FEINBERG/WHITMAN             LIBRARY FILE           Prose     "The Child's Champion" (Nov. 20, 1841).  The New World.
Box 31 Folder 1                                                                                                                                         Printed Copy           

THE NEW WORLD.

PARK BENJAMIN, EDITOR.
J. WINCHESTER, PUBLISHER.
"No pent-up Utica contracts our powers, for the whole boundless continent is ours."
Quarto Edition.
Office 30 Ann Street.
$3 Per Annum.
Volume III ..... No. 21.
NEW YORK, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1841.
Whole Number 77.

ORIGINAL POETRY.
THE FAITHFUL DOG.
Suggested by a Picture.
By Mrs. L.H. Sigourney.

See! how he strives to rescue from the flood
The drowning child, who, venturous in his play,
Plung'd from the slippery footing. With what joy
The brave deliverer feels those slender arms
Convulsive twining round his brawny neck,
And saves his master's boy.

A zeal like this,
Hath oft. amid St. Bernard's blinding snows,
Track'd the faint traveller; or unseal'd the jaws
Of the voracious avalanche, plucking thence
The hapless victim.

If thou hast a dog
Of such a noble race, let him not lack
Aught of the kind requital that delights
His honest nature. When he comes at eve,
Laying his ample head upon thy knee,
And looking at thee with a glistening eye,
Repulse him not; but let him on the rug
Sleep fast and warm beside thy parlor fire.
The lion-guard of all thou lov'st is he;
Yet bends his spirit to thy least command,
And crouches at thy feet. On his broad back
He bears thy youngest darling, and endures
Long with his wagging tail, the tearing sport
Of each mischievous imp. Enough for him,
That they are thine.

'Tis but an olden theme
To sing the faithful dog. The storied page
Full oft hath told his tried fidelity,
In legend quaint. Yet, if in this our world
True friendship is a scarce and chary plant,
It might be well to stoop and sow its seed
Even in the humble bosom of a brute.
Slight nutriment it needs -- the kindly tone,
The sheltering roof, the fragments from the board,
The frank caress, or treasur'd work of praise
For deeds of loyalty.

So may'st thou win
A willing servant, and an earnest friend,
Faithful to death.
         Nov. 12th, 1841.

FRAGMENT.
" 'Tis much, too much of bliss, my precious boy,
To feel the touch of thy soft dewy finger,
And watch the smiles that light thine eye with joy,
And o'er thy brow and on thy pure cheek linger.
Who could be sad and hear thy laughter's tone,
Or kiss thy lip, my lovely one, my own!

"All is as nothing I have borne for thee,
When I but look into thine eyes, and dream
Of treasures in thy heart's rich love for me,
That aye shall flow, a glad, untroubled stream,
And smooth these tresses of soft, shining hair
Upon thy brow, so like an angel's fair.

"A glorious thing thou art! so pure, so free
From every tainted thing. Wert thou not mine,
I sure must die; but now I cradle thee
Close to my heart; and gently unto thine
My cheek is pressed. Why plainest thous, my dove?
Hush thee! 'twas but the voice of thine own mother, love."

But o'er the babe came tremblings; and his eye
Turned from the worshipper that near him bent,
And his young bosom heaved convulsively,
As if his heart would burst it; and then went
Conviction to her soul that he must die;
Yet stood she there, breathing no word or cry.

But when the last gasp died, and the bright cheek,
Whereon the rose might pillow, and the brow,
Pure as a pearlet, rigid lay and mock
Upon the breast that felt no answer now
From that shrined idol to its throbbings wild,
She filled the air with grief, moaning -- "My child! my child!"

"Oh, God! My child! my child!" The very earth
Grew pain'd with the sad wail -- and the glad sky
That seemed to smile upon her in the time
Of joyfulness, now wept as if the cry
Of her deep anguish had disturbed its peace,
And it would smile no more until her grief should cease.

When shall it cease? Not till death's dews shall lie
Amid her hair -- until her chastened heart
Shakes off its fetters and the last long sigh,
That tells the passing of a soul, departs,
The cherub form of her lost boy shall come
To lead her by the streams of paradise -- their home.
     Brooklyn.     E. Pratt.

LINES.
By Henry Good Watson.
Roaming on heedlessly, by the sea shore;
Counting the pebbles the blue waves curl o'er;
Asking for nothing of Time in his flight,
But to leave me unshattered my dreams of delight --
Thoughtless, but happy, in ignorance blest,
Wise in not seeking out cause for unrest --
Thus childhood passed.

Poring o'er volumes, both musty and old;
Conning with labor traditions oft told;
Feeding my Fancy with legends of your,
Unconscious of all the false glitter they wore --
Now heated by passion, then cooled by disdain,
But loving, still loving, again and again --
Thus passed my youth!

Fighting the cold world, that fought me again,
Nor yielded one step, but toil and by pain;
Striving untired on the pathway to Fame,
Determined to write in its temple my name;
Unflinching 'mid poverty, sickness and care,
Too  constant to falter, too proud to despair --
Thus manhood passed!

Calm and unmoved 'mid the world's careless strife,
As one who had learned the great lesson of life;
Regretting each hour the found follies of youth,
Which, based upon dreamings, dissolve before Truth;
Turning my hopes to the Future, the more
That kindred and loved ones have found it before --
Thus age creeps on.

EACH HAS HIS GRIEF.
On earth are many sights of we,
And many sounds of agony,
And many a sorrow-wither'd cheek,
And many a pain-dulled eye.

The wretched weep, the poor complain,
And luckless love pines on unknown;
And faintly from the midnight couch
Sounds out the sick child's moan.

Each has his grief -- old age fears death;
The young man's ills are pride, desire,
And heart-sickness; and in his breast
The best of pardon's fire.

And he who runs the race of fame,
Oft feels within a feverish dread,
Lest others match the laurel crown
He bears upon his head.

All, all know care; and, at the close,
All lie earth's spreading arms within --
The poor, the black-soul'd, proud, and low,
Virtue, despair, and sin.

O, foolish, then, with pain to shrink
From the sure doom we each must meet.
Is earth so fair -- or heaven so dark --
Or life so passing sweet?

No; dread ye not the fearful hour --
The coffin, and the pall's dark gloom,
For there's a calm to the throbbing hearts,
And rest, down in the tomb.

Then our long journey will be o'er,
And throwing off earth's load of woes,
The pallid brow, the fainting heart,
Will sink in soft repose.

Nor only this: for wise men say
That when we leave our land of care,
We float to a mysterious shore,
Peaceful, and pure, and fair.

So, welcome death! Whene'er the time
That the dread summons must be met,
I'll yield without one pang of fear,
Or sigh, or vain regret.

But like unto a wearied child,
That over field and wood all day
Has [runged ?] and struggled, and at last,
Worn out with toil and play,

Goes up at evening to his home,
And throws him, sleepy, tired, and sore,
Upon his bed, and rests him there,
His pain and trouble o'er.
        W.W.

A SCENE FOR A PICTURE.
The moon is up -- the waters dance in light;
A single sail comes gliding through the night;
On the still beach two maidens, hand in hand;
Watch its slow motion toward the shadow'd land.
    P.B.

BEATRICE.
By James Aldrich.
Untouch'd by mortal passion,
Thou seem'st of heavenly birth,
Pure as the effluence of a star
Just reached our distant earth!

Gave Fancy's pencil never
To an ideal fir,
Such spiritual expression
As thy sweet features wear.

An inward light to guide thee,
Unto thy soul is given,
Pure and serene as its divine
Original in heaven.

Type of the ransom'd Psyche!
How gladly, hand in had,
To some new world I'd fly with thee
From off this mortal strand.

ORIGINAL TALE.
THE CHILD'S CHAMPION.
By Walt Whitman.
    Just after sunset on evening in summer -- that
pleasant hour when the air is balmy, the light loses
its glare, and all around is imbued with soothing
quiet -- on the door-step of a house there sat an elderly
woman waiting the arrival of her son. The house
was in a straggling village some fifty miles from the
great city, whose spires and ceaseless clang rise up,
where the Hudson pours forth its waters. She who
sat on the door-step was a widow; her neat white
cap covered locks of gray, and her dress though clean,
was patched and exceeding homely. Her house,
for the tenement she occupied was her own, was very
little, and very old. Trees clustered around it so
thickly as almost to hide its color -- that blackish gray
color which belongs to old wooden houses that have
never been painted; and to get to it, you had to enter
a little ricketty gate, and walk through a short path,
bordered by carrot-beds, and beets, and other vegetables. 
The son whom she was expecting was her
only child. About a year before, he had been found
apprentice to a rich farmer in the place, and after
finishing his daily tasks, he was in the habit of spending
half an hour at his mother's. On the present
occasion, the shadows of the night had settled heavily
before the youth made his appearance; when he did,
his walk was slow and dragging, and all his motions
were languid, as if from great weariness. He opened
the gate, came through the path, and sat down by his
mother in silence.
    "You are sullen, to-night, Charley," said the widow,
after a minute's pause, when she found that he returned 
no answer to her greetings. As she spoke,
she put her hand fondly on his head;  it was as wet
as if it had been dipped in the water. His shirt,
too, was soaked; and as she passed her fingers down
his shoulder, she felt a sharp twinge in her heart, for
she knew that moisture to be the hard wrung sweat
of severe toil, exacted from her young child, (he was
but twelve years old,) by and unyielding task-master.
    "You have worked hard to-day, my son."
    "I've been mowing."
    The widow's heart felt another pang. "Not all
day, Charley?" she said in a low voice, and there
was a slight quiver in it.
    "Yes, mother, all day," replied the boy; "Mr.
Ellis said he couldn't afford to hire men, for wages is 
so high. I've swung the scythe ever since an hour
before sunrise. Feel of my hands." There were
blisters on them like great lumps.
    Tears started in the widow's eyes. She dared not
trust herself with a reply, though her heart was bursting
with the thought that she could not better his condition.
There was no earthly means of support on
which she had dependence enough to encourage her
child in the wish she knew was coming; the wish --
not uttered for the first time -- to be freed from is
bondage.
    "Mother," at length said the boy, "I can stand it
no longer. I cannot and will not stay at Mr. Ellis's

Ever since the day I first went into his house, I've
been a slave, and if I have to work there much longer,
I know I shall run away, and go to sea, or somewhere
else. I'd as leive be in my grave as there." And the
child burst into a passionate fit of weeping.
    His mother was silent, for she was, in deep grief
herself. After some minutes had flown, however,
she gathered sufficient self-possession to speak to her
son in a soothing tone, endeavoring to win him from
his sorrows, and cheer up his heart. She told him
that time was swift; that in the course of years he
would be his own master; that all people had their
troubles; with other ready arguments, which though
they had little effect in calming her own distress, she
hope would act as a solace on the disturbed temper
of the boy. And as the half hour to which he was
limited had now elapsed, she took him by the hand
and led him to the gate to set forth on his return.
The child seemed pacified, thought occasionally one
of those convulsive sighs that remain after a fit of
weeping, would break from his throat. At the gate,
he threw his arms round his mother's neck; each
pressed a long kiss on the lips of the other, and the
youngster bent his steps toward his master's house.
    As her child passed out of sight, the widow returned,
shut the gate, and entered her lonesome
room. There was not light in the old cottage that
night; the heart of its occupant was dark and cheerless.
Sore agony, and grief, and tears, and convulsive
wrestlings were there. The thought of a beloved
son condemned to labor -- labor that wold bend
down a man -- struggling from day to day under the
hard rule of a soulless gold-worshipper; the knowledge
that years must pass thus; the sickening idea
of her own poverty, and of living mainly on the
grudged charity of neighbors -- these racked the
widow's heart, and made her bed a sleepless one.
O, you, who, living in plenty and peace, fret at some
little misfortune or some trifling disappointment -- behold
this spectacle, and blush at your unmanliness !
Little do you know of the dark trials (compared to
yours as night's great veil to a daylight cloud) that
are still going on around you; the pangs of hunger --
the faintness of the soul at seeing those we love
trampled down, without our having the power to aid
them -- the wasting away of the body in sickness incurable
-- and those dull achings of the heart when
the consciousness comes upon the poor man's mind,
that while he lives he will in all probability live in
want and wretchedness.
    The boy bent his steps to his employer's as has
been said. In his way down the village street, he
had to pass a public house, the only one the place
contained; and when he come off against it, he
heard the sound of a fiddle, drowned however at intervals
by much laughter and talking. The windows
were up; and, the house standing close to the road,
Charles thought it would be no harm to take a look
and see what was going on within. Half-a-dozen footsteps
brought him to the low casement, on which he
leaned his elbow, and where he had a full view of
the room and its occupants. In one corner was an
old man known in the village as Black Dave; he it
was whose musical performances had a moment before
drawn Charles's attention to the tavern; and he
it was who now exerted himself in a most violent
manner to give with divers flourishes and extra
twangs, a tune popular among that thick-lipped race
whose fondness for melody is so well known. In
the middle of the room were five or six sailors, some
of them quite drunk, and others in the earlier stages
of that process; while on benches around were more
sailors, and here and there a person dressed in landsmen's
attire, but hardly behind the sea-gentlemen in
uproariousness and mirth. The individuals in the
middle of the room were dancing -- that is, they were
going through certain contortions and shufflings,
varied occasionally by exceeding hearty stamps upon
the sanded floor. In short, the whole party were
engaged in a drunken frolic, which was in no respect
different from a thousand other drunken frolics, except
perhaps that there was less than the ordinary


322 THE NEW WORLD. [NOVEMBER 20, 1841.

amount of anger and quarrelling. Indeed, every one 
seemed in remarkably good humor. But what excited 
the boy's attention more than any other object, 
was an individual seated on one of the benches opposite, 
who though evidently enjoying the spree as much 
as if he were an old hand at such business, seemed in 
every other particular to be far out of his element. 
His appearance was youthful; he might have been 
twenty-one or two. His countenance was intelligent
—and had the air of city life and society. He was 
dressed not gaudily, but in all respects fashionably, 
his coat being of the finest black broadcloth, his 
linen delicate and spotless as snow, and his whole 
aspect a counterpart to those which may be nightly 
seen in the dress circles of our most respectable theatres. 
He laughed and talked with the rest; and it 
must be confessed his jokes, like the most of those 
that passed current there, were by no means distinguished 
for their refinement or purity. Near the 
door, was a small table covered with decanters, and 
with glasses, some of which had been used but were 
used again indiscriminately, and a box of very thick 
and long cigars.

"Come, boys," said one of the sailors, taking advantage 
of momentary pause in the hubbub to rap 
his enormous knuckles on the table, and call attention 
to himself; the gentleman in question had but one 
eye, and two most extensive whiskers. "Come, 
boys, let's take a drink, I know you're all a getting 
dry, so curse me if you shant have a suck at my expense."

This polite invitation was responded to by a general 
moving of the company toward the little table,
holding the before-mentioned decanters and glasses. 
Clustering there around, each gentleman helped himself 
to a very respectable portion of that particular 
liquor which suited his fancy; and steadiness and accuracy 
being at that time by no means distinguishing 
traits of the arms and legs of the party, a goodly 
amount of fluid was spilled upon the floor. This 
piece of extravagance excited the ire of the personage 
who was treating; and his anger was still further 
increased when he discovered two or three loiterers 
who seemed disposed to slight his civil request to 
drink.

"Walk up boys, walk up. Don't let there be any 
skulkers among us, or blast my eyes he shant go 
down on his marrow bones and gobble up the rum 
we've spilt. Hallo!" he exclaimed, as he spied 
Charles, "Hallo! you chap in the window, come 
here and take a cup."

As he spoke, he stepped to open the casement, put 
his brawny hands under the boy's armpits, and lifted 
him into the room bodily.

"There, my lads," he said to his companions, 
"there's a new recruit for you. Not so coarse a one 
either," he added as he took a fair view of the boy, 
who, though not what is called pretty, was fresh, and 
manly looking, and large for his age.

"Come youngster, take a glass," he continued; 
and he poured one nearly full of strong brandy.

Now Charles was not exactly frightened, for he was 
a lively fellow and had often been at the country 
merry-makings, and with the young men of the place 
who were very fond of him; but he was certainly 
rather abashed at his abrupt introduction to the midst 
of strangers. So, putting the glass aside, he looked 
up with a pleasant smile in his new acquaintance's 
face.

"I've no need of anything now," he said, "but I'm 
just as much obliged to you as if I was."

"Poh! man, drink it down," rejoined the sailor; 
"drink it down, it wont hurt you." And by way of 
showing its excellence, the one-eyed worthy drained 
it himself to the very last drop. Then filling it again 
he renewed his hospitable efforts to make the lad go 
through the same operation.

"I've no occasion; beside, it makes my head 
ache, and I have promised my mother not to drink 
any," was the boy's answer.

A little irritated by his continued refusals, the sailor,
with a loud oath, declared that Charles should swallow 
the brandy whether he would or no. Placing
one of his tremendous paws on the back of the boy's
head, with the other he thrust the edge of the glass
to his lips, swearing at the same time, that if he shook
it so as to spill its contents, the consequences would
be of a nature by no means agreeable to his back and
shoulders. Disliking the liquor, and angry at the attempt 
to overbear him, the undaunted child lifted his
hand and struck the arm of the sailor with a blow so
sudden, that the glass fell and was smashed to pieces
on the floor, while the liquid was about equally divided 
between the face of Charles, the clothes of the
sailor, and the sand. By this time the whole of the
company had their attention drawn to the scene.
Some of them laughed when they say Charles' undisguised 
antipathy to the drink; but they laughed still
more heartily when he discomfitted the sailor. All
of them, however, were content to let the matter go
as chance would have it—all but the young man of
the black coat, who had before been spoken of. Why
was it that from the first moment of seeing him, the
young man's heart had moved with a strange feeling
of kindness toward the boy? He felt anxious to 
know more of him—he felt that he should love him.
O, it is passing wondrous, how in the hurried walks
of life and business, we meet with young beings,
strangers, who seem to touch the fountains of our
love, and draw forth their swelling waters. The wish
to love and to be beloved, which the forms of custom,
and the engrossing anxiety for gain, so generally
smother, will sometimes burst forth in spite of all obstacles; 
and, kindled by one, who, till the hour was
unknown to us, will burn with a lovely and a pure
brightness. No scrap is this of sentimental fiction;
ask your own heart, reader, and your own memory,
for endorsement to its truth.

Charles stood, his cheek flushed and his heart
throbbing, wiping the trickling drops from his face
with a handkerchief. At first, the sailor, between
his drunkenness and his surprise, was pretty much in
the condition of one who is suddenly awakened out
of a deep sleep, and cannot call his consciousness
about him. When he saw the state of things however, 
and heard the jeering laugh of his companions,
his dull eye, lighting up with anger, fell upon the boy

who had withstood him. He seized the child with a 
grip of iron; he bent Charles half way over, and
with the side of his heavy foot, gave him a sharp and
solid kick. He was about repeating the performance,
for the child hung like a rag in his grasp; but all of
a sudden his ears rung as if pistols had snapped close
to them; lights of various hues flickered in his eye,
(he had but one, it must be remembered,) and a
strong propelling power, caused him to move from
his position, and keep moving until he was brought
up by the wall. A blow—a cuff, given in such a scientific 
and effectual manner, that the hand from
which it came was evidently no stranger to the pugilistic 
art—had been suddenly planted on the ear of
the sailor. It was planted by the young stranger of
the black coat. He had watched with interest the
proceedings of the sailor and the boy: two or three
times he was on the point of interfering, but when he
witnessed the kick, his rage was uncontrollable. He
sprang from his seat like a mad tiger. Assuming,
unconsciously, however, the attitude of a boxer, he
struck the sailor in a manner to cause those unpleasant 
sensations just described; and he would probably 
have followed up his attack in a method by no
means consistent with the sailor's personal [?], had 
not Charles, now thoroughly terrified, clung round
his leg, and prevented his advancing. The scene was
a strange one, and for a moment quite a silent one.
The company had started from their seats and held
startled but quiet positions; in the middle of the room
stood the young man, in his not at all ungraceful posture, 
every nerve strained, and his eyes flashing very
brilliantly. He seemed to be rooted like a rock, and
clasping him with an appearance of confidence in his
protection, hung the boy.

"Dare! you scoundrel!" cried the young man, his
voice thick with agitation; "dare to touch this boy
again, and I'll batter you till no sense is left in your
body."

The sailor, now partially recovered, made some
gestures from which it might be inferred that he resented
this ungenteel treatment.

"Come on, drunken brute!" continued the angry
youth; "I wish you would—you've not had half what
you deserve."

Upon sobriety and sense more fully taking their
seats in the brain of the one-eyed mariner, however,
that worthy determined in his own mind, that it would
be most prudent to let the matter drop. Expressing,
therefore, his conviction to that effect, adding certain
remarks to the purport that he "meant no harm to the
lad," that he was surprised at such a gentleman getting
so "up about a little piece of fun," and so forth
He proposed that the company should go on with
their jollity just as if nothing had happened. In
truth, he of the single eye was not a bad hearted fellow; 
the fiery enemy, whose advances he had so often
courted that night, had stolen away his good feelings,
and set busy devils at worth within him, that might
have made his hands do some dreadful deed, had not
the stranger interfered.

In a few minutes the frolic of the party was upon
its former footing. The young man sat down on one
of the benches, with the boy by his side; and, while
the rest were loudly laughing and talking, they two
held communion together. The stranger learned from
Charles all the particulars of his simple story—how
his father had died years since—how his mother had
worked hard for a bare living, and how he himself
for many dreary months had been the bond-child of a 
hard hearted, avaricious master. More and more interested,
drawing the child close to his side, the young
man listened to his plainly told history; and thus an
hour passed away. It was now past midnight. The 
young man told Charles that on the morrow he would
take steps to have him liberated from his servitude;
for the present night, he said, it would perhaps be
best for the boy to stay and share his bed at the inn;
and little persuading did the child need to do so. As
they retired to sleep, very pleasant thoughts filled the
mind of the young man; thoughts of a worthy action
performed; of unsullied affection; thoughts, too—
newly awakened ones—of walking in a steadier and
wiser path than formerly. All his imaginings seemed
to be interwoven with the youth who lay by his side;
he folded his arms around him, and while he slept,
the boy's cheek rested on his bosom. Fair were those
two creature in their unconscious beauty—glorious,
but yet how differently glorious! One of them was innocent
and sinless of all wrong; the other—O to that
other, what evil had not been present, either in action
or to his desires!

Who was the stranger? To those who, from ties
of relationship or otherwise, felt an interest in him,
the answer to such a question was not a pleasant 
theme to dwell upon. His name was Lankton—parentless
—a dissipated young man—a brawler—one
whose too frequent companions were rowdies, blacklegs, 
and swindlers. The New-York police officers
were not altogether strangers to his countenance;
and certain reporters who note the transactions there,
had more than once received gratuities for leaving
out his name from the disgraceful notoriety of their
columns. He had been bred to the profession of medicine: 
beside that, he had a very respectable income, 
and his house was in a pleasant street on the
west side of the city. Little of his time, however,
did Mr. John Lankton spend at his domestic hearth;
and the elderly lady who officiated as housekeeper
was by no means surprised to have him gone for a
week or a month at a time, and she knowing nothing
of his whereabout. Living as he did, the young man
was an unhappy being. It was not so much that his
associates were below his own capacity, for Lankton, 
though sensible and well-bred, was by no means
talented or refined—but that he lived without any
steady purpose—that he had no one to attract him to 
his home—that he too easily allowed himself to be
tempted—which caused his life to be of late one continued 
scene of dissatisfaction. This dissatisfaction
he sought to drive away (ah! foolish youth!) by mixing 
in all kinds of parties and places where the object
was pleasure. On the present occasion, he had left
the city a few days before, and was passing the time
at a place near the village where Charles and his mother 
lived. He had that day fallen in with those who
were his companions in the tavern spree—and thus it
happened that they were all together: for Lankton

hesitated not to make himself at home with any associates 
that suited his fancy.

The next morning, the poor widow rose from her
sleepless cot, and from that lucky trait in our nature
which makes one extreme follow another, she set
about her daily toil with a lightened heart. Ellis,
the farmer, rose too, short as the nights were, an hour
before day; for his God was gain, and a prime article
of his creed was to get as much work as possible from
every one around him. He roused up all his people,
and finding that Charles had not been home the preceeding 
night, he muttered threats against him, and
calling a messenger, to whom he hinted that any
minutes which he stayed beyond a most exceeding
short period, would be subtracted from his breakfast
time, dispatched him to the widow's to find what was
her son about.

What was he about? With one of the brightest
and earliest rays of the warm sun a gentle angel entered 
his apartment, and hovering over the sleepers
on invisible wings, looked down with a pleasant smile
and blessed them. Then noiselessly taking a stand 
by the bed, the angel bent over the boy's face, and
whispered strange words into his ear: thus it came
that he had beautiful visons. No sound was heard
but the slight breathing of those who slumbered there
in each others arms; and the angel paused a moment,
and smiled another and a doubly sweet smile as he
drank in the scene with his large soft eyes. Bending
over again to the boy's lips, he touched them with a
kiss, as the languid wind touches a flower. He seemed 
to be going now—and yet he lingered. Twice or
thrice he bent over the brow of the young man—and
went not. Now the angel was troubled; for he would
have pressed the young man's forehead with a kiss,
as he did the child's; but a spirit from the Pure
Country, who touches anything tainted by evil
thoughts, does it at the risk of having his breast
pierced with pain, as with a barbed arrow. At that
moment a very pale bright ray of sunlight darted
through the window and settled on the young man's
features. Then the beautiful spirit knew that permission 
was granted him: so he softly touched the
young man's face with his, and silently and swiftly
wafted himself away on the unseen air.

In the course of the day Ellis was called upon by
young Lankton, and never perhaps in his life was
the farmer more puzzled than at the young man's
proposals—his desire to provide for a boy who could
do him no pecuniary good—and his willingness to
disburse money for that purpose. In that department
of Ellis's structure where the mind was, or ought to
have been situated, there never had entered the
slightest thought assimilating to those which actuated
the young man in his proceedings in this business.
Yet Ellis was a church member and a county officer.

The widow too, was called upon, not only that
day, but the next and the next

It needs not to particularise the subsequent events
of Lankton's and the boy's history: how the reformation 
of the profligate might be dated to begin from
that time; how he gradually severed the guilty ties
that had so long galled him—how he enjoyed his own
home, and loved to be there, and why he loved to be
there; how the close knit love of the boy and him
grew not slack with time; and how, when at length
he became head of a family of his own, he would
shudder when he thought of his early danger and
escape.

Loved reader, own you the moral of this simple
story? Draw it forth—pause a moment, ere your eye
wanders to a more bright and eloquent page—and
dwell upon it.

GOD OMNIPRESENT.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

THE Lord, the high and holy One,
Is present every where;
Go to the regions of the sun,
And thou wilt find him there!

Go to the secret ocean caves,
Where man hath never trod,
And there, beneath the flashing waves,
Will be thy Maker, GOD!

Fly swiftly, on the morning's wing,
To distant realms away,
Where birds, in jewelled plumage sing
The advent of the day;

And where the lion seeks his lair,
And reindeer bounds alone—
God's presence makes the desert fair,
And cheers the frozen zone.

All Nature speaks of Him who made
The land, and sea, and sky;
The fruits that fall, the leaves that fade,
The flowers that bloom to die;

The lofty mount and lowly vale,
The lasting forest trees,
The rocks that battle with the gale,
The ever-rolling seas.

All tell the Omnipresent Lord,
The God of boundless might—
In every age and clime adored,
Whose dwelling is the light!

SONNET.

SUGGESTED [BY A PICTURE OF C. VER BRYCE, REPRESENTING 
CHARLES I. IN THE STUDIO OF VAN DYCK.

I see a shadowy, air-pervaded room,
And many-colored forms that harmonize
And glow like one. Lo ! in familiar guise,
That martyr King, whose face foretold his doom!
But now, displacing their accustomed gloom,
Calm admiration lifts those kingly eyes,
And tranquil pleasure. Time the while still flies,
Chasing repose before him to the tomb—
Not now his phantom scythe, but axe of steel,
Uplifting, for a stroke delayed, yet sure;
And o'er the King the honored painter bends,
With look and posture that a soul reveal
In his approval smilingly secure
Whose sovereign course in swift destruction ends.
DOCT. HUNTINGTON.

WASHINGTON ESTATE.—The Mount Vernon estate
consisted, soon after the French war, of 9000 acres,
and when Washington returned to cultivate it, he had
1200 persons upon it in his employment. Now, it is
stated, but five slaves live on the place, and 400 acres
only are cultivated, chiefly used for raising wheat and
Indian corn.—[Charleston Courier,

Spirit of the Reviews.

WARREN HASTINGS.

IN the October number of the Edinburgh Review,
received by the Great Western, there is a magnificent 
article by T. B. Macauley, on the eventful career
and character of the celebrated Ex-Governor General
of Bengal. The text for the article is a work just
published in England, and entitled "Memoirs of the 
Life of Warren Hastings, first Governor General of
Bengal, Compiled from Original Papers, by G. K.
Gleig, A. M." The book is dismissed, however, in a 
very few words, and referred to, in the course of ninety-five 
pages, but half-a-dozen times. "This book," says
Macauley, "seems to have been manufactured in pursuance 
of a contract, by which the representatives of 
Warren Hastings, on the one part, bound themselves
to furnish papers, and Mr. Gleig, on the other part,
bound himself to furnish praise. It is but just to say
that the covenants on both sides, have been faithfully
kept; and the result is before as in three big, bad 
volumes, full of undigested correspondence and undiscerning 
panegyric."

Were remarks like this, true as they undoubtedly
are, made by an American critic, they would be immediately
set down to the score of envy and malice,
and all uncharitableness. The Editor of this paper
has been accused of all these sins for expressions much
less sweeping than the above: and he wishes that
some of his kind commentators would read this article, 
no less on account of the effectual savagery with
which it demolishes Mr. Gleig in a very summary
style, than for the superior eloquence and splendid
periods with which it teems.

For such extracts as we have space to give, we
claim the reader's particular attention. They are
models in their way. A great fact, which has been
the topic of very voluminous disertation, seems to us
to be satisfactorily settled by the following, on

THE AUTHORSHIP OF JUNIUS.

The ablest of the new councillors was, beyond all
doubt, Philip Francis. His acknowledged compositions 
prove that he possessed considerable eloquence
and information. Several years passed in the public
offices had formed him to habits of business. His
enemies have never denied that he had a fearless and
manly spirit; and his friends, we are afraid, must 
acknowledge that his estimate of himself was extravagantly 
high, that his temper was irritable, that his
deportment was often rude and petulant, and that his
hatred was of intense bitterness, and long duration.

It is scarcely possible to mention this eminent man
without adverting for a moment to the question
which his name at once suggests to every mind. Was
he the author of the Letters of Junius? Our own
firm belief is, that he was. The external evidence
is, we think, such as would support a verdict in a 
civil, nay, in a criminal proceeding. The handwriting 
of Junius is the very peculiar handwriting of
Francis, slightly disguised. As to the position, pursuits, 
and connections of Junius, the following are
the most important facts which can be considered as
clearly proved: first, that he was acquainted with the
technical forms of the secretary of state's office;
secondly, that he was intimately acquainted with the
business of the war-office; thirdly, that he, during
the year 1770, attended debates of the House of
Lords, and took notes of speeches, particularly of the
speeches of Lord Chatham; fourthly, that he bitterly
resented the appointment of Mr. Chamier to the
place of deputy secretary-at-war; fifthly, that he was
bound by some strong tie to the first Lord Holland.
Now, Francis passed some years in the secretary of
state's office. He was subsequently chief clerk of
the war-office. He repeatedly mentioned that he
had himself, in 1770, heard speeches of Lord Chat-
ham: and some of those speeches were actually 
printed from his notes. He resigned his clerkship at
the war-office from resentment at the appointment of
Mr. Chamier. It was by Lord Holland that he was
first introduced into the public service. Now here
are five marks, all of which ought to be found in
Junius. They are all five found in Francis. We do
not believe that more than two of them can be found
in any other person whatever. If this argument does
not settle the question, there is an ending of all reasoning 
on circumstantial evidence.

The internal evidence seems to us to point the
same way. The style of Francis bears a strong resemblance 
to that of Junius; nor are we disposed to
admit, what is generally taken for granted, that the
acknowledged compositions of Francis are very decidedly 
inferior to the anonymous letters. The argument
from inferiority, at all events, is one which may
be urged with at least equal force against every
claimant that has ever been mentioned, with the single 
exception of Burke, who certainly was not Junius. 
And what conclusion, after all, can be drawn
from mere inferiority? Every writer must produce
his best work; and the interval between his best
work and his second best work may be very wide
indeed. Nobody will say that the best letters of Junius 
are more decidedly superior to the acknowledged
works of Francis, than three or four of Corneille's
tragedies to the rest; than three or four of Ben Jonson's 
comedies to the rest; than the Pilgrim's Progress 
to the other works of Bunyan; than Don
Quixote to the other works of Cervantes. Nay, it is
certain that the Man in the Mask, whoever he may
have been, was a most unequalled writer. To go no
further than the letters which bear the signature of
Junius; the letter to the King, and the letters to
Horn Tooke, have little in common, except the asperity; 
and asperity was an ingredient seldom wanting
either in the writings or in the speeches of Francis.

Indeed, one of the strongest reasons for believing

NOVEMBER 20, 1841.] THE NEW WORLD. 323

that Francis was Junius, is the moral resemblance
between the two men. It is not difficult, from the
letters which, under various signatures, are known
to have been written by Junius, and from his dealings
with Woodfall and others, to form a tolerably correct
notion of his character. He was clearly a man not
destitute of real patriotism and magnanimity—a man
whose vices were not of a sordid king. But he must
also have been a man in the highest degree arrogant
and insolent, a man prone to malevolence, and prone
to the error of mistaking his malevolence for public
virtue. "Doest thou well to be angry?" was the 
question asked in old time of the Hebrew prophet.
And he answered, "I do well." This was evidently
the temper of Junius; and to this cause was attribute
the savage cruelty which disgraces several of his letters. 
No man is so merciless as he who, under a
strong self-delusion, confounds his antipathies with
his duties. It may be added, that Junius, though
allied with the democratic party by common enmities,
was the very opposite of a democratic politician.
While attacking individuals with a ferocity which
perpetually violated all the laws of literary warfare, he 
regarded the most defective parts of old institutions
with a respect amounting to pedantry; pleaded the
cause of Old Sarum with fervor, and contemptuously
told the capitalists of Manchester and Leeds, that if
they wanted votes, they might buy land and become
freeholders of Lancashire and Yorkshire. All this,
we believe, might stand, with scarcely any change,
for a character of Philip Francis.

It is not strange that the great anonymous writer
should have been willing at that time to leave the
country which had been so powerfully stirred by his
eloquence. Everything had gone against him. That
party which he clearly preferred to every other, the 
party of George Grenville, had been scattered by the
death of its chief; and Lord Suffolk had led the
greater part of it over to the ministerial benches.
The ferment produced by the Middlesex election had
gone down. Every faction must have been alike an
object of aversion to Junius. His opinions of domestic
affairs separated him from the ministry; his opinions 
on colonial affairs from the opposition. Under
such circumstances, he had thrown down his pen in
misanthropic despair. His farewell letters to Woodfall 
bears date the 19th of of January, 1773. In that
letter, he declared that he must be an idiot to write
again; that he had meant well by the cause and the 
public; that both were given up; that there were
not ten men who would act steadily together on any
question. "But it is all alike," he added, "vile and
contemptible. You have never flinched that I know 
of; and I always rejoice to hear of your prosperity."
These were the last words of Junius. In a year from
that time, Philip Francis was on his voyage to
Bengal.

THE DOOM OF NUNCOMAR.

The day drew near, and Nuncomar prepared himself 
to die, with that quiet fortitude with which the
Bengalee, so effeminately timid in personal conflict,
often encounters calamities for which there is no remedy. 
The sheriff, with the humanity which is seldom 
wanting in an English gentleman, visited the
prisoner on the eve of the execution, and assured him
that no indulgence, consistent with the law, should be
refused to him. Nuncomar expressed his gratitude
with great politeness and unaltered composure. Not
a muscle of his face moved. Not a sigh broke from
him. He put his finger to his forehead, and calmly
said that fate would have its way, and that there was
no resisting the pleasure of God. He sent his compliments 
to Francis, Clavering, and Monson, and
charged them to protect Rajah Goordas, who was
about to become the head of the Brahmins of Bengal.
The sheriff withdrew, greatly agitated by what had
passed, and Nuncomar sat composedly down to write
notes and examine accounts.

The next morning, before the sun was in his power,
an immense concourse assembled round the place
where the gallows had been set up. Grief and horror
were on every face; yet, to the last, the multitude
could hardly believe that the English really purposed
to take the life of the great Brahmin. At length the
mournful procession came through the crowd. Nuncomar 
sat up in his palanquin, and looked round him
with unaltered serenity. He had just parted from
those who were most nearly connected with him.
Their cries and contortions had appalled the European 
ministers of justice, but had not produced the
smallest effect on the iron stoicism of the prisoner.
The only anxiety which he expressed was, that men
of his own priestly caste might be in attendance to 
take care of his corpse. He again desired to be remembered 
to his friends in the Council, mounted the
scaffold with firmness, and gave the signal to the executioner. 
The moment that the drop fell, a howl of
sorrow and despair rose from the innumerable spectators. 
Hundreds turned away their faces from the
polluting sight, fled with loud wailings toward the
Hoogley, and plunged into its holy waters, as if to
purify themselves from the guilt of having looked on
such a crime. These feelings were not confined to
Calcutta. The whole province was greatly excited;
and the population of Dacca in particular, gave strong
signs of grief and dismay.

THE FOUNDER OF MYSORE.

About thirty years before this time, a Mahommedan 
soldier had begun to distinguish himself in the
wars of Southern India. His education had been neglected; 
his extraction was mean. His father had
been a petty officer of revenue; his grandfather, a 
wandering Dervise. But though thus meanly descended—
though ignorant even of the alphabet—the
adventurer had no sooner been placed at the head of
a body of troops, than he approved himself a man
or conquest and command. Among the crowd of
chiefs who were struggling for a share of India, none
could compare with him in the qualities of the captain
and the statesman. He became a general—he became 
a prince. Out of the fragments of old principalities, 
which had gone to pieces in the general
wreck, he formed for himself a great, compact, and
vigorous empire. That empire he ruled with the
ability, severity, and vigilance of Louis the Eleventh.
Licentious in his pleasures, implacable in his revenge,

he had yet enlargement of mind enough to perceive
how much the prosperity of subjects adds to the 
strength of governments. He was an oppressor; but
he had at least the merit of protecting his people
against all oppression except his own. He was now
in extreme old age; but his intellect was as clear, and
his spirit as high, as in the prime of manhood. Such
was the great Hyder Ali, the founder of the Mahommedan 
kingdom of Mysore, and the most formidable
enemy with whom the English conquerors of India
have ever had to contend.

Had Hastings been governor of Madras, Hyder
would have been either made a friend, or vigorously
encountered as an enemy.  Unhappily the English
authorities in the south provoked their powerful
neighbor's hostility without being prepared to repel
it.  On a sudden, an army of ninety thousand men,
far superior in discipline and efficiency to any other
native force that could be found in India, came pouring 
through those wild passes, which, worn by mountain 
torrents, and dark with jungle, lead down from 
the table-land of Mysore to the plans of the Carnatic.
This great army was accompanied by a hundred
pieces of cannon; and its movements were guided by
many French officers, trained in the best military 
schools of Europe. 

Hyder was every where triumphant.  The sepoys
in many British garrisons flung down their arms 
Some forts were surrendered by treachery, and some
by despair. In a few days, the whole open country 
north of the Coleroon had submitted. The English
inhabitants of Madras could already see by night,
from the top of Mount St. Thomas, the eastern sky
reddened by a vast semicircle of blazing villages.
The while villas, embosomed in little groves of tulip-trees, 
to which our countryman retire after the daily
labors of government and of trade, when the cool
evening breeze springs up from the bay, were now left
without inhabitants; for bands of the fierce horseman
of Mysore had already been seen prowling near those
gay verandas. Even the town was not thought secure, 
and the British merchants and public functions
aries made haste to crowd themselves behind the cannon 
of Fort St. George.

There were the means indeed of forming an army 
which might have defended the presidency, and even
driven the invader back to his mountains.  Sir Hector 
Munro was at the head of one considerable force,
Baillie was advancing with another. United, they
might have presented a formidable front even to such
an enemy as Hyder.  But the English commanders,
neglecting those fundamental rules of the military art,
of which the propriety is obvious even to men who
have never received a military education, deferred
their junction, and were separately attacked. Baillie's 
detachment was destroyed, Munro was forced to 
abandon his baggage, to filing his guns into the tanks,
and to save himself by a retreat which might be called 
a flight. In three weeks from the commencement of 
the war, the British empire in southern India had
been brought to the verge of ruin.  Only a few fortified 
places remained to us.  The glory of our arms
had departed. It was known that a great French expedition 
might soon be expected on the coast of Coromandel. 
England, beset by enemies on every side,
was in no condition to protect such remote dependencies.

Then it was that the fertile genius and serene
courage of Hastings achieved their most signal triumph
A swift ship, flying before the south-west moonsoon,
brought the evil tidings in a few days to Calcutta.  In
twenty-four hours the Governor-General had framed
a complete plan of policy adapted to the altered
state of affairs. The struggle with Hyder was a
struggle for life and death. All minor objects must 
be sacrificed to the preservation of the Carnatic. The 
disputes with the Mahrattas must be accommodated.
A large military force, and a supply of money, must be
instantly sent to Madras. but even these measures
would be insufficient, unless the war, hitherto so
grossly mismanaged, were placed under the direction
of a vigorous mind. It was no time for trifling.
Hastings determined to resort to an extreme exercise
of power; to suspend the incapable governor of Fort
St George, to send Sir Eyre Coote to oppose Hyder, 
and to entrust that distinguished general with the
whole administration of the war. 

In spite of the sullen opposition of Francis, who had
returned to the Council, the Governor-General's wise
and firm policy was approved by the majority of the 
board. The reenforcements were sent off with great 
expedition, and reached Madras before the French
armament arrived in the Indian seas. Coote, broken
by age and disease, was no longer the Coote of Wandewash; 
but he was still a resolute and skilful commander. 
The progress of Hyder was arrested; and 
in a few months the great victory of Porto Navo retrieved 
the honor of the English arms. 

THE TREASURE OF OUDE.

Hastings had intended after settling the affairs of 
Benares, to visit Lucknow, and there to confer with 
Asaph-ul-Dowlah. But the obsequious courtesy of
the Nabob Vizier prevented this visit. With a small
train, he hastened to meet the Governor-General.
An interview took place in the fortress, which, from
the crest of the precipitous rock of Chunar, looks
down on the waters of the Ganges. 

At first sight it might appear impossible that the 
negotiation should come to an amicable close. Hastings 
wanted an extraordinary supply of money 
Asaph-ul-Dowlah wanted to obtain a remission of 
what he already owed. Such a difference seemed to 
admit of no compromise. There was, however, one
course satisfactory to both sides, one course by which
it was possible to relieve the finances both of Oude
and Bengal; and that course was adopted. It was
simply this—that the Governor-General and the Nabob 
Vizier should join to rob a third party; and the
third party whom they determined to rod was the 
parent of the one of the robbers.

The mother of the late nabob, and his wife, who
was the mother of the present nabob, were known
as the Begums or princesses of Oude. They had 
possessed great influence over Sujah Dowlah, and 
had at his death been left in possession of a splendid
donation. The domains of which they received the 
rent and administered the government were of wide
extent. The treasure hoarded by the late nabob—a

treasure which was popularly estimated at near three
millions sterling—was in their hands. They continued 
to occupy his favourite palace at Fyzabad, the
Beautiful Dwelling; while Asaph-ul-Dowlah held his 
court in the stately Lucknow, which he had built for 
himself on the shores of the Goomti, and had adorned 
with noble mosques and colleges. 
   
Asaph-ul-Dowlah had already extorted considerable 
sums from his mother. She had at length appealed
to the English; and the English had interfered. A
solemn compact had been made, by which she consented 
to give her son some pecuniary assistance,
and he in his turn promised never to commit any
further invasion of her rights. This compact was
formally guaranteed by the government of Bengal.
But times had changed; money was wanted; and 
the power which had given the guarantee was not
ashamed to instigate the spoiler.

It was necessary to find some pretext for a confiscation, 
inconsistent not merely with plighted faith—
not merely with the ordinary rules of humanity and
justice—but with that great law of filial piety, which,
even in the wildest tribes of savages—even in those
more degraded communities which wither under the
influence of a corrupt half-civilization—retains a certain
authority over the human mind. A pretext was
the last thing that Hastings was likely to want. The
insurrection at Benares had produced disturbances in
Oude. These disturbances it was convenient to impute 
to the princesses. Evidence for the imputation
there was scarcely any; unless reports wandering
from one mouth to another, and gaining something by
every transmission, may be called evidence. The
accused were furnished with no charge; they were
permitted to make no defence; for the Governor-General
wisely considered, that if he tried them, he
might not be able to find a ground for plundering
them. It was agreed between him and the Nabob
Vizier, that the noble ladies should, by a sweeping
measure of confiscation, be stripped of their domains
and treasures for the benefit o the Company; and
that the sums thus obtained should be accepted by
the government of Bengal in satisfaction of its claims
on the government of Oude.

While Asaph-ul-Dowlah was at Chunar, he was
completely subjugated by the clear and commanding
intellect of the English statesman. But when they
had separated, he began to reflect with uneasiness on
the engagement into which he had entered. His
mother and grandmother protested and implored.
His heart, deeply corrupted by absolute power and
licentious pleasures, yet not naturally unfeeling, failed
him in this crisis. Even the English resident at
Lucknow, though hitherto devoted to Hastings,
shrank from the extreme measures. But the Governor-General
was inexorable. He wrote to the resident
in terms of the greatest severity, and declared
that, if the spoliation which had been agreed upon
were not instantly carried into effect, he would himself
go to Lucknow, and do that from which feebler
minds recoiled with dismay. The resident, thus
menaced, waited on his Highness, and insisted that
the treaty of Chunar should be carried into full and
immediate effect. Asaph-ul-Dowlah yielded—making
at the same time a solemn protestation, that he
yielded to compulsion. The lands were resumed;
but the treasure was not so easily obtained. It was
necessary to use force. A body of the Company's
troops marched to Fyzabad, and forced the gates of
the palace. The princesses were confined to their
own apartments. But still they refused to submit.
Some more stringent mode of coercion was to be
found. A mode was found, of which, even at this
distance of time, we cannot speak without shame and
sorrow.

There were at Fyzabad two ancient men belonging
to that unhappy class which a practice of immemorial
antiquity in the East has excluded from the pleasures
of love, and from the hope of posterity. It has
always been held in Asiactic courts, that beings thus
estranged from sympathy with their kind are those
whom princes may most safely trust. Sujah Dowlah
had been of this opinion. He had given his entire
confidence to the two eunuchs; and after his death
they remained at the head of the household of his
widow.

These men were, by the orders of the British
government, seized, imprisoned, ironed, starved almost
to death, in order to extort money from the 
princesses. After they had been two months in confinement,
their health gave way. They implored
permission to take a little exercise in the garden of
their prison. The officer who was in charge of them
stated, that if they were allowed this indulgence,
there was not the smallest chance of their escaping,
and that their irons really added nothing to the security
of the custody in which they were kept. He
did not understand the plan of his superiors. Their 
object in these inflictions was not security but torture;
and all mitigation was refused. Yet this was not the
worst. It was resolved by an English government
that these two infirm old men should be delivered to
the tormentors. For that purpose they were removed
to Lucknow. What horrors their dungeon
there witnessed can only be guessed. But there remains
on the records of Parliament this letter, written
by a British resident to a British soldier:

"Sir, the Nabob having determined to inflict corporal
punishment upon the prisoners under your
guard, this is to desire that his officers, when they
shall come, may have free access to the prisoners,
and be permitted to do with them as they shall see
proper."

While these barbarities were perpetrated at Lucknow,
the princesses were still under duresse at Fyzabad.
Food was allowed to enter their apartments
only in such scanty quantities, that their female attendants
were in danger of perishing with hunger.
Month after month this cruelty continued, till at
length, after twelve hundred thousand pounds had
been wrung out of the princesses, Hastings began to
think that he had really got to the bottom of their
revenue, and that no rigor could extort more. Then
at length the wretched men who were detained at
Lucknow regained their liberty. When their irons
were knocked off, and the doors of their prison
opened, their quivering lips, the tears which ran
down their cheeks, and the thanksgivings which they

poured forth to the common Father of Mussulmans
and Christians, melted even the stout hearts of the
English warriors who stood by.

THE CHARACTER OF WARREN HASTINGS.

ON a general review of the long administration of
Hastings, it is impossible to deny, that, against the
great crimes by which it is blemished, we have to set
off great public services. England had passed through
a perilous crisis. She still, indeed, maintained her
place in the foremost rank of European powers; and
the manner in which she had defended herself against
fearful odds, had inspired surrounding nations with a
high opinion both of her spirit and of her strength.
Nevertheless, in every part of the world, except one,
she had been a loser. Not only had she been compelled
to acknowledge the independence of thirteen
colonies peopled by her children, and to conciliate
the Irish by giving up the right of legislating for 
them; but, in the Mediterranean, in the Gulf of Mexico,
on the coast of Africa, on the continent of America,
she had been compelled to cede the fruits of her
victories in former wars. Spain regained Minorca
and Florida; France regained Senegal, Goree, and
several West India Islands. The only quarter of the 
world in which Britain had lost nothing, was the
quarter in which her interests had been committed to
the care of Hastings. In spite of the utmost exertions
both of European and Asiatic enemies, the
power of our country in the East had been greatly
augmented. Benares was subjected; the Nabob
Vizier reduced to vassalage. That our influence had
been thus extended, nay, that Fort William and Fort
St. George had not been occupied by hostile armies,
was owing, if we may trust the general voice of the
English in India, to the skill and resolution of Hastings.

His internal administration, with all its blemishes,
gives him a title to be considered as one of the most
remarkable men in our history. He dissolved the
double government. He transferred the direction of
affairs to English hands. Out of a frightful anarchy,
he educed at least a rude and imperfect order. The
whole organization by which justice was dispensed,
revenue collected, peace maintained, throughout a
territory not inferior in population to the dominions
of Louis the Sixteenth, or of the Emperor Joseph,
was created and superintended by him. He boasted
that every public office, without exception, which
existed when he left Bengal was his work. It is quite
true that this system, after all the improvements suggested
by the experience of sixty years, still needs
improvement; and that it was at first far more defective
than it now is. But whoever seriously considers
what it is to construct from the beginning the whole
of a machine so vast and complex as a government,
will allow that what Hastings effected deserves high
admiration. To compare the most celebrated European
ministers to him, seems to us as unjust as it
would be to compare the best baker in London with
Robinson Crusoe; who, before he could bake a single
loaf, had to make his plough and his harrow, his
fences and his scarecrows, his sickle and his flail, his
mill and his oven.

The just fame of Hastings rises still higher, when
we reflect that he was not bred a statesman; that he
was sent from school to a counting-house; and that
he was employed during the prime of his manhood
as a commercial agent, far from all intellectual society.

Nor must we forget that all, or almost all, to whom,
when placed at the head of affairs, he could apply
for assistance, were persons who owed as little as
himself, or less than himself, to education. A minister
in Europe finds himself, on the first day on
which he commences his functions, surrounded by
experienced public servants, the depositaries of official
traditions. Hastings had no such help. His
own reflection, his own energy, were to supply the
place of all Downing Street and Somerset House.
Having had no facilities for learning, he was forced
to teach. He had first to form himself, and then to
form his instruments; and this not in a single department,
but in all the departments of the administration.

It must be added that, while engaged in this most
arduous task, he was constantly trammelled by orders
from home, and frequently borne down by a majority
in council. The preservation of an Empire from a 
formidable combination of foreign enemies, the construction
of a government in all its parts, were accomplished
by him; while every ship brought out bales
of censure from his employers, and while the records
of every consultation were filled with acrimonious
minutes by his colleagues. We believe that there
never was a public man whose temper was so severely
tried; not Marlborough, when thwarted by the Dutch
Deputies; not Wellington, when he had to deal at
once with the Portuguese Regency, the Spanish Juntas,
and Mr. Percival. But the temper of Hastings
was equal to almost any trial. It was not sweet, but
it was calm. Quick and vigorous as his intellect was,
the patience with which he endured the most cruel
vexations till a remedy could be found, resembled
the patience of stupidity. He seems to have been
capable of resentment, bitter and long enduring; yet
his resentment so seldom hurried him into any blunder,
that it may be doubted whether what appeared
to be revenge was anything but policy.

The effect of his singular equanimity was, that he
always had the full command of all the resources of
one of the most fertile minds that ever existed. Accordingly,
no complication of perils and embarrassments
could perplex him. For every difficulty he
had a contrivance ready; and, whatever may be
thought of the justice and humanity of some of his
contrivances, it is certain that they seldom failed to
serve the purpose for which they were designed.

Together with this extraordinary talent for devising
expedients, Hastings possessed, in a very high degree,
another talent scarcely less necessary to a man in his
situation; we mean talent for conducting political
controversy. It is as necessary to an English statesman
in the East that he should be able to write, as
it is to a minister in this country that he should be
able to speak. It is chiefly by the oratory of a public
man here, that the nation judges of his powers. It
is from the letters and reports of a public man in India,
that the dispensers of patronage form their estimate
of him. In each case, the talent which receives peculiar
encouragement is developed, perhaps at the
expense of the other powers. In this country, we

324  THE NEW WORLD. [NOVEMBER 20, 1841.

sometimes hear men speak above their abilities.  It 
is not very unusual to find gentlemen in the Indian
service who write above their abilities.  The English
politician is a little too much of a debater; the Indian
politician is a little too much of an essayist.

Of the numerous servants of the Company who have 
distinguished themselves as framers of Minutes and 
Despatches, Hastings stands at the head.  He was 
indeed the person who gave to the official writing of
the Indian governments the character which it still
retains.  He was matched against no common antagonist.
But even Francis was forced to acknowledge,
with sullen and resentful candor, that there was no
contending against the pen of Hastings.  And, in truth,
the Governor-General's power making out a case
—of perplexing what it was inconvenient that people
should understand—and of setting in the clearest point
of view whatever would bear the light, was incomparable.
His style must be praised with some reservation.
It was in general forcible, pure, and polished;
but it was sometimes, though not often, turgid, and,
on one or two occasions, even bombastic.  Perhaps
the fondness of Hastings for Persian literature may
have tended to corrupt his taste.

And, since we have referred to his literary tastes,
it would be most unjust not to praise the judicious
encouragement which, as a ruler, he gave to liberal
studies and curious researches.  His patronage was
extended, with prudent generosity, to voyages, travels,
experiments, publications.  He did little, it is true,
toward introducing into India the learning of the 
West.  To make the young natives of Bengal familiar
with Milton and Adam Smith—to substitute the geography,
astronomy, and surgery of Europe for the dotages
of the Brahminical superstition, or for the imperfect
science of ancient Greece transfused through Arabian
expositions—this was a scheme reserved to crown the 
beneficent administration of a far more virtuous ruler.
Still, it is impossible to refuse high commendation to
a man, who, taken from a ledger to govern an empire,
overwhelmed by public business, surrounded by men
as busy as himself, and separated by thousands of
leagues from almost all literary society, gave both by
his example and by his munificence, a great impulse
to learning.  In Persian and Arabic literature he was
deeply skilled.  With the Sanscrit he was not himself
acquainted; but those who first brought that language
to the knowledge of European students, owed much 
to his encouragement.  It was under his protection 
that the Asiatic Society commenced its honorable
career.  That distinguished body selected him to be
its first president; but, with excellent taste and feeling,
he declined the honor in favor of Sir William Jones.
But the chief advantage which the students of Oriental
letters derived from his patronage, remains to be
mentioned.  The Pundits of Bengal had always 
looked with great jealousy on the attempts of foreigners
to pry into those mysteries which were locked up
in the sacred dialect.  Their religion had been persecuted
by the Mohammedans.  What they knew of 
the spirit of the Portuguese government might warrant
them in apprehending persecution from Christians.
That apprehension, the wisdom and moderation of 
Hastings removed.  He was the first foreign ruler
who succeeded in gaining the confidence of the hereditary
priests of India; and who induced them to lay
open to English scholars the secrets of the old Brahminical
theology and jurisprudence.

It is, indeed, impossible to deny that, in the great
art of inspiring large masses of human beings with
confidence and attachment, no ruler ever surpassed
Hastings. If he had made himself popular with the
English by giving up the Bengalees to extortion and
oppression, or if, on the other hand, he had conciliated
the Bengalees and alienated the English, there would
have been no cause for wonder.  What is peculiar to 
him is, that, being the chief of a small band of strangers
who exercised boundless power over a great indigenous
population, he made himself beloved both
by the subject many, and by the dominant few.  The
affection felt for him by the civil service was singularly
ardent and constant.  Through all his disasters and 
perils, his brethren stood by him with steadfast loyalty.
The army, at the same time, loved him as armies
have seldom loved any but the greatest chief who
have led them to victory.  Even in his disputes with 
distinguished military men, he could always count on 
the support of the military men, he could always count on
the support of the military profession.  While such
was his empire over the hearts of his countrymen, he
enjoyed among the natives a popularity, such as other
governors have perhaps better merited, but such as no
other governor has been able to attain.  He spoke
their vernacular dialects with facility and precision.
He was intimately acquainted with their feelings and
usages.  On one or two occasions, for great ends, he
deliberately acted in defiance of their opinions; but
on such occasions he gained more in their respect
than he lost in their love.  In general, he carefully
avoided all that could shock their national or religious
prejudices.  His administration was indeed in many
respects faulty; but the Bengalee standard of good 
government was not high.  Under the Nabobs, the 
hurricane of Mahratta cavalry had passed annually
over the rich alluvial plain.  But even the Mahratta
shrank from a conflict with the mighty children of the
sea; and the immense rice-harvests of the Lower
Ganges were safely gathered in, under the protection
of the English sword.  The first English conquerors
had been more rapacious and merciless even than the
Mahrattas; but that generation had passed away.
Defective as was the police, heavy as were the public
burdens, the oldest man in Bengal could probaby not
recollect a season of equal security and prosperity.
For the first time within living memory, the province 
was placed under a government strong enough to prevent
others from robbing, and not inclined to play the 
robber itself.  These things inspired good-will.  At
the same time, the constant success of Hastings, and
the manner in which he extricated himself from every
difficulty, made him an object of superstitious admiration;
and the more than regal splendor which he 
sometimes displayed, dazzled a people who have much
in common with children.  Even now, after the lapse
of more than fifty years, the natives of India still talk 
of him as the greatest of the English; and nurses sing
children to sleep with a jingling ballad about the fleet
horses and richly-caparisoned elephants of Sahib
Warren Hostein.

THE TRIAL OF WARREN HASTINGS.

In the mean time, the preparations for the trial had
proceeded rapidly; and on the 13th of February 1788,
the sittings of the Court commenced.  There have
been spectacles more dazzling to the eye, more gorgeous 
with jewellery and cloth of gold, more attractive
to grown-up children, than that which was then
exhibited at Westminster; but perhaps, there never
was a spectacle so well calculated to strike a highly
cultivated, a reflecting, an imaginative mind.  All the 
various kinds of interest which belong to the near
and to the distant, to the present and to the past, were
collected on one spot, and in one hour.  All the 
talents and all the accomplishments which are developed
by liberty and civilization were now displayed,
with every advantage that could be derived both from
co-operation and from contrast.  Every step in the 
proceedings carried the mind either backward,
through many troubled centuries, to the days when
the foundations of the constitution was laid; or far
away, over boundless seas and deserts, to dusky nations
living under strange stars, worshipping strange 
gods, and writing strange characters from right to left.
The High Court of Parliament was to sit, according
to forms handed down from the days of the Plantagenets, 
on an Englishman accused of exercising tyranny
over the lord of the holy city of Benares, and the
ladies of the princely house of Oude.

The place was worthy of such a trial.  It was the 
great hall of William Rufus; the hall which had 
sounded with acclamations at the inauguration of
thirty Kings; the hall which had witnessed the just
sentence of Bacon, and the just absolution of Somers;
the hall where the eloquence of Stafford had for a moment
awed and melted a victorious party inflamed with 
just resentment; the hall where Charles had confronted
the High Court of Justice with the placid courage
which has half redeemed his fame.  Neither military
nor civil pomp was wanting.  The avenues were
lined with grenadiers.  The streets were kept clear
by cavalry.  The peers, robed in gold and ermine, 
were marshalled by the heralds under Garter, King-at-Arms.
The judges, in their vestments of state, attended
to give advice on points of law. Near a hundred 
and seventy lords, three-fourths of the Upper
House, as the Upper House then was, walked in
solemn order from their usual place of assembling to 
the tribunal.  The junior baron present led the way
—Lord Heathfield, recently ennobled for his memorable
defence of Gibraltar against the fleets and armies
of France and Spain.  The long procession was closed 
by the Duke of Norfolk, Earl Marshal of the realm,
by the great dignitaries, and by the brothers and sons
of the King.  Last of all came the Prince of Wales, 
conspicuous by his fine person and noble bearing
The gray old walls were hung with scarlet. The
long galleries were crowded by such an audience as
has rarely excited the fears or the emulation of an
orator.  There were gathered together, from all parts 
of a great, free, enlightened, and prosperous realm,
grace and female loveliness, wit and learning, the
representatives of every science and of every art.
There were seated around the Queen the fair-haired
young daughters of the house of Brunswick.  There
the Embassadors of great Kings and Commonwealths
gazed with admiration on a spectacle which no other
country in the world could present.  There Siddons,
in the prime of her majestic beauty, looked with emotion
on a scene surpassing all the imitations of the 
stage. There the historian of the Roman Empire
thought of the days when Cicero pleaded the cause
of Sicily against Verres; and when, before a senate
which had still some show of freedom, Tacitus thundered
against the oppressor of Africa.  There were
seen, side by side, the greatest painter and the greatest
scholar of the age.  The spectacle had allured
Reynolds from the easel which has preserved to us
the thoughtful foreheads of so many writers and
statesmen, and the sweet smiles of so many noble 
matrons.  It had induced Parr to suspend his labors
in that dark and profound mine from which he had 
extracted a vast treasure of erudition—a treasure too
often buried in the earth, too often paraded with injudicious
and inelegant ostentation; but still precious, 
massive, and splendid.  There appeared the voluptuous
charms of her to whom the heir of the throne had
in secret plighted his faith.  There, too, was she, the
beautiful mother of a beautiful race, the Saint Cecilia, 
whose delicate features, lighted up by love and music,
art has rescued from the common decay.  There
were the members of that brilliant society which quoted,
criticised, and exchanged repartees, under the 
rich peacock-hangings of Mrs. Montague.  And there 
the ladies whose lips, more persuasive than those of
Fox himself, had carried the Westminster election
against palace and treasury, shone round Georgiana
Duchess of Devonshire.

The Sergeants made proclamation.  Hastings advanced
to the bar, and bent his knee.  The culprit 
was indeed not unworthy of that great presence.  He
had ruled an extensive and populous country, had
made laws and treaties, and sent forth armies, had
set up and pulled down princes.  And in his high 
place he had so borne himself, that all had feared him,
that most had loved him, and that hatred itself could
deny him no title to glory, except virtue. He looked
like a man, and not like a bad man.  A person small
and emaciated, yet deriving dignity from a carriage
which, while it indicated deference to the court, indicated,
also, habitual self-possession and self-respect; 
a high and intellectual forehead; a brow pensive, but
not gloomy; a mouth of inflexible decision; a face
pale and worn, but serene, on which was written, as
legibly as under the great picture in the council-chamber 
at Calcutta, Mens æqua in arduis; such was 
the aspect with which the great proconsul presented 
himself to his judges.

His counsel accompanied him, men all of whom
were afterward raised by their talents and learning to
the highest posts in their profession—the bold and 
strong-minded Law, afterward Chief Justice of the 
King's Bench; the more humane and eloquent Dallas,
afterward Chief Justice of the Common Pleas; and 
Plomer who, nearly twenty years later, successfully
conducted in the same high court the defence of Lord
Melville, and subsequently became Vice-chancellor
and Master of the Rolls.

But neither the culprit nor his advocates attracted
so much notice as the accusers. In the midst of the
blaze of red drapery, a space had been fitted up with
green benches and tables for the Commons. The
managers, with Burke at their head, appeared in full
dress. The collectors of gossip did not fail to remark
that even Fox, generally so regardless of his appearance, 
had paid to the illustrious tribunal the compliment 
of wearing a bag and sword. Pitt had refused
to be one of the conductors of the impeachment; and
his commanding, copious, and sonorous eloquence,
was wanting to the great muster of various talents.
Age and blindness had unfitted Lord North for the 
duties of a public prosecutor; and his friends were
left without the help of his excellent sense, his tact,
and his urbanity. But, in spite of the absence of
these two distinguished members of the Lower House,
the box in which the managers stood, contained an
array of speakers such as perhaps had not appeared
together since the great age of Athenian eloquence.
There stood Fox and Sheridan, the English Demosthenes, 
and the English Hyperides. There was
Burke, ignorant, indeed, or negligent of the art of
adapting his reasonings and his style to the capacity
and taste of his hearers; but in amplitude of comprehension 
and richness of imagination superior to
every orator, ancient or modern. There, with eyes 
reverentially fixed on Burke, appeared the finest gentleman 
of the age—his form developed by every
manly exercise—his face beaming with intelligence
and spirit—the ingenious, the chivalrous, the high-souled 
Windham. Nor, though surrounded by such
men, did the youngest manager pass unnoticed. At
an age when most of those who distinguish themselves 
in life are still contending for prizes and fellowships 
at college, he had won for himself a conspicuous
place in parliament. No advantage of fortune or
connexion was wanting that could set off to the height
his splendid talents and his unblemished honor. At
twenty-three he had been thought worthy to be
ranked with the veteran statesmen who appeared as
the delegates of the British Commons, at the bar of
the British nobility. All who stood at that bar, save
him alone, are gone—culprit, advocates, accusers.
To the generation which is now in the vigor of life,
he is the sole representative of a great age which has
passed away. But those who, within the last ten
years, have listened with delight, till the morning sun
shone on the tapestries of the House of Lords, to the
lofty and animated eloquence of Charles Earl Grey,
are able to form some estimate of the powers of a
race of men among whom he was not the foremost.

The charges and the answers of Hastings were first
read. This ceremony occupied two whole days, and
was rendered less tedious than it would otherwise
have been, by the silver voice and just emphasis of
Cowper, the clerk of the court, a near relation of the
amiable poet. On the third day, Burke rose. Four
sittings of the court were occupied by his opening
speech, which was intended to be a general introduction 
to all the charges. With an exuberance of
thought and a splendor of diction which more than
satisfied the highly raised expectation of the audience, 
he described the characters and institutions of
the natives of India; recounted the circumstances in
which the Asiatic empire of Britain had originated;
and set forth the constitution of the Company, and of
the English Presidencies. Having thus attempted to
communicate to his hearers an idea of eastern society,
as vivid as that which existed in his own mind, he
proceeded to arraign the administration of Hastings,
as systematically conducted in defiance of morality
and public law. The energy and pathos of the great
orator extorted expressions of unwonted admiration
even from the stern and hostile Chancellor; and for
a moment seemed to pierce even the resolute heart
of the defendant. The ladies in the galleries, unaccustomed 
to such displays of eloquence, excited by
the solemnity of the occasion, and perhaps not unwilling 
to display their taste and sensibility, were in
a state of uncontrollable emotion. Handkerchiefs
were pulled out; smelling bottles were handed
round; hysterical sobs and screams were heard; and
Mrs. Sheridan was carried out in a fit. At length the
orator concluded. Raising his voice till the old
arches of Irish oak resounded—"Therefore," said he,
"hath it with all confidence been ordered by the
Commons of Great Britain, that I impeach Warren
Hastings of high crimes and misdemeanors. I impeach 
him in the name of the Commons House of
Parliament, whose trust he has betrayed. I impeach
him in the name of the English nation, whose ancient
honor he has sullied. I impeach him in the name
of the people of India, whose rights he has trodden
under foot, and whose country he has turned into a
desert. Lastly, in the name of human nature itself,
in the name of both sexes, in the name of every age,
in the name of every rank, I impeach the common
enemy and oppressor of all!"

When the deep murmur of various emotions had
subsided, Mr Fox rose to address the Lords respecting
the course of proceeding to be followed. The wish
of the accusers was, that the Court would bring to a
close the investigation of the first charge, before the
second was opened. The wish of Hastings and of
his counsel was, that the managers should open all
the charges, and produce all the evidence for the 
prosecution, before the defence began. The Lords
retired to their own house, to consider the question.
The Chancellor took the side of Hastings. Lord
Loughborough, who was now in opposition, supported
the demand of the managers. The division
showed which way the inclination of the tribunal
leaned. A majority of near three to one decided in
favor of the course for which Hastings contended.

When the court sat again, Mr. Fox, assisted by
Mr. Grey, opened the charge respecting Cheyte Sing,
and several days were spent in reading papers and
hearing witnesses. The next article was that relating
to the princesses of Oude. The conduct of this part
of the case was intrusted to Sheridan. The curiosity
of the public to hear him was unbounded. His
sparkling and highly finished declamation lasted two
days; but the hall was crowded to suffocation during
the whole time. It was said that fifty guineas had
been paid for a single ticket. Sheridan, when he
concluded, contrived, with a knowledge of stage-effect 
which his father might have envied, to sink

back, as if exhausted, into the arms of Burke, who
hugged him with the energy of generous admiration!

June was now far advanced. The session could
not last much longer, and the progress which had
been made in the impeachment was not very satisfactory. 
There were twenty charges. On two only
of these had even the case for the prosecution been
heard: and it was now a year since Hastings had
been admitted to bail.

The interest taken by the public in the trial was
great when the court began to sit, and rose to the
height when Sheridan spoke on the charge relating
to the Begums. From that time the excitement went
down fast. The spectacle had lost the attraction of
novelty. The great displays of rhetoric were over.
What was behind was not of a nature to entice men
of letters from their books in the morning, or to
tempt ladies who had left the masquerade at two, to
be out of bed before eight. There remained examinations 
and cross-examinations. There remained
statements of accounts. There remained the reading
of papers, filled with words unintelligible to English
ears—with lacs and crores, zemindars and aumils,
sunnuds and perwannahs, jaghires and nuzzurs. 
There remained bickerings, not always carried on
with the best taste, or with the best temper, between 
the managers of the impeachment and the counsel 
for the defence, particularly between Mr. Burke and 
Mr. Law. There remained the endless marches and 
countermarches of the Peers between their house and 
the Hall: for as often as a point of law was to be 
discussed, their lordships retired to discuss it apart; 
and the consequence was, as the late Lord Stanhope 
wittily said, that the judges walked and the trial 
stood still.

THE ACQUITTAL OF WARREN HASTINGS.

As Hastings himself said, the arraignment has
taken place before one generation, and the judgement
was pronounced by another. The spectator could
not look at the woolsack, or at the red benches of
the Peers, or at the green benches of the Commons, 
without seeing something that reminded him of the 
instability of all human things—of the instability of
power, and fame, and life, of the more lamentable
instability of friendship. The great seal was borne 
before Lord Loughborough, who, when the trial
commenced, was a fierce opponent of Mr. Pitt's government, 
and who was now a member of that government; 
while Thurlow, who presided in the court 
when it first sat, estranged from all his old allies, sat
scowling among the junior barons. Of a hundred
and sixty nobles who walked in the procession on
the first day, sixty had been laid in their family
vaults. Still more affecting must have been the
sight of the managers' box. What had become of
that fair fellowship, so closely bound together by
public and private ties, so resplendent with every
talent and accomplishment? It had been scattered
by calamities more bitter than the bitterness of death.
The great chiefs were still living, and still in the full
vigor of their genius. But their friendship was at an
end. It had been violently and publicly dissolved
with tears and stormy reproaches. If those men, 
once so dear to each other, were now compelled to
meet for the purpose of managing the impeachment,
they met as strangers whom public business had
brought together, and behaved to each other with 
cold and distant civility. Burke had in his vortex
whirled away Windham. Fox had been followed by
Sheridan and Grey.

Only twenty-nine Peers voted. Of these only six
found Hastings guilty, on the charges relating to
Cheyte Sing and to the Begums. On other charges
the majority in his favor were still greater. On some, 
he was unanimously absolved. He was then called
to the bar, informed from the woolsack that the
Lords had acquitted him, and solemnly discharged.
He then bowed respectfully, and retired. 

THE LAST YEARS OF WARREN HASTINGS.

The last twenty-four years of his life were chiefly
passed at Daylesford. He amused himself with embellishing 
his grounds, riding fine Arab horses, fattening 
prize cattle, and trying to rear Indian animals 
and vegetables in England. He sent for seeds of a 
very fine custard-apple, from the garden of what had
once been his own villa, among the green hedgerows
of Allipore. He tried also to naturalize in Worcestershire
the delicious leechee, almost the only fruit 
of Bengal which deserves to be regretted even amidst
the plenty of the Covent-Garden. The Mogul emperors, 
in the time of their greatness, had in vain attempted 
to introduce into Hindostan the goat of the
table-land of Thibet, whose down supplies the looms
of Cashmere with the materials of the finest shawls.
Hastings tried, with no better fortune, to rear a breed
at Daylesford; nor does he seem to have succeeded
better with the cattle of Bootan, whose tails are in
high esteem as the best fans for brushing away the 
mosquitos.

Literature divided his attention with his conservatories 
and his manegerie. He had always loved
books, and they were now necessary to him. Though
not a poet, in any high sense of the word, he wrote
neat and polished lines with great facility, and was
fond of exercising this talent. Indeed, if we must 
speak out, he seems to have been more of a Trissotin
than was to be expected from the powers of his mind,
and from the great part which he had played in life.
We are assured in these Memoirs, that the first thing
which he did in the morning was to compose a copy
of verses. When the family and guests assembled, 
the poem made its appearance as regularly as the
eggs and rolls; and Mr. Gleig requires us to believe
that, if from any accident Hastings came to the 
breakfast-table, without one of his charming performances 
in his hand, the omission was felt by all as a 
grievous disappointment. Tastes differ widely. For
ourselves, we must say that, however good the breakfasts 
at Daylesford may have been—and we are assured 
that the tea was of the most aromatic flavor,
and that neither tongue nor venison-pasty was
wanting—we should have thought the reckoning high
if we had been forced to earn our repast by listening
every day to a new madrigal or sonnet composed by
our host. We are glad, however, that Mr. Gleig has
preserved this little feature of character, though we

NOVEMBER 20, 1841.]     THE NEW WORLD.     325

think it by no means a beauty. It is good to be often
reminded of the inconsistency of human nature; and
to learn to look without a wonder or disgust on the 
weaknesses which are found in the strongest minds.
Dionysius, in old times, Frederic, in the last century,
with capacity and vigor equal to the conduct of the
greatest affairs, united all the little vanities and affectations 
of provincial blue-stockings. These great examples 
may console the admirers of Hastings for the
affliction of seeing him reduced to the level of Hayleys 
and Sewards.

When Hastings had passed many years in retirement, 
and had long outlived the common age of men,
he again became for a short time an object of general 
attention. In 1813 the charter of the East India 
Company was renewed; and much discussion about
Indian affairs took place in Parliament. It was determined 
to examine witnesses at the bar of the Commons, 
and Hastings was ordered to attend. He had
appeared at that bar once before. It was when he
read his answer to the charges which Burke had
laid on the table. Since that time twenty-seven
years had elapsed; public feeling had undergone a
complete change; the nation had now forgotten his
faults, and remembered only his services. The reappearance, 
too, of a man who had been among the
most distinguished of a generation that had passed
away, who now belonged to history, and who seemed
to have risen from the dead, could not but produce a
solemn and pathetic effect. The Commons received
him with acclamations, ordered a chair to be set for
him, and, when he retired, rose and uncovered.
There were, indeed, a few who did not sympathize
with the general feeling. One or two of the managers 
of the impeachment were present. They sate
in the same seats which they had occupied when
they had been thanked for the services which they
had rendered in Westminister Hall; for, by the courtesy 
of the house, a member who has been thanked
in his place, is considered as having a right always to
occupy that place. These gentlemen were not disposed 
to admit that they had employed several of the
best years of their lives in persecuting an innocent 
man. They accordingly kept their seats, and pulled
their hats over their brows; but the exceptions only
made the prevailing enthusiasm more remarkable.
The Lords received the old man with similar tokens
of respect. The University of Oxford conferred on
him the degree of Doctor of Laws; and, in the
Sheldonian theatre, the under-graduates welcomed
him with tumultuous cheering.

These marks of public esteem were soon followed 
by marks of the favor of the crown. Hastings was
sworn of the Privy Council, and was admitted to a 
private audience of the Prince Regent, who treated
him very graciously. When the Emperor of Russia
and the King of Prussia visited England, Hastings
appeared in their train both at Oxford and in the
Guildhall of London; and, though surrounded by a
crowd of princes and great warriors, was everywhere
received by the public with marks of respect and admiration. 
He was presented by the Prince Regent both
to Alexander and to Frederic William; and his 
Royal Highness went so far as to declare in public, 
that honors far higher than a seat in the Privy Council 
were due, and should soon be paid, to the man
who had saved the British dominions in Asia. Hastings 
now confidently expected a peerage; but, from
some unexplained cause, he was again disappointed.

He lived about four years longer, in the enjoyment 
of good spirits, or faculties not impaired to any painful 
or degrading extent, and of health such as is rarely
enjoyed by those who attain such an age. At
length, on the 22d of August 1818, in the eighty-sixth 
year of his age, he met death with the same
tranquil and decorous fortitude which he had opposed
to all the trials of his various and eventful life.

With all his faults—and they were neither few
nor small—only one cemetery was worthy to contain 
his remains. In that temple of silence and reconciliation,
where the enmities of twenty generations lie
buried, in the Great Abbey which has for ages afforded
a quiet resting-place to those whose minds
and bodies have been shattered by the contentions
of the Great Hall, the dust of the illustrious accused
should have been mingled with the dust of the illustrious
accusers. This was not to be. Yet the place
of interment was ill chosen. Behind the chancel of
the parish church of Daylesford, in earth which already
held the bones of many chiefs of the house of
Hastings, was laid the coffin of the greatest man who
has ever borne that ancient and widely-extended
name. On that very spot probably, fourscore years
before, the little Warren, meanly clad and scantily
fed, had played with the children of ploughmen.
Even then his young mind had revolved plans which
might be called romantic. Yet, however romantic, 
it is not unlikely that they had been so strange as the
truth. Not only had the poor orphan retrieved the
fallen fortunes of his line. Not only had he re-purchased
the old lands, and rebuilt the old dwelling.
He had preserved and extended an empire. He had
founded a polity. He had administered government
and war with more than the capacity of Richelieu;
and had patronized learning with the judicious liberality
of Cosino. He had been attacked by the most
formidable combinations of enemies that ever sought
the destruction of a single victim; and over that combination,
after a struggle of ten years, he had triumphed.
He had at length gone down to his grave
in the fulness of age—in peace, after so many troubles;
in honor, after so much obloquy.

Those who look on his character without favor or
malevolence, will pronounce that, in the two great
elements of all social virtue—in respect for the
rights of others, and in sympathy for the sufferings of
others—he was deficient. His principles were somewhat
lax. His heart was somewhat hard. But
while we cannot with truth describe him either 
as a righteous or as a merciful ruler, we cannot regard
without admiration the amplitude and fertility
of his intellect—his rare talents for command, for
administration, and for controversy—his dauntless
courage—his honorable poverty—his fervent zeal for
the interests of the state—his noble equanimity, tried
by both extremes of fortune, and never disturbed by
either.

Lockhart's Spanish Ballads.

LADY ALDA'S DREAM.

The following is an attempt to render one of the most admired
of all the Spanish ballads

"En Paris esta Dona Alda, la esposa de don Roldan,
Trecientas damas con ella, para la accompanar,
Todas visten un vestido, todas calçan un calçar," &c.

In its whole structure and strain it bears a very remarkable
resemblance to several of our own old ballads—both English
and Scottish.

I.
IN Paris sits the lady that shall be Sir Roland's bride,
Three hundred damsels with her, her bidding to abide;
All clothed in the same fashion, both the mantle and the shoon—
All eating at one table, within her hall at noon:
All, save the Lady Alda, she is lady of them all,
She keeps her place upon the dais, and they serve her in her hall.
The thread of gold a hundred spin, the lawn a hundred weave,
And a hundred play sweet melody within Alda's bower at eve.

II.
With the sound of their sweet playing, the lady falls asleep,
And she dreams a doleful dream, and her dreams hear her weep;
There is sorrow in her slumber, and she waketh with a cry,
And she calleth for her damsels, and swiftly they come nigh.
"Now, what is it, Lady Alda," (you may hear the words they say,)
"Bringeth sorrow to thy pillow, and chaseth sleep away?"
"O, my maidens!" quoth the lady, "my heart it is full sore!
I have dreamt a dream of evil, and can slumber never more.

III.
"For I was upon a mountain, in a bare and desert place,
And I saw a mighty eagle, and a faulcon he did chase;
And to me the faulcon came, and I hid it in my breast,
But the mighty bird, pursuing, came and rent away my vest;
And he scatter'd all the feathers, and blood was on his beak,
And ever, as he tore and tore, I heard the faulcon shriek;
Now read my vision, damsels, now read my dream to me,
For my heart may well be heavy, that doleful sight to see."

IV.
Out spake the foremost damsel was in her chamber there—
(You may hear the words she says,) "Oh! my lady's dream is fair—
The mountain is St. Denis' choir; and thou the falcon art,
And the eagle strong that teareth the garment from thy heart,
And scattereth the feathers, he is the Paladin—
That, when again he comes from Spain, must sleep thy bower within;— 
Then be blythe of cheer, my lady, for the dream thou must not grieve,
It means but that thy bridegroom shall come to thee at eve."

V.
"If thou hast read my vision, and read it cunningly"—
Thus said the lady Alda, "thou shalt not lack thy fee."
But wo is me for Alda! there was heard, at morning hour,
A voice of lamentation within that lady's bower;
For there had come to Paris a messenger by night,
And his horse it was a-weary, and his visage it was white;
And there's weeping in the chamber, and there's silence in the hall,
For Sir Roland has been slaughter'd in the chase of Roncesval.

Master Humphrey's Clock.

BARNABY RUDGE.

BY CHARLES DICKENS, ESQ.

CHAPTER LXXI.

ALL next day, Emma Haredale, Dolly, and Miggs,
remained cooped up together in what had now been
their prison for so many days, without seeing any person,
or hearing any sound but the murmured conversation,
in an outer room, of the men who kept watch
over them. There appeared to be more of these
fellows than there had been hitherto; and they could
no longer hear the voices of women, which they had
before plainly distinguished. Some new excitement,
too, seemed to prevail among them; for there was
much stealthy going in and out, and a constant questioning
of those who were newly arrived. They had 
previously been quite reckless in their behavior; often
making a great uproar; quarrelling among themselves,
fighting, dancing, and singing. They were now very
subdued and silent; conversing almost in whispers, 
and stealing in and out with a soft and stealthy tread,
very different from the boisterous trampling in which
their arrivals and departures had hitherto been announced
to the trembling captives.

Whether this change was occasioned by the pretence
among them of some person of authority in 
their ranks, or by any other cause, they were unable
to decide. Sometimes they thought it was in part
attributable to there being a sick man in the chamber,
for last night there had been a shuffling of feet, as 
though a burden were brought in, and afterward a
moaning noise. But they had no means of ascertaining 
the truth: for any question or entreaty on their 
parts only provoked a storm of brutal execrations, or
something worse; and they were too happy to be
left alone, unassailed by threats or admiration, to risk
even that comfort, by any voluntary communication
with those who held them in durance.

It was sufficiently evident, both to Emma and to
the locksmith's poor little daughter herself, that she,
Dolly, was the great object of attraction; and that so
soon as they should have leisure to indulge in the
softer passion, Hugh and Mr. Tappertit would certainly
fall to blows for her sake: in which latter case, it was
not very difficult to forsee whose prize she would become.
With all her old horror of that man revived,
and deepened into a degree of aversion and abhorrence
which no language can describe; with a thousand old
recollections and regrets, and causes of distress, anxiety,
and fear, besetting her on all sides; poor Dolly
Varden—sweet, blooming, buxom Dolly—began to
hang her head, and fade, and droop, like a beautiful
flower. The color fled from her cheeks, her courage
forsook her, her gentle heart failed. Unmindful of
all her provoking caprices, forgetful of all her conquests
and inconstancy, with all her winning little
vanities quite gone, she nestled all the livelong day in
Emma Haredale's bosom; and, sometimes calling on
her dear old gray-haired father, sometimes on her
mother, and sometimes even on her old home, pined
slowly away, like a poor bird in its cage.

Light hearts, light hearts, that float so gaily on a
smooth stream, that are so sparkling and buoyant in
the sunshine—down upon fruit, bloom upon flowers,
blush in summer air, life of the winged insect, whose

Continued from page 310.

whole existence is a day—how soon ye sink in troubled
water! Poor Dolly's heart—a little, gentle, idle,
fickle thing; giddy, restless, fluttering; constant to
nothing but bright looks, and smiles, and laughter—
Dolly's heart was breaking.

Emma had known grief, and could bear it better.
She had little comfort to impart, but she could soothe
and tend her, and she did so; and Dolly clung to her
like a child to its nurse. In endeavoring to inspire
her with some fortitude, she increased her own; and
though the nights were long, and the days dismal,
and she felt the wasting influence of watching and
fatigue, and had perhaps a more defined and clear
perception of their destitute condition and its worst
dangers, she uttered no complaint. Before the ruffians,
in whose power they were, she bore herself so calmly,
and with such an appearance, in the midst of all her
terror, of a secret conviction that they dared not harm
her, that there was not a man among them, but held
her in some degree of dread; and more than one
believed she had a weapon hidden in her dress, and
was prepared to use it.

Such was their condition when they were joined
by Miss Miggs; who gave them to understand that
she too had been taken prisoner, because of her
charms; and detailed such feats of resistance she had 
performed (her virtue having given her supernatural
strength,) that they felt it quite a happiness to have
her for a champion. Nor was this the only comfort
they derived at first from Miggs's presence and society:
for that young lady displayed such resignation and
long-suffering, and so much meek endurance, under
her trials; and breathed in all her chaste discourse a
spirit of such holy confidence and resignation, and
devout belief that all would happen for the best; that
Emma felt her courage strengthened by the bright
example, never doubting but that everything she said
was true, and that she, like them, was torn from all
she loved and agonized by doubt and apprehension.
As to poor Dolly, she was roused, at first, by seeing
one who came from home; but when she heard
under what circumstances she had left it, and in whose
hands her father had fallen, she wept more bitterly
than ever, and refused all comfort.

Miss Miggs was at some trouble to reprove her for
this state of mind, and to entreat her to take example
by herself, who, she said, was now receiving back,
with interest, tenfold the amount of her subscriptions
to the red-brick dwelling-house, in the articles of peace
of mind and a quiet conscience. And, while on
serious topics, Miss Miggs considered it her duty to
try her hand at the conversion of Miss Haredale; for
whose improvement she launched into a polemical
address of some length, in the course whereof, she
likened herself unto a chosen missionary, and that
young lady to a cannibal in darkness. Indeed she
returned so often to these subjects, and so frequently
called upon them to take a lesson from her,—at the
same time vaunting, and, as it were, rioting in, her
huge unworthiness, and abundant excess of sin,—that,
in the course of a short time, she became, in that
small chamber, rather a nuisance than a comfort, and
rendered them, if possible, even more unhappy than
they had been before.

The night had now come; and for the first time
(for their jailors had been regular in bringing food
and candles) they were left in darkness. Any change
in their condition in such a place inspired new fears;
and when some hours had passed, and the gloom was
still unbroken, Emma could no longer repress her 
alarm.

They listened attentively. There was the same
murmuring in the outer room, and now and then a 
moan which seemed to be wrung from a person in
great pain, who made an effort to subdue it, but could
not. Even these men seemed to be in darkness too;
for no light shone through the chinks in the door, nor
were they moving, as their custom was, but quite
still: the silence being unbroken by so much as the
creaking of a board.

At first, Miss Miggs wondered greatly in her own
mind who this sick person might be; but arriving, on
second thoughts, at the conclusion that he was a part
of the schemes on foot, and an artful device soon to
be employed with great success, she opined, for Miss
Haredale's comfort, that it must be some misguided
Papist who had been wounded: and this happy supposition
encouraged her to say, under her breath,
"Ally Looyer!" several times.

"Is it possible," said Emma, with some indignation,
"that you who have seen these men committing
the outrages you have told us of, and who have fallen
into their hands, like us, can exult in their cruelties!"

"Personal considerations, Miss," rejoined Miggs,
"sinks into nothing afore a noble cause. Ally Looyer!
Ally Looyer! Ally Looyer, good gentlemen!"

It seemed, from the shrill pertinacity with which
Miss Miggs repeated this form of acclamation, that
she was calling the same through the keyhole of the
door; but in the profound darkness she could not be
seen.

"If the time has come—Heaven knows it may 
come at any moment—when they are bent on prosecuting 
the designs, whatever they may be, with which 
they have brought us here, can you still encourage, 
and side with them?" demanded Emma.

"I thank my goodness-gracious-blessed-stars I can, 
Miss," returned Miggs, with increased energy. "Ally 
Looyer, good gentlemen!"

Even Dolly, cast down and disappointed as she 
was, revived at this, and bade Miggs hold her tongue 
directly.

"Which, was you pleased to observe, Miss Varden?" 
said Miggs, with a strong emphasis on the 
irrelative pronoun.

Dolly repeated her request. 

"Ho, gracious me!" cried Miggs, with hysterical 
derision. "Ho, gracious me! Yes, to be sure I will. 
Ho yes! I am a abject slave, and a toiling, moiling, 
constant-working, always-being-found-fault-with,
never-giving-satisfactions, nor-having-no-time-to-clean-oneself, 
potter's wessel—an't I, Miss! Ho yes! My 
situations is lowly, and my capacities is limited, and 
my duties is to humble myself afore the base degenerating 
daughters of their blessed mothers as is fit to 
keep companies with holy saints but is born to persecutions 
from wicked relations—and to demean myself 
before them as is no better than Infidels—an't it, Miss!

Ho yes! My only becoming occupations is to help 
young flaunting pagins to brush and comb and titiwate 
themselves into whitening and suppulchres, and 
leave the young men to think that there an't a bit of 
padding in it nor no pinching ins nor fillings out nor 
pomatums nor deceits nor earthly wanities—an't it, 
Miss! Yes, to be sure it is—ho yes!" 

Having delivered these ironical passages with a 
most wonderful volubility, and with a shrillness perfectly 
deafening, (especially when she jerked out the 
interjections,) Miss Miggs, from mere habit, and not 
because weeping was at all appropriate to the occasion, 
which was one of triumph, concluded by bursting 
into a flood of tears, and calling in an impassioned 
manner on the name of Simmuns. 

What Emma Haredale and Dolly would have done, 
or how long Miss Miggs, now that she had hoisted 
her true colors, would have gone on waving them before 
their astonished senses, it is impossible to tell. 
Nor is it necessary to speculate on these matters, for 
a startling interruption occurred at that moment, 
which took their whole attention by storm. 

This was a violent knocking at the door of the 
house, and then its sudden bursting open; which was 
immediately succeeded by a scuffle in the room, without, 
and the clash of weapons. Transported with 
the hope that rescue had at length arrived, Emma 
and Dolly shrieked aloud for help; nor were their 
shrieks unanswered; for after a hurrid interval, a 
man, bearing in one hand a drawn sword, and in the 
other a taper, rushed into the chamber where they 
were confined. 

It was some check upon their transport to find in 
this person an entire stranger, but they appealed to 
him, nevertheless, and besought him, in impassioned 
language, to restore them to their friends.

"For what other purpose am I here?" he answered, 
closing the door, and standing his back against it. 
"With what object have I made my way to this 
place, through difficulty and danger, but to preserve 
you?"

With a joy for which it was impossible to find adequate 
expression, they embraced each other, and 
thanked Heaven for this most timely aid. Their deliverer 
stepped forward for a moment to put the light 
upon the table, and immediately returning to his 
former position against the door, bared his head, and 
looked on smilingly.

"You have news of my uncle, sir?" said Emma, 
turning hastily toward him.

"And of my father and mother?" added Dolly.

"Yes," he said. "Good news."

"They are alive and unhurt?" they both cried at once.

"Yes, and unhurt," he rejoined.

"And close at hand?"

"I did not say close at hand," he answered 
smoothly; "they are at no great distance. Your 
friends, sweet one," he added, addressing Dolly, "are 
within a few hours' journey. You will be restored 
to them, I hope, to-night."

"My uncle, sir—" faltered Emma.

"Your uncle, dear Miss Haredale, happily—I say 
happily, because he has succeeded where many of 
our creed have failed, and is safe—has crossed the 
sea, and is out of Britain."

"I thank God for it," said Emma, faintly.

"You say well. You have reason to be thankful: 
greater reason than it is possible for you, who have 
seen but one night of these cruel outrages to imagine."

"Does he desire," said Emma, "that I should follow 
him?"

"Do you ask if he desires it?" cried the stranger 
in surprise. "If he desires it! But you do not know 
the danger of remaining in England, the difficulty of 
escape, or the price hundreds would pay to secure 
the means, when you make that inquiry. Pardon me, 
I had forgotten that you could not, being a prisoner 
here."

"I gather, sir," said Emma, after a moment's 
pause, "from what you hint at, but fear to tell me, that 
I have witnessed but the beginning, and the least of 
the violence to which we are exposed; and that it 
has not yet slackened in its fury?"

He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, lifted 
up his hands; and with the same smooth smile, which 
was not a pleasant one to see, cast his eyes upon the 
ground, and remained silent.

"You may venture, Sir, to speak plain," said 
Emma, "and to tell me the worst. We have undergone 
some preparation for it already."

But here Dolly interposed, and entreated her not to 
hear the worst, but the best; and besought the gentleman
to tell them the best, and to keep the remainder 
of his news until they were safe among their friends 
again.

"It is told in three words," he said, glancing at the 
locksmith's daughter with a look of some displeasure. 
"The people have risen, to a man, against us; the 
streets are filled with soldiers, who support them and 
do their bidding. We have no protection but from 
above, and no safety but in flight; and that is a poor 
resource; for we are watched on every hand, and detained 
here, both by force and fraud. Miss Haredale, 
I cannot bear—believe me, that I cannot bear—by 
speaking of myself, or what I have done, or am prepared 
to do, to seem to vaunt my services before you. 
But, having powerful Protestant connexions, and having 
my whole wealth embarked with theirs in shipping 
and cemmerce, I happily possessed the means of 
saving your uncle. I have the means of saving you; 
and in redemption of my sacred promise, made to 
him, I am here; pledged not to leave you until I have 
placed you in his arms. The treachery or penitence 
of one of the men about you, led to the discovery of 
your place of confinement; and that I have forced my 
way here, sword in hand, you see."

"You bring," said Emma, faltering, "some note or 
token from my uncle?"

"No he does n't," cried Dolly, pointing at him earnestly: 
"now I am sure he does n't. Do n't go with 
him for the world!"

"Hush, pretty fool—be silent," he replied, frowning 
angrily upon her. "No, Miss Haredale, I have 
no letter, nor any token of any kind; for while I sympathise 
with you, and such as you, on whom misfortune 
so heavy and so undeservedly has fallen, I value 
my life. I carry, therefore, no writing which, found

326 THE NEW WORLD. [NOVEMBER 20, 1841.

upon me, would lead to its certain loss. I never
thought of bringing any other token, nor did Mr.
Haredale think of entrusting me with one; possibly 
because he had good experience of my faith and honesty,
and owed his life to me."

There was a reproof conveyed in these words,
which, to a nature like Emma Haredale's, was well 
addressed. But Dolly, who was differently constituted,
was by no means touched by it; and still conjured
her, in all terms of affection and attachment she
could think of, not to be lured away.

"Time presses," said their visiter, who, although
he sought to express the deepest interest, had something
cold and even in his speech, that grated on the
ear; "and danger surrounds us. If I have exposed
myself to it, in vain, let it be so; but you and he
should ever meet again, do me justice. If you decide
to remain (as I think you do), remember, Miss
Haredale, that I left you, with a solemn caution, and 
acquitting myself of all the consequences to which you 
expose yourself."

"Stay, sir!" cried Emma—"one moment, I beg
of you. Cannot we"—and she drew Dolly closer to
her—"cannot we go together?"

"The task of conveying one female in safety through
such scenes as we must encounter, to say nothing of
attracting the attention of those who crowd the
streets," he answered, "is enough. I have said that
she will be restored to her friends to-night. If you
accept the service I tender, Miss Haredale, she shall
be instantly placed in safe conduct, and that promise
redeemed. Do you decide to remain? People of all
ranks and creeds are flying from the town, which is
sacked from end to end. Let me be of use in some
quarter. Do you stay, or go?"

"Dolly," said Emma, in a hurried manner, "my
dear girl, this is our last hope. If we part now, it is 
only that we may meet again in happiness and honor.
I will trust to this gentleman."

"No—no—no!" cried Dolly, clinging to her.
"Pray, pray do not!"

"You hear," said Emma, "that to-night—only to-night—
within a few hours—oh, think of that!—you
will be among those who would die of grief to lose
you, and are now plunged in the deepest misery for
your sake. Pray for me, my dear girl, as I will for
you; and never forget the many quiet hours we have 
passed together. Say one 'God bless you!' Say that
at parting, sister!"

But Dolly could say nothing; no, not when Emma
kissed her cheek a hundred times, and covered it
with tears, could she do more than hang upon her
neck, and sob, and clasp, and hold her tight.

"We have time for no more of this," cried the
man, unclenching her hands, and throwing her
roughly off, as he drew Emma Haredale toward the
door: "Now! Quick, outside there! are you
ready?"

"Ay!" cried a loud voice which made him start.
"Quite ready! Stand back here, for your lives!"

And in an instant he was felled like an ox in the
butcher's shambles—struck down as though a block
of marble had fallen from the roof and crushed him—
and cheerful light, and beaming faces came pouring
in—and Emma was clasped in her uncle's embrace;
and Dolly, with a shriek that pierced the air, fell into
the arms of her father and mother.

What fainting there was, what laughing, what crying,
what sobbing, what smiling; how much questioning,
no answering, all talking together, all beside
themselves with joy; what kissing, congratulating,
embracing, shaking of hands; and falling into all
these raptures, over and over and over again; no language
can describe.

At length, and after a long time, the old locksmith
went up and fairly hugged two strangers, who had
stood apart and left them to themselves; and then
they saw—whom? Yes, Edward Chester and Joseph
Willet.

"See here!" cried the locksmith. "See here!
where would any of us have been without these two?
Oh, Mr. Edward, Mr. Edward—oh, Joe, Joe, how
light, and yet how full you have made my old heart
to-night!"

"It was Mr. Edward that knocked him down, sir,"
said Joe: "I longed to do it, but I gave it up to him.
Come, you brave and honest gentleman! Get your
senses together, for you haven't long to lie here."

He had his foot upon the breast of their sham deliverer,
in the absence of a spare arm; and gave him
a gentle roll as be spoke. Gashford, for it was no
other, crouching yet malignant, raised his scowling
face, like sin subdued, and pleaded to gently used.

"I have access to all my lord's papers, Mr. Haredale,"
he said, in a submissive voice: Mr. Haredale
keeping his back towards him, and not once looking
round: "there are very important documents among 
them. There are a great many in secret drawers,
and distributed in various places, known only to my
lord and me. I can give some very valuable information,
and render important assistance to any inquiry.
You will have to answer it, if I receive ill
usage."

"Poh!" cried Joe, in deep disgust. "Get up,
man; you are waited for outside. Get up, do you
hear?"

Gashford slowly rose; and picking up his hat, and
looking with baffled malevolence, yet with an air of
despicable humility, all round the room, crawled out.

"And now, gentlemen," said Joe, who seemed to
be the spokesman of the party, for all the rest were 
silent; "the sooner we get back to the Black Lion,
the better, perhaps."

Mr. Haredale nodded assent; and drawing his
niece's arm through his, and taking one of her hands
between his his own, passed out straightaway; followed
by the locksmith, Mrs. Varden, and Dolly—who
would scarcely have presented a sufficient surface for
all the hugs and caresses they bestowed upon her
though she had been a dozen Dollys. Edward Chester
and Joe followed.

And did Dolly never once look behind—not once?
Was there not one little fleeting glimpse of the dark
eyelash, almost resting on her flushed cheek, and of
the downcast sparkling eye it shaded? Joe thought
there was—and he is not likely to have been mistaken;
for there were not many eyes like Dolly's, that's
the truth.

The outer room, through which they had to pass,
was full of men; among them, Mr. Dennis in safe
keeping; and there had been, since yesterday, lying 
in behind a wooden screen which was now thrown
down, Simon Tappertit, the recreant Prentice; burnt
and bruised, and with a gun-shot wound in his body;
and his legs—his perfect legs, the pride and glory of
his lie, the comfort of his whole existence—crushed
into shapeless ugliness. Wondering no longer at the
moans they had heard, Dolly crept closer to her father,
and shuddered at the sight; but neither bruises, burns,
nor gun-shot wound, nor all the torture of his shattered
limbs, sent half so keen a pang to Simon's 
breast, as Dolly passing out, with Joe for her preserver.

A coach was ready at the door, and Dolly found
herself safe and whole inside, between her father and
mother; with Emma Haredale and her uncle, quite
real, sitting opposite. But there was no Joe, no Edward;
and they had said nothing. They had only
bowed once, and kept at a distance. Dear heart!
what a long way it was, to the Black Lion.
_______

CHAPTER LXXII.

The Black Lion was so far off, and occupied such
a length of time in the getting at, that notwithstanding 
the strong presumptive evidence she had about
her of the late events being real and of actual occurrence,
Dolly could not divest herself of the belief that
she must be in a dream which was lasting all night.
Nor was she quite certain that she saw and heard
with her own proper senses, even when the coach, in
the fulness of time, stopped at the Black Lion, and
the host of that tavern approached in a gush of cheerful
light to help them to dismount, and gave them
hearty welcome.

There too, at the coach door, one on one side, one
upon the other, were already Edward Chester and
Joe Willet, who must have followed in another
coach: and this was such a strange and unaccountable
proceeding, that Dolly was the more inclined to
favor the idea of her being fast asleep. But when
Mr. Willet appeared—old John himself—so heavy-headed
and obstinate, and with such a double chin
as the liveliest imagination could never in its boldest
flights have conjured up in all its vast proportions—
then she stood corrected, and unwillingly admitted
to herself that she was broad awake.

And Joe had lost an arm—he—that well-made,
handsome, gallant fellow!  As Dolly glanced toward
him, and thought of the pain he must have suffered,
and the far-off places in which he had been wandering;
and wondered who had been his nurse, and 
hoped that whoever it was, she had been as kind and
gentle and considerate as she would have been; the
tears came rising to her bright eyes, one by one, little
by little, until she could keep them back no longer,
and so, before them all, wept bitterly.

"We are all safe now, Dolly," said her father
kindly. "We shall not be separated any more.
Cheer up, my love, cheer up!"

The locksmith's wife knew better, perhaps, than
he, what ailed her daughter. But Mrs Varden being
quite an altered woman—for the riots had done that
good—added her word to his, and comforted her
with similar representations.

"Mayhap," said Mr. Willet senior, looking round
upon the company, "she's hungry. That's what
it is, depend upon it—I am myself."

The Black Lion, who, like old John, had been
waiting supper, past all reasonable and conscionable
hours, hailed this as a philosophical discovery of the
profoundest and most penetrating kind; and the 
table being already spread, they sat down to supper
straightway.

The conversation was not of the liveliest nature,
nor were the appetites of some among them very
keen. But in both these respects, old John more than
atoned for any deficiency on the part of the rest, and
very much distinguished himself.

It was not in point of actual talkativeness that Mr.
Willet shone so brilliantly, for he had none of his old
cronies to "tackle," and was rather timorous of venturing
on Joe; having certain vague misgivings within
him, that he was ready on the shortest notice, and
on receipt of the slightest offence, to fell the Black
Lion to the floor of his own parlor, and immediately
withdraw to China, or some other remote and unknown
region, there to dwell for evermore; or at
least until he had got rid of his remaining arm and
both legs, and perhaps an eye or so, into the bargain.
It was with a peculiar kind of pantomine that Mr.
Willet filled up every pause; and in this he was considered 
by the Black Lion, who had been his familar
for some years, quite to surpass and go beyond himself,
and outrun the expectations of his most admiring 
friends.

The subject that worked in Mr. Willet's mind, and
occasioned these demonstrations, was no other than
his son's bodily disfigurement, which he had never
yet got himself thoroughly to believe, or comprehend.
Shortly after their first meeting, he had been
observed to wander, in a state of great perplexity, to
the kitchen, and to direct his gaze towards the fire,
as if in search of his usual adviser in all matters of
doubt and difficulty. But there being no boiler at
the Black Lion, and the rioters having so beaten and
battered his own that it was quite unfit for further
service, he wandered out again, in a perfect bog of
uncertainty and mental confusion; and in that state
took the strangest means of resolving his doubts:
such as feeling the sleeve of his son's great-coat as
deeming it possible that his arm might be there;
looking at his own arms and those of everybody else,
as if to assure himself that two and not one was the 
usual allowance; sitting by the hour together in a 
brown study, as if he were endeavoring to recal
Joe's image in his younger days, and to remember
whether he really had in those times one arm or a 
pair; and employing himself in many other speculations
of the same kind.

Finding himself, at his supper, surrounded by faces
with which he had been so well acquainted in old
times, Mr. Willet recurred to the subject with uncommon 
vigor; apparently resolved to understand it now
or never. Sometimes, after every two or three 
mouthfuls, he laid down his knife and fork, and
stared at his son with all his might—particularly at
his maimed side; then he looked slowly round the

table until he caught some person's eye, when he
shook his head with great solemnity, patted his shoulder,
winked, or as one may say—for winking was a 
very slow process with him—went to sleep with one
eye for a minute or two; and so, with another solemn
shaking of his head, took up his knife and fork
again, and went on eating. Sometimes he put his
food into his mouth abstractedly, and, with all his
faculties concentrated on Joe, gazed at him in a fit
of stupefaction as he cut his meat with one hand,
until he was recalled to himself by symptoms of
choking on his own part, and was by that means
restored to consciousness. At other times he resorted
to such small devices as asking him for the salt, the
pepper, the vinegar, the mustard—anything that was
on his maimed side—and watching him as he handed
it. By dint of these experiments, he did at last so
satisfy and convince himself, that, after a longer
silence than he had yet maintained, he laid down his
knife and fork on either side his plate, drank a long
draught from a tankard beside him, still keeping his
eyes, on Joe, and, leaning backward in his chair and
fetching a long breath, said, as he looked all round
the board:

"It's been took off!"

"By George!" said the Black Lion, striking the
table with his hand, "he's got it!"

"Yes sir," said Mr. Willet, with the look of a man
who felt that he had earned a compliment, and deserved
it. "That's where it is. It's been took off."

"Tell him where it was done," said the Black 
Lion to Joe.

"At the defence of the Savannah, father."

"At the defence of the Salwanner," repeated Mr.
Willet, softly; again looking round the table.

"In America, where the war is," said Joe.

"In America where the war is," repeated Mr.
Willet. "It was took off in defence of the Salwanners
in America where the war is." Continuing to
repeat these words to himself in a low tone of voice
(the same information had been conveyed to him in
the same terms, at least fifty times before,) Mr. Willet
arose from the table; walked round to Joe; felt his
empty sleeve all the way up, from the cuff, to where the
stump of the arm remained; shook his hand; lighted
his pipe at the fire, took a long whiff, walked to the
door; turned round once when he had reached it,
wiped his left eye with the back of his forefinger, and
said, in a faltering voice; "My son's arm—was took
off—at the defence of the—Salwanners—in America
—where the war is"—with which words he withdrew,
and returned no more that night.

Indeed, on various pretences, they all withdrew one
after another, save Dolly, who was left sitting there
alone. It was a great relief to be alone, and she was
crying to her heart's content, when she heard Joe's
voice at the end of the passage, bidding somebody
good night.

Good night! Then he was going elsewhere—to
some distance, perhaps. To what kind of home could
he be going, now that it was so late!

She heard him walk along the passage, and pass
the door. But there was a hesitation in his footsteps.
He turned back—Dolly's heart beat light—he looked
in.

"Good night!" he didn't say Dolly, but there was
comfort in his not saying Miss Varden.

"Good night!" sobbed Dolly.

"I am sorry you take on so much, for what is past
and gone," said Joe kindly. "Don't. I can't bear
to see you do it. Think of it no longer. You are
safe and happy now."

Dolly cried the more.

"You must have suffered very much within these
few days—and yet you're not changed, unless it's for
the better. They said you were, but I don't see it.
You were—you were always very beautiful," said
Joe, "but you are more beautiful than ever, now.
You are indeed. There can be no harm in my saying
so, for you must know it. You are told so very often,
I am sure."

As a general principle, Dolly did know it, and was
told so, very often. But the coach-maker had turned
out, years ago, to be a special donkey; and whether
she had been afraid of making similar discoveries in
others, or had grown by dint of long custom to be
careless of compliment generally, certain it is that
although she cried so much, she was better pleased
to be told so now, than ever she had been in all her 
life.

"I shall bless your name," sobbed the locksmith's
little daughter, "as long as I live. I shall never hear
it spoken without feeling as if my heart would burst.
I shall remember it in my prayers every night and
morning till I die!"

"Will you?" said Joe, eagerly. "Will you indeed?
It makes me—well, it makes me very glad
and proud to hear you say so."

Dolly still sobbed, and held her handkerchief to her
eyes. Joe still stood looking at her.

"Your voice?" said Joe, "brings up old times so
pleasantly, that for the moment, I feel as if that night
—there can be no harm of talking of that night now
—had come back, and nothing had happened in the
meantime. I feel as if I hadn't suffered any hardships,
but had knocked down poor Tom Cobb only
yesterday, and had come to see you with my bundle
on my shoulder before running away. You remember?"

Remember! But she said nothing. She raised
her eyes for an instant. It was but a glance; a little,
tearful, timid glance. It kept Joe silent though, for a 
long time.

"Well!" he said stoutly, "it was to be otherwise,
and was. I have been abroad, fighting all the summer
and frozen up all winter, ever since. I have
come back as poor in purse as I went, and crippled
for life besides. But, Dolly, I would rather have lost
this other arm—aye, I would rather have lost my head
—than have come back to find you dead, or anything
but what I always pictured you to myself, and what
I always hoped and wished to find you. Thank God
for all!"

Oh how much, and how keenly, the little coquette
of five years ago, felt now! She had found her heart
at last. Never having known its worth till now, she
had never known the worth of his. How priceless
it appeared:

"I did hope once," said Joe, in his homely way,
"that I might come back a rich man, and marry you.
But I was a boy then, and have long known better
than that. I am a poor, maimed, discharged soldier,
and must be content to rub through life as I can. I 
can't say, even now, that I shall be glad to see you
to think I can say so—to know that you are admired
and courted, and can pick and choose for a happy
life. It's a comfort to know that you'll talk to your
husband about me; and I hope the time may come
when I may be able to like him, and to shake hands
with him, and to come and see you as a poor friend
who knew you when you were a girl. God bless
you!"

His hand did tremble; but for all that, he took it
away again, and left her.

TO THE READERS OF 
"MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK."

Dear Friends,

NEXT November, we shall have finished the Tale,
on which we are at present engaged; and shall ahve
travelled together through Twenty Monthly Parts,
and Eighty-seven Weekly Numbers. It is my design,
when we have gone so far, to close this work. Let
me tell you why.

I should not regard the anxiety, the close confinement,
or the constant attention, inseparable from the
weekly form of publication, (for to commune with
you, in any form, is to me a labor of love,) if I had
found it advantageous to the conduct of my stories,
the elucidation of my meaning, or the gradual development
of my characters. But I have not done
so. I have often felt cramped and confined in a very
irksome and harassing degree, by the space in which
I have been constrained to move. I have wanted
you to know more at once than I could tell you; and
it has frequently been of the greatest importance to
my cherished intention, that you should do so. I
have been sometimes strongly tempted (and have been
at some pains to resist the temptation) to hurry incidents
on, lest they should appear to you who waited
from week to week, and had not, like me, the result
and purpose in your minds, too long delayed. In a 
word, I have found this form of publication most
anxious, perplexing, and difficult. I cannot bear
these jerking confidences which are so sooner begun
than ended, and no sooner ended than begun again.

Many passages in a tale of any length, depend materially
for their interest on the intimate relation they
bear to what has gone before, or to what is to follow.
I sometimes found it difficult when I issued thirty-two
closely-printed pages once a month, to sustain in
your minds this needful connection; in the present
form of publication, it is often, especially in the first
half of a story, quite impossible to preserve it sufficiently
through the current numbers. And although
in my progress I am gradually able to set you right,
and to show you what my meaning had been, and to
work it out, I see no reason why you should ever be
wrong when I have it in my power, by resorting to a
better means of communication between us, to prevent 
it.

Considerations of immediate profit and advantage,
ought, in such a case, to be of secondary importance.
They would lead me, at all hazards, to hold my present
course. But, for the reasons I have just now
mentioned, I have, after long consideration, and with 
especial reference to the next new Tale I bear in my
mind, arrived at the conclusion that it will be better
to abandon this scheme of publication, in favor of our
old and well-tried plan, which has only twelve gaps
in a year, instead of fifty-two.

Therefore, my intention is to close this story (with
the limits of which I am, of course, by this time acquainted,)
and this work, within, or at about, the period
I have mentioned. I should add, that for the 
general convenience of subscribers, another volume
of collected numbers will not be published, until the 
whole is brought to a conclusion.

Taking advantage of the respite which the close of
this work will afford me, I have decided, in January
next, to pay a visit to America. The pleasure I anticipate
from this realization of a wish I have long
entertained, and long hoped to gratify, is subdued
by the reflection that it must separate us for a longer
time than other circumstances would have rendered
necessary.

On the first of November, eighteen hundred and
forty-two, I purpose to commence my new book, in
monthly parts, under the old green cover, in the old
size and form, and at the old price.

I look forward to addressing a few more words to
you, in reference to this latter theme, before I close
the task on which I am now engaged. If there be
any among the numerous readers of Master Humphrey's 
Clock who are, at first, dissatisfied with the
prospect of this change—and it is not unnatural almost
to hope there may be some—I trust they will,
at no very distant day, find reason to agree with
September, 1841. IT'S AUTHOR.
_______

AFFECTATION.—Many sensible persons that we wot
of, have a way of writing only the initials of their first
names and their middle names at length. If a man's
name were John Erasmus Smith, we should not seriously
object to his writing—by way of distinguishing 
himself from other persons—J. Erasmus Smith. But
when one has a respectable Christian name, and a respectable
surname, with a middle name, there is no
excuse for the affectation of his dropping the first.
Before Edward Lytton Bulwer was made a Baronet,
he was Edward Lytton Bulwer, and not Sir E. Lytton
Bulwer—now he is so called by the journals; though
we believe that he drops the Christian name altogether,
and writes Sir Lytton Bulwer.

Whenever we see the excellent motto on the coat
of arms of the United States very elegantly engraven
on a scroll hanging out of an eagle's mouth, it strikes
us as ludicrously as if it were the name of an individual,
E PLURIBUS UNUM, who, like sir E. Lytton
Bulwer, had dropped the Edward, and should be addressed
as E. PLURIBUS UNUM, ESQ. There seems
to be no particular objection to a man's using simply
his initials, if he prefer it; but the mode to which we
refer has an air of affectation about it which certainly
is not agreeable.

NOVEMBER 20, 1841.] THE NEW WORLD. 327

Choice Selections.

THE DESCENT OF ORPHEUS.

This has always been called the master-piece of Virgil, and
chosen as the ground of competition by translators. Wordsworth's,
which is the last, is among the worst: Dryden's (who
always compensates with spirit for fidelity) the best: mine,
written at college, has small merit, but serves to head a few
remarks made since.

The shell assuaged his sorrows: thee he sang,
Sweet wife; thee with him on the shore alone,
At rising dawn, at parting day, sang thee!
The mouth of Tænarus, the gates of Dis,
Groves dark with dread he enter'd; he approacht
The Manes and their awful king, and hearts
That knew not pity yet for human prayer.
Rous'd at his song the Shades of Erebus
Rose from their lowest, most remote abodes,
Faint Shades, and Spirits, semblances of life;
Numberless as o'er woodland wilds the birds
That wintery evening drives or mountain storm;
Mothers and husbands, unsubstantial crests
Of high soul'd heroes, boys, unmarried maids,
And youths on biers before their parents' eyes,
The deep black ooze and rank unsightly reed
Of slow Coeytuses unyielding pool,
And Styx confines them, flowing nine times round,
The halls and inmost Tartarus of Death
And (the blue adders twisting in their hair)
The Furies were astonished.

On he stept,
And Cerberus held agape his triple jaws;
On stept the bard. . Ixion's wheel stood still.

Now past all peril, free was his return,
And now was following into upper air,
Eurydice, when sudden madness seiz'd,
Th' incautious lover: pardonable fault,
If those below could pardon: on the verge
Of light he stood, and on Eurydice,
Mindless of fate, alas, and soul-subdued,
Lookt back . .

There, Orpheus! Orpheus! there was all
Thy labor shed, there burst the dynast's bond,
And thrice arose that rumor from the lake.

"Ah what," she cried, "what madness hath undone
Me, and (ah, wretched!) thee, my Orpheus, too!
For lo! the cruel Fates recall me now—
Chill slumbers press my swimming eyes . . adieu!
Night rolls intense around me as I spread
My helpless arms . . thine, thine no more . . to thee."

She spake, and (like a vapor) into air
Flew, nor beheld him as he claspt the void
And sought to speak; in vain: the ferry-guard
Now would not row him o'er the lake agen:
His wife twice lost, what could he? whither go?
What chaunt, what wailing, move the Powers of Hell?
Cold in the Stygian bark and lone was she!

Beneath a rock o'er Strymon's flood on high,
Seven months, seven long-continued months, 'tis said,
He breath'd his sorrows in a desart cave,
And sooth'd the tiger, moved the oak, with song.
So Philomela 'mid the poplar shade
Bemoans her captive brood: the cruel hind
Saw them unplumed and took them: but all night
Grieves she, and sitting on the bough, runs o'er
Her wretched tale, and fills the woods with wo.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
______________

THE HONEST WIDOW.

BY MARTIN DOYLE.

THE Irish character has afforded subject for many
masterly and graphic sketches; yet in the delineation,
the real is so often blended with the caricature impersonation,
that the Irishman is at a loss to recognise
his own features in the portraiture. The following is
a tale of facts, which recently occurred in humble
life, and from which the reader may derive a lesson
of disinterested generosity. The noble and upright
conduct of the widow, who disdained to augment her
daughter's income to the injury of the brother and
sisters of her proposed son-in law, is worthy of imitation
in any station. The reality of the sketch may
possibly compensate for its deficiencies in construction,
and the want of character and incident.

In the southern part of the county of Wexford,
there is a small water-mill at the junction of two
streams, which take their rise in the so-called mountain
of Forth, (though its elevation is of the most diminutive
character,) and after running in their narrow
channels through a flat tract of country for some
miles, fall into an arm of the sea. Andy Furlong, the 
owner of this mill, had a snug farm in connexion
with it, and had passed there, in the two-fold character
of miller and farmer, nearly half a century, with
an unimpeachable character for probity. By the
necessitous, Andy was especially beloved, for though 
a miller, he never ground them, in seasons of scarcity
and distress, as rogues in grain so often do to the
poor and needy; he never exacted more for the
labor of his wheel in the season of want than in the
days of plenty; and as one good turn deserves another,
every one who wanted a turn of the mill wheel came
to him: he had plenty of grist.

Andy, however, was not very successful in saving
-he was too good a fellow for that ; he gave the best
dinners of any man in the parish to the priest. and
expended a good deal in the improvement of his farm ;
his landlord being a just man, and he himself a regu-
lar and solvent tenant, he was not afraid of losing his 
land at the expiration of his term, and felt confident
that his family would reap the benefit of his outlay.
But, like every one else, he had a "besetting sin,"
and had no desire to call upon Father Mathew to re-
move it ; he liked the company of some of his jovial
neighbors far better than any of the teetotallers, and
in consequence became indolent and of a full habit.
This constitutional ; inertness, perhaps, was the cause
of his dislike to the execution of his will ; or he might
have thought-as many a wiser and better-informed
man has-that signing a will was a certain forerunner
of death. Alas! the older we grow the greater is our
attachment to life. This disinclination to make a 
formal testament was the more to be deplored, as 
Andy had a wife and four children. He had often 
declared his intentions to his neighbors as to the dis-
position of his affairs, which were, that his wife should
have the mill and farm during her life, and that after
her demise his eldest boy, Nicholas, should have them,
with no other incumbrance than the payment of fifty
pounds to his brother and each of his sisters.
That son was a smart, intelligent lad, very keen, 
thrifty, clever as a miller, and therefore a great fa-
vorite with his father, who deferred very much to his
judgment. One Sunday on their return from mass, 
as they both walked home together, and got into chat
about the farm and some improvements in the ma-
chinery of the mill which Andy had designed to make,
Andy, turning suddenly to his son, said, "But maybe, 
Nick, I'd never live to see them finished-there's no
knowing when one's to die-and I have never spoken
to you yet on a thing that's near my heart ; somehow
or other, Nick, I never liked making my will, but I
think that your father's son will do justice to his
mother without being tied by parchment. I told
Father Devereux what I wish to have done, and every
one of the neighbors know my intentions: will you
promise to act up to them !"
"I will, father ; sure I love my mother, and James,
and the girls."
"Well, well, that's enough." said the other ; "the
honest thing for ever! I always thought well of you,
and I'll not begin to think otherwise."
Some months elapsed after this brief conversation, 
when one evening Andy was sitting over his tumbler,
and, in the midst of some foolish argument with a 
neighbor about the produce of a field of oats, laying
down the law with tipsy wisdom, he seized his half-
full tumbler, and spluttering and stammering, drained
its contents at one gulph. The blood rushed into his 
face, shedding a purple hue over his entire counte-
nance, the protruded eyes rolled in agony, and he fell
down in a fit of apoplexy. I pass over the subsequent
scenes of sorrow as briefly as possible. Andy was 
carried to his bed. whence he never rose ; he lingered
speechless for twenty-four hours, and then died, was
waked with the usual disgusting accompaniments of
whiskey drinking and tobacco smoking, and was 
buried. 
When Mrs. Furlong had sufficiently recovered to
take the active duty that devolved upon her, she be-
came the nominal mistress of the place ; but Nicholas
was so active and vigilant, that every thing, in reality
was done as he wished. At first his conduct was ex-
cellant-submissive to his mother, kind to his brother
and sisters ; his determination to fulfil his father's 
wishes was sincere. But gradually the demon of self-
interest took possession of him, and the consciousness
that he was master made him occasionally imperious
in his directions to his family ; but at first only so
when his mother's back was turned. His filial respect
for her, and the knowledge that a third of the property
was legally hers, if any altercation took place between
them, and she chose to enforce her claim, made him
obedient. Indeed, the idea of not acting as his father
enjoined, probably did not enter into his mind for a 
considerable time ; the possibility of it at length oc-
cured to him-but for a moment at first-gradually 
it became more familiarized to his contemplation,
and less revolting to his conscience. Years passed on,
and during their progress Nicholas had impressed
his mother with such an opinion of his management,
that every thing proceeded under his direction ; his
first encroachments were met by concession, and by 
degrees she became reconciled to his control, as his
conduct was so artful that she had nothing tangible to 
complain of.
But this state of things did not long continue. Mrs.
Furlong was seized with a malady, which rapidly ran
its fatal course, hardly allowing her an interval of cea-
sation from pain, and reason to converse with Nicholas
about her other children. What did pass upon the
subject, however, was brief and emphatic.
"My child," said she, "I am going to leave you."
"Maybe not, mother ; perhaps you'll mend again."
"No-I fell it. here.," placing her hand upon her
throbbing heart ; "death is coming , and I am going to
him who was a loving husband to me and a kind father
to you ; but Nick, dear"-
"Well, mother."
"I'm uneasy about James and the little girls ; you'll
make my mind quiet if you'll get a deed drawn, as you
promised, and settle the fifty pound a-piece upon them.
Do my good boy; and you'll have my blessing ; but
sure you'll have that whether or not."
"Why, mother," replied Nick, after some hesita-
tion, "sure my father never bound me, and why 
should you doubt me ! Beside, a hundred and fifty
pound is a large sum of money, and how could I put
so much together ?"
"I thought we made more than that by the mill
since he died," feebly and slowly articulated the dying
woman.
"So we did, mother ; but then I paid heavy charges
for my father's berrin' and memories, and the new
stones and wheel for the mill cost a sight of money ;
and then if you die now, the cost of that will fall upon
me too."
"It's true, it's true, my poor boy ; but then, Nick 
dear, sure you wouldn't have the heart to leave the
other children without their share ! They won't press 
for the money-just give them the bit of writing for
it-do, and God bless you."
"Why, mother, don't be disquieting yourself-
don't misdoubt me ; they shall have their share, but
I don't like to put my hand to a paper. I'm my 
father's son in that."
Mrs. Furlong was too much exhausted to say more,
and she died in the hope that her other children would
be justly dealt with by their eldest brother.
At that time Nicholas was sincere, and resolved 
that the adjuration of both his parents should not be
in vain. But good impulses are evanescent where no
solid principle exists to make them durable. After a
few months, fraternal affection was overpowered in
the heart of this young man by the basest selfishness,
and the gradations in his manner, from kindness to
austerity, were rapid. 
After the first surprise at the total change of deport-
ment in his brother, James, who was a high-spirited
lad, remonstrated, and asked for his portion of the 
property, with the design of leaving his brother's roof.
Nicholas was at first disposed to evade the subject
altogether : an angry discussion then took place. James
indignantly asserted his right to fifty pounds, and ac-
cused Nicholas of being forsworn to both his parents.
His complaint might have been couched in the words
of Orlando in the opening scene of "as you like it :"
-" But I, his brother, gain nothing under him but
growth, for the which his animals on his dunghills are
as much bound to him as I. Beside this nothing
that he so plentifully gives me, the something that
nature gave me his countenance seems to take from
me-het lets me feed with his hinds, and bars me the
place of a brother."
The dispute was long and stormy, and ended by 
Nicholas refusing to give James any thing, and James
swearing that if there was law or justice in Ireland
he would have it. He immediately went for advice
to Father Devereux, who told him he was in his 
brother's power, and recommended him not to break
with him entirely, but to return. With difficulty he 
persuaded the irritated and justly incensed young man
to resume his galling servitude.
Discontent, disunion, and unhappiness, were the 
results of these family divisions ; the house, from
having been the most cheerful, was now the most un-
comfortable ; constraint was apparent in every thing l 
a sullen silence was preserved between the brothers,
proving, by contrast, the beauty of the inspired senti-
ment-" How good and joyful a thing it is for brethren
to dwell together in unity."
Matters went on in this state for some time. At
length, Nicholas began to absent himself a good deal
in the evenings, never mentioning where he went ; 
his absence, however, was rather a relief to the other
inmates, and they hardly thought of inquiring into the
cause of it. 
One morning at breakfast, he dispelled the mystery,
and told his sisters to prepare for a mistress, as he 
was going to get married to Mary Murphy. this in-
telligence was conveyed so abruptly and ungraciously,
that the poor girls burst into tears ; the idea of a 
stranger occupying the place which their mother had
so recently filled, overpowered them ; and without a
word they left the room to consult with James, who, 
knowing that something decisive must be done, went
instantly to his intended sister-in-law, whom, with her
mother, he found in their little parlor. He gave 
them a full and feeling statement of his brother's con-
duct ; asked Mary to consider whether a bad brother
would make a good husband ; implored them both to
use their influence over Nicholas to a good purpose.
and to make him provide for his orphan sisters. For
himself, he said, it was not much matter ; he could
"list." He urged all his arguments as forcibly as he
could-Mary only interrupting him when he said any
thing very harsh of Nicholas-and, begging of them
to consider them, departed.
Every thing at this time had been arranged between
Nicholas and Mrs. Murphy respecting the marriage.
Mary liked the young man so well, that she had no
objection to take up her quarters in the mill house in
the double capacity of wife and mistress l but she was
a good-hearted girl, and had no notion of the unhap-
piness that existed there, nor of Nick's dishonesty.
When James had gone away, her mother looked
hard at her as if anxious to ascertain her thoughts 
on the subject ; and, perceiving that the poor girl
looked disappointed and ashamed of her lover's con-
duct, said, "It's true enough, child, Nick Furlong
isn't the honest boy I thought him," Mary put her
apron to her face, and wiped her eyes. "His father
was honest, and his mother was honest, and the whole
breed of them was always honest ; but Nicholas isn't
doing the right thing to James and the girls."
"But, mother," said Mary, catching at a straw,
"there are two sides to a story ; maybe old Andy
Furlong never left it upon Nick to do as James says,
and that if he wasn't taken so short and so rough
about it by James, he'd do it of his own free will."
"Whist, whist, child ; all the country knows that
Andy Furlong left the three younger children fifty
pounds a-piece ; and why not I and more shame to 
the son that would deny his father's words. Well, 
well, I never knew Nick was a lawyer before. What
difference does the stamp and the squeezing of wax
make to an honest man ! Shame, shame upon him !"
Mary had a great mind to cry, but refrained. "What 
will we do, mother !" said she at last.
"He must pay the one hundred and fifty pounds to
James and the two girls, or he never darkens my door
again," said Mrs. Murphy ; "and then we'll con-
sider about other matters."
Both mother and daughter then became silent.
Occupied with their respective thoughts upon the
subject, they refrained from any further allusion to it;
but the elder woman looked as if she felt honest in-
dignation, and her daughter appeared heart-stricken.
When Nicholas made his appearance next day, Mrs. 
Murphy hardly addressed him, and Mary did not re-
ceive him with her usual frankness and unrestrained 
familiarity. The young man looked aghast, for he
had no notion what had passed ; but Mrs. Murphy very
soon explained the cause of her displeasure.
Nicholas admitted his obligation in equity to provide
for his family, but sheltered himself under the letter
of law for the violation of it. He seemed at least to
think that he was not bound to pay quite so much as
the sum which his father had stipulated foer the younger
children, declaring that if he did, Mary and he would 
not have enough to begin life with. Mrs. Murphy
assured him, with great energy of manner, that unless
he fulfilled his father's will-though it was but a 
verbal one-he should never have Mary with her
consent. 
And she nobly kept her word and determination ;
to every suggestion of a compromise she turned a deaf
ear. "It should not be laid to her child's door that
she or any one of hers was richer to the injury of the 
fatherless, especially when the children of her old
neighbor, Andy Furlong, were in question. And 
would have been the first to have got their rights for
her children, if they were wronged and he to the fore."
No selfish consideration, weighed moment with her ;
and so much was she dissatisfied with Nick for hesi-
tating a moment on compliance with her injunctions
to "do the honest thing," that she dismissed him very
unceremoniously, and in great apprehension that he
was not to be the husband of Mary.
That affectionate girl, however, did not intend
willingly to break her engagement with him, and took
an opportunity of suggesting-as his property was not
altogether in ready money-that her own hundred
pounds should be handed over to a trustee for Nick's
sisters, on their coming of age or obtaining husbands
to his liking, and that James should be paid his share,
"down to the nail at once," by Nicholas himself.
And so it was arranged : James got his money, and 
took a small farm and a wife to himself, and his sisters 
went to live with him.
Instead of being in a state of animosity and feuds,
the two families are now on very happy terms ; "by-
gones are bygones" with them. Nick is now a very 
fair character and the sisters-in law are especially 
attached to one another, and no doubt very grateful
to the HONEST WIDOW who effected so much harmony
and happiness.

From the London Atheneum
ANCIENT RUINS IN YUCATAN.

BY THE CHEVALIER FRIEDRICHSTHAL.

[The reports which have from time to time reached
us and been published, respecting the extraordinary
monuments scattered over Central America, have awa-
kened public interest, rather than satisfied it ; we are 
happy, therefore, to have it in our powers to offer some
particulars of the exploration of a late traveller-the 
Chevalier Friedrichsthal, of Vienna. The Chevalier
is a distinguished botanist, and proceeded to America
to carry on his physical and botanical researches, but
was so struck with the account of these ruins, that he
resolved to visit the province of Yucatan; and he considers
them of such interest and importance, that he
is anxious that an Exploring Expedition, with all
necessary means and appliances, should be sent out,
expressly to make a complete survey of them.]
I landed in the month of December, 1838, at the
mouth of the river S. Juan, in the Central American
state of Nicaragua, with the intention of exploring
that unknown part of the western continent. I proceeded
first to the large lake, bearing the name of
the state, and penetrated into the interior of the
province of Chondales, on its north-eastern shore,
inhabited by some scattered tribes of Mosquito Indians,
and passed around its northern shore to the city
of Grenada.
After having visited the interesting islands of the
lake, the largest of which, from its innumerable burying-places,
seems to have been another Meroe of the
extinct nation, once settled in those regions, I directed
my steps to the neighboring lake of Managua, then
crossed the Cordilleras, and took the route, bordering
the Pacific, toward the southern gulf of Nicoya. I
ascended and measured the most important of the
isolated volcanoes to be met with in this track,
collected many geological specimens, and a rich booty
of mountain plants. Having passed the Aguacate
mountain, I ascended to the high plain of Costarica,
almost surrounded by extinguished volcanoes, among
which one, situated between the city of Caotago and
the shore of the Atlantic, rises to the height or nearly
12,000 English feet. At the commencement of the
rainy season I descended through the wild forests of
the river Zarapiqui to the northern harbor of S. Juan,
and embarked for the United States, touching in my
passage at Jamaica, St. Domingo, and Cuba.
Highly gratified with the results of this first voyage,
and animated by the accounts of the American traveller,
Mr. Stephens, respecting the antiquarian riches
of the southern provinces of Mexico, I left the States
in the month of July 1840, and entered the peninsula
of Yucatan at its eastern shore, resolved to connect
with my physical and botanical researches an examination
of these ancient monuments. The actually
independent State of Yucatan, bears the appearance
of a poor and sterile country, far inferior to the lands
on the Atlantic borders in general. Its crust of stone
marl is in many parts of the inhabited districts, to a
great extent, bare and without alluvial soil. The
deepenings and basons only, peculiar to that kind of
formation, where mould is accumulated, are fit for
cultivation. There are, however, on the north-eastern
coast, and in the south of the peninsula, very
rich woodlands, but these are in possession of the indolent
Indians, who scarcely produce enough for their
own immediate wants. There are no mountains, and
only a chain of low hills in the west, and not even a
single river throughout the whole monotonous plain;
consequently, the breeding of cattle is attended with
great difficulties.
It is 350 years since the Caucasian race first set foot
on the soil of the western continent ; but wherever
the Spaniard held his dominion, jealousy and avarice
excluded all other nations from the intercourse with the
monopolized country. The accounts of the first conquerors
contain many notices of the splendid buildings
which they met with in Mexico and Yucatan ; the
Ecclesiastical chronicles of the country gave likewise
some superficial descriptions of such buildings. Ignorance
and avarice, however, not only forbid the
government to publish to the world any particulars of
these remarkable works, but fanaticism left no means
untried to destroy the most innocent objects coneected
with the heathens, and it succeeded ; not even a tradition
remains among the tribes of the Maya Indians
respecting the former state of the country. Thus,
too, those interesting structures, the only witnesses of
the power and knowledge of past ages and nations,
have gradually fallen to ruin without having even excited
the attention of the conquerors ; and hieroglyphics,
and statues, and bas-reliefs, which covered their
walls, and from which, in their perfect state, important
information might have been obtained, are now
disjoined, fallen, and broken, and more antiquarian
curiosities. We have no means of determining the
number of those ancient works scattered over the surface
of Yucatan, but they are very numerous. They
are found sometimes isolated, sometimes in large
masses, which, according to appearance, are the remains
of great cities. This tract of country, which
extends from the coast of the Langua de Terminos to
the north-east, exhibits an almost uninterrupted range
of mounts and towns, till it reaches the sanctuaries of
the island of Cozumet.
Three different epochs of art may be distinguished
in these structures ; and they bear undoubted traces
of identity of origin with the remains of Palenque.
This is especially the case with the earlier works,
which are composed of large rough blocks, put together
without cement ; and such are the buildings at
a place near the Hacienda Aki, situated twenty-seven
English miles E.S.E. from Merida. At Chinchenitan,
eighty-four miles further off, but in the same direction,
and having much the appearance of a sacred city, we
find doorways and interior walls decorated with human
figures and symbols carved in stone ; we meet
there, too, with collonades, though of clumsy structure,
surprising for their extent ; at one place 490 pil-

328
lars lie prostrate on the ground, which once belonged
to one single edifice. On the contrary, at Usmal, a 
place situated between Merida and Campeche, which 
Mr. Walkdeck has already briefly noticed, there are 
scarcely any ornaments to be found in the interior of
 the buildings; but the stone-work of the outside walls
is more sumptuous and more neatly finished. Neither
is there any trace whatever of any large building or 
portico with pillars. I cannot here attempt a detailed 
description of the different objects which came within
my observation, but I will endeavor to give some account
of the principal characteristics which distinguish
all these buildings, as it may serve for comparison
with the accounts of others. These distinguishing
points are:--1. The apparent sudden erection of 
whole cities. 2. The accurate reference to the East
in the erection of all sacred buildings. 3. The foundations
consist of a sort of concrete of mortar and 
small stones. 4. The walls, both internally and externally,
are covered with a range of solid stones, cut
to parallelograms of 8 and 12 inches in length and 5
to 7 in height; the interval filled up with the same
concrete mass as used in the base. Nowhere is there 
any trace of the employment of bricks or Egyptian
tiles. 5. The elevation of all the buildings, without
exception, by means of one or several terraces of more
or less considerable height. 6. The usual manner of
construction was limited to one story; the shape of
the buildings was long and narrow, and as there was
no windows, the depth was limited to two rooms, of
which the inner one could have no more light than
was obtained through the communicating door. The 
doorways, which are generally square, are six or
seven feet high, and of equal breadth; traces are yet
to be seen in some few instances of holes or stone
rings, proving that the doors were so constructed that
they could be shut on occasion. 7. The height of the
edifices rarely exceeds twenty to thirty feet. The
outisde walls rise generally from the base, without
break, to. about half the height of the building, when
there is a variable number of cornices, which, after a
plain or adorned interval, close likewise the upper
edge. The most important buildings exhibit in this
upper space an astonishing variety of hieroglyphics
and elegant figures; even statuary was employed to
increase their splendor. The constructions of an inferior
order, have, at the same place, ranges of small
half columns. There are further, as well inside as
outside of the buildings, long rough stones, projected
from the walls, usually arranged one above the other,
and increasing in size from below. 8. The ceilings 
of all interior spaces consist of acute arches, closed on
the top with a layer of flat stones. The proportion 
of the walls to the sine of the arch, varies from 2:1
to 1:2.  Stones, cut to the shape of a wedge, with
oblique heads, were employed to form the sine. 9. The
arch supports a flat roof, the surface of which, instead
of being slated, is covered with a concrete of groundstone 
and marl, very consistent and thoroughly petrified.
The same kind of composition covers the floors
of the apartments. The roof itself is frequently bordered
by a kind of raised filigree or pierced stone
work. 10. The application of timber for lintels and
rafter, the first of which still bear traces of the original
carved characters. 11. The outside of the walls
does not present any mark of rough cast or painting.
The interior of some structures is, however, covered 
with a thin layer of very fine stucco, on which the
colors are still to be recognized; the bordering at the 
basis of the walls generally being sky blue, the upper 
part light green, the arches showing the traces of fantastical
figures in varying lively colors. In regard to
the carved figures in the side of the doorways, it may
be noticed that the coloring of the uncovered part of 
the body is of a dark yellow, the vestments green and
blue, the background of a dark red. Their attitude 
is always directed to the entrance. 12. Vent holes
exist in every room below the cornice. They are of
a square or round form, three or five inches in diameter,
and more or less numerous in different buildings. 
There are niches also in the apartments and corridors,
in some cases with symbolical signs and hieroglyphics,
carved circles, hewn rings,&c.
The relief used in these representations is flattened
on its surface, and besides the outlines, the background
is generally chiselled out, though sometimes
the artist was satisfied with carving the outlines superficially
in the rock. The most common ornament 
on sacred buildings was a winding serpent, generally
representing the rattlesnake of this country. As to
the local impression of the architecture of all these
buildings, I have still to add that the refined conceptions 
of the artist have evidently been executed in a
very inferior manner, for the stones are very carelessly
joined together, showing intervals of several inches
filled up with mortar. The same neglect is also observed
in the choice of stones, there being frequently 
very little correspondence in regard to form and size.
We may reasonably, therefore, suppose that the aborigines
of the country were unable to execute the 
works planned by their conquerors. We met, however,
particularly at Usmal, with sufficient proofs of a 
more advanced art in the execution of their sculptures;
and their skill in plastic shows itself in the
idols and figures of clay, which are frequently found
in the urns of their sepulchres, which are superior
to any thing, in regard to art, which the nation 
produced.


330 THE NEW WORLD. [NOVEMBER 20, 1841.

"Time enough for that; we're doing very well as
it is. Upon my life, though, they hold a deal of wine. 
I thought we'd have had them fit to bargain with before 
ten, and see, it's near midnight; and I must 
have my forage accounts ready for the commissary-general 
by to-morrow morning."

This speech having informed me the reason of the 
major's presence there, I resolved to wait no longer 
a mere spectator of their proceedings; so, dismounting 
from my position, I commenced a vigorous attack 
upon the door.

It was some time before I was heard; but at length 
the door was opened, and I was accosted by an 
Englishman, who, in a strange compound of French 
and English, asked what the devil I meant by all that 
uproar. Determining to startle my old friend the 
major, I replied, that I was an aid-de-camp to General 
Picton, and had come down on very unpleasant business. 
By this time the noise of the party within had
completely subsided, and, from a few whispered sentences,
and their thickened breathing, I perceived
that they were listening.

"May I ask, sir," continued I, "if Major Monsoon
is here?"

"Yes," stammered out the ensign, for such he was.

"Sorry for it, for his sake," said I; "but my orders
are peremptory."

A deep groan from within, and a muttered request 
to pass down the sherry, nearly overcame my gravity;
but I resumed,—

"If you'll permit me, I will make the affair as 
short as possible. The major, I presume, is here."

So saying, I pushed forward into the room, where
now a slight scuffling noise and murmur of voices had 
succeeded silence. Brief as was the interval of our
colloquy, the scene within had notwithstanding undergone
considerable change. The English officers,
hastily throwing of their aldermanic robes, were busily 
arraying themselves in their uniforms, while Monsoon 
himself, with a huge basin and water before him, was 
endeavoring to wash the cork from his countenance
in the corner of his tabard.

"Very hard upon me all this; upon my life, so it 
is. Picton is always at me, just as if we had not been 
school-fellows. The service is getting worse every
day. Regardez-moi, curey, mong face est propre?
Eh? There, thank you. Good fellow the curey is,
but takes a deal of fluid. Oh, burgomaster! I fear it 
is all up with me; no more fun, no more jollification,
no more plunder—and how I did do it! nothing like 
watching one's little chances, 'The poor is hated 
even by his neighbor.' Oui, curey, it is Solomon says 
that, and they must have had a very poor rate in his 
day to make him say so. Another glass of sherry."

By this time I approached the back of his chair,
and, slapping him heartily on the shoulder, called
out,—

"Major! old boy, how goes it?"

"Eh? what? how! who is this? It can't be—
egad, sure it is, though. Charley! Charley O'Malley,
you scape-grace, where have you been? when did
you join?"

"A week ago, major. I could resist it no longer:
I did my best to be a country gentleman, and behave 
respectably, but the old temptation was too strong for 
me. Fred Power and yourself, major, had ruined 
my education: and here I am once more among you."

"And so Picton, and the arrest, and all that, was 
nothing but a joke?" said the old fellow, rolling his
wicked eyes with a most cunning expression.

"Nothing more, major: set your heart at rest."

"What a scamp you are," said he, with another 
grin. "Il est mon fils—il est mon fils, curey" presenting
me, as he spoke, while the burgomaster, in
whose eyes the major seemed no inconsiderable personage, 
saluted me with profound respect.

Turning at once toward the functionary, I explained 
that I was the bearer of important dispatches,
and that my horse—I was ashamed to say my mule
—having fallen lame, I was unable to proceed.

"Can you procure me a re-mount, monsieur?"
said I; "for I must hasten on to Courtrai."

"In half an hour you shall be provided, as well as
with a mounted guide for the read. Le fils de son
excellence," said he, with emphasis, bowing to the
major as he spoke; who, in his turn, repaid the courtesy
with a still lower obedience.

"Sit down, Charley; here is a clean glass. I am
delighted to see you, my boy. They tell me you
have got a capital estate, and plenty of ready. Lord!
we so wanted you, as there's scarcely a fellow with
sixpence among us. Give me the lad that can do a
bit of paper at three months, and always be ready for
a renewal. You have n't got a twenty-pound note?"
This was said sotto voce. "Never mind, ten will do;
you will give me the remainder at Brussels. Strange,
is it not, I have not seen a bit of clean bank paper
like this for above a twelvemonth?" This was said,
as he thrust his hand into his pocket, with one of
those peculiar leers upon his countenance which unfortunately
betrayed more satisfaction at his success
than gratitude for the service. "You are looking
fat—too fat, I think," said he, scrutinizing me from
head to foot: "but the life we are leading just now
will soon take that off. The slave-trade is luxurious
indolence compared to it. Post haste to Nivelle one
day; down to Ghent the next; forty miles over a
paved road in a hand gallop, and an aid-de-camp
with a watch in his hand at the end of it, to report if
you are ten minutes too late. And there is Wellington
has his eye everywhere; there is not a truss of
hay served to the cavalry, nor a pair of shoes half-soled
in the regiment, that he don't know of it. I've
got it over my knuckles already."

"How so, major? how was that?"

"Why he ordered me to picket two squadrons of
he seventh, and a supper was waiting. I did n't like
o leave my quarters; so I took my telescope, and
itched upon a sweet little spot of ground on a hill;
ather difficult to get up, to be sure, but a beautiful
view when you 're on it. 'There is your ground,
captain,' said I, as I sent one of people to mark the
spot. He did not like it much: however, he was
obliged to go. And would you believe it? so much
for bad luck! there turned out to be no water within
two miles of it. not a drop, Charley: and so, about
eleven at night the squadrons moved down into Grammont
to wet their lips, and, what is worse, to report

me to the commanding office. And, only think!
they put me under arrest, because Providence did not
make a river run up a mountain."

Just as the major finished speaking, the distant
clatter of horses' feet and the clank of cavalry was
heard approaching. We all rushed eagerly to the
door, and scarcely had we done so, when a squadron
of dragoons came riding up the street at a fast trot.

"I say, good people," cried the officer in French,
"where does the burgomaster live here?"

"Fred Power, 'pon my life!" shouted the major.

"Eh, Monsoon! that you? Give me a tumbler of
wine, old boy; you are sure to have some, and I am
desperately blown."

"Get down, Fred—get down; we have an old
friend here."

"Who the deuce d'ye mean?" said he, as, throwing
himself from the saddle, he strode into the room.

"Charley O'Malley! By all that's glorious!"

"Fred, my gallant fellow!" said I.

"It was but this morning, Charley, that I so wished
for you here. The French are advancing, my lad:
they have crossed the frontier; Ziethen's corps has
been attacked, and driven in; Blucher is falling back
upon Ligny; and the campaign is opened. But I
must press forward: the regiment is close behind me,
and we are ordered to push for Brussels in all haste.'

"Then these dispatches," said I, showing my
packet, "'tis unnecessary to proceed with."

"Quite so. Get into the saddle, and come back
with us."

The burgomaster had kept his word with me: so,
mounted upon a strong hackney, I set out with Power
on the road to Brussels. I have more than once had
occasion to ask pardon of my reader for the prolixity
of my narrative; so I shall not trespass on him here,
by the detail of our conversation as we jogged along.
Of me and my adventures he already knows enough
—perhaps too much. My friend Power's career,
abounding as it did in striking incidents and all the
light and shadow of a soldier's life, yet not bearing
upon any of the characters I have presented to you
acquaintance, except in one instance, of that only
shall I speak.

"And the senhora, Fred, how goes your fortune in
that quarter?"

"Gloriously, Charley. I am every day expecting
the promotion in my regiment which is to make her
mine."

"You have heard from her lately then?"

"Head from her! Why, man, she is in Brussels."

"In Brussels!"

"To be sure. Don Emanuel is in high favor with
the duke, and is now commissary-general with the
army; and the senhora is the belle of the Rue Royale,
or, at least, it's a divided sovereignity between her
and Lucy Dashwood. And now, Charley, let me
ask, what of her? There—there, do n't blush, man;
there is quite enough moonlight to show how tender
you are in that quarter."

"Once for all, Fred, pray, spare me on that subject.
You have been far too fortunate in your affaire
du cœur, and I too much the reverse, to permit
much sympathy between us."

"Do you not visit, then? or is it a cut between
you?"

"I have never met her since the night of the masquerade
of the Villa——at least, to speak to——"

"Well, I must confess, you seem to manage your
own affairs much worse than your friends'; not but
that in so doing you are exhibiting a very Irish feature
in your character. In any case, you will come
to the ball; Inez will be delighted to see you; and I
have got over all my jealousy."

"What ball? I never heard of it."

"Never heard of it? why the Duchess of Richmond's
of course; pooh, pooh! man; not invited?
the staff are never left out on such occasions: you
will find your card at your hotel on your return."

"In any case, Fred"——

"I shall insist upon your going. I have no arrière
pensée about a reconciliation with the Dashwoods;
no subtle scheme on my honor; but simply, I feel
that you will never give yourself fair chances in the
world, by indulging your habit of shrinking from
every embarrassment. Don't be offended, boy; I
know you have pluck enough to storm a battery; I
have seen you under fire before now. What avails
your courage in the field, if you have not presence of
mind in the drawing-room. Beside, everything else
out of the question, it is a breach of etiquette toward
your chief to decline such an invitation."

"You think so?"

"Think so? no, I am sure of it!"

"Then, as to uniform Fred?"

"Oh, as to that, easily managed; and now I think
of it, they have sent me an unattached uniform which
you can have, but remember, my boy, if I put you in
my coat, I don't want you to stand in my shoes.
Don't forget, also, that I am your debtor in horse
flesh, and fortunately able to repay you; I have got
such a charger, your own favorite color, dark chestnut,
and, except one white leg, not a spot about him;
can carry sixteen stone over a five-foot fence, and as
steady as a rock under fire."

"But, Fred, how are you——?"

"Oh, never mind me; I have six in my stable, and
intend to share with you. The fact is, I have been
transferred from one staff to another for the last six
months, and four of my number are presents. Is
Mike with you? Ah, glad to hear it! You will never
get on without that fellow; beside, it is a capital
thing to have such a connecting link with one's nationality;
no fear of your ever forgetting Ireland,
with Mr. Free in your company; you are not aware
that we have been correspondents—a fact, I assure
you. Mike wrote me two letters, and such letters
they were; the last was a Jeremiad over your decline
and fall; with a very ominous picture of a certain
Miss Baby Blake!"

"Confound the rascal!"

"By Jove, though, Charley, you were coming it
rather strong with Baby. Inez saw the letter, and as
well as she could decipher Mike's hieroglyphics, saw
there was something in it; but the name Baby puzzled
her immensely, and she set the whole thing
down to your great love of children. I don't think
that Lucy quite agreed with her."

"Did she tell it to Miss Dashwood?" I inquired,
with fear and trembling.

"Oh, that she did; in fact, Inez never ceases talking
of you to Lucy. But come, lad, don't look so
grave; let's have another brush with the enemy;
capture a battery of their guns; carry off a French
marshal or two; get the Bath for your services; and
be thanked in the general orders; and I will wager
all my châteaux en Espagne, that everything goes
well."

Thus chatting away, sometimes over the past, of
our former friends and gay companions, of our days
of calm and sunshine; sometimes indulging in prospects
for the future, we trotted along, and, as the day
was breaking, mounted the ridge of low hills, from
which, at the distance of a couple of leagues, the
city of Brussels came into view.

CHAPTER L. . . . The Duchess of Richmond's Ball.

Whether we regard the illustrious and distinguished
personages who thronged around, or we think of
the portentous moment in which it was given, the
Duchess of Richmond's ball, on the night of the 15th
June, 1815, was not only one of the most memorable,
but in its interest, the most exciting entertainment
that the memory of any one now living can compass.

There is always something of no common interest
in seeing the bronzed and war-worn soldier mixing
in the crowd of light-hearted and brilliant beauty.
To watch the eye whose proud glance has flashed
o'er the mail-clad squadrons; now bending meekly
beneath the look of some timid girl; to hear the
voice that, high above the battle or the breeze, has
shouted the hoarse word "charge," now subdued
into the low soft murmur of flattery or compliment;
this, at any time, is a picture full of its own charm;
but when we see these heroes of a hundred fights;
when we look upon those hardy veterans, upon whose
worn brow the whitened locks of time are telling,
indulging themselves in the careless gayety of a moment,
snatched as it were from the arduous career of
their existence, while the tramp of the advancing
enemy shakes the very soil they stand on, and where
it may be doubted whether each aid-de-camp who
enters comes a new votary of pleasure, or the bearer
of tidings that the troops of the foe are advancing,
and already the work of death has begun. This is,
indeed, a scene to make the heart throb, and the
pulse beat high; this is a moment, second in its proud
excitement only to the very crash and din of battle
itself; and into this entrancing whirlwind of passion
and of pleasure, of a brilliant beauty and ennobled
greatness of all that is lovely in woman, and all that
is chivalrous and heroic in man, I brought a heart
which, young in years, was yet tempered by disappointment;
still, such was the fascination, such the
brilliancy o the spectacle, that scarcely had I entered,
than I felt a change come over me—the old spirit
of my boyish ardor—that high-wrought enthusiasm
to do something—to be something which men may
speak of—shot suddenly through me, and I felt my
cheek tingle, and my temples throb, as name after
name of starred and titled officers were announced,
to think that to me also the path of glorious enterprise
was opening.

"Come along, come along," said Power, catching
me by the arm, "you've not been presented to the
duchess; I know her, I'll do it for you—or perhaps
it is better Sir Thomas Picton should; in any case,
'filez' after me, for the dark-eyed senhora is surely
expecting us. There, do you see that dark intelligent-looking
fellow leaning over the end of the sofa? that 
is Aliva; and there, you know who that is, that beau-idéal
of a hussar? Look how jauntingly he carries
himself; see the careless but graceful sling with
which he edges through the crowd: and look!—mark
his bow!—did you see that, Charley?—did you catch
the quick glance he shot yonder, and the soft smile
that showed his white teeth? Depend on it, boy,
some fair heart is not the better nor the easier for
that look."

"Who is it?" said I.

"Lord Uxbridge, to be sure; the handsomest fellow
in the service: and there goes Vandeleur, talking
with Vivian; the other, to the left, is Ponsonby."

"But stay, Fred, tell me who that is?" For a moment
or two, I had some difficulty in directing his
attention to the quarter I desired. The individual I
pointed out was somewhat above the middle size;
his uniform of blue and gold, though singularly plain,
had a look of richness about it; beside that, among
the orders which covered his breast, he wore one
star of great brilliancy and size. This, however, was
his least distinction; for although surrounded on
every side by those who might be deemed the very
types and pictures of their caste, there was something
in the easy but upright carriage of his head; the intrepid
character of his features; the bold and vigorous
flashing of his deep blue eye, that marked him as
no common man. He was talking with an old and
prosy-looking personage, in civilian dress; and while
I could detect an anxiety to get free from a tiresome
companion, there was an air of deferential, and even
kind attention in his manner, absolutely captivating.

"A thorough gentleman, Fred, whoever he be,"
said I.

"I should think so," replied Power drily, "and as
our countrymen would say, 'the devil thank him for 
it;' that is the Prince of Orange; but see, look at
him now, his features have learned another fashion;"
and true it was; with a smile of the most winning
softness, and with a voice, whose slightly foreign 
accent took nothing from its interest, I heard him
engaging a partner for a waltz.

There was a flutter of excitement in the circle as
the lady rose to take his arm, and a muttered sound
of, how very beautiful, "quelle est belle c'est une
ange"—on all sides. I leaned forward to catch a
glance as she passed—it was Lucy Dashwood. Beautiful
beyond anything I had ever seen her, her lovely
features lit up with pleasure and with pride, she
looked in every way worthy to lean upon the arm of
royalty. The graceful majesty of her walk, the placid
loveliness of her gentle smile struck every one as
she passed on. As for me, totally forgetting all else,
not seeing or hearing aught around me, I followed her
with my eye until she was lost among the crowd, and
then with an impulse of which I was not the master,
followed in her steps.

The Scrap Book.

MARGARET.

BY ALFRED TENNYSON.

O sweet, pale Margaret.
O rare, pale Margaret.
What lit your eyes with tearful power,
Like moonlight on a fallen shower?
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower
Of pensive thought and aspect pale,
Your melancholy, sweet and frail
As perfume of the cuckoo-flower?
From the westward-winding flood,
From the evening-lighted wood,
From all things outward you have won,
A tearful grace, as though you stood
Between the rainbow and the sun.
The very smile, before you speak,
That dimples your transparent cheek,
Encircles all the heart, and feedeth
The senses with a still delight
Of dainty sorrow without sound,
Like the tender amber round,
Which the moon about her spreadeth,
Moving through a fleecy night.

You, love, remaining peacefully,
To heart the murmur of the strife,
But enter not the toil of life.
Your spirit is the calmed sea
Laid by the tumult of the fight.
You are the evening star, alway
Remaining betwixt dark and bright;
Lulled echoes of laborious day
Come to you, gleams of mellow light
Float by you on the verge of night.

What can it matter, Margaret,
What songs below the waning stars,
The lion-soul'd Plantagenet
Sang, looking through his prison bars.
Exquisite Margaret, who can tell
The last wild though of Chatelet,
Just ere the falling axe did part
The burning brain from the true heart
Even in her sight he loved so well?

A fairy shield your genius made,
And gave you on your natal day,
Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade,
Keeps real sorrow far away.
You move not in such solitudes;
You are not less divine,
But more human in your moods
Than your twin sister Adeline.
Your hair is darker, and your eyes
Touched with a somewhat darker hue,
And more serially blue,
And ever trembling through the dew
Of dainty-woful sympathies.

O sweet, pale Margaret,
O rare, pale Margaret,
Come down, come down, and hear me speak;
Tie up the ringlets on your cheek;
The sun is just about to set.
The arching lines are tall and shady,
And faint, rainy lights are seen,
Moving in the leafy beach.
Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady,
Where all day long you sit between
Joy and wo, and whisper each.
Or only look across the lawn,
Look to below your bower-eaves,
Look down, and let your blue eyes down
Upon me, through the jasmine leaves.

For the New World.

HORÆ OTIOSÆ.
No. 1.
BY DIONYSIUS DACTYL.

I am unable to give much information regarding 
the character to which the papers—of which the
above is the title, and this is the introduction—will
belong. I shall endeavor, however, to furnish the
reader with a portrait of myself—that is, of the mind
from which they will emanate—and, having perused
the same, he can form an opinion whether or not it
would be pleasant and profitable to accompany me
in my literary excursion.

My life has been one of indulgence. I have been
a perfect voluptuary in literature. It has been, not
only the salt, but the food of my existence. Books
and dreams have truly to me been both a world. I
have wandered through the whole region of letters,
in the sunny climes of poetry and romance, and over
the dusty and forsaken paths of classical lore, and
learned disquisition. But my chief delight has been to
revel with the quaint and the old, to repose in green
nooks by quiet waters, and to refresh my spirit at
the "well of English undefiled." I have lived in an
ideal world, until reality has almost lost its identity,
and the substantial and visionary become strangely
confounded.

It has been my lot to escape these pecuniary embarrassments
with which the poetic spirit is too often
bowed down, my pious and provident ancestors having
furnished the wherewithal necessary for the supply
of my wants and indulgence of my humors. In
this state of gentlemanly independence, I have remained,
taking little interest in the common pursuits
of mankind, but indulging those sympathies and affections
which are awakened by the beautiful and the
good.

Wisely, in my estimation, profiting by the numerous
instances of domestic infelicity among the sages
and poets of old, I have passed my life—now near
its meridian—in a state of celibacy. From the top
of Pisgah I look down on the Canaan of wedded life,
without having participated in its conquest of fruition.
My soul is sensibly alive to the fascination of
female beauty, but to one of my temperament, marriage
would be unhallowed and unhappy.

Yet woman is to me the fairest emanation from
the hand of her Creator—a being clothed from time
immemorial with the etherial drapery of passionate
inspiration, and rendered, by the powerful alchemy
of genius, the incarnation of our loveliest dreams.
I will sing her praise, but may not seek her love. I
will not break the spell with which her beauty has
bound me, but remain as unincumbered as Adam was
in the Garden, in his first estate, when free from the 
annoyance of an importunate Eve.

Yet I have been, and even now am in love. Stella
memoria I have already sung in the pages of the New 
World. A vision of one that once flitted before me,
reigns queen of my heart and subject of my song.
But my passion is purely platonic and poetical.

NOVEMBER 20, 1841.] THE NEW WORLD. 331

What Beatrice was to Dante, and Laura to Petrarch,
is Elodia to Dionysius Dactyl. Kind reader, for the
present, farewell. The balmy and beautiful evening
invites me to offer up to my love

A VESPER ORISON.

Sweet spirits of this silent hour,
Spread to the air your radiant wings,
And carry to my true love's bower
My ardent heart's imaginings.
Angel of Light! to her from me
Be thou a swift-winged Mercury.

Bear with thee every passing breath
Charged with my sighings and my songs;
To her my burning thoughts bequeath,
For every thought to her belongs.
Angel of Peace! be thou to her
Love's herald and interpreter.

May guardian seraphs, always near,
With dreams of Heaven her soul inspire;
And may she breathe an atmosphere
Of warm delight and chaste desire.
Angel of Hope! by night and day,
I charge thee guide her feet alway.

THE PROFESSOR'S STORY.

Extract from The Memoirs of Satan, from the German of
W. Hauff.]

THE Professor took a pinch of snuff, tapped on his
box, and began, as follows:

It must now be about twelve years since I was
obliged to spend some months at Stutgard, on account
of a domestic law suit I lodged at one of the
best hotels in the place, and generally dined with a 
numerous company at the table d'hôte. At one time,
in consequence of an accident, I was confined to my
room for some days. When I returned to the public
table, all were conversing very earnestly about a certain
Signor Barighi, who had for some time delighted
the guest with his lively wit, and his knowlege of all
languages. But although all were unanimous in his
praise, no two agreed respecting his character: one
thought him a diplomatist, a second pronounced him
a teacher of languages, a third believed him to be a
banished noble, and a fourth insisted that he was a 
spy. In the midst of the dispute the door opened,
and he entered, amid an universal silence, every one
feeling ashamed at having been at that moment so
loudly discussing his character. In this there was
nothing supernatural; but hear the rest.

For two days had Signor Barighi, for so was the
stranger called, amused us with his lively conversation
at the table, when one day the landlord of the
house interrupted us: "Gentlemen," said our host,
"prepare yourselves for a very amusing scene to take
place in your presence to-morrow. The Chief-Justice
Hasentresser went out of town to-day, and returns
to-morrow."

We inquired what there was amusing in that, when
an old gray-headed captain in the army, who had for
many years sat at the head of the table of our hotel,
explained the joke as follows:

"Directly opposite our dining room there lives an
old bachelor, alone in a great desolate house. He is
a Chief-Justice out of office, living on a comfortable
pension, and is besides, the possessor of an immense
estate. This same man is a complete fool, and has
some of the strangest oddities. For example, he gives
splendid suppers, where all is on a most luxurious
scale; he orders twelve covers from this hotel, produces
the finest wines from his cellar, and some one of
our waiters always has the honor to attend upon his
table. You think, perhaps, that it is hungry and
thirsty men that he invites to eat and drink with him!
Not at all! Old yellow leaves of memorandum books,
upon each a large cross, lie upon the chairs, and the
queer old fellow is just as well pleased as if he had so
many merry companions about him. He talks and
laughs with them, and the whole is so frightful that
some new waiter is always sent over; but he who has
once been at such a supper, never will go again into
the deserted house. One of these suppers took place
the day before yesterday, and one new waiter, Frank
swears by heaven and earth that nothing will ever
tempt him into that house again. The day after the
supper comes the second oddity of the Chief-Justice.
He goes out of town early in the morning, and the
next day returns, not to his own house, which all this
time is fast locked and barred, but here to this hotel.

"He here acts as if an entire stranger to the people
whom he sees every day throughout the year,
dines here, and after dinner walks to the window and
surveys, from top to bottom, his own house, which
stands directly opposite.

"'To whom does that house opposite belong?' he
inquires of the landlord of the hotel.

"The latter bows low and replies, 'To the Chief
Justice Hasentresser, may it please your excellency."

"The Chief Justice Hasentresser gazes at the house
and learns that it belongs to the Chief Justice Hasentresser.

"'Ah! the same who studied at Tübingen, in my
time?' asks he, then throws open the window, sticks
out his well powdered hand, and screams 'Ha-a-sentresser!
Ha-a-sentresser!'

"Naturally no one answers; he then says, 'The old
man would never forgive me if I did not pay him a 
visit: takes his hat and cane, goes over and opens
his own house, and all goes on as before."

We all, said the Professor, continuing his story,
were greatly astonished at this strange account, and
anticipated much amusement for the next day. Signor
Barighi took up the conversation, and begged us
not to betray him, telling us that he had an excellent
joke to play off upon the Chief Justice.

The next day, earlier than usual, we all assembled
in the dining-hall, and closely besieged the windows.
An old chariot, looking as if ready to drop to pieces,
drawn by two old horses, came up the street and stopped
at the hotel door. "There is Hasentresser!
there is Hasentresser!" exclaimed every one, and we
were all exceedingly amused when we saw the little
old man descend from the carriage, his hair carefully
powdered, wearing a steel-gray coat, and carrying an
immense bamboo cane in his hand. A train of at

least ten waiters surrounded him, and followed him
into the dining-room. We immediately took our
seats at the table, and I have seldom laughed as much
as when I heard the old man assert with the greatest
coolness, that he had come by the direct road from
Cassel, and that he had been very comfortably lodged
for six days at the Swan in Frankfort. Barighi must
have disappeared just before the dessert, for when
the Chief-Justice rose from the table, the other guests
also started up full of expectation, but he was nowhere
to be seen.

The Chief Justice walked to the window; we all
followed his example and watched him. The house
opposite appeared deserted and desolate; grass was
growing about the threshhold, the blinds were shut,
even between some of them birds appeared to have
built their nests.

"A pretty house, that over there!" began the old
man to the landlord, who had followed a step or two
behind him. "To whom does it belong?"

"To the Chief Justice Hasentresser, may it please
your excellency."

"Indeed! can it be the same one who studied with
me!" answered he; "he would never forgive me if
I did not let him know that I am here." He threw
open the window and in a very hoarse voice screamed,
"Hasentresser! Hasentresser!" But who can 
describe our astonishment when opposite us, in the
deserted old mansion, which we knew to be well 
locked and barred, a window-shutter slowly opened;
a window was thrown up and there appeared the
Chief Justice Hasentresser, in a calico dressing-gown,
and a white cap, from under which streamed down a
few gray locks: exactly as he was accustomed to
dress when at home. Even to the minutest wrinkle
in the pale countenance, the man at the opposite
window was the same as the one who was standing
by us. But our astonishment changed to fear, when
he in the dressing-gown, with the same hoarse voice
as the other, called out across the street; "what's
wanted? who calls? hey!"

"Are you the Chief Justice Hasentresser?" called 
the one at our side, pale as death, with a trembling
voice, and holdingby the window to support himself.

"I am he!" screamed the other, bowing and smiling
in a friendly manner; "is anything wanted?"

'I am he myself!" called he at our side, in trembling
accents; "how is that possible?"

"You are mistaken, my good friend!" screamed the
one opposite, "you are the thirteenth; just come over
to my house a moment and let me twist your neck; it 
won't hurt you."

"Waiter, my hat and cane!" said the Chief-Justice,
faint as death, his voice coming in hollow and mournful
tones from the very bottom of his breast. "Satan
is in my house and seeks for my soul! good morning
gentlemen!" he stepped back from the window,
bowed politely to us who stood around and left the
room.

"Who was that?" asked we of one another; "have
we all lost our senses?"

The man in the dressing-gown appeared to remain
quietly at the window, while our good little old fool,
slowly and stiffly crossed the street. At the house
door he drew from his pocket a huge bunch of keys,
unlocked—he in the dressing-gown calmly looking on
—unlocked the heavy, creaking door and entered the 
house.

Then the other drew back from the window, as if
going to meet our Chief Justice at the door of the room.

Our landlord, with his ten waiters were all pale
and trembling with fear. "Gentlemen," said he,
"God be gracious to the poor Hasentresser, for one
of the two was the evil one in person." We laughed
at the landlord, and endeavored to persuade one an
other that it was a trick of Barighi, but he replied
that no one could have got into the house without the
keys of the Chief Justice, which were very complicated:
only ten minutes before this terrible figure appeared,
Barighi was seated at the table; how then
could he, in so short a time, have disfigured himself so
completely, even supposing that he had known how to 
open a house, to which he must have been a stranger.
The two were so fearfully alike, that he, a neighbor
of twenty years standing, could not distinguish the
true one. But God's will be done. Gentlemen! do
do you not hear that terrible shriek over there?"

We sprang to the window, fearful cries and groans
sounded from the deserted old house opposite; once
we thought we saw our old Chief-Justice rush past
the window pursued by his image in the dressing-gown.
Suddenly all was still.

We looked at one another; the boldest made the
proposition to go over to the house; we all assented.
The street was crossed, the great bell of the old
house was pulled three times, nothing was heard;
we began to be terrified; we sent for the police and
the locksmith; the front door was broken open; the
whole inquisitive crowd poured up the broad and 
silent staircase; all the doors were fastend, one by
one they were opened; in a sumptuously furnished
chamber, the Chief-Justice, his steel-gray coat torn
to pieces and his carefully dressed hair much disordered,
lay strangled to death upon the sofa.

Since that time no trace of Barighi has ever been
seen anywhere in Stuttgard.

[From the London Athenæum.]

RAILROADS.

THE rapidity with which this great iron revolution
is extending over space is wonderful and unparalleled,
except by the strangeness and speed of transit which
has itself been achieved by the iron road (chemin de
fer) and the Vulcanian Pegasus, that most wonderful
and most perfect of all man's creations. Ten years
ago a railroad was all but unknown; a tram-road of
iron, sufficient to guide a few coal-waggons from the
coal-hill to the port of delivery, and to enable them
to follow the track of an old horse at the rate of two
or three miles and hour, was what the small number 
of us, who knew any thing at all about a railway,
understood to be meant by the phrase. It was the
joint necessity and impossibility of an additional canal
from Liverpool to Manchester which first compelled
the merchants of that enterprising port to entertain
the project of a railway on a great scale; and it is to
their spirit and determination that we owe much of

the advantage now obtained. In 1826, when they
applied to parliament, even their own engineers
seemed to entertain very little idea of their present
results. Mr. Stephenson, who has since become so
eminent as a railway propagandist, held out the expectation,
that on this railway, locomotive engines
carrying thirty to forty tons might possible be able to
travel at the rate of six miles an hour with safety and
security. The author of the "Railway Treatise"
thought that the rate of twelve miles an hour would
be a dangerous and useless speed. Mr. Rastrick reported,
that by improvements on the engine, forty
tons might be carried along a railway at the rate of
six or even twelve miles an hour, but that the latter
rate was decidedly unsafe! At this moment twenty-five
miles is the regular slow speed, beyond which
the conductors of engines are forbidden to travel,
although the double of it is what has been often
attained; while, instead of thirty or forty tons, the 
weight of a train is one hundred to two hundred tons.

Ten years' experience now does all this safely and
well, daily, hourly, and everywhere. Twenty-five
hundred miles of railways, almost all of them double
lines of road, traverse our little island, connecting all
the principal towns and provinces with that great center
of money and of mind. Now, indeed, we may
boast of an "iron bound" rock of ocean. A chain of
iron links firmly to this great head, in close and intimate
union, the great members of our body politic,
commercial and literary. We all think, feel, and act
more closely in unison. Provincial disadvantages and
distinctions rapidly wear away; local antipathies become
forgotten; and the great unit of British industry,
commercial enterprise, wealth, and wisdom, is
becoming more firm, more energetic, more powerful,
and more promising of prolonged health and permanent 
stability. Dissension, discord, division, dismemberment,
must become less and less possible in direct
proportion to the intimacy of connection and facility
of communication among its component parts. More
than fifty millions of capital are already devoted to the
creation of new railways; and in return for this investment,
something like five millions will every year be
created and returned into the treasury of our capitalists,
for re-investment and the extension of its powers
and our privileges.

Not only do these railways facilitate trade and commerce,
and give increased activity to mercantile interests 
in general; but if we consider that the expenditure
of a railway consists principally in the tear and 
wear of machinery, the produce of human labor, the
great part of which is dug from the bowels of the
earth, and formed by human skill, we shall see that
many new and important departments of commerce
and trade are created and fed by this new economic 
and social power. The new social element is extending
the range of action so fast and so far, that there
will soon cease to be any section of the community,
or any individual in society, sufficiently severed from
its interests to be altogether beyond the sphere of its
immediate influence. Noblemen, men of property,
merchants, and traders, will almost all be soon embraced
in the multitudinous constituency of railway
directors or holders of railway stock; while the
saving of the wear and tear of human life by the
wholesale means of economical transport thus provided,
has in many districts rendered the most laborious,
and the poorest portion of the community, not
only the class on whom the greatest benefits have
been conferred, but that also which has contributed
most abundantly to the success of such undertakings,
as thousands now travel by this most rapid conveyance
who were not able to avail themselves of any.
The subject is, therefore, one which must, sooner or
later, come closely home to the interests of every
member of society.

From the London Britannia.

SPAIN.

THE intelligence from the Peninsula is calculated
to excite very painful feelings. This unfortunate
country has every prospect of being plunged again
into civil war. Europe had some hope that she was
reviving, commencing a new course of firm government,
or at least obtaining some rest from the miseries
of faction. Yet she is in arms again. Pampeluna,
the principal fortress on the northwest frontier,
and chief communication with France, is the seat of
insurrection; Vittoria is said to have joined the outbreak;
Bilboa, the capital of Biscay, and the most
important city in the north of Spain, has declared
against Espartero, and those formidable revolts are
sustained by a multitude of minor ones in regiments,
cantonments, and even by a daring and palpable conspiracy
in Madrid itself.

We by no means think that the present rebellion
will succeed, unless Espartero should fall a victim to
the bullet or the knife. He has the army on his side;
he has a great stake in the question; and, what is of
the highest moment in a convulsion of this extended
and varied order, he acts for himself; he has none to
control his movements, or embarrass his judgment.
Yet, the readiness of the Spanish population to slaughter
each other on the slightest grounds, gives a melancholy
promise for the future; and, if the present disturbance 
should be extinguished, its suppression will
be no security against the violences and crimes of
rebellion to come.

All this is the more extraordinary, from its all being
new. Spain, from the close of the fifteenth century
to that of the eighteenth, was the most undisturbed
country of Europe. The brief war of the succession
alone broke the calm. The public mind then
returned to its ancient tranquillity: the sceptre of the
Bourbon line, a leaden sceptre, but a lenient one,
quietly waved over the nation; and if, like animal
magnetism, it set the national faculties asleep, it at
least hushed the popular insubordination. Even in
the Peninsular War, the general mind was undisturbed.
The war certainly swayed all minds; but it
was like the sway of the moon on the waters; it
raised them into one great impulse, a moral tide, all
moving in one direction, and producing by that movement
the health of the land.

But from that period all has been incertitude, bitter
convulsion, and useless conflict. At the very crisis
when Spain, resting on her arms, after achieving
by the guidance of England the clearance of her soil

from its invaders, might be regarded as having
nothing to do but to enjoy the fruits of her memorable
triumph, she fell into the most fatal confusion
At the moment when the storms of the great war had
passed away, filling her horizon only with the lingering
splendor of magnanimous struggle and historic renown;
and when the soil seemed only waiting for
the noblest cultivation of a regenerated and liberated
people, all was changed; the political thorn and thistle
were emulously sown on every side; and faction
and folly, bewildered councils, and bloody feuds, have
ever since usurped the land.

We can find no solution for this extraordinary defeat
of national hopes in the ordinary apologies for
the turbulence of Spain—in want of education, want
of property, want of industry, or want of liberty. All
those wants had subsisted for three hundred years,
without convulsing the foundations of Government.
In fact, important as education and liberty are to the
progress of a people, their loss is comparatively unimportant
to a nation content to stand still. Spain,
proud of her early eminence, possessing the wealth
of the Americas, enjoying one of the finest climates
in the world, and disdaining the laborious life of
other nations, exhibited, perhaps, as much intrinsic,
stagnant happiness as any other region of the globe.
Her peasantry were, in general, proprietors; her middle
orders led an easy and picturesque, and often a
joyous life. The indolence of an unsuspicious throne
gave the people a practical security; and though no
man could touch on politics without danger, person
and property were free.

The original date of those most unfortunate changes
was the death of Ferdinand VII. The last act of that
weak, but harmless, monarch's life, was to give way
to the arts which violated the Spanish succession.
We do not here enter into the fitness of the Salic
Law. But it had been the established rule of Spain,
since the accession of the Bourbons; it was the law
under which he had inherited his title; and he had
no more right to abolish it by his own will, or by the
factions and unpopular assemblage of the Cortes,
than he had to bid one half of Spain hang the other.
The consequence was instant and terrible. A civil
war broke out, which devastated Spain, and in a 
struggle of six miserable years, cost nearly a hundred
thousand lives. Change in every desperate shape has
since formed the only constitution of the country.
The Queen Regent has been alternately a prisoner
and an exile. The Government has been alternately 
in the army and in the populace of Madrid. The
Church has been the subject of perpetual confiscation;
the people perpetually forced into the field by the
Conscription; the roads covered with brigandage;
society almost on the verge of dissolution; until, at
last, the supreme power fell into the hands of Espartero,
as sole Regent in the name of the Infant Queen.
What Spain acquired by this perpetual torture is still
to be discovered. She has been tried by difficulty
without acquiring the vigor, the experience, or the
virtue, for which difficulty is set before man; her
blood has not fertilized the ground; the largest sacrifices
of private and public happiness have furnished
no omen of future prosperity. If this goes on, in a 
few years she will be the outlaw of Europe—a paria,
excluded by her squalidness and savagery from the
caste of civilization. Instead of being what French
arrogance has lately called her, "a decaying nation,"
she will be a decayed one; a vast corpse, like the
dead leviathan on the shore, polluting the surrounding
atmosphere with the rankness of moral dissolution;
or, like some cemetery heaped with the corpses
of recent battle, a combination of startling sights and
deadly influences, where old decay is reënforced
with later bloodshed, and both join to repel the feelings
and poison the frame of nations.

THE SULTAN.—We were then ushered through
long suites of apartments, expecting every moment
to enter the presence of the Sultan; and at length,
on being shown into a small side ante-room, where I 
was the least prepared for the meeting, he walked
quietly in, and suddenly stood before us. THe usual
fez was on his head, a large military cloak hung
round him, clasped at the throat with a magnificent
agraffe of enormous diamonds; a large solitaire was
on his little finger. He is tall, pale, sallow, and slight,
with fine eyes, a sweet smile, and amiable expression
of countenance. He is only eighteen years of
age. It is said he is learning French, and is much
more au fait de tout ce qui passe than is generally
imagined. The Prince de Joinville, when here, saw
and conversed much with him; and lately a good
deal has transpired as to his manners and ideas from
a Russian painter who has just finished his picture,
and with whom he had much conversation during
his several sittings. He did not bow, but immediately
began talking to Reschid Pacha, who, having paid
his homage, which is done by gracefully faisant semblant
to pick up the dust from his feet, according to
the expression, "Je baise la poussiere," interpreted
to me the Sultan's words. He expressed his pleasure
and satisfaction at seeing me, and his hope that
I had recovered the fatigue of my journey; to this I
replied. He then inquired if I had been at all rewarded
for what I had suffered, and for the deprivation
of the comforts and luxuries of England. I then
requested Reschid Pacha to express my admiration
of Constantinople, my gratification at my visit and
reception, and my gratitude at having been allowed
to see everything that was curious and interesting.
The Sultan inquired if I had visited the Tscheragan
Palace; and on my answering in the negative, he 
desired orders might be given for it to be shown me.
He then inquired who the lady (Mrs. Walker) was that
accompanied me; and on being told her name, he
desired Reschid Pacha to express the pleasure he
felt of having an opportunity of telling her how highly
he valued her husband's services. After a happily
worded reply from her to the effect that she had
equal delight in being able to assure his Majesty that
he had not a more faithful servant than Admiral
Walker, the Sultan expressed his regret at my intention
of leaving Constantinople so soon, and then suddenly
vanished. I was re-conducted to the door of 
the palace by Reschid Pacha and the Maréchal, who
eagerly inquired what I thought of their imperial
master? They seemed pleased with the praise and



332 THE NEW WORLD. [NOVEMBER 20, 1841.

approbation I bestowed, and Reschid Pacha interpreted
to the other all I said, and told him also of
my having twice seen the Sultan dismount from his 
horse on the Constantinople quay, and enter his
beautiful caique, and return to his palace on the Pera
side.  I then took leave of Reschid Pacha, endeavoring
to express my gratitude for all his kindness
and attention.  The troops lined the courts and were
all under arms as I passed.—[Letter from the Marchioness
of Londonderry at Constantinople, to a
friend in England.

THE NEW WORLD.

New-York:

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1841.

NO PAMPHLET, or MAGAZINE, or LETTER, of any
description, addressed to the editor or publisher of
THE NEW WORLD, is taken from the Post-Office in
this city, unless the postage be paid.  This rule is imperative
and can in no instance be departed from.

THE CHARACTER OF WILLIAM LEGGETT.*

One of the worst evils of party spirit is, that it
obscures the vision and deadens the heart of its votaries
to the merits and virtues of political opponents.
Conformity of opinion is made the exclusive test of
excellence, and the want of it more than countervails
the highest attributes of mind, and the most spotless
purity of character.  Why is it that we can see no
virtue in a political antagonist?  Why is it that the
many noble and magnanimous spirits that adorn the
ranks of both the great political parties, cannot
entertain for each other sincere respect and reciprocal
enthusiasm?  Why is it that difference of political
opinion justifies the severest denunciation—obscures
the most shining qualities, and alienates hearts that
have a natural attraction toward each other?  The
genius of party spirit demands from her disciple as
thorough a renunciation of all generous impulses—
as complete a forgetfulness of human sympathy—as
the Holy Vehme imposed upon the initiated, in
those days when unrestrained passion was let loose
upon society.  In her service he is to forget father
and mother, brother and sister, friend and companion
—every being between earth and Heaven.  He is to
feel no reverence for the genius—no admiration for
the virtues—no sympathy for the misfortunes—of a
political foe.  His heart must be taught to throb by
rule—to confine its attachments within party lines—
to hate those qualities in an adversary which it adores
in a co-partisan.

We have been led into this train of reflection, by a
recent perusal of the Political Writings of William
Leggett†—a man who was peculiarly the victim of
this unenlightened and illiberal spirit.  He was one of
those sincere and earnest teachers of Democracy whose
creed is a matter both of faith and of reason—who,
inspired with that vehement enthusiasm with which 
the consciousness of truth expands the bosom and 
stimulates the energies, are ready to encounter principalities
and powers in the cause of justice, liberty,
and toleration; upon the capacity of the people for
illimitable mental and moral progress, his soul reposed
as upon a fundamental truth. He, therefore, contended
for the most unrestrained liberty that was consistent
with social order.  He would confine the functions
of government to the making of general laws, uniform
and universal, for the sole purpose of protecting person
and property.  Against all partial legislation, all
monopolies, all vested rights, all restraints upon trade,
he waged an exterminating warfare.  "Laissez nous
faire," was the inspiring watchword which he proclaimed,
with a sincerity and earnestness that enlists
the sympathies and overpowers the understanding.
He loved liberty ardently, devotedly, in all its aspects,
political, economical, financial.  He hated slavery in
all its forms, degrees, and influences; and he felt
himself bound, by the highest social and moral considerations,
not to let that sentiment of hate lie
smouldering and dormant in his breast.‡

These great cardinal doctrines of his faith he proclaimed,
in season and out of season, with a zeal that
defied consequences—with an ability that, had his
life been spared, would have left his name

"A light, a landmark on the cliffs of fame"—

with a boldness that dared the rebukes of popular 
violence and executive authority—with an independence 
that rose superior to every selfish consideration,

*Collection of the Political Writings of William Leggett,
selected and arranged, with a preface, by Theodore Sedgwick,
Jr. In 2 volumes. New-York: Taylor & Dodd, 1841.

† The writer of this article cannot boast of a personal acquaintance
with Mr. Leggett: he never grasped him by the
hand; he never gazed upon his manly and intelligent countenance; 
but he knows him intimately in the commonwealth
of letters; and has communed, not without sympathy he
hopes, with his genius and his spirit. Of course he is able
to speak only of him in his public relations; to present the
mere outline of a character, the filling up of which would
require an intimacy with him in his personal and domestic
relations.

‡ See letter of William Leggett to ——, vol. ii, p. [33?].

that fairly trampled upon his private interests,
that dashed aside with contempt and scorn all patronage
that demanded the slightest concession of
opinion.

From many of these doctrines of Mr. Leggett we 
differ, with a conviction as thorough and deep seated 
as his own. We shall oppose them with a zeal that 
we shall stimulate by a frequent recurrence to his example; 
and yet our heart is broad enough to cordially 
embrace the spirit of such an adversary, to dissociate 
what we believe to be false in his principles 
from what we know to be true in his character, and 
to deprecate that political bigotry which deprived 
him alive of the admiration which such qualities 
would always command, and which is defrauding his 
memory of the sympathy and the love of a thousand 
generous hearts. We have not designed to enter
upon any discussion of the points upon which we
differ from Mr. Leggett. We wish rather studiously
to avoid such an issue, that we many glean moral and
political wisdom from the writings, the example, and
the character which he has bequeathed.

It seems to us that although the mind of Mr. Leggett
was original, comprehensive, methodical and
highly cultivated, it is the marked and peculiar attributes 
of his character which distinguish him from
the mass, and will constitute his surest claims upon
our remembrance and regard. His talents were superior, 
but his character was exalted. H was preeminent 
among men for enthusiastic love of liberty,
earnestness of spirit, sincerity of purpose, and devotedness 
to truth. These qualities gleam from every
page of his writings, from every act of his life. They
were the quickeners of his intellect, the inspiration
of his genius, the soul of his eloquence. We discover
them in his ardent love, in his strong hate, in 
his vehement enthusiasm, in his heroic and self-sacrificing
conduct. It seems to us that his mind was
moved entirely by the sympathy acting upon it from
his moral nature. His intellectual strength seems to
depend upon the sincerity of his convictions; and although 
he was one of the ablest champions of what
he believed to be true, he would have been completely
baffled had he ever attempted to vindicate a
conscious error, to disguise a fallacy or defend a bad
cause by specious argument. You have but to inspire
him with the consciousness of truth; you have
but to touch his sense of justice—to lay but the finger
of oppression upon any thing he cherished, and you
started into action the whole machinery of his spiritual
nature. A more persuasive and intrepid advocate
never appealed to the sympathies of mankind, a
more vigorous and eloquent master of invective,
never roused "the might that slumbers in the peasant's
arm." If a butcher was unjustly fined in Fulton
Market—if a Negro preacher was mobbed in
Chapel street, or an abolitionist lynched, or the right
of free discussion invaded, he sent forth a voice that
made itself heard from Maine to Louisiana, which
sentenced the injustice and cruelty of the act to the
scorn and execration of the whole Union. When a
public officer justified his deputies in arresting certain
obnoxious documents carried by the mail, he pealed
forth a denunciation which stirs the blood like the
voice of a trumpet. When the right of petition was
invaded by Congress, he made his remonstrances
ring through the Capitol. When a party editor, in 
the spirit of bravado, proscribed the uttering of certain
current opinions, the next morning's Plain-Dealer
threw back the hated charge into his very teeth. His
mind once awakened in the cause of truth, his spirit,
when roused in behalf of innocence, or spurred into
action by injustice or oppression, would not "down"
at any mortal bidding. Moderation in the service of
truth, discretion in upbraiding error, concession of
principle, "any thing for harmony," were phrases
which did not exist in his vocabulary. His political
system was too deep seated, too well digested, too patiently
elaborated, too thoroughly believed, to be
shaken by the breath of popular favor, or the blast of 
popular indignation, or the time-serving considerations
of expediency.

We have spoken of the "political system" of Mr.
Leggett, and it seems to us that he is one of the very
few men whose party tenets deserve that name. It
is the vice of our political sects, that there is no organization
upon common principle. They are at the 
best but a union of cliques whose only cohesion is
opposition to the powers that be, and whose ultimate
aim is private aggrandizement—a mere league of
hostile powers for storming the government, supplanting
the garrison, and dividing the spoils. What
party has ever promulged a set of doctrines accordant
with each other, and consistent with admitted
truths, which were universally believed by their adherents,
and which were to be their rules for administering 
the government as the very safest and best for 
the public. Most minds have never penetrated into
the science of politics beyond the doctrine of universal
equality, and the right of the majority to govern.
Who has ever investigated the laws by which the 
majority can best govern—has defined the nice limit
within which delegated legislation should move—has

decided what should be restrained, and what left
unrestrained? Upon the thousand questions which
depend upon the adjustment of this limit, the minds
of politicians are involved in all the darkness of
ignorance and of doubt; their views are inconsistent,
their policy is vascilating, their measures are frequently 
hostile. From out this chaos the mind of
Mr. Leggett was rapidly calling harmony and order
—the true province of legislation was accurately
defined—democracy and political economy were
made conformable to each other. He regarded them
as twin sisters, pursuing parallel paths for the accomplishment
of cognate objects, as equal enemies of
all restraint upon the many for the benefit of the few.
He would dispense with every regulation of commerce
and trade, with all partial legislation, as abhorrent
to the nature of free government; with all tariffs,
corporations and monopolies, as hostile to the political,
social, and economical condition of man. These
truths he advocated as the rules for administering free
governments, and he was prepared to carry them out
to their practical results. He shrunk from no consequence
which followed legitimately from these principles.
He despised and hated that policy which
seeks to avoid unpopular results by the arts of chicanery
and disguise. His tongue would have faltered,
his pen would have dropped from his nerveless
grasp, his intellect would have been paralized had
he occupied for a moment the position of many of
his fellow partizans—men who profess to be foes of
corporations, while they are friends of banks—advocates
at the same time of equal rights and of market
monopolies—condemning partial legislation, yet sanctioning
tariffs, and lauding corn-laws—declaiming
against combinations, yet promoting trades unions—
for unlimited freedom of speech, while they are voting
for "gags," and "ready for die for liberty," while
they are holding two millions of men in bondage.

It is owing to the philosophical turn of Mr. Legget's
mind, and to the sincerity of his belief that we 
discover a harmony and unity running through all
these miscellaneous papers, produced amid the excitement
of the events that brought them forth. Had
his doctrines been less systematized, had his heart
been less thoroughly imbued with a conviction of
their truth, we should not have been able, as we are
now, to defy his enemies to point to one article from
his pen, or to one act of his life, which does not accord
with the doctrines of equality and free trade by
which he professed to be governed. He clung to
them in prosperity, and in adversity he did not turn
from them to serve a friend, or to punish an enemy;
he did not desert them to uphold a measure which,
though hostile to these laws, might be both popular
and useful, nor to denounce any temporary evil which
they actually sanctioned. His mind relied on their
general utility, and was not to be driven from its
anchorage by one or two irreconcilable facts, but
only by an induction more extensive and thorough
than that upon which his first conclusion had been
based.

When a Democratic Common Council passed a
law graciously to permit butchers to sell meat in the 
streets, provided they paid fifty dollars for a license, 
Mr. Leggett was not among those who followed these
party leaders in their desertion of the party faith,
but boldly denounced them as false and disloyal.

"What a sorry picture does not this proceeding
exhibit to us of the ignorance and tyranny of our
municipal legislators! It is solicited, as a measure
of freedom, that a free citizen, as free and intelligent
as any member of the Common Council, may be permitted
to follow a respectable and useful calling, provided 
he brings proof that he faithfully served the full 
term of apprenticeship to that branch of business,
gives bonds that he will pursue it only within a specified 
limit, and pays into the public treasury a large
sum of money for the gracious permission which the
fathers of the city vouchsafe to him! Can anything
be a greater outrage of common sense than these
stipulations? Can anything be in more palpable and
direct violation of the most obvious natural rights?
Can anything, even under the despotic government
of Czars, Autocrats, and Grand Seignors, be more arbitrary,
unequal, oppressive, and unjust? The prohibitions 
and restrictions within which butchers are
circumscribed, may, with equal warrant of propriety,
be drawn round other callings. There is as much
reason why the Common Council should take upon
themselves to regulate your private affairs, reader, or 
our own. They may, with equal grace, ordain that
no carpenter, or tailor, or hatter, or shoemaker, shall
open a shop, except he served a regular apprenticeship
to the business, gives bonds that he will open 
but one, and pays a large bonus into the general
coffers for 'the blessings of liberty,' in that case extended
to him. Doctors, lawyers, merchants, and
ministers of the gospel, are not less liable than
butchers to this municipal supervision and control;
and there is quite as much reason, in relation to
every one of those vocations, why it should be limited
and regulated by the Common Council, as there is in
the case of butchers. We hope that among those
who have undertaken this business on free trade
principles, are some citizens spirited enough to resist
the present ordinances, and defy the inquisitorial
power which attempts to tyrannize over them. We
should like to see the question tried whether we are,
in fact, mere serfs and vassals, holding our dearest
privileges but by the sufferance of our municipal
servants, or whether we are in truth freemen, possessed

of certain inalienable rights, among which is
that of pursuing, unmolested, and in our own way,
any calling which does not interfere with the rights
of others, subject only to the impositions of an equal
tax"

When most of his party were abandoning the doctrines
of free trade, in order to resist, denounce and
punish to the utmost penalty of the law, those mercenary
combinations for keeping up the price of coal
and flour, Mr. Leggett chose again to incur the
rebukes of his party and endure this temporary evil, 
rather than desert the principle, by imposing any
restraint upon the rights of commerce.

"We would neither make a new law to punish the
combiners, nor take advantage of Justice Savage's
and Judge Edward's decisions to inflict upon them
the penalty of any existing statute, or of any breach
of the common law of England. The Journal of Commerce
and the Albany Argus, may both rest assured
that the laws of trade are a much better defence
against improper combinations than any laws which
the Legislature at Albany can make, judging by the 
specimens to be found in the statute book. When a
set of dealers combine to raise the price of a commodity
above its natural value, they will be sure to
provoke competition that will very soon let them
down from their fancied elevation."

"For our own part, as our readers well know, we 
are opposed to the whole system of legislative interference
with trade, which we wish to see left to its
own laws, unfettered by any of the clogs and hinderances
invented by political fraud and cunning, to
extract indirect taxes from the community, and contrive
offices with which to reward the selfish exertions
of small-beer politicians. We should be glad
to see the whole tree, root and branch, destroyed.
We should be glad if the whole oppressive and aristocratic
scheme of inspection and guaging, whether
existing under the General Government, or that of
the state, or of the city, were utterly abrogated. We
should be glad to see the custom-house swept off into
the sea, and the whole army of collectors, surveyors,
tide-waiters, and lick-spittles, of various denominations,
swept off with it—or at least compelled to
resort to some other method of obtaining a livelihood.
We should be glad if the inspectors of beef, flour, 
pork, cotton, tobacco, wood, charcoal, and anthracite,
and all their brother inspectors, too numerous to
mention, were made to take up the line of march,
and follow their file leader into some more democratic
species of avocation. The land, freed from
this army of incubuses, and from the bad laws which
give them being, would then blossom as the rose
under the genial influence of free trade; and then it
would be found, we do not doubt, from the alacrity
with which the people would bear direct taxation for
all the necessary purposes of government, that there
was never any reason for the anomaly we have presented
in resorting to indirect means for obtaining
the public resources, as if the popular virtue and intelligence,
on which our institutions are professedly
founded, existed but in name, and the necessary
expenses of government could only be obtained from
the people by some method which prevented them 
from seeing what they paid."

We do not know to what severer test the confidence
of Mr. Leggett in his cherished doctrines could have
been exposed. There can be no question that these
combinations for forestalling the market, and "keeping
up" the price of the necessities for life, are indictable 
at common law—that without any stretch of
construction they could be brought under the statute
of this State, against conspiracies—that from any
code of honorable traffic they would be discarded
with scorn—that when tested by the principles of
ethics they would receive the most unqualified denunciation
—that when tried by the "great law of love,"
they can only be regarded as attempts to make merchandize
by increasing the amount of human suffering
and wretchedness. Yet, with confidence unshaken
in the ultimate wisdom and righteousness of 
impartial legislation, adhering to a great principle
although it might be pleaded in favor of a great evil,
he threw the buckler of free trade over men who
trafficked in the miseries and woes of the poor—
whose bank account fluctuated as the cry of want
rose shrill and piercing on the ear, or died away in
the silence of despair—men in short, who "differed
from Judas only in this, that they would not have
sold the Saviour so cheaply." While one journal of
his own party strayed so far from the Democratic 
faith on the one side as to call lustily for the severest 
penalties which the Legislature could inflict, and
another so far upon the other side as to urge the mob
to lay on the lash with their own right arm, Mr.
Leggett, guided by the steady light of principle,
steered between both of these extremes, and justified
these men under the laws of political economy, whom
he regarded morally with much of the same feeling
of contempt and disgust, that he would look upon a 
Carib, or any other variety of the cannibal species.

We might accumulate proof from every page of Mr.
Leggett's writing, of his consistency and independence; 
we have but space, however, to add but one
more extract as an illustrious example of moral heroism. 
The nomination of Representative to Congress
was tendered to Mr. Leggett, but as his abolition 
tenets were obnoxious to many, some attempts were
made by a contemporary journal, to soften them down
to the popular taste, and place him in a false position
before the public. He thus explains himself:

"What I am most afraid of is, that some of my
friends, in their too earnest zeal, will place me in a 
false position before the public on the slavery subject.

NOVEMBER 20, 1841.] THE NEW WORLD. 333

I am an abolitionist. I hate slavery in all its forms,
degrees, and influences; and I deem myself bound
by the highest moral and political obligations, not to
let that sentiment of hate lie dormant and smouldering
in my own breast, but to give it free vent, and
let it blaze forth that it may kindle equal ardor
through the whole sphere of my influence. I would
not have this fact disguised or mystified, for any
office the people have it in their power to give.
Rather, a thousand times rather, would I again meet
the denunciations of Tammany Hall, and be stigmatized
with all the foul epithets with which the anti-abolition 
vocabulary abounds, than recant, or deny
one tittle of my creed. Abolition is, in my sense, a
necessary and a glorious part of democracy; and I 
hold the right and the duty to discuss the subject of
slavery, and to expose its hideous evils in all its bearings,
moral, social, and political, as of infinitely 
higher moment than to carry fifty sub-treasury bills.
That I should discharge this duty temperately, and
should not let it come in collision with other duties;
that I should not let hatred of slavery transcend the
express obligations of the Constitution, or violate its
clear spirit, I hope and trust you think sufficiently
well of me to believe. But what I fear is, (not from
you, however,) that some of my advocates and champions
will seek to recommend me to popular support,
by representing that I am not an abolitionist, which
is false. All that I have written gives the lie to it.
All I shall write will give the lie to it.

And let me here add, (apart from any consideration
already adverted to,) that, as a matter of mere policy,
I would not, if I could, have my name disjoined from
abolitionism. To be an abolitionist, is to be an incendiary
now, as, three years ago, to be an anti-monopolist,
was to be a leveller, and a Jack Cade.
See what those three short years have done in effecting
the anti-monopoly reform; and depend upon it,
that the next three years—or, if not three, say three
times three, if you please, will work a greater revolution
on the slavery question. The stream of public
opinion now sets against us; but it is about to turn,
and the regurgitation will be tremendous. Proud in
that day may be the man who can float in triumph
on the first refluent wave, swept onward by the
deluge which he, himself, in advance of his fellows,
had largely shared in occasioning. Such be my fate
and, living or dead, it will, in some measure, be 
mine. I have written my name in ineffaceable letters
on the abolition record; and whether the reward ultimately
come in the shape of honors to the living
man, or a tribute to the memory of a departed one, I
would not forfeit my right to it, for as many offices
as Van Buren has in his gift, if each of them was
greater than his own."

In what colossal proportions does such a character
tower above the supple tools of power, and the pliant
and degraded worshippers at the shrine of popularity?
What a rebuke do these sentiments administer to the
trimming politicians of these degenerate times, who 
court false positions, and are willing to become slaves,
hypocrites and liars, for the sake of advancement—
the men who haunt the foosteps of the great with their
faces decked with the smile of solicitation, who hang
about the vestibules of power, with the abject mien
of the beggar, and a kick-me-if-you-please expression
of countenance; who are ready to hedge, to shuffle,
to moult, for the sake of office—men who will deny
their name, disavow their principles, give the lie direct
to their whole lives, disown their identity, disgrace
and burlesque manhood in order to be enrolled
among the anxious and enslaved stipendiaries of the
government. What a lesson of the folly, the vanity,
and the wickedness of those who sacrifice honesty to
preferment, and principle to place, does the history
of Mr. Leggett inculcate. What a different view of
the dignity of man, of the objects worthy of pursuit,
of the character that it was desirable to bequeath, did
he entertain. In one article, the herald of an enterprize
upon which he depended for his bread, we do
not discern the least unbending of his lofty independence. 
"I establish this paper," said he, "expecting 
to derive from it a livelihood, and if an honest and 
industrious exercise of such talents as I have, can
achieve that object, I shall not fail. But I cannot, for 
the sake of livelihood, trim my sails to suit the varying
breeze of popular prejudice. I should prefer, with
old Andrew Marvel, to scrape a blade bone of cold
mutton, to faring most sumptuously on viands obtained
by a surrender of principle." "Let other men," 
exclaims he, "twist themselves as they please, to
gratify the present tastes of the people, I choose to retain
undisturbed the image of my God."

The counsel which his self-denying attachment to 
principle would teach—which breathes from his life
of unrewarded toil—from his death of poverty—from
his grave watered by the tears of the worthy—from
his memory embalmed in the hearts of those upon 
whom his eye never fell—from his example kindling
a kindred flame in a thousand bosoms—the great moral
truth which his mission upon earth enforced upon
his countrymen, is this:

"Be and continue poor, young man, while others
around you grow rich by fraud and disloyalty; be
without place or power while others beg their way
upward; bear the pain of disappointed hopes while
others gain the accomplishment of theirs by flattery;
forego the gracious pressure of the hand for which
others cringe and crawl; wrap yourself in your own
virtue, and seek a friend and your daily bread. If
you have, in such a course, grown gray with unblenched
honor, bless God and die."

We should be unjust to the memory of a man so
distinguished for consistency of character and fidelity
to principle, if we failed to note that these qualities
are congenial with the most generous appreciation of
political adversaries. He did not think that his party
allegiance demanded indiscriminate denunciation of
those who acknowledged another faith; he could be
loyal to his party without being disloyal to humanity;
he could vindicate his own creed without disparaging
the ability of those who attacked it; he could dissociate
the merits of an antagonist from the demerits of
his political doctrines. When we see sentiments
like the following, we cannot believe that the age of 
chivalry has entirely passed away:

"Mr. Webster is certainly a great man. We
should oppose him, wholly, heartily, and with all the
zeal of a firm conviction that his principles are hostile
to liberty. But we do not hesitate to call him a 
great man; a man of strong and capacious mind,
much information, vigorous powers of reasoning, and
an uncommon flow of stern and majestic eloquence.
He is greater as a lawyer than as a statesman; but in 
both characters he stands in the foremost rank. We
admire the energy of his faculties. When passages
of his speeches come before us, separate from a consideration
of the questions which elicited them, we
always peruse them with delight. The pleasure they 
afford us is but the involuntary homage which the 
mind pays to a superior intellect; but it changes, by 
a natural transition, to an opposite feeling, when we
are led to reflect upon the nature of the objects for
which he is exerting his abilities. Not to assist in
enfranchising his fellow-man; not to hasten that
glorious day-spring of equal liberty, which is beginning 
to dawn upon the world; not to spread wider and
wider the principles of democratic freedom, and 
break down the artificial and aristocratic distinctions,
which diversify the surface of society with such 
hideous inequalities, does Mr. Webster raise his
voice in the Senate-house. The dogmas of his political
creed, like the dogmas of an intolerant religion,
would confine the blessings of government, as the
latter would those of heaven, to an exclusive few,
leaving all the other myriads of men to toil and
sweat in a state of immitigable degradation. This
is the true end and aim of the aristocratic creed. 
This is the true and inevitable tendency of their
measures who contend for a national bank. This is
their open profession when they proclaim that property
is the proof of merit, and, by the unavoidable
converse, that poverty is the proof of unworthiness.
For those who acknowledge such sentiments and 
motives, Mr. Webster is the proper candidate. He
has talents and acquirements that must command respect;
his personal character is unimpeached; and
he has toiled long and strenuously in their service.
We are glad that they are about to do all in their
power to render a grateful return. The democracy
will now have something to contend against, as well
as something to contend for. There will be glory in
overthrowing such an antagonist, as well as great
gain in preserving the supremacy of their principles. 
With such an opponent as Harrison, we enter languidly
into the contest, as a task of mere duty; with
such a one as Webster, we shall rush into it eagerly,
as a matter of pride as well as patriotism."

Making every allowance which the most uncharitable
could desire for Mr. Leggett's errors of doctrine,
there still remains no ordinary residuum of merit, no
meagre claim upon the respect and admiration of his
contemporaries. In an age of selfish, insincere and
mercenary politicians, he stands out prominently as a
truth-loving, earnest, independent, magnanimous man.
His character will eventually triumph over detraction
—his virtues, "like precious odors, will be most fragrant
when they are incensed and crushed"—his name
will wrestle successfully with malice and oblivion—it
is written in ineffaceable letters upon the record of human
amelioration, and the dispirited reformer of the 
next age will frequently recur to it to stimulate his 
zeal and refreshen his patriotism. D.

Letters from the East.

No. II.

TANGIER, MOROCCO, September 6, 1841.

I have been much amused for several days past in 
watching the performances of the Jews who have
been celebrating the marriage of the daughter of my
next door neighbor—one of the wealthiest and most
respectable Jews of the place. As the street (which
is a narrow cul de sac) runs directly beneath my
house, I have had a fine opportunity of seeing, hearing,
and I may add smelling, too, the preparations
which have been made upon the occasion. It has
been a continual scene of feasting and jollity for almost
two weeks. The first part of the feast was
given by the old Jew in honor of the introduction of
his son into the synagogue, or rather of the ceremony
of putting the ten commandments upon his head.
Upon this occasion the father made a present of a
bible to the synagogue, a present which, as it is very
costly, none but the richest Jews can make, and 
which is an event therefore of no small importance.
The bible was exhibited in great state for several
days previously to being carried to the church. It was
written in the most beautiful and perfectly uniform
style, upon a long roll of parchment, composed of
pieces accurately joined, and lined on one side with
rich pink satin. At each end were rollers of wood
curiously carved and richly gilded. The whole, when
closely rolled upon one roller, made a volume about
a foot and a half in diameter, and three feet in height,
and was really quite a splendid affair. The cost of 
it was said to be five hundred dollars, most of which
is paid to the Rabbis for the writing. Such a present
is highly acceptable to the good fathers of the synagogue,
as they are not only enriched by the present
itself, but contrive to make a very respectable profit
in its manufacture.

The last week of the feast has been solely in honor 
of the young and pretty Jewess, who, as she has been
for some time quite an agreeable and intimate acquaintance
of mine, I can pronounce to have been
well deserving of all the profusion that her excellent
old father displayed. There was not a Jew in my
quarter of the town who could talk of anything else.
All were in perfect ecstacies of admiration at the
mountains of fowls, eggs, and couscoosoo, and the
oceans of aquadent of which every one who called
was forced to accept. Such a marriage had not been
seen in Tangier for some time, and many a poor fellow,
who had perhaps not tasted meat in six months,
got more than one full and hearty meal. Upon all
these occasions alms, in proportion to the magnificence
of the entertainment, are given to the poor, and one
cannot but enjoy a scene of the kind when he knows 
that it brings a short but substantial happiness to so
many.

The marriage ceremonies of the Jews are in some
minor and uninteresting particulars, peculiar to their
sect, but in general they very closely resemble those
of the Moors. I presume it would be rather a difficult 
inquiry to ascertain satisfactorily, precisely how
much of this resemblance is owing to the general
copying of many of the old Jewish customs by Mahomet
and his earlier disciples, and how much to the
gradual alterations of Jewish fashions under the influence
of the Moorish despotism, social as well as
political, to which they have been subject since their
ejection from Spain.

Two or three days since we had a grand Moorish 
marriage in the next street; the parties were not of
any great distinction, but they made as much noise as
if they had been a family of Bashaws; superadded to 
the continued melancholy chantings of the Jews,
there was plenty of instrumental music, consisting of
a bass drum and reed pipes, and night and day a
constant discharge of fire arms.

When a Moor wants a wife, as he is not allowed to
visit the young ladies and judge for himself, he generally
sends a mother or a sister to examine for him,
and to make the bargain. It most generally happens,
however, that he has a pretty good idea of his intended
from the recollections of boyhood, when he 
had abundant opportunities of seeing her before custom
compelled her ripening charms to assume the
concealing haick. When the affair is concluded upon,
the bargain is readily made by the parties interested,
before the Cadi. For eight days after, the bride remains
housed for company, when she receives visits 
of congratulation from all her friends, upon which
occasion it is said there is no small consumption of
aquadent or Jews brandy, to which scandal says the 
Moorish ladies are sadly addicted. The bridegroom
also keeps open house for his friends and if Mahomet
ever takes any notice of the doings of his most miserable
followers in the country, the way in which, on
such occasions, they obey his injunctions in relation to
strong drink, must be to him exceedingly curious.
The last day the bride is taken to her husband's house
in a cage, covered with linen or cotten cloth. A
large cortêge consisting of all the friends of both
families, some on foot, some mounted on horses,
mules and jack asses, all of them shouting, firing,
blowing reed trumpets, and beating drums, attend
the fair one on her way to her future home.

Arrived at the bridegroom's house, the bride is 
lifted over the threshold, and conducted to her room. 
The gentleman is also shut up in his apartment until 
evening, when he is liberated and conducted to the 
room of his wife, where he finds a female figure most 
elaborately painted, and as he thinks beautiful. Not 
anything of the original complexion can be seen. A 
brilliant scarlet is here and there laid upon a substantial 
white ground well rubbed in; the eye brows are 
painted black, and continued down the temples like a 
pair of whiskers. A strip of blue from the chin down 
the breast, and a blue point upon the end of the nose, 
together with several patches of the same color irregularly 
dispersed here and there, give an exceedingly 
picturesque appearance to the whole image. Thus 
beautified, the bride sits upon a carpet or cushion, behind 
a little table about a foot high upon which wax 
candles are burning. Her hands are held up level 
with her face, and at a little distance from it. Custom 
imperiously forbids that she should move or speak for 
three days—a very auspicious commencement for the 
groom of the marriage state, for so long at least the 
happy man has, without the slightest gesture or word 
of opposition, everything in his own way.

In no particular has my preconceived notions received 
a greater shock than in regard to the personal 
appearance of the Moorish ladies. 'T is true that that 
distinguished narrator, (navigator I should have said,) 
Captain Riley, has given us quite a vivid account of 
Arab ugliness; but then I was always disposed, considering 
the captain's unfortunate situation, to make 
due allowances for his account. A gentleman with 
nothing to eat, and compelled to resort to double, 
treble, and quadruple venal re-distillations for something 
to drink, cannot be supposed to be in a situation 
to admire the charms of the fair sex. A kind of 
indistinct notion of dark-eyed Moorish maids playing 
the xebec, and singing or sighing in orange bowers, 
or under silver-blossomed almond trees, with all the 
concomitants of roses, fountains, and nightingales, has 
been as completely wrecked as the gallant captain's 
vessel was upon Cape Bajador, and I am compelled to 
admit that his account of the female beauties of Wednoon 
answers also for the meridian of Tingitania. 
The dark-eyed maids have changed into ugly, fat, ill-formed 
damsels, with eyes black enough it is true, 
but with skins the color of dirty chalk, features without 
expression, and forms without grace; the xebecs 
have altered to a most diabolical kind of guitar, made 
of bladder stretched over bent pieces of bamboo; the 
fountains are nothing but puddles of filthy water, of 
which every house has half a dozen in its court or before 
its door; the nightingales are countless myriads 
of gaunt, half-famished dogs and cats; and the orange 
bowers, except so far as the fruit is concerned, are a 
most decided humbug. I have had abundant opportunities 
of seeing the finest specimens of the sex, not 
only in the town, but in the neighboring country. 
A Christian enjoys privileges in this respect which 
are not granted to the natives. When a Moor is in 
sight, their faces are closely veiled; but whenever they 

encounter a Christian alone they never have any hesitation 
in throwing back their haicks, and freely displaying 
their charms, especially those who have the 
most pretensions to beauty.

Although thus sadly disappointed in respect to the 
personal appearance of the Moorish ladies, I have 
to confess that on the other hand I have been agreeably 
disappointed by the striking beauty of some of 
the Jewesses. Generally speaking, the Jewish women, 
especially the young ones, are good looking; and some 
of them are, beyond comparison, the handsomest 
women in the world. The climate of this country 
seems to exert an injurious effect upon female beauty 
after a certain age, and there is hardly an instance of 
such a thing as a fine old woman; but plenty of specimens 
of beauty are to be found previous to the ages of 
twenty-five or thirty, particularly in the more southern 
provinces, which fully realize the wildest dreams 
of the soft, intellectual, and queen-like beauty of the 
maidens of Judah.

How much might even this beauty be improved, 
could a cultivated mind lend the aid of its expression 
to magnificent  features! The Jewish men are 
tolerably fair specimens of humanity; but they invariably 
acquire, before arriving at manhood, an expression 
of that meanness and cunning for which they are 
proverbial, and which, if not originally inherent in the 
national character, has been thoroughly ingrained in 
the course of ages of persecution and bondage.

The ignorance, superstition and bigotry of the Barbary 
Jews, is proverbial; the Jews of Morocco are 
perhaps the least enlightened of any in the world. 
The law of Moses, which is rather a tough rule of 
government as laid down in the Old Testament, is 
rendered fifty times as onerous by the constructive 
additions of the priests. More than seven hundred 
peccadoes, or sins, a Jew is liable to commit every day. 
Nothing but a thorough training from his youth up, 
and constant caution, can enable him to steer clear of 
infractions of the law. Ground down to the lowest 
stage of ignorance by the debasing influence of the 
ten thousand absurdities engrafted by a miserable 
priesthood upon their religious creed, and labouring 
under a political despotism which almost forces them 
to look back with envy to the days of their Egyptian 
servitude, it may be considered strange that they have 
preserved the semblance of manhood—that the physical 
degeneration has not kept more even pace with 
the debasement of mind.

In Tangier the Jews are not confined to a particular 
quarter of the city, as in other places, but are interspersed 
with the Moors. In all the other cities, 
there is a quarter walled off from the rest of the city 
in which none but Jews are allowed to reside. They 
have a governor or Cadi expressly for them. The gate 
is locked at night, and no Moor is suffered to intrude. 
By this means they are better protected from insult and 
ill-treatment, and their property is saved from private 
robbers, for the especial benefit of the Emperor and 
his servants, who are pretty sure to ultimately seize 
it themselves. There are some Jews who live in the 
country, and are very different in many of their habits 
from their brethren of the city. They mostly dwell 
in tents among the Berebler tribes of the mountains; 
each one chooses some Berebler for his patron and 
protector, and between them a close and interesting, 
but by no means servile relation, is maintained. They 
all go armed, a thing never attempted by the Jews 
of the cities—and they have a sense of independence, 
and a love of freedom which they share with their 
Berebler patrons, who have never been perfectly subjected 
to the imperial authority, but which is a stranger 
to the hearts of their more debased brethren. 
Had not the spirit of the Jews been entirely worn 
out by a long course of oppression, not only in this 
country, but extending so far back as their residence 
in Christian Portugal and Spain, some of the customs 
here would be extremely galling: for instance, no 
Jew is allowed to pass a mosque or saint-house without 
taking off his shoes, and as these holy places 
abound, they can hardly go the length of the city 
without having to perform the operation half a dozen 
times. Another custom is, if a Moor, when he steps 
out of his door in the morning, encounters a Jew, he 
immediately calls to him to approach; the Jew runs 
up, bends down his head, and the Moor hits him a 
thump across the back of his neck, at the same time 
damning him, his mother, and all his relations. The 
whole is done so quietly, so much as a matter of 
course, and with such an air of nonchalance on both 
sides, that it is really quite amusing. For such, 
and a thousand other insults and oppressions, the 
Jews think themselves repaid in their superior 
cunning, and in the adroitness with which they 
contrive to cheat their un-astute masters, notwithstanding 
their vigilance and cruelty. A Jew will 
endure any thing for money, and the same disposition 
makes them ready to do any thing to acquire 
it. Fortunately for them, and for humanity, certain 
customs which were heretofore in use have been abolished, 
or rather are not practiced to as much extent 
as formerly. In the reign of Muley Ishmael, it was 
the custom to select some man who was supposed to 
be wealthy, and put him up for sale to the highest 
bidder. The poor unfortunate wretch who was suspected 
of being rich, was generally a Jew, and there 
never was wanting some of his brethren who were 
ready to buy him. To the highest bidder the victim 
was delivered, who had a right to torture him until he 
disgorged enough to pay expenses and a fair profit on 
the purchase money. Windus, who accompanied the 
English embassy to the court at Mequinez in 1721, 
tells an interesting story of the kind. Memaran was 
chief favorite, and had sole command of the Jews—
but seeing Ben Hattar pushing himself forward, and 
fearing a rival in the Emperor's favor, he resolved 
to destroy him, and offered the Emperor a certain 
number of quintals of silver for his head: upon which 
the Emperor sent for Ben Hattar and told him that a 
sum of money had been bid for his head; to which 
Ben Hattar replied that he would give twice as much 
for the person who offered it. Whereupon the Emperor 
called them together, took the money from both, 
told them they were a couple of fools, and bid them 
be friends. Ben Hattar immediately married Memaran's 
daughter and between them both they exercised 
for a long time an absolute authority over the Jews. 

The same author records a letter from an English

334 THE NEW WORLD. [NOVEMBER 20, 1841.

merchant in Tetuan describing a scene of the kind.
The man was hanged by the heels, with irons upon
his legs, pincers upon his nose, his flesh cut with
scissors, and two men perpetually drubbing him and
demanding money. When the fellow was not able 
to speak, they renewed their blows; and this was a 
bought man that they gave five hundred ducats for,
and expected to get five hundred more. The present
squeezing system differs only from this in the fact
that it is done only on account of the Emperor and 
his agents; but it has the advantage of being more 
open and better provided against, and of not super-adding
to the lust of money the gratification of private 
hate.

Attached as the Jews are to their religious creed,
it is no very uncommon thing for them to become Mahomedans.
It is true that they generally soon repent
and endeavor to get out of the country, when
they immediately relapse. I have known several instances
of the kind since I have been here: one is a 
poor, miserable skeleton, hardly able to move, and 
whose only employment is to bask the live-long day 
in the sun before his door. He was detected in an
intrigue with a Moorish woman, and ordered a thousand
blows, with a flat stick or board, upon his abdomen—
a punishment equivalent to death. He received
five hundred, and turned Moor to save the balance.
He was, however, so much injured that he cannot
much longer survive. Another case is that of a rich
merchant at Rhabat; he had a quarrel with his wife 
and her relatives with respect to some money matters,
and to revenge himself he turned Moor. He 
seized his eldest boy, shut him up in a saint-house, 
shaved his head, and declared that he was a Moor 
also. Such an awful apostacy caused the utmost excitement
among the Jews. The Moors, particularly 
the lower class, like very much to make converts; 
but when once made, they look upon them with the 
utmost contempt. In this case the Bashaw, Cadi, and
other authorities, did not receive the new proselyte 
with much cordiality; and he soon found that he had 
paid rather dear for his revenge. A reconciliation 
was effected with his friends, and in application for 
a dispensation from his vows to Allah has been made 
to the Emperor, who probably, even if he is disposed 
cannot grant it, owing to the prejudices of the Moors. 
Should he, however, be allowed to return to his blace 
cap and slippers, (the distinguishing mark of the
Jews,) it will undoubtedly be at the expense of his
whole fortune.

In opposition to these cases I feel bound to relate
an affair which is enough to redeem the national
character from the reproach of a thousand such instances
of apostacy. It occurred a short time before
my arrival here, and has assumed an extraordinary
degree of interest for me from the fact that circumstances
have made me well acquainted with the parents
of the principal actor in the affair, from whom
I have repeatedly heard the minutest details. I will
simply give you the unexaggerated facts.

Solekah Hashual was a young girl thirteen years of
age, equivalent to sixteen or seventeen in our cold climate,
in mental as well as physical developement.
Her extreme beauty was the subject of universal remark,
and in particular attracted the observation of
an old Moorish woman, the next-door neighbor of her
parents. The ardent affection that the old woman
conceived for her beautiful acquaintance, it is supposed, 
originated an intense desire to convert her to
what was in her opinion the only true and saving
faith. Circumstances at length appeared to favor her 
designs. For some real or imaginary fault, Solekah
was threatened with punishment, to escape from
which she ran into the house of her Moorish friend
and invoked her protection. The old Moor thought
the opportunity too favorable to be lost. She instantly
repaired to the Cadi and made deposition that the
young Jewess had rushed into her house—had declared
herself a Mahomedan, and had invoked the
protection of Allah. Solekah was summoned before 
the Cadi, when she strenuously denied that she had
changed her religion, or that she had ever entertained
such a thought. The Cadi wrote to the Emperor a
statement of the case, and in the mean time Solekah
was imprisoned until an order should be received.
The Sultan ordered that she should be sent to him,
then at Mequinas, where he then held his court.
Upon her arrival she was assigned an apartment in
the Harem. Magnificent Moorish dresses were offered
her, which she rejected with disdain, declaring
all the time her adherence to the Jewish customs,
manners and law. Three several times she was summoned 
before the Emperor in open court, and, unsupported
by the sympathy and countenance of friends,
she boldly persisted in her denial of apostacy, although
she had the fullest assurances that nothing but
publicly embracing Islamism could save her life. The
third and last time she was ordered for execution.
She was instantly seized by the Moorish guards and
dragged amid a large concourse of Moors to the place 
of execution, outside the city walls. Arrived upon 
the fatal ground, renewed entreaties were used to
make her declare a belief in Allah, to which she replied
that the Jewish religion was the religion of her
forefathers; that for it they had suffered all manner
of persecution, and had died; and she did not see
why she should hesitate to sacrifice herself for a cause
in defence of which prophets and minstrels, and
mighty men had laid down their lives. To the Emperor
she said, in the hearing of all his courtiers and
guards, that his presents and his dresses were unbecoming
a Jewish maiden, and were she to wear them
they would be a curse to her soul. Upon being told
by the Emperor himself that she must acknowledge 
Mahomet or be decapitated, she replied that there
were none so ready to testify to the truth of her faith,
and none more fit than he to witness the deed of blood
that he proposed. Struck with admiration of her
beauty and her firmness, the Emperor left no means
untried to alter her resolution. At the last moment
the executioner, after making an incision in the back
of the neck, demanded if she would acknowledge
Allah and live. She firmly replied, "The God of
Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, is my God: I acknowledge 
no other." Her head was severed from
her body. The crowd of Jews who attended the
scene, excited to madness, forgot their usual cowardice
and caution. They rushed upon the Emperor's

guards, and although many were seriously wounded,
succeeded in rescuing the body of the unfortunate
Solekah, and it was buried by them in triumph a
short distance from Mequinas. She has justly, in
my opinion, been elevated to the dignity of saintship
with the Jews, all of whom consider her tomb a holy
place, and eagerly resort thither to offer up their
prayers.

Such is history of poor Solekah. I have given
the most literal interpretation of some of her replies
to her persecutors, and if you do not acknowledge
that, considering her age and education, she fully
equals any heroine of ancient or modern history, I
have only to say that the fault is mine—I have not
conveyed to you an adequate idea of her excellence.
Rebecca, the transcendent and beautiful being of 
Scott's imagination, has been, in my opinion, fully
equalled in her most lofty points of character by a 
simple, uneducated maiden of Tangier. The father
of the child has since died, and the poor old mother,
through excessive grief, has become blind. Strange 
to say, that the Moors, with an apparent perversity
of character, also regard the memory of this interesting
martyr with respect—so true it is that man, in his
most degraded state, has some chords which will vibrate 
responsive to the great, the noble and the good. 

The Literary World.

TO CORRESPONDENTS—We have received a letter,
inclosing a long puff of COL. TRUMBULL'S new work.
When the book is sent to us we shall notice it, and 
not before. If the author waits for his publishers to
be generous, he may wait till "the crack of doom."
It is not in them. 

THE WORKS OF FRANCIS BACON, a new edition, with a life
of the author, by Basil Montagu, 3 Vols. Carey & Hart, 
Philadelphia, 1841.

IF we wished to establish the fact that an immense
progress has recently been made in the intellectual
tastes of our countrymen, we should confidently point
to a remark in the advertisement of these volumes,
that this publication was justified by public sentiment.
Mr. Hallam had previously said of England, that more
persons have read Bacon within the last thirty years,
than in the two preceding centuries; but we confess,
with all our faith in the advancement of society, we
were disposed to regard the statement as an exaggeration. 
We are glad to be undeceived; we rejoice particularly 
that there are readers enough of the right
stamp among ourselves to induce enterprising publishers 
to undertake so large and valuable a work. It 
tells well for the condition of our literature and
philosophy, when books of sterling merit, such as a
few years since were confined to the colleges and
cloisters, are rendered accessible to the great majority 
of students. We hope Messrs. Carey & Hart, 
who have already furnished us with so many excellent
books, will persevere in the labor they have so successfully 
and honorably commenced.

But we hope, still more sincerely, that they will
find an encouragement to proceed, in the unstinted patronage 
of the public. We hope it, not on their 
account so much as for the sake of the public themselves. 
It cannot be concealed, that there has been, 
heretofore, too much inclination on the part of the
American mind to be satisfied with the more light
and frothy productions of genius. Sound and substantial 
learning has been compelled to give room to
trashy and worthless fiction; poor romances and 
worse poetry have usurped the place of useful science;
and a literature made up of the tag-rag and hat-bands
of meagre magazines and poverty-struck authors, has
stood us in stead of the noble, instructive and expanded
literature which becomes a civilized and refined people. 
Within the last few years, symptoms of a change
have discovered themselves; and we think we may 
hail the appearance of Bacon as he was hailed on his
first advent, as the harbinger of a glorious reform.
No writer could have been more appositely chosen to
usher in a new order of things, than he who was the
pioneer of the modern philosophical movement, who
laid the base of those sciences, whose structure later
research has reared into a magnificent and all-embracing 
temple.

Let us state briefly what these volumes contain.
There is the admirable life by Basil Montagu, written
with the warm attachment of a disciple who can see
nothing but excellence in his master; those noble and
eloquent essays, any one of which may be said to
contain thought and illustration enough to furnish a
modern volume; the meditationes sacræ, full of glowing 
piety; miscellaneous tracts on Human Philosophy, 
for shadowing the more elaborate discourses; apothegms, 
abounding in instruction and wit; the Advancement 
of Learning, which of itself would have
immortalized Bacon; civil histories of Elizabeth, 
Julius Cæsar, &c; the Sylva, or ten centuries of 
natural history; the Instauratio Magna, being that
deathless treatise on philosophical method which is
among the greatest of human productions; besides an
immense number of tracts, letters, judicial charges, 
speeches, miscellaneous essays and verses. Here one
would think is reading enough for years; reading on a 
variety of the most important subjects that can engage
human attention, in a style of surpassing vigor and
richness. Here are the accumulated treasures of a
long life of severe thinking. Here are the fruits of
many seasons of labor. Here the collected and digested 
experience of one of the largest of human
minds.

The character and genius of Bacon has been so fully
illustrated in the masterly essays of Macauley, that he
has left nothing to say to those who come after him;
as Johnson remarked of the followers of Shakspere,
we can only new-name his phrases and repeat his imagery. 
We have another reason for silence in regard
to his character, suggested by the monition of Gray, in
another application, that we would not seek

"To draw his frailties from their dread abode,"

although we must observe that reverence for his greatness 
inclines us toward the milder view of his vices
taken by Montagu, than to the harsher and sterner
one of Macauley. He acted in a manner unworthy
of his nature and noble endowments; we regret the

fact, but, with many other disagreeable things, we
willingly let it perish in our memory. We can only
regard him as one of the master-intellects of the race.
His deeds have passed away with the occasions that
gave rise to them; but the fruits of his thought have
a perennial and deathless glory. He was a man on
whom GOD had showered the choicest gifts of the mind;
he was a student, whose penetrating curiosity the
whole world of knowledge lay open as a book; he
was a philosopher, who laid the foundation of all true
science; a reformer, he stepped like a Hercules
among the abuses of law and learning; and a Christian, 
he bowed his mighty spirit in humble penitence
before the throne of the Most High. In the remembrance 
of these munificent endowments, we forget
that he mingled in the intrigues of courts—that in
troubled times, surrounded by base men, he for a season 
lowered the dignity and virtue of his life. He
lives only in his books. His high thoughts, his expansive 
learning, his glowing eloquence, are all that
is left us; and we accept them gratefully as the noblest 
monuments of human wisdom and accomplishment—
the richest legacy that could be bequeathed to
man. "I have held up light," said he, with a sublime 
self-reliance, "in the obscurity of philosophy, 
which will be seen centuries after I am dead." In
imitation of eastern devotedness, we bow down in
worship of the light, not caring to inquire as to the
clouds and mists that enveloped its rising.

But let us be understood. We do not mean to acquit 
Bacon: no man can look with more disgust upon
his vices than we do. His servile meanness in early 
life—his base retraction of words offensive to a Queen,
whom he as basely flattered—his childish longing
for titles and honors—his heartless treachery toward
Essex—his shameful overtures of reconciliation to
Southampton, the friend of the executed Essex—his
execrable cruelty in the torture of Peachem—his venal
prostitution of his office as Lord Keeper—his humiliating 
apologies to Buckingham—his tampering with
judges—his repeated acceptance of bribes—his paltry
manœuvres to hide his disgrace—and, finally, his long
delayed and ungraceful confessions of guilt, are things,
however they may be justified or palliated, that fill us,
as they must fill every honest mind, with the strongest 
contempt. Yet they are things that we reluctantly 
revive. We think that it is better they were consigned 
to oblivion. Human history is too much 
blackened with records of crime and corruption to
need that the misdeeds of its brightest ornaments
should be kept alive. It gives us no pleasure to be
told of the short-comings of those we wish to reverence 
and respect. We prefer rather to dwell upon
those qualities which raise them above the accidents
of time. The scandal of literature should be left, like
the scandal of society, to feeble intellects and grovelling 
hearts. We wish the great luminaries of all ages
to create in us other emotions than those of aversion
and scorn. They have contributed to strengthen our
intellects—to expand our sympathies—to nourish our
best feelings—to furnish us with beautiful images—
to refresh us with lovely sentiments—to give additional 
charms to our existence—and only in this character, 
in the aspect of benefactors, do we care to retain 
the lively recollection of their history.

Mr. Macauley has so well unfolded the reasons of
an attachment to men, great in letters and the fine
arts, that we find in his own eloquent language, the
best defence of the extraordinary tenderness with
which we are all disposed to treat their vices. "The 
world" he says, "derives pleasure and advantage
from the performances of such a man. The number
of those who suffer by his personal vices is small,
even in his own time, compared with the number of
those to whom his talents are a source of gratification. 
In a few years, all those whom he has injured
disappear. But his works remain and are a source of
delight to millions. The genius of Sallust, is still
with us. But the Numidians whom he plundered,
and the unfortunate husbands who caught him in their
houses at unseasonable hours, are forgotten. We
suffer ourselves to be delighted with the keenness of
Clarendon's observation, and by the sober majesty of
his style, till we forget the oppressor and the bigot in
the historian. Falstaff and Tom Jones have survived 
the game-keepers whom Shakspere cudgelled, and
the landladies whom Fielding bilked." "The debt
which a man owes, to the great minds of former
ages, is incalculable. They have guided him to
truth. They have filled his mind with noble and
graceful images. They have stood by him in all
vicissitudes, comforters in sorrow, nurses in sickness,
companions in solitude. These friendships are exposed 
to no danger from the occurrences by which
other attachments are weakened or dissolved. Time
glides by; fortune is inconstant; tempers are soured;
bonds which seem indissoluble are daily sundered by
interest, by emulation, or by caprice. But no such
cause can affect the silent converse which we hold
with the highest of human intellects. That placid
intercourse is disturbed by no jealousies or resentments. 
These are the old friends who are never seen
with new faces, who are the same in wealth and in
poverty, in glory and in obscurity. With the dead
there is no rivalry. In the dead there is no change. 
Plato is never sullen. Cervantes is never petulent.
Demosthenes never comes unseasonably. Dante
never stays too long. No difference of opinion can
alienate Cicero. No heresy can excite the horror of
Bossuet." Certainly for services of this kind, with 
attractions like these, it were a petty malevolence
which could desire to dwell upon the stains by which
the personal conduct of such immortal spirits may
have been disfigured!

Few men are not informed of the eminence of 
Bacon in the walks of philosophy, yet few have
formed any adequate conception of the extent of his
attainment in all the departments of knowledge. His
philosophical studies were the pursuits of his leisure
hours, moments withdrawn from more active employment 
to be devoted to the culture of a favorite object.
He was the jurist, the statesman, and the courier, as
well as the man of science. He discharged the duties of
a laborious profession; he made masterly speeches in
parliament; he delivered profound opinions on the 
abstrusest topics of law and politics; he wrote histories; 
he composed versions of the Psalms and books
of jests; his private correspondence was extensive;

he observed minutely the operations of the natural
world; he investigated the causes of the most striking
phenomena; but in the midst of the whole, he still
found time to elaborate dissertations on Philosophy,
so comprehensive, so original, so thorough, so full of
practical wisdom, and so earnestly and impressively
expressed, that they raised him, among his contemporaries,
to the rank of the most brilliant and solid
thinker of his age, and endeared him to posterity as
one of its noblest benefactors. His name, according
to the language of his will, he left to foreign nations
and to other times, and foreign nations and other
times will long continue to cherish it.

POEMS BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. Harper & Brothers: New
York.

The volume before us contains many of Mrs. Sigourney's
latest compositions. We have perused them all
with great pleasure, and found many of them surpassingly
beautiful. There breathes in every line the evidence
of deep feeling, refined sentiment, and a gentle
and hopeful religion. Her thoughts seem to fall into
verse, so little appearance do they display of labor or
elaboration. Her philosophy is of the happiest description,
and her heart overflows with the philanthropy
of a benevolent nature. The poem of "Pocahontas"
exhibits all the leading characteristics of her
style; now graceful and tender; anon contemplative
and sad. She does not exhibit much power, yet
there is the force of deep earnestness, in most of her
poems, that makes a lasting impression upon the reader's
mind. We would willingly have made a selection
of one of her short poems, to present to our readers,
but Mrs. Sigourney's fame has been extended
over Europe, and her poems are familiar friends in
every home circle of her own country; besides it
would be absurd to select for its beauty one sweet
flower, when all in the wreath have some peculiar
charm to endear them. We cordially recommend
this little volume to the public.

SCANDINAVIA—Ancient and Modern; being a History of Denmark,
Sweden, and Norway; comprehending a description
of these countries; an Account of the Mythology,
Government, Laws, Manners, and Institutions of the Early
Inhabitants; and of the present state of Society and Literature,
Arts, and Commerce; with Illustrations of ther Natural
History—By Andrew Crichton, L. L. D., and Henry
Wheaton, L. L. D.

The antiquarians of Northern Europe have been 
particularly active during the last half century, in
illustrating the early history, &c. of the Scandinavian
kingdoms; and this has been especially the
case in Denmark. Dr. Wheaton, who appears as one
of the authors of this work, and represented this
country for several years at the Court of Copenhagen,
engaged in these researches with much zeal; and
has given us the results of his inquiries in these volumes,
and in his History of the Northmen. Dr.
Crichton is also known as an accomplished writer,
and has examined the subject of Northern history
with great attention. With these advantages, we
have here, as might have been expected, a work of
uncommon interest. There is an excellent map of
Denmark, Sweden, and Norway, and a number of
engravings illustrative of scenery.

THE ROSE, OR AFFECTION'S GIFT, for 1842, edited by Emily
Marshall, D. Appleton & Co. 200 Broadway.

This is one of the highest order of annuals for children.
It is illustrated with ten highly finished steel
engravings. It is exquisitely printed. The letterpress,
both prose and poetry, seem to be of a much
superior character to what is usually found in tasteful
gift-books of this description. It is neatly bound in
morocco.

MRS. MARCH'S SEASONS:

This is the general title of four pretty and entertainment 
works for children, just published by Lea and 
Blanchard, of Philadelphia. They are Winter, Spring,
Summer and Autumn. These are tastefully adorned
with wood-cuts, and cannot fail to be received with
great favor by the juvenile community.

REVIEW OF E. F. HATFIELD'S "UNIVERSALISM AS IT IS"—By
T. J. Sawyer. New-York: P. Price, 130 Fulton-st. 1 vol.
duo. pp. 220.

This is a work of controversial character, interesting
to theologians, by a distinguished member of the
Universalist denomination. Mr. Sawyer's style is
clear and terse; and, judging from this work, we
should think him well entitled to the high character
which he sustains.

GRIVILLE, OR A SEASON IN PARIS—By Mrs. Gore, authoress of
"The Dowager," "The Peeress," etc. In two volumes,
Philadelphia: Lea & Blanchard.

This novel, like all of Mrs. Gore's productions,
whether appearing in books or in periodicals, is very
interesting and well worthy of a perusal. Her dialogues
are lively and natural; her characters happily
imagined and well drawn, and her manner of narration
attractive.

THE OLD OAK TREE, by the author of "John Hardy," "The
Footman," &c. New York: D. Appleton & Co.

This is one of the works published under the direction
of the Committee of General Literature and
Education, appointed by the society for promoting
Christian knowledge. Its object is to convey Scriptural
history, and truths in so pleasing and familiar a
style as to impress them on the youthful mind. It is
rendered attractive by some beautiful wood-cuts.

THE JUVENILE MATERIALIST, OR WALKS IN THE COUNTRY, by
the Rev. B. H. Draper—Autumn and Winter. New York:
D. Appleton & Co. 200 Broadway.

One of those excellent books for the young, which
impart instruction in the most delightful manner.
The frontispiece is a delicate engraving, by Charles
Heath, and the other illustrations are more than commonly
pleasing. We recommend this volume to the
examination of parents and other instructors.

THE VIOLET, A CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR'S GIFT, for 1842.
Philadelphia: Cory & Hart.

This is an annual for children. It is embellished
by eight elegant illustrations from engravings on
steel. The frontispiece, "The Boy and his Bird," is
very soft and beautiful. The literary is for the most
part selected from recent English works of this character,
and is well adapted to the tastes of youthful
readers.

NOVEMBER 20, 1841.] THE NEW WORLD. 335

Mr. Israel Post, 88 Bowery, has sent us the
fifth number of the American Magazine; the third
number of the Young People's Book, and the second
number of the People's Library. They are all embellished
with appropriate and pleasing engravings on 
steel and wood.

The contents of the American Magazine are mostly
original, and are of a cast similar to those which are
published in the English Penny Magazine.

The Young People's Book, besides its usual quantity
of wood-engravings, contains several engravings
on steel, handsomely executed, which are memorials
of Washington.

In the People's Library, James's admirable novel,
"The Ancient Regime," is concluded, and "The
Confessions of Harry Lorriquer" begun.

LITTELL'S MUSEUM OF FOREIGN LITERATURE.—
We have been somewhat remiss in thanking the excellent
publisher of the Museum for his attention in
sending us, every month, his valuable and entertaining
periodical. The number for November is before us.
Like its predecessors, it contains a body of useful and
agreeable reading, well selected from a great variety
of foreign sources.

The Musical World.

MR. KNOOP'S CONCERT.—The great room at the
City Hotel was well filled, by the most respectable and
influential families in the city, on Friday evening. The
programme exhibited more than the usual quantity of
attraction; for, in addition to those artists whose names
and reputation have become well known and highly
appreciated by the New York public, Madame Zahn-Spohr,
the daughter of the celebrated composer of
that name, was announced to make her first appearance 
in this country, and to sing some new songs
written by her father. Unfortunately, however, for
the public expectation, this lady was too ill to sing,
and one feature, probably the great feature of the
evening, was unavoidably withdrawn. Sufficient attraction
was however left, to compensate the utmost
demands for expenditure.

The concert commenced with a duet from Somnambula,
Prendi l'anel ti dono, sung by Signora Borgese
and Signor Antognini. It was well sung by the
Signora, who exhibited considerable feeling, and subdued
much of her exaggeration of style. She gave due
effect to the impassioned sentiment of the music, and 
still kept within the bounds dictated by Nature, unsophisticated
by Art, whose rules, according to the
reading of the ultra-Italian schools, seem to be to
disguise and exaggerate nature as much as possible.
Signor Antognini sung his portion of the duet exquisitely.
His was the singing of the heart, the gush of
intense and natural feeling; passion, not expressed
by unmeaning roulades and distorted cadenzas, but
by a plain, straight-forward, but deeply impressive
simplicity. It is in vain that we endeavor to deceive
ourselves into a wondering admiration of the beauties
of brilliant execution—of course we mean when
not set down by the author—of tours de force, which
leave both us and the singer breathless; the deception
ends at once, on the appearance of one strain
bearing the impress of earnest truthfulness. "One
touch of nature makes the whole earth kin." And
so it is in everything; false glitter, and meretricious
ornament, may attract and delight the senses for
awhile, but touch the heart with but one spark of
kindred feeling, and reason resumes its power and
throws off the unworthy enchantment. Such was
the effect made by Signor Antognini's singing. Our
feelings bowed obedient to its spell, and even after its
force had somewhat subsided, the impression that
remained was one of unqualified delight.

Mr. Knoop, on his appearance, was most warmly
received. His great genius has won for him already,
in this country, a lasting and honorable reputation,
and a host of friends. He has approached as near to
perfection upon his instrument as any living performer,
and nearer than any who have preceded him. His excellencies
may be summed up thus; His tone, to speak
technically, is pure, full, and deep; his execution is
clear, true, and brilliant; his stopping is perfect;
his style is classically pure, and his sentiment and
feeling is that of a true musician. Calm and collected,
from the conscious possession of power, the difficulties
of that beautiful instrument, the violincello, are conquered
by him without the slightest appearance of
exertion or labor. The stolidity of deportment which
has been so absurdly complained of, is the consequence
of a perfect mastery of mechanical difficulties
and does not arise from any want of soul. This
cannot be doubted for a moment by any one who has
heard, and can appreciate the moving pathos of
his adagios or melodies. There breathes in them
the very incarnation of deep and passionate sentiment
—melting, but healthy—not morbid and 
maudlin.

It would be impossible to trace out in our necessarily
circumscribed space, the character and beauties
of each piece; we can only generalise. As vehicles
for displaying his power we prefer the first and third
pieces (at the end of the third we left) in these were
crowded almost every difficulty, and every effect, that
the instrument is capable of, and the whole were
given with the minutest attention to musical coloring,
the light and shade, which is the very soul of a 
performance. There was a legato variation, in, we
think, the last piece, which was, to our judgment, the
gem of the performance. A perfect legato movement,
whether it be on the voice or on instruments, is a
difficulty but seldom completely overcome. Mr.
Knoop performed it admirably. The Duett concertante
of Reissiger was well performed and pleased us
highly. His abstaining from the use of the Portamento
excepting for the purpose of producing a striking effect,
may also be ranked as a high beauty. On the whole we
pronounce Knoop, as a performer, of the highest order
of excellence, and recommend him warmly wherever
he goes, to the liberal patronage of musicians and
amateurs, and to all who can admire and appreciate
the great talents he possesses.

Signora Eufrasie Borghese, sung Rossini's De Piacer;
and we regret to say, that a worse exhibition of singing
we never heard. Every one knows that Rossini's 
music is naturally very ornate, but the Signora piled

ornament upon ornament, until the decorations over
loaded the structure, and both were destroyed. Added
to the crime of bad taste, much of the execution was
badly performed, and her voice was evidently unequal
to the cavatina, for she shouted and labored to such a
degree, that it became painful and intolerable to the
ear. This lady decreases in our estimation each time
that we hear her; we know not to what to attribute the
rapid vitiation of her singing, but that her style does
become worse on each performance, is evident to every
one. We greatly regret that such is the case, for we
hoped better things from her.

Why does M. Voizel thrust himself forward to accompany
this lady whenever she sings? His playing
is miserably bad, and cannot add to the attraction of
any concert.

We feel half inclined to find fault with Signor Antognini,
on the score of the bad taste he exhibits in the 
selection of his music. He threw away, absolutely
threw away, all his fine singing upon the ineffective and
trashy stuff of Donnizetti. Why does he not select
something classical? The distinguished audience
that was present on Friday evening, would have perfectly
appreciated better music; we will not rest
until our concerts are composed of such music, as is
calculated to refine the taste, and give an intellectual
tone to the entertainment. Do singers suppose, that
apart from their singing, there is no pleasure to be
found in music? Do they suppose that if they were to 
sing "Jim Crow," with approved Italian embellishments,
that it would pass current with a New York
audience? We assure them that it would not, and
we warn them that their present selection shall not
pass by the notice of the press, without strong and
incessant reprobation.

Mr. Rakeman played Reissiger's Concertante Duett
with Mr. Knoop, very charmingly. His light and
brilliant tone, articulated every passage with perfect
distinctness. The weakness of his left hand, however,
renders his playing somewhat unequal.

A fine piano-forte player is not necessarily a good
accompanyist. It requires much experience to accompany
the voice successfully. We missed the
masterly hand of Mr. Timm on Friday evening. If
any thing can lessen our regret for the absence of the
full orchestra, it is the confidence and pleasure we feel
when we see Mr. Timm's name attached to the bills
as conductor. He supports the voice, at the same
time remembering that he is to play up the singer,
and not to make his part the feature. We do not
wish to draw comparisons to the disadvantage of Mr.
Rakeman, for we esteem and admire him, therefore we
premised the well known fact, that fine playing does
not pre-suppose good accompanying. They are distinct
departments of the profession, and require alike
practice and experience.

We trust that Madame Zahn-Spohr will speedily
recover and satisfy the curiosity of the public by an
early appearance.

NEW MUSIC.—"My Repose is Fled."—The poetry
by Joseph L. Chester, Esq., composed by W. J.
Wetmore. A "singable" little ballad. It disappoints
us at the end of the first page; preparation is evidently
made to modulate into the dominant, but it
returns to the tonic by a most unpleasant cadence.
The composer should pay more attention to his accompaniments:
there is much to cavil at. The
words are pretty, and tell a simple tale of a maiden's
first love. The ballad has a lithograph title.

"Tell Me, ye Winged Winds."—Poetry by Charles
Mackay, Esq., music by Cipriano Corrin. This
song in its melody is very superior to the usual run
of ballads, being flowing and popular, yet not commonplace.
In some parts, the accompaniments
evince a want of care and attention to rule, that we
should advise Mr. Corrin to revise, should the song
reach a second edition. The two E's in the last line
but one of the second symphony, should be G in each
case, and should resolve to F# and D above the staff
in the bass. The harmony at present is poor, and
the skip to the common chord, of which the fifth
should have been omitted is unartistlike. The poetry
is very good, and altogether the song is very pleasing.
These songs are published by Millett, Broadway.

"The Miniature."—Written by G. P. Morris,
composed by Joseph Phillips Knight. The ballad is
very pretty, both in words and music. The music is
like most of Knight's songs, clever and still simple;
the harmonies full and the melody good. The poetry
is by General G. P. Morris, and of a light and arch
character. The success depends entirely upon the
emphasis given to certain words. The title page is
new, and very handsome. This song has become
popular, and young ladies wil[?] find it more than repay
them for perusal.

"Gertrude."—The music arranged by the Hon.
Lady B. The words of this ballad are very good, full
of pathos, and telling an affecting tale. The music 
is catching, but cannot boast of much merit. The
song has a lithographed title page representing a ship
in a storm, with its attendant horrors.

"The Rover's Bride."—Poetry by Thos. Haynes
Bayley, Esq Music by Alexander Lee. The name
of the author warrants the excellence of the poem,
and the music is popular in its character, and owns
considerable merit. These songs are published by
Hewitt and Jacques.

The World of Art.

APOLLO ASSOCIATION.—NO. 9. Landscape with
figures, painted by Lucatelli. The coloring is natural
and well contrasted; the introduction of the figures is
good, and the feeling classical; the design is chaste;
the distance is well kept, and over all there is an air
of calm repose that is refreshing to the eye.

NO. 10. Landscape, painted by D. Huntington.
Well designed; the gorgeous light of the sky well
contrasted with the depth of the valley; but the coloring
throughout is affected and unnatural We would
not wish to be considered as condemning the picture
wholly, for there is much merit in it. But the artist,
in endeavoring to imitate closely the varied tints of 
nature, has run into extremes, and exaggerated that
which is so strong in reality as to be unfit to be transferred
to the canvass, without softening down. We
do not doubt but that the artist has observed the very

appearance that he has given in the picture before us;
but we doubt the propriety of transferring the effect
exactly as he saw it. How many gorgeous effects of
Nature do we daily see; but how few of these would
the mass recognize for truth, when presented to them
in a painting. The truth of our remarks is forcibly
illustrated in the cases of Turner, Mulready and Etty.
Few men have done more for the art, as their many
grand and noble works attest; but no men have been
more criticised and condemned than they have been;
not because they did not paint what they saw, but because
they painted all they saw. We allow much in
nature that we reject in art.

NO. 11. View on the Hudson, Jersey City in the
distance—Painted by W. J. Bennett. A very pleasing
picture; the water admirably painted—pellucid
and flowing; the shadows aqueous; the boats float
well, and the distribution of light very effectively
managed.

NO. 12. Portrait of an Artist—Painted by G. P. A.
Healey. A fair portrait; flesh tints something resembling
flesh, but the head seems only held on to the
body by means of the stock. The figure is heavy and
common-place; there is a total want of atmosphere;
the back ground comes close to the frame.

NO. 13. Portrait of a Gentleman—E. Mooney.
The same faults as the preceding, with the additions
that the flesh is ghastly and glaring, and the position
forced and stiff. There is a total want of masterly
treatment about these portraits; the whole of their
detail is summed up in these few words—A white
face and a black coat. Contrasts certainly!

NO. 14. The Prelude—Painted by G. O. Copy
from an engraving—see Comer's Piano-forte Instruction
Book. This is really a very dreadful picture.
It is associated with the remembrance of those days
when our patient preceptors endeavored to instil into
our minds the theory of music—when, in short, we
were "learning the rudiments." Those were indeed
days of torture, and as we gaze upon this picture, the
horrible recollection returns with full force. There is
a sad want of harmony in the coloring; the straight-lined
shadow on the back of the lady, gives to the
shoulder the appearance of a delicate hand of nice
white pork. That shadow, by the by, appears to be a
continuation of the green dress.

NO. 15. The Artist's Conversazione; containing
Portraits of all the American Artists in Paris, in
March, 1841—T. P. Rossiter. If all these figures 
are portraits, the American Artists must be a highly
favored race, for all in the picture are dashing handsome
fellows. There is much merit in this picture;
but there are many faults. The grouping is good;
but the dresses of the figures exhibit every known
color or combination. This is preposterous. In
groups like this under consideration, the chief difficulty
is to keep the figures from straggling, and to 
prevent the eye from wandering; to make each figure
subservient to the principal focus or light, and this
the artist has achieved most effectively. The introduction
of the female figure kneeling in the foreground,
and throwing a shadow on the otherwise unbroken
mass of white table-cloth, is a masterly thought
and well-executed. The other female figure, in the
back-ground, is also a happy introduction, and a sweet
creation. There are many straight, unbroken lines,
which are offensive to the eye; but, on the whole, the
picture pleases.

NO. 16. View of Prattsville, Green county, N. Y.
—Painted by D. Huntington. This is a very charming
landscape. The design is broad and comprehensive,
and the colouring natural and effective. The
varied tints caused by the intervening clouds are very
admirably transferred to the canvass. The introduction
of the figure in the foreground, looking into the
abyss below, is a happy thought, and conveys a sense
of depth that otherwise might not have been so perceptible.
The distance is well carried out, and the
apparent presence of atmosphere gives an appearance
of life to the whole scene. This picture is a clever 
transcript of a most lovely scene.

NO. 17. Landscape.—Painted by Jesse Talbot.
There is some good colouring in this picture, but the
subject is scarcely important enough to form a picture
of itself. It would have made a pretty corner in a
larger work. There is little interest in the scene,
and it is as flat as the canvass on which it is painted.

NO. 18. Portrait of the Hon. Thomas Ewing, late
Secretary of the Treasury—painted by E. D. Marchant
A good portrait; the coloring natural and forcible,
and the expression well preserved.

NO. 19. Portrait of a Lady—painted by E. D. Marchant.
Well painted and effective.

NO. 20. Portrait of a Lady—painted by E. D. Marchant.
A very pleasing and naive portrait. It is well
painted, but we object to the bonnet. Were the
scene in the open air; in a garden, riding, or walking,
it would be well enough, but the lady is evidently 
sitting for her portrait, and appears to be seated in a
house, and people do not usually keep their bonnets
on in a house. This is bad taste. It will, to be sure,
carry the prevailing fashion of bonnets in 1841, down
to posterity, but we fear that it will soon be voted
ancient. The picture is in other respects pleasing.

NO. 21. View on Seneca Lake—painted by A.
Richardson. A picture possessing no particular merit
or glaring defects. The best point in it is, where the
water joins in the distance, the road that runs by its
side.

NO. 22. Portrait of a Lady—painted by Owen, R.
A. A most exquisite painting. The countenance is
in itself beautiful, simple, calm, contemplative, and
evincing much natural and intellectual dignity.
How admirable is the coloring of the flesh! From
the bust to the brow, every gradation of color bears
the stamp of perfect truthfulness to nature. The eyes
are liquid and speaking, and with the hair are excellently
painted. The waist, below the bust, appeared 
to us out of proportion to the rest of the figure, but
otherwise the drawing is perfect, and the whole is
evidently the work of a master hand, guided by a 
fine intellect. The man speaks in the work. It is
not the close copying of certain features, though the
likeness may be faithful that form the fine portrait;
it is the imparting to the face a certain nameless
grace, an expression of intellectual refinement of soul,
that betrays the great artist. It is the offspring of a
perfect appreciation of the beautiful, and unless that

principle is inherent in the mind of the artist, it will
never appear in his works.

CYCLOPÆAN MARBLE BRIDGE.—A marble bridge
is being built which is to unite Venice to the main
land, adjoining the railroad to Milan. The person
under whose direction this gigantic work proceeds,
is the engineer Antonio Busetti. Within the bridge
an acqueduct is led, to bring fresh water to the city.
Venice is without wells or fountains, and has but few
cisterns. Hitherto the water used for drinking has
been brought from the main land.

The Dramatic World.

"OLD MAIDS."

Sheridan Knowles's new piece was played at the
Park Theatre on Monday evening. As an acting 
play, it must be pronounced a failure. It wants both
plot and incident. The language is sometimes beautiful,
and, when spoken correctly, it falls agreeably
upon the ear. But, apart from this, and a piece of
spirited acted between Lady Anne and Lady Blanche,
its effect upon us, and evidently upon the audience,
was tedious. The whole play, having been placed
before the public in two or three contemporaneous
journals, it is not requisite for us to describe it—
enough if we treat of the manner in which it was
performed.

"OLD MAIDS" was probably as well cast as a 
piece can be, in the present state of the company at
the Park Theatre. It lamentably betrayed the poverty
of the Manager's resources. Take away the
Misses Cushmans, Mrs. Wheatley, Mrs. Pritchard, Mr.
Chippendale, and Mr. Wheatley, and no one is left at
all fit to figure in the comedy. Messrs. Frederick, (Colonel
Blount) and Williams (Robert) were bad beyond
expression. They butchered with a most unaccountable
ferocity the fine lines of the author. They appeared
to have no more idea of blank verse than serenading
cats have of the harmony of the spheres. Mr.
Fredericks simply cut and slashed and hacked; Mr.
Williams murdered outright, drew and quartered.
The exhibition was shocking, and had Knowles been
present it would have driven him stark mad. Let no
one do him the injustice to suppose that either of
these performers spoke one of his verses, or that they
represented the characters which he painted. Mr.
Fredericks was most lugubrious—an itinerant
preacher, in the ecstacy of his cant, was never more
direfully dull. He was a stock in action, and a bore
in conversation. Our wonder was, how so gay, witty
and sensitive a personage as Lady Blanche could for a 
moment "affect" one, whose fine sentiments were
hidden by a crust of rudeness and stupidity. The disgust
entertained of Colonel Blount ought, however,
not to be attributed entirely to the performer. He
is one of those heroes, whose prototypes exist only
in the realm of imagination:

"A faultless monster that the world ne'er saw."

a virtuous Joseph Surface, talking blank verse, (which
Mr. Fredericks did not.) Pretending not to praise
himself, he continually indulges in the grossest displays
of egotism. Aspiring to be a gentleman, he 
is guilty at times of unbearable insolence. The
good points in the character were entirely shrouded
by Mr. Fredericks, and the bad ones brought into
most lamentable relief.

Of Mr. Williams we have not the patience to
speak further: his acting was execrable; he was alternately
a clown and a boor; he was even worse—
and that we thought impossible—than in the character
of Gay Spanker.

Mr. Chippendale (John Blount) always plays well.
He had not very closely studied his part, but he
pleased the audience. Mr. Wheatly (Sir Philip Brilliant)
played with propriety. This young man is
studious and attentive, and will yet attain high honors
in his profession. Mrs. Wheatley, (Dame Blount)
was, as she uniformly has been, excellent. Mrs.
Pritchard (Jane)—one of the prettiest women on the
stage—was correct and graceful. But the piece
of "Old Maids" was saved from utter reprobation,
only by the acting of the Misses Cushmans.

Miss Cushman (Lady Blanche) exhibited none of
that lack of lady-like deportment which we noticed
in portions of her generally spirited acting of Lady
Gay Spanker in London Assurance. She was well
versed in her part, had evidently studied it, understood
it thoroughly, and impersonated the conceptions
of the dramatist. She was rarely at fault in
the language, and was always correct and spirited in
action. She dressed handsomely. In the scenes,
when she appears in the garments of "the opposite
sex," as Washington Irving says, she elicited very
cheerful and well-merited applause. It was, in fact,
a most pleasant recreation in the dull business of
the piece.

Her performance, however, was in no manner
superior if equal to that of her sister, Miss S. Cushman,
("dear Lady Anne.") A careful comparison of her
reading with the text could detect no error. It was,
moreover, not less distinguished for propriety of emphasis
and clearness of enunciation than for exactness.
The poetry of the author, beautiful as it seems
when read in the fair type of the English copy, acquired
a new charm from her sweet and flowing
elocution. We have always entertained a favorable
opinion of this young lady's powers as an actress;
and that opinion was much strengthened on Monday
evening. Her gestures and motions were becoming
and graceful—and they were often expressive of deep
feeling and force. She looked the part to the life,
and deported herself with the ease of a high-bred
woman. These compliments are paid because they
are merited; for the whole burden of the play rested
on the shoulders of Lady Anne and Lady Blanche.
Without them it would hardly have been heard
through, even by an audience most beneficently disposed
to be indulgent.

BOWDOIN COLLEGE.—By the catalogue of officers
and students for the year 1841, this excellent institution 
seems to flourish under the Presidency of the
learned and able Leonard Woods. It numbers 172
under graduates. The total necessary expenses of
each student for a year is $139,50.

336 THE NEW WORLD. [NOVEMBER 20, 1841.

Patchwork, 

DEATH OF BISHOP MOORE.—For a week past has 
this community, and particularly that of the Episcopal 
Church, been kept in a state of anxiety, in consequence 
of the dangerous illness of the Right Rev. 
Richard Canning Moore, (Bishop of this Episcopal 
Diocese,) in Lynchburg, where he had gone to discharge 
a service connected with his ministerial station. 
This anxiety was merged into deep distress on 
Saturday evening, by the information of his death, 
which took place Friday morning last, in Lynchburg. 

His remains were brought in the boat that conveyed 
intelligence of his demise. The event has sorely 
afflicted his church—the loss of so good, so venerable
a minister, may well bear heavily upon its members; 
but the dispensation which so afflicts them imparts 
sorrow throughout this whole community; for everybody 
regarded the aged man of God with no ordinary 
feelings of veneration and attachment. For more 
than fifty years has he filled the station of a minister
in the Episcopal Church, and no prelate ever engrossed 
a greater share of the love of those whose 
spiritual welfare he had in charge. In his intercourse 
with our citizens, his simplicity, his bland and gentle 
manner, his kind-heartedness, and the unaffected dignity 
of his deportment, commanded the respect and 
love of all. No one could see the aged Bishop moving 
along our streets with his old fashioned and becoming 
dress, his silvering locks streaming over his 
shoulders, and his countenance beaming with the 
peace and love that dwelt in his heart, without doing 
him involuntary homage. There was a harmony in 
his character, a beauty in his life, which gave him 
great influence and made him beloved. What citizen 
is not pained at the reflection, that he will no 
more see the good man in our streets, that he will 
not again see him adorning with meek and unaffected 
grace the sacred desk, or hear from his lips precepts 
of virtue and lessons of truth and wisdom?—[Richmond 
Compiler, Nov. 15.

DREADFUL ACCIDENT—A DAUGHTER SHOT BY HER
FATHER.—An accident of the most deplorable and 
melancholy nature, causing the death of a young and 
beautiful female, occurred in the upper part of the 
city on Monday morning. 
     Mr. Noble, a master mason of the Croton works, 
residing in Eighty-sixth street, having heard that persons 
had threatened to attack his house, has recently 
been in the habit of keeping loaded pistols in readiness 
in case of such an event. Monday morning 
some friends called to see him, and these pistols were 
lying on a chair, and one of the gentlemen without 
perceiving them sat upon them; but at the request of 
Mr. Noble, who said they were loaded, immediately 
got up, and Mr. N. took one of them up to show it, 
and raised the hammer. While in this position his 
finger slipped, and the hammer coming down upon 
the cap, which remained in the socket, the charge 
exploded, and horrible to state, the ball with which 
the pistol was loaded struck his daughter, Jane Noble, 
who was standing two or three yards off, in the 
right side of the head, passing through the brain and 
causing instant death. The unfortunate young lady 
was about twenty-two years of age, and was as universally 
beloved as her untimely end will be deplored. 
The wretched father is in a state of phrenzy, and it 
is very questionable if he ever recovers his reason.
    An inquest was held upon the body of the deceased, 
and the jury returned a verdict that she came to her 
death by the accidental discharge of a loaded pistol 
in the hands of her father. 
    The above add another to the numerous dreadful 
warnings against the careless handling of loaded firearms.
—[Courier.

SAVANNAH, NOV. 9.—Latest From Florida.—By the 
steamer Newbern, Capt. McNulty, the Editors of the 
Georgian have received the following from a correspondent.
    EAST FLORIDA, NOV. 2, 1841.—Sam Jones' party in 
the Big Cypress have separated. Sam is on the 
Loosahatchie. Alluck-Tustenuggee has joined him. 
Par-sarc-i-mi-co, one of the Chiefs late in operation 
with Jones, has surrendered, together with 36 of his 
people. 38 of Tiger Tail's people have arrived at 
Tampa. Runners have been despatched by Tiger 
Tail, in pursuit of the remainder. Lieut. Sprague, A.
D. C. and Lieut. Hoffman, with a detachment of 20
men, left Fort King yesterday for the Panee Suffka, 
to endeavor to open a communication with some 
Indians, supposed to reside in that neighborhood. 
Alligator and Tiger Tail accompanied them. Two 
friendly Indians are now hunting for some of their 
people east of the St. Johns. Two more are up the 
Oclawaha. Both parties are the bearers of talk from 
Tiger Tail. The movement upon the Big Cypress 
commenced on the 1st inst. My word for it—the war 
will be over by the 1st of March next. Yours truly.

   WESTERN PORK MARKET.—The St. Louis Era of 
30th ult. says: It is stated in the Springfield Journal 
that a thousand pork hogs can be purchased in Tazewell
county, Illinois, in three days, at a dollar and a 
half per hundred. The same price rules elsewhere, 
and those who are buying here do not give more than 
$1.50. It is hardly probable that much advance will 
be made upon this price. Cincinnati, the greatest 
Pork market in the West, in the present condition of 
affairs in Ohio, in relation to her Banks, will hardly 
be able to engage to any very great extent in the purchase 
of pork. As the Banks must withhold the facilities 
heretofore extended to the pork buyers, the 
stock will either not find a market at all, or a very 
small price must be paid to the raisers. Added to 
this, there is a very large amount of last year's pork 
yet on hand: in the city of New York alone, there 
are 40,000 barrels in the market for sale.

   A student of Yale College desires us to say that
two boxes of Sherman's Cough Lozenges have cured
him of a Consumption, when nothing else even palliated
the disease. We have known of several similar
cases, where they proved equally successful. Their
curing ordinary Coughs, and very bad ones, too, in a 
few hours, is already too well known to need our
commendation. The Dr's. office is at 106 Nassau-st.

  TEXIAN EXPEDITION TO SANTA FE.—Advices
from Galveston to the 31st ult., received by way of
New Orleans, bring intelligence of the arrival of the
Texian Santa Fe expedition at its place of destination,
after a severe journey, and encountering hordes
of hostile Indians whom they had to fight through
The people and authorities of Santa Fe treated the
expedition with great respect, and extended toward
them all the hospitalities their rude manner were
capable of.
   The subsidy, or rather loan, of $24,000 in specie,
from the Yucateces, had arrived at Galveston, and
the greatest activity prevailed at the navy yard in
fitting out the Austin, the Wharton, and the Archer,
and the steamship Zavala, for an expedition against 
Mexico.

   MEXICO.—A letter of Oct. 14th, from Matamoras
says: "Bustamente still holds out, but it is thought
he will compromise, or surrender at discretion, in
a few days more. In the meantime, business is at a 
stand."

   LATER.—We learn from Capt. Wilson, of the 
bark Anahuac, from Vera Cruz, from which she sailed
the 13th ult. that Santa Anna had been proclaimed
President. Bustamente had capitulated. The reports
previously received here, that all business was
suspended, are confirmed. At Vera Cruz no interruption
to trade had taken place.

   MICHIGAN CITY, Nov.3—Not one half of the surplus
wheat of Laporte county is in, and but a small
portion from any of our neighboring counties. Notwithstanding,
this, there has been shipped since the
close of harvest one hundred and ten thousand bushels
of wheat, and 1500 barrels of flour. There are now in
store forty five thousand bushels of wheat, waiting for 
vessels to transport it east. The approaching winter
will be a busy one with our merchants, for the large 
quantities of wheat and corn yet to come in, and the 
immense number of hogs to be slaughtered, and 
brought to market, will keep their hands full. Our
only cry is, give us a harbor, and we will astonish the 
East with the immense amount of produce shipped 
from Michigan City.—[Gazette.

   COMMERCIAL BANK OF BUFFALO CLOSED.—The 
Bank Commissioners served an Injunction upon the
President of the Commercial Bank of Buffalo on Monday
morning. The Commercial Bank had a capital 
of $400,000. Its assets (a large amount of which
are in productive real estate) will, it is hoped, protect
the Safety Fund from ultimate loss. To the Stockholders,
however, there will be a heavy, if not total 
loss.—[Albany Eve. Jour.

   SHIPWRECK.—A letter from the American Consul
at Havana, dated October 28, mentions the wreck of
the ship John Taylor, of New York, on the night of 
the 18th ultimo, on the south coast of that island, at 
Panta del Hollandes, between Cape Corientes and
Cape Antonio. One of the passengers only was lost,
the rest were on shore, comprising one hundred and
seventy-five steerage passengers, men, women, and
children, besides a number of cabin passengers.
They were said to be suffering great privations.

    FLOUR AND WHEAT.—Quantity of Flour and Wheat
delivered from the Erie Canal during the second week
in November, at the places named below:

                                      Bls. Flour.                 Bush Wheat.
Schenectady..............................276                           1,847
West Troy..............................24,055                         22,108
Albany....................................48,058                           8,093

Total .......................................72,389                         32,048

MICHIGAN.—The result of this election thus far, is
that the whigs have elected four Representatives.
They are from Genesee, Hillsdale, Saginaw, Shiawasee
and Clinton counties. The result in Ionia and
Kent district is doubtful. The majorities for Governor
are, for Barry 5335, for Fuller, 40.

  The Governor of the State of Georgia has issued
his proclamation appointing the first Monday in January
next for the election of two members of Congress
to fill the vacancies produced by the resignation
of Messrs. Alford and Nisbit.

   OHIO.—The vote of Ohio at the late election, is
54 counties, as compiled by the Cincinnati Gazette, is,

Whig...............................................................74,472
Opposition...................................................65,961

Whig majority in 54 counties..................8,511

A HEAVY FALL OF SNOW—The Laporte (Indiana)
Whig of the 20th ultimo says: Snow commenced
falling in this place on last Saturday, for the first time
this fall. Although a large amount melted as fast as
it fell, it covered the earth to the depth of several
inches. Sixteen miles east of here it was over two
feet deep; and at Niles, Michigan, it was over three.
It was supposed that it would have been five feet
deep at that place if the ground had been frozen.
The pressure upon the roofs of the houses was so
great, that several of them were broken by it.

THANKSGIVING.—Governor Pennington, of New
Jersey, has appointed Thursday, the 9th of December,
to be observed as a day of Thanksgiving and
Prayer.

THE MONTREAL COURIER.—There is not a more
able and spirited paper published in Canada than this.
Its Editorial articles are written in a flowing and
graceful style and are distinguished for vigor of
thought and elegance of phraseology. Its selections
are interesting, and indicative of a superior taste.
Our friends, who desire to take in a good Canada
journal, can hardly do better than subscribe for the 
Montreal Courier.

The Rev. William Roberts of Newark, will
address the Youths Missionary Society, in the Allen
street Methodist E. Church, on Tuesday evening,
next, Nov. 23d at 7½ o'clock. Mr. Roberts is said to
be a very eloquent, and interesting speaker; we have
no doubt but that those who attend will be well entertained.

OBITUARY.—In the Vergennes Vermonter, of the 27th ult.,
there is a notice, under the editorial head, of the decease of
the late BELDEN SEYMOUR, giving a slight sketch of his public
character. From it we quote as follows:

 "The decease of one of our oldest citizens, Belden Seymour,
Esq., forcibly reminds us how nearly the whole generation
of men who were the first residents of this city has
passed away. Mr. Seymour, we believe, was the last but one
of the inhabitants of forty-five years ago. At least we remember
but one that remains of the inhabitants of those days.
Mr. Seymour was born in Norwalk, Connecticut, November
14, 1771; he served an apprenticeship in Newtown, in that
State, and from thence removed to Montreal, before he was
of age, having purchased some portion of his time previous
to the expiration of his minority. He resided in Montreal
several years, and removed from that city to Vergennes about
the year 1796. He was by trade a hatter, and pursued that
business successfully until within a few years past, when,
with a large competency, he retired to close his days upon a
farm. Mr. Seymour was early appointed a magistrate, and
held at different times almost every office of the city, until
he was elected to the highest in its gift. He was several times
chosen Mayor; and represented the city in the House of
Representatives. For many years, also, he was a Director,
and afterward President, of the Bank of Vergennes."
   Those who are intimately acquainted with the deceased—
who witnessed the conscientious fulfilment of all his private
relations, feel that much more should be said in justice to his
memory. In all the stations alluded to, his course was
characterized by acknowledged ability, and by fidelity, zeal,
and assiduity in the discharge of the duties that belonged
to them. He possessed great strength of character and purity
of purpose; and in the accomplishment of an object would
never consent to the use of means which were not pure, as
the object to be attained was desirable. And the editor of the
Vermonter has justly remarked, that "he was a man of rigid
business habits, exemplary temperance, and great prudence
and energy of character, and has left a handsome fortune, the
well earned fruits of a long life of untiring industry." But in
briefly noticing a few points in character of the lamented deceased,
it is still more pleasing to contemplate such as manifested
his faith in the institutions of the Gospel—to the support
of these he always freely and liberally contributed; and gave
expression of his belief and faith, in uniting with the Episcopal
Church. His faithful discharge of all the domestic relations,
will ever be felt by the members of his family, with
the deepest gratitude. And their chief consolation is derived
from the exhibition of his faith in the doctrines of our Saviour,
during a protracted illness, attended with unusual suffering,
which he sustained with Christian patience, truly receiving
it as a Divine chastisement. We are constrained to say, in
view of his example, "Blessed are the dead who die in the
Lord."—[Hudson (N. Y.) Republican.

 Gen. Apathy, the Napoleon of the age, has been an
able fellow. He has let the Loco-Focos beat the Whigs in
nearly every State in the Union. He lets the Banks cheat
the public out of millions. He lets Intemperance ride roughshod
over the necks of the multitude. He lets the political
pipe-layers go unpunished, and sickness sweep off its victims
by thousands. Gen. Prudence sometimes steps into the breach
and rescues the thoughtless from untimely graves. He is
armed with the weapons of health. Sherman's Lozenges—the 
curealls of the day—the only really valuable medicines that
are before the public. Every body who has ever used them
knows the truth of what we say. There are Lozenges for
Coughs, Colds, Asthma, Tightness of the Chest, Consumption,
Whooping Cough, Shortness of Breath, Palpitation,
Nervous Headache, Lowness of Spirits, Despondency,
Worms, Heartburn, Fever and Ague, and most of our ills—
all remarkably pleasant and equally efficacious. While
some medicines are a month bringing about a cure, these
Lozenges do it in a very short time. They are sold at the
Warehouse, 106 Nassau street, and by agents, 188 Bowery,
77 East Broadway, 321 Bleecker street, 227 Hudson street,
and Rushton & Aspin wall, and 139 Fulton street, Brooklyn.

   Colds and Coughs.—Why will folks have the Consumption?
Because they do not avail themselves of the
proper remedy in time. Why will folks have the Asthma?
Because they will not use a remedy which can be easily procured.
Why will folks have the Rheumatism? Because
they neglect in the first place attention to a slight chill and 
cold. Why are Colds, Coughs, Croup, and lung complaints
so prevalent? Because people will not take advice in season.
Now we say to the afflicted, without further delay go
to PEASE & SON, 45 Division street, and procure a few packages
of their Hourhound Candy. It is the best remedy extant.
Remember this advice before it is too late. Sold wholesale
and retail at 45 Division street.
   Agents — Rodding, No. 8 State street, Boston; Zieber, 87
Dock st, Philadelphia, Pa.; Robinson, 110 Baltimore street,
Baltimore, Md.; Curns & Co., 13 Exchange Place, New-Orleans;
Rawls & Co., 57 State st., Albany, N. Y.; Duvall, 232
Brond st., Newark, N. J.; Berford, Pittsburg, Pa.; Haldeman,
Louisville, Ky.; Dubois & Co., Mobile; Tobey, Cincinnati,
Ohio; Anthony, New-Haven, Ct.; Brown & Co.,
London; Wadsworth, Providence, R. I.; Piercey Telby, Detroit,
Mich.; Miles Warren, Newburg—and by most of the
respectable grocers and druggists in the city and the United
States. N. B. Peddlers and Confectioners are not appointed
agents.

   Chapman's Magic Razor Strop, with Metallic Hone.
The principle of this Strop is anti-elastic; consequently it
does not round the edge of the Razor. It consists of four
sides of different sharpening properties. Five minutes will
be ample time for putting the dullest Razor in perfect order.
Manufactured by L. CHAPMAN, 102 William street. Price
from 50 cents to $1 50. To be had at the principal Hardware
and Fancy Stores throughout the United States.

   CHARLES O'MALLEY.—We have back numbers from
July 3, (commencement of the enlarged Quarto volume)
with which to supply all new subscribers who wish them.
Those who order from that time will obtain CHARLES O'MALLEY
complete. This volume of the New World to this date
contains over THIRTY BEAUTIFUL ENGRAVINGS,
and a large number of others of a splendid description are in
preparation for its future embellishment. Agents are
requested to make known these facts to their friends and acquaintances,
who may be induced to subscribe.

NEW-YORK CATTLE MARKET.
Monday, November 15.

   At market 1250 head of Beef Cattle, including 200 left over
last week, 450 of which were from the South, and the balance
from this State. 40 Milch Cows, and 2800 Sheep and
Lambs.
   The supplies of Beef continue to be very abundant and
prices low. Sales reached 1000 head, at $4 50 to 6 75—averaging
$5 50 the 100 pounds
   Milch Cows—Mostly taken at $25 to $38 each.
   Sheep and Lambs were nearly all taken. Sheep at $1 50,
to 4 25; Lambs at $1 02 to 2 50 each.
   Hay—Sales by the load at from 87½ a $1 06 the 100 lbs.

REVIEW OF THE NEW-YORK MARKET.
Thursday, November 18.
   ASHES.—Pots continue in fair demand—$6 offered—$6½ asking
price. Pearls steady at $5,75.
   COAL.—There have been sales of 150 chaldrons Sidney in
lots at $9 cash; Liverpool Orrel and Scotch in fair demand.
   FLOUR AND MEAL.—There was an advance on Saturday
last of 12½ cts., and about 10,000 barrels, principally Genesee,
sold at $6,76; on Monday and Tuesday, sales slight at
same price. Rye Flour and Corn Meal stand at former rates.
   GRAIN.—Small sales of Ill. wheat $1,39 a $1,39½, cash. Rye
in demand at advanced prices. Oats in good demand at the
boats at 50 cts. Barley scarce and wanted. Black eyed
Peas sold at $1,15, cash.
   HOPS.—Small demand of Western at 16 cts., and Eastern at
15 cts. Stock on hand small.
   PROVISIONS.—Improved demand for beef and Pork continues.
New mess Beef at $7,62½ a 8,25; Prime, $4,50 a 5,25. Ohio
Mess Pork, $9,25—Prime, $7,25; this State, $7,25. Lard, butter,
&c. in fair request, at former rates. Dressed Hogs sell at
3½ a 4 cts.
   SEEDS.—Timothy $16 pr trc.: Clover, 11 a 12c. moderate.
   TOBACCO.—Kentucky and Virginia in fair demand—average
price, $4,70.

TO ADVERTISERS.
   Having been frequently solicited to insert advertisements
in the QUARTO EDITION of the NEW WORLD, we have, after
much consideration, determined to admit the limited number
of one column of such as shall be deemed proper for its pages.
For Fancy, or other articles, for which a large and choice
circulation is desired, both in town and country, the New
World offers a medium which cannot be equalled by any
other. Terms made known at the office, 30 Ann st. Advertisements
received until 3 o'clock P. M. Thursdays.

Married,
   In this city, November 14, 1841, by Rev. J. H. Perry, Wm.
Foster and Loretta Purdy.
   November 16, by his Honor the Mayor, John Foot and
Jane A. Welch.
   November 11, by Rev. Mr. Griffin, James Elgar and Eleanor
Snelling.
   November 15, by Rev. H. Simonton, William Lyon and
Ann Baldwin.
   November 14, by Rev. Lot Jones, John Delamater and
Cornelia McLelland.
   November 11, by Rev. Henry Chase, John Casilear and
Sarah Ann Dennison.
   November 16, by Rev. Dr. Berrien, James R. Buck and
Arabella F. Whitham.
   November 10, by Rev. Mr. Griffin, Geo. D. Crugin and
Lydia Briggs.
   Nov. 12, by Rev. Dr. Dunbar, Robert H. Hart and Margaret
A. Irving.
   November 6, by Rev. Mr. Verren, Joseph Seydel and
Jennet Campbell.
   November 13, by Rev. Mr. Crawford, Josiah P. Dougherty
and Louisa Patterson.
   November 14, by Rev. Dr. Griffin, James Demarest and
Elizabeth Bellman.
   November 10, by Rev. Dr. Brownlee, William Gale Brown,
Esq., of this city, and Charlotte M., daughter of Judge Hotchkiss,
of Conn.
   November 11, by Rev. Mr. Hatfield, Frederick M. Hodann
and Hannah H. Morrell.
   November 3, by Rev. Mr. Bangs, Geo. N. H. Brown and
Clarissa Drumm.
   November 10, by Rev. Mr. Rogers, Samuel P. White, of
Shrewsbury, N. J., and Lydia Ann Nesbitt, of Flushing, L. I.
   Nov. 11, by Rev. Mr. Cheever, Wm. F. Worbleton and
Deborah Foster
   Nov. 16, by Rev. Dr. Wainwright, George Ahlers, of Hanover,
Saxony, and Miss Zoe Perrine, eldest daughter of John
Churrand, of this city.
   Nov. 16, by Rev. Mr. Andrews, James Cruikshank and
Mary Ann, daughter of Dr. Wheeler.
   November 3, by Rev. Dr. Brownlee, Thos. A. True, Esq.,
of Marietta, Ohio, and M. A. Reed, of New-York.
   November 7, by Rev. Dr. Brownlee, Joshua O. Horton and
Jane Eastburn.
   November 11, by Rev. Dr. Brownlee, David Beach and Sarah 
A. Crolius.
  November 10, by Rev. Mr. Burchard, Nathan Lane and
Emma Hall.
   November 14, by Rev. Dr. Skinner, Daniel L. Trumbull, of
Norwich, Ct., and Alexandrine Navarre, daughter of the late
Wm. Wilson, of this city.
   November 16, by Rev. Dr. Skinner, William B. Kinney, of
Newark, and E. Clementine Stedman, daughter of David L.
Dodge, Esq., of Cedar Brook, N. J.
   At Farmington, Ct., Nov. 10, by Rev. Dr. Porter, Charles
Thompson, Esq., of this city, and Harriet, daughter of the
late Elijah Crowles, of F.
   At Hallowell, Me., Nov. 11, by Rev. Eli Thurston, John
Norton, Jr., of this city, and Hannah M., daughter of Bartholomew
Nason, Esq., of H.
  At Hudson, November 10, by Rev. Mr. Waterbury, Char.
T. Leake, of New-York, and Anna, daughter of Dr. S. White,
of Hudson.
   At Albany, Nov. 9, by Rev. Dr. Yates, Robert H Pruyn
and Jane Ann, daughter of Hon. Gerrit Y. Lansing.
   At Salisbury, Ct., Nov. 9, by Rev. Mr. Devens, Henry Daboll,
Esq., of Canaan, and Charlotte, daughter of Hezekiah
Goodwin, Esq., of Salisbury.
   At Cannan, Ct., Nov. 10, by Rev. Mr. Woodbridge, Nathan
M. Daboll, Esq., of Groton, and Eliza, daughter of John Daboll,
Esq., of C.
   At Wolcottville, Nov. 2, by Rev. Mr. Day, Lyman W. Coo
and Eliza Seymour.
   At Washington, D. C., Nov. 11, by Rev. Mr. Donelan,
Hugh B. Sweeny, Esq., and Eliza Hall, adopted daughter of
Dr. F. Hall.
   At Round Hill, Va., Nov. 11, by Rev. Mr. Weems, John
Edw. Stonnel, Esq., of Prince William Co., and Catharine
A S. Triplett.
   At Brooklyn, Nov. 14, by Rev. Mr. Johnson, Henry Johnson,
of this city, and Margaret, daughter of James Pringle, of
Brooklyn.
   At Ellery, Chautauque Co., by Rev. H. Smith, F. T. Williams,
of Charlotte, and Ann H Aldrich, of E.
  At Philadelphia, Nov. 8, by Rev. Mr. Furness, Commander
Wm. J. McCluney, U. S. Navy, and Elizabeth, daughter of
the late Moore Wharton, of Philad.
   At Staten Island, Nov. 9, by Rev. Dr. Brownlee, Rev. Jas.
Brownlee and Henrietta, daughter of Hon. Jacob Crocheron.
   At Staten Island, Nov. 9, by Rev. Mr. Clauder, James
Guyon, Jr., and Elizabeth A., daughter of Samuel Coddington,
Esq.

Died,
In this city, November 17, 1841, Amos Wood, aged 33.
November 17, Abraham Potts, Esq., aged 72.
November 16, James Kearney, aged 22.
November 17, William Allison, aged 55.
November 12, Mrs. Jane E. Brush, aged 34.
November 16, James Johnson, aged 44.
November 16, Arnold C. Higgins, aged 88.
November 15, Hugh Moore, aged 59.
November 14, Mrs. Mary A. Hayward.
November 14, Mrs. Maria Smith.
November 14, Moses Fargs, aged 22.
November 14, Robert G Hardie, aged 62.
November 11, Mrs. Mary McDonald, aged 19.
November 9, William H. Walsh, aged 66.
November 9, Christopher Light, aged 21.
November 9, Charles Bruff, aged 40.
November 15, Miss Letitia Ann White, aged 18.
November 14, Mrs. Mary White, aged 21.
November 12, Abel W. Botsford, aged 41.
November 13, Mrs. Grace Brown, aged 46.
November 9, Dennis Striker, aged 80.
November 9, Mrs. Margaret Mackay, aged 80.
November 12, Mrs. Sarah Fisher, aged 65.
November 16, George McRoley, aged 70.
   At Martinville, N. J., November 11, Mrs. Elizabeth
Winckler, aged 38.
   At Newark, N. J., Nov. 9, Aaron Beach, Esq., Cashier o
the Newark Banking and Insurance Co., aged 50.
   At St. Marys, Ga., James Frealan, of this city, aged 34.
   At St. Augustine, Fa., Almira, wife of William A. Forward,
aged 24.
   At Shrewsbury, N. J., Nov. 7, Benjamin White, aged 85.
   At Greenwich, Ct., Nov. 9, Henry J. Knapp, formerly of
this city.
   At New-Haven, November 9, Lieut J. W. Moore, of the
U. S. Army.
   At St. Augustine, Fa., Oct. 25, Major Jacob Brown, Acting
Paymaster of the U. S. Army.
   At Singapore, Capt. Augustus Cook, a native of France,
and late of this city.
   At Havana, Chemung Co., Nov. 8, Charles M. Hollister, a 
merchant of that place.
   At the U. S. Naval Hospital, Nov. 16, Wm. A. Irving, of 
the U. S. M. C., aged 22.
  At Brooklyn, November 16, Sarah Jane, wife of A. D.
Oakley, aged 21.
   At Fort Crawford, Prairie du Chien, Jane Letitia, wife of
Capt. J. R. B. Gardiner, of the U. S. Army.
   At West Stockbridge, Mass., Nov. 10, Robbin Kellogg, Esq.,
Postmaster of that place.
   At St. Augustine, Fa., Oct. 30, Dr. Richard Weightman, of
the U. S. Army.

Transcribed and reviewed by contributors participating in the By The People project at crowd.loc.gov.