Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

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

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

A VISIT TO THE FIRE WORSHIPPERS’ TEMPLE AT BAKU.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A NEW PORTRAIT OF CICERO.

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

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

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

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

LORD MAHON’S HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

WASHINGTON.

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

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

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

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

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

PATRICK HENRY.

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

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

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

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

FRANKLIN.

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

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

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

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

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

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