Title: The Emigrant
Author: Frederick W. Thomas
Release date: August 4, 2009 [eBook #29606]
Most recently updated: January 5, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Bryan Ness, Katherine Ward, and the Online
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A Poem,
BY FREDERICK W. THOMAS.
“Westward the star of Empire takes its way.”
From the original Edition of 1833, to which is added a memoir of the author.
CINCINNATI:
PRINTED FOR J. DRAKE.
SPILLER, PRINTER.
1872.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872: By JOSIAH DRAKE, In the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
PAGE |
|
Preface | iii |
Dedication | v |
Memoir | vii |
The Emigrant | 9 |
Notes | 41 |
Errata | 48 |
This Poem was written under the circumstances which its title implies. Three years since, as the author was descending the Ohio, to become a citizen of the West, he wrote a considerable number of stanzas, expressive of his feelings, six or eight of which were published as a fragment on his arrival in Cincinnati, in the Commercial Daily Advertiser, and republished and noticed by different prints in a way that induced the author, from time to time, to add stanzas to stanzas, until they almost imperceptibly reached their present number. He wrote on, without any previous study of the style or manner in which the subject should be pursued––using the poetic license of light and shade as Fancy dictated. Being in ill health, and coming to a strange land, it was very natural for his Reflections to be of a sombre cast, without there being any thing peculiar in his situation differing from that of other Emigrants.
The reader will perceive that the metrical arrangement of the stanzas is the same as that used by Gray, in his Ode to Adversity, with this difference, that the Ode is written in lines of eight syllables, and the author has attempted the heroic measure.
After the Poem had been finished some time, the author delivered it in the Hall of the Lyceum to an assemblage of Ladies and Gentlemen. Their reception and that of the several editors (to whom he is most grateful) who noticed its delivery, and gave extracts from the Poem, induced him to publish it.
The author has by him many manuscript pieces with which he might have swelled the volume to a much greater size; but as this is his first attempt at authorship, in the shape of a volume, he offers it, tremblingly, at the ordeal of public opinion, merely as a sample of his ware.
TO CHARLES HAMMOND, ESQ.
My Dear Sir,
Before I had the pleasure of your personal acquaintance, differing from you as I do on many political points, I imbibed some of those impressions against you, which ever attach to an exalted character, when he takes a decided stand in the political arena.
Permit me, Sir, in acknowledging how much those impressions were prejudices, to inscribe this volume to you, in testimony of my admiration for your talents, and respect for your virtues. And, moreover, as the first encouragement which I received, for this my first literary attempt of any length, proceeded from yourself; if it has merit, I know no one to whom I should more properly inscribe it than to the one, who being entitled to speak ex cathedra on the subject, first cheered me with the hope of its success. And if it shall be found to be destitute of merit, while it shows that your judgment has for once been wrong, it will also prove that the error proceeded from a personal partiality, for which I am anxious to express my gratitude.
I am, Sir, |
Frederick William Thomas was the oldest child of E. S. Thomas and Anna his wife. He was born at Providence Rhode Island, but spent his earlier years at Charleston South Carolina, where Mr. E. S. Thomas resided and edited and published the Charleston City Gazette.
While Frederick William was still young, Mr. Thomas removed to Baltimore Maryland, and there his son was educated and brought up to the profession of the law. Being unfortunate in business, when Frederick William was about nineteen, Mr. Thomas resolved to remove with his family to the west, which he did, making Cincinnati his place of residence. His son however, remained in Baltimore.
It was in the following year while journeying West, to join his family in their new home, that this poem––the Emigrant was suggested to him, by the associations and the romantic scenery of the Ohio river, and while descending it most, if not all the poem, was written. He was about twenty-one when it appeared. It was followed by “Clinton Bradshaw,” or the adventures of a Lawyer, published by Carey, Lee and Blanchard, of Philadelphia. This was called the best American Novel of its time. Mr. Thomas’ next venture was “East and West” which was succeeded by “Howard Pinkney.” During the years which intervened viii between the writing of these books he resided in the west, principally in Cincinnati, and wrote tales, sketches, fugitive poetry, delivered lectures, and made political speeches. In 1840 when General Harrison was elected President, Mr. Thomas went to Washington City. After General Harrison’s death, Mr. Tyler gave him an office under government and he continued to reside at the Capital, but wrote little except an occasional song or story. Some years elapsed and Mr. Thomas left Washington and went south on a lecturing tour. He was engaged to write for several newspapers and continued lecturing through the South and West. His literary efforts at this period were chiefly confined to Magazine articles, short poems and songs. His song “T’is said that Absence conquers Love,” was one of the most popular of the day. He often spoke of the feeling he had in passing of a summers night through a strange city and having his own words greet him from houses whose inmates only knew of his existence through them.
Clinton Bradshaw was also very popular. An American visiting Calcutta India, wrote home of the thrill it gave him to find it on the shelves of a book store there.
Mr. Thomas was popular in society for he was amiable and entertaining. He was a fine belle letter scholar, and was remarkable for his conversationable powers––he had a fund of anecdote always at command. He was a great observer and studier of Character and a believer in human nature.
The year 1866 found him again in Washington city where after a short illness he died. Recently his remains have been brought to Cincinnati, by his brother Calvin W. Thomas and placed beside those of his parents in Spring Grove Cemetery.
I. We both are pilgrims, wild and winding river! II. Yet, dost thou bear me on to one I’ve loved III. Alas! we parted: what a bitter sorrow IV. Our home, when last I saw it, was all lone; V. Thou wert my nurse in many an hour of pain, VI. How deep the bitterness alone to grieve VII. Why come such thoughts across the brow? Oh, why VIII. Who has not felt, in such a night as this, IX. In sickness and in sorrow, how the breast X. And yet, there is a torturing sense of life, XI. Is health returnless? Never more may I XII. Upon my brow I feel the furrow’s course, XIII. Sweet solace of the life-lorn! Hope! to thee XIV. My hopes, e’en my hopes, wither; a dark cloud XV. O! who can pierce the cloud that o’er him lowers? XVI. And, but that thou would’st feel a pang for me, XVII. For then, perchance, thy stream ran red with blood, XVIII. Here once Boone trod––the hardy Pioneer–– XIX. That mountain, there, that lifts its bald high head XX. Those western Pioneers an impulse felt. XXI. To shun a greater ill sought they the wild? XXII. How cautiously, yet fearlessly, that boy XXIII. Before the mother, bursting through the door, XXIV. In the long winter eve, their cabin fast, XXV. And it was happiness, they said, to stand, XXVI. Long e’er the pale-face knew them, or their land, XXVII. Methinks I see it all within yon dell, XXVIII. Here, from the woods, he came to woo his mate, XXIX. Again he goes––again she looks for him–– XXX. O, Love what rhymer has not sung of thee? XXXI. Who does not love his early dream of love?–– XXXII. This is the tale that never tires in telling–– XXXIII. My Mary! though I yet am young in years, XXXIV. A sense of coldness, like the atmosphere, XXXV. For, in that young affection’s early dream, XXXVI. E’en like––if we its hopes may personate–– XXXVII. And, mused I now, as that stern exile mused, XXXVIII. And the wild river, laughing, laves its banks–– XXXIX. But there is one tree blasted ’mid the green, XL. How like the balmy breathing of the spring, XLI. Be blessings on thee, Lady of my love! XLII. No! “while there’s life there’s hope,” at least, in love; XLIII. Built o’er the Indian’s grave, the city, here, XLIV. They all have passed away, as thou must pass, XLV. Yet, who, that ever trod upon this shore, XLVI. Where stole the paddle-plied and tottering bark XLVII. And here, where once the Indian mother dwelt, XLVIII. Our homes, and hearts, and Nature, the blue sky, XLIX. How patient was that red man of the wood! L. With front erect, up-looking, dignified–– LI. Nature’s own statesman, by experience taught, LII. To the Great Spirit, would his spirit bow, LIII. How deeply eloquent was the debate, LIV. And this is Eloquence. ’Tis the intense, LV. Poor Logan had it, when he mourned that none LVI. Isle of the beautiful! how much thou art, LVII. Alas! another came: his blandishment, LVIII. Rome, torn by civil feuds and anarchy, LIX. Far different with our Country! mark the time LX. And when the war had passed, and Freedom raised LXI. The Cain of Nations! be that sov’reignty, LXII. In such a state, would not a Cæsar rise, LXIII. That free born spirit who could rouse again? Say, how shall he regain it, when ’twas giv’n LXV. United hearts have made united States! LXVI. Proud Venice, by her Doge’s solemn rite, LXVII. It was a bloody sacrament: Death came LXVIII. How fiercely flew that eagle o’er the plain! LXIX. Last of the Signers! a good night to thee! LXX. And hear thee tell of thy illustrious peers LXXI. Alas! the omen––in this awful hour, LXXII. Say, has our Capital no tarpeian height[8] LXXIII. Soon must I mingle in the wordy war, LXXIV. And yet it has its honors; high of name LXXV. My friends! how often, in our social talk, LXXVI. I recollect it well, and lov’d the time, LXXVII. Away! why should I muse in unsooth’d sadness! LXXVIII. Oh! light up every land, till, far and free, LXXIX. Kingdoms are falling! thrones––that have withstood LXXX. Greece gathers up again her glorious band! LXXXI. A tear for Poland! many tears for her LXXXII. My Home! it needs no prophet voice to tell LXXXIII. And they may fall––but who shall date thy end? LXXXIV. Thou learn’dst the lesson, long ago, my Home, LXXXV. Thou hast my heart––and freely do I bow, LXXXVI. Glorious! most glorious! proudly let me stand, LXXXVII. And no portentous, fearful meteor, there, LXXXVIII. Auspicious Time! unroll the scroll of years–– LXXXIX. And may new States arise, and stretch afar, XC. There is a welcome in this Western Land XCI. It binds my Eastern to my Western home; |
FINIS.
“The Emigrant, or Reflections,” &c.
Mr. Hammond, in the notice which he was so kind as to take of this Poem, suggested the alteration of the title from “Reflections” to “Reveries.” In retaining the first title, I do not do so because I think it best, but merely because it was the first title, and the one under which the extracts were given.
It seems to the author, if he may dare to hazard the remark, that the stanza in which he has attempted to write, has advantages over even the Spenserean stanzas. He understands the latter to be that in which the Fairy Queen, from whose author it takes its name––Beattie’s Minstrel, Thompson’s Castle of Indolence, Byron’s Childe Harold, &c. &c., are written. The following is a stanza of it, from Childe Harold:
The starry fable of the Milky Way |
Here, the reader will perceive that, in a stanza of nine lines, there is a necessity for the second, the fourth, the fifth, and the seventh lines to rhyme together; and that the sixth, eighth and ninth lines must, also, rhyme together. To make the stanza correct, with these complicated embarrassments of rhyme, must not only cause great trouble, sometimes, to the easiest versifier, but to succeed in doing so, critically, he must often sacrifice a happy expression, a striking phrase, or a beautiful line. “Words are things,” says Mirabeau; and, to the poet, they are things of potency. They are at once tools and materials in his headwork.
Any one who has read Childe Harold, must have observed that even the Lord of Poets, with all his powers of language, was often thus hampered, and that, for the sake of preserving the force of an expression, or a striking word, he used what are no rhymes at all, if Monk Lewis’ remark to Scott, “that a bad rhyme is no rhyme,” be true.
Whereas, by making the stanza of but eight lines and having the first four lines to rhyme alternately, and the last four immediately, and by having the concluding line an Alexandrine, as in the Spenserean stanzas, the difficulty, arising from the necessity of having so many similar rhymes, would be obviated, and the poet would have much greater facilities in expressing himself well, without impairing the dignity or strength of what might still be called, from its many resemblances, the Spenserean stanzas; at the same time, the monotony would be avoided, of which criticism has complained so much in the works of Pope and Goldsmith.
Very few readers of poetry, in the first poems which they open, are fond of those, no matter how great their merits, which are written in the Spenserean stanzas. They have to acquire a taste for it. They delight in simpler styles: this is one reason of Scott’s great popularity with many persons who seldom read any other poet, except perhaps, Burns. And even to those who have a natural taste for poetry, but who have not much cultivated it, the Spenserean stanza seems complicated, and, I will even venture to say, at first untunable; and it is not at the first perusal that they perceive the beauties of those poems which are written in this style.
These remarks are hazarded very hastily. It would be much more difficult for the author to build the complicated verse of the Spenserean stanza, than this which he has attempted; and, therefore, perhaps, very rashly, he concludes that it would be more difficult for others; and, moreover, we easily persuade ourselves that what is most easily done it is best to do.
“But thou art given by the good all-giver, Byron. |
“Here once Boone trod––the hardy Pioneer–– |
In a late work entitled “Sketches of Western Adventure,” a most interesting account is given of Boone, whose passion for a sylvan life was intense. Like Leather-stocking, it would seem that he always got lost in the clearing, and that only in the forest he knew his way and felt free and unincumbered. Then, like McGregor, “standing on his native heath,” he feared no difficulties or dangers. Byron, in his Don Juan, calls him “The man of Ross run wild,” and says, that he “killed nothing but a bear or buck,” but not so; he had many deadly encounters with the Indians, and was repeatedly taken prisoner by them; but he effected his escapes with great tact. The author of “Sketches of Western Adventure,” speaking of him, alone in the wilderness, says,
“The wild and solitary grandeur of the country around him, where not 43 a tree had been cut, nor a house erected, was to him an inexhaustible source of admiration and delight; and he says himself, that some of the most rapturous moments of his life were spent in those lonely rambles. The utmost caution was necessary to avoid the savages, and scarcely less to escape the ravenous hunger of the wolves that prowled nightly around him in immense numbers. He was compelled frequently to shift his lodging, and by undoubted signs, saw that the Indians had repeatedly visited his hut during his absence. He sometimes lay in canebrakes, without fire, and heard the yells of the Indians around him. Fortunately, however, he never encountered them.”
Mr. John A. McClung is the author of the above mentioned work. This gentleman is also the author of a novel, entitled “Camden,” which has not received half the notice it deserved.
Mr. Flint has now in the press a life of Boone, which will soon be published. I am indebted to him for the following graphic note, concerning Boone:
“This extraordinary man, whose birth is said to have been in Maryland, in Virginia, and in North Carolina, was in fact born in neither; but in Pennsylvania, in Buck’s County, about twenty miles from Philadelphia. When he was three years old, his father removed to a water of the Schuylkill, not far from Reading. When he was thirteen years old, his father removed thence to the South Yadkin, North Carolina; and in the midst of the bushy hills of that State the character of this Nimrod was developed.
“No historical facts are better attested, than those, to which allusion is here made. The native sagacity, the robust hardihood, the invincible courage and spirit of endurance, put forth on all occasions by the pioneer of Kentucky, were, perhaps, never surpassed by any character on record. These traits were admirably balanced and relieved by a disposition peculiarly mild and gentle. In his old age he removed from Kentucky to the banks of the Missouri. The portrait of him in the capitol is said not to be a correct likeness. He was of the middle stature, of prodigious strength and swiftness, with sandy hair, and a bright complexion, a bold, prominent forehead, aquiline nose and compressed lips. There was a peculiar brightness, an unquenchable elasticity and force visible in his forehead and his eye, even under the frost of eighty winters. His old age was not cheered by affluence, but his departure was neither unhonored, nor unsung. No American character seems to have more chained interest and attention. His life constitutes the theme of Mr. Bryant’s ‘Mountain Muse,’ and he is one among the few, whom lord Byron honored with unalloyed eulogy, in seven or eight of the happiest stanzas of Don Juan.”
And should they bear him prisoner from the fight, |
The reader is referred to “Sketches of Western Adventure,” page 309, for a most interesting account of the escape of two small boys from the Indians.
“How fertile is this ‘dark and bloody ground!’ |
Kentucky was called the “dark and bloody ground” by the Indians, in consequence of many of the fiercest contests having occurred there; it was the common hunting ground of many of the tribes, and here they frequently met in their excursions, scarcely ever without bloodshed.
At my request, I was kindly furnished with the annexed note by Judge Hall, on the subject of Indian mounds, which should have been inserted under the passage which alludes to them; but the reference at the proper place being accidentally omitted, it is given here. Judge Hall will readily imagine why the author has omitted some passages of the note, which to himself were not the least pleasing.
This gentleman has lately become a citizen of Cincinnati, where those, who knew him formerly but by his high reputation, now feel how much courtesy and kindness increase its charm.
Judge Hall is of opinion that most of the mounds are natural; speaking of them he says:
“There are few objects so well calculated to strike the poetic imagination as these mounds, standing alone in the wilderness. The belief that they are the workmanship of human hands, awakens curiosity and leads to a long train of reflections. For if men have thrown up these singular elevations, we feel inquisitive to know by whom, and for what purpose, they were erected. They are large and numerous; and they bear every mark of great antiquity. Indeed, I am of opinion, that they are as old as the hills.
“Supposing them to be artificial, we are led into a vast field of conjecture. Were they made by the present race of savages, who are ignorant of all the mechanic arts, and disinclined to labor? If so, what inducement could have been placed before them, sufficiently powerful, to break down the barriers of nature, and bring men habitually indolent, to so herculean a task? The Indian, as we see him now, never works. He is the sovereign of the woods, and strides over his heritage with the step of a master, and the wild glance of one who disdains employment. He submits to no restraint but that of military discipline.
“Viewing them as artificial, nothing can be more curious; and whether we suppose them to have been graves, or temples, or fortifications, they are equally calculated to awaken feelings of wonder, if not of awe. We see them in the wilderness, where, for ages, savage men alone have dwelt, and we behold them covered with majestic oaks, which have flourished for centuries. They have existed here in the silence and repose of the forest, unchanged amid the revolutions which have been carried on around them. They are among the few records of the past. A people ignorant of writing, painting, or sculpture, destitute of the mechanic arts, and without any knowledge of the use of metals, have left few memorials; unless we see them in the mounds, we might, perhaps, say none.
“If we suppose them to be natural, which, in my opinion, is the most rational belief, as to the majority of the mounds, they are still attractive, as natural curiosities, and as displaying a wonderful exhibition of the 45 creative power. Beheld in any light, they are interesting. Whatever may have been their origin, they adorn the monotony of western scenery, and afford employment to the fancy of the traveller. The plodding foot may tread carelessly over them, the uninquiring eye may pass them, unheeded; but the poet and philosopher linger around the hallowed spot where they stand, to catch inspiration, or to gather wisdom from these silent memorials.”
Judge Hall further says, “satisfied I am that if ever any rational hypothesis, in relation to these interesting remains of past ages, shall be invented, we shall owe it to the inspiration of the poet, and not to the researches of the philosopher.”
It is very certain that no one can confront the traveller who may be speculating upon these mounds, as Edie Ochiltree did the Antiquary, with “I mind the bigging o’ it.”
“Isle of the beautiful! how much thou art, |
The allusion, here, is to Blennerhasset’s Island, which is beautifully situated in the Ohio. The romantic story of its former inhabitants makes it a spot of great interest to the Emigrant, who, in descending the river, never fails to request that it may be pointed out to him; and it is often the topic of conversation and conjecture to him and his companions for hours after they have passed it. The author is indebted to Morgan Neville, Esq., for the following account of the Island and its unfortunate owner. Mr. Neville’s admirable tale of Mike Fink, and his other sketches, have created in the public an appetite for more, which they have long hoped he would be induced to gratify, with longer and more frequent productions; or, at least, that he would collect what he has written into a volume.
“Blennerhasset’s Island.––How many recollections of mingled pleasure and pain, does the name of this once beautiful spot, call to mind! In descending the Ohio, I never come in sight of the Island, without sensations almost too powerful to bear; and I linger on the deck of the boat, until the point below snatches it from view. The first impressions were made on me in early youth, and time cannot efface them; on the contrary, the long vista through which I look back to this western ‘Eden,’ presents it, probably, with exaggerated colorings of beauty and loveliness. The traveller, as he wanders over the grounds, once consecrated by philanthropy, cannot reconcile it with probability, that a proud mansion, a quarter of a century since, was here erected, dedicated to hospitality, where a priestess, in the person of an elegant and refined lady, shed an influence around that attracted to its portal the stranger from every country. In looking at a scene, now desolate and repulsive, he can 46 scarcely credit the fact, that, within that period, the same place was embellished by gardens, groves, and arbors, upon which taste was exhausted, and which cost a fortune to realize. The villa of Blennerhasset was really a beacon-light in the wilderness, that seemed created to invite the approach of the stranger to enjoy that repose which the sluggish and comfortless mode of travelling of that day, rendered so gratifying. The only sounds now heard, are the sighing of the wind through the lofty cotton wood, or the puffing of steam, as some boat rushes rapidly past the prosperous settlement of Bellepre. There was a time when music of a less melancholy character breathed upon the ear; when a master hand swept the chords, and science and taste directed the scene.
Herman Blennerhasset and his accomplished wife have sat for many a picture; but, after all, Fancy, alone, guided the pencil, and the originals have never been truly sketched. The reality of their history possesses sufficient interest, without the aid of fiction, to enlist the sympathies of the most romantic. Born to fortune, and nobly connected, Blennerhasset stood in the front rank of Irish society. Educated for the bar, he distinguished himself on many occasions, and he was the assistant counsel, with Curran, in the celebrated trial of Hamilton Rowan. But his disposition was restless, his mind visionary, and, doubtless, he felt sincerely for the degraded state of his country. Notwithstanding his close relationship to the aristocracy of Ireland, and the glaring unfitness of his character for scenes of daring and of danger, he connected himself with the leading yeomen of that day, and became the intimate associate and co-adjutor of Arthur O’Conner. He continued to labor in the cause of Liberty, until the eyes of Government were turned upon him; the result is a matter of public history: O’Conner was arrested, and Blennerhasset escaped. He had the good fortune, however, to secure a considerable portion of his property, and, accompanied by his accomplished wife, an English lady, he arrived in New York in 1796 or ’97, with what, in this country, was esteemed a large fortune.
He was, however, a visionary; he knew nothing of human nature, nothing of the practical business of life. With considerable literary acquirements, and much pretensions to science, he gave himself up to all the reveries and schemes of modern philosophy; with Southey, Godwin, and the whole class, he was continually dreaming about the perfectibility of human nature, and believed that innocence was alone to be found in that portion of humanity, which approached the nearest to the state of nature. With these notions, which he succeeded, in some measure, in imparting to his young and interesting partner, he declined establishing himself in any of our Atlantic cities, then the only places in the Union offering attractions to a foreigner of taste and fortune, and turned his attention, to the magnificent solitudes of the West. He purchased a portion of the Island in Virginia, near the mouth of the Little Kenhawa, which has been consecrated by his misfortunes, and executed those embellishments which have since become the theme of many a fanciful speech and tale.
Considering himself a second Capac, he set about acquiring an influence over the rude inhabitants of the Virginia shores, which might enable him to test the efficiency of his favorite system. But his exertions were abortive, 47 and he became convinced of the folly of his early speculations on human nature; his unsophisticated scholars, affecting to admire him, overreached him on all occasions, and then laughed at him. He embarked in commercial speculations; this proved a failure, and he stopped in time to save a portion of the large fortune which, a few years before, he brought from Europe. He recanted, in bitterness of feeling, his early political principles, and began to sigh for the charms of refined society. Discontent stole into his domestic circle, and the idea of educating his two interesting boys in the desert became insupportable.
Oh! quantum est in rebus in ave! |
During this state of feeling, Colonel Burr presented himself, armed with all the fascinations of manners and address, which so eminently distinguished him. He soon became the ruler of the destiny of the Island pair, and unfolded to them, with resistless eloquence, his magnificent project of the conquest of Mexico, gilding his own ambition under the plausible motive of relieving enslaved millions from the thraldom of Spanish tyranny. The idea of becoming prominent members of a court that would rival the ancient splendor of Montezuma, and the modern glory of Napoleon, absorbed every other feeling. The remains of this once large fortune were embarked in the scheme, and ruin and misery were the consequence. What he felt and saw as but a misdemeanor, was distorted, by political rancor, into treason; and, although one of the most enlightened juries that were ever empanelled, pronounced an acquittal, Blennerhasset was left destitute of means, and blasted in reputation. He attempted to retrieve his affairs as a cotton planter, but was unsuccessful; he afterwards removed to Montreal, to resume his profession. Within a few years he has returned to England, the outlawry against him having been removed; and those who feel an interest in the history of this persecuted family, may be gratified to know that their decline of life will not be devoid of comfort. They reside near Bath, in England, with a sister of Blennerhasset, the relict of the late admiral De Courcy. The evening of life promises to close free from those clouds that so long lowered over them.
“Alas! another came,” &c. |
See Mr. Wirt’s character of Colonel Burr, in his great speech against him. It was scarcely necessary to refer to this speech, as it is in the mouth of every school boy.
“Say, has our Capital no Tarpeian height |
These lines were written in the excitement which prevailed during the session of the last Congress, when the Nullifiers were fulminating their doctrines of disunion and prophesying the downfall of the Republic, when he, who has not yet lost all his original brightness, was acting a part which Milton has described.
This may account for what now may be deemed harshness.
“I recollect it well, and loved the time, |
I have both rhyme and reason for remembering my young friends of Baltimore. More frank, fearless, and generous spirits, it has not been my lot to meet: social companions, firm friends, and with highly cultivated minds, they possess an esprit du corps which gives such qualities their strongest attractions. They have made Baltimore to me the “city of the soul.”
“Making of human rights the merest mock.” Shakspeare. |
In Stanza 69, 7th line, read To for No.
Transcriber Notes
Table of Contents added.
Typographical inconsistencies have been changed and are highlighted and listed below.
The original text has also had its errata incorporated.
Archaic and variable spelling and hyphenation is preserved.
Author’s punctuation style is preserved, except where noted.
Transcriber Changes
The following changes were made to the original text:
Page 17: Added missing footnote tag (Here Death has given many a horrid wound![5])
Page 20: Was ’foreget’ (There is no lethean power can teach me to forget.)
Page 30: Stanza number was ’XLIV’ (LXIV. Say, how shall he regain it, when ’twas giv’n)
Page 38: Was ’protentous’ (And no portentous, fearful meteor, there, should blaze, and blacken, and create dismay)
Page 43: Changed period to comma (When he was thirteen years old, his father removed thence to the South Yadkin, North Carolina;)
Page 43: Added beginning quote (“No historical facts are better attested, than those, to which allusion is here made.)
Page 44: Added beginning quote (“Supposing them to be artificial, we are led into a vast field of conjecture.)
Page 44: Added beginning quote (“Viewing them as artificial, nothing can be more curious;)
Page 44: Added beginning quote (“If we suppose them to be natural, which, in my opinion, is the most rational belief)
Page 45: Changed to single quotes (the long vista through which I look back to this western ‘Eden,’ presents it)
Page 46: Was ’iu’ (accompanied by his accomplished wife, an English lady, he arrived in New York in 1796 or ’97)