The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 11, October, 1836
    
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 11, October, 1836

Author: Various

Editor: Edgar Allan Poe

Release date: August 27, 2024 [eBook #74318]

Language: English

Original publication: Richmond: T. W. White, Publisher and Proprietor

Credits: Ron Swanson


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER, VOL. II., NO. 11, OCTOBER, 1836 ***


THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

DEVOTED TO EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.


Au gré de nos desirs bien plus qu'au gré des vents.
                                      _Crebillon's Electre_.

As _we_ will, and not as the winds will.


RICHMOND:
T. W. WHITE, PUBLISHER AND PROPRIETOR.
1835-6.


{669}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. II.  RICHMOND, OCTOBER, 1836.  NO. XI.

T. W. WHITE, PROPRIETOR.  FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.




TO MY WIFE.

BY LINDLEY MURRAY.[1]

[Footnote 1: These verses, printed from an original MS. of Lindley 
Murray, and, as we believe, never before published, present that 
celebrated grammarian in an entirely new point of view, and give him 
strong claims to the character of a poet. A sister of Mr. Murray 
married, we think, one of the Hoffmans of New York, and it is possible 
some of that highly respected family may have in their possession some 
other metrical pieces from his pen. It is somewhat remarkable that the 
present lines involve an odd _grammatical_ error of construction in 
the concluding stanza.]


  When on thy bosom I recline,
  Enraptur'd still to call thee mine,
    To call thee mine for life;
  I glory in the sacred ties,
  Which modern wits and fools despise,
    Of Husband and of Wife.

  One mutual flame inspires our bliss;
  The tender look, the melting kiss,
    Even years have not destroyed;
  Some sweet sensation, ever new,
  Springs up and proves the maxim true,
    That Love can ne'er be cloy'd.

  Have I a wish?—'tis all for thee,
  Hast thou a wish?—'tis all for me.
    So soft our moments move,
  That angels look with ardent gaze,
  Well pleas'd to see our happy days,
    And bid us live—and love.

  If cares arise—and cares will come—
  Thy bosom is my softest home;
    I'll lull me there to rest:
  And is there ought disturbs my fair?
  I'll bid her sigh out every care,
    And lose it in my breast.

  Have I a wish?—'tis all her own,
  All hers and mine are roll'd in one—
    Our hearts are so entwin'd,
  That, like the ivy round the tree,
  Bound up in closest amity,
    'Tis Death to be disjoin'd.




SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY
AND PRESENT CONDITION OF TRIPOLI, WITH SOME ACCOUNTS OF THE OTHER 
BARBARY STATES.

NO. XII.

BY ROBERT GREENHOW.


At the conclusion of the last number it was stated that on the 12th of 
August 1832, Yusuf the old Pasha of Tripoli abdicated the throne in 
favor of his son Ali, thereby disappointing the expectations of his 
grandson Emhammed.

The Consuls being nearly all unprepared for this conjuncture, were 
uncertain how to act. The majority were disposed to adopt the 
proposition made by M. Schwebels, that they should proceed without 
delay in a body, and offer to Ali the congratulations customary in 
Barbary on the accession of a new Sovereign; the others however 
refused. Under ordinary circumstances the visit would have been a mere 
ceremony, but in the actual state of things it was likely to be 
interpreted by the people, both within and without the town, as an 
evidence of the dispositions of the Governments represented by the 
Consuls; in that way it might have an important influence in 
determining the issue of the struggle in favor of Ali, which was by no 
means desired by all the Consuls, several of them being inclined from 
personal as well as political motives, to prefer the establishment of 
Emhammed as Pasha of Tripoli. The young Prince was considered superior 
to his uncle in intelligence and personal character; he appeared to be 
sustained by the great mass of the population, and it was probable 
that if no other Power interfered in the contest, he would ultimately 
prove successful; moreover he was the legitimate heir to the throne 
according to rules of succession, which the European Governments in 
general were interested in maintaining. These considerations 
occasioned much discussion among the Consuls; at length it was agreed 
that no public demonstration should be made by them in behalf of 
either Prince, until instructions had been received from their several 
governments. This arrangement does not seem however to have been 
considered by the Consuls as precluding them from any private 
exertions which their inclinations or the interests of those whom they 
represented might prompt them to make in favor of one or the other 
party; accordingly the agents of France, Spain, Naples and the 
Netherlands, engaged actively in support of the _Town Pasha_ as Ali 
was designated; while the pretensions of Emhammed the _Country_ 
candidate, were as zealously upheld by those of Great Britain, the 
United States, Tuscany and Portugal.

The news of Yusuf's abdication only rendered the people of the country 
more strongly determined to persevere in the cause of Emhammed, and M. 
Schwebels who had been empowered by Ali to act as mediator, was unable 
to procure their submission on any terms which he could offer to them 
or their chief. After some days of fruitless negotiations, on the 24th 
of August the French Consul received their _ultimatum_, in the form of 
a letter or manifesto addressed to Yusuf, which is worthy of notice as 
a specimen of Arab state-paper writing. It commences by a long 
rhapsody in praise of God, his angels and his prophet Mohammed, and 
the remainder is a mass of unconnected assertions and declarations 
from which there is occasionally an attempt to draw deductions; 
interspersed with scraps from the Koran and other sacred writings, 
having no discoverable bearing on the main subject. The amount of the 
whole is, that Yusuf having become incapable from the {670} 
infirmities of old age to conduct the affairs of the country, and Ali 
having rendered himself odious by his tyranny and rapacity, the people 
had determined to make Emhammed Sovereign of Tripoli, and would not 
desist until they had succeeded in establishing him as such. The 
document is signed by Emhammed as Pasha, by his brother Hamet as Bey 
and by a hundred and ten Sheiks and other principal persons; the names 
of many of the signers are preceded by invocations addressed to God 
and the Prophet, in token of the writer's conviction of the truth of 
what was asserted in the paper, or accompanied by expressions 
indicative of humility or devotion, such as—_The poor of the poor_—
_The slave of God_—_Who prays to God_.

A copy of this manifesto was at the same time despatched to Mr. 
Macauley the American Consul, on the return of a boat which had been 
sent to the part of the coast occupied by the insurgents, in order to 
procure provisions for his family; it was accompanied by a letter from 
Emhammed, requesting that it might be shown to the other Consuls, who 
were also advised to take measures for their own security as the town 
would in a few days be stormed by the insurgents. The Consuls on 
receiving this notification, immediately addressed a note to Ali, to 
inquire what protection he could afford them, in case they remained; 
the Pasha replied by assuring them that they were in no danger, as the 
place was strong enough to resist any attacks which the insurgents 
could make.

Having learned that Mr. Macauley had received other documents from 
Emhammed, Ali became anxious to know their contents, and being 
permitted to examine, he wished to retain them, in order to prevent 
their circulation among the people; the Consul however insisted upon 
their return, and an altercation ensued between him and the Pasha, in 
consequence of which the flag of the American Consulate was struck by 
Macauley, in token of a cessation of intercourse with the Tripoline 
Government. This measure alarmed Ali, who knew that there was a large 
American squadron in the vicinity; he therefore immediately made 
satisfactory apologies to the Consul, who having accepted them again 
displayed his flag.

The assurances of the Pasha were not sufficient to dispel the 
apprehensions of the Consuls, nor of the people who soon became 
acquainted with the contents of Emhammed's communications. The forces 
of the insurgents were daily increasing, and many houses in the place 
had already been injured by their shot; to oppose them, Ali had only 
about six hundred troops, nearly all of them negro slaves, not more 
than were required to garrison the castle and keep the people in awe. 
The walls of the place were indeed high and thick, but the cannon on 
their ramparts were nearly all useless. In addition, the want of 
provisions began to be seriously felt, and the general discontent of 
course increased. Many persons who had held high offices under Yusuf 
escaped from the town and joined Emhammed's party; among them were the 
head of the law and religion, and Hadji Mohammed Bet-el-Mel who had 
succeeded old D'Ghies as the confidential Minister of the late Pasha.

While things were in this state, on the 28th of August the insurgents 
made a general attack on the city, and at the same time the Pasha 
caused a number of the inhabitants to be seized and imprisoned on 
suspicion of being engaged in a conspiracy against him. These 
proceedings naturally caused the utmost alarm and distress in Tripoli. 
The Christian residents and the Turks expecting that the place would 
be immediately stormed and ravaged by the Arabs, took refuge on board 
the vessels in the harbor; while many of the most respectable natives, 
fearing that they might be arrested or killed by the Pasha if they 
should remain in their own houses, sought protection in those of the 
foreign Consuls. Ali, on seeing this, became fearful of exciting 
greater confusion by persisting in his violent measures; he therefore 
countermanded the arrests, and his ministers went about endeavoring to 
tranquillize the people, and to induce those who had fled to the 
Consulates, to return to their own houses. The bombardment however 
proved fruitless; the guns of the besiegers were small and badly 
served, and although they damaged some of the houses they had no 
effect on the fortifications. Other attacks of the same kind were 
afterwards made, which being equally unsuccessful, the alarm subsided 
and Ali's friends became more confident of success.

Emhammed becoming convinced that without more efficient means of 
attack little advantage was to be derived from bombarding the town, 
determined to direct his efforts against its commerce. He accordingly 
removed his artillery to the eastern shore of the harbor where 
batteries had been thrown up to receive them; and having also armed 
two small vessels he conceived himself authorized to declare the port 
in a state of blockade. He therefore addressed a circular to the 
Consuls in Tripoli through the medium of his friend Mr. Macauley, 
informing them that no vessels would thereafter be allowed to enter 
the port. M. Schwebels and nearly all the other Consuls, immediately 
protested against this blockade, on the ground that it was an 
irregular and unwarrantable proceeding, on the part of individuals who 
had not yet been acknowledged at constituting an independent power by 
any Government. The American Consul however thought proper not to join 
in this expression of opinion, and by his refusal drew upon himself 
the indignation of Ali's party, which was manifested by public insults 
and private annoyances, until at length considering that his life was 
no longer secure in Tripoli Mr. Macauley struck his flag and retired 
with his family to a country house, situated within the lines of the 
insurgent forces. The Pasha on this became again alarmed, and 
endeavored by every means, even by the indirect offer of a bribe, to 
induce the Consul to return to his post in the town; his arguments 
however proving vain, he despatched Mohammed D'Ghies to Malta where 
the squadron of the United States had just arrived, in order that by 
his representations to its commander, the consequences which he had 
reason to anticipate might be averted.

Commodore Patterson the commander of the American squadron, having 
compared the statements of the Consul with the explanations offered by 
D'Ghies, was convinced that there had been faults on both sides, and 
that the matter might be easily settled without any hostile 
proceedings. He therefore sailed for Tripoli, as soon as he had 
obtained the requisite supplies, and arrived there on the 23d of 
November with two frigates and a sloop of war. The Commodore was 
visited on board his ship, immediately on his arrival, by Macauley, 
and also by Mohammed D'Ghies, who was {671} furnished by Ali with full 
powers to arrange the existing difficulties. As the American force was 
sufficient to destroy the city in the actual condition of its 
defences, the Tripoline Minister readily agreed to the terms of 
satisfaction required by the Commodore; the Pasha in consequence made 
the usual Punic protestations of regard for the United States and 
their Consul, and disavowing any participation in the annoyances to 
which the latter had been subjected, delivered up to the Commodore all 
who could be proved to have been engaged in them. These miserable 
instruments of tyranny were reprimanded and dismissed; the flag of the 
United States was again displayed on the Consulate, and saluted with 
the usual number of thirty-three guns; the Commodore and his officers 
visited the Pasha, who was entertained in his turn on board the 
frigate, and the utmost good feeling was manifested between parties 
who cordially hated or despised each other. No notice was taken of 
Emhammed who had flattered himself with the hope of acquiring a 
powerful ally. Mr. Macauley however placing little confidence in the 
smiles and assurances of the _Town Pasha_, and moreover considering 
his place of residence unsafe, as it had been pierced by several balls 
from the cannon of the besiegers, did not think proper to remain at 
his official post; he therefore established himself at Malta, where he 
continued for the ensuing two years and a half, visiting Tripoli 
occasionally during that period.

The year 1833 and a part of 1834 passed without the occurrence of any 
notable event, and without any alteration in the prospects of either 
of the rival Princes. The town had in the mean time been reduced to 
abject misery; no supplies could be obtained from the interior, and as 
its commerce was almost destroyed, the inhabitants were starving. On 
the other hand, the condition of the country is said to have been more 
than usually prosperous; no taxes could be collected by Ali, and as 
Emhammed's followers were chiefly from the agricultural districts, he 
was unable even had he been willing, to levy severe contributions. The 
foreign trade was conducted through the ports of Tajoura, Mesurata and 
Bengazi, the chiefs of which being nearly independent, raised large 
sums by appropriating to themselves the greater part of the duties on 
imports and exports.

The Consuls had probably been all instructed to remain neutral or at 
least to appear so. M. Schwebels continued to act as mediator, 
employing his good offices as before merely in urging the submission 
of the insurgents to the Pasha. In May 1834 however, it was discovered 
that he had overstepped the bounds of neutrality; for a proclamation 
signed by Ali and guarantied by the seal and signature of the French 
Consul, promising indemnity and reward to those who would betray or 
desert the cause of the insurgents, was found on the person of one of 
the Sheiks in command under Emhammed. Soon after this M. Schwebels was 
transferred to Tunis where he now acts as Consul General of France, 
and was succeeded in Tripoli by M. Bourboulon.

Colonel Warrington returned to Tripoli, but he neither displayed his 
flag nor held any official communication with Ali; he remained chiefly 
at his country house, which being near the town and in the midst of 
the insurgents, received occasionally and perhaps not always 
accidentally a ball from one of the guns of the castle. Although it 
does not appear to be certain that he took any active part in favor of 
Emhammed, yet Ali considered his presence as highly injurious, and in 
order to procure his removal as well as to effect some arrangement 
with regard to the claims of British subjects, he commissioned Hassuna 
D'Ghies who had remained in France since 1829, to proceed to England. 
In London Hassuna soon found that these objects were not to be 
attained by direct applications to the Ministry, and he accordingly 
endeavored to secure assistance in the Legislature. In consequence of 
his representations, motions were made in the House of Commons by Sir 
James Scarlett and Mr. Bowring, for inquiries into the conduct of 
Warrington, who was charged by those gentlemen with having made an 
improper use of his official station at Tripoli and with having 
thereby occasioned great distress in that place. The subject was 
however so generally uninteresting, that the Ministers found no 
difficulty in evading these calls by merely declaring that 
investigations into the subject had been commenced.

The Governments of France and England were in fact at the time engaged 
in negotiations with a third Power, which was equally interested in 
the future political condition of Tripoli. The Sultan of Turkey who 
had been obliged to submit to the occupation of Algiers by the French 
determined if possible to prevent a country so much nearer to his own 
dominions from falling into the hands of a Christian Power, and he 
accordingly declared his intention to exert his supreme authority as 
Sovereign of Tripoli in deciding the question between the rival 
Princes. The announcement of this determination led to correspondence 
on the subject between the three Governments the nature of which has 
not yet been disclosed; it is impossible therefore to say whether the 
events which ensued were the result of agreements made between them, 
or, as is more probable, the Sultan acted without regard for the 
wishes of the other parties.

On the 18th of September 1834 a Turkish brig arrived at Tripoli, 
bringing Mohammed Cekir, Private Secretary of the Seraglio, as Envoy 
or Commissioner from the Sultan. For some days the objects of his 
mission were unknown; it was however soon rumored that he was the 
bearer of _firman_ or Imperial order recognizing Ali as Pasha, and 
requiring the people to submit to his authority. This rumor was fully 
confirmed on the 25th, when the _firman_ declaring such to be the will 
of the Sultan, was publicly read at the castle in presence of the 
principal persons of the Government, and of the foreign Consuls who 
had been invited to attend. The friends of Ali now considered his 
success assured; the Consuls with the exception of those of Great 
Britain and Tuscany, immediately offered to him their congratulations 
without reserve, and M. Bourboulon delivered his credentials as 
_Chargé d'Affaires_ of France. The people of the town, probably 
supposing that the termination of their miseries was at hand expressed 
their joy by shouts of triumph and felicitation, which were responded 
to by yells of defiance from the country. The Envoy having formally 
acknowledged Ali as Pasha, then proceeded to execute the remainder of 
his charge, and issued a proclamation calling on the insurgent chiefs 
to submit within the space of six days to their lawful sovereign; he 
moreover privately despatched to Emhammed letters written to him by 
the {672} Grand Vizier and Capoudan Pasha, exhorting him to yield 
without delay. Neither Emhammed nor his followers however were 
disposed to obey the mandate of a distant monarch, whom they regarded 
rather as their spiritual than as their temporal chief, particularly 
as the summons was unaccompanied by adequate means of enforcing it; 
the period fixed in the proclamation consequently expired without 
manifestation on their parts of any intention to cease their 
opposition to Ali. Mohammed Cekir then considering it possible that 
his proclamation might have been withheld from the people of the 
country by their chiefs, determined to communicate with them directly 
in person; accordingly on the 3d of October he left the town and 
proceeded with great ceremony, under the escort of a body of the 
Pasha's troops, to the vicinity of Emhammed's encampment, where being 
soon surrounded by a crowd of curious Arabs he ordered the _firman_ to 
be read. The effect by no means corresponded with his wishes; the 
_firman_ was written in the Turkish language with which the auditors 
were entirely unacquainted, and when its meaning was at length 
explained to them, they replied by shouts and movements so little 
allied to respect, that the Envoy found it most prudent to retreat 
without further parley within the walls of Tripoli. While on his way 
however he received a letter from Emhammed and his Sheiks, professing 
great veneration for the Sultan, but declining to comply with his will 
on the subject in question.

After this failure a consultation was held at the castle, the result 
of which was another proclamation addressed to the people of the 
country inviting them in more conciliatory terms to make their 
submission within a period of six days as before allowed. The reply of 
the insurgents to this summons did not differ from that given to the 
former; it was however signed by all the chief men of their party. 
They also sent a circular letter to the same effect to the Consuls in 
Tripoli, enclosing an expostulatory manifesto addressed to the 
Sovereigns of Europe, setting forth the causes of their appearing in 
arms and their determination to resist the authority of Ali, 
notwithstanding the Sultan's _firman_ which they averred had been 
obtained by corrupt means. These papers are supposed to have been 
drawn up by Hadji Mohammed Bet-el-Mel (whom Emhammed had made his 
first Minister,) with the aid probably of Colonel Warrington.

The Turkish Envoy in revenge for this contumacy, declared the part of 
the country occupied by the insurgents in a state of blockade; and the 
brig which had brought him to Tripoli was forthwith employed in 
cruising off its coast. Emhammed on his part repeated his assurances, 
that he should maintain the investment of the town by sea as well as 
by land, and having again warned the Consuls that their vessels would 
be prevented from entering the harbor, a few days after gave proof of 
his power as well as of his determination to effect what he had 
threatened. On the 6th of November he fired upon an Austrian vessel 
which attempted to enter the port and compelled her to put back, 
although she was under the French flag, and supported by a French brig 
of war, as well as by that in which the Ottoman Envoy had arrived; 
several other vessels, European as well as Tripoline, were treated in 
a similar manner. The Turk not choosing to expose the flag of his 
Sovereign to such indignities returned to Constantinople.

In the spring of 1835 reports were circulated in Tripoli that a 
Turkish armament was about to be sent to that place from 
Constantinople; some supposed it was for the purpose of overthrowing 
all opposition to Ali; others hinted that the Sultan meant to take 
possession of the country. The latter opinion was confirmed by all the 
European Journals; and indeed it could scarcely have been expected 
that the Ottoman Government, which at that moment seemed to need all 
its forces and funds for its own defence, could have been disposed to 
send a large and expensive expedition for the mere purpose of settling 
a dispute with regard to the Sovereignty of a distant country.

On the 20th of May Mohammed Cekir returned to Tripoli where he 
announced the Turkish Squadron as near, and assuring Ali that it was 
sent entirely for his benefit, advised him to show his gratitude to 
the Sultan, by the liberal distribution of presents among its 
officers. The Ottoman ships appeared on the evening of the 25th, and 
in the course of that night the whole armament, consisting of one ship 
of the line, five frigates, two sloops, two brigs, a schooner, a 
cutter and ten transports, anchored in the roads and harbor, without 
any opposition either on the part of the Pasha or of his rival. The 
next morning presents of fresh provisions were sent to the ships from 
the Messeah as well as the town; salutes were fired from the batteries 
on each side, and the Turkish Admiral received visits and 
communications from each quarter. The Pasha attended by his ministers 
and chief officers also paid a formal visit to the Admiral, by whom he 
appears to have been received with the respect usually paid to one of 
his rank; it was then confidently expected in the city that he would 
be detained, however after having spent about four hours on board the 
flag ship, he returned to the castle in his boat receiving salutes as 
he passed, from the guns of the squadron. Immediately on landing, he 
issued an order that none of his subjects should appear in arms. This 
order having been circulated the disembarkation of the troops began, 
and by mid-day of the 27th more than four thousand Turkish soldiers 
with nineteen cannon and four mortars had entered the city, which was 
thus placed entirely at their discretion.

On the morning of the 28th, Ali again went on board the Admiral's 
ship, in order as it was understood to accompany that officer and the 
commander of the troops to the city; two hours afterwards the guns 
from the ships announced that the high personages were on their way to 
the shore, and the barges supposed to contain them were discovered 
approaching the water gate. The Turkish Admiral and General landed and 
attended by their guards entered the castle; the Pasha however did not 
appear, and it was soon ascertained that he was a prisoner on board 
the flag ship. At four o'clock the Sultan's _firman_ was publicly 
read, by which the General Mustapha Nedgib was appointed Pasha of the 
_Province_ of Tripoli.

The Turkish Pasha no doubt considered his work imperfect, until he had 
also possessed himself of Emhammed's person; with this view therefore 
he immediately despatched a messenger to the Prince, requesting him, 
his brother Hamet and his Minister Hadji Mohammed, to appear at the 
Castle and declare their submission to the will of the Sultan. Hadji 
Mohammed at once evinced his readiness to submit, recommending {673} 
to the Turk to issue assurances of pardon to all who had been engaged 
in the opposition to Ali; Emhammed however declined entering the 
castle, except upon the guarantee of the British Consul. Mustapha 
without hesitation gave the assurances of indemnity as recommended by 
Hadji Mohammed, and ordered the gates of the town to be thrown open; 
he however peremptorily refused to assent to any interference on the 
part of a foreign Consul.

The Arabs as soon as they were certain of Ali's imprisonment, and of 
their own freedom from danger, abandoned their tents and batteries and 
flocked into the town. Their chief in vain called on them to remember 
their promises of fidelity to his cause; he in vain entreated the 
British Consul to interfere in his behalf; at length night coming on 
he retired to his tent exhausted and dispirited, and fell asleep. On 
awaking he found himself almost alone; the Sheiks with their followers 
had all deserted him, and even Hadji Mohammed had sought refuge on 
board of a British ship of war which lay in the harbor. With a few 
followers the two young Princes then betook themselves to flight. 
Hamet succeeded in reaching the frontiers of Egypt, but Emhammed, 
overpowered by the sudden disappointment of all his hopes, blew out 
his own brains with a blunderbuss on the day after he had left 
Tripoli; at least such was the account of his death given by his 
attendants.

Ali and his Minister Mohammed D'Ghies were sent to Constantinople; 
what has been their fate we have as yet no means of ascertaining. 
Hassuna D'Ghies after many mutations of fortune, is at present 
established at Constantinople as the editor of the _Moniteur Ottoman_ 
the official Gazette of the Sultan. The old Pasha Yusuf who appeared 
to be sinking into idiocy, remains in honorable durance in the castle, 
where Hadji Mohammed Bet-el-Mel is allowed to attend him. Thus has the 
Caramanli family been a second time deprived of the sovereignty of 
Tripoli, which will not probably be regained by one of their name.




MOSES

PLEADING BEFORE PHARAOH.


_Scene_—The Council Hall of Pharoah—Moses, Aaron, and Elders of 
Israel, awaiting the King's appearance.

_Time_—Supposed to be immediately prior to the Plague of Darkness.


_Aaron to Moses_.—Mark'st thou what troops are mustering round the
      palace?
  Behold the guards are doubled at the gates—
  The avenues are bristling with their spears;
  What may this mean?

_Moses_.—It means we are beset,
  And shall be dead ere night, if fierce Arbaces
  Can move the king to wrath; and he who sent us
  Permit our death.

_Aaron_.—My life may well be yielded;
  But must thou die, my brother, Heaven directed
  To be as God unto me? Hapless Israel,
  Mourn without comfort if thy prophet fall!

_Moses_.—Fear not for thy life or my own, God with us;
  Stand we before the king—for soon begins
  The work a thousand years shall not conclude.
  I feel assured our prayer will not be granted;
  And I behold the ills which angry heaven
  Will yet inflict on this devoted land:
  The tenfold plagues, the last dread retribution,
  The billowy grave prepar'd for Egypt's pride,
  I see as things which pass before my eyes.
  Our desert wanderings, perils and privations,
  Miraculous deliverance from them all—
  The solemn code in God's own thunder spoken,
  The weary struggle, and triumphant close
  Of Israel's sufferings, in that Land of Promise
  Which I shall see, but not survive to enter—
  Would I could see no more!
  Thou only God, worthy of Israel's worship,
  Who by the humblest instruments canst work
  Thy purposes of goodness, hear thy servant!
  Thou knowest that I am weak—be thou my strength;
  Thou knowest that I am dull and slow of speech—
  Do thou inspire such language as may sink
  Into a heart self-steel'd against thy will!
  Fill thought, and soul, and sense with thy idea,
  That I, so lately taken from the desert,
  May stand confess'd, tho' in a monarch's presence,
  The chosen servant of the King of Kings;
  And oh, if in the book of thy decrees
  There be a space by which this prince and people,
  Whom, spite of our deep wrongs, I cannot hate,
  May find thy mercy and escape this doom,
  Then let thy servant's prayer be even for Egypt,
  Which, though of late oppressive, once hath been
  Thy Israel's refuge in her utmost need.

PHARAOH AND HIS TRAIN ENTER.

_Pharaoh_, (_being seated_.)—Stand forward, Moses, and ye Hebrew
      leaders—
  Say, wherefore do ye trouble me again
  For that which I have sworn by all our Gods
  Never to grant while I am king of Egypt?

_Arbaces to Moses, observing that he made no obeisance_.
  And ere thou speakest to thy lord and master,
  Unmanner'd peasant, proud rebellious slave,
  Crouch to his throne, and gladly do that homage
  Which all the brave and highborn in the land,
  Honor'd and happy think themselves to render.

_Moses_.—The base prostration of an abject slave
  Can do no honor to a sovereign prince;
  As Pharoah's bondman I would not stand here,
  But keep aloof, and quietly fold my chains
  On arms which could not burst their links asunder;
  And as the ambassador of Israel's God,
  Call'd by his voice, sustain'd by boundless power,
  And prompted by his spirit, ne'er will I
  Bend to a sovereign who dishonors mine.

_Pharaoh_.—Wave we this question now; I stand not here
  On points of ceremony—say thy errand.

_Moses_.—In fear that thou wilt promise as before,
  And as before deceive us—yet in hope
  That thou mayst profit by the part I speak.
  The God we serve hath chosen Israel's children
  Forth of this land to spread his name and worship  {674}
  Throughout the earth—and by my voice he bids thee
  Release our tribes from bondage, and permit
  Their peaceable departure to the desert.

_Pharaoh_.—And who is Israel's God, that I should serve him?
  Or who the God of Abram, that my kingdom
  Should lose a million vassals at his word?

_Moses_.—Thou askest who is God? and how shall I,
  A worm but crawling on his footstool, tell thee?
  Or how wilt thou, so blinded by a worship
  Degrading beyond utterance, understand?
  Were every thought a ray direct from heaven,
  And every word an angel's, I might hope—
  But, Prince,—the Deity I serve is God
  And Lord of Hosts; his name the Great Jehovah,
  Supreme, Omniscient, present every where—
  Strong to destroy, omnipotent to save.
  By his command—the breathing of his will—
  Beam'd in existence yonder brilliant orb—
  The infinite host of heaven—the fruitful earth
  Thou walk'st on and enjoyest, knowing little
  Of regions close around thee, and but nothing
  Of realms unmatch'd in beauty, which thy sons,
  In the hundredth generation, will not see—
  Nor dream of their existence. He alone
  Can truly claim our gratitude for blessings
  Shower'd without stint or measure on our heads,
  Love, worship, loyalty, and true obedience,
  But mix'd with wholesome fear. Not for thy throne,
  With power a hundred fold of that thou hast—
  Not for the sway of hosts innumerable
  As sands in yonder desert—or the wealth
  That earth contains and may produce through ages—
  For giant strength, or patriarch's length of days—
  Knowing Jehovah, would I tempt his wrath,
  Or brave the stroke of his destroying arm.

_Pharaoh_.—Hast thou e'er seen the God of whom thou speakest?

_Moses_.—In his essential spiritual being? never!
  Nor ever shall, until this mortal frame
  Dissolve into the dust from whence it came,
  And my emancipated spirit fly:
  I trust and hope to dwell with him forever.
  But in the unconsum'd, tho' burning bush,
  Of which I spake when first I came to thee,
  I have beheld the outward manifestation
  Of his great presence, and have heard him speak
  His holy purpose, and expound to me
  What I should say—how plead with thee for freedom.

_Pharaoh_.—Apis and Isis are the Gods of Egypt—
  And many more my ancestors have worshipped;
  I too will serve them, nor embrace a faith
  Preach'd by a leader of insurgent slaves,
  Or such as would be so. But did Jehovah,
  The God thou vauntest, prompt thee with a fraud?
  Hast thou not striven t' amuse me with the thought
  That sacrifice alone required your journey
  Into the wilderness? and when deception
  Might not avail, hast thou not own'd thy purpose,
  And claim'd a right to quit the land forever?

_Moses_.—The crowned king who broke his solemn promise
  To let our tribes depart, might well have spar'd
  A pointless sarcasm and unjust reproach
  To human policy. If I have stoop'd
  So far as not to tell thee _all_ the truth,
  Be sure it was to spare thy pride alone,
  And naught beside. But glance thine eye around—
  Behold our people helpless and unarm'd,
  Beaten with stripes, o'erlabor'd, driven and watch'd
  By spears of vigilant armies. Be thou judge
  If that deliverance can be their achievement,
  Or less than God can free them from thy hands;
  Then say if purpos'd fraud can be a means
  With him who wrought such wonders in the land.
  Let us depart, great prince. The voice of Justice,
  True wisdom's dictates, and thy prescient fears
  Of greater evils yet befalling Egypt,
  All speak one word; that word—Emancipation.

_Pharaoh_.—Setting aside thy magic, or the wrath,
  If such it be, of Israel's God, what wisdom
  Worthy a prince's thought, would be in this?

_Moses_.—The highest and the greatest—that which chooses
  Nobly t' endure a smaller present evil,
  And shun a distant great calamity.
  As truly as the waves of distant ocean,
  Chasing each other, rise by turns and fall—
  As truly as the air, surcharged with heat,
  Gendereth the thunderstorm which clears and cools it—
  So surely, in the troubled sea of life,
  Wrong wreaketh wrong, and evil followeth evil,
  And moral tempests purge the crimes of nations.
  When will the sons of men be taught this lesson?
  What tears, what blood must flow, what lands be ravaged,
  What empires overthrown, or peopled only
  With widows and with orphans, ere they learn it?
  The wrong is ours, but such redress we seek not;
  God hath our quarrel taken in his hands:
  Our fathers journey'd here, th' invited guests
  Of Egypt's king, and were by him receiv'd
  With hospitality and royal bounty,
  Which well became a prince whom Joseph serv'd.
  I need not tell thee of the slow encroachments
  By which the alien guests became thy subjects,
  Or call to mind the hard and stern decree
  Which, in a day, transferr'd us from subjection
  To chain'd and absolute bondage; or the edict
  Which gave our sons to death as soon as born:
  These things are fresh in memory—but oblivion
  Shall cover all, if thou but set us free.

_Pharaoh, to one of his Council_.—Osirion, I have ever held thee
      wise;
  Speak thy opinion of this man's petition.

_Osirion_.—Most gracious prince, as briefly as I may.
  The past experience fully proves this truth,
  That in all prosperous and happy lands
  There is a chain of order and gradation.
  Vicegerents, counsellors, governors, warlike chiefs,
  Subservient leaders, freeborn subjects, slaves,
  Link within link, each in its proper place,
  And guided by the sovereign hand alone.
  Who is not bound on earth? If any can
  Be free from all control save that of heaven,
  The greatest and the wisest only should. (_Bowing to Pharoah_.)
  Another truth is this—that be a nation
  Govern'd as though the Gods themselves were here,
  And order'd all things that we do on earth,  {675}
  There will be innovators—men who seek
  For their own ends to break establish'd usage,
  And raise a storm of discord and commotion,
  No matter what it wreck, so they be wafted
  To the point they have in view; and never yet
  Have they begun their work at the fountain head
  Of a nation's wisdom, but by base appeals
  To the lowest passions of the vulgar herd,
  Furious and blind as snakes in the summer heat.
  This man, half hypocrite and half fanatic,
  Nurtur'd from childhood by thy royal sister—
  Rear'd in thy palaces, and stor'd with learning
  The most profound that Egypt could afford—
  In our religious mysteries deeply skill'd,
  And taking rank among our wisest magi—
  Bold, politic and crafty, aims no doubt
  To organize and sway a faith and nation
  Broadly distinct from all upon the earth.
  What asks he at thy hands? Emancipation!
  Claim'd too of right, with most rebellious threats,
  Even to thy face, on thy presum'd refusal—
  And with what justice, Pharaoh, thou mayst judge.
  Israel hath sojourned here four hundred years—
  Thriven on our soil—found refuge here from famine—
  Had Goshen for a heritage—and shar'd
  Peace and protection with thy native subjects;
  Shall they not share the vassalage and toil?
  Nor see I aught unjust that they should be
  Bondmen to those who fed and guarded them.
  Throughout the world there must be slaves and masters;
  The features of these men, their creed, their language,
  And barbarous right of circumcision, mark
  Them as a race made to be known as slaves:
  And whether it were just t' enthrall these tribes,
  Pharaoh, concerns not thee or us. Our sires
  Bequeath'd the heritage of sway to us,
  And their's entail'd the slavery on their sons.
  Never, I trust, will I behold the day
  When, at the bidding of a God unseen
  By us, and even by him who takes his name,
  These slaves be yielded, and the broad foundation,
  Our social fabric's base, be taken away.
  True policy, the guide which, when a king
  Forsakes his throne's security, is gone,
  Cries loudly to detain them. Where will be
  The public works which make thy name eternal,
  And raise thy kingdom to the loftiest height
  Of national glory, if these men be freed?
  And where the quiet obedience of thy subjects,
  When those who were their menials, and perform'd
  All offices of drudgery, are gone?
  Let these men be arrested, and their bodies
  Detained as hostages for Egypt's safety.

_Pharaoh to Moses_.—Hear'st thou?

_Moses_.—I grieve that thou who hast beheld
  God's visits unto Egypt mark'd with ruin,
  Canst reason yet, and listen too to others,
  As if it were with me, and not my Maker,
  Thou had'st to deal. Do I not know these magi—
  Their priestly craft and worthless jugglery?
  Presume not too far on thy power t' oppress.
  Though proof against remorse for what is past—
  Though deaf unto the cries of slaves in bondage,
  And dumb when words of freedom should be spoken,
  Prince, be not blind to thine own dearest interests—
  Stake not thy life, thy honor and thy crown,
  Thy people's safety, and thy kingdom's strength,
  Upon the words of the most shallow fools
  That ever tempted man to his destruction.
  Trust not their crooked policy, which bids thee
  Prefer _convenient wrong_ to truth and justice;
  Do that thy conscience whispers thee is right,
  And leave the rest to him who sent me hither.
  The God of Israel is the God of Egypt,
  And though unhonored, careth for her sons.

_Pharaoh to Arbaces_.—Arbaces, give thy counsel.

_Arbaces_.—King of Egypt,
  The sharpest evils need the sharpest cures.
  Here, in the very grasp of thy great power,
  Stands open-mouth'd rebellion; all the chiefs
  And advocates of Hebrew discontent
  Are now before thee: speak but thou the word,
  And ere an hour be past, their traitorous heads
  Shall grace thy palace wall, and their torn limbs
  Be sent through Goshen and the land of Egypt,
  A dreadful warning—and my life shall answer
  For peace hereafter, and most tame submission
  From all thy Hebrew vassals.

_Pharaoh, to Moses_.—Hearest thou?

_Moses_.—I hear, and smile to hear it. God of mercy!
  Look not with utter scorn on thy creation,
  Nor let thy anger rise, that these poor worms
  With barely light to view the rapid stream
  On which they drift from time to eternity,
  Must purple it with blood, and freely deal
  Death and extermination on each other,
  As though thy uncreated power and thunders
  Were all thy own, and thou hadst never been.

_Pharaoh, to Arbaces_.—T' imprison him and let him live, were folly—
  And I have yielded to my sister's prayers
  He should not die, unless the Hebrews rise
  In servile war against us. (_To Moses_.) Thou mayst leave me,
  And go where'er thou choosest; but thy people
  Go not in peace while I am king of Egypt.

_Moses_.—The wisdom that would point thee to the path
  Of peace, of honor, and thy Maker's favor,
  Is lost on thee, and all appeals to justice
  As well were made unto the marble steps
  That base thy throne. But though thou fearest not now,
  Hereafter thou wilt tremble, and it may be,
  Own, when too late, the God thou now despisest.
  Once more I must address thee. King of Egypt,
  I charge thee in the name of High Jehovah,
  Let all the Hebrews quit thy land in peace,
  And bear their wives, their offspring, and their goods
  Far from thy utmost limits, never more
  To own thy sceptre, or to call thee Lord.
  Nor send them empty handed. Let them take
  From thine own subjects aught that may be needed
  For journeying in the desert. Sayst thou no?
  Then on thy country, from the king, who sits
  Upon his throne, down to the meanest peasant,
  The curse, the peril, and the plague will fall.
  Darkness and tempests, pestilence and death
  Shall triumph yet, and wring the very hearts
  Of men grown faint and sick with utter ruin.  {676}
  Nor this the worst. If then thy haughty soul
  Experience cannot teach, or suffering bend,
  Th' outstretched arm of God himself will sweep
  Thee and thy legions from the earth forever.
  And when yon pyramids, the unsolv'd enigma
  Of future ages, rais'd by stripes and groans
  Of trampled Israel—piles which thou hast built,
  As if t' outlast the world on which they stand,
  Are batter'd by barbarians, or have crumbled
  Beneath the sure and silent hand of time,
  The story of thy overthrow shall be
  Had in remembrance, and the name of Pharaoh
  A living proverb in the mouths of men
  For harden'd heart and blind infatuation.

_Pharaoh_.—And durst thou threaten me, thou sorcerer?
  Out of my presence—I defy thy magic,
  Disown thy God, and scoff at his commands.

_Moses_.—Aye, wage thy puny strength against th' Almighty,
  And feel his power, whoso name thou dost blaspheme.
  See in what splendor rides the sun above us;
  Few moments more will blot it from thy sight.
  (_Raising his rod to Heaven_.) Shadows of night, arise! and let the
      gloom,
  That mantled space, before the stars of heaven
  Hail'd the first dawning of their God's creation,
  Envelope Egypt! Yea, let utter darkness,
  Intense as pride in this besotted prince,
  Black as their thoughts who counsel him to murder,
  Enduring, all-pervading, palpable,
  Even to the sense of feeling, rayless, cheerless,
  Be as a funeral pall upon this land!

_Pharaoh_.—Another plague. Beware, or thou mayst find
  The faith I plighted to my sister fail,
  And but for that thou hadst been dead ere now.

_Officers_.—Guard us from ruin, now, ye Gods of Egypt!
  See, Pharaoh! see, the deepest midnight rising
  Round heaven's extremest verge, and merging fast
  Towards the fading sun, whose sickly beams
  Flicker and die before the gathering horror.
  Great prince, relent, and let this people go;
  Should Egypt be destroy'd, to keep her slaves——

_Pharaoh_.—Peace, on your lives! and you, ye Hebrew leaders,
  Approach while I can see ye. I know not,
  Or care to know, if this be incantation,
  Or work of other Gods than those of Egypt;
  But while I live, and hold the sceptre here,
  Tho' all the accumulated gloom of hell,
  And all its plagues be wasted on the land,
  I will not let ye go, or bate one tittle
  Of royal right to hold ye in subjection.
  (_To Moses_.) Listen, and mark my words! they touch thy life:
  Go from my presence, nor return unsummon'd—
  For in the day thou seest me thou shalt die.

_Moses_.—Thou hast said well—I'll see thy face no more.




NOMS DE GUERRE.


Balzac's real name was Guez—Metastasio's was Trapasso—Melancthon's 
Hertz Schwartz—Erasmus' Gerard.




TO ANNA.


  Full forty years have fled away
  Since first we hailed the wedding day,
  And I've been blest, as well I may,
                              With Anna.

  Though thou wert young, and tender too,
  When first I sought thy heart to woo,
  Thou'st never been unkind, untrue,
                              My Anna.

  If bent with sickness, woe, or care,
  Who offered up the sigh, the prayer,
  Or proved a watchful angel there?
                              My Anna.

  The stream of life may roughly glide,
  And I in anguish may be tried;
  I'll not repine, if by my side
                              Is Anna.

  When dwindling from me one by one,
  My num'rous sunshine friends were gone,
  Who lingered still and loved me on?
                              My Anna.

  Whilst others live in jarring strife,
  We pass a calm, contented life—
  I daily bless my matchless wife,
                              My Anna.

  O, never can affliction move
  The depth, the truth of woman's love!
  For grief and pain would only prove
                              My Anna.

  And when the closing hour draws near
  In which I quit this earthly sphere,
  I'll die repeating to her ear,
                              My Anna!

C.




LINES.


  Oh! there's a light in woman's eye—
    A liquid light—a living ray—
  Which gleams upon our pilgrim path,
    And guides us o'er life's rugged way:
  A magic sound in woman's sigh—
    A thrilling tone—so soft, so sweet,
    That, like the harp of Æolus,
  It seems a voice for angel meet,
    Wailing a lost one from on high.

IGNOTUS.




BIBLES.


The first Polyglot Bible is that of Cardinal Ximenes, printed in 1515. 
It contains the Hebrew text, the Chaldaic Paraphrase, the Greek 
Septuagint, and the ancient Latin edition. The second is the Royal 
Bible, Anvers, 1572: the third that of Le Jay, Paris, 1645: the fourth 
that of England, London, 1657, edited by Walton. There are many since, 
but of less celebrity.


{677}


CLASSICAL BIBLIOGRAPHY.


_Mr. Editor_—The following list of the editions of the classics 
fittest to enter into a literary collection of the Roman and Greek 
authors, was drawn up, a little while since, at the request of a 
friend, who is beginning to appropriate, out of his income, an annual 
sum to the forming of a private library. The series indicated is such 
as is recommended by the convenience of their form, the general 
goodness of their typographical execution, the correctness of their 
text, and the usefulness of a commentary, from which all that sort of 
erudition is excluded, which perpetually misses or goes beyond the 
mark. In such a plan, the mere luxury of editions—the pursuit of the 
rare, or curious, or costly, apart from more serious excellence—is, of 
course, to be disregarded. Beyond mere uniformity of size, I would 
make no sacrifice to the Graces; nor this, but that the octavo form 
combines the differing advantages of compactness and bulk. It neither 
forbids, by its diminutiveness, all explanation of the text; nor 
confounds you, like a folio, with the trivialities of an eternal 
erudition. It is, too, the form in which editions have been multiplied 
the most; so that it can offer, in a cheap but agreeable dress, almost 
every thing with which learning has elucidated the ancient writers.

I myself do not slight the passion of the mere book-fancier. In a 
country where the wealthiest and best-born of the land lavish their 
annual thousands, for the praise of possessing stud horses of the most 
honorable lineage, or that they may enjoy, through life, the society 
of grooms and trainers, it would be, perhaps, not amiss if, for mere 
diversity's sake, some less illiterate follies were introduced. Are 
the brawling and boorish fox-hunter, or the super-subtle man of the 
turf (races rapidly becoming the reproach of English manners and 
tastes) all that our men of fortune can imitate among the English 
gentry? Their ancestral mansions, adorned with whatever art or science 
can accumulate of beautiful or curious: their delightful 
pleasure-grounds, where the picturesque creates a thousand charmingly 
disposed landscapes: their museums of antiquities—their rich galleries 
of pictures—their master-pieces of sculpture—their noble and learned 
private libraries, the chief pride and ornament of every wealthy 
residence—when, alas! shall we, instead of what is coarsest and most 
immoral and least intellectual in the habits and amusements of English 
life, rise to even the idler and more puerile parts of Taste and 
Letters—the follies of the Virtuoso and the Bibliomaniac?

But “revenons à nos moutons:” let us get back to our ancients; of 
whom, I believe, you will find the annexed list a careful and a 
copious one. I have consulted, in compiling it, the following leading 
authorities: Morhof, _Polyhistor Literarius_; Fabricius, _Bibliotheca 
Graeca_; Idem, _Bibliotheca Latina Vetus_; Idem, _Bibliographia 
Antiquaria_; Idem, _Historia Bibliothecae suae_; Saxius, _Onomasticon 
Literarium_; Saldenus, _De Libris corumque usu et abusu_; Panzer, 
_Annales_; Renouard, _Annales des Aldes_; Cave's _Chartophylax_; Le 
Clerc, _Bibliothèque Universelle_; Idem, _Bibliothèque Choisie_; 
Bayle, _Dictionaire historique, &c._; the great French _Biographie 
Universelle_; Barbier, _Dictionaire des Anonymes et pseudonymes_; 
Cailleau, _Dictionaire bibliographique_; Harwood, _View of the 
Classics_; Adam Clarke, _Bibliographical Dictionary and Miscellany_; 
Dibdin, _Guide to the Classics_; Moss, _Classical Bibliography_; 
Dunlop, _Roman Literature_; Schoell, _Littérature Grecque_; 
Hartshorne, _Book rarities of the University of Cambridge_; Bent's 
_London Catalogues_; Idem, _Literary Advertiser_; Anthon's 
_Lempriere's Dictionary_; Watts's _Bibliotheca Britannica_; Lowndes's 
_Bibliographer's Manual_; but, much more than all, Brunet's excellent, 
exact, eminently useful _Manuel du Libraire_—a book which should be in 
the hands of every man attempting to pursue any thing like systematic 
study.

Editions of a series of Greek and Roman classics, 8vo. _cum notis 
selectis variorum_.

Achilles Tatius, (_Clitophon et Leucippe_) Heliodorus, (_Æthiopica_) 
Longus, (_Daphnis et Chloe_) et Xenophon, (_Ephesiaca_.) Bipont, 
1792-4. Four parts in 3 vols. 8vo. 25 francs.

Ælian I would omit—both his _Historia Animalium_ and his _Variae 
Historiae_.

Æschines—in the Greek orators; which see.

Æschylus, _Tragædiae_, (à Schutz.) London: 1823, 5 vols. 8vo. 2_l_. 
12_s_. 6_d_. It has the Scholia, and Schutz's Notes.

Æsop, _Fabulae_, Gr. et Lat. Leipsic: 1810, 8vo. Cum notis vario. et 
de Furia: accedunt dissertationes Tyrwhitt de Babrio, Huschkii de 
Archilocho, et Bentleii de Æsopo. There is a cotemporary, and perhaps 
more esteemed edition, by Coray, (Paris, 8vo.) but I should prefer the 
first, for the Accessus.

Agathemerus (_Geographia_) I would omit, till they publish the new 
edition of Scriptores Geographiæ Minores.

Alcæus, Fragmenta. Halæ: 1810—à Stange, 8vo. 5 francs.

Alciphron. I would omit his Epistles, or buy the cheap 8vo. edition of 
Utrecht, 1791. 3 to 4 francs.

Ammianus Marcellinus. Leipsic, 1773, 8vo. ab Ernesti. It is regarded 
as one of his best editions. There is an admirable Glossary to it. 13 
shillings.

Ammonius _de adfinium vocabulorum differentia_, I would not have.

Anacreon, à Fischer. Leipsic, 1793, 8vo. fine paper. 16 to 18 francs.

Andronicus Rhodius, I would omit.

Anonymi Ravennatis _Geographia_, à Porcheron. Paris. 1688, 8vo. 4 to 5 
francs.

Anthologia Græca, à Brunck et Jacobs et Paulsen, Leipsic, 1813-17, 4 
vols. 8vo. 90 francs.

Antiphon, Andocides, &c. See Greek orators.

Antoninus Imperator, _Meditationes_, Græco—Lat. à Gattaker. Oxford, 
1704, 8vo. The notes are short; it contains a few epistles, judged 
spurious—5 to 7 francs: or the Leipsic reprint of 1729, 8vo. 5 to 6 
francs.

Antoninus Liberalis, _Transformationes_. Græc. Lat.—cum Munckeri 
notis, et Verheyk. Leyden, 1774, 8vo. 8 to 10 francs.

Aphtonius, _Progymnasmata_. I would omit him, unless I wished a 
rhetorical collection.

Apollodorus, _Bibliotheca_. Græc. Lat. à Heyne. Göttingen, 1803, 2 
vols. 8vo. It is regarded as a mine of mythological learning. 24 
francs.

Apollonius Dyscolus should be omitted.

Apollonius Rhodius, _Argonautica_, à Wellauer. Leipsig, 1828, 2 vols. 
8vo.—or Brunck, Leipsig, 1810, 2 vols. 8vo. 20 francs.

{678} Apollonius Sophista, I would omit.

Appian Alexandrinus, _Historia_, à Schweighæuser. Lipsiæ, 1783-5, 3 
large 8vos. to bind in 6: 54 francs. It is regarded as this 
commentator's best performance.

Apuleius, Opera. Bipont, 8vo. It stands next to the 4to. edition of 
Oudendorp & Rhunken. Leyden, 1786. The latter costs probably 40 to 50 
francs.

Aratus, _Phaenomena_ and _Diosemia_, à Buhle. Lipsiæ, 1796-1808, 2 
vols. 8vo. 23 francs.

Archilochus, _Reliquiae_, edente Liebel. Lipsiæ, 1812, 2 vols. 8vo. 13 
francs.

Archimedes, I would omit, as having no literary value.

Aristides, _Orationes_,—among the orators.

Aristænetus, _Epistolae Eroticae_, Boissonade. Paris, 1822, 8vo.

Aristarchus. I would omit him, unless in a grammatical collection, or 
in a mathematical one.

Aristæus, _Historia LXX Interpretum_, I would omit, as supposititious, 
though curious for the discussion that it involves. Hodius's is the 
edition that contains it; and is also the best. Oxford, 1692, 8vo. 3 
to 5 francs.

Aristophanes, _Comœdiae_, à Brunck. Oxford, 1810, 4 vols. 8vo. with 
Lexicon Aristophanicum of Sanxay, as 5th vol. (Oxford, 1811,) about 
2_l_.

Aristotle, _Opera_, Buhle. Bipont, 1791-9, 5 vols. 8vo. contain the 
_Organon_, _Rhetorica_ and _Poetica_. The rest is not likely to be 
ever given: add, therefore,

Aristotelis _Ethica_, à Wilkinson, Oxford, 1818, 8vo. 9 frs.

Aristotelis _Politica et Economica_, Schneider. Oxford, 1810, 2 vols. 
8vo. 18 frs.

Arrian, _Opera Omnia_, à Borheck, Lemgoviæ, 1792, 1811, 3 vols. 8vo. 
18 frs. Or

Arrian, _Tactica_, _Periplus Euxini_, _Periplus Erythræi_, _de 
Venatione_, à Blancard. Amsterdam, 1683 or 1750, 8vo. 9 to 12 frs.

Arrian, _Expeditio_, _et Indica_, à Raphelio. Amsterdam, 1757, 8vo.

Artemidorus, _Oneirocritica_, I would omit, unless I formed a 
collection of the whole class of writers on Divination, &c.

Athenæus, _Deipnosophistae_, à Schweighæuser. Argentorati, 1801-7, 14 
vols. 8vo. 188 frs.

Aulus Gellius, _Noctes Atticæ_, à Gronovio. Leyden, 1686 or 7, 8vo. 10 
a 15 frs.

Ausonius. I would take him only in a collection: but if apart, the 
edition of Tollius. Amsterdam, 1671, 8vo. 15 frs.

Avianus, _Fabulae_, à Cannegieter. Amsterdam, 1731, 8vo. 8 a 12 frs.

Avienus. I would take him in the collection of _Poetae latini minores_ 
(Wernsdorf.)

Babrius. See Æsop.

Barclay. His _Argenis_ is often brought into this sort of collection. 
Leyden, 1664-9, 8 vols. 8vo. 10 to 15 frs.

Bion, Moschus and Theocritus. The beautiful edition from Bodoni's 
press, (Zamagna's version; no notes) 1792, 12 to 18 frs. Or, for use,

Valcknaer's excellent edition of 1781. Leyden, 8vo. 12 frs.

Boetius, _de Consolatione_, Bertii. Leyden, 1671, 8vo. 10 to 12 frs.

Cæsar, ab Oberlino. Lipsiæ, 1805, 8vo. 15 frs. papier fin.

Callimachus, Ernesti. Leyden, 1761, 8vo.

Calphurnius, _Eclogae_, I would omit, or get in a collection.

Martianus Capella. This is only worth attention as the first attempt 
in scholarship of Hugo Grotius, (then 15 years old.) Leyden, 1599, 
8vo. It is worth from 20 to 30 francs, with portraits of the P. de 
Condé and Grotius: but much less, when wanting these.

Catullus, Tibullus èt Propertius. The best edition is Vulpius's, of 
which the entire set (4 vols. 4to.) is a dear book. In 8vo. the 
edition of Gabbema, Utrecht, 1659, (in Italics) is perhaps to be 
preferred. Price about 9 francs. That of Grævius (1680) is much 
dearer, and scarcely so good. There is a very good Bipont one, which 
has the fragments of Gallus and the _Pervigilium Veneris_, 1783, 8vo. 
It has, also, a good notitia Literaria; which forms, indeed, one of 
the good points common to many of the Deux-ponts books.

Celsus, I would omit, as also Censorinus, _de die natali_.

Chariton, _Chaerea et Callirhoe_, à Reiske. Lipsiæ, 1783, 8vo. 12 a 15 
frs.

Chion, _Epistolae_, (à Hoffman), cum fragmentis Memnonis, ab Orélli. 
Lipsiæ, 1816, 8 vo. Their authenticity is examined by Hoffman.

Cicero, _Opera_. Of the 8vo. editions, Ernesti's, Halle, 1776-7, 5 in 
8 vols. 8vo. (with E.'s Clavis), 60 to 80 frs. (best paper) is good. 
Shùtz's, Lipsiæ, 1814-18, 18 vols. 8vo. is perhaps still better, 100 
frs. It has, in the last volume, a good Index latinitatis.

Le Clerc's. Paris, 1827, 35 vols. large 12mo. with French translation 
_en regard_, is the only edition that is by any means complete. It 
contains a preliminary discourse; Plutarch's life, translated; a 
supplement from Middleton's; a copious bibliography of editions. In 
the 34th and 35th volumes, it has the Apochrypha and Fragments—the 
Invective against Sallust, and Reply; Discourse to the people, before 
going into exile; Letter to Octavius; Treatises on the supposititious 
works. In the 35th volume are Fragments, with an account of the 
discoveries made among the Palimpsestes, since 1814, with conjectures 
towards the yet undiscovered works; Fragments of Speeches, Letters, 
Philosophical works, Poems, and the apochryphal de Consolatione, with 
an Introduction. It seems to me a very agreeable literary edition. How 
far it is a critical one, I have never seen any authoritative 
decision. Though much ampler than any other, it has not, of course, 
the parts of orations published about 1830, by Maius, in his 
Scriptores Classici e Codicibus Vaticanis.

To complete Ernesti's or Schùtz's, the Respublica and these fragments 
are, of course, necessary.

Claudian, à Gesner. Lipsiæ, 1759, 2 vols. 8vo. 15 to 18 frs. best 
paper. There is also an esteemed edition by Barthius, first published, 
with much applause, when he was less than 20 years old. Hannover, 
1612, 8vo. This, however, was one of his riper works: for he published 
the Psalms translated into Latin verse, at 12; and at 16, a work on 
the method of reading the Latin authors, from Ennius downwards.

Cœlius Apicius, _De opsoniis et condimentis_, by Dr. Martin Lister. 
Amsterdam, 1709, 8vo. 8 a 12 frs.

Coluthus, _Raptus Helenae_. Not worth having; but if taken, the 
edition of Bekker. Berlin, 1816, 8vo. It is the best text, and has 
seven additional verses—which are not unimportant, in a poem of 
380—unless the whole should chance to be of no merit, as in this case.

{679} Conon is of little importance, even as to mythology. He may be 
taken in Gale's collection—Scriptores antiqui Historiæ poeticæ.

Cornelius Nepos, à Fischero. Lipsiæ, 1806, 8vo. It is edited by 
Harles, and regarded as an excellent performance. In fine paper, 15 
frs.

Corripus, I would omit—as also Demetrius Cydnus, and Demetrius 
Phalereus.

Curtius (Quintus), à Pitisco. Hague, 1708, 8vo. 15 a 20 frs.

Dares Phrygius. See Dictys Cretensis.

Demosthenes, may be taken in the collection of Greek Orators, by 
Reiske. Lipsiæ, 1770-5, 12 vols. 8vo. Isocrates alone is wanting, in 
this collection.

Dictys Cretensis is a forgery not worth having, except in mere 
illustration of the Chivalric Romances; of which it is largely the 
source. Take the edition à Perizonio, Amsterdam, 1702, 8vo. 15 to 18 
frs. It includes Dares Phrygius.

Diodorus Siculus, à Wesselingio. Bipont, 1790-1806, 11 vols. 8vo. 108 
frs. The 11th contains indexes. It has a good notitia literaria, Essay 
on the Sources, &c.

Diogenes Laertius à Longolio. Curiæ Regnit. 1739, 8vo. 18 a 24 frs.

Dion Cassius. There exists no 8vo. edition. That of Reimar, Hamburg, 
1750, 2 vols. fol. 84 to 96 frs. is far the best. There is a late 
cheap one, by Schaefer. Lipsiæ, 1818, (Græce,) 4 vols. 18mo. 15 frs.

Dion Chrysostom. His Orations are published by Reiske, but without a 
Latin version. They match, in form and appearance, his Oratores 
Attici, 2 vols. 8vo. Lipsiæ, 1784 or 98. 25 frs.

Dionysius Alexandrinus, _Orbis descriptio_, à Wells. Oxford, 1704 or 
9, 8vo. 6 a 9 frs.

Dionysius the Areopagite. Not now accounted authentic.

Dionysius Halicarnasseus, _Antiquitates, &c._ à Reiske. Lipsiæ, 1774, 
6 vols. 8vo. 80 to 96 frs. The last volume (unfinished at R.'s death) 
is by Morus, as is the interesting life of Reiske.

Epictetus, _Enchiridion, fragmenta, et Dissertationes ab Arriano 
digestæ_, Schweighæuser. Lipsiæ, 1799, 4 vols. 8vo. 54 frs. Add the 
Commentary of Simplicius, by the same editor. Leipsig, 1800, 2 vols. 
8vo. 27 francs. These form a dear, but the most valuable edition.

Epicurus, _Physica et Meteorologica_. I would omit these, as every 
thing else not having a literary value. We want the taste and the 
history of the ancients—not their science.

Eratosthenes and Euclid may be omitted, for the same reason. Of the 
latter, however, Van Loin's edition, Amsterdam, 1738, 8vo. 4 or 5 frs. 
or Baerman's, Leipsig, 1769, 8vo. 3 to 4 frs. is usually taken for 
such collections as this.

Euripides, _Tragœdiae_. Glasgow, 1820, 9 vols. 8vo. 7_l_. 17_s_. 6_d_. 
It has the Scholia and the entire notes of Barnes, Beckh, Brunck, 
Burney, Elmsley, Herman, Hoepfner, Markland, Monk, Musgrave, Porson, 
Seidler, Valcknaer, Wakefield, &c. as well as a copious index.

Eustathias, _Ismeniae et Ismenis Amores_, 8vo. Paris, 1618, ed. 
Gaulmin. They are now regarded as the production of Eumathes, a 
grammarian of the 14th century, not of the Scholiast. There should be 
45 pp. of notes at the end of this edition.

Eutropius, à Verheyk. Leyden, 1762, 8vo. It has the Greek paraphrase 
of Pæanius, and the breviary of Sextus Rufus, with a very copious and 
judicious selection of notes, 12 a 16 frs.

Florus, _Breviarium_. Bipont, 1810, 8vo. 4 frs: a good edition.

Frontinus, I would omit, with the other Strategetics; or buy them all 
(the Latin ones) in the collection at the head of which stands 
Vegetius; whom _see_.

Fronto. The fragments of his Orations, published by Maius, (Milan, 
1815, 2 vols. 8vo.) are, I fancy, too inconsiderable or disjointed to 
be worth having.

Gemistus Pletho, it is not worth while to have.

Geographiæ Veteris Scriptores Græci (Minores)—a valuable and necessary 
book, but too enormously dear to be purchased. A new edition has been 
long in expectation. The old (Oxford, 1698-1712, 4 vols. 8vo.) sells 
for no less than 80 to 100 dollars. It contains Hanno, Scylax, 
Agatharchides, Arrian, Nearchus, Heracleotes, Dicæarchus, Isidorus, 
Scymnus, Agathemerus, Various Excerpts, Anonymi expositio Mundi, 
Ptolemæi Arabia, Abulfedæ Chorasmia, Ejusdem Arabia, Excerpta varia, 
Dionysii Orbis Descriptio.

The Geoponici, I would omit.

Hecatæus of Abdera. Mere fragments.

—— of Miletus, in Creuzer's Historicorum Græcorum Vetustissimorum 
Fragmenta. Heidelberg, 1806, 8vo. They also include part of the 
preceding. The price I cannot ascertain.

Heliodorus. In the Scriptores Erotici. See Achilles Tatius.

Hellanicus. His fragments were published by Sturz. Leipsig, 1787, 8vo.

Hermogenes Sophista. His _Ars Rhetorica_ (Coloniæ, 1614, 8vo.) I would 
leave for a collection of another sort.

Herodian, à Ruddiman, 8vo. Edinburg, 1724, 4 frs.

Herodotus. Schweighæuser's, (Paris, 1816, 6 vols. 8vo.) is generally 
esteemed the best edition. 90 frs. A new and valuable edition (by 
Bähr) is in progress in Germany—the first volume already out. The 
Translation of Larcher, (Paris, 1802, 9 vols. 8vo.) has valuable 
geographical illustrations. There are, besides, those of Rennel and 
Niebuhr—the latter printed in an English translation, London, 1830, 
8vo. The Lexicon Ionicum of Portus is likewise an important aid to the 
study of H. (Oxford, 1810, 8vo. 9 frs.)

Hesiod, à Loesnero. Lipsiæ, 1778, 8vo. 15 a 18 frs.

Hierocles, _Commentarii in Aurea Carmina_, à Warran. London, 1742, 
8vo. 10 to 12 frs. The _Facetiæ_ passing under his name are usually 
esteemed supposititious. His _de Providentia et Fato_ are not sought 
for.

Himerius Sophista. His _Eclogæ et Declamationes_, may safely be 
omitted.

Hippocrates, I would also omit in this collection. If he be taken, the 
edition of Vander Linden, (Leyden, 1665, 2 vols. 8vo.) is the proper 
one, but is very dear; common copies of it selling at from 60 to 80 
frs.

Historiæ Augustæ Scriptores, I would not embrace in this collection. 
Suetonius and Eutropius you will have already taken, in another form. 
Spartian, Julius Capitolinus, Elius Lampridius, Trebellius Pollio, and 
Vopiscus are without literary value. The 8vo. edition of Leyden (1671, 
2 vols.) is both an indifferent and dear book. It sells for 27 to 36 
francs; while the esteemed folio edition of Paris, 1620, by Salmasius, 
sells at from 8 to 10 frs.

{680} Historiæ Poeticæ Scriptores antiqui, à Gale—embracing 
Apollodorus, Conon, Ptolemæus, Parthenius, Antoninus Liberalis; with 
his Dissertatio de Scriptoribus Mythologicis—may be let alone. The 
single edition is that of Paris, 1675, 8vo., worth 15 to 24 frs. It 
sometimes is dated London, 1676.

Homer. Ernesti's (Lipsiæ, 1759, 5 vols. 8vo., or its beautiful and 
faithful reprint, by Foulis, Glasgow, 1814, 5 vols. 8vo.—the latter 
having also Wolf's prolegomena) is the best general edition, costing 
100 francs in the first form, and 120 in the second. The edition of 
Wolf (Lipsiæ, 1804-7, 4 vols. 8vo. 20 francs) should also be 
possessed; nor is it possible to omit mentioning Heyne's very esteemed 
edition of the Iliad. Lipsiæ, 1802, 8 vols. 8vo.

Horace, à Gesner, cum notis Zeunii. Leipsic, 1788; or Glasgow, 1794, 
8vo. 10 to 20 frs. Bentley's emendations and notes have no doubt done 
much towards the elucidation of Horace; but, as a commentary, Gesner's 
is certainly preferable. Bentley's edition, however, as reprinted at 
Leipsig, 1764, 2 vols. 8vo. (15 to 20 frs.) may be added to the 
forgoing.

Hyginus. I would omit him, with the other mythologues.

Isæi Orationes, in Reiske's Orators.

Isocrates, Orationes et Epistolæ, à Coray. Paris, 1807, 2 vols. 8vo. 
21 frs. The notes, in modern Greek, are very valuable. A learned 
disquisition on the Greek education and tongue is prefixed.

Jamblichus may be fairly let alone with the mystagogues.

Josephus, à Havercamp et Hudson. Lipsiæ, 1782-5, 3 vols. 8vo. 80 
francs. A volume of Commentary and Index was to have followed. I do 
not know if it has ever appeared.

Julian Apostate. His _Cæsares_ (Heusinger, Gotha, 1736, 8vo. 6 to 8 
frs.) and his _In Constantii laude Oratio_ (Schæfer, Leipsig, 1802, 
8vo. 7 frs.) may be taken.

St. Justin may be omitted in this collection.

Justinian, Corpus Juris Civilis, &c. omit.

Justin. Bipont edition, 1784, or Argentorati, 1802, 8vo. 5 frs. Very 
good and cheap edition, with a good notitia literaria.

Juvenal and Persius, cura Ruperti. Lipsiæ, 1801 or 1818, 2 vols. 8vo. 
27 frs.

Lactantius is to be omitted, of course.

Libanius, as a sophist, not an orator, may be excluded.

Leonidæ (the two) should be taken only in the Anthology.

Livy, Recensuit Drachenborch, edidit Crevier. Oxford, 1822, 4 vols. 
8vo. 1_l_. 18_s_.

Longinus. Toup's (Oxon, 1778, 8vo.) though not sufficiently correct in 
the typography, is the _Editio opt._ It is, however, of a form 
somewhat too large—royal 8vo. 8 to 10 frs.

Longus, _Daphnis et Chloe_. It should be taken in the Bipont Erotici 
Græci; though this wants Courier's restoration of the chasm of eight 
pages. The latter may be seen in one of the volumes of the Classical 
Journal. There can scarcely be said to be any edition that contains 
it: for Courier's (Rome, 1810, 8vo.) was printed for private 
distribution only—52 copies. It has the Greek text alone. The complete 
version (French) may be found in the works of Paul Louis Courier.

Lucan, _Pharsalia_. Take the Glasgow reprint of the Strawberry-hill 
edition, cum notis Grotii et Bentleii, cura posteriore Cumberland, 
8vo. 1816, 18 frs.

Lucian, _Opera_. Hemsterhuy's edition, with Gesner and Reiske's notes, 
as reprinted at Deux-Ponts, 1789-91, 10 vols. 8vo. 80 to 100 francs, 
is no doubt the completest. There is, however, the excellent and much 
cheaper one of Schnieder. Halle, 1800, 2 vols. 8vo. 30 francs. It has 
no interpretation, but offers esteemed notes, and some valuable 
readings.

Lucilius. That of the Vulpii, Patavii, 1735, 8vo. is no doubt best. 4 
to 6 francs.

Lucretius. Bentley and Wakefield's edition, in the Glasgow reprint of 
1813, 4 vols. 8vo. 2_l_. It is beautifully printed by Bell, rivalling 
the Foulis.

Lycophron may fairly be left to the lovers of the unintelligible.

Lycurgus. Take him in Reiske's Orators.

Lysias. Also in Reiske's Orators.

Macrobius, _Opera_, à Vulpiis fratribus. Patavii, 1736, 8vo. 6 to 9 
frs. The edition of Gronovius is more commonly taken (Leyden, 1670, 
8vo.) but is dearer—18 to 24 francs.

Manilius. His _Astronomicon_ may be omitted, as striving in vain to 
make good poetry out of very bad astronomy.

Martial. The Bipont edition, 1784, 8vo. after the _variorum_ of 
Schrevelius. The Amsterdam (1701, 8vo.) after the Delphin Editor 
Collessus, is usually taken. But it is rather dear (about 20 francs); 
and has, besides, a villainous collection of the _loci obscœni_ into a 
sort of Cloaca, at the end. There are rare copies, in which the text 
is in its place; but they sell very high—50 francs or more.

Maximus Tyrius. His Platonism is of very little use.

Meleager. I would take his Epigrams, &c. in the Anthology.

Menander. Of his Fragments, Meineke's edition, Berlin, 1823, 8vo. is 
the best. The older one of Le Clerc—which gave occasion to that fierce 
literary war between Bentley, Gronovius, Burmann, De Pauw and 
others—is very defective; though hitherto usually employed.

Minucius Felix, as purely ecclesiastical, should be omitted.

Moschion. His _de Mulieribus_ we should, of course, exclude from any 
but a medical collection.

Musæus. His _Hero and Leander_ is best edited by Schræder. Leovardiæ, 
1742, 8vo. 10 to 12 frs. That of Magdeburg (by Carpzovius) 8vo. 1775, 
is of some esteem. Its preface is curious.

The Mythographi Latini, collected by Muncker, (Amsterdam, 1681, 8vo. 
12 to 18 frs.) consisting of Hyginus, Planciades Fulgentius, 
Lactantius Placidus, and Albricus Philosophus, may be omitted.

Nemesianus. His _Cynegetica, &c._ are given in that volume of 
Wernsdorf's Poetæ Lat. Minores, which contains the poems _de Venatione 
et Piscatu_, [the 1st.]

Nemesius, _de Natura Hominis_, may be omitted.

Nicander. His _Alexipharmics and Theriacs_ may be banished, with no 
great harm, among the medical writers.

Nicolaus Damascenus. The fragments of his _concinnated_ Universal 
History should have a place in a historical, but scarcely in a 
literary collection.

{681} Nonnus. His _Dionysiaca_ are not yet given in a good edition. 
There are two unfinished editions probably yet in progress, that began 
to appear at Heidelberg and Leipsig, in 1819. The first is by Moser, 
as yet of only the 6 books from the 8th to the 13th. The other, by 
Græfe, contains the first 24 books, 1 vol. the text alone.

Nonnius Marcellus is confined to grammatical subjects.

Julius Obsequens. His _de Prodigiis_ may be safely omitted.

Ocellus Lucanus. His Fragments are neither important, nor of a clear 
authenticity.

Oppian, _de Venatione et Piscatu_. If purchased, the best edition is 
that of Schnieder, Leipsig, 1813, 8vo. It should, however, when 
bought, be given to some genius vast enough to embrace both the arts 
of Industry and those of Indolence.

Oratores Græci, à Reiske. Lipsiæ, 1770, 8 vols. in 12, 8vo. It brings 
220 francs, entire. The latter 6 volumes may sometimes be had 
separate; and these, united with the London re-edition of Reiske's 
Demosthenes [1822, 3 vols. 8vo.] and the Isocrates of Coray, give the 
proper series of Orators.

Orphæus, _Argonautica, &c._ cum notis variorum, àb Hermanno. Lipsiæ, 
1805, 8vo. 20 francs. It contains the discussion as to the age and 
author of the Orphica; a dispute set on foot by Huet, whose opinion 
Valcknaer, Schnieder and Hermann have since maintained; while the 
genuineness of the Poems has been supported by Gesner, Ruhnken and 
some others.

Ovid. Burmann's is no doubt the best edition; but is in 4to. and high 
priced—8_l_. 8_s_. The best 8vo. edition, notis variorum, is that of 
Cnipping, Leyden, 1670, 3 vols. 45 frs.

Palæphatus. His _Incredibilia_ are only proper for a mythographic 
collection.

Palladius, _de Febribus_ may, of course, be omitted.

Rutilius Palladius, _de Re Rustica_, is in the collection Scriptores 
rei rusticæ.

Panegyrici Veteres [latini] à Iaeger. Nuremberg, 1778, 2 vols. 8vo. 14 
frs. The Delphine edition [by de la Baune] is also much esteemed; and 
there is a London reprint, 1716, 8vo. That of Arntzenius, Utrecht, 
1790-7, 2 vols. 4to. is the editio opt. 24 a 30 frs. The collection 
embraces 12 panegyrics—1 of Plinius Cæcilius; 2 of Claudius 
Mamertinus; 1 of another Claud Mam.; 5 of Eumenius; 1 of an unknown; 1 
of Nazarius; 1 of Drœpanius.

Parthenius. Of his Erotic tales, Heyne's is the best edition. 
Gottingen, 1798, 8vo. 3 frs.

Paterculus. Ruhnken's edition, Leyden, 1789, 2 vols. 8vo. 18 to 24 
francs, is best.

Pausanias. That of Facius is much the best. Lipsiæ, 1794-7, 4 vols. 
8vo. 36 frs.

Pœdo Albinovanus. His _Elegies_ are in Wernsdorf's Poetæ; as is 
Severus's Ætna.

Persius. See Juvenal Ruperti.

Petronius, _Satyricon, &c._ à Hadrianide. Amsterdam, 1669, 8vo. with 
the _Fragmentum Traguriense_ 1671. It should also include _Sulpitiæ 
Satyra_, _Priapeia_, _Pervigilium Veneris_, _Statilii Apologia_, and 
an Index of 4 leaves. The whole costs 15 to 20 frs. Burmann's 4to. 
edition is the best. Amsterdam, 1743, 2 vols. 4to.

Phædrus, à Schwabio. Brunswick, 1806, 2 vols. 8vo. 16 francs, 
engravings. It has a life—an excellent notitia literaria—a 
dissertation on the age of Phædrus—another on the Fables of Gabriel 
Faernus—34 Fables è MSto. Divionensi—a copious Index; and supplenda. 
There are some castrated editions of Phædrus.

Phalaris, à Boyle. Oxon, 1718, 8vo. 7 frs. Though now regarded as 
certainly spurious, the epistles are worth having, for the sake of the 
literary controversy, and Bentley's masterly investigations on 
Phalaris, Æsop, &c. London, 1817, 8vo.

Philo Judæus may be left among the mystic and ecclesiastic writers.

Philo Byzantinus is of little worth, even in a geographical 
collection.

Philostratus. His _Life of Apollonius_, his _Heroica_, _Icones_, and 
_Lives of the Sophists_ may be all omitted. There is no uniform 
edition, except in folio. The 8vo. of Boissonade, Paris, 1806, is of 
the Heroica only.

Phlegon Trallianus. His fragments are of no value.

Phocylides. The fragments attributed to him are too slight and too 
uncertain to collected.

Photius. Of his Myriobiblon, there is no 8vo. edition.

Pindar, à Heyne. Göttingen, 1798-9, 3 vols. in 5, 8vo. 45 to 60 
francs. It is the best. Its Leipsig copy of 1817, in 4 vols. 8vo. may 
be taken equally well.

Plato. The Bipont edition, 1781-8, 12 vols. 8vo. is certainly to be 
preferred. Besides its other auxiliaries, the discourse of Thiedman 
(in the 12th vol.) on the Philosophy of Plato, is highly valuable. It 
grows dearer every day; now worth probably 150 francs. Good editions 
have since been published by Bekker and Ast—the former reprinted in 
London, 11 vols. 8vo. 10_l_ It is well to mention the Translation into 
French, which Cousin is now publishing, and of which some 7 or 8 vols. 
have appeared.

Plautus, à Bothio. Berlin, 1804-11, 4 vols. 8vo.; the last occupied 
with notes. It offers a much emended text, and a metrical 
restoration—1_l_. 1_s_.

Plinius, _Historia Naturalis_, à Franzio. Lipsiæ, 1776-91, 10 vols. 
8vo. This is the edition usually adopted for such a collection. It is, 
however, too copious, and wants taste. It would, perhaps, be well to 
abandon, in this instance, the 8vo. size, and take the beautiful and 
esteemed edition of Brotier, printed by Barbou, Paris, 1779, 6 vols. 
12mo. Its price is about 45, and that of Franzius about 60 francs. It 
may be remarked, however, in regard to the latter, that its 10th vol. 
is made up of some curious Dissertations. It possesses, too, in the 
1st, 2d, and 3d, various other auxilliary pieces of value.

Plinius the Younger. His _Panegyricus Trajani_ is in the collection, 
already indicated, of the Panegyrici Veteres Latini.

Plinius, Epistolæ, à Gierig. Lipsiæ, 1800, 2 vols. 8vo. 17 frs. The 
edition of 1806, by the same Editor, is still better, and includes the 
Panegyric. It is about the same price.

Plotinus, _de pulchritudine_, may be omitted, unless in forming a 
philosophical collection. It is the only one of his works published in 
an 8vo. form. Creusner, Heidelberg, 1814, 21 francs. It includes, 
besides Wyttenbach's notes, Anecdota Græca; Procli disputatio de 
unitate et pulchritudine; Nicephorus Nathaniel adversus Plotini de 
Anima; Lectiones plotinicæ.

Plutarch, _Vitæ_, à Coray. Paris, 1809-15, 6 vols. 8vo. 108 frs. It is 
the best edition of the Lives, Heeren's {682} dissertation “_de 
fontibus et auctoritate Vitarum par. Plutarchi_,” Göttingen, 1820, 
8vo. is an indispensable critical adjunct to the Lives.

Plutarch, _Moralia_, à Wyttenbach. Oxon, 1795-1810, 13 vols. 8vo. 
5_l_. 5_s_. It is reputed the best edited book that ever came from the 
classic press of Oxford—we might almost say, of England. It is the 
chef d'œuvre of Wyttenbach; having occupied 30 years of his life.

Poetæ Latini Minores, à Wernsdorf. Altemberg, 1780-98, 6 in 10 vols. 
8vo. 72 frs. Far the best collection; including, besides those of 
Burmann's collection, many others: that is, it has Nemesianus and 
others, de aucupio, Venatione et piscatu; Nemeseani Laudes Herculis; 
Ausonii Mosella et de ostreis; the Idyllia et Bucolica of Calpurnius, 
of Sidonius Syracusanus, of Serverus Sanctus, Bede, Septimius Serenus; 
Ausonii Cupido Cruci affixus, Cassius Parmensis, &c. &c. These are the 
contents of the two first volumes only. The third contains the lesser 
Satyrists, with some Elegies and Lyrics: the fourth, Heroic Poems: the 
fifth, Geographic ones: the sixth, Agricultural and rural, with some 
amatory and convivial ones.

Poetæ Minores Græci, à Gaisford. Oxford, 1814, 4 vols. 8vo. 2_l_. 
7_s_. It is much approved.

To these I would decidedly add the little collection of Pope, Selecta 
Poemata Itatorum qui latiné scripserunt. London, 1740, 2 vols. small 
8vo. It is far the most charming body of Modern Latin Poetry that 
exists. Price, 10 to 12 francs. It embraces Eclogues, Odes, Elegies, 
and a Sylva, from Sannazaro, the Amalthei, Vida, Fracastoro, Politian, 
Jano Etrusco, the Strozzas, Ariosto, Sadolet, Buchanan, and others.

Polybius. Schweighæuser's, Leipsig, 1789-95, 7 in 9 vols. 8vo. is 
undoubtedly the best edition of this most important historian. It 
offers a very complete Apparatus to him. There are geographical and 
historical Indexes, and a Lexicon Polybianum. The Notes are excellent; 
the arrangements of the fragments, admirably luminous, according to 
Gibbon, who commends the whole performance very highly. It is thought 
least excellent, in the elucidation of the Achæan League. Price 120 
francs. There is a Supplement, by Orellius, containing the Commentary 
of Æneas Tacticus. Leipsig, 1818, 8vo. 8 francs.

Polyænus. His _Strategemata_ do not come within the plan of this 
collection.

Pomponius Mela, Gronovii. Leyden, 1748, 2 vols. 8vo. 12 to 15 francs. 
That of Tzschuckius, Leipsig, 1807, 7 vols. 8vo. is usually said to be 
the best; but is entirely too bulky and too dear—108 frs.

Porphyrius. His _de Abstinentia ab esu animalium_ is the only one of 
his works printed in 8vo. except his Life of Pythagoras. He is, 
however, only fit to be passed over.

Proclus. His Platonic Commentaries, and his Astronomical works may all 
be omitted.

Propertius, Barthii, Lipsiæ, 1777, 8vo. 7 francs. That of Kuinoel, 
Leipsig, 1805, 2 vols. 8vo. 24 francs, were better, if it were 
smaller. Of the best, which is unquestionably the elegant one of 
Vulpius [Patavii, 1755, 2 vols. 4to.] there is no other impression. It 
is also a dear book—48 to 60 frs.

Prudentius should be omitted. He is below the age of either Poetry or 
Classical Latinity.

Psellus _de Lapidum Virtutibus_, _Synopsis Legum_, _de dæmone_, and 
his mathematical works may all be safely omitted.

Quintus Calaber. His _Prætermissa ab Homero_ are of too low an age, 
except for a collection intending to be absolutely complete.

Quintilian, à Spalding. Leipsig, 1798-1816, 4 vols. 8vo. and a 5th, in 
1829, by Zumpt, containing supplemental notes and an Index: 55 a 60 
francs, for the whole. It is much the best edition. It of course 
excludes, as spurious, the _Declamationes_, and the _de Claris 
Oratoribus_.

The Rei rusticæ Scriptores, I would exclude, except so far as embraced 
in the body of the works of their chief authors.

Rhetores Selecti Græci, edente Gale, Oxon, 1676, 8vo. worth 10 to 15 
francs, is a collection worth having. It embraces Demetrius Phalereus, 
Tiberius, Anonymus Sophista, and Severus Alexander.

Of the Rhetores Latini, there is no 8vo. edition. There is a 4to. 
edition by Capperonnier, Argentorati, 1756, 8 to 10 frs. It embraces 
Rutilius Lupus, Aquila Romanus, Julius Rufianus, Curius Fortunatianus, 
and others.

Gale's two other collections—his Historiæ Poeticæ Scriptores antiqui 
[London, 1675, 8vo.] and his Opuscula Mythologica, Ethica et Physica 
[Amsterdam, 1688, 8vo.] may be taken or omitted, according to one's 
view. The latter [Gr. and Lat.] comprises Palephatus, Heraclitus, 
Phornutus, Sallustius Philosophus, Ocellus, Lucanus, Timæus, Locrus, 
Demophilus, Democratus, Secundus, Sextus Pythagoricus, Theophrastus, 
Heliodorus Larissæus, &c.

Sextus Ruffus. His _Breviarium_ and _de Regionibus Urbis_, are of 
little consequence.

Rutilius Numatianus. His _Itinerary_ is in Wernsdorf's Poetæ Lat. 
Minores.

Rutilius Lupus, _de figuris Sententiarum et Elocutionis_, is proper 
only to a Rhetorical collection. It has been edited by Rhunken, along 
with Aquila Romanus and Julius Rufianus. Leyden, 1768, 8vo. 7 to 10 
frs.

Sallust, à Krotscher, Lipsiæ, 1825, 8vo. Its price I cannot ascertain. 
Gronovius's, Leyden, 1690, 8vo. is likewise good, but somewhat dear—18 
francs. The 4to. edition of Havercamp, Amsterdam, 1742, is much 
approved, but somewhat overloaded with Commentary. That of Wasse 
[Cambridge, 1710, 4to.] is excellent, 10 to 15 frs.

Sappho. See below.

Scribonius Largus. His _Compositiones Medicæ_, [Pharmacy] are in very 
bad Latin, besides being out of our range.

Scriptores Antiqui Parabilium Medicamentorum, ab Ackermanno, is 
another collection of the same sort—to be, therefore, passed over.

Scriptores Erotici Græci. See Achilles Tatius &c.

Scriptores Physiognomoniæ Veteres, à Franzio, may also be omitted.

Secundus [Joannes.] His _Basia_ and _Epithilamia_ are elegant and pure 
enough to enter into a collection of classic Latin poets. There is an 
8vo. edition, Warrington, 1776. I do not know its present price.

Sedulius. His _Carmen Paschale_ has no merit but that of orthodoxy; 
which, in poetry, is no great affair.

Sappho. The last edition [that of Vogler, Leipsig, 1810, 8vo. 6 frs.] 
is said to be without criticism, though {683} surcharged with notes. 
It is better, therefore, to take Wolff's 4to. one, Hamburg, 1733, 12 
to 15 francs, joining to it his

Poetriarum [Græcarum] Octo fragmenta, Hamburg, 1734, 4to. 12 to 15 
francs. It contains the remains of Erinna, Miro, Mirtis, Corinna, 
Telesilla, Praxilla, Nossis and Anyta—the eight who, with Sappho, make 
those usually known as the Greek Muses. There is a third collection of 
Wolff, _Mulierum Græcarum quæ oratione prosa usæ sunt, fragmenta_. 
Gottingen, 1739, 4to. 12 to 15 francs. It forms, with the two 
preceding, an interesting series.

Seneca. The Elzevir edition [by Gronovius] Amsterdam, 1672, 3 vols. 
8vo. is most esteemed, but is become too dear—60 to 80 frs. The later 
one of Ruhkopf, Leipsig, 1797-1811, 8vo. 5 vols. 1_l_. 16_s_. is 
regarded as very excellent.

Severus [Sulpitius.] His _Historia Sacra_ is of too low an age.

Silius Italicus, Ruperti, Gottingen, 1795, 2 vols. 8vo. is the best 
edition, 18 frs. The Preface is by Heyne.

Sophocles. London, 1819, 3 vols. 8vo. 1_l_ 8_s_. It is a reimpression 
of Brunck's, with the Scholia; Fragments; a Lexicon Sophocleum; an 
Index; Excerpts from the Variæ lectiones of Erfurt's edition; some 
inedited notes of Charles Burney; the Scholia of Demetrius Triclinius, 
&c.

Statius. That of Veerhusen, Leyden, 1671, 8vo. has been the most 
esteemed, but is very dear—30 frs. Lemaire published a very excellent 
edition in Paris, 1825, 3 vols. 8vo. Its price I cannot ascertain, but 
it is probably 12 francs per volume—the usual rate of his collection 
of classics.

Stobæus, _Eclogæ ethicæ et physicæ_, à Heeren. Gottingen, 1792, 2 in 4 
vols. 8vo. 30 francs.

Stobæus, _Florilegium_ by Gaisford, Oxford, 1822, 4 vols. 8vo. 2_l_. 
8_s_.

Strabo. That of Siebenkees and Tzschucke [Leipsig, 1796-1818, 7 vols. 
8vo. 108 francs] is usually preferred. Corey, however, published at 
Paris, 1816-19, in 4 vols. 8vo. an excellent edition, with much 
improved readings, and a very judicious commentary. It has no Latin 
Version. 54 francs. This may be said to be part of that excellent 
performance of Coray and du Theil, the French translation of Strabo; 
of which the notes and dissertations offer such important 
illustrations of the Geographer.

Strato. His _Epigrams_ are in the Greek Anthology. See Anthologia.

Suetonius, à Wolf. Lipsiæ, 1802, 4 vols. 8vo. 36 francs. It has the 
notes of Casaubon and Ernesti; the _Ancyran Monument_, and the _Fasti 
Prænestini_. There are also many notes of Ruhnken.

Synesius. His _Hymni_, _Epistolæ_, _de Insomniis_ and _de Febribus_ 
may all be passed over.

Tacitus. I should prefer the Commentary of Brotier to all others. The 
original edition, [4to. Paris, 1771, 4 vols.] is scarce and dear. 
Valpy has reprinted it very handsomely, London, 1812, 5 vols. 8vo. 
2_l_. 18_s_. To Broitier's notes he has added a selection of others, 
and the inedited annotations of Porson. There is a very excellent 
edition, remarkable as a monument of feminine scholarship, by Mrs. 
Grierson, Dublin, 1730, 3 vols. 8vo. 1_l_. 18_s_.

Tatian. His _Oratio ad Græcos_ might be passed over, were it not that, 
in this Temperance Society age, it is well to commemorate the sole 
surviving production of him who was the first to forbid the use of 
wine in the Eucharist.

Terentianus Maurus may be passed by, or taken in some grammatical 
collection.

Terence. Zeunius's is the best edition; accurate, but very ugly, in 
the original impression. There is a very handsome, but less correct 
London reprint, 1820, 2 vols. 8vo. retaining the Notes and Subsidiæ of 
Z. It adds a selection from other annotators. 1_l_. 11_s_. 6_d_.

Tertullian, we may, of course, pass over.

Theocritus is given in Gaisford's Poetæ Minores Græci.

Theodorus Prodromus. His _Rhodanthe et Dosicles_ is regarded as one of 
the poorest of the Greek romances.

Theodosius _de Sphera_, we will, of course, pass over.

Theognis. His _Sententiæ_, with those of the other Greek Gnomic poets, 
should be taken in Brunck's collection—the new edition, Leipsig, 1817, 
8vo. 10 frs.

Theophrastus. His _Characters_ alone come within our plan. Of these, 
the best edition is that of Ast, Leipsig, 1816, 8vo.

Thucydides. The Bipont edition, 1788-9, 6 vols. 8vo. is most in 
request. It is formed upon that of Wass and Dukker, with annotations 
by the Bipont Society—75 francs. There are later editions, by Hackius 
& Bekker, of which I can ascertain every thing except the critical 
merit: the former, London, 1823, 3 vols. 8vo. 1_l_. 11_s_. 6_d_. the 
latter, Oxford, 1821, 4 vols. 8vo. 2_l_. 12_s_. 6_d_.

Tiberius Rhetor. See Rhetores Selecti Græci, à Gale.

Tibullus. Heyne's edition, as revised by Wunderlich, Leipsig, 1816-17, 
2 vols. 8vo. 25 francs, is the best.

Tryphiodorus. His _Ilii Excidium_ may be passed over.

Tyrtæus. His remains are found in the Anthology of Brunck.

Valerius Flaccus. The edition of Harles, Altenburg. 8vo. above 1300 
pp. is accounted the best. It is founded on Burmann's. 20 frs.

Valerius Maximus. Kappius's, Lipsiæ, 1782, 8vo. 9 francs, is 
unquestionably the best edition.

Varro. I would take the edition of Henry Stephens, Paris, 1573 or 
1581, small 8vo. 9 to 15 francs. The Durdrecht edition, 1619, may have 
some advantage over it: but I would take the other, merely as a 
specimen of the Stephens press. It is also cheaper.

Verrius Flaccus, and his abreviator Pompeius Festus may be passed by, 
unless in a grammatical collection. He is also the supposed author of 
the Fasti Prænestini.

Vibius Sequester, _de fluminibus_, is of little importance.

Aurelius Victor. The edition of Pitiscus, Utrecht, 1696, 8vo. 12 a 18 
francs, is the best for our purpose.

Virgil. Heyne's edition is esteemed, on all hands, the chef-d'œuvre of 
all classical criticism. The Leipsig reprint of 1800, 6 vols. large 
8vo. 130 francs, is the best. It is adorned with 204 very agreeable 
vignettes, and is every way a beautiful book. Lemaire was to have 
reproduced it, with additional notes, in his Bibliotheque des Auteurs 
classiques latins. Four vols. had appeared some time ago. There is 
also a very handsome reprint by Priestley, London, 1821, 4 vols. 8vo. 
4_l_. 4_s_. As a {684} critical adjunct to Virgil, Uraini's Virgilius 
Collatione Scriptorum Græcorum illustratus, may be taken. Leovardæ, 
1747, 8vo. 8 to 10 frs.

Vitruvius. If he be taken, the edition of Schnieder, Leipsig, 1807-8, 
3 vols. 8vo. 45 francs.

Xenocrates the Physician. His _de alimento ex aquatilibus_ may be 
omitted.

Xenophon. Schnieder's edition of Leipsig, 1800, reprinted at Oxford, 
1812, 6 vols. 8vo. is certainly the best.

Zosimus. Reittemeier's edition of his _Historiæ_, Leipsig, 1784, 8vo. 
is reputed the best—10 frs.

E. W. J.

_S. C. College_.




TRIBUTARY STANZAS

_To a young officer of the United States Navy, lost at sea._

BY HENRY THOMPSON.


  I shed the warm tear still for thee,
  Friend of boyhood infancy;
  And memory delights to view
  The sunny haunts our childhood knew.
  Thy form in midnight's hallow'd sleep
  Comes back, its promis'd vow to keep;
  But ah! too soon the visions end
  That image thee! my boyhood friend.
  Long I've wept for thee in sorrow!
  Long I've vainly striv'd to borrow
  The thought that life doth still remain
  To bring thee back to me again.
  And years have fled away with me,
  Since thou wert shrouded in the sea;
  Since thou wert laid beneath the foam
  You lov'd to call your only home.
  And thou art now beneath its breast,
  In the deep coral grave of rest;
  And long the wave will kiss the shore
  That thou wilt visit—never more!
  But when from the deep, rocky bed
  The sea gives up its mighty dead,
  We'll meet where ocean cannot part
  The feeling and the faithful heart.
  Till then, sleep on in thy ocean grave,
  And long I'll love the murm'ring wave
  Because it comes from the distant sea,
  To whisper something still of thee!

_Alabama, Oct. 1836_.




RIGHT OF INSTRUCTION.

Hulc legi nec abrogari fas est, neque derogari ex hac aliquid licet, 
neque tota abrogari potest: nec vero aut per senatum aut per populum 
solui hac lege possumus: neque est quaerendus explanator aut interpres 
eius alias; nec erit alia lex Romae, alia Athenis; alia nunc, alia 
posthac; sed et omnes gentes (nostri Reipublicæ) et omni tempore una 
lex et sempiterna et immutabilis continebit.
                                                  _De Republica_.

Si a jure decedus, vagus eris, et erunt omnia omnibus incerta.
                                                          _Coke_.

Rerum ordo confunditur si unicuique jurisdictio non servetur.
                                       _Id: Proem 4th Institute_.


A disposition to conclude my side of this subject in a single essay, 
caused me to obtrude myself at an unreasonable length upon the readers 
of the Messenger, in the last number. Nothing could have induced me to 
trespass again, but the introduction of new matter by JUDGE HOPKINSON, 
which requires consideration even more imperiously than his first 
letter, both from its intrinsic importance, and the respect due to his 
more deliberate investigation; and the belief that, though but the 
ghost of a champion against an accomplished knight, my previous 
occupancy may keep more worthy combatants from the field.

The Judge reiterates again and again his singular idea of the 
_novelty_ of our doctrines. He says “politicians of a later date are 
its authors. It was unknown to those who made the Constitution—as well 
as to those writers and speakers who afterwards attacked and defended 
it.” To support this idea, he refers freely to _the secret proceedings 
and debates of the Convention_ by CHIEF JUSTICE YATES, and LUTHER 
MARTIN'S communication to the Maryland Legislature.

After the long digression in his first article against the impropriety 
of inferring opinions from the, comparatively, elaborate debates of 
the State Conventions, it is a little surprising to find such vast 
premises sustained only by scraps and fibres torn from MR. YATES'S 
maimed and meagre skeleton of debates. But to answer we must follow 
him.

No body of men ever encountered successfully greater difficulties than 
the Federal Convention. Nothing but a stern conviction of the 
necessity of doing _something_ prevented a dissolution without 
effecting _anything_. Federalism and Nationalism, Democracy and 
Aristocracy, Monarchy and Republicanism, and every combination, of 
all, had to be reconciled in one uniform system. The fears entertained 
by the small states of the large ones had to be allayed, and the fears 
of all the ultra-state-rights-men, had to be satisfied of their safety 
from the strangling grasp of the federal arm. At the same time the 
party had to be satisfied which demanded more of their due weight for 
the large states than they possessed under the confederation, and the 
national government-men who demanded sufficient strength and 
perfection in the form of the federal government to enable it to act 
independently of state action, and even in spite of it. Our government 
is a happy compromise of these conflicting interests. MR. MADISON was 
in favor of a national government, perfect within its own sphere, 
leaving the state governments only to manage their local concerns, but 
with no power to interfere with the operations of the United States' 
government. LUTHER MARTIN was in favor of equality and mere federation 
of the states, and conducting the federal government by _states_, and 
not its _independent_ action.

The principles of the first set of resolutions, appear to have met MR. 
MADISON'S views, and were probably written by him, or with him, though 
offered by GOVERNOR RANDOLPH, who “candidly confessed that they were 
not intended for a _federal_ government,—he meant a strong 
_consolidated_ union, in which the idea of states should be nearly 
annihilated.”

This is the system of government to which the Judge refers us, as 
containing the idea, in the fourth resolution, that senators ought “to 
hold their offices for a term sufficient to insure their independence, 
namely, seven years,” and that they ought to be “ineligible to state 
or federal office _during their term of service_.” This resolution was 
written with the avowed object of {685} keeping the state governments 
from interfering in any way,—even by the allurements of office,—with 
an officer who was designed to be an intrinsic part of an entirely 
separate consolidated general government; and the _rejection_ of that 
very system and the reasons assigned for it in the debates, prove, 
beyond doubt, that the objection to it was because it left the states, 
_as states_, and their governments and sovereignty, without 
representation, and of course without protection. The Judge quotes a 
_rejected_ clause, to prove the _adoption_ of its principles!

MR. MADISON was opposed to the amendment. He did not wish to leave the 
state legislatures this modicum of federal power, because he wished a 
distinct and _independent_ government. He must have foreseen the 
exercise of instructions and recognized the right; or he could not 
have used the expressions which fell from him when the right of 
election was given to state legislatures. All who knew MR. MADISON, or 
are at all familiar with his history, and his writings on the 
formation of the constitution, must remember that he was haunted and 
hag-ridden by a terror of disunion; and federal weakness, which, to 
us, at the present day, would seem almost a monomania, if recent 
startling events had not fearfully proven that this phantom is ever 
armed and ready to assume a tangible shape, and realize, in practice, 
those terrible consequences which his second-sighted sagacity could so 
manifestly mark in the dim picture of the future. His fear of the 
state legislatures led him to favor GOVERNOR RANDOLPH'S 
proposition,—which was to have the senators selected by the house of 
representatives, out of a certain number of persons nominated by the 
state legislatures. This would have adroitly used the best possible 
body for judicious nomination, without giving it the power of 
appointment. Without representation, they would have been without the 
right of instruction, and the election being made by the house of 
representatives, the constitution of the senate would have had another 
_national_ feature, and its members been removed as far as practicable 
from state influence.

When the first and fatal blow was stricken at this system by giving 
the election to the Legislatures, MR. MADISON'S hopes of a national 
government, entirely distinct and independent of state governments, 
were at once prostrated. Then he used the language quoted by Judge H. 
“We are proceeding in the same manner that was done when the 
confederation was first formed. Its original draft was excellent, but 
in its progress to completion it became so insufficient as to give 
rise to the present convention. By the vote already taken, will not 
the temper of the state legislatures transfuse itself into the senate? 
Do we create a free government?”

Our distinguished opponent asks what would he have said, had he known 
that a right of instruction would be claimed? He could have said no 
more—indeed he could not have used so much force without knowing it. 
How else can the _temper_ transfuse itself? Is it only by an election 
every _six years_, leaving the senators independent in the interval? 
Would not the legislative _nominations_ have _transfused the temper_ 
quite as effectually? The legislatures would only have nominated those 
who concurred in sentiment with a majority of their members; and all 
that the house of representatives would have done would have been to 
elect the most moderate, if they differed, and the most violent if 
they agreed with the state legislature. The difference between the two 
modes, as to the transfusion of temper, was almost nothing without 
instructions, but very great with it; and as Mr. M. seemed to think 
the amendment almost annihilated his scheme, we must suppose he 
objected more to the incidental right of instruction given by the 
vote, than the principal right of election from which it flowed. 
Notwithstanding Mr. M.'s strenuous opposition, the change was made by 
a vote of _nine states to two_—thus evincing a decided determination 
in that body to enable the states to defend themselves, and _transfuse 
their temper_ if necessary. Judge H. tortures Mr. M.'s objections to 
the new system into an evidence of ignorance of one of the most 
important consequences of that system, without a knowledge of which, 
his reasons would have been of little force, and his fears utterly 
without foundation.

The clauses which the Judge quotes in the fourth resolution, were left 
in their original form by the advocates of state power, in the first 
consideration in committee, being satisfied with their great gain in 
the mode of election; but they were afterwards stricken out, being a 
part of the scheme which had been rejected, and inconsistent with the 
spirit of the amended resolution. The proposal and subsequent 
rejection of the express terms of senatorial _independence_, prove 
that the convention disapproved of the idea; but Judge H. quotes it as 
evidence of “an intention to make the senators equally independent of 
the several states and of the United States.”

The objections of LUTHER MARTIN to the _possibility_ of senators doing 
their own will instead of that of their states, modern times have 
proven to be too well founded, but his opinions upon that subject 
being analogous to those of PATRICK HENRY, I refer to my last number 
for the answer. He does not yield the right, but complains of the 
power of senators to disobey, without being punished. He does not say, 
as the Judge supposes, “that senators are _not_, precisely what the 
advocates of instructions say they _are_,” but that they _may do_, 
precisely what we say they _ought not_. He is directly opposed to MR. 
MADISON, and fears the senators may stop that transfusion of temper, 
which the latter thought they could not legitimately stop. MR. MARTIN 
would not have objected to this system, if senators had been elected 
for shorter terms, and paid by the states, and subject to recall, 
because then he would have thought them sufficiently dependent on 
their states. But none of these would have given the state any control 
over them except by _instructions_.

MR. WILSON was with MR. MADISON and GOVERNOR RANDOLPH, opposed to the 
election of Senators by state legislatures. Because he thought they 
ought “_to lay aside their state connections and act for the general 
good of the whole,_” and that the general government ought not “to be 
comprised of an assemblage of different state governments.” Mr. W. 
wished senators elected by _districts_. He wanted an _independent_ 
national government, and thought the laying aside state connections 
incompatible with legislative elections, and that this mode would make 
the general government an assemblage of different state governments. 
He wished the senators to be by a DIFFERENT CONSTITUTION, precisely 
what Judge H. contends they NOW ARE, and Mr. W. contended that they 
could not be by our present {686} system. Yet he is quoted to prove 
that under this constitution “the senators for each become the 
senators of all,” and that “the senators from Virginia become as 
independent of her as those of Massachusetts.” If Mr. W. thought so, 
he was arguing against himself. Nothing but instructions could 
possibly make the senate an assemblage of different state governments; 
and the doctrine of the senators from each state loosing their 
connection and becoming senators for all, made it the reverse, and a 
senate as strictly national and independent as Mr. W. could wish. The 
defeat of MR. WILSON proves that the convention did _not_ wish 
senators to lay aside state connections, and _did_ wish the senate to 
be an assemblage of state governments; and the reasoning of himself 
and his party proves that they thought such would be the operation of 
the present system if adopted. Thus we have the evidence of both 
majority and minority—the whole convention—against the opinions of 
JUDGE HOPKINSON, and his coadjutors of the present day.

MR. ELSWORTH wished the senate to have “_wisdom_ and _firmness_, as a 
protection against the hasty and inconsiderate proceedings of the 
_first branch_;” and yet he wished an election by the legislatures. 
This speech was in opposition to MR. WILSON'S motion for the people to 
elect by districts. If he had wished the wisdom and firmness as a 
protection from the “wild and inconsiderate democracy of the state 
legislatures,” as the modern doctrines contend, would he have 
preferred that body as electors?

MR. MASON said, on the same proposition, “It is equally necessary to 
preserve the state governments, as they ought to have the _means of 
self defence_. On the motion of MR. WILSON _the only means they ought 
to have would be destroyed_.” On the debate as to _equality_ of votes 
in the senate, a similar contest arose, with a similar result. In that 
debate JUDGE ELSWORTH remarks, “If the larger states seek security, 
they have it fully in the first branch of the general government. 
Small states must possess the power of _self-defence or be ruined_. 
Will any one say there is _no diversity of interests in the states_? 
And if there is, should not those interests be _guarded_ and 
_secured_? But if there is none, then the large states have nothing to 
_apprehend_ from an equality of rights.” This is all utterly 
inconsistent with the idea of the “senator for one being the senator 
for all,” so far as to set the interests and wishes of his own state 
at defiance. The states-rights-men, and the small states obtained this 
protection and security after an arduous and manly struggle—are they 
to lose it by construction and recreancy of representatives? It may be 
to the interest, perhaps, of the large states for a time, to establish 
this doctrine, but it would speedily swallow all in the federal 
Maelstrom. If, for instance, Pennsylvania should ever wish a national 
bank, it might be agreeable to turn the voices of New Jersey, Delaware 
and Rhode Island in opposition to the deliberate will of those states, 
by persuading their senators that they were senators for the union and 
not of those little states, and that the interest of Pennsylvania 
ought to be considered before that of their diminutive states. But it 
would be very unpleasant for her own senators to tell Pennsylvania, in 
spite of instructions, we voted money for a steamboat canal from the 
Ohio to Baltimore, because it would benefit all the western country, 
and we are senators for all.

After the vote was carried in favor of the legislative elections, 
GOVERNOR RANDOLPH moved to strike out the term of _seven years_, and 
make the senators go out in classes, as that body might possibly 
always sit, “perhaps, to aid the executive.” “The state governments 
will always attempt to counteract the general government.” Requiring 
that _body_, as a body, to act with _firmness_, does not imply the 
duty of a senator to resist his own state. The arrangement of 
_classes_ shows what is meant. That arrangement gave no facilities for 
disobedience to instructions, and hence could not contribute to their 
_firmness_ in that sense. But the arrangement in classes leaves the 
senate always ready to act—“it might possibly always sit”—“to aid the 
executive”—to act perhaps against a state which was attempting to 
counteract the general government, and the term of whose senators had 
expired, and which had refused to elect others. If all the senators 
had gone out at the same time there would have been none to act. 
GOVERNOR RANDOLPH had tried to make the _individual senators 
independent of their states_. Failing in this, he now tried to make 
the _body_ as firm and strongly permanent as he could, by not allowing 
all to go out at the same time. If his object had been thus to defeat 
the previous vote, and render the senators independent, his amendment 
would have been rejected. A similar struggle was again raised upon the 
question of paying the senators, the length of their term, and a power 
of recall, but the friends of the states, and federative principles 
yielded these minor points, believing themselves secure in the 
elections and instructions and equality of votes in the senate. The 
leaving the pay of senators to depend upon the states, was making the 
federal _government_ too degradingly dependent upon the states. Not to 
have power to pay its own officers, would have left it almost as 
powerless as the old confederation, and it was thought, too, that it 
would lead to federal corruption, and thus defeat its own object, by 
making senators look exclusively to the federal government for honor 
and emolument. This would have been an awkward and humiliating check 
upon the body, without giving much control over its members. The 
example of unpaid parliaments was quoted with effect. We learn, then, 
from the debates, that the convention meant the states to act _as 
states_ in the senate, in all respects as they had done under the 
confederation, except that the senator had power to make a law instead 
of a treaty, and his action was final without a subsequent 
ratification by his state. They never meant to change, in any degree, 
the state power of directing him.

The national-government-men contended that the states would have too 
much power—the states-rights-men that they would have just enough for 
protection—the ultra states-rights-men that they would not be 
sufficiently protected, because there was no means of controlling a 
wilful senator. Without the right of instruction their disputes amount 
to nothing. The first class ought to have been satisfied, for they 
lost nothing; the second class ought to have seceded as they 
threatened, for they gained nothing; and the third class was guilty of 
the folly of asking a remedy for the violation of a right which did 
not exist. They were all mistaken—all wrong, and ignorant of what they 
asked and what they accepted, and we of the present day can see their 
errors! There is nothing new under the sun. The {687} question we now 
discuss is the same under a new name which was discussed in the 
convention. A question of _power_ between states and general 
government and large and small states. What was lost in constituting 
is to be regained by construction. What _states_ refused to give up, 
is to be cozened out of their _agents_. In all the conventions 
however, our misguided ancestors considered the senate as the last 
remnant of the federative features of the old government, and that 
senators represented distinct sovereignties, and were on the footing 
of ambassadors or the members of the old congress as to their 
constituents, and only legislators as to the general government.[1]

[Footnote 1: Of this, abundant evidence may be adduced. _Mr. Ames_, in 
the Massachusetts convention, assigned the ambassadorial character of 
senators as a reason for the length of their term.

“The senators represent the _sovereignty_ of the states; in the other 
house individuals are represented. The senate may not originate bills. 
It need not be said that they are principally to direct the affairs of 
war and treaties. They are in the quality of _ambassadors_ of the 
states, and it will not be denied that some permanency in their office 
is necessary to a discharge of their duty. Now, if they were chosen 
yearly, how could they perform their trust? If they would be brought 
by that means more immediately under the influence of the people, then 
they will represent the _state legislature_ less, and become the 
representatives of individuals. This belongs to the other house. The 
absurdity of this, and its repugnancy to the federal principles of the 
constitution, will appear more fully, by supposing that they are to be 
chosen by the people at large. If there is any force in the objection 
to this article, this would be proper.

“But whom in that case would they represent? Not the legislatures of 
the states, but the people. This would totally obliterate the federal 
features of the constitution. What would become of the _state 
governments_, and on whom would devolve the duty of defending them 
against the encroachments of the federal government? A consolidation 
of the states would ensue, which it is conceded would subvert the new 
constitution, and against which this very article, so much condemned, 
is our best security. Too much provision cannot be made against a 
consolidation. The state governments represent the wishes and feelings 
and local interests of the people. They are the safeguard and ornament 
of the constitution—they will protract the period of our 
liberties—they will afford a shelter against the abuse of power, and 
will be the natural avengers of our violated rights.

“A very effectual check upon the power of the senate is provided. A 
third part is to retire from office every two years. By this means, 
while the senators are seated for six years they are admonished of 
their _responsibility to the state legislatures_. If one third new 
members are introduced, who feel the sentiments of their states, they 
will awe that third whose term will be near expiring. This article 
seems to be an excellence of the constitution, and affords just ground 
to believe that it will be in practice, as in theory, a _federal_ 
republic.”

The remarks of Mr. King in the _same convention_, upon the same 
subject, lead irresistibly to this conclusion, although it was 
attempted to be reasoned away by Judge H. in his first letter—“The 
senators,” said Mr. K. “will have a _powerful check_, in those men who 
wish for their seats, who will _watch_ their whole conduct in the 
general government, and will _give the alarm_ in case of misbehavior.” 
(This is one distinct check and Mr. K. proceeds.) “And the _state 
legislatures_, if they find _their delegates_ erring, can and will 
_instruct them. Will not this be a check?_ When they hear the voice of 
the people _solemnly dictating_ to them _their duty_, they will be 
bold men indeed to act _contrary to it_.” (This makes obedience a 
_duty_, and the boldness and hardihood not of that virtuous kind which 
the Judge supposes.) “These will not be instructions sent them in a 
private letter, which can be put in their pockets; they will be public 
instructions, which all the country will see; and they will be hardy 
men indeed to violate them.” (This seems to suppose meanness enough to 
violate secret instructions, but not audacity enough to violate them 
in the face of day.) “The honorable gentleman said, _the power to 
control the senate is as great as ever was enjoyed in any government;_ 
and that the members thereof will be found _not to be chosen for too 
long a time_. They are, says he, to assist the executive in the 
designation and appointment of officers; and they ought to have time 
to mature their judgment. If for a shorter period, how can they be 
acquainted with the rights and interests of nations, so as to _form 
advantageous treaties_?” If this is not our doctrine in full, we give 
it up. Here is length of term advocated, not to strengthen in 
disobedience, but to _mature judgment as to officers_, and _acquire 
information as to treaties_; but as to legislative proceedings, “if 
they are found erring, instruct them.” Instructions are given as the 
remedy for a term _too long_ for _legislators_, but necessary to 
enable them to execute properly their executive duties.

A similar view was taken by _Mr. Parsons_ of _Newburyport_, who 
thought “suitable checks had been provided to prevent an abuse of 
power, and to continue _their dependance on their constituents_.” _Mr. 
Neal_ asks, “If we should ratify the constitution and _instruct_ our 
first members to congress, &c. &c., is there not the highest 
probability that every thing which we wish may be effectually 
secured?” _Mr. Symmes_ finally withdrew his opposition, and would, 
“especially as the amendments were to be a _standing instruction_ to 
their _delegates_, until they were obtained, give it his unreserved 
assent.”

So in the _New York convention, Mr. Hamilton_ says, “It will be the 
interest of the large _states_ to increase the representation. This 
will be the _standing instruction_ to their delegates.” He then argues 
at length to prove that the will of the people must prevail over that 
of the members of congress, and thus speaks: “If the general voice of 
the people be for an increase, it undoubtedly must take place. They 
have it in their power _to instruct their representatives_; and the 
state legislatures, _which appoint the senators_, may _enjoin_ it also 
upon them.”

In the same convention, _Mr. Jay_ says, “The senate is to be composed 
of men appointed by the state legislatures: they will certainly choose 
those who are most distinguished for their general knowledge; I 
presume they will also _instruct them_; that there will be a _constant 
correspondence_ supported between the senators and the _state 
executive_, who will be able, from time to time, to afford them all 
that particular information which particular circumstances may 
require.” He seems to have considered senators in the light of 
_ambassadors_, and never to have contemplated the contingency of a 
state executive's refusing to send instructions to senators!

There was an attempt made in this convention to carry an amendment, 
making senators ineligible for more than six years in a term of 
twelve, and subjecting them to a power of recall, but it was 
negatived—its opponents alleging that the _states_ had as much power 
of _control_ as any constituents ought to have, or as the _people_ had 
in the other house, and that to render senators ineligible a second 
term would be highly impolitic—excluding useful and experienced 
citizens from office.

In the convention of _North Carolina, Mr. Davie_, in giving the 
reasons for the introduction of a vice president, says: “It was owing 
with other reasons, to the _jealousy_ of the _states_, and 
particularly to the extreme jealousy of the _lesser states_, of the 
power and influence of the larger members of the confederacy. It was 
in the senate that the several political interests of the _states_ 
were to be preserved, and where all their powers were to be perfectly 
balanced.” Hence, he concludes, the _casting vote_ ought to be in the 
hands of a man, possessing the confidence of all the states in a great 
degree, and responsible to no particular one.

In the _convention of Pennsylvania, Mr. Wilson_, in answer to the 
fears of some as to the _independence of senators_, says: “In the 
system before you, the senators, sir, those _tyrants that are to_ 
devour the legislatures of the states, are to be _chosen by the state 
legislatures themselves. Need any thing more be said on this subject?_ 
So far is the principle of each _state's retaining_ the power of 
self-preservation, from being weakened or endangered by the general 
government, that the convention went further, perhaps, than was 
strictly proper, in order to secure it; for in this second branch of 
the legislature, _each state_, without regard to its importance, is 
entitled to an _equal vote_.” Further on, he says: “The truth is, and 
it is a leading principle in this system, _that not the states only_, 
but _the people_ also shall be here represented.” Again: “_States_ now 
exist and others will come into existence; it was thought proper that 
they should be _represented_ in the general government.”

Such were the opinions of those who “assisted in framing the 
government;” but the idea now is, that senators _represent_ and 
protect, not their own states, but the whole union, even in opposition 
to the interest or safety, and expressed wishes of their states.]

One remark of Judge H. will finish our consideration of this portion 
of his letter. “This (right of instruction) {688} is practically to 
give the legislatures a power to recall their senators, as 
instructions may always be given, which _must be disobeyed by an 
honest man_.” Such could not be given by an _honest man_. This 
supposes a _majority_ of each legislature always dishonest, and ready 
to pass dishonest instructions, not to effect legislation, but merely 
to eject an _honest_ senator. What could induce this? only _one_ could 
take the place, and the rest must be prostrated, unless the people too 
be dishonest. A new election would place honest men in power, _they_ 
would give honest instructions to the dishonest senator, and by our 
rule he must obey and honest measures prevail, or give place to an 
honest man. So that the rule is likely to work as much good as harm in 
any contingency, unless honest men are necessarily corrupt state 
legislators, or a dishonest man an honest senator, or the _people_ 
thoroughly corrupt. If the latter is true, unless we could find an 
honest king, we must be content with a corrupt government.

In his former letter the Judge complained that there was no mention of 
this right in the constitution,[2] and now declares that “not a 
syllable can be found any where from any body which hints at this 
right.” I trust this popular periodical now bears many syllables from 
high authority having an “awful squinting” that way, and visible to 
the naked eye. But there is still higher evidence, not only of the 
knowledge of this right by our ancestors, but of the high value and 
sanctity of it in their estimation. It was incorporated into the first 
Virginia bill of rights, thence copied _verbatim_ by the Virginia 
convention on the federal constitution, in a bill of rights which that 
body proposed to attach to the federal constitution, and copied again 
_verbatim_ in the recommendations of amendments by the _North 
Carolina_ convention on the constitution.[3]

[Footnote 2: _Mr. Bowdoin_. “The whole constitution is a declaration 
of rights. The rights of _particular states_ and private citizens not 
being the object or subject of the constitution, they are only 
incidentally mentioned. In regard to the _former_, it would require _a 
volume_ to describe them, as they extend to every subject of 
legislation not included in the powers vested in congress.”—_Debates 
Massachusetts Convention_.]

[Footnote 3: See fifteenth article of Virginia bill of rights, _passed 
unanimously_ in the Virginia convention, _June 12th, 1776_, in these 
words. “XV. That _the people_ have a right peaceably to assemble 
together, to consult for the common good, _or to instruct their 
representatives_; and that _every freeman_ has a right to _petition_, 
or _apply_ to the legislature for redress of grievances.”

In Virginia convention on the federal constitution, Friday, 27th June, 
1788, _Mr. Wythe_, from the committee on amendments, reported the 
Virginia bill of rights, with this preamble, “That there be a bill of 
rights asserting and securing from encroachment the essential and 
unalienable rights of the people, in some such manner as the 
following.” (Here follows the bill, including the fifteenth article.) 
The same clause, with others, was carried in the North Carolina 
convention, by a vote of 184 to 84, the minority objecting to other 
clauses. This proves that the right was _known_ and _valued_, as a 
_natural_ and _unalienable_ right of the people, and of course the 
states when constituents, and considered a _different thing_ from 
_consultation_, _petition_, _advice_ or _remonstrance_. _Every 
freeman_ may _petition_ or _remonstrate_, but the _people_ must 
_instruct._]

JUDGE HOPKINSON “has not referred to the opinions of MR. BURKE, 
because the argument stands here on a different and stronger ground.” 
Yes, stronger—on our side. _First_, because states are represented _as 
such_, in their _sovereign capacity_; and apart from general 
representative principles, their ambassadorial character requires 
obedience. _Secondly_, because small districts elect for vast regions 
in England, and here power is equally distributed, for the avowed 
purpose of equal representation and protection. And _thirdly_, because 
in England a member of the House of Commons has no constitutional 
right of _resignation_; it is prohibited; and by our rule, he must 
there obey in _all cases_.

As to the _first_, even Blackstone admits that members of Parliament 
ought to obey if they represented separate communities, and did not 
serve for the whole realm. He says, “every member is chosen for the 
whole, and hence is not bound, like a deputy in the United Provinces, 
to consult his particular constituents.” But here they are elected for 
_states_, by analogy to the old congress and the diet of the United 
Provinces.[4] MR. HAMILTON says in the Federalist, (No. 9,) “The 
proposed constitution, so far from implying an abolition of the state 
governments, makes _them constituent parts of the national 
sovereignty, by allowing them a direct representation in the Senate_, 
and leaves to their possession certain exclusive and very important 
portions of sovereign power.” MR. MADISON says, in No. 45, “The _state 
governments_ may be regarded as _constituent_ and essential parts of 
the federal government.” MR. LANSING, who had been a member of the 
federal convention, said in the New York convention, “I believe it was 
undoubtedly _the intention of the framers of this constitution_ to 
make the lower house the proper, peculiar representative of the 
interests of the people—the senate of the _sovereignty of the 
states_.” For this reason he wished a power of recall to make them 
more dependent upon their states, “of whose independence it was 
_designed by the plan_ that they should be the bulwark, and check to 
the encroachments of the general government.” MR. SMITH, in the same 
convention, was also very apprehensive of senatorial disobedience, and 
advocated Mr. Lansing's amendment. He says, “with respect to the 
second part of the amendment, I would observe, that as the senators 
are the _representatives of the state legislatures_, it is reasonable 
and proper that they should be _under their control_. When _a state 
sends an agent_ commissioned to transact _any business_, or perform 
_any service_, it certainly ought to have a power to recall him.” I 
presume this authority, with that in a previous note, will 
sufficiently establish this point.

[Footnote 4: “In Switzerland and _Holland_ the different parties 
(states) send deputies, commissioned and _instructed_ by themselves, 
who debate, but have no other power than what is conferred only by the 
people, or may be subsequently given.” (_Harrington_, _Oceana_, 51.) 
This bears a close resemblance to the powers of the old congress.]

II. As to the second reason, it received sufficient consideration in 
my former number.[5]

[Footnote 5: _Judge Hopkinson_ is against _all instructions_, but 
thinks his reasoning stronger in the case of senators, because the 
right is not reserved. I am for _all instructions_, and especially 
those to senators, because of their character as ambassadors, 
representing sovereignty, and because it is a reserved state right, 
secured by our international compact, in which all is reserved which 
is not _given_, and in which a representation of sovereignties, as 
such, was insisted upon and yielded. But even as to popular 
instructions, the case is much stronger here than in England, for 
reasons intimated in my last. Lee us see how it has stood there, long 
before the reform bill, and long before the American {689} revolution 
brought up all the questions of representation and taxation for 
discussion and decision. In the most ancient times, when the 
connection between vassal and lord was very close, and the vassal had 
little to which the lord could not lay claim, the commons were 
considered as represented in the commune concilium, by the lords and 
great barons under whom they held; but the king's tenants _in capite_, 
holding _immediately_ from the crown, could not be considered, by the 
most liberal construction, as thus represented, and they were 
therefore admitted into parliament, in propria persona, in their own 
right. When these became too numerous thus to be admitted, they of 
their own accord, to avoid inconvenience, appeared by _proxy_. As the 
towns, cities, and boroughs began to receive incorporations, to grow 
in importance and wealth, especially personal property, an aliquot 
part of which was always granted, they too being unrepresented by the 
lords, were required to send _proxies_; and it was subsequently 
extended to knights for the shires, as the feudal fetters wore away. 
These _proxies_ had no power but that conferred by their constituents. 
(See Pettyt's Antient Right of the Commons of England, p. 14; 1 
Gordon's History of Parliament, 215)—(Lex Parliamentaria, 113 and 
117.) “And Note, If any new project was proposed in Parliament for 
raising subsidies or supplies, the commons usually replied thereto 
that they were not _instructed_ by their principals in that matter, or 
that they durst not consent to such tax, &c. without conference with 
their countries.” “And Note, Blackstone (Book I, 168) says, a member 
of the house of commons cannot vote by proxy, because ‘he is himself 
but a _proxy_ of a multitude of other people.’” Representation in the 
Parliament of _Scotland_ went through a similar process. (See Lord 
Somers' Tracts, vol. 12, p. 610.) In the seventh parliament of the 
reign of James the First of Scotland, (1427) “the small barons were 
allowed to send commissioners, and were charged with the fees of their 
deputies,” and this was the first instance of _elective_ members to 
the Scottish parliament.

In Burgh's Political Disquisitions, (London, 1774) the American 
doctrine in its most rigorous extent is found applied in full vigor to 
members of parliament, and sustained by an abundant series of 
precedents from the earliest times, and quotations of the strongest 
language from members of Parliament in sustaining the duty of 
obedience, and the advice and opinions of the best English authors, to 
the same purport. (See vol. I, from p. 180 to 205—many instances of 
instruction and obedience against the sentiments of the 
representative, a few of which are in _Mr. Leigh's_ report of 1812.)

In the _Irish_ parliament, which met in November 1767, there was 
scarcely a town or county which had not instructed its representative 
to vote in favor of a limitation of their parliaments to seven years; 
and so eager were they, that all required the most positive 
assurances, and some even exacted an _oath_ from their members to vote 
for the bill. The bill was passed, and its subsequent history affords 
a curious instance of legislative cunning and popular firmness. (See 
London Magazine, 1768, p. 131.)

In the session of 1733-4, (An. 7, Geo. II) _Sir William Wyndham_, in 
the house of commons, in a speech on _Mr. Bromley's_ motion for 
repealing the septennial act, said of an opinion of _Mr. Willes_, 
(afterwards chief justice) of a character very similar to that 
advanced by _Judge Hopkinson_, (to wit: “After we are chosen, and have 
taken our seats in this house, we have no longer any dependance upon 
our electors, at least so far as regards our behavior here; their 
whole power is then devolved upon us, and we are in every question to 
regard only the public good in general, and to determine according to 
our own judgment. If we do not—if we are to depend upon our 
representatives, and to follow blindly the _instructions_ they send 
us, we cannot be said to act freely, nor can such parliaments be 
called free parliaments. Such a dependance would be more dangerous 
than a dependance upon the crown”)—that it was “not only a _new_ 
doctrine, but it was the _most monstrous_, the _most slavish_ doctrine 
that ever was heard, and such a doctrine as he hoped no man would 
_ever dare_ to support within those walls. He was persuaded that the 
learned gentleman _did not mean_ what the words he happened to use 
seemed to import—for though the people of a county, city or borough 
may be misled, and may be induced to give instructions which are 
contrary to the true interest of their country, yet he hoped he would 
allow that in times past the crown has oftener been misled; and we 
must conclude that it was more apt to be misled in future, than we can 
suppose the people to be.” (See Com. Debates VIII, pp. 172, 188. The 
whole debate might be read with advantage by many modern 
_republicans_.) Here, whatever right the crown had to control 
parliament, is vested in the legislatures as to senators, and the 
people as to legislatures, as they are sovereigns; hence, whether whig 
or tory rule prevails, we ought to have the right of instruction.

The immortal _Sidney_, in his discourses on government, goes to the 
full extent of our present doctrines. “Many in all ages, and sometimes 
the whole body of the commons, have refused to give their opinion in 
some cases till they had consulted with those that sent them; the 
houses have been often adjourned to give them time to do it; and if 
this were done more frequently, or that the towns, cities and counties 
had on some occasions given _instructions_ to their deputies, matters 
would probably have _gone better_ in parliament than they have often 
done.” He seems satisfied with subsequent rejection as sufficient 
punishment for violation of duty, but does not hence infer that there 
are no duties. “Whensoever any of them has the misfortune not to 
satisfy the major part of _those that chose him_, he is sure to be 
rejected _with disgrace_ the next time he shall desire to be chosen. 
This is not only a sufficient punishment of such faults, as he who is 
one of five hundred may probably commit, but as much as the greatest 
and freest people of the world did ever inflict upon their commanders 
that brought the greatest losses upon them.” (Discourses on 
Government, section 38.) This rejection from office is the only 
punishment provided by our constitution in cases of impeachment of the 
highest officers.

Quotations might be multiplied, but “this little taste shall suffice.” 
It must be remembered that these doctrines prevailed under a 
constitution which allowed of no resignation, and where fifty-six 
members (or about a ninth part of the English representation) were 
elected by only three hundred and sixty-four votes—where _one man_ 
sent a representative from _Sarum_, and one from _Newton_, and _two_ 
sent one from _Marlborough_—and the elective franchise was so 
unequally and unjustly distributed, that parliament never truly 
represented the wealth, population, or wishes of all England, or any 
section, or even a single election district, or any class of persons 
or property, unless the representatives of the single freeholders of 
Newton and Sarum constituted an exception! When our “_novel doctrine_, 
conjured up for party purposes,” has prevailed there _time out of 
mind_, who shall deny its propriety here? Lords have proxies, and may 
instruct them, though the absent principals may be gambling in 
Brussels, or revelling in Parisian debauchery, and neither hear or 
read the debates; shall that be denied to the majesty of the people 
which is yielded to the dignity of a half fledged lordling, sunk in 
vices which disgrace the human character?]

III. If any thing could render a relaxation of our rule tolerable in 
England, it would be that feature of their constitution which will not 
permit resignation. As that constitution “will not intend a wrong,” it 
must suppose constituents utterly incapable of giving instructions 
“which no honest man can obey”—and it must hold a member entirely 
irresponsible, morally and legally, for a vote in obedience to them. 
Such is the fact, and this arrangement prevents that possibility of 
the defeat of their wishes by resignation, which the judge so much 
deprecates, and which he sets up as a reason or excuse for wilful 
disobedience. This absence of a constitutional privilege of 
resignation renders members, when once elected, indebted entirely to 
the courtesy of the crown for their escape from their seats when 
disagreeable. Another feature of their constitution makes the 
acceptance of office under the crown, (except a few offices of state) 
_ipso facto_ vacate a seat in parliament. Hence we often hear of 
gentlemen's accepting the Chiltern Hundreds.[6]

[Footnote 6: “A member when duly elected, is not only compelled to 
serve in parliament, but he cannot at any future period either resign 
his seat or be expelled from the house except by some legal 
disqualification. In order, therefore, to meet the views of those 
members who may wish to resign their seats, it has been the practice, 
ever since the year 1750, for such members to accept {690} the office 
of steward of the Chiltern Hundreds, which being an appointment under 
the crown, their seats are of necessity vacated. The office, however, 
is a merely nominal one. The stewards who accept it desire neither 
honor nor emolument from it, the only salary attached to the 
appointment being twenty shillings a year. The Chiltern Hundreds are 
districts in Buckinghamshire belonging to the crown. The appointment 
to the office of the steward of these Hundreds is vested in the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer, who, as a matter of course, grants it to 
every member who applies for it.”—_Random Recollections of the House 
of Commons_.

“On the 2d of March, 1623, (!) it is agreed, That a man, after he is 
duly chosen, cannot relinquish.”

See this and other precedents, and the reasons for the principle on 
which this part of the parliamentary constitution stands, collected in 
“Volume II of Hatsell's Proceedings and Precedents in the House of 
Commons.” The rule is firmly established, but thus easily evaded when 
inconvenient.]

In England no one seems to have objected to this right, that it cannot 
be enforced, or disobedient delegates punished, although there, 
delegates may alter or refuse to alter the constitution itself, in 
despite of their constituents—still less is the want of power to 
recall, or the length of term urged against it. If this last was a 
sound reason, then it would follow that members of the old parliaments 
were bound to obey, but not those elected since the septennial act! 
That is, the stronger the reason for the right the weaker it becomes, 
which militates against every principle of British law.

The sublime and eloquent BURKE appeared before the electors of Bristol 
in all the proud consciousness of lofty virtue and commanding 
intellect. But strip his arguments of the gilded cloud of drapery 
flung around them by the magic of his fancy, and his sophistry, naked, 
unadorned, loses half its force by losing all its beauty.[7] The most 
powerful and legitimate argument he uses, applies only to the 
expediency of disobedience in that particular case, and if his facts 
were correct, ought to have excused him, if such an offence can ever 
be excused. “Was I not to foresee, or foreseeing, was I not to 
endeavor to save you from all these multiplied mischiefs and 
disgraces.” He then artfully asks, if the “little, silly canvass 
prattle of obedience to instructions would save them from the ‘pelting 
of the pitiless storm.’” Thus presenting them only the awful 
_alternatives_ of _destruction_ or disobedience, and appealing to 
subsequent _developements_ to prove that disobedience was their 
preservation. By placing it in this position, he ventures to ridicule 
instructions. His next best argument also applied only to special 
cases. He appeals to “near two years tranquillity” to prove that “the 
late horrible spirit was in a great measure the effect of insidious 
art, and perverse industry, and gross misrepresentation.” In a word, 
any thing but the deliberate sense of the people. From this it seems 
the people ought not to be tranquil under insult, or their deliberate 
will may be mistaken for a “fashionable gale.” After thus fortifying 
himself by all the strength which his ingenuity and eloquence could 
give to his own peculiar position, he ventures to fire his gilded shot 
at the sacred citadel. He contends that if the “dislike had been much 
more deliberate, and much more general than it was,” he ought not to 
make the “opinions of the greatest multitudes the masters of his 
conscience,” unless they “were the standard of rectitude,” which was 
not expected of him. All they asked was, in a question of expediency, 
that he would substitute their judgment for his own. He doubts if 
“Omnipotence itself can alter the essential constitution of right and 
wrong,” much less such _things_ as his constituents and himself. This 
was pretty gilding for their chains merely. They never attempted to 
alter the constitution of right and wrong, but to judge the one from 
the other; and the question was not between them and Omnipotence, but 
the electors of Bristol and the “sublime and beautiful” BURKE.

[Footnote 7: “And vice itself loses half its evil by losing all its 
grossness.”—[Reflections on the French Revolution.]]

He next contends that the delegate owes his _judgment_ as well as his 
exertions to his constituents—which is true—and the debt is paid when 
they ask to set aside his judgment for theirs. He admits the delegate 
should sacrifice his _will_ to his constituents, but that government 
is a matter of judgment and of reason—not of inclination; and asks, 
“What sort of reason is that in which the determination precedes the 
discussion—one set of men deliberate, and another decide—and where 
those who form the conclusion are perhaps three hundred miles distant 
from those who hear the arguments?” I might ask what sort of a will is 
this conceded, which is never to prevail? Can there be no reason or 
judgment—no discussion—no deliberation—no arguments out of parliament? 
Can the people neither talk, or think, or read? This argument wholly 
falls, when the instructions are given, after both popular and 
parliamentary discussion has spread all the light upon the subject 
through the country.

Now what remains of MR. BURKE'S great defence of disobedience? His 
arguments all go to expediency in particular cases, and not the 
_right_, when stript of the difficulties he throws around its 
exercise. Take him from his position, and strip him of his gorgeous 
and dazzling armor, and he must stand a pigmy confessed before all, as 
he was before the electors of BRISTOL.

JUDGE HOPKINSON finds fault with MR. TYLER for resignation. “He had 
sworn to support and defend the constitution against _wrong from any 
quarter_,” and he violated his duty and his oath, it seems, by 
resigning. “Where is the difference,” he indignantly exclaims, 
“between the sentinel who turns his own arms upon the citadel he was 
bound to defend, and one who gives up his trust to the _enemy_, that 
he may do the work of ruin which the conscience of the latter 
forbids.” The difference is rather between the sentinel who, being 
ordered to shoot a traitor brother from the battlements, turns and 
kills his commander—and one who, with the same orders, retires with 
leave from the service, and suffers another to do what affection for a 
brother, or perhaps participation in his designs, will not permit him 
to accomplish.

This new theory makes every resigning senator responsible for _all_ 
(or none) of the unconstitutional acts of his successor. MR. TYLER 
must bear MR. RIVES' expunging sins, to avoid which he resigned; MR. 
LEIGH must suffer if his successor establishes a bank or other form of 
monarchy; MR. TAZEWELL is responsible for MR. RIVES' vote on the force 
bill, and MR. RIVES for MR. LEIGH'S vote censuring the President, to 
escape which he resigned. Political parties have been censuring the 
wrong men. This new light, like an ignis fatuus, will lead them into a 
direction opposite to the one they wish to pursue. The incumbent is 
never {691} responsible when his predecessor has resigned. Resignation 
in a senator is at all times as criminal as desertion of his post by a 
sentinel, and when he is succeeded by a senator of different opinions 
(which he cannot prevent) it is equivalent to treason. To what a 
labyrinth of error are we led, by forcing reason to follow a foregone 
conclusion?

Let us examine it. Because senators are sworn to protect and defend 
the constitution, if they quit their posts and thus make room for 
another who may, or certainly will violate it, they themselves violate 
their oaths, their duty and the constitution. These are Judge H.'s 
premises. But Mr. Tyler's resignation was of such a character, 
therefore he violated the constitution. But any senator who will ever 
violate that instrument is not a fit guardian for it, and ought 
instantly to resign. Mr. Tyler did so, therefore he ought to have 
resigned. Then his resignation was right because it was wrong!

Again. Mr. T. violated the constitution by resigning—not by the act 
itself, but by enabling Mr. Rives to do it; but the guilt could only 
be incurred by one person, by one vote, and as Mr. T. had clearly 
incurred the guilt by a previous act, Mr. R. was innocent. But if Mr. 
R. did not violate the constitution, and Mr. T.'s guilt depended upon 
that, he too is innocent, and _there was no violation because there 
was no violation!_ But any reasoning which makes a man both right and 
wrong, or the constitution not violated because it is violated, must 
be intelligible and acceptable to those who make two persons who come 
to “opposite conclusions upon the same case” both right, and only 
infer from the difference that some one else is wrong!

Who shall be impeached—who punished under this new doctrine? 
Resignation is not unconstitutional, but is made criminal by an ex 
post facto act. As the subsequent acts could not be committed without 
the resignation, all the guilt attaches to the resigning member. 
Neither MR. RIVES or MR. LEIGH can thus commit any sin in propria 
persona. MR. TYLER sins in MR. RIVES, and MR. RIVES is responsible, 
not for his own acts, but those of MR. LEIGH. This is a roundabout 
responsibility with a vengeance, which makes no one responsible until 
he resigns, and is beyond the reach of impeachment.

But upon the Judge's own grounds, what better argument could be 
offered against senatorial infallibility, than this violation of the 
constitution by Mr. Tazewell, Mr. R. and Mr. T. and the promise to 
violate it by MR. LEIGH? Four successive _guardians_ of the state have 
betrayed their trust. They have deserted their posts, and left the 
constitution at the mercy of the legislatures, as “a rag floating upon 
the winds.” What can the legislatures do when thus left unchecked, 
unguarded, and the constitution a prey “to wild democracy?” The high 
criminality of the senators is enhanced by the fact that he is 
instructed by “a majority of six or eight out of one or two hundred, 
and he knows a large proportion of the majority to be men of little 
knowledge, of strong passions and prejudices, with a servile adherence 
to party purposes—men whom he would not regard in any concern of his 
own of the value of a dollar,” and in the minority he knows all to be 
eminent statesmen. Of what a stupendous violation of duty are these 
men guilty? They leave the state and the statesmen a prey to these 
vile demagogues in a new election, which the stupid constitution has 
put it into their power to make, without the guardian care and saving 
disobedience of some kind senator to protect us from their rashness. 
The more the Judge exaggerates the crime, the less worthy he makes the 
guardian; the more frequent the offence, the less infallible the 
senatorial wisdom and virtue. If senators commit these high crimes, 
they ought to be controlled by the ordinary guardians of the state—the 
legislature. We have now had this crime committed by a senator of each 
party in each manner, and promised by a third. Mr. R. resigned when 
first instructed by this wicked majority, and Messrs. Tyler and Leigh 
_obeyed_. The second time MR. TYLER resigned, and MR. LEIGH promised 
to resign, and MR. RIVES obeyed. When senators thus differ, what has 
become of the firmness and guardian care and infallibility which was 
to protect us? Which shall we follow? One or other of the two has in 
every instance, by this theory, violated the constitution. How shall 
we act? They are right and we are wrong, but how can we avail 
ourselves of the superior wisdom they have developed? What 
complexity—what difficulty—what a mass of error and confusion in the 
legislatures—what a waste of inexplicable and incongruous wisdom on 
the part of senators! Oh that our short-sighted ancestors had so 
ordered it that the guardian should instruct the ward, instead of the 
reverse!

This doctrine of non-resignation for fear a successor should violate 
the constitution, assumes that immediately after a senatorial 
election, a majority of each legislature becomes and must continue 
knaves or fools. It operates with much more force against a new 
election than instructions. It proves that senators ought to hold 
office for life; that all legislatures after the first have been 
incompetent, and all to come will be incompetent, from want of honesty 
and discretion to elect senators. But as it is admitted by all to be 
the best body for that purpose, and was selected as such by the 
convention, it follows that no body, since the first senate perhaps, 
ever has been or can be competent to elect senators. The state 
legislatures can only be incompetent because the _people_ want honesty 
or capacity enough to elect men capable of electing senators. _A 
fortiori_ are they not sufficiently honest or capable to elect 
presidential electors, or the house of representatives, which are even 
more important. The government must lapse into anarchy because there 
is not sufficient honesty or capacity in it to govern it. And it must 
continue so, because an ignorant and corrupt people without a 
government cannot better their condition. Nor can any form of 
hereditary government be established, because it is absurd to say that 
_chance_ is a better guide than the simplest reason; and where the 
wisdom of all combined is not sufficient, it is absurd to look for 
greater wisdom in a _few_ or in _one_. Thus it seems to me that a 
denial of the right of instruction is not only inconsistent with a 
representative government, but the reasons on which it is founded are 
inconsistent with any government.

MR. TYLER admits our principle and says he would obey, but for 
constitutional scruples, but having these he resigns. This seems a 
simple, intelligible, respectful course; but Judge H. “whose political 
metaphysics surpass my understanding,” loses himself in a labyrinth of 
doubt and obscurity. He says in effect “I will do as I please,” makes 
the matter simple enough. All {692} despotisms are simple, and simple 
people submit to them. “Obey or resign” is not too complicated to be 
understood by men as enlightened as senators ought to be, and seems 
more suitable language between masters and servants. He creates a new 
difficulty by making senators not enlightened, but simpletons, groping 
in the dark in each case, to know whether they must obey _or_ resign. 
All such should resign at once, for Judge H.'s theory is based only 
upon exalted wisdom, and cannot save him, if he is a “simple 
novitiate” seeking a _rule_ to guide him in a plain duty. He would be 
a “simple novitiate” indeed who would inquire “what legislature he 
should obey.” Common sense would seem to say the question only arises 
upon the instructions actually before him in all cases, and he could 
not obey a legislature which did not instruct, or instructed last 
year, or forty years ago, or may instruct forty years or a month 
hence. I cannot see where the Judge finds authority for his “playing 
for the rubber, or taking his chance for a third heat,” (as he 
facetiously remarks, “_especially in Virginia_,”) unless the senator 
has second sight, and then the argument proves that he ought to obey, 
not only promptly, but _a year in advance_. But it is better to _count 
out with honors_ and gain _his points_, than run the risque of losing 
by this _odd trick_.

The strangest perversion runs through these comments upon Mr. Tyler's 
course. The firmness before required is forgotten. The senator must 
disobey if he finds great men against his constituents—the opinion of 
a JAMES MADISON, or even a disappointed minority of his own 
constituents, if _in his opinion_, possessed of more intellect than 
the majority, may be obeyed in preference. A majority of constituents 
seems to be the only body, to be utterly disregarded.

But the leaning on authority is not yet sufficient; we are to be 
defeated not only by _concurrence_, but _difference of opinion_, as 
the following paragraph proves:

“I cannot refrain from remarking that these gentlemen, (Messrs. Tyler 
and Leigh,) both professing to maintain the true and orthodox 
doctrines of ‘Instruction,’ and exerting their powerful and cultivated 
intellects to explain them through many a labored column, at last 
bring themselves to opposite conclusions on the same case. Is it 
possible to give a more impressive illustration and evidence of the 
fallacy of the whole faith than that two such men, both indoctrinated 
in the same school, should, when brought to the practical application 
of their principles, so differ about their import and obligation?”

I should humbly conceive it proved the fallacy of that faith which 
holds that a senator cannot be wrong. Two senators “come to opposite 
conclusions upon the same case,” and it proves not as simple mortals 
would suppose, that _one_ must be wrong, but that the _legislature_ is 
wrong. If _their difference_ only proves error in some one else, we 
cannot wonder at the vast estimation in which senators are held by 
their admirers. But their difference is not so great as supposed. One 
says I cannot obey, and, therefore, I resign now; the other says you 
want me to resign, but I will not now, but at the beginning of next 
session. Here is the same conclusion from the same case. Mr. Leigh 
postponed, but why will he resign at last? He gives no reason, but the 
instructions, and no one has suggested any other. He must resign on 
account of the disagreeable feelings produced by the peculiar position 
of being a misrepresenting representative. Those feelings are required 
and expected by our theory in the bosoms of all conscientious 
senators. So even the difference which was to destroy us, is one of 
_time_—not of _principle_. As to the argument that some of the voters 
of last year gave contrary instructions the year before, if true,—it 
does not prove them less worthy of respect now than then,—indeed, the 
last being the more deliberate, is the more worthy opinion; and as Mr. 
Tyler obeyed the first, _a fortiori_ he was bound to obey the last, or 
resign.

I have done. Long as I have been with you, I have only touched the 
most striking points. There are two documents which would have shed 
light upon the obscurest part of this subject, I mean the letter of 
ELDRIDGE GERRY to the Massachusetts convention, on the constitution of 
the senate, and JAMES MADISON'S history of the constitution, and 
debates of the convention. These were inaccessible, but whenever 
examined they must confirm the views taken here. Though the Sun of 
Montpelier has sunk in glory, below the horizon, it will thence shed a 
brilliant but mellowed light upon its noon-day track, and mystic 
truths so long hidden by its dazzling brilliancy, may be read by its 
milder rays, engraven in letters of gold upon the imperishable arch of 
Heaven. We must abide the coming of that time in mute faith, confiding 
in what we have already learned from Moses and the prophets; but, if 
it be no profanity to quote the sacred founder of our religious faith 
in defence of our hallowed constitution, I would say, “If they hear 
not Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded, though one 
rose from the dead.”

ROANE.




'TIS THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER.


  'Tis the last day of Summer,
    Now fading away,
  As behind yon blue mountain,
    The sun hides its ray;
  And the low breeze is sighing,
    So chilly and drear,
  That, methinks, the wood whispers,
    Stern Autumn is near!

  'Tis the last day of Summer,
    And sad is the smile,
  That now lights up the gloom,
    Where it lingers awhile;
  Whilst the cloud that is wreathing,
    So gaily the west,
  But reveals by its brightness,
    The tempest's dark crest.

  'Tis the last day of Summer,
    And fleet as its ray
  Hath departed, so fleetly,
    Doth life speed away!
  But beyond _this drear gloom_,
    Is a resting place given,
  Where the spirit shall bask,
    In the summer of Heaven.

T. J. S.

_Frederick County, Aug. 31st, 1836_.


{693}


THE LEARNED LANGUAGES.


The youthful votary of knowledge, naturally infirm of purpose, is ever 
prone to despond and falter in a pursuit the utility of which is not 
immediate and palpable; yet he listens with amiable credulity to the 
matured in judgment and the ripe in scholarship. It should therefore 
be the duty and pride of such to cheer onward the ingenuous, even in 
those studies whose inceptive difficulties alarm him. Hence we read 
with feelings of regret and surprise an article in the August number 
of the Messenger, from the pen of Mathew Carey, Esq., the inevitable 
tendency of which will be to discourage students of the Classics, and 
to diminish the estimation, already too low, in which they are held in 
the south. We should be deterred from entering the list against a name 
so imposing, and one which deserves so well of his adopted countrymen, 
if we did not reflect that the inherent strength and self-tenability 
of a good cause greatly outweigh the most splendid abilities in 
sustaining a bad one. _Magna est veritas et prævalebit._ So thus we 
hurl our white pebble from the river of Truth at the forehead of 
Goliah.

Before we rush in _medias res_, permit us to premise that, if we chose 
to decide this question with Mr. Carey by a preponderance of 
authorities, the rich libraries of our university would supply an 
array of illustrious names as long as that of John Lackland's barons. 
But reason and experience shall be our only authorities, than which 
there are none greater, not even Locke or Carey.

The universality of the study of the dead languages is objected to. “A 
young Englishman, unless he goes to the University of Cambridge, has 
scarcely a notion that there is any other kind of excellence.” But one 
would suppose that the practice of studying them by all enlightened 
nations, for so many centuries, ought to be conclusive evidence of 
their utility; because mankind are so much influenced by interest, 
that they are ever ready to abandon whatever does not promote it. Our 
opponents, however, tell us that they were engrafted into seminaries 
of learning in ages less enlightened than the present—that such is the 
force of prejudice and custom, they have been continued as a course of 
education despite their many disadvantages. Is this true? Have not 
mankind long since shaken off their idolatrous veneration for 
antiquity? The whole cumbrous and chaotic mass of feudal error has 
fallen before the full blaze of modern discoveries and improvements. 
But modern reformers and experimentalists, in removing the rubbish of 
ignorance, and the rust of antiquity from literary institutions, 
spared the languages in which Mæonides and Maro bequeathed to 
posterity models more potent for inspiring genius than all the waters 
of Castalia, in which Demosthenes and Cicero gave utterance to 
sentiments which, even at this distant day, have impelled many to 
deeds of noblest patriotism. Spared did we say? They have done more; 
they have recommended redoubled attention to them. It is a fact, that 
the learned languages are more extensively cultivated now than at any 
former period, and that too by utilitarian and practical Englishmen—by 
intellectual and acute Germans—by scientific Frenchmen—by economical, 
pence-counting Scotchmen, in the teeth of opponents, powerful, gifted, 
active. If they are worthy of so much attention in Europe, _a 
fortiori_, they are worthy of it here, for the obvious reason that, 
breathing as they do the spirit of liberty and republicanism, they 
furnish ideas more congenial and valuable to that form of government 
in which these principles are recognized, than to an oppressive one, 
where Brutus is stigmatized as a murderer, and the burning words of 
the two mighty scourges of tyranny regarded as dangerous food for 
popular lips. In a free country eloquence is the lever that heaves the 
body politic. In the Classics the purest models are found. Hence we 
infer that they are the appropriate study of American youth, and that 
it would be our highest glory to outstrip Europe in a knowledge of 
them, as we have already done in the science of government.

In reply to the argument that the languages consume too much time from 
the acquisition of English, we assume high ground, and lay down the 
predicate that the study of them is the shortest, best and easiest way 
to learn English. This idea will be illustrated by attending to the 
_modus operandi_ of teaching. Before a student can acquire the idea 
contained in the simplest sentence of a dead language, he must 
ascertain the English meaning of every word in it; and before he can 
render it correctly, he must study into what English moods, tenses, 
and cases the words of his translation are to be put. If he do not 
this, he will be liable to render a Latin or Greek imperfect by an 
English future, and vice versa; hence it is evident that he must have 
not only his classical books, but that an English Grammar, a 
Geography, and a Dictionary must be ever at his side. Take an 
illustration. The crude, disarranged sentence, “vinco Scipio Hannibal 
in Africa,” and the English translation, (Scipio conquered Hannibal in 
Africa) are given him to reduce to good Latin, and to explain the 
three proper names. To do this he must refer to his English Grammar, 
to find in what mood, tense, number, person and voice the verb 
“conquered” is, and then take up the English books containing the 
required information concerning Scipio, Hannibal and Africa: thus, in 
correcting this short sentence, learning, perhaps, more of English 
Grammar, Geography, and History, than of Latin. We are persuaded that 
nine-tenths of our southern teachers will tell Mr. Carey, that in 
their schools, consisting of Classical and English students, the Latin 
scholars are the better English scholars—that they are the better 
writers and speakers, the more cheerful and industrious, the more 
influential with their fellows, and that they require in their studies 
a larger number of English books than the other.

But if we are answered by Mr. Carey that he did not mean to assert 
that the verbal and grammatical knowledge of English which has been 
shown to be the result of the study of the Classics was lost thereby, 
but that knowledge of a higher order, science and literature were 
sacrificed to them, we have a reply ready at hand, which obviates this 
objection, viz: that they are chiefly studied at that infantile period 
of the intellect, when common sense teaches that it is not prepared to 
comprehend either the abstrusities of Mathematics, the minutiæ of 
Chymistry, or the mysteries of Philosophy. To require so much of mere 
tyros, is as absurd as to exact of one of tender years and feeble 
frame the labors of a Hercules. Mr. Carey need not be afraid that the 
nascent stage of the mind above referred to, will be {694} left 
without its appropriate food, even if the sciences are forbidden to 
it. It is an established principle of the present day to educate the 
faculties in the order of their development. In the spring time of 
existence, Memory is the first to put forth its buds; and therefore, 
in accordance with the truism just laid down, should receive the 
earliest culture. What is more proper for this purpose than getting by 
rote the simple rules of Grammar, tracing out and remembering the 
definitions of words, and passing from author to author in the order 
of their difficulties? In thus proceeding from what is easy to what is 
comparatively difficult, the student would be obeying a law both of 
reason and nature; his mental powers would be gradually invigorated 
and expanded, until he would be prepared to enter with greater 
probability of success on the dreaded path of Mathematics and 
Philosophy; for the derivation and composition of their abstract and 
scientific terms, would in many cases instantaneously and perfectly 
suggest their meaning to the Classical scholar, whilst the English one 
would be compelled to learn them laboriously and imperfectly from 
English Dictionaries. It is this happy fitness of ancient languages to 
that period of youth which, without them, would want a proper object 
of study, that gives to them a crowning pre-eminence over every other 
substitute.

We will now examine that extraordinary argument by which Mr. Carey 
attempts to prove that too much time is consumed in the study of 
languages, even in those few cases in which he would tolerate them at 
all. Here it is. “That lads of moderate capacity, and no very 
extraordinary application, frequently acquire the French language in 
twelve or eighteen months,” &c. Again—“That the Latin language is not 
more difficult than the French—indeed I believe not so difficult.” 
From these _petitiones pricipii_, he draws the _non sequitur_ 
conclusion, “that it's an error to consume three, four, five or six 
years in the attainment of the Latin.” Now every person at all 
acquainted with Philology, knows that foreign language to be easiest 
to himself which bears the greatest resemblance to his vernacular 
tongue in its structure, syntax, the sequence of its words in 
sentences, and the identity or similarity of many of its terms with 
corresponding ones in his own language. It will be evident to any 
individual, that in these particulars the French resembles our 
language much more than the Latin. If he will only reflect, the whole 
intricate machinery of declensions and conjugations, which constitutes 
one of the greatest difficulties of ancient languages, is almost 
entirely wanting in the French, and indeed in all modern languages. 
Here I cannot do better than to quote the words of that elegant 
rhetorician, Dr. Blair. “There is no doubt that in abolishing cases, 
we have rendered the structure of modern languages more simple. We 
have disembarrassed it of the intricacy which arose from the different 
forms of declension. We have thereby rendered modern languages more 
easy to be acquired, and less subject to the perplexity of rules.” 
Again, in a subsequent chapter, he says, “Language (modern) has 
undergone a change in conjugation perfectly similar to that which I 
showed it underwent with respect to declension; the consequence was 
the same as that of abolishing declensions; it rendered language 
(modern) more simple and easy.” But the proof of the pudding is in the 
eating; so the universal practice among teachers of giving much longer 
French than Latin lessons, to be prepared in the same given time, is 
conclusive of the more easy attainment of the former. Most opportunely 
for the tenability of our argument, while we were preparing this 
article, an intelligent student of the University stated to us that he 
found he was making very little progress in French, and could assign 
no reason for it, unless it was because French is so easy that it does 
not take hold upon and engage the mind. But Mr. Carey would not only 
limit the time during which the ancient languages ought to be studied; 
he goes a good deal farther in his hostility to them, by advising that 
they should be studied even during the short period of twelve or 
eighteen months through the medium of translations. Now simply to 
state that this plan would utterly destroy that strengthening of the 
memory, disciplining of the mind, and refining of the taste, which 
languages are known to afford, is to prove its absurdity. If his plan 
should recommend itself to public adoption, the friends of Classical 
literature would abandon its defence in despair. The followers in any 
vocation are the best authority in the world in relation to the 
vocation, whether they be statesmen, teachers, or shoemakers. The 
united voice of teachers denounces translations as ruinous to the 
minds and habits of their pupils; hence they are regarded as 
contraband commodities, and as such, lawful confiscations to the 
dominion of Vulcan. These labor-saving machines of the mind, like 
those in mechanics, engender habits of idleness, by shortening the 
time and toil of accomplishing a task, smoothing the way, leaving the 
student nothing to elaborate for himself, until his mind is reduced to 
a state of wretched imbecility and servile dependence. Can a mind thus 
educated be prepared to make nice discriminations, to trace effect to 
cause, to winnow away the chaff of error from the golden grains of 
truth and wisdom? Even the little gained in this way is 
evanescent—takes no root in the memory. To look for enduring and 
accurate knowledge from him, would be as unreasonable as to expect a 
correct description of a country from one who flies through it in a 
steam car. But we might give up all that has yet been said about 
translations, and still maintain our argument against them, upon the 
ground that they do not express the meaning of the translated authors. 
At least the fire, spirit, enthusiasm are squeezed out and 
_skeletonized_ in dull, vapid, prosaic copies. And is not this the 
case with all translations? Have not the French vainly essayed to 
translate Milton and Shakspeare? Are not their abortive attempts 
miserable caricatures? What becomes of the halo of glory which the 
ancient artists threw around the forms of Apollo Belvidere, and the 
Venus de Medicis, when copied—of the coloring of Titian, the sublimity 
of Claude, and the grandeur of Raphael, when attempted to be 
transferred to the canvass of some impotent imitator? Gone! Why should 
we contemplate Homer and Virgil through those smoked glasses, 
translations, when we can do it in the bright mirror of their own 
languages? There remains yet another disadvantage of studying ancient 
authors by translations. They cannot infuse that self-sacrificing 
patriotism, that high moral, and almost romantic elevation of 
character, which even Mr. Carey admits the poets of antiquity have a 
tendency to create. These virtues must be contemplated, turned and 
{695} returned in the mind, as they are portrayed in the originals—not 
conned from “Horace's three hundred and seventeen lines introduced 
into the Latin primer, to illustrate the rules of Grammar.”

But if Mr. Carey cannot argue down the ancient languages, he will 
frighten parents from putting their sons to the study of them, and the 
sons from studying, by asking, “how many years of life are spent in 
learning—how much labor, pain, and imprisonment are endured by the 
body—how much anxious drudgery by the master—how many habits are 
formed of reluctance to regular employment, and how——” and the rest of 
the bugbears. Oh, how will the preceding paragraph be hailed as 
pregnant with wisdom by all our vigorous, idle, southern youth, who 
long for more time out of school, to hunt, fish, and scamper over the 
broad, umbrageous Campus. If Mr. Carey only knew the quantity of swine 
and pancakes devoured by our students at a meal, and then behold them 
rush to their sports, and jump twelve feet in the “clear,” he would 
never again say that Latin kills boys. There might be some truth in 
the assertion contained in the quotation now before us, if predicated 
of German seminaries, where we are told the youth frequently study 
fourteen hours out of the twenty-four. But let any one carefully 
examine the pupils of an American academy, and he will be convinced 
that they enjoy more happiness, health, and leisure than any other 
class of the community. This fact is farther proven by the common 
observation of educated men, that their school-boy days were the 
happiest of their whole life, and that they never pass a group of 
students, and witness the joyous outpourings of youthful feelings, 
without envy. There is no royal road to learning. It is admitted that 
the languages are not to be acquired without labor—hard labor. Is this 
an evil to be deprecated? No. Whatever is acquired without it is 
generally worthless, not prized—because no price, no toil, no sweat 
has been paid for it. Constituted as society is, the original curse 
denounced against man, “in the sweat of thy brow thou shall eat 
bread,” has proven a blessing. Truly says the adage, “an idle brain is 
the devil's work-shop.” An industrious one is the chosen abode of the 
sister virtues. Why, then, should we increase the temptation to 
idleness, already great to the youth of the south, by the banishment 
of the only study, perhaps, suitable to the idlest stage of human 
life? We should thus leave a chasm in the plan of instruction, and 
that precious time unfilled up, when a regard to the formation of good 
habits would imperiously require that it should _be filled up_ as far 
as is consistent with health. Substitute something else, you say. If 
what has already been said, does not prove that nothing else 
effectually supplies their place, perhaps the following reflection may 
assist to do it. The principal point in which we fall short of our 
northern brethren, and of most European nations, is in our want of 
system in our employments, and attention to the _small things_ of 
business. Now the Classics demand constant attention to the most 
minute marks and letters, together with the exercise of judgment, 
patience, memory, classification—all of which are component parts of 
system.

No disposition is felt to controvert the position taken by Mr. Carey, 
that great men have been made under systems from which the learned 
languages were excluded—or to discourage the gifted child of poverty, 
who can never enjoy their advantages. Let such a one reflect that 
there have been orators who never tasted the honied eloquence of 
Cicero—bards whose lips were never touched with a “live coal” from the 
poetic fire of Homer and Virgil—patriots whose bosoms were never 
warmed, whose arms were never nerved by the story of Aristides and 
Brutus. There are men to keep whom down would be as impossible as to 
suppress the fires of Ætna. They ask—they need no aid from their 
predecessors or cotemporaries. They will create opportunities and 
modes of development and action for themselves. Very properly, 
therefore, the institutions of society, the systems of education, are 
not framed for them; but for ordinary beings—persons of mediocre 
intellect, of which a vast majority of mankind are composed.

In reviewing the field of our argument, we find that the Classics have 
been mainly defended upon the ground of the mental training and good 
habits which result from the study of them—dry objects of pursuit 
certainly to boys, but still most necessary. But we might long since 
have cut this question short, by holding up the argument, the truth of 
which is now generally admitted by competent judges, that it is 
impossible to understand English in all its power, beauty, 
copiousness, without a previous acquaintance with the Classics. But 
the multitude, in the true spirit of English vanity, are constantly 
proclaiming the entire independence of their language, and vauntingly 
assert that it needs no plumage borrowed from any tongue under heaven. 
Mark you! this was not said until the huge, misshapen skeleton of the 
Anglo-Saxon had received a filling up—a beauty and proportion from 
much abused Latin and Greek. Now, as the English language has declared 
her _Independence_, and set up for herself, it is but fair that she 
should surrender back to Greek and Latin the harmonious and expressive 
words, the poetical imagery and rich mythology which she has stolen 
from them, but which she has just found out she does not need. Let her 
do this, and what does she become?—what she was originally. _Rudis 
indigestaque moles_. We have never known the common-sense rule, viz: 
That to know the _whole_ we must know all the _parts_, to be dispensed 
with except in the case of the English language, which it appears can 
be perfectly known without previously studying the languages of which 
it is made up.[1] We however have no fears that our boasted vernacular 
will be able to sustain her declaration, since Greek and Roman ideas, 
illustrations, and allusions are so interwoven with it that they have 
become an inseparable part and parcel of it. Those who would know the 
nice and delicate shades of meaning belonging to English derived 
terms, will ever betake themselves to the fountain-head for this 
knowledge. What praise do we unwittingly bestow upon the two noble 
tongues of antiquity, when we consider that the highest compliment we 
can pay our illustrious characters is to compare them to some Greek or 
Roman worthy—to say of a Washington he is a Fabius, of a {696} 
Franklin he is a Socrates, of a Henry he is a Demosthenes!

[Footnote 1: Since this short article was penned, the number of words 
of Greek and Latin derivation in it was roughly estimated to be eight 
hundred, though the writer made an effort to use words purely English 
in all cases where they would answer the purpose as well.]

The department of poetry would lose the most by a neglect of the 
Classics. As the bards of antiquity were the first to walk forth into 
the garden of poetry, they did not fail to appropriate to themselves 
their most beautiful flowers; they, having the gathering of the 
harvest, have left to the moderns in many branches of the poetic art 
naught but the mere gleanings of the field. These ancient poems have 
been so translated, paraphrased, metamorphosed by modern poets, that a 
mere English scholar would find nearly as much difficulty in the works 
of the latter, as in those of the former. A glance at one more 
argument in favor of the learned languages, and this discussion is 
closed. The history of the forum and halls of legislation proves that 
in the actual conflict of mind against mind, the Classical orator has 
a decided advantage over an antagonist who has merely an English 
education, though in every other respect they be entirely equal. His 
knowledge of the variety and flexibility of his own tongue, will place 
at his command a greater copiousness of words, a wider range of 
selection, a greater fluency and facility in the utterance of them 
than his unfortunate antagonist can possibly pretend to.

In conclusion, we would say to the ingenuous of the Old Dominion—of 
the whole south, be not discouraged, be not deluded. The inceptive 
steps of all great undertakings are slow—sometimes unpleasant. If the 
beauty, perfection, and pre-eminent usefulness of the Classics are not 
at present obvious, you will at your docile age be willing to take 
something on trust, and to pursue your studies under the assurance, 
that by degrees the circumference of your vision will be enlarged, the 
point from which you take it in will be elevated, until you shall 
stand on the pinnacle of the temple of knowledge. Although you will 
not be so unreasonable as to expect to behold the interior and 
brighter glories of the temple, while you are merely entering the 
vestibule, yet along your path you will meet with many flowers to 
cheer you onward. You have every encouragement to proceed. Are you 
emulous to serve your country in the halls of legislation? You will, 
at the completion of your scholastic education, come forth armed with 
weapons from the armory of Demosthenes and Cicero. Would you create a 
southern literature? Your present studies are the very first step 
towards it. Your discouragers may be defied to point you to a single 
nation eminent in literature, and at the same time proscribers of the 
Classics. Contribute your mite to demonstrate to the world that this 
is not the land where “Genius sickens and Fancy dies,” and to enable 
your countrymen to point proudly to our sister band of states, and say 
of one, this is our Arcadia—of another, this is our Laconia—of a 
third, this is our Attica. Do not suppose that this is too much to 
expect. By the blessing of God, and the operation of causes now at 
work, to this pitch of glory we must arrive. You live in the region of 
great men; you daily tread upon the same lines of latitude once 
trodden by Homer, Demosthenes, and Plato. _Macte nova virtute puer, 
sic itur ad astra._

                     Hæc exempla—
  Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna.

Hæc studia adolescentiam alunt, senectutem oblectant, secundas res 
ornant, adversis solatium et perfugium præbent, delectant domi, non 
impediunt foris, pernoctant nobiscum, peregrinantur, rusticantur.

_University of North Carolina, October, 1836._




LINES TO A WILD VIOLET,
FOUND IN THE WOODS OF ALABAMA.

BY HENRY THOMPSON.


  Type of thy God, in nature drest,
  Emblem of innocence and rest,
  Why hid'st thou in the sunless glade
  Those lovely tints which sure were made
        To woo the light?
  Hast thou too felt the cold world's scorn,
  The with'ring blight of rayless morn
  That thus within the woodland gloom
  In ivy shade you're wont to bloom
        So far from sight?
  And wilt thou fade in lonely bower,
  Pale, gentle, melancholy flow'r!
  And die when leaves in vernal dearth
  Shall kiss the cold and dewy earth
        In autumn day?
  Or wilt thou wither on _my_ heart,
  And there sweet sympathy impart,
  And give beneath the dew of grief,
  Those lovely hues so bright and brief,
        To slow decay?
  Ah! no, I will not thus intrude,
  To mar thy gentle solitude,
  For thou art pure and undefil'd,
  Lonely and beautiful and wild,
        A forest queen!
  Bloom on in thy secluded dell,
  Sweet flow'r! that lovest alone to dwell!
  And there within thy silent glade,
  In God's own purity array'd,
        Perish unseen.




TRAITS OF A SUMMER TOURIST.

No. I.

  _Hamlet_.  I am very glad to see you. Good even, sir.
             But what, in faith, make you from Wirtenburg?

  _Horatio_. A truant disposition, good my lord!

_Hamlet_.


Steaming from Washington to Baltimore is an improvement upon that 
route at least. “I pity the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba 
and say ‘all is barren;’” was the beneficent _dictum_ of a philosopher 
as wise as he was witty,—but he never travelled on the post-road from 
the Monumental city to the capital of the western world. If he had, I 
fear that precious morceau of pitiful cosmopolitism would have never 
fallen from his pen.

The locomotive Andrew Jackson whirled us by a series of fields, of 
which one will serve as a sample. It consisted of about three acres, 
from the surface of which a few weakly, wilting, pea-green shoots were 
starting reluctantly upwards, and which nine negroes were {697} trying 
to make a corn-field of, by dint of most desperate hoeing. Patches of 
rye and wheat were seen also, at intervals, most forcibly illustrating 
the condition of Egyptian fields in the seven years of famine of 
Joseph's time. It was plain that this section of the country, (as
Mr. Senator G—— remarked to the representative for the district,) was 
fit for nothing else than to make rail roads of.

       *       *       *       *       *

At the end of “The Thomas Viaduct,” a beautiful piece of mechanism, by 
the way, is the “Viaduct Hotel,” _not_ so beautiful. As we passed, 
several of the Light Corps of the city [Baltimore] were “standing at 
ease” by the door of the hotel. They had gone out thither to spend the 
day of our nation's birth, in drinking mint-julaps, and watching the 
passing and repassing of the rail road cars. It seemed to be an object 
with them to discover, as we flew onward, who, of all the grandees who 
had just concluded those labors which had for seven months been making 
Washington so famous, were forming a part of our freight. The senator 
was for stopping the cars, and giving the representative a chance at 
the stump, before so goodly an array of his constituents. But whether 
he thought the audience not “fit,” nor “few” enough for such a 
display, I could not discover—the Colonel declined the proposal.

       *       *       *       *       *

Commend me to mine host of the Exchange! Page's is the very home of 
good order, good cheer, good company, and all else that is good,—the 
very place where one may ask, with a confidence defying negation, 
“Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?” We found our rooms 
commodious and airy, and soon saw reason to bless our forethought, in 
having pre-engaged our accommodations, while compassionating the 
“potent, grave, and reverend seniors” of the land, as they cubiculated 
on pallets in the dining-rooms, and were, in some instances, denied 
the liberty to hang for the night upon a hat-hook! Always engage rooms 
a week before hand, considerate traveller.

       *       *       *       *       *

Who shall adequately describe what has so often been dwelt upon by 
tourists, the distinctive peculiarities of the older cities of the 
Union? To attempt it were “damnable iteration.” Suffice it therefore 
to say, that Baltimore has beautiful brick edifices, with pure white 
marble porches and porticoes—several splendid public buildings, among 
which none is more deserving of particular mention, inside and 
outside, than the Unitarian Church, (although Baltimoreans generally 
“stump” on the Cathedral,) two monuments, one in questionable and the 
other in unquestionable taste—and upon the whole, neat, clean, 
orderly, and well-kept streets. She has here and there public 
fountains, supplied with ever-flowing streams of the purest 
water,—baths, places of public amusement, (although theatrical 
entertainments are not much in favor there,) shot-towers, hotels, 
newspapers, steamboats, rail roads, and pretty women in great 
abundance. Few cities possess a more refined or more generally 
diffused taste for music, painting, architecture, and the fine arts in 
general, than Baltimore. Her present situation, in a commercial and 
enterprising point of view, is extremely encouraging; and recent 
legislation in regard to internal improvements will doubtless have a 
very beneficial effect upon her fortunes.

A steamboat burned to the water's edge last night, at one of the 
wharves, and a boy was consumed as he was sleeping in the cabin! It 
was a pleasure boat, and had been running to different points in the 
neighborhood of the city all the day previous. The unfortunate boy who 
lost his life was a wanderer from New York, and had been permitted by 
the captain to sleep and board in the cabin, until a vessel in which 
he was about to go to sea, was ready to sail. He had retired to rest, 
after a day of toil to him, though of pleasure to those upon whom he 
had been waiting, as one of the hands on board the boat; and met his 
horrible fate while sleeping in innocent unconsciousness of danger. 
The neglect of the watchman who had been entrusted with the care of 
the boat, was the cause of the fire, that unfaithful officer having 
left his charge to join in a carousal in the town. How fearful a 
thought, that all our enjoyments are obtained by others' pains! The 
smiles that deck the faces of the few are watered in their growth by 
the tears of the many.

       *       *       *       *       *

How neglectful of the _minutiæ_ of comfort and convenience are most of 
those who cater for the traveller's enjoyment in his journeyings along 
these great thoroughfares of our country! Here are we, arrived in the 
city of brotherly love, upon one of the very hottest days in the year, 
and upon asking for rooms at a new and much vaunted hotel, are ushered 
into a suite of three flights of stairs, and glowing, almost 
_hissing_, with the concentrated rays of the meridian sun, shining 
through crimson curtains—“Think of that, Master Brook,”—_crimson 
curtains_, in weather to set the very mercury in the thermometer a 
bubbling! As honest Jack said upon a not dissimilar occasion, “it was 
a miracle to 'scape suffocation!” What salamanders must be the
people of the M—— house! We could not stand it, and so, after one 
night's parboiling, we turned our backs upon the rectangular city, 
resolved never to “tarry” there, in summer time again, until she had 
her Tremont, her Page's, or her Astor's to receive and accommodate us.

       *       *       *       *       *

Arrived at New York, I was told that half the town were “out of 
town”—a comfortable assurance, methought, for we can have our choice 
of quarters. Yet were we three hours in finding a place whereon to lay 
our heads! I soon learned that by “the town” was meant that wandering, 
gossipping, gadding, sight-seeking, lionizing, country-visiting 
portion of this great Babel, who make it a point to spend all “the 
months that have no R,” at the crowded watering places of their own 
and the neighboring states. But they have left the streets as noisy, 
as crowded, and as business-like as ever, and a stranger feels quizzed 
when told that they are empty.

The sail up the Hudson is full of interest, and thousands are now 
daily enjoying the many attractions it presents to the traveller. As 
the city at this season is any thing but delightful, I got on board 
the good steamer Erie, (to which commend me ever,) and bade adieu to 
hot streets, and the crowded thorough-fares for a season. On my return 
I may find it worthy of a sketch or two.

The Hudson is very broad near its mouth, or junction with the East 
River, at the harbor of New York. {698} Hoboken, New Brighton, Jersey 
City, and Staten Island, besides Brooklyn on the East, lie invitingly 
contiguous, and are attained by steamboats constantly running thither 
at every hour in the day. As they are all plentifully provided with 
green lawns, and cool shades, to say nothing of numerous houses of 
refreshment, you may be assured, that in the hot season, they are by 
no means vacant. As you go up the river, and leave the island on which 
the great city is laid out, on your right, the first prominent object 
that strikes your eye is _Fort Lee_ on the left, which the map tells 
us is ten miles from New York. This was an important post in the 
revolutionary contest, and is now in ruins. Its position is admirable, 
standing on the bluff which commences the celebrated _Palisadoes_. 
These extend twenty miles up the river, and are curious ridges of 
rocks, from two to six hundred feet high, very much resembling that 
species of defence, whence they derive their name. Passing along, the 
traveller is prompted by the guide books to look at _Tappan Bay_, 
where the celebrated Andre attempted to take an advantage of the 
treason of the despicable Arnold, which would have been fatal to the 
cause of liberty, but for the fidelity of some of the American scouts. 
The spy was executed very near this place. The next place of interest 
is _Sing-Sing_, where is one of the New York State Prisons. As we 
intended to visit the more interesting one at Auburn, we did not stop 
here, but casting a glance at the _Sleepy Hollow_ of Irving's Rip Van 
Winkle, we glided on, and soon entered _The Highlands_.

I had never imagined that any thing half so grand and so picturesque 
awaited us on our up-river jaunt. The half had not been told. Besides 
the splendor of the scenery,—the tremendous hills and ravines on one 
side, and the gently levelling upland and lowland fields and meadows, 
full of fertility and the promise of rich harvests, on the 
other,—there were a thousand associations with the early history of 
our Republic, especially with that interesting period, when “men's 
souls were tried,” which rendered it a continuous and uninterrupted 
scene of thrilling and exciting interest. _Stony Point_ and old Wayne, 
Forts _Montgomery_ and _Clinton_ with Gates, Sir Henry Clinton, and 
“Old Put,” Independence, Bloody Pond, General Vaughan, James Clinton, 
and a thousand other places and names throng upon the memory, and tell 
the tale over again of a most interesting part of that glorious 
struggle for freedom by our brave fathers.

On one of the boldest and most commanding of those highland eminences, 
the traveller soon perceives the moss-grown battlements of Fort 
Putnam, over-hanging the barracks of the Military Academy at _West 
Point_. As the steamboat passes this headland, Kosciusko's monument, 
erected by order of government, is discerned, and then the hotel comes 
in sight. Intending to stop at mine host _Cozzens'_ on our way down 
the river, we did not land, but went on to _Catskill_ landing, where 
we debarked, and took stage for the celebrated Mountain House, at Pine 
Orchard. This is a grove situated on the table land near the summit of 
one of the most lofty of the Catskills, and is more than two thousand 
feet above the level of the Hudson. We found there a most commodious 
hotel, the view from the front piazza of which is exceedingly 
picturesque. We experienced a great change in the weather upon 
reaching the Mountain House, having left an almost torrid climate at 
the foot of the hill, and finding it cold enough at the top for a 
fire. We therefore retired to rest, after this, our first day's 
journey, with great expectation for the morn.

Salvator Rosa alone could do justice to the scenery around Pine 
Orchard. The pencil of modern artists may find much here to furnish a 
fitting subject for their attempts, and they may succeed in giving 
pleasing sketches from its inexhaustible sources of picturesque and 
romantic illustration. But it requires the hand of that great painter 
of the grand, the sublime, the stupendous, fitly to _illustrate_ that 
scenery.

You look down three thousand feet into a valley, stretching over an 
hundred miles in one direction, and more than half that distance in 
the other, in the midst of which runs the river Hudson, covered at 
this season with craft of various descriptions, which, from that great 
elevation, seem mimic boats upon a rivulet. At your feet a rocky 
precipice descends perpendicularly, the depth of which it is 
impossible to estimate, as it has never been explored, and loses 
itself, to the eye of the gazer from the summit, amidst the rude and 
tangled masses of primeval forest, stretching downward to the distant 
valley, verdantly sloping to the river's banks. This is the scene 
presented to the sojourner at the Mountain House, and its many 
changes, like those of a panorama, render the prospect intensely 
interesting, in every aspect of the weather.

Having enjoyed this first gush of picturesque beauty, you are 
reminded, by the daily arrival of the proper vehicles at the door, of 
a scene of yet more mingled romance,—the cascades of _Canterskill_. 
These lie at the termination of a delightful woodland path, along the 
side of which flows a smooth and quiet stream, taking its rise in a 
lake upon which you bestow, as you pass, a gratified glance. Following 
this rivulet you come suddenly to the brink of a tremendous precipice, 
shelving down between woody mountains, with rough rocky ravines, 
seemingly unattainable by human feet. But your guide holds a clue, 
following which you soon attain a level formed of sandstone and 
gray-wacke, and await the fall of the water from the edge of the 
precipice, one hundred and seventy-five feet above. As the water at 
this season runs low, the proprietor has taken the precaution to dam 
it up above the precipice, and so lets it fall when a company of 
visiters demand it. This fall is very beautiful. No obstacle 
intervenes to break the silvery sheet as it descends, and, as it comes 
over the rough edges of the rock at top, it assumes a form as of 
feathery spray, which is sometimes so thin and vapory, as to float 
away without reaching the level at all. Descending eighty feet 
farther, you see the second fall, the termination of which is even 
more grand and savage than the upper level. Here you may see both 
falls at the same instant, and from a situation which challenges 
another attribute of grandeur and sublimity to enhance the perfect 
enchantment of the scene.

       *       *       *       *       *

We lingered at Catskill several days in a sort of dreamy state of 
quiet enjoyment,—now fishing, now roving among the woods, now 
stretched on the brink of the Pine Orchard looking listlessly down 
upon the impenetrable forests, the smiling, sunny valleys, or the 
silver thread of water, on which seemed {699}

  “———the tall anchoring bark
   Diminished to her cock,—her cock a bouy
   Almost too small for sight”

and where the many steamers that smoke their daily course along the 
Hudson, seemed like some tiny utensil discharging its culinary office. 
There would we gaze upon the lifting fog-banks at morning, watching 
the sunbeams as they gradually struggled forth to irradiate, first the 
distant valley, and so diffusing thin yellow glory upward and upward, 
until, at length, we stood in the midst of their effulgence, and saw 
their vapory veil floating away over our heads, like gossamer web of 
the dew spider.

Nor were our household attractions few or powerless. Many visiters 
were at the Orchard, but there was a coterie of young ladies with 
their brothers and husbands from the neighboring village of the 
Catskill, from whose good offices and gentle hospitality we derived a 
great deal of additional enjoyment. Music, books, and conversation 
drove away ennui during those hours, when the inclemency of the 
weather or fatigue compelled us to suspend our out-of-door amusements, 
and we were thus enabled to enjoy the everlasting scenery of the 
Catskill, under auspices the most favorable.

       *       *       *       *       *

New Lebanon Springs next attracted us. They lie about twenty-seven 
miles from Hudson, which is ten miles up the river on the opposite 
side, whither we went by the same steamer that had landed us at 
Catskill, and thence by stages to New Lebanon.

New Lebanon is a pleasant village, near the eastern line of the state 
of New York, lying in a most fertile and valuable tract of country, 
with alternations of gently sloping hills and smiling valleys, all of 
which seem arable and productive. The most popular public house is 
that to which the Spring that gives a name to the place, belongs. It 
is very well kept, but was far too crowded for comfort,—the day of our 
arrival being Saturday, and great numbers having come from Albany, 
Troy, Saratoga, Ballston Spa, &c. to witness the worship (?) of the 
Shakers on the Sabbath.

       *       *       *       *       *

The waters of these Springs have no very decided mineral or medicinal 
qualities,—but as they are very profuse in their flow, and as their 
temperature is always rising of seventy degrees, Fahrenheit, they are 
delightful for bathing in the summer season. The proprietors have, 
accordingly, fitted up commodious bathing houses, which are very well 
attended, and afford, by no means, the weakest attraction to be found 
at New Lebanon. But even in this respect they cannot be compared with 
the Warm and Hot Springs of Bath county in Virginia.

The truth is, New Lebanon invites the visiter more by the salubrity of 
its climate, the rural beauty of its scenery, the quiet seclusion 
which it offers to the town-weary traveller, and more than all, by its 
accessibility from so many populous parts of the country, than by any 
magic virtues possessed or imparted by its “springs,” and all these 
inducements combine to keep the pretty little village full to 
overflowing from spring to autumn. I saw many visiters from the 
southern states there among the rest, and was gratified to learn that 
there is an annual increase of business at “Columbian Hall.” In my 
next I shall describe a scene at the Shaker's Church.

VIATOR.




SACRED SONG.


  “There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,”
    When the heart's best affections are yielded to God,
  And the spirit that wandered, returns to the fold
    Of the Saviour who bought it by shedding of blood!
  One moment of rapture so holy, is worth
    Far more than whole ages of wandering bliss;
  And oh! if a joy ever gild this dark earth,
              It is this, it is this!

  The pleasures of time are all fleeting and vain—
    The bubbles that sparkle o'er life's turbid stream,
  E'en the ties of affection are sundered in twain,
    When the dark clouds of sorrow portentously gleam.
  But the rapture that thrills through the soul at its birth
    Into favor with God, is ineffable bliss;
  And oh! if a joy ever gild this dark earth,
              It is this, it is this!

 T. J. S.




MARTIN LUTHER INCOGNITO.


_Mr. Editor_,—Public attention has recently been attracted, with great 
justice, to the Memoirs of Luther, by Professor Michelet of Paris; a 
work remarkable, first, as composed almost entirely of the Reformer's 
own words, and, secondly, as proceeding from a Roman Catholic. You 
will not, I trust, deem it unseasonable to accept the translation of a 
very rare and entertaining document, relating some scenes eminently 
illustrative of this great man's private manners. Allow me to premise, 
by way of refreshing the reader's memory, that after the celebrated 
appearance of Luther at the Diet of Worms, he was secretly snatched 
away by his friend the Elector, and kept for some months in the castle 
of Wartburg. The paper which follows gives some account of his return. 
It is from the pen of an honest Swiss, and is written in the 
Swiss-German dialect, but is so full of racy diction and inimitable 
naïveté, that it cannot fail to gratify every lover of ancient story. 
I have availed myself, here and there, of an antique idiom or phrase, 
as remarkably comporting with the rude original.[1]

  Respectfully, &c.
    JAMES W. ALEXANDER.

[Footnote 1: The document may be seen In Marheineke's History of the 
German Reformation, vol. i, p. 319. Berlin, 1831.]

       *       *       *       *       *

I cannot forbear to relate, though it may chance to seem trifling and 
even childish, how I, John Kessler, and my comrade John Reutiner, fell 
into company with Martin Luther, at the time when he was enlarged from 
his captivity, and was on his way back to Wittenberg. For as we were 
journeying thither, for the sake of studying the holy scriptures, we 
came to Jena, in the Thuringian territory, (and God knows in a dismal 
storm,) and after much inquiry in the city for an inn where we might 
lodge for the night, we were utterly unable to find any. The taverns 
were shut against us on every side, for it was carnival-time, at which 
season there is little care for wayfaring people. So we had come to 
the outskirts of the town, thinking to go on further, to find if 
possible some hamlet where we might be entertained. Under the very 
gate of the town, as {700} we went out, there met us a reverend man, 
who greeted us kindly, and asked whither we were bound at so late an 
hour. For he said there was neither house nor court-yard offering us 
lodging, which we could reach before the dead of night, and that the 
way was intricate; therefore he counselled us to abide where we were. 
We answered, “Good sir, we have been to every hostelry which has been 
shown to us, but every where we have been denied entrance; we must 
needs go further.” Then he asked whether we had inquired at the Black 
Bear. To which we replied, “No such inn have we seen, pray tell us 
where we may find it.” He then pointed out the place, a little without 
the town. And though all the innkeepers had dismissed us, yet no 
sooner had we reached the Black Bear, than the host came to the door, 
helped us in, and gave us the kindest welcome, taking us into the 
common room. There we found a man sitting alone at a table, with a 
little book lying before him, who saluted us in a friendly manner, and 
invited us to come forward and seat ourselves by him at the table. Now 
(under favor be it spoken) our shoes were so clogged with the filth of 
the roads, that we dared not to enter with freedom, but crept in 
softly, and sat upon a bench by the door. But he invited us to drink 
with him, which indeed we could not refuse.

After we had accepted his friendly and courteous advances, we placed 
ourselves, as he desired, at the table near him, and ordered some wine 
that we might drink to his honor; having no other thought than that he 
was a trooper, for he sat, after the manner of the country, in a red 
cloak, with doublet and hose, a sword by his side, with his right hand 
upon the pommel and his left grasping the hilt. He soon began to ask 
the place of our birth, and then, answering his own question, added, 
“You are Switzers. From what part of Switzerland come you?” We 
answered, “From St. Gallen.” “You will find,” said he, “at Wittenberg, 
whither I understand you are going, some excellent people, such as 
Doctor Jerome Schurf, and his brother Doctor Augustin.” We replied, 
that we had letters to them; and then proceeded to ask in turn, “Sir, 
can you certainly inform us whether Martin Luther is now at 
Wittenberg, or in what place he is?” “I have sure information,” said 
he, “that Luther is not in Wittenberg at this time; but he is to be 
there shortly. Philip Melancthon however is there; he teaches the 
Greek tongue, as there are others who teach the Hebrew, both which 
languages I earnestly exhort you to study; for they are necessary 
preparations to the understanding of the scriptures.” We answered, 
“God be praised, if our lives are spared, we shall not rest until we 
see and hear that man; on his account it is that we have undertaken 
this journey; for we understood that he was minded to set aside the 
priesthood, with the mass, as an unauthorized service. Now, inasmuch 
as we have, from our youth up, been trained and set apart, by our 
parents, to become priests, we desire to hear what reason he can show 
for such a design.”

After some conversation of this kind, he asked, where we had already 
studied. We answered, “At Basle.” “How fares it,” said he, “at Basle? 
Is Erasmus Roterodamus there at present? What is he doing?” “Sir,” 
replied we, “so far as we know all things go on well. But what Erasmus 
is doing there is no one can tell, for he keeps himself quiet and 
aloof.” Now it struck us with great surprise that the trooper should 
talk thus, and that he was able to discourse about Schurf, and Philip, 
and Erasmus, and about the importance of both Greek and Hebrew. 
Moreover, he would now and then let slip a Latin word, which made us 
suspect that he was something different from an ordinary cavalier. 
“Prithee,” said he, “what is thought of Luther in Switzerland?” “Sir,” 
said I, “there, as elsewhere, there are diversities of opinion. Some 
there are who cannot enough extol him, and thank God that by his means 
he has revealed his truth and discovered error; but others denounce 
him as an intolerable heretic; and such are chiefly the clergy.” “Ah,” 
said he, “I could warrant it was the parsons.” In such talk he 
continued to be very sociable, so that my comrade made free to take up 
the little book which lay before him and open it. It was a Hebrew 
Psalter. He then laid it down, and the trooper took it up. Hereupon we 
fell into still greater doubt as to who he might be. Then said my 
comrade, “I would give a finger off my hand, if I could thereby 
understand this language.” The man replied, “You may attain it, if you 
will only bestow labor; I also desire this attainment greatly, and am 
exercising myself every day to make greater proficiency.”

By this time the day was declining and it had become quite dark, and 
the host entered lo look to the table. As he saw our eager curiosity 
about Martin Luther, he said, “My good fellows, had you been here two 
days sooner, you might have been gratified, for he was then sitting at 
this very table.” And with this he pointed out the place. We were now 
chagrined and vexed at our own delay, and provoked at the bad roads 
which had been our hinderance; but we said, “It rejoices as to be in 
the house, and at the very table where he has lately sat.” At this the 
host could not but laugh, and went immediately out. After a little 
while, he called me to the outside of the door. I was alarmed, and 
began to think with myself in what I had been unseemly, or of what I 
could be suspected. The host then said to me, “Since I perceive in 
very truth that you long to see and hear Luther—the man who sits by 
you is he.” This I took in jest, and said, “Ay, sir host, you would 
fain mock me, and stay my curiosity with Luther's lodging.” He 
replied, “It is assuredly he; nevertheless, do nothing to show that 
you recognize him.” I straightway left the host, still being 
incredulous, and returning to the room seated myself at the table, and 
was very desirous to let my companion know what the host had 
disclosed. I therefore turned myself towards the door and at the same 
time towards him, saying softly, “The host says that this is Luther.” 
Like myself he could not believe it, and said, “Perhaps he said it was 
_Hutten_[2] and you have misunderstood him.” Now, as the horseman's 
dress suited better with Hutten, than with Luther, who was a monk, I 
persuaded myself that the host had said, “It is Hutten;” for the 
beginning of both names sounds alike. All that I said, therefore, was 
under the supposition that I was conversing with Ulrich ab Hutten.

[Footnote 2: Ulrich von Hutten; a celebrated knight and statesman, and 
a friend of Luther, who died two years after these events, in 1523.]

In the midst of these things there came in two merchants, who wished 
to pass the night, and when they {701} had laid aside their habits and 
spurs, one of them placed beside him a small unbound book. Martin 
asked what book it was. “It is Doctor Luther's exposition of sundry 
gospels and epistles, just printed and published; have you never seen 
it?” At this time the host appeared and said, “Draw near to the table, 
for we are about to eat.” We however spoke to him and begged that he 
would bear with us so far as to give us something by ourselves. But 
the host said, “Dear fellows, seat yourselves by the gentleman at the 
table, I will give you good cheer.” And when Martin heard this, he 
said, “Come along, I will pay the reckoning.”

During the meal Martin gave us much friendly and godly discourse, so 
that both we and the tradespeople paid more attention to his words 
than to all our food. Among other things he lamented with a sigh, that 
while the princes and nobles were now assembled at the Diet at 
Nuremberg, on account of God's word, and the impending affairs and 
grievances of the German nation; yet they undertake nothing but to 
spend their time in expensive jousts, cavalcades, frolics and 
debauchery. “But such,” said he, “are our Christian princes!”

He further said that it was his hope that gospel truth would bring 
forth fruit among our children and descendants, who are not poisoned 
by popish error, but are now grounded in the pure truth of God's word, 
more than among their parents, in whom error is so rooted that it 
cannot be easily eradicated. Upon this the tradespeople united in 
expressing their opinion, and the elder of them said, “I am a plain, 
simple layman; I have no particular knowledge of this business. But 
this I say, as the matter seems to me, Luther must be either an angel 
from heaven or a devil out of hell. I have here ten gulden that I 
would gladly give that I might confess to him; for I believe he is the 
man that can and would direct my conscience.”

Meanwhile the host came to us and said privately, “Do not trouble 
yourselves about the reckoning; Martin has settled for your supper.” 
This gave us great joy, not for the sake of the money or the cheer, 
but that we had been entertained by such a man. After supper the 
merchants arose, and went into the stable to see to their horses; 
while Martin was left alone with us in the room. We then thanked him 
for his favor, and at the same time let him understand that we took 
him for Ulrich ab Hutten. But he answered, “I am not he.” Here the 
host came near, to whom Martin said, “I have to-night been made a 
nobleman, for these Switzers take me to be Ulrich ab Hutten.” “And you 
are no such person,” said the host, “but Martin Luther.” At which he 
laughed, and said with great glee, “These take me for Hutten, and you 
for Martin Luther; I shall soon be called Martinus Marcolfus.” And 
after some such discourse, he took a high beer-glass, and said, after 
the custom of the country, “Switzers, join me in a friendly glass to 
your health.” And as I was about to take the glass, he changed it, and 
ordered instead of it a flask of wine, saying, “The beer is to you an 
unaccustomed beverage; drink wine.”

With that he arose, threw his knight's cloak over his shoulder, and 
bid us good night, giving us his hand as he said, “When you arrive at 
Wittenberg commend me to Dr. Jerome Schurf.” We said, “We will 
cheerfully do so, but how shall we name you, that he may understand 
your greeting?” “Only say,” said he, “that he who is on his way greets 
you; he will soon understand you.” And so saying he went to bed. After 
this the tradespeople returned, ordered the host to bring them 
something to drink, and had much conversation concerning the unknown 
guest who had been sitting by them. The host made known that he took 
him to be Luther, which the merchants believing, lamented very much 
that they had behaved themselves so rudely in his presence; saying 
that they would on this account rise so much earlier the next morning 
before he departed, in order to beg that he would not take it in ill 
part, nor be offended, as they had not known his person. This they 
accordingly did, finding him next morning in the stable. Martin 
answered them: “You said last night at supper, that you would 
willingly give ten florins that you might confess to Luther. When 
therefore you confess to him you will discover whether I am he.” And 
without betraying himself any further he mounted and rode on his way 
towards Wittenberg. On the same day we set out on the same road, and 
arrived at a village lying at the foot of a mountain; I think the 
mountain is called Orlamund, and the village Nasshausen. The stream 
which flows through this was swollen by the rains, and the bridge 
being in part carried away so that horses could not pass, we turned 
aside into the village, where we chanced to fall in with the same 
merchants, who entertained us there free of cost for Luther's sake. On 
the Saturday after, being one day after Luther's arrival, we called 
upon Doctor Jerome Schurf, in order to present our letters. When we 
were ushered into the room, whom should we see but Martin Luther, the 
same as at Jena, together with Philip Melancthon, Justus Jodocus 
Jonas, Nicholas Amsdorf, and Doctor Augustin Schurf, relating what had 
befallen him in his absence from Wittenberg. He greeted us and said, 
laughing as he pointed with his finger, “This is the Philip Melancthon 
of whom I told you.” Upon which Philip turned to us, and asked us many 
questions, which we answered according to our knowledge. And thus we 
passed the day on our part with great joy and satisfaction.




LINES
WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND.


  It is a lovely spot they chose,
    This green and grassy dell!
  And here in death's long, last repose,
    Eudora now sleeps well:
  Escaped from all her mortal pain,
  She sleeps—and will not wake again.

  Oh! who that knew her can forget
    That highly polished mind?
  Those charms that Love must cherish yet,
    In that fair form enshrined?
  And that warm heart that felt the flame
  Of friendship—worthy of the name?

  Yes, she was one of those—the few—
    That decorate the earth;
  A diamond of the purest dew;
    Nor knew I half its worth             {702}
  Till death had stolen the precious gem
  That would have graced a diadem.

  But why am I lamenting here,
    When she is now at rest;
  And, happy in her heavenly sphere,
    Her soul is with the blest?
  No, no, I will not, will not weep:
  Enjoy, sweet saint, thy sacred sleep.

                                              * *

_Norfolk_.




ALFIERI AND SCHILLER.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.


The characteristic differences between the national drama of the 
Germans and that of the Italians, as well as in the genius of the two 
writers, are strikingly shown by a comparison of the works of Alfieri 
and Schiller. Nor need we refer to the whole range of their respective 
productions; the two great poets have more than once, by their choice 
of the same subject for dramatic effort, afforded us opportunity to 
draw a parallel between them. The distinction is exactly the reverse 
of what the characters of the nations would lead us to expect; the 
cold and classic simplicity of the ancient school pertaining to the 
more ardent and volatile Italian, while the energy of expression and 
warmth of action peculiar to the romantic system belong to the 
representative of a colder and more meditative race. We shall not now 
employ ourselves in endeavoring to discover the causes of the general 
barrenness of the drama among a people of a temperament so 
imaginative, and whose history has been so rich in the materials of 
fiction. It is our object to show the vast difference which actually 
exists between the tragic compositions of Italy and those of the 
German school; as well as to give some idea of the peculiarities of 
the two authors who form the subject of this article. For this 
purpose, we select a play of each, founded upon the same historical 
event, and portraying in part the same characters; and purpose to 
offer a close analysis of both.

The “_Filippo_” of Alfieri treats of the same events with the “_Don 
Carlos_” of Schiller. It was the first published production of the 
noble poet, and is marked by much of the harshness of diction and 
severe simplicity, amounting almost to baldness, which distinguished 
his earlier plays. The author avoids, with scrupulous care, any thing 
approaching to local coloring; excluding all inferior personages from 
the stage, and admitting no forms or observances that might remind us 
of our vicinity to the person of the Spanish monarch. The chief care 
of Alfieri is ever bestowed upon the character of his protagonist; and 
it is to that point we must direct our attention.

It is well known that Philip II supplanted his unfortunate son Don 
Carlos, and married the princess to whom the youth had been betrothed 
with the consent of both crowns. Our poet depicts the disastrous 
attachment of the devoted pair. The piece opens with a passionate 
soliloquy of Isabella, in which she reproaches herself bitterly for 
the unconquered love she bears to the son of her husband. Her mind 
revolts at the idea of such an affection, which she fears her 
indiscretion may one day betray to its object. She distrusts her every 
word and look. In the midst of this, the prince enters, evidently 
unhappy, and earnestly asks her reason for avoiding his presence. He 
perceives that the whole court is hostile to him; miserable and 
oppressed, he cannot wonder that he reads envy and hatred in every 
countenance about him, since he is conscious that he does not possess 
the favor of his father and sovereign. From the queen, however, “born 
under a milder sky,” whose nature is all gentleness, he expected pity. 
Isabella is moved to the expression of sorrow for his misfortunes; his 
joy in her sympathy is extreme, and in return he offers condolence 
with her for her “hard lot,” which she repels with some confusion; 
immediately after, hinting at the relation in which she stands to him, 
she offers to intercede with the king in his behalf. Carlos declines 
this offer, telling her she is the innocent cause of all his 
sufferings, and reminds her of their former affection and engagement; 
bitterly alluding to his father's hatred, and the greatest wrong he 
has inflicted, in depriving him of his bride. Isabella reproves his 
resentment against the king, whom she imagines deceived by false 
counsellors, and refuses to listen to his passionate complaints; the 
prince pleads with her to remain, and at length bids her renounce and 
accuse him. Now comes the discovery. When Carlos calls himself guilty, 
the queen says,

  “Art thou alone the guilty?”

This thoughtless exclamation betrays to the prince the state of her 
heart; and shocked at her own indiscretion Isabella implores him to 
leave her. He pleads that flight would not protect him from the 
vengeance of Philip, who regards him with detestation, though ignorant 
of his only fault. The queen departs, forbidding him to follow her, 
and Perez enters. This person, a warm friend to the prince, attempts 
to console his evident wretchedness, which he attributes to his 
father's displeasure, by assuring him that the king has been wrought 
upon by false rumors and the machinations of his enemies. His offers 
of service and devoted attachment affect Carlos, who nevertheless will 
not reveal the secret cause of his grief. He yields, however, to the 
entreaties of Perez, to accept him as his friend, and permit him to 
share his destiny; congratulating himself even in the midst of 
wretchedness that he is less worthy of compassion than Philip on his 
throne.

The next act introduces upon the scene the tyrant and arch-hypocrite, 
attended by his minister Gomez. Their conversation illustrates 
strikingly the haughty reserve of the king, who will not admit even 
his private counsellor to his most secret thoughts, or treat him as an 
equal.

  _Philip_. Gomez, what thing above all else in the world
            Dost thou esteem?

  _Gomez_.  Thy favor.

  _Philip_. Hopest thou to keep it? By what means?

  _Gomez_.  By the self-same means
            That first obtained it, sire; obedience,
            And silence.

  _Philip_. Thou to-day must practise both.

Gomez is commanded to watch the countenance and actions of the queen 
in the interview about to take place. The crafty minister is 
accustomed to observe, interpret, and silently execute his master's 
will. Isabella enters, summoned by her lord, who expresses his wish 
for her {703} advice in a matter pertaining to private relations as 
well as to the concerns of state. He then speaks of his son, artfully 
adapting his words to alarm and reassure her alternately.

  _Philip_.   Carlos, my son—thou lov'st
              Or hatest him.

  _Isabella_. My lord——

  _Philip_.   I understand.
              If to thy inclinations—not the voice
              Of virtue—thou didst listen, thou wouldst feel
              Thyself his——step-dame.

  _Isabella_. Nay, not so; the prince——

  _Philip_.   Is dear then to thee; virtue in thy heart
              So strongly dwells, that thou, the wife of Philip,
              The son of Philip lov'st with love—maternal.

  _Isabella_. Yours are the pattern of my thoughts; you love him;
              At least I do believe it; in like manner
              I also—love him.

The king expresses his wish to make her the judge of his son, who he 
says has been guilty of a heinous offence. With cruel art he remarks 
the agitation of the queen at this disclosure, which he pretends to 
impute to indignation at a crime of which she is yet ignorant. He 
brings an accusation against the prince of having leagued with rebels 
to overthrow the power of his sovereign; silences the doubts Isabella 
ventures to suggest, respecting the truth of the charge, and appeals 
to her for his sentence. The queen seizes upon some artful expressions 
of parental tenderness that fall from Philip, and implores him to 
listen to the voice of nature; pleads eloquently the cause of Carlos, 
and beseeches her husband to dismiss suspicion, and win back the 
affections of his son by clemency and gentleness. Gomez is despatched 
for the accused; the queen requests leave to retire, but is commanded 
to remain. Carlos, on his entrance, demands to know of what fault he 
has been guilty; the king speaks in an ambiguous manner, asserting his 
acquaintance with the private thoughts of the prince, whom he 
afterwards reproves for his communication with a leader of the rebels, 
yet the monarch ostentatiously pardons him, telling him he owes his 
impunity to the intercession of the queen, to whose counsel and 
guidance he recommends him. They are dismissed; and the brief dialogue 
between the king and his minister shows the result of their 
investigations. The silent understanding and concert between them has 
something in it more fearful than the most elaborate denunciation.

  _Philip_. Heard you?

  _Gomez_.  I heard.

  _Philip_. Saw you?

  _Gomez_.  I saw.

  _Philip_. Distraction!
            Suspicion then——

  _Gomez_.  Is certainty.

  _Philip_. And yet
            Philip is unrevenged?

  _Gomez_.  Think——

  _Philip_. I have thought;
            Follow you me.

  _Act II, Scene 5_.

In the third act Carlos acquaints Isabella with her imprudence, in 
speaking in his favor to the tyrant, and the probable consequences of 
addressing thus one whose mercy is but the pledge of evil. She cannot 
however believe the king an unnatural father, but promises never to 
repeat so perilous an effort. After her departure, Gomez enters and 
announces the king. To his hypocritical offers of service, Carlos 
deigns no reply, but leaves him without uttering a word. Philip, with 
his nobles and ministers, then appears upon the stage; and having 
ordered the doors to be closed, in a set speech, accuses his son of 
treason and an attempt upon his life; produces the blade which he 
states to have fallen at his feet when the baffled assassin fled from 
him; and having played off a feigned reluctance to hear the 
condemnation of the criminal, leaves the sentence to their decision. 
Gomez, with affected sympathy for the sufferings of the father, 
confirms the accusation of treason by producing intercepted letters 
alleged to have been written by the prince, that prove a treacherous 
correspondence with the French; while Leonardo completes the catalogue 
of crimes by charging him with heresy, and hurling against him the 
denunciations of the church. They are proceeding to adjudge him to 
death, encouraged by Philip, who tells them they stand in the 
presence, not of the father, but the king, when Perez craves 
permission to speak, and boldly vindicates the innocence of his 
friend. The king, in displeasure, breaks up the assembly; his anger at 
the boldness of Perez is only equalled by his wonder that such a 
spirit could exist in his court.

                     “Alma si fatta
   Nasce ov'io regno? e dov'io regno, ha vita?”

Carlos is afterwards surprised alone at night, by a body of soldiers, 
led by his father. To the displeasure of Philip at finding him armed 
at such an hour, he answers by submitting himself to the royal will. 
The scene that ensues between father and son is terrible, and 
powerfully depicts the native cruelty of the tyrant. He accuses the 
youth of secret and atrocious designs—of attempted parricide.

  _Carlos_. Of parricide! What hear I? Parricide?
            Thyself canst not believe it. And what proof,
            What inference, what suspicion?

  _Philip_. Inference, proof
            And certainty, I from thy paleness draw.

  _Carlos_. Father! Oh, force me not, by fierce excess,
            That fearful bound to pass, which 'twixt the subject
            And sovereign—'twixt the father and the son,
            Heaven, nature, and the laws have placed!

  _Philip_. With foot
            Most sacrilegious thou hast passed already,
            Long since, that bound. What do I say? Unknown
            It ever was to thee. Lay by the words
            Of haughty virtue and severe; but ill
            Such words become thee. Speak now as thou art;
            Thy meditated treasons, and the many
            Already ripe, unveil. What dost thou fear?
            That I should be less great than thou art impious?
            If truth thou speak'st and nought dost hide, then hope!
            If aught thou dare conceal, then tremble!

  _Carlos_.                              Truth
            Severe thou forcest from me now. Myself
            Too well I know, to fear; and thee, oh Philip!
            Too well I know, to hope. The luckless gift,
            My life, take back; 'tis thine; but mine my honor,
            Which thou hadst never power to take nor give.
            Guilty I should be, if to such confession
            Base fear could lead me.
                                 Here my latest breath  {704}
            Thou may'st behold me draw; long, cruel death,
            And infamous prepare for me; no death
            Degrades me. Thou alone, sire—thou alone
            Wilt not weep tears of pity for my fate.

  _Philip_. Rash youth! thus to thy sovereign lord dost offer
            Excuse for all thy crimes?

  _Carlos_. Excuse? Thou hat'st me,
            That is mine only fault; thy thirst for blood
            Mine only crime. Thy right alone, O king,
            Is kingdom absolute.

  _Philip_. Ho—guards—arrest him!

  _Carlos_. Such is a tyrant's sole reply. These arms,
            Lo! to the chain I give—lo! to the steel
            I bare my breast. Wherefore delay? Dost now
            Begin to soften? Day by day thy reign
            Is written in black characters of blood.

  _Philip_. Bear him hence—from my sight. In the next tower,
            Unto the deepest dungeon. Wo to you
            If any of you show compassion to him.

  _Carlos_. Nay—fear not that. Thy ministers in cruelty
            Do equal thee.

  _Philip_. Drag him by force away;
            Forth from my presence.

  _Act IV, Scene 2_.

At the close of this appalling scene, Isabella enters in time to see 
the prince dragged away by the guards. The king pretends, as before, 
to attribute her emotion to fears for his own safety, and ironically 
tells her to be comforted by the assurance that all danger to the 
royal person is past; promising her that the traitor shall be visited 
with summary punishment. The villain who would shed the blood of a 
father, he suggests would not hesitate to take the life of a 
step-mother. After this cruel hypocrisy, he leaves her to despair, and 
she is joined by Gomez, who comes with offers of sympathy and 
assistance. He brings the sentence of Carlos from the council, who 
have adjudged him to death for an alleged attempt upon his father's 
life; and the sentence only wants the king's signature. Gomez artfully 
works upon her feelings; assures her that the prince's only fault is 
his right to the crown, which Philip would bestow upon one of her 
children. It is this, he says, that has caused the king's unnatural 
hostility to his son. The crafty minister affects the warmest pity for 
the unfortunate victim, and indignation for the cruelty of the 
monarch. The queen, deceived by these representations, implores his 
aid for the prince. Gomez answers that he will be too proud to accept 
safety at his hands, or save himself by flight; and Isabella offers to 
remove his scruples by a personal interview in the prison. The 
minister covers the joy he feels at this proposal by an appeal to the 
justice of heaven to protect the innocent.

The fifth act opens with a soliloquy of Carlos in the dungeon. He 
wishes to die, but shrinks from the disgrace of an ignominious 
execution, and dreads above all that the king should discover his 
ill-fated attachment to the queen. The iron door opens, and Isabella 
appears; she beseeches him to save himself from impending death. 
Carlos, with a presentiment of despair, asks how she obtained access 
to his prison. He believes her to have come with the knowledge of 
Philip, and as a messenger of his vengeance.

  _Isabella_. Doth Philip know it? Heaven!
              Wo—if he did!

  _Carlos_.   What say'st thou? Philip here
              Knows all. Who dares to break his stern command?

  _Isabella_. Gomez.

  _Carlos_.   What do I hear? What fatal name,
              Fearful, detestable!

  _Isabella_.       He is no foe
              Of yours—as you may think——

  _Carlos_.       If I could ever
              Believe he was my friend more shame would kindle
              My cheek than e'er did wrath.

  _Isabella_.       Yet he alone
              Feels pity now for you. 'Twas he revealed
              The king's atrocious plot to me.

  _Carlos_.           Incautious!
              Alas, too credulous, what hast thou done?
              Why give to such compassion faith? If truth
              He uttered—he—most impious minister
              Of the most impious king—'twas with the truth
              To cheat thee!

  _Act V, Scene 2_.

Both are now in the tyrant's power; as a last resort, the prince 
beseeches Isabella to begone from his dangerous presence.

  _Carlos_.   Away—if life be dear——

  _Isabella_. To me—life dear?

  _Carlos_.   My honor then—thy fame! * * Go—hide thy tears;
              Smother thy sighs in thine own breast; with eye
              Unmoistened, with intrepid front, must thou
              The tidings of my death receive.

It is too late; Philip enters, and scornfully upbraids them with their 
mutual love, which they have vainly thought to conceal from his 
discernment. He has long known it, but has suffered them to remain in 
their delusion, that his revenge might more readily overtake them, and 
now comes to rejoice in their last sufferings. The monster asserts 
what is evident throughout, that his jealousy is not the object of 
love, but of pride.

                       “Thou hast offended
  In me thy sovereign king—and not thy lover;
  The sacred name of Philip's wife hast stained.”

The unhappy pair vindicate their innocence, and excuse the attachment 
which was honorable and proper before their forced separation. The 
haughty tone that Isabella assumes contrasts strongly with her 
previous submission, and shows that she has lost all hope. Gomez then 
appears with a dagger and a cup of poison, which the king offers to 
the choice of the lovers. Carlos chooses the dagger, yet reeking with 
the blood of Perez, and stabs himself; but counsels the queen, who he 
knows has said too much to hope for safety, to drink the poison, as a 
less painful death. Isabella prepares to follow; but Philip, 
perceiving that she rejoices in the prospect of death, bestows life 
upon her as a punishment; she will not accept the cruel gift, but 
snatching his dagger from his girdle, plunges it into her side, and 
dies asserting her innocence.

The last words of the monster who witnesses the horrid scene intimate 
something like remorse.

  “Lo, full and fearful vengeance I obtain;
   Yet am I happy? Gomez, be concealed
   The dire event from all. By silence thou
   Shalt save my fame, thy life.”

Before making any remarks upon this powerful play, we shall proceed to 
analyze the corresponding production of Schiller, in order to present 
the two pieces in as {705} close proximity as possible. In _Don 
Carlos_, we are transported at once into the Spanish court, and the 
tragedy has all the aids and appliances which a graphic delineation of 
the manners of the age and country can give. We have no “voices in the 
desert;” all around reminds us that we are among the ministers and 
courtiers of a despotic monarch; there are the pomp and circumstance 
of sovereign state; the jealousies, the repinings, the fears and the 
plots of selfish and intriguing courtiers; the designs and labors of 
patriotic enthusiasm and of less disinterested feelings, and the 
contrast of innocence and unsuspicious credulity with artful malice. 
The piece opens with an interview between the prince and the king's 
confessor Domingo, which takes place in the royal garden at Aranjuez. 
The priest artfully endeavors to learn the cause of the evident 
melancholy cherished by Don Carlos. For this purpose, he alludes to 
the queen, and the sorrow which the depression of her son-in-law has 
occasioned her. The prince, with artifice of which he seems afterwards 
ashamed, replies by accusing her of having cost him the affection of 
his father; but Domingo cannot believe in his dislike.

  “You mock me, prince. All Spain
   Adores her queen. Can you with eye of hate
   Behold what all esteem? * *
     The loveliest woman in the world, a queen—
   And once your bride. Impossible, my prince!
   It cannot be! No—no. Where all men love
   Can Carlos never hate; you cannot thus
   Strangely gainsay yourself. Be sure the queen
   Knows not how much she hath her son displeased;
   'Twould be a grief to her.”

He goes on to assure the heir of her interest for him; and relates an 
incident that occurred at a tournament, in which her fears for his 
safety were involuntarily betrayed. Carlos haughtily replies:

             “I much admire
  The king's gay confidant, so aptly versed
  In tales of curious wit.”

and adds in a more serious tone,

  “Ever I've heard it said, the spy on looks,
   And he who treasures tales, hath done more ill
   In this wide world, than in the murderer's hand
   The dagger or the poisoned cup. Your trouble,
   Good sir, you might have spared; if thanks you wait,
   Hence to the king.”

After the intimation of his suspicion that the confessor is placed as 
a spy upon him by the king, he is relieved of the presence of Domingo, 
and the Marquis of Posa enters. This personage, who plays a 
conspicuous part in the drama, and is in fact the hero of the piece, 
is a political enthusiast, whose whole soul is devoted to the 
attainment of a favorite object, to which all his efforts and 
intrigues have an ultimate tendency. The skill with which he lays his 
plans, and the metaphysical subtlety with which they are carried on, 
even to the delusion of the vigilant Philip, are developed in the 
course of the tragedy; but it is proper to give this insight into his 
character at first, to avoid the imputation of inconsistency and 
folly, which would otherwise rest for a time upon his actions in the 
mind of the reader. The delight of Carlos at again embracing his 
friend just returned from a tour through Europe, is so excessive that 
the marquis himself reproves his boyish weakness, which the prince 
excuses by expressing his utter misery. In this and the other extracts 
we are obliged to use our own translation, having never met with an 
English version of the play. Carlos answers to the generous 
suggestions of his friend.

                    Thou speak'st of time long past; I also once
                    Dreamed of a prince of Spain, in whose proud cheek
                    The fiery blood would mount, if one did speak
                    Of Liberty!—yet he is long since buried.
                    Whom thou seest here—he is no more the Carlos
                    Who in Alkala took his leave of thee,
                    Who with the sweet and glorious vision burned.
                    Creator of a new and golden age
                    For Spain to be; Oh, the design was simple,
                    Yet godlike still! Past is that dream!

  _Marquis de Posa_.                              A dream!
                    Prince—Was it but a dream?

  _Carlos_.                              Nay—let me weep;
                    Weep on thy breast hot tears—mine only friend!
                    I have none—none—in the wide full earth none;
                    Far as my father's regal sceptre reaches,
                    Far as the seaward breeze our flag sends forth,
                    There is no place—not one—where I may pour
                    My bitter tears, but this. O Roderick,
                    By all that thou and I may hope in heaven
                    Of future rest—drive me not hence!

  _Act I, Scene 2_.

With pathetic earnestness the desolate prince reminds the marquis of 
the days of their boyhood and their affection; relates an instance of 
his own devotion to him, when he bore the punishment of some juvenile 
offence committed by Posa, and resented by the king. The marquis 
sympathizes but coldly with these emotions; his mind is occupied with 
thoughts too high and momentous to find pleasure in the recollections 
of childhood. He would pay the debt of kindness, however, in manlier 
coin. The prince, in explanation of his previous agitation, and his 
long cherished grief, confesses his love for the queen his 
step-mother, and his eager wish for an interview with her without the 
presence of malicious spectators. His friend, after exacting from him 
a promise to undertake nothing without his knowledge and sanction, 
engages to help him to a private audience. It is no part of the design 
of Posa to discourage this unfortunate attachment, so long as he 
fancies it can be made subservient to the accomplishment of his 
schemes.

The next scene introduces us into the retirement of the queen. 
Elizabeth of Valois, the wife of Philip, is surrounded by her ladies, 
who converse upon their anticipated return to Madrid, and the sports 
and festivals that wait to welcome the royal pair. These are savage as 
the temper of the age; and the delight in anticipation displayed by 
some of the noble dames calls for the mild reprehension of the gentle 
queen. A better subject for discussion is offered in the approaching 
marriage of the princess of Eboli, one of the ladies, to a nobleman of 
Spain. The queen, with playful grace, inquires his merits of the 
destined bride, but is surprised when the latter, in a passion of 
tears, throws herself at her feet, and beseeches that she may be saved 
from such a sacrifice. Elizabeth promises her liberty, then dismisses 
the subject with an abruptness that shows unpleasing remembrances are 
awakened in her mind, and asks for her daughter the Infanta Clara, a 
child of three years old. The Duchess of Olivarez, who holds {706} 
supremacy over the other ladies, suggests that it is not yet the hour 
to admit the child to her mother's presence; and immediately after, a 
page announces the Marquis of Posa, as having arrived from the 
Netherlands, and waiting to present a letter to her majesty. The lady 
of Olivarez objects to his admission at such a time and place, as a 
violation of court etiquette, but is overruled by the queen, who 
commands the entrance of the marquis, and permits her scrupulous 
governess to retire. The noble knight is most graciously received; and 
in the course of conversation takes occasion to relate a story bearing 
much resemblance to the queen's own history—of a lady betrothed to a 
prince who was afterwards supplanted by his uncle. Both Elizabeth and 
the princess of Eboli are much interested in the narration; the former 
then sends Eboli to fetch her daughter; the marquis seizes the 
occasion to request leave to introduce his friend into the presence. 
Carlos enters, and kneeling, kisses the hand of his mother-in-law: the 
marquis and ladies retire out of sight. The scene that ensues is 
admirable; the passionate sorrow and devotion of the prince, and the 
dignity and inexorable virtue of the youthful queen, are beautifully 
pictured. We cannot perceive that she cherishes a single emotion 
towards Carlos, at variance with her duty to her royal husband. She 
appeals to his manhood and heroic spirit to conquer his ill-fated 
passion; “Elizabeth,” she says, “was your first love; let your second 
be Spain.” He promises silence if not forgetfulness, and the Marquis 
of Posa suddenly rushes in, announces the king, and leads his friend 
hastily away. Philip enters with several of his nobles, and asks why 
he finds his wife alone. The marchioness of Mondekar, who comes up at 
this juncture, and attempts to divert the displeasure of the 
sovereign, is dismissed by him from the court, and banished from 
Madrid for ten years. The queen, indignant at the suspicions cast upon 
herself, and the treatment of her domestic, evades a reply to the 
king's questions, and bids the marchioness a weeping adieu, giving her 
her girdle as a token of favor and remembrance. Philip utters a half 
apology for his harshness, by expressing his anxiety to be without the 
shadow of a rival in his wife's affections.

                       I am called
  The richest man in Christendom; the sun
  Goes never down on my domain; yet all
  Another once possessed, and after me
  Full many a monarch shall possess. One thing
  Is all mine own. What the king has, belongs
  To fortune—but Elizabeth to Philip.

He afterwards incidentally inquires of the courtiers after his son, 
and enjoins it upon them to watch his movements. The Duke of Alba 
willingly undertakes the task, boasting himself to be to the throne of 
Spain what the cherub was to the gate of Paradise. After this 
high-flown simile, Count Lerma ventures to speak in favor of the 
prince, but is silenced by Philip, who then departs, accompanied by 
the queen and his train. Carlos and Posa return; the former declares 
his resolution to ask of his father the government of Flanders, which 
he hopes to obtain by his solicitations, and thereby escape from the 
temptations continually presented during his residence in the court. 
He means to make a last appeal to parental feeling in the bosom of the 
king, and hopes to regain the confidence and affection so long lost. 
Posa expresses the most enthusiastic approbation of his purpose, and 
they pledge inviolable friendship. The prince has a just appreciation 
of the noble and disinterested character of his friend, and values his 
esteem beyond aught in the world.

In the second act Carlos seeks the king, and implores a private 
audience. The Duke of Alba is in presence, and is excessively 
reluctant to depart; nor is it without displeasure that Philip, at the 
repeated solicitations of his son, sends him away. The prince, alone 
with his father, lays open his heart; implores forgiveness for his 
offences, and expresses in the most ardent language, his dutiful 
affection and desire for a perfect reconciliation. Upon the 
machinations of designing courtiers, he charges the fault of the 
breach that has so long existed between them; pleads that he will do 
for good will the service his corrupted ministers do for their own 
interests; that a purer fount of love than gold can purchase, swells 
in the heart of Philip's son. The king is not unmoved by this generous 
abandonment, but coldly answers that those he traduces are his proved 
servants. With increasing earnestness Carlos appeals to the parental 
feelings of his father; and the following picture of happiness 
succeeds the startled admission of Philip that he is alone upon a 
throne.

  You have been so, my lord. Hate me no more,
  And I will love you with a duteous love
  And ardent; but oh, hate me not; How lovely,
  How sweet it is, in a fair soul, to feel
  Ourselves as holy things enshrined; to know
  Our happiness another cheek doth kindle,
  Our trouble doth another bosom swell,
  Our sorrow fill with tears another's eyes.
  How sweet and glorious is it, hand in hand,
  With a beloved and duteous son, once more
  To tread the rose-strewed path of early youth!
  To dream again life's dream of pleasure o'er!
  How sweet and blessed in your children's virtue,
  Immortal, ever present to endure,
  The benefactor of a century!
  How fair to plant, what a beloved offspring
  One day shall reap; to sow what shall make glad
  Their future fields; to anticipate the joy,
  The gratitude which they shall feel! My father,
  Your priest is wisely silent of this Eden
  On Earth!

Carlos then offers his petition that he may have the command of the 
army appointed to quell the insurrection in Brabant. He hopes much 
from the attachment of the Netherlands to him, and reasonably 
anticipates that his appearance in person, his dignity as crown 
prince, and the course of mildness and forbearance he proposes to 
pursue, may bring them back to their allegiance. The king intimates 
gloomily his suspicion that treacherous designs against his life are 
concealed under the philanthropic zeal of his son; Carlos is 
horror-struck and deeply wounded at the insinuation, but withdraws not 
his prayer, pressing it more earnestly again and again, in spite of 
the rising displeasure of the monarch. Philip haughtily and decisively 
rejects his suit, having bestowed the command upon Alba, and commands 
the mortified prince to remain in Spain; Carlos leaves the audience 
chamber, and the Duke of Alba entering receives the royal orders to 
prepare for his immediate departure to Brussels, to take his leave of 
the queen {707} and the prince. The cautious courtier observes the 
emotion yet visible on the countenance of his master, and asks if it 
is caused by the subject of his conference with his son. Philip merely 
tells him the subject of their conversation was Duke Alba; and thus 
alarming his fears bids him seek a reconciliation with the prince, 
hinting darkly his doubts of the honesty and candor of the noble duke, 
who, troubled at this intimation, departs disconcerted.

The next scene takes place in an ante-chamber to the queen's 
apartment. Carlos is in conference with a page belonging to the queen, 
who has privately brought him a letter and a key. In a tumult of 
contending feelings, the prince breaks the seal, and at the same 
moment duke Alba crosses to the inner chamber. The letter is in a 
female hand, and appoints a meeting in a cabinet attached to her 
majesty's apartments, safe from intrusion, where the writer promises 
that “the reward of love” shall be bestowed. Carlos is ignorant of the 
queen's hand writing, but does not for a moment imagine the letter to 
be from any other than herself. In this supposition he is confirmed by 
the page, whom he knows to belong to Elizabeth, and who replies to his 
eager questions that the letter was given him by “her own hand.” The 
possessor of the hand is not named by either—and hence arises the 
mistake. The surprise and agitation of the prince are extreme; yet in 
the bitterness of a spirit wounded by unkindness, he does not hesitate 
to accept the bliss he fancies offered to him. Before he can escape 
from the ante-chamber, Alba enters and requests a conference. A long 
interview follows, which at length, in spite of the studied calmness 
of the duke, terminates in a dispute; both draw their swords, but are 
interrupted by the queen, who rushes from her chamber. The effect of 
her appearance is instantaneous; Carlos at a word of remonstrance from 
her, drops his sword, and embracing Alba asks his forgiveness. The 
queen, accompanied by the duke, returns into her closet.

We are next introduced into a cabinet, where the Princess of Eboli, 
fancifully dressed, is playing on the lute. She is enamored of the 
prince, and is anxiously awaiting the return of the messenger, by whom 
she despatched her letter. The page of the preceding scene appears—she 
starts up and hastily questions him; he relates the words and the 
emotion of the prince on the reception of the billet, and informs her 
that he may be momentarily expected. The boy is dismissed, and Carlos 
enters the cabinet by means of the key conveyed to him by the page. 
His surprise at finding himself alone with the princess of Eboli, his 
embarrassment, and efforts to explain his apparently unexpected 
appearance, are almost amusing. The graceful and animated conversation 
of the lady does much to remove the first awkwardness of his mistake, 
and he becomes insensibly interested, though quite unable to account 
for the apparent pleasure with which his fancied intrusion is 
received. The princess informs him of the king's design to bestow her 
hand upon Don Ruy Gomez, Count of Silva, and of her aversion to the 
match; and wishes to be guided by his counsel, which she asks as from 
a dear friend. Her sentiments on love excite the admiration of the 
prince, who nevertheless seems marvellously ignorant of the drift of 
all her intimations.

  _Princess of Eboli_. Love is alone the price of love. It is
                       The invaluable diamond, which I give
                       Freely away—or else, forever hid,
                       Must bury—like the noble-hearted merchant
                       Who all unmoved by the Rialto's gold,
                       Or king's displeasure, to the mighty sea
                       Gave back his pearl, too proud to part with it
                       Below its price!

Again she fancifully styles the passion, or rather the charms which 
awaken it, “the sister hues of one divine beam—the leaves upon one 
lovely flower.” The prince is enchanted with her wit and beauty, and 
the crisis approaches.

  _Princess of Eboli_. Long since had I departed from this court,
                       And from the world departed; buried me
                       Within the cloister's walls, but that one tie
                       Still held me back—one tie, that to the world
                       Binds me with force resistless. Ah! perchance
                       A phantom! yet so dear to me! I love;
                       And I am——not beloved.

  _Carlos_.                  You are—you are!
                       Truly as God doth dwell in Heaven. I swear it—
                       You are—unspeakably.

  _Princess of Eboli_. And dost thou swear it!
                       That was indeed mine angel's voice! Yes—yes!
                       If thou dost swear it—Carlos—then indeed
                       Do I believe——I am!

This avowal on the lady's part is understood; but the prince—though he 
opens his arms to receive her when in the transport of affection she 
throws herself into them—has no idea of returning in coin the love so 
unexpectedly offered to him. A sudden thought has struck him; it is no 
less than to make the enamored princess a confidant of his attachment 
to his mother-in-law. He does not dream of the existence of such a 
thing as feminine jealousy; but is proceeding, in accordance with his 
mad design, to acquaint her with his love for another, when she 
suddenly interrupts his communication by her exclamations of horror 
and surprise. The truth flashes upon her mind; and in an agony of 
shame she demands her key and letters. She had a few moments before 
shown him a letter to her from the king, which he retains in his 
possession. Carlos refuses to give up the letters, and leaves her to 
mortification and regret. Reasoning upon what she has seen and heard, 
she conjectures that the queen is her fortunate rival; nor can she 
imagine the love of the prince unreturned by its object, however 
elevated and passionless her royal mistress has hitherto appeared.

In the mean time, Duke Alba and Domingo are in conference. Alba 
relates his meeting and dispute with Carlos, the sudden change in his 
conduct at a glance from the queen, and his altered demeanor towards 
him. The cautious priest replies that he has long suspected the 
attachment hinted at, but uttered no suspicions so long as proof was 
wanting. Another incident is mentioned by the Duke; he had observed 
the countenance of the prince when he left his father,—it was sad and 
overcast, but in the queen's ante-room, mantled with an expression of 
triumphant joy. He had even expressed satisfaction at the appointment 
of Alba to the command of the army to the Netherlands. The Duke 
himself is disposed to consider this appointment more of a banishment 
than a mark of favor. The two artful courtiers arrange a plot for the 
ruin of the prince, who {708} is hateful to both on account of his 
independent spirit, and dreaded by reason of his right to the crown. 
Both agree that the suspicions of the king must be awakened; but to 
the fulfilment of their plans there wants one ally, the Princess of 
Eboli, who is beloved by the king. At this moment she appears; Alba 
retires, and she directs the priest, who had been the bearer of the 
king's letter to her, to signify to Philip her readiness to receive 
him. Her insinuations against the honor of the queen, and vows that 
she will expose her to the wrath of her husband, are answered with joy 
by Domingo, who calls the Duke to confirm their league. It is agreed 
that the princess shall first accuse the queen; as her majesty's 
companion and confidant her testimony will be accepted. Domingo 
suggests ingenious means of proof, and Alba mentions the page he had 
seen in close conversation with Carlos; but Eboli, alarmed, diverts 
their suspicion by hastily assuring them that no weight is to be 
attached to such evidence.

Scene fourteenth exhibits Carlos in a remote monastery with a Prior, 
with whom he awaits the arrival of the Marquis of Posa. The Prior 
retires, and the prince relates to his friend the ill success of his 
petition, and his further alienation from the king. He tells him also 
of the mysterious summons, and his interview with the lady of Eboli; 
shows the king's love-letter to her, and exulting, asserts that such a 
document is sufficient to free the queen from her matrimonial 
obligations. Posa warns him against the arts of the princess, and 
unfolds her character; reasons against the blind passion which still 
rages in the bosom of the prince, arouses his sense of shame, rebukes 
him for his madness, and overwhelms him with the consciousness of 
guilt. He obtains possession of the letter, and having listened to the 
expressions of remorse and warm trust in him, which fall from the lips 
of his repentant friend, rewards him by permitting him to seek an 
audience with Elizabeth. The zealous politician perceives that the 
only way to lead the prince to the fulfilment of his far-reaching 
designs, is to take advantage of the queen's influence over him.

The third act opens in the king's sleeping chamber. Philip is alone; a 
table, with a burning lamp, is near him, on which he leans in deep 
thought, gazing upon a letter and a medallion lying before him. These 
have been taken recently from a casket belonging to the queen, and 
sent as proof of her guilt to the jealous sovereign, whose first words 
show that the poison is working. He calls Count Lerma from the 
adjoining chamber, and addresses him; but the unsuspicious old man 
cannot comprehend the mysterious hints of the agitated monarch.

  _Count Lerma_. My greatest—my best king——

  _Philip_.            King—only king!
                 And ever king! No better answer this
                 Than the dull solemn cavern's empty echo!
                 Upon this rock I strike, and will have water—
                 Water, to quench my burning fever's thirst—
                 He gives me glowing gold!

Lerma is dismissed and Duke Alba summoned; the letter is shown to him, 
and he says he recognizes the prince's hand writing; encouraged to 
speak freely, he mentions the fact of the presence of Carlos with the 
queen in the garden at Aranjuez. After this information the king 
suddenly changes his manner; haughtily dismisses the duke, and calls 
his confessor. Domingo's evidence is in substance the same with that 
of his fellow conspirator, but his doubts are more cautiously and 
artfully expressed. Having heard him through, Philip recalls Alba, and 
charges both with a plot for the destruction of his son: alluding to 
Alba's hostility, he remarks—

  How gladly would the innocent man now arm
  His petty spite with my wrath's giant arm!
  I am the bow, ye think in your wild fancies,
  That may be bent for service at your will!
  Yet have I mine own pleasure, &c.

After reflection, the king declares his intention to command a public 
trial of the queen, and reminding them that her doom will be death if 
found guilty—asks if they, as her accusers, will embrace the 
alternative, and submit to the same sentence, if she is proved 
innocent. Duke Alba consents to support his charge on these terms, and 
is ordered to wait further commands in the audience chamber.

In the hall of audience are assembled the prince and grandees of 
Spain, waiting the arrival of the sovereign. Medina Sidonia, the 
admiral, has just returned from an unsuccessful expedition.

  _Medina Sidonia_. I lost him a brave fleet
                    Such as ne'er yet did crown the seas. What is
                    A head like this, against full seventy,
                    Seventy sunken gallies! But, my prince,
                    Five sons I lost—hopeful as you—that breaks
                    My heart——

The unfortunate commander has sealed his own doom in the opinion of 
those around him; for none are ignorant that there is a cloud on the 
royal brow. The admiral would rather face English cannon than the 
displeasure of his master, but is comforted by Carlos, who exhorts him 
to hope the best from the king's grace and his own innocence. When he 
kneels to relate his misfortunes to Philip, he is graciously pardoned 
for the faults of storms and rocks, and welcomed to Madrid. The king 
then inquires the reason of the absence of the Marquis of Posa, who 
has failed to pay his duty at the feet of his sovereign since his 
return from his journey. The Count Lerma, Duke Alba and the Duke of 
Feria in turn praise the Marquis, and relate the noble deeds he has 
accomplished.

  _Philip_. I am amazed. And what must be the man
            Hath done all this, yet among three, thus questioned,
            Hath not a single foe? Be sure, this man
            Must have a character most singular,
            Or none at all; if but to wonder at,
            I must speak with him.
            (_to Duke Alba_)      After mass is heard,
            Conduct him to my cabinet.

The boldness and dignity displayed by the Marquis in the subsequent 
interview with the king, develop his character, and unfold the project 
to which he had devoted his life. Bent on the accomplishment of his 
object, the deliverance of the Netherlands from oppression, he 
hesitates not to condemn Philip's policy in the government of his 
distant provinces. The king seems not displeased at his boldness, and 
from grave remonstrance the enthusiast soon passes to the most 
impassioned pleading. With earnest eloquence he paints the spirit of 
independence that is abroad, and warns the monarch not to oppose his 
will to this growing power.

  _Marquis_. You hope to end, as you have now begun!  {709}
             Hope to retard the change o'er Christendom
             Already ripe—the universal spring,
             The world to bring again to pristine childhood.
             You will, alone throughout all Europe, throw
             Yourself against the wheel of a world's fate,
             Which unimpeded in full course doth roll.

Again,

             You, who would fain plant for eternity,
             Sow death! A work thus forced can ne'er endure
             Beyond its maker's breath!

Although the king listens without anger to such declamation, he soon 
after coldly dismisses the subject, and expressing a wish to engage 
the disinterested Posa in his service, sounds him upon the subject of 
Carlos and the queen. The Marquis is silent at Philip's first allusion 
to his domestic troubles.

  _King_.                    I understand you.
                     Yet if among all fathers I must be
                     The most unhappy—as a husband, may I not
                     Call myself blest?

  _Marquis of Posa_. If the possession of
                     A hopeful son, a wife most virtuous,
                     Can give a mortal right to be thus deemed,
                     You are most blest in both.

  _King_.                    No—I am not!
                     And that I am not—have I never felt
                     So deeply as even now!

  _Marquis of Posa_. The prince is noble
                     And good. I never found him otherwise.

  _King_.            But I have. What he hath despoiled me of,
                     No sceptre can restore—a noble queen——

  _Marquis of Posa_. Who dares to say so, Sire?

  _King_.                     Who? Calumny!
                     The world! Myself! Here lie the proofs that both
                     Condemn, incontrovertibly—and others
                     Are close at hand, which make me fear the worst.
                     Yet, Marquis, it is sad if I believe
                     Only one side! Who is't accuses her?
                     If _she_ could e'er be thought to stoop so low,
                     So deeply to imbrue her soul in crime,
                     How readily may I believe, in sooth,
                     An Eboli can slander!—And the priest,
                     Doth he not hate my son—and her? Duke Alba—
                     Know I not that he meditates revenge?
                     My wife is worth them all.

                     *       *       *       *       *

                     To fall into such crime, as they do charge
                     Upon the queen, costs much. So easily,
                     As they would fain persuade me, is not broken
                     The holy tie of honor. Men I know,
                     Marquis—and such a man I long have lacked.
                     You are noble and free-hearted—know mankind—
                     And therefore have I chosen you.

  _Marquis of Posa_. Me—Sire?

  _King_.            You stand before your lord—and yet have nought—
                     Nought for yourself to beg. That's new to me.
                     You shall be just; emotion from your glance
                     Can ne'er conceal itself. Watch well my son:
                     Search the queen's heart. I will permission give
                         you
                     To speak with her in private. Leave me now.

  _Act III, Scene 10_.

Posa takes advantage of this permission speedily to demand an audience 
of the queen. Act fourth opens in her apartment, where she welcomes to 
her presence the princess of Eboli, who has been for some days 
indisposed. Agitated from the consciousness of guilt, the unhappy girl 
implores leave to retire, and passes out as the Marquis enters, 
bearing as he alleges a message from the king. At his special request, 
the ladies withdraw; and not noticing the extreme surprise of 
Elizabeth at seeing him employed as a royal messenger, he proceeds to 
the real object of his visit—warns her of danger, and gives her a 
letter from Carlos, imploring an interview. Posa warmly seconds this 
request, and overcomes the queen's scruples by assuring her that the 
measure is necessary, not only to the private happiness of the prince, 
but to the weal of the state. The liberty of Flanders is sacrificed; 
and Alba's appointment as leader of the royal army has struck a death 
blow to the hopes of the people. But one way remains to prevent the 
destruction impending over those provinces, and their loss by the 
Spanish crown; it must be undertaken by the prince—who must be 
persuaded to the enterprise by her.

  _Marquis of Posa_.         He must
                     Be disobedient to the royal will,
                     Must privately betake himself to Brussels;
                     With open arms the Flemings there await him.
                     The Netherlands will to his standard throng,
                     A good thing is made strong by the alliance
                     Of a king's son. He makes the Spanish throne
                     Tremble before his arms. That which the king
                     Refused in Madrid, he constrained will grant
                     In Brussels.

After some hesitation, the queen consents to what she imagines a 
measure of necessity, and writes a few lines to Carlos, recommending 
him to follow the advice of the Marquis. Their interview is ended by 
the appearance of the Duchess of Olivarez.

Meanwhile Count Lerma, with good intent, but injudicious zeal, warns 
Carlos against the Marquis of Posa; acquaints him with his long 
audience and close confidence with the king; and mentions that he 
heard from the door his own name and Elizabeth's uttered. The prince 
thanks him for his caution, which excites in his bosom no distrust of 
his friend, as is proved by their subsequent interview. Posa gives him 
the queen's note, then asks for it, as it is more safe in his custody. 
With evident reluctance, Carlos confides the precious paper to his 
hands, than as if ashamed of his suspicion, throws himself trembling 
with agitation upon his neck.

The next scene is in the royal cabinet, when Philip is alone with the 
Infanta, his daughter. The medallion and letter are before him; he has 
thrown the former in a transport of jealousy upon the floor. The queen 
enters and throws herself at his feet, strongly agitated, demanding 
justice against the felon who has robbed her casket. The offender, she 
suggests, must be of rank, for a pearl and diamond of immense value 
were left untouched, and only a letter and medallion taken away. To 
the king's stern questions she answers without hesitation, that both 
were gifts from the prince, sent before her marriage with the king. 
Her openness and unevasive answers convey to the mind of the reader 
the most perfect conviction of her entire innocence; the slightest 
wavering or shadow of fear would have marred all. The child finds the 
medallion on the floor and brings it to her mother; who then in a 
strain of beautiful remonstrance rebukes the king for his unjust 
suspicions {710} and unfair trial of her. Philip acknowledges that the 
casket was opened at his command, and haughtily asks if she has never 
deceived him, reminding her of the scene in the garden at Aranjuez. 
The queen candidly confesses her disingenuous evasion of his inquiries 
at that time; but excuses herself by charging her lord with 
unwarrantable harshness of manner, before her domestics. She would not 
be judged then as a culprit before the assembled courtiers, and 
therefore suffered him to suppose she had been alone. She censures 
also his cruel injustice towards his son, and avows the warmest esteem 
for the prince, who had once been her affianced husband. As a near 
relative, and one who has borne a name yet nearer, tenderness is due 
to him. As might be expected the king reproves this unusual boldness; 
becoming more violent he pushes the child away; the queen, offended at 
his invectives, takes her daughter by the hand, and with dignified 
composure walks to the door of the cabinet. She can proceed no 
further, but overcome by her feelings falls in a swoon on the 
threshold; the alarm is given; she is carried to her apartment by her 
women, but not till the news of so ominous an incident is spread 
through the court. Philip dismisses his courtiers, but welcomes 
eagerly the Marquis of Posa, who demands a private audience, and gives 
the king a pocket-book, which he says he took from the prince's 
chamber. Among the papers it contains, is the letter from the princess 
of Eboli to Carlos; at sight of this paper a light flashes upon the 
mind of the king, who perceives her motive for traducing her mistress. 
The Marquis receives permission to control the movements of the 
prince, and a full warrant for his arrest and imprisonment, should he 
at any time deem such a measure necessary.

In the gallery Carlos meets again the boding Count Lerma. The old man 
describes his pocket-book, of blue velvet wrought with gold, and tells 
him he saw it in the king's hand, while Posa stood beside him, and 
received the royal thanks for “the discovery.” The prince cannot 
disbelieve a story so well attested, but fears not for himself; his 
whole soul is bent to secure the safety of the queen, which he 
conceives endangered by the unfortunate note sent to him by Posa, that 
was in the pocket-book when he gave it to the Marquis. It is a 
beautiful trait in the character of this youth, that under no 
circumstances does it enter his head to doubt the nobleness of his 
friend. Even in the face of this damning evidence, his only 
exclamation is, “I have lost him!” He knows the Marquis to be actuated 
by motives higher than those affecting the private safety or happiness 
of any man in the realm; and if he imagines that he is to be offered 
up for the good of a nation, he thinks not of charging with treachery 
or cruelty the man who, he is convinced, is impelled by necessity to 
the course he pursues.

Duke Alba and Domingo, burning with envy and jealousy towards Posa, 
repair to the queen, and warn her against him. She receives their 
protestations of loyal devotion with haughty coldness.

  _Queen_.   Most worthy sir, and you, my noble Duke,
             You do surprise me, truly. Such devotion
             From the Duke Alba—from Domingo—sooth,
             I ne'er expected. And I know full well
             How I must value it. You speak of plots
             Which threaten me—may I inquire——

  _Alba_.          We pray you
             Look well unto the lord of Posa, he,
             Private commission from his Majesty
             Who holds.

  _Queen_.   I hear with pleasure, sirs, unmixed,
             The king hath chosen so well. I long have heard
             The Marquis, as a noble knight, reported—
             As a great man. Never was royal favor—
             The highest grace—more righteously bestowed.

  _Domingo_. More righteously bestowed? Nay—we know better.

We are next introduced to the apartment of the princess of Eboli. The 
repentant lady is surprised by Carlos, who in despair of assistance 
from any other source, comes to beseech her, by her past tenderness 
for him, to help him to an audience with his mother. In her extreme 
surprise and confusion, she scarcely comprehends his request; they are 
interrupted by the Marquis of Posa, followed by two officers of the 
guard. Displaying the royal warrant, he arrests Carlos, and hurries 
him away before he has time to utter another word; then endeavors to 
learn from the lady how much he has already communicated. He holds a 
dagger to her breast, threatening to murder her if she will not 
disclose the secret; then struck by a sudden thought, releases her. 
Eboli rushes to the queen's presence and falls at the feet of her 
mistress, to announce the prince's arrest by the Marquis.

  _Queen_.             Now, God be praised, it was by Posa's hand
                       He was made prisoner.

  _Princess of Eboli_. And say you that
                       So calmly, queen? So coldly? Righteous Heaven!
                       You think not—Oh! you know not——

  _Queen_.                     Wherefore he's
                       A prisoner? For some error, I suppose,
                       Which to the headlong character of youth
                       Was natural.

  _Princess of Eboli_. Oh no—no! I know better!
                       O queen! An infamous, a devilish deed!
                       For him there is no safety more! He dies!

  _Queen_.             He dies?

  _Princess of Eboli_. And I—I am his murderess!

  _Queen_.             He dies? Insane—consider you.

  _Princess of Eboli_.       And wherefore,
                       Wherefore dies he? Oh, could I but have known
                       That it would come to this!

  _Queen_.             (_taking her hand_.) Princess, your senses
                       Have quite forsaken you. Collect your spirits,
                       Compose yourself—that without looks of horror
                       That so affright me, you may tell me all.
                       What know you? What has happened?

  _Princess of Eboli_. Oh, not thus,
                       Not with such heavenly condescension—not
                       So graciously—my mistress! Flames of hell
                       Rage in this conscious breast. I am not worthy
                       To raise my look profane up to that summit
                       Of purity and glory. Crush, oh, crush
                       The wretch who at your feet lies bowed by
                           shame,
                       Repentance—self-abhorrence!

  _Queen_.                     Unhappy girl,
                       What have you to confess?

  _Princess of Eboli_.     Angel of light!
                       Pure being! Yet you know not—you suspect not
                       The demon whom you smile upon so sweetly. {711}
                       Now learn to know him. I—I was the felon
                       Who robbed your casket.

  _Queen_.             You?

  _Princess of Eboli_. And who delivered
                       That letter to the king.

  _Queen_.             You?

  _Princess of Eboli_. And who dared
                       Accuse you.

  _Queen_.             You—you could——

  _Princess of Eboli_. Revenge—love—madness—
                       I hated you—I loved the prince.

  _Queen_.             You loved him?

  _Princess of Eboli_. I told him of my passion—and I found
                       No answering love.

  _Queen_.             (_after a pause_) Oh now—is all unriddled!
                       Stand up: you loved him—I forgive you all—
                       All is forgotten now; arise! (_takes her by the
                           arm_.)

  _Princess of Eboli_.     No—no!
                       A horrible confession yet remains.
                       Not yet, great queen!

After the disclosure which ensues, the queen, in silence, retires to 
her closet. She can forgive duplicity and malice towards herself, but 
her nature revolts from such infamy as is revealed to her. The Duchess 
of Olivarez enters from the closet, and demands from the prostrate 
princess her cross and key; she delivers them up, listens a few 
moments in vain for the queen's return, then despairing, rushes out.

In the presence of Elizabeth, the Marquis of Posa speaks in a tone of 
the greatest despondency, announcing the loss of the game in which he 
had staked his life. Yet he quiets her apprehensions on the prince's 
account; the cause demanded one victim, and he has devoted himself. 
With melancholy presentiment of his own approaching fate, he commits 
his friend to the queen, whom he beseeches to regard him with 
unalterable affection, that he may yet fulfil the high destiny 
reserved for him and be a benefactor to his people.

In the mean time the king's ante-room is crowded by the nobles of 
Spain, and the royal ministers, waiting to see the monarch, who has 
forbid all access to his person. Don Raimond von Taxis brings an 
intercepted letter to the Prince of Orange, that he must deliver to 
Philip without delay. He enters the royal cabinet; Alba and Domingo 
remain without in suspense, trembling for their own fate; the other 
courtiers busy themselves in conjectures respecting the strange 
conduct of the king—the imprisonment of his son, and the ominous 
aspect of affairs. Count Lerma comes into the ante-chamber, apparently 
shocked, and summons Alba to the presence. The princess of Eboli 
hastily enters from without and is rushing to the king, but is held 
back by Domingo; at length Alba returns and announces their complete 
triumph.

The explanation of these events is reserved for the last act, which 
discovers Carlos in a dungeon, into which the Marquis enters. Though 
the unfortunate youth can no longer doubt the perfidy of his friend, 
he does not dream of reproaching him for an act he is convinced sprang 
from necessity, but only regrets that the queen should have been 
involved in his destruction. Convinced that both are victims 
deliberately sacrificed, his surprise is extreme when Posa gives him 
again the queen's letter that he had committed to his safe keeping, 
and had imagined in the hands of Philip. An eclaircissement ensues; in 
the midst of which Duke Alba enters to announce his freedom, and 
apologize on the part of the king for the mistake that led to his 
imprisonment. The prince refuses to take back his sword, or leave the 
dungeon till his father comes in person to restore him to liberty. 
Alba departs with this message to the king, and the Marquis, exulting 
in the success of his scheme, explains fully all his past conduct. He 
has seemed to be the prince's enemy only that he may serve him better. 
When deceived by Count Lerma's officious representations, Carlos had 
thrown himself at the feet of the princess of Eboli, and Posa had 
arrived too late to prevent a confession, which in the hands of that 
envious woman might ruin all, the Marquis had suddenly resolved upon a 
bold manœuvre. This was no less than to divert the king's suspicions 
to himself, and thereby secure time for the prince's escape to 
Brabant. For this purpose he wrote the letter to the Prince of Orange, 
stating that he (the Marquis) was in love with the queen; that he 
sought to fix the sovereign's suspicion upon his son, who was not only 
innocent of the offence, but had endeavored, through the princess of 
Eboli, to warn his mother-in-law against the arts of Posa. This 
letter, as the writer intended, was intercepted by Taxis, and carried 
to the king; and, in consequence, the prince was restored to favor. 
The Marquis implores the prince to escape into Flanders, where his 
duty lies; Carlos refuses to leave him; at the same instant a shot is 
heard through the prison door, and the gallant Posa falls and expires. 
The king and nobles enter; Philip offers to embrace his son, who 
repels him indignantly, and discloses the fact that Posa was his 
friend.

   Here your approach is death—I'll not embrace you.
   (_to nobles_) Why stand ye thus embarrassed round? What deed
   Of horror have I done? Have I assailed
   The Lord's anointed? Fear ye nought. I lay
   No hand on him. Behold ye not the brand
   Upon his brow? Him God hath marked!

None of the reproaches of Carlos are so bitter to his father, as his 
taunting allusions to the fraud practised upon the king by the 
deceased.

            Your favor you bestowed
  On him—he died for me. Your confidence,
  Your friendship you did urge—nay, force upon him;
  Your sceptre was the play-thing of his hands;
  He cast it forth, and died for me! And was
  It possible? Could you give credit—you—
  To such a dull deceit? How slightly he
  Must have esteemed you, that he ever dreamed
  With this poor mockery to overreach you!

       *       *       *       *       *

    He was no man for you! He knew it
  Himself right well—as he, with all your crowns,
  Rejected you. This holy heart was crushed
  Beneath your iron hand. You could do nought
  But murder him!       *       *
          Even you he could have made
  Most fortunate! His heart was rich enough
  In its o'erflow to have contented you.
  A fragment of his spirit would have made you
  A God!       *       *
    O you, who stand assembled here  {712}
  With wonder and with terror mute, condemn not
  The youth who dared reproachful words to utter
  Against his father and his king. Lo, here!
  For me he died! Have you yet tears? Flows blood,
  Not molten brass, within your veins? Look here—
  Condemn me not!
  (_To the King_.) And you, perhaps, await
  The close of this unnatural history.
  Here is my sword: you are my king again.
  Think you I tremble at your sovereign vengeance?
  Slay me, as you have slain the best and noblest.
  My life is forfeited. I know it well.
  What now is life to me? All I renounce
  That in this world awaits me. Seek henceforth
  'Mong strangers for your son. Here lies my kingdom!

A tumult is heard without, and an officer of the guard enters in 
haste.

  _Officer_. Rebellion!
             Where is the king?—All Madrid is in arms!
             In countless crowds the raging populace
             Surround the palace. They exclaim—the prince
             Is in arrest, his life in mortal peril.
             The people will behold him living, safe,
             Or Madrid will be soon in flames!

  _Nobles_   Save—save
             The king!

  _Alba_.    Fly, sire—there's danger—hasten hence;
             We know not yet who arms the populace.

  _King_.    (_waking from a stupor_.)
             Stands my throne firm? Am I yet sovereign here?
             I am no longer king——These cowards weep,
             Made tender by a boy. They only wait
             The signal, from my side to fall away.
             I am betrayed by rebels.

  _Alba_.    Sire—my king!
             What dreadful fantasy——

  _King_.    Lo! yonder—haste,
             Prostrate yourselves! Before a promising
             And youthful king kneel down! I now am nothing
             But an old powerless man!

  _Alba_.    Is't come to this?
             Spaniards!

  _King_.    Go—clothe him in the royal robes!
             Lead him o'er my crushed corpse!

The attendants bear off his majesty, and Carlos, left alone, is joined 
by Merkado, physician to the Queen, who brings her request for an 
interview, that she may communicate to him his deceased friend's last 
charge. The prince is to be in the vault at midnight, in the habit of 
a monk, that he may be taken for the ghost of the dead emperor by the 
superstitious guards.

The Dukes of Feria and Alba meet in the king's ante-chamber waiting 
for an audience. Alba has a new discovery to make; a monk has been 
arrested, who had found private access to the prince's apartment. In 
the fear of death, he produced a paper, consigned to his care by the 
Marquis of Posa, and addressed to Carlos, appointing his proposed 
interview with the Queen at midnight, his subsequent departure from 
Madrid for the Netherlands, and his rebellion, at the head of those 
provinces, against the Spanish yoke. Philip enters, but evidently in 
no condition to hear the communication of his ministers. His 
passionate grief for the death of Posa, and his lamentations, 
strikingly display the pride which is the ruling passion of his 
nature.

  _King_.    Give the dead back to me; I must possess him
             Again.

  _Domingo_. (_to Alba_.) Speak you to him.

  _King_.    He thought so poorly
             Of me, and died i' the error. I must have him
             Again; he must think otherwise of me!

  _Alba_.    Sire——

  _King_.    Who speaks here? have you forgotten whom
             You stand before? Why kneel you not—bold man?
             I am your king, and I will have submission.
             Must all neglect, because there's one has dared
             Despise me?

  _Alba_.    O, no more of him, my lord!
             Another foe, important as he was,
             Is in your kingdom's heart!

  _Feria_.   Prince Carlos——

  _King_.    He had a friend, who has met death for him;
             For him—with me he had a kingdom shared!
             How looked he down on me! So haughtily
             None look down from a throne.

       *       *       *       *       *

             The dead is here no more. Who dares to say
             That I am happy? In the grave dwells one
             Who did withhold esteem from me! What worth
             Are all the living to me? One high spirit,
             One freeborn man, lived in this century;
             One—he despised me—and died!

  _Alba_.    So we
             Have lived in vain! Let us, too, Spaniards, go
             Down to the grave! Even in death, this man
             Of the king's heart doth rob us!

The reflections of Philip show that he also discerned the lofty 
character of the deceased:

                       To whom brought he
  This offering?—to the boy my son? No—never!
  I'll ne'er believe it. For a boy dies not
  A Posa. Friendship's sordid flame fills not
  A Posa's heart. It stretched itself to embrace
  Humanity.  *  *  *
  Not Philip he disdained for Carlos—but
  The old man to the youth, his hopeful scholar.
  The father's setting sun could not enlighten
  His new day's work. The task he but deferred
  For the son's rising light!

  _Act V, Scene 9_.

An officer enters with the intelligence of the ghost seen in the 
vault. The king having at length been made to comprehend the new 
danger, sends for the Grand Inquisitor, and orders the entrances to 
the vault to be stopped. The ensuing interview of Philip with the aged 
dignitary, and the humility with which the haughty sovereign receives 
the rebuke of the church, shows the superstition often attendant upon 
cruelty. The king informs him of his designs respecting his son, and 
asks,

                      Canst thou a new belief establish,
                      That shall excuse us a son's bloody death?

  _Grand Inquisitor_. To appease eternal righteousness, expired
                      The Son of God upon the cross.

  _King_.             Thou wilt
                      Throughout all Europe this opinion spread?

  _Gr. Inq._          Far as the Cross is honored.

  _King_.             I do violence  {713}
                      To nature; her all-powerful voice wilt thou
                      To silence also bring?

  _Gr. Inq._          Before Belief
                      Avails no voice of nature.

  _King_.             I resign
                      My office as his judge into thy hands.
                      May I do this?

  _Gr. Inq._          Give him to me.

The cold and brief manner in which this arrangement is concluded is 
appalling. The plot hastens to its catastrophe. In a remote apartment 
the queen's last meeting with the doomed prince takes place. Our last 
extract shall be a part of the final scene.

  _Carlos_. (_sinking on one knee before her_.) Elizabeth!

  _Queen_.  And thus we meet again!

  _Carlos_. And thus we meet again!

  _Queen_.  Arise; we will not,
            Carlos, grow weak. Not with unworthy tears
            Must the great dead be honored. Tears may flow
            For smaller ills! He offered up himself
            For you!  *  *  *  O, Carlos,
            I spoke for you. On my security
            He left this place in joy. Will you my words
            Make false?

  _Carlos_. A monument I'll build to him—
            No king had e'er the like. Above his dust
            Shall bloom a paradise.

  _Queen_.  So have I wished!
            That was the mighty meaning of his death!
            He chose me his last will to execute;
            I claim the debt of you. I hold you bound
            To the fulfilment of this oath!

Carlos has awakened from his former madness; devoted only to the 
accomplishment of his friend's dying request, he disclaims the 
entertainment of any other feelings for the queen than an affection 
founded on the circumstance that she was the confidant and friend of 
the Marquis. At this juncture the King, Grand Inquisitor, and Nobles 
appear in the back-ground, unperceived by the Prince or Elizabeth.

  _Carlos_. Now I depart from Spain,
            And see my father in this life no more;
            I cannot love him—nature in my breast
            Is now extinct—be you again his wife;
            His son is lost to him. Return to duty.
            I go to rescue my oppressed people
            From tyrant hands. Madrid sees me as king,
            Or never more. Now for our last farewell!
            *  *  *  Did you hear nought?

  _Queen_.  No, nothing—save the clock
            That sounds our separation.

  _Carlos_. Then good night,
            Mother; from Ghent you will receive the letter
            Which shall the secret of this interview
            Make public. I depart—henceforth with Philip
            To walk an open path. Henceforth between us
            There's nothing secret. You shall never need
            To shun the world's eyes.
            This is my last deceit. (_Attempts to put on his 
                mask—the king steps between them_.)

  _King_.   It is your last! (_Queen falls senseless_.)

  _Carlos_. (_catches her in his arms_.) Is she dead?
            Oh, heaven and earth!

  _King_.   Cardinal! I have done
            My part—do yours!

We have occupied so much space in the details of this long and 
intricate play, that we are compelled to curtail our remarks, and as 
much as possible. Schiller has undoubtedly rendered his tragedy the 
more interesting, from the glowing picture he presents of the manners 
of the times. In the character of the Queen we think he has succeeded 
better than Alfieri; in that of Philip, not so well. Schiller's Philip 
is a tyrant; but the tyrant in Alfieri is painted in colors infinitely 
stronger. Perhaps we are shown too uniformly the darker side of the 
picture, but it is in all respects a powerful one. It was a bold and 
fine thought in the Italian poet, to represent the monarch of Spain as 
keeping himself aloof from all confidence or support from others, and 
shrouding his designs ever in the inscrutable veil of hypocrisy. Even 
in the presence of Gomez, his tried counsellor and servant, Filippo 
maintains the same guarded and haughty reserve. His commands are brief 
and laconic to a studied degree, and his follower in cruelty rather 
divines his meaning, from his long habits of sharing in the schemes of 
his master, than gathers the full import of the words uttered, from 
the king's language. On no occasion does the king express openly what 
we might suppose his feelings; it is only by his actions, and by 
penetrating through his habitual deceit, that we are able to judge of 
his plans. In the council scene, his hypocrisy deceives all his 
courtiers; and in the catastrophe, the half-spoken expression of 
rising remorse is checked on the instant, while he imposes silence, 
under the penalty of death, on his accomplice in crime. This character 
is one which it well suited the austere genius of Alfieri to depict; 
one touch of relenting, or of a communicative spirit towards his 
servant, and the whole had been marred. He walks with unfaltering step 
towards the goal of his intent, wrapped in cold and impenetrable 
reserve. Far different is the King that Schiller has painted. He is 
comparatively open-hearted; and exhibits a confidence and candor 
towards the Marquis of Posa, a being whose nature could never accord 
with his, that seems to us quite misplaced in the character of a 
tyrant like Philip. His jealousy is also that of pride, and pride is 
his master passion; but the author has not done well to make him 
indulge in such lengthened soliloquies. The Queen is a beautiful 
creation; ingenuousness, dignity, and tenderness are finely displayed 
in her lovely character. In aristocratic and feminine reserve, she is 
much superior to Isabella in Alfieri, whose passion and devotedness 
are more undisguised than is becoming to her sex and station. We do 
not admire the readiness with which she discloses her still lingering 
preference for Carlos; and her hesitation and embarrassment in 
presence of the King, are unfavorably contrasted with the boldness, 
founded on the consciousness of innocence, in Schiller's Elizabeth. 
Alfieri has but sketched his other personages; Gomez is a reflection 
of his master, and Perez appears but once to any purpose. The minor 
persons in the German drama are, on the other hand, highly 
interesting. The princess of Eboli is natural; her jealous attachment 
to the prince urging her into a conspiracy which ends in his 
destruction, her subsequent remorse and confession of guilt, and vain 
efforts to save him, are all natural and dramatic. The character of 
the Marquis of Posa might itself form the subject of an essay. A 
citizen of the world, and devoted to the {714} accomplishment of his 
Utopian schemes of government, his friendship is secondary to this 
pervading and ruling desire. Hence his manner to Carlos on their first 
interview after his return to Spain. He has early accustomed himself 
to look upon his friend as the crown prince, and to anticipate the 
high destiny he is to fulfil. This idea gives constraint to his 
demeanor; and while Carlos opens his arms to welcome the friend of his 
bosom, the political dreamer and enthusiast kneels at his feet. It 
would have been the part of a true friend to discourage the 
unfortunate attachment between the prince and his mother-in-law, but 
it occurs to the Marquis that Flanders would have nothing to hope from 
Carlos, while he languished with hopeless love. Liberated from the 
thraldom of absorbing misery, he might be moulded to any thing his 
friend could desire; and with this view Posa himself undertakes to 
further his wishes. There is much that is noble in the character of 
the prince; with a tender and benevolent heart, enthusiasm for all 
that is great and good and beautiful, with delicacy and firmness of 
nature, and generosity amounting to a fault, his imprudence and want 
of foresight occasion all his misfortunes. The elements of future 
greatness are in his nature, but his fiery impatience of temperament 
prevent his obeying the dictates of an elevated judgment.

We have little to say upon the conduct of the plot and the style of 
these two plays. The last scenes in Schiller's tragedy are too long, 
and the catastrophe not striking; “Filippo” in this respect contrasts 
favorably with it; the closing scene, as in most of Alfieri's pieces, 
is brief, rapid and animated. We cannot admire the stratagem of the 
ghost's appearance in the German play. The style of two productions so 
different in character, the one adhering rigidly to the prescribed 
rules of the classic school, and the other admitting all the exuberant 
graces and dramatic effect belonging to another and more modern 
system, can hardly be compared. The diction of Alfieri is severe and 
harsh, and his extreme brevity might pass for affectation. That of the 
German dramatist is far more pleasing and poetical. The work of the 
latter is in almost every respect most to our taste, though Alfieri 
has decidedly the advantage in his delineation of Philip.




LOAN TO THE MESSENGER.

NO. V.

The following stanzas have never as yet been published. They are from 
the pen of a young friend of the transcriber, and written at his 
request. He now takes the same liberty with them as with others from 
divers sources hitherto, and inscribes them respectfully to the 
readers of the Messenger.

J. F. O.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO A NAMELESS ONE.


  Lady! we never met before
    Within the world's wide space,—
  And yet, the more I gaze, the more
    I recollect thy face.
  Each feature to my mind recalls
    An image of the past,
  Which, where the shade of Memory falls,
    Is sacred to the last.

  But she, whose charms in thine I trace,
    Was not, alas! of earth:
  And yet of more than mortal grace,
    For Fancy gave her birth.
  She haunted me by sunlit streams,
    And burst upon my sight,
  When through the pleasant land of dreams,
    My spirit roved by night.

  Lost idol! why didst thou depart?
    Oh let thine earnest eyes,—
  Abstraction—vision though thou art,—
    Once more my soul surprise.
  She comes,—a gay and laughing girl!
    (Whom, happy, does she seek?)
  And raven curls their links unfurl
    Adown her blushing cheek.

  Her Grecian lineaments are bright
    With beauty half divine:
  She is “a phantom of delight,”
    Her dark eyes are—like thine!
  As music to a soul oppressed,
    As spring-flowers to the bee,
  As sunbeams to the Ocean's breast,
    Her presence is to me!

  I clasp her to my heart once more,—
    I am again a boy,—
  The past shows nothing to deplore,
    The future is all joy!
  We wander through deserted halls,
    We climb the wooded height,
  We hear the roar of water-falls,
    And watch the eagle's flight.

  We stand where sunset colors lie
    Upon a lake at rest,—
  And oh! what clouds of Tyrian dye
    Are sloping down the west!
  And see! above the purple pile
    The evening star appears,
  While she, who cheered me with her smiles,
    Now tries to hide her tears!

  Enough! the spell is at an end,—
    The pageant floats away,—
  And I no more may idly bend
    At Mem'ry's shrine to day.
  I turn to thee, whose beauty first
    That shape of love renewed,
  And waked emotions, that were nursed
    Long since, in solitude.

  I turn to thee, and start to see,
    Again that face and mien,—
  Those glassy ringlets, floating free,
    Those eyes of sparkling sheen!
  Two visions have waylaid my heart,—
    An old one and a new;
  And, Lady! by my faith, thou art
    The fairer of the two!

S.


{715}


_Editorial._




CRITICAL NOTICES.


THE SWISS HEIRESS.

_The Swiss Heiress; or The Bride of Destiny—A Tale. Baltimore: Joseph 
Robinson._

The Swiss Heiress should be read by all who have nothing better to do. 
We are patient, and having gone through the whole book with the most 
dogged determination, are now enabled to pronounce it one of the most 
solemn of farces. Let us see if it be not possible to give some idea 
of the plot. It is the year 1780, and “the attention of the reader is 
directed, first, to a Castle whose proud battlements rise amidst the 
pines and firs of the Swiss mountains, while, at its base, roll the 
waters of Lake Geneva,” and, second, to the sun which is setting 
somewhat more slowly than usual, because he is “unwilling to terminate 
the natal day of the young heiress of the Baron de Rheinswald, the 
wealthy proprietor of Montargis castle, and its beautiful environs.” 
We are thus left to infer—putting the two sentences and circumstances 
in apposition—that the Montargis Castle where dwells the young heiress 
of the Baron de Rheinswald, is neither more nor less than the 
identical castle “with the proud battlements” et cetera, that “rises 
amid the pines and firs” and so forth, of the “Swiss Mountains and the 
Lake of Geneva” and all that. However this may be, the Baron de 
Rheinswald is a “Catholic of high repute” who “early in life marries a 
lady of great wealth, a member of his own church, actuated by 
ambition”—that is to say, there was either something or somebody 
“actuated by ambition,” but we shall _not_ say whether it was a lady 
or a church. The lady (or perhaps now the church) “lived but five 
years after the union, and at her death earnestly and solemnly 
implored that her only son might be devoted to the priesthood.” The 
lady, or the church (let us reconcile the difficulty by calling the 
thing “Mother Church”) being thus deceased, the bereaved Baron marries 
a second wife. She being a protestant however, the high contracting 
parties sign an instrument by which it is agreed “that the eldest 
child shall be educated by the mother's direction, a protestant, the 
second be subject to the father's will and a catholic, and thus 
alternately with all their children.” This, it must be allowed is a 
contrivance well adapted for effect. Only think of the interesting 
little creatures all taking it “turn about!” What fights, too, they 
will have, when breeched, over their prayer-books and 
bread-and-butter! Our author pauses in horror at anticipated 
consequences, and takes this excellent opportunity of repeating what 
“a late writer” (a great friend of his by the bye) says in regard to 
“chemical combinations” and “opposite properties.”

The first child is a son, and called William. The second is a 
daughter, Miss Laura, our heroine, the “Swiss Heiress,” and the “Bride 
of Destiny.” She is the “Swiss Heiress” in virtue of a certain 
“dispensation from the church of Rome, by which the estates of the 
Baron were to descend to his first catholic child by his second 
marriage” and she becomes the “Bride of Destiny” because the Baron has 
very properly selected for her a husband, without consulting her 
Heiress-ship about the matter. This intended husband is one Count 
Laniski, young, good-looking, noble, valiant, wise, accomplished, 
generous, amiable, and possessed of a thousand other good 
qualities—all of which, of course, are just a thousand better reasons 
why the Bride of Destiny, being a heroine, will have nothing to do 
with him. Accordingly, at eight years old, she grows melancholy and 
interesting, patronizes the gipsies, curses the Count Laniski, talks 
about “fate, fore-knowledge, and free-will,” and throws aside her 
bread-and-butter for desperation and a guitar. In spite of all she can 
do, however, the narrative gets on very slowly, and we are upon the 
point of throwing the lady (banjo and all) into the street, when the 
Count himself makes his appearance at the Castle, and thereby 
frightens her to such a degree that, having delivered a soliloquy, she 
runs off with her “Brother William” to America.

“Brother William,” however, is luckily killed at the siege of 
Yorktown, and the “Bride of Destiny” herself is recaptured by her 
family, the whole of whom, having nothing better to do, have set out 
in pursuit of her—to wit—her half brother Albert, (who is now Baron de 
Rheinswald, the old Baron being dead) Clermont a croaking old monk, 
and Madam de Montelieu a croaking old somebody else. These good 
people, it seems, are still determined that the “Swiss Heiress” shall 
be the “Bride of Destiny”—that is to say, the bride of the Count 
Laniski. To make matters doubly sure too on this head, the old Baron 
has sworn a round oath on his death-bed, leaving the “Swiss Heiress” 
his “eternal curse” in the event of her disobedience.

Having caught and properly secured the young lady, the new Baron de 
Rheinswald takes up his residence for a time “on the borders of 
Vermont and Canada.” Some years elapse, and so forth. The “Bride of 
Destiny” is nearly one and twenty; and the Count Laniski makes his 
appearance with a view of urging his claim. The Heiress, we are forced 
to say, now behaves in a very unbecoming and unaccountable manner. She 
should have hung herself as the only rational course, and—heigho!—it 
would have saved us a world of trouble. But, not having forgotten her 
old bad habits, she persists in talking about “fate, foreknowledge, 
and free will,” and it is not therefore to be wondered at that matters 
in general assume a truly distressing complexion. Just at this crisis, 
however, a Mr. Frederick Mortimer makes his interesting debût. Never 
certainly was a more accomplished young man! As becomes a gentleman 
with such an appellation as Frederick Mortimer, he is more beautiful 
than Apollo, more sentimental than De Lisle, more distingué than 
Pelham, and, positively, more mysterious than the “mysterious lady.” 
He sympathizes with the woes of the “Bride of Destiny,” looks 
unutterable threats at the Count Laniski, beats even the “Swiss 
Heiress” at discoursing of “free will,” and the author of the “Swiss 
Heiress” at quoting paragraphs from a “late writer.” The heart of the 
“Bride of Destiny” is touched—sensibly touched. But Love, in romance, 
must have impediments, and the Loves of the “Bride of Destiny” and Mr. 
Frederick Mortimer have two. The first is some inexpressible mystery 
connected with a certain gold ring, of which the Heiress is especially 
careful, and the second is that rascally old Baron {716} Rheinswald's 
“eternal curse.” Nothing farther therefore can be done in the 
premises, but as we have now only reached Chapter the Sixth, and there 
are to be seventeen chapters in all, it is necessary to do 
something—and what better can be done than to talk, until Chapter the 
Fifteenth, about “fate, foreknowledge, and free will?” Only imagine a 
string of delightful sentences, such as the following, for the short 
space of three hundred and ninety-six pages!


“How rapidly time flies,” said the Count, “I have been here weeks, and 
they seem but days.”

“I am not surprised, my lord,” said Mrs. Falkner, smiling.

“Nor I,” he returned, also smiling. “This place, such society, wraps 
the senses in such blissful illusion that I ‘take no note of time.’ 
The clock strikes unheeded, unheard.”

“Why do you smile, Miss Montargis?” asked Mrs. Falkner.

“I was just thinking,” she replied, “that Count Laniski had 
unconsciously given a ‘local habitation and a name’ to the fabled 
region where cold is so intense as to congeal sound.”

Mrs. Falkner bowed, but could not comprehend what such a region had to 
do with Count Laniski's compliment to the heiress.

“Take care, Mr. Mortimer,” said Miss Montargis, still smiling, “you 
are in dangerous vicinity. Have you no fear of cold?”

“It is not sufficiently _positive_,” he replied, “to destroy my belief 
that it exists with much _latent_ warmth, which it requires but a 
little address to render quite _sensible_.”

Mortimer spoke with mingled playfulness and seriousness, but the 
latter prevailed, and Miss Montargis felt it a reproof, and blushed, 
she scarcely knew why.

“To be sensible,” she said, “it must affect others. Who ever felt its 
influence? not _she_ at least who has painfully realized its 
_negativeness_.”

“I am sure you speak mysteries to me,” said Mrs. Falkner, laughing, 
“what can you mean?” &c. &c.


We would proceed, but are positively out of patience with the gross 
stupidity of Mrs. Falkner, who cannot understand what the other ladies 
and gentlemen are talking about. Now we have no doubt whatever they 
are discoursing of “fate, foreknowledge, and free will.”

About chapter the fifteenth it appears that the Count Laniski is not 
the Count Laniski at all, but only Mr. Theodore Montelieu, and the son 
of that old rigmarole, Madam Montelieu, the housekeeper. It now 
appears, also, that even that Count Laniski whose appearance at 
Montargis Castle had such effect upon the nerves of our heroine, was 
not the Count Laniski at all, but only the same Mr. Theodore 
Montelieu, the same son of the same old rigmarole. The true Count, it 
seems, in his younger days, had as little partiality for the match 
ordained him by fate and the two fathers, as the very “Bride of 
Destiny” herself, and, being at college with Mr. Theodore Montelieu at 
the time appointed for his visit to Montargis Castle, had no scruple 
in allowing the latter gentleman to personate his Countship in the 
visit. By these means Mr. M. has an opportunity of seeing his mother, 
the old rigmarole, who is housekeeper, or something of that kind, at 
the Castle. The precious couple (that is to say the old rigmarole and 
her son) now get up a plot, by which it is determined that the son 
shall personate the Count to the end of the chapter, and so marry the 
heiress. It is with this end in view, that Mr. Theodore Montelieu is 
now playing Count at the residence of the Baron in Vermont. Mr. 
Frederick Mortimer, however, is sadly in his way, and torments the 
poor fellow grievously, by grinning at him, and sighing at him, and 
folding his arms at him, and looking at him asquint, and talking him 
to death about “fate and foreknowledge and free will.” At last Mr. 
Mortimer tells the gentleman flatly that he knows very well who he is, 
leaving it to be inferred that he also knows very well who he is not. 
Hereupon Mr. Theodore Montelieu calls Mr. Frederick Mortimer a liar, a 
big liar, or something to that effect, and challenges him to a fight, 
with a view of either blowing out his already small modicum of brains, 
or having the exceedingly few blown out, which he himself (Mr. 
Theodore Montelieu) possesses. Mr. Mortimer, however, being a hero, 
declines fighting, and contents himself, for the present, with looking 
mysterious.

It will now be seen that matters are coming to a crisis. Mr. Mortimer 
is obliged to go to Philadelphia; but, lest Mr. Montelieu should whisk 
off the heiress in his absence, he insists upon that gentleman bearing 
him company. Having reached, however, the city of brotherly love, the 
ingenious young man gives his keeper the slip, hurries back to 
Vermont, and gets every thing ready for his wedding. Miss Montargis is 
very angry and talks about the inexplicable ring, fate, fore-knowledge 
and free will—but old Clermont, the Baron, and Mr. Montelieu, on the 
other hand, get in an absolute passion and talk about nothing less 
than the old Baron Rheinswald and his “eternal curse.” The ceremony 
therefore proceeds, when just at the most proper moment, and all as it 
should be, in rushes—Mr. Frederick Mortimer!—it will be seen that he 
has come back from Philadelphia. He assures the company that the Count 
Laniski, (that is to say Mr. Theodore Montelieu,) is not the Count 
Laniski at all, but only Mr. Theodore Montelieu; and moreover, that he 
himself (Mr. Frederick Mortimer) is not only Mr. Frederick Mortimer, 
but the bonâ fide Count Laniski into the bargain. And more than this, 
it is very clearly explained how Miss Laura Montargis is not by any 
means Miss Laura Montargis, but only the Baroness de Thionville, and 
how the Baroness de Thionville is the wife of the Baron de Thionville, 
and how, after all, the Baron de Thionville is the Count Laniski, or 
else Mr. Frederick Mortimer, or else—that is to say—how Mr. Frederick 
Mortimer is'nt altogether the Count Laniski, but—but only the Baron de 
Thionville, or else the Baroness de Thionville—in short, how every 
body concerned in the business is not precisely what he is, and is 
precisely what he is not. After this horrible development, if we 
recollect, all the dramatis personæ faint outright, one after the 
other. The inquisitive reader may be assured, however, that the whole 
story ends judiciously, and just as it ought to do, and with a very 
excellent quotation from one of the very best of the “late writers.”

Humph! and this is the “Swiss Heiress,” to say nothing of the “Bride 
of Destiny.” However—it is a valuable “work”—and now, in the name of 
“fate, fore-knowledge and free will,” we solemnly consign it to the 
fire.


ROSZEL'S ADDRESS.

_Address delivered at the Annual Commencement of Dickinson College, 
July 21, 1836, by S. A. Roszel, A.M.  Principal of the Grammar School. 
Published by Request of the Board of Trustees. Baltimore: John W. 
Woods._

Mr. Roszel, we have good reason for knowing, is a scholar, of 
classical knowledge more extensive, and far more accurate than usual. 
In his very elegant Address on Education now before us, he has 
confined {717} himself to the consideration of “tutorial instruction 
as embraced under the divisions of the subjects to be taught, and the 
manner of teaching them.” Of the first branch of his theme, the 
greater portion is occupied in a defence of the learned tongues from 
the encroachments of a misconceived utilitarianism, and in urging 
their suitableness as a study for the young. Here, Mr. R. is not only 
forcible, but has contrived to be in a great measure, original. We are 
especially pleased to see that, in giving due weight to the ordinary 
ethical and merely worldly considerations on this topic, he has most 
wisely dwelt at greater length on the loftier prospective benefits, 
and true spiritual uses of classical attainment. We cite from this 
portion of the address a passage of great fervor and beauty.


But are there not translations? If there were, a perusal of them would 
be profitless, for it is to be borne in mind, that the tenor of the 
preceding remarks has been uniformly to demonstrate the advantages, 
not only of a perusal, but of the study of the dead languages. And so 
this question is destitute of pertinence. But there never was a 
translation of an ancient author. Versions there are, a majority of 
them dull and spiritless, lifeless and jejune, but they are not 
translations. And so are there odorless roses, and there might be 
beamless suns. As in religion we aspire to drink from the fountain 
head so let it be in literature. Let us be imbued with its spiritual 
influences; for no one that has pondered them well can remain 
unimpressed by the magnificent divulgement of quenchless, illimitable 
intellect, by the resplendency of thought which bursts forth and glows 
with a steady fervor, in the pages of the blind bard of Greece, and 
the keen-sighted orator of Rome, with a vigor and intensity so 
powerful, that the typographical characters themselves seem to stand 
out, vivid and lustrous, like sentient gems, myriads of sparkling 
emanations, burning and lucent, flashing a sentiment in every word, an 
axiom in every line, a corollary in every paragraph. There is an 
inborn inexpressible satisfaction to the mind well attuned, in being 
able to appreciate the beauty and the strength, the essence and 
vitality of those inimitable and indestructible periods of the 
Athenian orator which called the ruddy blush of shame to the pallid 
cheek of the coward, stirred the elements of enthusiastic honor to 
tempestuous agitation, and excited the irrepressible shout, To battle! 
there is a chaste delight in perusing the cutting satire, the splendid 
objurgations, and the brilliant invectives of that eloquence, which 
startled the world's victor from his unsteady throne, and speaking in 
the bold terms of unquailing freedom, compelled the submission of arms 
to the toga. But there is a still deeper, more serene and holy 
rapture, in meditating on the accents of the Redeemer in the very 
dialect in which they fell from his sacred lips; in meditating with an 
awe ineffable, on the presumptuous sentence of an earth-born worm, 
which consigned to a death of ignominy and shame, the august God of 
the universe.


In Mr. R's remarks “on the manner of teaching”—on the duties of a 
teacher—there is much to command our admiration and respect—a clear 
conception of the nature and extent of tutorial duties, and a stern 
sense of the elevated moral standing of the tutor.

We see, or we fancy we see, in the wording of this Address, another 
instance of that tendency to _Johnsonism_ which is the Scylla on the 
one hand, while a jejune style is the Charybdis on the other, of the 
philological scholar. In the present case we refer not to 
_sesquipedalia verba_, of which there are few, but to the too frequent 
use of primitive meanings, and the origination of words at will, to 
suit the purposes of the moment. But to these sins (for the world will 
have them such) a fellow-feeling has taught us to be lenient—and, 
indeed, while some few of Mr. Roszel's inventions are certainly not 
English, there are still but _very_ few of them “_qui ne le doivent 
pas etre_.”


WRAXALL'S MEMOIRS.

_Posthumous Memoirs of his Own Time. By Sir N. W. Wraxall, Bart. 
author of “Memoirs of My Own Time.” Philadelphia: Republished by 
Carey, Lea & Blanchard._

The “Memoirs of My Own Time” were published in 1815. They excited the 
greatest commotion, and if we are to believe the Baronet, no literary 
work ever procured for its author “a more numerous list of powerful 
and inveterate enemies.” The queen, the regent, and the princesses of 
the royal family disliked the portrait drawn of George the Third, 
which every reasonable person will allow to be by no means a 
caricature. They disapproved too, of the somewhat free comments on the 
peace of 1763, and were highly incensed at certain _personal_ 
disclosures in regard to the king. The first Lord of the Treasury, son 
of Charles Jenkinson, was offended at the “just and impartial” 
character given his father. The partisans, respectively, of Pitt and 
Fox, arose in arms at what they considered the gross abuse of their 
leaders. The relatives of Lord North were enraged at the account of 
his junction with Fox in 1783, notwithstanding the Baronet himself 
considers that “he had done justice to that most accomplished and 
amiable nobleman.” But this was not all. The Earl of Bute would not be 
appeased. The Marquis of Lansdowne spoke of a prosecution in the court 
of King's Bench on account of the reflections (unavoidable, we are 
told) made on the resignation of the Earl of Shelburne. The “Quarterly 
Review” in an article written, we are assured, by “men” in official 
situations, held the “Memoirs” up to general reprobation as an 
“imbecile and immoral work,” while the “Edinburg” joined in the hue 
and cry with still greater virulence, and even more disgusting 
personal abuse. Lastly, and much more than all to the purpose, Count 
Woronzow, in consequence of the mention made of him by the Baronet, in 
his relation of the circumstances connected with the marriage of the 
Princess Royal to the late Duke of Wirtemberg, instituted a 
prosecution, in order to vindicate his own official diplomatic 
conduct. Garrow, then Attorney-General, was retained for the 
prosecution, and it is to be observed that, passing over in few words 
the particular passage for which the suit was commenced, he dwelt with 
the greatest severity against the “Memoirs” at large. The disposition 
of the government towards the defendant may, however, be fully 
estimated by the fact, that although the court repeatedly disclaimed 
having authorized the Attorney-General to call for a _vindictive_ 
judgment, declaring his sole object to be the clearing up of his own 
character; and although the Baronet, for an offence which he declared 
to be unintentional, made at once the most ample, prompt and public 
apology, still the vindictive judgment of six months imprisonment, and 
a fine of five hundred pounds, was ordered into execution, a part of 
the imprisonment actually carried into effect, and the fine remitted 
only through the most energetic and persevering exertions of Woronzow 
himself. “Such,” says the author of the Memoirs, “was the combination 
of assailants which my inflexible regard to truth assembled from the 
most opposite quarters.” These clamors and difficulties, however, he 
considered as more than sufficiently counterbalanced by the testimony, 
now first communicated to the world, of the late Sir George Osborn—a 
testimony indeed which should {718} be considered of authority. This 
gentleman, a near relative of Lord North's, was of ancient descent, 
high character, and large property; and from 1775, until the king's 
final loss of reason, was one of the grooms of his bed-chamber. In a 
letter to the Baronet shortly after his commitment to the King's 
Bench, he thus writes: “I have your first here, and have perused it 
again with much attention. I pledge my name that I personally know 
nine parts out of ten of your anecdotes to be perfectly correct. You 
are imprisoned for giving to future ages a perfect picture of our 
time, and as interesting as Clarendon.” For ourselves, we had as soon 
depend upon the character here given of the “Memoirs” as upon that 
more highly colored portrait of them painted by the Attorney-General.

Thus persecuted, the Baronet took a lesson from experience, and 
declined to publish the work now before us during his life-time. He 
adopted also the necessary measures to guard against its issue during 
the life-time of George the Fourth. In so doing, he has, of course, 
secured his own personal convenience, but the delay has deprived his 
reminiscences of that cotemporary interest which is the chief 
seasoning of all similar works. Still the Baronet's pages will excite 
no ordinary attention, and will be read with unusual profit and 
pleasure. The book may be regarded as a series of parliamentary 
sketches, in which are introduced, at random, a thousand other 
subjects either connected or unconnected with the debates—such as 
historical notices of the measures introduced,—personal anecdotes and 
delineations of the speakers—political facts and inferences—attempts 
at explaining the hidden motives of ministers or their agents—rumors 
of the day—and remarks upon public events or characters abroad. The 
Baronet is sadly given to scandal, and is peculiarly _piquant_ in the 
indulgence of his propensity. At the same time there should be no 
doubt (for there assuredly is no reason for doubting) that he is fully 
in earnest in every word he says, and implicitly relies in the truth 
of his own narrative. The lighter portions of his book, therefore, 
have all the merit of vraisemblance, as well as of _haut gout_. His 
style is occasionally very minute and prosy—but not when he has a 
subject to his fancy. He is then a brilliant and vivid writer, as he 
is at all times a sagacious one. He has a happy manner, when warmed 
with an important idea, of presenting only its characteristic features 
to the view—leaving in a proper shadow points of minor effect. The 
reader is thus frequently astonished at finding himself fully 
possessed of a subject about which very little has been said.

Among the chief characters that figure in the “Memoirs,” and 
concerning each of whom the Baronet has a world of pithy anecdote, we 
note Pitt, Burke, Fox, Sheridan, Erskine, Louis the Sixteenth, George 
the Third, the Queen and royal family, Sir James Lowther, Lord 
Chesterfield, the late Marquis of Abercorn (John James Hamilton,) Lady 
Payne (Mademoiselle de Kelbel,) Lord North, Sir Philip Francis the 
reputed author of Junius, Sir William Draper the defeated antagonist 
of that writer, George Rose, (the indefatigable and faithful factotum 
of Pitt,) the Duke of Queensbury, Harry Dundas, Hastings with his 
agent Major Scott, Lord Eldon, Grey, Sidmouth, Thurlow, the Marquis of 
Lansdowne, Lord Liverpool, Marie Antoinette, the Duchess of 
Devonshire, the Duchess of Gordon, and (we should not have forgotten 
him) the late dirty Duke of Norfolk, then Earl of Surrey. Of this 
illustrious personage a laughable account is given. On one occasion—at 
a great whig dinner at the Crown and Anchor, (in February 1798, while 
all England was threatened with revolution, and when Ireland was on 
the brink of open rebellion,) his Grace, inspired as usual with wine, 
was fool enough to drink “The sovereign majesty of the people.” 
“Assuredly,” says the Baronet drolly enough, “it was not in the ‘Bill 
of Rights,’ nor in the principles on which reposes the revolution of 
1688, that the Duke could discover any mention of such an attribute of 
the people. Their liberties and franchises are there enumerated; but 
their _majesty_ was neither recognized or imagined by those persons 
who were foremost in expelling James the Second.” His Grace 
accompanied the toast with some pithy observations relating to “the 
two thousand persons who, under General Washington, first procured 
reform and liberty for the thirteen American colonies.” Of course it 
is not very singular that his remarks were considered as savoring of 
sedition. Growing sober, next morning, he became apprehensive of 
having proceeded too far. Accordingly, a day or two afterwards, 
hearing that his words had excited much wrath at St. James's, he 
waited on the Duke of York with an excuse and an apology, concluding 
with a request that, in the event of invasion, his regiment of militia 
might be assigned the post of danger. His Royal Highness listened to 
him with much attention, and assured him that his desire should be 
made known to the king—breaking off the conversation abruptly, 
however, with “Apropos, my lord, have you seen Blue-Beard?” (the 
popular pantomime of the day.) In _two days_ after this interview the 
“dirty Duke” received his dismission both from the lord-lieutenancy 
and from his regiment.

There are several connected narrations of some length and great 
interest in the volume before us. One of these concerns the noted 
Westminster election, when the charms and address of the Duchess of 
Devonshire aided Fox so largely in defeating the governmental 
influence—another the accusations of Hastings and Impey—another the 
debates on the Regency Bill. The “Diamond Necklace” affair, in which 
Madame de la Motte performed so important a part, is related clearly 
and pointedly, but with some little diffuseness. We abridge the 
Baronet's account of this extraordinary matter.

Prince Louis de Rohan, second brother of the Duke de Montbazon, was 
fifty-one years of age at the epoch in question. He was a prelate of 
elegant manners, of restless ambition, and of talents, although 
ill-regulated. It appears that he was credulous and easily duped by 
the designing. Previous to his attainment of the episcopal dignity, 
and while only coadjutor of Strasburg, he had been employed in 
diplomacy, and acted, during a considerable time, as Ambassador from 
the Court of France at Vienna, in the reign of Maria Theresa. 
Returning home, he attempted to reach the ministerial situation left 
vacant by Maurepas. But Louis the Sixteenth had imbibed strong 
prejudices against him, and the queen held him in still greater 
aversion. Yet he was resolutely bent upon acquiring her favor, and 
indeed entertained, it seems, the hope of rendering himself personally 
acceptable to her. At this time she {719} was very beautiful, loved 
admiration, was accessible to flattery, and not yet thirteen years of 
age.

Among the numerous individuals who then frequented Versailles with the 
view of advancing their fortune, was Mademoiselle de la Valois. She 
became an object of royal notice, through the accidental discovery of 
her descent from Henry the Second, by one of his mistresses, St. 
Renny, a Piedmontese lady of noble birth. A small pension was bestowed 
on her, and she soon afterwards married a gentleman of the name of La 
Motte, one of the Count de Provence's body guards. His duties 
retaining him at Versailles near the person of the Count, Madame de la 
Motte became well known to the Cardinal de Rohan, whose character she 
appears to have studied with great attention. She herself was totally 
devoid of moral principle, and her habits of expense induced her to 
resort to the most desperate expedients for recruiting her finances. 
About this time, one Boehmer, a German jeweller well known at the 
court of France, had in possession a most costly diamond necklace, 
valued at near seventy thousand pounds sterling, and obtained 
permission to exhibit it to her majesty. The queen, however, declined 
buying it. Madame de la Motte receiving information of the fact, 
resolved to fabricate a letter from the queen to herself, authorizing 
her to make the purchase. In this letter Marie Antoinette was made to 
express a determination of taking the necklace at a certain indicated 
price—under the positive reserve, however, that the matter should 
remain a profound secret, and that Boehmer would agree to receive his 
payment by instalments, in notes under her own hand, drawn on her 
treasurer at stipulated periods.

Furnished with this authority, Madame de la Motte repaired to the 
Cardinal de Rohan. Submitting to him, as if in confidence, the queen's 
pretended letter, she dwelt on the excellent opportunity which then 
presented itself to him, of acquiring her majesty's favor. She urged 
him to see Boehmer, and to assure him of the queen's desire—the proof 
of which lay before him. The Cardinal, however credulous, refused to 
embark in the affair, without receiving from Marie's own mouth the 
requisite authority. Madame de la Motte had foreseen this impediment 
and already provided against it. There lived at that time in Paris an 
actress, one Mademoiselle D'Oliva, who in her figure bore great 
resemblance to the queen. This lady they bribed to personate her 
majesty—asserting that a frolic only was intended.

Matters being thus arranged, Madame de la Motte acquainted the 
Cardinal that Marie Antoinette felt the propriety of his eminence's 
scruples, and with a view of removing them, and at the same time of 
testifying her sense of his services, had resolved to grant him an 
interview in the gardens of Versailles—but that certain precautions 
must be adopted lest the transaction should come to the knowledge of 
the king. With this end the Cardinal was told her majesty had fixed 
upon a retired and shady spot, to which she could repair muffled up in 
such a manner as to elude notice. “The interview,” Madame de la Motte 
added, “must be very short, and the queen resolutely refuses to speak 
a single word lest she may be overheard.” Instead of verbally 
authorizing De Rohan to pledge her authority to Boehmer, it was 
therefore settled that she hold in her hand a flower, which, on the 
Cardinal's approaching her, she would immediately extend to him as a 
mark of her approval.

This blundering plot, we are told, succeeded. Mademoiselle D'Oliva 
personated the queen à merveille, and the Cardinal, blinded by love 
and ambition, was thoroughly duped. Convinced that he had now received 
an unquestionable assurance of Marie Antoinette's approbation, he no 
longer hesitated to pledge himself to Boehmer. A deduction of above 
eight thousand pounds on the price demanded, having been procured from 
him, promissory notes for the remainder, exceeding sixty thousand 
pounds, drawn and signed in the queen's name, payable at various 
periods by her treasurer, were delivered to the jeweller by Madame de 
la Motte. She then received from him the necklace. Her husband having 
obtained leave of absence, under the pretence of visiting the place of 
his nativity, carried off the diamonds, and, arriving safe in London, 
disposed of some of the finest stones among the dealers of that city. 
Madame de la Motte herself, we cannot exactly understand why, remained 
at Paris. The Cardinal, also, continued in unsuspecting security at 
court. But the day arriving when her majesty's first promissory note 
became due, the fraud was of course discovered. As soon as the part 
which de Rohan had performed in it was fully ascertained, the whole 
matter was laid by her majesty before the king. Louis, after 
consulting with some of his ministers, finally determined upon the 
Cardinal's arrest. “Such an event,” says our author, “taking place in 
the person of a member of the Sacred College, an ecclesiastic of the 
highest birth and greatest connections, related through the kings of 
Navarre to the sovereign himself, and grand almoner of France, might 
well excite universal amazement. Since the arrest of Foucquet, 
superintendant of the finances, by Louis the Fourteenth, in 1661, no 
similar act of royal authority had been performed: for we cannot 
justly compare with it the seizure and imprisonment of the Duke of 
Maine in 1718, by order of the Regent Duke of Orleans. The Cardinal de 
Rohan's crime was private and personal, wholly unconnected with the 
state, though affecting the person and character of the queen. He was 
conducted to the Bastile, invariably maintaining that he had acted 
throughout the whole business with the purest intentions; always 
conceiving that he was authorized by her majesty, and was doing her a 
pleasure. Madame de la Motte, Mademoiselle D'Oliva, and some other 
suspected individuals were also conveyed to the same fortress. 
Notwithstanding the queen's evident innocence in this singular 
robbery, a numerous class of Parisians either believed or affected to 
believe her implicated in the guilt of the whole transaction.”

This account is followed up by the relation of a private and personal 
adventure of the Baronet, of the most romantic and altogether 
extraordinary character. He gives the detailed narrative of a plot, in 
which he acted a conspicuous part as secret agent, for the restoration 
of the imprisoned queen Caroline Matilda of Denmark, and to which 
George the Third had given his approbation and promised his 
assistance. Had this revolution been carried into effect it would have 
brought about the most important changes in the political aspect of 
the north of Europe. The sudden death of the queen put an end to the 
attempt, however, just when all preparations were completed, and 
success was beyond a reasonable doubt. In the spring of 1784, a 
similar {720} exertion placed the young prince royal, then only 
sixteen years of age, in possession of the Regency, which his mother's 
death alone prevented her from attaining in 1775. After the queen's 
decease, some of her most active friends interested themselves with 
George the Third to procure the Baronet a proper remuneration for his 
services. For nearly six years, however, the attempt was unsuccessful. 
The final result is thus related by the author himself.


In 1780 I came into Parliament; and some months afterwards as I was 
seated nearly behind Lord North in the House of Commons, only a few 
members being present, and no important business in agitation, he 
suddenly turned round to me. Speaking in a low tone of voice so as not 
to be overheard, “Mr. Wraxall,” said he, “I have received his 
majesty's command to see and talk to you. He informs me that you 
rendered very important services to the late queen of Denmark, of 
which he has related to me the particulars. He is desirous of 
acknowledging them. We must have some conversation together on the 
subject. Can you come to me to Busby Park, dine, and pass the day?” I 
waited on him there in June 1781, and was received by him in his 
cabinet alone. Having most patiently heard my account of the 
enterprise in which I engaged for the queen Matilda's restoration, he 
asked me what remuneration I demanded. I answered, one thousand 
guineas, as a compensation for the expense which I had incurred in her 
majesty's service, and an employment. He assured me that I should have 
both. Robinson, then Secretary to the Treasury, paid me the money soon 
afterwards; and I confidently believe Lord North would have fulfilled 
his promise of employing me, or rather of giving me a place of 
considerable emolument, if his administration had not terminated early 
in the following year, 1782.


The volume concludes with an appendix embodying a variety of 
correspondence in relation to this singular matter, under the heading 
of “Letters and Papers respecting the Queen of Denmark.” Altogether, 
these “Posthumous Memoirs” afford a rich fund of entertainment—and in 
especial to the lovers of political gossip we most heartily recommend 
their perusal.


AMERICAN ALMANAC.

_The American Almanac, and Repository of Useful Knowledge, for the 
year 1837. Boston: Published by Charles Bowen._

This is the eighth number of a work more justly entitled to be called 
“A Repository of Useful Knowledge” than any with which we are 
acquainted. From its commencement it has been under the editorial 
management of Mr. J. E. Worcester, for more than twenty years known to 
the American public as an able and most indefatigable author and 
compiler. If we are not mistaken, this period at least has elapsed 
since the publication of his “Gazetteer of the United States.” Besides 
that work, of whose great merit it is of course unnecessary now to 
speak, Mr. W. has written “The Elements of Geography”—“The Elements of 
History”—an Edition of Johnson's Dictionary as improved by Todd and 
abridged by Chalmers—an Abridgment of the American Dictionary of 
Doctor Webster—and a “Comprehensive Pronouncing and Explanatory 
Dictionary of the English Language, with Pronouncing Vocabularies of 
Classical, Scripture, and Modern Geographical Names.” All these 
publications are of high reputation and evince unusual perseverance 
and ability.

A glance at the “American Almanac” will suffice to assure any one that 
no ordinary talent, and industry, have been employed in bringing it to 
its present condition. An acute judgment has been necessary in the 
selection of the most needful topics, to the exclusion of others 
having only a comparative value—in the condensation of matter—in the 
means of acquiring information—and in the estimation of the degree of 
credit which should be given it when received. The variety of themes 
handled in the volume, the perspicuity and brevity with which they are 
treated, their excellent arrangement, and the general accuracy of the 
statistical details, should secure for the work a circulation even 
more extensive than at present. With the exception of the astronomical 
department, for which we are indebted to Mr. Paine, it is understood 
that _all_ the contents of the volume (a thick and closely printed 
octavo of 324 pages, abounding in intricate calculations) have been 
prepared by the indefatigable editor himself.

The “Almanac” for 1837 contains the usual register of the National and 
State Governments, an American and Foreign obituary and chronicle of 
recent events, a valuable “Treatise on the use of Anthracite Coal,” by 
Professor Denison Olmsted of Yale, an account of “Public Libraries,” a 
“Statistical View of the Population of the United States,” a series of 
Tables relating to the “Cultivation, Manufacture, and Foreign Trade of 
Cotton,” and Meteorological notices of Seasons and the Weather. In the 
account of each individual State pains have been taken to give 
accurate intelligence respecting all matters of Internal 
Improvement—more especially in regard to Canals and Rail-Roads. In the 
next volume some further details upon this head are promised—some 
account also of Pauperism in the United States, and a wider variety of 
statistical notices in relation to foreign countries. We have before 
stated our conviction, and here repeat it, that no work of equal 
extent in America embodies as much really important 
information—important to the public at large—as the eight published 
volumes of Mr. Worcester's Almanac. We believe that complete sets of 
the work can still be obtained upon application to the publisher, Mr. 
Charles Bowen of Boston. Its mechanical execution, like that of all 
books from the same press, is worthy of the highest commendation.


COOPER'S SWITZERLAND.

_Sketches of Switzerland. By an American. Part Second. Philadelphia: 
Carey, Lea and Blanchard._

The London Spectator has very justly observed of this, Mr. Cooper's 
last work, that two circumstances suffice to distinguish it from the 
class of sketchy tours. He has contrived to impart a _narrative_ 
interest to his journey; and, being an American, yet intimately 
conversant with all the beauties of the Old World, he looks at 
Switzerland with a more instructed eye than the mass of travellers, 
and is enabled to commit its landscapes to a comparison which few of 
them have the means of making—thus possessing an idiosyncracy giving 
freshness to what otherwise would be faded. In our notice of Part 1, 
of the work before us, we had occasion to express our full sense of 
the writer's descriptive powers, refined and strengthened as they now 
appear to us to be. Is it that Mr. Cooper derives vigor from spleen, 
as Antæus from earth? This idea might indeed be entertained were his 
improved power to-day not especially perceptible in his delineations 
of the calm majesty of nature. It must be observed by all {721} who 
have read the “Headsman,” and who now read the “Sketches,” that the 
same scenes are frequently the subject of comment in each work. The 
drawings in the former are seldom more than mediocre—in the latter we 
meet with the vivid coloring of a master.

The subject of the first two volumes is Mr. Cooper's visit to 
Switzerland in 1828—that of the two now published, his visit in 1832. 
The four years intervening had effected changes of great moment in the 
political aspect of all Europe, and produced of course a modification 
of feeling, taste, and opinion in our author. In his preface he 
pithily observes—“Four years in Europe are an age to the American, as 
are four years in America to the European. Jefferson has somewhere 
said that no American ought to be more than five years at a time out 
of his own country, lest he get _behind_ it. This may be true as to 
its _facts_—but the author is convinced that there is more danger of 
his getting before it as to opinion. It is not improbable that this 
book may furnish evidence of both these truths.” In the last sentence 
there may be some little arrogance, but in the one preceding there is 
even more positive truth. We are a bull-headed and prejudiced people, 
and it were well if we had a few more of the stamp of Mr. Cooper who 
would feel themselves at liberty to tell us so to our teeth.

The criticism alluded to in the following passage has never met our 
observation. Since it is the fashion to decry the author of “the 
Prairie” just now, we are astonished at no degree of malignity or 
scurrility whatever on the part of the little gentlemen who are 
determined to follow that fashion—but we are surprised that Mr. C. 
should have thought himself _really_ suspected of any such ridiculous 
“purposes.”


Some one, in criticising the First Part of Switzerland, has intimated 
that the writer has a purpose to serve with the “Trades' Unions” by 
the purport of some of his remarks. As this is a country in which the 
avowal of a tolerably sordid and base motive seems to be 
indispensable, even to safety, the writer desires to express his sense 
of the critic's liberality, as it may save him from a much graver 
imputation. There is really a painful humiliation in the reflection, 
that a citizen of mature years, with as good natural and accidental 
means for preferment as have fallen to the share of most others, may 
pass his life without a _fact_ of any sort to impeach his 
disinterestedness, and yet not be able to express a generous or just 
sentiment in behalf of his fellow creatures, without laying himself 
open to suspicions as degrading to those who entertain them, as they 
are injurious to all independence of thought and manliness of 
character.


The present volumes strike us as more entertaining upon the whole than 
those which preceded them. They embrace a wide range of stirring 
anecdote, and some details of a very singular nature indeed. As the 
book will be universally read it is scarcely necessary to say more.


PROFESSOR DEW'S ADDRESS.

_An Address delivered before the Students of William and Mary at the 
opening of the College on Monday, October 10, 1836. By Thomas R. Dew, 
President, and Professor of Moral and Political Philosophy. Published 
by request of the Students. Richmond: T. W. White._

Of the talents and great acquirements of Professor Dew it is quite 
unnecessary to speak. His accession to the Presidency of William and 
Mary is a source of hearty congratulation with all the real friends of 
the institution. Already we perceive the influence of his character, 
and unusual energy, in an increasing attention on the part of the 
public to the capabilities of this venerable academy—and in a 
re-assured hope of her ultimate prosperity. Indeed she had never more 
brilliant prospects than just now, and there can be little doubt that 
at least as many students as have ever entered, will enter this year. 
The number has at no time been very great it is true; and yet, in 
proportion to her alumni, this institution has given to the world more 
useful men than _any other_—more truly great statesmen. Perhaps the 
scenery and recollection of the place, the hospitable population, the 
political atmosphere, have all conspired to imbue the mind of the 
student at Williamsburg with a tinge of utilitarianism. Her graduates 
have always been distinguished by minds well adapted to _business_, 
and for the greatest efficiency of character. Some colleges may have 
equalled her in Physics and Mathematics—indeed we are aware of _one_ 
institution, at least, which far surpasses her in these studies—but 
few can claim a rivalship with her in Moral and Political Science; and 
it should not be denied that these latter are the subjects which give 
the greatest finish to the mind, and exalt it to the loftiest 
elevation. To William and Mary is especially due the high _political_ 
character of Virginia.

She is the oldest college in the Union save one, and even older than 
that, if we may date back to the establishment of an academy (one of 
some note) prior to the erection of the present buildings. Respect for 
her long and great services, and veneration for her ancient walls, 
will have weight among the people of Virginia. As efficient an 
education can now be procured in her lecture-rooms as elsewhere in the 
Union. Her discipline is rigid, but relies strongly on the chivalry 
and honor of the Southern student. We will attempt to convey briefly 
some idea of the several professorial departments.

The plan embraces a course of general study which may be pursued to 
great advantage by all, without reference to the nature of the 
profession contemplated. Besides this the subject of Law is included. 
In the classical school is a preparatory department for elementary 
instruction. In the higher branch the attention of the student is 
confined to Horace, Cicero de Oratore, Terence, Juvenal, Livy and 
Tacitus; Xenophon's Anabasis, Æschylus, Herodotus, Euripides, 
Sophocles, Thucydides, and Homer. He will be required to read these 
works with facility, to master portions of history which may be 
referred to, and to acquire a thorough acquaintance with the whole 
Philosophy of the Latin and Greek Grammars. For a degree in the 
classical department it is necessary that the candidate should not 
only be a proficient in the studies just mentioned, but that he should 
obtain a certificate of qualification on the junior mathematical, 
rhetorical and historical courses. The classical graduate therefore, 
must be more than a mere Latin and Greek scholar. Besides this degree 
there are three others—those of A.B., B.L. and A.M. The courses 
necessary for the degree of A.B. embrace the four great departments of 
physics, morals, and politics. The degree of B.L. is not conferred for 
a mere knowledge of Laws. The candidate must have studied, besides the 
municipal law, the subject of government and national law, together 
with some exposition of our own system of {722} government. He must, 
moreover, have obtained the Baccalaureate honor in this or some other 
institution, or else have attended a full course of lectures in some 
one of the scientific departments of William and Mary. The degree of 
A.M. (the highest honor conferred by the college) requires generally 
two years additional study after obtaining the bachelor's degree, and 
in these two years all the studies pursued in the first portion of the 
collegiate career are amplified—the principles of science are now 
applied to facts. A school of civil engineering is most properly 
attached to the institution.

Would our limits permit, we would be proud to make long extracts from 
the excellent Address now before us. It is, as usual with every thing 
from the same source, comprehensive and eloquent, and full of every 
species of encouragement to the searcher after knowledge. We can well 
imagine the enthusiasm enkindled in the student by sentences such as 
these—


There is no privileged class here to rule by the right divine. Far 
different is our case from the despotisms of the ancient world, or the 
monarchies of the modern. Sovereignty resided formerly at Babylon, at 
Thebes, at Persepolis. Now we find it at Paris, Vienna, and London. 
But in our own more happy country, it pervades our territory like the 
very air we breathe, reaching the farthest and binding the most 
distant together. Politics here is the business of every man, no 
matter how humble his condition may be. We have it in commission to 
instruct the world in the science and the art of government. We must, 
if we succeed, exhibit the extraordinary phenomenon of a well 
educated, virtuous, intelligent people, “free without 
licentiousness—religious without a religious establishment—obedient to 
laws administered by citizen magistrates, without the show of official 
lictors or fasces, and without the aid of mercenary legions or 
janissaries.” As a nation, a glorious charge has devolved upon us. Our 
condition prescribes to each one the salutary law of Solon, that there 
shall be no neutrals here. Each one must play his part in the great 
political drama; and you, gentlemen, who have assembled here for the 
purpose of receiving a liberal education, must recollect that 
fortunate circumstances have placed you among the privileged few. 
Every motive of honor, of patriotism, and a laudable ambition, should 
stimulate to the utmost exertion. Neglect not the precious opportunity 
which is afforded you. The _fine talents_ are entrusted to your care; 
beware lest you bury or throw them away. This is the most important 
era of your life—the very seed-time of your existence; success now may 
insure you success hereafter.

The age in which you live, and the circumstances by which you are 
surrounded, as inhabitants of the south, create a special demand for 
your utmost exertions. The times are indeed interesting and momentous. 
We seem to have arrived at one of those great periods in the history 
of man, when fearful and important changes are threatened in the 
destiny of the world. In the prophetic language of the boldest of 
philosophers, we may perhaps with truth affirm, that “the crisis of 
revolutions is at hand.” Never were the opinions of the world more 
unsettled and more clashing than at this moment. Monarchists and 
democrats, conservatives and radicals, whigs and tories, agrarians and 
aristocrats, slave-holders and non-slave-holders, are all now in the 
great field of contention. What will be the result of this awful 
conflict, none can say. England's most eloquent and learned divine 
tells us, that there now sits an unnatural scowl on the aspect of the 
population—a resolved sturdiness in their altitude and gait; and 
whether we look to the profane recklessness of their habits, or to the 
deep and sealed hatred which rankles in their hearts, we cannot but 
read in these moral characteristics the omens of some great and 
impending overthrow. The whole continent of Europe is agitated by the 
conflicts of opinions and principles; and we are far, very far from 
the calm and quiet condition which betokens the undoubted safety of 
the republic.

When the times are so interesting and exciting; when clouds are 
lowering above the political horizon, portending fearful storms; when 
the lapse of time is every day disclosing great and startling events, 
can you, gentlemen, fold your arms in inglorious indolence—throw away 
the opportunity that is now offered you—fail to prepare for the 
important part which should devolve on you, and add yourselves to the 
great mass of the unaspiring?


MEMORIALS OF MRS. HEMANS.

_Memorials of Mrs. Hemans, with Illustrations of her Literary 
Character from her Private Correspondence. By Henry F. Chorley. New 
York: Saunders and Otley._

Mr. Chorley is well known to American readers as a contributor to the 
chief of the London Annuals, and still better as the author of the 
stirring volumes entitled “Conti, the Discarded, with Other Tales and 
Fancies.” We have long regarded him as one of the most brilliant among 
the literary stars of England, as a writer of great natural and 
cultivated taste, and of a refined yet vigorous and lofty imagination. 
As a musical connoisseur, or rather as profoundly versed in the only 
true philosophy of the science, he may be considered at unrivalled. 
There are, moreover, few persons now living upon whose appreciation of 
a poetical character we would look with a higher respect, and we had 
consequently promised ourselves no ordinary gratification in his 
“Memorials of Mrs. Hemans.” Nor have we been disappointed.

About fourteen months ago Mr. Chorley collected and published in the 
London Athenæum some deeply interesting reminiscences of Mrs. H. of 
which the volumes now before us are an extension. A variety of 
materials, afforded him by friends, has enabled him to continue his 
notices beyond the period of his own personal acquaintance, and, by 
linking correspondence and anecdote, to trace out, with great facility 
and beauty, the entire progress of the mind of the poetess. He has 
exclusively confined himself, however, to this one object, and 
refrained from touching upon such occurrences is her private life as 
were not actually necessary in the illustrations of her mental and 
literary existence. The “Memorials” therefore, it is right to state, 
lay no claim to the entire fulness of Biography. The following brief 
personal notice is to be found in the opening pages:


Felicia Dorothea Browne—the second daughter and the fourth child of a 
family of three sons and three daughters—was born in Duke-street, 
Liverpool, on the 25th of September, 1794. Her father was a native of 
Ireland, belonging to a branch of the Sligo family; her mother, a Miss 
Wagner, was a descendant of a Venetian house, whose old name, Veniero, 
had in the course of time been corrupted into this German form. Among 
its members were numbered three who rose to the dignity of Doge, and 
one who bore the honorable rank of commander at the battle of Lepanto. 
In the waning days of the Republic, Miss Browne's grandfather held the 
humble situation of Venetian consul in Liverpool. The maiden name of 
his wife was Haddock, a good and ancient one among the yeomanry of 
Lancashire; three of the issue of this union are still surviving. To 
these few genealogical notices it may be added that Felicia Dorothea 
was the fifth bearing that christian name in her mother's family, that 
her elder sister, Eliza, of whom affectionate mention is made in her 
earliest poems, died of a decline at the age of eighteen; and that her 
brother Claude, who reached manhood, died in America several years 
ago. Two brothers older than herself, and one sister, her junior, are 
therefore all that now survive.


It must not be supposed from what we say that Mr. Chorley has given us 
nothing of personal history. The volumes abound delightfully in such 
anecdotes of the poetess as go to illustrate her literary 
peculiarities and career. These indeed form the staple of the book, 
and, in the truly exquisite narration of Mr. Chorley, are {723} 
moulded into something far more impressive than we can imagine any 
legitimate biography. We cannot refrain from turning over one by one 
the pages as we write, and presenting our readers with some mere 
outlines of the many reminiscences which the author has so beautifully 
filled up. We shall intersperse them with some of Mr. C's. 
observations, and occasionally with our own.

The “stately names of her maternal ancestors” seem to have made an 
early and strong impression upon the poetess, tinging her mind at once 
with the spirit of romance. To this fact she would often allude half 
playfully, half proudly. She was accustomed to say that although the 
years of childhood are usually happy, her own were too visionary not 
to form an exception. At the epoch of her death she was meditating a 
work to be called “Recollections of a Poet's Childhood.”—When a child 
she was exceedingly beautiful: so much so as to attract universal 
attention. Her complexion was brilliant, her hair long and curling, 
and of a bright golden color. In her latter years it deepened into 
brown, but remained silken, profuse, and wavy to the last.—A lady once 
remarked in her hearing, “That child is not made for happiness I know; 
her color comes and goes too fast.” This remark our poetess never 
forgot, and she spoke of it as causing her much pain at the 
moment.—She took great delight, when young, in reciting aloud poems 
and fragments of plays. “Douglas” was an especial favorite. The scene 
of her rehearsals was generally an old, large, and dimly-lighted room, 
an old nursery, looking upon the sea. Her memory is said to have been 
almost supernatural.—When she was little more than five years old, her 
father removed his family from Liverpool to North Wales. This 
circumstance had great influence upon her imagination. The mansion 
removed to was old, solitary, and spacious, lying close to the sea 
shore, and shut in, in front, by a chain of rocky hills. In her last 
illness she frequently alluded to the atmosphere of romance which 
invested her here. The house bore the reputation of being haunted. On 
one occasion, having heard a rumor concerning a “fiery grey hound 
which kept watch at the end of an avenue,” she sallied forth at 
midnight anxious to encounter the goblin. Speaking of this period, she 
observed, that could she have been then able to foresee the height of 
reputation to which she subsequently attained, she would have 
experienced a far higher happiness than the reality ever occasioned. 
Few in similar circumstances but have thought thus without expressing 
it.—She was early a reader of Shakspeare, and was soon possessed with 
a desire of personifying his creations. Imogen and Beatrice were her 
favorites, neither of which characters, Mr. Chorley remarks, is 
“without strong points of resemblance to herself.”—A freak usual with 
her was to arise at night, when the whole family were asleep, and 
making her way to the sea shore, to indulge in a stolen bath.—She was 
_never at school_. “Had she been sent to one,” observes Mr. Chorley, 
“she would more probably have run away.” The only things she was ever 
regularly taught were English Grammar, French, and the rudiments of 
Latin. Her Latin teacher used to deplore “that she was not a man to 
have borne away the highest honors at college.”—Her attention was 
first attracted to the literature and chivalry of Spain by the 
circumstance of a near relation being engaged in the Peninsular war. 
She shrunk with more than ordinary feminine timidity from bodily pain, 
refusing even to have her ears pierced for rings, and yet delighted in 
records of martial glory. One of her favorite ornaments was the Cross 
of the Legion of Honor, taken on some Spanish battle-field. Campbell's 
Odes were her delight; the lines, especially,

  Now joy, old England! rise
  In the triumph of thy might!

Yet she had little taste for mere pageantry.—An unkind review to which 
her earliest poems gave occasion so preyed upon her mind as to confine 
her for several days to bed.—During the latter part of her life a 
gentleman called upon her and thanked her with great earnestness for 
the serious benefit he had derived from “the Sceptic,” which he stated 
to have been instrumental in rescuing him from gross infidelity.—The 
first noted literary character with whom she became intimately 
acquainted, was Bishop Heber, to whom she was introduced in her 
twenty-fifth year. She confided her literary plans to him, and always 
spoke of him with affection. It was at his instigation she first 
attempted dramatic composition. He was her adviser in the “Vespers of 
Palermo.” This play was brought forward at Covent Garden in December 
1823, the principal characters being taken by Young, Charles Kemble, 
Yates, Mrs. Bartley, and Miss Kelly. It was not well received, but the 
authoress bore her disappointment cheerfully. The drama was afterwards 
produced with much greater success in Edinburgh. Sir Walter Scott 
wrote an epilogue for it, and from this circumstance arose the 
subsequent acquaintance between the “Great Unknown” and Mrs. H——. Of 
Kean, she said that “seeing him act was like reading Shakspeare by 
flashes of lightning.”—She possessed a fine feeling for music as well 
as for drawing.—Of the “Trials of Margaret Lindsay” she thus expresses 
a just critical opinion: “The book is certainly full of deep feeling 
and beautiful language, but there are many passages which, I think, 
would have been better omitted; and although I can bear as much 
fictitious woe as other people, I really began to feel it an 
infliction at last.”—She compliments Captain Basil Hall's “temperate 
style of writing.”—Speaking of the short descriptive _recitative_ 
which so frequently introduces a lyrical burst of feeling in the minor 
pieces of our poetess, Mr. Chorley observes: “This form of composition 
became so especially popular in America, that hardly a poet has arisen 
since the influence of Mrs. Hemans' genius made itself felt on the 
other side of the Atlantic, who has not attempted something of a 
similar subject and construction.”—Among the last strangers who 
visited her in her illness, were a Jewish gentleman and lady, who 
entreated admittance to “the author of the ‘Hebrew Mother.’”—“There 
shall be no more snow,” in the “Tyrolese Evening Hymn,” seems to have 
been suggested by Schiller's lines in the “_Nadowessiche 
Todtenklage_:”

  Wohl ihm er ist hingegangen
  Wo kein schnee mehr ist!—

The “Lays of Many Lands,” which appeared chiefly in the New Monthly 
Magazine, were suggested, as she herself owned, by Herder's “_Stimmen 
der Volker in Liedern_.” She spoke of the German language as “rich and 
affectionate, in which I take much delight.”—She considered “The 
Forest Sanctuary” as the best of her {724} works: the subject was 
suggested by a passage in one of the letters of Don Leucadio Doblado, 
and the poem was written for the most part in—a laundry. These verses 
are pointed out by Chorley as beautiful, which assuredly they are.

  And if she mingled with the festive train
  It was but as some melancholy star
  Beholds the dance of shepherds on the plain,
  In its bright stillness present though afar.

He praises also with great justice the entire episode of “Queen-like 
Teresa—radient Inez!”—She was so much excited by the composition of 
“Mozart's Requiem,” that her physician forbade her to write for weeks 
afterwards.—She regarded Professor Norton, who undertook the 
publication of her works (or rather its superintendence) in this 
country, as one of her firmest friends. A packet with a letter from 
this gentleman to the poetess containing offers of service, and a 
self-introduction was lost upon the Ulverstone sands. They were 
afterwards discovered drying at an inn fire, and forwarded to their 
address. With Dr. Channing she frequently corresponded. An offer of a 
certain and liberal income was made her in the hope of tempting her to 
take up her residence in Boston and conduct a periodical.—Mr. Chorley 
draws a fine distinction between Mrs. Hemans and Miss Jewsbury. “The 
former,” he says, “came through Thought to Poetry, the latter through 
Poetry to Thought.” He cites a passage in the “Three Histories” of 
Miss Jewsbury, as descriptive of the personal appearance of Mrs. H. at 
the period of his first acquaintance with her. It is the portrait of 
Egeria, and will be remembered by most of our readers. It ends thus: 
“She was a muse, a grace, a variable child, a dependent woman—the 
Italy of human beings.”—Retzsch and Flaxman were Mrs. H.'s favorites 
among modern artists. She was especially pleased with the group in the 
Outlines to Hamlet—of Laertes and Hamlet struggling over the corpse of 
Ophelia.—In 1828 she finally established herself at Wavertree. “Her 
house here,” says our author, “was too small to deserve the name; the 
third of a cluster or row close to a dusty road, and yet too townish 
in its appearance and situation to be called a cottage. It was set in 
a small court, and within doors was gloomy and comfortless, for its 
two parlors (one with a tiny book-room opening from it) were hardly 
larger than closets; but with her harp and her books, and the flowers 
with which she loved to fill her little rooms, they presently assumed 
a habitable, almost an elegant appearance.”—Some odd examples are 
given of the ridiculous and hyperbolical compliments paid the poetess, 
e.g. “I have heard her requested to read aloud that ‘the visitor might 
carry away an impression of the sweetness of her tones.’” “I have been 
present when another eccentric guest, upon her characterizing some 
favorite poem as happily as was her wont, clapped her hands as at a 
theatre, and exclaimed, ‘O Mrs. Hemans! do say that again, that I may 
put it down and remember it.’”—Among Spanish authors Mrs. H. admired 
Herrera, and Luis Ponce de Leon. The lyrics in Gil Polo's Diana were 
favorites with her. Burger's _Leonore_ (concerning which and Sir 
Walter Scott see an anecdote in our notice, this month, of _Schloss 
Hainfeld_) she was never tired of hearing, “for the sake of its 
wonderful rhythm and energy.” In the power of producing awe, however, 
she gave the preference to the _Auncient Mariner_. She liked the 
writings of Novalis and Tieck. Possibly she did not love Goethe so 
well as Schiller. She delighted in Herder's translation of the Cid 
Romances, and took pleasure in some of the poems of A. W. Schlegel. 
Grillpazzer and Oehlenschluger were favorites among the minor German 
tragedians. Shelley's “Ode to the West Wind” pleased her. In her copy 
of _Corinne_ the following passage was underscored, and the words 
“C'est moi!” written in the margin. “De toutes mes facultés la plus 
puissante est la faculté de souffrir. Je suis née pour le bonheur. Mon 
caractére est confiant, mon imagination est animée; mais la peine 
excite en moi Je ne sais quelle impetuosité qui peut troubler ma 
raison, ou me donner de la mort. Je vous le repéte encore, 
menagez-moi; la gaité, la mobilité ne me servent qu'en apparence: mais 
il y a dans mon ame des abymes de tristesse dont Je ne pouvais me 
defendre qu'en me preservant de l'amour.”—In the summer of 1829 Mrs. 
H. visited Scotland, and became acquainted with Sir Walter Scott. One 
anecdote told by her of the novelist is highly piquant and 
characteristic of both. “Well—we had reached a rustic seat in the 
wood, and were to rest there—but I, out of pure perverseness, chose to 
establish myself comfortably on a grass bank. ‘Would it not be more 
prudent for you, Mrs. Hemans,’ said Sir Walter, ‘to take the seat?’ ‘I 
have no doubt that it would, Sir Walter, but, somehow or other, I 
always prefer the grass.’ ‘And so do I,’ replied the dear old 
gentleman, coming to sit there beside me, ‘and I really believe that I 
do it chiefly out of a wicked wilfulness, because all my _good 
advisers_ say it will give me the rheumatism.’”—Speaking of Martin's 
picture of _Nineveh_ Mrs. H. says: “It seems to me that something more 
of gloomy grandeur might have been thrown about the funeral pyre; that 
it should have looked more like a thing apart, almost suggesting of 
itself the idea of an awful sacrifice.” She agrees with Wordsworth, 
that Burns' “Scots wha hae wi Wallace bled” is “wretched stuff.” She 
justly despised all allegorical personifications. Among the books 
which she chiefly admired in her later days, are the Discourses of 
Bishop Hall, Bishop Leighton, and Jeremy Taylor; the “Natural History 
of Enthusiasm;” Mrs. Austin's Translations and Criticisms; Mrs. 
Jameson's “Characteristics of Women;” Bulwer's “Last Days of Pompeii;” 
Miss Edgeworth's “Helen,” and Miss Mitford's Sketches. The Scriptures 
were her daily study.—Wordsworth was then her favorite poet. Of Miss 
Kemble's “Francis” she thus speaks. “Have you not been disappointed in 
Miss Kemble's Tragedy? To me there seems a _coarseness_ of idea and 
expression in many parts, which from a woman is absolutely startling. 
I can scarcely think it has sustaining power to bear itself up at its 
present height of popularity.”

We take from Volume I, the following passage in regard to Schiller's 
“Don Carlos,” a comparison of which drama with the “Filippo” of 
Alfieri, will be found in this number of the Messenger. The words we 
copy are those of Mrs. Hemans.


The interview between Philip the Second and Posa, is certainly very 
powerful, but to me its interest is always destroyed by a sense of 
utter _impossibility_ which haunts me throughout. Not even Schiller's 
mighty spells can, I think, win the most “unquestioning spirit” to 
suppose that such a voice of truth and freedom _could_ have been 
lifted up, and endured, in the presence of the cold, stern, Philip the 
Second—that he would, even for a {725} moment, have listened to the 
language thus fearlessly bursting from a noble heart. Three of the 
most impressive scenes towards the close of the play, might, I think, 
be linked together, leaving out the intervening ones, with much 
effect—the one in which Carlos, standing by the body of his friend, 
forces his father to the contemplation of the dead; the one in which 
the king comes forward, with his fearful dreamy remorse, alone amidst 
his court,

  Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus, &c.

and the subsequent interview between Philip and the Grand Inquisitor, 
in which the whole spirit of those fanatic days seems embodied.


In perusing these volumes the reader will not fail to be struck with 
the evidence they contain of a more than ordinary _joyousness_ of 
temperament in Mrs. Hemans. He will be astonished also in finding 
himself able to say that he has at length seen a book, dealing much in 
strictly personal memoirs, wherein no shadow of vanity or affectation 
could be discerned in either the Memorialist or his subject. In 
concluding this notice we must not forget to impress upon our friends 
that we have been speaking altogether of the work issued by Saunders 
and Otley, publishers of the highest respectability, who have come 
among us as strangers, and who, as such, have an undeniable claim upon 
our courtesy. Their edition is embellished with two fine engravings, 
one of the poetess's favorite residence in Wales, the other of the 
poetess herself. We shall beg our friends also to remember that this 
edition, and this exclusively, is printed for the benefit of the 
children of Mrs. Hemans. To Southerners, at least, we feel that 
nothing farther need be said.


DR. HAXALL'S DISSERTATION.

_A Dissertation on the Importance of Physical Signs in the Various 
Diseases of the Abdomen and Thorax. By Robert W. Haxall, M.D. of 
Richmond, Va. Boston: Perkins and Marvin._

The Boylston Medical Committee of Harvard University, having 
propounded the question, “How far are the external means of exploring 
the condition of the internal organs useful and important?” a gold 
medal was, in consequence, awarded to this Dissertation on the 
subject, by our townsman Dr. Haxall. Notwithstanding the modesty of 
his motto, “_Je n'enseigne pas, Je raconte_,” he has here given 
evidence, not to be misunderstood, of a far wider range of study, of 
experience, of theoretical and practical knowledge, than that 
attained, except in rare cases, by our medical men. He has evinced too 
more than ordinary powers of analysis, and his Essay will command (oh, 
rare occurrence in the generality of similar Essays!) the entire 
respect of every well-educated man, as a literary composition in its 
own peculiar character nearly faultless.

The Dissertation does not respond, in the fullest extent, to the 
category proposed. The only available method of discussing the 
question, “How far are the _external_ means of exploring the condition 
of the internal organs useful and important?” is to show, as far as 
possible, the deficiencies of _other_ means—to point out the 
inconvenience and want of certainty attending a diagnosis deduced from 
symptoms merely general or functional, and to demonstrate the 
advantages, if any, of those signs (afforded by external examination) 
which, in medical language, are alone denominated _physical_. But to 
do all this would require a much larger treatise than the Committee 
had in contemplation, and so far, it appears to us, they have been 
over-hasty in proposing a query so illimitable. Our author (probably 
thinking thus) has wisely confined himself to diseases occurring in 
the common routine of practice, and here again only to such as affect 
the cavities of the Abdomen and Thorax. The brain is not treated 
of—for, except in a few strictly surgical instances, the unyielding 
parietes of the skull will admit of no diagnosis deduced from their 
examination.

In the discussion of the subject thus narrowed, Dr. Haxall has 
commented upon the physical signs which (assisted as they always are 
by functional symptoms) lead to the detection of the diseases of the 
_liver_, the _spleen_, the _uterus_, the _ovary_, the _kidney_, the 
_bladder_, the _stomach_, and the _intestines_—of _Typhoid or Typhus 
Fever_—of _Inflammation of the Peritonæum_—of _Pleura_, 
_Pleuro-pneumonia_, _Hydrothorax_, _Pneumothorax_, _Catarrh_, 
_Emphysema_, _Asthma_, _Dilatation of the Bronchiæ_, _Pneumonia_, 
_Pulmonary Apoplexy_, and _Phthisis_—of _Pericarditis_, _Hypertrophy 
of the Heart_, _Dilatation_ of that organ, and lastly, of _Aneurism of 
the Aorta_.

The most important and altogether the most original portion of the 
Essay, is that relating to the fever called _Typhoid_. The pathology 
of fever in general has been at all times a fruitful subject of 
discussion. Solidists, humorists, and advocates of the idiopathic 
doctrine, have each their disciples among the medical profession. Dr. 
H. advocates no theory in especial, but in regard to typhus fever 
agrees with M. Louis in supposing the true lesion of the disease to 
reside in an organic alteration of the glands of Peyer. He denies 
consequently that bilious fever, pneumonia, dysentery, or indeed any 
other malady, assumes, at any stage, what can be properly called a 
“typhoid” character, unless the word “typhoid” be regarded as 
expressive of mere _debility_. The chief diagnostic signs he maintains 
to be physical, but enters into a minute account of _all_ the symptoms 
of the disorder. The Essay is embraced in a pamphlet, beautifully 
printed, of 108 pages.


SCHLOSS HAINFELD.

_Skimmings; or a Winter at Schloss Hainfeld in Lower Styria. By 
Captain Basil Hall, Royal Navy, F. R. S. Philadelphia: Republished by 
Carey, Lea and Blanchard._

“Skimmings,” we apprehend, is hardly better, as a title than 
“Pencillings” or “Inklings”—yet Captain Hall has prefixed this little 
piece of affectation to some pages of interest. His book, we are 
informed in the Preface, is intended as a pioneer to a work of larger 
dimensions, and consisting of passages from journals written during 
three different excursions to the Continent. The specimen now given us 
is principally valuable as treating of a region but little known, or 
at least very partially described.

Towards the close of April 1834, the Captain, accompanied by his wife 
and family, being on his way from Rome to Naples, received an 
invitation from a certain Countess Purgstall to visit her castle or 
Schloss of Hainfeld near Gratz in Lower Styria. The Countess, whose 
name and existence were equally unknown to our travellers, was found 
to be an elderly Scotch lady, who forty years before having married an 
Austrian nobleman, went with him to Germany, and never {726} returned 
to Scotland. She claimed moreover to be an early friend of Sir James 
Hall, the captain's father. Induced by the knowledge of this fact, by 
the earnest manner in which the old lady urged her invitation, and 
more especially by a desire of seeing Lower Styria, our author paid 
her a visit in October, taking the homeward route through that country 
instead of following the usual track of English travellers through the 
Tyrol.

The Countess Purgstall is a character in whom the reader finds himself 
insensibly interested. Her maiden name was Jane Anne Cranstoun. She 
was the sister of Lord Corehouse, and of Mrs. Dugald Stuart—moreover 
our travellers find her a most agreeable companion and hostess, and 
discover beyond a doubt that from herself Sir Walter Scott depicted 
Die Vernon, the most original and spirited of his female paintings. It 
is, consequently, almost needless to say that in early youth the 
Countess was a votary of the gay world; and the circumstances under 
which she was so solicitous for a visit from the son of her old 
friend, were the more touching on this account. Her only son, a boy of 
premature talent, having died, she had given herself up to grief; and 
for three years she had been confined to bed. Captain Hall and his 
family remained with her, at her urgent desire, until her decease, 
which took place upon the 23d of March, within a day of the period 
long before designated by herself for that event.

Besides the variety of singular anecdotes respecting the Countess and 
her household, the volume is enriched with many curious stories, 
scandalous, legendary, or superstitious. In a chapter entitled “The 
Neighbors,” we have the Austrian nobility at their country residences 
strikingly contrasted with the English _noblesse_. Here is an account 
of a dinner given the Captain at the castle of an Hungarian nobleman, 
near the village of St. Gothard.


In the midst of these national discussions the dinner appeared; and as 
our morning's expedition had made us more than usually hungry, we 
looked forward with less dread than we had ever done before to the 
overloaded table, which all reports of the nature and extent of a 
German dinner led us to expect. But our fears on this score, if we had 
any, were groundless, for a less loaded repast never was seen. There 
was positively too little for the company, and we felt awkward at 
having, by our intrusion, diminished the scanty allowance of the 
family. Every dish was carried off the table as clean as if, instead 
of a goodly company of Hungarian ladies and gentlemen, with a couple 
of hungry heretics from England, the Baron had introduced a dozen of 
his wild boar hounds to lick the platters.

As this was the only Hungarian dinner we saw during our stay in these 
parts, a notice of it may perhaps interest the lovers of good cheer. 
We had first of all coldish, dirty-looking, thin soup; then a plate 
with ill-cut slices of ill-salted tongue; and, after a long and dreary 
interval, a dish consisting of slices of boiled beef, very cold, very 
fat, and very tough. I know not whence the fat came; for in that 
country there are no cattle bred for the table, but only for the 
plough and the wagon, and after many years of labor they are killed, 
not because they are fit to be eaten, (quite the contrary) but because 
they can work no longer. The next dish promised better; it was a 
salmon twisted into a circle, with his tail in his mouth, like the 
allegorical images of eternity. But I am sure if I were to live, as 
the Americans say, from July to Eternity, I should not wish to look 
upon the like of such a fish again. It had been brought all the way 
from Carinthia by the bold Baron himself. I need not say more. And yet 
its bones were so nicely cleaned, that the skeleton might have been 
placed in a museum of natural history, and named by Agassiz or 
Deshayes without further trouble. Next arrived a dish of sausages 
which disappeared in what the Germans call an Augenblick or twinkling 
of an eye. Lastly, came the roast, as it always does in those 
countries, but instead of a jolly English surloin or haunch, the dish 
consisted of a small shred of what they facetiously called venison—but 
such venison! Yet had the original stag been alive from which this 
morsel was hewn, it could not have moved off faster. To wind up all, 
instead of dessert, we were presented with a soup-plate holding eleven 
small dry sweet cakes, each as big as a Geneose watch glass. In short, 
not to spin out this sad repast, it reminded me of long by-gone days 
spent in the midshipmen's birth on short allowance, where the daily 
beef and bread of his gracious Majesty used to vanish in like manner, 
and leave, as Shakspeare says, “not a wreck behind.” I ought not to 
omit that the wine was scarcely drinkable, excepting, I presume, one 
bottle of Burgundy, which the generous master of the house kept 
faithfully to himself, not offering even the lady by his side, a 
stranger and his own invited guest, a single glass, but drinking the 
whole, to the last drop, himself! So much for a Hungarian magnate!


At Chapter X, we were somewhat astonished at meeting with an old 
friend, in the shape of the verses beginning “_My Life is like the 
Summer Rose_.” These lines are thus introduced. “One day, when I 
entered the Countess' room, I observed that she had been writing; but 
on my sitting down by her bedside, she sent away the apparatus, 
retaining only one sheet of paper, which she held up, and said—‘You 
have written your life; here is mine,’ and she put into my hands the 
following copy of verses, by whom written she would not tell me. 
Probably they are by herself, for they are certainly exactly such as 
suited her cast of thought.” Here it certainly appears that the 
Countess desired the Captain to think them her composition. Surely 
these stanzas have had a singular notoriety, and many claimants!

It appears very clearly from the relation of Captain Hall and from a 
letter of Lockhart's, published in the volume before us, that the 
Countess Purgstall (Miss Cranstoun) had no little influence in the 
formation of the literary character of Sir Walter Scott. In his youth 
the great novelist, then comparatively unknown, was received on 
friendly terms by the family of Dugald Stuart, of which Miss 
Cranstoun, the elder sister of Mrs. Stuart, was a member. This 
intimacy, we are told, led Sir Walter frequently to consult Miss C. in 
regard to his literary productions, and we should infer that the 
sagacity of the young lady readily appreciated the great merit of her 
protegé. On this head an anecdote of deep interest is related. 
Burger's poem “Leonore” was received in Scotland about 1793, and a 
translation of it read by Mrs. Barbauld, at the house of Dugald 
Stuart. Miss Cranstoun's description of the poem and its effect, took 
possession of the mind of Sir Walter, and, having with great effort 
studied the lines in the original, he at length completed himself a 
poetical translation, and Miss Cranstoun, very much to her 
astonishment, was aroused one morning at half past six o'clock, to 
listen to its recital by the translator in person. Of course she gave 
it all attention, and begged permission to retain the MS. for a few 
days to look it over at leisure. To this the poet consented—adding 
that she had as well keep it until his return from the country, 
whither he was about to proceed on a visit. Of this {727} intended 
visit, it seems the critic was aware. As soon as Sir Walter had gone, 
she sent for their common friend Mr. Erskine, afterwards Lord 
Kinneder, and confided to him a scheme for having the MS. printed. An 
arrangement was made with Mr. Robert Miller the bookseller, by which a 
small edition of “Leonore” was to be hastily thrown off, one copy to 
be done on the finest paper and superbly bound. Mr. Miller had the 
book soon ready, and despatched it to the address of “Mr. Scott,” so 
as to arrive when the company were assembled round the tea-table after 
dinner. Much curiosity was expressed by all—not forgetting Miss C.—to 
ascertain the contents of so beautiful a little volume. The envelope 
was at length torn off by the astonished author, who, for the first 
time, thus saw himself in print, and who, “all unconscious of the 
glories which awaited him, had possibly never dreamed of appearing in 
such a dress.” He was now called upon to read the poem—and the effect 
upon the company is said to have been electrical. These reminiscences 
of Sir Walter form, possibly, the most interesting portions of Schloss 
Hainfeld. The entire volume, however, has many charms of matter, and 
more especially of manner. Captain Hall is no ordinary writer. This 
justice must be done him.


PETER SNOOK.

_Peter Snook, a Tale of the City; Follow your Nose; and other Strange 
Tales. By the Author of ‘Chartley,’ the ‘Invisible Gentleman,’ &c. &c. 
Philadelphia: Republished by Carey, Lea and Blanchard._

The ‘Invisible Gentleman’ was exceedingly popular—and is. It belongs 
to a class of works which every one takes a pleasure in reading, and 
yet which every one thinks it his duty to condemn. Its author is one 
of the best of the English Magazinists—possessing a large share of 
Imagination, and a wonderful fertility of Fancy or Invention. With the 
exception of Boz, of the London Morning Chronicle, and, perhaps a 
couple of the writers in Blackwood, he has no rivals in his particular 
line. We confess ourselves somewhat in doubt, however, whether Boz and 
the author of ‘Chartley’ are not one and the same—or have not some 
intimate connection. In the volume now before us, the two admirable 
Tales, ‘Peter Snook’ and ‘The Lodging-House Bewitched,’ might very 
well have been written by the author of ‘Watkins Tottle,’ of which 
they possess all the whimsical peculiarities, and nearly all the 
singular fidelity and vigor. The remaining papers, however, ‘Follow 
your Nose,’ and the ‘Old Maiden's Talisman,’ are more particularly 
characteristic of the author of the ‘Invisible Gentleman.’

The first of the series is also the best, and presents so many 
striking points for the consideration of the Magazine writer—(by which 
we mean merely to designate the writer of the brief and piquant 
article, slightly exaggerated in all its proportions) that we feel 
inclined to speak of it more fully than is our usual custom in regard 
to reprints of English light literature.

Peter Snook, the hero, and the beau ideal of a Cockney, is a retail 
linen-draper in Bishopgate Street. He is of course a stupid and 
conceited, though at bottom a very good little fellow, and “always 
looks as if he was frightened.” Matters go on very thrivingly with 
him, until he becomes acquainted with Miss Clarinda Bodkin, “a young 
lady owning to almost thirty, and withal a great proficient in the 
mysteries of millinery and mantua-making.” Love and ambition, however, 
set the little gentleman somewhat beside himself. “If Miss Clarinda 
would but have me,” says he, “we might divide the shop, and have a 
linen-drapery side, and a haberdashery and millinery side, and one 
would help the other. There'd be only one rent to pay, and a double 
business—and it would be so comfortable too!” Thinking thus, Peter 
commences a desperate flirtation, to which Miss Clarinda but 
doubtfully responds. He escorts the lady to White Conduit House, 
Bagnigge Wells, and other “genteel” places of public resort—and 
finally is so rash as to accede to the proposition on her part of a 
trip to Margate. At this epoch of the narrative the writer takes 
occasion to observe that the subsequent proceedings of the hero are 
gathered from accounts rendered by himself, when called upon 
afterwards for certain explanations.

It is agreed that Miss Clarinda shall set out alone for Margate, and 
Mr. Snook follows after some indispensable arrangements. These occupy 
him until the middle of July, at which period, taking passage in the 
“Rose in June,” he safely reaches his destination. But various 
misfortunes here await him—misfortunes admirably adapted to the 
meridian of Cockney feeling, and the capacity of Cockney endurance. 
His umbrella, for example, and a large brown paper parcel containing a 
new pea-green coat, and flower-patterned embroidered silk waistcoat, 
are tumbled into the water at the landing place, and Miss Bodkin 
forbids him her presence in his old clothes. By a tumble of his own 
too, the skin is rubbed off both his shins for several inches, and his 
surgeon, having no regard to the lover's cotillon engagements with 
Miss Clarinda, enjoins upon him a total abstinence from dancing. A 
cock-chafer, moreover, is at the trouble of flying into one of his 
eyes, and, worse than all, a tall military-looking shoemaker, Mr. 
Last, has taken advantage of his delay in reaching Margate, to 
ingratiate himself with his mistress. Finally, he is “cut” by Last and 
rejected by the lady, and has nothing left for it but to secure a 
homeward passage in the “Rose in June.” In the evening of the second 
day after his departure, the vessel drops anchor off Greenwich. Most 
of the passengers go ashore with the view of taking the stage to the 
city. Peter, however, who considers that he has already spent money 
enough to no purpose, prefers remaining on board. “We shall get to 
Billingsgate,” says he “while I am sleeping, and I shall have plenty 
of time to go home and dress and go into the city and borrow the 
trifle I may want for Pester and Company's bill, that comes due the 
day after to-morrow.” This determination is a source of much trouble 
to our hero, as will be seen in the sequel. Some shopmen who remain 
with him in the packet, tempt him to unusual indulgences in the way, 
first of brown stout, and secondly of positive French brandy. The 
consequence is, that Mr. Peter Snook falls, thirdly, asleep, and, 
fourthly, overboard.

About dawn, on the morning after this event, Ephraim Hobson, the 
confidential clerk and fac-totum of Mr. Peter Snook, is disturbed from 
a sound nap by the sudden appearance of his master. That gentleman 
{728} seems to be quite in a bustle, and delights Ephraim with an 
account of a “whacking wholesale order for exportation” just received. 
“Not a word to _any_ body about the matter,” exclaims Peter, with 
unusual emphasis; “it's such an opportunity as don't come often in a 
man's life time. There's a captain of a ship, he's the owner of her 
too; but never mind, there an't time to enter into particulars now, 
but you'll know all by and bye; all you have to do is to do as I tell 
you, so come along.” Setting Ephraim to work, with directions to pack 
up immediately all the goods in the shop, with the exception of a few 
trifling articles, the master avows his intention of going into the 
city “to borrow enough money to make up Pester's bill for to-morrow.” 
“I don't think you'll want much, sir,” returned Hobson, with a 
self-complacent air. “I've been looking up the long winded 'uns, you 
see, since you've been gone, and have got Shy's money and Slack's 
account, which we'd pretty well given up for a bad job, and one or two 
more. There, there's the list, and there's the key to the strongbox, 
where you'll find the money, besides what I've took at the counter.” 
Peter seems well pleased at this, and shortly afterwards goes out, 
saying he cannot tell when he will be back, and giving directions that 
whatever goods may be sent in during his absence shall be left 
untouched until his return.

It appears that after leaving his shop, Mr. Snook proceeded to that of 
Messieurs Job, Flashbill & Co. (one of whose clerks, on board the Rose 
in June, had been very liberal in supplying our hero with brandy on 
the night of his ducking,) looked over a large quantity of ducks and 
other goods, and finally made purchase of “a choice assortment” to be 
delivered the same day. His next visit was to Mr. Bluff, the managing 
partner in the banking house where he usually kept his cash. His 
business now was to request permission to overdraw a hundred pounds 
for a few days.


“Humph,” said Mr. Bluff, “money is very scarce but——Bless me!—yes—it's 
he! Excuse me a minute, Mr. Snook, there's a gentleman at the front 
counter whom I want particularly to speak to—I'll be back with you 
directly.” As he uttered these words, he rushed out, and, in passing 
one of the clerks on his way forward, he whispered—“Tell Scribe to 
look at Snook's account, and let me know directly.” He then went to 
the front counter, where several people were waiting to pay and 
receive money. “Fine weather this, Mr. Butt. What! you're not out of 
town like the rest of them?”

“No,” replied Mr. Butt, who kept a thriving gin-shop, “no, I sticks to 
my business—make hay while the sun shines—that's my maxim. Wife up at 
night—I up early in the morning.”

The banker chatted and listened with great apparent interest, till the 
closing of a huge book on which he kept his eye, told him that his 
whispered order had been attended to. He then took a gracious leave of 
Mr. Butt, and returned back to the counting-house with a slip of 
paper, adroitly put in his hand while passing, on which was written, 
“Peter Snook, Linen Draper, Bishopgate Street—old account—increasing 
gradually—balance 153_l_. 15_s_. 6_d_.—_very_ regular.” “Sorry to keep 
you waiting, Mr. Snook,” said he, “but we must catch people when we 
can. Well, what is it you were saying you wanted us to do?”

“I should like to be able to overdraw just for a few days,” replied 
Peter.

“How much?”

“A hundred.”

“Won't fifty do?”

“No, not quite sir.”

“Well, you're an honest fellow, and don't come bothering us often, so 
I suppose we must not be too particular with you for this once.”


Leaving Bluff, Mr. Snook hurries to overtake Mr. Butt, the dealer in 
spirits, who had just left the banking house before himself, and to 
give that gentleman an order for a hogshead of the best gin. As he is 
personally unknown to Mr. Butt he hands him a card on which is written 
“Peter Snook, linen and muslin warehouse, No. —, Bishopgate street 
within, &c &c.” and takes occasion to mention that he purchases at the 
recommendation of Mr. Bluff. The gin is to be at Queenhithe the same 
evening. The spirit-dealer, as soon as his new customer has taken 
leave, revolves in his mind the oddity of a linen-draper's buying a 
hogshead of gin, and determines to satisfy himself of Mr. Snook's 
responsibility by a personal application to Mr. Bluff. Upon reaching 
the bank, however, he is told by the clerks that Mr. Bluff, being in 
attendance upon a committee of the House of Commons, will not be home 
in any reasonable time—but also that Peter Snook is a perfectly safe 
man. The gin is accordingly sent; and several other large orders for 
different goods, upon other houses, are all promptly fulfilled in the 
same manner. Meantime Ephraim is busily engaged at home in receiving 
and inspecting the invoices of the various purchases as they arrive, 
at which employment he is occupied until dusk, when his master makes 
his appearance in unusually high spirits. We must here be pardoned for 
copying about a page.


“Well, Ephraim,” he exclaimed, “this looks something like business! 
You hav'nt had such a job this many a day! Shop looks well now, eh?”

“You know best, sir,” replied Hobson. “But hang me if I a'nt 
frightened. When we shall sell all these goods I'm sure I can't think. 
You talked of having a haberdashery side to the shop; but if we go on 
at this rate, we shall want another side for ourselves; I'm sure I 
don't know where Miss Bodkin is to be put.”

“She go to Jericho!” said Peter, contemptuously. “As for the goods, my 
boy, they'll all be gone before to-morrow morning. All you and I have 
got to do is to pack 'em up; so let us turn to and strap at it.”

Packing was Ephraim's favorite employment, but on the present occasion 
he set to work with a heavy heart. His master, on the contrary, 
appeared full of life and spirits, and corded boxes, sewed up trusses, 
and packed huge paper parcels with a celerity and an adroitness truly 
wonderful.

“Why, you don't get on, Hobson,” he exclaimed; “see what I've done! 
Where's the ink-pot?—oh, here it is!” and he proceeded to mark his 
packages with his initials and the letter G below. “There,” he 
resumed, “P. S. G.; that's for me at Gravesend. I'm to meet the 
Captain and owner there; show the goods—if there's any he don't like 
shall bring 'em back with me; get bills—bankers' acceptances for the 
rest; see 'em safe on board _then_—but _not before_, mind that Master 
Ephraim! No, no, keep my weather eye open as the men say on board the 
Rose in June. By the bye, I hav'nt told you yet about my falling 
overboard whap into the river.”

“Falling overboard!” exclaimed the astonished shopman, quitting his 
occupation to stand erect and listen.

“Ay, ay,” continued Peter—“see it won't do to tell you long stories 
_now_. There—mark that truss, will you? Know all about it some day. 
Lucky job though—tell you that; got this thundering order by it. Had 
one tumble, first going off, at Margate. Spoilt my peagreen—never 
mind—that was a lucky tumble too. Hadn't been for that, shouldn't so 
soon have found out the game a certain person was playing with me. She 
go to Jericho?”

But for the frequent repetition of this favorite expression, Ephraim 
Hobson has since declared he should have doubted his master's identity 
during the whole of that evening, as there was something very singular 
about him; and his strength and activity in moving the bales, boxes, 
and trusses, were such as he had never previously exhibited. The 
phrase condemning this, that, or the other thing or person to “go to 
Jericho,” was the only expression that he uttered, as the shopman 
said, {729} “naturally,” and Peter repeated that whimsical anathema as 
often as usual.


The goods being all packed up, carts arrive to carry them away; and, 
by half past ten o'clock, the shop is entirely cleared, with the 
exception of a few trifling articles, to make show on the shelves and 
counters. Two hackney coaches are called. Mr. Peter Snook gets into 
one with a variety of loose articles which would require too much time 
to pack, and his shopman into another with some more. Arriving at 
Queenhithe, they find all the goods previously sent already embarked 
in the hold of a long decked barge which lies near the shore. Mr. 
Snook now insists upon Ephraim's going on board and taking supper and 
some hot rum and water. This advice he follows to so good purpose that 
he is at length completely bewildered, when his master, taking him up 
in his arms, carries him on shore, and there setting him down, leaves 
him to make the best of his way home as he can.

About eight next morning, Ephraim awaking, of course in a sad 
condition both of body and mind, sets himself immediately about 
arranging the appearance of the shop “so as to secure the credit of 
the concern.” In spite of all his ingenuity, however, it maintains a 
poverty-stricken appearance—which circumstance excites some most 
unreasonable suspicions in the mind of Mr. Bluff's clerk, upon his 
calling at ten with Pester and Co.'s bill, (three hundred and sixteen 
pounds seventeen shillings) and receiving, by way of payment, a check 
upon his own banking house for the amount—Mr. Snook having written 
this check before his departure with the goods, and left it with 
Ephraim. Upon reaching the bank therefore, the clerk inquires if Peter 
Snook's check is good for three hundred and sixteen pounds odd, and is 
told that it is not worth a farthing, Mr. S. having overdrawn already 
for a hundred. While Mr. Bluff and his assistants are conversing upon 
this subject, Butt, the gin-dealer, calls to thank the banker for 
having recommended him a customer—which the banker denies having done. 
An explanation ensues and “stop thief!” is the cry. Ephraim is sent 
for, and reluctantly made to tell all he knows of his master's 
proceedings on the day before—by which means a knowledge is obtained 
of the other houses who (it is supposed) have been swindled. Getting a 
description of the barge which conveyed the goods from Queenhithe, the 
whole party of creditors now set off in pursuit.

About dawn the next morning they overtake the barge a little below 
Gravesend—when four men are observed leaving her upon sight of the 
pursuers and rowing to the shore in a skiff. Peter Snook is found 
sitting quietly in the cabin, and although apparently a little 
surprised at seeing Mr. Pester, betrays nothing like embarrassment or 
fear.


“Ah, Mr. Pester, is it you? Glad to see you, sir! So you've been 
taking a trip out o' town, and are going back with us? We shall get to 
Billingsgate between eight and nine, they say; and I hope it won't be 
later, as I've a bill of yours comes due to-day, and I want to be at 
home in time to write a check for it.”


The goods are also found on board, together with three men in the 
hold, gagged and tied hand and foot. They give a strange account of 
themselves. Being in the employ of Mr. Heaviside a lighterman, they 
were put in charge of “The Flitter,” when she was hired by Peter Snook 
for a trip to Gravesend. According to their orders they took the barge 
in the first instance to a wharf near Queenhithe, and helped to load 
her with some goods brought down in carts. Mr. Snook afterwards came 
on board bringing with him two fierce looking men and “a little man 
with a hooked nose,” (Ephraim.) Mr. S. and the little man then “had a 
sort of a jollification” in the cabin, till the latter got drunk and 
was carried ashore. They then proceeded down the river, nothing 
particular occuring till they had passed Greenwich Hospital, when Mr. 
S. ordered them to lay the barge alongside a large black sided ship. 
No sooner was the order obeyed than they were boarded by a number of 
men from said ship, who seized them, bound them hand and foot, gagged 
them and put them down into the hold.

The immediate consequence of this information is, that our poor friend 
Peter is bound hand and foot, gagged, and put down into the hold in 
the same manner, by way of retaliation, and for sake-keeping on his 
way back to the city. On the arrival of the party a meeting of the 
creditors is called. Peter appears before them in a great rage and 
with the air of an injured man. Indeed, his behavior is so 
mal-a-propos to his situation, as entirely to puzzle his 
interrogators. He accuses the whole party of a conspiracy.


“Peter Snook,” said Mr. Pester solemnly, from the chair, “that look 
does not become you after what has passed. Let me advise you to 
conduct yourself with propriety. You will find that the best policy, 
depend on't.”

“A pretty thing for you, for to come to talk of propriety!” exclaimed 
Peter; “you that seed me laid hold on by a set of ruffins, and never 
said a word, nor given information a'terwards! And here have I been 
kept away from business I don't know how long, and shut up like a dog 
in a kennel; but I look upon't you were at the bottom of it all—you 
and that fellow with the plum-pudding face, as blowed me up about a 
cask of gin! What you both mean by it I can't think; but if there's 
any law in the land, I'll make you remember it, both of you—that's 
what I will!”


Mr. Snook swears that he never saw Mr. Jobb in his life except on the 
occasion of his capture in “The Flitter,” and positively denies having 
looked out any parcel of goods at the house of Jobb, Flashbill & Co. 
With the banker, Mr. Bluff, he acknowledges an acquaintance—but not 
having drawn for the two hundred and seventy pounds odd, or having 
ever overdrawn for a shilling in his life. Moreover he is clearly of 
opinion that the banker has still in his hands more than a hundred and 
fifty pounds of his (Mr. Snook's) money. He also designates several 
gentlemen as being no creditors of his, although they were of the 
number of those from whom large purchases had been made for the 
“whacking” shipping order, and although their goods were found in “The 
Flitter.” Ephraim is summoned, and testifies to all the particulars of 
his master's return, and the subsequent packing, cart-loading and 
embarkation as already told—accounting for the extravagances of Mr. 
Snook as being “all along of _that_ Miss Bodkin.”


“Lor', master, hi's glad to see you agin,” exclaimed Ephraim. “Who'd 
ha' thought as 'twould come to this?”

“Come to what?” cried Peter. “I'll make 'em repent of it, every man 
Jack of 'em, before I've done, if there's law to be had for love or 
money!”

“Ah, sir,” said Ephraim, “we'd better have stuck to the retail. I was 
afraid that shipping consarn would'nt answer, and tell'd you so, if 
you recollect, but you would'nt harken to me.”

“What shipping concern?” inquired Peter, with a look of amazement.

{730} “La! master,” exclaimed Ephraim, “it aint of any use to pretend 
to keep it a secret now, when every body knows it. I did'nt tell Mr. 
Pester, though, till the last, when all the goods was gone out of the 
shop, and the sheriff's officers had come to take possession of the 
house.”

“Sheriff's officers in possession of my house!” roared Peter. “All the 
goods gone out of the shop! What do you mean by that, you rascal? What 
have you been doing in my absence?” And he sprang forward furiously, 
and seized the trembling shopman by the collar with a degree of 
violence which rendered it difficult for the two officers in 
attendance to disengage him from his hold.


Hereupon, Mr. Snap, the attorney retained by the creditors, harangues 
the company at some length, and intimates that Mr. Snook is either 
mad, or acting the madman for the purpose of evading punishment. A 
practitioner from Bedlam is sent for, and some artifices resorted 
to—but to no purpose. It is found impossible to decide upon the 
question of sanity. The medical gentleman in his report to the 
creditors confesses himself utterly perplexed, and, without giving a 
decision, details the particulars of a singular story told him by Mr. 
Snook himself concerning the mode of his escape from drowning after he 
fell overboard from the “Rose in June.” “It is a strange unlikely tale 
to be sure,” says the physician, “and if his general conversation was 
of that wild imaginative flighty kind which I have so often witnessed, 
I should say it was purely ideal; but he appears such a plain-spoken, 
simple sort of a person, that it is difficult to conceive how he could 
invent such a fiction.” Mr. Snook's narration is then told, not in his 
very words, but in the author's own way, with all the particulars 
obtained from Peter's various recitations. This narration is singular 
enough but we shall give it only _in petto_.

Upon tumbling overboard, Mr. Snook (at least according to his own 
story) swam courageously as long as he could. He was upon the point of 
sinking, however, when an oar was thrust under his arm, and he found 
himself lifted in a boat by a “dozen dark looking men.” He is taken on 
board a large ship, and the captain, who is a droll genius, and talks 
in rhyme somewhat after the fashion of Frazer's Magazine, entertains 
him with great cordiality, dresses him in a suit of his own clothes, 
makes him drink in the first place a brimmer of “something hot,” and 
afterwards plies him with wines and liqueurs of all kinds, at a supper 
of the most magnificent description. Warmed in body and mind by this 
excellent cheer, Peter reveals his inmost secrets to his host and 
talks freely and minutely of a thousand things; of his man Ephraim and 
his oddities; of his bank account; of his great credit; of his 
adventures with Miss Bodkin, his prospects in trade, and especially 
the names, residences, et cetera, et cetera, of the wholesale houses 
with which he is in the habit of dealing. Presently, being somewhat 
overcome with wine, he goes to bed at the suggestion of the captain, 
who promises to call him in season for a boat in the morning which 
will convey him to Billingsgate in full time for Pester and Co.'s 
note. How long he slept is uncertain—but when he awoke a great change 
was observable in the captain's manner, who was somewhat brusque, and 
handed him over the ship's side into the barge where he was discovered 
by the creditors in pursuit, and which he was assured would convey him 
to Billingsgate.

This relation we have given in brief, and consequently it implies 
little or nothing. The result, however, to which the reader is 
ingeniously led by the author, is that the real Peter Snook has been 
duped, and that the Peter Snook who made the various purchases about 
town, and who appeared to Ephraim only during the morning and evening 
twilight of the eventful day, was, in fact, no other person than the 
captain of “the strange, black-sided ship.” We are to believe that, 
taking advantage of Peter's communicativeness, and a certain degree of 
personal resemblance to himself, be assumed our hero's clothes while 
he slept, and made a bold and nearly successful attempt at wholesale 
peculation.

The incidents of this story are forcibly conceived, and even in the 
hands of an ordinary writer would scarcely fail of effect. But in the 
present instance so unusual a tact is developed in the narration, that 
we are inclined to rank “Peter Snook” among the few tales which, each 
in their own way, are absolutely faultless. Such things, however, 
insignificant in themselves or their subjects, satisfy the mind of the 
literary critic precisely as we have known a few rude, and apparently 
unmeaning touches of the brush, fill with unalloyed pleasure the eye 
of the artist. But no—in the latter case effect is produced chiefly by 
arrangement, and a proper preponderance of objects. “Peter Snook” is 
rather a Flemish _home-piece_, and entitled to the very species of 
praise which should be awarded to the best of such pieces. The merit 
lies in the _chiaro 'scuro_—in that blending of light and shadow where 
nothing is _too distinct_, yet where the idea is fully conveyed—in the 
absence of all rigid outlines and all miniature painting—in the not 
undue warmth of the coloring—and in the slight tone of exaggeration 
prevalent, yet not amounting to caricature. We will venture to assert 
that no painter, who deserves to be called so, will read “Peter Snook” 
without assenting to what we say, and without a perfect consciousness 
that the principal rules of the plastic arts, founded as they surely 
are in a true perception of the beautiful, will apply in their fullest 
force to every species of literary composition.


LIFE OF RICHELIEU.

_Lives of the Cardinal de Richelieu, Count Oxenstiern, Count Olivarez, 
and Cardinal Mazarin. By G. P. R. James. Republished by Carey, Lea and 
Blanchard._

As a novelist, Mr. James has never, certainly, been popular—nor has 
he, we think, deserved popularity. Neither do we mean to imply that 
with “the few” he has been held in very lofty estimation. He has 
fallen, apparently, upon that unlucky mediocrity permitted neither by 
Gods nor columns. His historical novels have been of a questionable 
character—neither veritable history, nor endurable romance—neither 
“fish, flesh, nor gude red herring.” He has been lauded, it is true, 
by a great variety of journals, and in many instances mentioned with 
approbation by men whose critical opinions (could we fully ascertain 
them) would be entitled to the highest consideration. It is not, 
however, by the amount, so readily as by the nature or character of 
such public compliments, that we can estimate their intrinsic value, 
or that of the object complimented. No man speaks of James, as he 
speaks, (and cannot help speaking) of Scott, of Bulwer, of D'Israeli, 
and of numerous lesser minds than these—and all inferior to James, if 
we harken to the body rather than to the soul {731} of the testimonies 
offered hourly by the public press. The author of “Richelieu” and 
“Darnley” is lauded, by a great majority of those who laud him, from 
mere motives of duty, not of inclination—duty erroneously conceived. 
He is looked upon as the head and representative of those novelists 
who, in historical romance, attempt to blend interest with 
instruction. His sentiments are found to be pure—his _morals_ 
unquestionable, and pointedly shown forth—his language indisputably 
correct. And for all this, praise, assuredly, but then only a certain 
degree of praise, should be awarded him. To be pure in his expressed 
opinions is a duty; and were his language as correct as any spoken, he 
would speak only as every gentleman should speak. In regard to his 
historical information, were it much more accurate, and twice as 
extensive as, from any visible indications, we have reason to believe 
it, it should still be remembered that similar attainments are 
possessed by many thousands of well-educated men of all countries, who 
look upon their knowledge with no more than ordinary complacency; and 
that a far, very far higher reach of erudition is within the grasp of 
any general reader having access to the great libraries of Paris or 
the Vatican. Something more than we have mentioned is necessary to 
place our author upon a level with the best of the English 
novelists—for here his admirers would desire us to place him. Had Sir 
Walter Scott never existed, and Waverley never been written, we would 
not, of course, award Mr. J. the merit of being the first to blend 
history, even successfully, with fiction. But as an indifferent 
imitator of the Scotch novelist in this respect, it is unnecessary to 
speak of the author of “Richelieu” any farther. To genius of any kind, 
it seems to us, that he has little pretension. In the solemn 
tranquillity of his pages we seldom stumble across a novel emotion, 
and if any matter of deep interest arises in the path, we are pretty 
sure to find it an interest appertaining to some historical fact 
equally vivid or more so in the original chronicles.

Of the volumes now before us we are enabled to speak more 
favorably—yet not in a tone of high commendation. The book might more 
properly be called “Notices of the Times of Richelieu,” &c. Of course, 
in so small a compass, nothing like a minute account of the life and 
varied intrigues of even Mazarin alone, could be expected. What is 
done, however, is done with more than the author's usual ability, and 
with much more than his customary spirit. In the Life of Axel, Count 
Oxenstiern, there is, we believe, a great deal of information not to 
be met with in the more accessible historians of Sweden.


HALL'S LATIN GRAMMAR.

_A new and compendious Latin Grammar; with appropriate exercises, 
Analytical and Synthetical. For the use of primary schools, academies, 
and colleges. By Baynard R. Hall, A.M. Principal of the Bedford 
Classical and Mathematical Academy, and formerly Professor of the 
Ancient Languages in the College of Indiana. Philadelphia: Harrison 
Hall._

The excellences of this grammar have been so well proved, and the work 
itself so heartily recommended by some of the first scholars in our 
country that, at this late day especially, we feel called upon to say 
but little in its behalf. But that little we can say conscientiously.

It appears to us at least _as well_ adapted to its purposes as any 
Latin Grammar within our knowledge. In some respects it has merits to 
be met with in no other. It is free from every species of empiricism, 
and, following the good old track as far as that track can be 
judiciously followed, admits of no royal road to the acquisition of 
Latin. The arrangement is lucid and succinct—yet the work embodies a 
vast deal of matter which could have been obtained only through 
reference to many of the most elaborate treatises of Europe. In its 
analysis of _idiom_ it excels any similar book now in common use—an 
advantage of the highest importance. The size of the work is moderate, 
yet nothing of consequence to the student is omitted. The definitions 
are remarkably concise—yet sufficiently full for any practical 
purpose. The prosodial rules at the beginning are easily comprehended, 
and thus placed, are easily applied in the further progress of the 
scholar. A great many useless things to be found in a majority of 
grammars are judiciously discarded, and lastly, the analytical and 
synthetical exercises are admirably suited to the illustration of the 
principles inculcated. Upon the whole, were we a teacher, we would 
prefer its use to that of any other Latin Grammar whatever.


BLAND'S CHANCERY REPORTS.

_Reports of Cases decided in the High Court of Chancery of Maryland. 
By Theodorick Bland, Chancellor. Vol. 1, pp. 708, 8vo._

We cannot perceive any sufficient reason for the publication of this 
book. The tribunal whose decisions it reports, is not of the last 
resort;[1] they therefore are of very questionable authority, even in 
Maryland; and the Chancellor, though evidently a man of sense and 
learning, has not, like Kent, Marshall, or Hardwicke, that towering 
reputation which will stamp his _dicta_ as law (either persuasively or 
conclusively) beyond the limits of his own state. The cases reported 
in chief, are all decided by the author of the book. In the notes are 
given many decisions of his predecessors. So that, wherever we look, 
there is still but the same inadequate weight of name and station.

[Footnote 1: Constitution of Maryland, Art. 56.]

Now, the enormous multiplication of books in every branch of knowledge 
is one of the greatest evils of this age; since it presents one of the 
most serious obstacles to the acquisition of correct information, by 
throwing in the reader's way piles of lumber, in which he must 
painfully grope for the scraps of useful matter, peradventure 
interspersed. In no department have the complaints of this evil been 
louder or more just, than in the law. There are five and twenty 
supreme courts, or courts of appeals, in the United States, (not to 
mention Arkansas or Michigan) each of which probably emits a yearly 
volume of its “cases;” besides as many professed _legislative_ 
law-factories, all possessed with the notion of being Solons and 
Lycurguses. These surely can give both lawyers and people _rules of 
conduct_ enough to keep their wits on the stretch, without any 
supplies from inauthoritative sources. The law books we get from 
England would of themselves now suffice to employ those _lucubrations 
of twenty years_, which used to be deemed few enough for a mastery of 
the legal profession. From these considerations, we hold him to be no 
friend to lawyers—and hardly a good citizen—who heedlessly {732} sends 
forth a bulky addition to their reading, to encumber and perplex the 
science, and make it more and more a riddle to common minds.

The volume before us, besides these more general objections, is liable 
to at least another special one. Many of its cases are inordinately 
voluminous. That of _Hannah K. Chase_ fills 30 pages—_Lingan_ v. 
_Henderson_ 47 pages—_Cunningham_ v. _Browning_ 33 pages—_Owings'_ 
case 40 pages—and “the Chancellor's case” 92 pages! The third one of 
these cases involves no principle that can _probably_ affect any 
mortal out of Maryland, and the last is not even a _judicial_ decision 
in Maryland! It is a mere determination of the legislature of that 
state, touching the salary of a judge. They might all, we are full 
sure, hare been shortened by two-thirds, with great advantage to their 
perspicuity, as well as to the reader's time, patience and money.

There are no running dates on the margin, showing in what year each 
case was decided. But in other respects, the _getting up_ of the book 
is uncommonly good. The paper, typography, and binding, are all of the 
first order. We are sorry however that these appliances were not 
bestowed to better purpose.


LUCIEN BONAPARTE.

_Memoirs of Lucien Bonaparte, (Prince of Canino,) written by himself. 
Translated from the original manuscript, under the immediate 
superintendence of the author. Part the First, (from the year 1792, to 
the year 8 of the Republic.)_

In the publication of these memoirs the Prince of Canino disclaims any 
personal views. “I do it,” he says, “because they appear to offer 
materials of some value to a history so fruitful in great events, of 
which the serious study may be useful in future to my country.” In the 
commencement of the brief introduction from which these words of his 
are quoted, he complains, but without acrimony, of the pamphleteers 
who have too often made him the subject of their leisure. 
“Revelations, secret memoirs, collections of anecdotes, the fruits of 
imaginations without shame or decency, have not spared me. I have read 
all of them in my retirement, and I was at first surprised how I could 
have drawn upon myself so many calumnies, never having offended any 
person. But my astonishment ceased when I had better appreciated my 
position—removed from public affairs, without influence, and almost 
always in silent or open opposition to the powers, though sufficiently 
near to keep them constantly in fear of my return to favor, how was it 
possible for the malice of the courtiers to leave me in repose?”

It is not our intention to speak at length of these memoirs. Neither 
is such a course necessary in regard to a work which will, and must be 
read, by every person who pretends to read at all. The author 
professes to suppress all details that are foreign to public 
affairs—yet he has not too strictly adhered to his intention. There 
are many merely personal and private anecdotes which have a very 
shadowy bearing, if any, upon the political movements of the times. 
That the whole volume is of deep interest it is almost unnecessary to 
say—for this the subject is alone an assurance. The style of the 
Prince de Canino, is sufficiently well known to a majority of our 
readers. The book now before us possesses, in prose, many of those 
peculiarities of manner, which in so great a measure distinguished, 
and we must say disfigured, the author's poem of the _Cirreide_. Here 
are the same affectations, the same _Tacitus-ism_, and the same 
indiscriminate elevation of tone. The edition of this book by Saunders 
and Otley is well printed, with a clear large type, and excellently 
bound.


MADRID IN 1835.

_Madrid in 1835. Sketches of the Metropolis of Spain and its 
Inhabitants, and of Society and Manners in the Peninsula. By a 
Resident Officer. Two volumes in one. New York: Saunders & Otley._

One portion of this title appertains to volume the first, the other to 
volume the second. Of Madrid, the author has managed to present a 
vivid picture by means of a few almost scratchy outlines. He by no 
means goes over the whole ground of the city, nor is he more definite 
than necessary; but the most striking features of the life and 
still-life of the Metropolis are selected with judgment, and given 
with effect. The manner of the narrative is singularly _à la 
Trollope_—and this we look upon as no little recommendation with that 
large proportion of readers who, in laughing over a book, care not 
overmuch whether the laugh be at the author or with him.

The sketches, here, of the manners and social habits of Madrid are 
done with sufficient freedom, and a startling degree of _breadth_; yet 
the details, for the most part, have an air of profound truth, and the 
conviction will force itself upon the mind of the reader that the 
“Resident Officer” who amuses him is thoroughly conversant with his 
subject. Such passages as the following, however, are perhaps somewhat 
overcolored:


No place offers such perfect social facility as the Spanish 
_tertulia_. Any body presented by any other body at all known to the 
master of the house, is sure to be politely received, and, unless in 
some very peculiar case, offered the house—the usual compliment paid 
to a stranger or new acquaintance. The great demoralization of society 
in Spain, may be attributed, in no small degree, to this unbounded 
admission of a nameless crowd, destitute even of the slightest 
pretensions to birth, talent or character, into the best houses of the 
capital and country, where they elbow, and are elbowed by, the most 
distinguished individuals in the nation—on a footing of the most 
perfect equality.... A decent coat and look, and the show of a few 
ounces, are much better passports to society than the best character 
and station. The master of the house is frequently ignorant of the 
quality and circumstances of his guests. The usual answer to the query 
“Do you know that man?” is “No, I know nothing at all about him; he 
was introduced by so-and-so, who comes here often, but he appears a 
_buen sujeto, muy fino y atento_.”


Notwithstanding the greater variety and racy picturesqueness of volume 
one, volume two will be found upon the whole more entertaining. Here 
the author deals freely, and _en connoisseur_, with the Ministry, the 
Monasteries, the Clergy and their influence, with Prisons, Beggars, 
Hospitals and Convents. This portion of the work includes also some 
memorabilia of the year 1835—the Cholera and the Massacre of July. A 
chapter on the Spanish Nobility is full of interest.

The work is a large octavo of 340 pages, handsomely printed and bound, 
and embellished with two good engravings—one of the Convent of the 
Salesas Viejas, the other of the Prado by twilight.






*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER, VOL. II., NO. 11, OCTOBER, 1836 ***


    

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.


START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
    other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
    whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
    of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
    at www.gutenberg.org. If you
    are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
    of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
  
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:

    • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
        the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
        Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
        Literary Archive Foundation.”
    
    • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
        works.
    
    • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
        receipt of the work.
    
    • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
        distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
    

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.