an 
 ur limited surface of snow, which can only be found in the higher lati- 
 tudns of Eurrpe, W)iere the sun in the winter rises little above the hori- 
 
ft38 FIELDS'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 zon. The dazzling brilliance of a winter's day and a moonlight night 
 in an atmosphere astonishingly clear and frosty, when the Utmost splen- 
 dour of the sky is reflficted from a surface of spotless white, attended 
 with the most excessive cold, is peculiar to, the northern part of the 
 United States. What loo, can surpass the celestial purity and trans- 
 parency of the atmosphere in a fine autumnal day, when our vision and 
 our thought seem carried to the third heaven ; the gorgeous 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 eva- 
 nescent tints, all the hues of the rainbow ! 
 
 THE DYING HINDOO. 
 
 There are few things more shocking to European eyes than the 
 publicity of death-bed scenes in India, and the apathetical indifiFerence 
 displayed by the Hindoos while attending the expiring momenta of 
 their nearest relatives or friends. Frequently only a few yards from a 
 crowded ghaut thronged by the inhabitants of some neighbouring village, 
 who are laughing, singing, and following their ordinary occupations with 
 the utmost gayety, a dying person may be seen stretched upon a charpoy 
 (bed stead) close to the river's brink, surrounded by a group of three or 
 lour individuals, who look upon the sufferer without the slightest ap- 
 pearance of interest. As soon as the breath has left the body, the corpse 
 is thrown into the river, death being often precipitated by stuffing the 
 mouth and nostrils with mud. Strangers, attracted by some superb lotus 
 floating down the stream, are disgusted by the sight of a dead body 
 rapidly descending with the tide, the ghastly head appearing above the 
 surface of the water. Every Hindoo is anxious to draw his last sigh on 
 the banks of the Ganges, or some equally sacred stream flowing into its 
 holy waters; the relatives therefore of expiring persons fulfil the last 
 offices of humanity in the manner most desirable .to them by bringing a 
 dying friend to the edge of the river, and consigning the body, when 
 the vital spark has fled, to the hallowed stream. The corpse of a rich 
 Hindoo is burned upon a funeral pile ; but as wood is dear, the poorer 
 classes either dispense with it entirely, or merely scorch the flesh previ- 
 ously to launching it into the river. — Miss Roberts's Oriental Sketches. 
 
 The Death op a Wipe. — The death of a man's wife is like cutting 
 down an ancif nt oak that has long shaded the family mansion. Hence- 
 forth the glaro of the world, with its cares and vicissitudes, falls upon the 
 old widower's heart, and there is nothing {o break their force, or shield 
 him from the full weight of misfortune. It is as if his right hand was 
 withered, as if one wing of his eagle was broken, and every movement that 
 he made brought him to the ground. His eyes are dimmed and glassy, 
 and when the film of death falls over him, he misses those accustomed 
 tones which might have smoothed his passage to the grave. — Lamartine. 
 
EARLY AND LATTER DAYS OF CROMWELL. .'SE9 
 
 EARLY AND LATTER DATS OF CROMWELL. 
 
 Oliver Cromwell — to brieiy recapitulate all that history has. told 
 OS of trustworthy of his youth and early manhood — was the soa of Mr. 
 Robert Cromwell, a gentleman of good family and moderate means, 
 settled at Huntingdon — ^a brewer there, some aay, but without much 
 likelihood of truth. The Cavaliers used, we know, to call Harrison a 
 butcher, for the excellent reason that his father was a large grazing 
 farmer. Be this, however, as it may, Oliver, since his father's death, 
 managed his mother's business, whatever it was, whether farming or 
 brewing, and succeeded in doing so reasonably well. He had also re- 
 ceived a good education, or, at all events, what in those days passed for 
 one ; for we find he was entered of Sussex College, Cambridge, on the 
 very day, it is not uninteresting to remark, that Shakspeare died 1 The 
 stories told of the dissoluteness of Oliver's youth may equally, with the 
 prophetic marvels which, after he had achieved greatness, were said t» 
 have marked his infancy and boyhood, be dismissed with almost entire 
 incredulity. He was related to Hampden by marriage only, having 
 espoused, on the 22d of August, 1620, Elizabeth, daughter of Sir John 
 Bourchier, a kinsman of the anciently-descended family of Buckingham- 
 shire. Cromwell appears to have been a thoroughly sincere and fervidly 
 pious man ; and well would it have been had the charity of his religious 
 zeal equalled its earnestness and fervour. An excellent neighbour too, 
 helpful to all who needed help, and a zealous protector of the Noncon- 
 forming lecturers, whom Laud was hunting and persecuting through the 
 country; a man, in short, fitted for the perilous and anxious time; 
 watchful and patient of passing events; eagle-visioned to the dawnings 
 of the future ; and, to use Milton's expression, " nourishing his great 
 soul in silence," while callnly but mournfully awaiting the moment when 
 the contest, now thickening, should be removed to a more decisive arena 
 than that of the Commons' House, and men of bold deeds more than 
 of eloquent words would be required. 
 
 ^ :t: if ^ i): * 
 
 The once lion-hearted man, betrayed from the high path he had once 
 BO firmly trod by the enticements of power, and vainly struggling in the 
 mires of intrigue and fair-seeming falsehood, visibly declined in mind 
 and body ; became even personally afraid of the miserable Royalists 
 who threatened him with private assassination. Cromwell afraid ! 
 What miracle is this ? No miracle, reader ! True courage dwells not 
 with usurping violence ; and how could he be otherwise than afraid as 
 the names of Eliot, Hampden, gleamed through his troubled brain, and 
 he felt that he had betrayed the great cause for which they died ; brought 
 it in the eyes of the unreflecting into derision and contempt ? Albeit 
 as the Lord Protector, after patient watching by the lingering deathbea 
 of his favourite daughter, the Lady Elizabeth Claypole, came himself 
 visibly within the shadow of the tomb, his old spiritual strength seemed 
 to return again. The world with its vain shows was vanishing, and as 
 
540 fieldb's scrap-book. 
 
 it rolled away, the heaven of his youth and healthy manhood flashed, 
 with its awful and unspeakable splendours, light upon his soul. They 
 read to him, at his own request, a passage of St: Paul to the Philippiane— 
 •'Not that I speak in respect of want, for I have learned in whatsoever 
 state I am therewith to be content. I can do all things through Christ 
 who strengtheneth me." As these words fell upon his ear, he ejaculated 
 in broken accents, " This scripture did once save my life when my eldest 
 son— died ; which went as a dagger to my heart ; indeed it did." IIo 
 alluded to his son Oliver, slain in the civil war, but at what place or 
 under what circumstances remains unascertained. He is supposed to 
 have served in Harrison's troop. The day before the Protector died, 
 when his wife and children were weeping round his bed, he exclaimed, 
 speaking of the Covenant of God with man — " It is holy and true — it ig 
 holy and true — it is holy and true ! Who made it holy and true ? The 
 Mediator of the Covenant ! The Covenant is one. And even if I do 
 not. He remains faithful. Love not the world," he continued, addressing 
 his family : " no, my children, live like Christians. I leave you the 
 Covenant to feed upon." " Yea, my true one," adds Mr. Carlyle, com- 
 menting on this scene. " Even so : the Covenant, and the eternal soul 
 of Covenants remains sure to all the faithful : deeper than the founda- 
 tions of this world — earlier than they — more lasting than they." 
 
 The tempest of the night of the 2d of September, 1658, extending 
 to the shores of the Mediterranean, and strewing land- and sea with 
 wreck, was the appropriate death-dirge of that great, stormy being ; 
 and on the morrow — his fortunate day, the 3d of September — the mighty, 
 reverential, erring — for he was human — spirit passed from earth, its last 
 aspiration a prayer for the country he had strongly loved and bravely 
 served. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 Page 
 
 ABBEKT-UniDED PHILOSOPHER 527 
 
 Acropolis, The... ..,., 524 
 
 Active Benerolence ,., 520 
 
 Afiection's Tear 200 
 
 Alamo, The Babe of the 182 
 
 Alpine Horn 392 
 
 Alpine Scenery 476 
 
 Ambition blasted 269 
 
 America, DisooTery of, by Columbus... 4^7 
 
 American and British Officers 396 
 
 American Eagle, The. 82 
 
 American Liberty 329 
 
 American Revolution, Battles of the,,.. 207 
 
 American Scenery, Features ofl 537 
 
 An Angel in the Clouds, 239 
 
 Anecdotes, 68, 74, 96, 133, 207, 236, 346 
 
 348, 524 
 Anecdotes of Washington and Adams.. 297 
 
 Angel's Wing, The 239 
 
 Ant and the Cricket 158 
 
 Anxious Wife, The 103 
 
 Arnold, General. 127 
 
 Arnold, Attempt to take 129 
 
 Archimedes 479 
 
 Army BUI, Extract from Mr. Clay's 
 
 Speech on the 358 
 
 Army Scenes , 523 
 
 Astronomical Discoveries, Grandeur of 275 
 Atheism 188 
 
 Babylon, Ancient. 110 
 
 Be gentle with thy Wife...., 188 
 
 Be kind to each other 525 
 
 Beau Brummell 503, 506 
 
 Beautiful Extract. 618 
 
 Bible, The 343 
 
 Birds, Migration of. 343 
 
 Blennerhassett's Island and Burr's Con- 
 spiracy 376 
 
 Bohon Upas Tree, The 119 
 
 Bonaparte, Portrait of. 518 
 
 British Soldier, Singular. Adventure of 84 
 
 Broken Heart, The..,., , ...„, 459 
 
 Broken-Hearted, The , 51 
 
 Brother, come home, 214 
 
 Brother's Love .,,. 536 
 
 Bunker HJU Monument, On laying the 
 
 Comer-stone of. ..,,. 256 
 
 Burning of the Richmond Theatre,,,.,, 99 
 
 Case, of Mich., Remarks of, on the Value 
 
 of the Union 180 
 
 Christ on Calvary 330 
 
 Christianity in the Hour of Death 291 
 
 Circumstantial ^Evidence ».. 118 
 
 Pmt 
 
 Clay, Remarks of, on the Union of tho 
 
 States 174, 31« 
 
 Clayton's Remarks on the American 
 
 Union 316/ 
 
 Clemens, of Ala., Remarks of, at a pub- 
 lic meeting 179 
 
 Closing Scenes of Life 210 
 
 Coat of Mail, The 218 
 
 Colonel Croghan .'. 211 
 
 Comforts of Human Life 270 
 
 Constitution and Guerriere 354 
 
 Cordaieraj, The 505 
 
 Creation, Immensity of 271 
 
 Crockett,- On the Death of Colonel 42 
 
 CromweU, Early and Latter Days of..... 539 
 
 Crossing the Delaware 344 
 
 Curious Historical Fact 377 
 
 Damsel of Peru, The 378 
 
 DanielBoone 453 
 
 Day of Judgment 147, 349 
 
 De Kalb 322 
 
 Dead, The 401 
 
 Dead Trumpeter, The 378 
 
 Death, Ess^ on.. 237 
 
 Death of a Wife....... 538 
 
 Death, Reflections on....; 289 
 
 Death, Solemnity of. 408 
 
 Dearest Love, believe me 386 
 
 Decatur, Commodore 339 
 
 Deity, The 69 
 
 Destiny of this Republic 186 
 
 Dignity of the Human Mind 113 
 
 Dirge '. 337 
 
 Disappointment 510 
 
 Dome of the Capitol, A Night on the.... 387 
 
 Domestic Happiness 273 
 
 Dreadful Dragon, The 60 
 
 Dreadful Worm, A......... 267 
 
 Dream of Love 257 
 
 Drunkard's Solilociuy, The... 102 
 
 Duelling 474 
 
 Dying Christian, The 144 
 
 Dying Hindoo, The 538 
 
 Elegant Extracts 137 
 
 Elijah's Interview 392 
 
 Eloquent Extract 475 
 
 Emblem of JSuman Life, a River 143 
 
 Emmett, Last Words of. 319 
 
 Emmett, Parting Interview with 197 
 
 Enchanted Gun, The Ill 
 
 End of Great Men, The 152 
 
 Enjoyment of Life 391 
 
 Enormous Cannon 441 
 
 B41 
 
f42 
 
 INDKX. 
 
 Page 
 
 Epitaphs 273, 400, 404, 422, 456 
 
 Kternal Iloj,?,. . . 292 
 
 Eternity of God 427 
 
 Eve of Battle, Ihi 70 
 
 Evening „ 101 
 
 Krening Music at Sea 484 
 
 Everard 6ra.liam 190 
 
 Excerpts 400 
 
 Exile of Scio, The 139, 234 
 
 Exile, The : 144 
 
 Exile's Dream , 504 
 
 Express, The 432 
 
 Fairy's Funeral J 489 
 
 Faithful Soldier 326 
 
 Fame 290 
 
 Fare .Thee Well _ 436 
 
 Farmer, The 246 
 
 Female Faith 50 
 
 Female Heart, The 199 
 
 Female Heroism 448 
 
 Female Influence 522 
 
 Female Intrepidity 270 
 
 Fidelity 326- 
 
 Fields, of Texas, Remarks of, on the 
 
 SantaFe Question 176 
 
 Filial Duty 166 
 
 Filial Virtue illustrated 97 
 
 First Shot, The 108 
 
 Fii-st Battle near New Orleans 405 
 
 Flag of the United States 364 
 
 Flower Forget-me-not 524 
 
 Forget-me-not 60, 95 
 
 Fortitude 345 
 
 Fountain of Marah, The 311 
 
 Fi-agment 94 
 
 Fragment, after the manner of Ossian 511 
 
 Franklin 46 
 
 Franklin's Toast 94 
 
 Friend, Character of a True ^3 
 
 Friends of my Youth 526 
 
 Friends, The 498 
 
 Fulton and the First Steamboat 521 
 
 FuneralHymn 60 
 
 Gambler, The 63 
 
 Gambling 89, 109 
 
 Gaspirini the Bandit 495 
 
 Genius of Columbia.; 324 
 
 God, Eternity of 427 
 
 God, Existence of 248 
 
 God, Majesty of 347 
 
 God sees me 216 
 
 Good Husbands make good Wives 353 
 
 Good*-nature ' 296 
 
 Grave of the Year 415 
 
 Grave, The 81 
 
 Great Plague in the Fourteenth Cen- 
 tury 468 
 
 Greek Song 256 
 
 Greek Revolution, Clay's Remarks on 
 
 the 411 
 
 I? reek Revolution, Webster's Speech 
 • on the : .'.... 410 
 
 Fag* 
 Greeks, Eloquent Appeal in favoni of 
 
 the 412 
 
 Greene, Major-General 511 
 
 Guns 149 
 
 Halley and Sir Isaac Newton 517 
 
 Hamilton, General 268 
 
 Hamilton, Speech on the Death of...,:. 426 
 
 Happiness 422 
 
 Happiness and Virtue 16S 
 
 Happiness of Heaven 260 
 
 Have I come to this ? '. 410 
 
 Hazlewood Family, The 219 
 
 Henry and Caroline 70 
 
 Hero of the Plague 429 
 
 Hill of Life, The 530 
 
 Home 59,375 
 
 Hope 189, 48fi 
 
 Horrors of Battle 279 
 
 Hon-y, Anecdote of Colonel 323 
 
 Hours, The ; 369 
 
 How to Live 428 
 
 How to make a good Wife unhappy ... 627 
 
 Human Countenance, The 480 
 
 Human Life 329 
 
 Hungarian Horse-dealer, The 134 
 
 Hungarian Exiles, The 57 
 
 Hunter, of Va., Remarks of, in favour 
 
 of the Union 169 
 
 Husband, Address to a 387 
 
 Hyperion, Extract from 249 
 
 I have seen an endof all Perfection 58 
 
 Imagination 430 
 
 Indian, The Last 1 69 
 
 Indians 391 
 
 Infancy 213 
 
 Infant's Sleep '. 49 
 
 Ingenious Device 245 
 
 Intemperate Father 478 
 
 Interest, Difference between Simple and 
 
 Compound ; 431 
 
 Is there a God? 49 
 
 Jackdaw, The 61 
 
 Jackson's Victory at New Orleans 403 
 
 Jefferson, Eulogiumon 345 
 
 Jefferson, Residence of. , 535 
 
 Jefferson, The Grave of. 366 
 
 Jephthah's rash Vow 12S 
 
 Jerusalem, The Closing Scene in the 
 
 Pall of..... 47 
 
 Jesus Christ, A Description of the 
 
 Person of. 435 
 
 Jo'eHaynes, the Comedian 229 
 
 John Adams, Anecdote of. 156 
 
 John Adams, Death of. 261 
 
 John Adams, Patriotism and Elo- 
 quence of. ltJ3 
 
 John Randolph '. 151 
 
 Joshua S. Johnson, of Texas, Remarks 
 
 on the Santa Fe Question... 175 
 
 Jordan r 396 
 
 Judea. 435 
 
INDEX. 
 
 543 
 
 Eanfm!ui> of Texas, Remarks of, in 
 
 favourof the Union 172 
 
 Kentucky Pioneer, Anecdote of a 253 
 
 Lafayette's First Visit to America 406 
 
 Lafitte, the Baratarian Chief. 7 
 
 Last Shot. 421 
 
 Let's sit downand talk together 481 
 
 Liberty and Revolutions 75 
 
 Liberty and Union 362 
 
 Life 464 
 
 Lightning Rods 480 
 
 Lines to President Washington on his 
 
 Birth-day, Feb. 22, 1792 158 
 
 Lion Fight, A 201 
 
 Look Aloft. 415 
 
 Love 88 
 
 Love's immortal Wreath 82 
 
 Magnanimity, True...^ Ill 
 
 Major Audrl 232 
 
 Manners 414 
 
 Mariner's Compass 537 
 
 Marriage Ceremony 261 
 
 Marriage, Reflections on ^ 402 
 
 Marshal Ney's Death-Scene 41 
 
 Mary to her false Lover 450 
 
 Maternal Affection 236, 399 
 
 Maternal Heroism 157 
 
 Maternal Influence 338 
 
 Maternal Love 482 
 
 Matrimony, Bliss of. 457 
 
 Maxims, 49, 59> 66, 74, 86, 87, 101, 115, 145 
 152, 160, 206, 251, 252, 336, 473, 517 
 
 Maxims for Married Ladies.. 465 
 
 May you die among your Kindred 506 
 
 McDowell, of Va,, Remarks of, in fa- 
 vour of the Union .■. .173 
 
 Mechanic, The 274 
 
 Memory 293, 357 
 
 Midnight Reflection;.... 420 
 
 Mier Prisoner's Lament , 214 
 
 Mind, Independent Existence of. 496 
 
 Mirror of Life 260 
 
 Miser outwitted 431 
 
 Mississippi Yalley > 482 
 
 Mistakes 196 
 
 Mocking Bird, The 217 
 
 Monterey, Scenes at 43 
 
 Mother, The 101 
 
 Mount Cannel 519 
 
 Mr. OgUvie 233 
 
 My Home is in the World 42 
 
 My Mother •. 291 
 
 My Mother's (irarc 67 
 
 Kame in the Sand 256 
 
 Natural History, Study of. 508 
 
 Newspapers 465 
 
 Night on the Dome of the Capitol 387 
 
 Number of Deaths in a Year 278 
 
 Number of Stars 425 
 
 Ocean, The 533 
 
 Page 
 
 Ocean, The Majesty of the 90 
 
 Ode 481 
 
 On laying the Corner-stone of Bunker 
 
 Hill Monument 256 
 
 On some Snow that melted on a Lady's 
 
 Breast 2?.8 
 
 Ostentatious Epitaphs 338 
 
 Our Home is everywhere 95 
 
 Our Whole CountJy 467 
 
 Our William 504 
 
 Parsons, Anecdote of Judge : 348 
 
 Passage of- the Potomac through the 
 
 Blue Ridge 274 
 
 Patrick Henry, Eloquence of.....83, 252, 424 
 
 Peabody's Leap 203 
 
 Pestilence, The 126 
 
 Pestilence, History of the 276 
 
 Picture of Life 146 
 
 Piety 52.0 
 
 Planets, Motion of the 416 
 
 Poinsett's Remarks made in Charles- 
 ton duringtheNullification Excite- 
 ment _. 317 
 
 Practical Science 487 
 
 Prairies, Burning of the 455 
 
 Presidential Inauguration 159 
 
 President's Reception at New York... 490 
 Putnam, Creneral 235 
 
 Recollections of Infancy 528 
 
 Redbank, Yisitto 419 
 
 Religion 102,294 
 
 Religious Life 255 
 
 Remarks of Rives on the Union 3M 
 
 Remember Me 373 
 
 Reply to Atheism i... 418 
 
 Retrospection 430 
 
 Resignation 418 
 
 Revolutionary Anecdotes 398, 466 
 
 Revolutionary Reminiscence 341 
 
 Richmond Theatre, Burning of the 99 
 
 Rose, The.......... 68,132 
 
 Rose-bud, l?he 87 
 
 Rousseau's Opinion of the Bible and its 
 
 Author 288 
 
 Running for Life.. 208 
 
 Sacred. Scriptures, Moral and Intel- 
 lectual Eflcacy of the 243 
 
 Sadness 353 
 
 Sam Houston, Remarks of, in favour of 
 
 the Union 161 
 
 Sand-storm in the Desert 451 
 
 Sarah Curran, Some Passages in the 
 
 History of...,....; 281 
 
 Saturday Night 319 
 
 Savage, of Tenn., Remarks of, on behalf 
 
 ofthe Union .-... 173 
 
 Sea-elephant '. 398 
 
 Sea, The 145 
 
 Seaside Sketch 479 
 
 Self-respect 414 
 
 Sheridan 434 
 
su 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Page 
 
 bingular Incident 318 
 
 Bister's Love, A 62 
 
 Sisters and Mothers 88 
 
 Sleep 325 
 
 Small-pox, Aneient Mode of attempt- 
 ing to cure the ,..., 466 
 
 Socrates died like a Philosopher, but 
 
 Jesus Christ like a Otod 240 
 
 Soldier's Funeral 346 
 
 South Carolina 312 
 
 Sporting with Female Affections 507 
 
 Spring 468 
 
 Spunk 236 
 
 Bpurzheim, Ode sung at the Funeral of 337 
 
 Stanzas , 95 
 
 Stanzas to Her who can best under- 
 stand them 467 
 
 Stars, The 146 
 
 Stewart, of Texas, Remarks of, against 
 
 Disunion 174 
 
 Sunday-schools , 442 
 
 Sunrise of the Soul 290 
 
 Sunset 336 
 
 Sunset of Battle 198 
 
 Suspicion '. 327 
 
 Thp Devoted 272 
 
 The Fashion of this World passeth away 286 
 
 The Great Day , 349 
 
 The Righteous never forsaken 150 
 
 The River 481 
 
 The Texas Ranger 200 
 
 The Ties of Love 189 
 
 The Tiger's Cave 120 
 
 The Treacherous Hosts 210 
 
 The Waves have worn the solid Rook 188 
 
 There is a God 327 
 
 They bore him from the Waters 200 
 
 Thrilling Sketch 116 
 
 Telescope, Microscope, the InseotWorld 138 
 Temperance, Extract from an Address 
 
 on 262 
 
 Time ..235,402 
 
 Time, The Ruins of. .-. 53 
 
 'Tis Sweet to Think '. 290 
 
 To Ellen 364 
 
 To Mary 239 
 
 To my Mother 112 
 
 To the Departed 415 
 
 To the Sound of a distant Bell 144 
 
 To W. M. G. on the Death of his amia- 
 ble Sister 50 
 
 Transparency of the Sea 409 
 
 Traveller in Europe, Extracts from the 
 Private Letters of a late 350 
 
 Pane 
 
 Treasures of the Deep 453 
 
 Trenton, The Battle of. 272, 320 
 
 Truth is Power 328 
 
 Twilight 296 
 
 Union, Remarks in favour of preserv- 
 ing the 161, 312 
 
 Union, Value of the 318 
 
 Valediction to the Young Ladies of the 
 
 Enoxville Female Academy 365 
 
 Valley of Jehoshaphat 375 
 
 Vanity of Pride 393 
 
 Verses by Robert Burns..... 525 
 
 Village Blacksmith 525 
 
 Virgin Heart, A 96 
 
 Virginia, Scene in 44 
 
 Virtue : 357,478 
 
 Visit to a Mad-hou«e 489 
 
 Voice from Mount Vernon 436 
 
 Wall of China, The Great. 495 
 
 Wanderer's Return 214 
 
 War 295 
 
 War, Folly of 409 
 
 War^f the Revolution advocated 424' 
 
 Warren's Address to the American Sol- 
 diers 450 
 
 Washington 206, 238, 247, 301, 
 
 Washington's Address to the Army:,.. 423 
 
 Washington and Adams , 297 
 
 Waishington and Admiral Vernon 300 
 
 Washington, Death of 299 
 
 Washington's Dirge 158 
 
 Washington's Love for his Mother 326 
 
 Webster, Remarks of, in favour of the 
 
 Union 164, 168, 312 
 
 Webster's Address at the Celebration 
 of the Centennial Birthday of 
 
 Washington 301 
 
 What is Life? 311 
 
 What jsthat, Mother? 50 
 
 What of the Times? 379 
 
 White-headed or Bald Eagle 215 
 
 Wife, The 450, 488 
 
 Wild Horses 417 
 
 Wilson, of Texas, Remarks on the Santa 
 
 Fe Question 177 
 
 Woman...52, 89, 125, 146, 207, 213, 246, 374 
 
 Woman, Tomb of a 325 
 
 Woodman, spare that Tree 188 
 
 World to Come, The 112 
 
 Yankee Doodle, Origin-of. 453 
 
 Youthful Priejudships 31P 
 
 THX: EK&. 
 
 Mtnotyped br L. Johiuon i €* 
 rtUladelpUl.