C;^: y^ ;hm ppppf Book 8?6 //,/////. yyA n^ mm^ wmYm Off AMERICA A COLLECTION 03" ELOQUENT AND INTERESTING EXTRACTS FROM THE WRITINGS OF ^HSiBiiSiaffii if\(iiif[a®E§ -T^ BY GEO. Bi^CHEEVER. D. D, WORLD PUBLISHING HOUSE. 139 EIGHTH STREET, NEW YORK. 18T6. RS64-5 ■C5 COPTEIGHT, 1876, BY WORLD PUBLISHING HOUSE, In JiixchangQ Gar/ett Biblioiki Iaglt« Juno i8, 1929 PREFACE. BooK3 of common-place are the amusements of literature. It is pleiasant to have at one's side a well- sclecictl volume, to which he may turn for mentai recreation, when the fatigue of preceding exertion has rendered him unequal to hitellectual effort. It is pleasant, also, to have before us the eloquent passages of our favourite authors, so that we may occasionally awukei. and prolong the delightful sensations with which we at first perused them. But the mere power of conferring amusement is not that, which gives to publicat'ons of this sort their highest value. To all those, whose constant occupation precludes the possi- bility of spending many leisure hours in the acquisi- tion of literary taste and knowledge, they may be ren- dered eminently useful. The present volume is selected entirely from Ameri- can authors, and contains specimens of American lit- erature from its earliest period to the present day. It is hoped that it may not be found inferior in excellence or interest to any of those compilations which have hitherto embraced only the morceaux delicieuse of Eng- lish genius. When we say this, it is without any feehng of na- tional vanity or rivalry. Our wish is merely to furnish a volume which shall corresjmnd m design and execu cion to tiiose which are now so popular abroad, and INDEX OF AUTHORS. Adams, J 204 Ames £-9, 25G. ".''5 Anonvtnoua 4.-H> Anthology, Mcathly. ... 43. Applcton b6 Bancroft, G 2*3 Beecher 57, 3t8 Big Elk Maha Chief. . . . 1'.'0 Drown, C. B. ... 12S, OW Buckminster. 19, 59, 124, 172, 224, S45, ^b;) Carter, J. G. 55 Cass. . . 337 Channing. ... 43, 111, 262 Club-Room 14,197 Cooper. 99, 192, 283, 319, 383, 444 Dana, R 268 Dannie 10,97,404 Du Ponceau 439 Dwigiit 9, 107, 396 Emerson, G. B. Everett, A. H. E . . ]33 75, 417 44, 221 Farmer's Bro*.!j«r. (an Indian Chief.) .. ,'.... 180 Fitch 234 Flint 336 Francis Bernan 425 Francis, Miss. 141, 238, 430, 457 Franklin 23,312 Frisbie 21,355 Greenwood. Griscom. . 141, 215, 350, 359 . 226, 343 Hale, Mrs 453 Hamilton 242, 414 Bopkinson F. .... 135 Idle Man 33,427 Irving. . 48, 153 223, 298, 346 Jiv. ........ 2.53 JoiTorsoi:. . . . 25,74,230 KirklanJ 88 MaaisoT. ..... 218,378 ni-'.-h£.il. 64 M;non 3G7 M6l!02,G 459 Norton. .... . 66, 217 Kott. 363 Paulding 53,2*5,296 Quincy, J., Jun. . 37, 185, 249 auincy, J 123, 450 Ramsay 397 Red Jacket, (an Indian Chief.) 370 Review, AnvJrican Quarterly. 277 North American. 115, 403 Rush. 205,440 Sedgwick, Miss. 81, 190, 329, 429, 4^2 Sergeant . . 94 Siirourney Mrs. . 145, 461 Silliman 23,166,467 Sparks 27* Story 4"'7 Slubec 3b0 Thacher 146, 266, 443 Ticknor 38,181,393 Token 451 Tudor. . 209, 240, 306, 421 Ware 31 Wasliington. . . 176 Wa viand. . 26, 71, 169, 339 Webster. 51, 161, 223, 310, -^2, 451 Whoaton, H 415 Willis, N P 460 Wirt. 12,68 150,263 421,434 TABLE OF CONTENTS Page, Ro(«?ncss of tho Deity displayed in tho Beauty of Creation. Dwigkt. 9 ^ Nig lit Season ra%-oiiral)ie to Contemplation and Study. . . Dennie. 10 /. CoUoquial Powers of Dr. Franklin Wirt. 12 * An Apparition Club-Room. 14 Rural Occupations favourable to the Sentiments of Devotion. Buckminster. 19 ; Reciprocal Iiifluonc*,' of Slorals and Literature. . ... Frisbie. 21 Evening Scenes on tl;« St. Lawrence Silliman. 23 Franklin's f!«i. Entrance into Philadelphia Franklin. 23 Passage of the I'litoinac through the Bine Ridge. . . . Jefferson,. 25 Moral and intellectual Efficacy of the Sacred Scriptures. Wavland. 26 ■/- Character of Washington Anits. 29 Labnurs of pt;riodn'al Composition Idle Jtlan, 33 Industry neccrisar\- to tlie Attainmunt of Eloquence. . . . fTare. 34 Ingratitude toivjinls tlio Deity .... AppUton. 36 a Resistance to ()p|>rCRsiou J. Quincy, Jiin. 37 Lafayette in tiie French Revolution Ticknor, 38 Poeia nascitur, Orator tit JSlonikly Jintholoffy. 42 Intellectnal Q.nalitics of Milton. .... . . Chamiiug. 43 National FvCcol lections the Foundation of national Cbaractiir. E. Everett. 44 Extract from the Legend of Sleepy flollow Irving. 46 Rellections on the Settlement of Ne\y England. . . . Webster 51 Forest Scenery Paulding 53 Influence of Christianity in elevating the female Character. J. O. Carter 55 Necessity of a pure national Morality. . . Bcecher 57 Value of religious Faith Buckminster 59 Death of General Washington Marshall 64 Tlie Lessons of Death . JSTorton 66 Character of Chief Justice Marshall H^rt 63 Moral Suhliniity illustrated Wayland 71 Eloquent Speech of Logan, Chief of the Mingoea. . . . Jefferson 74 Fox, Burke, and Pitt ^. H. Everett 75 Surprise and Destruction of the Pequod Indians. . . Miss Sedgicick. 81 Character of Fisher Ames . Kirkland. 88 Reflections on the Death of Adams and Jefferson. . . . Scrtreant, 94 Indolence Vennie. 97 Escai)e of Harvey Birch and Captain WHiarton Cooper. 99 Scenery in the Notch of the Wiiite Mountains Dwight. 107 Exalted Characier of Poetry Channing. HI Eloquent Appeal in Favour of the Greeks. JSTorth American Recie7o. 115 Death of J. Quiney, Juil . . .... J. Quincy l'-i3 Danger of Delav 111 Religion . Buckminster. 124 Scenes in Philudelphia during the Prevalence of the Yel\)v/ Fe- ver, in 1793 C. B. Brown. 12y .6 • TABLE OF CONTENTS. r* . Importance of Knowledge to the Mecl.anic. . . O. B. Emtrs^n. 133 llaiiiorous Description of the Custom of Whitewashing. Francis ITopkinson May you die among your Kindred ih-eemnood IJoscrii-tioii of LLlJoiith :Scfciiu JilLs Fnincis Tho Kose .15 Intiuence of Foinal-J Character ('huracter of James Monroe. 'I'he Stout Gein]e!i»;iu. A Stago-coach TLomanoo Patriotism and EliximMice of John Adams, Descrijilion of tlie Speedwell Mine in England. . , . E!le(;ts of the modern Diffusion of KnowTeilge. . . . The liove of human Estimation, . . . . . , iiwuriicij, Tkacher. . PP'trt. Irnivg. ll'rii.ster. . SilUm'ni. 166 n'ayland. 16S 3a:kpu7i.i-ier. 172 Extract from an Address on retiring from the public Sei^'ics of t;ie United States of America Washiiint on Bunker Hill. . . . Albums and tlv; A\\y6 Interview with Rtjbert Southoy Christmas. Oreevwood. JVurlon. . jMadi.>on. E. Everett. . jy^bster. 223 Buckmin.-iter . 234 , . Oriscom. 226 , . :rvinjlect of foreign ijiierature in An Death a sublime and universal Moralist. Battle of Bunker Iliil Autumn and Spring. The Storm ^hip .... Anecdote of Jatnes Otis . Interesting Passage in the Life of James Otis. Slose of the liives of Adams and Jefferson Silorals of Chess . ... . ... . .dmerican Q,uarierly Review. Sparks Cooper. Paulding. Irving. J. Adavis. riulor. . Webster Franklin. 2.30 234 238 240 242 245 249 2.-V3 25G 259 2.,2 2.13 2o6 277 279 283 29fi 993 304 308 310 31J ^ROSE WRITERS AMERICA Goodness of the Deify displayed in the Beauty qf Creation. — D wight Were all the interesting diversities of colour and form to disappear, how unsightly, dull, and wearisome, would be the aspect of the world ! The pleasures, conveyed to i7s by the endless varieties, with which these sources of beauty are presented to the eye, are so much things of course, and exist so much without intermission, that we scarcely think either of their nature, their number, or the great proportion which they constitute in the whole muss of our enjoyment." But, were an inhabitant of this country to be removed from its delightful scenery to the midst of an Arabian desert, a boundless expanse of sand, a waste, spread with uniform desolation, enlivened by the murmur of no stream, and cheered by the beauty of no verdure ; although he might live in a palace, and riot in splendour and luxury, he would, I think, find life a dull, wearisome, melancholy round of existence ; and, amid all his gratifi- cations, would sigh for the hills and valleys of his native land, the brooks, and rivers, the living lustre of the Spring, and the rich glories of the Autumn. ^ The ever-varying brilliancy and grandeur of the landscape, and the magnifi- cence of the sky, sun, moon, and stars, enter more exten- sively into the enjoyment of mankind, than we, perhaps, ever think, or can possibly apprehend, without frequent and extensive investigation. This beauty and splendour of the objects around us, it is ever to be remembered, is not necessary to their existence, nor to what we commonly in- tend by their usefulness. ' It is, therefore, to be regarded 10 CGMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. as a source of pleasure gratuitously superinduced upon the general nature of the objects themselves, and. in IijIs light as a testimony of the divine goodness peculiarljT afiecting. JVight Seascn favourable to Contemplation and Study. — Dennie. *' Watchman, what of the night r" — Isaiah xxi. 11. To this query of Isaiah, the watchman replies, that *' The morning cometh, and also the night." The brevity of this answer has left it involved in something cf the ob- scurity of the season in which it was given. I think that night, however sooty and ill-favoured it may be proijounced by those who were born under a daystar, merits a more particular description. I feel peculiarly disposed to ar- range some ideas in favour of this season. I know that the majority are literally hlind to its merits ; they must be prominent, indeed, to be discerned by the clu'sed eyes of the snorer, who thinks that night was made for nothing but sleep. But the student and the sage are willing to believe that it Avas formed for higher purposes ; and that it not only recruits exhausted spirits, but sometimes in- forms inquisitive and mends wicked ones. Duty, as well as inclination, urges the Lay Preacher to sermonize while others slumber. To read numerous vol- umes in the morning, and to observe various characters at noon, will leave but little time, except the night, to digest the one or speculate upon the other. The night, there- fore, is often dedicated to composition, and, while the light of the paly planets discovers at his desk the Preacher, more W'.n than they, he may be heard repeating emphatically with Dr. Young, " Darkness has much Divinity for me.' He is then alone ; he is then at peace. No companions near, but the silent volumes on his shelf; no noise abroad but the click of the village clock or the bark of the vil- lage dog. The deacon has then smoked his sixth, and Zasf pipe, and asks not a question mort concerning Josephus COMMOx\-rLACE BOOK OP .'ROSE. 11 or the church. Siillness aids study, and the sermon pro- ceeds. Such being the obU<^ations to night, it would be ungrateful not to acknowledge them. As my watchful eyes can discern its dim beauties, my wai-m heart shall feel, and my prompt pen shall describe, the uses and pleas- ures of the nocturnal hour. "* ** Watchman, what of the night ?" I can with propriety imagine this question addressed to myself; I am a professed lucubrator ; and who so well qualified to delineate the sa- ble hours as " A meager, muse-rid mope, adust and thin ?" However injuriously night is treated by the sleepy mod- erns, the vigilance of the ancients could not overlook its benefits and joys. In as early a record as the book of Genesis"*, 1 find that Isaac, though he devoted his assiduous days to action, reserved speculation till night. " He went out to meditate in the field at eventide." He chose that sad, that solemn hour, to reflect upon the virtues of a be- loved and departed mother. The tumult and glare of the day suited not with the sorrow of his soul. He had lost his most amiable, most genuine friend, and his unosterta- tious grief was eager for privacy and shade. Sincere s)r- rovv rarely suffers its tears to be seen. It was natural for Isaac to select a season to weep in, that should resemble " the colour of his fate." The darkness, the solemnity, the stillness of the eve, v/ere favourable to his melancholy purpose. He forsook, therefore, the bustling tents of his father, the pleasant "south country," and "well of La- hairoi ;" he went out and pensivel}-^ meditated at even- tide. The Grecian and Roman philosophers firmly believed that the " dead of midnight is the noon of thought." One of them is beautifully described by the poet as soliciting knowledge from the skies in private and nightly audience, and that neither his theme, nor his nightly walks, were forsaken till the sun appeared, and dimmed his " nobler in- 'teliectual beam," We undoubtedly owe to the studious nights of the ancients most of their elaborate and immortal productions. Among them it w^as necessary that every Vnan •>( letters should trim the midnight lamp. The daj 12 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. might be given to the forum or the circus, but the night was the season for tre statesman to project his schemes, and for the poet to poiir his verse. Night has, likewise, with great reason, been considered, in every age, as the astronomer's day. Young observes, with energy, that " An undevout astronomer is mad." The privilege of contemplating those brilliant and nu- merous myriads of planets which bedeck our skies is pe- culiar to night, and it is our duty, both as lovers of moral and natural beauty, to bless that season, when we are in- dulged with such a gorgeous display of glittering and use- ful light. It must be confessed, that the seclusion, calm- ness, and tranquillity of midnight, are most friendly to seri- ous, and even airy contemplations. I think it treason to this sable Power, who holds divided empire with Day, constantly to shut our eyes at her ap- proach. To long sleep I am decidedly a foe. As it is expressed by a quaint writer, we shall all have enough of it in the grave. Those, who cannot break the silence of the night by vocal throat, or eloquent tongue, may be per- mitted to disturb it by a snore. But he, among my readers, who possesses the power of fancy and strong thought, should be vigilant as a watchman. Let him sleep abun- dantly for health, but sparingly for sloth. It is better, sometimes, to consult a page of philosophy than the pillow. Colloquial Powers of Dr. Franklin. — Wirt. Never have I known such a fireside companion as he was ! — Great as he was, both as a statesman and a philoso- pher, he never shone in a light more winning than when he was seen in a domestic circle. It was once mj' good ibrtune to pass two or three weeks with him, at the house of a private gentleman, in the back part of Pennsylvania ; and we were confined to the house during the whole of that time, by the unintermitting constancy and depth of the snows. But confinement could never be felt where Franli- COMMON-PLACE HOOK Of' TROSE. 13 »in was an inmate. — His cheerfulness and his colloquial DOwers spread around him a perpetual spring. — When I speak, however, of his colloquial powers, i do not mean to awaken any notion analogous to that which Bosweli ha? given us, when he so frequently mentions the colloquial powers of Dr. Johnson. The conversation of the latter continually reminds one of " the pomp and circumstance of glorious war." It was, indeed, a perpetual contest for victory, or an arbitrary and despotic exaction of homage to his superior talents. It was strong, acute, prompt, splendid and vociferous ; as loud, stormy, and sublime, as those winds which he represents as shaking the Hebrides, and rocking the old castles that frowned upon the dark rolling sea beneath. But one gets tired of storms, however sublime they may be, and longs for the more orderly cur- rent of nature. — Of Franklin no one ever became tired. There was no ambition of eloquence, no effort to shine, in any thing which came from him. There was nothing which made any demand either upon your allegiance or your admiration. His manner was as unaffected as infancy. It was na- ture's self. He talked like an old patriarch ; and his plain- ness and simplicity put you, at once, at your ease, and gave you the full and free possession and use of all your fac- ulties. His thoughts were of a character to shine by their own light^ Avithout any adventitious aid. They required only a medium of vision like his pure and simple style, to exhibit, to the highest advantage, their native radiance and beauty. His cheerfulness was unremitting. It seemed to be as much the effect of the systematic and salutary exercise of the mind as of its superior organization. His wit was of the first order. It did not show itself merely in occa- sional coruscations ; but, without any effort or force on his part, it shed a constant stream of the purest light over the whole of his discourse. Whether in the company of commons or nobles, he was always the same plain man ; always most perfectly at his ease, his faculties in full play, and the full orbit of his genius forever clear and uncloud- ed. And then the stores of his mind were inexhaustible. He had commenced life with an attention so vigilant, thaj 14 COJlMON-rLACE BUOK OF niUSE. nothing had escaped his observation, and a judgment so solid, that every incident was turned to advantage. His youth liad not been wasted in idleness, nor overcast by in- temperance. He had been all his life a close and deep reader, as well as thinker ;. and, by the force of his own powers, had wrought up the raw materials, whicli he had gathered from books, with such exquisite skill and felicity, that he had added a hundred fold to their original value, and justly made them his own. An Apparition. — Club-Room. The sun was hastening to a glorious setting as I gained the last hill that overlooks the forest; and, late as it was, 1 paused to gaze once more on this most brilliant and touch- ing of the wonders of nature. The glories of the western sky lasted long after the moon was in full splendour in the east ; on one side all was rich and warm with departing day — on the other how pure and calm was the approach of night ! If 1 had been born a heathen, I think 1 could not have seen the setting sun, without believing myself immortal : who, that had never seen the morning dawn, could believe that wonderful orb, which sinks so slowly and majestically through a sea of light, throw^ing up beams of a thousand hues, melting and mingling together, touch- ing the crest of the clouds with fire, and streaming over ihe heavens with broad brilliancy, up to the zenith — then retiring from sight, and gradually drawing his beams after him, till their last faint blush is extinguished in the cold, uniform tints of moonlight — who could believe that source of light had perished ? Who then could believe that the being, v/ho gazes on that magnificent spectacle with such emotion, and draws from it such high conclusions of his own nature and destiny, is even more perishable ? I remained absorbed in such reflections till the twilight was ahnost gone. I then began rapidly to descend, and, leaving the moon behind the hill, entered the long dark shadow it threw over the wood at its foot. It was gloomy md chill — the faint lingering of day was hidden by the COMxMON-PLACE BOOK OF P/IOSE. 15 trees, and the moon seemed to have set again, throwing only a distant light on the rich volumes of clouds that hung over her. As 1 descended farther, the air became colder, the sky took a deeper blue, and the stars shone with a wintry brightness. The thoughts which came tenderly over me, by the light of the setting sun, now grew dark and solemn ; and 1 felt how fleeting and unsatisfactory are the hopes built on the analogies of nature. The sun sets so beautifully it seems impossible it should not rise again ; out in the gloom of midnight, where is the promise of the morrow ? In the cold, but still beautiful, features of the dead, we think we see the pledge of a resurrection; but what hope of life is there in the dust to which they crum- ble ? I arrived late at the inn. It was a large and ruinous structure, which had once been a castle, but the family of its owner had perished in disgrace : their title was extin- guished, their lands confiscated and sold, and their name now almost forgotten. It stood on a small bare hill in the midst of the forest, which it overtopped, only to lose its shelter and shade, for from it the eye could not reach the extremity of the wood. I knocked long before I was admitted ; at last an old man came to the door with a lan- tern, and, without a word of welcome, led my horse to the stable, leaving me to find my way into the house. Tiia spirit of the place seemed to have infected its inhabitants, I entered a kitchen, whose extent I could not see by the dim fire-light, and, having stirred the embers, sat down to warm me. The old man soon returned, and showed ma up the remains of a spacious staircase, to a long hall, in a corner of which was my bed. I extinguished the light, and .ay down without undressing ; but the thoughts and scenes of the evening had taken strong hold of my mind, and 1 could not sleep. I did not feel troubled, but there was an intensity of thought and feeling within me, that seemed waiting for some great object on which to expend itself. 1 ro?e. and walked to the window : the moon was shining beautifully bright, but the forest was so thick that her light only glanced on the tops of the trees, and showed nothing distinctly — all was silent and motionless — not a breeze, not a sound, not a cloud — the earth was dim and undistinguisb- 16 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. able, the heavens were filled with a calm light, and the moon seemed to stand still in the midst. 1 know not how long I remained leaning against the window and gazing upward, for 1 was dreaming of things long past, of which I was then, though I knew it not, the only living witness ; when my attention was suddenly recalled by the low but distinct sound of some one breathing near me — I turned with a sudden thrill of fear, but saw nothing ; and, as the sound had ceased, I readily believed it was fancy. I soon relapsed into my former train of thought, and had forgot- ten the circumstance, when I was again startled by a sound I could not mistake — there was some one breathing at my very ear — so terribly certain was the fact that I did not move even my eyes ; it was not the deep, regular breath of one asleep, nor the quick panting of guilt, but a quiet, gentle respiration ; I remained listening till I could doubt no longer, and then turned slowly round, that I might not be overpowered by the suddenness of the sight, which J knew I must meet — again there v/as nothing to be seen — the moon shone broad into the long desolate chamber, and, though there was a little gathering of shadow in the cor- ners, I am sure nothing visible could have escaped the keenness of my gaze, as I looked again and again along the dark wainscot. My calmness now forsook me, and, aj I turned fearfully back to the window, my hand brushed against the curtain, whose deep folds hid the corner near which I was standing — the blood gushed to my heart with a sharp pang, and 1 involuntarily dashed my hands forward — they passed through against the damp wall, and the tide of life rolled back, leaving me hardly able to support my- self. I stood a few moments lost in fear and wonder — - when the breathing began again, and there — in the bright moonlight — I felt the air driven against my face by a being 1 could not see. I sat down on the bed in great agitation, aul „ was a considerable time before I could at all com- pose my mind — the fact was certain, but the cause inscru- iable. I rose, and walked across the chamber. I made three or four turns, and gradually recovered my tranquillity, though still impressed with the belief that what I had heard was no natural sound. I was not now in a State to be easily deluded, for niy senses were on the alert. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 17 but my mind perfectly calm. The old floor groaned under every tread, but the noise excited in me no alarm ; I did not even turn when the planks sprung and cracked behind me long after my foot had left them. But, good God ! what were my feelings when I heard distinct footsteps fol- lowing my own ! the light tread of naked feet — I stopped instantly, jusl as I had made a step — the tread ceased, and a moment after I heard a foot brought up zjs if to support the walker in this unexpected pause — Could it be echo ? — I struck my foot upon the floor — the sound was short and sullen, and was not repeated — I walked on, but the steps did not follov/ — I turned, and paused again — all was still. I walked back, and as I reached the spot where the sounds had ceased — whether I heard or saw it I cannot tell — ^but something passed me, and a soft sigh floated along with it, dying away in distance like the moaning of a gentle wind. It was indistinct as it passed, but as I listened to catch its last lingering, I knew the voice of Gertrude ! — " Her- mann!" it said, in a tone so tender and mournful, that my eyes filled with tears, and I seemed to hear it long after it had ceased. " Gertrude 1" I cried aloud — the same sweet sigh answered me, and for an instant I caught the dark beam of her eye — there was no form, but 1 saw her own look — that deep melancholy gaze — it was but a moment, and- it was gone. "Gertrude!" I cried again, " if it be thou, do not fly me — come to me, beloved !" A pause of deeper silence followed ; my eyes were fixed on the air where I had lost her, when the shadows at the extremity of the chamber began to move like the waving of a gar- ment; their motion at first was indefinite and hardly per- ceptible, but g^radually increased till they parted and rolled away, leaving a brighter space in the middle. This had at first no determinate form, but soon began to assume the outline of a human figure. I shall never forget the sensa- tion of that -r^oment — my hair rose, my flesh crept, and drops of sweat rolled fast down my cheeks ; yet it was not fear — I cannot describe the emotion with which I watched the figure growing more and more distinct ; and even when I saw the face of my own Gertrude, all thougl ts of earth were swallowed up in those of eternity — 1 stood in the presence oi a spirit, and felt myself immortal 1 The 18 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. triumph was short — it was too like herself — the eyes were closed, but it was her own graceful form, though attenu- ated and almost transparent — her own face — pale and lan- guid, but oh, how beautiful ! — at last the eyes opened — they alone were unchanged, and they gazed on me with a tenderness I could not bear — 1 sunk on my knees, and hid my face — I felt her approach — I did not raise my eyes, but [ knew she was near me by a glow of more than human happiness — a hand was laid upon my head — '' Hermann !" said the same sweet voice, " dear Hermann ! but one year more !" — and the sound floated away. I looked up— she was already disappearing — she smiled on me, and the form faded, and the shadows gathered over it. I had sunk on the floor exhausted ; the first feeling I remember was one of unutterable gri'^f and loneliness ; but the next was joy at the thought th.t I was not to en- dure it long — " but one year more, arJ I shall be with thee forever" — I could not feel more certain of any fact of my own experience, than that Gertrude was dead, and 1 should soon follow. I paced the chamber till day-break, and then watched the sky till the sun rose. I was in no haste to be gone, for I had but a short day's journey before me, and did not wish to arrive before night. I remained in my chamber till the rao.ning mists were dispersed, and then began my journey. I rode slowly all day, musing and abstracted, and hardly noticing the objects around me, till I reached the brow of a hill beneath which lay the village of Underwal- den — a few simple buildings gathered close round the church whose spire just rose above the trees ; beyond was the gentle slope of green hills parted only by hawthorn hedges ; and still further on, the home of my Gertrude, can- opied by tall ancient elms, and gleaming in the yellow light of the setting sun. If I had had no other reason, I should have foreboded evil from the silence of the hour — it is always a quiet time, but it has a few sounds that harmonize with its solemnity — the lowing of the cattle, the whistle of the returning la- bourer, or the distant merriment of the children released from school, come naturally with the close of day — but now the cattle were gathered home, snd the labourer had COMMON PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 19 C;f\ the field before the usuul hour, the school was shut, 6r.d the village green silent and solitary. A few of the better class of villagers, in their decent sabbath dress, vera walking over the hill toward the mansion ; others, Avith their wives and children, were standing round the gate of ihe church-yard, and there was something mournful in the motions and attitudes of all. I knew well wha^ all this meant, but I gazed on it with a vacant mind, and without any new conviction of my desolate lot. I even saw with 3 sad pleasure the bePiUty of a landscape, which, like all the world, was nothing not/ to me. But this did not last long — suddenly there was a hum of voices, and a stir among those who had beca waiting at the church — the bell tolled, a faint chart sv/Ulcd from behind the hill, and the proces- sion came sl.>wiy 'p. sight. Then the truth fell on me with an overpoweriiij wsijht; I threw myself on the ground, and looked on T.ith a bursting heart, till all I had loved v/as forever hidd-^n from sight. — Farewell, my friend ! I am going to Rcir.': f^r a few months, for it is the seat of my religion, z.\C I "vfould Icok once more before I die on the mighticji r*,niains of earth. I have watched the fall of the last i-jiives in Underwalden ; I shall return to see them put fcrth tace more, but when they fall again, they will cover the grave of Hermann Rural Occupations favourable to the Sentiments of Devotion. — Buckminster. No situation in life is so favourable to established habits of virtue, and to powerful sentiments of devotion, as a resi- dence in the country, and rural occupations. 1 am not gpeaking of a condition of peasantry, (of which, ia this fjcuntry, we know little,) who are mere vassals of an ab- ptnt lord, or the hired labourers of an intends at, and vrho are therefore interested in nothing but the regular iDr^eipt of their daily wages ; but I refer to the hcnanrabln ch2,rac- ter of an owner of the soil, v/hose comforts, V7ri033 weight in the community, and whose very existence, dcpoiid iip,*>a his personal labours, and the regular returns cf the abua* 20 C05i5ION-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. dance from the soil which he cultivates/- No man, cue would think, would feel so sensibly his imniediate depend- ence upon God, as the husbandman. For all his peculiar blessings he is invited to look immediately to the bounty of Heaven. No secondary cause stands between him ana his Maker. To him are essential the regular succession jf the seasons, and the timely fall of the rain, the genial warmth of the sun, the sure productiveness of the soilj and the certain operations of those laws of nature, which must appear to him nothing less than the varied exertions of omuipresent energyr"-^n the coar-try we seem to stand in the midst of the great theatre of God's power, and we feel an unusual proximity to our Creator. His blue and ti-anquil sky spreads itself over our headsj :;iid"Te acknowl- edge the inti'usion of no secondary sgant xix \infolding this vast expanse. Nothing but OmnipotSi.c* eaa vv-ork up the dark horrors of tlie tempest, dart the fla^Iies of the light- ning, and roll the long-rescuading rumcur of the tliunder. The breeze wafts to his senses the od/arj cf God's beneij- cence ; the voice of God's power ij Lend m the rustling of the forest ; and the varied ferine of liie, activity, aud pleasure, which he observes at every ctep in the firiids, lead him irresistibly, one would tLIiik. iu the Source of be ng, and beauty, and joyr^J'How auspicious such a life to the noble sentiments of devotion ! Besides, the sicuaticn of the husbandman is peculiarly favourable, it should seem, to purit^^ and simplicity of moral sentimect. He is brought acquainted chiefly with the real and native wants of mankind. Employed solely in bringing food out of the earth, he is not liable to be fascinated with the fictitious pleasures, the unnatural wants, the fashionable folhes, and tyrannical vices of more busy and splendid life. Stiil more favourable to the religious character of the Lusbandmaa is the circumstance, that, from the nature of agricultural pursiiits, they do not so completely engross the act-^nt^xn as Oiher occupations. They leave much tSmo tor co.iteinylatlon, for reading, and intellectual pleas- ures • aud ^ifa^e are peculiarly grateful to the uesident in thrj ecu aii-y //Especially does the institution of tl- e Sabbath iacov&r ftirfts value to the tiller of the earth, whose fa- iiguc ic sulaces, whose hard labours it interrupts, and who COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 2i f«^ol5!, on that day, the worth of his moral nature, which " cauTict be understood by the busy man, who considers the repose of this day as interfering with his hopes of gam, or ; professional employments. If, then, this institution is of any moral and religious value, it is to the country we must look for the continuance of that respect and observance, which it merits. My friends, those of you, especially, who retire annually into the country, let these periodical retreats from business or dissipation bring you nearer to your God; let them restore the clearness of your judg- ment on the objects of human pursuit, invigorate you'* / moral perceptions, exalt your sentiments, and regulate your / habits of devotion ; and, if there be any virtue or simplici- ty remaining in rural life, let them never be impaired by the influence of your presence and example. Reciprocal Injiuence of Morals and Literature. — Frisbie. In no productions of modern genius is the reciprocal in- fluence of morals and literature more distinctly seen, than in those of the author of Childe Harold. His character produced the poems, and it cannot be doubted, that his po- ems are adapted to produce such a character. His heroes speak a languJige supplied not more by imagination than consciousness. They are not those machines, that, by a contrivance of the artist, send forth a music of their own ; but instruments, through which he breathes his very soul, in tones of agonized sensibility, that cannot but give a sym- pathetic impulse to those who hear. The desolate misan- thropy of his mind rises, and throws its dark shade over his poetry, like one of his own ruined castles ; we feel it to be sublhne, but we forget that it is a sublimity it cannot have til. it is abandoned by every thing that is kind, and peaceful, and happy, and its halls are ready to become the haunts of outlaws and assassins. Nor are his more tender and affectionate passages those to which we can yield ourselves without a feeling of uneasiness. It is not that we 3an here an;] there select a proposition formally L-' 22 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. false ani pernicious; but he leaves an iiiipressi''a uxi^a* vourable to a healthful state of thought and feeling, pecu- liarly dangerous to the finest minds and most su^coptib'e hearts. They are the scene of a summer evening, where all is tender, and beautiful, and grand ; but the damps of disease descend with the dews of heaven, and the pestilent vapours of night are breathed in with the fragrance and balm, and the delicate and fair are the surest victims of the exposure. Although 1 have illustrated the moral influence of liter- ature principally from its mischiefs, yet it is obvious, if what I have said be just, it may be rendered no less pow- erful as a means of good. Is it not true that within the last century a decided and important improvement in the moral character of our literature has taken place ? and, had Pope and Smollett written at the present day, would the former have published the imiiations of Chaucer, or the latter the adventures of Pickie and Random ? Genius cannot now sanctify impurity or want of principle ; and our critics and reviewers ai-e exercising jurisdiction not cnly upon the literary, but moral blemishes of the authors who come before them. We notice with peculiar pleasure the sentence of just indignation which the Edinburgh tri- bunal has pronounced upon Moore, Swift, Goethe, and, in general, the German sentimentalists. Indeed, the foun- tains of literature, into which an enemy has sometimes in- fused poison, naturally flow with refreshment and health. Cowper and Campbell have led the muses to repose in the bowers of religion and virtue ; and Miss Edgeworth has so cautiously combined the features of her characters, that the predominant expression is ever what it should be. She has shown us not vices ennobled by virtues, but virtues de- graded and perverted by their union with vices. The suc- cess of this lady has been great ; but, had she availed her- self more of the motives and sentiments of religion, we think it would have been greater. She has stretched forth a powerful hand to the impotent in virtue ; and had she added, with the apostle, in the name of Jesus of Naz- areth, we should almost have expected miracles from iti louche COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 23 JUv&ning Scenes on the St. Lawrence. — Sillimaic. From the moment the sun is down, every thing becomes silent on the shore, which our window^s overlook, and the murmurs of tlie broad St. Lawrence, more than two miles wide immediately before us, " and, a little way to the right, spreading to five or six miles in breadth, are some- times for an hour the only sounds that arrest our attention. Every evening since we have been here, black clouds and splendid moonlight have hung over, and embellished this tranquil scene ; and on two of these evenings we have been attracted to the window, by the plaintive Canadian boat-scng. In one instance, it arose from a solitary voya- ger, floating in his light canoe, which occasionally appear- ed and disappeared on the sparkling river, and in its distant course seemed no larger than some sportive insect. In another instance, a larger boat, with more numerous and less melodious voices, not indeed in perfect harmony, pass- ed nearer to the shore, and gave additional life to the scene - A few moments after, the moon broke out from a throne of dark clouds, and seemed to convert the whole expanse of water into one vast sheet of glittering silver ; and, in the very brightest spot, at the distance of more than a mile, again appeared a solitary boat, but too distant to admit of our hearing the song, with which the boatman was proba- bly solacing his lonely course. Franklin's first Entrance into Philadelphia. — Frak-klin. I HAVE entered into the particulars of my voyage, and ihall, in like manner, describe my first entrance into this city, that you rnajr be able to compare beginnings so little auspicious with the figure I have since made. On my arrival at Phiiadelphia, I was in my working dress, my best clothes being to come by sea. I was cover- ed with dirt ; my pockets were filled with shirt? and stock- ing- ; I was unacquamted with a single soul in the pJacn, 24 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Mid knew not v^here to seek a lodging. Fatigued \vith walking, rowing, and having passed the night without sleep, 1 was extremely hungry, and all my money consist- ed of a Dutch dollar, and about a shilling's worth of cop- pers, which I gave to the boatmen for my passage. As 1 had assisted them in rowing, they refused it at first ; but I insisted on their taking it. A man is sometimes more gen- erous when he has little than when he has much money -, probably because, in the first case, he is desirous of con- ceahng his poverty. I walked towards the top of the street, looking eagerly on both sides, till I came to Market Street, where I met with a child with a loaf of bread. Often had I made my dinner on dry bread. I inquired where he had bought it, and went straight to the baker's shop, which he pointed out to me. I asked for some biscuits, expecting to find such as we had at Boston ; but they made, it seems, none of that sort at Philadelphia. I then asked for a threepenn^-^ loai. They made no loaves of that price. Finding myself igno- rant of the prices, as well as of the different kinds of bread, 1 desired him to let me have threepenny-worth of bread of some kind or other. He gave me three large rolls. I was surprised at receiving so much : I took them, however, and, having no room in my pockets, I walked on with a roll under each arm, eating a third. In this manner I went through Market Street to Fourth Street, and passed the house of Mr. Read, the father of my future v*ife. She was standing at the door, observed me, and thought, with reason, that i made a very singular and grotesque appearance. I then turned the corner, and went through Chestnut Street, eating my roll all the way ; and,, having made this round, 1 found myself again on Market Street wharf, near the boat in which I arrived. 1 stepped into it to take a draught of the river v/ater ; and, finning mj^self satisfied with my first roll, I gave the other two to a wciTian and her child, who had come down with ns in the bo?.t, and was waiting to continue her Journe3^ Thus refreshed, ] regained the street, which was now full of well-dressod people, all going the same way. I joined them, and wj3 tt'.us led to a large Quakers' meeting-hous3 near the mar- ket place I sat down with the rest, and, after looking COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 25 round me for some time, hearing nothing said, and being drowsy from my last night's labour and want of rest, I fell into a sound sleep. In this state I continued till the as- sembly dispersed, when one of the congregation had the goodness to wake me. This was consequently the first house I entered, or in which I slept, at Philadelphia. Passage of the Potomac through the Blue Midge. — Jefferson. The passage of the Potomac, through the Blue Ridge, is perhaps one of the most stupendous scenes in nature. You stand on a very high point of land. On your right comes up the Shenandoah, having ranged along the foot of the mountain a hundred miles to seek a vent. On your left approaches the Potomac, seeking a passage also. In the moment of their junction, they rush together against the mountain, rend it asunder, and pass off to the sea. The first glance at this scene hurries our senses into the opinion, that this earth has been created in time ; that the mountains were formed first ; that the rivers began to flow afterwards ; that, in this place particularly, they have been dammed up by the Blue Ridge of mountains, and have formed an ocean which filled the whole valley ; that, con- tinuing to rise, they have at length broken over at this spot, and have torn the mountain down from its summit to its base. The piles of rock on each hand, but particularly on the Shenandoah, the evident marks of their disrupture and avulsion from their beds by the most powerful agents of nature, corroborate the impression. But the distant finish- ing, which Nature has given to the picture, is of a very dif- f<^rent character. It is a true contrast to the foreground. It ir 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 ini&nite distance in the plain country, invit- ing you, as it were, from the riot and tumult roaring around, to pass through the breach, and participate of the calm be- low. Here the eye ultimately composes itself; and that 3 23 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. W^y, too, the road happens actually to lead. You cioss .hfl Potomac above its junction, pass along its side through the base of the mountain for three miles, its terrible precU pices hanging in fragments over you, and within ati-at twenty miles reach Fredericktown, and the fine country round that. This scene is worth a voyage across the At- lantic. Yet here, as in the neighbourhood of the Natu- ral Bridge, are people who have passed their lives within half a dozen miles, and have never been to survey these monuments of a war between rivers and mountains, which must have shaken the earth itself to its centre. Moral and intellectual Efficacy of the Sacred Scriptures. — Waylaistd. 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 fact can make an impression. That the truths of the Bible have the power of awakening an intense moral feeling in man under every variety of character, learned or ignorant, civilized or savage ; that they make bad men good, and send a pulse of healthful feeling through all the domestic, civil, and social relations ; that they teach men to love right, to hate wrong, and to seek each other's welfare, as the children of one common parent ; that they control the baleful passions of the human heart, and thus make men proficients in the science of self-gov- ernment ; and, finally, that they teach him to aspire after a conformity to a Being of infinite holiness, and fill hiw with hopes infinitely more purifying, more exalting, more ^uited to his nature, than any other, which this world has evej known, — are facts incontrovertible as the la-vys of philoso- phy, or the demonstra^^ions of mathematics./ Evidence in support of all this can be brought from every age, in the history of man, since there has been a revelation from God on earth. We see the proof of it every where around ns. There is scarcely a neighbourhood in our country, where the Bible is circulated, in which we cannot foint you to a very considerable portion of its population, whom its trufhs COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 27 nave reclaimed from the practice of vice, and taught the practice of whatsoever things are pure, and honest, and just, and of good report. That this distinctive and peculiar effect is produced upon every man to whom the Gospel is announced, we pretend not to affirm. But we do aifirm, that, besides producing this special renovation, to which Vi^e have alluded, upon a part, it, in a most remarkable degree, elevates the tone of moral feeling throughout the whole community, Wherever the Bible is freely circulated, and its doctrines carried home to the understandings of men, the aspect of society is altered ; the frequency of crime is diminished ; men begin to love justice, and to administer it by law ; and a virtuous public opinion, that strongest safeguard of right, spreads over a nation the shield of its invisible protection. ' Wherever it has faithfully been brought to bear upon the human heart, even under most unpromising circumstances, it has, within a single generation, revolutionized the whole .structure of society ; and thus, within a few years, done more for man than all other means have for ages accom- plished without it. For proof of all this, I need only refer you to the effects of the Gospel irk Greenland, or in South Africa, in the Society Islands, or even among the aborigi- nes of our own country. But, before we leave this part of the subject, it may be well to pause for a moment, and inquire whether, in addi- tion to its moral efficacy, the Bible may not exert a pow- erful influence upon the intellectual character of man. And here it is scarcely necessary that I should remark, that, of all the books with which, since the invention of writhig, this world has been deluged, the number of those Is very small which have produced any perceptible effect on the mass of human character. By far the greater part have been, even by their cotemporaries, unnoticed and unknown. Not many a one has made its little mark upon the genera- tion that produced it, though it sunk with that generation to utter forgetfulness. But, after the ceaseless toil of six thousand years, how few have been the works, the adaman- tine basis of whose reputation has stood unhurt an:iid the fluctuations of time, and whose impression can be traced through successive centuries, on the history of our specie? 28 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. When, however, such a work appears, its effects are a^- •Jolutely incalculable ; and such a work, you are aware, ia the Iliad of Homer. Who can estimate the resulta produced by the incomparable efforts of a single nr.nd , Who can tell what Greece owes to llii- lir.st.-Lorn of son? ? Her breathing marbles, her solemn temples, her unrivalled eloquence, and her matchless verse, all poini us to that transcendent genius, who, by the very splendour of hi? own effulgence, woke the human intellect from the slum- ber of ages. It was Homer who gave laws to the artist ; it was Homer who inspired the poet ; it was Homer who thundered in the senate ; and, more than all, it was Ho- mer who was sung by the people ; and hence a nation was cast into the mould of one mighty mind, and the land of the Iliad became the region of taste, the birth-place of the arts. Nor was this influence confined within the limits of Greece. Long after the sceptre of empire had passea 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 compare the poems of Homer with the Ho\y 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 sublimitj' which dees not fade away before the conceptions of Job or David, of Isaiah cr 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 liiht of the holy oracles never sliineil. Who that has read his poernlias ncr observed how lie strove COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 29 In vain to give dignity to the mythology of his time ? Who has not seen how the reUgion of his country, unaljle lo support the flight of his imagination, sunk powerless be- neath him ? It is the unseen world, where the master spir- its of our race breathe freely, and are at home ; and it is mournful to behold the intellect of Homer striving to free itself from the conceptions of materialism, and then sink- ing down in hopeless despair, to weav/e idle tales about Jupiter and Juno, Apollo and Diana. But the difficulties under which he laboured are abundantly illustrated by the fact, that the light, which he poured upon the human intel- lect, taught other ages how unworthy was the religion of his day of the man who was compelled to use it. " it seems to me," says Longinus, " that Homer, when he de- scribes dissensions, jealousies, tears, imprisonments, and other afflictions to his deities, hath, as much as was in his power, made the men of the Iliad gods, and the gods men. To man, when afflicted, death is the termination of evils ; but he hath made not only the nature, but the miseries, of the gods eternal." If, then, so great results have flowed from this one ef- fort of a single mind, what may we not expect from the com- bined efforts of several, at least his equals in power over the human heart? If that one genius, though groping in the thick darkness of absurd idolatry, wrought so glorious a transformation in the character of his countrymen, what may we not look for from the universal dissemination of those writings, on whose authors was poured the full splen- dour of eternal truth ? If unassisted human nature, spell- bound by a childish mythology, have done so much, what m.ay we not hope for from the supernatural efforts of pre- eminent genius, which spake as it was moved by the Holy Ghost V * Character of Washington. — Ames. There has scarcely appeared a really great man, whose character has been more admired in his life time, or lesa correctly understood by his admirers. When it is compre- 3* 30 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. hended, ii is no easy task to delineate its excellencies n such a nianner as to give to the portrait both interest and resemblance ; for it requires thought and study to under- stand the true ground of the superiority of his character over many others, whom he resembled in the principles cf action, and even in the manner of acting But perhaps he excels all the great men that ever lived in the steadiness of his adherence to his maxims of life, and in the uniformity of all his conduct to the same maxims. These maxims, though wise, were yet not so remarkable for their wisdom, as for their authority over his life ; for, if there were any er- rors in his judgment, (and he discovered as few as any man,) we know of no blemishes in his virtue He was the patriot without reproach ; he loved his country well enough to hold his success in serving it an ample recompense. Thus far self-love and love of country coincided ; but when his country needed sacrifices that no other man could, or per- haps would, be willing to make, he did not even hesitate. This was virtue in its most exalted character. More than once he put his fame at hazard, when he had reason to think it would be sacrificed, at least in this age. Two in- stances cannot be denied; when the army was disbanded, and again, when he stood, like Leonidas at the pass of Ther- mopylse, to defend our independence against France. It is, indeed, almost as difficult to draw his character, as the portrait of Virtue. The reasons are similar : our ideas of moral excellence are obscure, because they are com- plex, and we are obliged to resort to illustrations. Wash- ington's example is the happiest to show what virtu is; and, to delineate his character, we naturally expatiate on the beai'ty of virtue ; much must be felt, and much ima- gined. His pre-eminence is not so much to be seen in the display of any one virtue, as in the possession of them all, and in the practice of the most difficult. Hereafter, there- fore, his character must be studied before it will be strik- ing ; and then it will be admitted as a model, a precious one to a free republic. It is no less difficult to speak of his talents. They were adapted to lead, without dazzling mankind ; and to draw forth and employ the talents of others, without being mis- led by them. In this he was certainly superior, that he COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Ti neitVier mistook nor misapplied his own. His great raodesiy and reserve would have concealed them, if great occasiuui had not called them forth ; and then^ as he never spoke from the affectation to shine, nor acted from any sinister motives, it is from their effects only that we are to judge of their greatness and extent. In public trusts, where men, acting conspicuously, are cautious, and in those private concerns where few conceal or resist their weaknesses, Washington was uniformly great, pursuing right conduct from right maxims. His talents were such as assist a sound judgment, and ripen with it. His prudence was consum- mate, and seemed to take the direction of his powers and passions ; for, as a soldier, he was more solicitous to avoid mistakes that might be fatal, than to' perform exploits that are brilliant ; and, as a statesman, to adhere to just princi- ples, however old, than to pursue novelties ; and therefore, in both characters, his qualities were singularly adapted to the interest, and were tried in the greatest perils of the country. His habits of inquiry were so far remarkable, that he was never satisfied with investigating, nor desisted from it, so long as he had less than all the light that he could obtain upon a subject, and then he made his decision without bias This command over the partialities that so generally stop men short, or turn them aside in their pursuit of truth, is one of the chief causes of his unvaried course of right conduct in so many difficult scenes, where every human actor must be presumed to err. If he had strong passions, ho had learned to subdue them, and to be moderate and mild. If he had weaknesses, he concealed them, which is rare, and excluded them from the government of his temper and conduct, which is still more rare. If he loved fame, he never made improper compliances for what is called popularity. The fame he enjoyed is of the kind that will last forever ; yet it was rather the effect, than the motive of his conduct. Some future Plutarch will search for a parallel to his character. Epaminondas is perhaps the brightest name of all antiquity Our Washington resem- bled him in the purity and ardour of his patriotism ; and like him he first exalted the glory of his countrjr. There, H is to be hoped, the parallel ends ; for Thebsfl fell with Epam'iondas. — But such comparisons cannot ^^s pursued 82 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. far without departing from the similitude. For we sliall find it as difficult to compare great men as great rivers. Some we admire for the length and rapidity of their cur- rent, and the grandeur of their cataracts; others for the majestic silence and fulness of their streams : we cannot bring them together to measure the difference of thei? waters. The unamhitious life of Washington, declining fame, yet courted by it, seemed, like the Ohio, to choose its long way through solitudes, diffusing fertility ; or, like his own Potomac, widening and deepening his channel as he approaches the sea, and displaying most the useful- ness and serenity of his greatness towards the end of his course. Such a citizen would do honour to any country. The constant affection and veneration of his country will show, that it was worthy of such a citizen. However his military fame may excite the wonder of m.ankind, it is chiefly by his civil magistracy, that his ex- ample will instruct them. Great generals have arisen in ail ages of the world, and perhaps most in those of despot- ism and darkness. In times of violence and convulsion, they rise, by the force of the whirlwind, high enough to ride in it, and direct the storm. Like meteors, they glare on the black clouds with a splendour, that, while it dazzles and terrifies, makes nothing visible but the darkness. The fame of heroes is indeed growing vulgar ; they multiply in every long war ; they stand in history, and thicken in their ranks, almost as undistinguished as their own soldiers. But such a chief magistrate as Washington appears, like the pole star in a clear sky, to direct the skilful statesman. His presidency will form an epoch, and be distinguished as the age of Washington. Already it assumes its high place in the political region. Like the milky way, it whitens along its allotted portion of the hemisphere. The latest genera- tions of men will survey, through the telescope of history, the space where so many virtues blend their rays, and de- Ught to separate them into groups and distinct virtues. As the best illustration of them, the living monument to which the first of patriots would have chosen to consign his fame it is my earnest prayer to Heaven that our country may subsist, even to that late day, in the plenitude of its libeity fend happines?, and mingle its mild glory with Washington's COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 38 Laiours of periodical Composition. — Idle Maw. I KNOW that it is an arduous undertaking, for one whose mind rarely feels the spring of bodily health bearhig it up, whose frame is soon worn by mental labour, and who can seldom go to his task with that hopeful sense sustaining h'.m, which a vigorous and clear spirit gives to the soul. To kncT that our hour for toil is come, and that we are weak and unprepared ; to feel that depression or lassitude is weighing us down, when we must feign lightness and mirth ; or to mock our secret griefs with show of others not akin, must be the fate of him who labours in such a work. This is not all. When our work is done, and well done, the excitement which the employment had given us is gone, the spirits sink down, and there is a dreadful void in the mind. We feel as powerless as infancy till pushed to the exertion of our powers again ; even great success has it.5 terrors. We fear that we shall never do so well again ; and know how churlishly the world receives from us that which will not bear a comparison with what we have given them before. Yet these sufferings have their rewards. To bear up against ill health by a sudden and strong effort, to shake off low spirits, and drive away the mists which lie thick and heavy upon the mind, gives a new state of being to the soul cheerful as the light. To sit at home in our easy cnair, and send our gay thoughts abroad, as it were, on wings to thousands — to imagine them laughing over the odd fancies and drolleries which had made us vain and happy in secret, multiplies and spreads our sympathies qui- etly and happily through the world. In this way, too, we can pour out before the world thoughts which had never been laid open even to a friend ; and make it feel our mel- ancholy, and bear our griefs, while we still sit in the secret of our ?ouls. The heart tells its story abroad, yet loses not it8 delicacy : it l.\ys itself bare, but is still sen&tive. S4 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Industry necessary to the Attainment of Eloquence — ■ Ware. The history of the world is full of testimony to prove how much depends upon industry ; not an eminent orator has lived but is an example of it. Yet, in contradiction to all this, the almost universal feeling appeal's to be, that in- dustiy can effect nothmg, that eminence is the result oi accident, and that every one must be content to remain just what he may happen to be. Thus multitudes, who come forward as teachers and guides, suffer themselves to be sat- isfied with the most indifferent attainments, and a miserable mediocrity, without so much as inquiring how they may rise higher, much less making any attempt to rise. For any other art they would have served an apprenticeship, and would be ashamed to practise it in public before they had learned it. If any one would sing, he attends a mas- ter, and is drilled in the very elementary principles ; and only after the most laborious process dares to exercise his voice in public. This he does, though he has scarce any thing to learn but the mechanical execution of what lie? in sensible forms before the eye. But the extempore speak- er, who is to invent as well as to utter, to carry on an opera- tion of the mind as well as to produce sound, enters upon the work without preparatory discipline, and then wonders that he fails ! If he were learning to play on the flute for pub- lic exhibition, what hours and days would he spend in giv- ing facility to his fingers, and attaining the power of the sweetest and most expressive execution ! If he were de- voting himself to the organ, what months and years would he labour, that he might know its compass, and be master nf its keys, and be able to draw out, at will, all its variota combinations of harmonious sound, and its full richness arc delicacy of expression ! And yet he will fancy that the grandest, the most various and most expressive of all instru- ments, winch the iafmlte Creator has fashioned by the ui-ion of an intellectual soul with the powers of speech, may be played upon without study or practice ; he comes to it a mere uninstructed tyro, and thinks to manage all its stops, and com n and the whole compass of its varad and cora- COMMON-PLACE BOOK. OF PROSE. 35 prehensive power ! He finds himself a bungler in the at- tempt, is mortified at his failure, and settles it in his mind forever, that the attempt is vain. Success in every art, whatever may be the natural talent, is always the reward of industry and pains. But the in- stances are many, of men of the finest natural genius, whose beginning has promised much, but who have de- generated wretchedly as they advanced, because they trusted to their gifts, and made no efforts to improve. That there have never been other men of equal endowments with Demosthenes and Cicero, none would venture to sup- pose ; ,but who have so devoted themselves to their art, or become equal in excellence ? If those great men had been content, like others, to continue as they began, and had never made their persevering efforts for improvement, what would their countries have benefited from their genius, or the world have known of their fame ? They would have been lost in the undistinguished crowd that sunk to oblivion around them. Of how many more will the same remark prove true ! What encouragement is thus given to the industrious ! With such encouragement, how inexcusable is the negligence, which suffers the most interesting and important truths to seem heavy and dull, and fall ineffec- tual to the ground, through mere sluggishness in their de- livery ! How unworthy of one, who performs the high functions of a religious instructer, upon whom depend, in a great measure, the religious knowledge, and devotional sentiments, and final character, of many fellow-beings, — to imagine, that he can worthily discharge this great con- cern, by occasionally talking for an hour, he knows not now, and in a manner which he has taken no pains to ren- der correct, impressive, and attractive ; and which, simply through want of that command over himself, which study would give, is immethodical, verbose, inaccurate, feeble, trifling It has been said of the good preacher, that " truths divine come mended from his tongue." Alas ' they come ruined and worthless from such a man as this. They lose that holy energy, by which they are to convert the soul and purify man for heaven, and sink, in interest and efficacy below the level of those priiiciples, which govern the ordi- nary affairs of this lower world 36 COMM«.N-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Ingratitude towards the Deity. — Appletox. Perhaps there is no crime which finds fewer advoc2.te< than ingratitude. Persons accused of this may deny thr charge, but they never attempt to justify the disposition They never say that there is no obliquity and demerit ia being unmindful of benefits. If a moral fitness is discern* ible on any occasion, it is so on an occasion of favours be- stowed and received. In proportion to these favours is the degree of cemerit attached to ingratitude. AgreeaJile to this is the sei tence so often quoted from Publius Syr«s, '• Omne dixeris i.\aledictum, quum- ingraturaiiominem dix- *ris." With what fee.ings do we receive and enjoy favours bestowed by our C eator ! Our dependence on him is ab- solute and universal Existence is not more truly his gift, than are all those objects, which render existence valuable.^ To his munificence are we indebted for intellectual powers, and the means for their cultivation ; for the sustenance daily provided ; for the enjoyments derived from the ac- tive and varying scenes of the day, and from the rest and tranquillity of the night. ' His gifts are the relations and friends, whom we love, and from whose affection to us so considerable a part of the joy of life is derived. His are the showers which moisten, and the sun which warms the earth. From Him are the pleasures and animation of spring, and the riches of harvest — all, that satisfies the ap- petite, supports or restores the animal system, gratifies the ear, or charms the eye. With what emotions, let it be askod, are all these objects viewed, and these blessings en- •oyed ? Is it the habit of man to acknowledge God in his works, and to attribute all his pleasures and security of life 10 the Creator's munificence ?^ Possession and prosperity are enjoyed not as a gift to the undeserving, but as the re- sult of chance or good fortune, or as the merited reward of our own prudence and effort. Were gratitude a trait in the human cliaracter, it would be proportionate to obligation ; and where much is received much would be acknowledged. In this the li\'elie5t sense of obligation would be exhibited anions the wealthy, and those whose prosperity had beep COMMOI^PLACE BOOK OF PAOSE. 37 long ^xxd uninterrupted. But do facts correspond to this supposition ? Arc God, his providence, and bounty, most sensibly and devoutly acknowledged by you, who feel no want, and are tried by no adversity ? The truth is, our sense of obligation usually diminishes in proportion to the greatness and duration of blessings bestowed. A long course of prosperity renders us the more insensible and irreligious. But on no subject is human ingratitude so remarkably apparent, as in regard to the Christian religion. I speak not of those who reject, but of those who believe Chris- tianity, and who of course believe that " God so loved the world, as to give his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth on him might not perish."*' Search all the records of every era and nation ; look through the works of God so far as they are open to human inspection, and you find nothing which equally displays the riches of divine mercy. The Son of God died to save culprits from merited condem- nation. But is this subject contemplated with interest," with joy, with astonishment ? It is viewed with the most frigid indifference or heartfelt reluctance. The human mind, far from considering this as a favourite subject, flies from it, when occasionally presented. Resistance to Oppression* — J. Quincy, Jr^jj. To complain of the enormities of power, to expostulate with overgrown oppressors, hath in all ages been denomi- nated sedition and faction ; and to turn upon tyrants, trea- son and rebellion. But tyrants are rebels against the first laws of Heaven and society ; to oppose their ravages is an instinct of nature — the inspiration of God in the heart of man. In the noble resistance which mankind make to ex- orbitant ambition and power, they always feel that divine afflatus, which, paramount to every thing human, causes * This piece is extracted from " Observations on the Boston Port Bill," first published in 1774, and recently reprinted in connexion wun the Life of Mr. Quincy, by his son.— Ed. 4 38 COMMOISi-PLACE BOOK UF PROSE. them to corsider the Lord of Hosts as their leader, and liis angels as fellow-soldiers. Trumpets are to them joyful sounds, and the ensigns of war the banners of God. Their wounds are bound up in the oil of a good cause ; sudden death is to them present martyrdom, and funeral obsequies resurrections to eternal honour and glory, — their widows and babes being received into the arms of a compassionate God, and their names enrolled among David's worthies : — gij-eatest losses are to them greatest gains ; for they leav i the troubles of their warfare to lie down on beds of eter- nal rest and felicity. Lafayette in the French Revolution. — Ticknor. Lafayette was, also, a prominent member of the States' General, which met in 1789, and assumed the name of the National Assembly. He proposed, in this body, a Declaration of Rights, not unlike our own, and it was un- der his influence, and while he was, for this very purpose, in the chair, that a decree was passed on the night of the 13th and 14th of July, — at the moment the Bastile was fall- ing before the cannon of the populace, — which provided for the responsibility of ministers, and thus furnished one of the most important elements of a representative monarchy. Two days afterwards, he was appointed commander in chief of the National Guards of Paris, and thus was placed at the head of what was intended to be made, when it should be carried into all the departments, the effective military power of the realm, and what, under his wise management, soon became such. His great military command, and his still greater per- sonal influence, now brought him constantly in contact with the throne. His position, therefore, was extremely delicate and difficult, especially as the popular party in Paris, of which he was not so much the head as the idol, was already in a state of perilous excitement, and atrocious violences were beginning to be committed. The abhor- rence of the queen was almost universal, and was exces- sive to a degree of which we can have no just idea. The COMMOxV-PLACE UOOK OF PROSE. 39 circuir^sUnce that the court lived at Versailles, sixteen miles from Paris, and that the National Assembly was held there, was another source of jealousy, irritation, and ha- tred on the part of the capital. The people of Paris, there- fore, as a sign of opposition, had mounted their municipal cockade of blue and red, whose effects were already be- coming alarming. Lafayette, who was anxious about the consequences of such a marked division, and who knew how important are small means cf conciliation, added to it, on the 26th of July, the white of the royal cockade, and, as he placed it in his own hat, amidst the acclamations of the multitude, prophesied that it " would go round the world ;" a prediction that is already more than half ac- complished, since the tri-coloured cockade has been used 'for the ensign of emancipation in Spain, in Naples, in some parts of South America, and in Greece. Still, however, the tendency of every thing was to con- fusion and violence. The troubles of the times, too, rather than a positive want of the means of subsistence, had brought on a famine in the capital ; and the populace of fauxbourgs, the most degraded certainly in France, having assembled and armed themselves, determined to go to Ver- sailles ; the greater part with a blind desire for vengeanco on the royal family, but others only with the purpose of bringing the king from Versailles, and forcing him to re- side in the more ancient, but scarcely habitable palace of the Thuilleries, in the midst of Paris. The National Guards clamoured to accompany this savage multitude. Lafayette opposed their inclination; the municipality of Paris lesitated, but supported it ; he resisted nearly the whole of the 5th of October, while the road to Versailles was already thronged with an exasperated mob of above a hundred thousand ferocious men and women, until, at last, finding the multitude were armed, aad even had can- non, he asked and received an order to mar'.h from the c mpetent authority, and set off at four o'e'ock in the af- ternoon, as one going to a post of imm neat danger, whicb It had clearly become his duty to occupy He arrived at Versailles at ten o'clock at night, a lir li 'jng been on horseback from before daylight '^i ihi Biwrning, and having made, during the whole interval, Dctfl 40 COMMON-PLAOE BOOK OF mOSE. at Paris and on the road, incredible exertions to control the multitude and calm the soldiers. " The Marquis de La- fayette at lost entered the Chateau," says Madame de Statii, " and, passing through the apartment where we were, went to the king. We all pressed round him as if he were the master of events, and j'^et the popular party was already more powerful than its chief, and principles were yielding to factions, or rather were beginning to serve as their pre- texts. M. de Lafayette's manner was perfectly calm ; no- body ever saw it otherwise ; but his delicacy suffered from the importance of the part he was called to act He asked for the interior posts of the Chateau, in order that he might ensure their safety. Only the outer posts were granted to him." This refusal was not disrespectful to him who made the request. It was given simply because the etiquette of the court reserved the guard of the royal person and family to another body of men. Lafayette, therefore, an- swered for the National Guards, and for the posts commit- ted to them ; but he could answer for no more ; and his pledge was faithfully and desperately redeemed. Between two and three o'clock, the queen and the royal family went to bed. Lafayette, too, slept after the great fatigues of this fearful day. At half past four, a portion of the populace made their way into the palace by an ob- scure, interior passage, which had been overlooked, and whicli was not in that part of the Chateau intrusted to Lafa) ntte. They were evidently led by persons who well knew the secret avenues. Mirabeau's name was after- wards strangely compromised in it, and the form of the infa- mous Duke of Orleans was repeatedly recognised on the great staircase, pointing the assassins the way to the queen's cham- ber. They easily found it. Two of her guards were cut down in an instant, and she mad^ her escape almost naked. Lafayette immediately rushed in with the national troops, protected the guards from the brutal populace, and saved the lives of the royal family, which had so nearly been sac rificed to the etiquette of the monarchy. The day dawned, as this fearful scene of guilt and blood- ed id was passing in the magnificent palace, whose con- 6;r,iction had exhausted the revenues of Louis Fourteen*. ti~A "vvhich, for a century, had l)een the roost splendid resi- COMMON-PLACi: BOOK OF PROSE. 41 iience in Europe. As soon as it was light, the same fxiri- DU3 multitude filled the space, which, from the rich mate- rials of which it was formed, passed under the name of the Court of Marhle. They called upon the king, in tones not to he mistaken, to go to Paris ; and they called for the queen, who had but just escaped from their daggers, to come out upon the balcony. The king, after a short con- sultation with his ministers, announced his intention to set out for the capital ; but Lafayette was afraid to trust the queen in the midst of the blood-thirsty multitude. He went to her, therefore, with respectful hesitation, and ask- ed her if it y> sre her intention to accompany the king to Paris. " Yes," she replied, " although 1 am aware of the danger." " Are you positively determined ?" " Yes, sir." " Condescend, then, to go out upon the balcony, and suffer me to attend you." "Without the king?" — she replied, hesitating — " Have you observed the threats ?" " Yes, madam, I have ; but dare to trust me." He led her out upon the balcony. It was a moment of great responsibility and great delicacy ; but nothing, he felt assured, could be so dangerous as to permit her to set out for Paris, surround- ed by that multitude, unless its feelings could be changed. The agitation, the tumult, the cries of the crowd, rendered It impossible that his voice should be heard. It was neces- sai'y, therefore, to address himself to the eye, and, turning towards the queen with that admirable presence of mind which never yet forsook him, and with that mingled grace tnd dignity, which were the peculiar inheritance of the ancient court of France, he simply kissed her hand before the vast multitude. An instant of silent astonishment fol- lowed, but the whole was immediately interpreted, and (he air was rent with cries of " Long live the queen !" " Long live the general !'' from the same fickle and cruel populace, that, only two lours before, had imbrued their hands in the blood of the guards who defended the life oi this same queen. 4» 12 COMMOA'-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Poeia nascitur, Orator Jit. — Monthly AjVthologt Poetry is the frolic of invention, the dance of words, and the harmony of sounds. Oratory consists in a judi- cious disposition of arguments, a happy selection of terms, and a pieasing .elocution. The object of poetry is to de light, that of oratory to persuade. Poetry is truth, but it is truth in her gayest and loveliest robes, and wit, flattery, hyperbole, and fable, are marshalled in her train. Oratory has a graver and more majestic port, and gains by slow ad- vances and perseverance what the poet takes by sudden ness of inspiration, and by surprise. Poetry requires ge nius; eloquence is within the reach of talent. Serioii^^- ness becomes one, sprightliness the other. The willie^t poets have been the shortest writers; but he is often tie best orator, who has the strongest lungs, and the firjue t legs. The poet sings for the approbaiion of the wise ai.d the pleasure of the ingenious; the orator addresses th • multitude, and the larger the number of ears, the better for his purpose ; and he who can get the most votes mos!; thoroughly understands his art. Bad verses are alway i abominable : but he is a good speaker who gains his cause. Bards are generally remarkable for generosity of nature; orators are as often notorious for their ambition. These eti- joy most influence while alive ; those live longest after death. Poets are not necessarily poor ; for Theocritus and Anacreon, Horace and Lucian, Racine and Boileau, Pope and Addison, rolled in their carriages, and slept in palaces ; yet it must he confessed, that most of the poetical tribe have rather feared the tap of the sheriff, than the damnation of critics. The poverty of a poet takes nothing from the richness and sweetness of his lines ; while an orator's suc- cess is not infrequently promoted by his wealth. Never- theless, were I poor, I would study eloquence, that I might be rich ; had I riches, I would study poetry, that I might give a portion of immortality to both. Could I write no better than Blackmore, I would sometimes versify; but were I privileged to soar upon the daring wing of Dryden's flQUse, I would not keep my pinions continually spread. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 43 Intellectual Qualilies of Milton. — CnANNi:sG. Ix speaking cf the intellectual qualities of Milton, we may begin by observing that the very splendour of his poetic fame has tended to obscure or conceal the extent of his mind, and the variety of its energies and attainments. To many he seems only a poet, when in truth he was a pro- found scholar, a man of vast compass of thought, imbued thoroughly with all ancient and modern learning, and able to master, to mould, to impregnate with his own intellectu- al power, his great and various acquisitions. He had not learned the superficial doctrine of a later day, that poetry flourishes most in an uncultivated soil, and that imagination shapes its brightest visions from the mists of a superstitious age ; and he had no dread of accumulating knowledge, lest he should oppress and smother his genius. He was conscious of that within him, which could quicken all knowledge, and wield it with ease and might; which could give freshness to eld truths, and harmony to discordant thoughts ; which could bind together, by living ties and mysterious affinities, the most remote discoveries ; and rear fabrics of glory and beauty from the rude materials which other minds had collected. Milton had that universality which mai ks the highest order of intellect. Though ac- customed, almost from infancy, to drink at the fountains of classical literature, he had nothing of the pedantry and fas- tidiousness, which disdain all other draughts. His heal- thy mind delighted in genius, in whatever soil, or in what- ever age il I as burst forth, and poured out its fulness. He understood too well the right, and dignity, and pride of cre- ative imagination, to Ly on it the laws of the Greek or Ro- man school. Parnassus was not to him the only holy ground of genius He felt that poetry was a universal presence, Great minds were every where his kindred. He felt the enchantment of oriental fiction, surrendered himself to the strange creations of " Araby the blest," and delighted still more in the romantic spirit of chivalry, and in tlic tales of wonder in which it was imbodled. Accordingiy, hrs poetry reminds us of the ocean, wliich adds to its c^a boundlessness cojitributions from all regions under heaven- 44 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Nor was it only in the department of imagination, that hi» acquisitions were vast. He travelled over the whole field of knowledge, as far as it had then been explored. His various philological attainments were used to put him in possession of the wisdom stored in all countries where the inteJlect had been cultivated. The natural philosophy, metaphys. ics, ethics, history, theology and political science of his own and former times were familiar to him. Never was there a more unconfined mind ; and we would cite Milton as a practical example of the benefits of that universal cul- ture of intellect, which forms one distinction of our times, but which some dread as unfriendly to original thought. Let such remember, that mind is in its own nature diffusive. Its object is the universe, which is strictly one, or bound together by infinite connexions and correspondencies ; and, accordingly, its natural progress is from one to another field of thought ; and, wherever original power or creative ge- nius exists, the mind, far from being distracted or oppressed by the variety of its acquisitions, will see more and more bearingSiand hidden and beautiful analogies in all the objects of knowledge, will see mutual light shed from truth to truth, and will compel, as with a kingly power, whatever it understands to yield some tribute of proof, or illustration, or splendour, to whatever topic it would unfold. JVational Recollections the Foundation of national Chat - acter. — Edward Everett. And how is the spirit of a free people to be formed, and anim.ated, and cheered, but out of the store-house of its histoiic recollections ? Are we to be eternally ringing che changes upon Marathon and Thermopylae ; and going back to read in obscure texts of Greek and Latin of the exemplars of patriotic virtue ? I thank God that we can find t^-^m nearer home, in our own country, on our own soil ; — ti;at strains of the noblest sentiment that ever swelled in the breast of man, are breathing to us out of every page of our country's history, in the native eloquence of our moll/ef tongue ; — that the colonial and provincial councils COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 45 of America exhibit to us models of the spirit and charac- ter, which gave Greece and Rome their name and theii praise among the nations. Here we ought to go for our in- struction ; — the lesson is plain, it is clear, it is applicable. When we go to ancient history, we are bewildered with the diiFerence of manners and institutions. We are willing to pay our tribute of applause to the memory of Leonidas, who fell nobly for his country in the face of his foe. But when we trace him to his home, we are confounded at the reflection, that the same Spartan heroism, to which he sacri- ficed himself at Thermopylae, would have led him to tear his own child, if it had happened to be a sickly babe, — the very object for which all that is kind and good in man rises up to plead, — from the bosom of its mother, and carry it out to be eaten by the wolves of Taygetus. We feel a glow of admiration at the heroism displayed at Marathon, by the ten thousand champions of invaded Greece ; bu we cannot forget that the tenth part of the number were slaves, unchained from the work-shops and door-posts of their masters, to go and fight the battles of freedom. I do not mean that these examples are to destroy the interest with which we read the history of ancient times ; they possibly increase that interest by the very contrasts they exhibit. But they do warn us, if we need the warning, to seek our great practical lessons of patriotism at home ; out of the exploits and sacrifices of which our own country is the theatre ; out of the characters of our own fathers. Them we know, — the high-souled, natural, unaffected, the citizen heroes. We know what happy fires'des they left for the cheerless camp. We know with what pacific habitg the/ dared the perils of the field. There is no mystery, no romance, no madness, under the name of chivalry, about them. It is all resolute, manly resistance for conscience' and liberty's sake, not merely of an overwhelming power, but of all the force of long-rooted habits and native love of order and peace. Above all, their blood calls to us Ilom the soil which we tread ; it beats in our veins ; it cries to us not merely in the thrilling words of one of the first victims in this cause, — " My sons, scorn to be slaves !" — but it cries with a still more moving eloquence — " My sons, forget not your fa- 46 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. thers!" Faat, oh ! too fast, with all our eflbrts to prevent it, their precious memories are dying away. Notwithstand- ing our numerous written memorials, much of what is kaown of those eventful times dwells but in the recollec- tions of a few revered survivors, and with them is rapidly perishing unrecorded and irretrievable. How many pru- dent counsels, conceived in perplexed times ; how many heart-stirring words, uttered when liberty was treason , how many brave and heroic deeds, performed when the halter, not the laurel, was the promised meed of patriotic daring, — are already lost and forgotten in the graves of their authors! How little do we, — although we have been per- mitted to hold converse with the venerable remnants of that day, — how little do we know of their dark and anx- .ous hours ; of their secret meditations ; of the hurried and perilous events of the momentous struggle ! And while they are dropping around us like the leaves of autumn, while scarce a week passes that does not call away some member of the veteran ranks, already so sadly thinned, ihall we make no effort to hand down the traditions of their do.y to our children ; to pass the torch of liberty, — which we received in all the splendour of its first enkindling,— bright and flaming, to those who stand next us on the line ; so that, when we shall come to be gathered to the lust where our fathers are laid, we may say to our sons and our grandsons, '* If we did not amass, we have rot squandered your inheritance of glory ?" Extract from the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. — Irvixg. Ox a fine autumnal morning, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on a lofty stool, from whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptr'? of despotic pow- er ; the birch of justice reposed on three nails behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers ; while on the desk be- fore him might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohib- ited weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins: such as half-uiunched apples, popguns, wh'jligigs, flycages, and COBmON-rLA<"E BOOK OF PRCJSE. 47 w]it>l'* legions 01 rampant little paper game-cocks. Apna i.ently ttiere had been some act of justice recently iutiict- ed ^ Tor his scliolars were all buplly intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behnd them, \vith one eye kept upon the master ; and a kind of buzzing stillness reignod throughout the school-room. It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro in tow-cloth jacket and trow sersj a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, v/hich he managed with a rope, by wny of halter. He came clattering up to the school-door, with an invitation to Tchabod to attend a merry-making, or " quilting frolic," to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's ; and, hav- ing delivered his message with that air of importance, and effort of fine language, which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the im- portance and hurry of his mission. All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school- room. The scholars were hurried through their lessons without stopping at trifles ; those who were nimble skip- ped over half with impunity, and those who were tardy had a smart application now and then in the rear, to quick- en their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books were thrown aside without being put away on the shelves ; ink- stands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time ; bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at their early eman- cipation. The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half- hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only, suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by abit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in the school house That he might make his appearance before his miS' ties? in the true spirit of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse froK. the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a chol- eric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Rippsr, and, tlu.js iR:allantly mounted, issued forth like a knight errant v.\ QU06t of adventures. — But it is fit that I should, in the trufe spirit of romantic story, give some account of the 48 COMaiON-PLAOE BOOK OF rm>SE. looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. TLe anl» mal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, that had outUved almost every thing but his vlciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with an ewe neck, and a head like a hammer ; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knot, ted with burrs ; one eye had lost its pupil, and was "glaring and spectral, but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from his name, which was Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favourite steed of his master's, the chole- ric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some cf his spirit into the animal ; for, old and broken down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly in the country. Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rods with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers' ; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, and, as his horse jogged on, the mo- tion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose,— for so his scanty strip of a forehead might be called, — and the skirts of his black coat flirted out almost to the horse's tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as ha shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as is rarely to be me: with in broad day-light. It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery, which we always associate with the idea of abun- dance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yel- low, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nip- ped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air ; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neigh- bouring stubble field. The small birds were taking their farewell banquet?. In the fulue?3 of their revelry they fluttered, chirping and frolicking from bush to bush and tree to tree, capn- COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF 2 ROSE. 49 cious from the very abundance around tliem. There was the honest cock-robin, the favourite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud, querulous note ; and the twitter- ing blackbirds flying in sable clouds ; and the golden- wing- e J woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black gor- gef.. and splendid plumage ; and the cedar bird, with its red't'pped wings and yellow-tipped tail, and its little montcrr. cap of ferthers; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat and white under-clothes, screaming and chattering, nodding, and bobbing, and bowing, and pre- tending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove. As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld v^ast store of apples, some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees ; some gathered into baskets and bar- '•els for the market ; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, wiih its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty puddings ; and the yellov/ pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample pros- pects of the most luxurious pies ; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odour of "ihs ies- hive, and, as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. Thus feeding his mind wjth many sweet thoughts and " sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest jicones of the mighty Hiiison. The sun gradually wheel- ea his broad disk down lUi^ the west; the wide bosom of the Tapaan Zee lay motionlesa ^ flassy, excepting that, here and there, a gentle undulation waved and prolonged *he blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber ciouds floited in the sky, without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing giadually into a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the 5 60 COMMOiN -PLACE COOK OF PROSE. woody crests of the precipices, that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the .distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail ,nanging uselessly against the mast ; and, as the reflection of the sky gleiiaed along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air. It was towards evening that Ichabod arrived at the cas- tle of Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country Old farmers, a spare , leatherned- faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk, withered little dames, in close-crimped caps, long-waisted gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, except- ing where a straw hat, a fine riband, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovations. The sons in short square-skirted coats, with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fasliion of the times, especially if they could procure an eelskin for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the country as a potent nour- isher and strengthener of the hair. Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, hav- ing come to the gathering on his favourite steed Daredevil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but himself could manage. He was in fact noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable, wellbroken horse as unworthy a lad of spirit. Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charius that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero as he en- tered the state parlour of Van Tassel's mansion : not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white ; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various and almost indescri- bable kinds, known only to the experienced Dutch houi?e wives ! There was the doughty dough-nut, the tender oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller, sweet cakes and COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF 1 ROSE. 51 short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the who/e family of cakes. And then there were apple es, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies ; besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and, moreover, delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, nnd quinces ; not to men- tion broiled shad and roasted chickens ; together vv^it?h bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly tea- poi f eLxling up its clouds of vapour fi-om the midst. Hea- ven bless the mark ! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty. Reflections' on the Settlement of JSTew England. Webstkr. The settlement of New England, by the colony whicia landed here on the twenty-secondof December, sixteen hun- dred and twenty, although not the first European establish- ment in what now constitutes the United States, was yet so peculiar in its causes and character, and has been followed, and must still be followed, by such consequences, as to give it a high claim to lasting commemoration. On these causes and consequences, more than on its immediately at- tendant circumstances, its importance, as an historical event, depends. Great actions and sti'iking occurrences, having excited a temporary admiration, often pass away and are forgotten, because they leave no lasting results, affecting the prosperity of communities. Such is frequently the for- tune of the most brilliant military achievements. Of the ten thousand battles which have been fought ; of all the fieUs fertilized with carnage ; of the banners which have been bathed in blood; of the warriors who have hoped thai they had risen from the field of conquest to a glory a3 bright and as durable as the stars, how few that continue long to interest mankind ! The victory of yesterday is re- versed by the defeat of to-day ; the star of military glory rising like a meteor, like a meteor has fallen ; disgrace and 52 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE disaster hang on the heels of conquest and reno^_ ; -victoi and vanquished presently pass away to oblivion^ and the world holds on its course, with the loss only of so many lives, and so much treasure. But if this is frequently, or generally, the fortune of military achievements, it is not always so. There are enterprises, mili- tary as well as civil, that sometin es check the current of events, give a new turn to human affairs, and transmit their consequences through ages. We see their importance in their results, and call them great, because great things follow. There have been battles which have fixed the fate of na- tions. These come dowu to us in history with a solid and permanent influence, not created by a display of glittering armour, the rush of adverse battalions, the sinking and ris- ing of pennons, the flight, the pursuit, and the victory ; hut by their eifect in advancing or retarding human knowl- edge, in overthrowing or establishing despotism, in extend- ing or destroying human happiness. "When the traveller pauses on the plains of Marathon, what are the emotions which strongly agitate hU breast ? what is that glorious re- collection that thrills through his frame, and suffuses his eyes ? Not, I imagine, that Grecian skill and Grecian valour were here most signally displayed ; but that Greece herself was saved. It is because to this spot, and to the event which has rendered it immortal, he refers all the succeeding glories of the republic. It is because, if that day had gone otherwise, Greece had perished. It is be- cause he perceives that her philosophers and orators, her poets and painters, her sculptors and architects, her gov- ernment and free institutions, point backward to Mara- thon, and that their future existence seems to have been suspended on the contingency, whether the Persian or Gre- cian banner should wave victorious in the beams cf that day's setting sun. And, as his imagination kindles at the retrospect, he is transported back to the interesting mo- ment ; he counts the fearful odds of the contending hosts ; his interest for the result overwhelms him; he trembles as if it were still uncertain, and seems to doubt whether he may consider Socrates and Plato, Demosthenes, Sopho- cles, and Phidias, as secure, yet, to himself and to the world. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PIIOSE. 63 "If we conquer," — said the Athenian commander on the morning of that decisive day, — " if we conquer, we shall make Athens the greatest city of Greece." A proph- ecy how well fulfilled ! " if God prosper us," — might have been the more appropriate language of our fathers, when they landed upon this rock, — " if God prosper us, we shall here begin a work that shall last for ages; we shall plant here a new society, in the principles of the fullest liberty, and the purest religion ; we shall subdue this wilderness which is before us ; we shall fill this re- gion of the great continent, which stretches almost from pole ;o pole, with civilization and Christianity ; the templesof the true God shall- rise where now ascends the smoke of idola- trous sacrifice ; fields and gardens, the flowers of summer, and the waving and golden harvests of autumn, shall ex- tend over a thousand hills, and stretch along a thousand valleys, never yet, since the creation, reclaimed to the use of civilized man. We shall whiten this coast with the can- vass of a prosperous commerce ; we shall stud the long and winding shore v/ith a hundred cities. That which we sow in weakness shall be raised in strength. From our sincere, but houseless worship, there shall spring splendid temples to record God's goodness ; from the simplicity of our social union, there shall arise wise and politic constitu- tions of government, full of the liberty which we ourselves bring and breathe; from our zeal for learning, institutions shall spring, which shall scatter the light of knowledge throughout the land, and, in time, paying back what they have borrowed, shall contribute their part to the great ag- gregate of human knowledge ; and our descendants, through all generations, shall look back to this spot, and this hour, with unabated affection and regard." Forest Scenery. — Paitldijvg. By degrees, as custom reconciled me more and more to fasting and long rambles, I extended my excursions farther from home, and sometimes remained out all day without tasting food, or resting myself, except for a few minutes 5* 64 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. upon tli8 tnink of some decayed old tree or moss-cove*ed rock. The country, though in a great degree in its native state of wiidaess, was full of romantic beauties. The Mo- hawk is one of the most charming of rivers, sometimea brawling among ragged rocks, or darting swiftly through long, narrow reaches, and here and there, as at the Little Falls, and again at the Cohoes, darting down high perpendicular rocks, in sheets of milk-white foam; but its general charac- ter is that of repose and quiet. It is no where so broad, but that rural objects and rural sounds may be seen and heard distinctly from one side to the other ; and in many places the banks on either hand are composed of rich mead- ows, or flats, as vhey were denominated by the early Dutch settlers, so nearly on a level with the surface of the water, as to be almost identified with it at a distance, were it not for the rich fringe of water willows, that skirt it on either side, and mark the lines of separation. In these rich pas- tures may now be seen the lowing herds, half hidden in the luxuriant grass, and, a little farther on, out of the reach of the spring freshets, the comfortable farm-houses of many a sanguine country squire, who dreams of boundless wealth from the Grand Canal, and, in his admiration of the works of man, forgets the far greater beauty, grandeur, and utility of the v/orks of bis Maker. But I am to de- scribe the scenery as it was in the days of my boyhood, when, like Nimrod, I was a mighty hunter before the Lord. At the time I speak of, all that was to be seen was of the handy work of nature, except the little settlement, over which presided the patriarch Veeder. We were the ad- vance guard of civilization, and a few steps beyond us was the region of primeval forests, composed of elms and ma- ples, and oaks and pines, that seemed as if their seeds had been sown at the time of the deluge, and that they had been growing ever since. I have still a distinct recollec- tion, I might almost say perception, of the gloom and damps which pervaded these chilling shades, where the summer sun never penetrated, and in whose recesses the very light was of a greenish hue. Here, especially along the little streams, many of which are now dried up by the opening of the earth to the sun-beams, every rock and piece of mould- COMMi N-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 55 ering wood was w^rapped in a carpet of green moss, fostered into more than velvet luxuriance by the everlasting darap3, that, unlike the dews of heaven, fell all the day as well as all the night. Here and there a flower reared its pale head among the rankness of the sunless vegetation of un- sightly fungus, but it was without fragrance, and almost without life, for it withered as soon as plucked from the stem. I do not remember ever to have heard a singing bird in these forests, except just on the outer skii-ts, front- ing the south, where occasionally a robin chirped, or a thrush sung his evening chant. These tiny choristers seem almost actuated by the vanity of human beings ; for I have observed they appear to take peculiar delight in the neigh- bourhood of the habitations of men, where they have listen- ers to their music. They do not love to sing where there is no one to hear them. The rery insects of the wing seemed almost to have abandoned the gloomy solitude, to sport in the sunshine among the flowers. Neither butter- fly nor grasshopper abided there, and the honey-bee never came to equip himself in his yellow breeches. He is the companion of the white man, and seems content to be his slave, to toil for him all the summer, only that he may be tllowed the enjoyment of the refuse of his own labours in the winter. To plunge into the recesses of these woods, \ras like descending into a cave under ground. There was the coolness, the dampness, and the obscurity of twi- light. Yet custom made me love these solitudes, and many are the days I have spent among them, with my dog and gun, and no other guide but the sun in heaven and the moss on the north side of the trees. Influence of Christianity in elevating the female Character. — J. G. Carter. There is one topic, intimately connected with the intro- duction and decline of Christianity, and subsequently with .*ts revival in Europe, which the occasion strongly suggests, and whicV; I cannot forbear briefly to touch upon. I allude to the new and more ';iteresting character assumed by wo- 56 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROfiE. man since those events. In the heathen world, and undej the Jewish dispensation, she was the slave of man. Chris- tianity constituted her his companion. But, as our religion gradually lost its power in the dark ages, she sunk down again to her deep moral degradation. She was the first to fall in the garden of Eden, and perhaps it was a judgment upon her, that, when the whole human race was now low, she sunk the lowest, and was the last to rise again to her original consequence in the scale of being. The f.ge of chivalry, indeed, exalted her to be an object of adoration. But it v/as a profane adoration, not founded upon the respect due to a being of immortal hopes and destinies as well as man. This high character has been conceded to her at a later period, as she has slowly attained the rank ordained for her by Heaven. Although this change in the relation of woman to man and to society is both an evidence and a conse- quence of an improvement in the human condition, yet now her character is a cause operating to produce a still great- er improvement. And if there be any one cause, to which we may look with more confidence than to others, for has- tening the approach of a more perfect state of society, that cause is the elevated character of woman as displayed m the full developement of all her moral and intellectual powers. The conjugal confession of Eve to Adam, " God is thy law, thou mine ; to know no more Is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise," has grown to be obsolete. The influence of the female character is now felt and acknowledged in all the relations of her life. I speak not now of those distinguished wo- men, who instruct their age through the public press; nor of those whose devout strains we tiike upon our lips when we worship ; but of a much larger class ; of those whose influence is felt in the relations of neighbour, fiiend, daugh- ter, wife, mother. Who waits at the couch of the sick to administer tender charities while life lingers, or to perform the last acts of kindness when death comes ? Where shall we look for those examples of friendship, that most adom flur nature ; those abiding friendships, which trust even when betrayed, and survive all changes of fortune ? Where shall we find the brightest illustrations of filial piety ^ COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 57 Have you ever seen a daugliter, herself, perliaps, timid and helpless, watching the decline of an aged parent, and holding out with heroic fortitude to anticipate his wishes to administer to his wants, and to sustain his tottering steps to the very borders of the grave ? But in no relation does woman exercise so deep an influ- ence, both immediately and prospectively, as in that of mother. To her is committed the immortal treasure of the infant mind. Upon her devolves the care of the tirst stages of that course of discipline, which is to form, of a being perhaps the most frail and helpless in the world, the fearless ruler of animated creation, and the devout ador- er of its great Creator. Her smiles call into exercise the first affections that spring up in our hearts. She cher- ishes and expands the earliest germs of our intellects She breathes over us her deepest devotions. She lifts our little hands, and teaches our little tongues to lisp in prayer. She watches over us, like a guardian angel, and protects us through all our helpless years, when we know not of her cares and her anxieties on our account. She follows us into the world of men, and lives in us, and blesses us, when she lives not otherwise upon the earth. What con- stitutes the centre of every home ? Whither do our thoughts turn, when our feet are weary with wandering, and our hearts sick with disappointment ? Where shall the truant and forgetful husband go for sympathy, unalloyed and without design, but to the bosom of her, who is ever ready and waiting to share in his adversity or his prosperi- ty. And if there be a tribunal, where the sins and the fol- lies of a froward child may hope for pardon and forgive- ness this side heaven, that tribunal is the heart of a fond and devoted mother. JS^ecessity of a pure national Morality. — Beechkr. The crisis has come. By the people of this generation, by ourselves, probably, the amazing question is to be de- cided, w^hether the inheritance of our fathers shall be pre- served or thrown away ; whether our Sabbaths shall be a 53 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. delight or a loathing ; whether the taverns, on that hclj day, shall be crowded with drunkards, or the sanctuary ci God with humble worshippers ; whether riot and profane- ness shall fill our streets, and poverty our dwellings, and convicts our jails, and violence our land, or whether indus- try, and temperance, and righteousness, shall be the stability of our times ; whether mild laws shall receive the cheer- ful submission of freemen, or the iron rod of a tyrant com- pel the trembling homage of slaves. Be not deceived, lluman nature in this state is like human nature every where. All actual difference in our favour is adventitious, and the result of our laws, institutions, and habits. It is a i.ioral influence, which, with the blessing of God, has form- ed a state of society so eminently desirable. The same in- fluence which formed it is indispensable to its preservation. The rocks and hills of New England will remain till the last conflagration. But let the Sabbath be profaned with impunity, the worship of God be abandoned, the govern- ment and religious instruction of children neglected, and the streams of intemperance be permitted to flow, and her glory will depart. The wall of fire will no longer sur- round her, and the munition of rocks will no longer be her defence. If we neglect our duty, and suffer our laws and mstitu- tions to go down, we give them up forever. It is easy to relax, easy to retreat ; but impossible, when the abomina- tion of desolation has once passed over New England, to rear again the thrown-down altars, and gather again the fragments, and build up the ruins of demolished institutions. Another New England nor we nor our children shall ever see, if this be destroyed. All is lost irretrievably when the landmarks are once removed, and the bands which now hold us are once broken. Such institutions and such a state of society can be established only by such men as our fathers were, and in such circumstances as they were in. They could not have made a New England in Hol- land ; they made the attempt, but failed. The hand that overturns our laws and temples is the hand of death unbarring the gate of Pandemonium, and letting loose upon our land the crimes and miseries of Heil. If the Most High shoul 1 stand aloof, and cast not a sir gle COxMMO.N'-FLACE BOOK OF PROiiE. 69 mgrcdieat into our cup of trembling, it would seem to bo full of superlative wo. But lie will not stani alocf. As we shall have begun an open controversy with Lirr, he will contend openly with us. And never, since the earth stood, has it been so fearful a thing for nations to fall into the hands of the living God. The day of venge?>nce is at hand the day of judgment has come ; the great earth- quaV'. which sinks Babylon is shaking the rations, and the waves of the mighty commotion are dashing upon every shore. Is this, then, a time to remove the foundations, when the earth itself is shaken ? Is this a time to forfeit the protection of God, when the hearts of men are failing them for fear, and for looking after those things which are to come upon the earth ? Is this a time to run upon hi.^ neck and the thick bosses of his buckler, when the nations are drinking blood, and fainting, and passing away in his wrath .-• Is this a time to throw away the shield of faith, when his arrows are drunk with the blood of the slain ? to cut from the anchor of hope, when the clouds are collect- ing, and the sea and the waves are roaring, and thun- ders are uttering their voices, and lightnings blazing in the heavens, and the great hail is falling from heaven upon men, and every mountain, sea and island is fleeing in dis- may from the face of an incensed God ? Value of religious Faith. — Buckminsteb. Who would look back upon the history of the world with the eye of incredulity, after having once read it with tbe eye of faith ? To the man of faith it is the story of God's operations. To the unbeliever it is only the record of the strange sports of a race of agents as uncontrolled as they are unaccountable. To the man of faith every por- tion of history is part of a vast plan, conceived ages ago in the mind of Omnipotence, which has been fitted precisely to the period it was intended to occupy. The whole series of events forms a magnificent and symmetrical fabric to the eye of pious contemplation ; and, though the dome be in the clov-ds, and the top, from its loftiness, be indiscerri- 60 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSK. ble to mortal vision, yet the foundations are so deep and solid, that we are sure they are intended to support something permanent and grand. To the sceptic, all the events of all the ages of the world are hut a scattered crowd of useless and indigested materials. In his mind all is darkness, all is incomprehensible. The light of prophecy illuminates not to him the obscurity of anciert annals. He sees in them neither design nor operation, neither tendencies nor conclusions. To him the wonderful knowledge of one people is just as interesting as the des- perate ignorance of another. In the deliverance which God has sometimes wrought for the oppressed, he sees nothing but the fact ; and in the oppression and decline of haughty empires, nothing but the common accidents of na- tional fortune. Going about to account for events accord- ing to what he calls general laws, he never for a moment considers, that all laws, whether physical, political or moral, imply a legislator, and are contrived to serve some purpose. Because he cannot always, by his short-sighted vision, dis- cover the tendencies of the mighty events of which this earth ha- been the theatre, he looks on the drama of ex- istence around him as proceeding without a plan. Is that ^ rinciple, then, of no importance, which raises man above wVsat hi= eyes see or his ears hear at present, and shovv's hu.v tiiv.- V iist chain of human events, fastened eternally to the throne of God, and returning, after embracing the universe, again to link itself to the footstool of Omnipo- tence .-* Would you know the value of this principle of faith to the bereaved ? Go, and follow a corpse to the grave. See the body deposited there, and hear the earth thrown in upon all that remains of your friend. Return now, if you will, and brood over the lesson which your senses have given you, and derive from it what consolation you can. You ha\ e learned nothing hut an unconsoling fact. No voice of comfort issues from the tomb. All is still there, and blank, and lifeless, and has been so for ages. You see nothing but bodies dissolving and successively romgling with the clods which cover them, the grass growing over the spot, and the trees waving in sullen majesty over this region of eternal silence. And what is there more COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 61 Nothing. — Come, Faith, and people these deserts ! Come, and reanimate these regions of forgetfulness ! Mothers ! take again your children to your arms, for they are living. Sons ! your aged parents are coming forth in the vigour o( regenerated years. Friends ! behold, your dearest connex- ions are w^aiting to embrace you. The tombs are burst, (generations long since in slumbers are awakening. They are coming from the east and the west, from the north and from the south, to constitute the community of the blessed. But it is not in the loss of friends alone, that faith fur- lishes consolations which are inestimable. With a man of faith not an affliction is lost, not a change is unimproved. He studies even his own history with pleasure, and finds il full of instruction. The dark passages of his life are illu- minated with hope ; and he sees, that although he ha.'s passed through many dreary defiles, yet they have opened at last into brighter regions of existence He recalls, with a species of wondering gratitude, periods of his life, when all its events seemed to conspire against him. Hemmed in by straitened circumstances, wearied with repeated blows of unexpected misfortunes, and exhausted with the painful anticipation of more, he recollects years, when the ordinary love of life could not have retained him in the world. Many a time he might have wished to lay down his beijig in disgust^ had not something more than the senses provide us with, kept up the elasticity of his mind. He yet lives, and has found that light is sown for the right- eous, and gladness for the upright in heart. The man of faith discovers some gracious purpose in every combination of circumstances. Wherever he finds himself, he knows tliat he has a destination — he has, therefore, a duty. Every event has, in his eye, a tendency and an aim. Nothing is accidental, nothing without purpose, nothing unattended wi'h benevolent consequences. Every thing on earth is piobationary, nothing ultimate. He is poor — perhaps his plans have, been defeated — he finds it difficult to provide for the exigencies of life — sickness is permitted to invade the quiet of his household — long confinement imprisons his activity, and cuts short the exertions on which so many dep'jnd— -something nparently unlucky mars his best plans 6 62 co:^i:\roN-pLAcE uuuk of ritosE. — new failures and embarrassments among liis friends pre- sent tliemselves, and throw additional obstruction in his way — the world look on and say, ail these things are against him. Some wait coolly for the hour when he shall sink under the complicated embarrassments of his cruel fortune. Others, of a kinder spirit, regard him with compassion, and wonder how he can sustain such a variety of wo. A few there are, a very few, I fear, who can understand some- thing of the serenity of his mind, and comprehend some- thing of the nature of his fortitude. There are those, whose sympathetic piety can read and interpret the char- acters of resignation on his brow. There are those, in line, who have felt the influence of faith. In this influence there is nothing mysterious, nothing romantic, nothing of which the highest reason may be ashamed. It shows the Christian his God, in all the mild majesty of his parental character. It shows you God, dis- posing in still and benevolent wisdom the events of everj individual's life, pressing the pious spirit with the weight of calamity to increase the elasticity of the mind, produc- ing characters of unexpected worth by unexpected mis- fortune, invigorating certain virtues bj' peculiar probations, thus breaking the fetters which bind us to temporal things, and " From seeming evil still educing good, And better thence again, and better still, In infinite progression." When the sun of the believer's hopes, according to com mon calculations, is set, to the eye of faith it is still visible. When much of the rest of the world is in darkness, the high ground of faith is illuminated with the brightness of religious consolation. Come now, my incredulous friends, and follow me to the bed of the dying believer. Would you see in what peace a Christian can die ? Watch the last gleams of thought which stream from his dying eyes. Do you see any thing like ap- prehension ? The world, it is true, begins to shut in. The shadows of evening collect around his senses. A dark mist thickens., and rests upon the objects which have hitherto engaged his observation. The countenances of his friend^ COMMON-PLACE BOOK: OF PROSE. 63 become more and more indistinct. The sweet expiesAions of love and friendship are no longer intelligible. His ear wakes no more at the well-known voice of his children, an the soothing accents of tender affection die away un- heard, upon his decaying senses. To him the spectacle of human life is drawing to its close, and the curtain is descending, which shuts out this earth, its actors, and its scenes. He is no longer interested in all that is done un- der the sun. ! that 1 could now open to you the recesses of his soul ; that I could reveal to you the light, which darts into the chambers of his understanding. He ap- proaches that world which he has so long seen in faith. The imagination now collects its diminished strength, and the eye of faith opens wide. Friends! do not stand, thus fixed in sorrow, around this bed of death. Why are you so still and silent ? Fear not to move — you cannot disturb the last visions which enchant this holy spirit. Your lam- entations break not in upon the songs of seraphs, which inwrap his hearing in ecstasy. Crowd, if you choose, around his couch — he heeds you not — already he sees the spirits of the just advancing together to receive a kindred soul. Press him not with importunities ; urge him not with alleviations. Think you he wants now these tones of mortal voices — these material, these gross consolations ? No ! He is going to add another to the myriads of the just, that are every moment crowding into the portals of heav- en ! He is entering on a nobler life. He leaves you — he leaves you, weeping children of mortality, to grope about a little longer among the miseries and sensualities of a worldly life. Already he cries to you from the regions of bliss. Will you not join him there ? Will you not taste the sublime joys of faith ? There are your predecessors in vlr tue ; there, too, are places left for your contemporaries. There are seats for you in the assembly of the just made perfect, in the innumerable company of angels, where \i Jesus, the mediator of the new covenant, and Godj th*? judge of all f>4 C0M3I0N-l'LACE BOOK OF PROSE. Death of General Washington. — Marshall,. On Friday, the 13th of December, 1799, while attending to some improvements upon his estate, he was exposed to a slight rain, by which his neck and hair became wet. Un- apprehensive of danger from this circumstance, he passed the afternoon in his usual manner ; but in the night he was seized with an inflammatory affection of the wind- pipe. The disease commenced with a violent ague, ac- companied with some pain in the upper and fore part of the throat, a sense of stricture in the same part, a cough, and a difficult, rather than a painful, deglutition, which were soon succeeded by a fever, and a quick and laborious respiration. Believing bloodletting to be necessary, he procured a bleeder, who took from his arm twelve or fourteen ounces of blood ; but he would not permit a messenger to be de- spatched for his family physician until the appearance of day. About eleven in the morning, Dr. Craik arrived ; and, perceiving the extreme danger of the case, requested that two consulting physicians should be immediately sent for. Tiie utmost exertions of medical skill were applied in vain. The powers of life were manifestly yielding to the force of the disorder ; speaking, which was painful from the beginning, became almost impracticable ; respi- ration became more and more contracted and imperfect ; until half past eleven on Saturday night, when, retaining the full possession of his intellect, he expired without a struggle Believing, at the commencement of his complaint, as well as through every sixcceeding 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 erflcacy. Some hours before his death, after repeated efibrts to be understood, he succeeded in expressing a de- sire that he might be permitted to die without interruption. After it became impossible to get any thing down his throat, he imdressed himself, and went to bed, there to die. To his friend and physician. Dr. Craik, who sat on his bed, and took his head in his lap, he said with difficulty, " Doc- tor, 1 am dying, and have been dyirg for a long time; but I am not afraid to die." COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 65 During the short period of his ilhiess, he economized his {irne in arranging, with the utmost serenity, those few con- cerns which required his attention, and anticipated his ap- proaching dissolution with every demonstration of that equa- nimity, for which his life was so uniformly and singularly conspicuous. The deep and wide-spreading grief, occasioned hy this flielancholy 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 ceremonies 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 intelligence of his death preceded that of his indiapo- sition. It was first communicated by a passenger in the stage to an acquaintance whom he met in the street, and the report quickly reached the house of representatives, which was then in session. The utmost dismay and afflic- tion were displayed for a few minutes, after which a mem* ber stated in his place the melancholy information which had been received. This information, he said, was not cer- tain, but there was too much reason to believe it true. " After receiving intelligence," he added, " of a national calamity so heavy and afflicting, the house of representa- tives can be but ill fitted for public business." He there- fore 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 ch^iir, and afterwards of- fered the following resolutions :* " 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 or.e from the senate, be appointed to consider on the most suit- * These resolutions were prepared by General Lee, and offered >y John Marshall, the future l)!ographer of Wa.sI)in«rton. Tlie last aenA- mei t in tKefn has been often quoled and admired.— Ed. B6 COMMON-PLACE BJOK OF PROSE. able manner of paying honour to the memory of the Matt fii-st in war, first ia peace, and first in the hearts of his feiiow-citizens " The Lessons of Death. — Nortoiv. When such men are taken from us, we are made to feel the instability of life, and the insecurity of the tenure by which we hold its dearest blessings. But this feeling %vill be of little value, if it do not lead us to look beyond this world, and if it be not thus connected with a strong sense of the proper business of life, — to prepare ourselves for happiness in that world, where there shall be no change but from glory to glory. It will be in vain for us to contemplate such a character as we have been regarding, if we do not feel that its foundation was in that religion, which teaches every one of us to regard himself as created by God, to be an image of his own eternity. It will be in vain for us to stand by the open grave of departed worth, if no earthly passion grows cool, and no holy purpose gains strength. We are liable, in this w^orld, to continual delusion ; to a most extravagant over-estimate of the value of its objects. With respect to many of our cares and pursuits, the senti- ment expressed in the w^ords of David must have borne with all its truth and force upon the mind cl every con- siderate man in some moments, at least, of serious reflec- tion : Surely every one walketh in a vain show ; surely they are disquieted in vain. The events of the next month, or the next year, often assume in our eyes a most disproportionate importance, and almost exclude from our view all the other infinite variety of concerns and changes which are to follow in the course of an immortal existence. The whole happiness of our being seems sometimes to be at stake upon the success of a plan, which, when we have grown but a little older, we may regard with indifference. These are subjects on which reason too commonly speaks to us in vain. But there is one lesson, which God some- times gives us, that brings the truth home to our hearts COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 67 There is an admonition, which addresses itself directly to our feelings, and before which they bow in humility and tears. We can hardly watch the gradual decay of a man eminent for virtue and talents, and hear him uttering, with a voice that will soon be heard no more, the last expressions of piety and holy hope, without feeling that the delusions of life are losing their power over our minds. Its true pur- poses begin to appe ir to us in their proper distinctness. We are accompanying one, who is about to take his leave of present objects ; to whom the things of this life, merely, are no longer of any interest or value. The eye, which is still turned to us in kindness, will, in a few days, be closed forever. The hand, by which ours is still pressed, will be motionless. The affections, which are still warm and vivid — they will not perish ; but we shall know nothing of their exercise. We shall be cut off from all expressions and return of sympathy. He whom we love is taking; leavp of us for an undefined period of absence. We are placed with him on the verge between th'i world and the eternity into which he is entering ; wc look before us^ and the objects of the latter rise to view, in all their vast and solemn mag- nificence. There is, I well know, an anguish which may preclude this calmness of reflection and hope. Our resolution may be prostrated to the earth ; for he, on whom we are accus- tomed to rely for strength and support, has been taken away. We return to the world, and there is bitterness in all it presents us ; for every thing bears impressed upon it a remembrance of what we have lost. It has one, and but one, miserable consolation to offer : " That anguish will be wearied down, I know. What pang is permanent with man ? From th' highest, As from llie vilest thing of every d-iy, He learns to wean himself. For the strong hours Conquer him." It is a consolation, which, offered in this naked and cf- fensive form, we instinctively reject. Our recollections and our sorrows, Dlended as they are together, are far too dear to be parted with upon such terms. But God g;iveth not as the world giveth. There is a peace which comes from him, and brings healing to the heart. His religion would 68 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE not have us forget, but cherish, our afiections ft t^i? ie«^ for it makes known to us, that these affections s'' "\\J ^e in. mortal. It gradually takes away the bitterness oi cmv re collections, and changes them into glorious hopes ; for i teaches us to regard the friend, who is with us no longer, not as one whom we have lost on earth, but as one whom w» shall meet, as an angel, in heaven. Character of Chief Justice Marshall. — Wirt. The chief justice of the United States is in his pei«ofi tall, meager, emaciated ; his muscles relaxed, and his joints so loosely connected, as not only to disqualify him, apparently, for any vigorous exertions of body, but to de- stroy every thing like elegance and harmony in his air anc' movements. Indeed, in his whole appearance and demea- nour, — dress, attitudes, and gesture — sitting, standing, or walking, — he is as far removed from the idolized graces of Lord Chesterfield, as any other gentleman on earth. To continue the portrait : his head and face are small in pro- portion to his height ; his complexion swarthy ; the mus- cles of his face, being relaxed, give him the appearance of a man of fifty years of age, nor can he be much younger. His countenance has a faithful expression of great good- humour and hilarity ; while his black eyes — that unerring index — possess an irradiating spirit, which proclaims the iiiiperial powers of the mind that sits enthroned within. This extraordinary man, without the aid of fancy, with- out the advantages of person, voice, attitude, gesture, or any of the ornaments of an orator, deserves to be consid- ered as one of the most eloquent men in the world ; if elo- quence may be said to consist in the power of seizing the attention with irresistible force, and never permitting it to elude the grasp until the hearer has received the convic- tion which the speaker intends. As to his person, it has already been described. His voice is dry and hard ; his attitude, in his most effective ora- tions, was often extremely awkward, as it w?.s not unusual for him to stand with his left foot in advance ; while all his COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 69 gesture proceeded from his right arm, and coDsisted mere* ly in a vehement, perpendicular swing of it, from about the elevation of his head to the bar, behind which he was accustomed to stand. As to Fancy, if she hold a seat in his mind at all, which I very much doubt, his gigantic Genius tramples with dis- dain on all her flower-decked plats and blooming parterres. How, then, you will ask, with a look of incredulous curios- ity, — how is it possible that such a man can hold the atten- tion of an audience enchained through a speech of even or- dinary length ? I will tell you. He possesses one original, and almost supernatural facul- ty, — the faculty of developing a subject by a single glance of his mind, and detecting at once the very point on which every controversy depends. No matter what the question; though ten times more knotty than " the gnarled oak," the lightning of heaven is not more rapid nor more resistless than his astonishing penetration. Nor does the exercise of it seem to cost him an etibrt. On the contrary, it is as easy as vision. I am persuaded that his eyes do not Ry over a landscape, and take in its various objects with more promptitude and facility, than his mind embraces and ana- lyzes the most complex subject. Possessing while at the bar this intellectual elevation, which enabled him to look down and comprehend the whole ground at once, he determined, immediately, and without diffi- culty, on which side the question might be most advantageous- ly appi cached and assailed. In a bad cause, his art consisted in laying his premises so remotely from the point directly in debate, or else in terms so general and specious, that the hearer, seeing no consequence v/hlch could be drawn from them, was just as willing to admit them as not ; but, his premises once admitted, the demonstration, however dis- tant, followed as certahily, as cogently, and as inevitably, as any demonstration of Euclid. All his eloquence consists in the apparently deep self- conviction and emphatic earnestness of his manner ; the correspondent simplicity and energy of his style ; the close and logical connexion of his thoughts ; and the easy gra- dations by which he opens his lights on the attentive mimla 9f his hearers. 70 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. The audience are never permitted to pause for « moment. There is no stopping to weave garlands 'f Piowers to be hung in festoons around a favourite argument On the contrary, every sentence is progressive; every idea sheds new ho-ht on the subject; the Ustener is kept per- petually in that sweetly pleasurable vibration, with which the mind of man always receives new truths ; the dawn advances in easy but unremitting pace ; the subject opens gradually on the view ; until, rising in high relief in all its native colours and proportions, the argument is consum- mated by the conviction of the delighted hearer. His political adversaries allege that he is a mere lawyer ; that his mind has been so long trammelled by judicial pre- cedent, so long Piabituated to the quart and tierce of foren- sic digladiation, (as Dr. Johnson would probably have call- ed it,) as to be unequal to the discussion of a great ques- tion of state. Mr. Curran, in his defence of Rowan, seems to have sanctioned the probability of such an effect from such a cause, v/hen he complains of his own mind as hav- ing been narrowed and circumscribed by a strict and tech- nical adherence to established forms ; but, in the next breath, an astonishing burst of the grandest thought, and a power of comprehension, to which there seems to be no earthly limit, proves that his complaint, as it relates to him- self, is entirely without foundation. Indeed, if the objecfon to the chief justice mean any thing m.ore than that he has not had the same illumination and exercise in matters of state as if he had devoted his life to them, I am unwilling to admit it. The force of a cannon is the same, whether pointed at a rampart or a man of war, although practice may have made the engineer more expert in one case than in the otlier. So it is clear that practice may give a man a greater command over one class of subjects than another ; but the inherent energy oi~ his mind remains the same whithersoever it may be di- rected. From this impression, I have neA'er seen any cause to wonder at what is called a universal genius : it proves only that the man has applied a powerful mind to a great variety of subjects, and pays a compliment rather to i;is supenor industry than his superior intellect. I am very certain tliat the gentleman of whom we arf> speaking COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 7i possesses the acumen which niighl constitute him a univer- sri genius, according to the usual acceptation of that phrase, Dut if he be the truant, wliich his warmest friendu repre- sent him to be, there is very Httlc probability that he will ever reach tliis distinction. Moral Sublimity iUusfraicd. — Wayland. Philosophers liave speculated much concerning a pro- cess of sensation, whicli lias commonly been denominate'! the emotion of sublimity. Aware that, like any other sim- ple feeling, it must be incapable of definition, they have seldom attempted to define it ; but, content with remarking the occasions on which it is excited, have told us that it arises in general from tlie contemplation of whatever is vast in nature, splendid in intellect, or lofty in morals : or, to express the same idea somewhat varied, in the language of a critic of antiquity, " That alone is truly sublime, of which the conception is vast, the effect irresistible, and the remembrance scarcely, if ever, to be erased." But, although philosophers alone have written about this emotion, they are far from being the only men who have felt it. The untutored peasant, when he has seen the au- tumnal tempest collecting between the hills, and, as it ad- i^anced, enveloping in misty obscurity village and hamlet, forest and meadow, has tasted the sublime in all its reality ; and, whilst the thunder has rolled and the lightning flashed around him, has exulted in the view of Nature moving forth in her majesty. The untaught sailor-boy, listlessly hearkening to the idle ripple of the moonlight wave, when on a sudden he has thought upon the unfathomable abyss be- neath him, and the wide waste of waters around him, and ihe infinite expanse above him, has enjoyed to the full the emotion of sublimity, whilst his inmost soul has trem- bled at the vastness of its own conceptions. But why need 1 multiply illustrations from nature ? Who does not recollect the emotion he has felt while surveying aught, ir the material world, of terror or of vastness ? 72 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. And this sensation is not produced by grandeur in mate- rial objects alone. It is also excited on most of those occa- sions in which we see man tasking to the uttermost the ener- gies of his intellectual or moral nature. Through the long lapse of centuries, who, without emotion, has read of Leoni- das and his three hundred's throwing themselves as a bar- rier before the myriads of Xerxes, and contending unto death for the liberties of Greece ? But we need not turn to classic story to find all that is great in human action ; we find it in our own times, and in the history of our own country. Who is there of us that, even in the nursery, has not felt his spirit stir within him, when, with child-like wonder, he has listened to the story of Washington ? And although the terms of the narrative were scarcely intelligible, yet the young soul kindled at the thought of one man's working out the delivery of a nation. And as our understanding, strengthened by age, was at last able to grasp the detail of this transaction, we saw thut oui infantile conceptions had fallen far short of its grandeur. Oh ! if an American citizen ever exults in the contempla- tion of all that is subhme in human enterprise, it is when, bringing to mind the men wlio first conceived the idea of this nation's independence, he beholds then\ esf^riating the power of her oppressor, the resources of her citizens, de- ciding in their collected might that this nation should be free, and, through the long year^j of trial that ensued, never blenching from their purpose, but freely redeeming the pledge they had given, to consecrate to it " their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honour." *' Patriots have toiled, and, in llieir country's cause,^ Bled nobly, and their deeds, as they deserve, Receive proud recompense. \^'e'';ive in charge Their names to the sweet lyre. T lie historic Muse, Proud ot her tre;tsure, marches with it down To latest thnes : and Scul;)ture in her turn Gives bond, in stone and ever-during brass. To guard tlietn, and immortalize her trust." It is not in the field of patriotism alone that deeds have been achieved, to which liistory has awarded the palm of moral sublimity. There have lived men, in whom, the name of patriot has been merged m that of philanthropist; COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 73 who, looking with an eye of compassion over the face of the earth, have felt for the miseries of our race, and have put forth their cahn might to wipe off one blot from the marred and stained escutcheon of human nature, to strike off one form of suffering from the catalogue of human wo. Sucb a man was Howard. Surveying our world like a spirit of the blessed, he beheld the misery of the captive — he heard the groaning of the prisoner. His determination was fixed. He resolved, single-handed, to gauge and to measure one form of unpitied, unheeded wretthedness, and, bringing it out to the sunshine of public observation, to work its utter extermination. And he well knew what this undertaking would cost him. Heknew whathe had tohazard from the infection of dungeons, to endure from the fatigues of inhospitable travel, and to brook from the insolence of legalized oppression. He knew tliat he was devoting him- self to the altar of philanthropy, and he willingly devoted himself. He had marked out his destiny, and he hasted forward to its accomplishment, with an intensity, " which the nature of the human mind forbade to be more, and the cliaracter of the individual forbade to be less." . Thus he commenced a new era in the history of benevolence. And hence, the name of Howard will be associated with all that is sublime in mercy, until the final consummation of all things. Such a man is Clarkson, who, looking abroad, beheld the miseries of Africa, and, looking at home, saw his country stained with ner blood. We have seen him, laying aside the vestments of the priesthood, consecrate himself to the holy purpose of rescuing a continent from rapine and mur- der, and of erasing this one sin from the book of his na- tion's iniquities. We have seen him and his fellov/ phi- lanthropists, for twenty years, never waver from their pur- pose. We have seen them persevere amidst neglect and obloquy, and contempt, and persecution, until, the cry of the ojjpressed having roused the sensibilities of the nation, the " Island Empress" rose in her might, and said to this foul traffic in human flesh. Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Eloquent Speech of Logan, Chief of {h& Mingocs. — Jefferson. I MAY challenge the whole orations of Demosthenes anc Cicero, and of any more eminent orator, if Europe has fut' nished more eminent, to produce a single passage superioi to the speech of Logan, a Mingo chief, to Lord Dunmore, when governor of this state.* And, as a testimony of their talents in this line, I beg leave to introduce it, first stating the incidents necessary for understanding it. In the spring of the year 1774, a robbery was commit- ted by some Indians on certain land adventurers on the river of Ohio. The whites in that quarter, according to their custom, undMj-took to punish this outrage in a summary way. Captam Michael Cresap and a certain Daniel Great- house, leading on these parties, surprised, at different times, travelling and hunting parties of the Indians, having their women and children with them, and murdered many. Among these were unfortunately the family of Logan, a chief celebrated in peace and war, and long distinguished as the friend of the whites. This unworthy return provoked his vengeance. He accordingly signalized himself in the war which ensued. In the autumn of the same year a decisive battle was fought at the mouth of the Great Kanhaway, be- tween the collected forces of the Shawanese,Mingoes, and Delawares, and a detachment of the Virginia militia. The Indians v/ere defeated, and sued for peace. Logan, how- ever, disdained to be seen among the suppliants. But, lest the sincerity of a treaty should be distrusted, from which so distinguished a chief absented himself, he sent, by a messenger, the following speech to be delivered to Lord Dunmore. '•I appeal to any white man to say, if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat ; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During the course of the last long andbloody war, Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, and said, ' Logan is the friend of white men.' ] had even thought to have lived with you, but for the inju COMMON-PLACE BOoK OF PROSE. 75 ries of one man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood, and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Lo gan, not even sparing my women and children. There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it; 1 have killed many: I have fully glutted my vengeance. For my country, I rejoice at the beams of peace : but do not harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear : Logan never felt fear : he will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan ? Not one." Fox, Burke, and Pitt. — A. H. Everett. If the views of the opposition in parliament, in regard to some very important subjects, have received an apparent confirmation from the final result of the measures that were pursued, the party can also boast the honour of reck- oning upon its list of members some of the mostdistinguisli- ed statesmen that ever appeared in England or the world Not to mention those now living, who would do credit to any party or any nation, it may be sufficient to cite the illustrious names of Fox and Burke; names that are hardly to be paralleled in the records of eloquence, philosophy, and patriotism ; and which will only be more closely associated in the respect and veneration of future ages, on account of the personal schism which grew up between them, and which forms one of the most interesting parts of their histo- ry. Their difference was rather in regard to policy than to principle, both being warm and strenuous friends of lib erty ; and, when they differed, they were both partly righl and partly wrong. That Burke was judicious and wise in discountenancing the too violent spirit of reform, vv'hicb was then spreading through the nation, and- threatenina ruin to its institutions, and that Fox, in encouraging it, was rather influenc^ed by a generous and unreflecting zeal foi freedom, than by motives of sound policy, will now hardly be denied; and tiie time, perhaps, is not very distant, if it has not already arrived, when it will be admitted, with equal unanimity, that the policy of making war upon France. 76 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. whether for the purpose of crushing the principles of liber ty, or, at a subsequent period, of checking the develope- ment of her power, was, throughout, not only unjust, but imprudent, and eminently un.brtunate for the ultimate m- terests of England; that Burke, by supporting this policy with his fervid and powerful eloquence, was unconscious- ly doing a serious injury to his country; and that the sys- tem of Fox and his friends and successors, in this point, was as politic and prudent as it was generous and humane. Af- ter thirty years of unheard-of exertion and unexampled success, the war seems to have ended by leav'ug an open field to the ambition of ^Tnother state, infinitely moie formidable and dangerous than France. It may be re- marked, however, that this result does not appear to have been foreseen By the opposition any more than by the minis- tiy. It has generally been the fault of the British states- men, of all parties, to regard France merely as a rival state, instead of extending their views to the whole European system, of which France and England are only members, with interests almost wholly in unison. Fox and Burke, if I may be allowed to dwell a little longer on so pleasing a theme as the characters of these il- lustrious statesmen, were not less distinguished for amiable personal qualities, and intellectual accomplishments, than for commanding eloquence and skill in political science. The friends of Fox dwell with enthusiasm and fond regret up- on the cordiality of his manners and the unalloyed sweet- ness of his disposition. It is unfortunate that the pure lustre of these charming virtues was not graced by a suffi- cient regard to the dictates of private morality. Burke, on the contrary with an equally kind and social spirit, was a model of perfection in all the relations of domestic life ; his character being at once unsullied by the least stain of excess, and exempt from any shade of rigorism or defect of humour. While his private virtues made the, happiness of his family and friends, his conversation was the charm and wonder of the loftiest minds and the most enlightened circles of society. He was the only man whom Dr. John- son, a great master of conversation, admitted to be capable of tasking his powers. The onlj' deduction from the uni- form excellence of Burke is said to have been the small at COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSS. 77 tiaction of his manner in public speaking, a point in which Fox was also not particularly successful, but was reckon- ed his superior. It would be too rash for an ordinary ob- server to undertake to give to either of these two mighty minds the palm of original superiority It can hardly be denied that that of Burke was better disciplined and more accomplished ; and his intellectual reputation, being better supported than that of Fox by written memorials, will probably stand higher with posterity. Had Fox been permitted to finish the historical work which he had be- gun, he might, perhaps, have bequeathes to future ages a literary monument, superior in dignity and lasting value to any thing that remains from the pen of Burke. Both possessed a fine and cultivated taste for the beauties of art and nature ; that of Fox seems to have been even more poetical than his illustrious rival's ; out he has left no writ- ten proofs of it equal to the fine philosophical Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful. It is but poor praise of this ele- gant performance, to say that it is infinitely superior to the essay of Longinus on the sublime, from which the hint seems to have been taken, and which nothing but a blind and ignorant admiration of antiquity could ever have exalt- ed into a work of great merit. A sagacious critic has advanced the opinion, that the merit of Burke was almost wholly literary ; but I confess I see little ground for this assertion, if literary excel- lence is here understood in any other sense than as an im- mediate result of the highest intellectual and moral endow- ments. Such compositions as the writings of Burke sup- pose, no doubt, the fine taste, the command of language, and the finished education, which are all supposed by eve- ry description of literary success. But, in the present ! palisade, and was descending the hill, when she met old Cushmakin. "Do you know aught of my boy.'" she asked, '• Your boy is safe, and sleeps with his companions ; he returned by the Sassafras knoll; that way can only be trodden by the strong-limbed and light-footed." *"My boy is safe," said my mother; •' then tell me, for thou art wise, and canst see quite through the dark future, tell me, what evil is coming to our tribe ?" Slie then de- scribed the omens she had seen. '• I know not," said Cush- makin; " of late darkness hath spread over my soul, and all is black there, as before those eyes, that the arrows of death hath pierced ; but tell me, Monoco, what see you now in the fields of heaven?" '■'Oh, now," said my motlier, " I see nothing but the blue depths and the watching stars. The spirits of the air have ceased their moaning, and steal over my cheek like an infant's breath. The water-spirits are rising, and will soon spread their soft wings around the nest of our tribe." "The boy sleeps safely," muttered the old man, " and I have listened to the idle fear of a doting mother." " I come not of a fearful race," said my mother. "Nay, that I did not mean," replied Cushmakin; '■' but the panther watching her young is fearful as a doe." The night was far spent, and my mother bade him go home with her, for our powwows have always a mat in the wig- wam of their chief. " Nay," he said, " the day is near and I am always abroad at the rising of the sun." Itseera* ed that the first warm touch of the sun opened the eye of the old man's soul, and he saw again the flushed hills, and the shaded valleys, the sparkling waters, the green maize, and the gray old rocks of our home. They were just pas* COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 83 ins the little gate of the palisade, v/hen the old man s clo<» sprang- from him with a fearful bark. A rushing- sound was heard. '"Owanox! Owanox ! (the English ! tiie Eng lish! ") cried Cr.shmakin. My mother joined her voice to his, and m an instant the cry of alarm spread through the wigwams. The enemy were indeed upon us. They had surrounded the palisade, and opened their fire." " Was it so sudden ? Did they so rush on sleeping women and children .''" asked Everell, who was uncon- sciously lending all his interest to the party of the Nar- rator. "Even so; they were guided to us by the traitor We quash; he from whose bloody hand my mother had shield- ed the captive English maidens — he who had eaten from my father's dish, and slept on his mat. They were flank- ed by the cowardly Narragansetts, who shrunk from the sight of our tribe — who were pale as white men at the thought of Sas3acus,and so feared him that, when his name was spoken, they were like an unstrung bow, and they said, ' He is all one God — no man can kill him.' These cowardly allies waited for the prey they dared not attack "Then," said Everell, "as 1 have h'^-^rd, our people haa all the honour of the fight?" "Honour! was it, Everell? — ye shall hear. Our war- riors rushed forth to meet the foe; they surrounded the huts of their mothers, wives, sisters, children; they fought as if each man had a hundred lives, and vv'^ould give each and all to redeem their homes. Oh! the dreadful fray, even now, rings in my ears i Those fearful guns, that we had never heard before — the shouts of your people — our own battle-yell — the piteous cries of the little children — the groans of our mothers, and, oh ! v/orse — worse thai all — the silence of those that could not speak. — The English fell back; they were driven to the palisade, some beyond it when their leader gave the cry to fire our huts, and led the way to my mother's. Samoset, the noble boy, defend- ed the entrance with a princelike courage, till they struck him down; prostrate and bleeding, he again bent his bow, and liad tr^ken deadly aim at the English leader, when a sabre-blow severed his bow-string. Then was taken from our hearth-stone, v/here the-' EnffLih had been so ofteo 84 COMMOX-PLACE BOOK. OF PROSE. warmed and cherished, the brand to consume our dwell ings. They were covered with matr;, and burnt like dried straw. The enemy retreated without the palisade. In vain did our warriors fight for a path by which we might escape from the consuming fire ; they were beaten back ; the lierce element gained on us ; the Narragansetts pres:-*- ed on the English, howling like wolves for their prey Some of our people threw themselves into the midst of the crackling flames, and their courageous souls parted with one shout of triumph '.. others mounted the palisade, but they were shot, and dropped like a flock of birds smitten by the hunter's arrows. Thus did the strangers destroy, in' our own homes, hundreds of our tribe." " And how did you escape in that dreadful hour, Maga- wisca ? — you were not then taken prisoners ?" " No ; there was a rock at one extremity of our hut. and beneath it a cavity, into which my mother crept, with Oneco, myself, and the two little ones that afterwards per- ished. Our simple habitations were soon consumed ; we heard the foe retiring, and, when the last sound had died away, we came forth to a sight that rnade us lament to be among the living. The sun Vi^as scarce an hour from his rising, and yet in this brief space our homes had vanished The bodies of our people were strewn about the smoulder- ing ruin ; and all around the palisade lay the strong and valiant warriors — cold — silent — powerless as the unformed clay." Magawisca paused ; she was overcome with the recol- lection of this scene of desolation. She looked upward witli an intent gaze, as if she held communion with an in- visible being. " Spirit of my mother !" burst from her lips — " oh ! that 1 could follow thee to that blessed land, wheie I should no more dread the war-cry, nor the death- knife." F.verell dashed the gathering tears from his eyes, and Magawisca proceeded in her narrative. " While we all stood silent and motionless, we heard foot- steps and cheerful voices. They came from my father and Sassacus, and their band, returning from the friendly coun- cil. They approached on the side of the hill that was cov- ered with a thicket of oaks, and their ruined homes at once burst upon their view. Oh ! what horrid sounds then rOA] MOW-PLACE IJOUK OF PkOSE. 86 pealed on the air ! shouts of v*^ailing, and cries of ven- l^eance. Every eye was turned with suspicion and hatred on my father. He had been the friend of the Enghsh ; he had counselled peace and alliance with them ; he had protected their traders ; delivered the captives taken from tliemj and restored them to their people : now his wife and children alone were living, and they called him traitor. I heard an angry murmur, and many hands were lifted to strike the death-blow. He moved not — ' Nay, nay,' cried Sassacus, beating them off. ' Touch him not ; his soul u uiight as the sun ; sooner shall you darken that, than fii.d treason in his breast. If he hath shown the dove's heart to the English, when he believed them friends, he will show himself the fierce eagle, now he knows them enemies. Touch him not, warriors ; remember my blood runneth in his veins.' " From that moment my father was a changed man. He neither spoke nor looked at his wife, or children; but placing himself at the head of one band of the young men, he shouted his war-cry, and then silently pursued the ene- my. Sassacus went forth to assemble the tribe, and Ave followed my mother to one of our villages." " You did not tell me, Magawisca," said Everell, "how Saraoset perished ; was hr. consumed in the flames, or shot from the palisade ?" "Neither — neithei. He was reserved .to whet my fa- ther's revenge to a still keener edge. He had forced a passage through the English, and, hastily collecting a few warriors, they pursued the enemy, sprung upon them from a covert, and did so annoy them that the English turned, and gave them battle. All fled save my brother, and him they took prisoner. They told him they would spare his life if he would guide them to our strong holds ; he refused. He had, Everell, lived but sixteen summers ; he loved the light of the sun even as we love it ; his man^y spirit was tamed by wounds and weariness ; his limbs v^qiq like a bending leed, and his heart beat like a woman's 5 but the fire of liis soul burnt clear. Again they pressed him with offeis of life and reward; he faithfully refused, and with one sabre-stroke they severed his head from his body." ft 86 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Maga Tisca paused — she looked at Everell, and said witi a bitter smile — " You English tell us, Everell, that the book of youi- law is better than that written on our hearts, for, ye say, it teaches mercy, compassion, forgiveness — if ye had such a law, and believed it, would ye thus have treated a captive boy ?" Slagawisca's reflecting mind suggested the most serious obstacle to the progress of the Christian religion, in all a^;o3 and under all circumstances ; the contrariety between iti divine principles and the conduct of its professors : v»iiich, .iistead of always being a medium for the light that eina- iiuies from our holy law, is too often the darkest cloud that obstructs the passage of its rays to the hearts of heathen i.iea. Everell had been carefully instructed in the princi- ples of his religion, and he felt Magawisca's relation to te an awkward comment on them, and her inquir}'^ natural but, though he knew not what answer to make, he was sure there must be a good one, and, mentally resolving to refer the case to his mother, he begged Magawisca to proceed with her narrative. " The fragments of our broken tribe," she said, " were collected, and some other small dependant tribes persuaded to join us. We were obliged to flee from the open grounds, and shelter ourselves in a dismal swamp. The English sur- rounded us ; they sent in to us a messenger, and offered life and pardon to all who had not shed the blood of Eng- lishmen. Our allies listened, and fled from us, as fright- ened birds fly from a falling tree. My father looked upon his warriors ; they answered that look with their battle- shout. ' Tell your people,' said my father to the messen- ger, ' that we have shed and drank English blood, and that we will take nothing from them but death.' The messen- ger departed, and again returned with offers of pardon, if we would come forth, and lay our arrows and our toma- hawks at the feet of the English. ' What say you, war- riors ?' cried my father — ' shall we take pardon from those who have burned your wives and children, and given your homes to the beasts of prey ? — who haA'^e robbed you of your hunting-grounds, and driven your canoes from their wa- ters '' A hundred arrows were pomted to the messenger. Enough — you have your answer,' said my father; and COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 87 the messenger returned to announce the fate we had chosen." " Where was Sassacus ? — had he abandoned his people .'" asked Everell. " Abandoned them ! No — ^his Ufe was in theirs ; but, ac- customed to attack and victory, he could not bear to be thus driven like a fox to his hole. His soul was sick with- in him, and he was silent, and left all to my father. All day .we heard the strokes of the English axes felling the trees that defended us, and, when night came, they had ap- proached so near,^ that we could see the glimmering of their watch-lights through the branches of the trees. All night they were pouring in their bullets, alike on warriors, women, and children. Old Cushmakin was lying at my mother's feet, when he received a death-wound. Gasping for breath, he called on Sassacus and my father — ' Stay not here,' he said ; ' look not on your wives and children, but burst your prison bound ; sound through the nations the cry of revenge ! Linked together, ye shall drive the Eng- lish into the sea. I speak the word of the Great Spirit — obey it !' While he was yet speaking, he stiffened in death. ' Obey him, warriors,' cried my mother ; ' see,' she said, pointing to the mist that was now wrapping itself around the wood like a thick curtain — ' see, our friends have come from the spirit-land to shelter you. Nay, look not on us — our hearts have been tender in the wigwam, but we can die before our enemies without a groan. Go forth and avenge us.' " ' Have we come to the counsel of old men and old women !' said Sassacus, in the bitterness of his spirit. *' ' When women put down their womanish thoughts and counsel like men, they should be obeyed,' said my father ' Follow me, warriors.' " They burst through the enclosure. We saw nothing more, but we heard the shout from the foe, as they issued from the wood — the momentary fierce encounter and the cry, ' They have escaped !' Then it was that my m^other, who had listened with breathless silence, threw herself down on the mossy stones, and, laying her hot cheek to mine — ' Oh, my children — my children !* she said, ' would that I could die for you ! But fear not death — the blood 88 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE of a hundred chieftains, that never knew fear, runneth m your veins. Hcrk, the enemy comes nearer and nearer. Now hft up your heads, my children, and show them that even the weak ones of our tribe are strong in souL' " We rose from the ground — all about sat women and children in family clusters, awaiting unmoved their fate. The English had penetrated the forest-screen, and were already on the little rising-ground where we had been in- irenched. Death was dealt freely. None resisted — not a movement was made — not a voice lifted — not a sound es- caped, save the wailings of the dying children. " One of your soldiers knew my mother, and a com- mand was given that her life and that of her children should be spared. A guard was stationed round us. " You know that, after our tribe was thus cut off, we were taken, with a few other captives, to Boston. Some were sent to the Islands of the Sun, to bend their free limbs to bondage like your beasts of burden. There are among your people those who have not put out the light of the Great Spirit ; they can remember a kindness, albeit done by an Indian : and when it was known to your sa- chems that the wife of Mononotto, once the protector and friend of your people, was a prisoner, they treated her with honour and gentleness. But her people were extinguished — her husband driven to distant forests — forced on earth to the misery of wicked souls — to wander without a home ; her children were captives — and her heart was hrokcn." Character of Fisher Ames. — Kirklaxd. Mr. Ames, as a speaker and a writer, had the power fj enlighten and persuade, to move, to please, to charm, to astonish. He united those decorations, which belong to fine talents, to that penetration and judgment, that des- ignate an acute and solid mind. Many of his opinions had the authority of predictions fulfilled and fulfilling. He had the ability of investigation, and, where it was neces- sary, did investigate with patient attention, going through COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF I'ROSE. 8J« 3 series of observation and deduction, and tracing the links vviiich connect one truth with another. When the result of his researches was exhibited in discourse, the t^teps of a logical process were in some measure concealed by the colouring of rhetoric. Minute calculation and dry details were employments, however, the leasi adapted to his pe ouliar construction of mind. It was easy and delightful for him to illustrate by a picture, but painful and laborious to prove by a diagram. It was the prerogative of his mind to discern by a glance, so rapid as to seem intuition, those truths which common capacities struggle hard to appre- hend ; and it was the part of his eloquence to display, ex- pand and enforce them. His imagination was a distinguishing feature of his mind. Prolific grand, sportive, original, it gave him the command of nature and of art, and enabled him to vary the disposi- tion and the dress of his ideas without end. Now it as- sembled most pleasing images, adorned with all that is soft and beautiful ; and now rose in the storm, wielding the ele- ments, and flashing in the most awful splendours. Very few men have produced more original combinations. He presented resemblances and contrasts, which none saw be- fjre, but all admitted to te just and striking. In delicate and powerful wit he W£-S pre-eminent. The exercise of these talents and accomplishments was guided and exalted by a sublime morality and the spirit of rational piety, was modelled by much good taste, and prompted by an ardent heart. He was more adapted to the senate than the bar. His speeches in congress, always respectable, were many of them excellent, abounding in argument and sentiment, having all the necessary information, embellished with rhetorical beauties, and animated by patriotic fires. So much of the skill and address of the orator do they exhibit, that, though he had little regard to the rules of the art, they are perhaps fair examples of the leading precepts for the several parts of an oration. In debates on impor- tant questions, he generally waited before he spoke till the discussion had proceeded at some length, when he was sure to notice every argument tliat had been offered. Ke was sometimes in a minor 'ty, when he well considered the 50 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. temper of a majority in a republican assembly, impalieii of contrafliction, refutation, or detection, claiming to be allowed sincere in tbeir convictions, and disinterested in tiieir views. lie was noi unsuccessful in uniting the pru- dence and conciliation, necessary in parliamentary speak- ing, with lawful freedom in debate, and an effectual use of those sharp and massy weapons, which his talents sup- plied, and which his frankness and zeal prompted him to CTiploy. He did not systematically study the exterior graces of speaking, but his attitude was erect and easy, his gestures Hianly and forcible, his intonations varied and expressive, his articulation distinct, and his whole manner animated and natural. His written compositions, it will be per- ceived, have that glow and vivacity which belong to his speeches. All the other efforts of his mind, however, were proba- bly exceeded by his powers in conversation. He appear- ed among his friends with an illuminated face, and, with peculiar amenity and captivating kindness, displayed all the playful felicity of his wit, the force of his intellect, and the fertility of his imagination. On the kind or degree of excellence which criticisn may concede or deny to Mr. Ames's productions, we do not undertake with accurate discrimination to determine. He was undoubtedly rather actuated by the genius of ora- tory, than disciplined by the precepts of rhetoric ; was more intent on exciting attention and interest, and produc- ing effect, than securing the praise of skill in the artifice of composition. Hence critics may be dissatisfied, yet hear- ers charmed. The abundance of materials, the energy and quickness of conception, the inexhaustible fertility of nimd, wliich he possessed, as they did not require, so they for- bade, a rigid adherence to artificial guides, in the dispo- sition and employment of his intellectual stores. To a cer- tain extent, such a speaker and writer may claim to be his own authority. Image crowded upon image in his mind, yet he is not chargeable wnth affectation in the use of figurative lan- guage ; his tropes are evidently prompted by imagination, qnd not forced into service. Their novelty and variety' OOMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PUOiE. 91 create constant surprise and delight. But they are per- haps too lavishly employed. The fancy ot' his hearers is sometimes overplied with stimulus, and the importance ojf the thought liable to be concealed in the multitude and beauty cf the metaphors. His condensation of expression may br thought to produce occasional abruptness. He aimed rather at the terseness, strength, and vivacity of the short sentence, than at the dignity of the full and f owing period. His style is conspicuous for sententious bi evity, for antithesis and point. Single ideas appear with so much prominence, that the connexion of the several parts of his discourse is not always obvious to the common mind, and the aggregate impression of the composition is not always completely obtained. In these respects, where his peculiar excellences came near to defects, he is rather to be ad* mired than imitated. Mr. Ames, though trusting much to his native resources, did by no means neglect to apply the labours of others to his own use. His early love of books he retained and cherished through the whole of his life. He was particu- larly fond of ethical studies ; but he went more deeply into history than any other branch of learning. Here he sought the principles of legislation, the science of politics, the causes of the rise and decline of nations, and the char- acters and passions of men acting in public affairs. He read Herodotus, Thucydides, Livy, Tac'tus, Plutarch, and the m.odern historians of Greece and Rome. The English his- tory he studied with much care. Hence he possessed a great fund of historical knowledge, always at command, both for conversation and writing. He contemplated the character of Cicero as an orator and statesman with fervent admiration. He never ceased to be a lover of the poets. Homer, in Pope, he often perused ; and* he read Virgil in the original, within two years of his death, with increased delight. His knowledge of the French enabled him to read their authors, though not to speak their language. He was accustomed to read the Scriptures, not only as containing a system of truth and duty, but as displaying, in the^r poetical parts, all that is sublime, animated and affecting in compositiop 92 COiniON-PLACE BOOR OF PROSE. His learning seldom appeared as such, but was interwoven with his thoughts, and became his own. In public speaking he trusted much to excitement, and did little more in his closet than draw the outlines of his speech, and reflect on it till he had received deeply the impressions he intended to make ; depending for the turns and igures of language, illustrations and modes of appeal to the passions, on his imagination and feelings at the time. This excitement continued when the cause had ceased to operate. After debate his mind was agitated, like the ocean after a storm, and his nerves were like the shrouds of £ ship, torn by the tempest. He brought his mind much in contact with the minds of others,- ever pleased to converse on subjects of public interest, and seizing every hint that might be useful to him in writing for the instruction of his fellow-citizens. He justly thought that persons below him in capacity might have good ideas, which he might em- ploy in the correction and improvement of his own. His attention was alwaj^s awake to grasp the materials that came .to him from every source. A constant labour was going on in his mind. He never sunk from an elevated tone of thought and action, nor suffered his faculties to slumber in indolence. The circumstances of the times, in which he was called to act, contributed to elicit his powers, and sup- ply fuel to his genius. The greatest interests were sub- jects of debate. When he was in the national legislature, the spirit of party did not tie the hands of the public func- tionaries ; and questions, on which depended the peace or war, the safety or danger, the freedom or dishonour, of the country, might be greatly influenced by the coinsels and efforts of a single patriot. Mr. Ames's character as a patriot rests on the highest and firmest ground. He loved his country with equal pu- rity and fervour. This affection was the spring of all h-s efforts to promote her welfare. The glory of being a ben- efactor to a great people he could not despise, but justly valued. He was covetous of the fame purchased by des- ert ; but he was above ambition ; and popularity, except as an instrument of public service, weighed nothing in the balance by which he estimated good and evil. Had he Fought power only, he would have devoted himself to that COMMOiN-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 93 party, in whose gift he foresaw it would be placed. His first election, though highly flattering, was equally un- sought and unexpected, and his acceptance of it interrupt- ed his chosen plan of life. It obliged him to sacrifice the advantages of a profession, which he needed, and placed in uncertainty his prospects of realizing the enjoyments ol domestic life, which he considered the highest species of happiness. But he found himself at the disposal of others and did not so much choose, as acquiesce, in his destination to the national legislature. The objects of religion presented themselves with a strong interest to his mind. The relation of the world to its Author, and of this life to a retributory scene in another, could not be contemplated by him without the greatest so- lemnity. The religious sense was, in his view, essential n the constitution of man. He placed a full reliance on the divine origin of Christianity. If there ever was a time in his life when the light of revelation shone dimly upon his understandiug, he did not rashly close his mind against clearer vision ; for he was more fearful of mistakes to the disadvantage of a system, which he saw to be excellent and benign, than of prepossessions in its favour. He felt it his duty and interest to inquire, and discover on the side of faith, a fulness of evidence little short of demonstration. Al about thirty-five he made a public profession of his faith in the Christian religion, and was a regular attendant on its services. In regard to articles of belief, his conviction was confined to those leading principles, about which Christians have little diversity of opinion. Subtile ques- tions of theology, from various causes often agitated, but never determined, he neither pretended nor desired to in- vestigate, satisfied that they related to points uncertain or unimportant. He loved to view religion on the practical side, as designed to operate, by a few simple and grand truth:;, on the affections, actions and habits of men. His conversation and behaviour evinced the sincerity of his re- ligious impressions. No levity upon these subjects ever escaped his, lips ; but his manner of recurring to them in conversation indicated reverence and feeling. The sublime, the affecting character of Christ, he never mentioned with- out emotion. 94 COMJV10N-PLAC£ BOOK OF PROSE. He was gratefully sensible of the peculiar felicity of hij domestic life. In his beloved home his sickness found ali the alleviation, that a judicious and unwearied tenderness could minister ; and his intervals of health a succession of every pleasing enjoyment and heartfelt satisfaction. The complacency of his looks, the sweetness of his tones, his mild and often playful manner of imparting instruction, evinced his extreme delight in the society of his family, who felt that they derived from him their chief happiness, and found in his conversation and example a constant ex- citement to noble and virtuous conduct. As a husband and father, he was all that is provident, kind, exemplary. He was riveted in the regards of those who were in his service. He felt all the ties of kindred. The delicacy, the ardour, and constancy, with which he cherished his friends, his readiness to the offices of good neighbourhood, and his propensity to contrive and execute plans of public improvement, formed traits in his character, each of re- markable strength. He cultivated friendship by an active and punctual correspondence, which made the number of his letters very great, and which are not less excellent than numerous. Mr. Ames in person a little exceeded the middle height, was well proportioned, and remarkably erect. His features were regular, his aspect respectable and pleasing, his eye expressive of benignity and intelligence. In his man- ners he was easy, affable, cordial, inviting confidence, yet inspiring respect. He had that refined spirit of society, which observes the forms of real, but not studied polite- ness, and paid a most delicate regard to the propriety of conversation and behaviour. Reflections on the Death of Adams and Jeffers ri.— Sergeant. Time in its course has produced a striking ?poch in the history of our favoured country ; and, as if to mark with peculiar emphasis this interesting stage of our national ex- istence, it comes to us accompanied with incidents calcu* f-OMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 05 lated to make a powerful and lasting impression. The dawn of the fiftieth anniversary of independence beamed upon two venerable and illustrious citizens, to whom, under Providence, a nation acknowledged itself greatly indebted for the event which the day was set apart to commemorate. Theone was the author, the other was "the ablest advocate," of that solemn assertion of right, that heroic defiance of un- just power, which, in the midst of difficulty and danger, proclaimed the determination to assume a separate and equal station among the powers of the earth, and declared to the world the causes which impelled to this decision. Both had stood by their country with unabated ardour and un- wavering fortitude, through every vicissitude of her for- tune, until the " glorious day" of her final triumph crown- ed their labours and their sacrifices with complete success. Vfith equal solicitude, and with equal warmth of patriotic affection, they devoted their great faculties, which had been employed in vindicating the rights of their country, to con- struct for her, upon deep and strong foundations, the solid edifice of social order, and of civil and religious freedom. They had both held the highest public employment, and were distinguished by the highest honours the nation could confer. Arrived at an age when nature seems to demand repose, each had retired to the spot from which the public exigencies had first called him, — his public labours ended, his v/ork accomplished, his country prosperous and happy, — there lo indulge in the blessed retrospect of a well-spent life, and await that period which comes to all; — but not to awai"*. it in idleness or indifference. The same spirit of active benevolence, which made the meridian of their lives resplendent with glory, continued to shed its lustre upon their evening path. Still intent upon doing good, still de- voteo to the great cause of human happiness and improve- ment, neither of these illustrious men relaxed in his exer- tions. They seemed only to concentrate their energy, as ttge and increasing infirmity contracted the circle of action, bestowing, without ostentation, their latest efTorts upon the tstate and neighbourhood in which they resided. There, with patriarchal simolicity, they lived, the objects of a nation's grateful remembrance and affection; the living records of a nation's history ; the charm of an age which 96 COMIiON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. they delighted, adorned and instructed by their vivid sketches of times that are past ; and, as it were, the ini- bodied spirit of the revolution itself, in all its purity and force, diffusing its wholesome influence through the gen- erations that have succeeded, rebuking every sinister de- sign, and invigorating every manly and virtuoCis resolution. The Jubilee came,' — the great national commemoration of a nation's birth, — the fiftieth year of deliverance from a foreign rule, wrought out by exertions, and sufferings, and sacrifices of the patriots of the revolution. It found these illustrious and venerable men, full of honours and full of years, animated with the proud recollection of the times in which they had borne so distinguished a part, and cheer- ed by the beneficent and expanding influence of their patriotic labours. The eyes of a nation were turned to- wards them with affection and reverence. They heard the first song of triumph on that memorable day. As the voice of millions of freemen rose in gratitude and joy, they both sunk gently to rest, and their spirits departed in the midst of the swelling chorus of national enthusiasm. Death has thus placed his seal upon the lives of these two eminent men with impressive solemnity. A gracious Providence, whose favours have "been so often manifested in mercy to our country, has been pleased to allow them an unusual length of time, and an uncommon continuance of their extraordinary faculties. They have been, as it were, united in death; and they have both, in a most sig- nal manner, been associated in the great event which they so largely contributed to produce. Henceforward the names of Jefferson and Adams can never be separated from the Declaration of Independence. Whilst that venerated instrument shall continue to exist, as long as its sacred spirit shall dwell with the people of this nation, or the free institutions that have grown out of it be preserved and respected, so long will our children, and omv children's chil- dren, to the latest generation, bless the names of these our illustrious benefactors, and cherish their memory with reve- rential respect. The Jubilee, at each return, will bring back, with renovated force, the lives and the deaths of these distinguished men •, and History, with the simple pencil of COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. »l Truth, sketching the wonderful coincidence, will, for once at least, set at defiance all the powers of poetry and ro- Indolence. — Dej^nie. • How long wilt thou sleep, O sluggard ? When will Ihou arise out of sleep?" Not until you have had another nap, you reply ; not tiM there has been a little more folding of the hands ! Various philosophers and naturalists have attempted to define man. I never was satisfied with their labours : ab- surd to pronounce him a two-legged, unfeathcred animal, when it is obvious he is a sleepy one. In this world there is business enough for every individual: a sparkling sky over his head to admire, a soil under his feet to till, and innumerable objects, useful and pleasant, to choose. But such in general is the provoking indolence of our species, that the lives of many, if impartially journalized, might be truly said to have consisted of a series of slumbers. Some men are infested with day dreams, as well as by visions of the night : they travel a certain insipid round, like the blind horse of the mill, and, as Bolingbroke ob- serves, perhaps beget others to do the like after them. They may sometimes open their eyes a little, but they are soon dimmed by some lazy fog ; they may sometimes stretch a limb, but its efforts are soon palsied by procrastination. Yawning, amid tobacco fumes, they seem to have no hopes, except that their bed will soon be made, and no fears, ex- cept that their slumbers will be broken by business clam- ouring at the door. How tender and affectionate is the reproachful question cf Solomon, in the text, " When wilt thou arise out of sl( ep ?" The Jewish prince, whom we know to be an ac- tive one, from the temple which he erected and the books which he composed, saw, when he cast h's eyes around the city, half his subjects asleep. Though m many a wise proverb he had warned them of the baneful effects of in- 9 98 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. dolence, they were deaf to his charming voice, and blind to his noble example. The men servants and the maid servants, whom he had hired, nodded over their domestic duties in the royal kitchen, and when, in the vineyards he had planted, he looked for grapes, lo, they brough forth wild grapes, for the vintager was drowsy. At' the present time, few Solomons exist to preach against pillows, and never was there more occasion for a sermon. Our country being at peace, not a drum is heard to rouse the slothful. But, though we are exempted from the tu- mults and vicissitudes of war, we should remember that there are many posts of duty, if not of danger, and at these we should vigilantly stand. If we will stretch the hand of exertion, means to acquire competent wealth, and honest fame, abound, and when such ends are in view, how shameful to close our eyes ! He who surveys the paths of active life, will find them so numerous and long, that he will feel the necessity of early rising, and late taking rest, to accomplish so much travel. He who pants for the shade of speculation, will find that literature cannot flourish in the ^owers of in- dolence and monkish gloom. Much midnight oil must be consumed, and innumerable pages examined, by him whose object is to be really wise. Few hours has that man to sleep, and not one to loiter, who has many coffers of wealth to fill, or many cells in his memory to store. Among the various men, whom I see in the course of my pilgrimage through this world, I cannot frequently find those who are broad awake. Sloth, a powerful magician, mutters a witching spell, and deluded mortals tamely suffer this drowsy being to bind a fillet over their eyes. All their activity is ernployed in turning themselves like the door on a rusty hinge, and all the noise they make in the world is a snore. When I see one, designed by nature for noble purposes, indolently declining the privilege, and, heed- less, like Esau, bartering the birthright, for what is of less ^vorth than his red pottage of lentils, — for liberty to sit still and lie quietly, — I think I see, not a man, but an oyster The drone in society, like that fish on our shores, might as well be sunken in the mud, and enclosed in a shell, as stretched on a couch, or seated in a chimney-corner erOMMON-PLACE BOOK. OF PROSE. 99 The season is now approaching fast, when some of the most plausible excuses for a little 7no re sleep must fail. Eb.- ervated by indulgence, the slothful are of all men most im« patient of cold, and they deem it never more intense than m the morning. But the last bitter month has rolled away, and now, could I persuade to the experiment, the sluggard may discover that he may toss off the bed-quilt, and try the air of early day, without being congealed ! He may be assured that sleep is a very stupid employment, and differs very little from death, except in duration. He may receive it implicitly, upon the faith both of the physi- cian and the preacher, that morning is friendly to the health and the heart ; and if the idler is so manacled by the chains of habit, that he can, at first, do no more, he will do wise- ly and well to inhale pure air, to watch the rising sun, and mark the magnificence of nature. Escape of Harvey Birch and Captain WJiarton. — Cooper. The road which it was necessary for the pedler and the English captain to travel, in order to reach the shelter of the hills, lay, for half a mile, in full view from the door of the building, that had so recently been the prison of the latter ; running for the whole distance over the rich plain, that spreads to the very foot of the mountains, which here vise in a nearly perpendicular ascent from their bases ; it then turned short to the right, and was obliged to follow the windings of nature, as it won its way into the bosom of the Highlands. To preserve the supposed difference in their stations, Harvey rode a short distance ahead of his companion, and maintained the sober, dignified pace, that was suited to his assumed character. On their right, the regiment of foot, that we have already mentioned, lay in tents ; and the sen- tinels, who guarded their encampment, were to be seen moving, with measured tread, under the skirts of the hills themselves The first impulse of Henry was, certainly, to urge the beast he rode tc his greatest speed at once, and lOO COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. by a coup-de-main, not only to accomplish his escape, bu relieve himself irom the torturing suspense of his situation But the forward movement that the vouth made for this purpose was instantly checked by the pedler. " Hold up!" he cried, dexterously reining his own horse across the path of the other; " would you ruin us both ? Fall into the place of a black following his master. Did 3^ou not see their blooded chargers, all saddled and bridled, standing in the sun before the house ? How ^ong do you think that miserable Dutch horse you are on would hold his speed, if pursued by the Virginians ? Every foot that we can gain without giving the alarm, counts us a day in our lives. Ride steadily after me, and on no account look back. They are as subtle as foxes, ay, and as rave- nous for blood as wolves." Henry reluctantly restrained his impatience, and follow- ed the direction of the pedler. His imagination, however, continually alarmed him with the fancied sounds of pursuit ; though Birch, who occasionally looked back under the pre- sence of addressing his companion, assured him that all continued quiet and peaceful. " But," said Henry, " it will not be possible for Cassar to remain long undiscovered : had we not better put our horses to the gallop ? and, by the time they can reflect on the cause of our flight, we can reach the corner of the woods." " Ah ! you little know them. Captain Wharton," re- turned the pedler ; " there is a sergeant at this moment look- ing after us, as if he thought all was not right ; the keen- eyed fellow watches me like a tiger laying in wait for his leap ; when I stood on the horse block, he half suspected something was wrong; nay, check your beast; we must let the animals walk a little, for he is laying his hand on the pommel of his saddle ; if he mounts now, we are gone. The foot soldiers could reach us with their mus- kets." " What does he do ?" asked Henry, reining his horse Ic a walk, but, at the same time, presshig his heels into the animal's sides, to be in readiness for a sprmg. " He turns fiom his charger, and looks the other way. Now trot on gently; not so fast, not so fast; observe th« COMMON-PLACE BOOB. OF PROSE. 101 sencinel in the fjeld a little ahead of us; he eyes us keenly." " Never mind the footman," said Hecry impatiently; " he can do nothing but shoot us ; whereas these dragoons raay make me a captive again. Surely, Harvey, there are horsemen moving do^vn the road behind us. Do you see nothing particular ?" " Huinph !" ejacuiated the nedler ; " there is something particular, i-ndeed, to be seen behind the thicket on your left; turn your head a little, and you may see and profit by it too." . Henry eagerly seized his permisson to look aside, and his blood curdled to the heart as he observed they were passing a gallows, that had unquestionably been erected for his own execution. He turned his face from the sight in undisguised horror. " There is a warning to be prudent in that bit of wood," said the pedler, in that sententious manner that he often adopted. " It is a terrific sight indeed !" cried Henry, for a mo- ment veiling his face with his hands, as if to drive a vision from before him. The pedler moved his body partly around, and spoke with energetic but gloomy bitterness — "and yet. Captain Whar- ton, you see it when the setting sun shines full upon you ; the air you breathe is cierir, and fresh from the hills before you. Every step that you take leaves that hated gallows behind ; and every dark IigSIoWj and every shapeless rock in the mountains, ofTers you a hiding-place from the vengeance of your enemies. Eut t have seen the gibbet raised, when no place of refuge offered. Twice have I been buried in dungeons, where, fettered and in chains, I have passed nights in torture, looking forward to the morning's dawn that was to light me to a death of infamy. The sweat has started from limbs that seemed already drained of their moisture, and if I ventured to the hole, that admitted air through grates of .fon, to look cut upon the smiles of nature, which God has bestowed for the meanest of his creatures, the gibbet has glared before my eyes, like an evil conscience, harrowing ths soul of a dying man. Four times have I been in their power, besides this last ; but — twice — twice did I think tliat my hour had com.e. It is hard to die at the best, 9* 102 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Captain Wharton ; but to spend your last moments doi^ and iinpiliedjto know that none near you so much as thinX of the tatethat is to you tlie closing of all that is earthly to think that in a few hours you are to be led from the gloom — which, as you dwell on what follows, becomes deal to you — to the face of day, and there to meet all eyej upon you, as if you were a wild beast ; and to lose sight of every thing amidst the jeers and scoifs of your fellow crea« tures ; — that. Captain Wharton, that indeed is to die." Henry listened in amazement, as his companion uttered this speech with a vehemence altogether new to him , both seemed to have forgotten their danger and their dis- guises, as he cried — " What! were you ever so near death as that?" " Have I not been the hunted beast of these hills for three years past ?" resumed Harvey ; *' and once they even led me to the foot of the gallows itself, and I escaped only by an alarm from the royal troops. Had they been a quar- ter of an hour later, I must have died. There was I placed, in the midst of unfeeling men, and gaping women and children, as a monster to be cursed. When I would pray to God, my ears were insulted with the history of my crimes ; and when, in all that multitude, I looked around for a sin- gle face that showed me any pity, I could find none — no, not even one — all cursed me as a wretch who would sell his country for gold. The sun was brighter to my eyes than common — but then it was the last time I should see it. The fields were gay and pleasant, and every thing seem- ed as if this world was a kind of heaven. Oh ! how sweet life was to me at that moment ! 'Twas a dreadful hour. Captain Wharton, and such as you have never known. You have friends to feel for you ; but 1 had none but a father to mourn my loss when he might hear of it ; there was no pity, no consolation near to soothe my anguish. Every thing seemed to have deserted me, — I even thought tha' He had forgotten that I lived." *•' What ! did you feel that God had forsaken you, Har- vey ?" cried the youth, with strong sympathy " God never forsakes his servants," returned Birch, with everence, and exhibiting naturally a devotion that hitherto he had only assumed. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE* 103 " And who did you mean by He ?" The pedler raised himself in his saddle to the stiff ana upright posture that was suited to the outward appearance. The look of fire, that, for a short time, glowed upon hi3 countenance, disappeared in the solemn lines of unbend- ing self-abasement, and, speaking as if addressing a negro, he replied — " In heaven, there is no distinction of colour, my broth- er ; therefore you have a precious charge within you, that you must hereafter render an account of," — dropping his voice ; " this is the last sentinel near the road ; look not . back, as you value your life." Henry remembered his situation, and instantly assumed the humble demeanour of his adopted character. The un- accountable energy of the pedler's manner was soon for- gotten in the sense of his own immediate danger ; and with tlse recollection of his critical situation returned all the uneasiness that he had momentarily forgotten. " What see you, Harvey ?" he cried, observing the ped- ler to gaze towards the building they had left, with omi- nous interest ; " what see you at the house ?" "That which bodes no good to us," returned the pre- \ luled priest. " Throw aside the mask and wig — you \ ill need all your senses without much delay — throw I lem in the road : there are none before us that I dread, but tiiere are those behind us, who will give us a fearful race." " Nay, then," cried the captain, casting the implements of his disguise into the highway, " let us improve our time to the utmost ; we want a full quarter to the turn ; why not push for it at once ?" "Be cool — they are in alarm, but they will not mount without an officer, unless they see us fly — now he comes — he moves to the stables — trot brisklj;^ — a dozen are in theii saddles, but the officer stops to tighten his girths — they hope to steal a march upon us — he is mounted— now ride. Cap- tain Wharton, for your life, and keep at my heels. If you quit me you Will be lost." A second request was unnecessary. The instant that Harvey rat his horse to his speed. Captain Wharton was al his heels, urging the miserable animal that he rode to tlip 104 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. atmost. Birch had selected the beast on which he rode and, although vastly inferior to the high-fed and blooded chargers of the dragoons, still it was much superior to the little pony that had been thought good enough to carry Cassar Thompson on an errand. A very few jumps convinced the captain that his companion was fast leaving him, and a fear- ful glance that he threw behind informed the fugitive that his enemies were as speedily approaching. With that abandonment that makes misery doublj' grievous, when it is to be supported alone, Henry called aloud to the pedler not to desert him. Harvey instantly drew up, and suffer- ed his companion to run along-side of his own horse. The cocked hat and wig of the pedler fell from his head the moment that his steed began to move briskly, and this de- velopement of their disguise, as it might be termed, was witnessed by the dragoons, who announced their observa- tion by a boisterous shout, that seemed to be uttered in the very ears of the fugitives — so loud was the cry, and so short the distance between them. " Had we not better leave our horses," said Henry, "and make for the hills across the fields on our left ? — the fence will stop onr pursuers." "That way lies the gallows," returned the pedler — " these fellows go three feet to our two, and would mind them fences no more than we do these ruts ; but it is a short quarter to the turn, and there are two roads behind the wood. They may stand to choose until they can take the track, and we shall gain a little upon them there." " But this miserable horse is blown already," cried Hen- ry, urging his beast with the end of his bridle, at the same time that Harvey aided his efforts by applying the lash of a heavy riding whip that he carried ; " iie will never stand it for half a mile further." " A quarter will do — a quarter will do," said the pedler ; " a single quarter will save us, if you follow my direc tions." Somewhat cheered by the cool and conndent manner of f)is companion, Henry continued silently urging his horse forward. A few moments brought them to the desired turn, and, as they doubled round a point of low under-Drusri, the fugitives caught a glimpse of their pursuers scattereJ COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 105 along the highway. Mason and the sergeant, being better raour.tod than the rest of the party, were much nearer to then* heels than even the pedler thought could be possible. At the foot of the hills, and for some distance up the dark valley that wound among the mountains, a thick un- derwood of saplings had been suffered to shoot up, when tiie heavier growth was felled for the sake of fuel. At the^ sight of this cover, Henry again urged the pedler to dismount, and to plunge into the woods ; but his request was promptly refused. The two roads before mentioned met at a very sharp angle, at a short distance from the turn; and both were circuitous, so that but little of either could be seen at a time. The pedler took the one which led to the left, but held it only a moment, for, on reaching a par- tial opening in the thicket, he darted across the right hand path, and led the way up a steep ascent, which lay direct- ly before them. This manoeuvre saved them. On reaching the fork, the dragoons followed the track, and passed the spot where the fugitives had crossed to the other road, be- fore they missed the marks of the footsteps. Their loud cries were heard by Henry and the pedler, as their weari- ed and breat?dess animals toiled up the hill, ordering their comrades in the rear to ride in the right direction. The captain again proposed to leave their horses, and dash into the thicket. " Not yet — not yet," said Birch in a low voice ; the road falls from the top of this hill as steep as it rises — first let us gain the top." While speaking they reached the desir- ed summit, and both threw themselves from their horses. Henry plunged into the thick underwood, which covered the side of the mountain for some distance above them. Har- vey stopped to give each of their beasts a few severe blows of his whip, that drove them headlong down the path on the other side of the eminence, and then followed his ex- ample. The pedler entered the thicket with a little caution, HAd avoided, as much as possible, rustling or breaking the brinches in his way. There was but time only to shelter h*3 Oirson from view, when a dragoon led up the ascent, and, on reaching the height he cried aloud — 106 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PEOSE. " I saw one of their horses turning the hill this mia ute." " Drive on — spur forward, my lads," shouted Mason " give the Englishman quarter, but cut down the pedlcr, and make an end of him." Henry felt his companion gripe his arm hard, as he lis- tened in a great tremour to this cry, which was followed by ihe passage of a dozen horsemen, with a vigour and speed that showed too plainly how little security their over-tired steeds could have afforded them. " Now," said the pedler, rising from his cover to recon- noitre, and standing for a moment in suspense, " all that we 2:ain is clear gain ; for, as we go up, they go down. Let us be stirring." " But will they not follow us, and surround this moun- tain ?" said Henry, rising, and imitating the laboured but rapid progress of his companion ; " remember they have foot as well as horse, and at any rate we shall starve in the hills." " Fear nothing, Captain Wharton," returned the pedler with confidence; "this is not the mountain- that I would bo on, but necessity has made me a dexterous pilot among these hills. I will lead you where no man will dare to fol- low. See, the sun is already setting behind the tops of the western mountains, and it will be two hours to the rising of the moon. Who, think you, will follow lis far, on a November night, among these rocks and precipices r" '•' But listen !" exclaimed Henry ; " the dragoons are shouting to each other — they miss us already." " Come to the point of this rock, and you may see them," said Harvey, composedly setting himself down to rest. " Nay, they can see us — notice, they are pointing up with their fingers. There ! one has fired his pistol, but the distance is too great for even a musket to carry upwards." " They will pursue us," cried the impatient Henry ; " let us be moving." " They will not think of such a thing," returned the pedler, picking the chickerberries that grew on the thin goil where he sat, and very deliberately chewing th&oi, leaves and all, to refresl his mouth. " What progre^^ COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. lOT could Oiey make here, in their boots and spurs, with their long swords, or even pistols ? No, no — they may go back and turn out tht foot • but the horse pass through these deiileSj when they can keep the saddle, with fear and trembliug. Come, follow me. Captain Wharton ; we have a troublesome march before us, but I will bring you where none will think of venturing this night." So saying, they both arose, and were soon hid from view amongst the rocks and caverns of the mountain. Scenery in the JVoich of the White Mountains. — DwiGHT. The Notch of the White Mountains is a phrase appro- priated to a very narrow defile, extending two miles in length between two huge cliffs apparently rent asunder by some vast convulsion of nature. This convulsion was, in my own view, that of the deluge. There are here, and throughout New England, no eminent proofs of volcanic violence, nor any strong exhibitions of the power of earth- quakes. Nor has history recorded any earthquake or vol- cano in other countries, of sufficient efficacy to produce the phenomena of this place. The objects rent asunder are too great, the ruin is too vast and too complete, to have been accomplished by these agents. The change appears to have been effected when the surface of the earth exten- sively subsided; when countries and contmenls assumed a. new face ; and a general commotion of the elements pro- duced a disruption of some mountains, and merged others beneath the common level of desolation. Nothing less than this will account for the sundering of a long range of great rocks, or rather of vast mountains ; or for the exist- ing evidences of the immense force, by which the rup- ture was euTccted. The entrance of the chasm is formed by two rocks stand- ing perpendicularly at the distance of twenty-two feet from each other ; one about twenty feet in height, the other about twelve. Half of the space is occupied by the broolj mentioned as the head stream of the Saco ; the other haJ/ X08 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. by the read. The stream is lost and invisible beneath a mass of fragments, partly blown out of the road, and part- ly thrown down by some great convulsion. When we entered the Notch, we were struck with the wild and solemn appearance of every thing before us. The scale, on which all the objects in view were formed, was the scale of grandeur only. The rocks, rude and ragged in a manner rarely paralleled, were fashioned and piled by a hand operating only in the boldest and most irregular mioi- ner. As we advanced, these appearances increased rapidly. Huge masses of granite, of every abrupt form, and hoary with a moss, which seemed the product of ages, recalling to the mind the saxuin vetustum of Virgil, speedily rose to a mountainous height. Before us the view widened fast to the south-east. Behind us, it closed almost instanta- neously, and presented nothing to the eye but an impassa- ble barrier of mountains. About half a mile from the entrance of the chasm, we saw, in full view, the most beautiful cascade, perhaps, in the world. It issued from a mountain on the right, about eight hundred feet above the subjacent valley, and at the distance from us of about two miles. The stream ran over a series of rocks almost perpendicular, with a course so little broken as to preserve the appearance of a uniform current; and yet so far disturbed as to be perfectly white. The sun shown with the clearest splendour, from a station in the heavens the most advantageous to our prospect ; and the cascade glittered down the vast steep, like a stream of burnished silver. At the distance of three quarters of a mile from the en- trance, we passed a brook, known in this region by the name of the flume ; from the strong resemblance to that object exhibited by the channel, which it has worn for a considerable length in a bed of rocks ; the sides being per- pendicular to the bottom. This elegant piece of water we de- termined to examine farther; and, alighting from our horses, walked up the acclivity perhaps a mrlong. The stream fell from a height of two hundred and fortj'- or two hundred and fifty feet over three precipices; the second receding a small distance from the front of the first, and the third from tha* of the second. Down the first and second it fell in a sin- COMMON-rLA.CE BOOK OF PROSE. 105 gl8 current ; and down the tliird in three, which united their streams at the bottom in a fine basin, formed by the hand of nature in the rocks immediately beneath us. It is impossible for a brook of this size to be modelled into more diversified or more delightful forms ; or for a cascade to de- scend over precipices more happily fitted to finish its beau- ty. The cliffs, together with a level at their foot, furnish- ed a considerable opening, surrounded by the forest. The sunbeams, penetrating through the trees, painted here a great variety of fine images of light, and edged an equally numerou^s and diversified collection of shadows ; both dan- cing on the waters, and alternately silvering and obscuring their course. Purer water was never seen. Exclusively of its murmurs, the world around us was solemn and silent. Every thing assumed the character of enchantment; and, had I been educated in the Grecian mythology, I should scarce- ly have been surprised to find an assemblage of Dryads, Naiads and Oreades, sporting c.i the little plain below our feet. The purity of this water was discernible, not only by its limpid appearance, and its taste, but from several other circumstances. Its course is wholly over hard granite ; and the rocks and the stones in its bed and at its side, instead of being covered with adventitious substances, were washed perfectly clean ; and, by their neat appearance, added not a little to the beauty of the scenery. From this spot the mountains speedily began to open with increased majesty ; and, in several instances, rose to d perpendicular height little less than a mile. The bosom of both ranges was overspread, in all the inferior regions, by a mixture of evergreens with trees, whose leaves are deciduous. The annual foliage had been already changed by the frost. Of the effects of this change it is, perhaps, impossible for an inhabitant of Great iPritain, as I have been assured by several foreigners, to form an adequate conception, without visiting an American forest. When I was a j'-outh, I remarked that Thomson had entirely omit- ted in his Seasons this fine part of autumnal imagery. Upon inquiring of 'a.n English gentleman the probable cause of the omission, he informed me that no such scenery existed in Great Britain. In this country, it is often among the most splendi. beauties of nature All the leaves o\ 10 110 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PEOSS. trees, wMcb are not ever^eens. are, by the first severe frcst. changed from their verdure towards the perfection of rhat colour which they are capable of ultimately assumin^s through yellow, orange and red, to a pretty deep brown. As the frost affects diiferent trees, and different leaves of the same tree, in very different degrees, a vast multitude of tinctures are commonly found on those of a single tree, and always on those of a grove or forest. These colours also, in all their varieties, are generally full ; and, in many instances, are among the most exquisite, which are found in the regions of nature— Different sorts of trees are sus- cepable of different degrees of this beauty. Among them the maple is pre-eminently distinguished by the prodigious ' varieties, the finished beauty, and the intense lustre of its hues ; varying through all the dyes between a rich green and the most perfect crimson, or, more definitely, the red of the prismatic image. There is, however, a sensible difference in the beauty of this appearance of nature in different parts of the country, even when the forest trees arc the same. I have seen no tract where its splendour was so highly finished, as in the region which surrounds Lancaster for a distance of thirty mOes. The colours are more varied and more intense ; and the numerous evergreens furnish, in their deep hues, the best groundwork of the picture. I have remarked, that the annual foliage on the semoun- tains hail been already changed by the frost. Of course, the darkness of the evergreens was finely illumined by the brilliant yellow of the birch, the beech and the cherry, and the more brilliant orange and crimson of the maple. The effect of this uniTersal diffusion of gay and splendid light was, to render the preponderating deep green more solemn. The min4, encircled by this scenery, irresistibly remembered that the liorht was the light of decay, autum- nal and melancholy- The dark was the gloom of evening, approximating to nijht. Over the whole, the azure of the sky cast a deep, mi«tv blue : blending, towards the summit, every other hue, ai rt nredominating over all. As the eye ascended these steeps, the light decayed, and gjaduilly ceased. On the inferior summits rose crowns of oaical firs and spruces. On the superior eminences, th« vv/MMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Ill 0-c^s, growing less and less, yielded to the chilling atmos- jjnere, and marked the limit of forest vegetation. Above, ne surface was covered with a mass of shrubs, terminating, at a still higher elevation, in a shroud of dark-coloured As we passed onward through this singular valley, occa- sional torrents, formed by the rains and dissolving snows at the close of winter, had left behind them, in many places, perpetual monuments of their progress, in perpendicular, narrow and irregular paths of immense length, where they had washed the precipices naked and white, from the sum- mit of the mountain to the base. Wide and deep chasms also met the eye, both on the summits and the sides; and strongly impressed the imagination with the thought, that a hand of immeasurable power had rent asunder the solid rocks, and tumbled them into the subjacent valley. Ovei" ail, hoary cliflfs, rising with proud supremacy, frowned aw- iully on the world below, and finished the landscape. By our side, the Saco was alternately visible and lost, and increased, almost at every step, by the junction of tributary streams. Its course was a perpetual cascade; and with its sprightly murmurs furnished the onlv contrast to the scenery around us. Exalted Character of Poetry. — Chaining. By those who are accustomed to speak of poetry as light reading, Milton's eminence in this sphere may be consider- cci only as giving him a high rank among the contributors tu public amusement. Not so thought Milton. Of all God's gifts of intellect, he esteemed poetical intellect the 'i^ost transcendent. He esteemed it in himself as a kind of iaspiration, and wrote his great works with the conscious uignity of a prophet. We agree with Milton in his esti- lOite of poetry. It seems to us the divinest of all arts; for h is the breathing or expression of that principle or senti- ment, which is deepest and sublimest in human nature ; we mecp., of that thirst or aspiration, to which no mind is whol- ly a stranger for something purer and loveliei, something 112 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. inore poiverful, lofty and thrilling, than ordinary and rea life affords. — No doctrine is more common among Chris* tians than that of man's immortal-' . -[^^^ ^^ jg ^^^ g^ gener- ally understood, that the germs or princip]*^' ■>f his whole future being are now wrapped up in hii sou', as the rudi- ments of the future plant in the seed. As a necessary re- sult of this constitution, the soul, possessed and moved by these mighty though infant energies, is perpetually stretch- ing beyond what is present and visible, struggling against the bounds of its earthly prison-house, and seeking relief and joy in imaginings of unseen and ideal being. This view of our nature, which has never been fully developed, and which goes farther towards explaining the contradictions of human life than all others, carries us to the very founda- tion and sources of poetry. He, who cannot interpret by his own consciousness what we now have said, wants the true key to works of Genius. He has not penetrated those secret recesses of the soul, where Poetry is born and nour- ished, and inhales immortal vigour, and wings herself for her heavenward flight. — In an intellectual nature., framed for progress and for higher modes of being, there must be creative energies, power of original and ever-growing thought; and poetry is the form in which these energies are chiefly manifested. It is the glorious prerogative of this art, that it " makes all things new" for the gratifica- tion of a divine instinct. It indeed finds its elements in what it actually sees and experiences in the worlds of mat- ter and mind ; but it combines and blends these into new forms, and according to new affinities: breaks down, if we may so say, the distinctions and bo':ads of nature ; im- parts to material objects life, and =entiment, and emotion, and invests the mind with the powers and splendours of the outward creation; descr:b7-tance and sacredness of the object ? And can any mau, wh^i has humanity, liber- ty, or Christianity at heart, feel justified in forbearing to £;ive his voice, his aid, his syinpalhy, to this cause, in any way in which it is practicable to advance it. Small as are the numbers of the Greeks, and limited as is their country, it may be safely said» that there has not, since the last Turkish invasion of Europe, been waged a vv ar, of which the results, in the worst event, could have been so calamitous, as it must be allowed by every reflect- ing mind, that the subjugation and consequent extirpation of the Greeks would be. The war? that are waged be- t\veen the states of Christendom, generally grow out of disputed titles of princes, or state quarrels betv/een the e;overnments. Serious changes no doubt take place, as tliese wars may be decided one waj^ or the other. Nations, formerly well governed, may come under an arbitrary sway ; or a despotic be exchanged for a milder govern- ment. But, inasmuch as victor and vanquished belong to the same civilized family; and the social condition, the standard of morality, and the received code of public law, a:-8 substantially the same in all the nations of Europe ; no irreparable disaster to the cause of humanity itself can en- sue from any war, in v/hich they may be engaged with each other Had Napoleon, for iuslancej .succeeded i'n in- vading and conquering Eng!an;!, (and this is probably the strongest case that could La put,) after the first calamities of invasion and conquest were past, which must in all cases be much the same, no worse evils would probably have esulted to the cause of Immanity, than the restoration of 120 coamox-PLACE book of prose. ihe Catholic religion as the religioa of the state, th3 Intro- Cucrion of the civil law in place of the common law, and lae general exclusion of the English nobility and gentry from offices of power and profit ; an exclusion, which the English government itself, since the year 1633, ha3 enforced towards the Catholic families, among which are some of the oldest and richest in the kingdom. Whereas, should the Turks prevail in the present contest, an amal- gamation of victor and vanquished would he as impracti- cable now, as when Greece was first conquered by the Ottoman power. The possession of the country has been promised to the Bey of Egypt, as the reward of his services In eflfecting its conquest. The men-at-arms have already been doomed to mihtary executirn of the most cruel kind, and the women and children wou'd be sold into Asiatic and African bondage. We are not left to collect this tcerely from the known maxims of Turkish warfare, nor the menaces which have repeatedly been made by the Porte, but we see it exem- phfied 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 off, obliterated from the map of Europe, and annihilated by the operation of whatever is most barbarous and terrific in the military practice of the Turkish government, an entire people ; one of those dis- tinct social families, into which Providence collects the sons of men. In them will perish the descendants of ancestors, toward whom we all profess a reverence ; who carry, in the language they speak; the proof of their national iden- tity. In them will be exterminated a people apt and pre- disposed for all the improvements of civihzed life ; a peo- ple connected with the rest of Europe by every moral and intellectual association, an-i capable of being reared up into a prosperous and cultivated state. Finally ; in them will perish one wh.^le Christian people ; and that the first that embraced Christianity ; cui:rcbes actually founded by the apostles in person, ch'^rcbes, for whose direct instrucuon a considerable part of the New Testament was composed, after abiding all the storms of eighteen centuries, and sur- viving so mauy vicissitudes, are now at length to be COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 121 razed; and, in the place of all this, an uncivilized Ma- hometan horde is to be established upon the ruins. We say it is a most momentous alternative. Interest hnmani generis. The character of the age is concerned. The mpending evil is tremendous. To preserve the faith cf certain old treaties, concluded we forget when, the parlia- ment of England decides by acclamation to send an army inlo Portugal and Spain, because Spain has patronised the disaffection of the Portuguese ultra-royalists. To prevent a change in the governments of Piedmont, Naples and Spain, Austria and France invade those countries with large armies. Can those great powers look tamely on, and see the ruin of their Christian brethren consummated in Greece ? Is there a faded parchment in the diplomatic ar- chives of London or Lisbon, that binds the English gov- ernment more imperiously than the great original obliga- tion to rescue an entire Christian people from the cimeter ? Can statesmen, who profess to be, who are, influenced by the rules of a chaste and lofty public morality, justify their sanguinary wars with Ashantees and Burmans, and find reasons of duty for shaking the petty thrones of the interior of Africa, and allow an African satrap to strew the plains of Attica with bloody ashes ? If they can, and if they will, then let the friends of lib- erty, humanity, and religion, take up this cause, as one thai concerns them, all and each, in his capacity as a Christian and a man. Let them make strong the public sentiment on this subject, and it will prevail. Let them remember what ere now has been done, by the perseverance and res- olution of small societies, and even individual men. Let them remember how small a company of adventurers, un- patronised, scarcely tolerated by their government, suc- ceeded in laying the foundations of this our happy coun- try beyond a mighty ocean. Let them recollect, that it was one fixed impression, cherished and pursued in the bea t cf an humble and friendless mariner, through long ye-uvs of fruitless solicitation and fainting hope, to which it is owing, that these vast American continents are made a part of the heritage of civilized man. Let them recollect that, in the same generation, one poor monk dismembered the great ecclesiastical empire of Europe. Let them bea» 11 122 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. in mind, that it was a hermit who roused the nations ;:f Europe in m^ss, to engage in an expedition against tie common enemy of Chistendom ; an expedition, wild indeed, and unjustifiable, according to our better lights, but lawful and meritorious in those who embarked in it. Let them, in a word, never forget, that when, on those lovely islands and once happy shores, over which a dark cloud of destruc- tion now hangs, the foundations of the Christian church were first laid, it was by the hands of private, obscure and persecuted individuals. It was the people, the humblest of the people, that took up the Gospel, in defiance of all the patronage, the power, and the laws of the government. Vv'hy should not Christianity be sustained in the same coun- try, and by the same means by which it was originally es- tablished ? If, as we believe, it is the strong and decided sentiment of the civilized world, that the cause of the Greeks is a good cause, and that they ought not to be al- lowed to perish, it cannot be that this sentiment will re- main inoperative. The very existence of this sentiment is a tower of strength. It vnW make itself felt by a thou- sand manifestations. It will be heard in our senates and our pulpits ; it will be echoed from our firesides. Does any one doubt the cause of America was mightily strength- ened and animated by the voices of the friends of liberty in the British parliament ? Were not the speeches of Chatham and Burke worth a triumphant battle to our fa- tliers ? And can any one doubt that the Grecian patriots will hold out, so long as the Christian world will cheer them with its sanction ? I^et, then, the public mind be disabused of the prejudices which mislead it on this question. Let it not be operated upon by tales of piracies at sea, and factions on land ; evils, which belong not to Greeks, but to human nature. Le< the means of propagating authentic intelligence of the pro- gress of the revolution be multiplied. Let its well-wishers and its well-hopers declare themselves in the cause. Let the tide of pious and Christian charity be turned into this broad and thirsty channel. Let every arde it and high- spirited young man, who has an independent subsistence of two or three hundred dollars a year, embark personally in the cause, ^^nd aspire to that crown of glory, never yot COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PnOSE. 123 woici. except by him who so lately triumphed in the hearts fif the entire millions of Americans. Let this be done, and Greece is safe. Death of Josiah Quincy, Jun. — J. Quincy. Af'TEK being five weeks at sea, the wished-for shore yet at a distance, he became convinced that his fate was inevitable, — and prepared to submit himself to the will of Heaven with heroic calmness and Christian resignalion Under the pressure of disease, and amidst the daily sink- ing of nature, his friends, his family, and, above all, his country, predominated in his affections. He repeatedly said to the seaman on whose attentions he w?.s -chsefiy de- pendant, that he had but one desire and one pa^'er, wbich was^ that he might live long enough lo hav long life witbin the cci;vpas3 of a few short -ye'iry. To live forever in tiie hearts of his coun- trymen, nU'':, fiy labour and virtue, to becoEie im^oridl in the memory of future, timr:-, were the strong passions of his soul. Tint lie was proliibited from filling the great sj.here of usefulness, for v/hich his intellectuai powers seemed ahiptel and destined, is less a subject of regret, then it is of joy zxil gratitude that he was permitted, in so short a t'.jrie, to perform so noble a part, and that to his des!r3 has been granted so large a portion of that imperish- able i^so.ed, -vvhich, beyond all earthly reward, was the ob- ject of Itii Sbjrch and solxcitude. Vanzcr of Delay i-i Religion. — BtJCs:MixsTEB It has beet\ most acutely and justly observed, that all resolutions to rr-pent at a future time are necessarily in rincere, and must'bc a mere deception; because they im }dy a preference of a man''s present habits and conduct , they imply, that he is really unwilling to change them, and that nothing but necessity would lead him to make any attempt of the kind. But let us suppose the expected lei- sure for repentance to have arrived ; the avaricious or COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 125 fraudulent dealer to have attained that competency, which is to secure him from want ; the profligate and debauched to have passed the slippery season of youth, and to be es- tablished in life ; the gamester, by one successful throw, to have recovered his desperate finances ; the dissipated and luxurious to have secured a peaceful retreat for the re« mainder of his days ;-^to each of these the long anticipated hour of amendment, the opportune leisure for religion, has at length arrived ; but where, alas ! is the disposition ! where the necessary strength of resolution ! How rare, and, I had almost said, how miraculous, is the instance of a change ! The danger of delay, even if we suppose this uncertaip leisure and inclination to be secured, is inconceivablj heightened, when we consider, further, the nature of re- pentance. It is a settled change of the disposition from vice to virtue, discovered in the gradual improv(^ment ol the life. It is not a fleeting wish, a vapoury sigh, ? length- ened groan. Neither is it a twinge of remorse, i. flutter of fear, nor any temporary and partial resolution. The habits of a sinner have teen long in forming. They have acquired a strength, which is not to be broken by a blow The labour of a day will not build up a virtuous habit on the ruins of an old and vicious character. You, then, who have deferred, from year lo year, the relinquishment of a vice ; you, if such there be, who, while the wrinkles are gathering in your foreheads, are still dissatisfied with your- selves, remember, that amendment is a slow and laborious process. Can you be too assiduous, too fearful, when you consider how short the opportunity, and how much is re- quired to complete the work of reformation, and to estab- lish the dominion of virtue ? It is impossible to dismiss this subject without consider- ing a common topic, — the inefficacy of a death-bed repent- ance It is to be fer.red that charity, which hopeth and oelieveth all things, has sometimes discovered more of generous credulity, than of well-founded hope, when it has laid great stress, and built much consolation, on the casual expressions and faint sighs of dying men. Far be it from us to excite suspicion or recall anxiety in the breast of fiurvivinir friendship, or to throw a new shade of terrof 11 * 1'2S COMMON-PLACE BUt>K OF UiOSE. over the valley of death ; but better, far better, were it for a thousand breasts to be pierced with temporary anguish, and a new ho ror be added to the dreary passage of the grave, than that one soul be lost to heaven by the delusive expectation of eflFectual repentance in a dying hour. For, as we have repeatedly asked, what is effectual repentance ? Can it be supposed, that, where the vigour of life has been spent in the estabUshmeut of vicious propensities ; wiiere all the vivacity of youth, all the soberness of manhood, and all the leisure of old age, have been given to the service of sin ; where vice has been growing with the growth, and strengthening with the strength ; where it has spread out with the limbs of the stripling, and become rigid with the fibres of the aged ; can it, I say, be supposed, that the la- bours of such a life are to be overthrown by one last exer- tion of a mind impaired with disease, by the convulsive exercise of an affrighted spirit, and by the inarticulate and feeble sounds of an expiring breath ? Repentance con>i--ts not in one or more acts of contrition; it is a permanerit change of the disposition. Those dispositions and habits of mind, which you bring to your dying bed, you will carry with you to another world. These habits are tlie dying dress of the soul. They are the grave-clothes, in which it must come forth, at the last, to meet the sen- tence of an impartial Judge. If they were filthy, they will be filthy still. The washing of baptismal water will not, at that hour, cleanse the spots of the soul. The con- fession of sins, w^hich have never been removed, will not furnish the conscience with an answer towards God. The reception of the elements will not, then, infuse a principle of spiritual life, any more than unconsecrated bread and Trine will infuse health into the limbs, on which the cold ffamps of death have already collected. Say not, that you have discarded such superstitious expectations. You hav€ not discarded them, while you defer any thing to that hour : while you venture to rely on any thing but the mercy of God toward a heart, holy, sincere, and sanctified ; a heart, which loves heaven for its purity, and God for his goodness. If, in this solemn hour, the soul of an habitual and invet- erate offender be prepared for the residence of pure and spotless spirits, it can be only by a sovereign and miracu COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF TROSE. 127 Ioii> interposition of Omnipotence. His power we pretend not to liTijit. He can wasli tlie sooty Ethiop white, and cause the spots on the leopard's skin to disappear. We j/'csuiiie not to fathom the counsels of his will ; but this we Kill venture to assert, that if, at the last hour of the sin- Vi:r*s tlfe, the pov/^er of God ever interposes to snj.tch him fr'ccj hi.-i ruin, such interposition will never be disclosed to t'l'^ curiosity of man. For, if it should once be believed, t-iot the rewards of heaven can be obtained by such an in- staritrtiieovis and miraculous change at the last hour of life, »U our ideas of moral probation, and of the connexion be- tween character here, and condition hereafter, are loose Mrs-tible, and groundless ; the nature and the laws of God's u^oral government are made at once inexplicable ; our ex- b^rtauous are useless, our experience false, and the whole uiP-iratus of Gospel means and motives becomes a cumbrous ai.d unnecessary provision. What, then, is the great conclusion, which we should d'-ziiice from all that we have said of the nature of habit, u. d the difficulty of repentance ? It is this : Behold, now l'-^ ihe accepted time, now is the day of salvation. If you Iff j'oung, you cannot begin too soon ; if you are old, you i.iay begin too late. Age, says the proverb, strips us of ovvry thing, even of resolution. To-morrow we shall be o -Jer ; to-morrow, indeed. Death may fix his seal forever o:a our characters. It is a seal which can never be broken, till the voice of the Son of man shall burst the tombs. which enclose us. If, then, we leave this place, sensible of a propensity which ought to be restrained, of a lust which ought to be exterminated, of a habit which ought to be broken, and rashly defer the hour of amendment, consider, I beseech you, it may, perhaps, be merciful in God to r<»fiise us another opportunity. It may be a gra- cious meihod of preventing an abuse, which will only ag- K'^AViie thfc retribution, which awaits the impenitent. Make hirLe, 'ihea, and delay not to keep the commandments of Gac'; ; ef tinC God, who has no pleasure in the death of the tvickedj but that the v' destructive progress. Magistrates and citizens were flyii::-; to the country. The numbers of the sick muhiplied be\ und all example ; even in the pest-affected cities of the J^ev.mt. The malady was malignant and unsparing. The usual occupations and amusements of life were at ^n end. Terror had exterminated all the sentiments of uaiuio. Wives were deserted by husbands, and children by paren*«. ,Some had shut themselves in their houses, and debarred themselves from all communication with the rest of mav- kind. The consternation of others had destioyed their un- derstanding, and their misguided steps hurried them into the midst of the danger which they had previously laboured to shun. Men were seized by this disease in the streets ; pas sengers fled from them ; entrance into their own dwelling'^ was denied to them ; they perished in the public ways. The chambers of disease were deserted, and the sick left to die of negligence. None could be found to remove tiie lifeless bodies. Their remains, suffered to decay by piece- meal, filled the air with deadly exhalations, and added ten- fold to the devastation. Such was the tale, distorted and diversified a thousand ways, by the credulity and exaggeration of the tellers. At first I listened to the story with indifference or mirth. Me- thought it was confuted by its own extravagance. The enormity and variety of such an evil made it uT.wcrthy to be believed. I expected that every new day would detect the absurdity and fallacy of such representations. Every new day, however, added to the number of witnesses, and the consistency of the tale, till, at length, it ^as not possi- ble to withhold my faith. This rumour was of a nature to absorb and suspend the whole soul. A certain subhmity is connected with enormotiP COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PR )SE. 12D dangers, that imparts to our consternation or our pity a tinc- 'ture of the pleasing. This, at least, may be experienced by those who are /'leyond the verge of peril. My own per- son was exposed to no hazard. I had leisure to conjure up terrilic images, and to personate the witnesses and suf- ferers of this calamity. This employment was not enjoin- ed upon me by necessity, but was ardently pursued, and must therefore have been recommended by some nameless chirm. Others were very differently affected. As often as the tale was embellished with new incidents, or enforced by ne»v testimony, the hearer grew pale, his breath was stifled by inquietudes, his blood was chilled, and his stomach was bereaved of its usual energies. A temporary indisposition was produced in many. Some were haunted by a melan- choly bordering upon madness, and some, in consequence of sleepless panics, for which no cause could be assigned, and for which no opiates could be f jand, were attacked by lingering or mortal diseases. In proportion as I drew near the city, the tokens of it*- calamitous condition became more apparent. Every farrn- house was filled with supernumerary tenants ; fugitives fron home, and haunting the skirts of the road, eager to detai- every passenger with inquiries after news. The passen gers were numerous ; for the tide of emigration was by n^ means exhausted. Some were on foot, bearing in thci* countenances the tokens of their recent terror, and f.il'.d with mournful reflections on the forlornnesi of their state. Few had secured to themselves an asyUua; some were without the means of paying for victuals or lod^^ing for the coming night ; others, who were not thnn fle&titute, yet knew not whither to apply for entertainroeof. every house being already overstocked with inhabitar-U. or barring its inhospitable doors at their approach. Families of weeping mothers, and «ii'*wayed children, attended with a few pieces of indispensable furniture, were carried in vehicles of every form. The parent or husband had perished ; ard the price of s^me mo»eable, or the pit- tance handed forth by public charity, had been expended 130 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. to pui chase the Eieans of retiring from this theatre of disas- ters ; t}iough uncertain and hopeless of accommodation in the neig?ibouring districts. Between these and the fugitives whom curiosity had led to the road, dialogues frequently took place, to which I was sutTered to listen. From every mouth the tale of sorrow was repeated with ne ^ r\ggravations. Pictures of their own distress, or of that of tneir neighbours, were exhibited in all the hues which imagination can annex to pestilence and poverty. My preconceptions of the evil now appeared to have fallen short of the truth. The dangers into which I was rushing seemed more numerous and imminent than I had previously imagined. I wavered not in my purpose. A panic crept to my heart, which more vehement exertions were necessary to subdue or control ; but I harboured not a momentary doubt that the course which 1 had taken was prescribed by duty. There was no difficulty or reluctance in proceeding. All for which my efforts were demanded was, to walk in this path without tumult or alarm. Various circumstances had hindered me from setting out upon this journey as early as was proper. My frequent pauses, to listen to the narratives of travellers, contributed likewise to procrastination. The sun bad nearly set be- fore I reached the precincts of the city. I pursued the track which I had formerly taken, and entered High Street after night-fall. Instead of equipages and a throng of pas- sengers, the voice of levity and glee, which I had for- merly observed, and which the mildness of the season would, at other times, have produced, I found nothing but a dreary solitude. The market-place, and each side of this magnificent ave- nue were illuminated, as before, by lamps •, but between the verge of Schuylkill and the heart of the city, I met not more than a dozen figures; and these were ghost-like, wrap- ped in cloaks, from behind which they cast upon me glancea pf wcader and suspicion ; and, as I approached, changed their c^T.\r^M^ t'.» avoid touching me. Their clothes were sprin- kled wli a vinegar ; and their nostrils defended from conta gion by §cme powerful perfume. COMMON-PLACi: BOOK OF PROSE. 131 I cast a look upon the houses, wliich I recollected to havo formerly been, at this hour, brilliant with lights, resounding with lively voices, and thronged with busy faces. Now, they were closed, above and beiow ; dark, and without tokens of being inhabited. From the upper windows of some, a gleam sometimes fell upon the pavement I was traversing, and showed that their tenants had not fled, but Were secluded or disabled. These tokens were new% and awakened all my panics. Death seemed to hover over this scene, and I dreaded that the floating pestilence had already lighted on my frame. 1 had scarcely overcome these tremours, when I approach- ed a house, the door of wkich was opened, and before which stood a vehicle, which I presently recognised to be a hearse. The driver was seated on it. I stood still to mark his visage, and to observe the course which he proposed to take. Presently a coSin, borne by two men, issued from the house. The driver was a negro, but his companions were white. Their features were marked by ferocious indifference to danger or pity. One of them, as he assisted in thrusting the coff.n into the cavity provided for it, said, " I'll be damned if I think the poor dog was quite dead. It was'nt the fever that ailed him, but the sight of the girl and her mother on the floor. I wonder how they all got into that room. What carried them there ?" The other surlily muttered, " Their legs, to be sure." " But what should they hug together in one room for ?" " To save us trouble, to be sure." *' And I thank them with all my heart ; but damn it, it was'nt right to put him in his coffin before the breath was fairly gone. I thought the last look he gave me, told me to stay a few minutes " *' Pshaw : He could not live. The sooner dead the better for ':y.m, as well as for us. Did you mark how he eyed us, when we carried away his wife and daughter ? I never cried in my life, sirce I was knee-high, but curse me if I ever felt in better tune for the business than just then. Hey !" con- tinued he, looking up, and observing me standing a few paces distant, and listening to their discourse, " What's r^uited '' Any body dead ?" 132 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. I stayed not to answer or parley, but hurried forward My joints trembled, and cold drops stood on my forehead I was ashamed of my own infirmity ; and, by vig;orous ef forts of my reason, regained some degree of composure The evening had now advanced, and it behooved me to pru cure accommodation at some of the inns. These were easily distinguished by their signs, but man^ were without inhabitants. At length I lighted upon one, the hall of which was open, and the windows lifted. After ^inocking for some time, a young girl appeared, with many marks of distress. In answer to my question, she answered that both her parents were sick, and that they could re- ceive no one. I inquired, in vain, for any other tavern at which strangers might be accommodated. She knew of none such; and left me, on some one's calling to her from above, in the midst of my embarrassment. After a mo- ment's pause, I returned, discomforted and perplexed, to the street. I proceeded, in a considerable degree, at random. At length I reached a spacious building in Fourth Street, which the sign-post showed me to be an mn. I knocked loudly and often at the door. At length a female opened the window of the second story, and in a tone of peevishness demanded what T wanted. I told her that I wanted lodging. " Go hunt for it somewhere else," said she ; " you'll find nnr.= here." I began to expostulate ; but she shut the windov/ with quickness, and left me to my own reflec- tions. I began now to feel some regret at the journey I had taken. Never, in the depth of caverns or forests, was I equally conscious of loneliness. I was surrounded by the habitations of men ; but I was destitute of associate or friend. I had money, but a horse shelter, or a morstl of food, could not be purchased. I came for the purpose of relieving others, but stood in the utmost need myself Even in health my condition was helpless and forlorn ; but what would become of me, should this fatal malady be contracted ? To hope that an asylum would be afford- ed to a sick man, which was denied to one ir health, wa* unreasonable COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PR3SE. 133 Importance of Knowledge to the Mechanic. — G. B. Emerson. Let us imagine for a moment the condition of an indi- vidual, who has not advanced beyond the merest elements of knowledge, wnc understands nothing of the principles even of his own art, and inquire what change will be wrought in his feelings, his hopes, and happiness, in al! that makes up the character, by the gradual inpouring of Knowledge. He has now the capacity of thought, but it is a barren faculty, never nourished by the food of the mind, and never rising above the poor objects of sense. Labour and rest, the hope of mere animal enjoyment, or the fear of want, the care of providing covering and food, make up the whole sum of his existence. Such a man may be industrious, but he cannot love labour, for it is not relieved by the excitement of improving or chang- ing the processes of his art, nor cheered by the hope of a better condition. When released from labour, he does not rejoice, for mere idleness is not enjoyment ; and he has no book, no lesson of science, no play of the mind, no interest- ing pursuit, to give a zest to the hour of leisure. Home has few charms for him ; he has little taste for the quiet, the social converse, and exchange of feeling and thought, the innocent enjoyments that ought to dwell there. Soci- ety has little to interest him, for he has no sympathy for the pleasures or pursuits, the cares or troubles of others, to whom he cannot feel nor perceive his bonds of relation- ship. All of life is but a poor boon for such a man ; and happy for himself and for mankind, if the few ties that hold him to this negative existence be not broken. Happy for him if that best and surest friend of man, that messenger of good news from Heaven to the poorest wretch on earth, J^eligion, brmging the fear of God, appear to save him. Without her to support, should temptation assail him, what an eas} victim would he fall to vice or crime ! How little would le necessary to overturn his ill-balanced principles, and throw him grovelling in intemperance, or send hira abroad on the ocean or the highway, an enemy to himself and his kind ! 12 134 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF TROSfc. But let the light of science fall upon that man ; open t*' him the fountain of knowledge ; a few principles of phi- losophy enter his mind, and awaken the dormant power of thought ; he he-gins to look upon his art with an altered eye. It ceases to be a dark mechanical process, which he cannot understand ; he regards it as an object of inquiry, and begins to penetrate the reasons, and acquire a new mas tery over his own instruments. He finds other and bettei modes of doing what he had done before, blindly and with- out interest, a thousand times. He learns to profit by the experience of others, and ventures upon untried paths Difficulties, which before would have stopped him at the outset, receive a ready solution from some luminous princi- ple of science. He gains new knowledge and new skill, and can improve the quality of his manufacture, while he shortens the process, and diminishes his own labour. Then labour becomes sweet to him ; it is accompanied by the consciousness of increasing power ; it is leading him for- ward to a higher place among his fellow men. Relaxa- tion, too, is sweet to him, as it enables him to add to his intellectual stores, and to mature, by undisturbed meditation, the plans and conceptions of the hour of labour. His home has acquired a new charm ; for he is become a man of thought, and feels and enjoys the peace and seclu- sion of that sacred retreat ; and he carries thither the hon- est complacency which is the companion of well-earned success. There, too, bright visions of the future sphere open upon him, and excite a kindly feeling towards those who are to share in his prosperity. Thus his mind and heart expand together. He has become an intelligent be- ing, and, while he has learnt to esteem himself, he has also learnt to live no longer for himself alone. Society open? like a new world to him , he looks upon his fellow-crea- tures with interest and sympathy, and feels that he has a place in their affections and respect. Temptations assail hira in vain. He is armed by high and pure thoughts. He takes a wider view of his relations with the beingg about and above him. He welcomes every generous vir- tue that adorns and dignifies the human character. He delights in the exercise of reason — he glories in the cod Bciousness and the hope ol mmortality. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP «'HOSF.» I'^Q Humorous Description of the Cvstom of V/V\tewash ing. — Francis Hopjcii^son.* My wish is to give you some accoiiat of the people of these new States, but I am far from being qualified for liis purpose, having as yet seen little more than the citie? of New York and Philadelphia. I have discovered but few national singularities among them. Their cusioms and manners are nearly the same with those of England, vvliich they have long been used to copy. For, previous t) the revolution, the Americans were from their infancy taught to look up to the English as patterns of perfection in all things. I have observed, however, one csutom, which, for aught I know, is peculiar to this country : an account of it will serve to fill up the remainder of this sheet, and may afford you some amusement. When a young couple are about to enter into the matri- monial state, a never-failing article in the marriage treaty is, that the lady shall have and enjoy the free and unmo- lested exercise of the rights of whitewashing, with all its ceremonials, privileges and appurtenances. A young wo- man would forego the most advantageous connexion, and even disappoint the warmest wish of her heart, rather than resign the invaluable right. You would wonder what this privilege of whitewashing is : — 1 will endeavour to give you some idea of the ceremony, as 1 have seen it per- formed. There is no season of the year, in which the lady may not claim her privilege, if she pleases ; but the latter end of May is most generally fixed upon for the purpose. The attentive husband may judge by certain prognostics when the storm is nigh at hand. When the lady is unusually fretful, finds fault with the servants, is discontented with the chil- dren, and complains much of the filthiness of every thing about her —these are signs which ought not to be neglect- ed ; yet they are not decisive, as they sometimes come on and go off again without producing any further effect. But * This piece hns been incorrectly ascribed to the pen of Dr. Franklin. Hopkinson possessed much of that ease and humour, which have reu- fiered the wntnigs of the brmer so universally admired. — Ed 136 COMMON-rLACE BOOK OF PROSE. if, when the husband rises in the morning, he should ob. serve in tlie j^ard a wheelbarrow with a quantity of lime in It, or should see certain buckets with lime dissolved in water, there is then no time to be lost ; he immediately locks up the apartment or closet where his papers or his private property are kept, and, putting the key in his pocket, betakes himself to flight : for a husband, however beloved, becomes a perfect nuisance during this season of female rage ; his authority is superseded, his commission is sus- pended, and the very scullion, who cleans the brasses in Uie kitchen, becomes of more consideration and importance than him. He has nothing for it but to abdicate, and run from an evil which he can neither prevent nor mollify. The husband gone, the ceremony begins. The walls are in a few minutes stripped of their furniture ; paintings, prints and looking-glasses lie in a huddled heap about the floors ; the curtains are torn from the testers, the beds crammed into the windows ; chairs and tables, bedsteads and cradles crowd the yard ; and the garden fence bends beneath the v/eight of carpets, blankets, cloth cloaks, old coats and ragged breeches. Here may be seen the lumber of the kitchen, forming a dark and confused mass ; for the foreground of the picture, gridirons and frying-pans, rusty shovels and broken tongs, spits and pots, and the fractured remains of rush-bottomed chairs. There, a closet has dis- gorged its bowels, cracked tumblers, broken wine-glasses, phials of foi gotten physic, papers of unknown powders, seeds and dried herbs, handfuls of old corks, tops of teapots and stoppers of departed decanters ; — from the rag hole in the garret to the rat hole in the cellar, no place escapes un- rummaged. It would seem as if the day of general doom was come, and the utensils of the house were dragged forth 10 judgment. In this tempest the words of Lear naturally present themselves, and might, with some alteration, be made strictly applicable : -" Let the ereat gods, I'hat keep this dreadful pudder o'er cur heads, Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, That liast within thee undivulged crimes UnH'hipp'd of Justice ! • Close pent-iip Guilt, Raise j-our concealing continents, and ask '^'hesH dreadful summoners Erace !" COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PKOSE. 137 This ceremony completed, and the house ihoroiiglily evacuated, the next operation is to smear the walls and ceil- ings of every room and closet with brushes dipped in a solu- tion of lime, called whitewash ; to pour buckets of water over every floor, and scratch all tlie partitions and wain- scots with rough brushes wel with soap-suds, and dipped in stone-cuttei's sand. The windows by no means escape the general deluge. A servint scrambles out upon the pent- house, at the risk of her neck, and, with a mug in her hand and a bucket within reach, she dashes away innumerable gallons of water against the glass panes, to the great an- noyance of passengers in the street. 1 have been told, that an action at law was once brought against one of tbese water-nymphs, by a person who had a new suit of clothes spoiled by this operation ; but, after a long argument, it was determined by the whole court, that the action would not lie, inasmuch as the defendant was in the exercise of a legal right, and not answerable for the consequences ; and so the poor gentleman was doubly non- suited ; for he lost not only his suit of clothes but his suit at law. These smearings and scratchings, washings and dashings, being duly performed, the next ceremony is to cleanse and replace the distracted furniture. You may have seen a house-raising, or a ship-launch, when all the hands within reach are collected together ; recollect, if you can, the hurry, bustle, cenfusion and noise of such a scene, and you will have some idea of this cleaning match. The misfor- tune is, that the sole object is to make things clean ; it mat- ters not how many useful, ornamental or valuable articles are mutilated, or suffer death under the operation ; a ma- hogany chair and carved frame undergo the same discipline ; they are to be made clean at all events ; but their preserva- tion is not worthy of attention. For instance, a fine large engraving is laid flat upon the floor ; smaller prints are piled u| on it, and the superincumbent weight cracks the glasses of the -ower tier ; but this is of no consequence. A valuable picture is placed leaning against the sharp cor- ner of a table ; others are made to lean against that, until the pressure of the M'bolc forces the corner of the table through the canvass tf the first. The frame and 12* 13H COMiVlON-FLACE BOOK. OF PROSE. glass of a ixne print are to be cleaned ; the spirit and oil ;:SPd ori ibi= occasion are suffered to leak through and spoil the engraving ; no matter, if the glass is clean, and the frame shine, it is sufficient ; the rest is not worthy of con- sideration. An able mathematician has made an accurate calculation founded on long experience, and has discovered that the losses and destnction incident to two whitewash- ings ore equal to one remr val, and three removals equal to one firt. The cleaning frolic over, matters begin to resume their pristine appearance. The storm abates, and all would be well again, but it is impossible that so great a convulision, in so small a community, should not produce some further effects. For two or three weeks after the operation, the family are usually afflicted with sore throats or sore eyes, occasioned by the caustic quanty of the lime, or with severe colds from the exhalations of wet floors or damp walls, I know a gentleman, who was fond of accounting for every thing in a philosophical way. He considers this, which I have called a custom, as a real periodical disease peculiar to the climate. His train of reasoning is ingenious and whimsical, but I am not at leisure to give you the detail. The result was, that he found the distemper to be incura- ble ; but, after much study, he conceived he had discovered a method to divert the evil he could not subdue. For this purpose he caused a small building, about twelve feet square, to be erected in his garden, and furnished with some ordinary chairs and tables ; and a few prints of the cheapest sort were hung against the walls. His hope was, that, when the whitewashing frenzy seized the females of his family, they might repair to this apartment, and scrub and smear and scour to their hearts' content ; and so spend the violence of the disease in this outpost, while he enjoy- ed himself in quiet at headquarters. But the experimen! did not answer his expectation; it was impossible it should, since a principal part of the gratification consists in the la- dy's having an uncontrolled right to torment her husband at least once a year, and to turn him out of doors and take the reins of governrntnt intt her own hands. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF I"XCv?E. 139 There is a much better contrivance than this of she philosopher, which is, to cover the walls of the house with paper : this is generally done ; and, though it cannot abolish, it at least shortens, the period of female dominion. The paper is decorated with flowers of various fancies, and made so ornamental, that the women have admitted the fashion without perceiving the design. Thei-e is also another alleviation of the husband's dis- tress ; he generally has the privilege of a small room or closet for his books ejid papers, the key of which he is al- lowed to keep. This is considered as a privileged place, and stands like the land of Goshen amid the plagues of Egypt. But then he must be extremely cautiou.., and ever on his guard ; for should he inadvertently go abroad and leave the key in his door, the housemaid, who is always on the watch for such an opportunity, immediately enters in triumph with buckets, brooms and brushes ; takes pos- session of the premises, and forthwith puts all his books and papers to rights — io his utter confusion, and sometimes serious detriment. For instance : A gentleman was sued by the executors of a tradesman, in a charge found against him in the deceased's books, to t!ie amount of thirty pounds. The defendant was strongly impressed with the idea, that he had discharged the debt and taken a receipt ; but, as the transaction was of long standing, he knew not where to find the receipt. The suit went on in course, and the time approached when judgment would be obtained against him. He then sat seriously down to examine a large bundle of old papers, which he had untied and displayed on a table for that purpose. In the midst of his search, he was suddenly called away on fcv.smess of importance ; — he forgot to lock the door of his room. The housemaid, who had been long looking out for such an opportunity, immediately entered with the usual implements, and with great alacrity fell to cleaning the room, and putting things to rights. The first object that struck her eye was the confused situation of the papers on the table ; these were without delay bundled together as so many dirty knives and forks ; but in the action, a small piece of paper fell unnoticed on the floor, which happened to be the verj receipt in question : as it had no very re- 14.0 C:VvHCN-PLACE BOOK OF PRO SJ! Bp C'rLl'i upjitarance, it was soon after swept cut with tlit common dirt of the room, and carried in the rubbish-pap into the yard. The tradesman had neglected to enter the credit in his book ; the defendant could find nothing to ob- viate the charge, and so judgment went against him for the debt and costs. A fortnight after the whole was settled and the money paid, one of the children found the receipt among the rubbish in the yard. T'here is another custom, peculiar to the city of Phila- deiphia, and nearly allied to the former. I mean, that of washing the pavement before the doers every Saturday evening. I at first took this to be a regulation of the police ; but, on further inquii-y, find it is a religious rite prepara- tory to the Sabbath ; and is, I believe, the only religious rite, in which the numerous sectaries of this city perfectly agree. The ceremony begins about sunset, and continues till about ten or eleven at night. It is very difficult for a stran- ger to walk the streets on those evenings ; he runs a con tinual risk of having a bucket of dirty water thrown against liis legs ; but a Philadelphian born is so much accustomed to the danger, that he avoids it with surprising dexterity. It is from this circumstance that a Philadelphian may be known any where by his gait. The streets of New York are paved with rough stones ; these indeed are not washed, but the dirt is so thoroughly swept from before the doors, that the stones stand up sharp and prominont, to the great inconvenience of those who are not accustomed to so rough a path. But habit reconciles every thing. It is diverting enough to see a Philadelphian at New York , he walks the streets with as much painful caution as if his toes were covered with corns, or his feet lamed with the gout ; while a New Yorker, as little approving the plain masonry of Philadelphia, shuffles along the pavement like a parrot on a mahogany table. It must be acknowlev^ged, that the ablutions I have men- tioned are attended with no small inconvenience ; but the women would not be induced, on any consideration, to resign their privilege. Notwithstanding this, I can give you the strongest assurances that the women of America make the most faithful %vives and the most attentive mothers in the i^orld ; and I am sure yau will join me in opinion tha/ COMMON-PLACE LOOK OF PROSE. 141 if a married man is made miserable only one week in a whole year, he will have no great cause to complain of the matrimonial bond. May you die a7nong your Kindred. — Greexwood. . It is a sad thing to feel that we must die away from our home. Tell not the invalid who is yearning after his dis- tant country, that the atmosphere around him is soft ; that the gales are filled with balm, and the flowers are spring- ing from the green earth ; — he knows that the softest air to his heart would be the air which hangs over his native land ; that more grateful than all the gales of the south, would breathe the low whispers of anxious affection ; that the very icicles clinging to his own caves, and the snow beating against his own windows, would be far more pleas- ant to his eyes, than the bloom and verdure which only more forcibly remind him how far he is from that one spot which is dearer to him than the world beside.'; He may, indeed, find estimable friends, who will do all in their pow- er to promote his comfort and assuage his pains ; but they cannot supply the place of the long known and long loved ; they cannot read as in a book the mute language of his face ; they have not learned to wait upon his habits, and anticipate his wants, and he has not learned to communi- cate, without hesitation, all his wishes, impressions, and thoughts, to them. He feels that he is a stranger ; and a more desolate feeling than that could not visit his soul. — How much is expressed by that form of oriental benedic- tion, May you die among your kindred ! jn<.iCfifylQn of n, Death Scene. — Miss Francis. ClKArE, agitated by these events, and her slight form daily bpcoraing mere shadowy, seemed like a celestial spir- it, wliich. ha.ving pes fornicd its mission on earth, melts into ?. ^b<5ty wreuth, then c'isappears forever. Hers had alwayi 142 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. been the kind of beauty that is eloquence, though it speaks not. The love she inspired was like that of some fair infant, which we would fain clasp to our hearts in its guileless beau- ty ; and when it repays our fondness with a cherub smile, its ingelic influence rouses all that there is of heaven within he soul. Deep compassion was now added to these emotions; and wherever she moved, the eye of pity greeted her, as it would some wounded bird, nestling to the heart in its timid loveliness. Every one who knew her felt the influence of her exceeding purity and deep pathos of character ; but vf^ry few had penetrated into its recesses, and discovered 113 hidden treasures. Melody was there, but it was too plaintive, too delicate in its combination, to be produced by an unskilful hand. The coarsest minds felt its witching ef- fect, though they could not define its origin ; — like the ser- vant mentioned by Addison, who drew the bow across every string of her master's violin, and then complained that she could not, for her life, find where the tune was secreted. Souls of this fine mould keep the fountain of love sealed deep within its caverns ; and to one only is access ever granted. Miss Osborne's affection had been tranquil on the surface, — but it was as deep as it was pure. It wis a pool which had granted its healing influence to one, but could never repeat the miracle, though an angel should trouble its waters. Assuredly he that could mix death in the cup of love which he offered to one so young, so fair, and so true, was guilty as the priest Avho administered poi.-on in the holy eucharist. Lucretia, now an inmate of the family, read to her, sup- ported her across the chamber, and watched her brief, gen- tie slumbers with an intense interest, painfully tinged with self-reproach. She was the cause of this premature de- cay, — innocent, indeed, but still the cause. Under such circumstances, the conscience is morbid in its sensibility, — unreasonable in its acuteness ; and the smiles and forgive- ti633 of those we have injured, tear on.l scorch it Uke burn- ing pincers. Yet there was one v/ho suffered even more Iban Lucretie, — though he was never eouscious of giving f!'.e moment's pain to the object of his earliest affection. Duiing the winter, every leisure iT>omredic« tion stretching from the top of the page to the bottom; through the whole month, " Expect — much — rain — about — this — time." I was dreadfully hipped. The hours seemed as if they would never creep by. The very ticking of the clock be- came irksome. At length the stillness of the house was interrupted by the ringing of a bell. Shortly after, I heard the voice of a waiter at the bar, — " The stout gentleman in No. 13 wants his breakfast. Tea and bread and butter, with ham and eggs ; the eggs not to be too much done." In such a situation as mine, every incident was of impor- tance. Here was a subject of speculation presented to ray mind ; and ample exercise for my imagination. I am prone to paint pictures to myself, and on this occasion I had some materials to work upon. Had the guest up stairs been men- tioned as Mr. Smith, or Mr. Brown, or Mr. Jackson, or aierely as " the gentleman in No. 13," it would have been a perfect blank to me ; I should have thought nothing of it; but *' the stout gentleman!" — the very name had something in it of the picturesque. It at once gave the size ; it imbodied the personage to my mind's eye, and my fancy did the rest. He was stout, or, as some term it, lusty ; in all probability, therefore, he was advanced in life, some people expanding as they grow old. By his breakfasting rather late, and in his own room, he must be a man accustomed to live at his ease, and above the neces- sity of early rising ; no doubt a round, rosy, lusty old gen- tleman. There was another violent ringing ; the stout gentleman was impatient for his breakfast. He was evidently a man ai importance ; " well to do in the world ;" accustomed to be promptly waited upon ; of a keen appetite, and a little cross when hungry. " Perhaps," thought I, " he may be gome London alderman ; or who knows but he may be a member of parliament." The breakfast was sent up, and there was a short inter- val of silence ; he was doubtless making the tea. Presently there was a violent ringing, and, before it could be answereJ, another ringing stilj jjijsre violent. " Bless me ! v^hat a COMJMON-PLACE BOOK OF PliOSE. 157 choleric old gentleman !" The waiter came down in a huff The butter was rancid ; the egg? were overdone ; the ham too salt. The stout gentleman was evidently nice in his eat- ing; one of those who eat and growl, and keep the waiter on the trot, and live in a state militant with the household. The hostess got into a fume. I should observe that she was a brisk, coquettish woman ;^ a little of a shrew, and something of a slammerkin, but very pretty withal ; with a nincompoop for a husband, as shrews are apt to have. She rated the servants roundly, for their negligence in sending up so bad a breakfast, but said not a word against the stout gentle- man ; by which I clearly perceived that he must be a man of consequence, entitled to make a noise, and to give trouble at a country inn. Other eggs and ham, and bread and butter, were sent up. They appeared to be more gracious- ly received ; at least there was no further complaint. J had not made many turns about the travellers' room, when there was another ringing. Shortly afterwards there was a stir and an inquest about the house. The stout gentle- man wanted the Times or Chronicle newspaper. I set him down therefore for a whig ; or rather, from his beh:ig so absolute and lordly where he had a chance, I suspected him of being a radical. Hunt, I had heard, was a large man ; " Who knows," thought I, " but it is Hunt himself ?" My curiosity began to be awakened. I inquired of the waiter, who was this stout gentleman, that was making all this stir ; but I could get no information. Nobody seemed to know his name. The landlords of bustling inns seldon-. trouble their heads about the names or occupations of tran- sient guests. The colour of the coat, the shape or size of the person, is enough to suggest a travelling name. It is either the tall gentleman, or the short gentleman, or the gentleman in black, or the gentleman in snufF colour, or, as in the present instance, the stout gentleman : a des- ignation of the kind once hit on, answers every purpose, and paves all further inquiry, — Rain — rain — rain ! pitiless, ceaseless rain ! No such thing as putting a foot out of doors, and no occupation or amusement within. By and by I heard some one walking over head. It was in the stout gentleman's room. He evidently was a large man, by the heaviness of his treid ; and an old man, from his wearing 14 158 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Buch creaking sole?. " He is doubtless," thought I, " some rich old square-toes, of regular habits, and is now taking exercise after breakfast." I had to go to work at this picture again, and to pain* him entirely different. I now set him down for one of those stout gentlemen, that are frequently met with, swag- gering about the doors of country inns : moist, merry fel- lows, in Belcher handkerchiefs, whoise bulk is a little as- sisted by malt liquors : men who have seen the world, and been sworn at High-gate ; who are used to tavern life ; up to all the tricks of tapsters, and knowing in the ways of sinful publicans ; free livers on a small scale, who are prod igal within the compass of a guinea ; who call all the wai- ters by name, tousle the maids, gossip with the landlady at the bar, and prose over a pint of port, or a glass of negus after dinner. The morning wore away in forming of these and similar surmises. As fast as I wove one system of belief, some movement of the unknown would completely overthrow it, and throw all my thoughts again into confu- sion. Such are the solitary operations of a feverish mind I was, as I have said, extremely nervous ; and the continual meditation on the concerns of this invisible pei-sonage began to have its effect. Dinner time came. I hoped the stout gentleman might dine in the travellers' room, and that I might at length get a view of his person ; but no, he had din- ner served in his own room. What could be the meaning of this solitude and mystery ? He could not be a radical ; there was something too aristocratical in thus keeping him- self apart from the rest of the world, and condemning himself to his own dull company through a rainy day. And then, too, he lived too well for a discontented politician. He seemed to expatiate on a variety of dishes, and to sit over his wine like a jolly friend of good living. Indeed, my doubts on this head were soon at an end ; for he could not have finished his first bottle, before I could faintly hear him humming a tune ; and, on listening, I found it to be " God save the King." 'Twas plain, then, he was no radical, but a faithful subject ; one that grew loyal over his bottle, and was ready to stand by King and Con- stitution when he could stand by nothing else. But who could he be ? My conjectures began to run wild. Was COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PPvOSE. 153 he not some person of distinction travelling incog. ? " Wha knows ?" said I, at my wit's end ; " it may be one of the royal family, for aught 1 knov/, for they are all stout gen- tlemen!" The weather continued rainy. The mysterious unknown kept his room, and, as far as I could judge, his chair, for I did not hear him move. In the mean time, a? the day advanced, the travellers' room began to be frequent- ed. Some, who had just arrived, came in buttoned up in box-coats ; others came home, who had been dispersed about the town. Some took their dinners, and some their tea. Had I been in a different mood, I should have found entertainment in studying this peculiar class of men. There were two, especially, who were regular wags of the road, and up to all the standing jokes of travellers. Thiey had a thousand sly things to say to the waiting maid, whom they called Louisa and Ethelinda, and a dozen other fine names, changing the name every time, and chuckling amazingly at their own waggery. My mind, however, bad become completely engrossed by the stout gentleman He had kept my fancy in chase during a long day, and it was not now to be diverted from the scent. The evenmg gradually wore away ; the travellers read the papers two or three times over ; some drew round the fire, and told long stories about their horses, about their ad- ventures, their overturns and breakings down. They dis- cussed the credit of different merchants and different inns. And the two wags told several choice anecdotes of pretty chambermaids and landladies. All this passed as they were quietly taking what they called their night-caps, that is to say, strong glasses of brandy and water and sugar, or some other mixture of the kind, after which they, one after another, rang for Boots and the chambermaid, and walke/ off to bed in old shoes cut down into marvellously uncom- fortable slippers. There was only one man left — a short- legged, long-bodied, plethoric fellow, with a very large, sandy head. He sat by himself with a glass of port-wine negus and a spoon ; sipping and stirring, and meditating and sipping, until nothing was left but the spoon. He gradually fell asleep, but upright in his chair, with the empty glass standing before him ; and the candle seemed to fall asleep too, for the wick grew long, and black, and 160 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. cabbaged at tbe end, and dimmed the little light that re* mained in the chamber. The gloom that now prevailed was contagious. Around hung the shapeless and almost spectral box-coats of the travellers, long since buried in deep sleep. I only heard the ticking of the clock, with the deep-drawn breathings of the sleeping toper, and the drippings of the rain, — drop — drop — drop, — from the eaves of the house. The church bells chimed midnight. All at once the stout gentleman began to walk over head, pacing slowly backwards and forwards. There was something ex- tremely awful in all this, especially to one in my state of nerves, — these ghastly great-coats, these guttural breath iiigs, and the creaking footsteps of this mysterious gentle- man. His steps grew fainter and fainter, and at lengili died away. I could bear it no longer. I was wound up to the desperation of a hero of romance. " Be he who or what he may," said I to myself, " I'll have a sight of him !" I seized a chamber-candle, and hurried up to No 13. The door stood ajar. I hesitated, — 1 entered. The ••oom was deserted. There stood a large broad-bottomed elbow-chair at a table, on which was an empty tumbler, and a Times newspaper ; and the room smelt powerfully of Stilton cheese. The mysterious stranger had evidently iust retired. I turned off, sorely disappointed, to my room, which had been changed to the front of the house. As 1 went along the corridor, I saw a large pair of boots, with dirty^ waxed tops, standing at the door of a bed-chamber. They doubtless belonged to the unknown ; but it would not do to disturb so redoubtable a person in his den. He might discharge a pistol, or something worse, at my head. I went to bed, therefore, and lay awake half the night in a tenibly nervous state, and, even when I fell asleep, I v/as still haunted by the idea of the stout gentleman and his wax -topped boots. I slept rather late the next morning, and was awakened by some stir or bustle in the house, which I could not at lirst comprehend ; until, getting more awake, I found there was a mail coach starting from the door. Suddenly there was a cry from below, " The gentleman has forgotten his umbrci^ia .' look for the gentleman's umbrella in No. 13 !" I heard an immediate scampering of a chambermaid along COxMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. lb\ Ihe passage, and a shrill reply as she ran, " Here it is . here's the gentleman's umbrella !" The mysterious stran« ger was, then, on the point of setting off. This was the only chance I could ever have of knowing him. 1 sprang out of bed, scrambled to the window, snatched aside the curtains, and just caught a glimpse at the rear of a person, getting in at the coach-door. The skirts of a brown coat parted behind, and gave me a full view of the broad disk of a pair of drab breeches. The door closed. **A11 right !" was the word, — the coach whirled off, — and that was all I ever saw of the stout gentleman. Patriotism and Eloquence of John Adams. — Webster He possessed a bold spirit, which disregarded danger, and a sanguine reliance 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 eai'ly storms of the con- troversy, and had acquired a decision and a hardihood, proportioned to the severity ol the discipline w^hich he had undergone. He not only loved the American cause devoutly, but had studied and understood it. He had tried his powers, on the questions which it involved, often, and in various vvays ; and had brought to their consideration wha*3ver of argument or illustration the history of his own country, the history of England, or the stores of ancient or of legal learning could furnish. Every grievance enumerated in the long catalogue of the Declaration, had been the sub- >e.;t of his discussion, and the object of his remonstrance and reprobation. From 1760, the colonies, the rights of the colonies, the liberties of the colonies, and the wrongs inflicted on the colonies, had engaged his constant atten- tion ; and it has surprised those, who have had the oppor- tunity of observing, with what full remembrance, and with what prompt recollection, he could refer, in his extreme old age, to every act of parliament affecting the colonies, distinguishing and statins; their respective titles., sections 14* IG2 COMMOM-rLACE BOOK OF PROSE. and provisions ; and to all the colonial memorials, remon Btrances and petitions, with whatever else belonged to the intimate and exact history of the times, from that year to 1775. It was, in his own judgment, between these years, that the American people came to a full understanding and thorough knowledge of their rights, and to a fixed res- olution of maintaining them ; and, bearing himself an ac- tive part in all important transactions, the controversy with England being then, in effect, the business of his life, facts, dates and particulars made an impression which was never effaced. He was prepared, therefore, by education and discipline, as well as by natural talent and natural temper- ament, for the part which he was now to act. The eloquence of Mr. Adams resembled his general character, and formed, indeed, a part of it. It was bold, manly and energetic ; and such the crisis required. When public bodies are to be addressed on momentous oc- casions, when great interests are at stake, and strong pas- sions excited, nothing is valuable in speech, further than it is connected with high intellectual and moral 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 ex- pression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it — they cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force. The graces taught in the schools, the costly orna- ments, and studied contrivances of speech, shock and dis- gust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and their country, hang on the de- cision of the hour. Then words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked, and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Then patriotism is elo- quent ; then self-devotion is eloquent. The clear concep- tion, out-running the deductions of logic, the high jurpose. COMMON-PLACE BOOK ')F PROSE. 163 the firm resolve, the ilauntless spirit, speaking ou the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward to hi* object — this, this is eloquence; or, rather, it is something greater and higher than all eloquence^ — it is action, noble, sublime, godlike action. In July, 1776, the controversy had passed the stage of argument. An appeal had been made to force, and oppos- ing armies were in the field. Congress, then, was to de- cide whether the tie, which had so long bound us to the parent State, was to be severed at once, and severed forever. All the colonies had signified their resolution to abide by this decision, and the people looked for it with the most intense anxiety. And surely, fellow-citizens, never, never were men called to a more important political deliberation. If we contemplate it from the point where they then stood, no question could be more full of interest ; if we look at it now, and judge of its importance by its effects, it appears in still greater magnitude. Let us, then, bring before us the assembly, which was about to decide a question thus big with the fate of empire. Let us open their doors, and look in upon their deliberations Let us survey the anxious and care-worn countenancey, let us hear tlu firm-toned voices, of this band of patriots. Hancock presides over the solemn sittmg ; and one of those not yet prepared to pronounce for absolute indepen- dence, is on the floor, and is urging his reasons for dissent- ing from the Declaration. U was for Mr. Adams to reply to arguments like these. We know his opinions, and we know his character. He would commence with his accustomed directness and ear- nestness. " Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand, and my heart, to this vote. It is true, indeed, that, in the beginning, we aimed not at independence. But (here's a Divinity which shapes our ends. The injustice of England has driven us to arms; and, blinded to her own interest, for our good, she has obstinately persisted, till in- lepcndence is now within our grasp. We have but .j 164 COJIMON-PLACE BOOK OF PRU5E. reach forth to it, an.l it is ours. Why then should we de fer the Declaration ? Is any man so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with England, which shall leave eitl>er safety- to the country and its liberties, or safety to his own life, and his own honour ? Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair, is not he, our venerable colleague near you, are you not both already the proscribed and predestined objects of punishment and of vengeance ? Cut off from all hope of royal clemency, what are you, what can you he. while the power of England remains, but outlaws ? If we pG=t.- pone independence, do we mean to carry on, or to give up the war ? Do we mean to submit to the measures of par- liament, Boston port-bill and all ? Do we mean to submit, and consent that we ourselves shall be ground to powder, and our country and its rights trodden down in the dust : I know we do not mean to submit. We never shall sub- mit. Do we intend to violate that most solemn obligation ever entered into by men, that plighting, before God, of our sacred honour to Washington, when, putting him forth to incur the dangers of war, as well as the pohtical haz- ards of the times, we promised to adhere to him, in every extremity, with our fortunes and our lives ? I know there is not a man here, who would not rather see a general conflagration sweep over the land, or an earthquake sink it, than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith fall to the ground. For myself, having, twelve months ago, in this place, moved you that George Washington be appointed commander of the forces, raised or to be raised, for defence of American libert}-,'may my right hand forget her cun- ning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I hesitate or waver, in the support I give him. The war, then, must go on. We must fight it through. Aid if the war must go on, why put off longer the Declaration of In- dependence ' That measure will strengthen us. It will give us character abroad. The nations will then treat with us, which they never can do ^hile we acknowledge our- selves subjects, in arms against our sovereign. 'Say, 1 maintain tnat England herself will sooner treat for peace wich us on the footing of independence, than consent, by repealing her acts, to acknowledge that her whole conduct towards us has been a course of injustice and oppression COMMON-PLACE IJOOK OF PROSE. 165 Her pride will be less wounded, by submitting to that course of things which now predestinates our independence, •;han by yielding the points in controversy to her rebellious subjects. The former she would regard as the result of for- tune ; the latter she would feel as her own deep disgrace. Why then, why then, sir, do we not, as soon as possible, change this from a civil to a national war ? And, since we must fight it through, why not put ourselves in a state to enjoy all the benefits of victory, if we gain the victory ? "If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall not fail. The cause will raise up armies ; the cause will create navies. The people, the people, if we are true to them, will carry us, and will carry themselves, gloriously through this struggle. I care not how fickle other people have been found. 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 its willingness to follow, if we but take the lead. Sir, the Declaration will inspire the people with increased courage. Instead of a long and bloody war for restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for chartered immunities, held under a British king, set before them the glorious object of entire inde- pendence, and it will breathe into them anew the breath of life. Read this Declaration at the head of the army every sword will be drawn from its scabbard, and the solcn.n vow uttered, to maintain it, or to perish on the bed of hon- our. Pubjish it from the pulpit; religion will approve it, and the love of religious liberty will cling round it, re- solved to stand with it, or fall with it. Send it to the pub- lic halls ; proclaim it there ; let them hear it, who heard the first roar of the enemy's cannon ; let them see it, who saw their brothers and 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. " Siij I know the uncertainty of human affairs, but I see, I see ciearly, 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 un the scaffold. Be it so. Be it so. If it be the pleasure 166 COMMON -PLACE BOOK OF PllOSE. of Heaven that my country shall require the poor offering of my life, the victim shall be ready, at the appointed hou'" of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But, while I da live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a coun- try, and that a free countrj". '•' But, whatever may be our fate, be assured, be asjured, that this Declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, ar.d Jt may cost blood ; but it will stand, and it will richly com- pensate for both. Through the thick gloom of the present, i see the brightness of the future, as the sun in heaven V*'e shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we a:e in our graves, our children will honour it. They will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festivity, with •bonlires and illuminations. On its annual return they will shed tears, copious, gushing tears, not of subjection and «Iavery, not of agony and distress, but of exultation, oi gratitude, and of joy. Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My judgment approves this measure, and my whole heart is in it. All that 1 have, and all that 1 am, and all that I hope in this life, I am now ready here to stake upon it ; and I leave off, as I begun, that, live or die, survive or perish, I am for the Declaration. It is my liv- ing sentiment, and, by the blessing of God, it shall be my dyirig sentiment — independence now ; and ixdepex- DE:?fCE FOREVER I" Description of the Speedwell JMine in England — SlLLIilAX. Tv'e entered a wooden door, placed in the side of a hill and descended one hundred and six stone steps, laid like tho-e of a set of ce41ar stairs. The passage was regularly arched with brick, and was in all respects convenient. " Having reached the bottom of the steps, we found a handsome vaulted passage cut through solid limestone. The light of our candles discovered that it extended hori- zontally into the mountain, and its floor was covered with an unruffled expanse of water, four feet deep. The entrance of this passage was perfectly similar in form to the moitb COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE, 167 of a common oven, only it was much larger. Its breadth, by my estimation, was about five feet at the water's sur- face, and its height four or five feet, reckoning from the same place. Oa this unexpected, and to me, at that moment, tncom- prehensible canal, we found launched a large, clean and convenient boat. We embarked, and pulled ourselves along, by taking hold of wooden pegs, fixed for that purpose in the walJs. Our progress was through a passage wholly artificial, it having been all blasted and hewn out of the solid rock. You will readily believe that this adventure was a delight- ful recreation. 1 never felt more forcibly the power of ";ontrast. Instead of crawling through a narrow, dirty pas- sage, we were now pleasantly embarked, and were push- ing along into I knew not what solitary regions of this rude earth, over an expanse as serene as summer seas. We had not the odours nor the silken sails of Cleopatra's barge, hut we excelled her in melody of sound, and distinctness of echo ; for, when, in the gayety of my spirits, I began to sing, the boatman soon gave me to understand that no one should sing in his mountain, without his permission ; and, before I had uttered three notes, he broke forth in such a strain, that I was contented to listen, and yield the palm without a contest. His voice, which was strong, clear and melodious, made all those silent regions ring ; the long, vaulted passage augmented the effect ; echo answered with great distinct- ness, and had the genii of the mountain been there, they would doubtless have takei passage with us, and hearken- ed to the song. In the mean time we began to hear the sound of a distant water-fall, which grew louder and loud- er, as we advanced under the mountain, till it increased to such a roaring noise that the boatman could no longer i'c heard. In this manner we went on, a quarter of a mile, ijil we arrived m a vast cavern formed there by nature. 1 he miners:^ as they were blasting the rocks, at the time when they were forming the vaulted passage, accidentally opened their way into this cavern. Here I discovered how the canal was supplied with water ; — I found that it com- municated with a river running through the ca'* ern a/ 168 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. right angles with the arched passage, and falling down « precipice twenty-five feet into a dark abyss. After crossing the river, the arched way is continued a quarter of a mile farther, on the other side, making in the whole half a mile from the entrance. The end of the arch is six hundred feet below the summit of the moun- tain. When it is considered that all this was effected by mere dint of hewing and blasting, it must be pronoimced a stupendous performance. It took eleven years of con- stant labour to effect it. In the mean time the fortune of the adventurer was consumed, without any discovery of ore, except a very little lead, and, to this day, this great work remains only a wonderful monument of human la- bour and perseverance. During the whole period of five years that they contin- ued this work, after they crossed the cavern, they threw the rubbish into the abyss, and it has not sensibly filled it up. They have contrived to increase the effect of the cataract by fixing a gate along the ledge of rocks over which the river falls. This gate is raised by a lever, and then the whole mass of water in the vaulted passage, as well as that in the river, presses forward towards the cataract. I ascend- ed a ladder made by pieces of timber fixed in the sides of the cavern, and, with the aid of a candle elevated on a pole, I could discover no top ; my g-uide assured me that none had been found, although they had ascended very high. This cavern is, without exception, the most grand and sol- emn place that I have ever seen. "When you view me as in the centre of a mountain, in the midst of a void, where the regularity of the walls looks like some vast rotunda : when you think of a river as flowing across the bottom of this cavern, and falling abruptly into a profound abyssj with the stunning noise of a cataract ; when you imagine, that, by the light of a fire-work of gun-powder, played off on purpose to render this darkness visible, the foam of the cataract is illuminated even down to the surface of the water in the abyss, and the rays emitted by the livid blaze of this preparation are reflected along the dripping walls of the cavern till tliey are lost in the darker regions ajove, you will not wonder tliaf such a scene should seize on ray COMlVi .»N-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 169 whole soul, and fill me with awe and aswonishment, caus- ing me to exclaim, as I involuntarily did, MarveliDus are thy works. Lord God Almighty ! After ascending from the navigation mine, I attempted lo go up the front of one of the mountains, with the double purpose of obtaining a view of the valley from an elevated point, and ci" reaching the ancient castld But my labour proved fruitless ; the mountain, which from the valley jeemed not difficult to ascend, proved to be exceedingly steep. I toiled on, two thirds of the way up,, aui\ rindii g it steeper and steeper, and still resolved not O relinquish say purpose ; in the mean time it grew dark, wKvj the de- ij' of twilight, and I was suddenly enveloped in r^st and .■ain ; the steep side of the mountain became very slip^v^iry ; I fell frequently, and, at length, a deep and abrupt cha^cti, torn by the floods, completely arrested my progress, anC compelled me to make the best of my way down, which I did with no smalJ difficulty. In the midst of darkness and rain, 1 reached tht^ Castle-Inn, completely drenched, and exhausted with fatigv-e. Effects c^ the modern Vi^yHsion of knowledge. — In . jnsequence of this general di^usion of intelligence, nat" .ns are becoming vastly better «:>quainted with the I .ysical, moral and political conditionv> of each '.th&r. Whatever of any moment is transacted in ^e legislative pssemblies of one country is now very soou known, not inerely to the rulers, but also to the people, of li very other country. Nay, an interesting occurrence of an^ nature caunot transpire in an insignificant town of Eun.'^e or America, without finding its way, through the mediun» of the national journals/ to the. eyes and ears of all Christe^ dom. Every man must row be in a considerable degree a spectator of the doings of the world, or he is soon very far in the rear of the intelligence of the day. Indeed, 1> has only to read a respectable newspaper, bad he may .■ informed of the discoveries in the arts, the discit-. .^^ j. 170 COMMO^ rLACE BOOK OF niOSE, Ihe eenaJcs, and the bearings of public opliiicn all ovei die T^orld. The reasons of all this may chiefly be found in that in- rreased desire of information, which characterizes the mass >f SQ..;icty in the present age Intelligence of every kind, and spiCi^lly political information, has become an article of profit ; a2d when once this is the case, there can be no doubt that it will be abundantly supplied. Besides this, it i^ important io remark, that the art of navigation has been ■!?iihin a few ysars materially improved, and commercial relations have become vastly more extensive. The estab- lishment of packet ships between the two continents hzs brought London and Paris as near to us as Pittsburgh Siiid New Orleans. There is every reason to believe, that, Vvthin the next half century, steam navigation will render coLumunication between the ports of Europe and America as frequent, and almost i.s regular, as that by ordinary mails. The commercial houses of every nation are estab- lishing th^ir agencies in the principal cities of every other natio-jj and thus binding together *he people by every tie of interesi ; while at the same time they are furnishing innumerable channels, bj'^ which information may be cir- culated among evsry class ;i -he community. Hence it is, that the T;:,-,ral ini>uence which nations are exerting upon each ot'iJ-r, is greater than it has been at any antecedent per'.rj in the hiscory of the world. The institutions of ov.: country are be om.'ivg known, almost of necessity, to e^'ery other councry. Knowledge provokes to compari'^vii, and comparison eads to inflection. The fact that others are happier than themselves prompts men ) ino'ure whence this difference proceeds, and how their ow'.' fl:!eiioraiion may be accomplished. By simpiy looking '"4'Ou a free people, an oppressed people instinctively feel .hat u\ey have inalienable rights , and they will nevey af- tf^rtvards be at rest, until the enjoyment of these rigi::f« ki guarar^Jed to them. Thus one form of government, which in any pre-eminent degree promotes the happiness of man, is gradually but irresistibly disseminating the prin- ciples of its constitution, and, from the very fact of its exist- ence, call ng into being those trains of thought, which miisl COMftv S-P' *CE BOOK OF PROSE. 171 m the end revolutionize every government within the sj^nere of its influence, under which the people are oppressied. And thus is it that the field, in which mind may labour, has now become wide as the limits of civilization. A doc trine advanced by one man, if it have any claim to interest, Is soon known to every other man. The movement of one intellect now sets in motion the intellects of millions. We may now calculate upon effects, not upon a state or a people, but upon the melting, amalgamating mass of human na- t'lre. Man is now the instrument which genius wields at its will ; it touches a chord of the human heart, and nations vibiate in unison. And thus he who can rivet the atten- tion of a community upon an elementary principle hitherto neglected in politics or morals, or who can bring an acknowl- edged principle to bear upon an existing abuse, may, by his own intellectual might, with only the assistance of the press, transform the institutions of an empire or a world. In many respects the nations of Christendom collective- ly are becoming somewhat analogous to our own Federal Republic. Antiquated distinctions are breaking away, and local animosities are subsiding. The common people of different countries are knowing each other better, esteem- ing each other more, and attaching themselves to each other by various manifestations of reciprocal good will. It IS true, every nation has still its separate boundaries, and Its individual interests ; but the freedom of commercial in- tercourse is allowing those interests to adjust themselves to each other, and thus rendering the causes of collision of vastly less frequent occurrence. Local questions are be- coming of less, and general questions 3^ jfreater impor- tance. Thanks be to God, men have f»t last begun to understand the rights, and feel for the vi?rongs, of each other. Mountains interposed do ko*" so 'nuch make ene- mies of nations. Let the trump^.t of alarm be sounded, and its notes are now heard by eve*y nation, whether of Europe or America. Let »». voire, borne on the feeblest -.reeze, tell that the rights of man are in danger, and it floats over valley and mountain, across continent and ocean, until it has vibrated on the ear of the remotest dweller in Christendom. Let the arm of oppression be raised to crush the feeblest nation on earth, and there will be heard everv 172 COMMON-rLACE BOOK OF PROSE. where, if not the shout of defiance, at least the deep-tonei murmur of implacable displeasure. It is the cry of ag- grieved, insulted, much-abused man. It is Human Nature waking in her might from the slumber of ages, shaking herself from the dust of antiquated institutions, girding herself for the combat, and going forth conquering and to conquer ; and wo unto the man, wo unto the dynasty^ wo unto the party, and wo unto the policy, on whom shall fall the scath of her blighthig indignation. The Love of human Estimation. — Buckmijvster. Is it true that a passion of such powerful and various operation, as that we have now been considering, is nc where recommended 'n Scripture as a motive of action ? Are we no where referred to the opinion of the world, no where expostulated with from a regard to reputation ? Are there no appeals made by any of the messengers of God's will to our sense of shame, to our pride, to our ambition, to our vanity ? Certain it is that such appeals are at least rarely to be met with. Our Saviour, indeed, seems to have thought it hazardous, in any degree, to encourage a regard to the opinion of the world as a motive to action, because, hov/ever advantageous might be its operation in some in- stances, where a higher principle was Avanting, still the most casual recommendation of a sentiment so natural, so seducing, and so universal, would have been liable to per- petual misconstruction and abuse. Indeed, no man can read the discourses of our Saviour, or of his apostles, without observing how utterly they are at war with the spirit of self-aggrandizement. Perhaps, however, you may expect, that 1 should refer you to ex- amples where this temper is clearly censured or punished, What think you, then, of the his*^^ry of Herod Agrippa ? " On a set day," says the historiiin, " Herod, arrayed in royal apparel, sat upon his throne, and made an oration unto the people. And the people gave a shout, saying. It is the voice of a god, and not of a man. And immediately the angel of the I madness of lust, and sometimes the cunning of malevolence. We are also sensible, that the influence of a regard to reputa- tion is often favourable to the improvement of social inter- course. To a deference to the world's opinion, and to a love of its good will, are we to attribute much of that po- liteness and propriety, which are discoverable in manners, and much of that courtesy, which, by habitual observance, sheds perhaps, at length, a favourable influence on the dispo- sition. It is this, which brings down the haughty- to con- descension, and softens the rough into gentleness. It is this which sometimes checks the offensiveness of vanity, and moderates the excess of selfishness. It causes thou- sands to appear kind, who would otherwise be rude, — and honourable, who would otherwise be base. These genial effects upon the intercourse of society are sufficient to induce us to retain the love of human estima- tion in the number of lawful motives. It was probably a view of some of these influences partially supplying the place of real benevolence, which induced the apostle sometimes to recommend a regard to human opinion. He advises the Roman converts to •'' provide things honourable in the eyes of all men." To the Philippians, after recommending all things honest, just, pure, and lovely, he ventures also tc add " whatsoever things are of good report." Nay, more ; he says not only, " if there be any virtue," but " if there be any praise, think on these things." We believe this is the most decisive testimony of approbation, which can be gathered from the Scripture. We will add, also, in favour of the useful operation of this universal passion^ that it perhaps cannot be completely engaged, like all the other passions, on the side of vice. For the highest degree of moral depravity is consistent only with an utter lusensi- Wlity to the opinion of the world ; and we are willing to COMMON-PI ACE BOOK OF PROSE. 175 iiiUeve, also, that, were it net for this, the form and pro- fsdsion of Christianity would be more frequently outraged than it now is, by those who secretly detest it. And now, after all these acknowledgments, what new merit is conceded to our favourite passion ? After it has done its utmost, it can only quicken the energies of the mind, restrain sometimes the other passions, afford occa- sional aid to the cause of order and propriety, soften some of the asperities of social intercourse, and perhaps keep the sinner from open and hardened profligacy. But it cannot purify the affections, melt the hardness of the heart, ami break its selfishness, or elevate its desires to the region of purity and peace. We have seen that this regard to human estimation, though a principle of universal, I had almost said of infi- nite influence, is confined to very narrow limits in the Gospel of Christ. Is there nothing, then, provided to sup- ply the place of so powerful an agent in the formation of the human character ? Is there nothing left to awaken the ambition of the Christian, to rouse him from sloth and universal indifference, to call forth the energies of his mind, and to urge him forward in the career of holiness ? Yes ; if we will listen to the language of an apostle, whose history proclaims that his passions were not asleep, that his emulation was not quenched by the profession of Christi- anity, and whose spirit ever glowed with a most divine enthusiasm, — I say, if we listen to him, we shall find that there is enough to stimulate all the faculties of the soul, and, finally, to satiate the most burning thirst of glory. Yes, " eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him." Yes, our whole progress here, through all the varieties of honour and of dishonciur, of evil report and of good report, is a spectacle to angels and to men. We are coming into " an innumerable (Company of angels, and to the spirits of the just made per- fect, and to Jesus, the Mediator of the new covenant, and to God, the Judge of all." These have been the spectators of our course, and from such we are to receive glory, and honour, and immortality. 176 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Extract from an Address on retiring from the puhUt Service of the United States of America. — Wash- ington. Iw looking forward to the moment which is intended to terminate the career of my public life, my feelings do not permit me to suspend the deep acknowledgment of that debt of gratitude which I owe to my beloved country, foj the many honours it has conferred upon me ; still more foi the steadfast confidence with which it has supported me ; and for the opportunities I have thence enjoyed of mani- festing my inviolable attachment, by services faithful and persevering, though in usefulness unequal' to my zeal If benefits have resulted to our country from these services, let it always be remembered to your praise, as an instructive example in our annals, that, under circumstances in which the passions, agitated in every direction, were liable to mislead, amidst appearances somewhat dubious, vicissitudes of fortune often discouraging, in situations in which not unfrequently want of success has countenanced the spirit of criticism. — the constancy of your support was the essen- tial prop of the efforts, and a guarantee of the plans, by Vvhich they were effected. Profoundly penetrated with this idea, I shall carry it with me to my grave, as a strong incitement to unceasing prayers, that Heaven may continue to you the choicest tokens of its beneficence ; that your union and brotherly affection may be perpetual ; that the free constitution, which is the work of your hands, may be sacredly maintained ; that its administration, in every department, may be stamped with wisdom and virtue ; that, in fine, the happiness of the people of these States, under the auspices of liberty, may be made complete, by so care- ful a preservation, and so prudent a use, of this blessing, as will acquire to them the glory of recommending it to the applause, the affection, and adoption, of every nation which is yet a stranger to it. Here, perhaps, I ought to stop. But a solicitude for your welfare, which cannot end but with my life, and the apprehension of danger, natural to that solicitude, urge raa. COMMON -PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 177 on an occasion like the present, to offer to your solemn contemplation, and to recommend to your frequent review, some sentiments, which are the result of much reflection, of no inconsiderable observation, and which appear to me all-important to the permanence of your felicity. as a peo- ple. These will be offered to you with the more freedom, as you Can only see in them the disinterested warnings of a partmg friend, who can possibly have no motive to bias his counsel. Nor can I forget, as an encouragement to it, your indulgent reception of my sentiments on a former, and not dissimilar occasion. Of all the dispositions and habits which lead to political prosperity, religion and morality are indispensable supports In vain would that man claim the tribute of patriotism, who should labour to subvert these great pillars of human happiness—these firmest props of the duties of men and citizens. The mere politician, equally with the pious man, ought to respect and to cherish them. A volume could not trace all their connexions with private and public felicity. Let it simply be asked, where is the security for property, for reputation, for life, if the sense of religious obligation desert the oaths, which are the instruments of investiga- tion in courts of justice ? And let us with caution indulge the supposition, that morality can be maintained without religion. Whatever may be conceded to the influence of refined education on minds of peculiar structure, reason Aiid experience both forbid us to expect that national morality can prevail in exclusion of religious principles. It is substantially true, that virtue or morality is a ne- cessary spring of popular government. The rule, indeed, extends with more or less force to every species of free government. Who, that is a sincere friend to it, can look wi^h indiffenence upon attempts to shake the foundation of tYia fabric ? Promote, then, as an object of primary importance, institutions for the general diffusion of knowledge. In proportion as the structure of a government gives force to public opinion, it is essential that public opinion should b« enlightened. 178 COMMON-PLACE KOOK OF PSOSE. Observe good faith and justice towards all nations; cui< tivate peace and harmony with all ; religion and morality enjoin this conduct; and can it be that good policy does not equally enjoin it ? It will be worthy of a free, enlight- ened, and, at no distant period, a great nation, to give to mankind the magnanimous and too novel example of a peo- ple always guided by an exalted justice and benevolence Who can doubt, that, in the course of time and things, the fruits of such a plan would richly repay any temporary advantages which might be lost by a steady adherence tc it ? Can it be, that Providence has not connected the per- manent felicity of a nation with its virtue ? The experi- ment, at least, is recommended by every sentiment which ennobles human nature. Alas ! is it rendered imoossible by its vices ? In offering to you, my countrymen, these counsels of an old and affectionate friend, I dare not hope they will make the strong and lasting impression I could wish ; that they will control the usual current of the passions, or prevent our nation from running the course which has hitherto narked the destiny of empires. But if I may even flatter myself that they may be productive of some partial bene- fit, some occasional good ; that they may now and then recur, to moderate the fury of party spirit, to warn against the mischiefs of foreign intrigue, to guard against the im- postures of pretended patriotism ; this hope will be a full recompense for that solicitude for your welfare, by which they have been dictated. How far, in the discharge of my official duties, I have been guided by the principles which have been delineated, the public records and other evidences of my conduct must witness to you and the world. To myself the assur- ance of my own conscience is, that I have at least BELIEVED myself to be guided by them. Though, in reviewing the incidents of my administration, I am unconscious of intentional error, I am nevertheless too sensible of my defects not to think it probable that 1 may have committed many errors. Whatever they may be, I fervently beseech the Almighty to avert and mitigate 00:»1MON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 179 liie evils to which they may tend. I shall also carry v/iih tne the hope, that my couutry will never cease to view iiiein with indulgence ; and that; after forty-five years of my life dedicated to its service with an upright zeal, the faults of incompetent abilities will be consigned to oblivion, as myself must soon be to the mansions of rest. Relying on its kindness in this, as in other things, and actuated by that fervent love towards it, which is so natu- ral to a man who views in it the native soil of himself and his progenitors for several generations, I anticipate with pleasing expectation that retreat, in which 1 promise myself to realize, without alloy, the sweet enjoyment of partaking, in the midst of my fellow citizens, the benign iniluence of good laws under a free government, — the ever favourite object of my heart, — and the happy reward, as J trust, of our mutual cares, labours, and dangers. United States, September 17ih, 1796. Speech over the Grave of Black Buffaloe, Chief of the Teton Tribe of Indians. — Big Elk Maha Chief Do not grieve. Misfortunes will happen to the wisest and best men. Death will come, and always comes out of season. It is the command of the Great Spirit, and all nations and people must obey. What has passed, and can- not be prevented, should not be grieved for. Be not discouraged or displeased, then, that, in visiting your father here, you have lost your chief. A misfortune of this kind may never again befall you ; but this would have attended you, perhaps, at your own village. Five times have I visited this land, and never returned with sorrow or pain. Misfortunes do not flourish particularly in our path. They grow every where. What a misfortune for me, that I .Tould not have died this day, instead of the chief that lies before us ! The trifling loss my nation would have sus- tained in my death, would have been doubly paid for by the honours of my burial. They would have wiped off every thing like regret. Instead of bemg covered with a eloud of soirow. my warriors would have felt fhe sunshine 180 COMMON-PLACE liOOK OF PROSE. of joy in their hearts. To me it would have heen a moS| glorious occurrence. Hereafter, when I die at home, instead of a noble grave and a grand procession — the rolling music and the thundering cannon — with a flag waving at my head, — I shall be wrapt in a robe — an old robe per- haps — and hoisted on a slender scaffold to the whistling winds, soon to be blown to the earth — my flesh to be de- voured by the wolves, and my bones rattled on the plain by the wild beasts. Chief of the soldiers* — your labours have not been in vain. Your attention shall not be forgotten. My nation shall know the respect that is paid over the dead. When 1 return I will echo the sound of your guns. Speech of Qo-NA-YU-wus, or Farmer's Brother. The sachems, chiefs, and warriors of the Seneca nation to the sachems and chiefs assembled about the great council-fire of the state of New York. Brothers — As you are once more assembled in council for the purpose of doing honour to yourselves and justice to your country, we, your brothers, the sachems, chiefs, and warriors of the Seneca nation, request you to open your ears, and give attention to our voice and wishes. Brothers — You will recollect the late contest between j^ou and your father, the great king of England. This contest threw the inhabitants of this whole island into a great tumult and commotion, like a raging whirlwind, which tears up the trees, and tosses to and fro the leaves, so that no one knows from whence they come, or when they will fall. Brothers — This whirlwind was so directed by the Great Spirit above, as to throw into our arms two of your infant children, Jasper Parrish and Horatio Jones. We adopted them into our families, and made them our children. We loved them and nourished them. They lived with ua many years. At length the Great Spirit spoke to the * Colonel Miller. COMMON -PLACE BOOK OF PllOSE. 181 whirlwind — and it was still.* A clear and uninterrupted sky appeared. The path of peace was opened, and the chain of friendship was once more made bright. Theu these, our adopted children, left us to seek their relations. We wished them to remain among us, and promised, if they would return and live in our country, to give each of them a seat of land for them and their children to sit down upon. Brothers — They have returned, and have for several years past been serviceable to us as interpreters. We still feel our hearts beat with affection for them, and now wish to fulfil the promise we made them, and to reward them for their services. We have therefore made up our minds to give them a seat of two square miles of land lying on the outlet of Lake Erie, about three miles below-Black Rock. Brothers — We have now made known to you our minds. We expect and earnestly request, that you will permit our friends to receive this our gift, and will make the same good to them, according to the laws and customs of your nation. Brothers — Why should you hesitate to make our mindi easy with regard to this our request ? To you it is but a little thing ; and have you not complied with the request, and confirmed the gift, of our brothers the Oneidas, the Onondagas, and Cayugas, to their interpreters ? and shall we ask, and not be heard ? Brothers — We send you this our speech, to which we expect your answer before the breaking up of your great council-fire. Abdication of JVapoleon, and Retirement of Lafayette. — TiCKNOR. At last, on the 21st of June, Bonaparte arrived from Waterloo, a defeated and a desperate man. He wag a. ready determined to dissolve the representative body, and, assuming the whole dictatorship of the country, play at least one deep and bloody game for power and success. Some of his council, and among the rest Regnault de St * God said, Let bere be light j and tlieie was light. 182 COMMGX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Jean d'An^ely, who were opposed to this violent measure, informed Lafayette that it would be taken instantly, and that in two hours the chamber of representatives would cease to exist. There was, of course, not a moment left for consultation or advice ; the emperor or the chamber must fall that morning. As soon, therefore, as the session was opened, Lafayette, with the same clear courage, and in the same spirit of self-devotion, with which he had stood at the bar of the national assemoly m 1792, mmedi- ately ascended the tribune, for the first time for twenty years, and said these few words ; which, assuredly, would have been his death warrant, if he had not been supported in them by the assembly he addressed : " When, after an interval of many years, I raise a voice, which the friends of free institutions will still recognise, I feel myself called upon to speak to you only of the dan- gers of the country, which you alone have now the power to save. Sinister intimations have been heard ; they are unfortunately confirmed. This, therefore, is the momen for us to gather round the ancient tri-coloured standard ? the standard of '89 ; the standard of freedom, of equal rights, and of public order. Permit, then, gentlem.en, a veteran in this sacred cause, one who has always been a stranger to the spirit of faction, to offer you a few prepar- atory resolutions, whose absolute necessity, I trust, you feel as I do." These resolutions declared the chamber to be in perma- nent session, and all attempts to dissolve it, high treason ; and they also called for the four principal ministers to come to the chamber and explain the state of affairs. Ecnaparte is said to have been much agitated when word was brought him simply that Lafayette was in the tribune ; and his fears were certainly not ill founded ; for these resolutions, which were at once adopted, both by the representative! and the peers, substantially divested him of his power, am left him merely a factious and dangerous individual in tb midst of a distracted state. He hesitated during the whole day as to the course h should pursue ; but, at last, hoping that the eloquence ol Lucien, which had savec him on the 18th Brumaire, might be found no less effectual ow, he sent him, with three other COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PRuyE. 1S3 ministers to the chamber, just at the beginning of the evening ; having first obtained a vote that all should pass in secret session It was certainly a most perilous crisis. Reports were spread abroad that the popukce of the faux- bourgs had been excited, and were arming themselves. It was believed, too, with no little probability, that Bonaparte would march against the chamber, as he had formerly marched against the council of five hundred, and dis- perse them at the point of the bayonet. At all events, it was a contest for existence, and no man could feel his life safe. At this moment Lucien rose, and, in the doubtful and gloomy light which two vast torches shed through the hall, and over the pale and anxious features of the mem- bers, made a partial exposition of the state of affairs, and the projects and hopes he still entertained. A deep and painful silence followed. At length Mr. Jay, well known above twenty years ago in Boston, under the assumed name of Renaud, as a teacher of the French language, and an able writer in one of the public newspapers of that city, ascended the tribune, and, in a long and vehement speech of great eloquence, exposed the dangers of the country, and ended by proposing to send a deputation to the empe- ror, demanding his abdication. Lucien immediately fol- lowed. He never showed more power, or a more impas- sioned eloquence. His purpose was to prove that France A'^as still (ievoted to the emperor, and that its resources were still equal to a contest with the allies. " It is not Napoleon," he cried, " tha't is attacked ; it is the French people. And a proposition is now made to this people to abandon their emperor ; to expose the French nation, before the tribunal of the world, to a severe judgment on its levity and inconstancy. Ko, sir, the honour of this nation shall never be so compromised !" On hearing these words, Lafayette rose. He did not go to the tribune, but spoke, contrary to rule and custom, from his place. His manner was perfectly calm, but marked with tlie vev;- spirit of rebuke ; and he addressed himself, not to the president, but directly to Lucien : " The assertion, whicli has just been uttered, is ;a calumny. Who shall dare to accuse the French nation of inconstancy to the emperor Napoleon ' That nation had followed his bloody footsteua 184 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. through the sands of Egypt, and through the 'waales oi Russia; over fifty fields of battle ; in disaster as faithfully as in victory ; and it is for having thus devotedly followed him, that we now mourn the blood of three millioas of Frenchmen." These few words made an impression on the assembly, which could not be mistaken ; and, aa Lafayette ended, Lucien himself bowed respectfully to him, and, without resuming his speech, sat down. It was aetermined to appoint a deputation of five mem- bers from each chamber, to meet the grand council of the 'ministers, and deliberate in committee on the measures to be taken. This body sat during the night, under the presidency of Cambaceres, arch- chancellor of the .empire Lafayette moved, that a deputation should be sent to Napo- leon, demanding his abdication. The arch-chancellor refused to put the motion, but it was as much decided as if il had been formally carried. The next morning, June 22d, the emperor sent in his abdication, and Lafayette was ou the committee that went to the Thuilleries to thank him for it on behalf of the nation. A crude, provisional government was now esti": lished by the two chambers, which lasted only a few days, and whose principal measure was the sending a deputation to the allied powers, of which Lafayette was the head, to endeavour to stop the invasion of France. This of course failed, as had been foreseen ; Paris surrendered on the 3d of July, and what remained of the representative government, which Bonaparte had created for his own purposes, but v,-hich Lafayette had turned against him, was soon after- wards dissolved. Its doors were found guarded on the morning of the 8th, but by what authority has never been known ; and the members met at Lafayette's house, enterec their formal protest, and went quietly to their own homes Lafayette retired immediately to La Grange, from which, i;i fact, he had been only a month absent, and resumed at once his agricultural employments. There, in the irJd«t of a family of above twenty children and grand childrer, who all look up to him as their patriarchal chief, he Ilv&» in a simple and sincere happiness, rarely granted to th&if*' who have borne such a leading part in the troubles ixii sufferings of a great period of political revolutl«l *>.- COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 185 1817, he has been twicj elected to the chamber of depu- ties, and in all his votes has shown himself constant to hi3 ancient principles. When the ministry proposed to estab- lis?i a censorship of the press, he resisted them in an able speech ; but Lafayette was never a factious man, and therefore he has never made any further opposition to the present order of things in France, than his conscience and nis official place requirsd. That he does not approve the present constitution of the monarchy, or the political prin- ciples and management of the existing government, his votes as a deputy, and his whole life, plainly show ; and that his steady and temperate opposition is matter of serious anxiety to the family now on the throne is apparent, from their conduct towards him during the last nine years, and their management of the public press since he has been in this country. If he chose to make himself a tribune of the people, he might at any moment become formidable ; but he trusts rather to the progress of general intelligence and political wisdom throughout the nation, which he feels sure will at last bring his aountry to the practically free government, he has always been ready to sacrifice his life to purchase for it. To this great result he looks forward, as Madame de Stael has well said of him, with the entire confidence a pious man enjoys in a future life ; but when he feels anxious and impatient to hasten onward to it, he finds a wisdom tempered by long experience stirring within him, which warns him, in the beautiful language of Mil- ton, that " they also serve, who only stand and wait " Extract from *' Hyperion.*** — Josiah Quinct, Jun. When I reflect on the exalted character of the antient Britons, on the fortitude of our illustrious prede- * The first part of this extract was published in the Boston Gazette m September, 1767, on receiving information of threatening import from Englari ; the remainder appeared in October, 17G8, when British troops had landed in Boston, and taken possession of F^neuil Hall under circumstances intended to inspire the pe^T>?' • %i> alarm an , terror.— Ed. le ^ aS6 COimOX-PLACE iiOULL OF PROSE, tessors, on the noble struggles of the late memorabit period, and from these reflections, when, by a natural Iransitioa, 1 contemplate the gloomy aspect of the present day, my heart is alterr-ately torn with doubt and hope, despondency and terror. Can the true, generous magna- nimity of British heroes be entirely lost in their degene- rate progeny? Is the genius of liberty, which so late inflamed our bosoms, fied forever ? An attentrre observer of the deportment of some jartic- olar po'sms in tiiis metropolis would be apt to Imagine, that file grajd punt was gained ; that the sfiiit of the people was entirely broken to the yoke ; diat all America was subjugated to bcmdage. Already the minions of power in fancy fatten and grow wanton on the ^loils of the land. They insolently toss the head, and put on the air of con- tempt .ous disdain. In the imaginary possession of lord- ships and dominions, these potentates and powers dare tell OS, that our only hope is to crooch, to cower under, and to kiss, the iron rod of oppression. Precious sample of the meek and lowly temper of those who are destined to be our lords and masters \ Be not deceived, my countrymen- BeKere not these venal hirelings, when they would cajole you by their sub- tilties into submisaon, or frighten you by their vapourings into OMnpliance. When they strive to flatter you by the terms " moderatiim and prudence," tell them that calmness and deliberation are to guide the judgment ; (»nrage and intrepidity command the action. When they endearour to make us "perceive our inability to oppose oar 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 oar (asters' batfles, we fear not the hour of trial, though the hosts of our enemies should cover the field like locusts. If this be enthusiasm, we will live and die enthusiasts. Blandishments will not fascinate us, nor will threats of a "halter" intimidate. For, under God, we are deter mined, that wheresoever, whensoever, or howsoever we shall be called to make our exit, we wiE die freemen Well do we know tiiat all the regalia of this world cannot iisrnify the death of a villain, nor diminish the ignominy. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 187 with which a slave shall quit existence. Neither can it taint the unblemished honour of a son of freedom, though he should make his departure on the already prepared gib- bet, or be dragged to the newly erected scaffold for execu- tion. With the plaudits of his conscience he will go off the stage. A crown of joy and immortality shall be his reward. The history of his life his children shall vene- rate. The virtues of their sire shall excite their emula- tion. If there ever was a time, this is the hour, for America; j5 to rouse themselves, and exert every ability. Their all is at a hazard, and the die of fate spins doubtful. In vain do we talk of magnanimity and heroism, in vain do we trace a descent from the worthies of the earth, if we inherit not the spirit of our ancestors. Who is he that boasteth of his patriotism ? Has he vanquished luxury, and sub- dued the worldly pride of his heart ? Is he not still drink- ing the poisonous draught, and rolling the sweet morsel under his tongue ? He who cannot conquer the little van- ity of his heart, and deny the delicacy of a debauched palate, let him lay his hand upon his mouth, and his moutb in the dust. Now is the time for this people to summon every aidj human and divine ; to exhibit every moral virtue, and call forth every Christian grace. The wisdom of the serpent, the innocence of the dove, and the intrepidity of the lion, with the blessing of God, will yet save us from the jaws of destruction. Where is the boasted liberty of Englishmen, if property may he disposed of, charters suspended, assemblies dissolv- ed, and every valued right annihilated, at the uncontrol- lable will of an external power ? Does not every man, who feels one ethereal spark yet glowing in his bosom, find his indignation kindle at the ^are imagination of such wrongs? Wh?t 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 hreasts, should we hesitate a moment in preferring death to a miserable exis-'-- 188 COMMO^• -PLACE BOOK OF PROi^E. ence in bondage ? Did we reflect on their toils, tbeii 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 j-ensioners, sti- pendiaries and salary-men, unknown before, hourly multi- plying 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 mcutns and given unto the dogs ? Are not our estates given to corrupt sycophants, without a design, or even a preteuco, of solicit- ing our assent ; and our lives put into the hands of those whose tender mercies are cruelties ? Has not an author- ity in a distant land, in the most public manner, proclaimed a right of disposing of the all of Americans ? In short, what have we to lose ? What have we to fear ? Are not our distresses more than we can bear ? And, to finish all, are not our cities, in a time of profound peace, filled with standing armies, to preclude from us that last solace of the wretched — to open their mouths in complaint, and send forth their cries in bitterness of heart ? But is there no ray of hope ? Is not Great Britain inhabited by the children of those renowned barons, who waded through seas of crimson gore to establish their lib- erty ? and will they not allow us, their fellow-men, to enjoy that freedom which we claim from nature, which is confirmed by our constitution, and which they pretend so highly to value ? Were a t^-rant to conquer us, the chains of slavery, when opposition should become useless, might be supportable ; but to be shackled by Englishmen, — by our equals, — is not to be borne. By the sweat of our brow we earn the little we possess ; from nature we derive the common rights of man ; and by charter we claim the liberties of Britons. Shall we, dare we, pusillanimously surrender our birthright ? Is the obligation to our fathers discharged ; Is the debt we owe posterity paid ? Answer me, thou coward, who hidest thyself in the hour of trial ; If there is no reward in this life, no prize of glory in the next, capable of aninating thy dastard soul, think and COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 189 tremble, thou miscreant ! at the whips and stripes thy master sljall lash thee with on earth, — and the flames and scorpions thy second master shall torment thee with here after ! Oh, my countrymen ! what will our children say, when they read the history of these times, should they find that we tamely gave away, without one noble struggle, the n..ost invaluable of earthly blessings ! As they drag the galling chain, will they not execrate us ? If we have any respect for things sacred, any regard to the dearest treas- ure on earth ; if we have one tender sentiment for poster- ity ; if we would not be despised by the whole world ;— let us, in the most open, solemn manner, and with deter- mined fortitude, swear — We will die, if we cannot live freemen ! Be not lulled, my countrymen, with vain imaginations or idle fancies. To hope for the protection of Heaven, without doing our duty, and exerting ourselves as becomes men, is to mock the Deity. Wherefore had man his reason, jf it were not to direct him ? wherefore his strength, if it be not his protection ? To banish folly and luxury, correct vice and immorality, and stand immoveable in the freedom in which we are free indeed, is eminently the duty of each individual at this day. When this is done, we may ration- ally hope for an answer to our prayers — for the whole counsel of God, and the invincible armour of the Almighl5^ However righteous our cause, we cannot, in this period of the world, expect a miraculous salvation. Heaven will undoubtedly assist us if we act like men ; but to expect protection from above, while we are enervated by luxury, and slothful in the exertion of those abilities, with which we are endued, is an expectation vain and foolish. Yfith the smiles of Heaven, virtue, unanimity and firmness will ensure success. While we have equity, justice and God on oui side, Tyranny, spiritual or temporal, shall never tide triumphant in a land inhabited by Eiglishmen. 190 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. The Sabbath in JVew EnglandJ* — Miss Sedgwick.. The observance of the Sabbath began with the Puri tans, as it still does with a great portion of theii descend- ants, on Saturday night. At the going down of the sun on Saturday, all temporal affairs were suspended ; and so zealously did our fathers maintain the letter, as well as tlie spiiit of the law, that, according to a vulgar tradition in Connecticut, no beer was brewed in the latter part of the week, lest it should presume to work on Sunday. It must be confessed, that the tendency of the age is to laxity ; and so rapidly is the wholesome strictness of prim- itive times abating, that, should some antiquary, fifty j^ears hence, in exploring his garret rubbish, chance to cast his eye on our humble pages, he may be surprised to learn, that, even now, the Sabbath is observed, in the interior of New England, with an almost Judaical severity. On Saturday afternoon an uncommon bustle is apparent. The great class of procrastinators are hurrying to and fro to complete the lagging business of the week. The good aiothers, like Burns' matron, are plying their needles, making " auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ;" while the domestics, or help, (we prefer the national descriptive term,) are wielding, with might and main, their brooms and mops, to make all tidy for the Sabbath. As the day declines, the hum of labour dies away, and, after the sun is set, perfect stillness reigns in every well- ordered household, and not a foot-fall is heard in the village street. It cannot be denied, that even the most scriptu- ral, missing the excitement of their ordinary occupations, anticipate their usual bed-time. The obvious inference fiom this fact is skilfully avoided by certain ingenious reasoners, who allege, that the constitution was originally * Tliis description is executed with admirable truth and humour ; yet it ha.^, we fear, in these times of disregard to the sacredness of the institution, a slight tendency to make the ancient strict observance of lie 5abbath appear somevi-hat ridiculous. It is net to be regretted, that the austprity and gloom, which pervaded the character of the Puritans, nas entn-elj"^ disappeared ; — but it is to be regretted, that so much, whicif was truly reiigious, should have fled along with it. — Ed COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 191 SO organized, as to require an extra quantity of sleep on every seventh night. We recommend it to the curious t-o inquire, how this pecuharity was adjusted, when the first day of the week was changed from Saturday to Sunday. The Sabbath morning is as peaceful as the first hallowed day. Not a human sound is heard without the dwellings, an;l, but for the lowing of the herds, the crowing of the cocks, and the gossiping of the birds, animal life would seem to be extinct, till, at the bidding of the church-going bell, tbe old and young issue from their habitations, and, with solemn demeanor, bend their measured steps to the meeting-house ; — the families of the minister, the squire, tlie doctor, the merchants, the modest gentry of the vil- lage, and the mechanic and labourer, all arraytJ in (heir best, all meeting on even ground, and all with that consciousness of independence and equality, which breaks t'own the pride of the rich, and rescues the poor from ser- \ility, envy, and discontent. If a morning salutation is reciprocated, it is in a suppressed voice ; and if, perchance, nature, in some reckless urchin, burst forth in laughter — •' My dear, you forget it's Sunday," is the ever ready reproof. Though every face wears a solemn aspect, yet we once chanced to see even a deacon's muscles relaxed by the wit of a neighbour, and heard him allege, in a half-depre- cating, half-laughing voice, " The squire is so droll, that a body must laugh, though it be Sabbath-day." The farmer's ample wagon, and the little one-horse vehicle, bring in all who reside at an inconvenient walk- ing di.-,tance, — that is to say, in ourridmg community, half mile from the church. It is a pleasing sight, to those who love to note the happy peculiarities of their own land, to r;(>e the farmers' daughters, blooming, intelligent, well- hied, pouring out of these homely coaches, with their nice white gowns, prunel shoes, Leghorn hats, fans and para- ■sols, and the spruce young men, with their plaited ruffles, blue coats, and yellow buttons. The whole communitj meet as one religious family, to offer their devotions at the common altar. If there is an outlaw from the society, — a luckless wight, whose vagrant taste has never been sub- dued, — he may be seen stealing along the margin of soma 192 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. little brook, far away from the condemning observatio and troublesome admonitions of his fellows. Towards the close of the day, or (to borrow a phrase d&= scriptive of his feelings, who first used it) "when the Sab bath begins to abate" the children cluster about the win- dows. Their eyes wander from their catechisms to the western sky, and, though it seems to them as if the sun wo'jld never disappear, his broad disk does slowly sink be- hind the mountain ; and, while his last ray still lingers on the eastern summits, merry voices break forth, and the ground resounds with bounding footsteps. The \"illage belle arrays herself for her twilight walk ; the boys gather on '•' the green ;" the lads and girls throng to the '* singing school ;" while some coy maiden lingers at home, awaiting her expected suitor; and all enter upon the pleasures of the evening with as keen a reUsh as if the day had been a preparatory penance. JDescriptian of the Capture of a Whale. — Coopes. The cockswain cast a cool glance at the crests of foam that were breaking over the tops of the billows within a few yards of where their boat was riding, and called aloud to his men — " Pull a stroke or two ; away with her into dark water." The drop of the oars resembled the movements of a nice machine, and the light boat skimmed along the water like a duck, that approaches to the very brink of some imminent danger, and then avoids it at the most critical moment, ap- parently without an effort. While this necessary move- ment was making, Barnstable arose., and surveyed the cliifi with keen eyes, and then, turning once more in disappoint- ment from his search, he said — '■ Pull more from the land, and let I»er run down, at an easy stroke, to the schooner. Keep .i ^jokout at the clif&, boys ; it is possible that they are stowed in some of the holes in the rocks, for it's no daylight business the) are on." COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 193 The order was promptly obeyed, and they had glided along for near a mile in this manner, in the most profound silence, when suddenly the stillness was broken by a heavy rush of air, and a dash of water, seemingly at no great dis- tance from them. " By heaven ! Tom," cried Barnstable, starting, " there is the blow of a whale." " Ay, ay, sir," returned the cockswain, with undis- turbed composure ; " here is his spout, not half a mile to seaward ; the easterly gale has driven the creater to leeward, and he begins to find himself in shoal water. He's been sleeping, while he should have been working to windward !" " The fellow takes it coolly, too ! he's in no hurry to get an offing." " I rather conclude, sir," said the cockswain, rolling over his tobacco in his mouth very composedly, while his little sunken eyes began to twinkle with ' pleasure at the sight, " the gentleman has lost his reckoning, and don't know which way to head, to take himself back into blue water." " 'Tis a fin-back !" exclaimed the lieutenant j " he will soon make head-way, and be off." " No, sir, 'tis a right whale," answered Tom ; " I saw his 'spout ; he threw up a pair of as pretty rainbows as a Christian would wish to look at. He's a raal oil-butt, that fellow !" Barnstable laughed, turned hijTiself away from the tempt- ing sight, and tried to look at the cliffs ; and then uncon- sciously bent his eyes again on the sluggish animal, who was throwing his huge carcass at times for many feet from the water, in idle gambols. The temptation for sport, and the recollection of his early habits, at length prevailed over his anxiety in behalt of his friends, and the young officer iuquifed of his cockswain — " Is there any whale-line in the boat to make fa^'. to that harpoon which you bear about with you in fair weather or foul ?" •' I never trust the boat from the schooner without part of a shot, sir," returned the cockswain ; " there is some- thing nateral in the sight of a tub to my old eyes." 17 194 COMMON-PLACE BOOK 3F PROSE. Barnstable looked at his watch, and again at the cli3*3, when he exclaimed in joyous tones — " Give strong way, my hearties ! There seems nothing better to be done ; let us have a stroke of a harpoon at tha impudent rascal." Trie men shouted spontaneously, and the old cockswain suffered his solemn visage to relax into a small laugh, while the whale-boat sprang forward like a courser for the goal. Daring the few minutes they were priling tow^ards their game, long Tom arose from his crouching attitude in the stern sheets, and transferred his huge frame to the bows of the boat, where he made such preparaticn to strike the whale as the occasion required. The tub, containing about half of a whale-line, was placed at the feet of Barnstable, who had been preparing an oar to steer with, in place of the rudder, which was unshipped in order that, if neces- sary, the boat might be whirled round when not ad- vancing. Their approach was utterly unnoticed by the monster of the deep, who continued to amuse himself with throw- ing the water in two circular spouts high into the air, oc- casionally flourishing the broad flukes of his tail with grace- ful but terrific force, until the hardy seamen were within a few hundred feet of him, w^hen he suddenly cast his head downwards, and, without an apparent effort, i-eared his im- mense body for many feet above the water, waving his tail violently, and producing a whizzing noise, that sounded like the rushing of winds. The cockswain stood erect, poising his harpoon, ready for the blow ; but, when he beheld the creature assume this formidable attitude, he waved his hand to his commander, who instantly signed to hi^ men to cease rowing. In this situation the sportsmen rested "a few moments, while the whale struck several blows on the water in rapid succession, the noise of which re-eclioed along the clitls, like the hollow reports of so many cannon. After this wanton exhibition of his territie strength, the monster sunk again into his native element and slowly disappeared from the eyes of his pursuers. *' Which way did he head, Tom ?" cried Barnstable, the moment the whale was out of sight. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF FROSE. 195 •* Pretty much up and down, sir," returned the cock- swam, whose eye was gradually brightening with the ex citement of the sport; "he'll soon run his nose against the bottom, if he stands long on that course, and will be glad to get another snuff of pure air ; send her a few fath- oins to starboard, sir, and I promise we shall not be out of bii track." The conjecture of the experienced old seaman proved true, for in a few minutes the water broke near them, and another spout was cast into the air, when the huge animal rushed for half his length in the same direction, and fell on the sea with a turbulence and foam equal to that, which is produced by the launching of a vessel, for the first time,, into its proper element. After this evolution, the whale rolled heavily, and seemed to rest from further efforts. His slightest movements were closely watched by Barn- stable and his cockswain, and, when he was in a state of comparative rest, the former gave a signal to his crew to ply their oars once more. A few long and vigorous strokes sent the boat directly up to the broadside of the whale, with its bows pointing towards one of the fins, which was at times, as the animal yielded sluggishly to the action of the waves, exposed to view. The cockswain poised his harpoon with much precision, and then darted it from him with a violence that buried the iron in the body of their foe. The instant the blow was made, long Tom shouted with singular earnestness — " Starn all !" " Stern all !" echoed Barnstable ; when the obedient seamen, by united efforts, forced the boat in a backward dii-ection, beyond the reach of any blow from their formi- dable antagonist. The alarmed animal, however, meditated no such resistance : ignorant of his own power, and of the insignificance of his enemies, he sought refuge in flight. One moment of stupid surprise succeeded the entrance of the iron, when he cast his huge tail into the air with a vi- olence that threw the sea around him into increased com- motion, and then disappeared, with the quickness of light- rung, amid a cloud of foam " Snub him !" shouted Birnstable ; " hold on, Tom ; he rises already." 196 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. " Ay, ay, nr," replied the composed cockswaiu, seizing the line which was runiiing out of the boat with a velocity that rendered such a manceuvre rather hazardous, and caus- ing it to yield more gradually round the large loggerhead, that was placed in the hows of the boat for that purpose. Presently the line stretched forward, and, rising to the sur- face with tremulous %ibraLions, it indicated the direction in which the animal might be expected to re-appear. Barn- stable had cast the bows of the boat towards that point, be- fore the terrified and wounded victim rose once more to the surface, whose time was, however, no longer wasted in his sports, but who cast the waters aside as he forced his way, with prodigious velocity, along their surface. The boat was dragged violently in his wake, and cut through the billows with a terrific rapidity, that at moments appeared to bury the slight fabric in the ocean. "VThen long Tom beheld his victim throwing his spouts on high again, he pointed with exultation to the jetting fluid, which was streaked with the deep red of blood, and cried — " Ay, I've touched the fellow's life ! It must be more than two foot of blubber that stops my iron from reaching the life of any whale that ever sculled the ocean I" " I believe you have saved j-ourself the trouble of using the bayonet you have rigged for a lance," said his com- mander, who entered into the sport with all the ardour of one, whose youth had been chiefly passed in such pursuits ; '•' feel your line. Master Cotfin : can we haul alongside of our enemy ? I like not the course he is steering, as he tows us from the schooner." " 'Tis the creater's way, sir," said the cockswain ; " you know they need the air in their nostrils when they run, the same as a man ; but lay hold, boys, and let us haul up to him " The seamen now seized their whale-line, and slowb. drew their boat to within a few feet of the tail of the firh, whose progress became sensibly less rapid as he grew weak with the loss of blood. In a few minutes he stopped run- uing, and appeared to roll uneasily on the water, as if suf- fering the agony of death. " Shall we pull in and finish him, Tom ?" cried Barn stable : " a few ^eis from vour bavonet would do it." COMMCJSi-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 1 97 The cockswain stood examining his game with cool dis- cretion, and replied to this interrogatory — " No, sir, no — he's going into his flurry ; there's no oc- casion for disgra ^ng ourselves by using a soldier's weapon in taking a wha £. Starn off, sir, starn off! the creater's in his flurry !" The warning of the prudent cockswain was promptly obeyed, and the boat cautiously drew off" to a distance, leav- ing to the animal a clear space while under its dying ago- nies. From a state of perfect rest, the terrible monster threw its tail on high as when in sport, but its blows were trebled in rapidity and violence, till all was hid from view by a pyramid of foam, that was deeply dyed with blood. The roarings of the fish were like the bellowings of a herd of bulls, and, to one who was ignorant of the fact, it would have appeared as if a thousand monsters were engaged in deadly combat behind the bloody mist that obstructed the view. Gradually these effects subsided, and, when the dis- coloured water again settled down to the long and regular swell of the ocean, the fish was seen exhausted, and yield- ing passively to its fate. As life departed, the enormous black mass rolled to one side, and when the white and glis- tening skin of the belly became apparent, the seamen well knew that their victory was achieved. Lake George. — Club-Room. " It was a still And calmy bay, on the one side sheltered With the brode sliado'// of an hoarie hill ; On the other side an high rock toured still." *************** " Waiting to pass, he saw whereas did swim Along the shore, as swift as glaunce of eye, A little gondelay, bedecked trim, With boughs and arbours woven cunningly, That like a little forest seemed outwardly ; And therein sat a lady fresh and faire." Faerie Qckene. If any of my readers have ever visited these transparent waters, and have wound their way among the thousand little woody islands which sprinkle their surface from Fori 17* I9S COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. G&jrge to the Falls nf Ticonderoga, they may have remarg. ed, just beyond Bolton, at the bottom of a beautiful inlet, or bay, formed by two craggy promontories of the western shore, a small dwelling-house, upon which the fingers of Time seem to have wrought more ruinously than man, in the pride of his dominion, is accustomed to allow them. It stands lone and desolate. Storms have shattered its roof, and wild shrubs hare already sprung up '" dark profusion over its avenues ; while the white- columned portico, whicb was wont to look so cheering to the eye of the passenger, has put on the damp and mouldering garment of decay. Some years ago business led me to the Canadian frontier b}- that route. I travelled alone in a light wagon. A part of the road, which was extremely rugged, stretched along the bold shore of the lake ; sometimes winding up the craggy side of the mountain, and sometimes running close to the precipice, which, from the height of two or three hundred feet, flung its huge and dusky shadow into the mirror beneath. As I was anxious to reach my inn before night-fallj and blue mists were already beginning to gather upon the lake, I quickened the pace of my horse whereve'- the smoothness of the road would permit. I had just pass- ed a young foot-traveller, and was turning a sharp corner formed by a rock shelving out of the mountain's side, when my horse started suddenly, and, carrying the wheel of my wagon over a fallen fragment, dashed me to the ground. I fell near the edge of the cliff, where its surface was already considerably inclined. I seized upon a small projection of the rock. It loosened, and gave way under my grasp. I slipped downward, and found not even a bramble within reach, when I felt myself suddenly stayed by I knew not what. It was the young man 1 had just passed, who sprang forward, and, not without imminent hazard of fol- lowing me in my fall, caught the skirt of my coat at the instant I was rolling over the brink. Supporting himself by the frail bough of a dwarf-oak which grew a little abovCj he held me hanging by a thread over " the dark valley of the shadow of death." The fragment which I had loos- ened fell, and the sullen splash of the water which re- ceived it just reached my ear. From that moment I be came insensible. COMMON-PLACE BOOK. OF PROSE. 199 On recovery I found myself on a bed. Three or four luces were bending over me with expressions of the deep- est concern, and a beautiful girl was bathing my temples. 1 looked her my fnanks — ^it was all I could. Presently the door opened, and a voice anxiously asked — " How is he ? — will he live ?" " Hush !" she replied, in a low whis- per, " He is well enough to hear you." It was my young preserver, who entered, and brought with him the doctor of the neighbouring village. It were tedious to detail all the symptoms of inward injury, and prognostics of impend- ing fever, which were found about me by this rustic sou of jEsculapius. Let it suffice that my limbs were pro- nounced unbroken, though badly bruised' — that I submit- ted quietly to remedies, which I had not strength to resist — in short, that I was well enough in a few days, in spite of all circumstance of delay, to enjoy the society of the kind friends who attended me, and the beauties of their romantic residence. The name of my host was Burton — a robust and well- looking man, just entering life's downward path. He was by birth an Englishman, and had been a soldier in his youth — served in America during our revolutionary war — was taken prisoner, with many of his countrymen, at Ti- conderoga — fell in love with a young woman in that neigh- bourhood, whom he married soon after the declaration of peace — and, having acquired a competent fortune in mer- chandise, hastened to indulge an Englishman's taste for rural pursuits in this delightful spot. Mary Burton, his only daughter, was a beautiful girl just turned of eighteen ; adorned with all the sensibilities of her sex ; and, if she wanted the accomplishments of a fine lady, she had that, which more than compensates for them all — uniform simplicity and gayety of heart. It was she whom I first discovered among the group standing about me, watching with tender anxiety the earliest symptoms of returning life But my readers would perhaps know something of my youthful preserver. He was not of the Burton family, though constantly with them. His name was Arthur Mur- ray. Of good parentage and liberal attainments, a boyislf romance first led him to that neighbourhood ; for his cod 200 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. tinuance there, you have perhaps ah^eady guessed thdl Bomething might be attributed to the charms of Mary Bui ton. The old folks looked with pleasure on the growing attachment between them, and had recently granted a glad consent to their union. The only other inmates of the parlour were two rosj'-. cheeked boys, many years younger, yet constant compan- ions of the kind-hearted Arthur. Nor let .me exclude from the family roll. Rover, the large Newfoundland dog, who was allowed to participate in most of the family pleasures. It was an uncommonly happy circle. Separated from the rest of mankind — unsullied by the cold, selfish pleasures of the city — the absorbing cares of avarice and pride — home was their world ; — they indulged not a Avish beyond " the happy valley," but lived peaceful and contented, with all the sympathies of life wrapped up in the little compass of a few loving hearts. If this be seclusion, who would exchange it for the refined vanities of fashion — the turmoils of interest and ambition — the modish sensibilities which wear the semblance of feeling, and obliterate the feeling itself! And then the scenery about them was so exquisitely touching ! In the freshness of the dawn, I used to delight, with Rover only by my side, to climb the neighbouring hill, and catch the first ruddy tint that gleamed upon the lake — and at noon to stretch myself in some shady recess, and watch the white sail, now lost behind the bold head- land, now gliding among the trees, and now cuttinsc the clear expanse of water — or, in the stillness of night, broken only by the moan of the sad whip-poor-will, and the fret of waters, to muse upon the wildness of the scene, and commune with unearthly forms, which seemed to be fii'ting in the moonbeam ; — but, most of all, I delighted, on a fine afternoon, to join the little family party, in Arthur's pleas- ure-boat, sailing from island to island, each beauty present- ing itself in ever new and varying lights, and the sweet, artless song of Mary, who seemed to be the fairy spirit of the lake, warbling in my ear. And I would no% even now, mingled as my recollections are with melancholy and sorrow, I would not, for any earthly good, suffer the mem- ory of this delicious period to fade upon the tablet of my COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 201 heart. E was one of the few, few green and sunny spots, which he scattered over the dark waste of time. But the day at length arrived, when the imperious calls of business — that perpetual intruder on the poetry of life — must tear me from the friends and scenes which 1 so dear- }y loved. I had already lingered much longer on the hos- pitality of the Burtons than necessity required ; and I know not when I should have left them, had I waited till either my own inclination, or their friendly importunities, had ceased. I bade adieu — but not without a willing prom- ise to visit them once more on my return. About three weeks elapsed, i had despatched my busi- ness, and was returning homeward light-hearted and free, when, after toiling up a long and dusty hill, I caught sight again, at a few miles' distance, of the green, refreshing val- ley, and the pure crystal within it. My pulse beat high with expectation. My horse had not forgotten the hospitality of the Burtons, and we rapidly approached these well-re- membered scenes. As I descended the last hill, and some time before I reached the house. Rover came bounding along, with every demonstration of joy, to welcome my re- turn. Upon entering, the domestics, who were making ready their evening repast, informed me, that the whole family had gone upon the water in Arthur's pleasure- boat. Taking Rover with me, I strayed down to the neigh bourhood of their landing-place, and seated myself on a cliff, which overlooked the lake. The waters of Lake George are peculiarly transparent. I have often looked out of a boat upon its pebbly bed, and thought I might easily have waded to the shore, when in truth my oar's length could not reach the bottom. It was from this singular beauty, as well as the tout ensemble of witching scenery about it, that the Indians, who formerly inhabited the adja- cent territories, believed the bosom of the lake to be the alode of the Great Spirit ; and the French priests, who came to convert them, infected with the superstition of the place, named it the Holy Water ; and, either imagining it to be uncommonly pure, or else believing it to be really endowed with a peculiar sanctity, used to send vessels fill- ed with it to their native country, to be used in the sacred 202 COMMON-PLACE UOOK OF PROSE. rites of their church. This afternoon was remarkablj calm and cloudless. The opposite shore hung in the wa- ter with such truth and life of expression, that it looked like the scenery of another world, calmer and more lovely than our own. Presently, however, a breeze sprung from the east. Tho smooth surface just curled beneath its kiss ; and, in a short time, I observed the full sail of the pleasure-boat emeigiug at no great distance from behind a little knoll, that had concealed it. It was shaping its homeward course. The sun was fast declining towards the western mountain — upon whose summit was piled a thick mass of snowy clouds. Every thing promised a glorious sunset. I sat wrapped in the dream of expectation, measuring the long ripple which the boat left upon the lake, and think- ing, within myself, whether they could reach home before dusk. I turned towards the sun, to judge from his height how many minutes the light of day had yet to live. I wa? immediately struck by the uncommon richness of the white fleece, which was rolling itself, volume upon volume, into a thousand wild, fantastic shapes. At the same moment, a small black cloud seemed suddenly to grow out of the moun- tain. As it rose, it swelled, and spread itself, like a pall, over the rich mass of vapours, effacing one by one the beauties of the gorgeous spectacle. The wind freshened from the east — but the thunder-cloud still steered against it, and sailed on, in sullen majesty, like some dusky spirit, regardless of the opposing element. The sun was obscured, and a cold shade thrown over the lake. The leaves rustled through the forest with a noise like the long roll of the ocean on some distant beach, and a dull, low moaning seem- ed to move upon the waters. All nature portended one of those tremendous storms, which there, in seasons of the profoundest calm, pour in a moment out of the hollows of the surrounding mountains. I looked back anxiously for my friends. Their bark had neared the bay, and was still gallantly cleaving the waves. I thought I could distin- guish Arthur at the helm, proudly steering his little treas- ure, fearful but for those whom he loved dearer than life. I waved my handkerchief, and 't was answered. . Rover COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSS. 203 stood just Delovv lue, snuffing the air, and wagging his tail in silent expectation. The heavens were now completely overcast — the thun- ders rolled heavily, nearer and nearer, and big round drops splashed here and there upon the water. Presently there was a blinding flash, and an explosion shaking the cliff to its very root. The long, broken peal, that followed, rever- berated from crag to crag, and died away in the far dis- tance. There was a momentary pause ; — the gates of heaven were loosed, and the water fell in sheets, as if another lake were emptying itself from the sky. I could just discern the little bark through the thick rain. In spite of the fury of the storm, it gained its way, and had already reached the entrance to its harbour. A few moments more, and it was safe. While I was yet looking at it, a sudden gust of wind rushed out of the west. The boat stopped for an instant, as if fixed to the spot — and then, with a slight tremulous motion, settled into the waves. Rover, who sat watching its progress from a point be- neath, set up a wild howl, and dashed into the water. I instinctively followed, leaping from point to point — slipping among the rocks — catching at weeds and briers, which sprang out of the crevices — nor was it till I stood upon the very margin of the lake, that I reflected on the rashness of my design ; — I was wholly unable to swim. Rover, however, bore him stoutly from the shore, and had almost reached the spot ; but not a trace of the vessel could be seen. The torrents of rain ceased, and I could now clearly descry a human figure emerging from the waves — it was Arthur — and he dragged after him, from the bottom, the dear object, who clung to him when they sunk. Ro- ver now reached them, and, with all the sagacity of his tribe, seizing the long tresses of Mary in his mouth, so as to lift her head out of the water, bore her triumphantly to- ward the shore. Arthur swam by her side. I could only wait for them on the shore. They were now within a few yards of land, when Arthur's strength began to fail. Poor Arthur sunk. He rose again — made a few feeble strokes ■ — and the waters again covered him ; — he rose — endeav- aured to speak, cast a mournful look upon Mary — foldea 204 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PIIOSK. his arms — and sunk, — forever. A few noiseless bubbles struggled to the surface, and his spirit mingled with the air. Those who have stood by the bed-side of a dying brother, and watched the last faint struggle with death, — the cold damps gathering upon the brow — the fixing eye — the con- vulsive gasp — without the power to repress a single groan,— have felt all that was labouring in my heart. He was a fellow being — a friend — my benefactor — and he sunk w' th- in a few feet of me into a watery grave. But it was no time to indulge the selfishness of sovr^w. Rover had come to land, with the body of his mistress pa^e and cold. I took it up, and bore it to the house. The ser- vants were in a state of distraction ; it was with difficulty I could persuade them to use necessary means for the re- covery of the unfortunate Mary. After much labour, she began to breathe, and a few deep groans marked the un- willingness with which life returned to its deserted tene- ment. Good God, thought 1, what a cruelty do I not com- mit in restoring this wretched maid to a desolate existence ! Surely she had better, far better, die — and sleep quietly in her grave, than revive to see a few more miserable years, parentless — brotherless — alone — not a friend on earth to alleviate the sorrows of life. I almost repented what I had dene. Yet what right had I to sit in judgment on the mysteries of Providence ? It has pleased God to in terpose miraculously for her preservation : — let not man attempt to thwart his just, inscrutable designs ! We redoubhid our efforts. In a little time she seemed partially to have recovered her senses. She looked wildly round, and, extending her feeble hand towards mine, cried, with a faint voice, " Arthur !" I pressed her hand — my heart was too full to speak. Alas ! she did not know the touch — but, fixing her glazed eye upon me, repeated the name of Arthur. " It is not Arthur," said I — -and the tears gush- ed as I spoke. " Oh where is he P^where are they all ?" — and then, as if the memory of what had passed had suddenly flashed upon her mind, she shrieked out, and fell senseless away. I could restrain my feelings no longer, but, lea\ ing her in the charge of the weeping domestics, hurried oni of the room C*)MMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 205 The storm, which had wreaked its fury, was dissipated as suddenly as it arose. I determined to walk abroad, and see if I could calm the violence of my feelings in the still moonlight. I passed through the parlour. There the re- past was spread, and the chairs were standing round the hospitable board, for those who could never fill them again. I strayed down to the margin of the lake. The faithful Rover was still swimming about, and whining piteously over the fatal spot. Wherever I went, at every turn, some- thing arose to refresh the horror of the =cene. Mary recovered to linger a few years a miserable ma- niac ; — " Though health and bloom returned, the delicate chain Of thought, once tangled, never cleared again." She was sensible, however, a few moments before she died — thanked the kind domestics, who had never left her — ■ and begged to be buried at the bottom of the garden, be- neath an arbour which Arthur had reared. Her injunction was obeyed — and a small tombstone may yet be found there under the long grass, bearing this simple inscription— " Poor JVIary Burton rests beneath this stone ; God sufferetii not his saints to live alone." Hypochondriasis and its Remedies. — Rush. The extremes of low and high spirits, which occur in the same person at different times, are happily illustrat- ed by the following case : A physician in one of the cities of Italy was once consulted by a gentleman, who was much distressed by a paroxysm of this intermitting state of hy- pochondriasm. He advised him to seek relief in convivial company, and recommended him in particular to find out a gentleman of the name of Cardini, who kept all the ta- bles in the city, to which he was occasionally invited, in a rGa^ of laughter. " Alas ! sir," said the patient, with a heav> sigh, " I am that Cardini." Many such characters, alternately marked by high and low spirits, are to be f( wni in all the c' a, physicians : " To cure the mind's wrong bias, spleen, Some recommend the bowlilig-greeii j Some, hilly walks ; all, exercise ; Fling but a stone — the giant dies." Chess, checkers, cards, and even push-pin, should be pre- ferred to idleness, when the weather forbids exercise in the open air. The theatre has often been resorted to, ro remove fats of lov/ spirits ; and it is a singular fact, that a tragedy oftener dissipates them than a comedy. The rem- edy, though distressing to persons with healthy minds, is like the temperature of cold water to persons benumbed with frost ; it is exactly proportioned to the excitability of heir minds, and it not only abstracts their attention from themselves, but even revives their spirits. Mirth, or even cheerfulness, when employed as remedies in low spirits, are like hot water to a frozen limb. They are dispropor- tioned to the excitability of the mind, and, instead of ele- vating, never fail to increase its depression, or to irritate it. Cowper could not bear to hear his humorous story of Jolin Gilpin read to him in his paroxysms of this disease. It was to his heavy heart what Solomon happily compares to the conflict produced by pouring vinegar upon nitre, or, in other words, upon an alkaline salt. Certain objects distinguished for their beauty or grandeur often afford relief in this disease. Cowper experienced a transient elevation of spirits from contemplating the ocean from the house of his friend Mr. Hayley ; and the unfor- tunate Mrs. Robinson soothed the gloom of her mind, by viewing the dashing of the waves of the same sublime ob- ject, in the light of the moon, at Brighton. Certain ani- mals suspend the anguish of mind of this disease, by their innocence, ingenuity or sports. Cowper sometimes fouiiil relief in playing with three tame hares, and in observing a number of leeches to rise and fall in a glass with the changes of the •^reather. The poet says, — "La -theriy, will still, in general, be lines of de- marcation. One of the most agreeable peculiarities in our climate, is a period in the autumn called the Indian Summer. It happens in October, commencing a few days earlier or later, as the season may be. The temperature is delightful, and the weather differing in its character from that of any othei season. The air is filled with a slight haze, like smoke, which some suppose it to be ; the wind is south-west, and there is a vernal softness in the atmosphere ; yet the different alti- tude of the sun from what it has in the summer, makes it, in other respects, very unlike that season. This singular oc- currence in our climate seems to be to summer, what a vivid recollection of past joys is to the reality. The In- dians have some pleasing superstitions respecting it. " They believe it is caused by a wind, which comes immediately from the court of their great and benevolent god Cautan- towwit, or the south-western god, the god that is superioi to all other beings, who sends them every blessing which they enjoy, and to whom the souls of their fathers go after their decease." In connexion with our climate, the appearance of our atmosphere may be considered. The lover of picturesaua 212 COimON-PI^iCE BOOK OF PROSE. beauty will find this a fruitful source of it. The fame in equalities will be found here, that take place in the meas ure of heat and cold, and an equal number of contrasts and varieties. We have many of those days, when a murky vapourishness is diJfused through the air, dimming the lus- tre of the sun, and producing just such tones of light and colour as would be marked, in the calendar of Newfound- land or the Hebrides, for a bright, fair day. We have again others, in which even the transparency and purity of the tropics, and all the glowing mellow hues of Greece and Naples are blended together, to shed a hue of para- dise on every object, I have already spoken of the intense brilliancy of a winter moonlight, when the air has a polar temperature ; the same brilliancy and a greater clearness are eften found in the month of June, and sometimes in July, with the warmth of the equator. There are, occasionally, in the summer and autumn, such magical effects of light, such a universal tone of colouring, that the very air seems tinged ; and an aspect of such harmonious splendour is thrown over every object, that the attention of the most indifferent is awakened, and the lovers of the beautiful in nature enjoy the most lively delight. These are the kinds of tints, which even the matchless pencil of Claude vainly endeavoured to imitate. They occur a few times every year, a little before sunset, under a particular state of the air and posi- tion of the clouds. These beautiful appearances are not so frequent, indeed, here, as they are at Naples ; all those warm and delicate colours, which we see in Neapolitan pictures, occur there more often ; but I have frequently seen the hills on the south of Boston exhibiting, towards sunset, the same exquisite hues, which Vesuvius more fre- quently presents, and which the Neapolitans, in their paint- ings of it, always adopt. The vivid beauty, which I no^ speak of, is rare and transient ; but we often enjoy the charms of a transparent atmosphere, where objects stand in bold relief, and even distant ones will present all their hues and angles, clear and sharp, from the deep distant sky, as on the shores of Greece ; and we gaze at sunset on gor- geous skies, where all the magnificence, that form and col- our can combine, is accumulated to enrapture the eye,fJid render description hopeless. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 2Vd The scenery of this country will have struck you at once, as very different from that of Europe. This differ- ence is partly intrinsic, and partly accidental, — arising out of the kinds and degrees of cultivation. The most obvious and extensive view, in which it differs, is the redundancy of forest. A vast forest, to a person who had never seen or.e, would excite almost as strong sensations, as the sigh} of the ocean to him who beheld it for the first time ; and in both cases a long continuance of the prospect be- comes tiresome. From some of our hills, the spectator looks over an expanse of woods bounded by the horizon, and slightly chequered by cultivation. The view is grand and imposing at first, but will be more agreeable, and afford more lasting pleasure, when the relative proportions of wood and open ground are reversed. The most cultivated parts of these States approach nearest to some of the most cov- ered in England, that are not an aictual forest. We have nothing like the Downs on your southern coast, — and fa- tiguing as an eternal forest may be, it is less so than those dreary wastes, as destitute of objects as the mountain swell of the ocean. We have still so much wood, that, even in the oldest cultivated parts of the country, it is difficult to find a panoramic view of any extent, where some patches of the native forest are not to be found. I know of but one exception, whjch is from the steeple of the church in Ipswich, in Essex, Massachusetts. This is one of the oldest towns ; the prospect will put you in mind of the scenery of your own country ; — 1 need not add, that it is a verj' pleasing one, and will repay you for the slight trouble of ascending the steeple. The trees, though there are too many of them, at least in masses, must please the eye of an European, from their variety and beauty, as well as novelty. The richness of our trees and shrubs has always excited the admiration ol botanists and the lovers of landscape gardening. There can be nothin-g nobler than the appearance of some of the oaks and beeches in England, and the walnuts and chest- nuts in France and Italy. The vast size of these spreading trees is only surpassed by some of our sycamores on the banks of the Ohio. Our oaks may sometimes be seen of the same size, — and the towering white pine and hemlock 214 COM3I OX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. reach a height, that I had never seen attained by trees ii; Europe ; — but, for grandeur of appearance, "we must reiyj in the first instance, on the American elm, that has beea planted for ornament. Its colour, its form, and its size., place it much before the European elm ; it is one of our most majestic trees. There are many varieties of it very distinct, — yet not so numerous as of the oaks, walnuts and some others. Of the former, you know, we have between thirty and forty diiferent species, and a great number of species exist of all our principal trees. This variety, in the hands of taste, would be made productive of the highest effects in ornamental planting, of which you may find more specimens in your own country than in this, though onlv a part of our riches in this way have been transplanted by your gardeners. You will remark the fresh and healthy look of our forest, as well as fruit trees, compared with those of all the northern parts of Europe. The humidity 01 that atmosphere nourishes the mosses, and a green coat- ing over the trunks and branches, that give the aspect of disease and decay. You will often observe the clean and smooth bark of our trees of all kinds : among the forest trees, particularly the walnut, maple, beech, birch, &c. will be entirely free from moss or rust of any kind, — and theii trunks form fine contrasts with the leaves. You will have too much of forest in this country to go in pursuit of one but, should you happen to visit Nashawn, one of the Eliz- sbeth islands, you will see the most beautiful insulated for- est in the United States, with less of that ragged, lank look, which our native forests commonly present, from the trees struggling with each other for the light, and running up to great height, with few or no branches ; but this one exhibits the tufted, rounded masses, which are found in the groves of your parks. [ will mention a peculiarity, which you will witness in autumn, that will affect a lover of landscape scenery, like yourself, on seeing it the first time, with surprise as well as delight. The rich and mellow tints of the forest, at that season of the year, have often furnished subjects for the poet and the painter in Europe; but it will hardly prepare you for the sights our woods exhibit. I have never seen a representation of them attempted in painting ; it "vouW COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 215 probably be grotesque. Besides all the shades of brown and green, which you have in European trees, there are fhe most brilliant and glaring colours, — bright yellow, and scarlet for instance, — not merely on single leaves, but in masses of whole trees, with all their foliage thus tinged. I do not know that it has ever been accounted for ; it maj' perhaps be owing to the frosts coming earlier here than in Europe, and falling on the leaves while the sap is yet copi- ous, before they have begun to dry up and fall off. How- ever this may be, the colouring is wonderful ; the walnut is turned to the brightest yellow, the maple to scarlet, &c. Our trees put on this harlequin dress about the first of October. I leave to your imagination, which can never reach the reality, to fancy the appearance of such scenes as you may behold at this season. A cloudless sky, and transparent atmosphere, a clear blue lake, with meadows of light, delicate green, backed by hills and dales of those party-coloured, gorgeous forests, are often combined, to form the most enchanting views. First and Second Death. — Greenwood, The first death is the death of the body ; the quenching of that undiscovered spark, which warms and animates the human frame ; the return of our dust to the earth as it was ; the event which happeneth unto all men ; " the sentence of the Lord over all flesh." We cannot prevent it. Like birth, it is inevitable. Helplessly, and without our own will, we open our eyes at first to the light of day ; and then, by an equal necessity, we lie down to sleep, some at this hour, some at the next, on the lap of our mother. This death is an ordinance of God. It was intended for our benefit; and can do us no essential harm. U disturbs not the welfare of the soul ; it touches not the hie of the spirit. The second death is more awful and momentous. It is the death of that which the first death left alive. It is the death of reputation, the death of love, the death of happi- ness, the exile of the soul It has no connexion with tha 216 COJOIOX-PLACE BOOK OF PJIOSE. 6rst death, for its causes are a»^l engendered in the he ot the body. Unlike the first, it is a death which all men do not die. Unlike the first, it is a death from which there ib a way of escape. And yet there are more who are terri- fied with the first death, unimportant as it is, than thers are who fear the second, though it includes every wo. Ana almost all men attempt to fly from the first, though they tnow it to be impossible ; while few take pains to avoid the last, though it is within their ability to do so. The first death, then, is invested with complete power over all men. It withers human strength, it respects not human authority. Rank is not exempt from it, art cannot elude, riches cannot bribe, eloquence cannot soften, nor can even virtue overcome it. But with that secoLd and far more dreadful death, it is not so. There are those over whom it hath no power. Any one may join their number. There is no mystery, no hardship, in the terms of the blessed exemption. All may read, all may comply with them. They arise from the nature of the second death. For as nothing but vice and disobedience towards God can affect the life of the spirit, and invest the second death with its power, so it is righteousness only, and the healthful fruits of religion, which can defy and render it powerless. " In the way of righteousness there is life, and in the pathway thereof there is no death." So little is the first death considered, and so little account of it is made, in many parts of Scripture, that we are told, in some of its sublimest strains, that the believer in Jesus, the true Christian, " shall never die." Goodness carries with it the eternal principles of life, deeply engrafted into its con- stitution ; so that it cannot lose it, nor part with it. It is the good, the benevolent, the pious, and the pure, to whom life is promised ; and on such " the second death has no power." It the sight of men they die ; and so far there is indeed but one event to the righteous and the wicked. But this is only the first, the corporeal death ; and in all essentia] respects they live. COMMON-PLAOE BOOK OF PROSE. 217 Posthumous Influence of the Wise and Good. — Norton. The relations between man and man cease not with life The dead leave behind them their memory, their exara^ pie, and the effects of their actions. Their influence sti\ nbides with us. Their names and characters dwell in our thoughts and hearts. We live and commune with them in their writings. We enjoy the benefit of their labours. Our institutions have been founded by them. We are sur- rounded by the works of th« dead. Our knowledge and cur arts are the fruit of their toil. Our minds have been formed by their instructions. We are most intimately con- nected with them by a thousand dependencies. Those whom we have loved in life are still objects of our deepest and" holiest affections. Their power over us remains They are with us in our solitary walks ; and their voices speak 10 our hearts in the silence of midnight. Their image is impressed upon our dearest recollections, and our most sacred hopes. They form an essential part of our treasure laid up in heaven. For, above all, we are sepa- rated from them but for a little time. We are soon to be united with them. If we follow in the path of those we have loved, we too shall soon join the innumerable company of the spirits of just men made perfect. Our affections and our hopes are not buried in the dust, to which we com- mit the poor remains of mortality. The blessed retain their remembrance and their love for us in heaven ; and we will cherish our remembrance and our love for them while on earth. Creatures of imitation and sympathy as we are, we look around us for <^ pport and countenance even in our virtues. We recur for them, most securely, to the examples of the dead. There is a degree of insecurity and uncertainty about living worth. The stamp has not yet been put upon it, which precludes all change, and seals it up as a just object of admiration for future times. There is no service v^hich a man of commanding intellect can render his fel- low creatures better than that of leaving behind him an unspotted example. If he do not confer upon them this benefit ; if he leave a character dark with vices in the 19 218 c n-place book of prose. sight of God, but dazzling with shining qualities in tb* view of men ; it may be that all his other services had better have been forborne, and he had passed inacti\e and unnoticed through life. It is a dictate of wisdom, there- fore, as well as feeling, when a man, eminent for his vir- tues and talents, has been taken away, to collect the riclies of his goodness, and add them 'c the treasury of human improvement. The true Christian liveth not for himself, and dieth not for himself; and it is thus, in one respect, that he dieth not for himself. Difficulties encountered by the Federal Conveniion. Madisox. Amoxg the difficulties encountered by the convention, a very important one must have lain, in combining tlie requisite stability and energy in government, w'.th tbe inviolable attention due to liberty, and to the republican form. Without substantially ficcomplishiug this part cf their undertaking, they would have verj- imperfectly ful- filled the object of their appointment, or the expoctatici/ of the public ; yet, that it could not easily be accoRiplished, will be denied by no oue, who is unwilling to betray his ignorance on the subject. Energy in governu^.ent is essential to that security against external and internal danger, and to that prompt and salutary execution of the laws, which enter into the very detinition of good govern- ment. Stability in government is essential to national character, and to the advantages annexed to it, as well as to that repose and confidence in the minds of the people, which are among the chief blessings of c\\\\ society. An irregular and mutable legislation is not more an evil in itself, than it is odious to the people ; and it may be pro- nounced with assurance, that the people in this country, enlightened as they are with regard to the nature, aii''' interested, as the great body of them are, in the effects of good government, will never be satisfied till som*} remedy be applied to the vicissitudes and uncertainties, which characterize the state administrations. On compar- COMMON-rLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 219 ing, however, these valuable ingredients with the vital principles of liberty, we must perceive, at once, the dilFi- culty of mingling them together in their due proportions. The genius of republican liberty seems to demand, on the one side, not only that all power should be derived fvcrn the people, but that those intrusted with it should be kept in dependence on the people, by a short duration of their aj)pointments ; and that, even during this short period, the trust should be placed not in a few, but in a number of hands. Stability, on the contrary, requires that the hands in which power is lodged should remain for a length of time the same. A frequent change of men will result from a frequent return of elections ; and a frequent change of measures from a frequent change of men ; whilst energy in government requires not only a certain duration of pow- er, but the execution of it by a single person. Not less arduous must have been the task of marking the proper line of partition betv/een the authority of the gen- eral, and that of the state governments. Every man will be sensible of this difficulty, in proportion as he has been accustomed to contemplate and discriminate objects, exten- sive and complicated in their nature. The faculties of the mind itself have never yet been distinguished and defined, with satisfactory precision, by all the efforts of the most acute and metaphysical philosophers. Sense, perception, judgment, desire, volition, memory, imagination, are found to be separated by such delicate shades and minute grade- tions, that their boundaries have eluded the most subtile investigations, and remain a pregnant source of ingenious disquisition and controversy. The boundaries between the great kingdoms of nature, and, still more, between the various provinces and lesser proportions into which they are subdivided, afford another illustration of the same important truth. The most sagacious and laborious natu- ralists have never yet succeeded in tracing, with certainty, the line which separates the district of vegetable life from the neighbouring region of unorganized matter, or which marks the termination of the former, and the com- mencement of ihe animal enipire. A still greuier obscu- rity lies in the distinctive characters, by which the object 220 COMMOjg-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. in each of these great departments of nature have bees arranged and assorted. When we pass from the works of nature, in which all the dehneations are perfectly accurate, and appear to be otherwise only from the imperfection of the eye whicii surveys them, to the institutions of man, in wliich the ob- scurity arises as well from the object itself, as from tiie organ by which it is contemplated, we must perceive the necessity of moderating still further our expectations and hopes from the efforts of human sagacity. Experience has instructed us, that no skill in the science of government has yet been able to discriminate and define, with sufficient certainty, its three great provinces, the legislative, the executive, and the judiciary ; or even the privileges and powers of the different legislative branches. Questions daily occur, in the course of practice, which prove the obscurity that reigns over these subjects, and which puzzle the greatest adepts in political science. Besides the obscurity arising from the complexity of objects, and the imperfection of the human faculties, the medium through which the conceptions of men are con- veyed to each other, adds a fresh embarrassment. The use of words is to express ideas. Perspicuity, therefore, requires not only that the ideas should be distinctly formed, but that they should be expressed by words distinctively and exclusively appropriated to them. But no language is so copious as to supply words and phrases for every com- j)lex idea, or so correct as not to include many equivocally denoting difTerent ideas. Hence it must happen, that, how- ever accurately objects may be discriminated in themselves, and however accurately the discrimination may be consid- ered, the definition of them may be rendered inaccurate by the inaccuracy of the terms in which it is delivered. And this unavoidable inaccuracy must be gre-- /er or less, according to the complexity and novelty of the objects defined. "When the Almighty himself condescends to address mankind in their own language, his meaning, luminous as it must be, is rendered dim and doubtful by the cloudy medium through which it is communi- cated. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 221 Here, then, are three sources of vague and incorrect definitions ; — indistinctness of the object, imperfection of the organ of perception, inadequateness of the vehicle of ideas. Any one of these must produce a certain degree of obscurity. Tlie convention, in dehneating the bouudai y between the federal and state jurisdictions, must have experienced the full effect of them all. Would it be wonderful if, under the pressuie of all these difficulties, the convention should have been forced into some deviations from that artificial structure and regu- lar symmetry, which an abstract vie\r of the subject might lead an ingenious theorist to bestow on a constitution plan- ned in his closet or in his imagination ? The real wonder is, that so many difficulties should have been surmounted ; and surmounted with unanimity almost as unprecedented as it must have been unexpected. It is impossible for any man of candour to reflect on this circumstance without par- taking of the astonishment. It is impossible for the man of pious reflection not to perceive in it the finger of that Almighty Hand, which has been so frequently and signally extended to our relief in the critical stages of the revolution. Reflections on the Battle of Lexington. — Edward Everett. It was one of those great days, one of those elemental occasions in the world's affairs, when the people rise and act for themselves. Some organization and preparation had been made ; but, from the nature of the case, with scarce any effect on the events of that day. It may be doubted, whether there was an efficient order given the whole day to any body of men as large as a regiment. It was the people, in their first capacity, as citizens and as freemen, starling from their beds at midnight, from their firesides, and their fields, to take their own cause into their own hands. Such a spectacle is the height of the moral sub- lime ; when the want of every thing is fully made up by Ihe spirit of the cause ; and the soul within stands in place of discipline, organization, resources. In the prodigious 19* 222 COMMOiNT -PLACE HOOK OF PROSE. efforts of a veteran army, beneath the dazzling splendour Df their array, there is something revolting to the retiecting mind. The ranks are tilled with the desperate, the mercenary, the depraved ; an iron slavery, by the name of subordination, merges the free will of one hundred thousand men in the unqualified despotism of one; the humanity, mercy, and remorse, which scarce ever de- sert the individual bosom, are sounds without a meaning to that fearful, ravenous, irrational monster of prey, a mercenary army. It is hard to say who are most to be commiserated, the wretched people on whom it is let loose, or the still more v/retched people whose substance has been sucked out, to nourish it into strength and fury. But in the efforts of the people, of the people struggling for their rights, moving not in organized, disciplined masses, but in their spontaneous action, man for man, and heart for heart, — though I like not war, nor any of its works, — there is something glorious. They can then move forward without orders, act together without combination, and brave the flaming lines of battle, without entrenchments to cover, or v/alls to shield them. No dissolute camp has worn off from the feelings of the youthful soldier the freshness ol that home, where his mother and his sisters sit waiting, with tearful eyes and aching hearts, to hear good news from the wars ; no long service in the ranks of the can- queror has turned the veteran's heart into marble ;• their valor springs not from recklessness, from habit, from indif- ference to the preservation of a life, knit by no pledges to the life of others ; but in the strength and spirit of the cause alone they act, they contend, they bleed. In this they con- quer. The people always conquer. They always must con- quer. Armies may be defeated ; kings maybe overthrown, and new dynasties imposed by foreign arms on an ignorant and slavish race, that care not in what language the cove- nant of their subjection runs, nor in whose name the deed of their barter and sale is made out. But the people never invade , iod, when they rise against the invader, are never subdued. If they are driven from the plains, they fly to the mountains. Steep rocks and everlasting hills are their castles; the tangled, pathless thicket their palisado ; and nature, — God, — is their A\y. Now he overwhelms the COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 223 no£ i of tlieir enemies beneath his drifiing mountains of san 1 .j now he buries them beneath an atmosphere oi" failing snows; he lets loose his tempests on their fleets; he puts a folly into their counsels, a madness into the hearts of their leaders ; and he never gave, and never will give, a full and final triumph over a virtuous, gallant people, resolved to be free. Purpose of the Monument on Bunker Hill. — Webster, We kttow that the record of illustrious actions is most safely deposited in the universal remembrance of mankind. We know, that if we could cause this structure to ascend, not only till it reached the skies, but till it pierced them, its broad surfaces could still contain but part of that, which, in an age of knowledge, hath already been spread over the earth, and which History charges herself with making known to all future times. We know that no inscription, on entablatures less broad than the earth itself, can carry information of the events we commemorate where it has not already gone ; and that no structure, which shall not outlive the duration of letters and knowledge among men, can prolong the memorial. But our object is, by this edi- fice, to show our deep sense of the value and importance of the achievements of our ancestors ; and, by presenting this work of gratitude to the eye, to keep alive similar sentiments, and to foster a constant regard to tlie principles of the revolution. Human beings are composed not of rea- son only, but of imagination also, and sentiment ; and that is neither wasted nor misapplied, which is appropriated to the purpose of giving right direction to sentiments, and opening proper springs of feeling in the heart. Let it not be supposed that our object is to perpetuate national hostility, or even to cherish a mere military spirit. It is higher, purer, nobler. We consecrate our work to the spirit cf national independence, and we wish that the light of pe ice may rest upon it forever. We rear a memo- r.ai of our conviction of that unmeasured benefit, which has been conferred on our land, and of the happy influences. 224 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. which have been produced, by the same events, on thi general interests of mankind. We come, as Americans, to mark a spot, which must be forever dear to us. and our posterity. V/e wish, that whosoever, in all coming tims. shall turn his eye hither, may behold that the place is not undistinguished where the first great battle of the revolu- tion was fought. We wish, that this structure may pro- claim the magnitude and importance of thart event to every class and every age. We wish, that infancy may learn the purpose of its erection from maternal lips, and that weary and withered age may behold it, and be solaced by the recollections which it suggests. We wish, that labor majf look up here, and be proud, in the midst of its toil. We wish, that, in those days of disaster, which, as they come upon all nations, must be expected to come on us also, desponding patriotism may turn its eyes hither, and be assured that the foundations of our national power still stand strong. We wish, that this column, rising towards heaven among the pointed spires of so many temples dedi- cated to God, may contribute also to produce, in all minds, a pious feeling of dependence and gratitude. We wish, finally, that the last object on the sight of him who leaves his native shore, and the first to gladden his who revisits it, may be something which shall remind him of the liberty and glory of his country. Let it rise, till it meet the sun in his coming ; let the earliest light of morning gild it, and parting day linger and play upon its summit. Albums and the Alps. — Buckminster. You find, in some of the rudest passes in the Alps, homely inns, which public beneficence has erected for the convenience of the weary and benighted traveller. In most of these inns albums are kept to record the names of those, whose curiosity has led them into these regions of barrenness, and the album is not unfrequently the only book in the house. In the.album of the Grand Chartreuse, Gray, on his way to Geneva, recorded his deathless name, and left that exquisite Latin ode, beginning, " ! tu seven COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 226 religio loci ;" an ode which is indeed " pure nectar." It is curious to observe in these books the differences of na- tional character. The Enghshman usually writes his name only, without explanation or comment. The Frenchman records something of his feelings, destination, or business ; commonly adding a line of poetry, an epigram, or some exclamation of pleasure or disgust. The German leaves a long dissertation upon the state of the roads, the accc ni- modations, &c., detailing at full length whence he came and whither he is going, through long pages of crabbed writing. In one of the highest regions of the Swiss Alps, after a day of excessive labour in reaching the summit of our journey, near those thrones erected ages ago for the ma- jesty of Nature, we stopped, fatigued and dispirited, on a spot destined to eternal barrenness, where we found one of these rude but hospitable inns open to receive us. There was not another human habitation within many miles. All the soil, which we could see, had been brought thither, and placed carefully round the cottage, to nourish a few cabbages and lettuces. There were some goats, which supplied the cottagers with milk ; a few fowls lived in the house ; and the greatest luxuries of the place were new-made cheeses, and some wild Alpine mutton, the rare provision of the trav- eller. Yet here Nature had thrown off the veil, and appeared in all her sublimity. Summits of bare granite rose all around us. The snow-clad tops of distant Alps seemed to chill the moon-beams that lighted on them ; and we felt all the charms of the picturesque, mingled with the awe inspired by unchangeable grandeur. We seemed to have reached the original elevations of the globe, o'ertopping forever the tumults, the vices and the miseries of ordinary existence, far out of hearing of the murmurs of a busy world, which discord ravages, and luxury corrupts. We asked for the album, and a large folio was brought to us, almost filled with the scrawls of every nation on earth that could write. Instantly our fatigue was forgotten, and the evening passed away pleas- antly in the entertainment which this book afforded ua, I copied the following Frencli couplet : 226 COMMON -PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. " Dans ces sauvages lieux tout orgueil s'humanise , Dieu s'y montre plus grand ; I'honime s'y pulverise I wish I could preserve the elegance, as well as the c?MON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. i^7 jut L/f our residence below, and bar on us its gates forever Every where in tlie city of our abode are v>re reminded that we have not the power to prolong our stay in it, and that soon we shall leave its privilege?, its dwellings, its streets, its sanctuaries, its Scriptures, its busy throng, for eternity. There is another means reminding us constantly of his fact, — the voice of God.. In the city of our habitation be- low, God has published his glories, his statutes, his offers of pardon' and assistance, for our use as sojourners here, who are passing to eternity. He, the infinite Bc'ng, who is from everlasting to everlasting himself, has conferred on us an existence, that is to continue and grow up by the side of his, through everlasting ages. He has beheld us, in the first stages of our being here, engaged in unrighteous rebellion against his authority, and bent on neglect of his glories ; and, moved with pity, sent his everlasting Son to atone for our guilt, and to call us to repentance, ^nd his Holy Spirit to indite his will, and influence us to obedience. In our habitation we have his word ; here temples are erected for his service ; a day is appointed by him for men to assemble ; ministers commissioned to teach ; and they who love his name speak to one another and to their fellow- men of his designs. Wherever we go, then, the voice of God is reaching us, and re-echoing the truth, that we are beings whose final dwelling-place is eternity, and who have here no continuing city. The Bible, wherever it meets our eye, reiterates the voice of God, that we must die and rise again in other worlds. In each reproof of conscience, his awful voice is heard to speak a reckoning day in eter^ nity. In each act we do for God or for his kingdom here, his voice of love whispers of eternal joys. Each revohing Sabbath, with its pealing bells, and open sanctuaries, and solemn rites, bears on its hours his voice, that warns us of an abode in heaven or hell. Each sermon is the call he makes to hear his voice to-day. In each season of prayer we hear him say, that we have not reached our home — that we are pilgrims here. From the throne of glory, on which he will sit in judgment, and assign us our dwelling m eternity, tie Saviour now sends down the voice of m©« 238 coMMON-Pi.auE book of prose. nition ; and, while it rolls round the world we dwell in, tes thousand messengers echo back the voice to our ears, tha! " here we have no continuing city." Description of the Preaching of TVhitJield. — Miss Francis. There was nothing in the appearance of this extraor dinary man, which v/ould lead you to sup^^ose that a Felix could tremble before him. " He was something above the middle stature, well proportioned, and remarkable for a native gracefulness of manner. His complexion was very fair, his features regular, and his dark blue eyes small and lively : in recovering from the measles, he had contracted a squint with one of them ; but this peculiarity rather ren- dered the expression of his countenance more remember- able, than in any degree lessened the effect of its uncom- mon sweetness. His voice excelled, both in melody and compass ; and its fine modulations were happily accompa- nied by that grace of action, which he possessed in an em- inent degree, and which has been said to be the chief requisite for an orator." To have seen him when he first commenced, one would have thought him any thing but enthusiastic and glowing; but, as he proceeded, his heart warmed with his subject, and his manner became impetu 0U3 and animated, till, forgetful of every thing around him, he seemed to kneel at the throne of Jehovah, and to be seech in agony for his fellow-beings. After he had finished his prayer, he knelt for a long time in profound silence ; and so powerfullj'' had it affected the most heartless of his audieiDce, that a stillness like that of the tomb pervaded the whole house. Before he com- menced his sermon, long, darkening columns crowded the bright, sunny sky of the morning, and swept their dull shadows over the building, in fearful augury of the storm. His text was, " Strive to enter in at the strait gate ; for many, I say unto you, shall seek to enter in, and si all not be able." " See that emblem of human life," said he. pointing to a shadow that was flittng acrosf the floor. " It COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 235 passed for a moment, and concealed the brightness of heav- en from our view : — but it is gone. And where will ye be. my hearers, when your lives have passed away like that dark cloud ? Oh, my dear friends, I see thousands sitting attentive, with their eyes fixed on the poor, unwor- thy preacher. In a few days, we shall all meet at the judg- ment-seat of Christ. We shall form a part of that vast assembly that will gather before the throne ; and every eye will behold the judge. With a voice whose call you must abide and answer, he will inquire whether on earth ye strove to enter in at the strait gate ; whether you were supremely devoted to God ; whether your hearts were ab- sorbed in him. My blood runs cold when I think how many of you will then seek to enter in, and shall not be able. Oh, what plea can you make before the Judge of the whole earth ? Can you say it has been your whole endeavour to mortify the flesh, with its affections and lusts ? that your life has been one long effort to do the will of God ? No ! you must answer, I made myself easy in the world by flattering myself that all would end well ; but I have deceived my own soul, and am lost. " You, false and hollow Christian, of what avail will it be that you^have done many things ; that you have read much in the sacred word ; that you have made long prayers ; that you have attended religious duties, and appeared holy in the eyes of men ? What will all this be, if, instead ot loving Him supremely, you have been supposing you should exalt yourself in heaven by acts really polluted and un- holy ? " And you, rich man, wherefore do you hoard your sil- ver ? wherefore count the price you have received for him whom you every day crucify in your love of gain ? Wh}--, that, when you are too poor to buy a drop of cold water, 5 our beloved son may be rolled to hell in his chariot pil- lowed and cushioned around him." His eye gradually lighted up, as he proceeded, till, towards the close, it seemed to sparkle with celestial fire. " Oh, sinners !" he exclaimed, " by all your hopes of happiness, I beseech you to repent. Let not the wrath of God be awakened. Let not the fires of eternity be kin- dled against you. See there '" said he, pointing to thp 240 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. lightning, which played on the corner of the pulpit — " 'Tis a gltnce from the angry eye of Jehovah ! Hark !" con- tinued he, raising his finger in a listening attitude, as the distant thunder grew louder and louder, and broke in one tremendous crash over the building. "It was the voice of the Almighty as he passed by in his anger !" As the sound died away, he covered his face with his hands, and knelt beside his pulpit, apparently lost in inward and intense prayer. The storm passed rapidly away, and the sun, bursting forth in his might, threw across the heav- ens a magnificent arch of peace. Rising, and pointing to the beautiful object, he exclaimed, " Look upon the rain- bow, and praise him that made it. Very beautiful it is in the brightness thereof. It compasseth the heavens about with glory ; and the hands of the Most High have bend- ed it." The effect was astonishing. Even Somerville shaded his eyes when he pointed to the lightning, and knelt as he listened to the approaching thunder ; while the deep sen- sibility of Grace, and the thoughtless vivacity of Lucre- tia, yielded to the powerful excitement in an unrestrained burst of tears. " Who could resist such eloquence ?" said Lucretia, as they mingled with the departing throng. Anecdote of Dr. Chauncy. — TtrnoR. Dr. Cooper, who was a man of accomplished manners, and fond of society, was able, by the aid of his fine talents, to dispense with some of the severe study that others en- gaged in. This, however, did not escape the envy and malice of the world, and it was said, in a kind of petulant and absurd exaggeration, that he used to walk to the south- end of a Saturday, and, if he saw a man riding into town in a black coat, would stop, and ask him to preach tho next day. Dr. Chauncy was a close student, very absent, and very irritable. On these traits in the character of the two clergymen, a servant of Dr. Chauncy laid a scheme for obtaining a particular object from his master. Scipio went into his master's study one morning to receive some COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 241 diiections, which the doctor having given, resumed his writ- ing, but the servant still remained. The master, looking up a few minutes afterwards, and supposing he had just come in, said, " Scipio, what do you want ?" " I want a new coat, massa." " Well, go to Mrs. Chauncy, and tell her to give you one of my old coats ;" and was again absorbed in his studies. The servant remained fixed. Af- ter a while, the doctor, turning his eyes that way, saw him again, as if for the first t'rce, and said, " What do you want, Scip. ?" " I "van.t a new coat, mass.!." " Well, go to my Aife, and ^a«. her to give you one of my old coats;" and fell to writing once more. Scipio remained in the same posture. After a few moments, the doctor looked towards him, and repeated the former question, " Scipio, what do you want ?" " I want a new coat, massa." It now flashed over the doctor's mind, that there was something of repe- tition in this dialogue. " Why, have I not told you before to ask Mrs. Chauncy to give you one ? get away." " Yes, massa, but I no want a black coat." " Not want a black coat ! why not ?" " Why, massa, — I 'fraid to tell you, — but I don't want a black coat." " What's the reason you don't want a black coat? tell me directly." " 0! massa, 1 don't want a black coat, but I 'fraid to tell the rea- son, you so passionate." " You rascal ! will you tell me the reason ?" " ! massa, I'm sure you be angry." " l( I had my cane here, you villain, I'd break your bones : will you tell me what you mean ?" " I 'fraid to tell you, massa ; I know you be angry." The doctor's impatience was now highly irritated, and Scipio, perceiving, by his glance at the tongs, that he might find a substitute for the cane, and that he was sufficiently excited, said, " Well, massa, you make me tell, but I know you be angry — I 'fraid, massa, if I wear another black coat. Dr. Cooper ask me to preach for him !" This unexpected termination re- alized the servant's calculation ; his irritated master burst mto a laugh, — " Go, you rascal, get my hat and cane, anu tell Mrs. Chauncy she may give you a coat of any colour a red one if you choose." Away went the negro to his mistress, and the doctor to tell the story to his friend. Dr. Cooper. 21 ^ 242 co:m3iox-plac£ book of prose. Effects of a Dissolution of the Federal Unicn, — Ha3xilto:n'. AssiTMiXG it, thereforej as an established truth, that^ in case of disunion, the several state?, or such combinations of them as might happen to be formed out of the wreck of the general confederacy, would he subject to those vicissi- tudes of peace and war, of friendship and enmity with each other, which have fallen to the lot of all other nations not united under one government, let us enter into a concise detail of some of the consequences that would attend such a situation. War between the states, in the £rst periods of their sep- arate existence, would be accompanied with much greater distresses than it commonly is in those countries where regular military establishments have long obtained. The disciplined armies always kept on foot on the continent of Europe, though they bear a malignant aspect to liberty and economy, have, notwithstanding, been productive of the eingular advantage of rendering sudden conquests imprac- ticable, and of preventing that rapid desolation, which used to mark the progress of war prior to their introduction. The art of fortification has contributed to the same ends. The nations of Europe are encircled with chains of fortified places, which mutually obstruct invasion. Campaigns are wasted in reducing two or three fortified garrisons, to gain admittance into an enemy's country. Similar impedi- ments occur at every step, to exhaust the strength, and delay the progress, of an invader. Formerly, an invading army would penetrate into the heart of a neighbouring country almost as soon as intelligence of its approach could be received ; but now, a comparatively small force of disci- pUaed troops, acting on the defensive, with the aid of posts^ is able to impede, and finally to frustrate, the purposes of one much more considerable. The history of war in tha quarter of the globe is no longer a history of nations sub lined, and empires overturned : but of towns taken and re- taken, of battles that decide nothing, of retreats more bea- eficiai than Tictories, of much effort and little acqt^i: on. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 243 In this country the scene would be altogether reversed. Tiie jealousy ol" military establishments would postpone them as long as possible. The want of fortifications, leav- ing the frontier of one state open to another, ^ould facili- tate inroads. The populous states would with little diffi- culty overrun their less populous neighbours. Conquests would be as easy to be made as difficult to be retained. War, therefore, would be desultory and predatory. Plun- der and devastation ever march in the train of irregulars. The calamities of individuals would ever make the princi- pal figure in events, and would characterize our exploits. This picture is not too highly wrought ; though, I con- fess, it would not long remain a just one. Safety from ex- ternal danger is the most powerful director of national con- duct Even the ardent love of liberty will, after a time, give way to its dictates. The violent destruction of life and property incident to war, the continual effort and alarm attendant on a state of continual danger, will com- pel nations the most attached to liberty to resort for repose and security to institutions, which have a tendency to de- stroy their civil and political rights. To be more safe, they, at length, become willing to run the risk of being less free. The institutions chiefly alluded to are standing armies, and the corresponding appendages of military establish- ments. Standing armies, it is said, are not provided against in the new constitution ; and it is thence inferred that they would exist under it. This inference, from the very forn? of the proposition, is, at best, problematical and uncertain But standing armies, it may be replied, must inevitably re* suit from a dissolution of the confederacy. Frequent wai and constant apprehension, which require a state of as con- stant preparation, will infallibly produce them. The weak- er states or confederacies would first have recourse to them, to put themselves on an equality with their more potent neighbours. They would endeavour to supply the inferi- ority of population and resources by a more regular and effective system of defence, — by disciplined troops, and by fortifications. They would, at the same time, be obliged to strengthen the executive arm of government ; in doing which their c6nstitutions would require a progressive di- rection towards monarchy. It is the nature ol wai t' iv 244 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROS£. crease the executive, at the expense of the legislathe authority. The expedients, which have been mentioned, -would soon give the states, or confederacies, that made use of them, a superiority over their neighbours. Small states, or states of less natural strength, under vigorous governments, and with the assistance of disciplined armies, have often tri- umphed over large states, or states of greater natural strength, which have been destitute of these advantages. Neither the pride nor the safety of the important states, or confederacies, would permit them long to submit to this mor- tifying and adventitious superiority. They v/ould quickly re- sort to means similar to those by which it had been effected, to reinstate themselves in their lost pre-eminence. Thus we should, in a little time, see established in every part of this country the same engines of despotism, which have been the scoui-ge of the old world. This, at least, would be the natural course of things ; and our reasonings v.ill be likely to be just, in proportion as they are accommodated to this standard. These are not vague inferences deduced from speculative defects in a constitution, tne Avhol-e power of which is lodged in the hands of the people, or their repre- sentatives and delegates ; they are solid conclusions, drawn from the natural and necessary progress of human affairs. If we are wise enough to preserve the union, we may for ages enjoy an advantage similar to that of an insulated situation. Europe is at a great distance from us. Her colonies in our vicinity will be likely to continue too much disproportioned in strength to be able to give us any dan- gerous annoyance. Extensive military establishments can- not, in this position, be necessary to our security. But, if vv-e should be disunited, and the integral parts should either remain separated, or, which is most probable, should be thrown together into two or three confederacies, we should be, in a shoct course of time, in the predicament of the continental powers of Europe. Our liberties would be a prey to the means of defending ourselves against the wabitioa end jealousy of each other. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 245 This is an liea not superficial or futile, hui «!olid and weighty. It deserves the most serious and miture consid- eration of every prudent and honest man, of \^hatever par- ty. If such men will make a firm and solemn pause, and meditate dispassionately on its importance ; if they wil contemplate it in all its attitudes, and trace it to all its con- sequences, they will not hesitate to part with trivial objec- tions to a constitution, the rejection of which would, in all probability, put a final period to the union. The airy phan- toms, that now flit before the distempered imaginations of some of its adversaries, would then quickly give place to more substantial prospects of dangers, real, certain, and extremely formidable Sports on JVew Year's day. — Paulding. " Cold and raw the nor^h wi* ''s blow. Bleak in the morning early All the hills are covered witn snow, And winter's now come fairly." Winter, with silver locks and sparkling icicles, now gradually approached, under cover of his north-west winds, his pelting storms, cold, frosty mornings, and bitter, freez- ing nights. And here we will take occasion to express our obligations to the popular author of the Pioneers, for the pleasure we have derived from his happy delineations of the progress of our seasons, and the successive changes which mark their course. All that remember their youth- ful days in the country, and look hack with tender, melan- choly enjoyment upon their slippery gambols on the ice, their Christmas pies, and nut-crackings by the cheerful fireside, will read his pages with a gratified spirit, and thank him heartily for having refreshed their memory with the half-effaced recollections of scenes and manners, labours and delights, which, in the progress of Time, and the changes which every where mark his course, will, in some future age, perhaps, live only in the touches of hig pen. If, in the course of our history, we should chance to dwell upon scenes somewhat similar to those he de 21* 246 COMMOiN'-PLACE BOOi^ OF PROSE. scribes, or to mark the varying tints of our seasons witV a sameness of colouring, let us not be stigmatized with Dorrowing from him, since it is next to impossible to be true to nature, without seeming to have his sketches in oui eye. The holydays, those wintry blessings, which cheer the heart of young and old, and give to the gloomy depths of winter the life and spirit of laughing^, jolly spring, were now near at hand. The chopping-knife gave token of good- Jy minced pies, and the bustle of the kitchen afforded shrew(J indications of what was coming by and by. The celebra- ti">ii of the new year, it is well known, came originallj from the northern nations of Europe, who still keep uf many of the practices, amusements, and enjoyments, known to their ancestors. The Heer Piper valued himself upon being a genuine northern man, and, consequently, held the winter holydays in special favour a. id affection. In addi- tion to this hereditary attachment to ancient customs, it was shrewdly suspected, that his zeal in celebrating these good old sports was not a little quickened, in consequence of his mortal antagonist, William Penn, having hmted, in the course of their controversy, that the practice of keeping holydays savoured not only of Popery, but paganism. Before the Heer consented to sanction the projects ol' Dominie Kanttwell for abolishing sports and ballads, he stipulated for full liberty, on the part of himself and his people of Elsingburgh, to eat, drink, sing and frolic as much as they liked, during the winter holydays. In fact, the Dominie made no particular opposition to this suspension of his blue-laws, being somewhat addicted to good eating and drinking, whenever the occasion justified ; that is to say, whenever such accidents came in his way. It had long been the custom with Governor Piper to usner in the new year with a grand supper, to which the Dominie, the members of the council, and certain of the most respectable burghers, were always bidden. This year, he determined to see the old year out, and the new one in, as the phrase was, having just heard of a great vic- tory gained by the Bulwark of the Protestant Religion, the immortal Gustavus Adolphus ; which, though it happened Dearly four years before, had only now reached the village COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. S247 of Elsingburgh. Accordingly, the Snow Ball Bomble was set to work in the cooking of a mortal supper ; which, agreeably to the taste of West Indian epicures, she sea- soned with such enormous quantities of red pepper, that whoever ate was obliged to drink, to keep his mouth from getting on fire, like unto a chimney. Exactly at ten o'clock, the guests sat down to the table where they ate and drank to the success of the Protestant cause, the glory of the great Gustavus, the downfall of Popery and the Quakers, with equal zeal and patriotism The instant the clock struck twelve, a round was fired from the fort, and a vast and bottomless bowl, supposed to be the identical one in which the famous wise men of Gotham went to sea, was brought in, filled to the utmost brim with smoking punch. The memory of the departed year, and the hopes of the future, were then drank in a special bum- per, after which the ladies retired, and noise and fun be- came the order of the night. The Heer told his great story of having surprised and taken a whole picket-guard, i:nder the great Gustavus ; and each of the guests con- tributed his tale, taking special care, however, not to outdc their host in the marvellous, — a thing which always put the Governor out of humour. Counsellor Langfanger talked wonderfully about puMic improvements ; Counsellor Varlett sung, or rather roart-d, a hundred verses of a song in praise of Rhenish wine ; and Othman Pfegel smoked and tippled, till' he actually came to a determination of bringii.g matters to a crisis with the fair Christina the very next day. Such are the won- der-working powers of hot punch ! As for the Dominie, he departed about the dawn of day, in such a plight, that, if it had not been impossible, we should have suspected him of being, as it were, a little overtaken with the said punch. To one or two persons, who chanced to see him, he actually appeared to stagger a little ; but such was the stout faith of the good Dominie's parishioners, that neither of these worthy fellows would believe his own eyes suffi- ciently to state these particulars. A couple of hours' sleep sufficed to disperse the vapours of punch and pepper-pot ; for heads in those days were much harder than now, and the Heer, as well as his rois- 248 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. tering companions, rose betimes to give and receive the compliments and good wishes of the season. The morning was still, clear, and frosty. The sun shone with the lus- tre, though not with the warmth, of summer, and his bright beams were reflected, with indescribable splendour, from the glassy, smooth expanse of ice, that spread across, and up and down the broad river, far as the eye could see. The smoke of the village chimneys rose straight into the air, looking like so many inverted pyramids, spreading gradually broader and broader, until they melted away, ^nd mixed imperceptibly with ether. Scarce was the sun above the horizon, when the village was alive with ro?y boys and girls, dressed in their new suits, and going forth with such warm anticipations of happiness, as time and ex- perience imperceptibly fritter away into languid hopes, or strengthening apprehensions. " Happy New Year I" came from every mouth and every heart. Spiced beverages and lusty cakes were given away with liberal, open hand ; every body was welcomed to every house ; all seemed to forget their little heart-burnings and disputes of yore ; all seemed happy, and all were so ; and the Dominie, who al- ways wore his coat with four great pockets on new-year day, came home and emptied them seven times of loads of new-year cookies. When the gay groups had finished their rounds in the village, the ice in front was seen all ahve with the small fry of Elsingburgh, gamboling and skating, sliding and tumbling, belter skelter, and making the frost-bit ears of winter glad with the sounds of mirth and revelry. In one place was a group playing at hurley, with crooked sticks, with which they sometimes hit the ball, and sometimes each other's shins ; in another, a knot of sliders, following in a row, so that, if the foremost fell, the rest were sure to tumble over him. A little farther might be seen a few, that had the good fortune to possess a pair of skates, luxuriat- ing in that most graceful of all exercises, and emulated by some half a dozen little urchins, with smooth bones fas- tened to their feet, in imitation of the others, skating away with a gravity and perseverance worthy of better imple- ments. All was rout, laughter, revelry and happiness; and that day the icy mirror of the noble Delaware reflect COMMOxN'-PLACE BOOK OF PROSS. 249 ed as light hearts as ever beat together in the new world. At twelve o'clock, the jolly Heer, according to his imme- morial custom, went forth from the edge of the river, dis- tributing apples, and other dainties, together with handsful of wampum, which, rolling away on the ice in different di- rections, occasioned innumerable contests and squabbles among the fry, whose disputes, tumbles, and occasional buffetings for the prizes, were inimitably ludicrous upon the slippery element. Among the most obstreperous and mischievous of the crowd was that likely fellow Cupid, who made more noise, and tripped up more heels, that day, than any half a dozen of his cotemporaries. His voice could be heard above all the rest, especially after i^e arri- val of the Heer, before whom he seemed to think it his duty to exert himself, while his unrestrained, extravagant laugh, exhibited that singular hilarity of spirit, which dis- tinguishes the deportment of the African slave from the invariable gravity of the free red man of the western world. All day, and until after the sun had set, and the shadows of night succeeded, the sports of the ice continued, and the merry sounds rung far and near, occasionally interrupted by those loud noises, which sometimes shoot across the ice like a rushing earthquake, and are occasioned by its crack- ing, as the water rises or falls. Conclusion of " Observations on the Boston Port Bill." — JOSIAH QUIJVCY, JUN. Thus, my countrymen, from the days of Gardiner and Morton, Gorges and Mason, Randolph and Cranfield, down to the present day, the inhabitants of this northern region have constantly been in dangers and troubles, from foes open and secret, abroad and in their bosom. Our freedom lias been the object of envy, and to make void the charter of our liberties the work and labour of an undiminished race of villains One cabal having failed of success, new coiJ.spirators have risen, and what the first could not make "vMd," the next "humbly desired to revoke." To thif 250 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. purpose oue falsehood after another hath heen fabricatct! and spread abroad with equal turpitude and equal eflFronte- Ty. That minute detail, which would present actors now on the stage, is the province of History. She, inexorably severe towards the eminently guilty, will delineate their characters with the point of a diamond ; and, thus blazon- ed in the face of day, the abhorrence and execrations of mankind will consign them to an infamous immortality. So great has been the credulity of the British court from the beginning, or such hath been the activity of falte brethren, that no tale inimical to the Northern Colonies, however false or absurd, but what hath found credit with the administration, and operated to the prejudice of the country. Thus it was told and believed in England, that we were not in earnest in the expedition against Canada at the beginning of this century, and that the country did every thing in its power to defeat the success of it, and tbat the misfortune of that attempt ought to be wholly at- tributed to the Northern Colonies : while nothing could be more obvious, than that New England had exhausted her youngest blood, and all her treasures, in the undertaking ; and that every motive of self-preserration, happiness and safety must have operated to excite these provinces to the most spirited and persevering measures against Canada. The people, who are attacked by bad men, have a testi- mony of their merit, as the constitution, which is invade by powerful men, hath an evidence of its value. The path of our duty needs no minute delineation ; it lies level to the eye. Let us apply, then, like men sensible of its: importance, and determined on its fulfilment. The inroads on our public liberty call for reparation ; the wrongs we have sustained call for justice. That reparation and that justice may j'et be obtained by union, spirit and firmness. But to divide and conquer was the maxim of the devil in the garden of Eden ; and to disunite and enslave hath been the principle of all his votaries from that period to the present. The crimes of the guilty are to them the cords of association, and dread of punishment the indissoluble Dond of union. The combinations of public robbers ought, therefore, to ceme 'J patriots and heroes : and, as the former plot and conspire lo undermine and destroy the common COMSiON-FLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 251 wealth, the latter ought to form a compact for oppogitioa,— a band of vengeance. What insidious arts, and what detestable practices, have been used to deceive, disunite and enslave the good peo- ple of this continent ! The mystic appellations of loyalty and allegiance, the venerable names of government and good order, and the sacred ones of piety and public virtue, have been alternately prostituted to that abominable pur- pose. All the windings and guises, subterfuges and doub- lings, of which the human soul is susceptible, have toeeu displayed on the occasion. But secrets, which were thought impenetrable, are no longer hid ; characters deeply dis- guised are openly revealed ; and the discovery of gross impostors hath generally preceded but a short time their utter extirpation. Be not again, my countrymen, " easily captivated with the appearances only of wisdom and piety, — professions of a regard to liberty, and of a strong attachment to the public interest." Your fathers have been explicitly charged with this folly by one of their posterity. Avoid this and all similar errors. Be cautious against the de- ception of .appearances. " By their fruits ye shall know them," was the saying of one, who perfectly knew the numan heart. Judge of affairs which concern social hap- piness by facts : judge of man by his deeds. For it is very certain, that pious zeal for daj^s and times, for mint and cumin, hath often been pretended by those who were in- fidels at bottom ; and it is as certain, that attachment to the dignity of government and the king's service, hath often flowed from the mouths of men, who harboured the dark- est machinations against the true end of the former, and were destitute of every right principle of loyalty to the latter. Hence, then, care and circumspection are neces- sary branches of political duty. And, as " it is much easier to restrain liberty from running into licentiousness, than power from swelling into tyranny and oppression," so much more caution and resistance are required against the over- bearing of rulers, than the extravagance of the people. To give no more authority to any order of state, and to place no greater public confidence in any man, than is necessary for the generi" welfare, may be considered hy 2-52 C03IM0N-PLACE LOOK OF PRuSE. the people as an important point of policy. But though craft and hypocrisy are prevalent, yet piety and virtue have a real existence : duplicitj- and political imposture abound, yet benevolence and public spirit are not altogether ban- iihed the world. As wclves wiQ appear in sheep's cj; th- ing, so superlative knaves and parricides will assume the vesture of the man of virtue and patriotism. These things are permitted by Providence, no doubt, for wise and good reasons. Man was created for a rational, and was designed for an active being. His faculties of in- telligence and force were given him for use. "When the wolf, therefore, is found devouring the flock, no hierarchy forbids a seizure of the victim for sacrifice ; so, also, when dignified impostors are caught destroying those whom their aits deceive, though their stations destined them to pi-o- tect, — the sabre of justice flashes righteousness at the rtroke of execution. Yet be not amused, my countrymen ! The extirpation of bondage and the re -establishment of freedom are not of eisy acquisition. The worst passions of the human heart and the most subtle projects of the human mind, are leagued against you ; and principahties and powers haj-e acceded to the combination. Trials and conflicts you must, therefore, endure ; hazards and jeopardies of life and fortune will at- tend the struggle. Such is the fate of all noble exertions tor public liberty and social happiness. Enter not the lists with- out thought and consideration, lest you arm with timidity, and combat with irresolution. Having engaged in the con- flict, let nothing discourage your vigour, or repel your perse- verance. Remember that submission to the yoke of bondage is the worst that can befall a people, after the most fierce and unsuccessful resistance. Wliat can the misfortunes of vanquishment take away, which despotism and rapine would spare ? " It had been easy," said the great lawgiver Solon to the Athenians, " to repress the advances of tyranny, and prevent its establishment ; but, now it is e- tablished and cfrown to some height, it would be more glorious to de- molish it." But nothing glorious is accompUshed, nothing great is attained, nothing valuable is secured, without mag- nanimity of mind, and devotion of heart to the sei vice. Bru- tus-like, therefore, dedicate yourselves at this day to tha COMa ON-PLACE CUOK OF PROSE. 253 service of you country ; and henceforth live a life of lib- erty and ^lory. " On the ides of March," — said the great and good man to his friend Cassius, just before the battle of Pbilippi, — " on the ides of March I devoted my life to my country, and since that time I have lived a life of lib- erty and glory." Inspired with public virtue, touched with the wrongs, and indignant at the insults, offered his country, the high- spirited Cassius exhibits an heroic example ; — " Resolved as we are," — replied the hero to his friend, — " resolved as we are, let us march against the enemy ; for, though we should not conquer, we have nothing to fear." Spirits and genii like these rose in Rome, and have since adorned Britain ; such also will one day make glorious this more western world. America hath in store her Bruti and Cassii — her Hampdens and Sydneys — patriots and heroes, who will form a band of brothers ; — men, who will have memories and feelings, courage and swords, — courage, that sliall inflame their ardent bosoms till their hands cleave to their swords, and their swords to their enemies' hearts. JVecessity of Union between the States. — Jay. It has often given me pleasure to observe that indepen- dent America was not composed of detached and distant territories, but that one connected, fertile, wide-spreading country was the portion of our western sons of liberty. Providence has, in a particular manner, blessed it with a variety of soils and productions, and watered it with innu- merable streams for the delight and accommodation of its inhabitants. A succession of navigable waters forms a kind of chain round its borders, as if to bind it together ; while the most noble rivers in the world, running at con- venient distances, present them with highways for the easy communication of friendly aids, and the mutual transporta- tion and exchange of their various commodities. With equal pleasure I have as often taken notice, that Providence has been pleased to give this one connected country to one united people ; a people descended from the 22 254 COMMOX-PLACC EliOK OF PROSE. same ancestors, speaking the same language, professing the same religion, attached to the same principles of govern- ment, very similar in their manners and customs ; and whO; by their joint counsels, arms and efforts, fighting side bj side, through a long and bloody war, have nobly estaiblish- ed their general liberty and independence. This country and this people seem to have been made for each other ; and it appears as if it were the design of Providence, that an inheritance so proper and convenient for a band of brethren united to each other by the strong- est ties, should never be spkt into a number of unsocial, jealous and alien sovereignties. Similar sentiments have hitherto prevailed among all orders and denominations of men among us. To all gen- eral purposes we have uniformly been one people — each individual citizen every where enjoying the same national rights, privileges and protection. As a ration we have made peace and war ; as a nation we have vanquished our common enemies ; as a nation we have formed alliances, and made treaties, and entered into various compacts and conventions with foreign states. A strong sense of the value and blessings of union in- duced the people, at a very early period, to institute a fed- eral government in order to preserve and perpetuate i They formed it almost as soon as they had a political exis ence ; nay, at a time when their hal ;ations were in flames, when many of them were bleeding in the field, and when the progress of hostility and desolation left little room for those calm and mature inquiries and reflections, which must ever precede the formation of a wise and well- balanced government for a free people. It is not to be wondered, that a government instituted in times so inauspi- cious should, on experiment, be found greatly deficient, and inadequate to the purpose it was intended to answer. This intelligent people perceived and regretted these de- fects. Still continuing no less attached to union than ena- moured of liberty, they observed the danger, which im- mediately threatened the former, and more remotely the latter , and, being persuaded that ample security for both could only be found in a national government more wisely Saraed, they, as ^ Uh one voice, convened the late conven COMMON-PLACE B 30K OF PROSE. 25d tion at Philadelphia, to take that important subject under consideration. This convention, composed of men who possessed the confidence of the people, and many of whom had become highly distinguished for their patriotism, virtue and wis- dom, in times which tried the souls of men, undertook the arduous task. In the mild season of peace, with minds unoccupied by other subjects, they passed many months in cool, uninterrupted and daily consultations. And finally, without having been awed by power, or influenced by any passion except love for their country, they presented and recommended to the people the plan produced by their joint and very unanimous counsels. It is not yet forgotten, that well-grounded apprehensions of imminent danger induced the people of America to form the memorable congress of 1774. That body recommend- ed certain measures to their constituents, and the event proved their wisdom ; it yet is fresh in our memories how soon the press began to teem with pamphlets and weekly papers against those very measures. Not only many of the officers of government, who obeyed the dictates of per- sonal interest, but others, from a mistaken estimate of con- sequences, from the undue influence of ancient attach- ments, or whose ambition aimed at objects which did not correspond with the public good, were indefatigable in their endeavours to persuade the people to reject the advice of that patriotic congress. Many, indeed, were deceived and deluded, but the great majority reasoned and decid- ed judiciously ; and happy they are in reflecting that they did so. But if the people at large had reason to confide in the men of that congress, few of whom had then been fully tried or generally known, still greater reason have they now to respect the judgment and advice of the convention ; for it is well known that some of the most distinguished members of that congress, who have been since tried and ;ustly approved for patriotism and abilities, and who have grown old in acquiring political information, were also mem- bers of this convention, and carried into it their accumulat« ed knowledge and experience. Z56 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. It is worthy of remark, that not only the first, hut everj succeeding congress, as well as the late convention, have joined with the people in thinking that the prosperity of America depended on its union. To preserve and perpetuate it was the great object of the people in forming that con- vention ; and it is also the great object of the plan, which the convention has advised them to accept. With what p-ropriety therefore, or for what good purposes, are attempts at this particular period made by some men to depreciate the importance of the union ? — or why is it suggested, that three or four confederacies would be better than one ? I am persuaded in my own mind, that the people have always thought right on this subject, and that their universal and uniform attachment to the cause of the union rests on great and weighty reasons. They who promote the idea of substituting a number of distinct confederacies in the room of the plan of the conven- tion, seem clearly to foresee, that the rejection of it would put the continuance of the union in the utmost jeopardy. That certainly would be the case ; and I sincerely wish it may be as clearly foreseen by every good citizen, that, whenever the dissolution of the union arrives, America will have reason to exclaim, in the words of the poet, — ^' Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness !" Character of Hamilton. — Ames. Mkn- of the most elevated minds have not always the readiest discernment of character. Perhaps he was some- times too sudden and too lavish in bestowing his confidence : his manly spirit, disdaining artifice, suspected none. But, while the power of his friends over him seemed to have no limits, and really had none, in respect to those things which were of a nature to be yielded, no man, not the Ro- man Cato himself, was more inflexible on every point that touched, or only seemed to touch, his integrity and honour. With him it was not enough to be unsuspected ; his bosom wrould have glowed like a furnace at its own whispers of *eproach. Mere purity would have seemed to hi/n below COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PIIOSE. 257 praise ; and such were his habits, and such his nature, that the pecuniary temptations, which many others can only with great exertion and self-denial resist, had no attrac- tions for him. He was very far from obstinate ; yet as his triends assailed his opinions with less profound thought than he had devoted to them, they were seldom shaken by dis- cussion. He defended them, however, with as much mild- ness as force, and evinced that, if he did not yield, it was not for want of gentleness or modesty. His early life we pass over ; though his heroic spirit in (he army has furnished a theme that is dear to patriotism, and will be sacred to glory. In all the different stations, in which a life of active use- fulness has placed him, we find him not more remarkably t istinguished by the extent, than by the variety and versa- t\lity, of his talents. In every place, he made it apparent, that no other man could have filled it so well ; and in times of critical importance, in which alone he desired employ- ment, his services were justly deemed absolutely indispen- sable. As secretary of the treasury, his was the powerful spirit that presided over the chaos. " Confusion heard his voice, and wild Uproar Stood ruled." Indeed, in organizing the federal government in 1789, every man, of either sense or candour, will allow, the diffi- culties seemed greater than the first-rate abilities could sur- mount. The event has shown that his abilities were great- er than those difficulties. He surmounted them ; and Washington's administration was the most^wise and benef- icent, the most prosperous, and ought to be the most pop- ular, that ever was intrusted with the affairs of a nation. Great as was Washington's merit, much of it in plan, much in execution, will of course devolve upon his mm- istsr. As a lawyer, his comprehensive gemus reached the fjiinciples of his profession : he compassed its extent, he fathomed its profound, perhaps, even more familiarly ai J easily ihan the rules of its practice. With most men Ic w 13 a trade : with him it was a science 22* B5S COM.M0^■-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. As i statesman, he was not more distinguished for the great exter* of h's views, than by the caution with which he^providec against impediments, and the watchfulness of his care over the right and hberty of the subject. In none of the many revenue bills which he framed, though com- mittees reported them, is there to be found a single clause that savours of despotic power ; not one that the sagest champions of law and liberty would, on that ground, hesi- tate to approve and adopt. It is rare that a man, who owes so much to nature, de- scends to seek more from industry ; but he seemed to de- pend on industry as if nature had done nothing for him. His habits of investigation were very remarkable ; his mind seemed to cling to his subject till he had exhausted it. Hence the uncommon superiority of his reasoning powers — a superiority' that seemed to be augmented from every source, and to be fortified by every auxiliary — learn- ing, taste, wit, imagination and eloquence. These were embellished and enforced by his temper and manners, by his fame and his virtues. It is difficult, in the midst of such various excellence, to say in what particular the ef- fect of his greatness was most uianifest. No man more promptly discerned truth ; no man more clearly displayed it : it was not merely made visible, — it seemed to come bright with illumination frotu his lips. But, prompt and clear as he was, — fervid as Demosthenes, like Cicero fiiU of resource, — he was not less remarkable for the copious- ness and completeness of his argument, that left Urtle for cavil, and nothing for doubt. Some men take their strong- est argument as a weapon, and use no other ; but he left nothing to be inquired for — nothing to be answered. He not only disarmed his adversaries of their pretexts and ob- jections, but he stripped them of all excuse for having urged them ; he confounded and subdued as well as con- vinced. He indemnified them, however, by making his discussion a complete map of his subject ; so that his opponents might, indeed, feel ashamed of their mistakes, but they could not repeat them. In fact it was no com- mon effort that could preserve a really able antagonist from becoming his convert ; for the truth, which his researches 10 distinctly presented to the understanding of others, was COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 259 rendered almost irresistibly commanding and impressive ly the love and reverence, which, it was ever apparent, he profoundly cherished for it in his own. While patriotism glowtid in his heart, wisdom blended in his speech her authority with her charms. Unparalleled as were his services, they were neverthe- less no otherwise requited than by the applause of all good men, and by his own enjoyment of the spectacle of that national prosperity and honour, which was the effect of them. After facing calumny, and triumphantly surmount- ing an unrelenting persecution, he retired from office with clean though empty hands, as rich as reputation and an unblemished integrity could make him. The most substantial glory of a country is in its virtu- ous great men : its prosperity will depend on its docility to learn from their example. That nation is fated to ignominy and servitude, for which such men have lived in vain. Power may be seized by a nation that is yet barbarous; and wealth may be enjoyed by one that it finds or renders sordid : the one is the gift and the sport of accident, and the other is the sport of power. Both are mutable, and have passed away without leaving behind them any other memorial than ruins that offend taste, and traditions that baffle conjecture. But the glory of Greece is imperisha- ble, or will last as long as learning itself, which is its mon- ument : it strikes an everlasting root, and bears perennial blossoms on its grave. The name of Hamilton would have honoured Greece in the age of Aristides. May Heaven, the guardian of our liberty, grant that our country may be fruitful of Hamiltons, and faithful to their glory ! Morality of Poetiy. — George Bancroft. If poetry is the spirit of God within us, that spirit must be a pure one ; if it is the strongest and most earnest ex- pression of generous enthusiasm, it must be allied with the noblest feelings of human nature. Genius can, it is true, of itself, attract attention ; but it cannot win continued and universal admiration, except in alliance with virtue. Who £60 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSii ran measure the loss, which the world would sustain, if the sublimest work of Milton were to be struck from the number of living books ? Yet the world would be the gainer, if Don Juan were as if it had never been written. The one poet cherishes loftiness of purpose, and tends to elevate his reader to a kindred magnanimity ; while the other exposes, it may be with inimitable skill and graphic power, the vices and weaknesses of man, and so tends t" degrade the mind to the level which he establishes for the race. But we go to poetry as a relief and a support. We need no books to ring changes to us on man's selfishness ; and if at times, in a moment of despondency or disappoint- 3ient, when the confused judgment cannot rightly estimate the progress of good amidst the jar of human passions, and the colUsion of human interests, we forget the dignity- of our nature, and revile it, the poet should reinstate it in our favour, and make us forget our disgust with the world. "While on this subject, we cannot forbear to remark on that tendency to morahze, which many mistake in them- selves for wise observation. True, to the eye of a con- templative man, books may be found in the running brooks, and sermons in stones ; but it is the mark of an inferior mind to be constantly repeating the common-places of mo- rality : one, who does it often, is sure to be esteemed by his neighbours as a tedious proser ; and to have this strain of puny thinking put into verse, and set before us as suo- lime, is really intolerable. In that which is to produce a grand effect, every thing must be proportionably grand. The historians of nature tell us, that gold is diifused throughout creation, may bt; extracted from the stones we tread upon, and enters into the composition of the plants cu which we feed. But it is a very slow and troublesome process to extract it from most stones and plants ; and, after all, it is obtained in &~ small quantities, that it is not worth the trouble it costs. And it may be so with the elements of poetry. They exist every where ; the dreams of the drunkard may sometimes have a gleam of bright fancy ; a mother, setting out in pursuit of in idiot boy, who has run away on an ass, may have V3ry proper thoughts, and weep as sincerely as Andromache herself; and the reformation »f a knave like Peter Bell may be psychologically as re- COx^IMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 261 markable as the downfall of Macbeth, the scepticism of Hamlet, the madness of Lear. But still it is not the thing we want. To the observer of the human mind, the mere collector of facts, one man's experience may, offer nearly as much as another's ; but cannot, in the same degree, promote the purposes of the poet. At a ball in any village in the country, there are probably the self-same passioats at work, as were ever called into action on similar occa- sions. The beauty and pride of a country town, dancing to an imperfect band, may afford illustrations of all the moral phenomena of vanity, admiration and love, the hours whirled away very agreeably in lively dances, and blushes excited by the praise of loveliness. But aH this is a common, every day sort of business ; and hardiy any one would think of weaving it into poetry. But when the imagination is wrought up by the expectation of an ap preaching battle ; when the capital of Belgium has gather- ed its own beauty and the chivalry of England ; when the blow, that is to decide the destiny of empires, is suspended for a season, while youth and pleasure revel in careless gayety, till they are recalled from the charm that creeps over the senses by a peal, which is the death-larum of thousands, — we find the scenes of the ball room contribut- ing to heighten the power and the splendour of poetry. If we hear of a blind boy, who goes to sea in a shell, we should think the story would make a very curious and proper paragraph for the miscellaneous department of a newspaper, provided the fact be well authenticated ; but what is there of poetry about it ?* If we were to meet a little girl, who had lost her pet lamb, it would be proper to be extremely sorry ; and the matter is a fit one for pro- portionate sympathy. But these ^are trivial things; they hardly claim much attention in life ; they are of no gen- eral interest for the exercise of the imagination. The poet must exalt and satisfy the mind ; must fill us witli glorious aspirations and lofty thoughts ; must lead us out * Trifling as tliis incident might appear, if related in the com mon and desultory manner of a newspaper paragraph, it has yet been wrought, by tine genius of Wordsworth, into one of the most beautiful and natural p-eces of poetry which it has been our lot to meoi with.- Ed. 262 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. through the high heaven of invention, and call up befoie us the master passions of man's mind in all their majesty ; — not show us the inside of a baby-house, nor furnish us with a comment on the catalogue of a toy-shop. The Consequences of Atheism. — Chaxnijvg. Few men suspect, perhaps no man comprehends, the extent of the support given by religion to every virtue No man, perhaps, is aware how niuch our moral and social sentiments are fed from this fountain ; how powerless con- science would become without the belief of a God ; how palsied would be human benevolence, were there not the sense of a higher benevolence to quicken and sustain it ; now suddenly the whole social fabric would quake, and with what a fearful crash it would sink into hopeless ruins, were the ideas of a Supreme Being, of accountableness, and of a future life, to be utterly erased from every mind. Once let men thoroughly believe, that they are the work and sport of chance ; that no Superior Intelligence con- cerns itself with human affairs ; that all their improve- ments perish forever at death ; that the weak have no guardian, and the injured no avenger 5 that there is no recompense for sacrifices to uprightness and the public good ; that an oath is unheard in heaven ; that secret crimes have no witness but the perpetrator ; that human existence has no purpose, and human virtue no unfailing friend ; that this brief life is every thing to us, and death is total, everlasting extinction, — once let men thoroughly abandon religion, and who can conceive or describe the extent of the desolation which would follow ? We hope, perhaps, that human laws and natural sym- pathy would hold society together. As reasonably might we believe, that, were the sun quenched in the heavens, our torches could illuminate, and 'ur fires quicken and fertilize the creation. What is there in human nature to awaken respect and tenderness, if man is the unprotected tnsect of a day ? and what is he more, if atheism be true ? Erase all thought and fear of God from a community, an(J COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 263 selfishness and sensuality would absorb the whole man. Appetite, knowing no restraint, and poverty and sufFer- Jns:, having no solace or hope, would trample in scorn on the restraints of human laws. Virtue, duty, principle, would be mocked and spurned as unmeaning sounds. A sordid self-interest would supplant every other feeling, and man would become in fact, what the theory of atheism declares him to be, a companion for brutes ! The blind Preacher. — Wirt. It was one Sunday, as I travelled through the county of Orange, that my eye was caught by a cluster of horseg tied near a ruinous, old, wooden house in the forest, not far from the road-side. Having frequently seen such objects before, in travelling through these States, I had no diffi- culty in understanding that this was a place of religious worship. Devotion alone should have stopped me, to join in the duties of the congregation ; but I must confess, that curi- osity to hear the preacher cf such a wilderness, was not the least of my motives. On entering, I was struck with his preternatural appearance. He was a tall and very spare old man ; his head, which was covered with a white linen cap, his shrivelled hands, and his voice, were all shaking under the influence of a palsy ; and a few moments ascertained to me that he was perfectly blind. The first emotions that touched my breast were those of mingled pity and veneration. But how soon were all my feelings changed ! The lips of Plato were never more worthy of a prognostic swarm of bees, than were the lips of this holy man ! It was a day of the administration of the sacrament; and his subject was, of course, the passion of our Saviour. I had heard the subject handled a thou- sand times : I had thought it exhausted long ago. Little did I suppose that in the wild woods of America, I was to meet with a man, whose eloquence would give to thiji topic a new and more sublime pathos, than I had ever be fore witnessed. 264 COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. As lie descended from the pulpit to distribute the mystic symbols, there was a peculiar, a more than human solem- nity in his air and manner, which made my blood run cold, and my whole frame shiver. He then drew a picture of the sufferings of our Saviour ; his trial before Pilate ; his ascent up Calvary ; his cruci- fixion ; and his death. I knew the whole history ; but never until then had I heard the circumstances so select- ed, so arranged, so coloured ! It was all new ; and I seem- ed to have heard it for the first time in my life. His enun- ciation was so deliberate, that his voice trembled on every syllable ; and every heart in the assembly trembled in unison. His peculiar phrases had that force of descrip- tion, that the original scene appeared to be at that moment acting before our eyes. We saw the very faces of the Jews ; the staring, frightful distortions of malice and rage We saw the buffet : my soul kindled with a flame of in- dignation ; and my hands were involuntarily and convul- sively clinched. But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiv- ing meekness of our Saviour ; when he drew, to the life, las blessed eyes streaming in tears to heaven ; his voice breathing to God a soft and gentle prayer of pardon on his enemies, " Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do," — the voice of the preacher, which had all along faltered, grew fainter and fainter, until, his utterance being entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings, he raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and ir- repressible flood of grief. The effect is inconceivable The whole house resounded with the mingled groans, and sobs, and shrieks of the congregation. It was sometime before the tumult had subsided, so far as to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usu- al, but fallacious standard of my own weakness, I began to be very uneasy for the situation of the preacher. For I could not conceive how he would be able to let his audi- ence down from the height to which he had wound them, without impairing the solemnity and dignity of his subject, or perhaps shocking them by the abruptness of the fall But — no : the descent was as beautiful and sublime as th? Rlevation had been rapid and enthusiastic. COMMON-I'I-ACE BOOK OF PROSE. ^^65 The first sentence, with which he broke the aAvful si- lence, was a quotation from Rousseau : " Socrates died lik» a philosopher, but Jesus Christ, like a God !" I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by this short sentence, unless 5'ou could perfectly conceive the whole manner of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the discourse. Never before did I completelj'' under- stand what Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on delivery. You are to bring before you the venerable fig- ure of the preacher ; his blindness, constantly recalling to your recollection old Homer, Ossian, and Milton, and asso- ciating with his performance the melancholy grandeur of their geniuses ; you are to imagine that you hear his slow, solemn, well-accented enunciation, and his voice of affecting, trembling melody; you are to remember the -litch of passion and enthusiasm, to which tlie congregation were raised ; and then the few moments of portentous, deathlike silence, which reigned throughout the house : the preacher, removing his white handkerchief from his aged face, (even yet wet from the recent torrent of his tears,) and slowly stretching forth the palsied hand which holds it, begins the sentence, " Socrates died like a phi- losopher" — then, pausing, raising his other hand, pressing them both, clasped together, with warmth and energy, to his breast, lifting his " sightless halls" to heaven, and pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice — " but Je- sus Christ — like a God !" If he had been indeed and in truth an angel of light, the effect could scarcely have been more divine. V/hatever I had been able to conceive of the sublimity of Massillon or the force of Bourdaloue, had fallen far short of the power vyhich I felt from the delivery of this simple sentence. If this description give you the impression, that this in- comparable minister had any thing of shallow, theatrical ♦rick in his manner, it does him great injustice. I have never seen, in any other orator, such a union of simplicity and majesty. He has not a gesture, an attitude, or an ac- cent, to which he does not seem forced by the sentiment he is expressing. His mind is too serious, too earnest, loo solicitous, and, at the same time, too dignified, to stoop 10 artifice. Although as far removed from ostentation as a 23 266 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. man can be, yet it is clear, from the train, the style and substance of his thoughts, that he is not only a very polite scholar, but a man of extensive and profound erudition. 1 v/as forcibly struck with a short yet beautiful character, which he drew of your learned and amiable countrynian, Sir Robert Boyle : he spoke of him, as if " his noble mind had, even before death, divested herself of all influence from his frail tabernacle of flesh ;" and called him, in hia peculiarly emphatic and impressive manner, " a pure in- telligence : the link between men and angels." This man has been before my imagination almost ever since. A thousand times, as I rode along, I dropped the reins of my bridle, stretched forth my hand, and tried to imitate his quotation from Rousseau ; a thousand times I abandoned the attempt in despair, and felt persuaded, that his peculiar manner and power arose from an energy of soul, which nature could give, but which no human being could justly copy. As I recall, at this moment, several of his awfully striking attitudes, the chilling tide, with which my blood begins to pour along my arteries, reminds me of the emotions produced by the first sight of Gray's intrO' ductory picture of his Bard. The humble Man and the proud. — Thacher. Compare, then, the proud man with the man of hu- mility, and tell me which is the more dignified being. Pride, like humility, supposes an act of comparison. But the comparison of ihe proud man is not between hiinsclf and the standard of his duty ; between v/hat he is and what be ought to be ; but between himself and his fe!low-men. He looks around him, forgets liis own defects and weak- rp=ses, infirmities and sins, and because he finds, or iin- *gines he finds, in some respects, a little superiority to hia fellow-men — at the greatest it can be but a little — because he, one worm of the dust, believes himself to be somewhat more rich, more learned, more successful than another, he thinks this to be a sufficient ground for swelling with self- complacency, and regarding those around him with disdaic COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 267 and contempt. The humble man, on the contrary, is sc full of the thought of the exceeding breavUh of the com mandments of God, and of that supreme excellence, to which his religion teaches him to aspire ; and he so con- stantly recollects the imperfection of his approaches to it, that eveiy idea of a vain-glorious comparison of himself with his neighbour dies away within him. He can only remember that God is every thing, and that in his august presence all distinctions are lost, and all human beings re- duced to the same level. Say, then, my friends ; is it not pride, that is so mean, so poor-spirited and low ? is it not pride, that is a mark of a little, and narrow, and feeble mind ? and is not huuiility alone the truly noble, the truly generous and sublime quality ? There is this further proof of the superior elevation of the humble man. The man of pride, with all his affected contempt of the world, must evidently estimate it very highly ; else, whence so much complacency at the idea of surpassing others? Whence that restless desire of dis- tinction, that passion for theatrical display, which inflames his heart, and occupies his whole attention ? Why is it that his strongest motive to good actions is their notoriety, and tliat he considers every worthy deed as lost, when it is not publicly displayed ? It is only because the world and the world's applause are every thing to him ; and that he cannot live but on the breath of popular favour. But the humble man, with all his real lowliness, has yet risen above the world. He looks for that honour, which cometh down from on high, and the whispers of worldly praise die away upon his ear. When his thoughts return from tne contemplation of the infinite excellence of God, and the future glories of virtue, the objects of this life appear reduced in their importance ; in the same Vt^ay as the land- scape around appears little and low to him, whose eye has been long directed to the solemn grandeur and wide mag- nificence of the starry heavens. I appeal to you, my friends, to decide on the comparative dignity of the char- acters of the proud and the humble man. I call on you to say, whether our blessed Master has given to huiniliij too high a rank in the scale of excellence. 568 COMMON- PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. The Son. — From " The Idle Man" — Richard Da.wa There is no virtue without a characteristic beauty tc make it particularly loved of the good, and to make the bad ashamed of their neglect of it. To do what is right argues superior taste as well as morals ; and those, whose practice is evil, feel an inferiority of intellectual power and enjoyment, even where they take no concern for a prin- ciple. Doing well has something more in it than the fulfilling of a duty. It is a cause of a just sense of eleva- tion of character ; it clears and strengthens the spirits ; it gives higher reaches of thought ; it widens our benevo- lence, and makes the current of our peculiar affections swift and deep. A sacrifice was never yet offered to a principle, that was not made up to us by self-approval, and the consideration of what our degradation would have been had we done otherwise. Certainly, it is a pleasant and a wise thing, then, to follow what is right, when we only go along with our affections, and take the easy way of the virtuous pro- pensities of our nature. The world is sensible of these truths, let it act as it may. It is not because of his integrity alone that, it relies on an honest man; but it has more confidence inhis judgment and wise conduct in the long run, than in the schemes of those of greater intellect, who go at large without any land- marks of principle. So that virtue seems of a double na- ture, and to stand oftentimes in the place of what we call talent. The reasoning, or rather feeling, of the world is all right, Tor the honest man only falls in with the order of nature, which is grounded in truth, and will endure along with it. And such a hold has a good man upon the world, that, even where he has not been called upon to make a sacrifice to a principle, or to take a stand against wrong, but has merelj avoided running into vices, and suffered himself to bf borne along by the delightful and virtuous affections of jm vate life, and has found his pleasure in practising the dir- ties of home, — he is looked up to with respect, as well <.s "egarded with kindness. We attach certain notions of ve COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 269 finement to his thoughts, and of depth to his sentiment. The impression he makes on us is beautiful and pecuUar. Other men in his presence, though we have nothing to object to them, and though they may be very well in their way, af- fect us as lacking something — we can hardly tell what — ■ a certain sensitive delicacy of character and manner, without which they strike us as more or less vulgar. No creature in the world has this character so finely marked in him, as a respectful and affectionate son — partic- ularly in his relation to his mother. Every little attention he pays her is not only an expression of filial attachment, and grateful acknowledgment of past cares, but is an evidence of a tenderness of disposition, which moves us the more, because not looked on so much as an essential prop- erty in a man's character, as an added grace, which is bestowed only upon a few. His regards do not appear like mere habits of duty, nor does his watchfulness of his mother's wishes seem like taught submission to her will. They are the native courtesies of a feeling mind, showing themselves amidst stern virtues and masculine energies like gleams of light on points of rocks. They are de- lightful as evidences of power yielding voluntary homage to the delicacy of the soul. The armed knee is bent, and the heart of the mailed man laid bare. Feelings, that would seem to be at variance with each other, meet together and harmonize in the breast of a son. Every call of the mother which he answers to, and every act of submission which he performs, are not only so many acknowledgments of her authority, but, also, so many in- stances of kindness, and marks of protecting regard. The servant and defender, the child and guardian, are all min- gled in him. The world looks on him in this way ; and to draw upon a man the confidence, the respect, and the love of the world, it is enough to say of him, He is an ex- cellent son. In looking over some papers of a deceased acquaintance, [ found the following fragment. He had frequently spoken to me of the person whom it concerned, and who had been his school-fellow, I remember well his one day telling me, that, thinking the character of his friend, and some cnxumstances in his life, \« are of such a kind, that an in 23^ 270 COMMOx\-PLACE EOUK OF PROSE. teresting moral little story might be made from them, he had undertaken it ; but considering, as he was going on, that bringing the private character and feelings of a de- ceased friend before the world was something like sacrilege, though done under a fictitious name, he had stopped soon after beginning the tale : thdt he had laid it away amongst his papers, and had never looked at it again. As the person it concerns has been a long time dead, and no relation survives, I do not feel that there can be any improprietj^ in my now making it public. I give it as it was written, though evidently not revised by my friend. Though hastily put together, and beginning as abruptly as it ends, and with little of story, and no novelty, in the circumstances, yet there is a mournful tenderness in it, which, I trust will interest others in some portion as it did me. " The sun not set yet, Thomas ?" " Not quite, sir. It blazes through the trees on the hill yonder as if their branches were all on fire." Arthur raised himself heavily forward, and, with his ha- Btill over his brow, turned his glazed and dim eyes towards the setting sun. It was only the night before that he had heard his mother was ill, and could survive but a day or two. He had lived nearly apart from society, and, being a lad of a thoughtful, dreamy mind, had made a world to himself. His thoughts and feelings were so much in i^, that, except in relation to his own home, there were the eame vague and strange notions in his brain, concernino- the state of things surrounding him, as we have of a foreign land. The main feeling, which this self-made world excited in him, was love, and, like most of his age, he had formed to himself a being suited to his own fancies. Tliis was tlie romance of life, and though men, with minds like his, make imagination to stand oftentimes in the place of real exist- ence, and to take to itself as deep feeling and concern, yet, in domestic relations, which are so near, and usual, and private, they feel longer aud more deeply than those wha look upon their homes as only a better part of the world COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PllOSE. 271 n^iich they belong to. Indeed, in affectionate and good men of a visionary cast, it is in some sort only realizing their hopes and desires, to turn them homeward. Arthur felt that it was so, and he loved his household the more that they gave him an earnest of one day realizing all his hopes and attachments. Arthur's mother was peculiarly dear to him, in having a character so much like his own. For, though the cares and attachments of life had long ago taken place of a fanciful existence in her, yet her natural turn of mind was strong enough to give to these something of the romance of her disposition. This had led to a more than usual openness and intimacy between Arthur and his mother, and now brought to his remembrance the hours they had sat togeth- er by the fire light, when he listened to her mild and melan choly voice, as she spoke of what she had undergone at the loss of her parents and husband. Her gentle rebuke of his faults, her affectionate look of approval when he had done well, her care that he should be a just man, and her moth- erly anxiety lest the world should go hard with him, aP crowded into his mind, and he thought that every worldl; attachment was hereafter to be a vain thing. He had passed the night between violent, tumultuous grief, and numb insensibility. Stepping into the carriage, with a slow, weak motion, like one who was quitting his sick chamber for the first time, lie began his journey homeward. As he lifted his eyes upward, the few stars, that were here and there over the sky, seemed to look down in pity, and shed a religious and healing light upon him. But they soon went out, one after another, and as the last faded from his imploring sight, it was as if every thing good and holy had forsaken him. The faint tint in tho! east soon became a ruddy glow, and the sun, shooting upward, burst over every living thing in full glory. The sight went to Arthur's sick heart, as if it were in mockery of his misery. Leaning back in his carriage, with his hand over his eyes, he was carried along, hardly sensible it was day. The old servant, Thomas, who was sitting by his side, went on talking in a low, monotonous tone ; but Arthur only heird something sounding in his ears, «!carcely heeding 272 COMMOX-rLACE BOOK OF PROSE. that it was a human voice. He had a sense of wearisome- ness from the motion of the carriage, but in all things else the day passed as a melancholy dream. Almost the first words Arthur spoke were those I have mentioned. As he looked out upon the setting sun, he shuddered through his whole frame, and then became sick and pale. He thought he knew the hill near him ; and, as they wound round it, some peculiar old trees appeared, and he was in a few minutes in the midst of the scenery near his home. The river before him, reflecting the rich even- ing sky, looked as if poured out from a molten mine. The birds, gathering in, were shooting across each other, burst- ing into short, gay notes, or singing their evening songs in the trees. It was a bitter thing to find all so bright and cheerful, and so near his own home too. His horses' hoofs struck upon the old wooden bridge. The sound went to his heart. It was here his mother took her last leave of him, and blessed him. As he passed through the village, there was a feeling of strangeness, that every thing should be just as it was when he left it. There was an undefined thought floating in his mind, that his mother's state should produce a visible change in all that he had been familiar with. But the boys were at their noisy games in the street, the labourers returning, talking together, from their work, and the old men sitting quietly at their doors. He concealed himself as well as he could, and bade Thomas hasten on. As they drew near the house, the night was shutting in about it, and there was a melanchoh'' gusty sound in the trees. Arthur felt as if approaching his mother's tomb He entered the parlour. All was as gloomy and still as a deserted house. Presently he heard a slow, captious step, over head. It was in his mother's chamber. His sister had seen him from the window. She hurried down, and threw her arms about her brother's neck, without uttering a word. As soon as he could speak, he asked, " Is she alive ?" — he could not say, viy mother. " She is sleep- ing," answered his sister, " and must not know to-nighi that you are here ; she is too weak to bear it now." " I will go look at her then, while she sleeps," said he, draw- ing his handkerchief from his face. His sister's sympatl y COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROsE. 273 Had made him shed the first tears which had fallen fron him that day, and he was more composed. He entered the chamber with a deep and still awe upon him ; and, as he drew near his mother's bed-side, and look- ed on her pale, placid, and motionless face, he scarcely dared breathe, lest he should disturb the secret commun- ion that the soul was holding with the world into which it was about to enter. The loss that he was about sulfering, and his heavy grief, were all forgotten in the feeling of a holy inspiration, and he was, as it were, in the midst of in- visible spirits, ascending and descending. His mother's lips moved slightly as she uttered an indistinct sound. He drew back, and his sister went near to her, and she spoke It was the same gentle voice which he had known and felt from his childhood. The exaltation of his soul left him — he sunk down — and his misery went over him like a flood. The next day, as soon as his mother became composed enough to see him, Arthur went into her chamber. She stretched out her feeble hand, and turned towards him, v/ith a look that blessed him. It was the short struggle of a meek spirit. She covered her eyes with her hand, and the tears trickled down between her pale, thin fingers. As soon as she became tranquil, she spoke of the gratitude she felt at being spared to see him before she died. " My dear mother," said Arthur — but he could not go on. His voice was choked, his eyes filled with tears, and the agony of his soul was visible in his face. " Do not be so afflicted, Arthur, at the loss ol me. We are not to part for ever. Remember, too, how comfortable and happy you have made my days Heaven, I know, will bless so good a son as you have been to me. You will have that conso- lation, my son, which visits but a few — you will be able tc look back upon your past conduct to me, not without pain only, but with a holy joy. And thmk hereafter of the peace of mind you give me, now that I am about to die, in the thought that I am leaving your sister to your love and care. So long as you live, she will find you a father and brother to her." She paused for a moment. " I have always felt that I could meet death with composure ; but I did not know," she said, with a tremulous voice, her lips quivering S~4 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. — -' 1 did not know bow hard a thing it would be to eav* tay children, till now that the hour has come." After a litile while, she spoke of his father, and said, she had lived with the behef that he was mindful of her, anu \nih the conviction, wtieh grew stronger as death approach- ed, that she should meet him in another world. She said but little more, as she grew weaker and weaker every hour- Arthur sat by in silenci , holding her hand He saw Uiat she was sensible he was watching her countenance, for every now and then she opened her dull eye, and looked towarJs him, and endeavoured to smile. The day wore slowly away. The sun went down, and the melancholy and still twilight came on. Xorhing was heard but the ticking of the watch, telliag him with a re- sistless power, that the hour was drawing nigh. He gasp- ed, as if under some invisible, gigantic grasp, which it was not for human strength to struggle against. It was now quite dark, and, by the pale light of the night- lamp in the chimney corner, the furniture in the room threw huge and uncouth figures over the wadls. All was unsub- stantial and visionary, and the shadowy ministers of death appeared gathering round, waiting the duty of the hour appointed them. Arthur shuddered for a moment with superstitious awe : but the solemn elevation which a good man feels at the sight of the dying, took possession of him, and he became calm agj±i. The approach of death has so much which is exalting, that our grief is, for the time, forgotten. And could one, who had seen Arthur a few hours before, now have looked upon the grave and grand repose of his countenance, he would hardly have known him. The hvid hue of death was fast spreading over his moth- ers face. He stooped forward to catch the sound of her breathing. It grew quick and faint. — '-'My mother I" — She opened her eyes, for the last time, upon him — a faint flush passed over her cheek — there was the sereiuty of an angel in her look — ^her hand just -pressed his. It was all over. His spirit had endured to its utmost. It sunk down froja its unearthly height ; and, with his face upon his mother's pill -tw, he wept like a child. He arose with a violent efibrt. COMMON- PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 275 and, stepping; into the adjoining chamber, spoke to his aunt. '* It is past," .said he. " Is my sister asleep i — Well, then,, let her have rest ; she needs it." He then went to his own chcmber, and shut himself in. It is a .merciful thing that the intense suffering of sensi- tive minds makes to itself a relief. Violent grief brings on a torpor, and an indistinctness, and dimness, as from long watching. It is not till the violence of afflict'ion has subsided, and gentle and soothing thoughts can find room to mix with our sorrow, and holy consolations can minister to us, that we are able to know fully our loss, and see clear- ly what has been torn away from our affections. It wag so with Arthur. Unconnected and strange thoughts, with melancholy, but half-formed images, were floating in his mind, and now and then a gleam of light would pass through it, as if he had been in a troubled trance, and all was right again. His worn and tired feelings at last found rest in sleep. It is an impression, which we cannot rid ourselves of if we would, when sitting by the body of a friend, that he has still a consciousness of our presence , that, though the com- mon concerns of the v/orld have no more to do with him, he has still a love and care of us. The face which we had so long been familiar with, when it was all life and motion, seems only in a state of rest. We know not how to make it real to ourselves, that the body before us is not a living thing. Arthur was in such a state of mind, as he sat alone in the room by his mother, the day after her death. It was as if her soul had been in paradise, and was now holding communion with pure spirits there, though it still abode in the body that lay before him. He felt as if sanctified by the pr.^sence of one to whom the other world had been laid open — as if under the love and protection of one m^le holy. The religious reflections that his mother had early taught him, gave him strength ; a spiritvial composure stole over him, and he found himself prepared to perform the last offices to the dead. Is 't not enough to see our friends die, and part with them for the remainder of our days ; to reflect thai w« 2ib COilMON-FLACE BOOK OF FPvOSE. shall hear their voices no more, and that they will ne\et look on us again ; to see that turning- to corruption, which was but just now alive, and eloquent, and beautiful with all the sensations of the soul ? Are our sorrows so sacred and peculiar as to make the world as vanity to us, and the men of it as strangers ? and shall we not be left to our af- flictions for a few hours ? Must we be brought out at such a time to the concerned or careless gaze of those we know not, or be made to bear the formal proffers of consolations from acquaintances who will go away and forget it all ? Shall we not be suffered, a little while, a holy and healing communion with the dead r Must the kindred stillness and gloom of our dwelling be changed for the solemn show of the pall, the talk of the passers-by, and the broad and piercing hght of the common sun ? Must the ceremonies of the world wait on us even to the open graves of our friends ? When the hour came, Arthur rose with a firm step and fixed eye, though his whole face was tremulous with the struggle within him. He went to his sister, and took her arm within his. The bell struck. Its heavy, undulating sound rolled forward like a sea. He felt a violent beatiug through his whole frame, which shook him that he reeled It was but a momentary weakness. He moved on, passing those who surrounded him, as if they had been shadows While he followed the slow hearse, there was a vacancy in his eye, as it rested on the coffin, which showed him hardly conscious of what was before him. His spirit was with his mother's. As he reached the grave, he shrunk back, and turned deadly pale ; but, sinking his head upon his breast, and drawing his hat over his face, he stood motionless as a statue till the service was over. He had gone through all that the forms of society requir- ed of him. For, as painful as the effort was, and as little suited as such forms were to his own thoughts upon the sub- ject, yet he could not do any thing that might appear to the world like a want of reverence and respect for his mother. The scene was ended, and the inward struggle over ; and now that he was left to himself, the greatness of his loss came up full and distinctly before him. COMMON-PLACE 1]OOK OF PROSE. '^it It was a dreary and chilly evening when he returnet' home. When he entered the house from which his mothe: had ffoae for erer, a sense of dreary emptiness oppressed him, as if his very abode had been deserted by every liv- ing thing. He walked into his mother's chamber. The naked bedstead, and the chair in which she used to sit, were all that was left in the room. As he threw himself back into the chair, he groaned in the bitterness of his si'irit. A feeling of forlornness came over him, which was not to be relieved by tears. She, whom he had watched over in her dying hour, and whom he had talked to as she lay before him in death, as if she could hear and answer Liin, had gone from him. Nothing was left for the senses to fasten fondly on, and time had not yet taught him tc tliink of her only as a spirit. But time and holy endeav- ours brought this consolation ; and the little of life that a wasting disease left him, was past by him, when alone, in thoughtful tranquillity ; and amongst his friends he appear- ed with that gentle cheerfulness, which, before his mother's death, had been a part of his nature. JVeglect of foreign Literature in America. — Americak Quarterly Review. The curiosity of ournation in literature is not sufficient- ly expansive ; our public refuses its attention to works writ- ten for another hemisphere, and a different state of society. This i3des the text : " Man, that is born of woman, is of few dajs, and full cf trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down ; he fleeth as a shadow, and continueth not. There is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease. Though the root thereof wax old in the earth, and the stock thereof die in the ground ; yet, through the scent of water, it wuU bud and bring forlh boughs like a plant. But man wasteth away ; yea, man giveth up the ghost, and where is he ?" Such are the sink- ing emblems of human life ; such is the end of all that is mortal in man. And what a question is here for us to reflect upon ! " Man giveth up the ghost, and where is he r Yes, when we see the flower of life fade on its stalk, and all its comeliness depart, and all its freshness wither ; when we see the bright eye grow dim^ and the rose on the cheek lose its hue ; when we hear the voice faltering its last accents, and see the energies of nature paralyzed ; when we perceive the beams of intelligence grow fainter and fainter on the countenance, and the last gleam of life extinguished ; when we deposit all that is mortal of a fel- low-being in the dark, cold chamber of the grave, and drop a pitying tear at a spectacle so humiliating, so mournful ; then let us put the solemn question to our souls. Where is he ? His body is concealed in the earth ; but where is (he spirit ? Where is the intellect that could look through the works of God, and catch inspiration from the Divinity which animates and pervades the whole ? Where are the powers that could command, the attractions that could charm ? where the boast of humanity, wisdom, learning. wit, eloquence, the pride of skill, the mystery of art, the r.reations of fancy, the brilliancy of thought ? where the virtues that could win, and the gentleness that could soothe ? where the mildness of temper, the generous affections, the benevolent feelings, all that is great and good, all that is noble, and lovelv, and pure, in the human charicter,— 24* 232 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. where are tliey ? They are gone. We can see nothing Ae eye of Caith only can dimly penetrate the region tc which they have fled. Lift the eye of faith; follow the light of the Gospel ; and let your delighted vision be lost in the glories of the immortal world. Behold, there, the spirits of the righteous dead rising up into newness of life, gathering brightness and strength, unencumbered by the weight ef mortal clay and mortal sorrows, enjoying a happy existence, and performing the holy service of their Maker. Let our reflec ions on death have a weighty and immedi- ate influence on our minds and characters. We cannot be too soon nor too entirely prepared to render the account, which we must all render to our Maker and Judge. All things earthly must fail us ; the riches, power, possessions and gifts of the world will vanish from our sight ; friends and relatives will be left behind ; our present support will be taken away ; our strength will become weakness ; and the earth itself, and all its pomps, and honours, and attrac- tions will disappear. Why have we been spared even till this time ? We know not why, nor yet can we say that a moment is our own. The summons for our departure may now be recorded in the book of Heaven. The angel may now be on his way to execute his solemn commission. Death may already have marked us for his victims. But, whether sooner or later, the event will be equally awful, and demand the same preparation. One, only, will then be our rock and our safety. The cind Parent, who has upheld us all our days, will remain Dur unfailing support. With him is no change ; he is un- moved from age to age ; his mercy, as well as his being, endures forever ; and, if we rely on him, and live in obe- dience to his laws, all tears shall be wiped from our eyes, and all sorrow banished from our hearts. If we are rebels to his cause, slaves to vice, and followers of evil, we must expect the displeasure of a holy God, the just punishment of our folly and wickedness ; for a righteous retribution will be awarded to the evil as well as to the good. Let it be the highest, the holiest, tlie unceasing concern of each one of us, U live the life, that we may be pre- pared tD die the death of the rig teous ; that, when 'J\ey COMMOx\-PLACE iiOOiv OF PROSE. 283 Vfho come after us shall ask, Where is he ? unt.umhered voices shall be raised to testify, that, although his mortal remains are mouldering in the cold earth, his memory is embalmed in the cherished recollections of many a friend who knew and loved him ; and all shall say, with tokens o* joy and confident belief. If God be just, and piety be rewarded, his pure spirit is now at rest in the regions of the blessed. Battle of Bunker Hill. — Cooper. The whole scene now lay before them. Nearly in their front was the village of Charlestown, with its desert- ed streets, and silent roofs, looking like a place of the dead ; or, if the signs of life were visible within its open avenues, 'twas merely some figure m.oving swiftly in the solitude, like one who hastened to quit the devoted spot. On the opposite point of the south-eastern face of the peninsula, and at the distance of a thousand yards, the ground was already covered by masses of human beings, in scarlet, with their arms glittering in a noon-day sun. Between the two, though in the more immediate vicinity of the silent town, the rounded ridge, already described, rose abruptly from a flat that was bounded by the water, until, having attained an elevation of some fifty or sixty feet, it swelled gradually to the little crest, where was planted the hum- ble object that had occasioned all this commotion. The meadows, on the right, were still peaceful and smiling, as in the most quiet days of the province, though the excited fancy of Lionel imagined that a sullen stillness lingered about the neglected kilns in their front, and over the whole landscape, that was in gloomy consonance with the ap- proachmg scene. Far on the left, across the waters of the Charles, the American camp had poured forth its thousands to the hills ; and the whole population of the country, for many miles inland, had gathered to a point, to witness a struggle charged with the fate of their nation. Beacon llill rose from out the appalling silence of the town of Bos- ton, like a pyramid of living fi\ces, with every eye fixeij 284 COMaiON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. on the fatiil point ; and men hung along the yards of the sLipping, or were suspended on cornices, cupolas, und stee- ples, in thoughtless security, while every other sense was lost in the absorbing interest of the sight. The vessels of war had hauled deep into the rivers, or, more pro] erlv, those narrow arms of the sea, which formed the peninsula, and sent their iron missiles with unwearied industry across the low passage, which alone opened the means of commu- nication between the self-devoted yeomen on the hill and their distant countrymen. While battalion landed alter battalion on the point, cannon-balls from the battery of Copp's, and the vessels of war, were glancing up the nat- ural glacis that surrounded the redoubt, burying themselves in its earthen parapet, or plunging with violence into the deserted sides of the loftier height which lay a few hun- dred yards in its rear ; and the black and smoking bombs appeared to hover above the spot, as if pausing to select the places in which to plant their deadly combustibles. Notwithstanding these appalling preparations, and cease- less annoyances, throughout that long and anxious morn- ing, the stout husbandm-en on the hill had never ceased their steady efforts to maintain, to the uttermost extremity, the post they had so daringly assumed. In vain the Eng- lish exhausted every means to disturb their stubborn foes ; the pick, the shovel and the spade continued to perform their offices, and mound rose after mound, amidst the din and danger of the cannonade, steadily, and as well as if the fanciful conceits of Job Pray embraced their real objects, and the labourers were employed in the peaceful pursuits of their ordinary lives. This firmness, however, was not like the proud front which high training can impart to the most common mind ; for, ignorant of the glare of military show ; in the simple and rude vestments of their calhng ■, armed with such weapons as they had seized from the hooks above their own mantels ; and without even a ban- ner to wave its cheering folds above their heads, they stood, sustained only by the righteousness of their cause, and those deep moral principles, which they had received from their fathers, and which they intended this day should show were to be transmitted untarnished to their chiluica. \t was afterwards known, that they endured thfir labouiJ COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 283 and their dangers even in want of that sustenance, wliich is so essentiiil to support animal spirits in moments of cahn- lifiss and ease ; while their enemies, on the point, awaiting the arrival of their latest bands, were securely devouring a meal, which, to hundreds amongst them, proved to be their last. The fatal instant now seemed approaching. A gen- eral movement was seen among the battalions of the Brit- ish, Vt^ho began to spread along the shore, under cover ol the brow of the hill — the lingering boats having arrived with the rear of their detachments — and officers hurried from regiment to regiment with the final mandates of theii" chief. At this moment a body of Americans appeared on the crown of Bunker Hill, and, descending sv.^iflly by the road, disappeared in the meadows to the left of their own redoubt. This band was followed by others, who, like themselves, had broken through the dangers of the nar- row pass, by braving the fire of the shipping, and who also hurried to join their comrades on the lowland. The Brit- ish general determined at once to anticipate the arrival of further re-enforcements, and gave forth the long-expected order to prepare for the attack. The Americans had made a show, in the course of that fearful morning, of returning the fire of thei; enemies, by throwing a few shot from their light field-pieces, as if in mockery of the tremendous caiiiionade which they sus- tained. But as the moment of severest trial a|)proached, the same awful stillness, which had settled upon the de- serted streets of Charlestown, hovered around the redoubt. On the meadows, to its left, the recently arrived bands has- tily threw the rails of two fences into one, and, covering the whole with the mown grass that surrounded them, they posted themselves along the frail defence, which answer- ed no better purpose than to conceal their weakness from their adversaries. Behind this characteristic rampart, several bodies of husbandmen, from the neighbouring provinces of New Hampshire and Connecticut, lay on their arms, in sullen expectation. Their line extended from the shore to the base of the ridge, where it termi- nated several hundred feet behind the works; leafing tr wide opening, in a diagonal direction, between the fence and an earthen breastv^-ork, which ran a short distajic* 286 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. down the declivity of the hill, from the north-eastern angle cf the redoubt. A few hundred yards in the rear of this rude disposition, the naked crest of Bunker Hill rose r.noc- cupied and undefended ; and the streams of the Charles and Z\Iystick, sweeping around its base, e.pproached so near each other as to blend the sounds of their rippling. It was across this low and narrow isthmus, that the royal frigates poured a stream of fire, that never ceased, while around it hovered the numerous parties of the undisciplined Ameri- cans, hesitating to attempt the dangerous passage. In this manner Gage had, in a great degree, surround- ed the devoted peninsula with his power ; and the bold men, who had so daringly planted themselves under the muzzles of his cannon, were left, as already stated, unsup- ported, without nourishment, and with weapons from their own gunhooks, singly to maintain the honour of their na- tion. Including men of all ages and conditions, there might have been two thousand of them ; but, as the day advanced, small bodies of their countrymen, taking counsel of their feelings, and animated by the example of the old partisan of the woods, who crossed and recrossea the neck, 'oudly scoffing at the danger, broke through the fire of the shipping in time to join iu the closing and bloodj' business of the hour. On the other hand, Howe led more than an equal num- ber of the chosen troops of his prince ; and as boats con- tinued to ply between the two peninsulas throughout the afternoon, the relative disparity continued undiminished to Ihe end of the struggle. It was at this point in our narra- tive that, deeming himself sufficiently strong to force the defences of his despised foes, the arrangements immediate- ly preparatory to such an undertaking were made in full view- of the excited spectators. Notwithstanding the se curity with which the English general marshalled his war- riors, he felt that the approaching contest would ue a bat- tle of no common incidents. The eyes of tens of thousands were fastened on his movements, and the occasion demand- ed the richest display of the pageantry of war. The tioops formed with beautiful accuracy, and the col- umns moved steadily along fhe shore, and took their assign- ed station;- undor cover of the brow of the cmmence. Thtiit COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 281 force was in some measure divided ; one moiety attempting the toilsome ascent of the hill, and the other moving along the beach, or in the orchards of the more level ground, to- wards the husbandmen on the meadows. The latter soon disappeared behind some fruit-trees and the brick-kilns just mentioned. The advance of the royal columns up the as- cent was slow and measured, giving time to their field- guns to add their efforts to the uproar of the cannonade, \vhich broke out with new fury as the battalions prepared 10 march. "When each column arrived at the allotted point, it spread the gallant array of its glittering warriors under a bright sun, " It is a glorious spectacle," murmured the graceful chieftain by the side of Lionel, keenly alive to all the po- etry of his alluring profession ; " how exceeding soldier- like ! and with what accuracy his ' first-arm ascends the hill,' towards his enemy !" The intensity of his feelings prevented Major Lincoln from replying, and the other soon forgot that he had spoken, in the overwhelming anxiety of the moment. The ad- vance of the British line, so beautiful and slow, resembled rather the ordered steadiness of a drill, than an approach to a deadly struggle. Their standards fluttered proudly above them ; and there were moments Avhen the wild mu- sic of their bands was heard rising on the air, and temper- ing the ruder sounds of the artillery. The young and thoughtless in their ranks turned their faces backward, and smiled exultingly, as they beheld steeples, roofs, masts, and heights, teeming with their thousands of eyes, bent on the show of their bright array. As the British lines moved in open view of the little redoubt, and began slowly tc gather around its different faces, gun after gun became si- lent, and the curious artillerist, or tired seaman, lay ex- tended on his heated piece, gazing in mute wonder at the spectacle. There was just then a minute when the roar of the cannonade seemed passing away like the rumbling ■jf distant thunder. " They will not fight, Lincoln," said the animated leader at the side of Lionel — " the military front of Howe has chilled the hearts of the knaves, and our victory will be bloodless !" 283 COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. " We shall see, sir — we shall see !" These words were barely uttered, when platoon aftei platoon, among the British, delivered its fire, the bl^ze of musketry flashing swiftly around the brow of the hill, anc was immediately followed by heavy volleys that ascended from the orchard. Still no answering sound was heard from the Americans, and the royal troops were soon lost to the eye, as they slowh' marched into the white cloud which their own fire had alone created. " They are cowed, by heavens ! — the dogs are cowed !"' once more cried the gay companion of Lionel, " and Howe is within two hundred feet of them unharmed !" At that instant a sheet of flame glanced through the smoke, like lightning playing in a cloud, while -at one re- port a thousand muskets were added to the uproar. It was not altogether fancy, which led Lionel to imagine that he saw the smoky canopy of the hill to wave, as if the trained warriors it enveloped faltered before this close and appalling discharge ; but, in another instant, the stimulating war-cry, and the loud shouts of the combatants, were borne across the strait to his ears, even amid the horrid din of the com- bat. Ten breathless minutes flew by like a moment of time, and the bewildered spectators on Copp's were still gazing intently on the scene, when a voice was raised among them, shouting — " Hurrah ! let the rake-hellies go up to Breed's ; the people will teach 'em the law !" '-' Throw the rebel scoundrel from the hill ! Blow him from the muzzle of a gun!" cried twenty soldiers in a breath. " Hold !" exclaimed Lionel — " 'tis a simpleton, an idiot, a fool !" But the angry and savage murmurs as quickly subsided, and were lost in other feelings, as the bright red lines of the royal troops were seen issuing from the smoke, waving and recoiling before the still vivid fire of their enemies. "Ha!" said Burgoyne — "'tis some feint to draw the rebels from their hold !" " 'Tis a palpable and disgraceful retreat !" muttered the stern warrior nigh him, whose truer eye detected at a glance COMMON-PL4CE BOOK OF PROSE. 259 the discomfiture of the assailants. — " 'Tis another l?z.?e re- treat before the rebels !" *' Hurrah !" shouted the reckless changeling rgaic ; *' there come the reg'lars out of the orchard too! — sec ihA grannies skulking behind the kilns! Let them go on (• Breed's ; the people will teach 'em the law !" No cry of vengeance preceded the act this time, but fifty of the soldiery rushed, as by a common impulse, on their prey. Lionel had not time to utter a word of remonstrance, before Job appeared in the air, borne on the uplifted arma of a dozen men, and at the next instant he was seen roll- ing down the steep declivity, with a velocity that carried him to the water's edge. Springing to his feet, the un- daunted changeling once more waved his hat in triumph, and shouted forth again his offensive challenge. Then turning, he launched his canoe from its hiding place among the adjacent lumber, amid a shower of stones, and glided across the strait; his little bark escaping unnoticed in the crowd of boats that were rowing in all directions. But his progress was watched by the uneasy eye of Lionel, who saw him land and disappear, with hasty steps, in the silent streets of the town. While this trifling by-play was enacting, the. great dra- ma of the day was not at a stand. The smoky veil, which clung around the brow of the eminence, was lifted by the air, and sailed heavily away to the south-west, leaving the scene of the bloody struggle again open to the view. Li- onel witnessed the grave and meaning glances which the two lieutenants of the king exchanged as they simultane- ously turned their glasses from the fatal spot, and, taking the one proffered by Burgoyne, he read their explanation in the numbers of the dead that lay profusely scattered in front of the redoubt. At this instant, an olncer from the field held an earnest communication with the two leaders ; when, having delivered his orders, he hastened back to his boat, like one who felt himself employed in matters of life and death. " It shall be done, sir," repeated Clinton, as tlie other departed, his own honest brow sternly knit under high nu: - tial excitement. — " The artillery have their orders, and the work will be accomplished without delay." 25 290 COMMON-PLACE BOl?K OF PROSE, ♦' This, Major Lincoln !" cried his more sophisticated companion, " this is one of the trying duties of ihe soldier I 7o i^ght, to bleed, or even to die, for his prince, is his hap- py privilege ; but it is sometimes his unfortunate lot to be- come the instrument of vengeance." Lionel waited but a moment for an explanation — the flaming balls were soon seen taking their wide circuit in the air, and carrying their desolation among the close and inflammable roofs of the opposite town. In a very fe^v minutes, a dense, black smoke arose from the deserted buildings, and forked flames plaj'ed actively along the heat- ed shingles, as though rioting in their unmolested posses- sion of the place. He regarded the gathering destruction in painful silence ; and, on bending his looks towards his companions, he fancied, notwithstanding the language of the other, that he read the deepest regret in the averted eye of him, who had so unhesitatingly uttered the fata' mandate to destroy. In scenes like these we are attempting to describe, hour-j appear to be minutes, and time flies as imperceptibly as life slides from beneath the feet of age. The disordered ranks of the British had been arrested at the base of the hill, and were again forming under the eyes of their leaders, with admi- rable discipline, and extraordinary care. Fresh battalions, frora Boston, marched with high military pride into the line, and every thing betokened that a second assault was at hand. When the moment of scupid amazement, wliich succeeded the retreat of the royal troops, had passed, the troops and batteries poured out their wrath with tenfold fury on their enemies. Shot were incessantly glancing up the gentle acclivity, madly ploughing across its grassy surface, while black and threatening shells appeared to hover above the work, like the monsters of the air, about to stoop upon their prey. Still all lay quiet and immoveable within the low xuor.nds of earth, as if none there had a stake in the issue of the bloody day. For a few moments only, the tall figure of rin aged man was seen slowly moving along the summit of T^e rampai'ts calmly regarding the dispositions of the Eng- lish general in the more distant part of his line, and, after exchanging a few v/ords with a gentleman, who joinesJ COMMON-PLACE BOolt OF PROSIT. 201 him in his dangerous lookout, they disappeared togelhc? behind the grassy banks. Lionel soon delected t'L^ u-nwe of Prescott of Pepperel, passing through the crowd iii ]u\f munnur.-5, and his glass did not deceive him when he though!:, in the smaller of the two, he had himself descried th3 graceful person of the unknown leader of the '• caucus.'' All eyes were now watching the advance of the battal- ions, which once more drew nigh the point of contest. The heads of the columns were already in view of their ene- mies, when a man was seen swiftly ascending the hill from the burning town : he paused amid the peril, on the natural glacis, and swung his hat triumphantly, and Lionel even fancied he heard the exulting cry, as he recognised the ungainly form of the simpleton, before it plunged into the work. The right of the British once more disappeared in the orchard, and the columns in front of the redoubt again opened with all the imposing exactness of their high dis- cipline. Their arms were already glittering in a line with the green faces of the mound, and Lionel heard the expe- rienced warrior at his side murmuring to himself — " Let him hold his fire, and he Vv'ill go in at the point of the bayonet !" But the trial was too great for even t\ie practised courage o'f the royal troops. Volley succeeded volley, and in a few moments they had again curtained their ranks behind the misty screen produced by their own fire. Then came the 'errible flash from the redoubt, and the eddying volumes from the adverse hosts rolled into one cloud, enveloping the combat mts in its folds, as if to conceal their bloody work from the spectators. Twenty times, in the short space of as many minutes. Major Lincoln fancied he heard the in- cessant roll of the American musketry die away before the heavy and regular volleys of the troops ; and then he thought the sounds of the latter grew more faint, and were given at longer intervals. The result, however, was soon known. The hen-^-y bank of smoke, which now even clung along the grOviVid, was broken in fifty places ; and the disordered niisiea of the British were seen driven before their deliher&tn foes' iQ wild confusion. The flashing swords of the officers in vain 293 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. atteiripteil t:» arrest the torrent, nor did the flight cease, \T;ith ui.iny if the rej^iinents, until they had even reached their boat?. At this moment a hum was heard in Boston, like the sudden rush of v.ind, and men gazed in each other's fi.ce5 with undisguised amazement. Here and there a lo^y sound of exultation escaped some unguarded lip, and many an eye gleamed with a triumph that could no longer be suppressed. Until this moment the feelings of Lionel had vacillated between the pride of country and his military spirit ; but, losing all other feelings in the latter sensation, he now looked fiercely about him, as if he would seek the man who dare exult in the repulse of his comrades. The poetic chieftain was still at his side, biting his nether lip in vexation ; but his more tried companion had suddenly disappeared. Another quick glance fell upon his missing form in the act of entering a boat at the foot of the hill. Quicker than thought, Lionel was on the shore, crying, as he flew to the water's edge — " Hold ! for God's sake, hold ! remember the 47th is m the field, and that I am its major !" " Receive him," said Clinton, with that grim satisfaction, with which men acknowledge a valued friend in moments of great trial ; " and then row for your lives, or, "what is of more value, for the honour of the British name." The brain of Lionel whirled as the boat shot along its watery bed, but, before it had gained the middle of the stream, he had time to consider the whole of the appalling scene. The fire had spread from house to house, and the whole village of Charlestown, with its four hundred build- ings, was just bursting into flames. The air seemed filled with whistling balls, as they hurtled above his head, and the black sides of the vessels of war were vomiting their sheets of flame with unwearied industry. Amid this tu- mult, the English general jyid his companions sprung to land. The former rushed into the disordered ranks, and by his pres- ence and voice recalled the men of one regiment to their i^uty. Beit long and loud appeals to their spirit and their an- c'lBLi amc were necessary to restore a moiety of their former ronfiJence to men, who had been thus rudely repulsed, and wha ncv,' looked along their thinned and exhausted ranks, tr.bjicg, in many instances, more than half the well-knovVn COMMON- LACE BOOK OF PROSE. 293 countenances of their fellows. In the midst of the faltering troops stood their stern and unbending chief; but of all those gay and gallant youths, who followed in his train as he had departeu from Province-House that morning, not one remained, but in his blood. He alone seemed undis- turbed in that disordered crowd ; and his mandates went forth as usual, calm and determined. At length the panic, in some degree, subsided, and order was «nce more restored, as the high-spirited and mortified gentlemen of the detach- ment regained their lost authority. The leaders consulted together, apart, and the disposi- tions were immediately renewed for the assault. Military show was no longer affected, but the soldiers laid down all the useless implements of their trade, and many even cast aside their outer garments, under the warmth of a broiling sun, added to the heat of the conflagration, which began to diffuse itself along the extremity of the peninsula. Fresh companies were placed in the columns, and most of the troops were withdrawn from the meadows, leaving merely a few skirmishers to amuse the Americans who lay behind the fence. When each disposition was completed, the final signal was given to advance, Lionel had taken post in his regiment, but, marching on the skirt of the column, he commanded a view of most of the scene of battle. In his front moved a battalion, re- duced to a handful of men in the previous assaults. Behind these came a party of the marine guards, from the shipping, led by their own veteran major ; and next followed the de- jected Nesbitt and his corps, amongst whom Lionel looked in vain for the features of the good-natured Polwarth. Similar columns marched on their right and left, encircling three sides of the redoubt by their battalions. A few minutes brought him in full view of that humble and unfinished mound of earth, for the possession of which 80 much blood had that day been spilt in vain. It lay, as before, still as if none breathed within its bosom, though a terrific row of dark tubes were arrayed along its top, following the movements of the approaching columns, as the eyes of the imaginary charmers of our ov/n wilderness are said to watch their victims As the uproar of the ar- tillery again grew fainter, the crash of falling streets, anrf 25* 294 COMMON-PLACE ROOK OF PROSE. the appalling gnuT-Js of the conilagration, on their ieft, }>& came more audible. Immense volumes of black sraoke is- jjued from the smouldering ruins, and, bellying outward, fold beyond fold, it overhung the work in a hideous cloudj casting its gloomy shadow across the place of blood. A strong column was now seen ascending, as if from out the burning town, and the advance of the whole became quick and spirited. A low call ran through the platoons, to note the naked weapons of their adversaries, and it was follow- ed by the cry of " To the bayonet ! to the bayonet !" " Hurrah ! for the Royal Irish !" shouted M'Fuse, at the head of the dark column from the conflagration. " Hurrah !" echoed a well-known voice from the silen* mound ; " let them come on to Breed's ; the people will teach 'em the law !" Men think at such moments with the rapidity of light- ning, and Lionel had even fancied his comrades in posses- sion of the work, when the terrible stream of fire flashed in the faces of the men in front. " Push on with the th," cried the veteran major of marines — " push on, or the 18th will get the honour of the day !" " We cannot," murmured the soldiers of the th ; " their fire is too heavy !" " Then break, and let the marines pass through you !" The feeble battalion melted away^ and the warriors of the deep, trained to conflicts of hand to hand, sprang for- ward, with a loud shout, in their places. The Americans, exhausted of their ammunition, now sunk sullenly back, a few hurling stones at their foes, in desperate indignation. The cannon of the British had been brought to enfilade their short breast- work, which was no longer tenable ; and, as the columns approached closer to the low rampart, it be- came a mutual protection to the adverse parties. " Hurrah ! for the Royal Irish !" again shouted M'Fuse, rushing up the trifling ascent, which was but of little more *'han his own height. "Hurrah!" repeated Pitcairn, waving his sword oo mother angle of the work — " the day's our own !" One more sheet of flame issued out of the bosom of the wark, and all those brave men, who had emulated the ex COMMON-PLACE 1500K OF PROSE. 295 amples of their officers, were swept away, as though a whirlwind had passed along. The grenadier gave his war cry once more, before he pitched headlong among his ene- mies ; while Pitcairn fell back into the arms of his owd child. The cry of " Forward, 47th," rung through their ranks, and in their turn this veteran battalion gallantly mou "jted the ramparts. In the shallow ditch Lionel pass- ed the expiring marine, and caught the dying and despair- ing look from his eyes, and in another instant he found himself in the presence of his foes. As company followed company into the defenceless redoubt, the Americans sul lenly retired by its rear, keeping the bayonets of the sol- diers at bay with clubbed muskets and sinewy arms. When the whole issued upon the open ground, the husbandmen received a close and fatal fire from the battalions, which were now gathering around them on three sides. A scene of wild and savage confusion then succeeded to the order of the fight, and many f-'^al blows were given and taken, the melee rendering t' e use of fire-arms nearly impossible for several minutes. Lio'nel continued in advance, pressing on the footsteps of the retiring foe, stepj, \g over many a lifeless body in his difficult progress. No dthstanding the hurry, and vast disorder of the fray, his e^ fell on the form of the grace- ful stranger, stretched lifeless on the parched grass, which had greedily drank his blood. Amid the ferocious cries, and fiercer passions of the moment, the young man paus- ed, and glanced his eyes around him, with an expression that said, he thought the work of death should cease. At this instant the trappings of his attire caught the glaring eye-balls of a Jying yeoman, who exerted his wasting strength to sa' ifice one more worthy victim to the manes of his countrymen. The whole of the tumultuous scene vanished from the senses of Lionel at the flash of the mus- ket of this man, and he sunk beneath the feet of the combatants, insensible of further triumph, and of every danger. The fall of a single officer, in such a contest, was a cii-- cumstance not to be regarded ; and regiments passed over him, without a single man stooping to inquire into his fate. When the Americans had disengaged themselves from thf 296 COaOION-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. trocps. they des<;ended into the little hollow betw een the two hills, swlftlj-, and like a disordered crowd, bearing o3 most of their wounded, and leaving but few prisoners in the hands of their foes. The formation of the ground la- Toured their retreat, as hundreds of bullets whistled hat ji- lessly above their heads ; and, by the time they gained the acclivity of Bunker, distance was added to their secunty, Finding the Seld lost, the men at the fence broke" awaj ia a body from their position, and abandoned the meadows ; the whole moving in confused masses behind the crest of the adjacent height. The shouting soldiery followed in their footsteps, pouring in fruitless and distant volleys ; but, on the summit of Bunker, their tired platoons were halted, and they beheld the throng move fearlessly through the tremendous lire that enfiladed the low pass, as little injured as though most of them bore charmed lives. The day was now drawing to a close. With the disap- pearance of their enemies, the ships and batteries ceased their cannonade ; and, presently, not a musket was heard in that place, where so fierce a contest had so long raged. The troops commenced fortifying the outward eminence, on which they rested, in order o maintain their barren conquest ; and nothing further ? mained for the achieve- ment of the royal lieutenants, 1 it to go and mourn over their victory. Autumn and Spring. — PArLDixG. The Summer passed away, and Autumn began to hang out his many-coloured flag iipon the trees, that, smit- ten by the nightly frosts, every morning exhibited less of the green, and more of the gaudy hues, that mark the waning year In our western climate. The farmers of El- sinzburgh were out La their fields, bright and early, gath- ering in the fmits of their spring and summer's labours, or busily employed in making their cider ; while the ur- chins passed their holydays in gathering nuts to crack by the winter's fire. The little quails began to whistle their autumnal notes : the grasshopper, having had his season COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PIIOSE. id? of idle sport and chirping jollity, began now to pay the penalty of his thoughtless improvidence, and might be seen sunning hinself at mid-day, in melancholy silence, as if anticipating the period when his short and merry race would be run. Flocks of robins were passing to the south, to seek a more genial air ; the sober cattle began to assume their rough, wintry coat, and to put on that desperate ap- pearance of ennui, with which all nature salutes the ap- proach of winter. The little blue-bird alone, the last to leave us, and the first to return in the spring, sometimes poured out his pensive note, as if bidding farewell to the nest where it had reared its young. Now the laughing, jolly Spring began sometimes to show her buxom face in the bright morning ; but ever and anon, meeting the angr^ frown of Winter, loath to resign his rough sway over the wide realm of nature, she would retire again. into her southern bower. Yet, though her visits were but short, her very look seemed to exercise a magic influence. The buds began slowly to expand their close winter folds ; the dark and melancholy woods to assume an almost im- perceptible purple tint ; and here and there a little chirp- ing blue-bird hopped about the orchards of Elsingburgh. Strips of fresh green appeared along the brooks, now re- leased from their icy fetters ; and nests of little variegated flowers, nameless, yet richly deserving a name, sprung up in the sheltered recesses of the leafless woods. By and by, the shad, the harbinger at once of spring and plenty, came up the river before ihe mild southern breeze ; the ruddy blossoms of the peach tree exhibited their gorgeous pageantry ; the little lambs appeared frisking and gambol- ing about the sedate mother ; young, innocent calves be- gan their first bleatings ; the cackling hen announced her daily feat in the barn-yard with clamorous astonishment ; every day added to the appearance of that active vegetable and animal life, which nature presents in the progress of the genial spring ; and, finally, the flowers, the zephyrs, and the warblers, and the maiden's rosy cheeks, announced to the eye, the ear, the senses, the fancy, and the heart, the return and the stay of the vernal year. 593 C03IM0X-PLACE BOOK OF 1 ROSS. T%e Storm- Ship. — Irvixg. Ijr the golden age of the province of the New Netlier lands, when it was under the sway of Wouter VanTwiller otherwise called the Doubter, the people of the Manhat toes were alarmed, one sultry afternoon, just about the tiaie of the summer solstice, by a tremendous storm of thunder and lightning. The rain descended m such torrents as ab- solutely to spatter up and smoke along the ground. It seem- ed as if the thunder rattled and rolled over the very root=- of the houses ; the lightning was seen to play about the church of St. Nicholas, and to strive three times, in vain, to strike its weathercock. Garret Van Home's new chim- ne}' was split almost from top to bottom ; and Doflfue Mil- deberger was struck speechless from his bald-faced mare, just as he was riding into town. In a ^v^rd, it was one of those unparalleled storms, that only happen once within the memory of that venerable personage known in all towns by the appellation of " the oldest inhabitant." Great was the terror of the good old women of the Man- hattoes. They gathered their children together, and took refuge in the cellars ; after having hung a shoe on the iron point of every bed-post, lest it should attract the lightning:. At length the storm abated ; the thunder sunk into a growl, and the setting sun, breaking from under the fringed bor- ders of the clouds, made the broad bosom of the bay to gleam like a sea of molten gold. The word was given from the fort that a ship was stand- ing up the bay. It passed from mouth to mouth, and street to street, and soon put the little capital in a bustle. The arrival of a ship, in those early times of the settlement, was an event of vast importance to the inhabitants. It brought them news from the old world, from the land of their birth, from which *hey were so completely severed : to the yearly ship, too, they looked for their supply of lux- uries, of finery, of comforts, and almost of necessaries. The good vrouw could not have her new cap nor new gown until the arrival of the ship ; the artist waited for it for his tools, the burgomaster hv his pipe and his supply of Hollands, the schcolboy for h.s top and marbles, and the COMMON-PLACE Hvvii. \jF PllOSE. 299 .orc.Iy l:inch^.i;ler for the bricks with which he was to build bis new mansion. Thus every one, rich and poor, great and small, looked out for the arrival of the ship. It was the great yearly event of the town of New Amsterdam ; and, from one end of the year to the other, the ship — the ship — the. ship — was the continual topic of conversation. The news from the fort, therefore, brought all the popu- lace down to the battery, to behold the wished-for sight. It was not exactly the time when she had been expected to arrive, and the circumstance was a matter of same spec- ulation. Many v>^ere the groups collected about the bat- tery. Here and there might be seen a burgomaster, of slow and pompous gravity, giving his opinion with great confidence to a crowd of old women and idle boys. At another place was a knot of old, weather-beaten fellows, who had been seamen or fishermen in their times, and were great authorities on such occasions ; these gave different opinions, and caused great disputes among their several adherents : but the man most looked up to, and followed and watched by the crowd, was Hans Van Pelt, an old Dutch sea captain retired from service, the nautical oracle of the place. He reconnoitred the ship through an ancient telescope, covered with tarry canvass, hummed a Dutch tune to himself, and said nothing. A hum, however, from Hans Van Pelt, had always more weight with the public, than a speech from another man. In the mean time the ship became more distinct to the naked eye : she was a stout, round, Dutch built vessel, with high bow and poop, and bearing Dutch colours. The evening sun gilded her bellying canvass, as she came riding over the long waving billows. The sentinel, who had given notice of her approach, declared, that he first got sight of her when she was in the centre of the bay ; and that she broke suddenly on his sight, just as if she had come out ol the bosom of the black thunc'or-cloud. The bystanders looked at Hans Van Pelt, to see what he would say to this report : Hans Van Pelt screwed his mouth closer together, and said nothing ; upon which some shook their heads, and others shrugged their shoulders. The ship was now repeatedly hailed, but made m reply, tnd, passing by the fort, stood on up the Hudson. A gun 300 COMMON-rLACE BOOK OF PROSE* WAS brought to bear on her, and, with some difficulty. Lead- ed and fired by Hans Van Pelt, the garrison not being ex- pert in artillery. The shot seemed absolutely to pasj through the ship, and to skip along the water on the other Bide ; but no notice was taken of it ! What was strange, she had all her sails set, and sailed right against wind and tide, which were both down the river. Upon this Han3 Van Pelt, who was likewise harbour-master, ordered his boat, and set oflf to board her ; but, after rowing two or three hours, he returned without success. Sometimes he would get within one or two hundred yards of her, and then, in a twinkling, she would be half a mile off. Some said it was because his oars-men, who were rather pursy and short- winded, stopped every now and then to take breath, and spit on their hands ; but this, it is probable, was a mere scandal. He got near enough, however, to see the crew ; who were all dressed in the Dutch style, the officers in doublets and high hats and feathers : not a word was spoken by any one on board ; they stood as motionless as so many statues, and the ship seemed as if left to her own govern- ment. Thus she kept on, away up the river, lessening and lessening in the evening sunshine, until she faded from sight, like a little white cloud melting away in the summer sky. The appearance of this ship threw the governor into one of the deepest doubts that ever beset him in the whole course of his administration. Fears were entertained for the security of the infant settlements on the river, lest this might be an enemy's ship in disguise, sent to take posses- sion. The governor called together his council repeatedly, to assist him with their conjectures. He sat in his chair of state, built of timber from the sacred forest of the Hague, and smoking his long jasmin pipe, and listened to all that his counsellors had to say on a subject about which they knew nothing; but, in spite of all the conjecturing of the sagest and oldest heads, the governor still continued to doubt. Messengers were despatched to different places on the river ; but they returned without any tidings — the ship had made no port. Day after day, and week after week, elapsed, but she never returned down the Hudson. As, however- COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP f R.CE. BOl ihc council seemed solicitous for intelligence, they had i- in ibandance. The captains of the sloops seldom arrived without bringing some report of having seen the strange ehip at different parts of the river ; sometimes near the Falisadoes, sometimes off Croton Point, and sometimes in the Highlands ; but she never was reported as having been seen above the Highlands. The crews of the sloops, it is true, generally differed among themselves in their accounts of these apparitions ; but that may have arisen from the uncertain situations in which they saw her. Sometimes it was by the flashes of the thunder-storm lighting up a pitchy night, and giving glimpses of her careering across Tappaan Zee, or the wide waste of Haverstraw Bay. At one moment she would appear close upon them, as if like- ly to run them down, and would throw them into great bustle and alarm ; but the next flash would show her far off, always sailing against the wind. Sometimes, in quiet moonlight nights, she would be seen under some high bluff of the Highlands, all in deep shadow, excepting her top- sails glittering in the moonbeams ; by the time, however, that the voyagers would reach the place, there would be no ship to be seen ; and, when they had passed on for some distance, and looked back, behold ! there she was again, with her top-sails in the moonshine ! Her appearance was always just after, or just before, or just in the midst of un- ruly weather ; and she was known by all the skippers and voyagers of the Hudson by the name of " the storm- ship." • Thesis reports perplexed the governor and his council more than ever ; and it would be endless to repeat the con- jectures and opinions that were uttered on the subject. Some quoted cases in point, of ships seen off the coast of New Ergland, navigated by witches and goblins. Old Hans Van Pelt, who had been more than once to the Dutch colon}- at the Cape of Good Hope, insisted that this must b^ the flying Dutchman, which had so long haunted Table Bay ; but, being unable to make port, had now sought anoth- er harbour Others suggested, that, if it really was a super- natural apparition, as there was every natural reason to be- Jieve, it might be Hendrick Hudson, and his crew of the Halfmoon ; who, it was well known, had once run aground 26 S02 co:jz-iox-plac£ book uf prose. ja the upper part of the river, in seeking a north- we?: ;_«>?• gage 10 Ciiiiia. Thb opinion had very little weight with Ah governor, but it passed current out of doors : for, indeed it had already been reported, that Plendrick Hudson and his crew haunted the Kaatskill Mountain ; and it appear- ed very reasonable to suppose, that his ship might infesJ the river where the entiiTprise was baffled, or that it might bea" the shadowy crew to their periotlical revels in the mountain. Other events occurred Jo occupy the thoughts and doubts f the sage Wouter and his council, and the storm-ship ^eased to be a subject of deliberation at the board. It con- tinued, however, to be a matter of popular belief and mar- vellous anecdote through the whole *ime of the Dutch gov- ernment, and particularly just before the capture of Xew Amsterdam, and the subjugation of the province by the English squadron. Abcut that time the storm-ship was repeatedly seen in the Tappaan Zee, and about Weehawk, and even down a3 f-ir as Hoboken ; and her appearance was supposed to be ooiious of the approaching squall in public affairs, and the downfall of Dutch domination. Since that time vie have no authentic accounts of her , though it is said she still haunts the Highlands, and cruises about Poin*:-no-point. People, who live along the river, insist that they sometimes see her in summer moonlight; and that, in a deep, scill midnight, they have heard the chant of her crew, as if heaving the lead ; but sights and sounds are so deceptin-e along the mountainous shores, and about the wide bays and long reaches of this great river, that I confess I have very strong doubts upon the subject. It is certain, nevertheless, that strange things have been seen in these Highlands in storms, which are considered as connected with the old story of the ship. The captains of the river craft talk of a little bulbous-bottomed Dutch goblin, in trunk hose and sugar-loafed hat. with a speaking trumpet in his hand, which they say keeps about the Dun- derberg.* They declare that they have heard him, in stormy weather, in the m.idst of the turmoil, giving orders in low Dutch for the piping up of a fresh gust of wind, or * That Ls, tlie ■' Thuuder Mountain," so called from its ectD^s c;o:MiMON-rLACE Booiv or riiusE. 303 [he rattling off of another thunder-clap ; {h^it^anjet ir.it s ha has been seen surrounded by a crew of little iiT.ps In broad breeches and short doublets ; tumbling head over heels in the rack and mist, and playing a thousand gambols in the air ; or buzzing like a swarm of flies about Antony's Nose ; and that, at such times, the hurry-scurry of the storm was always greatest. One time a sloop, in passing by the Dunderberg, was overtaken by a thunder-gust, that came scouring round the mountain, and seemed to burst just over the vessel. Though tight and well ballasted, yet she laboured dreadfully, until the water came over the gun- wale. All the crew were amazed, \vhen it was discovered that there was a little white sugar-loaf hat on the mast- head, which was known at once to be the hat of the Heer of the Dunderberg. Nobody, however, dared to climb to the mastrhead, and get rid of this terrible hat. The sloop continued labouring and rocking, as if she would have roll- ed her mast overboard. She seemed in continual danger, either of upsetting or of running on shore. In this way she drove quite through the Highlands, until she had pass- ed Pollopol's Island, where, it is said, the jurisdiction of the Dunderberg potentate ceases. No sooner had she pass- ed this bourn, than the little hat, all at once, spun up into the air like a top ; whirled up all the clouds into a vortex, and hurried them back to the summit of the Dunderberg ; while the sloop righted herself, and sailed on as quietly as if in a mill-pond. Nothing saved her from utter wreck but the fortunate circumstance of having a horse-shoe nail- ed against the mast, — a wise precaution against evil spirits, which has since been adopted by all the Dutch captains that navigate this haunted river. There is another story told of this foul-weather urchin, oy Skipper Daniel Ouslesticker, of Fish Hill, who was nev- er known to tell a lie. He declared, that, in a severe squall, he saw him seated astride of his bowsprit, riding the sloop ashore, full butt against Antony's Nose, and that he was exorcised by Dominie Van Gieson, of Esopus, who happened to be on board, and who sung the hymn of St. Nicholas; v^hereupon the goblin threw himself up in the air l.'ke a ball, and went off in a whirlwind, carrying away with him the night-cap of the Dominie's wife ; which waa 304 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. discoverc-i the nest Sunday morning hanging on the wei^ ther-&.jck of Esopus' church steeple, at least forty mileS off! After several events of this kind had taken place, the regular skippers of the river, for a long time, did not venture to pass the Dunderberg, without lowering their peaks, out of homage to the Heer of the mountain ; and it was observed that all such as paid this tribute of respect were suffered to pass unmolested.* Anecdote of James Otis. — J. Adams. Otis belonged to a club who met on evenings; of which club William Molineuxt was a member. Moly- neux had a petition before the legislature, which did not succeed to his wishes, and he became for several even- ings sour, and wearied the company with his complaints of services, losses, sacrifices, &c., and said — "That a man who has behaved as I have should be treated as I am is * Among the superstitions which prevailed in the colonies, during the early times of" the settlements, tliere seems to have been a singular one about phantom ships. The superstitious fancies of men are al ways apt to turn upon those objects which concern their daily occupations. The solitary ship, which, from year to year, came like a raven in tlie wilderness, bringing to the inhabitants of a settlement the comforts of life from the world from which they were cut off, was apt to be present to their dreams, whether sleeping or waking. The accidental sight from sli ore of a sail gliding along the horizon in those, as yet, lonely seas, was apt to be a matter of much talk and speculation. There is mention made in one of the early New Engl-md v/riters, of a ship i;av igated by witches, with a great horse that stood by the niainma'st. I have met with another story, somewhere, of a ship that drove on shore, in fair, sunny, tranquil weather, with sails al! set, and a table spread in the cabin, "as if to regale a number of guests, yet not a living being on board. These phantom ships always sailed in the eye of tlie wind, or ploughed their way with great velocity, making the smooth sea foam before their bows, when not a breath of air was sUrring. Moore has finely wrought up one of these legends of the sea in;o a httle tale, which, within a sniiill compass, contains the very essence of this species of supernatural fiction. I allude to his Spectre-Ship bound to Deadman's Isle. f Mr Molineux was a merchant, but much more of a sportsman and a bon vivant,X.ha.n a man of business His sentiments were warmly in fa- vour of his country; and, though often a companion of the English nfncers, he was yet an intimate acquaintance of the leading i)atriot>' of the day.— Tudor. COMMON-PLACB; BOOSi OF PROSE. 305 intolerable!" Otis had siid nothing; but the company were disgusted and out of patience, when Otis rose from his seaij and said — " Come, come. Will, quit this subject, and let is enjoy ourselves. I also have a list of grievan- ces ; will you hear it ?" The club expected some fun, and all cried out, " Ay ! ay ! let us hear your list." " Well, then, Will : in the first place, I resigned the office of advocate-general, w^hich I held from the crown, that produced me — how much do you think ?" " A great deal, no doubt," said Molineux. " Shall we say two hundred sterling a year ? " " Ay, more, I believe," said Molineux. " Well, let it be two hundred ; that, for ten years, is two thousand. " In the next place, I have been obliged to relinquish the greatest part of my business at the bar. Will you set that at two hundred more ?" " Oh ! I believe it much more than that." " Well, let it be two hundred ; this, for ten years, is two thousand more. You allow, then, I have lost four thousand pounds sterling." . " Ay, and much more too," said Molineux. " In the next place, I have lost an hundred friends ; - among whom were the men of the first rank, fortune and power in the province. At what price will you estimate them ?" " At nothing," said Molineux ; " you are better without them, than with them." A loud lav.gh. " Be it so," said Otis. " In the next place, I have made a thousand enemies, among whom are the government of the province and the nation. What do you think of this item ?" " That is as it may happen," said Molineux. " In the next place, you know, I love pleasure ; but I have renounced all amusement for ten years. What is that worth to a man of pleasure ?" " No great matter," said Molineux ; •' you have made politics your amuse- ment." A hearty laugh. " In the next place, I bave ruined as fine health, and ag good a constitution of body, as nature ever gave to man.'* «' This is melancholy indeed," said Molineux ; " there is nothing to be said on that point." " Once more," said Otis, holding his head down before Molineux ; " look upon this head !" (v/here was a scar, ia 26 - B03 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. which a man might bury his finger ;*) " what do yon think of this ? and, what is worse, my friends think I have a monstrous crack in my skull." This made all the company very grave, and look very solemn. But Otis, setting up a laugh, and with a gay countenance, said to Molineux — " Now, Willy, my ad- rice to you is, to say no more about your grievances ; for you and I had better put up our accounts of profit and loss m our pockets, and say no more about them, lest the world should laugh at us." This whimsical dialogue put all the company, and Moli- neux himself, into good humour, and they passed the rest of the evening in joyous conviviality. Interesting Passage in the Life of James Otis. — Tudor. Otis had long been so conspicuous as a leader of the paliiotic party, his power of exciting public feeling was sc irresistible, his opposition to the administration was so bold and vehement, his detestation against those who were briiigiiig ruin on the country was so open and mortifying, thai secret representations had long been making to render liim particularly obnoxious to the ministry, and to stimulate them to arrest and try him for treason. At length, in the course of this summer, copies of several of the letters of Governor Bernard, and of the commissioners, filled with insinuations, and even charges of a treasonable nature, were procured at the public offices in England, and trans- mitted to him ; leaving no doubt, that, if these persons had ventured on such a crimination in official letters, they had gone much further in their private correspondence. He was stung to madness by the discovery and proofs of these malignant calumnies, and this secret treachery. Agitated as he was by the actual and impending evils, that threatened the whole country, and that were more espe- * 'ITie manner in which he receivel this wound is related in the foJ lowing extract.— Ed. CO'^ir.IOxN^-PLACE r.OOK OF PROSE. 307 cial'y iVirectcd, at this period, against his own province, and his owi: town ; penetrated willi anxious responsibility for the expediency of those measures of opposition, of which he Wiis one of tlie cliief advisers, and had long been the ostensible leader ; these attempts to destroy his character, if not his life, excited the deepest indignation. In defend- ing the cause of the colonies, he had looked forward to the time when justice would be done them, and when he should derive advantage and honour for all his exertions and sac- rifices. He was not acting as a demagogue, nor as a rev- olutionist. He was proud of his rank in society ; and in opposing the ministerial schemes he still felt loyalty to- wards the sovereign, and affection for England ; and longed for the period, when he might give proofs of both, not in opposing, but in supporting the views of government ; while, at this very time, he found that the crown officers had been assiduously labouring to blast his reputation, and endeavouring to have him torn from his home, to undergo iinprisonment and persecution in the mother country. With the proofs of their conduct in his possession, he could n( longer restrain himself, but hurled his defiance and con< tempt in the following notice.* " Advertisement. Whereas I have full evidence, that Henry Hutton, Charles Pa.xto7i, William Burch, and John Rohinson,\ Esquires, have frequently and lately treated the characters of all true North Americans in a manner that is not to be endured, by privately and public- ly representing them as traitors and rebels, and in a general combination to revolt from Great Britain ; and whereas the said Henry, Chavles, William and John, without the least provocation or colour, have represented me by name, as inimical to the rights of the crown, an* disaffected to his majesty, to whom I annually swear, and am determined at all events to bear true and faithful allegiance ; for all which general as well as personal abuse and insult, satis- faction has been personally demanded, due warning given, but no sufficient answ^er obtained ; these ar^ humbly U * Boston Gazette, September 4th, 17G9. I These were the commissioners of the customs. 308 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. desire the lords commissioners of his majesty's trexsury, his principal secretaries of state, particularly my lord Hillsborough, the board of trade, and all others whom it n;ay concern, or who may condescend to read this, to piy no kind of regard to any of the abusive representaticrs c-f Di3 or my country, that may be transmitted by the said Heitry, Charles, TVilUam B^nd John, or their cou federates; for they are no more worthy of credit, than those of Sir Francis Bernard, of Nettleham, Bart., or any of his cabal ; which cabal may be well known, from the papers in the house of commons, and at every great oflBce in England." JAI\[ES OTIS. There were some further documents inserted in the same Gazette, such as a correspondence with the collector, and some extracts from the letters of these officers to the treas ury and board of trade in England. The next evening, about seven o'clock, Mr. Otis went to the British coffee-house, where Mr. Robinson, one of the commissioners, was sitting, as also a number of army, navy, and revenue officers. As soon as he came in, an alterca- tion took place, which soon terminated in Robinson's strik- ing him with a cane, which was returned with a weapon of the same kind. Great confusion then ensued. The Ughts were extinguished, and Otis, without a friend, was surrounded by the adherents of Robinson. A young man, by the name of Gridley, passing by, very boldly en- *^ered the coffee-house to take the part of Otis against so many foes ; but he was also assaulted, beaten, and turned out of the house. After some time the combatants w^ere separated, Robinson retreated by a back passage, and Otis was led home wounded and bleeding. This affair naturally excited much attention. V'arious and contradictory statements were given in the newspapers respecting it. It was said, that this intentional assault was the result of a meditated plan of assassination. Five oi six bludgeons and one scabbard were found on the floor after the struggle. Otis received a deep wound on the head, which the surgeons, Doctors Perkins and Lloyd, tes- tified must have been given by a sharp instrument. The accusation of a preconcerted intention to murder, is doub*- COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 3( 9 less unfounded ; but, from all the evidence in the ci.se, il is plain, that it was a brutal and cowardly assault, in which several persons took part, with a disposition, that, in the fury of the moment, sought to disable this great patriot, whom they so rancorously hated. If such was their purpose, it to a considerable degree succeeded. Th3 natural indignation that was roused against the au- thors of this ruffian-like attack, the animosity that existed towards the revenue officers, for their insolent and oppres- sive conduct ; the keen feelings natural to a state of violeni political excitement; the sympathy and admiration that were cherished for the liberal character, powerful talents and efficient services of th^ leading patriot of his day, — all con- spired to make the public give this transaction the odium of a scheme of assassination. Pity for the sufferer made them also impute the impairment of his reason to this event exclusively. It is not, however, necessary to believe, that an assassination had been planned, in order to cover the perpetrators of this barbarous assault with ignominy. Nor can the mental alienation, which afterwards afflicted him, and deprived the world of his great talents, in the vigour of manhood, — for he was at this time only in his forty-sixth year, — be wholly attributed to the wound he received. His disposition was so ardent, and his mind so excitable, that its natural tendency, under aggravating circumstances, was to insanity. Had he lived in ordinary times, in the usual exercise of professional or political duties, undisturbed by adverse events, he might have escaped the misfortune that befell him. His generous and social humour, his wit and ready talent, would have rendered his career easy and tran- quil. But he was called upon to act in public affairs at a most arduous epoch : he had to maintain a continual struggle against insidious placemen and insolent oppressors : he him- self v/as denounced, proscribed, and frequently insulted. The feelings of his own injuries, joined to those for his country, kept his mind in constant action, anxiety and irritation. Having espoused the cause of his fellow-citizens, with ai! his strength and all his mind, at a time when new wrong< blI new difficulties were incessantly recurring, he knew no repose. His faculties were perpetually agitated, a«il he did not sufficiently master and subdue his indignt'i ■'O 510 C0MM0>5-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. against subaltern agents, though prime movers in this nis chief, jet who were in reality deserving only of his con tempt. It was an unfortunate yielding to his anger, th* placing himself, as he did in some degree, on a level with the commissioners of the customs, whom he ought merely to have unmasked and left to public scorn, without degrad- ing himself to a personal rencounter. The injuries he sustained in it impaired his power of self-control, and con fribuled essentially to his subsequent derangement. Close of the Lives of Adams and Jefferson. — Webster. Ii«- 1820 Mr. Adams acted as elector of president and vice-president, and in the same year we saw him, then at the age of eighty-five, a member of the convention of this commonwealth, called to revise the constitution. Forty years before, he had been one of those who formed that con- stitution ; and he had now the pleasure of witnessing that there was little which the people desired to change. Pos- sessing all his faculties to the end of his long life, with an unabated love of reading and contemplation, in the centre of interesting circles of friendship and aifection, he v/as blessed in his retirement with whatever of repose and felicity the condition of man allows. He had, also, other enjoyments. He saw around him that prosperity and general hajipincss, which had been the object of his public cares and labours. No man ever beheld more clearly, and for a longer time, the great and beneficial effects of the services rendered by himself to his country. That liberty, which he so early defended, that independence, of v/hich he was so able an advocate and supporter, he saw, we trust, firmly and securely established. The population of the country thickened around him faster, and extended wider, than his own sanguine predictions liad anticipated , and the wealth, respectability and power of the nation sprang ijp to a magnitude, which it is quite iiupo^sible he could have expected to witness in his day. He lived, aisOj to behold those principles of civil freedom, which had i^f^Ti developed, established, and pracically applied, In COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 311 America, attract attention, command respect, and awaken imitation, in other regions of the globe ; and well might, and well did, he exclaim, " Where will the consequences of the American revolution end !" If any thing yet remain to fill tliis cup of happiness, let it be added, that he lived to see a great and intelligent people bestow the highest honour in their gift, where he had bestowed his own kindest parental affections, and lodged his fondest hopes. Thus honoured in life, thus hap- py at death, he saw the Jubilee, and he died ; and with the list prayers which trembled on his lips, was the fer- vent supplication for his country, " Independence for- ever !" From the time of his final retirement from public life, in 1807, Mr. Jefferson lived as became a wise man. Sur- rounded by affectionate friends, his ardour in the pursuit of knowledge undiminished, with uncommon health, and unbroken spirits, he was able to enjoy largely the rational pleasures of life, and to partake in that public prosperity, which he had so much contributed to produce. His kind- ness and hospitality, the charm of his conversation, the ease of his manners, the extent of his acquirements, and especially the full store of revolutionary incidents, which he possessed, and which he knew v*'hen and how to dis- pense, rendered his abode in a high degree attractive to his admiring countrymen, wliile his high public and scien- tific character drew towards him every intelligent and ed- ucated traveller from abroad. Both JSIr. Adams and Mr. Jefferson had the pleasure of knowing, that the respect, which they so largely received, was not paid to their offi- cial stations. They were not men made great by office, but great men, on whom the country, for its own benefit, had conferred office. There was that in them, which of- fice did not give, and which the relinquishment of office did not, and could not, take away. In their retirement, in the midst of their fellow-citizens, themselves private citi- zens, they enjoyed as high regard and esteem, as when filling the most important places of public trust. There remained to Mr. Jefferson yet one other work of patriotism and beneficence, — the establishment of a univer- sity in his native state. To this object lie devotert 5-ears S12 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. of incessant and anxious attention, and, by the enlightened liberality of the legislature of Virginia, and the co-opera- tion of other able and zealous friends, he Uved to see it ac- complished. May all success attend this infant seminary ; and may those who enjoy its advantagei, as often as their eyes shall rest on the neighbouring height, recollect what the}- owe to their disinterested and indefatigable benefac- tor ; and may letters honour him, who thus laboured is the cause of letters. Thus useful, and thus respected, passed the old age of Thomas Jefferson. But time was on its ever-ceaseless wing, and was now bringing the last hour of this illustri- ous man. He saw its approach with undisturbed serenity. He counted the moments, as they passed, and beheld that his last sands were falling. That day, too, was at hand, which he had helped to make immortal. One wish, one hope, — if it were not presumptuous, — beat in his tainting breast. Could it be so — might it please God — he would desire once more to see the sun, — once more to look abroad on the scene around him, — on the great day of liberty. Heaven, in its mercy, fullilled that prayer. He saw that sun — he enjoyed its sacred light — he thanked God for his mercy, and bowed his aged head in the grave. " Fe- lix, non vlicB tantum daritate, sed etiam opportunitate mortis" Morals of Chess. — Fra>-kl,ix. Platixg at chess is the most ancient and uriversal game known among men ; for its original is beyond the memory of history, and it has for numberless ages been the amusement of all the civilized nations of Asia, — the Persians, the Indians, and the Chinese. Europe has had it above a thousand years ; the Spaniards have spread it over their part of America, and it begins to make its ap- pearance in these States. It is so interesting in ivself as not to need the view of gain to induce engagiag in it ; and thence it is never played for money. Tho=;e, thtrefore who have leisure for such diversions cannot find one that COMMON-PLACE EOOK OF 1 ROSE. 313 Is more innocent; and the following piece, written with a view to correct (among a few young friends) somo little iiiiproprieties in the practice of it, shows, at the same time, that it may, in its effects on the mind, be not merely inno- cent, but advantageous, to the vanquished as well as the victor. The game of chess is not merely an idle amusement. Several very valuable qualities of the mind, useful in the course of human life, are to be acquired, or strengthened, by it, so as to become habits, ready on all occasions. For life is a kind of chess, in which we have points to gain, and competitors or adversaries to contend with, and in which there is a vast variety of good and ill events, that are, in some degree, the eifects of prudence or the want of it. Hy playing at chess, then, we learn, 1. Foresight, which looks a little into futurity, considers the consequences that may attend an action ; for it is con- tinually occurring to the player, " If I move this piece, what will be the advantage of my new situation ? What use can my adversary make of it to annoy me ? What other moves can 1 make to support it, and to defend mj'self from his attacks ?" 2. Circumspection, which surveys the whole chess- board, or scene of action, the relations of the several pieces and situations, the dangers they are respectively exposed to, the several possibilities of their aiding each other, the probabilities that the adversary may take this or that move, and attack this or the other piece, and what different means can be used to avoid his stroke, or turn its consequences against him. 3. Caution, not to make our moves too hastily. This Iiabit is best acquired by observing strictly the laws of the game, such as, " If you touch a piece, you must move it somewhere ; if you set it down, you must let it stand .^' and it is therefore best that these rules should be observed ; •^s the game thereby becomes more the image of human life, and particularly of war ; in which, if you have i;c: ».i- tiously pxxt yourself into a bad and dangerous position, n'ou cannot obtain your enemy's leave to withdraw your troo">:»s, and place them more securely, but you must abldr: all the consequences of your rashness. 27 314 COMMON-PLACE B^ OK OF PHOSE. And, lastly, we learn by chess the habit of not btln* discouragedliy present had appearances in the state of our affairs, the habit of hoping for a favourable change, and that of persevering in the search of resources. The game is so full of events, there is such a variety of turns in it, the fortune of it is so subject to sudden vicissitudes, and one so frequently, after long contemplation, discovers the means of extricating one's self from a supposed insur mountable difficulty, that one is encouraged to continue the contest to the last, in hope of victory by our own skill, or at least of giving a stale mate, by the negligence of our adversary. And whoever considers, what in chess he often sees instances of, that particular pieces of success are apt to produce presumption, and its consequent inattention, by which the loss may be recovered, will learn not to be too much discouraged by the present success of his adversary, nor to despair of final good fortune, upon every little check he receives in the pursuit of it. That v/e may, therefore, be induced more frequently to choose this beneficial amusement, in preference to others, which are not attended with the same advantages, every circumstance which may increase the pleasure of it should be regarded ; and every action or word that is unfair, dis- respectful, or that in any way may give uneasiness, should be avoided, as contrary to the immediate intention of both the players, which is, to pass the time agreeably. Therefore, first. If it is agreed to play according Ic the strict rules ; then those rules are to be exactly ob- served by both parties, and should not be insisted on foi one side, while deviated from by the other — for this is not equitable. Secondly, If it is agreed not to obser^^e the rules exact- ly, but one party demands indulgences, he should then be as ' '"lling to allow them to the other. '.\ ird'y, No false move should ever be made to extricate yt irself out of a difficulty, or to gain an advantage. There caii Le no pleasure in playing with a person once detected n such unfair practices. Fov.rlhly, If your adversary is long in playing, you ought not to hcrry him, or to express any uneasiness at his delay You should not sing, nor whistle, nor look at your watch, COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 316 nor take up a book to read, nor make a tapping with your feet on the floor, or with your fingers on the table, nor do any thing that may disturb his attention. For all these things displease ; and they do not show your skill in play- ing, but your craftiness or your rudeness. Fifthly, You ought not to endeavour to amuse and de- ceive j^our adversary, by pretending to have made bad moves, and saying that you have now lost the game, in order to make him secure and careless, and inattentive to your schemes ; for this is fraud and deceit, not skill in the game. Sixthly, You must not, when you have gained a victory, use any triumphing or insulting expression, nor show too much pleasure ; but endeavour to console your adversary, and make him less dissatisfied with himself, by every kind of civil expression that may be used with truth ; such as, " You understand the game better than I, but you are a little inattentive ; or, you play too fast ; or, you had the best of th{! game, but something happened to divert your thoughts, and that turned it in my favour." Seventhly, If you are a spectator while others play, ob- serve the most perfect silence. For if you give advice, you offend both parties ; him against whom you give it, because it may cause the loss of his game ; and him in whose favour you give it, because, though it be good, and he follows it, he loses the pleasure he might have had, if you had permitted him to think until it had occurred to himself. Even after a move or moves, you must not, by replacing the pieces, show how it might have been placed better ; for that displeases, and may occasion disputes and doubts about their true situation. All talking to the players lessens or diverts their attention, and is therefore unpleas- mg. Nor should you give the least hint to either party, by any kind of noise or motion. If you do, you are un- worthy to be a spectator. If you have a mind to exercise or show your judgment, do it in playing j^our own game, when you have an opportunity, not in criticising, or med- dling with, or counselling the play of others. Lastly, If the game is not to be played rigorously, ac- cording to the rules above-mentioned, then moderate your desire of victory over your adversary, and be pleased with 316 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. one over yourself. Snatch not eag;erly at every advantage ctFered by his unskilfulness or inattention; but point out to him kindly, that by such a move he places or leaves a piece m danger and unsupported ; that by another he will put his king in a perilous situation, &c. By this generous civility (so opposite to the unfairness above forbidden) you may, in- deed, happen to lose the game to your opponent ; but yop will win what is better, — his esteem, his respect, and his affection ; together with the silent approbation and good will of impartial spectators. The Hospital in Philadelphia during the Pestilence. — C. B. Browjy. I WAS seized with a violent fever. I knew in what manner patients Were treated at the hospital, and removal thither was to the last degree abhorred. The morning arrived, and my situation' was discovered. At the first intimation, Thetford rushed out of the house, and refused to re-enter it till I was removed. I knsv.' not my fate, till three rufhans made their appearance at my bedside, and communicated their commission. I called on the name of Thetford and his wife. I en- treated a moment's delay, till 1 had seen these persons, and endeavoured to procure a respite from my sentence. They were deaf to my entreaties, and prepared to execute their office by force, I was delirious with rage and terror. I heaped the bitterest execrations on my murderer ; and by turns invoked the compassion of, and poured a torrent of re- proaches on, the v/retches whom he had selected for hia ministers. My struggles and outcries were vain. I havfc no perfect recollection of what passed till my ar- rival at the hospital. My passions combined with my disease to make me frantic and wild. In a state like mine, the slightest motion could not be endured without agony. What then must I have felt, scorched and dazzled by the sun, sustained by hard boards, and borne for miles over a rug« ged pavement ? COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 31? I caiiaot make you comprehend the anguish of my feelings. To be disjointed and torn piece-meal by the rack, was a torment inexpressibly inferior to this. Nothing ex- cites ray wonder, but that I did not expire before the cart had m'^ved three paces, T knew not how, or by whom, I was moved from this vehicle. Insensibility came at length to my relief. After a time I opened my eyes, and slowly gained some knowl- edge of my situation. I lay upon a mattress, whose condi- tion proved that a half-decayed corpse had recently been dragged from it. The room was large, but it was covered with beds like my own. Between each, there was scarce- ly the interval of three feet. Each sustained a wretch, whose groans and distortions bespoke the desperateness of his condition. The atmosphere was loaded by mortal stenches. A va- pour, suffocating and malignant, scarcely allowed me to breathe. No suitable receptacle was provided for the evac- uations produced by medicine or disease. My nearest neighbour was struggling with death, and my bed, casually extended, was moist with the detestable matter which had flowed from his stomach. You will scarcely believe that, in this scene of horrors, the sound of laughter should be overheard. While the upper rooms of this building are filled with the sick and the dying, the lower apartments are the scene of carousals and mirth. The wretches who are hired, at enormous wages, to tend the sick and convey away the dead, neglect their duty, and consume the cordials, which are provided for the patients, in debauchery and riot. A female visage, bloated with malignity and drunken- ness, occasionally looked in. Dying eyes were cast upon her, invoking the boon, perhaps, of a drop of cold water, or her assistance to chang**. a posture which compelled him to behold the ghastly writhings or deathful smile of his neighbour. The visitant had left the banquet for a moment, only to see who was dead. If she entered the room, blinking eyes and reeling steps showed her to be totally unqualified for ministering the aid that was needed. Presently, she dis- 27* 318 COMMON-PLACE EOOK OF PROSE. appeared, and others ascended the stah-case : a coiTin was deposited at the door : the wretch, whose heart still quiver- ed, was seized by rude hands, and dragged along the floor into the passage. Oh ! how poor are the conceptions which are formed, by Flie fortunate few, of the sufferings to which millions of theii fellow-beings are condemned ! This misery was more frightful, because it was seen to flow from the depravity of the attendants. My own eyes only would make me credit the existence of wickedness so enormous. No wonder that to die in garrets, and cellars, and stables, unvisited and un- known, had, by so many, been preferred to being brought hither. A physician cast an eye upon my state. He gave some directions to the person who attended him. I did not com- prehend them ; they were never executed by the nurses, and, if the attempt had been made, I should probably have refused to receive what was offered. Recovery was equally beyond my expectations and my wishes. The scene which was hourly displayed before me, the entrance of the sick, most of whom perished in a few hours, and their departure to the graves prepared for them, reminded me of the fate to which I, also, was reserved. Three days passed away, in which every hour was ex- pected to be the last. That, amidst an atmosphere so con- tagious and deadly, amidst causes of destruction hourly ac- cumulating, I should yet survive, appears to me nothing less than miraculous. That, of so many conducted to this house, the only one who passed out of it alive should be myself, almost surpasses my belief. Some inexplicable principle rendered harmless those po- tent enemies of human life. My fever subsided and van- ished. My strength was revived, and the first use that ] made of my limbs was, to bear me far from the coatempC^ tJon and sufferance of these evils. COr.lMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 319 Sliipwreck of the Ariel. — Cooper. Iriic Ariel continued to struggle against the winds and ocean for several hours longer, before the day broke on the tenipesiuous scene, and the anxious mariners were enabled to form a more accurate estimate of their real danger. As the violence of the gale increased, the canvass of the schooner had been gradually reduced, until she was unable to show more than was absolutely necessary to prevent her driving, helplessly, on the land. Barnstable watched the appearance of the weather, as the light slowly opened upon them, with an intensity of anxiety, which denoted, that the presentiments of the cockswain were no longer deemed idle. On looking to windward, he beheld the green masses of water that were rolling in towards the land, with a violence that seemed irresistible, crowned with ridges of foam ; and there were moments when the air appeared filled with sparkling gems, as the rays of the rising sun fell upon the spray that was swept from wave to wave. Towards the land, the view was still more appal- ling. The cliffs, but a short half league under the lee of the schooner, were, at times, nearly hid from the eye by the pyramids of water, which the furious element, so sud- denly restrained in its violence, cast high into the air, as if seeking to overstep the boundaries that nature had affix ed to its dominion. The whole coast, from the distant head- land at the south, to the well known shoals that stretched far beyond their course, in the opposite direction, displayed a broad belt of foam, into which it would have been cer- tain destruction, for the proudest ship that swam, to have entered. Still the Ariel floated on the billows, lightly and in safety, though yielding to the impulses of the waters, and, at times, appearing to be ingulfed in the yawninsr chasms, which, apparently, opened beneath her to receive the little fabric. The low rumour of acknowledged dan- ger, had found its way through the schooner, and the sea- men, after fastening their hopeless looks on the small spot of canvass that they were enabled to show to the tempest- would turn to view the dreary line of coast, that seem- ed to offer so gloomy an alternative. Even Dillon, to whoijc 520 COMMON-PLACE BOOK DF PROSE. the report of their danger had found its way, crept from his place of concealment in the cabin, and moved about the decks unheeded, devouring, with greedy ears, such opinions as fell from the lips of the sullen mariners. At this moment of appalling apprehension, the cockswain exhibited the most calm resignation. He knew that all had been done, that lay in the power of man, to urge their little vessel from the land, and it was now too evident to his experienced eyes, that it had been done in vain ; but, considering himself as a sort of fixture in the schooner, he was quite prepared to abide her fate, be it for better or for worse. The settled look of glocm, that gathered around the frank brow of Barnstable, was, in no degree, connect- ed v/ith any considerations of himself, but proceeded from that sort of parental responsibility, from v.'hich the sea- commander is never exempt. The discipline of the crew, however, still continued perfect and unyielding. There had, it is true, been a slight movement made by two of the oldest seamen, which indicated an intention to drown the apprehensions of death in ebriety ; but Barnstable had called for his pistols, in a tone that checked the procedure instantly, and, although the fatal weapons were untouched by him, but were left to lie exposed on the capstan, where they had been placed by his servant, not another symptom of insubordination appeared among the devoted crew. There was even, what to a landsman might seem, a dread- ful affectation of attention to the most trifling duties of the vessel ; and the men, who, it should seem, ought to be de- voting the brief moments of their existence to the mighty business of the hour, were constantly called to attend to the most trivial details of their profession. Ropes were coiled, and the slightest damages occasioned by the waves, that, at shcrt intervals, swept across the low decks of the Ariel, were repaired, with the same precision and order, as if she yet lay embayed in the haven from which she had just been driven. In this manner, the arm of authority was kept extended over the silent crew, not with the vain desire to preserve a lingering, though useless exercise of poT'-er but with a view to maintain that unity of action, that laovi ?ould alone afford them even a ray of hope. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 321 " She can make no head against this sea, under that rag d{ canvass," said Barnstable, gloomily ; addressing the cockswain, who, with folded arms, and an air of cool resig- nation, was balancing his body on the verge of the quaiter- deck, while the schooner was plunging madly into waves that nearly buried her in their bosom ; " the poor little thing trembles like a frightened child, as she meets the water." Tom sighed heavily, and shook his head, before he an- swered — " If we could have kept the head of the main-mast an hour longer, we might have got an offing, and fetched (o windward of the shoals ; but, as it is, sir, mortal man CLui't drive a craft to windward — she sets bodily in to land, an J will be in the breakers in less than an hour, unless God wills that the winds shall cease to blow." " We have no hope left us, but to anchor ; our ground tackle may yet bring her up." Tom turned to his commander, and replied, solemnly, and with that assurance of manner, that long expeiience only can give a man in moments of great danger — " If our sheet-cable was bent to our heaviest anclior. this sea would bring it home, ihough nothing but lior launch was riding by it. A north-easter in the German Ocean must and will blow itself out ; nor shall we get the crown of the gale until the sun falls over the land. Then, in.leed, it may lull ; for the winds do often seem to rever- ence the glory of the heavens too much to blow their mig'nt in its very face !" " We must do our duty to ourselves and the country," returned Barnstable , '"■ go, get the two bowers sphced, and have a kedge bent to a hawser ; we'll back our two an- chors together, and veer to the better end of two hundred and forty fathoms ; it may yet bring her up. See all clear there for anchoring, and cutting away the masts — we'll leave the wind nothing but a naked hull to whistle over." " Ay, if there was nothing but the wind, we might yet live to see the sun sink behind them hills," said the cock- swain , " but what 1 ^mp can stand the strain of a crafl that is buried, halt the time to har f(>"ema5t in the water !" S22 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. The order was, however, executed by the crew, with a sort of desperate submission to the will of their comman- der ; and, when the preparations were completed, the an- chors and kedge were dropped to the bottom, and the in- stant that the Ariel tended to the wind, the axe was ap- plied to the little: that was left of her long raking mast= I'he crash of the falling spars, as they caaie, in succession, across the decks of the vessel, appeared to produce no sen- sation amid that scene of complicated danger ; but the sea- men proceeded in silence in their hopeless duty of clear- ing the wrecks. Every eye followed the floating timbers, as the waves swept them away fron\ the vessel, with a sort of feverish curiosity, to witness the effect produced by their collision with those rocks that lay so fearfully near them ; but, long before the spars entered the wide border of foam, they were hid from view by the furious element in which they floated. It was, now, felt by the whole crew of the 4riel, that their last means of safety had been adopted, and, at each desperate and head'ong plunge the vessel took into the bosom of the seas that rolled upon her forecastle, the anxious seamen thought they could perceive the yield- ing of the iron, that yet clung to the bottom, or could hear the violent surge of the parting strands of the cable, that still held them to their anchors. While the minds of tbe sailors were agitated with the faint hopes that had been excited by the movements of their schooner, Dillon had been permitted to wander about the vessel unnoticed ; his rolling eyes, hard breathing, and clenched hands, exciting no observation among the men, whose thoughts were yet dwelling on the means of safety. But now, when, with a sort of frenzied desperation, he would follow the retiring wateii along the decks, and venture his person nigh the group that had collected around and on the gun of the cock- swain, glances of fierce or of sullen vengeance were cast at him, that conveyed threats of a nature that he was too much agitated to understand. *•■ If ye are tired of this world, though your time, like my own, is probably but short in it," said Tom to him, as he passed the cockswain in one of his turns, " you can ga forward among the men ; but if ye have need of the mo- Bfienrs to foot up the reck'ning o!" your doings among roei.*, COMMON-PLACE KOOK OF PROSE. 323 afore ye're brought to face your Maker, and hear the log- book of Heaven, I would advise you to keep as nigh as pos- sible to Captain Barnstable or myself." " Will you promise to save me, if the vessel is wreck- ed ?" exclaimed Dillon, catching at the first sounds of friendly interest that had reached his ears, since he had been recaptured ; " oh ! if j'^ou "will, I can secure you future ease ; yes, wealth, for the remainder of your days !"' " Your promises have been too ill kept, afore this, for the peace of your soul," returned the cockswain, without bit- terness, though sternly ; " but it is not in me to strike even a whale, that is already spouting blood." The intercessions of Dillon were interrupted by a dread- ful cry, that arose among the men forward, and which sounded with increased horror, amid the roaring of the tem- pest. The schooner rose on the breast of a wave at the same instant, and, falling off with her broad side to the sea, slie drove in towards the cliffs, like a bubble on the rapidj of a cataract. " Our ground tackle has parted," said Tom, with his re- signed patience of manner undisturbed ; " she shall die as easy as man can make her !" While he jj-et spoke, he seized the tiller, and gave to the vessel such a direction, as would be most likely to cause her to strike the rocks with her bows foremost. There was, for one moment, an expression of exquisite anguish betrayed in the dark countenance of Barnstable ; but, at the next, it passed away, and he spoke cheerfully to his men — " Be steady, my lads ; be calm : there is yet a hope of life for you — our light draught will let us run in close to the cl}u)), and it is still falling water — see your boats clear, axid be sieaih'." Tlie crew of the whale-boat, aroused, by this speech, from a sort of stapor, sprang into their light vessel, which was quickly lowered into the sea, and kept riding on the foam, free from the sides of the schooner, by the powerful KSertioiis of the men. The cry for the cockswain was earnest and repeated, but Tom shook his head, without re- plying, still qrrasping the tiller, and keeping his eyes stead- S24 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. ily bent oa the chaos of waters, into which they were drivmg. The launch, the largest boat of the two, was cut loose from the " gripes," and the bustle and exertion of the moment rendered the crew insensible to the horror of the scene that surrounded ihem. But the loud, hoarse call of the cockswain, to " look out — secure youi-selves :"' suspended even their efforts, and at that instart the Ariel settled on a wave that melted from under her. heavily ca the rocks. The shock was so violent as to throw all, wh: slisregarded the warning cry, from their feet, and the uni- versal quiver that pervaded the vessel was Uke the l.i-t shudder of animated nature. For a time long enough io breathe, the least experienced among the men supposed the danger to be passed ; hut a wave of great height fol- lowed the one that had deserted them, and, raising the ve3- sf-l again, threw her roughly still farther on her bed o? n»«-ks, and at the same time its crest broke over her quar- ter, sweeping the length of her decks, with a fury that was almost resistless. The shuddering seamen beheld their lessened boat driven from their grasp, and dashed again-t the base of the cliffs, where no fragment of her wrecx could be traced, at the receding of the waters. But the parsing wave had thrown the vessel into a position which, in some measure, protected her decks from the violence oi tho3e that succeeded It. " Go, my hoys, go," said Barnstable, as the moment of .'rcadful uncertainty passed ; " you have still the whale-- fjoat, and she, at least, will take you nigh the shore : go I'a'o her, my boys ; God bless you, God bless you all ; you bare been faithful and honest fellows, and I helieve he will not yet desert you ; go, mv friends, while there is a lull." The seamen threw themselves, in a mass of b'aK:.ia bo hands will it be required," said his commander, lift- ing the struggling youth, and tossing him into the arms of the seamen. " Away with ye, and God be with you ; Ihere is more weight in you, now, than can go safe to land." Still, the seamen hesitated, for they perceived the cock- swain moving, with a steady tread, along the deck, and f hope, '•' we shall be able to walk to land." '* There was One, and only One, to whose feet the wa lers were the same as a drv deck," returned the cock COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSR. 3^7 swain ; " and none but such as have his power will eve! be able to walk from these rocks to the sands." The old seaman paused, and, turning his eyes, which exhibited t, mingled expression of disgust and compassion, on his com- panion, he added, with reverence — " Had you thought more of him in fair weather, your case would be less to be pitied in this tempest." " Do you still think there is much danger ?" »asked Dillon. " To them that have reason to fear death : listen ! do you hear that hollow noise beneath ye ?" " 'Tis the wind, driving by the vessel !" " 'Tis the poor thing herself," said the affected cock- swain, " giving her last groans. The water is breaking up her decks, and, in a few minutes more, the handsomest model that ever cut a wave will be like the chips that fell from her timbers in framing !" " Why, then, did you remain here ?" cried Dillon, wildly. " To die in my cofSn, if it should be the will of God," returned Tom : " these waves to me are what the land is to you ; I was born on them, and I have always meant that they should be my grave." " But I — 1," shrieked Dillon, " I am not ready to die ! — I cannot die ! — I will not die !" " Poor wretch !" muttered his companion ; "you must go, like the rest of us ; when the death-watch is called, none can skulk from the muster." " I can swim," Dillon continued, rushing, with frantic eagerness, to the side of the wreck. " Is there no billet of wood, no rope, that I can take with me ?" " None ; every thing has been cut away, or carried off by the sea. If ye are about to strive for your life, take with ye a stout heart and a clean conscience, and trust the rest to God !" " God !" echoed Dillon, in the madness of his frenzy ; " I know no God ! there is no God that knows me !" '* Peace '" said the deep tones of the cockswain, 'in j\ voice that seemed to speak in the eJemeotsj " blasphecier, peace !'•' 528 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. The heavy groaning, produced by the water, in the tho. bers of the Ariel, at that moment, added its impulse ts of her husband ! COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 331 " Mother," said Everell, putting aside the exquisitely fine lace that shaded her cheek, " I do not beUeve you look- ed more beautiful than you do to-day, when, as I have heard, Ihey called you ' the rose of the wilderness.' Our little Mary's cheek is as round and as bright as a peach, but It is not so handsome as yours, mother. Your heart has sent this colour here," he continued, kissing her tender- ly ; " it seems to have come forth to tell us that our father IS near." " It would shame me, Everell," replied his mother, em- bracing him with a feeling that the proudest drawing-room belle might have envied, " to take such flattery from any lips but thine." — " Oh, do not call it flattery, mother — ■ look, Magawisca — for Heaven's sake cheer up — look, would you know mother's eye ? just turn it, mother, one minute from that road — and her pale cheelc too — with this rich colour on it ?" " Alas ! alas !" replied Magawisca, glancing her eyes at Mrs. Fletcher, and then, as if heart struck, withdrawing them, " how soon the flush of the setting sun fades from the evening cloud !" "Oh, Magawisca!" said Everell, ii ipatiently, "why are you so dismal ? your voice is too sweet for a bird of ill-omen. I shall begin to think as Jennet says — though Jennet is no text book for me — I shall begin to think old Neleraa has really bewitched you." — " You call me a bird of ill-omen," replied Magawisca, half proud, half sorrow- ful, " and you call the owl a bird of ill-omen, but we hold him sccred ; he is our sentinel, and, when danger is near, he cries, ' Awake ! awake !' " " Magawisca, you are positively unkind. Jeiemiah'g lamentations on a holyday would not be mxOre out of time than your croaking is now. The very skies, earth, and air, seem to partake of our joy at father's return, and you only make a discord, Do you think, if your father was near, I woulu not share your joy ?" Tears fell fast from Magawisca's eyes, but she made no reply, and Mrs. Fletcher, observing and compassionating her emotion, and thinking it probably arose from comparing her orphan state to that of the merry children about her, called her, and said^ " Magawisca, you are ncsithcr a stran. a62 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. ger nor a servant ; will you not share our joy ? lo yoa not love us =" " Love you T" she exclaimed, clasping her haiids, "love you ! I would give my life for you." •' We do not ask your life, my good girl," replied Mrs. Fletcher, kindly smiling on her, «•' but a light heart, and a cheerful look. A sad countenance doih not become this joyful hour Go and help Oneco ; he is quite out of breath blowing those soap bubbles for the children." Oneco smiled, and shook his head, and continued to send off one after another of the prismatic globes, and, as they rose and floated on the air, and brightened with the many-colour- ed ray, the little girls clapped their hands, and the baby stretched his to grasp the brilliant vapour. " Oh !" said Magawisca. impetuously covering her eyes, '• I do not Like to see any thing so beaudful pass so quickly away." Scarcely had she uttered these words, when suddenly, as if the earth had opened on them, three Indian warriors darted from the forest, and pealed on the air their horrible yells. " My father I my father I" burst from the lips of Ma- gawisca and Oneco. Faith Leslie sprang towards the In- dian boy, and clung fast to him, and the children clustered about their mother ; she instinctively caught her infant, and held it close within her arms, as if their ineffectual shelter were a rampart. Magawisca uttered a cry of agony, and, springing for- ward with her arms uplifted, as if deprecating his approach, she sunk down at her father's feet, and, clasping her hands, '•' Save them ! — save them 1" she cried ; " the mother — the children — oh ! they are all good : take vengeance on your enemies, but spare, spare our friends I our benefactors I I bleed when they are struck; oh I command them to stop !*' she screamed, looking to the companions of her father, who, unchecked by her cries, were pressing on to their deadly work. Mononotto was silent and motionless : his eye glanced wildly from Magawisca to Oneco. Magawisca replied to the glance of fire : " Yes, they have sheltered us — they have spread the wing of love over us — save them — save them — oh '. it will be too late," she cried, springing fron COMMON-PLACE BOOiv OF PROSE. 333 her father, whose silence and fixedness showed that, if his better nature rebelled against the work of revenge, there was no relenting of purpose. Magawisca darted before the Indian, who was advancing towards Mrs. Fletcher with an uplifted hatchet. " You shall hew nie to pieces ere you touch her," she said, and planted herself as a shield before her benefactress. The warrior's obdurate heart, untouch- ed by the sight of the helpless mother and her little ones, was thrilled by the courage of the heroic girl • he paused, and grimly smiled on her, when his companion, crying, " Hasten ! the dogs will be on us !" levelled a deadly blow at Mrs. Fletcher ; but his uplifted arm was penetrated by ^ musket shot, and the hatchet fell harmless to the floor. " Courage, mother!" cried Everell, reloading the piece ; but neither courage nor celerity could avail : the second Indian sprang upon him, threw him on the floor, wrested his musket from him, and, brandishing his tomahawk over his head, he would have aimed the fatal stroke, when a cry from Mononotto arrested his arm. Everell extricated himself from his grasp, and, a ray of hope flashing into his mind, he seized a bugle horn, which hung beside the door, and winded it. This was the con- ventional signal of alarm, and he sent forth a blast long and loud — a death-cry. Mrs. Grafton and her attendants were just mounting their horses to return home. Digby listened for a moment : then, exclaiming, " It comes from our i tions are of necessity limited. It would confer upon every individual on earth all that intellectual or moral cultivation can bestow. It would rescue a world from the indiscnatios COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 341 and vvrath, tribulation and anguish, reserved for every son of man that doeth evil, and give it a title to glory, honour, and immortality. You see, then, that our object is, noi only to affect every individual of the species, but to affec him in the momentous extremes of infinite happiness and infinite wo. And now, we ask, what object, ever under- taken by man, can compare with this same design of evan- gelizing the world ? Patriotism itself fades away before it, and acknowledges the supremacy of an enterprise, which seizes, with so strong a grasp, upon both the temporal and eternal destinies of the whole family of man. And now, my hearers, deliberately consider the nature of the missionary enterprise. Reflect upon the dignity of its object; the high moral and intellectual, powers which are to be called forth in its execution ; the simplicity, be- nevolence, and efficacy, of the means by which all this is to be achieved ; and we ask you, Does not every other en- terprise, to which man ever put forth his strength, dwindle into insignificance before that of preaching Christ crucified to a lost and perishing world ? Engaged in such an object, and supported by such an assurance, you may readily suppose, we can very well bear the contempt of those who would point at us the fin- ger of scorn. It is written, " In the last days there shall be scoffers." We regret that it should be so. We regret that men should oppose an enterprise, of which the chief object is, to turn sinners unto holiness. We pity them, and we will pray for them. For we consider their situation far other than enviable. We recollect that it was once said by the Divine Missionary, to the first band which he com- missioned, " He that despiseth you despiseth me, and he that despiseth me despiseth him that sent me." So that this very contempt may, at last, involve them in a controversy infinitely more serious than they at present anticipate. The reviler of missions, and the missiorary of the cross, must both stand before the judgment seat of him who said, "Go ye into all the world, and preach the Gospel to every creature." It is affecting to think, that, whilst the one, surrounded by the nation who, through his instru- mentality, have been rescued from everlasting death, shall receive the plaudit, " Well done, good and faithful serv ant!" 29* 842 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PKOSE. the other may be numbered among those despisers, who wonder and perisli. " O that they might know, even m this their day, the things which belong to their peace, be fore they are hidden from their eyes !" You can also easily perceive how it is that we are not soon disheartened by those who tell us of the difficulties, nay, the hopelessness, of our undertaking. They may point us to countries once the seat of the church, now overspread with Mohammedan delusion ; or, bidding us look at nations, who once believed as we do, now contend- ing for what we consider fatal error, they may assure us that our cause is declining. To all this we have two an- swers. First, the assumption that our cause is declining, is utterly gratuitous. We think it not difficult to prove, that the distinctive principles we so much venerate, never swayed so powerful an influence over the destinies of the human race as at this very moment. Point us to those nations of the earth, to whom moral and intellectual culti- vation, inexhaustible resources, progress in arts, and saga- city in council, have assigned the highest rank in political importance, and you point us to nations whose religious opinions are most closely allied to those we cherish. Be- sides, when was there a period, since the days of the apostles, in which so many converts have been made to these principles, as have been made, both from Christian and Pagan nations, within the last five-and-twenty years ? Never did the people of the saints of the Most High look so much like going forth, in serious earnest, to take pos- session of the kingdom, and dominion, and the greatness of the kingdom, under the whole heaven, as at the present day. We see, then, nothing in the signs of the times, which forebodes a failure, but every thing which promises that our undertaking will prosper. But, secondly, suppose the cause did seem declining ; we should see no reason to relax our exertions ; for Jesus Christ has said, " Preach the Gospel to every creature." Appearances, wh:^ther pros- perous or adverse, alter not the obligation to obey a posi- tive command of Almighty God. Again, suppose all that is affirmed were true. Il it must be, let it be. Let the dark cloud of infidelity overspread Europe, cross the ocean, and cover our own beloved land COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE:. 343 Let nation after nation swerve from the faith Let iniqui- ty abound, and tlie love of many wax cold, even until there is on the face of the earth but one pure church of ou*- Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. All we 'isk is, that we may be members of that one church. God grant that we may throw ourselves into this Thermopylai of the mora] universe. But, even then, we should have no fear that the church of God would be exterminated. We would call to remem- brance the years of the right hand of the Most High. We would recollect there was once a time, when the whole church of Christ not only could be, but actually was, gath- ered with one accord in one place. It was then that that p]?ce was shaken as with a rushing, mighty wind, and they were all filled with the Holy Ghost. That same day, three tliousand were added to the Lord. Soon we hear they have filled Jerusalem with their doctrine. The church has commenced her march. Samaria has with one accord believed the Gospel. Antio^h has become obedient to the faith. The name of Christ has been proclaimed through- out Asia Minor. The temples of the gods, as though smitten by an invisible hand, are deserted. The citizens of Ephesus cry out in despair, " Great is Diana of the Ephesians !" Licentious Corinth is purified by the preach- ing of Christ crucified. Persecution puts forth her arm to arrest the spreading "superstition." But the progress of the faith cannot be stayed. The church of God advances unhurt, amidst rocks and dungeons, persecutions and death ; yea, " smiles at the drawn dagger, and defies its point." She has entered Italy, and appears before the walls of the Eternal City. Idolatry fails prostrate at her approach. Her ensigns float in triumph over the capitol. She has placed upon her brow the diadem of the Caisars ' Mimt Blanc in the Gleam of Sunset. — Griscom. We arrived, before sundown, at the village of St. Mar- tin, where we were to stay for the night. The evening being remarkably fine, we ciossed the Arve on a beautiful 344 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. bridge, and walked over to Salenche, a very consideraMs village, opposite to St. Martin, and ascended a lull to vievr Ihe effect of the sun's declining light upon Mont Blanc. The scene was truly grand. The broad range of the moun- tain was fully before us, of a pure and almost glowing white, apparently to its very base ; and which, contrasted with the brown tints of the adjoining r^ountains, greatly heightened the novelty of the scene. We could scarcely avoid the conclusion, that this vast pile of &now was very near us, and yet its base was not less than fifteen, and its summit, probably, more than twenty miles from the place where we stood. The varying rays of light produced by reflection from the snow, passing, as the sun's rays de- clined, from a brilliant white through purple and pink, and ending in the gentle light, which the snow gives after the sun has set, afforded an exhibition in optics upon a scale of grandeur, which no other region in the world could proba- bly excel. Never in my life have my feelings been so powerfully affected by merely scenery as they were in this day's excursion. The excitement, though attended by sensations awfully impressive, is nevertheless so finely attempered by the glow of novelty incessantly mingled with astonishment and admiration, as to produce on the whole a feast of delight. A lew years ago, I stood upon Table Rock, and placed my cane in the descending flood of Niagara. Its tremen- dous roar almost entirely precluded conversation with the friend at my side ; while its whirlwind of mist and foam filled the air to a great distance around me. The rainbow sported in its bosom ; the gulf below exhibited the wild fury of an immense boiling caldron ; while the rapids Sibove, for the s} ace of nearly a mile, appeared like a moun- tain of billows chafing and dashing against each other with thundering impetuosity, in their eager strife to gain the precipice, and take the awful leap. In contemplating this scene, my imagination and my heart were filled with sub- lime and tender emotions. The soul seemed to be brought a step nearer to the presence of that incomprehensible Be- ings whose spirit dwelt in every feature of the cataract, aid directed all its amazing energies. Yet in the scenery of chh dviv there was more of a pervading sense of awful and COMMON-PLACE ROOK OF PROSE. 345 anlimited grandeur : mountain piled upon mountain in end- less continuity throughout the whole extent, and crowned by the brightest effulgence of an evening sun, upon the everlasting snows of the highest pinnacle of Europe. Contrast in the Characters of Cicero and JLtticus. — BUCKMINSTER. Tii"E history of lett:5rs does not, at this moment, suggest to me a more fortunate parallel between the effects of active and of inactive learning, than in the well known charac- ters of Cicero and Atticus Let me hold them up to your observation, not because Cicero was faultless, or Atticus always to blame, but because, like you, they were the cit- izens of a republic. They lived in an age of learning and of dangers, and acted upon opposite principles, when Roir.e was to be saved, if saved at all, by the virtuous energy of her most accomplished minds. If vv'e look now for Atticus, we find him in the quiet of his library, surrounde-d by his books; while Cicero was passing through the regular course of public honours and services, where all the treasures of his mind were at the command of his country. If we follow them, we find At- ticus pleasantly wandering among the ruins of Atlienss, purchasing up statues and antiques ; while Cicero was at home, blasting the projects of Catiline, and, at the head of the senate, like the tutelary spirit of his country, as the storm was gathering, secretly watching the doubtful move- ments of Cfesar. If we look to the period of the civil wars, we find Atticus always reputed, indeed, to belong to the party of the friends of liberty, yet originally dear tc Sylli, ard intimate with Clodius, recommending himself tu Ca.yr by his neutrality, courted by Antony, and con- iiiiOted vath Octavius, poorly concealing the Epicureanism of h:.\i principles under the ornaments of literature and the -p!:n..!i'>vr of his benefactions ; till at last this inoffensive md p'j'ished friend of successive usurpers hastens out of lif'j to escape from the pains of a lingering disease. Turn 3^b COM3IOX- PLACE BOOK OF FROSK. BOW to Cicero, the only great man at whom Cssar always tre'i3bled, the only great man, whom falling Rome did noi fear. Do you tell me that his hand once offered incease to tli3 dictator ? Remember, it was the gift of gratitude osly, tod not of senility ; for the same hand launched iis 'iid'gaation against the in&moos Antony, whose power was u^r re to be dreaded, and whose revenge pursued him till ihi? father of his eouHlry gave his head to the executioner Tvithoav a struggle, for he knew that Rome was no longer to be saved. If, my friends, you would feel what learn- ing, and genius, and Tirtne, should aspire to in a day of peril and depravity, when you are tired of the factions cf the city, the battles of Cassar, the crimes of the triuBsvi- rate, and the splendid court of Augustus, do not go ani repose in the easy-chair of Atticus, but refresh your rjr tiies and your spirits with the contemplation of Cicero. Scenery in the Higldnnds on the River Hudson. — lRTi>r.s. I:s the second day of the voyage they came to the Hlg :.- liud:. It was the latter part of a calm, sultry day. that they lloated gently with the tide between these stern moantaias. There was that perfect quiet, which prevails over nature :n the languor of sununer heat ; the turning of a piank, or the accidental faHi^ig of an oar on deck, was echhich draw through these mountains, or had fallen through age. The rocks, too, were overhung w.'th wild vines and briers, which completely matted themselves together, and opposed a barrier to all ingress ; every move- ment that he made shook down a shower from the dripping foliage. He attempted to scale one of these almost per- psudicular he'.ghts ; but, though strong and agile, he found it an Hercul»;an undertaking. Often he was supported merely by crumbling projections of the rock, and some- times he clung to roots and branches of trees, and hung almost suspended in the air. The wood-pigeon came cleav- ing his whistling flight by him, and the eagle screamed from the brow of the impending cliff. As he was thus clambering, he was on the point of seizing hold of a shrub to aid his ascent, when something rustled among the leaves, and he 5aw a snake quivering along like hghtning, almo^i fiom under his hand. It coiled itself up immediately, in an attitude of defiance, with flattened head, distended jaws, and quickly vibrating tongue, that played like a little flame about its mouth. Dolph's heart turned faint within him, and he had v/ell nigh let go his hold, and tumbled down the precipice. The serpent stood on the defensive but for an instant ; it was an instinctive movement of defence ; and, finding there was no attack, it glided away into a cleft of the rock. Dolph's eye followed it with fearful intensi- ty ; and he saw at a glance that he was in the vicinity of a nest of adders, that lay knotted, and writhing, and hissing in the chasm. He hastened with all speed to escape from so frightful a neighbourhood. His imagination was full of this new horror ; he saw an adder in every curling vine, and heard the tail of a rattle-snake in every, dry leaf that rustled. At length he succeeded in scrambling to the summit of a precipice ; but it was covered by a dense forest. V/hcr- ever he coull gain a look out between the trees, he saw that the coast rose into heights and cliffs, one rising beyond another, until huge mountains overtopped the whole. There were no signs of cultivation, nor any smoke curling amongst the trees to indicate a human residence. Every thing was wild ind solitary. As he was standing on the edge or a pjecipce that overlooked a de-^p ravine fringed with trees, 30 R50 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. his fcet detached a great fragment of rock ; it fell, crash ing its way through the tree tops, down into the chasm. A loud whoop, or rather a yell, issued from the bottom of ihi. glen; the moment after there was the report of a gun; and a ball came whistling over his head, cutting the twig? and leaves, and burying itself deep in the bark of a chest- nut-tree. Dolph did not wait for a second shot, but made a prer cipitate retreat ; fearing every moment to hear the eaemv, in pursuit. He succeeded, however, in returning unma lested to the shore, and determined to penetrate no farthei into a country so beset with savage perils. He sat himself down, dripping, disconsolately, on a wet stone. What was to be done : where was he to shelte;; himself? The hour of repose was approaching; the birds were seeking their nests, the bat began to flit about in the twilight, and the night hawk, soaring high in heaven, seem-, ed to be calling out the stars. Night gradually closed in, and wrapped every thing in gloom ; and though it was the latter part of summer, yet the breeze, stealing along the river, and among these drippi..g forests, was chilly and j)onetrating, especially to a half-drowaed man. Eternity of God. — Greenwood. We receive such repeated intimations of decay in the vvoi'ld through which we are passing ; decline and change and loss, follow decline and change and loss in such rapid succession, that we can almost catch the sound of univer- sal wasting, and hear the work of desolation going on busily around us. " The mountam, falling, cometh lo nought, and the rock is removed out of his place. The waters wear the stones, the things which grow out of the dust of the earth are washed away, and the hope of man is de- stroyed." Conscious of our own instability, we look aocn^. for something to rest on, but we look in vain. The heav- ens and the earth had a beginning, and they will have a.«. end. The iace of the world is changing daily and houriy All animated tilings glow old and die. The rocks crura- COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 351 61e, the trees fal^, the leaves fade, and the grass withers. The clouds are flying, and the waters are flowing away from us. The firmest woi-ks of man, too, are gradually giving way ; the ivy clings to the mouldering tower, the brier hangs out from the shattered window, and the wall-flower springs from the disjointed stones. The founders of these perishable works have shared the same fate long ago. If we look back to the days of our ancestors, to the men as well as the dwellings of former times, they become imme- diately associated in our imaginations, and only make the feeling of instability stronger and deeper than before. In the spacious domes, which once held our fathers, the ser- pent hisses, and the wild bird screams. The halls, which once were crowded with all that taste, and science., and labour could procure, which resounded with melody, and were lighted up with beauty, are buried by their own ru- ins, mocked by their own desolation. The voice of mer- riment, and of wailing, the steps of the busy and the idle, have ceased in the desei-ted courts, and the weeds choke the entrances, and the long grass waves upon the hearth- stone. The works of art, the forming hand, the tombs, the very ashes they contained, are all gone While we thus walk among the ruins of the past, a sad feeling of insecurity comes over us ; and that feeling is b\ no means diminished when we arrive at home If we turn to our friends, we can hardly speak to them before they bid us farewell. We see them for a few moments, and in a few moments more their countenances are changed, and they are sent away. It matters not how near and dear they are. The ties which bind us together are never too close to be parted, or too strong to be broken. Tears were never known to move the king of terrors, neither is it enough that we are compelled to surrender one, or two, or many of those we love ; for, though the price is so great, we buy no favour with it, and our hold on those who re- main is as slight as ever. The shadows all elude our grasp, and follow one another down the valley. We gain no con- fidence, then, no feeling of security, by turning to our contemporaries and kindred. We know that the forms, which are breathing around us, are as short-lived a.= those 352 COiOIOX-PLACE liOOK OF PROSE were, which have been dust for centuries. The sensatioa of vanit)-, uncertainty, and ruin, is equally strong, wheth- er we muse on what has long been prostrate, or gaze en what is falhng now, or will fall so soon. If every thing which comes under our notice has en dured for so short a time, and in so short a time will be no riiore, we carmot say that we receive the least assurance by thinking on ourselves. When they, on whose fate we have been meditating, were engaged in the active scenes of life, as full of health and hope as we are now, what were we ? TVe had no knowledge, no consciousness, no being ; there was not a single thing in the wide universe which knew us. And after the same interval shall have elapsed, which now divides their days from ours, what shall we be ? What they are now. When a few more friends have left, a few more hopes deceived, and a few more changes mocked us, " we shall be brought to the grave, and shall remain in the tomb : the clods of the val- ley shall be sweet unto us, and every man shall draw after us, as there are innumerable before us." All power will have forsaken the strongest, and the loftiest will be laid low, and every eye will be closed, and every voice hushed, and every heart will have ceased its beating. And when we have gone ourselves, even our memories will not stay be- hind us long. A few of the near and dear will bear our likeness in their bosoms, till they too have arrived at the end of their journey, and entered the dark dwelling of un- consciousness. In the thoughts of others we shall live only till the last sound of the bell, which informs them of our departure, has ceased to vibrate in their ears. A stone, perhaps, may tell some wanderer where we lie, when we came here, and when we went away ; but even that 'u ill soon refuse to bear us record : " time's ejQTacing fingers" will be busy on its surface, and at length will wear it smooth ; and then the stone itself will sink cr crumble, and the wanderer of another age will pass, without a sin- gle call upon his sympathy, over our unheeded graves. Is there nothing to counteract the sinking of the heart, which must be the effect of observations like these - Is there no substance among all these shadows .' If all whc Uve and breathe around us are the creatures of yesterday COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 353 iiiJ destined to see destruction to-morrow ; if the same condition is our own, and the same sentence is written against us ; if the sohd forms of inanimate nature and la- borious art are fading and falUng ; if we look in vain for durability to the very roots of mountains, where shall we return, and on what shall we rely ? Can no support be o.Tered ? can no source of confidence be named ? Oh yes : there is one Being, to whom we can look with a perfect conviction of finding that security, which nothing about us can give, and which nothing about us can take away To this Being we can lift up our souls, and on him we may rest them, exclaiming, in the language of the monarch of Israel, " Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from ever- lasting to everlasting thou art God. Of old hast thou laid the foundations of the earth, and the heavens are the work of thy hands. They shall perish, but thou shalt endure ; yea, all of them shall wax old Jike 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 astonishni(-.nt and awe, affords us an immoveable ground of confidence in the midst of a changing world. All things which sur- round us, all these dying, mouldering inhabitants of time, must have had a Creator, for the plain reason, that they could not have created themselves. And their Creator must have existed from all eternity, for the plain reason, that the first cause must necessarily be uncaused. As we cannot suppose a beginning without a cause of existence, that which is the cause of all existence must be self-exist- ent, and could have had no beginning. And, as it had no beginning, so also, as it is beyond the reach of all influence and control, as it is independent and almighty, it will have no end. Here then is a support, which will never fail ; here is a foundation, which can never be moved — the everlasting Creator of countless worlds, " the high and lofty One that inhabitelh eternity." What a sublime conception ' He inhabits eternity, occupies this inconceivable duration pervades and fills throughout his boundless dwelling 30* 354 COMHOX-PLA 3d was created, lie had. e". Xk ages will roll i-^-^j, i. dBat woesce ~ t - t • r : : nite naajesty. . . _■ .1 -. ser:_:i_ :: - - ■- . : ^ ■ - . — r-TT t: ; we wer- ili T-r_icli is uow ta- COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 355 men will be entirely ignorant that once we lived. But tha same unalterable Being will still preside over the universe, through all its changes, and from his remembrance we shall never be blotted. We can never be where he is not, nor where he sees and loves and upholds us not. He is our Father and our God forever. He takes us from earth that he may lead us to heaven, that he may refine our na- ture from all its principles of corruption, share with us his own immc rtality, admit us to his everlasting habitation, and crown us with his eternity. Philosophy and Morality of Tacitus. — Frisbie. It is not for his style, that we principally admire this author : his profound views of the human heart, his just developement of the principles of action, his delicate touch- es of nature, his love of liberty and independence, and, above all, the moral sensibility, which mingles, and incor- porates itself with all his descriptions, are the qualities, which must ever render him a favourite with the friends of philosophy and of man. Tacitus has been truly called the philosopher of histori- ans ; but his philosophy never arrays itself in the robe of the schools, or enters into a formal investigation of causes and motives. It seems to show itself here and there, in the course of his facts, involuntarily, and from its own ful- ness, by the manner of narration, by a single word, and sometimes by a general observation. Events, in his hands, have a soul, which is constantly displaying its secret work- ings by the attitude, into which it throws the body, by a glance of the eye, or an expression of the face, and now and then a sudden utterance of its emotions. It is not the prince, the senator, or the plebeian, that he describes ; it is always man, and the general principles of human na- ture ; and this in their nicer and more evanescent, as well as their boldest and most definite expressions. If we were not afraid of giving too violent a shock to classical devotees, wc should say, that, in the particulars we have mentioned, T.'^citns in history is not unhke Miss Edgeworth in fictiort -556 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE There are, indeed, many circumstances, unnecessary to be pointed out, in which they differ ; but there is in both the same frequent interspersion in the narrative of short re- marks, which lay open a principle of human nature, the same concise developement of character by discrimination and contrast, and the nice selection of some one trait, or apparently trifling circumstance, of conduct, as a key to the whole ; traits and circumstances, which, though none but a philosopher would have pointed out, find their way at once to every heart. But the historian has none of the playfulness, the humour, and the mind at ease, which are seen in the novelist. He knew himself the register of facts, and facts, too, in which he took the deepest interest. He records events, not as one curious in political relations, or revolutions in empires, but as marking the moral charac- ter and condition of the age ; a character and condition, which he felt were exerting a direct and powerful influ- ence upon himself, upon those whom he loved, and with whom he lived. The moral sensibility of Tacitus is, we think, that par- ticular circumstance, by which he so deeply engages his reader, and is perhaps distmguished from every other wri- ter, in the same department of literature ; and the scenes he was to describe peculiarly required this quality. His writings comprise a period the most corrupt within the annals of man. The reigns of the Neros, and of many of their successors, seemed to have brought together the opposite vices of extreme barbarism and excessive luxury ; the most ferocious cruelty and slavish submission ; volup- tuousness the most effeminate, and sensuality worse than brutal. Not only all the general charities of life, but tlje very ties of nature were annihilated by a selfishness, the most exclusively individual. The minions of power butch- ered the parent, and the child hurried to thank the empe- ror for his goodness. The very fountains of abommations seemed to have been broken up, and to have poured over the face of society a deluge of pollution and crimes. How Important was it, then, for posterity, that the records of such an era should be transmitted by one in whose per- sonal character there should be a redeeming virtue, who i^ould himself feel, and awaken in his readers, that disgust COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE 357 ■xnd abhorrence, which such scenes ought to excite ! Such ?i one was Tacitus. There is in his narrative a seri'.usncss, approaching sometimes ahnost to melancholy, and some- times bursting forth in expressions of virtuous indignation. He appears alwavs to be aware of the general complexion of the subjects, of which he is treating ; and, even when extraordinary instances of independence and integrity now and then present themselves, you perceive, that his mind is secretly contrasting them with those vices, with which his observation was habitually familiar. Thus, in describ-r ing the pure and simple manners of the barbarous tribes of the north, you find him constantly bringing forward and dwelling upon those virtues, which were most strikingly opposed to the enormities of civilized Rome. He could not, like his contemporary Juvenal, treat these enormities with sneering and sarcasm. To be able to laugh at vice, he thought a symptom, that one had been touched at least by its pollution ; or, to use his words, and illustrate, at once, both of the remarks we have just made ; speaking of the temperance and chastity of the Germans, he says, " Nemo enim illic ridet vitia, nee corrumpere et corrumpi saeculum vocatur." Therefore it is, that, in reading Taci- tus, our interest in events is heightened by a general sym- pathy with the writer ; and as, in most instances, it is an excellence, when we lose the author in his story, so, in this, it is no less an excellence, that we have him so fre- quently in our minds. It is not, that he obtrudes himself upon our notice, but that we involuntarily, though not unconsciously, see with his eyes, and feel with his feel- ings. In estimating, however, the moral sentiment of this his- torian, we are not to judge him by the present standard, elevated and improA-^ed as it is by Christianity. Tacitua undoubtedly felt the influence of great and prevalent er- rors. That war with barbarians was at all times just, and their territory and their persons the lawful prey of whatever nation could seize them, it is well known, had been always the practical maxim of the Greeks, as well as the Romans. Hence we are not to be surprised, that, in various passages of his work, he does not express thai tbhorrence of many wars, in which liis countrymen wcrf 3-58 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. engagci], H'hich we might otherwise have expected from him. Tliis apology must especially be borne in mind, ai we read the life of Agricola. The invasion of Britain by the Romans was as truly a violation of the rights of justirce aad humanity, as that of Mexico and Peru by the Span- iards ; and their leader little better in principle, than Cor- tez and Pizarro. Yet, even here, full as was Tacitus of the glory of his father-in-law and of Rome, we have fre- quent indications of sensibility to the wrongs of the op- pressed and plundered islanders. The well known speech of Calgaeus breathes all the author's love of liberty and virtue, and exhibits the simple virtues, the generous self- devotion, of the Caledonians, in their last struggle for in- dependence, in powerful contrast with the vices and am- bition of their cruel and rapacious invaders. We have mentioned what appears to us the most striking characteristics of the author before us. When compared with his great predecessor, he is no less excellent, but es- senlially diiferent. Livy is only a historian, Tacitus is aL-!o a philosopher ; the former gives you images, the latter iinpressions. In the narration of events, Livy produces his effect by completeness and exact particularity, Tacitus by selection and condensation ; the one presents to you a panorama — you have the whole scene, with all its compli- cated movements and various appearances vividly before j'ou ; the other shows you the most prominent and remark- able groups, and compensates in depth for what he wants in minuteness. Livy hurries you into the midst of the bat- tle, and leaves you to be borne along by its tide : Tacitus stands with you upon an eminence, where you have more tranquillity for distinct observation ; or perhaps, when the armies have retired, walks with you over the field, points out to you the spot of each most interesting particular, and shares with you those solemn and profound emotions^ whiclj you have now the composure to feel. COMMON-rLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 259 The Village Grave- Yard. — Greenwood " Why is my sleep disquieted ? Who is he tliat calls the dead ?" — Byron. Iw the beginning of the line month of Octobei. I waa travelling with a friend in one of our northern states, on a tour of recreation and pleasure. We were tired of the city, its noise, its smoke, and its unmeaning dissipation ; andj with the feelings of emancipated prisoners, we had been breathing, for a few weeks, the perfume of the vales, and the elastic atmosphere of the uplands. Some minutes be- fore the sunset of a most lovely day, we entered a neat little village, whose tapering spire we had caught sight of at intervals an hour before, as our road made an unexpect- ed turn, or led us to the top of a hill. Having no motive to urge a farther progress, and being unwilling to ride in an unknown country after night-fall, we stopped at the inn, and determined to lodge there. Leaving my companion to arrange our accommodations with the landlord, I strolled on toward the meeting-house. Its situation had attracted my notice. There was much more taste and beauty in it than is common. It did not stand, as I have seen some meeting-houses stand, in the most frequented part of the village, blockaded by ^agons and horses, with a court-house before it, an engine-house be- hind it, a store-house under it, and a tavern on each side ; it stood away from all these things, as it ought, and was placed on a spot of gently rising ground, a short distance from the main road, at the end of a green lane ; and so nea' to a grove of oaks and walnuts, that on-e of the foremost and largest trees brushed against the pulpit win- dow. On the left, and lower down, there was a fertile meadow, through which a clear brook wound its course, fell over a rock, and then hid itself in the thickest part of the grove. A little to the right of the meeting-house was the grave-yard. I never shun a grave-yard — the thoughtful melancholy which it inspires is grateful rather than disagreeable to me — it gives me no pain to tread on the green roof of that dark mansion, whose chambers I must occupy so soon-- 360 COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. and I often wander from choice to a place, where there u neither solitude nor society — something human is there — but the folly, the bustle, the vanities, the pretensions, the competitions, the pride of humanity, are gone — men are there, but their passions are hushed, and their spirits are still — malevolence has lost its power of harming — appetite is sated, ambition lies low, and lust is cold — anger has done raving, all disputes are ended, all revelry is over, the fell est animosity is deeply buried, and the most dangerous sins are safely confined by the thickly-piled clods of the valley — vice is dumb and powerless, and virtue is waiting in silence for the trump of the archangel, and the voice ol Cod. I never shun a grave-yard, and I entered this. There were trees growing in it, here and there, though it was not regularly planted ; and I thought that it looked better than if it had been. The only paths were those, which had been worn by the slow feet of sorrow and sympathy, as they followed love and friendship to the grave ; and this too was well, for I dislike a smoothly rolled gravel- walk in a place like this. In a corner of the ground rose a gentle knoll, the top of which was covered by a clump of pines. Flf'-re my walk ended ; I threw myself down on the slip- pery couch of withered pine leaves, which the breath of many winters had shaken from the boughs above, leaned my head upon my hand, and gave myself up to the feelings which the place and the time excited. The sun's edge had just touched the hazy outlines of the western hills ; it was the signal for the breeze to be hushed, and it was breathing like an expiring infant, softly and at distant intervals, before it died awaJ^ The trees be- fore me, as the wind passed over them, waved to and fro, and trailed their long branches across the tomb-stones, with alow, moaning sound, which fell upon the ear like the voice of grief, and seemed to utter the conscious tribute of na- ture's sympathy over the last abode of mortal man. A low, confused hum came from the village ; the brook was murmuring in the wood behind me ; and, lulled by all these soothing sounds, I fell asleep. But whether my eyes closed or not, I am unable to say, for the same scene appeared to be before them, the same COMMON-PLACE BOOK S)F PROSE. 361 trees were waving, and not a green mound had changed ts form. I was still contemplating the same trophies of the unsparing victor, the same mementos of human evan- escence. Some were standing upright ; others were in- clined to the ground ; some were sunk so deeply in the earth, that their blue tops wei-e just visible above the long grass which surrounded them ; and others were spotted or covered with the thin yellow moss of the grave-yard. 1 w^as reading tlie inscriptions on the stones, which Vt^ers nearest to me — they recorded the virtues of those who slept beneath them, and told the traveller that they hoped for a happy rising. Ah ! said I — or I dreamed that I said so — this is the testimony of wounded hearts — the fond belief of that aifection, which remembers error and evil no long- er ; but could the grave give up its dead — could they, who have been brought to these cold dark houses, go back again into the land of the living, and once more number the days which they had spent there, how differently would ihey then spend them ! and v/hen they came to die, how much firmer would be their hope ! and when they were again laid in the ground, how much more faithful would be the tales, which these same stones would tel! over them .' the epitaph of praise would be well deserved by their vir- tues, and the silence of partiality no longer required for their sins. I had scarcely spoken, when the ground began to trem ble beneath me. Its motion, hardly perceptible at first, increased every moment in violence, and it soon heaved and struggled fearfully ; while in the short quiet between shock and shock, I heard such unearthly sounds, that the very blood in my heart felt cold — subterraneous cries and groans issued from every part of the grave-yard, and these were mingled with a hollow crishing noise, as if the moul- dering bones were bursting from their coffins. Suddenly all these sounds stopped — the earth on each grave was thrown up — and human figures of every age, and clad in the garments of death, rose from the ground, and stood by the side of their grave-stones. Their arms were crossed upon their bosoms — their countenances were deadly pale, and raised to heaven. The looks of the young children alone were placid and unconscious — but over the features 31 362 C03OI0X-PLACE BOOK OF PR)5E. of all ihe rest a shadow of unutterable raeaning p^jseil and repassed, as tlieir eyes turned wkh terror from the open graves, and strained anxioufly upward. Some appear»^d to be more calm than others, and when they looked abc^e, it was with an expression of more confid^'-ce, though not less humility ; but a convulsive shuddering was en the frames of all, and on their faces that same shadow of un- utterable meaning. While they stood thus, I perceived that their bloodless lips began to move, and, though I heard no voice, I knew, by the motion of their lips, that the word would have been — Pardon I But this did not continue long — they gradually became more fearless — their features acquired the appearance of security, and at last of indifference — ^the blood came to their lips — the shuddering ceased, £jid the shadow passed away. And now the scene before me changed. The tombs and grave-stones had been turned, I knew not how, into dwell- ings — and the grave-yard became a village. Every now and then I caught a view of the same faces and forms, which I had seen before — ^but other passions were traced upon their faces, and their forms were no longer clad m the garments of death. The silence of their still prayer was succeeded by the sounds of labour, and society, and merriment. Sometimes, I could see them meet together with inflamed features and angry words, and sometimes 1 distinguished the outcry of violence, "the oath of passion, and the blasphemy of sin. And yet there were a few who would often come to the threshold of their dwellings, and lift their eyes to heaven, and utter the still prayer of par Ion — while others passing by would mock them. I was astonished and grieved, and was just going to ex- press ray feelings, when I perceived by ray side a beauti- ful and majestic form, taller and brighter than the sons of men, and it thus addressed me — " Mortal ! thou hast now seen the frailty of thy race, and learned that thy thoughts were vain. Even if men should be wakened from their cold sleep, and raised from the gnive. the world would still be full of enticement and trials ; appetite would solicit and passion would burn, as strongly as before — the imperfec tions of their nature would accompany their return, anJ COMMON-PLACE EOOK OF PROSE. 363 tne cop-fifjf./cs of life would soon obliterate the reconectioa of dealln. It is only when this scene of thinj^s is exchang- ed for aiiochei-, that new gifts will bestow new powers, that higher objects will banish low desires, that the mind will be elevated by celestial converse, the soul be endued with immortal vigour, and man be prepared for the course of eternity." The angel then turned from me, and with a voice, which I hear even now, cried, " Back to your graves, ye trail ones, and rise no more, till the elements are melt- ed." Immediately a sound swept by me, like the rushing wind — the dwellings shrunk back into their original forms, and I was left alone in the grave-yard, with nought but the silent stones and the whispering trees around me. The sun had long been down — a few of the largest stars were timidly beginning to shine, the bats had left their lurking places, my cheek was wet with the dew, and I was chilled by the breath of evening. I arose, and re- turned to the 'nn. Influence of the Habit of Gaming on the Mind and Heart. — Nott. If an occupation were demanded for the express pur- pose of perverting the human intellect, and humbling, and degrading, and narrowing, I had almost said, annihilating, the soul of man, one more effectual could not be devised, than the one the gamester has already devised and prc-oc- cupied. T- And the father and mother of a family, who,' in- stead of assembling their children in the veading-room, or conducting them to the altar, seat them, night after night, beside themselves at the gaming-table, do, so far as this part of their domestic economy is concerned, contrib\ity not only to quench their piety, but also to extinguish their in- tellect, and convert them into automatons, living mummies, the mere mechanical members of a domestic gambling ma- chine, which, though but little soul is necessary, require? a number of human hands to work \€]T AwH if, under such a blighting culture, they do not degenerate into a state :)f mechanical existence, and, gradually losing their reajOQ; 3-64 COM3IOX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. their taste, their fancy, become incapable of corvers.itlon. tlie fortunate parents may thank the school-house, the church, the library, the society of friends, or soiae other and less wretched part of their own defective system, foi preventing the consummation of so frightful a result. Such are the morbid aud sickly effects of play on the human intellect. But intelligence constitutes no inconsid- erable part of the glory of man ; a glory wMch, unless eclipsed by crime, increases, as intelligence increases. 'Knowledge is desirable with reference to this world, but principally so with reference to the next ; not because philosophy, or language, or mathematics, will certainly be pursued in heaven, but because the jpursuit of them on earth gradually communicates that quickness of perception, that acumen, which, as it increases, approximates towards the sublime and sudden intuition of celestial intelligences, and which cannot fail to render more splendid the com- mencement, as well r ^ more splendid the progression, of man's interminable career. But, while gaming leaves the mind to languish, it pro- duces its full effect on the passions and on the heart. Here, however, that effect is deleterious. None of the sweet and amiable sympathies are at the card-table called into action. No throb of ingenuous and philanthropic feel- ing is excited by this detestable expedient for killing time, as it is called ; and it is rightly so called ; for many a mur- dered hoar will witness, at the day of judgment, against that fashionable idler, who divides her time between her toilet and the card-table, no less than against the profli- gate, hackneyed in the ways of sin, and steeped in all the filth and debauchery of gamblingiT^ut it is only amidst the It 1th and debauchery of gambling, that the full effects of card-playing on the passions and on the heart of man are ceen.— '^ Here that mutual amity that elsewhere subsists, ceases ; paternal affection ceases ; even that community of feeling that piracy excites, and that binds the very banditti togeth- er, has no room to operate ; for, at tiiis inhospitable board, every man's interest clashes with every man's interest, and every man's hand is literally against every man. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 365 The love of mastery and the love of money are the purest loves, of which the gamester is susceptible. And even the love of mastery loses all its nobleness, and de- generates into the love of lucre, which ultimately pre- dominates, and becomes the ruling passion. Avarice is always base ; but the gamester's avarice is doubly so. It is avarice unmixed with any ingredient of magnanimity or mercy ; avarice, that wears not even the guise of public spirit ; that claims not even the meager praise of hoarding up its own hard earnings. On the con- trary, it is an avarice, that w^holly feeds upon the losses, and only delights itself with the miseries, of others ; ava- rice, that eyes, with covetous desire, whatever is not indi- vidually its own ; that crouches to throw its fangs over that booty, by which its comrades are enriched ; avarice, that stoops to rob a traveller, that sponges a guest, and that would filch the very dust from the pocket of a friend. But though avarice predominates, other related passions are called into action. The bosom, that was once serene and tranquil, becomes habitually perturbed. Envy ran- kles ; jealousy corrodes ; anger rages ; and hope and fear alternately convulse the system. The mildest disposition grows morose ; the sweetest temper becomes fierce and fiery, and all the once amiable features of the heart as- sume a malignant aspect! Features of the heart, did I say ? Pardon my mistake. The finished gambler has none. Though his intellect may not be, though his soul may not be, his heart is quite annihilated. Thus habitual gambling consummates what habitual play commences. Sometimes its deadening influence prevails, even over female virtue, eclipsing all the loveliness, and benumbing all the sensibility of woman. In every circle, •where cards form the bond of union, frivolity and heart- lessness become alike characteristic of the mother and the daughter ; de^^otion ceases ; domestic care is shaken off, aud the decrest friends, even before their burial, are con- signed to oblivion. This is not exaggeration. I appeal to fact. Madame du Deftand vas certainly not among the least accomplished fe- njalcs, who received and imparted that exquisite tone of feeling, that pervaded the most fashionable society of modern 31* B63 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PIIOSE. Paris. And yet it is recorded of her, in the correspondence of the Baron De Grimm, whose veracity will not be ques- tioned, that when her old and intimate friend and admirer,. M. de Ponte de Vesle, died, this celebrated lady came rather late to a great supper in the neighbourhood ; and as it wa* known that she made it a point of honour to attend him, the catastrophe was generally suspected. She mentioned it, however, herself, immediately on entering ; adding, that It was lucky he had gone off so early in the evening, as she might otherwise have been prevented from appearing. She then sat down to table, and made a very hearty and merry meal of it. Afterwards, when Madame de Chatelet died, Madame du DefFand testified her grief for the most intimate of all her female acquaintance, by circulating over Paris, the very next morning, the most libellous and venomous attack on her person, her understanding, and her morals. This utter heartlessness, this entire extinction of native feeling, was not peculiar to' Madame du Deffand ; it per- vaded that accomplished and fashionable circle, in which she moved. Hence she herself, in her turn, experienced the same kind of sympathy, and her remembrance was consigned to the same instantaneous oblivion. During her last iMness, three of her dearest friends used to come and play Cards, every night, by the side of her couch ; and, as she chose to die in the middle of a very interesting game, they quietly played it out, and settled their accounts before leaving the apartment. 1 do not say that such are the uniform, but I do say, tliat such are the natural and legitimate, effects of gaming or> the female character. •^The love of play is a demon, vvhicli only takes possession as it kills the heart. But if suth }-: the effect of gaming, on the one sex, what musi be its ef feet upon the other ? Will nature long survive in boL^ouis in vaded, not by gaming only, but also by debaucl".fcry ant'.. drunkenness, those sister furies, which hell has let lootrs, to cut off our young men from without, and our chi.dreL from the streets ? No, it will not. As we have said, the finished gambler has no heart. The club, with which he- herds, would meet, though all iis members were in mourn- ing. They would meet, though it were in an apartment of COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 367 the charnel-house. Not even the death of kindred can affect the gambler. He would play upon his brother's cof- fin , he would play upon his father's seuulchre. The Preservation of the Church. — Mason. The long existence of the Christian Church would be pronounced, upon common principles of reasoning, impos- sible. She finds in every man a natural and inveterate enemy. To encounter and overcome the unanimous hos- tility of the world, she boasts no political stratagem, no dis- ciplined legions, no outward coercion of any kind. Yet her expectation is that she will live forever. To mock this hope, and to blot out her memorial from under heaven, the most furious efforts of fanaticism, the most ingenious arts of statesmen, the concentrated strength of empires, have been frequently and perseveringly applied. The blood of her sons and her daughters has streamed like water ; the smoke of the scaffold and the stake, where they wore the crown of martyrdom in the cause of Jesus, has ascend- ed in thick volumes to the skies. The tribes of persecu- tion have sported over her woes, and erected monuments, as they imagined, of her perpetual ruin. But where are her tyrants, and where their empires ? The tyran'^s have long since gone to their own place ; their names have de- scended upon the roll of infamy ; their empires have pass- ed, like shadows over the rock ; they have successively dis- appeared, and left not a trace behind ! But what became of the Church ? She rose from her ashes fresh in beauty and might ; celestial glory beamed around her ; she dashed down the monumental marble of her foes, and they who hated her fled before her She has celebrated the funeral of king? md kingdoms that plotted her destruction ; and, with the inscriptions of their pride, has transmitted to posterity the records of their shame. How shall this phenomenon be explained ? We are, at the present moment, witnesses of the fact ; but who can unfold the mystery ? The book of truth and life has made our wonder to cease. " The Lord her God in tup 368 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. MIDST OF HER IS MIGHTY." His presence is a ftiuntaig of health, and his protection a " wall of fire." He haa betrothed her, in eternal covenant, to himself. Her living Head, in whom she lives, is abovjg, and his quickening spirit shall never depart from her^> Armed with divine vir- tue, his Gospel, secret, silent, unotiserved, enters the hearts of men, and sets up an everlasting kingdom. It eludes all the vigilance, and baffles all the power, of the adversary. Bars, and bolts, and dungeons are no obstacles to its ap- proach : bonds>,and tortures, and death cannot extinguish its influence.'l^'Let no man's heart tremble, then, because of fear. Let no man despair (in these daj-s of rebuke and blasphem.y) of the Christian cause. The ark is launched, indeed, upon the floods ; the tempest sweeps along the deep: the billows break over her on every side. But Jehovah- Jesus has promised to conduct her in safety to the haven of peace. She cannot be lost unless the pilot perish. Modern Facilities for evangelizing the World. — Bkecher. The means of extending knowledge, and influencing the human mind by argument and moral power, are mul- tiplied a thousand fold. The Lancasterian mode of in struction renders the instruction of the world c?ieap and easy. The improvements of the press have reduced im- ,-nensely, and will reduce yet more, the price of books, bringing not only tracts and Bibles, but even libraries, within the reach of every man and every child. But in the primitive age. the light of science beamed onh^ on a small portion of mankind. The mass of m.ankind were not. and could not be, irstructed to read. Every thing was transient and fluctuating, because so little was made per- manent in books and general knowledge, and so much de- pended on the character, the life, and energy, of the living teacher. The press, that lever of Archimedes, which no-A moves the world, was unknown. It was the extinction of science by the invasion (if the northern barbarians, which threw back the world ten cer- COMMON-PLACi: BOOK OF PKOSE. 369 hiries ; and this it effected through the want of permanent instruction, and the omnipotent control of opinion whicli is exerted by the prees. Could Paul have put in requisition the press, as it is now put in requisition by Christianity, anc have availed himself of literary societies, and Bible societies, and Lancasterian schools to teach the entire population to read, and of Bibles, and libraries, and tracts, Mahomet had never opened the bottomless pit, and the pope had never set his foot upon the neck of kings, nor deluged Europe with the blood of the saints. Should any be still disposed to insist, that our advan tages for evangelizing the world are not to be compared with those of the apostolic age, let them reverse the scene, and roll back the wheels of time, and obliterate the improve- ments of science, and commerce, and arts, which now facil- itate the spread of the Gospel. Let them throw into dark- ness all the known portions of the earth, which were then unknown. Let them throw into distance the propinquity of nations ; and exchange their rapid intercourse for cheer- less, insulated existence. Let the magnetic power be for- gotten, and the timid navigator creep along the coasts of the Mediterranean, and tremble and cling to the shore when he looks out upon the broad waves of the Atlantic. Inspire idolatry with the vigour of meridian manhood, and arm in its defence, and against Christianity, all the civili- zation, and science, and mental power of the world. Give back to the implacable Jew his inveterate unbelief, and his vantage-ground, and his disposition to oppose Christianity in every place of his dispersion, from Jerusalem to every extremity of the Roman empire. Blot out the means of extending knowledge and exerting influence upon the hu- man mind. Pestroy the Lancasterian system of instruc- tion, and throw back the mass of men into a state of un- rfading, unreflecting ignorance. Blot out libraries and tracts ; abolish Bible, and education, and tract, and mis- sionary societies ; and send the nations for knowledge parch- ment, and the slow and limited productions of the pen. Lei di! ihe improvements in civil government be obliteratedv jtnd the world be driven from the happy arts of self-gov crnment to the guardianship of dungeons and chains. Let hberty of conscience expire, and th^ Church, now emanci' S70 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. patedj and walking forth in her unsullied loveliness, return to the guidance of secular policy, and the perversions and corruptions of an unholy priesthood. And now reduce the 200,000,000 nominal, and the 10,000,000 of real Chris- tians, spread ever the earth, to 500 disciples, and tojtwelve apostles, assembled, for fear of the Jews, in an upper cham- ber, to enjoy the blessings of a secret prayer-meeting. And give them the power of miracles, and the gift of tongues, and send them out into all the earth to preach the Gospel to every creature. Is this the apostolic advantage for propagating Christian- ity, which throws into discouragement and hopeless imbe- cility all our present means of enlightening and disenthral- ling the world ? They, comparatively, had nothing to be- gin with, and every thing to oppose them ; and yet, in three hundred years, the whole civilized, and much of the barbarous, world was brought under the dominion of Chris- tianity. And shall we, with the advantage of their labours, and of our numbers, and a thousand fold increase of oppor- tunity, and moral power, stand halting in unbelief, while the Lord Jesus is still repeating the injunction. Go ye out into all the world, and preach the Gospel to every crea- ture ; and repeating the assurance, Lo I am with you alway, even to the end of the v/orld ? Shame on our sloth ! Shame upon our unbelief! Speech* of the Chief Sa-gu-ytj-what-hah, called by the white People Red Jacket. Frieivd and Brother — It was the will of the GrBf.i Spirit that we should meet together this day. He order^^ all things, and has given us a fine day for our council, ll'd has taken his garment from before the sun, and caused .t * Delivered in answer to the offer and request of an American mi.?- s-ionary, to teach among the Indians the principles of Christianity Some of their speeclies have exhibited more of energy and pathos on occasions specially adapted to excite these qualities ; but we hrive eet:s. none which better illustrates the peculiar sagacity and eloquence o!'W"5 Enfortimate people, than tlie one before us. — Ep COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.' 371 lo shine with brightness upon us. Our eyes are opened that we see clearly ; our ears are unstopped, that we have been able to hear distinctly the words you have spoken For all these favours we t'hank the Great Spirit and him only. Brother — Listen to what we say. There was a time when our forefathers owned this great island. Their seats ex- tended from the rising to the setting sun. The Great Spirit had made it for the use of Indians. He had created the buffalo, deer, and other animals for food. He had made the bear and the beaver. Their skins served us for clothing. He had scattered them over the earth, and taught us how to take them. He had caused the earth to produce corn for bread. All this he had done for his red children, because he loved them. But an evil day came upon us. Your forefathers crossed the great water, and landed on this island. Their numbers were small. They found friends, and not enemies. They told us they had fled from their own countrj^ for fear of wicked men, and had come here to enjoy their religion. They asked for a small seat. We took pity on them, and granted their request ; and they sat down among us. We gave them corn and meat 5 they gave us poison in return. The white people had now found our country. Tidings were carried back, and- more came among us. Yet we did not fear them. We took them to be friends. They call- ed us brothers. We believed them, and gave them a larger seat. At length their numbers had greatly increased. They wanted more land. They wanted our country. Our eyes were opened, and our minds became uneasy. Wars tr'>\ place. Indians were hired to fight against Indians, ar-l many of our people were destroyed. Thej^ also brought strong liquor among us. It was strong, ani powerful, and has s'ain thousands. Brothel — Our seats were once large, and yours were email. You have now become a great people, and we have scsrcel) a place left to spread our blankets You have got oiT country, but are not satisfied ; you want to force your e{-;";^ion among us. Brother — Continue <^o listen. You say that you are sent to instruct us how to worsliip the Great Spirit agreeably t« 372 coivi:.iON-PLACE book of puose. his mind, and, if we do not take hold of the religion whici you white people teach, we shall be unhappy hereafter You say that you are right, and we are lost. How do we know this to be true ? We understand that your religion is written in a book. If it was intended for us as well as you, why has not the Great Spirit given to us, and not only to us, but why did he not give to our forefathers, the knowl- edge of that book, with the means of understanding i< rightly ? We only know what you tell us about it. How shall we know when to believe, being so often deceived by the white people ? Brother — You say there is but one way to worship and serve the Great Spirit. If there is but one religion, why do you white people differ so much about it ? Why not all agreed, as you can all read the book ? Brother — We do not understand these things. We are told that your religion was given to your forefathers, and has been handed down from father to son. We also have d religion, which was given to our forefathers, and was handed down to their children. We worship in that way. It teaches us to be thankful for all the favours we receive ; to love each other, and to be united. Y7e never quarrel about religion. Brother — The Great Spirit has made us all, but he has made a great difference between his white and red chil- dren. He has given us different complexions and different customs. To you he has given the arts. To these he has not opened our eyes. We know these things to be true. Since he has made so great a difference between us in other things, why may we not conclude that he has given us a different religion according to our understanding ? The Great Spirit does right : he kncws wliat is best for his chil- dren. We are satisfied. Brother — We do not wish to destroy your religion, or take it from you. We only wish to enjoy our own. Brother — We are told that you have been preaching to the white people in this place. These people are our neighbours. We are acquainted with them. We will wait a little while, and see what effect your preaching has upon them. If we find it does them f^ood, makes them honest COMMON-PIACE BOOK OF I'SOSE. 373 SQQ les3 disposed to cheat Indians, we will then consider again of what you have said. Brother — You have now heard our answer to yoar talk. This IS all we have to say at present. As we are going tc part, we will come and take you by the hand, and hope the Great Spirit will protect you on your journey, and return .»'ou safe to your friends. Extract from a Speech on the British Treaty* — Ames. This, sir, is a cause that would be dishonoured and be trayed, if I contented myself with appealing only to the understanding. It is too cold, and its processes are too slow for the occasion. I desire to thank God, that, since he has given me an intellect so fallible, he has impressed upon me an instinct that is sure. On a question of shame and honour, reasoning is sometimes useless, and worse. I feel the decision in my pulse : if it throws no light upon the brain, it kindles a fire at the heart. It is not easy to deny, it is impossible to doubt, that e. treaty imposes an obligation on the American nation. It would be childish to consider the president and senate obliged, and the nation and house free. What is the obli- gation ? perfect or imperfect ? If perfect, the debate is brought to a conclusion. If imperfect, how large a part of our faith is pawned ? Is half our honour put at a risk, and is that half too cheap to be redeemed ? How long has this hair-splitting subdivision of gool t'aith been discovered ? and why has it esca^aed the researches of the writers on the law of nations ? Shall we add a new chapter to that * Tlie relehrated ?peecli, fnim which this extract is taken, was de- .ivr>rt",i i!i the house of representatives, April 28, 1796. in s\ip;)ort of tlie folln\viii'_' iii'ition : " Resolved, That it is expedient to pass the laws nectrssiiry to carry into effect tho treaty lately concluded between the United ^'tates and the king of Great Britain." — After tiie debate, thf votes stood, for carrying tiit tre ty into etTect, 51 , against carrying if Into effect, 48.— Er>." H-4 874 COMMON-FLACE BOOK OF PROSE. law ? or insert this doctrine as a supplement to, or, mors properly, a repeal of the ten commandments ? On every hypothesis, the conclusion is not to be re- sisted : we are either to execute this treaty, or break our faith. To expatiate on the value of public faith, niay pass with some men for declamation : to such men I have nothing to say. To others I will urge, can any circumstance mark upon a people more turpitude and debasement ? Can any thing tend more to make men think themselves mean, or ' degrade to a lower point their estimation of virtue, and their standard of action ? It would not merely demoralize man- kind ; it tends to break all the ligaments of society, to dis- solve that mysterious charm, which attracts individuals to the nation, and to inspire in its stead a repulsive sense of shame and disgust. What is patriotism ? Is it a narrow affection for the spot where a man was born ? Are the very clods where we tread entitled to this ardent preference, because they are greener. No, sir : this is not the character of the virtue, and it soars higher for its object. It is an extended self- love, mingling with all the eiijojments "of life, and twist- ing itself with the minutest filaments of the heart. It is thus we jbey the laws of society, because they are the laws of virtue. In their authority we see, not the array of force and terror, but the venerable image of our coun- try's honour. Every good citizen makes that honour his own ; and cherishes it not only as precious, but as sa:red. He is willing to risk his life in its defence ; and is conscious, that he gains protection while he gives it. For what rights of a citizen will be deemed inviolable, when a state re- nounces the principles that constitute their security ? Or, if his life should not be invaded, what would its enjoyments be in a country odious in the eyes of strangers, and dis- honoured in his own ? Could he look with affection and veneration to such a country as his parent ? The sense of having one would die within him ; he vs'ould bhish for his patriotism, if he retained any, and justly — for it would be a vice. He would be a baa'vhed man in his native iand. CO?.IxMON-PLACE liOOlt OF PROSE. 375 I see no exception to the respect that is paid among na- tions to the law of good faith. If there are cases in this enlightened period when it is violated, there are none when it is decried. It is the philosophy of politics, the religion of governments. It is observed by barbarians : a whiff of tobacco smoke, or a string of beads, gives not merely binding force, but sanctity, to treaties. Even in Algiers, d truce may be bought for money; but, when ratified, even Algiers is too wise, or too just, to disown and annul its ob- ligation. Thus we see, neither the ignorance of savages, nor the principles of an association for piracy and rapine, permit a nation to despise its engagements. If, sir, there could be a resurrection from the foot of the gallows, if the victims of justice could live again, collect together and form a society, they would, however loath, soon find them- selves obliged to make justice, that justice under which they fell, the fundamental law of their state. They would perceive it was their interest to make others respect, and they would, therefore, soon pay some respect themselves to the obligations of good faith. It is painful, I hope it is superfluous, to make even the supposition that America should furnish the occasion of thia opprobrium. No : let me not even imagine, that a repub- lican government, sprung, as our own is, from a people enlightened and uncorrupted, a government whose origin is right, and whose daily discipline is duty, can, upon sol- emn debate, make its option to be faithless; can dare to act what despots dare not avow, what our own example evinces the states of Barbary are unsuspected of. No : let me rather make the supposition that Great Britain re- fuses to execute the treaty, after we have done every thing to carry it into effect. Is there any language of reproach pungent enough to express your commentary on the fact ? What would you say ? or rather what would you not say ? Would you not tell them, wherever an Englishman might travel, shame would stick to him ? he would disown his country. You would exclaim — " England, proud of your wealth, and arrogant in the possession of power, blush for these distinctions which hecome the vehicles of your dis- honour :" Such a nation might truly say to corruption, t]iou art my father ; and to the worm, thou art my rnothp' tLe treaty — l5 : .„ r :. f _ , t ■ ; ; . r : . . . r . i . ■ : :e nea- tnd in i!^ OHii ; r : : 5 7 : _ . to look fix- g^eat d&<: :i "'-.. :7r tt^.t^ l .:-7.:ir3 luaiK Aevar^ |Mi>aiS ajiid BO .;>:"' ;r' :.- ... .' r ._ ' ._ 5 r 1 _ ~ . : _• .' Can diey takf 1 ^ ;: : iz Ii i : .e, nnderfliese :.-:-:-: >^ ~\- j:: t ":;. -';.sir, it will not be pr t ;- — : r : r r? idian a lare to diair : i - r :7 :; ir : : "£ O^a this theme m" -...i:\::. - .:. _ :t.::^t 7 I :: :.: niJ wc^ds fix- (Sif 1. :::.;-:: 7 ■:: T :i;- 7-::: v.:' ■; 1^7 zsaL I vooLI 5 — > 7 1 : ::'::_::_- ^tnmee Oal :: }.\: 1 -- :. 7,-::^:r ' t; ;:. : -3 -:„;: • .- -.r .;:.,:. !■; — ' ' .£e iiara " ^ : : - " : - . .. r a etrl : : -.. -: :iis yet palhtiiroag!i7 : :. ^. v COMMOiN-PLACE BOOK OF TROSE. 37 / midnight will glitter with the blaze of youi tlwellings. You are a father — the blood of your sons shall fatten youi cornfield : you are a mother — the war-whoop shall wake the sleep of the cradle. On this subject, you need not suspect any deception on your feelings. It is a spectacle of horror, which cannot \-e overdrawn. If you have nature in your hearts, they ^ill speak a language, compared v.^ith which all 1 have ■said, or can say, will be poor and frigid. Who will accuse me of wandering out of the subject ? Who will say that 1 exaggerate the tendencies of our meas- ures ? Will any one answer by a sneer, that all this is idle preaching ? Will any one deny that we are bound' — and 1 would hope to good purpose — by the most solemn sanctions of duty for the vote we give ? Are despots alone to be re- proached for unfeeling indifierence to the tears and blood of their subjects ? Are republicans unresponsible ? Have the principles, on which you ground the reproach upon cabi- nets and kings, no practical influence, no binding force ' Are they merely themes of idle declamation, introduced to decorate the morality of a newspaper essay, or to furnish pretty topics of harangue from the windows of that state- house ? I trust it is neither too presumptuous nor too late to ask — Can you put the dearest interest of society at risk without guilt and without remorse ? By rejecting the posts, we light the savage fires, we bind the victims. This day we undertake to render ac- count to the widows and orphans whom our decision will make, to the wretches that will be roasted at the stake, to our country, and, I do not deem it too serious to say, to conscience and to God. We are answerable ; and if duty be any thing more than a word of imposture, if conscience be not a bugbear, we are preparing to make ourselves as v/retched as our country. There is no mistake in this case, there can be none • experience has already been the prophet of events, and the cries of our future victims have already reached us. The western inhabitants are not a silent and uncomplaining sac- rifice. The voice of humanity issues from the shade of the wilderness : it exclaims that, while one hand is held up to reject this treaty, -the other grasps a tomahawk. It 878 COMMON-rLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Bummons our imagination to the scenes that will open. I 13 no great effort of the imagination to conceive that events BO near are already begun, i can fancy that I listen to the yells of savage vengeance and the shrieks of torture ; al- ready they seem to sigh in the western w^ind ; already they mingle with e ery echo from the mountains. 1 rose to speak under impressions that 1 would have re- sisted if I could. Those who see me will believe, that the reduced state of my health has unfitted me, almost equally, for much exertion of body or mind. Unprepared for debate by careful reflection in my retirement, or by long attention here, 1 thought the resolution I had taken to sit silent v/as imposed by necessity, and would cost me no effort to maintain. With a mind thus vacant of ideas, and sinking, as I really am, under a sense of weakness, i imagined the very desire of speaking was extinguished by the persuasion that I had nothing to say. Yet wiien 1 come to the moment of deciding the vote, I start back with dread from the edge of the pit into which we are plunging. In my view, even the minutes I have spent in expostu- lation have their value, because they protract the crisis, and the short period in which alone we may resolve to es cape it. I have thus been led by my feelings to speak more at length than I had intended. Yet I have, perhaps, as little personal interest in the event as any one here. There is. I believe, no member, who will not think his chance to be a witness of the consequences greater than mine. If, how- ever, the vote should pass to reject, and a spirit should rise, as it will with the public disorders, to make " confusion worse confounded," even I, slender and almost broken as my hold upon life is, may outlive the government and constitution of my country. Appeal in Favour of the Union. — Madisojv. I SUBMIT to you, my fellow-citizens, lliese considera tions, in lull confidence that the good sense, which has so often marked your decisions, will allow them their dua COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 379 weight iiPid effect ; and that you will never suffer difficul- ties, however formidable in appearance, or however fash- ionable the error on which they may be founded, to drive you into the gloomy and perilous scenes, into which the advocates for disunion would conduct you. Hearken not to the unnatural voice, which tells you that the people of America, knit together, as they are, by so many cords of affection, can no longer live together as members of the same family ; can no longer continue the mutual guar- dians of their mutual happiness ; can no longer be fel- low-citizens of one great, respectable and flourishing em- pire. Hearken not to the voice, which petulantly tells you, that the form of government recommended for your adoption is a novelty in the political world ; that it has never yet had a place in the theories of the wildest pro- jectors ; that it rashly attempts what it is impossible to ac- complish. No, my countrymen ; shut your ears against this unhallowed language. Shut your hearts against the poison which it conveys ; the kindred blood, which flows in the veins of American citizens, the mingled blood, which they have shed in defence of their sacred rights, consecrate their union, and excite horror at the idea of their becom- ing aliens, rivals, enemies. And if novelties are to. bo shunned, believe me, the most alarming of all novelties, tiie most wild of all projects, the most rash of all attempts, h that of rending us in pieces, in order to preserve our lib- erties and promote our happiness. But why is ihe exper- iment of an extended republic to be rejected, merely be- cause it may comprise what is new ? Is it not the glory of the people of America, that, whilst they have paid a de- cent regard to the opinions of former times and other na- tions, they have not suffered a blind veneration for antiquity, for custom, or for names, to overrule the suggestions of their own good sense, the knov/ledge of their own situ- ation, and the lessons of their own experience ? To this mar "y spirit, posterity will be indebted for the pcs^ession, and the wcrid for the example, of the numerous ?,. novations disj.Iaycd on liie American theatre/ ij favour of private righ(3 and public lia,>piness. Had no important step beea ta!:cn Ly the leaders of the revohition, for which a prect; de!;t could not be discovered: hadno v/ao t;qual to the emergency. " 'Tis unnecessary," he at length said ; " 'tw':i Id be certain destruction to be taken aback, and it i.' diffi- cult to say, within several points, how the wind nay strike us." " 'Tis difficult no longer," cried Griffith ; " for here n comes, and in right earnest!" The rushing sounds of the wind were now, indeed, he .; i at hand, and the words were hardly passed the lips of Le young lieutenant, before the vessel bowed down heav y to one side, and then, as she began to move through the water, rose again majestically to her upright position, as if saluting, like a courteous champion, the powerful antago- nist with which she was about to contend. Not another minute elapsed, before the ship was throwing the waters aside, with a lively progress, and, obedient to her helm, was brought as near to the desired course, as the direction of the wind would allow. The hurry and bustle on the yards graduallj- subsided, and the men slowly descended to the d9ck, all straining their eyes to pierce the gloom in which they were enveloped, and some shaking their heads in melancholy doubt, afraid to express the apprehensions they really entertained. All on board anxiously waitetl for the fury of the gale ; for there were none so ignorant or inexperienced in that gallant frigate, as not to know, that they, as yet, only felt the infant efforts of the wind. Each moment, however, it increased in power, though so gradual was the alteration, that the relieved mariners be- gan to believe that all their gloomy forebodings were not to be realized. During this short interval of uncertainty, HO other sounds were heard than the whistling of the breeze, as it passed quickly through the mass of rigging that belonged to the vessel, and the dashing of the spray, that began to fly from her bows, like the foam of a cataract. "It blow- "resh," cried Griffith, who was the first to speak in that moment of doubt and anxiety ; " but it is na COMMON-PLACE BOOK OP PROSE. 385 mere than a cap-full of wind, after all. Give us elbow- room, and the right canvass, Mr. Pilot, and I'll handle the ship like a gentleman's yacht, in this breeze." " Will she stay, think ye, under this sail ?" said the low voice of the stranger. " She will do all that man, in reason, can ask of wood and iron," returned the lieutenant ; " but the vessel don't float the ocean that will tack under double-reefed topsails alone, against a heavy sea. Help her with the courses, pi- k)t, and you'll see her come round like a dancing-master." " Let us feel the strength of the gale first," returned ihe man who was called Mr. Gray, moving from the side of Grifl&th to the weather gang-way of the vessel, where he stood in silence, looking ahead of the ship, with an air of singular coolness and abstraction. All the lanterns had been extinguished on the deck of the frigate, when her anchor was secured, and as the first mist of the gale had passed over, it was succeeded by a faint light, that was a good deal aided by the glittering foam of the waters, which now broke in white curls around the vessel, in every direction. The land could be faintly dis- cerned, rising, like a heavy bank of black fog, above the margin of the waters, and was only distinguishable from the heavens, by its deeper gloom and obscurity. The last rope was coiled, and deposited in its proper place, by the sea- men, and for several minutes the stillness of death pervaded the crowded decks. It was evident to every one, that their ship was dashing at a prodigious rate through the waves; and, as^he was approaching, with such velocity, the quar- ter of the bay where the shoals and dangers were known to be situated, nothing but the habits of the most exact discipline could suppress the uneasiness of the officers and rren within their own bosoms. At length the voice of Captain Munson was heard, calling to the pilot. " Shall 1 send a hand into the chains, Mr. Gray," he ?aid, " and try our water ?" " Tack your ship, sir, tack your ship ; I would see how she works, before we reach the point, where she must be- have well, or we perish." 33 gS6 _ COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. Griffilli gazed after him in wonder, wh.le the pilot slow- ly paced the quarter-deck, and then, rousing from his trance, gave forth the cheering order that called each man to his station, to perform the desired evolution. The con- fident assurances which the young otScer had given to the pilot, respecting the qualities of his vessel, and his own ability to manage her, were fully realized by the result. The helm was no sooner put a-lee, than the huge ship bore up gallantly against the wind, and, dashing directly through the waves, threw the foam high into the air, as she looked boldly into the very eye of tne wind, and then, yielding gracefully to its power, she fell oiF on the other tack, with her head pointed from those dangerous shoals that she had so recently approached with such terrifying velocity. The heavy yards swung rovnd, as if they had been vanes to indicate the currents of the air, and in a few moments the ^rigate again moved, with stately progress, through the »vater, leaving the rocks and shoals behind her on one side af the bay, but advancing towards those that otiered equal danger on the other. During this time, the sea was becoming more agitated, and the violence of the wind was gradually increasing. The latter no longer whistled amid the cordage of the ves- sel, but it seemed to howl, surlily, as it passed the compli Gated machinery that the frigate obtruded on its path. An endless succession of white surges rose above the heavy billows, and the ver}^ air was glittering with the light that was disengaged from the ocean. The ship yielded, each moment, more and more before the storm, and.m less than half an hour from the time that she had lifted her anchor, she was driven along, with tremendous fury, by the full power of a gale of wind. Still, the hardy and experienced mariners, who directed her movements, held her to the 'ourse that was necessary to their preservation, and stili Griffith gave foith, when directed bj'^ their unknov/n pilot, those orders that turned her in the narrow channel where safety was, alone, to be found. So far, the performance of his duty appeared easj- to the stranger, and he gave the required directions in those stilJ, calm tones, that formed so remarkable a contrast to the responsibility of his situation. But when the land was be- COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 387 coming dim, in distance as well as darkness, and the agitated sea was only to be discovered as it swept by them in foam, he broke in upon the monotonous roaring of the tempesti with the sounds of his voice, seeming to shake off his apa- thy, and rouse himself to the occasion. " Now is the time to watch her closely, Mr. Griffith," he cried ; " here we get the true tide and the real danger. Place the best quarter-master of your ship in those chains, and let an officer stand by him, and see that he gives us the right v/ater." " I will take that office on myself," said the captain ; ** pass a light into the weather main-chains." "Stand by your braces !" exclaimed the pilot, with start- ling quickness. " Heave away that lead !" These preparations taught the crew to expect the crisis, and every officer and man stood in fearful silence, at hia assigned station, awaiting the issue of the trial. E^en the quarter-master at the cun gave out his orders to the men at the wheel in deeper and hoarser tones than usual, as if anxious not to disturb the quiet and order of the vessel. While this deep expectation pervaded the frigate, the piercing cry of the leadsman, as he called, " By the mark seven!" rose above the tempest, crossed over the decks, ani appeared to pass away to leeward, borne on the blast, like the warnicgs of some water spirit. " 'Tis well," returned the pilot, calmly ; " try it again." The short pause was succeeded by another cry, " and a half-five !" " She shoals ! she shoals !" exclaimed Griffith ; " keep her a good full." " Ay ! you must hold the vessel in command, now," said the pilot, with those cool tones that are most appalling m critical moments, because they seem to denote most preparation and care. The third call of " By the deep four !" was followed by a prompt direction from the stfanger to tack. Griffith seemed to emulate the coolness of the pilot, in L'-suing the necessary orders to execute this manceTivie. The vessel rose slowly from the inclined position into ?.]acli she had been forced by the tempest, and the saiij 388 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. were shaking violently, as if to release themselves fion their confinement, while the ship stemmed the billows, when the well-known voice of the sailing-master was heard shouting from ths forecastle— " Breakers ! breakers, dead ahead '" This appaUing sound seemed yet to he lingering about the ship, when a second voice cried — " Breakers on our lee-bow !" " We are in a bight of the shoals, Mr. Gray," said the commander. " She loses her way ; perhaps an anchor might hold her." " Clear away that best-bcivver !" shouted Griffith through his trumpet. " Hold on !" cried the pilot, in a voice that reached the very hearts of all who heard him ; " hold on every thing." The young man turned fiercely to the daring stranger, who thus defied the discipline of his vessel, and at once demanded — " Who is it that dares to countermand my orders 1 — is it not enough that you run the ship into danger, but you must interfere to keep her there ! If another word — " " Peace, Mr. Griffith/' interrupted the captain, bending from the rigging, his gray locks blowing about in the wind, and adding a look of wildness to the haggard care that he exhibited by the light of his lantern ; " yield the trumpet to Mr. Gray ; he alone can save us." Griffith threw his speaking trumpet on the deck, and, as he walked proudly away, muttered in bitterness of feel- ing— " Then all is lost, indeed, and, among the rest, the foolish hopes with which I visited this coast." There was, however, no time for reply ; the ship had been rapidly running into the wind, and, as the efforts of the crew were paralyzed by the contradictory orders they had heard, she gradually lost her way, and, in a few sec onds, all her sails were taken aback. Before the crew understood their situation, the pilot had applied the trumpet to his mouth, and, in a voice that rose above the tempest, he thundered forth his orders. Each command wis given di? inctly, and with a precision tlia-t COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 389 Bliowed him to be master of bis profession. The helm was kept fast, the head yards swung up heavily against the wind, and the vessel-was soon whirling round on her heel, with a retrograde movement. Griffith was too much of a seaman, not to perceive that the pilot had seized, with a perception almost intuitive, the only method that promised to extricate the vessel from her situation. He was young, impetuous, and proud ; but he was also generous. Forgetting his resentment and his mortification, he rushed forward among the men, and, by his presence and example, added certainty to the experi- ment. The ship fell off slowly before the gale, and bowed her yards nearly to the water, as she felt the blast pouring its fury on her broadside, while the surly waves beat vio- lently against her stern, as if in reproach at departing from her usual manner of moving. The voice of the pilot, however, was still heard, steady and calm, and yet so clear and high as to reach every ear; and the obedient seamen whirled the yards at his bidding, in despite of the tempest, as if they handled the toys of their childhood. When the ship had fallen off dead before the wind, her head sails were shaken, her after yards trimmed, and her helm shifted, before she had time to run upon the danger that had threatened, as well to leeward as to wind- ward. The beautiful fabric, obedient to her government, threw her bows up gracefully towards the wind again, and, as her sails were trimmed, moved out from amongst the dangerous shoals, in which she had been embayed, as stead- ily and swiftly as she had approached them. A moment of breathless astonishment succeeded the iccomplishment of this nice manoeuvre, but there was no time for the usual expressions of surprise. The stranger sti.l held the trumpet, and continued to lift his voice amid the bowlings of the blast, whenever prudence or skill di- rected any change in the management of the ship. For an hour longer, there was a fearful struggle for their pres- ervation, the channel becoming, at each step, more com- p„cated, and the shoals thickening around the mariners, on every side. The lead was cast rapidly, and the quicK eye of the pilot seemed to pierce the darkness, with a keen- ness of vision that exceeded human power. It was appa- 33* S90 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. rent to all in the vessel, that they were under the guidance of one who understood the na\ igation thoroughly, and their exertions kept pace with their reviving confidence. Again and again the frigate appeared to be rushing blindly on shoals, where the sea was covered with foam, and where destruction would have been as sudden as it was certain, when the clear voice of the stranger was heard warning them of the danger, and inciting them to their duty. The vessel was implicitly yielded to his government, and during those anxious moments, w^hen she was dashing the waters aside, throwing the spray over her enormous yards, each ear would listen eagerly for those sounds that had obtained a command over the crew, that can only be ac- quired, under such circumstances, by great steadiness and consummate skill. The ship was recovering from the in- action of changing h'er course, in one of those critical tacks that she had made so often, when tlie pilot, for the first time, addressed the commander of the frigate, who still continued to superintend the all-important duty of the leadsman. " Now is the pinch," he said; " and if the ship behaves well, we are safe — but if otherwise, all we have yet done will be useless." The veteran seaman whom he addressed left the chains at this portentous notice, and, calling to his first lieuten- ant, required of the stranger an explanation of his warn- ing. '•' See you yon light on the southern headland ?" re- turned the pilot ; " you may know it from the star near it by its sinking, at times, in the ocean. Now observe the hummoc, a little north of it, looking like a shadow in the horizon — 'tis a hill far inland. If we keep that light open from the hill, we shall do well — but if not, we surely go to pieces." " Let us tack again !" exclaimed the lieutenant. The pilot shook his head, as he replied — " There is no more tacking or box-hauling to be done to- night. We have barely room to pass out of the shoals on this course, and if we can weather the ' Devil's-Grip,' we clear their outermost point — but if not, as I said before) there is but an alternative." COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 391 " !<* we had beaten out the way we entered," exclaimed Griffith, " we should have done well." " Say, also, if the tide would have let us do so," re- turned the pilot calmly. " Gentlemen, we must be prompt; we have but a mile to go, and the ship appears to fly. That topsail is not enough to keep her up to the wind ; we want both jib and mainsail." " 'Tis a perilous thing to loosen canvass in such a tem- pest !" observed the doultful captain. '• It must be done," returned the collected stranger ; " v^e perish, without it — see ! the light already touches the edge of the hummoc ; the sea casts us to leeward !" *' It shall be done !" cried Griffith, seizing the trumpet from the hand of the pilot. The orders of the lieutenant were executed almost as soon as issued, and, every thing being ready, the enormous folds of the mainsail were trusted, loose, to the blast. There was an instant when the result was doubtful ; the tremen- dous threshing of the heavy sails, seeming to bid defiance to all restraint, shaking the ship to her centre ; but art and strength prevailed, and gradually the canvass was distend- ed, and, bellying as it filled, was drawn down to its usual place, by the power of a hundred men. The vessel yield- ed to this immense addition of force, and bowed before it, like a reed bending to a breeze. But the success of the measure was announced by a joyful cry from the stranger, that seemed to burst from his inmost soul. " She feels it ! she springs her luff! observe," he said, " the light opens from the hummoc already ; if she will only bear her canvass, we shall go clear !" A report, like that of a cannon, interrupted his excla- mation, and something resembling a white cloud was seen drifting before the wind from the head of the ship, till it was driven info the gloom far to leeward. " 'Tis the jib, blown. from the bolt-ropes," said the com- mander of the frigate. " This is no time- to spread light duck — but the mainsail may stand it yet." "Tbf sail would laugh at a tornado," returned the lieu- tenant; " but that mast springs like a piece of steel." " Silence all!" cried the pilot. " Now, gentlemen, we shall soon know our fate. Let her lufF — luff you can •" 392 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. This warning effectually closed all discourse, and ihe hardy mariners, knowing that they had already done all in the power of man to ensure their safety, stood in breath- less anxiety, awaiting the result. At a short distance ahead of them, the whole ocean was white with foam, and the waves, instead of rolling on, in regular succession, appear- ed to be tossing about in mad gambols. A single streak of dark billows, not half a cable's length in width, could be discerned running into this chaos of water ; but it was soon lost to the eye, amid the confusion of the disturbed element. Along this narrow path the vessel moved more heavily than before, being brought so near the wind as to keep her sails touching. The pilot silently proceeded to the wheel, and, with his own hands, he undertook the steerage of the ship. No noise proceeded from the frigate to interrupt the horrid tumult of the ocean, and she enter- ed the channel am^ong the breakers, with the silence of a desperate calmness. Twenty times, as the foam rolled away to leeward, the crew were on the eve of uttering their joy, as they supposed the vessel past the danger; bet breaker after breaker would still rise before them, follow- ing each other into the general mass, to check their exul- tation. Occasionally, the fluttering of the sails would be heard ; and, when the looks of the startled seamen were turned to the wheel, they beheld the stranger grasping its spokes, with his quick eye glancing from the water to the canvass. At length the ship reached a point, where she Appeared to be rushing directly into the jaws of destruc- tion, when, suddenly, her course was changed, and her head receded rapidly from the wind. At the same instant, the voice of the pilot was heard, shouting — " Square away the yards ! — in mainsail !" A general burst from the crew echoed, " Square away Trie yards !" and, quick as thought, the frigate was seen c;]!;!ing along the channel, before the wind. The eye had b.ardiy time to dwell on the foam, which seemed like clouds Jriving in the heavens, and directly the gallant vessel is- sued from her perils, and rose and fell on the heavy waves if the open sea-. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 393 Lafayette's first Visit to America. — Ticknor When- only between sixteen and seventeen, Lafayette was married to the daughter of the Duke d'Ayen, son of the Duke de Noailles, and grandson to the great and good Chancellor d'iVguesseau ; and thus his condition in life seemed to be assured to him among the most splendid and powerful in the empire. His fortune, which had been accumulating during a long minority, was vast ; his rank was with the first in Europe ; his connexions brought him ihe support of the chief persons in France ; and his indi- vidual character — the warm, open and sincere manners, which have distinguished him ever since, and given him such singular control over the minds of men — made him powerful in the confidence of society wherever he v/ont. It seemed, indeed, as if life had nothing further to offer him, than he could surely obtain by walking in the path that was so bright before him. It was at this period, hov/ever, that his thoughts and feel- ings were first turned towards these thirteen colonies, then in the darkest and most doubtful passage of their struggle for independence. He made himself acquainted with our agents at Paris, and learned from them the state of our af- fairs. Nothing could be less tempting to him, whether he sought military reputation, or military instruction ; for our army, at that moment retreating through New Jersey, and leaving its traces of blood from the naked and torn feet of the soldiery, as it hastened onward, was in a state too hum- ble to offer either. Our credit, too, in Europe was entire- Jy gone, so that the commissioners, (as they were called, without having any commission,) to whom Lafayette still persisted in offering his services, were obliged, at last, to acknowledge, that they could not even give him decent means for his conveyance. " Then," said he, " I shall purchase and fit out a vessel for myself." He did so. The vessel was prepared at Bordeaux, and sent round to one of the nearest ports in Spain, that it might be beyond the reach of the French government. In order more elTectu- ally to conceal his purposes, he made, just before his em- jaikation, a visit of a few weeks in England, (the only 594 COMMON-rL iCE BOOK OF FROSE, time he was ever there.) and was much sought in English society. On his return to France, he did not stop at all in the capital, even to see his own family, hut hastened, with all speed and secrec\", to make good ids escape froio the country. It was not until he was thus on Ins way to embark, that his romantic undertaking hegan to hi known. The effect produced in the capital and at court hy it« publication wa= greater than we should now, perhaps, im- agine. Lord Stormont, the English ambassador, required tlie French miiistry to despatch an order for his arrest, nol only to Bordeaux, but to the French commanders on the West India station ; a requisition witli which the ministrj readily complied, for thej- were at that time anxious to pre- serve a good understanding with England, and were seri- ously angry with a young man who had thus put in jeop- ardy the relations of the two countries. In fact, at Peis- sage, on the very borders of France and Spain, a lettre dt cachet overtook him, and he was arrested and carried back to Bordeaux. There, of course, his enterp-nse was near being finally stopped ; but, watching his opportunity, and assisted by one or two friends, he disguised liimself as a courier, with his face blacked and false hair, and rode on, ordering post horses for a carriage, which he had caused to follow him at a suitable distance, for this very purpose, and thus fairly passed the frontiers of the two kingdoms, only threfe or four hours before his pursuers reached them, lie soon arrived at the port where his vessel was waiting for him. His fami^ ;, however, still followed him with so- licitations to return^, which he never received : and the so- ciety of the court and capital, according to Madame du Deffand's account of it, was in no common state of excite- ment on the occasion. Something of the same sort hap- pened in London. " "We talk chiefly," says Gibbon, in a letter dated April 12th, 1777, '•' of the Marquis de Lafa- yette, who was here a few weeks ago. He is about twenty, with a hundred and thirty thousand livres a year ; the nephew of Noailles, who is ambassador here. He has bought the Puke of Kingston's yacht, [a mistake J and ia gone to join he Air ?ricans. The court appear to be anfcry »rith him." ^nJM.MON-PLACE BOOK CF PROSE. 395 Immediately on arriving the secor d time at Passage, the wind being fair, he embarked. The usual course, for French vessels attempting to trade with our colouies at that period, was, to sail for the West indies, and then, coming up along our coast, enter where they could. But this course would have exposed Lafayette to the naval com- manders of his own nation, and he had almost as much rea- son to dread them as to dread British cruisers. When, therefore, they were outside of the Canary Islands, La- fayette required his captain to lay their course directly for the United States. The captain refused, alleging that, if they should be taken by a British force, and carried into Halifax, the French government would never reclaim them, and they could hope for nothing but a slow death in a dungeon or a prison-ship. This was true, but Lafa- yette knew it before he made the requisition. He there- fore insisted, until the captain refused in the most positive manner. Lafayette then told him that the ship was his own private property, that he had made his own arrange- ments concerning it, and that if he, the captain, would not sail directly for the United States, he should be put in irons, and his command given to the next officer. The captain, of course, submitted, and Lafayette gave liim a bond for forty thousand francs, in case of any acciden' They therefore now made sail directly for the southern por- tion of the United States, and arrived unmolested at Charles- ton, South Carolina, on the 25th of April, 1777. The sensation produced by Kis appearance in this coun- try was, of course, much greater than that produced in Europe by his departure. It still stands forth as one of the most prominent and important circumstances in our revo- lutionary contest ; and, as has often been said by one who bore no small part in its trials and success, none but those, who were then alive, can believe what an impulse it gave to the hopes of a population almc^-t disheartened by a iong series of disasters. And well it m-ight ; for it taught us, that, in the tlrst rank of the first nobility in Europe, men could still be found, who not only took an interest in our struggle, but were willing to share our sufferings; that our obscure and almost desperate contest for freedom, in a remote quarter of t>e world, could yet find supporters 396 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. among those, who were the most natural and powerful al- lies of a splendid despotism ; that we were the objects of a regard and interest throughout the world, which would adO to our own resources sulficient strength to carry us safely through to final success. Goffe the Regicide. — Dwight. In the course of Philip's war, which involved almost all the Indian tribes in New England, and among others those in the neighbourhood of Hadley, the inhabitants thought it proper to observe the first of September, 1675, as a day of fasting and prayer. While they were in the church, and employed in their worship, they were surprised by a band of savages. The people instantly betook themselves lO their arms, — which, according to the custom of the times, they had carried with them to the church, — and, rushing out of the house, attacked their invaders. The panic, under which they began the conflict, was, however, so great, and their number was so disproportioned to that of their enemies, that they fought doubtfully at first, and in a short time began evidently to give \vd.flJl'^Ai this mo- ment an ancient man, with hoary locks, of a most venera ble and dignified aspect, and in a dress widely differing from that of the inhabitants, appeared suddenly at their head, and with a firm voice and an example of undaunted resolution, reanimated their spirits, led them again to the conflict, and totally routed the savages. ■ When the battle was ended, the stranger disappeared; and no person knew whence he had come, or whither he had gone, T^he relief was so timely, so sudden^ so unexpected, and so providen- tial ; the appearance and the retreat of him who furnished it were so unaccountable ; his person was so dignified and commanding, his resolution so superior, and his interference so decisive, that the inhabitants, without any uncommon exercise of credulity, readily believed him to be an angel, sent by Heaven for their preservation. ' Nor was this opinion seriously controverted, until it was discovered, sev- eral years afterward, that Goffe and Wijalley had beeo COMMON-FLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 3(?1 lodged in the house of Mr. Russell. Then it was kno-^vE that their deHverer was Goffe ; Wi\aUey having become s ipcrannuated some time before the evcot took place.* General Washington resigning the Command of the Army. — Ramsay. The hour now approached, in which it became lApcesi^a- ry for the American chief to take leave of his officers, wl:o had been endeared to him by a long series of comnon suf- ferings and dangers. This was done in a solen^n m^.nrior. The officers having previously assembled for the purpose, General "Washington joined them, and, calling for a giuxs of wine, thus, addressed them: — "With a heart fu'.l of love and gratitude, 1 now take leave of you. I ranst d^J- voutly wish that your latter days may be as prosperous ;ir?d happy as your former ones have been glorious and hoiu^iir able." Having d -ank, he added, — " I cannot come a- each of you to take my leave, but shall be obliged to yoi; if each of you wi.I come an-d take me by the hand." General Knox, being next, turned to him. Incapable of utterance, Washington grasped his hand, and embraced him. The officers came up successively, and he took ;:n affectionate leave of each of them. Not a v/ord wa^ ar- ticulated on either side, A majestic silence prevailed. The tear of sensibility glistened in every eye. The ten- derness of the scene exceeded all description. V/hen the last of the officers had taken his leave, Washington left the room, and passed through the corps of liglit infantry to the place of embarkation. The officers followed in a sol- emn, mute procession, with dejected countenances. On his entering the barge to cross the North River, he turned towards the companions of his glor^/, and, by waving his hat, bid them a silent adieu. Some of them ansv/orcd this last signal of respect and affection with tears ; and all of * The magic psncil of ?ir Walter Pcott has wrought up tliis romai»- Ik jr.cident into a most elnq;ient and beautiful description. It is con- t4inri in Bri'jgennrth's relation of Ins adventures in America to Julian rcvKiil, in one of the volujnes ol " Peveril of tlie Teak."- -Ei> 34 S9S COKilON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. OiCHi gazed upon the hisge, which conveyed him froE ilieir sight, till they couid no longer distinguish in it the person of their heloved commander-in-chief. The army being disbanded, Washington proceeded to Annapolis, then the seat of congress, to resign his commis- sion. On his w?7 thither, he, of his own accord, dehver- ed to the comptroller of accounts in Philadelphia an account of the expenditure of all the public money he had ever received. This was in his own hand-writing, and every en- try wa= m'-de in a very particular manner. Vouchers were produ-".;;! f-.r every item, except for secret intelUgence and service, which amounted to no more than 1,9S2 pounds 10 shiili.gs sterling. The whole, which, in the course of eight years of war, had passed through his hands, amounted only to 14,479 pounds, IS shilhngs 9 pence ster- ling. Nothing was charged or retained for personal ser- vices ; and actual disbursements had been managed. with such economy and fidelity, that they were all covered by die above moderate sum. After accounting for all his expenditures of puhUc mon- ey, (secret service money, for obvious reasons, excepted,) with all the exactness which established forms required from the inferior officers of his army, he hastened to resign into the h;^d3 of the fathers of his country the powers with which /ley had in-vested him. This was done in a public audience. Congress received him as the founder and guardian of the republic. While he appeared before them, they silently retraced the scenes of danger and dis- tress, through which they had passed together. They re- called to mind the blessings of freedom and peace pur- chased bj- his arm. They gazed with wonder on their fellow-citizen, who appeared more great and worthy of esteem in resigning his power, than he had done in glorious- ly using it. Every heart was big with emotion. Tears of adiiiiration and gratitude burst from every eye. Tae- geaeral sympathy was felt by the resigning hero, and wet his cheek with a manly tear. After a decent pause, he addressed Thomas Mifflin, the president of congress, in the following words : " Tlie great events on which my resignation dep-ended La^'ing at length taken place, I have now the honour ot COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF TROSE. 399 offering my sincere congratulations to congress, and of pre senting myself before them, to surrender into their hands the trust committed to me, and to claim the indulgence of retiring from the service of my country. " Happy in the confirmation of our independence and sovereignty, and pleased with the opportunity afforded the United States of becoming a respectable nation, I resign, with satisfaction the appointment I accepted with diffidence ; a diffidence in my abilities to accomplish so arduous a task, which, however, was superseded by a confidence in the rectitude of our cause, the support of the supreme power of the union, and the patronage of Heaven. " The successful termination of the war has verified the most sanguine expectations ; and my gratitude for the in- terposition of Providence, and for the assistance I have re- ceived from my countrymen, increases with every review of the momentous contest. " While 1 repeat my obligations to the army in general, I should do injustice to my own feelings not to acknowledge in this place the peculiar services and distinguished merits of the persons, who have been attached to my person dur- ing the war. It was impossible that the choice of confi- dential officers to compose my family should have been more fortunate. Permit me, sir, to recommend, in partic- ular, those who have continued in the service to the pres- ent moment, as worthy of the favourable notice and pat- ronage of congress. " I consider it as an indispensable duty to close this last solemn act of my official life, by commending the interests of our dearest country to the protection of Almighty God, and those who have the superintendence of them to his holy keeping. " Having now finished the work assigned me, I retire from the great theatre of action ; and, bidding an affection- ate farewell to this august body, under whose orders I have long acted, I here offer my commission, and take my leave of all the employments of public life." This address being ended. General Washington advanced and delivered his commission into the hands of the presidenl af congress, who replied as follows : 400 COMMON-PLACE 300K OF PROSE. " The United States, in congress assembled, receive, wiih. emotions too affecting for utterance, the solemn resig- nation of the authorities under which you have led theii troops with success through a perilous and doubtful war. " Called upon by your country to defend its invaded rights, you accepted the sacred charge before it had formed alliances, and whilst it was without friends or a govern- ment to support you. " You have conducted the great military contest with wisdom and fortitude, invariably regarding the rights of the civil power through all disasters and changes. You have, by the love and confidence of your fellow-citizens, enabled them to display their martial genius, and transmit their fame to posterity : you have persevered, till these United States, aided by a magnanimous king and nation, have been enabled, under a just Providence, to close the war in safety, freedom and independence ; on which happy event we sincerely join you in congratulations. " Having defended the standard of liberty in this new world, having taught a lesson useful to those who inflict, and to those who feel oppression, you retire from the great theatre of action with the blessings of your fellow- citizens ; but the glory of your virtues v.ill not terminate with- your military command ; it will continue to animate remotest ages. We feel with you our obligations to the army ia general, and will particularly charge ourselves with the interest of those confidential officers, who have attended your person to this affecting moment. " We join you in commending the interests of our dear- est country to the protection of Almighty God, beseeching him to dispose the hearts and minds of its citizens to im- ■»rove the opportunity afforded them of becoming a happy and respectable nation ; and for you we address to him our earnest prayers, that a life so beloved may be fostered with all his care ; that your days may be happy as they have been illustrious, and that he will finally give you that re- ward, which this world cannot give." The military services of General Washington, which ended with this interesting day, ^vere as great as ever were rendered by any man to any nation. They were at the eame time disinterested. How dear would not a meicen^- COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 401 ry mMi have sold such toils, such dangers, and, above all, such successes ! What schemes of grandeur and of power would not an ambitious man have built upon the affections of the people and of the army ! The gratitude of Amer- ica was so lively, that any thing asked by her resigning chief would have been readily granted. He asiced noth- ing for himself, his family or relations: but indue ;tly so- licited favours for the confidential officers, who were at- tached to his person. These were young gentlemen, with- out fortune, who had served him in the capacity of aids- de-camp. To have omitted the opportunity which then offered of recommending them to their country's notice, would have argued a degree of insensibility in the breast of their friend. The only privilege distinguishing him from other private citizens, which the retiring Washington did or would receive from his grateful country, was a right of sending and receiving letters free of postage. The American chief, having by his own voluntary act become one of the people, hastened, with ineffable delight, to his seat at Mount Vernon, on the banks of the Potomac. There, in a short time, the most successful general in the world became the most diligent farmer in Virginia. To pass suddenly from the toils of the first commission in the United States to the care of a farm, to exchange the instruments of war for the implements of husbandry, and to become at once the patron and example of ingenious agriculture, would, to most men, have been a difficult task. To the elevated mind of Washington it was natural and delightful. His own sensations, after retiring from public business, are thus expressed in his letters : — " I am just beginning to experience the ease and freedom from public cares, ^"hich, however desirable, it takes some time to realize ; for, strange as it may seem, it is nevertheless true, that it was not until lately I could get the better of my usual custom of ruminating, as soon as I awoke in the morning, on the business of the ensuing day ; and of my surprise on find- ing, after revolving many things in my mind, that I wag no longer a public man, or had any thing to do with public transactions. I feel as I conceive a wearied traveller must S4 402 COMMOISf-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. ilo, who, after treading many a painful step with a heavy burden on liis shoulders, is eased of the latter, having reached the haven to which all the former were directed and, from his housetop is looking back, and tracing witlj an eager eye the meai iers by which he escaped the quick- sands and mires, which lay in his way, and into which none but the all-powerful Guide and Dispenser of human events could have prevented his falling." " i have become a private citizen on the banks of the Potomac ; and, under the shadow of my own vine and my own fig-tree, free from the bustle of a camp, and the busy scenes of public life, I am solacing myself with those tran- quil enjoyments, of which the soldier, who is ever in pur- suit of fame, — the statesman, whose watchful days and sleepless nights are spent in devising schemes to promote the welfare of his own, perhaps the ruin of other countries, as if this globe was insulficient for us all, — and the cour- tier, who is always watching the countenance of his prince, in the hope of catching a gracious smile, — can have very little conception. I have not only retired from all public employments, but am retiring within myself, and shall be able to view the solitary walk, and tread the paths of pri- vate life, with heartfelt satisfaction. Envious of none, I am determined to be pleased with all ; and this, my dear friend, being the order of my march, I will move gently down the stream of life, until I sleep with my fathers." Mr. Marshall thus finishes this beautiful picture. — Ed. For several months after reaching Mount Vernon, al' most every day brought him tlie addresses of an affection- ate ana grateful people. The glow of expression, in which the high sense universally entertained of his services was conveyed, manifested a warmth of feeling seldom equal- led in the history of man. It is worthy of remark, that this unexampled tribute of applause made no impression on the unassuming modesty of his character and deportment. The same firmness of mind, the same steady and well-tempered judgment, which had guided him through the most peril- ous seasons of the war, still regulated his conduct ; and ttie esithusias/ic applauses of an admiring nation appeared COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PUOSE. 403 oiily lo cherish sentiments of gratitude, and to give great- er activity to the desire siill further to contribute to the prosperity of his country. Alexander Wilson. — North American Review. He was a Scotchman by birth. The first years of his res- idence in this country were devoted to school-keeping m Pennsylvania. An early acquaintance with the venerable Bartram kindled within him a love of science ; and after he commenced his ornithological inquiries, he pursued them for the remaining short period of his life with an enthusi- asm, perseverance, and self-devotion, which have rarely been equalled. He died in Philadelphia, August 23d, 1813, at the age of forty-seven. His American Ornithol- ogy, executed under every possible disadvantage, and with encouragement so slender, as hardly to keep hini from the heavy pressure of want, is a monument to his name that will never decay. The old world and the new will regard it with equal admiration. " We may add without hesita- tion," says Mr. Bonaparte, " that such a work as he has published in a new country, is still a desideratum in Eu- rope." To accomplish such a work, with all the facilities which the arts and knowledge of Europe afford, would con- fer no common distinction. But when it is considered that Wilson taught himself, almost unassisted, the arts of draw- ing and engraving ; that he made his way in the science with very little aid from books or teachers ; that he entered a path in which he could find no companions, none to stimulate his ardour by a similarity of pursuits or commu- nion of feeling, none to remove his doubts, guide his in- quiries, or to be deeply interested in his success ; when these things are considered, the labours of Wilson must claim a praise, which is due to a few only of the solitary efforts of talent and enterprise. In the strictest s*^nse of the terms, Wilson was a man of genius ; his perceptions were quick. Lis impressions vivid ; a bright glow of feeling breathes through his cora- p<.»5itions. In the professed walks of poetry, his attempt* 404 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. were not often fortunate ; but his prose writings partake of the genuine poetic spirit. A lively fancy, exulierance of thought, and minute observation of the natural world, are strongly indicated in whatever has flowed from his pen. He travelled for the double purpose of procuring subscrip- tions to his book, and searching the forest for birds ; and some of his graphic descriptions of the scenery of nature, and the habits of the winged tribes, are inimitable. Some- times he walked ; at others descended rivers in a canoe ; again he was on horseback, in a stage-coach or a farmer's wagon, as the great ends of his wanderings could be most easily attained. The cold repulses of the many from whom he solicited subscriptions he bore with equanimity ; undaunted by disappointment, unsubdued by toil and pri- vation. The acquisition of a new bird, or of new facts illustrating the habitudes of those already known, was a fountain of joy in his gloomiest moments ; it poured the wa- ters of oblivion over the past, and gave him new energy in his onward course. The following are his descriptions of the mocking bird and bald eagle • " This distinguished bird, [the eagle,] as he is the most beautiful of his tribe in this part of the world, and the adopted emblem of our country, is entitled to particular no- tice. He has been long known to naturalists, being com- mon to both continents, and occasionally met with from a very high northern latitude to the borders of the torrid zone, but chiefly in the vicinity of the sea, and along the shores and cliffs of our lakes and large rivers. Formed by nature for braving the severest cold ; feeding equally upon the produce of the sea and of the land ; possessing powers of flight capable of outstripping even the tempest ts them- selves ; unawed by any thing but man ; and, from the ethereal heights to which he soars, looking abroad at one glance on an immeasurable expanse of forests, fieldsj lakes and ocean, deep below him ; he appears indifferent to the little localities of change of seasons, as in a few minutes he can pass from summer to winter, from the lower to the higher regions of the atmosphere, the abode of eternal cold, and thence descend at will to the torrid or the arctic re- gions of the earth. He is therefore found at all seasons in the countries which he inhabits, but prefers such places COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PRCrfE. 405 as have been mentioned above, from the great parti;iiity he has for fish. " In procuring these he displays, in a very singular man- ner, the genius and energy of his character, Vi^hich is fierce, contemplative, daring and tyrannical ; attributes not exerted but on particular occasions, but, whep put forth, overwhelming all opposition. Elevated upon a high, 'ead limb of some gigantic tree, that commands a wide view of the neighbouring shore and ocedin, he seems calmly to contemplate the motions of the various feathered tribes that pursue their busy avocations below, — the snow-white gulls, slowly winnowing the air, — the busy tringas, cours- ing along the sands, — trains of ducks, streaming over the surface, — silent, and watchful cranes, intent and wading, — clamorous crows, and all the winged multitudes that sub- sist by the bounty of this vast liquid magazine of nature. High over all these hovers one, whose action instantly arrests his attention. By his wide curvature of wing, ani' sudden suspension in air, he knows him to be the fish- hawk settling over some devoted victim of the deep. His eye kindles at the sight, and, balancing himself with half- opened wings on the branch, he watches the result. Down, rapid as an arrow from heaven, descends the distant object of his attention, the roar of its wings reaching the ear as it disappears in the deep, making the surges foam around. At this moment the looks of the eagle are all ardour ; and, levelling his neck for flight, he sees the fish-hawk emerge, struggling with his prey, and mounting into the air witi screams of exultation. These are the signal for our hero, who, launching into the air, instantly gives chase, soon gains on the fish-hawk, each exerts his utmost to mount above the other, displaying in these rencounters the most elegant and sublime aerial evolutions. The unincum- bered eagle rapidly advances, and is just on the point of .eacl ing his opponent, when, with a sudden scream, prob- ably of despair and honest execration, the latter drops his fish ; the eagle, poising himself for a moment, as if to take a more certain aim, descends like a whirlwind, snatches it in his grasp ere it reaches the water, and bears his ill- gotten booty silently ^way to the woods.*' 406 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. " The plumage of the mocking-bird, though noue of the homeliest, has nothing gaudy or brilliant in it ; and, had he nothing else to recommend him. would scarcely entitle him to notice ; but his figure is well proportioned, and even handsome. The ease, elegance and rapidity of his move- ments, the animation of his eye, and the intelligence he displays in listening, and laying up lessons from almost every species of the feathered creation within his hearing, are really surprising, and mark the peculiarity of his genius. To these qualities v/e may add that of a voice full, strong and musical, and capable of almost every modulation, from the clear, mellow tones of the wood-thrush, to the savage screams of the bald eagle. In measure and accent, he faithfuiU- follows his originals. In force and sweetness of expression, he greatly improves upon them. In his native groves, mounted upon the top of a tall bush, or half-grown tree, in the dawn of dewy morning, while the woods are already vocal with a raultitude of warblers, his admirable song rises pre-eminent over every competitor. The ear can listen to his music alone, to which that of all the others seems a mere accompaniment. Neither is this strain alto- gether imitative. His own native notes, which are easily distinguishable by such as are acquainted with those of our various song birds, are bold and full, and varied seemingly beyond all limits. They consist of short expressions of two, three, or, at the most, five or six syllables, generally in- terspersed with imitations, and all of them uttered with great emphasis and rapidity, and continued with undimin- ished ardour for half an hour or an hour at a time ; his expanded wings and tail, glistening with white, and the buoyant gayety of his action, arresting the eye as his song most irresistibly does the ear. He sweeps round with eadtusiastic ecstasy. He mounts and descends as his song swells or dies awajr ; and, as my friend Mr. Bartram has f'eau "ifulb,- expressed it, ' he bounds aloft with the celerity of an arrow, as if to recover or recall bis very soul, which expired in the last elevated strain.' While thus exerting himself, a bystander, destitute of sight, would suppose that the whole feathered tribes had assembled together on a trial of skill, each striving to produce his utmost effect ; — « BO perfect are his imitations. He many tines deceives th« COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PllOSE. 407 cpcrtom&n, and sends him in search of birds that perhapa are not within miles of him, but whose notes he exactly iniit?,tc3. Even birds themselves are frequently imposed en by this admirable mimic, and are decoyed by the fan- cied calls of their mates ; or dive with precipitati a into the depths of thickets, at the scream of what they suppose to be the sparrow-hawk." Female Education and Learning. — Story. If Christianity may be said to have given a permanent elevation to woman, as an intellectual and moral being, it is as true that the present age, above all others, has given play to her genius, and taught us to reverence its influ- ence. It was the fashion of other times to treat the liter- ary acquirements of the sex as starched pedantry, or vain pretension ; to stigmatize them as inconsistent with those domestic aftections and virtues, which constitute the charm of society. We had abundant homilies read upon their amiable weaknesses and sentimental delicacy, upon their timid gentleness and submissive dependence ; as if to taste the fruit of knowledge were a deadly sin, and ignorance were the sole guardian of innocence. Their whole lives were "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," and concealment of intellectual power was often resorted to, to escape the dangerous imputation of masculine strength. In the higher walks of life, the satirist was not without colour for the suggestion, that it was " A youth of folly, an old age of cards ;" and that, elsewhere, " most women had no character at all," beyond that of purity and devotion to their families. Ad- mirable as are these qualities, it seemed an abuse of the gifts of Pi'OTidencc to deny to mothers the power of in- structing their children, to wives the privilege of sharing the ratellectual pursuits of their husbands, to sisters and daughters the deli^Lc oi ministering knowledge in the fireside circle, to ycuih and \)Lt.Jzj the charm of refinsd 5-?,n=e, to age and ir.;l)'irilty thi. co;.>'.olat»vn cf pUulies, whici 40S COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF PE05E. elevate the soul, and gladden the listless hcur? of d-:^cn« dency. These things have, in a great measure, p:^:f€d s^ey. The prajudices, which dishonoured the sex, hive jisided to the ir.3uence of truth. By slow hut sure advances, education has extended itself dirough all ranks of fen.ale society. There is no longer any dread, lest the culture of science should foster that masculine boldness or restless independence, which alarms by its sallies, or wounds by its inconsistencies. We have seen that here, as every where else, knowledge is favourable to human virtue and human happiness ; that the rennement of literature adds lustre to the devotion of piety ; that true learning, like true taste, is modest and unostentatious ; that grace of manners re- ceives a higher polish from the discipline of the schools : that cultivated genius sheds a cheering light over domestic duties, and its very sparkles, hke those of the diamond, attest at once its power and its purity. There is not a rank of female society, however high, which does not now pay homage to hterature, or that would not blush even at the suspicion of that ignorance, which, a half century ago, was neither uncommon nor discreditable. There is not a parent, whose pride may not glow at the thought, that his daughter's happiness is in a great measure within her own command, whether she keeps the cool, sequestered vale of life, or visits the busy walks of fashion. A new path is thus opened for female exertion, to alle- viate the pressure of misfortune, without any supposed sacrifice ot dignity or modesty. Man no longer aspiies to an exclusive dominion in authorship. He has rivals or al- lies in almost every department of knowledge ; and they are to be found among those, whose elegance of manners and blamelessness of life command his respect, as much as their talents excite his admiration. Who is there that does not contemplate with enthusiasm the precious fragTi:aits of Ehzabeth Smith, the venerable learning of E'izabetli Gr-r- ter, the elevated piety of Hannah More, tlie persGaslva sense cf Mrs. Barbauld, the elegant memoirs of her ac- complished niece, the bewitching fiction of Madame P'Ar- blay, the vivid, picturesque and terrific imagery of Mrs RadclifTc, the glowing paeir> cf Mr>. Heisaus, the matclr COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 409 less wit, the inexhaustible conversations, the fine charac- ter painting, the practical instructions of Miss Edgeworth,, the great Known, standing in her own department by tlia side of the great Unknown ! Poetical Character of Gray. — Buckminster. It has been the fortune of Gray, as well as of other po* ets of the first order, to suffer by the ignorance and the envy of contemporaries, and at last to obtain from posteri- ty, amid the clamours of discordant criticism, only a divided suffrage. The coldness of his first reception by the public has, however, been more than compensated by the warmth of his real admirers ; for he is one of those few poets, who at every new reading recompenses you double for every encomium, by disclosing some new charm of sentiment or of diction. The many, who have ignorantly or reluctantly praised, may learn, as they study him, that they have noth- ing to retract : and those, who have delighted to depreciate his excellence, will understand, if thej'- ever learn to ad- mire him, that their former insensibility was pardonable, though they may be tempted to wish, that it had never been known. Gray was not destitute of those anticipations of future fame, which God has sometimes granted to neglected genius, as he gives the testimony of conscience to suffering virtue. His letters to Mason and Hurd show how pleasantly he could talk of those, v/ho could neither admire nor understand his odes. He knew, that it was not of much consequence to be neglected by that public, which suffered Thomson's Winter to remain for years un- noticed, and which had to be told by Addison, at the expi ration of half a century, of the merit of the Paradise Lost St'll less could his fame be endangered by Colman's ex- qu.sitely humorous parody of his odes, especially since it Is new knov/n, that Colman has confessed to Warton, that he repented of the attempt ; and, at the present day, J know not whether it would add any thing to the final rep- utation of a lyric poet, to have been praised by that great Bian, who could pronounce Dryden's ode on Mrs. Ki'ligrew 35 410 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF TROSE. the finest in our language, and who could find nothing is Collins' but " clusters of consonants." If Gray has any claim to the character of a poet, he must hold an elevated rank or none. If he is not excellent, he is supremely ridiculous ; if he has not the living spi) it of verse, he is only besotted and bewildered with the fumea of a vulgar and stupifying draught, Vt^hich he found in some stagnant pool at the foot of Parnassus, and which he mistook for the Castalian spring. But if Pindar and Hor- ace were poets, so too was Gray. The finest notes of their lyre were elicited by the breath of inspiration breathing on the strings ; and he, who cannot enter into the spirit w^hich animates the first Pythian of Pindar, or the " Quem virum aut heroa" of Horace, must be content to be shown beauties in Gray, which it is not yet granted him to feel, or spontaneously to discern. I am willing to rest the meriv of Gray on Horace's definition of a poet, — " Ingenium cui sit, cui mens divinior, atqne os, ^lagns, sonamruin, sed nominis hujiis honoreni." We shall be more ready to admit, that the sole perfec- tion of poetry consists not merely in faithful description, fine sense, or pointed sentiment in polished verse, if we attend to some curious remarks of Burke, in the last part of his Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful. He has there sufficiently shown that many fine passages, which produce the most powerful effect on a sensible mind, present no ideas to the fancy, which can be strictly marked or im- bodied. The most thrilling touches of sublimity and beau- ty are consistent with great indistinctness of images and conceptions. Indeed, it is hardly to be believed, before making the experiment, thst we should be so much affect- ed as we are, by passages which convey no definite picture to the mind. To those v/ho are insensible to Gray's curi- ous junction of phrases and hardy personifications, we rec- ommend the study of this chapter of Burke. There thej will see, that the effect of poetical expression depends mor< Epon particular and indefinable associations, than upon the COMMON-PLACE BOOKOFlHObft. 411 precise images which the words convey. TI i-.s", cf Or?y'3 poetry, the effect, lik'^. that of Miltoa's finest, [i.x'- ■ i^.r-,-^. in the Allegro and Penseroso, is to raise a gl n<', wlvch it U not easy to describe ; but the beauty of a rjas.'-agej when we attempt to analyze it, seems to consist in a .ertaiu ex- quisite felicity of terms, fraught with pictures \\hich it is impossTble to transfer with perfect exactness to the canvass. If the perfection of poetry consists in imparting evei/ impression to the mind in the most exquisite degree, and the ode has, by the consent of critics in all ages, been in- dulged in irregularities which are not pardonable in other kinds of verse, because it is supposed to follow the rapid and unrestrained passage of images through the mind, it is surely enough to satisfy even Aristotle himself, that in Gray's odes the subject is never entirely deserted, and thai a continued succession of sublime or beautiful impressions is conveyed to the mind, in language the most grateful to the ear which jur English tongue can furnish. For my own part, I t-^ke as much delight in contemplating the rich hues that succeed one another without order in a deep cloud in the west, which has no prescribed shape, as in view- ing the seven colours of the rainbow disposed in a form exactly semicircular. The truth is, that, after having read any poem once, we recur to it afterwards not as a whole, but for the beauty of particular passages. It would be easy to reply in order to the invidious and contemptible criticisms of Johnson on particular passages in these odes, and to show their Ccptioua fuf.l^y. This, however, has been frequently and successfuDy atteirpted. Those faults, which must at last be admificd in Gray's poetry, detract little from his mer't. That only ".tto flat kfces should be found in a Vi^^ole volume of poejus. i?. an honour v/hich even Virgil might be permitted to envy. He who can endure to dwi.ll upon these petty blemishca in Vae lull stream of Gray's entlmsiasiu, must be as ic.^cn sible to the pomp and grandeur of poetic phrase, as tha^ traveller would he to the scatiment of the sublime in na ture, who could sit coolly by the caLaxactoi Nia|;tr?.> I'per 412 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSK. ulating upon the chips and straws that were carried ovet the ihW Th?/. l)"s digressions are .sometimes abrupt, is a character whic^^ hs 5h..;..s with his Grecian master: and that an obscurity ronedines broods over his subliinest images, is not to be f'eni-','. But violence of transition, if it is a fault in this kind of poetry, must be excused by those laws of lyrical composition, which we have hitherto been content to re- ceive, like the laws of the drama and the epic, implicitly from the ancients ; and the obscurity of Gray is never in- vincible. It is not the fog of dulness ; but, like the dark- ness which the eye at first perceives in excessive bright- ness, it vanishes the longer it is contemplated, and when the eye is accommodated to the flood of light. The distinguishing excellence of Gray's poetry is, I think, to be found in the astonishing force and beauty of his epithets. In other poets, if you are endeavouring to recollect a passage, and find that a single word still eludes you, it is not impossible to supply it occcasionally with something equivalent or superior. But let any man at- tempt this in Gray's poetry, and he will find that he dos.« not even approach the beauty of the original. Like the single window in Aladdin's palace, which the grand vizier undertook to finish with.^^diamonds equal to the rest, but found, after a long trial, that he was not rich enough to furnish the jewels, nor ingenious enough to dispose them, 6io there are lines in Gray, which critics and poets might labour fore^er to supply, and without success. This won- derful rlc!inc''s of c?L!)icssion has perhaps injured his fume. Fcr .sometimes a single word, by giving rise to a suc- cesjion cf imag-c-»j which preoccupy the mind, obscures the lustre of tiie succeeding epithets. The mind is fa- tig-ned and rct?-!ded by t>'e crowd of beauties, soliciting the attention at the Raine moment to different graces of thou gilt and expression. Ov^i-powered by the blaze of embellisliinent, we cry out wiiK Horace, " Parce, Liber! parce ! gravi metuende thyrso," Hence Gray, more than any other lyric poet, yviU endure to be read in detache/ pertloas; and again and again. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PRt SE. 413 Another characteristic of Gray, which, while it detracts something from his originality, increases the charm of hia verse, is the classical raciness of his diction. . Milton is the only English poet who rivals him in the remote learning of his allusiop?, and this has greatly restrained the number of their admirers. * * * * The meaning of the vord rage, in this line of the Elegy, a poem which all profess to relish and admire, " Chill penury repressed their noble rage," cannot be understood without reverting to a common use of the word opyrj among the Greeks, to which Gray refers, signifying a strong bent of genius. The Progress of Poesy is peculiarly full of allusions to the Heathen Mythology The sublime imitation of Pindar, in the description of the bird of Jupiter, in the second stanza, is almost worth the learning of Greek to understand. The last perfection of verse, in Vv^hichGray is unrivalled, is the power of his numbers. These have an irresistible charm even with those, who understand not his meanings and without this musical enchantment, it is doubtful whether he would have surmounted the ignorance and Insensibility, v/ith which he was at first received. Hia rhythm and cadences afford a perpetual pleasure, which, 'n the full contemplation of his other charms, we some- times forget to acknowledge. There is nothing, surely, in the whole compass of English versification, to be compared in musical structure vrith the third stanza of his ode on the Progress of Poesy. The change of movement, in the SIX last lines, is inexpressibly fine. The effect of these varied cadences and measures is, to my ear at least, full as great as that of an adagio in music immediately following a rondo ; and I admire in silent rapture the genius of that man, who could so mould our untractable language as to produ(5e all the effect of the great masters of musical composition. If the ancient lyrics contained many specimens of numerous verse equal to this, we need no longer worfder that they were always accompanied with music. Poetry never approached nearer to painting, thar verse does in this stanza to the most ravishing melody. 35* il4 LOM.MON-FLACE BOOK OF PROSE. liejniuUcs of Greec: and Italy. — Hamilto.*. It is impossible to read the history of the pettj' repubhcs of Greece and Italy, ^vithout feeling sensations of horror and disgust at the distractions with which they were con- tinually agitated, and at the rapid succession of revolutions, by which they were kept perpetually vibrating between the extremes of tyranny and anarchy. If they exhibit oc- casional calms, these only serve as short-lived contrasts to the furious storms that are to succeed. If now and then in- tervals of felicity open themselves to view, we behold them with a mixture of regret, arising from the reflection, that the pleasing scenes before us are soon to be overwhelmed by the tempestuous waves of sedition and party rage. If momentary rays of glory break forth from the gloom, while they dazzle as with a transient and fleeting brilliancy, they at the same time admonish us to lament that the vices of government should pervert the direction and tarnish the lu?tre of those bright talents and exalted endowments, for which the favoured soils that produced them have been so justly celebrated. From the disorders that disfigure the annals of those republics, the advocates of despotism have drawn argu- ments, not only against the forms of republican government, but against the very principles of civil liberty. They have decried all free governments as inconsistent with the order of society, and have indulged themselves in malicious ex- ultation over its friends and partisans. Happily for man- kind, stupendous fabrics, reared on the basis of liberty, which have flourished for ages, have, in a few instances, refuted their gloomy sophisms. And I trust America will be the broad and solid foundation of other edifices not less magnificent, which will be equally permanent monvrr.enls of their error. But it is not to be denied, tnat the portraits they have sketched of republican government were but too just copies of the originals from which they were taken, if it ha! been found impracticable to have devised models of a more perfect structure, the enlightened friends of liberty vrould have bee} obliged to abandon the cause of that species of COaiAION-PLACE I'.OOK OF PROSE. 415 govcrument as indefensible. The science of politics, how- ever, like most other sciences, has received great improve- ment. The efficacy of various principles is now well un- derstood, which were either not known at all, or imper- fectly known to the ancients. The regular distribution of power into distinct departments — the introduction of legis- lative balances and checks — the institution of courts com- posed of judges holding their offices during good behaviour — the representation of the people in the legislature, by deputies of the:r own election — these are either whoLy new discoveries, or have made their principal progress towards perfection in modern times. They are means, and powerful means, by which the excellences of republican government may be retained, and its imperfections lessened or avoided. Professional Character of IVilliam Pin^ney. — Henry Wheaton. In tracing the principal outlines of his public character, his professienal talents and attainments must necessarily occupy the most prominent place. To extraordinary nat- ural endowments, Mr. Pinkney added deep and various knowledge in his profession. A long course of study and practice had familiarized his mind with the science of ju- risprudence. His intellectual powers were most conspicuous in the investigations connected with that science. He had felt himself originally attracted to it by invincible inclina- tion ; it was his principal pursuit in life ; and he never en- tirely lost sight of it in his occasional deviations into other pursuits and employments. The lures of political ambition and the blandishments of polished society, or perhaps a vague desire of universal accomplishment and general applause, might sometimes tempt him to stray, for a sea- son, from the path which the original bent of his genius had assigned him. But he always returned with frcs!i ardour and new delight to his appropriate vocation. He was devoted to the law with a true enthusiasm ; and L;s other studies and ">ursuits, so far as they had a p.erio'.:". a> 416 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. J3ct, were valued chiefly as they might minister to this idol of his affections. It was in his profession that he found himself at home ; in this consisted his pride and his pleasure ; tor, as he said, " the bar is not the place to acquire or preserve a false r.nd fraudulent reputation for talents." And on that theatre he felt conscious of possessing those powers which would command success. This entire devotion to his professional purs lits was con- tinued with unremitting perseverance to the end of his career. If the celebrated Benys Talon could say of the siiil more celebrated D'Aguesseau, on hearing bis fii^i speech at the bar, " that he would willingly e:n^d as that young man commenced," every youthful aspirant to fuiensic fame am.ong us might wish to begin his professioii- al exertions with the same love of labour, and the same ar- dent desire of distinction, which marked the efforts oi Wilham Pinkney throughout his life. What niight not be expected from professional emulation, directed by such an ardent spirit and such singleness? of purpose, even if sustained by far inferior abilities ! But no abilities, however splendid, can command success at the bar, without intense labour and persevering application. It was this which secured to Mr. Pinkney ■ ie most ex- tensive and lucrative practice ever acquired Ly any Amer- ican lawyer, and which raised him to such an enviable height of professional eminence. For many years he was the acknowledged leader of the bar in his native state ; and, during the last ten years of his life, the principal pe- riod of his attendance in the suprem.e court of the nation, he enjoyed the leputation of having been rarely equalled, and perhaps never excelled, in the power of reasoning upon legal subjects. This was the faculty which nost remark- ably distinguished him. His mind was acu.e and subtile, and, at the same time, comprehensive in its grasp, rapid and clear in its conceptions, and singularly felicitous in the eApositiou of the truths it was employed in investi- gating. Of the extent and solidity of his legal attainments it woula be difficult to speak in adequate terms, without the appear- ance of exaggeration. He was profoundly versed in the COiMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 417 ancient learning of the common law ; its' technical pecu- iiariiies and feudal origin. Its subtile distinclioLs and arti- ficial logic were familiar to his early studies, and enabled him to expound, with admirable force and perspicuity, the rules of real property. He was familiar with every branch of commercial law ; and superadded, at a later period of his life, to his other legal attainments, an extensive acquaint- ance with the principles of international lav/, and the practice of the prize courts. In his legal studies he pre- ferred the original text-writers and reporters, (e fontibus hauriri,) to all those abridgments, digests, and elementary treatises, which lend so many convenient helps and facilities to the modern lawyer, but which he considered as adapted to form sciolists, and to encourage indolence and superficial habits of investigation. His favourite law book was the Coke Littleton, which he had read many times. Its prin- cipal texts he had treasured up in his memory, and his arguments at the bar abounded with perpetual recurrences to the principles and analogies drawn from this rich mine of common law learning:. External Appearance of England. — A. H. Everett "Whatever may be the extent of the distress in Eng- land, or the difficulty of finding any remedies for it, which shall be at once practicable and sufficient, it is certain that the symptoms of decline have not yet displayed themselves on the surface ; and no country in Europe, at the present day, probably none that ever flourished at any preceding period of ancient o of modern times, ever exhibited so strongly the outward marks of general industry, wealth and pio.-perity. The misery that exists, whatever it may- be, retires from public view; and the traveller sees no 'races of it except in the beggars, — which are not more nu- ir;f rous than they are on the continent, — in the courts of justice, and in the newspapers. On the contrary, the im- pressions he receives from the objects that meet his view are almost uniformly agreeable. He is pleased with the ^eat attention paid to his personal accommodatica as a 118 COMSION-PLACi: tiOOK OF TROSE. traveller, with the excellent roads, and the couveniencea of tlie public carriages and inns. The country every v/here exhibits tlie appearance oi" higli cultivation, or else of wild and picturesque beauty ; and even the unimproved lands are disposed with taste and skill, so as to embellish the landscape very highly, if they do not contribute, as they might, to the substantial comfort of the people. From every eminence extensive parks and grounds, spreading far and wide over hill and vale, interspersed with dark woods, and variegated with bright waters, unroll themselves be- fore the eye, like enchanted gardens. And while the elegant constructions of the modern proprietors fill the mind with images of ease and luxury, the mouldering ru- ins that remain of former ages, of the castles and churches of their feudal ancestors, increase the interest of the pic- ture by contrast, and associate with it poetical and aflfecting recollections of other times and manners. Every village seems to be the chosen residence of Indub'try, and hev hand- maids. Neatness and Comfort ; and, in the various parts of the island, her operations present themselves under the most amusing and agreeable variety of forms. Some- times her votaries are mounting to the skies in manufacto- ries of innumerable stories in height, and sometimes diving in mines into the bowels of the earth, or dragging up drowned treasures from the bottom of the sea. At one time the ornamented grounds of ^ wealthy proprietor seem to realize the fabled Elysium ; and~ again, as you pass in the evening through some village engaged in the iron manufacture, where a thousand forges are feeding at once their dark-red fires, and clouding the air with their volumes of smoke, you might think yourself, for a moment, a little too near some drearier residence. The aspect of the cities is as various as that of the coun- try. Oxford, in the silent, solemn grandeur of its numer- ous collegiate palaces, with their massy stone walls, and vast interior quadrangles, seems like the deserted capita^ of some departed race of giants. This is the splendid sep- ulchre, where Science, like the Roma^i Tarpeia, lies buried under the weight of gold that rewarded her ancient ser- vices, and where copious libations of the richest Port and Madeira are daily poured out to her mem-ory. At Liver* r^mMON-PLACE BOOK Oi' PROSE. 419 pool, on tlrt^ contrary, all is bustle, brick and business. Every tiii^i^ bre^ahes of modern times, every body is occupied wiih the concerns of the present moment, excepting one deu:aot scholar, who unites a singular resemblance to the K>n!ian face and dignitied person of our V/ashington, with the magnificent spirit and intellectual accomplishments of his own Italian hero. At every change in the landscape, you fall upon monu- ments of some new race of men, among the number that have in their turn inhabited these islands. The mysterious monument of Stonehenge, standing remote and alone upon a bare and boundless heath, as m.uch unconnected with the events of past ages as it is with the uses of the present, car- ries you back, beyond all historical records, into the obscurity of a wholly unknown period. Perhaps the Druids raised it ; but by what machinery could these half barbarians have wrought and moved such immense masses of rock ? By what fatality is it, that, in every part of the globe, the most durable impressions that have been made upon its surface were the work of races now entirely extinct ? Who were the builders of the pyramids, and the massy monuments of Egypt and India ? Who constructed the Cyclopean w^a'.ls of Italy and Greece, or elevated the innumerable and inexplicable mounds, which are seen in every part of Europe, Asia, and America; or the ancient forts upon the Ohio, on whose ruins the third growth of trees is now more thiin four hundred j'ears old ? All these constructions have existed through the whole period within the memory of man, and will continue, when all the architecture of the present generation, with its high civilization and improved machinery, shall have crumbled into dust. Stonehenge will remain unchanged, when the banks of the Thames shall be as bare as Salisbury heath. But the Romans had something of the spirit of these primitive builders, and tht.y left every where distinct traces of their passage. H'.if the castles in Great Britain were founded, according to tradition, by Julius Caisar ; and abundant vestiges re- main, throughout the island, of their walls, and forts, and inili1.iry roads. Most of their castles have, however, been buIU upon and augmented at a later period, and belong, widi more propriety, to the brilliant period of Gothic arch» 420 COililOX-PLACE BOOK OF FROsfi. tecture. Thus the keep of TVarwick dales fruf*? .Le ijfr>4 of Caesar, while the castle itself, with its lofty hiitica.<-i;i.-. extensive walls, and large enclosures, bears wicnea> U- lUs age, when every Norman chief was a military despot v> itb- in his own barony. To this period appertains the pnucip.-3 part of the magnihcent Gothic monuments, castles, cath*j- drals, abbeys, priories and churches, in various stages oi preservation and of ruin ; some, like Warwick and AIl ??!ck castles, Uke Salisbury cathedral and Westminster abL^vy. \v. a}l their original perfection ; others, like Kenilworlh ar.d Canterbury, little more than a rude mass of earth and rub- bish ; and others again in the intermediate stages of deca\ . borrowing a sort of charm from their very ruin, and put- ting on their dark-green robes of ivy to conceal the ravages of time, as if the luxuriant bounty of nature were purposely throwing a veil over the frailty and feebleness of art. What a beautiful and brilliant vision was this Gothic architecture, shining out as it did from the deepest darkness of feuibil barbarism ! And here again, by what fatality has it hiin- pened that the moderns, with all their civilization and im- proved taste, have been as utterly unsuccessful in ri\-a]liiia the divine simplicity of the Greeks, as the rude grandeur of the Cyclopeans and ancient Egyptians r Since thff revi- val of art in Europe, the builders have confined ihemseives wholly to a graceless and unsuccessful imitation of ancient models. Strange, that the only new architectural conce|> tion of any value, subsequent to the time of Phidias, should have been struck cut at the worst period of society that has since occurred! Sometimes the moderns, in their la- borious poverty oi invention, heap up small materials in large masses, and think that St. Peter's or St. Paul's will be as much more sublime than the Parthenon, as they are larger ; at others, they condescend to a servile imitation of the wild and native graces of the Gothic; as the Chiuese, in their stupid ignorance of perspective, can still copy, line by line, and point by point, an European picture. But the Norman castles and churches, with all their richness ^r,l sublimity, fell with the power of their owners at the rlsa of the comnionwealth. The Independents were leveTers of substance as well as form ; and the material traces they left of their existence are the n.iins of what their prcdeces- COMMON-rLACi: BCOK OF PROSE. 421 Bors hid built. They, too, had an architecture, but it was not in wood nor stone. It was enough for them to lay the foiindation of the nobler fabric of civil liberty. The effects of the only change in society that has since occurred, are seen in the cultivated fields, the populous and thriving cities, the busy ports, and the general prosperous appear- ance of the country. Ail the various aspects, that I have mentioned, present themselves in turns ; and, having gradually succeeded to each other, their contrasts are never too rude, and thoy harmonize together so as to make up a most agreeable pic- ture. Sometimes, as at Edinburgh, the creations of ancient and of modern days, the old and new towns, have placed themselves very amicably side by side, like Fitz James and Rhoderic Dhu reposing on the same plaid ; while at London, the general emporium and central point of the v/hole system, every variety of origin and social existence is defaced, and all are coagulatt ^ in one uniform though heterog-eneous mass. Features of American Scenery. — Tudor. The numerous waterfalls, the enchanting beauty of Lake George and its pellucid flood, of Lake Champlain and the lesser lakes, afford many objects of the most picturesque character ; while the inland seas, from Superior to Ontario, and that astounding cataract, whose roar would hardly be increased by the united murmurs of all the cascades of Europe, are calculated to inspire vast and sublime concep- tions. The effects, too, of our climate, composed of a Si- berian winter and an Italian summer, furnish new and pecuUar objects for description. The circumstances of re mote regions are here blended, and strikingly opposite ap- pearances witnessed in the same spot at different seasons of the year. In our winters, we have the sun at the same altitude as in Italy, shining on an unlimited surface of snow, which can only be found in the higher latitudes of Europe, wliere the sun jn the winter rises little above the horizon. The dazzling brilliance of a winter's day tnd a moonlighl 86 t£i COSraO>-PI^tE sous OF FROSE. night, in an atmospheje astciiisliiiiglj clear and frostj. irlies die utmost splendour of the sky is reflected iroiii a turfeee of spotless white, attended with the moat excessive cold, is peculiar to the northern part of the United States. ^Vliat, too. can s"arpass the celestial purity and trxLasparency of Ihe 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 siuks trom^ our view, surrounded with various m^asses of clouds fringed with gold and purple, and refiecting, in evane?cpnt tints, all the hues of the rainbow i Literary Character of Jefferson and Adams — Webster. The last public labour of Mr. Jefierson naturallr sug- gests the expression of the high praise which is due. both to him and to Mr. Adams, for their uniform and zealous attachment to learning, and to the cause of general know^ edge. Of the advantages of learning, indeed, and of lit- erary accomplishments, their own characters were striking recommendations and illustrations. They were scholars, ripe and good scholars ; widely acquainted with ancient as well as modem literature, and not altogether uninstructed in the deeper sciences. Their acquirements doubtless were different, and so were the particular objects of their liter- ary pursuits ; as their tastes emd characters in these re- spects differed like those of other men. Being also men of busy lives, with great objects requiring action constant- ly before them, their attainments in letters did not become showy or obtrusive. Yet I would hazard the opinion, that, if we could now ascertain all the causes which gave them eminence and dbtinrlion in the midst of the great men with whom they acted, we shouEd find not among the least their early acqui>idon in literature, the resources which it furnished, the \ romptitude and facility which it communicated, and the w de field it opened for analogy and niuslration: giving them thus, on every subject, a larger COxMMON-PLAC^E BOOK. OF PROSE. 423 viev! and a broader range, as well for discussion as for the government of their own conduct. Literature sometimes, and pretensions to it much oftener, disgusts, by appearing to hang loosely on the character, like something foreigner extraneous ; not a part, but an ill-ad- justed appendage ; or by seeming to overload and weigh it down by its unsightly bulk, like the productions of bad taste in architecture, when there is massy and cumbrous ornament, without strength or solidity of column. This has exposed learning, and especially classical learning, to reproach. Men have seen that it might exist without mental superiority, without vigour, without good taste, and without utility. Bu*:, in such cases, classical learning has only not inspired natural talent ; or, at most, it has but made original feebleness of intellect and natural bluntness of perception somewhat more conspicuous. The question, af- ter all, if it be a question, is, whether literature, ancient as well as modern, does not assist a good understanding, improve natural good taste, add polished armour to native strength, and render its possessor not only more capable of deriving private happiness from contemplation and re- fection, but more accomplished also for action in the affairs cf life, and especially for public action. Those, whose memories we now honour, were learned men; but their learning was kept in its proper place, and made subservi- ent to the uses and objects of life. They were scholars, not common nor superficial ; but their scholarship was so in keeping with their character, so blended and inwrought, that careless observers or bad judges, not seeing an osten- tatious display of it, might infer that it did not exist ; for- getting, or not knowing, that classical learning, in men who act in conspicuous public stations, perform duties which exercise the faculty of writing, or address popular, jndicitil, cr deliberative bodies, is often felt where it is little seen, and sometimes felt more effectually because it is not seeM at ail. f24 COMM OX-PLACE li'J'JK OF PROSE. Eloquence and Humour of Patrick Heniy. -—Wib.t. Hook was a Scotchman, a man of wealth, and suspected of being unfriendly to the American Ause. During the distresses of the American army, consequent on the joint invasion of CornwalHs and Phillips in 1731, a Mr. Vena- ble, an army commissary, had taken two of Hook's steers for the use of the troops. The act had not been stiictly legal ; and, on the establishment of peace. Hook, on the advice of Mr. Cowan, a gentleman of some distinction ip the law, thought proper to bring an action of tres-pa-^'' against Mr. Yenable, in the district court of New London. Mr. Henry appeared for the defendant, and is said to have disported himself in this cause to the infinite enjoyment of his hearers, the unfortunate Hook always excepted. After Mr. Henry became animated in the cause, says a corre- spondent, he appeared to have complete control over the passions of his audience : at one time he excited their in- dignation against Hook : vengeance was visible in every countenance : again, when he chose to relax, and ridicule him, the whole audience was in a roar of laughter. He painted the distresses of the American army, exposed, al- most naked, to the rigours of a winter's sky, and marking the frozen ground over which they trod with the blood of their unshod feet. Where was the man, he said, who had an American heart in his bosom, who would not have thrown open his fields, his barns, his cellars, the doors of his house, the portals of his breast, to have received with open arms the meanest soldier in that little band of famished patriots ? Where is the man ? There he stands — but whether the heart of an American beats in his bosom, you, gentlemen, are to judge. He then carried the jury by the powers of his imagination to the plains around York, the surrender of which had followed shortly after the act complained of: he depicted the surrender in the most glowing and noble colours of his eloquence — the audience saw before their eyes the humiliation and dejection of the British as they marched oui of their trenches — they saw tha triumph which lighted up every patriot face, and heard the shouts tf victory, ard the cry of ' Washington and liberty,' as '' COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 425 rung and echoed through the American ranks, and was reverberated from the hills and shores of the neigh- bouring river — "but, hark! what notes of discord are these, vv'hich disturb the general joy, and silence the accla mation of victory — they are the notes of John Hook, hoarsely bawling through the American camp, ^ Beef ! beef ! beef !' " The whole audience were convulsed: a particular inci- dent will give a better idea of the effect than any general description. The clerk of the court, unable to command himself, and unwilling to commit any breach of decorum in his place, rushed out of the court-house, and threw him- self on the grass, in the most violent paroxysm of laughter, where he was rolling, when Hook, with very different feel- ings, came out for relief into the yard also. "Jemmy Steptoe," said he to the clerk, '^w^hatthe devil ails ye, mon.?" Mr. Steptoe was only able to say that he could not help it. '* Never mind ye," said Hook; ''wait till Billy Cowan gets up; he'll shov/ him the la' !" Mr. Cow- an, however, was so completely overwhelmed by the tor- rent which boie upon his client, that, wlien he rose to re- ply to Mr. Henry, he v/as scarcely able to make an intelli- gible or audible remark. The cause vv^^as aecided almost by acclamation. The jury retired for form's sake, and instant- ly returned with a veidict for the defendant. Nor did the effect of Mr. Henry's speech stop here. The people were 30 highly excited by the tory audacity of such a suit, that Hook began to hear around him a cry more terrible than that of beef^ i+ was the cry of tar and feathers ; from the application of which it is said, that nothing saved him but ft precipitate flight and the speed of his horse. Valley of the Commanches. — Francis Berrian. I AROSE early in the morning to make the circuit of this larely vale. At the extremity of the village, the torrent whose soiir^ei^ v/eie in the mountains, poured down, from a prodigious elevation, a white and perpendicular cascade, wliioli seemed a sheet suspended in the air. It falls into I (26 COJIMON-rLACE BOCK OF PROSE. j % circular basin, paved with blue limestone, ol some rodi i eircuit. Tiie dash near at liand lias a startling effect upon I the ear. But at a little distance, it is just the murmur to • inspire repose, and it spreads a delicious coolness all around j the place. From the basin the stream seems to partake of [ the I'epose of the valley ; for it broadens into a transparent and quiet water, whose banks are fringed with pawpaws, persiinon, laurel, and catalpa shrubs and trees, interlaced with vines, under which the green carpet is rendered gay i with flowers of every scent and hue. The soil is blacky I tender, and exuberantly fertile. The coolness of the vale 1 and the shade, together with the irrigation of the stream, j cover the whole valley with a vivid verdure. The beauti- { ful red-bird, with its crimson-tufted crest, and the nightin- ] gale sparrow, pouring from a body scarcely larger than an i acorn a continued stream of sound, a prolonged, plaintive i and sweetly-modulated harmony, that might be heard at the | distance of half a mile, had commenced their morning j voluntary. The mocking bird, the buffoon of songsters, was parodying the songs of all the rest. Its short and jerking } notes at times iinitated bursts of laughter. Sometimes, laying aside its habitual levity, it shows that it knows the notes of seriousness, and trills a sweetly-melancholy strain Above the summits of these frowning mountains, that mor- tal foot had never yet trodden, soared the mountain eagle, drinking the sunbeam in the pi-ide of his native indepen- dence. Other birds of prey, apparently poised on their wings, swam slowly round in easy curves, and seemed to look with delight upon the green spot embosomed in the mountains. They sallied back and forwards, as though they could not tire of the view. The sun, which had burnished all the tops of the mountains with gold, and here and there glistened on banks of snow, would not shine inio the val- ley, until he had almost gained his meridian height. Th« natives, fleet as the deer when on expeditions abroad, and at home lazy and j'awning, were just issuing from their cabins, and stretching their limbs supinely in the cool of the m- ra- ing. The smoke of their cabin fires had begun to unduiate and whiten in horizontal pillars athwart the valie^v it was a charming assemblage of strong contrasts, rocky and inaccessible mountains, the deep and ince=sanT; :odr of tha CvOMMON-FLACE KOOIv OF PROSE. 427 Btream, a valley that seemed to sleep between ibc.^e im- pregnable ramparts of nature, a little region of landscape surrounded by black and ragged cliirs, on every side dotted thick with brilliant and beautiful vegetation, and fragrant with hundreds of acacias, and catalpas in full flower, a spot sequestered like a lonely isle in the midst of the ocean; in the midst of it a simple, busy, and undescribed people, whose forefathers had been born and had died here for un- counted generations ; a people who could record war-'. loves, and all the changes of fortune, if they had had Ihcii historiL^u. Such was the valley of the Commancljes. There are places where I am at once at home with Na- ture, and where she seems to take me to her bosom with all the fondness of a mother. I forget at once that 1 am a stranger in a strange land ; and this was one of those places. I cannot describe the soothing sensations I felt. 1 listened to the mingled sounds of a hundred birds, the bark- ing of the dogs on the acclivities of the hills, the cheerful sounds of the domestic animals, and the busy hum of the savages. The miorning was fresh and b.i'my. I'he sublime nature above me, and the (piiet and happy v.uiiiiated nature on my own level, seemed to beoccui^ictJ r\ mofiiing orisons to the Creator. I, too, felt the glad thrill of rT)93 a part, and he finds hims'^lf ciirried along in the eternal going on of nature. Snddon rtnd F.hnrt- lived passions of men take no hold upon hiv:i, for }j*^ has sat in holy thought by the roar and hurry of the stream, which has rushed en from the beginning cf things ; and he is quiet in ihe tumult of the muUitude, for he has watch- ed the tracery of leaves playing over the foam. The i.'inoceiit face of nature gives him an open and fair mina. Pain and death seem passing away, for ell about him is ch-.-erful and in its spring. His virtues are not taught bliu as le.ssons, but are shed upon liim, and enter into him, like the light and warmth of the sun. Amidst ail the variety of earth, he sees a fitness which frees hiir. from the formalities of rule, and lets him abroad to find a pleasure in all things, and order becomes a simple feeling of the soul. Religion to such a one has thoughts, and visions, and sensations, linged as it were with a holier and brighter light than faiis on other men. The love aiA xevr-reinje of the Creator make their abode in his imrigination, and he gathers about them the earth, and air, and idonl v/otlds Flis heart is made glad with the peifectness in the works of God, when he considers that even of the multitude of thjpgs that are growing up 7:.:::d docayin;::, aa-'l of that;? COMx\ION-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 429 which have come and gone, on which llie eye of man hus never rested, each was as fair and complete as if made to live forever for cur instruction and delight. Freedom, and order, and beauty, and grandeur, are ii accordance with his mind, and give largeness and lieight to h'.s thoughts,. — he moves amongst the bright clouds, he wan- ders away into the measureless depth of the stars, and is touched by the fire with which God has lighted them — all that is made partakes of the eternal, and religion become? a perpetual pleasure. Scene at JViagtra. — Miss Sedgwick. The vehement dashing of the rapids ; the sublime falls the various hues of the mass of waters ; the snowy white- ness and the deep bright green ; the billowy spray that veils in deep obscurity the depths below ; the verdant island that interposes between the two falls half veiled in a m.ist}'^ mantle, and placed there, it would seem, that the eye and the spiiit may repose on it ; the little island on the brink of the American fall, that looks, amidst the commotion of the waters, like the sylvan vessel of awoodland nymph gayly sailing onward, — or as if the wish of the Persian girl vv-ere realized, and the "little isle had wings," — a thing of life and motion that the spirit of the waters had inspired. The profound caverns, with their overarcliing rocks ; tlie quiet habitations along the margin of the river, — peace- ful amid all the uproar, — as if the voice of the Creator had been heard, saying, " It is I ; be not afraid ;" the green hill, with its graceful projections, that skirts and overlooks Table Rock ; the deep and bright verdure of tb.c foliage — every spear of grass that penetrates the crevices of the rocks, gemmed by the humid atmosphere, and spark- ling in the sunbeams ; the rainbow that rests on the migh- ty torrent — a symbol of the smile of God upon his won- dious work. " What is it, mother ?" asked Edward, ag he stood with his friends on Table Rock, where they had remained gazing on the magnificent scene for fifteen minute? 43C COMMOX-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. without uttering a syllable, " what is it, mother, that makes us all so silent''" "It is the spirit of God moving on the face of the wa- ters; it is this new revelation to our senses of his power and majesty, which ushers us, as it were, into his visi- ble presence, and exalts our affections aboye language. What, my dear cliildren, should we be, without the religious sentiment that is to us as a second sight, by which v.e see, in all this beauty, the hand of the Creator ; by which we are permitted to join in the hymn of nature ; by which, I may say, we are permitted to enter into the joy of our Lord? V/ithout it, we should be like those sheep, who are at this moment grazing on the verge of this sublime precipice, alike unconscious of all these wonders, and of their Divine Original. This religious sentiment is, in truth, Edv.-ard, that Promethean fire, that kindles nature with a living spir- it, infuses life and expression into inert matter, and in vetts the mortal with immortality." Mrs. Sackville's eye was upraised, and her countenance illumined with a glow of devotion that harmonized with the scene. '' It is, my dear cliildren," she continued, '-'this religious sentiment, en- lightened and directed by reason, that allies you to exter- nal nature, that should govern your afi'ections, direct you' pursuits, exalt and purify your pleasures, and make yoa feel, by its celestial influence, that the kingdom is within you: but," she added, smiiing, after a momentary pause, *' this temple does not need a preacher." Procession of JVuns in a Catholic Hospital. — Miss Francis. It was autumn, — and the earth, as if weary of the van- ities of her children, was rapidly changing her varied and gorgeous drapery for robes as sad and unadorned as those of the cloister The tall and almost leafless trees stood amid black and mouldering stumps, like giants among the tomb' stones : the faint murmuring voice of the St. Lawrence was heard in the distance, and the winds rustled among the leaves, as if imitating the sound of its waters. COMMON-rLACE P.OOK OF TROSE. 43l The melancholy that we feel when gazing on natural rfccnes in the vigour of young existence, is but pleasure in a softened form. It has none of the bitterness, none of that soul-sickening sense of desolation, which visits us in our riper years, when we have had sad experience of tiic jarring interests, the selfish coldness, and the heartless caprice of the world. A rich imagination, like tlie trans- parent inai.ile of light, which the Flemish artists delight in throw around their pictures, gives its own glowing hues to the dreaiiness of winter and the sobriety of autumn, a3 well as to the freshness of spring and the verdure of sum- mer ; and, if the affections are calm and pure, forests and sticams, sky and ocean, sunrise and twilight, Vv'ill always bring deep, serene, and holy associations. Under the in- tlucnce of such feelings, our young traveller entered Que- bec, just as the rays of the declining sun tinged the win- dows and spires with a liery beam, and fell obliquely or, the distant hilis in tranquil radiance. At the sign of St. f.icorge and the Dragon, the horse made a motion to pause ; and, thus reminded of the faithful creature's extreme fa- tigue, he threw the bridle over his neck, and gave him into the care of a ragged hostler, who in bad French de- manded his pleasure. In the same language his hostess gave her brief salutation, " A clever night to ride, please your honour." Pcrcival civilly replied to her courtesy, and gave orders for supper. The inn was unusually crowded and noisy ; and, willing to escape awhile from the bustling scene, he walk- ed out into the city. The loud ringing of the cathedral bell^, summoning the inhabitants to evening prayer, and the lolling of dr'.ims from the neighbouring garrison, were at variance vvith the quietude of his spiiit. He turned from the main street, and rambled along until he reached the banks of the little river St. Charles, about a mile v/estward from the tu.vn. He paused before the extensive and venerable- looking hospital, founded by M. de St. Valliere, the second bishop of Quebec. The high, steep roof, and the wide portals, beneath which various images of the saints wera safely ensconced in their respective niches, were indistinctly sefin in the dimness of twilight •, but a rich gusli of souiu' 432 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. from the interior of the building poured on the ear, min- gling the deep tones of the organ with woman's sweetest melody. All that painting and music, pomp and pageantry, can do to dazzle the imagination and captivate the heart, has ever been employed by that tremendous hierarchy, " whose roots were in another world, and whose far-stretching shadow awed our own." At this time, the effect was in- creased by that sense of mystery so delightful to the hu- man soul. " Ora, ora pro nobis," was uttered by beings seclueed from the world, taking no part in the busy game 3f life, and separated from all that awakens the tumult of passion and the eagerness of pursuit. How, then, could fancy paint them otherwise than lovely, placid and spotless .'' Had Percival been behind the curtain during these sancti- fied dramas, — had he ever searched out the indolence, the filth and the profligacy, secreted in such retreats, the spell that bound him would have been broken ; but it had been riveted by early association, and now rendered peculiarly delightful by the excited state of his feelings. Resigning himself entirely to its dominion, he inquired of one who stood within the door, whether it was possible for him to gain admittance. The man held out his hand for money, and^, having re- ceived a livre, answered, " Certainly, sir. You must be a stranger in Quebec, or you w^ould know that there is to be a procession of white nuns to-night, in honour of M. de St. Valliere." So saying, he led the way into the building. An old priest, exceedingly lazy in his manner, and mo- notonous in his tone, was reading mass, to which most of the audience zealously vociferated a response. An arch, ornamented with basso relievo figures of the saints en one side of the chancel, surmounted a door which apparently led to an interior chapel ; and beneath a similar one, on the opposite side, was a grated window shaded by a large, flowing curtain of black silk. Behind this provoking screen were the daughters of earth, whom our traveller supp.>sed to be as beavil.'f'vl a? mgels, and as pure. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 133 For some time a faint response, a slight cough, or a aeep drawn sigh, alone indicated the vicinity of the seraphic beings. At length, however, the mass, with all its thousand cer- emonies, was concluded. There was silence for a momer*^ and then there was heard one of the low, thrilling chan^ of the church of Rome. There v/as the noise of light, sandalled feet. The mu- sic died away to a delicious warbhng, faint, yet earnest ; — then gradually rising to a bold, majestic burst of sound, the door on the opposite side opened, and the sisterhood entered amid a glare of light. That most of them were old and ugly passed unnoticed ; for Vv'hatever visions an enthusiastical imagination might have conjured up, were certainly realized by the figure that preceded the procession. Her forehead was pale and lofty, — her expression prour', but highl)^ intellectual. A white veil, carelessly pinned about her brow, fell over her shoulders in graceful drape- ry ; and, as she glided along, the loose, white robe, that constituted the uniform of her order, displayed to the utm(>st advantage that undulating outline of beauty, for which the statues of Psyche are so remarkable. A silver crucifix was clasped in her hands, and her eyes were steadily raised towards heaven ; yet there was some- thing in her general aspect, from which one would have concluded that the fair devotee had never knovv^n the world, rather than that she had left it in weariness or disgust. Her eye happened to glance on our young friend as she passed near him ; and he fancied it rested a moment with dclighred attentior. The procession moved slowly on in pairs, the apostles bearing waxen ligb<^s on either side, until the last white robe was concealed behind an arch at the other end of the extensive apartment. The receding sounds of " O sanctissima, purissiraa," floated on the air mingled with clouds of frankincense ; and the young man pressed his hand to his forehead with a be- wildered sensation, as if the airy phantoms of the inarric hatern had just been flitting before him. A notice troin 37 -i34 C050IOX-FLACE BOOK Of PROsa- iLe portsr, that the nuns were now at the altar performini silea^ mass, and that the doors were shortly to he closed, re ct'led his recollection. Grandeur of astronomical Discoveries. — Wiax. It was a pleasant evening in the month of May ; and my sweet child, my Rosalie, and I had sauntered up to the castle's top to enjoy the breeze that played around it, and to admire the unclouded firmament, that glowed and spar- kled with unusual lustre from pole to pole. The atmo=- phere was in its purest and finest state for vision ; Ihf Riilky way was distinctly developed throughout its whole exTeirt ; every planet and every star above the horizon, however near and brilliant or distant and faint, lent its laiy- bent light or twinkling ray to give variety and beauty to the hemisphere ; while the round, bright moon (so distincl- Iv defined were the lines of her figure, and so clearly vis- ible even the rotundity of her form) seemed to hang o-J frcm the azure vault, suspended in midway air ; or stoop- ing forward from the firmament her fair and radiant face, as if to court and return our gaze. Vr'e amused ourselves for some time, in observing through a telescope the planet Jupiter, saihng in silent majesty with his sq:iaJron of satellites along the vast ocean of space Le- --ween us and the fixed stars ; and admired the felicity cf that design, by which those distant bodies had been par- coiled cut and arranged into constellations : so as to have served not only for beacons to the ancient navigator, but, as it were, for landmarks to astronomers at this day ; ena- bling them, though in different countries, to indicate to £iicli other with ease the place and motion of those planets, comets and magnificent meteors, which inhabit, revolve, ani play in the intermediate space. We recalled and dwelt with delight on the rise and prog- rehs of the science of astronomy ; on that series of aston, ishiug discoveries through successive ages, which display- in so strong a light, the force and reach of the huma*. mind ■ and en those bold coniectures and sublime reveries. COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 435 which seem to tower even to the confines of divinity, and denote the high destiny to which mortals tend •- — that thought, for iniitance, which is said to have been first start ed by Pythagoras, and which modern astronomers approve] that the stars which we call fixed, although they appear to us to be nothing more than large spangles of various sizes glittering on the sair.e concave surface, are, nevertheless, bodies as large as our sun, shini:ig,, like him, with original and not reflected light, placed at incalculable distances asunder, and each star the solar centre of a system of plan- ets, which revolve around it as the planets belonging to our system do around the sun ; that this is not only the case with all the stars which our eyes discern in the firmament, which the telescope has brought within the sphere of our vision, but, according to the modern improvements of this thought, that there are probably other stars, whose light has not yet reached us, although light moves with a velocity a million times greater than that of a cannon ball ; tliat those luminous appearances, which we observe in the firmament, like flakes of thin, white cloud, are windows, as it were, which open to other firmaments, far, far beyond the kenof human eye, or the power of optical instruments, lighted up, like ours, waih hosts of stars or suns ; that this scheme goes on through infinite space, which is filled with thou- sands upon thousands of those suns, attended by ten thou- sand times ten thousand worlds, all in rapid motion, yet calm, regular and harmonious, invariably keeping the paths prescribed to them ; and these worlds peopled with myri- ads of intelligent beings. One would think that this conception, thus extended, would be bold enough to satisfy the whole enterprise of the human imagination. But what an accession of glory and magnificence does Dr. Herschell superadd to it, u'hen, instead of supposing all those suns fixed, and the motion confined to their respective planets, he loosens those multi- tudinous suns themselves from their stations, sets them all into motion with their splendid retinvio of planets and sat- elhtes, and imagines them, thus r.ttended, to perform a stu- pendous revolution, system above system, around some e;rander, unknown centre, somewhere in the boundlass abyss ■A space! — and when, carrying on the process, you su? ** 436 COMMCiN-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE, pose even that centre itself not stationary, but also coun- terpoised by other masses in the immensity of spaces, witlj which, attended by their accumulated ti-ains of " Planets, suns, and adamantine spheres Wheeling unshaken through the void immense," it maintains harmonious concert, surrounding, in its vast career, some other centre still more remote and stupendous, which in its turn " You overwhelm me," cried Rosa- lie, as 1 was labouring to pursue the immense concatena- tion ; — " my mind is bewildered and lost in the effort to follow you, and finds no point on which to rest its weary wing." — " Yet there is a point, my dear Rosalie — the throne of the Most High. Imagine that the ultimate centre, tc which this vast and inconceivably magnificent and aug\ist apparatus is attached, and around .v/bich it is continually revolving. Oh ! what a spectacle for the cherubim and ser- aphim, and the spirits of the just made perfect, who dwell on the right hand of that throne, if, as may be, and proba- bly is, the case, their eyes are permitted to pierce through the whole, and take in, at one glance, all its order, beau« ty, sublimity and glory, and their ears to distinguish that celestial harmony, unheard by us, in which those va? globes, as they roll on in their respective orbits, continual' , hymn their great Creator's praise !" Scenes on the Prairies. — Anonymous. On ;hese level plains some of my dreams of the pleas- ures of wandering were realized. We were all in the :norning of life, full of health and spirits, on horseback and breathing a most salubrious air, with a boundless hori zon open before us, and, shaping our future fortune and success in the elastic mould of youthful hope and imagina- tion we could hardly be other than happy. Sometimes we saw, scouring away frcm our path, horses, asses, mules, buffaloes and wolves, in countless multitudes, and we took, almost with too much ease to give pleasure in the chase, whatever we needed for luxurious subsistence. The pas- COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 437 E-vige of creeks and brooks across the prairies is marked, tc tlie utmost extent of vision, by a fringe of woods and count- less flowerina; shrubs. Sometimes we ascended an elevation of some height, swelling gently from "the plain. Here the eye traces, as en ?.n immense map, the formation and grad- ual enlavgemeiit of these rivulets, and sees them curving their meandering lines to a point of union with another of the same kind. The broadened fringe of wood indicates the enlargement cf the stream, and the eye takes in at one glance the gradual formation of rivers. The night biought us up on the edge of one of these streams. Our beasts are tujned loose to stretch themselves on the sliort and tender grass to feed and repose.' The riders collect round a fire in the centre. Supper is prepared with bread, cofibe, and the tenderest parts of the buffalo, venison and other game. The appetite, sharpened by exercise on horseback and by the salubrious air, is devouring. The story circu- lates. Past adventures are recounted, and if they receive something of the colouring of romance, it may be traced to feelings that grow out of the occasion. The projects and the mode of joui^neying on the morrow are discussed and settled. The fire flickers in the midst. The wild horses neigh, and tlie prairie w^olves howl in the distance Except the weather threatens storm, the tents are not pitched The temperature of the night air is botli saluta- ry and delightful. The blanket? are spread upon the ten- der grass, and under a canopy of the softest blue, decked with all the visible lights of the sky. The party sink to a repose, which the exercise of the preceding day renders as unbroken and dreamless as that of the grave. I awoke more than once unconscious that a moment had elapsed be- tween the time of my lying down and my rising. The day before we came in view of the Rocky Moun tains, I saw, in the greatest perfection, that impressive, and to me almost sublime spectacle, an immense drove of wilvl horses, for a long time hovering round our path across the prairies. I had often seen great numbers of them be fore, mixed with other animals, apparently quiet, and graz ing like the rest. Here there were thousands, unmixed, unemployed ; their motions, if such a comparison might be allowed, as darting and as wild as those of humming-birdj 4Scs CCjiblv.N-i'LACi: LOOK OF PR-OSit Ki the L.C frers. The tremendous snorts, wilJi wiiich d'# front colurans of the phalanx made known Uieir approach to u£, seemed to be their wild and energetic way cf ex- pressing their pity and disdain for the servjle lot of onr Lorses, of which they appeared to be taking a surrey. They were of all colours, 'uixed, spotted and diver>llied with every hue, from the brightest white to clear and shining blao's ; and of every form and structure, from the long and Blender racer to those of firmer limbs and heavier mculd , a^d of all agesj from the curvetting colt to the range of patriarchal steeds, drawn up in a line, and holding their high heads for a survey of us in the rear. Sometinies they curved their necks, and made no more progress than jusl enough to kee-p pace with our advance. There was a kind of slow and walking minuet, in which they performed va- rious evolutions with the precision of the figures of a coun- try dance. Then a rapid movement shifted the front tc the rear. But still, in all their evolutions and movements, like the Sight of sea-fowl, their lines were regular, and free from all indications of confusion. At times a spontaneous and sudden moveraent towards us almost inspired the ap- prehension of a united attack upon us. Afcer a moment's advance, a snort and a rapid retrograde movement seemed to testify their proud estimate of their wild independence. The infinite variet>^ of their rapid movements, their tam- perings and mancsuvres, were of such a wild and almost terrific character, that it required but a moderate stretch of fancy to suppose them the genii of these grassy plains. At one period tliey were formed to an immense depth in front of us. A wheel, executed almost with the rapiditv' of thought, presented them hoverins on onr flanks. Then again, the cloud of Just that enveloped their movement* cleared away, and presented them in our rear. They evi- dently operated as a great annoyance to the horses ani mules of our cavalcade. The frighted movements, the in- creased indications of fatigue, with their frequent neighiags i«if5cientlv evidenced what unpleasant neighbours they sonsidered their wild compatriots to be. So much ^ad our horses appear to suffer from fatigue and terror la csnse' 5«ence of their vicinity, that we were thinking of some Tay in which to drive them off; when, on a snddej ^ a pa COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 43$ Cient and laborious dcukey of the. ^establishment, who ap- peared to liave regarded all their movements with philo- sophic indifference, pricked up his long ears, and gave a /oud and most sonorous bray from his vocal shells. Instant- ly this prodigious multitude — and there were thousands of them — took what the Spanish call the " stompado." With a trampling like the noise of thunder, or still more like that of an earthquake, — a noise that was absolutely appalling, — they took to their heels, and were all in a few moments invisible in the verdant depths of the plains, and we sa\? them no more. Eulogy on William Penn. — Du Ponceatj. William Pe]vi«- stands the first among the lawgivers, whose names and deeds are recorded in history. Shall we compare him with Lycurgus, Solon, Romulus, those foun- ders of military commonwealths, who organized their citizen in dreadful array against the rest of their species, taught them to consider (heir fellow-men as barbarians, and them- selves as alone worthy to rule over the earth ? What benefit did mankind derive from their boasted institutions ? Inter- rogate the shades of those who fell in thew mighty contests between Athens and Lacedsmon, between Carthage and Rome, and between Rome and the rest of the universe. But see William Penn, with weaponless hand, sitting down peaceably with his followers in the midst of savage nations, whose only occuiration was shedding the blood of their fellow-men, disarming them by his justice, and teaching them, for the first time, to view a stranger without distrust. See them bury their tomahawks, in his presence, so dee'- that man shall never be able to find them again. See them, under the shade of the thick groves of Coaquannock, extend liie bright chain of friendship, and solemnly promise to preserve it as long as the sun and moon shall endure. Sec him then, with his companions, establishing his common- wealth on the sole basis ot religion, morality and universal jve, and adopting, as the fundamental maxim of his gov- nment, the rule handed down to us from neavcn, Glor% 440 COMMON-PLACF. BOOK OP PUOSF. to God on high, and on eartli pence txnd k:.6'.J ri?' ia men. flere was a spectacle for the potentct's v;- tiie ea.rib to look upon, — an example for them to imitate. But the po tentatcs of the earth did not see, or, if they saw, they turn i^d away their eyes from the sight : they did not hear, cr, if they heard, they shut their ears against the voice which called out to them from the wilderness, " Discite justitiam moniti, et non temnere Divos." The character of William Penn alone sheds a never-fad ing lustre on our history. Morbid Effects of Envy, Malice, and Hatred. — Rush. Envy is commonly the parent of malice and hatred. Of this vice it* may be truly asserted, that it is deep-seated^ and always painful ; hence it has been said by an inspired writer to resemble " rottenness in the bones ;" and by Lord Bacon " to know no holydays." It is likewise a monopo- lizing vice. Alexander envied his successful generals, and Garrick was hostile to all the popular players of his day. It is moreover a parricide vice, for it not only emits its poison against its friends, but against the persons, who, by the favours it has conferred upon those who cherish it, have become in one respect the authors of their being ; and, lastly, it possesses a polypus life. No kindness, gentleness or generosity can destroy it. On the contrary, it derives fresh strength from every act which it experiences of any of them. It likewise survives and often forgives the re- sentment it sometimes occasions, but without ceasing to hate the talents, virtues or personal endowments by which it was originally excited. Nor is it satiated by the appa- rent extinction of them in death. This is obvious from ita so frequently opening the sanctuary of the grave, and rob- bing the possessors of those qualities of the slender re- mains it had left them of posthumous fame. However devoid this vice and its offspring may be of re^ mistuons, they now and then appear in the form of paro« COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF FRC;SE. 441 ysms, which discover themselves in tremors, paleness and a sufifusion of the face with red blood. The face in thi? case performs the vicarious office, which has lately beei: ascribed to the spleen. But their effects appear more fre- quentlj' in slow fevers, and in a long train of nervous dis- eases. Persons affected with them seldom acknowledge their true cause. A single instance, only, of this candour, is mentioned by Dr. Tissot He tells us he was once con- sulted by a gentleman, who told him that all his complaints were brought on by his intense and habitual hatred of an enemy. Many of the chronic diseases of high life and of professional men, I have no doubt, are induced by the same cause. I once thought that medicine had not a single remedy a all its stores, that could subdue, or even palliate, the dis- eases induced by the baneful passions which have been described, and that an antidote to them was to be found only in rehgion ; but I have since recollected one, and heard of another physical remedy, that will at least palliate them. The first is, frequent convivial society between persons who are hostile to each other. It never fails to soften resentments, and sometimes produces reconciliation and friendship. The reader will be surprised when 1 add that the second physical remedy was suggested to me by a madman in the Pennsylvania hospital. In conversing with him, lie produced a large collection of papers, which he said contained his journal. " Here," said he, " I write down every thing that passes in my mind, and particularly malice and revenge. In recording the latter, I feel my miud emptied of something disagreeable to it, just as an cpaetic relieves the stomach of bile. When I look at what I have written a day or two afterwards, I feel ashamed and diigusted with it, and wish to throw it into the fire." I have no doubt of the utility of this remedy for envy, malice and hatred, from its salutary effects in a similar case. A Gentleman m this city informed me, that, after writing an attack for the press upon a person who had offended him; 1.3 was sc struck with its malignity upon reading it»., that he instantly destroyed it. The French ncbility som^ffmes cover the v/alls and ceiling of a room in their houses with looking giaases The room thus furnished is called 4i2 CO:. 131 OX-PLACE BOL>K OF PROSE. a ho-utJ-oir. Did ill-natured people imitate tlie practic* of the madinaa and gentleman I have mentioned, by put- ting their envious, malicious and revengeful thoughts upoa paper, it would form a mirror that would serve the saiiie purpose of pointing out and remedying the evil dispositions of the mind, that the boudoir in France serves, in discov- ering and remedying the defects in the attitudes and dress of the body. To persons who are not ashamed and disgusted with the first sight of their malevolent effusions upon paper, the same advice may be given that Dr. Franklin gave to a gen- tleman, who read part of a humorous satire which he had written upon the person and character of a respectable cit izen of Philadelphia. After he had finished reading it, he asked the doctor what he thought of his publishing it. " Keep it by you," said the doctor, " for one year, and tiien ask me that question." The gentleman felt tlie force of this answer, went immediately to the printer who had com- posed the first page of it, took it from him, and consigneo *be whole manuscript to oblivion. Appearance of the first Settlements of the Pilgrims. — Miss Sedgwick. Tsi: first settlers followed the course of the Indians, and planted themselves on the borders of rivers, — the nat- ural gardens ot the earth, where the soil is mellowed and enriched by the annual overflowing of the streams, and prepared by the unassisted processes of nature to yield to the indolent Indian his scanty supply of maize and othpr esculents. The wigwam:« which constituted the village, or, to use the graphic aboriginal designation, the " smoke,' of the natives, gave place to the clumsy, but more ccnve- nient dwellings of the pilgrims. Where there are now contiguous rows of shops, filled with the merchandise of the East, the manufactures of Eu- rope, the rival fabrics of our own country, and the fruits of the tropics : where now stand the stately hall of justice, ^e academy, the tank, church iS, orthodox and heretic, anv COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF FROSE. 443 Vil the symbols of a rich and populous community, — were, flt the early period of our history, a few log-houses p anteo around a fort, defended by a slight embankment and pal- isade. The mansions of the proprietors were rather more spa« clous and artificial than those of their more humble associ- ates, and were built on the well known mofiel of the modest dweriing-house illustrated by the birth of Milton — a form still aooimding in the eastern parts of Massachusetk., and presenting to the eye of a New Englander the familiar as- pect ot an awkward, friendly country cousin. The first clearing was limited to the plain. The beau tiful hill, that is now the residence of the gentry, (for there yet lives such a class in the heart of our democratic community,) and is embellished with stately edifices and expensive pleasure-grounds, was then the border of a dense forest, and so richly fringed with the original growth 01 trees, that scarce a sunbeam had penetrated to the parent earth Mr Fletcher was at first welcomed as an important ac- quisition to the infant establishment, but he soon proved that he purposed to take no part in its concerns, and, in spite of the remonstrances of the proprietors, he fixed iiis resi- dence a mile from the village, deeming exposure to the incursions of the savages very sliglit, and the surveillance of an inquiring neighbourhood a certain evil. His domain extended from a gentle eminence, that commanded an exten- sive view of the bountiful Connecticut to the shore, where the river indented the meadow by one of those sweeping, graceful curves, by which it seems to delight to beautify the land it nourishes. The border of the river was fringed with all the v/ater- loving ':rees; but the broad meadows were quite cleared, excepting tliat a few elms and sycamores had been spared by the Indians, and consecrated by tradition, as the scene of revel? or councils. The house of our pilgrim was a low-ro)fed, modest structure, containing ample accommo- dation for a patriarchal family ; where children, depen- ents and servants were all to be sheltered under one roof- ee. On one side, as we have described, lay an open and » -.t.'^nsive plain; wvt^'n view was the curling smoke froia i44 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF P&0^£. die little cluster of houses about the fort — the h^aitar j& of civilized man ; bat all else was a savage, howling wil deraess. Never was a name more befitting the condition of a peo- ple, than " pilgrim" that of our forefathers. It should be redeemed from the Puritanical and ludicrous a5sociatit.nj which have degraded it in most men's minds, and be hii- ?owed ty the sacrLSces made by these volantary exil-.'S. They were pilgrims, for they had resigned forever wLa? the good hold most dear — their homes. Home can ne\ er be transferred ; never repeated in the experience of an in- dividual. The place consecrated by parental love, by the innocence and sports of childhood, by the iirst acquaintance with nature, by the linking of the heart to the visible cre- ation, is the only home. There, there is a living and a breathing spirit infused into nature : every familiar object has a history — the trees have tongues, and the very air is vocal. There the vesture of decay doth not close in and control the noble functions of the soul. It sees, and hears, and enjoys, without the ministry of gross, material substance Description of a Herd of Bisons. — Cooper. " Thehe come the buffaloes themselves, and a noble herd it is. I warrant me that Pawnee has a troop of his people in some of the hd" ^ws nigh by ; and, as he has gone scampering after them, you are about to see a glori- ous chase. It will serve to keep the squatter and his brood under cover, and for ourselves there is little reason to fear. A Pawnee is not apt to be a malicious savage." Every eye was now drawn to the striking spectacle that succeeded. Even the timid Inez hastened to the side of Middleton to gaze at the sight, and Paul summoned Ellen from her culinary labours, to become a witness of the live- ly scene. Throughout the whole of these movins: events which it has been our duty to record, the pmries had lain in all the majesty of perfect solitu,!e. The heavens had been black- ened with the pa-"?,ige of the migratory b'rds, it is true^ COMMOx\-rLx\CE BOOK OF PROSE. 445 bnt the dogs of the party and the ass of the doctcr were the only quadrupeds that had enUvened the broad surface of the waste beneath. There was now a sudden exhibition of animal life, which changed the scene, as it were by magic, to the very opposite extreme. A few enormous bison bulls were first observed scouring along the most distant roll of the prairie, and then suc- ceeded long files of single beasts, which, in their turns, were followed by a dark mass of bodies, until the dun- coloured herbage of the plain was ent rely lost jn the deep- er hue of their shaggy coats. The herd, as the column spread and thickened", was like the ondless flocks of the smaller birds, whose extended flanks are so often seen to heave up out of the abyss of the heavens, until they ap pear as countless as the leaves in those forests, over which Ihcy wing their endless flight. Clouds of dust shot up in lit<^le columns from the centre of the mass, as some anima'i more furious than the rest ploughed the plain with his horns, and, from time to time, a deep, hollow bellowing was borne along on the wind, as though a thousand throats vented their plaints in a discordant murmuring. A long and musing silence reigned in the party, as they gazed on this spectacle of wild and peculiar grandeur. It was at length broken h-y he trapper, who, having been long accustomed to similar sights, felt less of its influence, or rath'^r felt it in a less thrilling and absorbing manner, than those io whom the scene v/as more novel. " There go ten thousand oxen in one drove, without keeper or master, except Him who made chem, and gave them these open plains for their pasture ! Ay, it is here that man may see the proofs of his wantonness and folly I Can the proudest governor in all the States go irdo his fields, and slaughter a nobler bullock than is here offered to the meanest hands ? and, when he has gotten his sirloin or his steak, can he eat it with as good a relish as he who nas s veetened his food with wholesome toil, and earned it according to the law "^f natur', by honestly mastering thai which the Lord hath put before him ?" " If the prairie platter is smoking with a buffaloe's hump, answer, no," interrupted th:^ luxurious bee-hunter. 38 i46 C03dOX PLACE B '->.)£ OF FSOSE. ** Ay, boy, yoa have tasted, and- you feel the genrase nafoning of the thing. Bat the herd is Leading a httle this-a-way, and it behooTes os to make ready for their viMt. If we hide oorselTes, alti^tfaer, the homed brutes will break throii^ the place, and trample as beneath their feet, like so many creei»ng wt^ms ; so we will jast put the weak ones apart, and take post, as becomes men and hunt- ers, in the van." As there was bat little time to make the nece^ary ai rangements,the whole party set about them in good earnest. Inez and Ellen were placed in the edge of the thicket on the side (arthest from the approaching herd. Asinus was posted in the centre, in consideration of his nerves, and then the old man, with his three male companions, divided themselves in such a naanner as they thought would enable them to torn the head of the rushing column, should it chance *o approach too nigh their portion. By flie vacil- iating movements of some fifty or a huadred bulls, that led the advance, it remained questionable, for many moments, what course they intended to pursue. But a tremendous and painful roar, which came from behind the cloud ot dust Oiat rose in tibe centre oi the herd, and which was horridly answered by the screams of the carrion birds, that were greedily sailing directly above th*^ Sying drove, ap}.^ai€d to give a new impulse to their flight, and attmce to remo^'e every symptom of indecision. As if glad to seek die small- est signs of the forest, the whole of the afSighted herd became steady in its direction, rushing in a straight line toward the little cover of bushes, which hcs already been so ofllen named. The appearance oi danger was now, in reality, of a character to try the stouts nerves. The flanks of the dark, moving mass, were advanced in such a manner as to make a cimcave line of the front, and every fierce eye, that was glaring from the shaggy wilderness of hair, in which the entire heads of the males were enveloped, was riveted with mad anxiety tm die thicket. It seemed as ii each beast strove to outstrip his neigbbour in gair.'ag this desired cover, and as thousands in dte rear pressed bundly on diose in fitmt, there was die appearance of an immineEi: ■^r that the leaders of the herd would be precipitated cm th« COMJION-PLACE BOOK OF TUOSE. 44? ronct'ucri parU-, 'n which case the destruction of everj one of them was certain. Each of cur adventurers felt the danger of his s'tuation in a manner peculiar to his individ- ual character and circumstances. The old man, who had stood all this while leaning on his rifle, and regarding the movements of the herd with a oteady eye, now deemed it flime to strike his blow. Lev- elling his piece at the foremost bull, with an agility that would have done credit to his youth, he fired. The ani- mal received the bullet on the matted hair between his iiorns, and fell to his knees ; but, shaking his head, he in- stantly arose, the very shock seeming to increase his exer- tions. There was now no longer time to hesitate. Throw- ng down his rifle, the trapper stretched forth his arms, and advanced from the cover with naked hands, directly towards he rushing column of the beasts. The figure of a man, when sustained by the firmness and steadiness that intellect can only impart, rarely fails of commanding respect from all the inferior animals of the creation. The leading bulls recoiled, and, for a single in- stant, there was a sudden stop to their speed, a dense mass of bodies rolling up in front, until hundreds were seen floundering and tumbling on the plain. Then came another of those hollow hello wings from the rear, and set the herd again in motion. The head of the column, however, di- vided ; the immoveable form of the trapper cutting it, as it were, into two gliding streams of life. Middleton and Paul instantly profited by his example, and extended the feeble barrier by a similar exhibition of their own per- iions. For a few moments, the new impulse given to the ani- mals in front served to protect the thicket. But, as the bo.dy of the herd pressed more and more upon the open line of its defenders, and the dust thickened so as to obscure their persons, there was, at each instant, a renewed danger of the beasts breaking through. It became necessary for the trapper and his companions to become still more and more alert ; and they were gradually yielding before the oeadlong multitude, when a furious lull darted by M'i 443 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. dleton, so near as to brush his person, and, at ths nexi instant, swept through the thicket with the velocity of the fvind. " Close, and die for the ground," shouted the old man, ' or sl thousand of the devils will be at his heels !" All their efforts would have proved fruitless, however, 'gainst the living torrent, had not Asiuus, whose domains jad just been so rudely entered, lifted his voice in the midst »f the uproar. The most sturdy and furious of the bulls trembled at the alarming and unknown cry, and then each- individual brute was seen m.adly pressing from that very thicket, which, the moment before, he had endeavoured to reach with the same sort of eagerness as that with which the murderer seeks the sanctuary. As the stream divided, the place became clear ; the two dark columns moving obliquely from the copse to unite again at the distance of a mile on its opposite side. The instant the old man saw the sudden effect which the voice of Asinus had produced, he coolly commenced reloading his rifle, indulging, at the same time, in a most heartfelt fit of his silent and peculiar merriment. The uproar, which attended the passage of the herd, waa now gone, or rather it was heard rolling along the prairie, at the distance of a mile. The clouds of dust were already blown away by the wind, and a clear range was left to the eye, in that place where, ten minutes before, there existed such a strange scene of wildness and confusion. The Character of Jesus. — Rev. S. C. Thacher, "We find in the life of Jesus a union of qualities, which bad never before met in any being on this earth. We find imbodied in his example the highest virtues both of active and of contemplative life. We see united in him a devo- tion to God the most intense, abstracted, unearthly, with a. benevolence to man the most active, affectionate and uni- fersal. We see qualities meet and harmonize in his char- co:vi:»'L'>rv-!*i.ACE book of piiosp.. ^il9 trier , vvlu'-li nre usually thouo-ht the most un(,ongenial We sec a force of character, which difficulties cannot con- quer, an energy which calamity cannot relax, a fortitude and constancy v/hich sufferings can neither subdue nor bend from their purpose ; connected with the most meltiig tenderness and sensibility of spirit, the most exquisite sua- c-eptibility to every soft and gentle impression. We see in him the rare union of zeal and moderation, of courage and p'-udence, of compassion and firmness ; we see superiority to tlie world without gloom or severity, or indifierenoe or distaste to its pursuits and enjoyments. In short, there is something in the whole corception and tensr of our Sa- viour's character so entirely peculiar, something which so -ealizes the ideal model of the most consummate moral De.iuty; something so lovely, so gracious, so venerable and commanding, that the boldest infidels have shrunk from it overawed, and, though their cause is otherv/ise desperate, ha\e 3^et feared to profane its perfect purity. One of the most eloquent tributes to its sublimity, that was ever utter- ed, was extorted from the lips of an infidel. " Is there any thing in it," he exclaims, " of the tone of an enthusi- ast, or of an ambitious sectary ? What sweetness, what purity in his manners ; what touching grace in his instruc- tions ; what elevation in his maxims ; what profound wis- dom in his discourses ; what presence of mind, vvhat skill and propriety in his answers ; w^hat empire over his pas- sions ! Where is the man, where is the sage, who knoAvs how to act, to suffer and to die, without weakness and with- out ostentation ? When Plato paints his imaginary just man covered with all the ignominy of crime, and yet wor thy of all the honours of virtue, he paints in every featui the character of Christ. What prejudice, what blindness must possess us to compare the son of Soproniscus to the Eon of Mary ! How vast the distance between them . Socrates, dying w'ithout pain and without ignominy, easily sustains his character to the last ; and. if this gentle death had not honoured his life, we might have doubted whether Socrates, with all his genius, was any thing more than a sophist. The death of Socrates, philosophizing tranquilly vyith his friends, is the most easy that one could desire ; hiii of Jesus, exoir.ng in torture, insulted, mocked, exe- 33* ' 1.50 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. riraied oj a whole people. Is the it- =^t horriMe that one caa ear. Socrates, Then he takes the puisoned cup, blesae^ him who weeps as he presents it; Jesus, in the midst of Ihe most dreadful tortures, pray.-: for h.c infuriated execu- tioners. — Yes ! if the life and death of Socrates are those af a sage, the li-fe and deaJi of Jesus are wholly divine " Recollections of Josiah Quincy, Jun — J, QaixcY. By the lapse of half a century, the actors m the scenes immediately preceding the American revolution begin to be placed in a light, and at a listance, favourable at once to right feelings and just criticism. In the possession of freedom, happiness, and prosperity, seldom if ever before equalled in the history cf nations, the hearts of the Amer- ican people naturally turn towards the memories of those, who, under Providence, were the instruments of obtaining these blessings. Curiosity awakens concerning thpir char- acters and motives. The desire grows daily more univer- sal to repay, with a late and distant gratitude, their long neglected and oftea forgotten sacrifices and sufferings. Among the men, whose character and political conduct had an acknowledged influence en the events of that peri- od, was Josiah Quincy, Jun. The unanimous consent of his contemporaries has associated his name in an imperish- able union with that of Otis, Adams, Hancock, Warren, and other distinguished men, whose talents and intrepidity influenced the events which led to the declaration of inde- pendence. This honour has been granted to him, notwith- standing his political path was, in every period of its short extent, interrupted by intense professional labours, and was terminated by death at the early age of thirty-one years. The particular features of a hfc and character, capable. ! under such circumstances, of attaining so great a distinction, I ire objects of curiosity and interest. Those, who recollect 0im, speak of his eloquence, his genius, and his capicity 'or ntellectual labour ; of the inextinguishable zeal and ; t)sorbing ardour of his exertions, whether directed to pa- COxMM.>;-rLACE UOOK OF TROSE 45! lltical or ptofebit-cnal objects ; of the entlreness with which he threw his soul into every cause in which he engaged ; of the intrepidity of liis spirit, and of his indignant senss of the wrongs of his country. It is certain that he made a deep impression on hi& con- temporaries. Tliose w^ho remember the pohtical debates iu Faneuil Hall consequent on the stamp act, the Boston massacre, and the Boston port bill, have yet a vivid recol- ectiou of the pathos of his eloquence, the boldness of his mvectives, and the impressive vehemence with w^hich he arraigned the measures of the British ministry, inflaming he zeal and animating the resentment of an oppressed people. The true Pride of Ancestry. — Webster. It is a noble faculty of our nature, which enables us to connect our thoughts, our sympathies, and our happiness, with what is distant in place or time ; and, looking before and after, to hold communion at once with our ancestors and our posterity. Human and mortal although we are, we are, nevertheless, not mere insulated beings, without relation to the past or the future. Neither the point of time-nor the spot of earth, in which we physically live, bounds our rational and intellectual enjoyments. We live in the past by a knowledge of its history, and in the future by hope and anticipation. By ascending to an association with our an- cestors ; by contemplating their example and studying their character; by partaking their sentiments, and imbibing their spirit i by accompanying them in their toils ; by sympathiz- ing in their sufferings, and rejoicing in their successes and their triumphs, — we mingle our own existence with theirs, and se8m to belong to their age. We become their con- temporaries, live the lives which they lived, endure what they endured, and partake in the rewards which they en- joyed. And in like manner, by running along the line of future time ; by contemplating the probable fortunes of hose who are coming after us ; by attempting something wKicti may promote their happiness, and leave some not 52 COilMOX-PLACE BOOK OF PKOSJ.. dishonourable memorial of ourselves for their regard Tvhen we shall sleep with the fathers, — we protract our own eanh- ly being, and seem to crowd whatever is future, as well a3 ail that is past, into the narrow compass of our earthly ex- istence. As it is not a vain and false, but an exalted and religious imagination, which leads us to raise our thought* from the orb which, amidst this universe of worlds, the Creator has given us to inhabit, and to send them with something of the feeling which nature prompts, and teach- es to be proper among children of the same Eternal Parent, to the contemplation of the myriads of fellow-beings, with which his goodness has peopled the infinite of space ; so neither is it false or vain to consider ourselves as interested or connected with our whole race through all time ; allied to our ancestors ; allied to our posterity ; closely compacted on all sides with others •, oarselves being but links in the great chain of being, which begins with the origin of our race, runs onward through its successive generation^, bind- ing together the past, the present, and the future, and ter- minating, at last, with the consummation of all things earthly, at the throne of God. There may be,, and there often is, indeed, a regard for ancestry, which nourishes only a weak pride ; as there is also a care for posterity, which only disguises an habitual avarice, or hides the workings of a low and grovelling van- ity. But there is, also, a moral and philosophical respect for our ancestors, which elevates the character and im- proves the heart. Next to the sense of reUgious dut\' and moral feeling, I hardly know what should bear with stronger obligation on a liberal and enlightened mind, than a consciousness of alliance with excellence which is de- parted; and a consciousness, too, that, in its acts and conduct, and even in its sentiments, it may be actively operating on the happiness of those who come after it. Poetry is found to have {e\* stronger conceptions, by which it would affect or overwneim the minJ, than those in which it presents the moving and speakino: image of the departed dead to the senses of the living. This belongs to poetry only because it is congenial to our nature. Poetry is. in this respect, but the handmaid of true philosophy and morahty. It dealj with us as human beings, naturally reverencing these CO3IM0N-PLACE COOK OF PROSE. 453 whose visible connexion with this state of being is sevcved and who may yet exercise, we know not what sympathy with ourselves ; — and when it carries us forward, also, and showa us the long-continued result of all the good we do, in the prosperity of those who follow us, till it bears us from our- se'ves, and absorbs us in an intense interest for what shall happen to the generations after us, it speaks only in the language of our nature, and affects us with sentiments which belong to us as human beings. Jl Slide in the White Mountains. — Mrs. Hale. Robert looked upward. Av/ful precipices, to the height of more than tv*'o thousand feet, rose above him. Near the highest pinnacle, and the very one over which Abairo- cho had been seated, the earth had been loosened by t^e violent rains. Some slight cause, perhaps the sudder. bur'^'- iug forth of a mountain spring, had given motion to the mas^ ; and it was now moving forward, gathering fresh streng' 6 from its progress, uprooting the old trees, unbedding the ancient rocks, and all rolling onwards with a force f.nd ve- locity no human barrier could oppose, no created power resist. One glance told Robert that Mary must perish ; that he cop.ld not save her.' '' But I will die with her !" he exclaimed ; and, shaking off tlie grasp of Mcndowit as he would a feather, " Mary, oh, Mary !" he continued, rushing towards her. She uncovered her head, made an effort to rise, and articulated, " Robert !" as he caught and c'a^ped her to his bosom. " Oh, Mar}'-, must we die ?" he exclaimed " We must, we must," she cried, as she gazed on the rolling mountain in agonizing horror ; " why, why did you come ^" He replied not ; but, leaning against the rock, pressea her closer to his heart ; while she, clinging around his neck, burst into a passion of tears, and, laying her head or his bosom, sobbed like an infant. He bowed his face upon her cold, wet cheek, and breathed one cry for mercy ; yet, even then, there was in the hearts of both lovers a feeling of wild joy in the thought that they should not be 'eparateJ. 454 COM.^ION-PLACE BOOK OF FROSE. The mass came down, tearinff, and crumbling; and s^rccp ing ail before it ! The whole mountain trembled, and llie ground shook like an earthquake. The air v/a^ darkenec ^3.' the shcsver of water, stones, and branches of trees. crusLet' and shivered to atorns , while the blast swept by like & whirlwind, and the crash and roar of the convulsion were far more appalling than the loudest thunder. It might have been one minute, or twenty, — for neitjjer of the lovers took note of time, — when, in the husli as vi deathlike stillness that succeeded the uproar, Robert Inoked around, and sav/ the consuming storm had passed by. It had passed, covering the valley, farther than the eye could reach, with ruin. Masses of granite, and shivered trees, and mountain earth, were heaped high around, filling the bed of {]-;e Saco- and exhibiting an awful picture of the des- olalino- track of the avalanche. Only one little spot had es- caped Its wrath, and there, safe, as if sheltered in the hol- lov7 of His hand, who notices the fall of a sparrov/, and locked in each other's arms, were Robert and Mary ! Beside them stood Mendowit ; his gun firmly clenched, and his quick eye rolling around him like a maniac. He had fol- lov/ed Robert, though he did not intend it ; probably im pelled by that feeling which makes us loath to face danger alo-ne ; and thus had escaped. The Twins. — Token. During the period of the war of the revolution, there resided, in the western part of Massachusetts, a farmer by the name of Stedman. He wa-s a man of sub&tance, de- scended from a very respectable English famih', v/ell edu- cated, distmgaislied for great firmness of character in gen- eral, and alike rem.arkable for inflexible integrity and stead- fast loyalty to his king. Such was the reputation he sus- tained, that, even when the most violent antipathies against royalism sv^ayed the community, it was still admitted on all hands, that fanner Stedman, though a tory, v/as 1 DnesI *D bis opinions, a.nd firmly believed Ihem to be right. COMMON-PLACE liOOK OF PIIOSE. 455 The period came when Burgoyne was advancing from the north. It was a time of great anxiety with both the fritnda anil foes of the revokition, and one which called forth their highest exertions. The patriotic militia flocked to the stand- ard of Gates and Stark, while many of the tories resorted to the quarters of Burgoyne and Baum. Among tlie )at- ter was Stedman. He had no sooner decided it to be his duty, than he took a kind farewell of his wife, a woman of uncommon beauty, gave his children, a twin boy ?.nd girl, a long embrace, then mounted his horse and depart- ed. He joined himself to the unfortunate expedition of Baum, and was taken, with other prisoners of war, by the victorious^tark. He made no attempt to conceal his nam.e or character, which were both sooii discovered, and he was accordingly committed to prison as a traitor. The gaol, in which he was confined, was in the western part of Massachusetts, and nearly in a ruinous condition. The farmer v/as one night waked fiom his sleep by several persons in his room " Come," said they, " you can now regain your liberty ; we have made a breach in the prison, through which you can escape." To their astonishment, Stedman utterly refused to leave his prison. In vain they expostulated with him ; in vain they represented to him that life was at stake. His reply was, that he was a true man, and a servant of king George, and he would not creep out of a hole at night, and sneak away from the rebels, to save his neck from the gallows. Finding it altogether fruitless to attempt to move him, his friends left him, with some ex- pressions of sf>leon. The time at length arrived for the trial of the prisoner. The distance to the place where the court was sitting was about sixty miles. S'^edman remarked to the sheriff, when he came to attend hini, that it would save some expense >nd inconvenience, if he could be {permitted to go alone, f.nd on foot. "And svippose," said the sheriff, "that you should prefer your safety to your honour, and leave me t« seek you in (be British camp ?" " I hud thought," said tlie farmer, reddening with indignation, " that, I was speak- ing to one Avho knew me." " I do know j'ou, indeed," said the sJieriff; "I spoke but in jest; you shall have 456 COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. your way. Go, and on the third day I shall expect fo set you at S ." * * * * xhe fanner departed, and at the appointed time he placed himself in the hands of the sheriff'. I was now engaged as his counsel. Stedman insisted, before the court, upon telling his whole story ; and, when i would have taken advantage of some technical points, he sharply rebuked me, and told me that he had not employed me to prevaricate, but only to assist him in telling the truth. 1 had never seen such a display of simple integrity. It was aflfecting to witness his love of holy, unvarnished truth, el- evating him above every other consideration, and preiiding in his breast as a sentiment even superior to the love of life. I saw the tears more than once springing to the eyes of his judges ; never before, or since, have I felt such an interest in a client I plead for him as I would have plead for my own life. I drew tears, but 1 could not sway the judgment of stern men, controlled rather by a sense of duty than the compassionate promptings of humanity. Stedman was con- demned. I told him there was a chance of pardon, if he would ask for it. I drew up a petition, and requested him to sign it; but he refused. " I have done," said he, "what I thought my duty. I can ask pardon of my God, and my king ; but it would be hypocrisy to ask forgiveness of these men, for an action which I should repeat, were I placed jigain in similar circumstances. No ! ask me not to sign that petition. If what you call the cause of American freedom requires the blood of an honest man for a consci- entious discharge of what he deemed his duty, let rue be its victim. Go to my judges, and tell them that I place not my fears nor my hopes in them." It was in v:.ia that I pressed the subject ; and I went away in despair. In returning to my house, I accidentally called on an acquaintance, a young inan of brilliant genius, the subject of a passionate predilection for painting. This led him fre- quently to take excursions into the country, for the purpose of sketching such objects and scenes as were interesting to him. From one of these rambles he h^d jusT returned. 1 found him sitting at his easel, giving' the last touches to the picture which attracted your attention. He asked mj opinion (..f it. " It is a fine jiicture," said I ; " is it a fancy COMMOiN'-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE. 457 piece, or are they portraits ?" " They are portraits," said lie; " and, save perhaps a little embellishment, tliey are, I .chink, striking portraits of the wife and children of you! unfortunate client, Stedman. In the course of my ramb'es, 1 chanced to call at his house in H . I never savz a more beautiful group. The mother is one of a thousand and the twins are a pair of cherubs." " Tell me," saici I laying my hand on tlie picture, " tell me, are they true tnd faithful portraits of the wife and children of Stedman '" My earnestness made my friend stare. He assured me thjt, so far as he could be permitted to judge of his own produc- tions, they were striking representations. I asked no further questions ; I seized the picture, and hurried with it to the prison where my client was confined. I found him sitting, his face covered with his hands, and apparently wrung by keen emotion. I placed the picture in such a situation tha he could not fail to see it. 1 laid the petition on the little table by his side, and left the room. In half an hour I returned. The farmer grasped my hand, while tears stole down his cheeks ; his eye glanced first upon the picture, and then to the petition. He said nothing, bu handed the latter to me. 1 took it, and left the apartment He had put his name to it. The petition was granted, and Stedman was set at liberty. The lone Indian. — Miss Francis. For many a returning autumn, a lone Indian was seen standing at the consecrated spot we have mentioned ; but just thirty years after the death of Soonseetali, he was noticed for the last time. His step was then firm, and his figure erect, though he seemed old and way-worn. Age had not dimmed the fire of his eye, but an expression of deep melanclioly had settled on his wrinkled brow. It was Powontonamo — he who had once been the Eagle of the Mohawks ! He came to lie down and die beneath the broad oak, v/hich shadowed the grave of Sunny-eye. Alas, tlie irhite man's axe had been there ! The tree he had planted was dead ; and the vine, which had leaped so vigorously S9 43S COIIMOX-PLACE BUUS. OF P&OSB. ucsa branch to branch, bow, yellosr and wi! " .. ^a idling Id the groond. A de^ groan borst fire :^ due savage. For thirty wearisiHne years, he : _ Chat oak, wish its twining tendrils. They we _ : i j things left ia the wide worU Im- him to hnre^ £z - gone! He kx^ed abnnd. H^ hnnSing Ian i was dianged, like its chieftain. !^d light car \- down tibe liver, like a bird opon the wing. 1l : : rf tihe white man alme brake its anoodi s^. t 7 e Englishman's road wocnd like a serpent aroor _ r : s of the Mfdiawk ; and inm hool^ had so beatei r war path, fliat a hawk's eye coold not discov: i track. The last wigwam was destroyed; z: looked boUly down op«i i^pots he had vis: : stealth, doting thoosands and thoosands aS n :. :^: 7 few remaining trees, clothed in the £uitaatic r^ ^ automn; the kmg line (^ heavy ckmds, meltinr the coming son ; and the dfetant mountain, seen , . blue mist i^ departing twilight, akme remaine : seen them in his boyhood. AI! diings spi^e a i ^ to the heart rf the desoials Indian. " Yes," 5 yoong oak and the vine are like die Eagle ani eye. They are the sqaaw and die pappoose of the red man " 7 here l" As he ^icAe, lie fixed hk eye thoog; the grave. AfiLer a glocmiy sflence, he again 7 r npon the lair scene, wids a wandering and tr 7 t ' " The pale fece may like it," mnrmnred he : dian cannot die here in peace." So saying, 7 r bcw-stnng, snapped his arrows, threw the:3i c r. . r _ : :^ f3ats:s of his fefhers, and departed £ir ever. COMMON-PLACK BOOK OF TIIOSL. t59 A Scene in the Catsklll Mountains. — G. Mei.lejv. We first came to ths verge of the precipice, from which the water takes its leap upoa a platform that projects with the rock many feet over the chasm. Here we gazed into the aell and the basin into which the stream pours itself from the beetling cliff. But the prospect from this poini is tar less thrilling than from below ; and we accordingly began our descent. Winding round the crags, and following a foot-path between the overhanging trees, wq, gradually, and with some difficulty, descended so far as to have a line view of the station which we had just left. The scene here is magnificent beyond description. Far under the blackened canopy of everlasting rock, that shoots above tc an alarming extent over the abyss, the eye glances round a vast and regular amphitheatre, which seems to be the wild assembling-place of all the spirits of ths storms, — so rugged, so deep, so secluded, and yet so threatening docs it appear ! Down from the midst of the cliff that over- arches this wonderful excavation, and dividing in the niidst the gloom that seems to settle within it, comes the foaming torrent, splendidly relieved upon the black surface of the enduring walls, and throning its wreaths of mist along the frowning ceiling. Following the guide that had brought us thus far down the chasm, we passed into the amphithe- atre, and, moving under the terrific projection, stood in the centre of this subUme and stupendous work ; — the black, ironnound rocks behind us, and the snowy cataract spring- mg between us and the boiling basin, which still lay under our feet. Here the scene was unparalleled. Here seem- ed to be' the theatre for a people to stand in, and behold the prodigies and fearful wonders of the Almighty, and feel (he.r own insignificance. Here admiration and astonish- menr come ipbidden over the soul, and the most obdurate Ileal i feels that there is something to be grateful for. In- deed, the scene from this spot is so sublime and so well cal- culated to impress the feelings with a sense of the powef and grandeur of nature, that, apart from all other consid- erations, it is worthy of long journeying and extreme toil tobenold it. Having taken refreshment, very adroitly man- 460 coyiyios-PLAcji. boos, of rstosE, 2g^ to te cGaveyed to us £nHn abore by Jaim, — ^kasa, bj tbe way, 1 wooM name ^ ta excelleal guide aoi well as a reputable boy, — yfb descended to the estremt: deptb of the nmne, and, wiOi certain heruc laifies, wbc somehow dared tbe penis of the path, we gazed from th^ place upask the sheet at water, iailing from a height c^ wase than two hundred and fiHty feet. This is a matter of which f^ia^ra wcrald not speak hgfatly ; and diere is waatic? only a heavy &I1 1^ water to make this ^pot not imly mag- niScent, — f