Chapter IV (4)

The fact is one among many other proofs, how completely the spirit of the times had taken possession of the whole mind of the colonies, and drawn within the sphere of its influence the most eminent professional, political, and military characters, as well as the mass of the people. In regard to the character of the troops, it is sufficient to say that they were the flower and the pride of our hardy yeomanry. They were not like the rank and file of the regular armies of Europe, the refuse of society, enlisted in the worst haunts of crowded cities, under the influence of a large bounty, or perhaps an inspiration of a still inferior kind. They were, as they are correctly described by our enemies, “the country people.”

Though generally unaccustomed to regular service, their continual conflicts with the Indians made them expert in the use of arms. Of the officers, who commanded in this army, Warren has been rendered, by subsequent events, by far the most conspicuous. Prescott and Putnam, both veterans of the former wars, occupied with him at the time, the highest place in the confidence of the country. But, in addition to these, there were many others whose names are not much less extensively known throughout the world than theirs. It will not be irrelevant we trust, to touch some of the leading characters in connection at that time, without this, the character of him who figures in this memoir must be incomplete. To Mr. Everett, the able historian of Warren, we are indebted for much of the history following.

Prescott, the colonel of one of the Middlesex regiments, was the officer, who, on the 16th of June, received the orders of the commander-in-chief to occupy and fortify the heights of Charlestown, and who commanded in the redoubt on the day of the battle. He was a native of Pepperell, in the county of Middlesex, where his family, one of the most distinguished and respected in the State, still reside during a part of the year. Prescott inherited an ample fortune from his father; but he seems to have possessed a natural aptitude for military pursuits, and, at the opening of the war of 1756, he, with so many others of the noble spirits of New England, joined the expedition against Nova Scotia, under General Winslow, with a provincial commission. He served with such distinction, that, after the close of the war, he was urged to accept a commission in the British line; but he declined the honor, and preferred returning to the paternal estate. Here he resided, occupied in the peaceful pursuits of agriculture, and in dispensing a frank and liberal hospitality to his neighbors, many of whom were his old companions in arms, until the opening of the Revolution called him, already a veteran, to the council and the field. During the progress of the battle of Bunker’s Hill, he was frequently seen on the top of the parapet, attired in a calico frock, with his bald head uncovered to the sun, observing the enemy, or encouraging his men to action. Governor Gage, who, at one of these moments, was reconnoitering the American works through a telescope, remarked the singular appearance of Prescott, and inquired of Willard, one of the council, who he was. “My brother-in-law Colonel Prescott,” was the reply. “Will he fight?” returned the governor. “Ay,” said Willard, “to the last drop of his blood.”

Putnam, another veteran of the French wars, was not less bold in action, and equally regardless of unnecessary show and ceremony.

In the war of 1756 he commanded a company of provincial rangers, and, in this capacity, rendered the most essential services; passing through a series of adventures, the details of which, though resting on unquestionable evidence, seem like a wild and extravagant fable. After the close of the seven years’ war, Putnam returned to the plough, and was in the act of guiding it, when he heard the news of the battle of Lexington.

Like Cincinnatus of old, he left it in the furrow, and repaired at once to Cambridge, though now more than sixty years of age. He was particularly earnest, in the council of war, in recommending the measure of fortifying Bunker’s Hill; a part of his regiment was detached for the service, and he was present and active himself on the field, through the night of the battle, and during the action.

Whether, as some suppose, he was charged by the Council of War with a general superintendence of the whole affair; or whether, like Warren, he appeared upon the field as a volunteer, is not known with certainty; for the official record of the orders of the day is lost, and the want of it is not supplied, for this purpose, by any other evidence.

It is certain, however, from all the accounts, that his agency in the action was great and effectual. It may be here remarked, that the principal British and American officers were personally known to each other. They had served together in the French wars, and in some instances, had contracted a close and intimate friendship.

Not long after the battle of Lexington, there was an interview at Charlestown, between some of the officers on both sides, to regulate an exchange of prisoners; and Governor Brooks, who was present, was accustomed to relate that General Putnam and Major Small, of the British army, no sooner met, than they ran into each other’s arms.

In this state of the hostile preparations of the two parties, and with the strong feeling of mutual exasperation, which, notwithstanding occasional instances of a different character, prevailed generally between the masses of both, it was apparent, that a trial of strength on a more extensive scale, and of a much more serious and decisive kind, than any that had yet occurred, must soon take place.

The Americans had been for some time employed in fortifying the heights of Charlestown, and in preparing to defend them against the enemy; the British on their part had commenced preparing for an attack.

At an early hour in the morning, Governor Gage summoned a council of war at the City Hall. They were all agreed as to the propriety of dislodging the Americans from their work; but there was some difference of opinion upon the mode of making the attack. Generals Clinton and Grant were for landing at Charlestown Neck, and attacking the works in the rear, but this plan was considered too hazardous.

It would place the British between two armies, one superior in force, and the other strongly intrenched, by which they might be attacked at once in front and rear, without the possibility of a retreat.

The plan preferred by the council was to attack the works in front. Accordingly, at about noon, twenty-eight barges left the end of Long Wharf, filled with the principal part of the first detachment of the British troops, which consisted of four battalions of infantry, ten companies of light infantry, and ten of grenadiers. They had six pieces of artillery, one of which was placed in each of the six leading boats.

The barges formed in single file, and in two parallel lines.

The day was without a cloud, and the regular movement of this splendid naval procession, with the glow of the brazen artillery, and the scarlet dresses and burnished arms of the troops, exhibited to the unaccustomed eyes of the Americans a brilliant and imposing spectacle. The barges proceeded in good order, and landed their freight at the south-eastern point of the peninsula, commonly called Morton’s Point. Immediately after they had landed, it was discovered that most of the cannon-balls, which had been brought over, were too large for the pieces, and that it was necessary to send them back and obtain a fresh supply. A British writer of that day gives the following ludicrous account of this blunder of over-sized balls, he says: “This blunder arose from the dotage of an officer of high rank, who spends all his time with school-masters’ daughters.” It seems that General Cleveland, “who,” as the same author says, “though no Samson, must have his Delilah,” became very much in love with the beautiful daughter of Master Lovell, and, in order to gain favor with the damsel, had given her young brother, a mere boy, an appointment in the ordnance department, for which he was not qualified. His inexperience was the cause of the error, for which General Cleveland was much censured by his commanding officer, as it created some delay and diminished the British fire during the first two attacks. While the British commander was preparing to send off his second detachment, the first remained unmolested at Morton’s Point, and quietly dined from the contents of their knapsacks. At about two o’clock, the second detachment followed in barges to join the first at Morton’s Point, soon after a few companies of grenadiers and light infantry, with a party of mariners, the whole amounting to about four thousand men, who were commanded by General Howe. He had under him General Pigot, and Colonels Nesbit, Abercrombie, and Clark.

Such, then, were the respective forces and positions of the two armies immediately preceding the battle. General Burgoyne, in a letter written some days after the battle, has given a spirited sketch of the splendid panorama, seen by the British officers from the heights at the northern extremity of Boston. He says, “the spectacle which was exhibited at this time by the two peninsulas and the surrounding waters, was of a highly varied and brilliant character; for immediately below flowed the river Charles,” (not, as now, interrupted by numerous bridges,) “pursuing a smooth, unbroken way to the ocean. Between this and Charlestown shore, lay at anchor, the ships of war, the _Somerset_, the _Lively_, and the _Falcon_; and further on the left, within the bay, the _Glasgow_. Their black and threatening hulks poured forth at every new discharge, fresh volumes of smoke, which hung like fleecy clouds upon the air, till cleared by the northern breezes, when the spectator could perceive on the opposite side of the river, rising from the shore by a gentle ascent, the sister hills of Charlestown, clothed in the green luxuriance of the first flush of vegetation, excepting where their summits were broken by the low and hasty works of the Americans.” While both the armies and the assembled multitude were hushed in breathless expectation, might be seen our gallant fathers, eagerly awaiting the signal for the action, ready to rush to the rescue of freedom and their country. Their homely apparel had but little to attract the eye, but frequently, when some favorite officer made his appearance, a shout of gratulation passed along the ranks, which showed the zeal that inspired them for the cause. During this silent suspense, a horseman was seen advancing at full speed toward the American works. As he crossed the hill, General Putnam rode forward to meet him, and perceived it was General Warren.

“General Warren!” exclaimed the veteran, “is it you? I rejoice and regret to see you. Your life is too precious to be exposed here; but, since you are arrived, I take your orders.”

“General Putnam, I have none to give. You have made your arrangements, therefore proceed. I come to aid you as a volunteer. Tell me where I can be useful.”

“Go, then,” said Putnam, “to the redoubt; you will there be covered.”

“I came not to be covered,” replied Warren, “I came to do my duty; tell me where I shall be most in danger, and where the action will be hottest.”

“The redoubt,” said Putnam, “will be the enemy’s object; if that can be defended, the day is ours.”

General Warren at once hastened to the redoubt, and his approach to the troops, who recognized him, though he wore no uniform, was welcomed with loud acclamations. When he reached the redoubt, Colonel Prescott requested him to give him his orders.

“No, Colonel Prescott,” he replied, “give me yours—give me a musket; I have come here to take a lesson of a veteran soldier in the art of war.”

These particulars, including the dialogue, are given substantially, as reported afterward by General Putnam and Colonel Prescott, and may be depended on as authentic. General Warren was originally opposed to the plan of fortifying the Heights of Charlestown; but when he found the Council of War had decided in favor of it, he told them he should aid them personally in carrying it into effect. Against this he was strongly urged, but his resolution was immovable. Warren had officiated the preceding day at Watertown, as President of Congress; that body being in session there, and had passed the whole night in transacting business.

At daylight he mounted his horse, and rode to headquarters at Cambridge, where he arrived much indisposed from fatigue; he was urged to take some repose, which he did; but he had retired to bed but a short time, when information was received from General Ward that the British were moving.

He rose immediately, said he was quite well, and attended the meeting of the Committee of Safety as chairman. During this meeting, Elbridge Gerry, who entertained the same opinion as Warren upon the prudence of the attempt, earnestly requested him not to expose his person.

“I am aware of the danger,” replied the young and ardent soldier, “but I should die with shame, if I were to remain at home in safety, while my friends and fellow-citizens are shedding their blood, and hazarding their lives in the cause.”

“Your ardent temper,” replied Gerry, “will carry you forward into the midst of peril, and you will probably fall.”

“I know that I may fall,” returned Warren; “but where is the American who does not think it a glory to die in defense of his country?”

After the adjournment of the committee, he mounted his horse, and rode to Charlestown, where he arrived but a short time before the battle commenced.

General Pomroy, of Northampton, reached headquarters at this time, as a volunteer; he had served, with the rank of captain, under Sir William Johnson, in the war of 1756; and was distinguished in the celebrated battle with the French and Indians, under Baron Dieskau. When the sound of the artillery rattled in his ears, he felt it as a summons to action, and could not resist the temptation to repair to the field. He accordingly requested General Ward to lend him a horse, and taking a musket, set off at full speed for Charlestown. On reaching the Neck, and finding it enfiladed by a hot and heavy fire of round, bar, and chain-shot from the _Glasgow_, he began to be alarmed, not, as may be supposed, for his own safety, but for that of General Ward’s horse. Horses were at this time almost as rare and precious as the nobler animals that rode them. Too honest to expose his borrowed horse to “the pelting of the pitiless storm,” and too bold to dream of shrinking from it himself, the conqueror of Baron Dieskau dismounted, delivered the horse to a sentry near, shouldered his musket, and marched on foot across the Neck. On reaching the hill, he took his station near the redoubt; and he had no sooner been recognised by the soldiers, than his name rang with repeated shouts along the line. About three o’clock in the afternoon, every necessary preparation being made, the signal for action was given by a general discharge of artillery along the whole British line.

The troops advanced in two divisions, General Howe, in person, led the right, toward the rail-fence; General Pigot, with the left, aimed directly at the redoubt. At this time, it appears, the order for the exchange of balls sent in mistake, had not yet been answered, which caused a suspension of the fire from the British artillery very soon after it had commenced. It was, however, renewed with grape-shot. The little battery, stationed at the opening between the redoubt and breastwork, in the American lines, replied with great effect. In the meantime, the American drums beat to arms. General Putnam, who was still at work on the redoubt, quitted the intrenchment, and led his men into action. “Powder is scarce,” said the veteran, addressing them in his usual laconic style; “powder is scarce, and must not be wasted; reserve your fire till you see the whites of their eyes, then take aim at the officers.” These laconic remarks were repeated as an order along the line; but when the British had come within gunshot of the works, a few sharp-shooters disobeyed the injunction, and fired. “Fire again before the word is given at your peril,” exclaimed Prescott; “the next man that disobeys orders shall be instantly shot.” The British were now at only eight rods distance. “Now, men, now is your time!” said Prescott. “Make ready! take aim! fire!”

So effectually was this order obeyed, that when the smoke disappeared, the whole hill-side was covered with the fallen. The British returned the fire, and attempted to rally and advance, but without success. After a moment’s irresolution, they turned their backs, and hurried from the hill.

Such was the futile attempt to storm the works; and had the reinforcements of artillery and supplies of ammunition, which had been ordered from Cambridge, arrived, a brilliant success must have followed. It was at this moment that the mischief resulting from Colonel Gridley’s ill-judged exhibition of parental partiality, in giving the place of major in the artillery to his son, in preference to Count Rumford, was severely felt. This young officer, as his subsequent conduct proved, was entirely incompetent to the duty assigned him.

Could the long-tried and energetic character of Rumford been employed, there would have been no want of ammunition; powder and balls enough would have found their way into their works, and the day might still have been ours. But America paid the penalty of Colonel Gridley’s fatherly weakness, as Great Britain did that of General Cleveland’s superannuated gallantry. The American artillery was badly served through the whole action. Early in the day the officer, who was stationed with his company and two field pieces at the opening between the redoubt and breastwork, drew off his pieces from the post assigned, in order, as he said, to prepare his ammunition in safety. General Putnam was obliged to employ Captain Ford to drag the pieces back; by him and Captain Perkins, they were served the whole day. Major Gridley, who had been ordered with his battalion from Cambridge to the lines with all speed; had advanced only a short distance beyond the Neck, and halted, as he said, in order to wait and cover the retreat, which his inexperience deemed inevitable.

At that moment, Colonel Frye, a veteran of the old French wars, whose regiment was in the redoubt, perceived Major Gridley with his artillery in the position described. Frye galloped up to him, and demanded what it meant.

“We are waiting,” said Gridley, “to cover the retreat.”

“Retreat!” replied the veteran, “who talks of retreating? This day thirty years ago I was present at the first taking of Louisburg, when your father, with his own hand, lodged a shell in the citadel. His son was not born to talk of retreating. Forward to the lines!”

Gridley proceeded a short distance with his artillery, but overcome with terror, and unequal to such a task, he ordered his men to re-cross the Neck, and take a position, where they were to fire with their three pounders upon the _Glasgow_. The order was so absurd that Captain Trevett refused to obey it, and proceeded at once toward the lines. Major Gridley was tried for neglect of duty, and dismissed from service.

A few hours had now passed in silence, when General Howe determined upon a second attack, and, having rallied and re-organized his men, gave the order to advance. This was complied with, and the artillery pushed forward to within three hundred yards of the rail-fence, to prepare the way for the infantry. During these movements, a solemn silence brooded over the American lines.

The men were ordered not to fire till the enemy were within six rods distance. While every thing was in agitation, a new spectacle burst upon the eyes of the assembled multitude, and added another feature more startling, if possible, than the rest, to the terrible sublimity of the scene. Clouds of smoke were seen to overspread the air, from which flashed sheets of fire. It soon became apparent that Charlestown was in flames. The British General had been annoyed, at his first attack upon the works, by the fire of a detachment stationed in the town, and had given orders that it should be burned. For this purpose, combustibles were hurled into it from Boston, which commenced the conflagration; and a detachment of marines from the _Somerset_, were directed to land, and aid in its destruction. The flames spread with devastating rapidity, till street on street, and house on house, were even with the ground. The last structure which seemed to strive with holy efforts against the devouring element, was the large church; sublime indeed was the spectacle! the crackling flames ascending from the body of the spacious building, and playing around its lofty spire. Solemn indeed was the continuous toll of the large bell, as the beams that suspended it were vibrating, till they fell with one tremendous crash. Scenes like these in ordinary times, which would have driven the most inanimate soul to madness, were entirely overlooked by both armies, who coolly prosecuted their work.

The British troops ascended the hill by slow and regular approaches, firing without aim, in platoons, with all the precision of a holyday review.

The Americans, agreeably to their orders, reserved their fire till the British were within six rods distance. The word was then given, and the discharge took place with more fatal effect than the former attack. Hundreds of the British soldiers fell—General Howe remained almost alone, for he lost almost every officer belonging to his staff. His aids, Colonels Gordon, Balfour and Addison; the last was a member of the family of the author of the “Spectator.”

So tremendous was the havoc, that, the second time on this eventful day, did the British army retreat from the hill. At this period in the progress of the battle, a little incident occurred, which shows that the American officers were fighting for their country, not for the sake of blood and carnage, and that they never forgot that high-souled feeling for which they were ever distinguished. After the fire from the American works had taken effect, Major Small, (who has been named before as a personal friend of Putnam,) like his commander, remained almost alone on the field.

His companions in arms had been all swept away, and standing thus apart, he became, from the brilliancy of his uniform, a conspicuous mark for the Americans within the redoubt. They had already pointed their unerring rifles at his heart, and the delay of another minute would probably have stopped its pulses forever.

At this moment Putnam recognized his friend, and perceiving the imminent danger in which he was placed, sprang upon the parapet, and threw himself before the levelled rifles.

“Spare that officer, my gallant comrades, he is my friend; do you not remember our affectionate meeting at the exchange of prisoners?”

This appeal from the favorite old chief was successful, and Small retired unmolested.

This anecdote, poetical as it appears, is attested by undoubted authority.

General Howe, undaunted by the second repulse, felt determined to venture a third attack, but thought best to adopt a more judicious plan than before. He this time concentrated his whole force upon the redoubt and breastwork, instead of directing a portion of it against the rail-fence.

He also directed his men to reserve their fire, and trust wholly to the bayonet. He had discovered the vulnerable point in the American defenses, and pushed forward his artillery to the opening between the redoubt and breastwork, where it turned our works and enfiladed the whole line. By this time the Americans were nearly reduced to the last extremity. Their ammunition was exhausted; they had no bayonets; no reinforcements appeared. Colonel Gardiner, who had been stationed with his regiment at Charlestown Neck, but had received no orders to march, reached Bunker’s Hill with three hundred men. He had no sooner reached the lines, when he received a wound from a musket ball, which afterward proved fatal. As his men were carrying him from the field, his son, a youth of nineteen, second lieutenant in Trevett’s artillery company, which had just come up, met and recognised his father. Distracted at seeing him in this condition, he offered to aid in conducting him from the field.

“Think not of me,” replied the gallant patriot, “think not of me—I am well. Go forward to your duty!”

The son obeyed his orders, and the father retired from the field to die.

The Americans awaited with desperate resolution the onset of the British, prepared to repel them, as best they could, with the remaining charges of powder and ball, with the stocks of their muskets, and with stones.

Having reached the works, the foremost of the British attempted to scale them. Richardson, a private in the Royal Irish regiment, was the first to mount the parapet. He was shot down at once. Major Pitcairn followed him, and as he stepped on the parapet was heard to exclaim, “The day is ours!” But the words had no sooner escaped his lips, than he was shot through the body; his son caught him in his arms as he fell, and carried him from the hill.

He led the detachment which first encountered our troops upon Lexington Green, on the 19th of April; he had a horse shot under him on that day, and was left upon the field for dead. General Pigot, who had mounted the redoubt by means of a tree left standing there, was the first person to enter the works. He was followed by others. The Americans, however, still held out, till the principal of their officers were badly wounded. Perceiving, at length, that further resistance would be a wanton and useless sacrifice of valuable life, Colonel Prescott ordered a retreat. The Americans left the hill with very little molestation. General Warren had come upon the field, as he said to learn the art of war from a veteran soldier. He had offered to take Colonel Prescott’s orders, and it was with extreme reluctance that he quitted the redoubt. He was slowly retreating from it, only a few rods distance, when the British obtained full possession, which exposed his person to imminent danger. Major Small, whose life, as has been mentioned in the preceding chapter, had been saved in a similar emergency, by the interference of General Putnam, attempted to requite the service by rendering one of a like character to Warren. He called out to him by name from the redoubt, and begged him to surrender, at the same time ordering his men around him to suspend their fire. On hearing the voice of Major Small, Warren turned his head, but the effort was too late. While his face was directed toward the works, a ball struck him on the forehead, and inflicted a wound which was instantly fatal. The magnanimous champion of liberty had fallen.

The body of General Warren was identified the following day, and the ball which terminated his life was taken from the body by Mr. Savage, an officer in the Custom House, and was carried to England. Several years afterward it was returned to the family, in whose possession it now remains. The remains of Warren were buried on the spot where he fell, but the following year they were removed to a tomb in the Tremont Cemetery, and subsequently deposited in the family vault, under St. Paul’s church, Boston.

In the official account of the battle of Bunker’s Hill, the character of Warren is noticed in the most honorable terms.

“Among the dead,” says the account, “was Major General Joseph Warren, a man whose memory will be endeared to his countrymen, and to the worthy in every part and age of the world, so long as virtue and valor shall be esteemed among mankind.”

General Warren left four children, two sons and two daughters. Within a year after the death of Warren, it was resolved, by the Continental Congress, that his eldest son should be educated at the public expense; and two or three years after, it was further resolved, that public provision should be made for the education of the other children, until the youngest should be of age. The sons both died in their minority; the daughters were distinguished for their amiable qualities, and personal beauty; one of them married the late General Arnold Welles, of Boston, and died without issue; the other married Richard Newcomb, of Greenfield, Massachusetts, whose children are the only surviving descendants of the hero of Bunker’s Hill. In addition to the public provision made by the Congress for the children of Warren, it was also resolved by that body that a monument should be erected, at the national expense, to his memory. This resolution, like similar ones to the other officers of the Revolution, remains as yet without effect. Such are the only particulars of interest that are known of the brief and brilliant career of Joseph Warren. As Mr. Everett remarks:

“To Warren, distinguished as he was among the bravest, wisest and best of the patriotic band, was assigned, in the inscrutable degrees of Providence, the crown of early martyrdom. It becomes not human frailty to murmur at the will of heaven; and however painful may be the first emotions excited in the mind by the sudden and premature eclipse of so much talent and virtue, it may perhaps well be doubted, whether by any course of active service in a civil or military department, General Warren could have rendered more essential benefit to the country, or to the cause of liberty throughout the world, than by the single act of heroic self-devotion which closed his existence. The blood of martyrs has been in all ages the nourishing rain of religion and liberty. The friends of liberty from all countries and throughout all time, as they kneel upon the spot that was moistened by the blood of Warren, will find their better feelings strengthened by the influence of the place, and will gather from it a virtue in some degree allied to his own.”

* * * * *

THE DREAM OF YOUTH.

BY WM. P. BRANNAN.

O GIVE me back my dream of youth,
When every pulse throbbed wild and gay,
My heart’s sweet spring-time when life’s flowers
Bewildering bloomed along my way;
When all the world was Paradise,
And Pleasure held a sovereign sway;
When every change brought new delight,
And all the blessed year was May.

O give again those rapturous hours
When first my soul with beauty thrilled,
And mad with ecstasy I dared
To love, nor cared if loving killed
When every radiant face I saw
Flashed with enchantment on my brain,
Till earth seemed changing spheres with heaven;
O give to me that dream again.

Those aspirations for a fame
Immortal through all coming time;
That faith which soared on angel wings
From gladsome earth to heights sublime;
When every air a perfume breathed,
Melodious with the voice of song,
That swayed me with resistless power
And nerved my soul with purpose strong.

O give me back my boyhood’s dream,
Those gleams of glory from above,
That hope which grasped a deathless name,
And blest me with undying love;
O let me taste that joy again
Which riots in my thought to-day—
That earnest and exulting youth
When all the blessed year was May.

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

FREAKS OF THE PEN.

“GRAHAM” TO “JEREMY SHORT.”

MY DEAR JEREMY,—I write you while a hail-storm is rattling at the window-panes, as if anxious to get in and warm its nose, and while the fire in my Radiator is roaring as angrily as a young lion, as if anxious to get out and have a battle with the storm. The clouds without, too, have a warlike aspect, look blue, and go tumbling about as if they had taken whisky-toddy not over warm. Nature, after the sulks, is hysterical. The wind goes moaning and howling around the house, as if anxious to vent its temper in a blow at somebody. The solitary oysterman in the street, is raising a cry as dolorous as if he had taken a breeze—been on a gale—on his own account, was melancholy, and had not the heart to sing-“away;” yet in fact he keeps singing away, in tones rather inviting to blue-devils. He does not feel, evidently, as well as his oysters, though he is their master. The vanity of riches is thus made apparent,—wealth does not always produce happiness. Patient industry in the storm is dismal—so another apophthegm is exploded. Knowledge is not the grand specific either. Their ignorance of the roasting which awaits them, is bliss. His knowledge of the roasting which awaits him—if he goes home without market-money—is, perhaps, the particular misery which weighs upon his soul, and renders his cry so plaintive.

The philosophers say that contentment is happiness—but who is contented? The very discoverers of this sovereign balm for restless spirits, go toiling on over musty tomes in search of something new, and grow fretful and peevish from indigestion, or irritable from age and failing eyesight. Nature herself is not always calm and smiling. She has her storms, her earthquakes, and her eruptions. The earth is not satisfied with her own dull face, but must borrow her brightness and beauty from the sun, she gets the dumps, and grows cold, if the loan is reluctantly given. What, then, can she expect from her children, but a thirst insatiate for change and glory of some sort? Philosophy is all very well in its way, and so is the philosopher’s stone—but who is the happy possessor of either? People talk of the insensibility of the oyster—perhaps that is the great secret; but try him upon a hot stove, if you wish to witness the open-mouthed, but mute, appeal of despairing distress; try him upon your palate afterward, if you wish to paliate conscience for his sufferings—but do not slander the fine feelings of so good a fellow for the sake of an apophthegm. He is more worthy of your regards than many men who put him to the torture on silver dishes.

Happiness, after all, is more active than passive, and depends a good deal upon the bent which education, our own strong instincts, or the fashion of the age or the day may inculcate. I’ll warrant me, that the Crusaders thought it consisted in slicing off the heads of the Saracens—the good old monks in fasting, prayer, and hair-garments,—some of the old fathers again, in capon, burgundy, and beauty. The curate of the English Church, thinks it is the mitre and the bishop’s holy office—the bishop, in turn, the gold and the influence of the station, yet he is not wholly satisfied. Some of the Spanish girls think it consists in a rich old husband, and a handsome young cavalier; others, who will none of them, turn nuns. John Bull finds his in roast-beef, trade, and the aristocracy. Brother Jonathan in politics, progression, gold, and the cuteness of the universal Yankee nation. But what philosopher, to clinch his theory, will bring you an individual who has no longings, no aspirings to be, or do, or have something more? Who does not feel proud to excel in something?—goodness even becomes a marketable article, for praise. Virtue in rags loves incense. Every man does, or feels that he does, outdo his fellows in something. The inflation of a mind conscious of superior powers; the thought of a purse larger and deeper—of a cheek of purer roundness, whiteness, or bloom—a voice of richer powers—a name, a position, the huzzas, or the stare of the multitude—to be a lucky fellow, a great man, these make up the sum of personal gratification. But who is contented, without taxing the praise, the envy, the pockets of others? The fashionable woman, who shines in brighter jewels and more brilliant parties than her opposing friends—the merchant who chuckles over the feat of driving a sharp bargain with a brother trader, each has a standard of happiness not set down in philosophy—self-sufficiency—personal acquisition and glory—vanity all, Jeremy.

Above the roar of my little fire, I hear, from my den editorial, the tumult of the great world without, and fancy I can see the struggle going on through all the avenues of life—from the church where we have specimen preaching and fashionable morals, down to the poor boot-black, who polishes your patent boots, and praises his patent blacking. You will find all things made up to lure and dazzle the unsophisticated. At every turn you must beware of man-traps and cajolings. In a moment, and a shape you least anticipate, some brilliant fortune-seducer and ensnarer, will start up opportunely in your very path; for what your own brain does not suggest, your passion and self-love urge you to—will spring, full-armed from the head of some daring genius, who is your dear friend, and takes you in, for that reason only. The influence of a bad example in morals or business, a determination not to be outdone or to be bullied, a suggestion to excel and overtop our fellows, are poisons very flatteringly administered to our self-esteem, but certain and deadly, nevertheless. The disease is contagious, and you have been slightly bitten already; be contented, my dear boy, if you can—but be modest, be wary, be cool. Instead of trying to practice philosophical apophthegms in a world made up as ours is, try a little self-denial. Let the glitter and the huzzas of the supposed great and successful, sweep by you, but stand firm—it is a luxury worth the testing. You shall look from the banks of the stream of time, and see the dead of the slain of this world float by you, and with your staff in hand, shall walk slowly and surely onward and upward to the source of all inspiration and happiness. You can have no chance in the bold games played in this world, without a defilement of the heart—an utter loss of self-respect, a total disregard or an annihilation of conscience.

Yet your sharp fellows—what a feast of enjoyment have they, in a world made up expressly to their hands of duller clay? Men who, smiling kindly, will cheat you before your very eyes, with a consciousness of self-power, that you cannot, with all your acuteness, tell under which thimble “the little joker” happens to be. Is there rare enjoyment in this? There must be, you will think, or why is it so perseveringly followed in nearly all the dealings of man with man. Your eyes are your market, my friend—keep them open. I’ll warrant you, that my dismal friend, who is singing so sadly out in the street over his bivalves, says in his heart—“the world is mine oyster,” and has as high an opinion of his own sagacity, as any dealer in broad-cloths or sugars, and will trick you as nicely with a specimen oyster, as the best of them. You shall buy them, upon looking at the one he opens for you—but be not amazed, oh, weak and trusting purchaser, at the shrunken forms of the shell-fish when thou openest the kettle! Call not hard names after the departing vendor—it is the way of life—a specimen is the same, all the world over. The departure from the _principle_ is the exception, not the rule.

Not to say any thing about copper, a friend of mine was ruined by Patent Pumps—not dancing shoes, for he was a Quaker—but a very plain water-pump. He invested his all, as purchaser of the _right_, after seeing the model, which was very ingeniously devised to supply the famishing cattle of all the farm-houses in the country, at the shortest notice, with a steady supply from never-failing wells. There were not less than thirty thousand farmers anxiously waiting at that instant to buy the article at twenty dollars each. The inventor was poor, and needed ready money, or he never would have parted with it for ten times the sum agreed to be given. The only difficulty, with the new owner, was to find logs to be bored, and men as borers—it was a bore decidedly, and nothing but energy and perseverance could have surmounted these obstacles. But somehow, though the model worked bravely—even the ruin of its owner, pumping him dry—the water was obstinate in coming above its level in large bodies, and in consequence, the enterprise was water-logged. And so failing in the water business, he became a member of the Sons of Temperance, and took his revenge by putting down that water, that wouldn’t come up. And this man was an editor, like yourself, Jeremy, with a great fund of knowledge, and should have known better—at least so his friends said, and that was all the comfort they gave him.

Tom Brown, too—you remember Tom? had a wisdom above his years, and rather an ambition to do something extravagant and new. He therefore became discontented with the slow and sure profits of a regular business, and embarked his little fortune, great experience, and goahead-a-tive-ness in a “swift-sure” line. He purchased “_The Patent Steam Sand Excavator and Elevator_,” designed for the very laudable purpose of taking superfluous sand from river-beds, and transferring it to the mortar-beds of the builder. Tom had fortune now by the skirts, and would not let go. People wondered what Tom and his friends were at, ploughing up and down the river with their sand-scow, but supposed that they must have a large contract from government for cleansing the beds of the rivers—taking the initiative in navigation made easy. From the quantity of sand carefully piled upon shore, it was manifest that the business was to be done, and would be, thoroughly. Tom was cautious, close, smiling, and enjoyed highly all manner of jokes, such as “Capt. Sandy Tom”—Tom’s hair was red, but he wasn’t to be—and winked knowingly to the engineer, when he came on board.

“It will never do,” said Tom, “to let the secret out to these fellows, until we get our contracts with the builders, or we shouldn’t get half-price. And in order to do that safely, on a large scale, we must first get out the sand.”

Bright thought, shrewd Tom! The engine, therefore, went on puffing, but not Tom—he kept quiet, but busy.

“If we can throw dust into their eyes,” said he, “until we get _a pile_, we can come the bluff game on the river-side, with a hand full of spades, ha! How do you like that, engineer?”

The engineer thought that Tom _was some_, at a pun.

The enterprise went on, but it came to a head too, as all enterprises will, somehow; and Tom had spent his availables. But then he had the sand, heaps—yes, mountains of it.

“It is time now,” said he, “that I made my contracts with these builders. I’ll offer—let me see—ten thousand loads, at ten per cent. below the market price; that will bring in the funds, and send out the Excavator. They’ll snap at that, in no time. Then twenty thousand, at fifteen per cent. discount—and I’ll contract to supply the market for three years, at twenty-five per cent. off—and _do it_, too! Talk about your Liverpool Steamers, and your Girards improving the river fronts, will you? when you can scoup a fortune out of the dock, while these merchant princes are asleep.”

Tom made his terms for the ten thousand loads, “to be delivered as wanted.” He commenced, too, to fulfill his contracts, but the builders “did not _want_ the article at all.” They had contracted for sand—not mud and sand together—and _sand_ they insisted on having.

Alas! for the patent Excavator, neither it nor Tom’s genius could separate the particles. An action was brought against him for obstructing the river front, as soon as it was found he was not backed by government, and was backing himself, out of his contracts.

Tom coolly replied, “that he was devilish sorry, the _Patent Steam Sand Excavator and Elevator_ had not been originally designed to run on land, as it might be used, now, to shovel it back again; but as for himself, he had been thrown so high by the Elevator, that it was doubtful if he would ever come down, in time to attend to it.”

I know another gentleman of the quill—who perpetrated errors of the press of this sort—who, in addition to instructing mankind, took it into his head to teach the hens something that nature never knew. An invention of some gigantic Yankee genius, styled “_The Patent Chicken Hatcher, and Grand Cluck to the whole Commonwealth_” was irresistible, and he bought it. It was demonstrated upon paper, that a certain number of chickens, ate but a given quantity of corn-meal. That any number of hens laid any number of eggs. That these produced any number of chickens, which, in a very short period of time, sold for any amount of money, or produced other eggs, after eating the aforesaid corn-meal. Now the “Chicken Hatcher,” proposed to improve upon nature by a sort of double rule of three proposition, and to show the result by logarithms as a sort of short-hand process, in the arithmetical progression of profits. “Nature abhors a vacuum,” and she had therefore given up half the argument to the Hatcher—for the proposition was, to keep the hens continually at work, producing eggs for the Hatcher; while the Hatcher was continually working for them, in a sort of compound ratio producing chickens which should go on laying eggs to produce other chickens, _ad infinitum_. The thing was as plain as the nose on your face. To reason about it was to be absurd. To doubt, was to be scorned. Barbecues looked cheap and plentiful in perspective—roasts abundant, but rather more of a delicacy, as interfering somewhat more with progressive profits.

The eggs of a whole county were first to be submitted to experiment, previous to taking the entire Commonwealth under the capacious wing of the Hatcher. The first process of cubation completed, it was only necessary to heat the Patent, and the business was done, and so were the chickens; but instead of producing hens or roosters, it only roasted the eggs—and very nicely it did it, too, it is said. Nature defied the power of figures, and gave facts as arguments. The hens of the neighborhood survived the innovation, and went on in the old way. Our friend had burned his fingers as well as his eggs, and was sore when the subject was touched. It was his bull, and he didn’t wish him horned. A dilemma, neither horn of which he wished to take. He had hatched himself a life-time remembrancer whenever he heard a cock crow—and he wanted no crowing. He was no _eg_-otist on this subject; on the whole, he would rather cry _peccavi_—and shell out—he would stand treats, but no jokes.

But, my dear Jeremy, do not consider me as sneering at the ambition of man to outdo his fellows, to surpass all previous knowledge, to wrest nature from herself to fulfill his purposes—it is of the eternal law of progress. Man can no more stop, and be contented, than the worlds which are revolving in space, can rest and shine on. Each age makes a giant’s stride onward. The past is strewn with theories toppled down, and with systems exploded. The monuments of philosophy, the labor of ages, are the marks now for the child’s finger of scorn. The voyage of Columbus is now the work of a week. Work, did I say?—his toilsome and desolate path over the waters, is now the holyday ramble of all nations. Thought itself leaps a continent in a second, and by means of cipher, is communicated to minds thousands of miles distant, putting the _speed_ of steam, the glory of an age just gone, to shame; accomplishing its purpose, even while the sonorous steam-whistle is but giving its note of departure. The press, in a night, performs the labor of a year, in multiplying printed thought, and a Commonwealth, a Nation is shaken in the time requisite, formerly, to ink the rollers for Franklin’s heavy edition. Who will say that man himself shall not yet be shot into the air like a rocket, and diverge at pleasure to any point of the compass, in defiance of the caprice of air-currents? That if he can now snatch from the sun a likeness of himself in an instant of time, he shall not, one day, look the sun itself in the face with unblinking eyes, take his observations from the horn of some remote planet, and return to earth to record his discoveries. “Philosophy,” you will say. But how much is philosophy herself learning daily? How much of her previous knowledge is shown daily to have been worthless? The chemist, the geologist, the astronomer, torture nature continually for her secrets, but the provident Mother is chary. It is but by a step at a time that her children are allowed to enter into her mysteries, lest the full blaze of her awful truths should suddenly strike them blind.

Shall we be contented, then, and pin our faith to the sleeve of that philosophy, which sees happiness in the indolence and ignorance of the savage, who

“Basks in the glare, and stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.”

Or shall we assert the rights of a diviner principle within us, restless, yearning, unsatisfied, which if it is not allowed to soar up and grasp after a goodness, like unto God, will attempt to absorb its energies in the pursuit of evil, wreaking upon humanity around it, the power of a fiend to make wretched, the cunning of a devil, to seduce and destroy?

It is reserved for the Millenium, to give us all the knowledge, all the good, all the perfection we are striving after; until then, who will—_any, who can_—rest satisfied? When “the lion and the lamb shall lie down together,” and man shall cease to war upon his brother, the philosophy of Experiment and of Observation shall be perfect, man shall cease from struggling, shall be contented and be HAPPY.

G. R. G.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Poems and Prose Writings. By Richard Henry Dana. New York:
Baker & Scribner. 2 vols. 12mo._

In reading these elegantly printed volumes one is surprised that a collection of poems and essays, possessing excellencies so original and striking as this, should not have been made before. Mr. Dana is, unquestionably, in his own department, one of the deepest, most original and most suggestive thinkers that the country has produced, and although his writings may not be familiar to a large class of readers, his name is generally known and honored. We think that the present work will fully sustain his reputation, and that many who have heretofore been content with acknowledging his fame as a poet and thinker, will now be glad of an opportunity of testing it, by reading his productions. The first volume contains his poems and the essays and narratives originally published under the title of The Idle Man. These are better known than the reviews and dissertations contained in the second volume, now for the first time collected. It is curious that compositions of such excellence and permanent interest should so long have slumbered undisturbed in old magazines and reviews. They are marked by great force and fertility of thought, singular felicity in discerning the spirit and meaning of things, and singular sweetness, richness and harmony of style. The reviews bear the unmistakable stamp of a poetic mind, interpreting by the freemasonry of genius the intellectual excellence and moral beauty of other minds, and flashing light into every corner of the subject of which it treats. The articles on Allston, Hazlitt’s Lectures on the English Poets, The Sketch Book, Pollock’s Course of Time, Henry Martyn, not to mention others, are replete with sound and searching judgment as well as imaginative beauty.