THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

                     Of Literature, Art, and Science.

Vol. V.
NEW-YORK, FEBRUARY 1, 1852.
No. II.

        [Illustration: THE LATE MARSHAL SOULT, DUKE OF DALMATIA.]

                THE LATE MARSHAL SOULT, DUKE OF DALMATIA.

CONTENTS

MARSHAL SOULT, DUKE OF DALMATIA.
THE HOMES OF COWLEY AND FOX.
CHERTSEY AND ITS FAMOUS CHARACTERS.
TRAUGOTT BROMME ON THE UNITED STATES OF NORTH AMERICA, TEXAS AND THE
COLONIES.
A VISIT TO THE FIRE WORSHIPPERS’ TEMPLE AT BAKU.
A NEW PORTRAIT OF CICERO.
LORD MAHON’S HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.
FAUST OF WITTENBERG AND FUST OF MENTZ.
SOME SMALL POEMS.
MR. JUSTICE STORY, WITH SOME REMINISCENT REFLECTIONS.
COLUMBUS AT THE GATES OF GENOA.
FEATHERTOP: A MORALIZED LEGEND.
SMILES AND TEARS.
FREEDOM OF THOUGHT AND THE LATEST MIRACLES.
THE SONG QUEEN.
LOVE SONG.
AUTUMN LINES.
THE PUNISHMENT OF GINA MONTANI.
   III.
   IV.
   V.
   VI.
   VII.
VISION OF CHARLES XI.
DIVINATION, WITCHCRAFT, AND MESMERISM.
A CHAPTER OF EPITAPHS.
THE GOOD OLD TIMES IN PARIS.
THE LEGEND OF THE WEEPING CHAMBER.
THE BULL FIGHT OF MADRID.
THE LADY AND THE FLOWER.
AN OLD MAID’S FIRST LOVE.
MADEMOISELLE DE CAMARGO.
MY NOVEL:
   BOOK IX. - INITIAL CHAPTER.
   CHAPTER II.
   CHAPTER III.
   CHAPTER IV.
   CHAPTER V.
   CHAPTER VI.
   CHAPTER VII.
   CHAPTER VIII.
REMINISCENCES OF PRINTERS, AUTHORS, AND BOOKSELLERS IN NEW-YORK.
Noctes Amicæ.
Authors and Books
THE FINE ARTS
Historical Review of the Month
Scientific Discoveries and Proceedings of Learned Societies.
Recent Deaths.
Ladies’ Fashions for February.

MARSHAL SOULT, DUKE OF DALMATIA.

On the preceding page is a portrait, and under the head of Recent Deaths,
in another part of this magazine, is a sketch of the history of NICHOLAS
JEAN-DE-DIEU SOULT, the last of the great Marshals created by the Emperor
Napoleon. He was unquestionably possessed of extraordinary abilities,
fitting him for eminence in many and diverse capacities, but it cannot be
said that he was of the first rank of illustrious generals, as the world
has been led to suppose, chiefly by the masterly but partial delineations
of his career in the Peninsula by General Napier. He had a genius for war
which qualified him for every position in connection with it but that of
leader in the field. The subtle and irreversible decisions of Napoleon
followed his astonishingly quick apprehensions of facts, as suddenly as
the thunderbolt follows lightning; but Soult, profoundly familiar with all
the arts of war, and surpassing any of the great commanders with whom he
was associated except only his chief, in the wisdom of his judgments, was
yet so slow in his intellectual operations, so destitute of the
enthusiasm, passion, and fire, which in high circumstance give an almost
miraculous activity to the minds of the first order of men, that he could
never have entitled himself to all the precedences he has received in
history. Napoleon understood him, and in a few pregnant words addressed to
O’Meara, gave that measure of his character which will be adopted as the
final opinion of the world. "He is," said Napoleon, "an excellent minister
at war, or major-general of an army, one who knows much better how to
manage an army than to command in chief."

The course of Soult as a citizen, a legislator, and a minister, was not
one upon which his best biographers will linger with much satisfaction.
The glory he had achieved as one of the lieutenants of Napoleon, in that
turbulent and grand career which has no parallel for interest or
importance in human history, was his only claim to distinction in
politics. His master had an ambition as fair in its proportions as it was
vast in its extent, and brought to every purpose the same forces of
character and preternatural energy of intelligence; but Soult had no love
for civil duties, but little capacity for them, and he accepted place as a
gratification of vanity or a means of success in mercenary aims. We see in
all his private and political life "the soilure of his revolutionary
origin,"—proofs that he loved money and power far more than he loved
honor, and himself far more than his country or mankind.

The last of the imperial marshals, the last of that gigantic race who
filled the world with a red glory like the gloom which will precede the
judgment, closed his stormy life peacefully in the place where he was
born, and thence was borne to the Invalides, to "sleep well" with his old
companions."

THE HOMES OF COWLEY AND FOX.

We have in the last _Art Journal_ another of the pleasant gossipping
_Pilgrimages to English Shrines_, by Mrs. S. C. HALL, and the following
abridgement of it will please all who have perused the previous papers of
the series. In Chertsey and its neighborhood are memorials of some of the
noblest men of England.

                     [Illustration: ABRAHAM COWLEY.]

                             ABRAHAM COWLEY.

CHERTSEY AND ITS FAMOUS CHARACTERS.

The county of Surrey is rich to overflowing in memories, both of persons
and events, and the little quaint and quiet town of Chertsey could tell of
the gorgeous and gloomy past as much as many of its ancient neighbors
within a day’s drive of the city. Had its old abbey stones but tongues,
how they could discourse of years when a visit to Chertsey was an
undertaking; though now the distance is but half an hour.

Nowhere within twenty miles of London does the Thames appear more queenly,
or sweep with greater grace through its fertile dominions, than it does at
Chertsey. It is, indeed, delightful to stand on the bridge in the glowing
sunset of a summer evening, and turning from the refreshing green of the
Shepperton Range, look into the deep clear blue of the flowing river,
while the murmur of the waters rushing through Laleham Lock give a sort of
spirit music to the scene. On the right, as you leave Chertsey, the river
bends gracefully towards the double bridge of Walton, and to the left, it
undulates smoothly along, having passed Runnymede and Staines, while the
almost conical hill of St. Anne’s attracts attention by its abrupt and
singular form when viewed from the vale of the Thames.

About a mile, on the Walton side, from our favorite bridge (Old Camden
tells us so), is the spot where Cæsar crossed the Thames. Were the
peasantry as imaginative as their brethren of Killarney, what legends
would have grown out of this tradition; how often would the "noblest Roman
of them all" have been seen by the pale moonlight leading his steed over
the waters of the rapid river—how many would have heard Cassivelaunus
himself during the stillness of some particular Midsummer night working at
the rude defence which can still be traced beneath the blue waters of the
Thames. What hosts of pale and ghastly spectres would have risen from
those tranquil banks, and from the deepest hollows of the rushing current,
and—like the Huns, who almost live on the inspired canvas of
Kaulbach,—fought their last earthly battle, again and again, in the spirit
world, amid the stars! But ours is no region of romance; even remnants of
history, which go beyond the commonest capacity, are rejected as dreams,
or put aside as legends. But history has enough to tell to interest us
all; and we may be satisfied with the abundant enjoyment we have in
delicious rambles through the lanes and up the hills, along the fair
river’s banks, and among the many traditional ruins of ancient and
beautiful Surrey.

Never was desolation more complete than in the ruin of the Mitred Abbey of
Chertsey; hardly one stone remains above another to tell where this
stately edifice—since the far-away year 664—grew and flourished, lording
it with imperial sway over, not only the surrounding villages, but
extending its paternal wings into Middlesex and even as far as London. The
abbey was of the Benedictine order, and founded, almost as soon as the
Saxons were converted from Paganism; but it was finished and chiefly
endowed by Frithwald, Earl of Surrey. The endowment prospered rarely; the
establishment increased in the reputation of wealth and sanctity; that it
was "thickly populated" is certain, for when the abbey was sacked and
burnt by the Danes, in the ninth century, the abbot, and ninety monks,
were barbarously murdered by the invaders.

Standing upon the site of their now obliterated cloisters and towers,
their aisles and dormitories, cells and confessionals, seeing nothing but
the dank, damp grass, and the tracings of the fish-ponds—stagnant pools in
our day—it is almost impossible to realize the onslaught of these wild
barbarians panting for plunder, the earnest defence of men who fought (the
monks of old could wield either sword or crosier) for life or death, the
terrible destruction, the treasures and relics, and painted glass, and
monuments, the plunder of the secret almerys, the intoxicated triumph of
those rude northern hordes let loose in our fair and lovely island; what
scenes of savagery, where now the jackdaw builds, and the blackbird
whistles, and the wild water-rat plays with her brood amongst the tangled
weeds!

The fierce sea-kings being driven back to their frozen land, King Edgar,
willing to serve God after the fashion of his times, refounded the Abbey
of Chertsey, dedicating it to St. Peter, and vying with Pope Alexander in
augmenting its privileges and its wealth.

Some of the abbots took great interest in home improvements, planting
woods, conducting streams, enlarging ponds—building, now a mill, now a
dove-cot, according to the wants of the abbey or their own fancies. Henry
I. granted them permission to keep dogs, that, according to the old
chronicle, they might take "hare, fox, and cats." King John, in the first
year of his reign, gave them ample confirmation of all their privileges,
which, it would seem, they had somewhat abused, for we find that the
sovereign seized their manors of Egham and "Torp" (Thorp) on account of a
servant of the abbot’s having killed "Hagh de Torp." Oh, rare "old times!"
The abbot was mulcted in a heavy fine. Then, while Bartholomew de
Winchester was abbot, from 1272 until 1307, during the reign of our first
Edward, complaints were made to Pope Gregory X. that the possessions of
the abbey were alienated to civilians and laymen, whereupon the pope
issued a bull ordering such grants to be revoked.

It is worthy of note, that the Chertsey monastery sheltered, for a time,
the remains of the pious, but unfortunate, Henry VI.

  "Poor key-cold figure of a Holy King,
  Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster."

And the reader of Shakespeare will recall the scene in which Richard meets
the Lady Anne on her way to Chertsey with her husband’s body. This poor
king’s remains had a claim to be well received by the monks of Chertsey
Abbey, for he had granted to the abbot the privilege of holding a fair on
St. Anne’s-hill, then called Mount Eldebury, on the feast of St. Anne’s
(the 26th of July): the fair has changed its time and quarters as well as
its patron, and is held in the town on the 6th of August, and called Black
Cherry Fair. Manning, in his history of Surrey, says, that the tolls of
this fair were taken by the abbot, and are now taken by the owner of the
site of the Abbey House; thus the memory of King Henry VI. is commemorated
in the town of Chertsey to this day, by the sale of black cherries in the
harvest month of August!

                    [Illustration: "THE NUN’S WELL."]

                            "THE NUN’S WELL."

Centuries passed over those magnificent abbeys, whose ruins in many places
add so much beauty to our fertile landscapes; they grew and grew, and
added acre to acre, and stone to stone, and knowledge to knowledge; but
most they cherished the knowledge which blazed like a lamp under a bushel,
and kept all but themselves in darkness; they preached no freedom in
Christ to the Christian world, they abolished no serfdom, they taught no
liberty, they enslaved even those who in their turn enslaved their "born
thralls," and saw no evil in it. Oh, rare old times! Better it is for us
that the site of Chertsey Abbey should be scarcely traceable now-a-days
than that it should be as it was, with its proud pageants and pent-up
learning!—Yet we have neither sympathy no respect for that foul king, who,
to serve his own carnal purposes, overthrew the very faith which had
hallowed his throne. But he did not attack and storm the Abbey of
Chertsey, as he did other religious houses. He came to them, this Eighth
Harry, with a fair show of kindness, saying that "to the honor of God, and
for the health of his soul, he proposed and most nobly intended to refound
the late Monastery, Priory, or Abbey of Bisham in Berks, and to
incorporate and establish the Abbot and Convent of Chertsey, as Abbot and
Convent of Bisham, and to endow them with all the Manors late belonging to
Bisham." How the then Abbot John Cordrey, and his brethren, must have
shivered at the conditions; how they must have grieved at quitting their
cherished home, their stews and fish-ponds, their rich meadows of Thorpe,
overlooked by the woods of Eldebury hill, their nursing ground where their
calves and young lambs were stowed in luxurious safety in the pleasant
farm of Simple Marsh at Addlestone!

But their star was setting, and they were forced to "give, sell, grant and
confirm, to the king their house and all manors belonging to them."

The total destruction of the Abbey must have amazed the whole country. An
earthquake could hardly have obliterated it more entirely. Aubrey, writing
in the year 1673, says "of this great Abbey, scarce any thing of the old
building remains, except the out walls about it. Out of this ruin, is
built a ’fair house,’ which is now in possession of Sir Nicholas Carew,
master of the Buckhounds." Dr. Stukeley alludes to this house, in a letter
written in 1752; he speaks of the inveterate destruction, and of "the
gardener" carrying him through a "court" where he saw the remains of the
church of the Abbey. He says the "east end reached up to an artificial
mount along the garden wall; that mount and all the terraces of the
pleasure garden, to the back front of the house, are entirely made up of
the sacred _rudera_ or rubbish of continual devastations. Bones of abbots,
monks, and great personages, who were buried in large numbers in the
church and cloisters which lay on the south side of the church, were
spread thick all over the garden, _so that one may pick up whole handsfull
of them every where amongst the garden stuff_." Brayley mentions in his
pleasant History of Surrey, that this artificial mount was levelled in
1810, and its materials employed to fill up a pond. Many human skulls and
bones were found intermixed with the chalk and mortar of which it had been
formed. Fragments of old tiles were also frequently found, and are still
sometimes turned up. No trace even of the "Abbey house" is left; it was
purchased in 1809 by a stock-broker, who in the following year sold the
materials—and so ends the great monastic history of Chertsey. Where are
now its spiritualities in Surrey?—its temporalities in Berkshire and
Hampshire?—its revenues of Stanwell, and rents of assize?—its
spiritualities in Cardiganshire? Alas! they have left no sign, except on
the yellow parchment—of rare value to the antiquary.

Those who desire, like ourselves, to investigate what tradition has
sanctified, will do well to turn down a lane beyond Chertsey Church, which
leads directly to the Abbey bridge, and there, amid tangled hedge rows and
orchards, stands the fragment of an arch, partly built up, and so to say,
disfigured by brick-work, and an old wall, both evidently portions of the
Abbey. In the wall are a great number of what the people call "_black
stones_," a geological formation, making them seem fused by fire. Layers
of tiles were also inserted in this wall, and where the cement has dropped
away they can be distinctly traced; there is also an ivy, very aged
indeed; it is so knotted and thick that it seems to grow through the
stones, the soil has so evidently encroached on the wall that it is most
probably rooted at the foundation. The pleasant market garden of Mr. Roake
covers the actual ground on which the Abbey stood. The workmen frequently
turn up broken tiles and human bones, and there is no doubt that by
digging deeper much would be discovered that might elucidate the history
of the past. At the farther end of the market garden a vault has been
discovered which is of considerable length and breadth; but the water
rises so high in it (except after a long continuance of dry weather has
sealed the land springs) that it is impossible to get to the end without
wading. An enormous quantity of richly-colored and decorated encaustic
tiles have been found here; some are preserved in our local museum. But
the most interesting remains in this place are the "stews," or fish-ponds,
which run parallel to each other like the bars of a gridiron; these ponds
do not communicate one with the other, nor has the water any outlet: a
little care and attention might make them valuable for their old purposes;
but they are deplorably neglected. Occasionally you see the fin of some
huge fish, whose slow movement partakes of the character of the stagnant
water he has inhabited for years;—who can tall how many?

                   [Illustration: "THE GOLDEN GROVE."]

                           "THE GOLDEN GROVE."

"The Abbey River," as it is still called, travels slowly along its way,
fertilizing the meadows and imparting life and freshness to the placid
scene. The denizens of Chertsey have planted orchards, and in a few
instances gardens on its banks. One, the garden of Mr. Herring, is a model
of neatness, almost concealed by its roses and carefully tended shrubs. We
wandered from orchard to orchard, amid the trees and over the uneven
ground; all was so still and lonely that it required the suggestions of an
active imagination to believe it had ever been the scene of contention by
flood and field. From the Abbey Bridge the richness of the meadow scenery
is exceedingly refreshing, the grass is deep and verdant, as it cannot
fail to be, lying so low, and fertilized by perpetual moisture.

During their wide-spreading magnificence, the abbots of Chertsey erected a
picturesque chapel on the lovely hill of St. Anne: this was done somewhat
about the year 1334. Orleton, Bishop of Winchester, granted an indulgence
of forty days to such persons as should repair to, and contribute to the
fabric and its ornaments.

There is nowhere a more delightful road, than that which leads from the
"Golden Grove," rendered picturesque by its old tree, the plantations of
Monksgrove on one side, and those of the once residence of Charles James
Fox on the other. The road is perfectly embowered, and so close is the
foliage that you have no idea of the beautiful view which awaits you,
until leaving the statesman’s house to the left, you pass through a sort
of wicket gate on the right, and follow a foot-path to where two
magnificent trees crown the hill; it is wisest to wait until passing along
the level ridge you arrive at the "view point," and there, spread around
you in such a panorama as England only can show, and show against the
world for its extreme richness. On the left is Cooper’s Hill, which
Denham, that high-priest of "Local poetry," long ago made famous; in the
bend just where it meets the plain, you see the towers of Windsor Castle;
there is Harrow Hill, the sun shining brightly on its tall church; a deep
pall hovers over London, but you can see the dome of St. Paul’s looming
through the mist; nay, we have heard of those who have told the hour of
the day upon its broad-faced clock, with the assistance of a good glass.
How beautifully the Thames winds! Ay! there is the grand stand at Epsom,
and there Twickenham, delicious, soft, balmy Twickenham; and Richmond
Hill—a very queen of beauty!

                [Illustration: REMAINS OF CHERTSEY ABBEY.]

                        REMAINS OF CHERTSEY ABBEY.

Yonder, beyond the valley, are Foxes Hills crowned with lofty pines—and
that is the church at Staines, and as you turn, there again is Cooper’s
Hill; Laleham seems spread as a tribute at your feet, and there is no end
to the villages and mansions—the parks, and cottages like snow-drops in a
parterre, and church spires more than we can number; while close behind us
are the stones piled thickly one on the other—the only relics of the holy
Chapel of St. Anne.

How grandly the promontory of St. George’s Hill stands out—sheltering
Weybridge, and forming a beautiful back-ground to Byfleet and the banks of
the Way; not forgetting its ruins—a Roman encampment of two thousand years
age, and its modern ornaments of rare trees, of which a generous nobleman
has made common property, to be enjoyed daily by all who choose. At the
foot of this richly planted hill, is the beautiful park of Oatlands—on the
eve of becoming an assemblage of villa-grounds. How pleasant to feel that
we can account, by our own knowledge of that glowing mount, for all the
shades formed by the hills and hollows, and different growths of trees in
the depths or heights of "the encampment," which forms the delight of many
a toilsome antiquary. Beyond are the more distant eminences of the North
Downs, and a tract of country extending into Kent. But we have not yet
explored the beauties of this our own hill of Chertsey; truly, to do so,
would take a day as long as that of its own black cherry fair.

A path to the left, among the fern and heather, leads to a well, famed for
its healing properties—it is called the Nun’s Well; even now, the peasants
believe that its waters are a cure for diseases of the eye; the path is
steep and dangerous, and it is far pleasanter to walk round the brow of
the hill and overlook the dense wood which conceals the well, fringing the
meadows of Thorpe, than to seek its tangled hiding-place in the dell. The
monks of old would be sorely perplexed if they could arise, to account for
the long line of smoke which marks the passage of the different trains
along their railroads. But we turn from them to enjoy a ramble round the
brow of St. Anne’s Hill; the coppice which clothes the descent into the
valley, is so thick, that though it is intersected by many paths, you
might lose yourself half-a-dozen times within an hour; if it be evening,
the nightingales in the thickets of Monksgrove have commenced their
chorus, and the town of Chertsey, down below, is seen to its full extent,
its church tower toned into beauty by the rich light of the setting sun,
while through the trees and holly thickets you obtain glimpses of the
Guildford and Leatherhead hills, so softly blue, that they meet and mingle
with the sky.

                   [Illustration: GATE OF FOX’S HOUSE.]

                           GATE OF FOX’S HOUSE.

              [Illustration: SUMMER HOUSE IN FOX’S GARDEN.]

                      SUMMER HOUSE IN FOX’S GARDEN.

                  [Illustration: TEMPLE OF FRIENDSHIP.]

                          TEMPLE OF FRIENDSHIP.

Those who feel no interest in monkish chronicles, may reverence St. Anne’s
Hill, because of its having been the favorite residence of Charles James
Fox, the contemporary of Pitt and Burke and Sheridan and Grattan, at a
period when men felt strongly and spoke eloquently. The site of the house
on the south-eastern site of the hill is extremely beautiful, and it is
much regretted in the neighborhood that it finds so little favor in the
heart of its present noble proprietor. The grounds are laid out with much
taste; there is a noble cedar planted by Mrs. Fox when only the size of a
wand. The statesman’s widow survived her husband more than thirty-six
years, but never outlived her friends or her faculties. There is a temple
dedicated to Friendship, which was erected to perpetuate the coming of age
of one of the late Lords Holland; on a pedestal ornamented by a vase, are
inscribed some verses by General Fitzpatrick; another placed by Mrs. Fox
to mark a favorite spot where Mr. Fox loved to muse, is enriched by a
quotation from the "Flower and the Leaf," concluded by two graceful
stanzas:

  "Cheerful in this sequestered bower,
    From all the storms of life removed;
  Here Fox enjoyed his evening hour,
    In converse with the friends he loved.
  And here these lines he oft would quote,
    Pleased from his favorite poet’s lay;
  When challenged by the warbler’s note,
    That breathed a song from every spray."

At the bottom of the garden is a grotto, which must have once possessed
many attractions, and above it there is a pretty little quaint chamber
that was used as a tea-room, when, according to the custom of the time,
the English drank tea by daylight; it is adorned by painted glass windows;
there are portraits of the Prince of Wales and Mr. Fox, when both were
looking their best, and the balcony in front commands a delicious view of
the surrounding country.

The peasantry are still loud in their praise of "Madam Fox;" and some
remember with gratitude the education they received at her school, and
love to tell how the old lady was drawn there at "feast times," to see how
they all looked in their new dresses. She certainly retained her sympathy
with the young, and put away the feelings and habits of old age with a
determined hand, for it is said, when she was eighty she took lessons on
the harp. The present generation remember personally nothing of the great
statesman; he has become history to us, and we must look to history,
garbled as it always is, and always will be, by the opinions and feelings
of its writers, to determine the position of Charles James Fox in the
annals of his country. Those who were admitted to his society have written
with enthusiasm of his social qualities, and bestow equal praise on his
brilliant talents, his affability of manner, and the generosity of his
disposition. He was the third son of Henry Fox, afterwards Lord Holland,
and his mother was the eldest daughter of Charles, second Duke of
Richmond, and consequently great-granddaughter to Charles II.; the
material descent is one of blotted royalty, of which a man like Fox could
not have been proud. His academic course was unmarked by any of those
honors of which Oxford men are so ambitious, and yet, like his great
rival, William Pitt, he became a statesman before he was of age.

                       [Illustration: FOX’S ARBOR.]

                               FOX’S ARBOR.

At St. Anne’s Hill he enjoyed as many intervals of repose and tranquillity
as could fall to a statesman’s lot; in the time of wars and tumults, how
he must have luxuriated in its delicious quiet, surrounded by friends who
dearly loved him; and swayed only for good by the wife who (although it is
known that her early intimacy with him was such as prevented her general
recognition in society) according to the evidence of all who knew her, was
the minister only to his better thoughts and nobler ambitions, and who
weaned him from nearly all the follies and vices which stained his youth
and earlier manhood. Various causes led to his death, before age had added
infirmities to disease. He died at Chiswick House, and his last words,
addressed to Mrs. Fox were, "I die happy." It is said he wished to be
buried at Chertsey, but his remains were interred in Westminister Abbey.

The brilliant Sheridan pronounced so elegant an eulogium on his character,
that it is pleasant to think of it in those shades where, as we have said,
he so often sought and found repose: "When Mr. Fox ceased to live, the
cause of private honor and friendship lost its highest glory, public
liberty its most undaunted champion, and general humanity its most active
and ardent assertor. In him was united the most amiable disposition with
the most firm and resolute spirit; the mildest manners, with the most
exalted mind. With regard to that great man it might, indeed, be well
said, that in him the bravest heart and most exalted mind sat upon the
seat of gentleness."

                      [Illustration: COWLEY’S SEAT.]

                              COWLEY’S SEAT.

               [Illustration: COWLEY’S HOUSE—STREET FRONT.]

                       COWLEY’S HOUSE—STREET FRONT.

There is, at all events, an imaginary pleasure in turning from the wearing
out turmoil of a statesman’s life, to what the world believes the tranquil
dreams of a poet’s existence. But there are few things the worldling so
little understands as literary industry, or so little sympathizes with as
literary care. We have no inclination to over-rate either its toils or its
pleasures, and perhaps no life is more abundantly supplied with both. Its
toils must be evident to any who have noted the increasing literary labor
which is necessary to produce the ordinary sources of comforts; but its
high and holy enjoyments are not so apparent; they are so different from
those of almost all others as not to be easily explained or understood;
but above all other gifts, the marvellous gift of poesy is a distinction
conferred by the Almighty, and should be acknowledged and treasured as
such. We know little of a poet’s studies except by their imperishable
produce, and it is a common but ill-founded prejudice to imagine
regularity or diligence incompatible with high genius. Genius is neither
above law, nor opposed to it; but as many have a poetic taste and
temperament _without_ the inspiration, the world is apt to mistake the
eccentricity of the pretender for the outward and visible sign of genius.
Whether or not the poet of the Porch-house of Chertsey had the actual
poetic fire we do not venture to determine. Abraham Cowley takes a
prominent position, amongst the poets of our land, and the eventful times
in which he lived, and his participation in their tumults give him
additional interest in all the relations of his anxious and not over-happy
life. It is recorded of him that he became a poet in consequence of
reading the Faery Queene, which chance threw in his way while yet a child.
In allusion to this, Dr. Johnson gave his well-known definition of genius:
"A mind of large general powers, accidentally determined to some
particular direction." We had almost dared to say this is rather the
definition of a philosopher than of one who comprehended the spirituality
of a marvellous gift. Abraham Cowley—the posthumous son of a London
grocer—owed much to his mother. She, by her exertions, procured him a
classical education at Westminster School. She lived to see him loved,
honored, and great, and what was better still, and more uncommon,
grateful. At the age of fifteen he published a volume called "Poetic
Blossoms," which he afterwards described as "commendable extravagancies in
a boy." He obtained a scholarship in Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1686,
and there took his degree; but was ejected by the Parliament, and thence
removed to Oxford. Shortly after, he followed the Queen Henrietta to
Paris, as Secretary to the Earl of St. Albans, and was employed in the
court of the exiles in the most confidential capacity. In 1656 he returned
to England, and was immediately arrested as a suspected spy. He submitted
quietly—the royalists thought too quietly—to the dominion of the
Protector, but his whole life proved that he was no traitor. At the
Restoration, that great national disappointment, his claims upon the
ungrateful monarch were met by a taunt and a false insinuation—he was told
that his pardon was his reward! Wood said, "he lost the place by certain
enemies of the Muses;" certain "friends of the Muses," however, procured
for him the lease of the Porch-house and farm at Chertsey, held under the
Queen, and the great desire of his life—solitude—was obtained.

               [Illustration: COWLEY’S HOUSE—GARDEN FRONT.]

                       COWLEY’S HOUSE—GARDEN FRONT.

The place still seems a meet dwelling for a poet, and is, perhaps, even
more attractive to strangers than St. Anne’s hill. The porch, which caused
his residence to be called "The Porch-house," was taken down during the
last century by the father of its present proprietor, the Rev. John Crosby
Clarke, and the house is now known as "Cowley House."(1) It is situated
near the bridge which crosses a narrow and rapid stream, in a lonely part
of Guildford Street; a latticed window which overhangs the road is the
window of the room in which the poet expired; on the outside wall Mr.
Clarke has recorded his reason for removing the porch. "The porch of this
house, which projected ten feet into the highway, was taken down in the
year 1786, for the safety and accommodation of the public."

  "Here the last accents flowed from Cowley’s tongue."

                [Illustration: STAIRCASE—COWLEY’S HOUSE.]

                        STAIRCASE—COWLEY’S HOUSE.

The appearance of the house from Guildford Street, is no index to its size
or conveniences.(2) You enter by a side gate, and the new front of the
dwelling is that of a comfortable and gentlemanly home; the old part it is
said was built in the reign of James the First, and what remains is
sufficiently quaint to bear out the legend; the old and new are much
mingled, and the modern part consists of one or two bed-rooms, a large
dining-room, and a drawing-room, commanding a delicious garden view, the
meanderings of the stream, and a long tract of luxuriant meadows,
terminated by the high and richly timbered ground of St. Anne’s Hill. A
portion of the old stairway is preserved, the wood is not as has been
stated oak, but sweet chestnut. One of the rooms is panelled with oak, and
Cowley’s study is a small closet-like chamber, the window looking towards
St. Anne’s Hill. It is never difficult to imagine a poet in a _small
chamber_, particularly when his mind may imbibe inspiration from so rich
and lovely a landscape. Beside the group of trees, beneath whose shadow
the poet frequently sat, there is a horse chestnut of such exceeding size
and beauty, that it is worthy a pilgrimage, and no lover of nature could
look upon it without mingled feelings of reverence and affection.

Here then amid such tranquil scenes, and such placid beauty, the
"melancholy Cowley," passed the later days of big anxious existence; here
we may fancy him receiving Evelyn and Denham, the poets and men of letters
of his troubled day, who found the disappointments of courtly life more
than their philosophy could endure. Here his friendly biographer, Doctor
Spratt, cheered his lonely hours.

Cowley was one of those fortunate bards who obtain fame and honor during
life. His learning was deep, his reading extensive, his acquaintance with
mankind large. "To him," says Denham in his famous elegy,

  "To him no author was unknown,
  Yet what he wrote was all his own."

His biographer adds, "There was nothing affected or singular in his habit,
or person, or gesture; _he understood the forms of good breeding enough to
practise them without burdening himself or others_." This indeed is the
perfection of good breeding and good sense.

Having obtained, as we have said, the Porch-house at Chertsey, his mind
dwelt with pleasure—a philosophic pleasure—upon the hereafter, which he
hoped for in this life of tranquillity, and the silent labor he so dearly
loved; but he was destined to prove the reality of his own poesy:

  "Oh life, thou _Nothing’s_ younger brother,
  So _like_ that one might take one for the other."

The career of Abraham Cowley was never sullied by vice,(3) he was loyal
without being servile, and at once modest, independent and sincere. His
character is eloquently drawn by Doctor Spratt. "He governed his passions
with great moderation, his virtues were never troublesome or uneasy to
any, whatever he disliked in others he only corrected by the silent
reproof of a better practice."

He died at Chertsey on the 28th of July, 1667, and was interred in
Westminster Abbey. A throng of nobles followed him to his grave, and the
worthless king who had deserted him is reported to have said, that Mr.
Cowley had not left a better man behind him in England.

It is said the body of Cowley was removed from Chertsey by water, thus
making the Thames he loved so well, the highway to his grave; there is
something highly poetic in this idea of a funeral, so still and solemn,
with the oars dropping noiselessly in the blue water. Pope in allusion to
it, says:

  "What tears the river shed,
  When the sad pomp along his banks was led;"

which rather inclines us to the belief, that in this, as in many other
instances, the poetic reading is not the true one,

  "The muses oft in lands of vision play:"

but the fact that he died at Chertsey, as much respected as a man, as he
was admired as a poet, is certain, and his house is often visited by
strangers, who are permitted to see his favorite haunts by the kindness of
its proprietor, who honors the spot so hallowed by memories of "the
melancholy Cowley:"—he who considered and described "business" as:

  "The contradiction to his fate."

But we must postpone our farther rambles for the present.

                 [Illustration: TREES ON ST ANNE’S HILL.]

                         TREES ON ST ANNE’S HILL.

Chertsey loses half its romantic interest by the intrusion of the
progressive agents of our time—our noisy time, of which the spirit
willingly brooks no souvenirs of monastic repose. The old quaint quiet
town has now its railroad, and the shades of its heroes have departed.

TRAUGOTT BROMME ON THE UNITED STATES OF NORTH AMERICA, TEXAS AND THE
COLONIES.

We have at different times, by reviews or translations, endeavored to give
our readers some idea of what people think of us, in continental Europe.
But there are two sides to every thing—or there is an universal dualism,
as Emerson declares—which is perfectly true as to the method which might
be adopted in the execution of this self-imposed task. One class of
readers understand by the word _people_ the _beau monde_, and would have
us invariably follow the school of the Countesses Hahn-Hahn or Ladies
Blessington or Milords Fitz-Flummery, contented if we have but a fair name
in society. Another and more reasonable class would be satisfied to know
the opinion of the literati, or perhaps the poets, particularly when they
do fit homage to our "grand old woods," and to Niagara. Others regard with
most respect a plain literal account of our branches of industry—our
railroads, factories, and canals. They would have the country judged
purely from a mechanical or practical point of view—contenting themselves
as to other matters with the reflection. "Oh, sensible people care very
little about any thing else. If they know what we produce, and what our
resources are, they’ll understand and respect us sufficiently."

Now the opinion of each of these classes has its weight, and though not of
the _greatest_ ultimate importance, is always to be respected. If we were
questioned as to the views of which of them we yielded full regard, we
should candidly say, "to none." It is the general, universal opinion, of a
nation at large that we deem authoritative, and none other. It is that
popular opinion so readily yet often so falsely formed (at times from
trifles of almost incredible levity), and which when once fairly
developed, is well-nigh ineradicable. In a word, it is to the views of the
people.

We propose, as opportunity shall offer, to make our readers familiar with
the writings of all these different classes of travellers—and in the
present article, we shall make a few extracts from a work interesting, as
having probably contributed more than any other to a general knowledge of
the United States in Germany. It is the book which has had the greatest
currency among all classes, but particularly with the lower order of
readers and emigrants.

Before proceeding, however, to the work itself, it may be as well to
answer a question which has perhaps been suggested to the minds of a
certain class of readers. Of what great use, after all, is this nervous
regard as to the opinion of the world? Is not our character
established—are not our characteristics known, to the uttermost corners of
the earth? To which question we may answer, _Not quite_. In avoiding that
ridiculous sensitiveness which prompts so many Americans to feel
personally insulted by the weak remarks of every wandering ignoramus, we
would by no means fall into the opposite error of attaching no importance
whatever to the good opinion or the degree of consciousness as to our
existence entertained by the world at large.

Should any feel disposed to smile at such an expression, as "the
consciousness of our existence," we will take the liberty of citing a few
curious instances, for the authenticity of which we assume the entire
responsibility—instances which may perhaps astonish a few even of the
better informed. There are in many districts (not altogether provincial)
of Italy and France great numbers, who would not even in America be
classed as _ignorant_ in regard to other matters, who have not the
remotest idea as to the nature or geography of our country. An instance
has come to our knowledge of an intelligent Hungarian who, by intercourse
with the world, had acquired a fluency in five languages, and who inquired
of an American gentleman if his country were not situated somewhere in
England. The late Mr. Cooper, when placing his daughters at a celebrated
seminary on the continent, found a great curiosity had been created by the
rumor that they were coming, some supposing they were black, some that
they were copper-colored, and all unprepared to see American girls looking
for all the world like the young German ladies. We have heard of a similar
instance in which an English _gentleman_—a Cambridge graduate—inquired of
an American what was the current language of the United States. Lastly, we
may cite the case of an English author, well known to our own public, and
favorably mentioned not long since in these pages, who was under the
impression that owing to the great emigration from Germany, the English
language must with us, in a very few years, yield to that of the
_Vaterland_. Now our commercial and industrial relations are seriously
hindered by this absurd ignorance of America, which in a word prevails to
such an extent, that we have known an American, who—probably from having
been over-questioned and speered at in New England—had imbibed such a
wholesome hatred of inquisitiveness, that he wished the French government
would hang up, for the benefit of all concerned, the following list of
questions, with satisfactory answers annexed, in all the _cafés_ of the
politest nation in Europe:

      Whether America is an island or a continent?
      What is the color of its inhabitants?
      What language do they speak?
      Have they a religion and what is it?
      What is the state of their morals and cookery?
      Have they a correct state of feeling as regards the opera?

The reader is not to infer that this is the general state of knowledge
regarding our country. But it is worth nothing as a curious illustration
of the vast number of individuals who derive their ideas, not from what is
going on at the present day, or from available sources of information, but
from the antiquated views of a by-gone generation. And we trust it will
not be deemed inappropriate that we here speak a word of the want of
opportunities of acquiring very general information under which the
ordinary readers of continental Europe suffer. With all their libraries,
all their immense arrays of magazines and journals, we find among them an
apathy in regard to the world without (to the Fan-Qui), which appears
incredible until we reflect on the deadening influences of the censorship,
which views with distrust all information in regard to the Land of
Liberty. We are not aware, throughout the whole of continental Europe, of
a single publication so thoroughly cosmopolite in its character, so
general in the scope of its information, or which is so universally
disseminated among _all_ classes of readers, as _The International_; and
we trust we do not go too far when we assert, that it is to an extended
sale of periodical publications somewhat approaching it in the
concentration and dissemination of news from the world at large, that our
countrymen owe that superior intelligence and citizen-of-the-world
character which distinguish them from the insular Briton, self-important
Frenchman, or abstracted German.

The work from which we propose to make some extracts, is TRAUGOTT BROMME’s
_Hand und Reisebuch für Auswanderer nach den Vereinigten Staaten_ (or
Traugott Bromme’s Journey and Handbook for Emigrants to the United
States). As we have already stated, no work on America is at the present
day more familiarly known to that class of readers to whom it is
addressed. Certain remarks on the present condition of German emigration
with which it is prefaced, may not be devoid of interest to our readers,
though not constituting a part of such observations as we have more
particularly referred to:

    "There is, it appears, implanted in every man an impulse to
    advance and better his condition—an impulse caused by poverty,
    dependent circumstances, or pressure from every side, vexing at
    times even the highest in rank, and which is the cause why
    thousands leave their fatherland, to seek afar a now home, and
    hundreds of thousands cast around them disturbed and anxious
    glances, restrained only by hard poverty, which imprisons them at
    home. Such is very generally the case at present in our own
    country, where—despite the political concessions of March in the
    year 1848, of the published original privileges of the German
    people, and of the promising prospect of a free and united
    Germany, with a concluding general empire—emigration appears to be
    by no means on the decrease." "These emigrants of the present day
    consist not as formerly of poor people of the lower orders, who
    turn their backs on the German fatherland, or liberal declaimers,
    dreaming of an ideal of freedom which could scarcely be realized
    in Utopia, but of sober excellent families of the middle class,
    who, free from all delusive fancies, do not expect to find in the
    western world wealth and honorable offices, but desire only to
    inhabit a land, wherein they may dwell quietly and happily with
    their children." "What the German wants is _room_—a new broad
    field for his abilities—and this America extends to him in
    unbounded space. No one at the present day hopes to obtain hills
    of gold without labor, but every one knows that the far more
    estimable treasure of perfect independence, or to speak more
    correctly, of perfect _self-dependence_, with the prospect of a
    future free from care, may in America be obtained at the cost of a
    few years of earnest, honest industry. And what, to the man
    oppressed in his fatherland by all the cares incident upon the
    obtaining a bare subsistence, is two or three or even _four_ years
    of hard work, when compared to a whole life of poverty and
    misery?"

After accurately sketching the extreme misery and poverty oppressing the
inhabitants of many districts of Germany, of late years sadly increased by
the falling off in manufactures since the political disturbances, our
author proceeds to set forth the advantages offered by America:

    "That most emigrants should rather look to America, than Poland,
    Russia, Servia, or Siebenburgen, is natural enough, since all of
    these countries together cannot offer so many attractions as
    America. Where on earth is there such a vast array of unoccupied
    lands, offered at such a moderate price—land so cheap that in many
    districts twenty or thirty and even more acres, covered with wood,
    are given at a price for which a single acre of similar land is
    sold in Germany?"

The richness of the soil, the excellence of the climate, and the demand
for labor, are then described; to which, as the greatest inducement, he
adds the fact that in _America_ the fullest "liberty of labor and
mechanical calling or trade," is allowed. Also, that the taxes are so
light that an industrious man is able not only to live, but even to lay up
something for his old age, or his children, or to employ in the extension
of his business.

    "For as there exists in America no standing army, its inhabitants
    may retain their children, as the best possible assistants in
    labor, and train, govern, and discipline them as can only properly
    done under the eye of a parent. Furthermore, in that country every
    one is permitted to enjoy the fullest civil and religious liberty.
    These are the advantages to be expected from an emigration to
    America, _and he who anticipates more will find himself bitterly
    deceived_. But a man who can be content with this, and can live
    actively, moderately, and frugally, will here, better than in any
    other land in the world, ultimately attain to happiness and
    fortune. In times like ours, when every branch of industry is
    crowded, when tender parents think with grief and trouble on the
    future prospects of their children, there are for the emigrant no
    other resources save those held out by a full and bountiful
    nature, and no means of livelihood which may be so certainly
    depended upon as those afforded by agriculture. Here it is that
    industry throws open the widest field, and affords the fullest
    opportunity of doing good."

In the following extract, our author proceeds to set forth the national
character of the American:

    "The national character of the American has been greatly
    misunderstood; few travellers seem, in fact, to have understood
    it, since they mention it as something as new and unfounded as the
    country itself, and yet it is so well confirmed—so well
    established in every elevated and noble characteristic of the
    human race, that it may confidently be placed in comparison with
    that of the most celebrated nations of antiquity. Springing
    originally from England, they have the pride and manly confidence
    of the Briton, for through their ancestry they claim an equal
    share of all which gives dignity to those inheriting glory and a
    great name. Their forefathers were those brave religious pilgrims
    who were transferred by British laws (or rather by old German) and
    British genius to the shores of the new world—to there give to
    those laws and genius an immortality. Building still further on
    this new land, they opened the temple of the Lord to all his
    followers, and received with open arms all the unfortunate or
    oppressed exiles of Europe. For the first time in reality in this
    world they flung wide the flag of truth and freedom—fought under
    its folds an unequal fight against the mightiest power in the
    world—and overcame it. And when a second time they armed
    themselves to combat with England, they again came forth
    unconquered from the contest. Reason enough this for the national
    pride of the American, for nothing could more naturally cause a
    certain degree of self-content than to belong to a nation whose
    brilliant deeds in war as in politics, in commerce as in
    manufactures, have astonished the world. A second and not less
    characteristic trait of the American is seen in a certain
    earnestness, which appears to strangers to indicate a want of
    sociable feeling—and yet perhaps in _no_ country is true noble
    sociability as developed in domestic life, so much at home, as in
    America.

    "Accustomed from his cradle to reflect on himself and his
    circumstances, the American from the first instant of his entry
    into active life is ever on the watch to improve their condition.
    Is he rich, and consequently more directly interested in the
    common wealth, then every new law, every change in the personal
    direction of the government, awakes in him a new care for the
    future, while on the other hand, if poor, then every change in the
    state may perhaps afford him a new opportunity of bettering his
    condition. Therefore he is ever wide awake—ever looking out for
    the future, not as a mere spectator, but as one playing a part and
    occupied in maintaining the present state of affairs, or in
    improving them. The entire mass of the population is continually
    in a state of political agitation, and, urged by hope of their aid
    or fear of their power, we see every one continually seeking for
    expressions of public opinion. No man is so rich or powerful that
    he need not fear them—none so wretched and poor but that he may
    venture to entertain the hope of being through them aided and
    relieved. Public opinion is in America the mightiest organ of
    justice—shielding no one, from the president to the simplest
    citizen, and proceeds, mowing, casting down, or grinding to powder
    all things which oppose it and deserve its condemnation.

    "This condition of perpetual agitation gives the American an
    appearance of ceaseless restlessness, but it is in reality the
    true ground of peace and content. _The American has no time to be
    discontented_, and this is the most praiseworthy point of their
    constitution and popular life. The republican has necessarily as
    many severe and arduous duties to fulfil as the inhabitants of any
    monarchy—but their fulfilment is gratifying and consoling—for it
    is allied to the consciousness of power. The American has no
    desire for the quiet temper of the European, and least of all for
    the silent happiness of the German, which last, alas! appears
    since the dissipation of the intoxication of the Revolution of
    March, 1848, to consist, as far as the great mass of the
    population is concerned, merely in the egotistic repose of
    self-sufficiency, weakness, and ignorance. The American finds
    repose only in his house, in his family circle, and among his
    children; all without the walls of that home is an incessant
    working and striving, in politics as in trade—by the streets and
    canals, as in the woods of the West. Different as the elements are
    from which the inhabitants of the United States are formed, and
    different as the circumstances may be under which they live, there
    still prevails among them a certain unity of character, an
    equanimity of feeling, which it would be difficult to parallel,
    resulting perhaps from the very heterogeneousness and mixture of
    elements itself, since no one element allows to another
    pre-eminence. They have all something in common in their
    appearance, which gives them the air almost of relations—something
    in their gait and manners which declares them to be other than
    English, Germans, or French. Through the entire land, through
    every class, there is disseminated a certain refinement of manner,
    an appreciation of decency and nobility of character, which
    springs from a consciousness of their own rights and respect for
    mankind. Even emigrants, in America, soon learn to cast aside
    their rough prejudices as regards caste, for the proud affability
    of the aristocratic, the vanity of the small citizen, the want of
    confidence and ease in the mechanic, the slavish servitude and
    snappish insolence of liveried servants, find in America no place.
    _Man_ is there esteemed only as _man_—only ability gains honor—and
    where _that_ is, and there alone, can true nobility be found. No
    one there inquires who a man is, or who were his parents, but
    ’What can he _do_, what are his capabilities, and what can he
    produce?’ Rank and caste are in America unknown. Every man feels
    his freedom and independence, and expresses himself accordingly.
    Even the servant is a free man, who has, it is true, hired his
    service, but not his entire existence. The American is polite, but
    over-refined, unmeaning compliments form no part of his manners,
    nor does he expect them from others. No man vexes or troubles
    himself for another, in consequence of which we find in American
    society very little stiffness and reserve, yet we find in every
    respect that the very highest regard is there paid to propriety
    and decency—particularly as regards the female sex, since in no
    country, not even in England, do ladies enjoy such respect and
    regard as in the United States. Ever depending upon, and confiding
    in himself, the American is in his manners free, open, and
    unreserved. The mass of the people is possessed of intelligence
    and spirit, though not so scientifically educated as in Europe,
    and a higher degree of intelligence penetrates even the lower
    class, who consequently form a marked and singular contrast with
    those of like rank in Europe. It is not from being versed in the
    higher branches of abstract learning and science, but from the
    great amount of that direct practical knowledge which exerts the
    greatest influence in making life happy, that the Americans are
    distinguished from other nations, and for the acquisition of which
    they have made better provision and preparation than any other
    people. As yet too deeply occupied with the Needful and Important,
    they are compelled to leave the development of the higher branches
    to the care and noble generosity of individuals. But a glance at
    the sums which are annually devoted to the establishment and
    maintenance of schools and universities, will suffice to evidence
    the liberality with which the proper education of the people is
    cared for in the United States. Knowledge is indeed esteemed, but
    only according to its use and applicability to the wants of life;
    so that a practical tanner is there worth more than a learned
    pedant. _Wealth, or rather wealth allied to ability and
    universality of talent, is there more highly esteemed than
    learning,_ while hospitality, patriotism, and toleration, allowing
    every one to think and feel as he likes, are universal
    characteristics. So that in the United States nothing is wanting
    to the attainment of a true civil and social freedom, even though
    the means thereto are not invariably correctly understood or
    admitted (as is indeed the case by us), and though—since men are
    every where subject to the same weaknesses—they measure happiness
    rather by the standard of their own intelligence and virtues, than
    by fortune and nature, which latter, impartially considered, is
    the basis of the physical happiness of the American. That,
    however, which constitutes his _moral_ happiness is this; that in
    his country, domestic life enjoys the true supremacy, _and to
    this, public life and the state are subordinate_. It is true that
    the American statesmen have fallen into the same error as the
    European—_id est_, to believe that without _them_ the people could
    never prosper, and still live in the belief that home-happiness
    hangs on them, their theories and arts of governing; but the most
    superficial glance teaches that if wise laws are able to effect
    more for the happiness of man than they can bring about, still no
    one should _there_ attempt to draw happiness from such a source
    when popular and private life have combined to bestow it. But
    should the happiness of the Americans ever be derived from this
    side, it will be more sensible to assume that the foundation
    thereof will be the release from that which in the recent culture
    has passed for the deepest political wisdom. The true secret of
    all the good fortune of America lies in the favorable condition of
    external things. ’It is not with them as in Europe, where the poor
    can only better their condition or become rich by making the rich
    poor, for therein lies the source of an infinite strife which hath
    been combated for centuries, with the axioms of religion and
    morals. But in America, men when striving to better their
    condition, instead of becoming enemies and turning their arms
    against each other, strive with _Nature_, and wring from her
    boundless stores that wealth which she so bountifully affords!’"

We have made these quotations less on account of any merit which they
possess, than to give our readers an idea of the general opinion
prevailing in Germany in regard to our country; and to confirm an
assertion made in a recent number of the _International_, that in no
country in Europe are we so impartially and favorably judged. There is one
particular, however, in which we find this book worthy of especial praise.
The author highly commends the flourishing state of religion in the United
States, declaring that we are in this respect superior to the Germans, and
that on the Sabbath the churches are filled to a degree unknown in Europe.
It is from our deep-rooted attachment to domestic life, and our observance
of religion, that he correctly deduces our true happiness, as separated
from the natural advantages of the country. It is greatly to be desired
that the majority of his countrymen resident in America, would allow
themselves to be impressed in a similar manner as to the advantages of
piety and Sabbath-keeping. There is in the United States a vast number of
German newspapers—conducted we should imagine for the greater part by
unprincipled and worthless adventurers of the red republican, socialist
stamp, who, despite the protection which they here enjoy, incessantly and
spitefully abuse every institution to which they are really indebted for
their asylum among us, and most of all our observation of the Sabbath, in
a style which entitles them to something severer than mere contempt. But
Herr Bromme is right. Respect for morality and religion, a due regard for
the Sabbath, and a dependence on the home-circle for pleasure and
recreation, are the surest safeguard of peace, happiness, and prosperity.

A VISIT TO THE FIRE WORSHIPPERS’ TEMPLE AT BAKU.

In a recent number of the _Russian Archives for Scientific Information_,
is an account of a visit made by a Russian lady of distinction, in company
with her husband and sons, to a temple of the Indian sect of Gebers, or
Fire Worshippers, near Baku, a city of Georgia, lying on the Caspian Sea.
We translate this interesting narrative for the _International_, as
follows:

In order the better to enjoy the spectacle of the fire, we chose the
evening for our excursion thither; but a thick fog came on, which made the
road difficult and dangerous. When we finally reached the place it was
pitch dark; the flames were rising in beautiful purity to the peaceful sky
of night, and the entire castle, within which was the temple, seemed to be
surrounded by a circle of watch-fires. These were lighted by Persians from
the neighborhood, who were busy burning lime and baking bread, dark forms
like those which worked on the tower of Babel, and burnt lime for it. They
were now brought here by the ease and cheapness of carrying on their
occupations. All that is necessary is to make a hole in the ground, touch
a burning coal to it, and an inexhaustible flame rises forth like a
spring. Behind this range of little flames and fires, rose, in the pale
light, the dirty white walls of the castle, in the centre of which there
flashed from the summit of two lofty pillars great masses of the purest,
clearest, and keenest flame, which were now bent down horizontally and
wreathed like serpents by the force of the wind, and now rose
perpendicularly to the sky, whose dome they lighted up like two vast altar
tapers. We drove around the edifice, and stopped on one side where there
were no flames rising from the earth. A fine rain was falling, but we
remained without while our guide went in to announce us. He came back
immediately with a swarthy Hindoo. The sight of this man impressed me
strangely, and I forgot that he belonged to a remote colony of a few
individuals, and asked myself if we had been suddenly transported to
India, or if India had been brought up to the Caspian.

We went into the court-yard, in which stands the temple, with its two
fire-pillars. About half way up hang a couple of large bells, which the
Hindoo sounded by way of preparing us for what we were to see. There was
something fearful in the loud clangor, and my boys crowded close beside
me. Except our party, no one was to be seen except the swart Geber, in his
white turban and long brown robe, with just enough of a pair of light blue
trowsers visible to bring into distinctness his naked black feet. His
features were noble, and his beard long and black. He looked like a
conjurer, like the lord of an enchanted castle, summoning his spirits. The
hissing fire, as if obeying him, flashed up more brightly at the crash of
the bells; now it was clear as day around us, and now it was twilight as
the wind lowered the flame. My husband and sons and the guide who had
brought us to the place, were all dressed in oriental costume, and I alone
seemed to belong to Europe. A shudder of home-sickness came over me, and
at every moment I expected to see something monstrous, to behold all the
cruelties of a heathenish and barbarous worship.

The interpreter now summoned us to follow the Geber. We were told that the
castle was built by a rich Indian nabob, who was a fire worshipper, and
who, with his followers, long inhabited it. Now, only three Hindoos remain
from that period of splendor. But nature remains eternally the same, and
whether worshipped or not, the flames still shine and awe the
superstitious, and so great is the fame of the place that many pilgrims
come yearly from distant India to pray, and to have prayers said for them,
here in the visible presence of the primeval light.

At last we came to the cell of the priest, and on his invitation entered
it. We passed through a low door, and down a few steps, and found
ourselves in a small, semicircular, low, but very white room, with a floor
of mason-work, and a small altar in the centre. Around the wall were
seats, also of mason-work. In the altar there was an opening as large as a
gun-barrel, from which rose a slender flame that lighted the room very
clearly. There were other little openings on the sides of the altar. The
Hindoo took a wisp of straw, lighted it, and touched these openings, from
which the most beautiful flames at once issued. The children, who had
never seen gas lights, or at least did not remember them, regarded all
this as the most perfect witchery. On a second altar, which, like the
first, was about the height of a common table, lay or stood the idols and
treasures of our priest. Small steps led up to it, which were used to hold
muscles, stones, shells, and other instruments employed in the sacred
rites. The idols were of metal, and ugly and monstrous, like Chinese
images. Beside these figures, we were astonished to see crosses of various
forms and sizes. We asked the Geber about them, and he answered with
oriental emphasis: "There is one God, and no one has seen him; therefore
every one adores him after his own way, and represents him after his own
way." The reply was diplomatic enough, and we could not ascertain how the
crosses had come there.

On the altar and its steps lay a great number of singularly beautiful
Indian stones, which the boys wanted very much, but which, in spite of our
large offers, we could not obtain. They were mementoes from the distant
fatherland, and possibly they served as sacred ornaments for the little
cell. There were also several censers, lamps, and little silver plates and
salvers. The air was stifling from the fumes of gas, and the heat was like
that of a vapor bath. The priest took from the altar some pieces of red
and white candied sugar, held them, praying, before his idols, sprinkled
them with holy water, and handed them to us on a silver plate.

A second Hindoo now came in, a tall old man, whose name, as he told us,
was Amintaas. He invited us into his cell, which was larger and
differently arranged. In the centre was a large kettle, set in mason-work,
with water in it, and a gas flame burning under it; the altar was in
another apartment beyond, and separated from the first by a low wall or
fence, with a passage through. Another apartment, similarly divided off,
was spread with carpets for sleeping. After we had seen the stones,
shells, and idols, which were richer and more numerous than in the former
cell, the Hindoos asked us if they should pray for us. We agreed, and the
ceremony began. A large muscle shell was washed in the kettle, the plates
were set in order at the foot of the altar, a censer began to smoke, the
silver plate with candied sugar was set over a lamp Between two bells,
whose handles were the most monstrous figures of idols. These bells
Amintaas took and began to ring vehemently. The other Hindoos stood behind
him and beat two big cymbals, accompanying this noise with the most
inhuman and frightful howling that a man’s lungs ever produced. Still,
there was method and a regular cadence in it. Finally, they made a pause,
bowed before the images, murmuring softly, after which they arranged the
plates anew, and sprinkled the sugar with holy water. My husband whispered
in my ear a line from the conjuration in "Faust," and the whole of that
scene rushed vividly into my memory.

Meanwhile the lungs of the old Amintaas had recovered their power, for he
now seized a conch shell, held it in both hands, and with incredible
strength blew long wild notes, with scarce any thing like a tune. I grew
dizzy in listening to this clamor, and at once understood what is meant by
the heathen making a "vain noise," This cannibalistic music was kept up
for a long time, and seemed to form the climax of the sacred rites. The
finale was a combination of wild shouting, banging of the cymbals, ringing
and murmuring. At last the concert was over, and we breathed freely.
Amintaas handed us the candied sugar, and my husband laid down two ducats
in its place. They were received with warm expressions of gratitude, and
laid upon the altar. We went out into the open air, but the scene had
changed. The lonely castle was crowded with Persians who had come from
their lime-burning to see the Europeans. Persian women were sitting around
by sundry little ovens of masonry, where, by the help of gas flames, they
baked their _Tsheuks_, thin cakes of unleavened bread. Followed by the
crowd, we were led a couple of hundred steps from the castle to a spring
that was covered over; the cover was taken off, and a bundle of burning
straw thrown in, when, crackling and hissing, sprung up a splendid pillar
of fire, vanishing in sparks like stars. This beautiful spectacle lasted
but for a moment, and a quarter of an hour was necessary to collect gas
enough to repeat the experiment.

We returned to Baku in the rain, more dead than alive. It was the eve of
Easter. The next morning, as I was sitting on the sofa with the children,
there came in a tall, meagre Hindoo, with gray hair; he was dressed in a
white robe, and brought me white and red sugar on a silver plate. He was
the chief priest from the temple of the Gebers, and had come to Baku to
see the Easter festivities. We took a few grains of his sugar, and I laid
a silver rouble on the plate. While he was making his bows for this, my
husband came in and told him, partly in Tartar, partly in Russian, and
partly in pantomime, that we had been to his temple the night before, and
had prayers said there. He asked at once, with eagerness, how much we had
given, and when he learned the sum, asked for a certificate to that
effect, as, without it, the others would give him no part of the money. We
sent him away without granting his request, for the two screamers of the
night previous had earned all we gave them. We learned afterwards that the
gifts of visitors occasioned quarrels, and often blows, in the romantic
fire-castle. This disgusted me, and yet it is not the fault of these poor
fellows. They must necessarily become covetous, since they profane their
most sacred ceremonies as a means of living. They have neither fields nor
gardens, and the only thing like vegetation that I saw was some lone boxes
in the court yard, filled with shrubs and plants, remains, no doubt, from
the time of the Indian nabob, who sought in vain to establish cultivation
in a soil impregnated with inflammable gas. However, I learned to my
sorrow that grass at least grows there, for, in going through it to the
spring, my feet became perfectly wet.

The air of the locality does not seem to be unwholesome for man. At least,
the Geber priests, who had lived there for years, were perfect lions for
health and vigor.

A NEW PORTRAIT OF CICERO.

In the third volume of his _History of the Romans under the Empire_, just
published in London, Mr. MERIVALE gives some elaborate pieces of character
writing, one of which has for its subject CICERO. It is not good for a man
to think harshly of Cicero, and however easy it may seem to be to condemn
manifest faults in his character, it is by no means easy to be fair in the
estimate we make. Mr. Merivale sums up a character which has too often
been roughly put down as that of a great writer and a little man, as
follows:

    "Many writers, it has been remarked, have related the death of
    Cicero, but Plutarch alone has painted it. In the narrative here
    laid before him the reader has the substance of this picturesque
    account, together with some touches introduced from collateral
    sources. In this, as in many other massages of his Lives, the
    Greek biographer has evidently aimed at creating an effect, and
    though he seems to have been mainly guided by the genuine
    narrative of Tiro, Cicero’s beloved freedman, we may suspect him
    of having embellished it to furnish a striking termination to one
    of his favorite sketches. Nevertheless the narrative is mainly
    confirmed by a fragment of Livy’s history, which has fortunately
    been preserved. The Roman author vies with the Greek in throwing
    dignity and interest over the great statesman’s end. But in
    reviewing the uneven tenor of his career, Livy concludes with the
    stern comment, "He bore none of his calamities as a man should,
    except his death." These are grave words. In the mouth of one who
    had cast his scrutinizing glance over the characters and exploits
    of all the heroes of the great republic, and had learnt by the
    training of his life-long studies to discriminate moral qualities
    and estimate desert, they constitute the most important judgment
    on the conduct of Cicero that antiquity has bequeathed to us. Few
    indeed among the Romans ever betrayed a want of resolution in the
    face of impending death. But it was in the endurance of calamity
    rather than the defiance of danger that the courage of Cicero was
    deficient. The orator, whose genius lay in the arts of peace and
    persuasion, exhibited on more than one occasion a martial spirit
    worthy of other habits and a ruder training. In the contest with
    Catilina he displayed all the moral confidence of a veteran
    general: in the struggle with Antonius he threw himself without
    reserve into a position where there was no alternative but to
    conquer or to perish. In the earlier conflict he had still his
    fame to acquire, his proud ascendency to establish; and the love
    of praise and glory inspired him with the audacity which makes and
    justifies its own success. But in the later, he courted danger for
    the sake of retaining the fame he so dearly prized. He had once
    saved his country, and he could not endure that it should be said
    he had ever deserted it. He loved his country; but it wan for his
    own honor, which he could preserve, rather than for his country’s
    freedom, which he despaired of, that he returned to his post when
    escape was still possible. He might have remained silent, but he
    opened the floodgates of his eloquence. When indeed he had once
    launched himself on the torrent he lost all self-command; he could
    neither retrace nor moderate his career; he saw the rocks before
    him, but he dashed himself headlong against them. But another
    grave authority has given us the judgment of antiquity, that
    Cicero’s defect was the want of steadfastness. His courage had no
    dignity because it lacked consistency. All men and all parties
    agreed that he could not be relied upon to lead, to co-operate, or
    to follow. In all the great enterprises of his party, he was left
    behind, except that which the nobles undertook against Catilina,
    in which they rather thrust him before them than engaged with him
    on terms of mutual support. When we read the vehement claims which
    Cicero put forth to the honor of association, however tardy, with
    the glories and dangers of Cæsar’s assassins, we should deem the
    conspirators guilty of a monstrous oversight in having neglected
    to enlist him in their design, were we not assured that he was not
    to be trusted as a confederate either for good or for evil.

    "Of all the characters of antiquity Cicero is undoubtedly that
    with which we are most intimately acquainted; for he alone has
    left to us the record of his thoughts and actions for more than
    half his public career in a voluminous mass of familiar as well as
    political correspondence. No public character probably could pass
    unscathed through the fiery ordeal to which he has thus subjected
    himself. Cicero, it must be avowed, is convicted from his own
    mouth of vanity, inconstancy, sordidness, jealousy, malice,
    selfishness, and timidity. But on the other hand no character,
    public or private, could thus bare its workings to our view
    without laying a stronger claim to our sympathy, and extorting
    from us more kindly consideration than we can give to the mere
    shell of the human being with which ordinary history brings us in
    contact. Cicero gains more than he loses by the confessions he
    pours into our ear. We read in his letters what we should vainly
    search for in the meagre pages of Sallust and Appian, in the
    captious criticism of Dion, and even in the pleasant anecdotes of
    his friendly biographer Plutarch, his amiableness, his refined
    urbanity, his admiration for excellence, his thirst for fame, his
    love of truth, equity, and reason. Much indeed of the patriotism,
    the honesty, the moral courage he exhibited, was really no other
    than the refined ambition of attaining the respect of his
    contemporaries and bequeathing a name to posterity. He might not
    act from a sense of duty, like Cato, but his motives, personal and
    selfish as they in some sense were, coincided with what a more
    enlightened conscience would have felt to be duty. Thus his
    proconsulate is perhaps the purest and most honorable passage in
    his life. His strict and rare probity amidst the temptations of
    office arrests our attention and extorts our praise: yet assuredly
    Cicero had no nice sense of honor, and was controlled by no
    delicacy of sentiment, where public opinion was silent, or a
    transaction strictly private. His courting his ward Publilia for
    her dower, his caressing Dolabella for the sake of getting his
    debt paid, his soliciting the historian Lucceius to color and
    exaggerate the merits of his consulship, display a grievous want
    of magnanimity and of a predominant sense of right. Fortunately
    his instinct taught him to see in the constitution of the republic
    the fairest field for the display of his peculiar talents; the
    orator and the pleader could not fail to love the arena on which
    the greatest triumph of his genius had been or were yet, as he
    hoped, to be acquired. And Cicero indeed was not less ambitious
    than Cæesar or Pompeius, Antonius or Octavius. To the pursuit of
    fame he sacrificed many interests and friendships. He was not less
    jealous of a rival in his chosen career than any of the leaders of
    party and candidates for popular favor. He could not endure
    competition for the throne of eloquence and the sceptre of
    persuasion. It was on this account perhaps that he sought his
    associates among the young, from whose rivalry he had nothing to
    fear, rather than from his own contemporaries, the candidates for
    the same prize of public admiration which he aimed at securing for
    himself. From his pages there flows an incessant stream of abuse
    of all the great masters of political power in his time; of Cæsar
    and Pompeius; of Crassus and Antonius, not to mention his coarse
    vituperation of Piso and Gabinius, and his uneasy sneers at the
    impracticable Cato. We may note the different tone which his
    disparagement assumes towards these men respectively. He speaks of
    Cæsar with awe, of Pompeius with mortification, with dislike of
    Crassus, with bitter malice of Antonius. Cæsar, even when he most
    deeply reprobates him, he personally loves; the cold distrust of
    Pompeius vexes his self-esteem; between him and Crassus there
    subsists a natural antipathy of temperament: but Antonius, the
    hate of his old age, becomes to him the incarnation of all the
    evil his long and bitter experience of mankind have discovered in
    the human heart. While we suspect Cicero of injustice towards the
    great men of his day, we are bound also to specify the gross
    dishonesty with which he magnifies his own merits where they are
    trivial, and embellishes them where they are really important. The
    perpetual recurrence to the topic of his own political deserts
    must have wearied the most patient of friends, and more than
    balanced the display of sordidness and time-serving which Atticus
    doubtless reflected back in his share of the correspondence
    between them.

    "But while Cicero stands justly charged with many grave
    infirmities of temper and defects of principle, while we remark
    with a sigh the vanity, the inconstancy, and the ingratitude he so
    often manifested, while we lament his ignoble subserviencies and
    his ferocious resentments, the high standard by which we claim to
    judge him is in itself the fullest acknowledgment of his
    transcendent merits. For undoubtedly had he not placed himself on
    a higher moral level than the statesmen and sages of his day, we
    should pass over many of his weaknesses in silence, and allow his
    pretensions to our esteem to pass almost unchallenged. But we
    demand a nearer approach to the perfection of human wisdom and
    virtue in one who sought to approve himself the greatest of their
    teachers. Nor need we scruple to admit that the judgment of the
    ancients on Cicero was for the most part unfavorable. The
    moralists of antiquity required in their heroes virtues with which
    we can more readily dispense: and they too had less sympathy with
    many qualities which a purer religion and a wider experience have
    taught us to love and admire. Nor were they capable, from their
    position, of estimating the slow and silent effects upon human
    happiness of the lessons which Cicero enforced. After all the
    severe judgments we are compelled to pass on his conduct, we must
    acknowledge that there remains a residue of what is amiable in his
    character and noble in his teaching beyond all ancient example.
    Cicero lived and died in faith. He has made converts to the belief
    in virtue, and had disciples in the wisdom of love. There have
    been dark periods in the history of man, when the feeble ray of
    religious instruction paled before the torch of his generous
    philanthropy. The praise which the great critic pronounced upon
    his excellence in oratory may be justly extended to the qualities
    of his heart, and even in our enlightened days it may be held no
    mean advance in virtue to venerate the master of Roman
    philosophy."

LORD MAHON’S HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.

Incomparably the best history of our struggle for independence that has
been written by a foreigner is that of which we have the larger portion in
the just-published fifth and sixth volumes of Lord MAHON’S _History of
England from the Peace of Utrecht_, comprising the period from 1763 to
1780—from the commencement of the popular discontents until the virtual
conclusion of the war.

The character of Lord Mahon as a historian has long been established. When
Sismondi, in 1842, had brought his History of France down to the peace of
Aix-la-Chapelle, he lamented that he could no longer be guided by Lord
Mahon, and expressed a hope that his "brilliant labors" would be
continued. The portion of his work on which the illustrious Frenchman thus
set the seal of his approval has been reprinted in this country by the
Appletons, in two large volumes (embracing the first four of the original
impression), carefully and judiciously edited by Professor Henry Reed, of
Philadelphia. It well indicates the right of its author to a place with
the best British writers in this department. History was never before
written so brilliantly or profoundly as in the last half century. Germany
in this period has boasted her Schiller, Niebuhr, Von Hammer, Heeren,
Ranke, and two Mullers; France her Sismondi, Barrante, Thierrys, Michelet,
Mignet, Guizot, and Thiers; England her Mitford, Arnold, Thirlwall, Grote,
Napier, Hallam, Mackintosh, Macaulay, Palgrave, and Mahon; and we have
ourselves the noble names of Bancroft, Prescott, and Irving, to send to
the next ages. Of the English authors we have mentioned, we regard Lord
Mahon as in many respects the first; Hallam is a laborious and wise
critic; Thirlwall and Grote, in their province, have greatly increased the
fame of British scholarship; and Macaulay, brilliant and picturesque
beyond any of his contemporaries, has an unprecedented popularity, which
will last until the worthlessness of his opinions and the viciousness of
his style are more justly appreciated than they are likely to be by the
mobs of novel readers who in this generation have preferred him to James
and Ainsworth. Lord Mahon is the most legitimate successor of the greatest
historian of his country, David Hume.

Although the chief subject of these new volumes is the American war, the
general political history of England, from the decline of the fortunes of
Bute through the administration of Grenville, Rockingham, Chatham, the
Duke of Grafton, and Lord North, is illustrated and commented on as
largely as the special purpose of the author permitted; and we have many
striking passages respecting Wilkes and his various persecutions, the
Letters of Junius and their authorship, and the common intellectual and
material progress of the British empire. The spirit in which he regards
our Revolution is illustrated by the following paragraph, on the
rejection, by the House of Peers, of the conciliatory Bill by which Lord
Chatham hoped, in 1775, to prevent the threatened separation of the
colonies:

    "It may be proper, or at least pardonable, here to pause for an
    inquiry, what probable issue might have attended an opposite
    decision in the British Parliament? If the ministers had been
    defeated on this Bill, if, in consequence, they had resigned, and
    it had in other hands been carried through, would the Americans
    have accepted the measure cheerfully and readily—would it for a
    long time to come have closed the breach, and cemented the union
    with the Mother Country? From all the facts and testimonies then
    or since made public, I answer without hesitation that it would.
    The sword was then slumbering in its scabbard. On both sides there
    were injuries to redress, but not as yet bloodshed to avenge. It
    was only a quarrel. It was not as yet a war. Even the boldest
    leaders of that war in after years, whether in council or the
    field, were still, in January, 1775, the firm friends of colonial
    subordination. Washington himself (and he at least was no
    dissembler—from him, at least, there never came any promise or
    assurance that did not deserve the most implicit credit) had only
    a few months before presided at a meeting of Fairfax County, in
    Virginia. That meeting, while claiming relief of grievances, had
    also at his instance adopted the following Resolve:—’That it is
    our greatest wish and inclination, as well as interest, to
    continue our connection with, and dependence upon, the British
    Government.’ But further still, although the first Congress was
    praised by Chatham for its moderate counsels, and although the
    calmer voice of history has ratified the praise, we learn that
    these moderate counsels did not lag behind, but rather exceeded
    and outran the prevailing sentiment in many of the colonies. To
    this fact we find an unimpeachable testimony in the letters of
    President Reed, who, writing to a friend in strict confidence,
    laments that ’The proceedings of Congress have been pitched on too
    high a key for some of those middle provinces.’ With such
    feelings, how gladly, how gratefully would they have welcomed the
    hand of reconciliation stretched out by the Parliament of England!
    It may be true, indeed, that such feelings as these did not
    prevail in all, or nearly all, the colonies. It may be true,
    especially, that no amount of good government, of forbearance, or
    of kindness, would have won back Massachusetts. But herein lay, as
    I think, the especial force and efficacy of Lord Chatham’s scheme,
    that it did not refer the questions of parliamentary supremacy and
    colonial taxation to the decision of any one province; but, as the
    Americans themselves desired, to the decision of a Congress
    composed from all the provinces, so that disaffection, however
    firmly rooted here and there, would of course be overpowered by a
    loyal and large majority. Nor do I believe that the proposal of a
    new grant to the Crown, and the consequent necessity of increased
    taxation to the people, would have interposed any serious
    obstacle. The load of taxation on the colonies was at this period
    light indeed: according to a calculation made by Lord North in
    that very year, each inhabitant of England paid in taxes, upon an
    average, not less than twenty-five shillings annually; but each
    inhabitant of British America no more than sixpence. The
    experience of the closely-following Revolutionary war proves how
    easily and readily, when their feelings were involved, the
    Americans could raise far greater supplies. And surely had Lord
    Chatham’s scheme prevailed, their feelings would have been
    involved. They would have been pleased and proud to show that
    their previous refusal to pay taxes sprang from principle, and not
    from inability or disaffection; and that, when once their views of
    principle had been complied with, they could contribute with no
    sparing hand to the exigencies of their countrymen, and to the
    service of their king."

The opinion of Lord Mahon that, even after Burgoyne’s surrender, and the
treaty of alliance between France and America, the colonies might have
been preserved, had Lord Chatham lived and returned to office, we think
entirely erroneous. Our separation from England, though there had been no
stamp act or tea tax, was inevitable.

Lord Mahon is exceedingly fond of personal portraiture, in which he is
sometimes very successful. One of his most carefully-elaborated
performances in this way has for its subject Washington, and in the dozen
pages he devotes to the analysis of the character of the great chief he
has displayed his best abilities, though, we confess, without suggesting
any thing very novel. He dislikes Franklin, and loses no opportunity of
imputing to him personal dishonesty. We think the influence of Mr. William
B. Reed’s Life of President Reed is traceable in almost every allusion
made by Lord Mahon to our philosopher. Without further observation upon
the qualities of the work, we avail ourselves of the possession of an
early copy of it to present our readers with some of the most striking
passages pencilled in a hasty reading.

                               WASHINGTON.

    During many years did Washington continue to enjoy the pleasures
    and fulfil the duties of an independent country gentleman.
    Field-sports divided his time with the cultivation and improvement
    of his land, and the sales of his tobacco; he showed kindness to
    his dependents, and hospitality to his friends; and having been
    elected one of the House of Burgesses in Virginia, he was,
    whenever that House met, exact in his attendance. To that
    well-regulated mind nothing within the course of its ordinary and
    appointed avocations seemed unworthy of its care. His ledgers and
    day-books were kept by himself: he took note of all the houses
    where he partook of hospitality, so that not even the smallest
    courtesies might pass by unremembered; and until his press of
    business in the Revolutionary War he was wont every evening to set
    down the variations of the weather during the preceding day. It
    was also his habit through life, whenever he wished to possess
    himself perfectly of the contents of any paper, to transcribe it
    in his own hand, and apparently with deliberation, so that no
    point might escape his notice. Many copies of this kind were after
    his death found among his manuscripts.

    We may observe, however, that in the mind of Washington
    punctuality and precision did not, as we often find them, turn in
    any degree to selfishness. On the contrary, he was rather careless
    of small points where only his own comfort was concerned. Thus he
    could seldom be persuaded to take any remedy, or desist from any
    business, whenever he caught a cold, but used to say, "let it go
    as it came!"

    Nor yet was his constant regularity of habits attended by undue
    formality of manner. In one of his most private letters there
    appears given incidentally, and as it were by chance, a golden
    rule upon that subject:—"As to the gentlemen you mention I cannot
    charge myself with incivility, or what in my opinion is
    tantamount, ceremonious civility.

    In figure Washington was thin and tall (above six feet high), in
    countenance grave, unimpassioned, and benign. An inborn worth, an
    unaffected dignity, beamed forth in every look as in every word
    and deed. His first appearance and address might not convey the
    idea of superior talents; such at least was the remark of his
    accomplished countryman, Mr. Gallatin; but no man, whether friend
    or enemy, ever viewed without respect the noble simplicity of his
    demeanor, the utter absence in him of every artifice and every
    affectation.

    It has been justly remarked that of General Washington there are
    fewer anecdotes to tell than perhaps of any other great man on
    record. So equally framed were the features of his mind, so
    harmonious all its proportions, that no one quality rose salient
    above the rest. There were none of those chequered ques, none of
    those warring emotions, in which Biography delights. There was no
    contrast of lights and shades, no flickering of the flame; it was
    a mild light that seldom dazzled, but that ever cheered and
    warmed. His contemporaries or his close observers, as Mr.
    Jefferson and Mr. Gallatin, assert that he had naturally strong
    passions, but had attained complete mastery over them. In
    self-control indeed he has never been surpassed. If sometimes on
    rare occasions, and on strong provocation, there was wrung from
    him a burst of anger, it was almost instantly quelled by the
    dominion of his will. He decided surely, though he deliberated
    slowly; nor could any urgency or peril move him from his serene
    composure, his calm and clear-headed good sense. Integrity and
    truth were also ever present in his mind. Not a single instance,
    as I believe, can be found in his whole career when he was
    impelled by any but an upright motive, or endeavored to attain an
    object by any but worthy means. Such are some of the high
    qualities which have justly earned for General Washington the
    admiration even of the country he opposed, and not merely the
    admiration but the gratitude and affection of his own. Such was
    the pure and upright spirit to which, when its toils were over and
    its earthly course had been run, was offered the unanimous homage
    of the assembled Congress, all clad in deep mourning for their
    common loss, as to "the man first in war, first in peace, and
    first in the hearts of his fellow-citizens." At this day in the
    United States the reverence for his character is, as it should be,
    deep and universal, and not confined, as with nearly all our
    English statesmen, to one party, one province, or one creed. Such
    reverence for Washington is felt even by those who wander furthest
    from the paths in which he trod. A President when recommending
    measures of aggression and invasion can still refer to him whose
    rule was ever to arm only in self-defence as to "the greatest and
    best of men!" States which exult in their bankruptcy as a proof of
    their superior shrewdness, and have devised "Repudiation" as a
    newer and more graceful term for it, yet look up to their great
    General—the very soul of good faith and honor—with their reverence
    unimpaired!"

                              PATRICK HENRY.

    The colony of Virginia was the place, and the the year 1736 the
    time, of birth to Patrick Henry. His parents were in easy
    circumstances, but burthened with a numerous family; they resided
    at a country scat to which the ambitious name of Mount Brilliant
    had been given. In childhood Patrick Henry gave little promise of
    distinction. His person is represented as having been coarse, his
    manners extremely awkward, his dress slovenly, and his aversion to
    study invincible. No persuasion could bring him either to read or
    to work. At sixteen his father gave him means to open a small
    shop, which failed, however, in less than one year. Then he tried
    a small farm, and married; then again he entered upon the life of
    a tradesman, but in a few years more was a bankrupt. It was at
    this period that he became acquainted with Mr. Jefferson,
    afterwards President of the United States. "Mr. Henry," says
    Jefferson, "had a little before broken up his store (shop), or
    rather it had broken him up, but his misfortunes were not to be
    traced either in his countenance or conduct. His manners had
    something of coarseness in them; his passion was music, dancing,
    and pleasantry. He excelled in the last, and it attached every one
    to him."

    As a last resource, Patrick Henry now determined to make a trial
    of the law. It cannot be said that his preparatory studies were
    unduly arduous, since, as his biographer informs us, they were all
    comprised in the period of six weeks. Under such unpromising
    circumstances, and in the year 1763, he obtained a brief in the
    long-contested cause then raging in Virginia between the clergy on
    the one side, and the legislature on the other, as regarding the
    stipends which the former claimed. On this occasion Henry, to the
    astonishment of all who knew him, poured forth a strain of such
    impassioned eloquence as not only carried the cause, contrary to
    all previous expectation, but placed him ever afterwards at the
    head of his profession in the colony. To this very day, says Mr.
    Wirt, writing in 1818, the impression remains, and the old people
    of that district think that no higher compliment can be paid to
    any public speaker than to say of him in their homely phrase, "He
    is almost equal to Patrick when he plead (pleaded) against the
    parsons!"

    The natural eloquence which on this occasion flashed forth from
    the coarse and unlettered Henry, as the spark-of fire from the
    flint, continued to distinguished him both as a Member of the
    House of Burgesses at Williamsburg, and afterwards as a member of
    Congress. He took from the first a bold and active part against
    the pretensions of the mother country; indeed Mr. Jefferson goes
    so far as to declare that "Mr. Henry certainly gave the earliest
    impulse to the ball of revolution." His most celebrated burst of
    oratory, or rather turn of phrase, was in this very year 1765,
    when descanting in the House of Burgesses on the tyranny of the
    Stamp Act. "Cæsar—" he cried, in a voice of thunder and with an
    eye of fire—"Cæsar had his Brutus—Charles the First had his
    Cromwell—and George the Third"—"Treason!" here exclaimed the
    Speaker, "Treason! Treason!" re-echoed from every part of the
    House. Henry did not for an instant falter, but fixing his eye
    firmly on the Speaker, he concluded his sentence thus "—may profit
    by their example. If this be treason make the most of it!"

    Indolence and aversion to reading seemed almost as natural to
    Henry’s mind as powers of debate. To the last he never overcame
    them. Thus, at his death, in 1799, his books were found to be
    extremely few, and these too consisting chiefly of odd volumes.
    But his gift of speech was (for his hearers) sufficiently
    supported by his fiery energy, his practical shrewdness, and his
    ever keen glance into the feelings and characters of other. Nor
    were these his only claims to his country’s favor. He retained the
    manners and custom of the common people, with what his friendly
    biographer terms "religious caution.—He dressed as plainly as the
    plainest of them," continues Mr. Wirt, "ate only their homely
    fare, and drank their simple beverage, mixed with them on a
    footing of the most entire and perfect equality, and conversed
    with them even in their own vicious and depraved pronunciation."
    By such means he soon acquired and long retained a large measure
    of popularity, and he applied himself with zeal and success before
    any audience, and on every occasion which arose, to increase and
    perpetuate the estrangement between the North American Colonies
    and England.

                                FRANKLIN.

    Dr. Benjamin Franklin is one of those men who have made the task
    of succeeding biographers more difficult by having been in part
    their own. He was born at Boston in 1706, the youngest of ten
    sons. "My father," he says, "intended to devote me, as the tithe
    of his sons, to the service of the Church;" but on further
    reflection, the charges of a college education were thought too
    burthensome, and young Benjamin became a journeyman printer. From
    a very early age he showed a passionate fondness for reading, and
    much ingenuity in argument, but, as he acknowledges, had at first
    contracted a disputatious and wrangling turn of conversation. "I
    have since observed," he says, "that persons of good sense seldom
    fall into it, except lawyers, University-men, and generally men of
    all sorts who have been bred at Edinburgh."

    Young Franklin was at first bound apprentice to one of his elder
    brothers, a printer at Boston; but some differences arising
    between them, he proceeded to Philadelphia, where he soon obtained
    employment, and ere long set up for himself. His success in life
    was secured by his great frugality, industry, and shrewdness. In
    his own words: "I spent no time in taverns, games, or frolics of
    any kind; reading was the only amusement I allowed myself." His
    knowledge and shrewdness,—great zeal in urging any improvements,
    and great ingenuity in promoting them,—speedily raised him high in
    the estimation of his fellow-townsmen, and enabled him to take a
    forward part in all the affairs of his province. In England, and
    indeed all Europe, he became celebrated by his experiments and
    discoveries in electricity. These may deserve the greater credit
    when we recollect both their practical utility and their
    unassisted progress,—how much the pointed rods which he introduced
    have tended to avert the dangers of lightning, and how far removed
    was Franklin at the time from all scientific society, libraries,
    or patronage.

    It has also been stated by no less an authority in science than
    Sir Humphrey Davy, that "the style and manner of Dr. Franklin’s
    publication on Electricity are almost as worthy of admiration as
    the doctrine it contains." The same remark may indeed be applied
    to all his writings. All of them are justly celebrated for their
    clear, plain, and lively style, free from every appearance of art,
    but, in fact, carefully pointed and nicely poised. In public
    speaking, on the other hand, he was much less eminent. His last
    American biographer observes of him, that he never even pretended
    to the accomplishments of an orator or debater. He seldom spoke in
    a deliberative assembly, except for some special object, and then
    only for a few minutes at a time.

    As a slight instance of Franklin’s humor and shrewdness in all
    affairs of common life I may quote the following: "QUESTION. I am
    about courting a girl I have had but little acquaintance with. How
    shall I come to a knowledge of her faults? ANSWER. Commend her
    among her female acquaintance!"

    Whether in science and study, or in politics and action, the great
    aim of Franklin’s mind was ever practical utility. Here again we
    may quote Sir Humphrey Davy as saying of Franklin that he sought
    rather to make philosophy a useful inmate and servant in the
    common habitations of man, than to preserve her merely as an
    object of admiration in temples and palaces. Thus, also, in
    affairs he had a keen eye to his own interest, but likewise a
    benevolent concern for the public good. Nor was he ever
    indifferent to cases of individual grievance or hardship. In the
    pursuit of his objects, public or private, he was, beyond most
    other men, calm, sagacious, and wary; neither above business nor
    yet below it; never turned aside from it by flights of fancy nor
    yet by bursts of passion.

    Among the good qualities which we may with just cause ascribe to
    Franklin we cannot number any firm reliance on the truths of
    Revelation. Only five weeks before his death we find him express a
    cold approbation of the "system of morals" bequeathed to us by
    "Jesus of Nazareth." In his Memoirs he declares that he always
    believed in the existence of a Deity and a future state of rewards
    and punishments, but he adds that although he continued to adhere
    to his first—the Presbyterian—sect, some of its dogmas appeared to
    him unintelligible, and others doubtful. "I early absented myself
    from the public assemblies of the sect; and I seldom attended any
    public worship; Sunday being my studying day."

    Such being Franklin’s own practice, and such his own description
    of it as to public worship, it seems worthy of note that it was he
    who in the American Convention brought forward a motion for daily
    prayers. "I have lived, Sir," said he, "a long time, and the
    longer I live the more convincing proofs I see of this truth, that
    God governs in the affairs of men. And if a sparrow cannot fall to
    the ground without his notice, is it probable that an empire can
    rise without his aid?" But in spite of this most earnest appeal
    the motion was rejected, since, as we are told, "the Convention,
    except three or four persons, thought prayers unnecessary."

    The accomplished American biographer, by whom this last incident
    is recorded, expresses in the same passage deep regret that Dr.
    Franklin did not bestow more attention than he seems to have done
    on the evidences of Christianity. And indeed there are several
    indications that he was less well acquainted with points of
    Christian faith and discipline than with almost any other subject.
    One of these indications, and surely a most strange one, occurs in
    the Private Diary which he kept at Passy during part of 1784. It
    appears that two young American gentlemen had come over to London
    with the view of entering Holy Orders, but that the Archbishop of
    Canterbury refused them Ordination unless they would take the Oath
    of Allegiance. In this dilemma Franklin actually applied to the
    Pope’s Nuncio at Paris to ascertain whether a Roman Catholic
    Bishop in America might not perform the ceremony for them as
    Protestants, and he transcribes as remarkable the natural reply:
    "The Nuncio says the thing is impossible unless the gentlemen
    become Roman Catholics."

    The religious scepticism or indifference of Franklin, which his
    present biographers justly lament, was, however, in his own day, a
    recommendation and a merit with the French philosophists. On the
    other hand, his hostility to England endeared him to the French
    politicians. On both these grounds, as well as from his high
    scientific attainments, he found himself during his residence of
    several years at Paris in no common measure courted, flattered,
    and caressed. A fine verse, one of the noblest which modern
    Latinity can boast, describes him as having plucked the lightning
    from Heaven and the sceptre from tyrants.

    Descending from such lofty flights to the regions of sober
    reality, we may observe that Franklin in his later years, and
    especially in France, adopted to a great extent the Quaker garb.
    He laid aside the huge wig which he used to wear in England, and
    allowed his long white hair to flow down nearly to his shoulders.
    His clothes were of the plainest cut and of the dunnest color. The
    Parisians of that period, ever swayed by external impressions,
    were greatly struck with, and in their writings frequently refer
    to, his venerable aspect, and they compared him by turns to all
    the sages of antiquity. It is also probable that his Quaker-like
    attire may have tended to invest him in their estimation with the
    other attributes which they assigned to the ideal Quaker
    character, as simplicity, guilelessness, inviolable truth.

                               LA FAYETTE.

    It so chanced that in the summer of 1776, La Fayette, still in his
    teens, and serving as a subaltern with the French army, was
    stationed with his regiment at Metz. It happened also that in the
    course of a foreign tour their Royal Highnesses of Gloucester
    passed a few days in that town. The principal officers entertained
    the Duke at dinner, when the conversation turned to the last news
    from Philadelphia and the new Declaration of Independence. Being
    at that period offended with his Court, from its neglect of the
    Duchess, the Duke indulged in Opposition topics, and, in some
    degree at least, took the part of the Americans. The details were
    new to La Fayette. He listened with eagerness, and prolonged the
    conversation by asking questions of the Royal guest. The cause of
    the colonies that had risen against England seemed to him just and
    noble, even on the showing of one of the English princes; and
    before he left the table, the thought came into his head that he
    would go to America, and offer the Americans his services. He
    determined to return to Paris, and make further inquiries. His
    inquiries being mainly addressed to Silas Deane and other zealous
    friends of the insurgents, could not fail to confirm him in his
    first impressions. He became fired with an ardent zeal for
    Republican principles and the American cause. That zeal continued
    ever afterwards—for well nigh sixty years—the polar star of his
    course. That zeal, favored as it was by fortune, adapted to the
    times that came upon him, and urged forward by great personal
    vanity, laid the foundations of his fame far more, as I conceive,
    than any strength of mind or talents of his own. Few men have ever
    been so conspicuous from afar with so little, when closely viewed,
    of real weight or dimension. As a general, it can scarcely be
    pretended that his exploits were either many or considerable. As
    an orator, we look in vain for any high powers of debate. As a
    statesman, we find only an undistinguishing eagerness to apply the
    Transatlantic examples and to act the part of Washington, without
    duly estimating either the immense superiority of Washington’s
    character above his own, or the manifold points of difference
    between America and Europe.

    It was said by Napoleon at St. Helena, that "La Fayette was a man
    of no ability, either in civil or military life; his understanding
    was confined to narrow bounds; his character was full of
    dissimulation, and swayed by vague ideas of liberty, which, in
    him, were undefined and ill-digested." No doubt there is some
    exaggeration in these words. No doubt the late Emperor, at that
    period, was stirred by personal resentment at the hostile conduct
    of the General in 1815; yet it will perhaps be found more easy by
    any admirer of La Fayette to impugn the good faith of the
    draughtsman than the general accuracy of the portrait.

    The fortune of La Fayette was ample, his yearly income being
    little short of two hundred thousand livres; and his connexions,
    as we have seen, were among the first at Court. Under such
    circumstances, Silas Deane felt the vast importance of securing
    him. An agreement was concluded between them, by the intervention
    of one Mr. Carmichael (for as yet La Fayette spoke no English, and
    Deane little French), according to the terms of which the Marquis
    de La Fayette was to join the American service, and to receive
    from Congress the rank of Major-General—no slight temptation to a
    stripling of nineteen! La Fayette was to be accompanied, or rather
    attended, by the Baron de Kalb and eleven other officers of lower
    rank, seeking service in America. He sent, in secret, an agent to
    Bordeaux, there to purchase and prepare a vessel for their voyage.
    Meanwhile he made an excursion of three weeks to London, where his
    kinsman, the Marquis de Noailles, was ambassador. He was presented
    to the King, and graciously received. He saw at the opera General
    Clinton, who had come home on a winter leave of absence, and who
    was next to meet him on a field of battle in America. But, mindful
    of his own hostile designs, he deemed it proper to forbear from
    prying into the military forces of the kingdom, and declined an
    invitation to visit the naval armament at Portsmouth.

    On his return to France, La Fayette bade farewell to his young
    wife, leaving her four months gone with child, and set out for
    Bordeaux. Thus far all had prospered according to his wishes. But
    at Bordeaux he found that his preparations had been discovered and
    complained of by Lord Stormont, and that a LETTRE DE CACHET for
    his arrest was already issued. Nevertheless, he did not relinquish
    his design. He crossed the Spanish frontier in the disguise of a
    courier, found his vessel at Pasages, and there embarked with his
    companions. Towards the middle of June he landed on the coast of
    Carolina; and after a few days’ rest, pursued his route to
    Philadelphia. His reception by the Congress was not at first a
    warm one; but La Fayette declared that he would accept no pay, and
    was willing to serve as a volunteer; and under these
    circumstances, the Assembly fulfilled the terms of the secret
    agreement, and bestowed on him the rank of Major-General.

    At Philadelphia La Fayette saw the American troops for the first
    time, and, according to his own account, was struck with their
    grotesque appearance—with green boughs fastened to their
    hats—coarse hunting-shirts instead of uniforms—and muskets, many
    wanting bayonets, and all of unequal make and size. But he soon
    learnt to think more favorably of these raw levies, when,
    notwithstanding all their disadvantages, he observed their conduct
    in the field. With regard to their commander, his early
    impressions never changed. It was also at Philadelphia, and at a
    dinner-table, comprising several members of the Congress, that La
    Fayette was introduced to Washington. The boy-general found
    himself warmly welcomed by the chief whom he had long admired.
    "When you come to the army," said Washington, "I shall be pleased
    if you will make my quarters your home, and consider yourself as
    one of my family." The invitation thus frankly tendered was no
    less frankly accepted. Thus did a cordial intimacy arise between
    them, Washington at all times treating La Fayette with fatherly
    kindness, and La Fayette looking up to Washington with filial
    regard.

    La Fayette had already begun to speak a little English, and by
    degrees acquired more. But to the last the difficulties of the
    language were a main obstacle, not only to himself, but to every
    other foreigner who served with, or under, the United States. Thus
    there are still preserved some of the ill-spelled and scarcely
    intelligible notes of Count Pulasky, during the short time that he
    served as general of cavalry. Still worse was the case of Baron
    Steuben, a veteran of the school of Frederick the Second, who
    joined the Americans a few months later than La Fayette, and who
    greatly aided them in the establishment of discipline. The Baron,
    it appears, could not teach and drill, nor even swear and curse,
    but by means of an interpreter! He was, therefore, most fortunate
    in securing as his aid-de-camp Captain Walker of New-York—most
    fortunate, if, as his American biographer assures us, "there was
    not, perhaps, another officer in the army, unless Hamilton be
    excepted, who could speak French and English so as to be well
    understood in both."

    La Fayette did not always confine himself to the bounds of his own
    profession; sometimes, and, perhaps, not greatly to his credit, he
    stepped beyond them. Here is one case recorded with much
    satisfaction by himself. He states, that soon after his arrival in
    America, and while attending on Sunday the service of the Church
    of England, he was displeased with the clergyman, because in his
    sermon he had said nothing at all of politics. "I charged him to
    his face," says La Fayette, "with preaching only about Heaven!...
    But next Sunday," continues the keen young officer, "I heard him
    again, when his loud invectives against ’the execrable House of
    Hanover,’ showed that he was ready and willing to take my good
    advice."

                            JOHN HORNE TOOKE.

    His abilities were ill fitted for the profession of a clergyman,
    which indeed he at last renounced, but they highly qualified him
    for his favorite occupation as a demagogue. Between him and Wilkes
    there now arose a violent animosity and a keen altercation carried
    on in newspapers. Descending to the lowest and most selfish
    details, they were not ashamed thus publicly to wrangle respecting
    a Welsh pony and a hamper of claret! Even before the close of 1770
    might be discerned the growing discord and weakness of Wilkes and
    his city friends. At a meeting which they convened to consider
    their course of action, some proposed a new Remonstrance to the
    King, while others urged an impeachment of Lord North in the House
    of Commons. "What is the use of a new Remonstrance?" cried Wilkes.
    "It would only serve to make another paper kite for His Royal
    Highness the Prince of Wales!"—"What is the use of an
    impeachment?" cried Sawbridge. "Lord North is quite sure of the
    Bishops and the Scotch Peers in the Upper House, and could not
    fail to be acquitted!" But although these ardent patriots might
    differ a little as to the means, they were bent on one and the
    same end; and the Remonstrance which was at last agreed upon,
    appears to have been framed by their united wisdom. As thus drawn
    up it teemed with silly vagaries fit only to please the lowest
    order of intellects. Thus it prayed that His Majesty would for
    ever remove from his presence and councils all his Ministers and
    Secretaries of State, especially Lord Mansfield (who by the way
    was not one of them), and that His Majesty would not again admit
    any Scotchman into the administration!

                         THE CHARACTER OF WILKES.

    He was born in 1727, the son of a rich distiller. Early in life he
    set up a brewery for himself, but soon relinquished the wearisome
    business. Early in life also he improved his fortune by his
    marriage with the daughter and heiress of the celebrated Dr. Mead,
    the author of the "Treatise on Poisons." But this lady, being of
    maturer age than himself, and of slight personal attractions, was
    speedily slighted, and he left her with as much disgust as he had
    his brewery. In 1757 he was elected Member of Parliament for
    Aylesbury, but never obtained any success as an orator, his
    speeches being, though flippant, yet feeble. In truth he had no
    great ability of any kind, but dauntless courage and high animal
    spirits. Nor should we deny him another much rarer praise,—a vein
    of good humor and kindliness, which did not forsake him through
    all his long career, amidst the riot of debauchery or the rancor
    of faction. So agreeable and insinuating was his conversation,
    that more than one fair dame as she listened found herself forget
    his sinister squint and his ill-favored countenance. He used to
    say of himself in a laughing strain, that though he was the
    ugliest man in England, he wanted nothing to make him even with
    the handsomest but half an hour at starting! Politics indeed
    seemed at first wholly alien from Wilkes’s sphere; gayety and
    gallantry were his peculiar objects. For some time he reigned the
    oracle of green-rooms and the delight of taverns. In conjunction
    with other kindred spirits, as Paul Whitehead and Sir Francis
    Dashwood, amounting in all to twelve, he rented Medmenham Abbey,
    near Marlow. It is a secluded and beautiful spot on the banks of
    the Thames, with hanging woods that slope down to the crystal
    stream, a grove of venerable elms, and meadows of the softest
    green. In days of old it had been a convent of Cistercian monks,
    but the new brotherhood took the title of Franciscans in
    compliment to Sir Francis Dashwood, whom they called their Father
    Abbot. On the portal, now again in ruins, and once more resigned
    to its former solitude and silence, I could still a few years
    since read the inscription placed there by Wilkes and his friends:
    fay çe que voudras. Other French and Latin inscriptions, now with
    good reason effaced, then appeared in other parts of the grounds,
    some of them remarkable for wit, but all for either profaneness or
    obscenity, and many the more highly applauded as combining both.
    In this retreat the new Franciscans used often to meet for summer
    pastimes, and varied the round of their debauchery by a mock
    celebration of the principal Roman Catholic rites.

                         WILKES’S ESSAY ON WOMAN.

    It appears that Wilkes had, several years before, and in some of
    his looser hours, composed a parody of Pope’s "Essay on Man." In
    this undertaking, which, according to his own account, cost him a
    great deal of pains and time, he was, it is said, assisted by
    Thomas Potter, second son of the late Archbishop of Canterbury,
    who had been Secretary of Frederick Prince of Wales, and had since
    shown ability and gained office in the House of Commons, but was
    (as well became one of Wilkes’s friends) of lax morals in his
    private life. The result of their joint authorship, however, has
    little wit or talent to make any amends for the blasphemy and
    lewdness with which it abounds. As the original had been inscribed
    by Pope to Lord Bolingbroke, so was the parody by Wilkes to Lord
    Sandwich; thus it began, "Awake my Sandwich!" instead of "Awake my
    St. John!" Thus also, in ridicule of Warburton’s well-known
    commentary, some burlesque notes were appended in the name of the
    Right Reverend the Bishop of Gloucester.

    This worthless poem had remained in manuscript, and lain in
    Wilkes’s desk, until in the previous spring he had occasion to set
    up a press at his own house, and was tempted to print fourteen
    copies only as presents to his boon companions. Of one of these
    copies the Government obtained possession, through a subordinate
    agent, and by not very creditable means, and Lord Sandwich holding
    it forth in his hand with the air of injured innocence, denounced
    it as not only scandalous and impious, but also as a breach of
    Privilege against the Bishop as a Peer of Parliament. He likewise
    complained of another profane parody, written by the same hand,
    and printed on the same occasion; this last was entitled, "The
    VENI CREATOR paraphrased." The most offensive passages of both
    were now by Lord Sandwich’s order read aloud to the House, until
    Lord Lyttleton with a groan entreated that they might hear no
    more!

    In the discussion which ensured, Bishop Warburton, forgetting that
    such ribaldries could not really tarnish his character, showed a
    heat which little became it. He exclaimed that the blackest fiends
    in Hell would disdain to keep company with Wilkes,—and then asked
    pardon of Satan for comparing them together! Both the Earl and
    Bishop in their passion would have readily over-leaped the common
    forms of justice. The former, after producing evidence at the Bar
    as to the authorship of Wilkes, wished the House to take measures
    for his prosecution, without the least delay. But the Peers,
    although readily agreeing to vote the two parodies blasphemous and
    breaches of Privilege, resolved, on the motion of Lord Mansfield,
    to adjourn all further questions until the day after the next, so
    as to give Wilkes the opportunity, if he desired it, of alleging
    any matter in denial or defence.

                              LORD THURLOW.

    With all his faults and shortcomings there was that in Thurlow
    which overawed and daunted his contemporaries, and of which the
    impression is not wholly lost even on posterity. It was a saying
    of Mr. Fox, that no man ever yet was so wise as Thurlow looked.
    His countenance was fraught with sense; his aspect stately and
    commanding; his brow broad, massy, and armed with terrors like
    that of the Olympian Jove, to which indeed it was often compared.
    His voice loud, sonorous, and as rolling thunder in the distance,