Chapter IV (3)

A week had passed. The same strange being stood at the corner of a dark, deserted street, in the city of ——. No longer a look of proud despair flashed from his eyes; but want and suffering sat upon his pale, wan features. This noble form was bowed, and from his starting eyes there gleamed, bitter, heart-rending misery.

Two days had he sought employment, and sought in vain. There he stood, without a home—without food—without shelter. Beg he could not. A step is heard—a horrid thought darts through his brain; despair nerves him, and, as the unknown passes, he demands his money. The stranger resists—with one stroke of his powerful arm, he fells him to the earth—rifles him of his purse—and fleeing, leaves him for dead.

Reader, now we have witnessed the last step to ruin of the miserable young man. Why follow him in his downward career? Why enter with him into the abodes of vice and infamy? Why present the blackened picture to the mind of innocence? The guilty can imagine it but too well.

* * * * *

For a moment Ellen seemed transfixed to the spot whereon she stood. “I think it is all over with him,” said the woman, who had followed her to the bed-side.

Ellen, stooping, took one of the cold hands that lay upon the coverlid, and pressing her fingers to his pulse, discovered by its faint, slow movement, that the soul yet lingered this side the portals of eternity.

Kneeling, she breathed one intense, imploring supplication, which, caught by the listening angels, was on wings of rapture borne to the throne of Grace.

Rising, she said to the woman, who stood gazing wonderingly upon her—“Where is the clergyman who belongs to this institution?”

“Oh! madam, he’s gone a traveling after his health!”

“And the physicians?”

“If it’s the doctors you mean, ma’am, _they_ gave him up long ago.”

At this moment Mr. Norton, who had been conversing aside with Mr. Barker, entered.

“Ellen, my child, you here!” And seeing her gaze intently fixed upon the corpse-like form before her, he looked inquiringly upon Mr. Barker, who said,

“Oh, the poor fellow! he’s gone then—I don’t know that I ever pitied any one so much in my life. He appears to have seen better days.”

“Has he no friends?” asked Ellen.

“We do not know,” was the reply. “He was picked up in the street, almost frozen to death, about six months ago—and has been, until about three weeks since, confined in one of the cells. He raves a great deal about his mother, who, as he seems to suppose, was frozen to death—and a sister—and appears to be one of those maniacs who fancy all kinds of demons pursuing them. But, poor fellow! it’s all over with him now.”

“He is not dead,” said Ellen, “his pulse moves!” And as she again stooped to take his hand his lids raised, and his large ghastly eyes bent full upon her. Involuntarily laying her hand upon his marble brow, she said in sweet tones of sympathy, while the tears filled her eyes—“You are better now.”

Shrinking from her touch, while a lurid glare momentarily fired his eyes, in a hoarse whisper he said—

“Don’t, don’t come near me! They will drag you down to this horrible place where they have me. Don’t you see how their eye-balls glare at you!”

“They can’t hurt us,” said Ellen, in soothing accents—“and we have come to take you from them!” And calling for some cold water, she seated herself by his bed, and commenced bathing his temples.

“You are an angel,” murmured the poor maniac, gazing wildly upon her. “My mother, did she send you to release me? And Amy!”

“They are all happy,” said Ellen, following the poor creature’s vagaries, “and you shall be happy too! God will send away those demons from you.”

“Is there a God?” murmured he, a ray of reason for one moment, seeming to dart across his brain.

“It was he who sent us to you,” answered she.

“Sweet angel! can you give me tears to quench this raging fire?” he said, laying his hand upon his heart, “naught but tears can do it! They took them all away when Amy died.” Here nature yielded, and he sank exhausted.

The purity of Ellen’s heart threw around her every act a halo of beauty; and Mr. Barker, who had been accustomed to see the fair ones of earth shrinking with horror and disgust from the poor fettered wretch deprived of reason, thought, as he gazed on Ellen as she knelt beside the unhappy sufferer and bathed his temples, that she was indeed an angel! And she had risen and spoken to him the second time, ere he was conscious of being addressed.

“Mr. Barker,” she continued, without noticing his embarrassment, “cannot this poor man be removed to a more comfortable apartment? I am sure that he is perfectly harmless!” Seeing him hesitate, she continued—“Or, at least, till he can be removed to the insane hospital.”

“I will consult Dr. L.,” and he turned to retire, when Lucy entered accompanied by that gentleman.

“Oh, papa, I could not think what had become of you and Ellen—I waited till my patience was quite exhausted, when meeting Doctor L. I taxed his gallantry to help me find you.”

“We are very glad, cousin, that you have brought the doctor hither,” said Ellen, “for Mr. Barker was just going in search of him, to see if this poor man cannot be removed to a more comfortable apartment in the main-building.”

“I thought the poor fellow dead. He was sinking very fast two days ago.”

“And have you not seen him since?” asked Ellen in surprise.

“Oh, no! I think the sooner such people die the better. They have no enjoyment themselves, and are a burden to others. And as to his being removed to the main-building, a raging maniac—that cannot be thought of.”

“I do not see,” persisted Ellen, “what objection can possibly be urged to removing a dying man to a comfortable room, even if he be a raging maniac.”

“Really! Miss Lincoln,” said Doctor L. with a meaning smile, “you seem to have taken a very deep interest in the handsome stranger.”

Ellen raised her full eyes upon him, and while a smile of pitying contempt cradled about her mouth, said calmly—“The suffering, doctor, always excite the sympathies of the _humane_, and I trust I am of that class.”

And turning to the unconscious sufferer, she continued bathing his wrists and temples, as if to hide her emotion, while a tear trembled upon her downcast lids.

“Let us go from here, Cousin Ellen,” whispered Lucy, “we can do the poor man no good.”

“Dear Lucy,” said Ellen rising, “I cannot go and leave this poor creature without a soul near him in his last moments—and this good woman tells me that he has been pleading for some one to pray for him, which proves that reason has, at times, resumed her throne. And if uncle will consent, I will remain here, while Mr. Barker sends for the Rev. Mr. P., whose ear is ever open to the call of distress.”

“But, Ellen, it is growing late, and you will be subject to remark.”

“Lucy,” she continued, “it is well to regard the world’s opinion when it combats not with duty, but if the world remark unjustly, when I do my duty, be it even so. But what say you, uncle, shall I not stay?”

“Ellen, my child,” said Mr. Norton, “I think with Lucy, you had better not stay.”

“Oh! uncle,” cried Ellen, her eyes filling with tears, “think, for one moment, if this were your own son. Think if it were Lucy or myself, dying alone, without one being to pity, or hand a drop of cold water to soothe the parched lips—and in its last agonies, when the poor soul is about to take its flight, perhaps to the presence of an offended God, without one sympathizing soul to breathe a prayer for mercy!” And here, overcome by her feelings, she bowed her head upon his arm and wept.

“My noble girl!” said Mr. Norton, folding her to his heart, “you shall not only stay, but Lucy and myself will stay with you.”

At length, raising her head, she said—“This place, uncle, is cold and damp, and would, I fear, increase your rheumatism—and Cousin Lucy, you know, dear uncle, is not strong; and I fear his sufferings might affect her too sensibly. But I am well and healthy, and if you will send nurse and John to me, I will watch here to-night, if Mr. Barker will permit.”

“You shall send for no one,” said Mr. Barker, much affected. “Mary and myself will share your labors. You have taught us our duty, Miss Lincoln.”

* * * * *

As a fragrant honeysuckle raised its tiny head to the soft caress of the dewy night winds, a rude blast swept it from its trellised home, through an open window, until caught in the ample folds of a snowy curtain.

The unbidden breeze extinguished a flickering light, rousing the nurse from her recumbent position beside a couch whereon reposed a pale unconscious form. Re-lighting the taper, she advanced to close the window, and hastily throwing aside the curtain, the little floweret found a resting-place below, upon the bosom of a sweet bouquet formed of its beauteous sisters. And, as the little flower-spirit gazed upon the sleeper’s form, the same mysterious atmosphere was there that erst had hovered round the fairy child, but greatly changed.

No longer basked in golden beams the brilliant beings of the mind, nor those of flesh wove chains; but with each other waged a mortal strife. Among the latter might another form be seen, grim, shadowy, and severe. Within his hand a barbed shaft he bore, and whatsoever it rested on was rendered powerless. Above, far in the hazy atmosphere, there shone a radiant light! mysteriously beautiful and fair it seemed; too pure for earth’s conception—and there was seen an angel form bearing a golden vessel.

And the little spirit asked the angel guide, who with uplifted pinions, looks of love, and rapturous adoration, gazed on that glorious vision—what these things meant.

“Yon radiant vision is the cause of all you see. It is the soul’s true aliment—the emanations of a dying Saviour’s love, reflected from the noble hearts of those who have so prayerfully watched around the sufferer’s couch. This, the bright spirits of the soul perceive, and strive to free themselves from earth’s dull chains, to plume their pinions to yon glorious light.

“The grim and shadowy form you see moving amid the ministers of flesh, is fell Disease, offspring of laws transgressed—the direst fee and curse of earthly life. Already have the ministers of flesh felt his barbed shaft—and this it is, that sunk that noble form so low and powerless.

“That angel bright, bearing a golden vessel, is hither drawn from Calvary’s mount, by the united efforts, prayers, and tears of those who, weariless, have at the Throne of Grace implored that soul’s release. He bears the purifying fount of Love, to wash and cleanse that blackened, tainted heart from every trace of sin—nearer it must not, _cannot_ come, until _his will_ shall plead.”

The spirit of flowers turned to the sleeper. His large eyes raised—one deep, imploring gaze—and then his hands were tightly clasped in earnest supplication! A cry of joy ecstatic burst from the angel-guide, ascended heavenward, and caused the seraphs round the Lamb’s pure throne to tune their harps anew!

Heavy, convulsive sobs burst from the bosom of the penitent; and as the watcher raised his head, the light of heaven played around his brow—while from his heaving heart was washed away the name, with every blackened trace of sin! But still, at times, dim shadows flitted past, shading the lustre of its purity. And the little spirit asked, in much surprise, why this should be?

“These are _regrets_,” the angel said, “shadowed from wings of _memory_, as she flits o’er the past. On earth these ne’er can be effaced.”

* * * * *

It was a beautiful morning in autumn. The mellow, golden light of an Indian summer shed its soft rays over the pensive earth, as arrayed in her magnificent robe of a thousand varied hues, she seemed to cling with fond remembrance to departed joys, while with melancholy repose she awaited the chilling approach of the stern and rigid form of winter.

Her sweet breath, wafted by gentle zephyrs through an open casement, filling the apartment, and kissing the pale, sad features of a beautiful invalid, as wrapped in a morning-dress, resting in a large easy-chair, his head supported by snowy pillows, he gazed thoughtfully upon the winding river as it flowed beneath, not a ripple resting upon its placid surface, save, ever and anon, when some fairy sailboat moved gracefully along, reflecting the bright sunbeams from its dazzling sails. At last, raising his eyes to the benevolent countenance of a matron, whose plain, neat attire, and light cautious movement, bespoke the office of nurse, he said—

“Is it not time for some of Mr. Norton’s family to be here?”

“I saw the carriage stop, sir, a short time since, below the hill, and some persons get out. I think the ladies,” she replied. A rap upon the door, and Mr. Norton entered.

The invalid reached forth his emaciated hand, while a smile of pleasure lit up his features. Grasping it warmly within his own, Mr. Norton said—

“I am delighted to see you so much better, Mr. Edridge. Dr. Warner tells me, if this fine weather continues, we may take you home with us—although, I don’t know that you will thank me for carrying you away from this beautiful place, for every time I ascend this hill and breathe its pure atmosphere, I feel like a young man again. It is, indeed, a delightful situation, just the place for a hospital.”

Tears filled the dark eyes of the invalid, as returning the pressure of Mr. Norton, he said—“Kindness such as has been bestowed upon an object as unworthy as myself, Heaven alone can repay. Could I once have received but one ray, I should not now have to mourn over misspent time and degraded talents.”

“Oh, don’t think of the past,” interrupted Mr. Norton, “you have many long years of usefulness yet before you. You must not be sad. I left Ellen and Lucy at the foot of the hill to gather flowers, they preferred ascending on foot—but here they are, and they must cheer you.”

At this moment nurse ushered them in; and as the former approached, an expression of holy joy irradiated his noble features, as with extended hand, she said—“Mr. Edridge—well then, Arthur if you will—we are, indeed, pleased to see you so much better.”

“But he seems to have a slight touch of the _blues_! You must not let that be, girls,” said Mr. Norton, laughingly.

“Mr. Edridge,” said Lucy, with a merry smile, “if you did not know it before, you certainly will learn by this,” (presenting him a bouquet of gay wild flowers,) “that I am an inveterate enemy to every thing of a sombre hue.”

“And myself, also,” responded Ellen.

“Miss Lincoln,” he continued, with a still deeper tone of sadness, “if you had the same power to renew the wasted energies of the mind, and blot out from the pages of memory the dark characters of the past, as you seem to possess, to lead the rebellious, blackened heart to the fount of purifying Love, no gleam but that of joy, should ever emanate from my grateful heart.”

“Don’t say _I_, Mr. Edridge, but the humble, holy man who led you to a Saviour’s arms.”

“I do not know which had the greater influence, Miss Lincoln—your sympathy—your earnest pleadings to remain with a poor abandoned wretch in that loathsome room, to soothe his dying agonies, who conscious, yet powerless, listened in wonder—your prayerful watchfulness during that awful night, amid ravings of despair and cries for mercy, intermingled with the yells of the chained maniacs; or the unwearied kindness and holy teachings of the Rev. Mr. P. If one led me to this fount, the other had created in my soul a thirst for its purifying waters. From the moment you first knelt beside my couch, a new light seemed to dawn upon my darkened soul, though at first faint and indistinct, and this morning, as I gaze upon this beautiful landscape, all, all comes up so vividly before my mental vision, accompanied with the sad picture of my wasted time and degraded powers, that, although it may give you pain, I cannot deny myself the pleasure of some slight expression of gratitude, even though shaded by my own sombre reflections. Oh! could I but regain my lost health and strength, how would I labor to show forth the love, mercy, and wisdom of the glorious Being whom I have so blasphemed. Then, Miss Lincoln, would you see that your sympathies and kindness have not been thrown away.”

“Resignation to the will of Heaven,” said Ellen, endeavoring to regain her wonted composure, “has power, if not to obliterate the dark characters upon the pages of memory, to take from them their bitterness.”

“That you have yet to teach me, Miss Lincoln,” said he with a melancholy smile.

“_I_ shall teach, Mr. Edridge,” said Lucy laughingly, (perceiving the embarrassment of her cousin, and wishing to relieve her from the conversation,) “that when I present to you a bouquet, you are not to pull it to pieces.”

Arthur smiled, and commenced re-arranging the scattered flowers. While the little flower-spirit saw his bright guardian, now radiant with heavenly smiles, hovering near. In its hand it bore a chalice, from which it poured sweet odors upon the pure heart of the noble Ellen.

* * * * *

’Twas midnight—every sound was hushed. The earth lay slumbering in her fleecy robe of white. The diamond-gemmed trees, the tall spires, and the distant hills, all reflected back the smiles of the queen of night, as she rode majestically above, presenting a scene of enchanting loveliness.

In an elegant apartment, reposed a little flower-spirit upon the soft bosom of the lily of the Nile. The same strange, delicious music filled the atmosphere, that erst had burst from cherub choir that hovered round the sleeping babe—save that its strains were louder, more triumphant.

Forth floated the little flower-spirit. There lay upon a couch, round which gathered weeping friends, a form of manly beauty. The ministers of earth lay cold and lifeless—their work was done. The bright beings of Intellect and Adoration rested upon the shadowy pinions of the celestial guardian—while _Love_ floated in the ethereal beams of other worlds reflected from the golden wreaths of light, encircling the snowy brows of a seraph band, upon which the full dark eyes of the dying man were fixed; while far above, beyond the deep blue vaults, there burst forth strains of sublime, entrancing melody—as if the revolving spheres had joined the joyous anthem that echoed round the throne of God—a soul redeemed.

“Arthur, are you willing to die, are you happy?” whispered a sobbing voice, while a pearly tear fell upon his brow.

“Oh, joy inconceivable! Happiness that mortals ne’er can know! But see’st thou that bright seraph? It is Amy—her arms stretched forth to meet me. And my mother—she is pouring blessings on thy head! Ellen, sister—friends farewell—we meet again.”

And as they grasped his icy hands, the spirit freed, was borne upon the rapturous wings of the awaiting angels to the realms of bliss.

* * * * *

“Dear Ellen,” said Lucy, as they were seated together one pleasant morn, “why did you refuse the hand of Dr. Warner? I am sure he is talented, pious, and every thing one’s heart could wish. Then, you know, he loves you for your own worth, and not your wealth, for he has enough of that already.”

“What makes you suppose that I have refused him, coz?” said Ellen, a bright blush suffusing her cheek.

“Simply, appearances. As you say _such_ secrets should not be revealed, I do not expect to get much information from yourself,” was Lucy’s reply. “But, in the first place, there used to be a peculiar looking bouquet sent here every morning for Miss Lincoln—then papa’s consent was asked! And lastly, he is among the missing, bouquets and all.”

“Really, Lucy!” said Ellen laughing, “you form very rapid conclusions.”

“But not always unjust ones,” she persisted.

“Well then, Lucy, if you will have it so, suppose I did refuse the hand of Dr. Warner; it was simply, that I neither wish nor intend to marry.”

“Do not intend to marry, cousin!” said Lucy, laying down her work.

“Why, coz!” said Ellen smiling, “you seem surprised.”

“Cousin Ellen,” continued Lucy, in a more serious tone, “I wish to ask you another question—will you answer me candidly?”

“Certainly,” said Ellen, “if it be in my power.”

“Then Ellen, did you love the beautiful penitent?”

“Arthur! Lucy. What could have induced you to ask such a question?”

“I have two reasons. The one, because the world says so. The other, because I was half in love with him myself, before he became so etherial.”

“The world says so,” responded Ellen.

“Yes, it says that you fell violently in love with his handsome face at the alms-house; then, afterwards, had him removed to the insane hospital, where he remained at your expense, (though papa did pay the bills!) and since his death, that you have formed the resolution to devote your life to _single_ blessedness.”

Here Ellen burst into a peal of merry laughter “Dr. L. must have reported that story. Poor fellow! his soul is so given to earth, that he cannot conceive one idea above it—and it is but natural that he should form such conclusions. But to be serious, Lucy,” continued she, a sad smile lighting up her expressive countenance, “I never felt for Arthur one ray of earthly love! What I did for him at the alms-house, I would have done as you well know, and would still do, for the most hideous wretch who possesses an immortal soul. His deep contrition, and early history, made me feel for him the love of a sister for an erring, but penitent brother; but, to say that his uncommon beauty, and superior powers of mind, did not heighten that interest would be false. We are all formed to love what is beautiful and sublime, and I know of nothing more beautiful, than beautiful features lit up by purity of heart—or more God-like and sublime, than great powers of mind rightly directed; for, even when fallen and degraded from their high estate, we cannot divest them of interest. And when he came to reside with us, his pious resignation under suffering, and his deep absorbing love for our blessed Saviour, made me feel as in the presence of a pure spirit! and as such, I loved him. And now, every spot that he loved—every flower which he cherished—the room in which he died—all have to me a holy charm!”

“Is this a new resolution, cousin?” said Lucy, after a pause; “or do you suppose yourself incapable of feeling any attachment for Dr. Warner?”

“No, Lucy, the resolution was formed long since. And as for my affections, were I to permit them to rest upon an object as worthy as he, I doubt not they would cling to it—as the heart must cling to something.”

“You speak of permission, Cousin Ellen. Do you think we have any power over our affections?”

“Certainly, Lucy. It is the greatest insult to reason to suppose otherwise. For why are we punishable for misplaced affections, if we have no power to govern those affections? As I said before, we are created to love all that is lovely, pure, and noble; and if the heart turns to aught else, it arises, not from the laws of the Deity, but from the transgression of those laws.”

“Then, cousin,” said Lucy, “if the heart is formed to love all that is good and noble, why do you speak of not permitting your affections to rest upon a worthy object—since they would naturally cling to it?”

“Dear Lucy,” answered she, her pure countenance radiating with an expression of heavenly beauty, “there is a higher and holier object of love than is found on earth, and to which all human affections should be subservient—the love for a crucified Redeemer! In possessing this, we love all that his eternal Father has created—all for whom that Saviour died.”

“Then do you mean to say, Cousin Ellen, that in order to make ourselves acceptable in the sight of Heaven, we must all devote ourselves to a life of single-blessedness?”

“Far from it, dear Lucy. Matrimony as instituted by God, and blessed by the presence of his divine Son, can but be holy, and consequently acceptable. But since, dear Lucy, we have seen the ‘Revealings of a Heart,’ I feel that there could be so much misery relieved—so many hearts gained for Heaven, by a knowledge of _self_, and the perfections of the Deity—not taught in dry, dogmatical truths, addressed only to the reason, but in words and acts of sympathy and love, which soothe the torn and lacerated heart, and bind in sweet captivity the young and pure. And since, dear cousin, I feel convinced of this truth, I have resolved to devote the fortune, together with the few talents intrusted to my care, to the relief of the unfortunate and distressed. And the reason _I_ do not wish to marry, is, that my duties, my affections, would claim much of my energies, and where the force is weak, dear coz, you know that it were better not divided.”

“My dear, my noble cousin,” said Lucy, throwing her arms around her, “I fear that I shall never understand you. It was Dr. Warner himself who told me of his rejection. He is so good, so noble, and was so kind to poor Arthur from the first, that I promised to intercede for him. Then papa was anxious you should marry him; for he thinks, as he must part with you some day, that Dr. Warner is the only person he has ever met worthy of you. And now, dear Ellen, shall I not tell them of your noble resolution? They must love you for it as I do!”

Ellen was silent.

At length, while a mischievous smile danced through her tears, Lucy cried—“I wonder if _I_ wouldn’t do for the doctor! and then papa can retain all his treasures. There he comes! I must run to tell him of this new plan!” And away she flew to meet her father.

* * * * *

FANCIES ABOUT A PORTRAIT.

BY S. D. ANDERSON.

O SWEET the dreams that gather now,
Around me with their magic power,
The years are falling from my brow,
And hope, and joyousness, and thou,
Are back again with childhood’s hour.

Thou, thou, a bright-eyed laughing girl,
With voice as sweet as summer glee,
And hair upon whose clustering curl
The sunbeams rested gloriously.

Footsteps, as light as legends tell,
By moonlight gather on the lawn,
Scarce shake the dew-drops from the cell
Of some down-looking lily bell,
That opens to the ardent dawn.

A nature mild as summer’s cheek,
On which the smile of beauty lingers;
But glowing as some mountain peak,
That’s tipt with sunlight’s dying fingers.

And now I look far down the vale,
Through which our weary steps have come,
And memory tells me many a tale,
Of hopes that perished in the gale,
Since last we looked on home.

I think of one around whose form
Thy arms have clung in fond caress,
Whose bark amid the world’s wild storm
Was guided by thy tenderness.

And fancy brings thy home again
Back as it was in years ago,
The robin by the window-pane,
Amid the woodbine pours his strain,
In murmurs soft and low.

The meadow, with its singing stream,
Is stretched before the door,
And in its crystal depths the bream
Plays on the pebbled floor.

I hear the songs of infancy,
At evening, in that peaceful cot,
And the young mother in her glee
Echoes them back in mimicry,
And cares and fears are all forgot.

Love’s sunlight pours beneath that roof
Its beams upon the path of all,
Threading with golden hopes the woof
Of life’s bright festival.

But time goes on, and far away,
Beneath another sun and sky,
Two graves are opened, and the day
Looks down into them mild and gay,
With scarce a murmur or a sigh.

And that young mother kneeling there,
Heart-broken, desolate and lone,
Hears nothing in that summer air
But grief would fashion to a moan.

Her heart is lying ’neath the flower
She planted on that quiet sod,
And memory with her magic power
Goes back, at evening’s holy hour,
With pilgrim’s staff and rod.

One morning, when the corn was green,
And song-birds warbled forth their glee,
A wan and faded form was seen
Beneath the church-yard tree.

A pale moss rose was in her breast,
Wet with the dew of burning tears;
And wandering words and looks confessed
That she, amid her wild unrest,
Was living o’er the by-gone years.

And thus with names she loved so well
Still lingering on her clay-cold lips,
Speaking affection’s fadeless spell,
She sunk beneath death’s dark eclipse.

This is a dream from which I start,
And wonder if it can be so—
For there, with ruby lips apart,
And sunny youthfulness, thou art,
As in those years long, long ago.

* * * * *

LIFE OF GENERAL JOSEPH WARREN.

BY THOMAS WYATT, A. M., AUTHOR OF “HISTORY OF THE KINGS OF FRANCE,” ETC.
ETC. ETC.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

THIS illustrious champion of liberty was born in Roxbury, near Boston, in the year 1741. His father was a respectable farmer, and employed much of his time in raising fruit. He was the person that produced that species of apple called the _Warren Russet_. The house in which his father resided is still standing, near the centre of the village, in a street which has received his name. One day in autumn, as he was in his orchard, he saw an apple remaining on the top of a tree, which, by its uncommon beauty tempted him to climb the tree to pluck it, but as he was reaching the apple, the branch upon which he stood broke under him, and precipitated him to the ground a lifeless corpse. His youngest son, the late Dr. John Warren, of Boston, then four years old, who had been sent by his mother to the orchard to call him to dinner, met the body borne by two laborers. By this fatal accident the mother of Warren was left a widow, with the charge of four boys, of whom the eldest, Joseph, was then about sixteen years of age. The fidelity with which she executed this arduous trust, is sufficiently attested by the eminent virtues and talents of her children. She lived to a very advanced age at the house in Roxbury, surrounded by the younger members of the family, and reaping in their affectionate attention, the best reward for her exemplary and maternal duties. Joseph commenced his education at the grammar-school of Roxbury, which at that time had great celebrity from the superior attainments of its teachers. At fourteen he entered college at Harvard, and passed his examination with such satisfaction to his preceptors, that drew from them expressions of surprise and admiration. The whole term of his collegiate life was marked by a generous, independent deportment, fine manners, with indomitable courage and perseverance.

In 1759, Warren graduated with the highest honors, and on leaving college, signified his wish to study medicine; this was complied with by his maternal parent, who placed him under the care of a personal friend of his father. His professional studies were alike prosecuted with energy and success.

At the age of twenty-three he established himself at Boston, and commenced the practice of his profession, which he pursued with distinguished success.

He had not been in practice more than two years when the town was threatened with that direful disease, the small-pox, the treatment of which was but little known at that day—it was considered the most dreadful scourge of the human race. This disease continued to rage with the greatest violence, baffling the skill and efforts of many of the most learned of the faculty.

Our young practitioner soon distinguished himself by his successful method of treating that disease, and from that moment was exalted to the highest pinnacle of fame. He stood, week after week, untiringly by the bed of his patient, using the necessary exertions with his own hands. These noble and humane traits, apart from his laborious profession, firmly attached him to the people; he stood high among his older brethren in the profession, and his courtesy and his humanity won the way to the hearts of all—and what he once gained he never lost.

A bright and lasting fame in his profession was now before him, whilst wealth and influence were awaiting his grasp; his exalted talents had secured the conquest it had always been his aim to achieve. But the circumstances in which his beloved country was then placed necessarily directed the attention of Warren from professional pursuits, and concentrated it upon political affairs.

The same superiority of talents and ardor of temperament, which would have given him an easy success in any profession, rendered him more than ordinarily susceptible of the influences which then operated upon the community, and threw him forward into the front rank of the asserters of liberal principles. The fact, however, that men, like Warren, of the finest talents, and in every respect the fairest promise, were among the first to join in the opposition to the measures of the government, shows sufficiently how completely the whole mind of the colonies had given itself up to the cause, and how utterly impossible it was for the ministry to sustain their pretensions by any power that could be brought to bear upon the people of America.

In answer to a letter received from his late preceptor, advising him against any action amounting to rashness, he says, “The calls of my distracted country are paramount to every interest of my own. I willingly leave fame and all its glories to aid in bursting the bonds of tyranny, and giving freedom to a virtuous people.” And in another letter to a friend, who had remonstrated with him on the same cause, he says, “It is the united voice of America to preserve their freedom or lose their lives in defense of it; their resolutions are not the effects of inconsiderate rashness, but the sound result of sober inquiry and deliberation. I am convinced that the true spirit of liberty was never so universally diffused through all ranks and orders of people in any country on the face of the earth, as it is now through all North America.”

No sooner were Warren’s intentions made known, than he was appointed surgeon-general of the army.

At the time of Warren’s appointment, the conclusion of the definitive treaty of peace, which terminated the French war took place, and from that period to the battles of Lexington and Bunker’s Hill, eleven years intervened, which period was filled up by a succession of interesting events, many of which occurred in the vicinity of Boston.

The Stamp Act; the tumults which followed it; its repeal; the Tea Act; the troubles which attended its enforcement, and which terminated in the celebrated Boston _Tea Party_; the military occupation of Boston by the British army; the hostile encounters that occurred so frequently between the troops and the citizens, including the fatal events of the 5th March, 1770; these occurrences, with various others of less importance, were the preludes to the tragedies of the 19th April and 17th June, 1775. In adverting to one or two of these occasions, it will be seen that General Warren was the leading spirit of the colony during the eleven years before mentioned.

Mr. Everett, in his biography of this distinguished officer, says, “The great authority and influence which Warren exercised over his fellow citizens, evidently show that he combined in a remarkable degree the qualities requisite for excellence in civil pursuits, with a strong taste and aptitude for war. In this particular he stood alone among the leading patriots of Massachusetts; this, had his valuable life been prolonged, would have contributed very much to establish and extend his political influence.

He also possessed, in high perfection, the gift of eloquence, and in exercising it, he is represented as having exhibited the discretion which in all respects tempered so honorably the ardor of his character!

His voice was often raised in public, for the purpose of dissuading the people from tumultuous movements, and exhorting them to seek redress for their wrongs, as much as possible, according to the forms of law, and without detriment to the rights of individuals, or a breach of the public peace. The daily riots, which followed the attempt to enforce the new revenue laws at Boston, produced, as must have been expected, the military occupation of the town by British troops.

In the year 1768, two regiments from Halifax, and two from Ireland, making together nearly four thousand men, were ordered to be stationed at Boston, under the command of General Gage, an officer who had honorably distinguished himself in the preceding French war. This gave great dissatisfaction to the inhabitants, and the general found great difficulty in erecting barracks for their accommodations, and consequently hired houses for the greatest part, and the remainder were quartered in tents upon the common.

This military occupation of Boston led to continual animosity between the soldiers and the citizens. In these very frequently the latter were in the wrong, which was certainly the fact on the tragical 5th of March, 1770.

On the evening of that day, while the soldiers were on guard at the Custom House, King Street, now State Street, a mob of citizens, armed with every description of weapons, insulted, and finally assaulted them. The guard exhibited great forbearance, until one of their number had been actually knocked down by one of the mob, and ill-treated; they then precipitately fired and killed three persons on the spot, and wounded two others. So satisfied were the patriots that the citizens were in the wrong, that John Adams and Josiah Quincy volunteered their services as counsel for Captain Preston, the commanding officer of the guard who had been brought to trial for the offence. He was honorably acquitted. This unhappy affair left in the bosoms of the citizens an impression that seemed impossible to erase; and they determined to set apart that day for an annual celebration; and it was accordingly so observed for several years, until the anniversary of the Declaration of Independence was finally substituted for it. On the second of these celebrations, Samuel Adams was invited to deliver the address. He declined the task, and it was then committed to Dr. Warren, who acquitted himself with great ability. On another anniversary, three years afterward, he again delivered another and last address, which, from the mutual exasperation between the troops and the citizens, was considered rather a critical duty. The day arrived, however, and the weather remarkably propitious; the old South Meeting-House was the place appropriated for the delivery of the oration, and so crowded was the building at an early hour, that on the arrival of our young orator, there was no way of access but by the pulpit window, which his friends effected for him by means of a ladder. The British officers occupied the aisles, and the stairs leading to the pulpit. Each man felt the palpitation of his own heart, and watched the pale but determined face of of his neighbor. The speaker began his oration in a firm tone of voice, and proceeded with great energy and pathos.

Warren and his friends were prepared to chastise contumely, prevent disgrace, and avenge an attempt at assassination. The scene was sublime. A patriot in whom the flush of youth and the grace and dignity of manhood were combined, stood armed in the holy sanctuary to animate and encourage the sons of liberty, and to hurl defiance at their oppressors. The orator commenced with the early history of the country, described the tenure by which we held our liberties and property; the affection we had constantly shown the parent country, and boldly told them how, and by whom these blessings of life had been violated.

There was in this appeal to Britain—in this description of suffering, agony and horror, a calm and high-souled defiance, which must have chilled the blood of every sensible foe. Such another hour, perhaps, has seldom happened in the history of man, and is not surpassed in the records of nations. An able writer, commenting on the oration, says, “The thunders of Demosthenes rolled at a distance from Philip and his host—and Tully poured the fiercest torrent of his invective when Catiline was far off, and his dagger no longer to be feared; but Warren’s speech was made to proud oppressors, resting on their arms, whose errand it was to overawe, and whose business it was to fight. If the deed of Brutus deserved to be commemorated by history, poetry, painting and sculpture, should not this instance of patriotism and bravery be held in lasting remembrance? If he

‘That struck the foremost man of all this world,’

was hailed as the first of freemen, what honors are not due to him, who, undismayed, bearded the British lion, to show the world what his countrymen dared to do in the cause of liberty? If the statue of Brutus was placed among those of the gods, who were the preservers of Roman freedom, should not that of Warren fill a lofty niche in the temple reared to perpetuate the remembrance of our birth as a nation?”

The late Rev. Dr. Homer, of Newton, Massachusetts, recently deceased, who was present on this ever memorable occasion, related the following incident, which we consider worthy a place on these pages. He says, “while the oration was in progress, a British officer, seated on the pulpit-stairs, raised himself up and held one of his hands before the speaker, with several pistol-bullets on the open palm. Warren observed the action, and without discontinuing his discourse, dropped a white handkerchief upon the officer’s hand.”

How happy had it been for the country, if this gentle and graceful admonition could have arrested the march of violence, and averted the fatal presage afforded by this sinister occurrence of the future fate of the patriotic speaker—a presage too soon and too exactly realized on the following 17th of June. The first position of a public character in which Dr. Warren took a part, were those which grew out of Governor Gage’s determination to fortify the southern entrance of Boston, by lines drawn across the isthmus or Neck, which unites it to Roxbury. On this occasion a convention was held, of delegates from all the towns in the county of Suffolk, which then comprehended the present county of Norfolk, for the purpose of endeavoring to prevent this measure from being carried into effect. Dr. Warren was a delegate to this convention, and was made chairman of the committee which was appointed to prepare an address to the governor upon the subject. The governor replied in a brief and unsatisfactory manner.

The committee rejoined in another address, of greater length, which was transmitted to the governor, to which he did not think proper to reply. These papers were written by Warren, and give a very favorable idea of his literary taste and talent, as well as of his courage and patriotism. The correspondence was communicated by Dr. Warren, as chairman of the committee, to the Continental Congress; and that body, in their reply, notice, in terms of high approbation, the part taken in it by the committee. The high sense, which was now entertained by his fellow-citizens, of the value of the services of Warren to the cause of liberty, was strikingly evinced on this occasion, first by his election as a delegate from Boston to the Congress, and secondly, by his designation as President of that body, and chairman of the committee of public safety. By virtue of these situations, he united in his person the chief responsibility for the conduct of the whole civil and military affairs of the new commonwealth, and became a sort of popular dictator. The Congress was organized at Salem, but shortly after removed to Concord, and, a few days before the battle of Lexington, adjourned to meet again at Watertown, on the 10th May, 1775. The Committee of Safety held its meetings, at this time, in a public house at West Cambridge, and seems to have been in session every day. It was soon apparent that the station now occupied by Warren, in the councils of Massachusetts, would be no sinecure. The events of the 19th of April, including the battles of Lexington and Concord were of such a character, that no individual could well occupy a very conspicuous position in the field. There was no commander-in-chief, and, properly speaking, no regular engagement or battle. The object of the British was to destroy the military stores at Concord; that of the Americans, to prevent this, if possible, and to show that, in this quarter of the country, every inch of ground would be desperately contested. For the vigor and determination which marked the conduct of the people on this important day, it is not too much to say, that the country is mainly indebted to the vigilance, activity and energy of Warren.

It had been the intention of the British commander to surprise the Americans, and so severe were the precautions taken for this purpose, that the officers employed in the expedition were only informed of it on the preceding day. Information of a meditated attack had been, however, for some time in possession of the Americans; the first intimation having been given by a patriotic lady of Boston, the wife of a royalist officer. A most vigilant observation was, in consequence, maintained upon the movements of the British; and, in this operation, great advantage was derived from the services of an association, composed chiefly of Boston mechanics, which had been formed in the autumn of the preceding year. The late Col. Paul Revere was an active member of this society, and was employed by Dr. Warren, on this occasion, as his principal confidential messenger. Some preparatory movements took place among the British troops on the 15th of April, which attracted the attention of Warren. It was known that the principal object of the contemplated expedition was to seize the stores at Concord. Presuming that the movement would now be made without delay, the committee of safety took measures for securing the stores by distributing a part of them among the neighboring towns. John Hancock and Samuel Adams were then at the house of the Rev. Mr. Clark, in Lexington, and Colonel Revere was dispatched as a special messenger to inform them of the probable designs of General Gage. On his return to Boston, he made an agreement with his friends in Charlestown, that, if the expedition proceeded by water, two lights should be displayed on the steeple of the North Church, if it moved over the neck, through Roxbury, only one. The British commander finally fixed upon the 19th for the intended attempt; and, on the evening of the 18th he sent for the officers whom he had designated for this service, and communicated to them, for the first time, the nature of the expedition upon which they were to be employed. So strict had been the secrecy observed by the governor in regard to this matter. The same discretion had not been maintained in other quarters, for Lord Percy, who was to command the reserve, on his way home to his lodgings, heard the expedition talked of, by a group of citizens, at the corner of one of the streets.

He hastened back to the governor’s headquarters, and informed him that he had been betrayed. An order was instantly issued to prevent any American from leaving town, but it came a few minutes too late to produce effect. Dr. Warren, who had returned in the evening from the meeting of the Committee of Public Safety, at West Cambridge, was already informed of the movement of the British army, and had taken the necessary measures for spreading the intelligence through the country. At about nine o’clock on the evening of the 18th the British troops intended for the expedition were embarked, under the command of Colonel Small, in boats at the bottom of the Common. Dr. Warren inspected the embarkation in person, and having returned home immediately after, sent for Colonel Revere, who reached his house about ten o’clock. He had already dispatched Mr. Dawes overland as a special messenger to Lexington, and he now requested Colonel Revere to proceed through Charlestown on the same errand. The colonel made arrangements, in the first place, for displaying the two lights on the steeple of the North Church, agreeably to the understanding with his friends in Charlestown, and then repaired to a wharf, at the north part of the town, where he kept his boat. He was rowed over by two friends, a little to the eastward of the British ship of war _Somerset_, which lay at anchor in this part of the channel, and was landed on the Charlestown side.

He pursued his way through Charlestown and West Cambridge, not without several perilous encounters with British officers, who were patroling the neighborhood, and finally arrived safely at Lexington, where he met the other messenger, Mr. Dawes, whom he had, however, anticipated.

After reposing a short time, they proceeded together to Concord, alarming the whole country as they went, by literally knocking at the door of almost every house upon the road. They had of course been in part anticipated by the signals on the North Church steeple, which had spread intelligence of the intended movement, with the speed of light, through all the neighboring towns. By the effect of these well-judged and well-executed measures, Hancock and Adams were enabled to provide in season for their personal safety, and the whole population of the towns, through which the British troops were to pass, were roused and on foot before they made their appearance. On reaching Lexington Green, they found a corps of militia under arms and prepared to meet them. At Concord, they found another; and when, after effecting as far as they could, the objects of their expedition, they turned their steps homeward, they were enveloped, as it were, in a cloud of the armed yeomanry, which thickened around them at every step, and did such fearful execution in their ranks, that nothing but their timely meeting with the reinforcements under Lord Percy, at West Cambridge, could have saved them from entire disorganization and actual surrender. Colonel Revere, many years afterward, drew up a very curious and interesting account of his adventures on this expedition, in the form of a letter to the corresponding secretary of the Massachusetts Historical Society, which is printed in the Collections of that body, and is now familiar to the public. Warren who was now in attendance on the Committee of Safety at West Cambridge, expecting the British troops to pass that way on their return from Concord, awaited their arrival.

On their approach he armed himself and went out in company with General Heath to meet them.

On this occasion he displayed his usual fearlessness, by exposing his person very freely to the fire of the enemy; and a bullet passed so near his head, as to carry away one of the long, close, horizontal curls, which, agreeably to the fashion of the day, he wore above his ears.

This accident was regarded by the superstitious as an ill-omen, or a presage of an early doom that awaited him. But Warren himself, even in a superstitious age, never yielded to such notions, his frank and generous spirit would rather sympathize with the gallant Trojan hero, who when he was advised to await, before he entered upon a battle, till the omens deduced from the flight of birds should become favorable, exclaimed, “What care I for the flight of birds, whether they take their course to the right or to the left? I ask no better omen than to draw my sword in the cause of my country.”

It is a remarkable fact, on examining the composition of the New England army of 1775, how many names we find of men, either previously or subsequently illustrious in the history of the country.