Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

'Signs in the heavens were furnished by the baleful and malevolent aspects of the planets. Signs in air are usually changeful weather, and heavy rains. Clouds, too, are so deemed; but in my poor judgment, the plague was caused, not only by unwholesome _nebulæ_, but by wicked _nebulones_. Signs of water are, abundance of fishes cast on shore, crabs, frogs, and toads; and it is certain, when sharks are found plying round courts of justice, when honesty sidles off like a crab, and when toadies are found in the high places, that God commonly sends a pestilence. Signs of earth, are, when idle, noxious weeds and herbs infest the ground; and of a surety, when such plants as sanguinary, dandy-lions, mushrooms, and painted-ladies, grow plentifully, it is easy to see what is meant thereby!' * * *

'Death began his career in Leopoldstadt, (the suburbs,) and there destroyed the people for a time, but in moderation. Afterward the pestilence crossed the Danube to the other suburbs; and it seemed at first as though Death ventured not to enter the capital, but would content himself with the suburbs, and the dark corners, and dirty spots thereof; so that men began wickedly to surmise, that he only wanted to pick out the refuse, to rummage beggars' wallets, and still his hunger with coarse crumbs; and that noble palaces, and rich houses, were safe from his scythe. 'Holla!' said Death, 'to let you know that no fortress is too strong for me, if girt with a fosse that could swallow the ocean, I will, spite of you all, conquer the city!' And he actually did in July.

'In the days of the dictator, Cæsar, an ox spoke; in the days of the prophet Balaam, an ass spoke; in the time of the Emperor Maurice, a metal image spoke; in the time of Beda, the stones spoke; but at this time, in Vienna, when a sick man lay here in one corner, a dying man groaned there in the other; a few steps off lay one already dead, and the bodies choked the way of the passers-by; in Vienna, the very stones spake, and warned the people to repentance. 'Up, and awake, ye sinners! The axe is laid to the root of the tree! God's anger is at the threshold; the voice of the Almighty is calling you to eternity; the archangel Michael holds the balance, to weigh your life! Up! up! and repent, for this is the only prop to which to hold fast in the day of destruction! The penitent knockings of your heart, be sure, can alone open the door of heaven; your hearty sighs are the only music that please the ear of God.' Thus spake all the streets and alleys, and the plastermen trod on, warned them to seek a plaster for the wounds of their conscience.

'Taverns are wont to be the abode of joy and license; for it is no secret, that when the blessed Virgin came to Bethlehem with Joseph, she had to take shelter in a broken stall, for there was no room for her in the tavern; and it is a truth, that God seldom finds any room in such houses, because all things evil lodge there. For a lamb to become a hog, an eagle a crow, and a horse an ass, is no great miracle; for do we not see daily, that men drink like hogs at the 'White Lamb;' that the 'Golden Eagle' makes gallows-birds, and the 'Red-Horse' asses? But in these days, the reverse happened; and the waiters were not so busy in counting up the drinks, as the drinkers, who lay dead by the door the next morning. Their floors were sprinkled, not with water, but with tears. Instead of shouting, was sighing, and--wonderful to say!--there was more whining in them than wine.'

After discoursing in this manner concerning the plague and its incidents, by way of prologue, he proceeds to his practical deductions, addressed to all classes: and first, he invokes mankind generally, heading the invocation,

'MARK--MAN!'

''Tis not for nothing, that the word _live_, spelled backward, readeth _evil_. 'Tis like a cloud, that fantastic child of the summer, which is no sooner born, than the rays of the sun menace to make an end of him. Just so our life, _vix orimur morimur_! Our first breath is a sigh on the way to death, and the very rocking of the cradle warns us how tottering is our existence.' * * * 'Summer comes after spring; Saturday comes after Friday; four comes after three, and death comes after life.

'Life and glass, they shake and they break;
Life and grass, how soon they pass!
Life and a hare, how fleet they are!

'Life is certain only in uncertainty, and is like a leaf on the tree, a foam on the sea, a wave on the strand, a house on the sand.'

'Stop me not, while I sing my song before thy door. To-day red, to-morrow dead; to-day your grace, to-morrow, 'God be gracious;' to-day, a comfort to all, to-morrow, under the pall; to-day, dear, to-morrow, the bier; to-day hurra, to-morrow, psha!

'_Omnes morimur!_ I have seen that we must all die; I have seen that death is a player, and a roguish one, for he bowls the men down and setteth them not up again, and attacketh not the pawn alone, but the king; I have seen, that were I to gather together the limbs of a dead emperor, and mix them up with water, they would not be of size enough to stop the mouth of sneering Michal, when she opened it to laugh at David her lord.

'Joshua, the hero, before he stormed the city of Jericho, made a vow to the Lord that none of his army should plunder aught. God knows, it's hard for soldiers to keep from it; and though they have little to do with schools, they know wondrous well, that in default of the _dativus_, they must take to the _ablativus_. Yet, spite of the ordinance, a soldier named Achan crooked his fingers, and helped himself to the booty. And lo! when he was caught, and brought before the aforesaid hero, what answered he: '_Abstuli, abscondi in terrâ, et fossam humo aperui_.' Such is the answer of Death, the great robber and plunderer of all things. Tell me, Death, where are Matthias the Emperor, and Matathias, the prophet? Where are Eleazer and Eliezer? Where are Leo and Leontius, Maximus and Maximinus? '_Abstuti et abscondi in terrâ_,' says Death!'

The Pater next takes up the religious world, commencing, as usual, 'Mark! Sir Priest!' and dilateth on the importance of the office, as follows:

'What is worthier than pious and spiritual men, who have turned their backs on the world, knowing that world and wild are words that differ little in name, and none in fact. For what is this world, but a garden full of thistles; a sugared poison, a gilded dung-hill; a sack full of holes; a silver hook, a shop full of fool's-caps; a drug-store, full of nauseous purges; a flowery deceit? The apostles likened the kingdom of God to a grain of mustard-seed, not to a sugar-plum; to sour leaven, and not to sweet-meats.'

After reminding us that Peter, in the fulness of his zeal, smote off the high priest's servant's ear, and was reproved therefor, he goes on to give a reason for it, which we do not recollect to have met in any of the commentators: 'If he had been the footman of any nobleman, or lady, merely,' says he, 'the Lord would perhaps have winked at it, had he cut off his whole head; but the servant of a high priest was to be respected.'[8]

We leave the divines for the present, and turn to his next 'mark,' which is addressed to the learned, whereon he expatiates with a fellow-feeling, and makes some displays of learning, which will certainly excite astonishment, if not admiration. His introduction is as follows:

'MARK--LEARNED MAN!'

'Tis well known, that Lot's wife was changed by God's decree into a pillar of salt, because, contrary to the divine command, she looked back; but why she was changed into a pillar of salt, and not into a thorn-bush, which is as curious and sharp as she was herself, is because when she entertained the angels who visited her husband, she put no salt to the meats, that she might be free of these frequent visitors. Salt has ever been held the symbol of science and wisdom, as is shown, not only by its being the first syllable in the name of King Solomon, but inasmuch as Christ says to his disciples, 'Ye are the salt of the earth.' As meat without salt, so is man without knowledge. As the poet saith:

'A table without a dish,
A pond without a fish,
A soup without bread,
A tailor without thread,
A horse without a tether,
A cobbler without leather,
A ship without a sail,
A pitcher without ale,
And a man without wit,
Do well together fit.'

'I have, with especial care, examined Holy Writ, and find that therein the word husbandman occurs thirty-six times; the word field, three hundred and fourteen times; the word sow, twenty times; the word grow, five hundred times; the word corn, fifty-seven times; the word reap, fifty-two times; the word barn, twenty-one times; the word thresh, fifteen times; the word hay, forty-eight times; but the word _straw_, only once,[9] and that with no great commendation, where Rachel sat upon it to hide the golden images from her father Laban. Since, therefore, the word straw occurs but once, I am free to conclude, that it was holden for something most contemptible. And as worthless as straw is, so is a man of straw,[10] without learning.'

And again:

'Jesus, our infant Lord, had to lie in a manger at Bethlehem, he whose abode is the starry heaven; and when his precious body shivered with cold, and was warmed only by his inward love to us, he to whom all the hosts of heaven minister, had no attendants, save an ox and an ass. St. Vincent remarketh, that the ox stood at the babe's head, and the ass at his feet; whereby he wished to show, that asses, and such as have no knowledge, should keep in the background, and those only who have wisdom, stand in the high places.'

* * * * *

What is more lovely than knowledge? He who hath it, cuts the 'gordian knot' better than the Macedonian monarch, and can answer all the puzzling questions about which other men busy their brains in vain. As thus: Why doth a man who hath eaten his fill, till his body is stuffed like a travelling journeyman's knapsack, weigh less than before? The philosopher knoweth the reason. Why doth he who has drank too much wine, commonly fall over forward, while he who hath drank too much beer, generally falleth over backward? The philosopher knoweth the reason.'

And again he discusseth learnedly of lawyers:

'In the Old Testament, there was a wondrous drink for women, which many a one had to swallow, albeit she did not complain of thirst. For whenever a man conjectured that his spouse was faithless, he led her to the priest at the altar, who handed her a liquor mixed with a thousand curses, the which, were she wrongfully accused, harmed her not; but were she really guilty, lo! she was incontinently filled therewith, and swelled up like a sack of Bohemian hops, and pined away; and thus they cunningly learned who was innocent and who guilty. 'Well,' saith one, 'why happeneth not the same now-a-days? 'Tis as necessary as in those times, and men would crowd to buy such a drink, at whatsoever price.' To this I answer, that such miracles are no longer needful; for the lawyers, with their _citationes_, _notationes_, _protestationes_, _connotationes_, _replicationes_, _contestationes_, _appellationes_, _acceptilationes_, _certiorationes_, _confirmationes_, and the like, make guilt or innocence as clear as day.' But mark we how Death treats all this choice Latinity: 'What kind of tongue,' saith Death, 'is this, wherein the Latinists address me? By my life, I understand not Latin! My father, the Devil, a substantial man, and my mother, Sin, a notable dame as any, to save expense, gave me no learning; therefore I care not a fig for your Latinists. The Almighty has truly taught me somewhat, but I find my studies differ mainly from yours; for in my grammar, _mors_ is _generis communis_; in my syntax, the verb _vivo_ has no _infinitivum_.'

He next addresses soldiers, whom he comforts with the thought that they need not despair of eternal life, bad as their calling is; for, saith he:

'St. John, the angel of the apocalypse, tells us, in his description of the heavenly Jerusalem, how he saw in his trance, that this metropolis of God was built four-square, and each side garnished with three doors; whence we can safely conclude, as St. Dionysius hath it, that from all quarters and parts of the world, there is access to heaven.

'St. Athanasius wisely observeth of the people of Israel, that when they entered on a campaign, the ark of the covenant, wherein were stored the laws of Moses and the ten commandments, was carried before the host, that the warriors might have God's law continually before their eyes. Hear this, ye Christian soldiers! The ten commandments were the avant-guard of the army of Israel; with you, God help us! they too commonly are sent to the rear.'

* * * * *

'Who's there?' 'No friend!' 'Who is no friend?' 'I,' says Death. 'Holla there! Guard, turn out!' 'My loving friends,' replieth Death, 'I cannot laugh in my sleeve, for I have none; but I can't help grinning, at finding you think to frighten my scythe with your pikes and halberts. That would be a joke! How many of the Jews have I not destroyed? The sum total, as Holy Writ testifieth, 854,002,067! And now shall I be afraid of _you_? No, no! Order arms! Albeit your leader, _Mars_, and I, _Mors_, are kinsmen in name, I cannot abide neutral, but declare open war on you! Let him who doubts my power, go to Vienna, and ask of the first sentinel he meets!' Inasmuch as Vienna is a rampart of all Germany against the Turk, it is girt with thick walls, and strong towers. The heavenly city, Jerusalem, is described by the chronicle as having twelve great gates; now as Vienna hath six, it may justly be called half a heaven. It hath always been the wont of the soldiery at Vienna to keep their main force in the city, and a guard at St. Peter's church-yard; but this time, Death, against the officers' will, changed their ordering, and almost all the troops were bidden to _lie at ease_ in the church-yard, while Death went the rounds, from post to post, on the walls.'

Let us quote the conclusion of this branch of his address:

'Let the body die, then, be it in fire or in water, on earth or in air--what matters it! Let it die, this dung-hill, this nest of worms, this lump of filth, this dying worm, this clod of earth; let it die, this perishing rottenness, this tricked-out decay, this painted sepulchre, this congregation of diseases, this bundle of rags, this six feet of nothing! Let it die!--let it perish! Let it decay, this living hospital, this sport of chance, this little heap of earth--when, how, where it may--it matters not! But I beseech thee, by thy soul's salvation--I sound it in thine ears, with uplifted hands, let not the SOUL perish! This curious and precious handiwork and image of God--this priceless and unfading jewel of eternity--this pure and peaceful sister of the spirits made blessed--oh let not _this_ perish by sin, for this is the only death that is terrible indeed!'

There are passages like the above, scattered here and there, which will show that our author was something more than a mere pulpit-joker, and that he had within him all the elements of high eloquence. Our conscience, indeed, reproaches us, at times, that we are not doing the old worthy justice, but picking out his knotty points and excrescences, to amuse our contemporaries with their odd twists and turns, and air of hoar antiquity, rather than laying open the sound core and pith that lie beneath them. But our object--and we hope it as an excusable one, in these trying times--is rather to beguile the reader into a smile, than edify him by serious discourse, a plenty whereof is to be found at every corner, without going back for it to Pater Abraham a Sancta Clara.

* * * * *

FOR the present, we leave our 'man of mark,' reserving his homily to maidens, his advice to parents, touching the use of the rod; his counsels to the rich, etc., for another number.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Speaking of ears. That was an ingenious and kindred elucidation of a passage of Scripture, which was given by a Methodist clergyman, of whom we have somewhere read. 'In those ancient days,' said the divine, 'small crimes were punished by cropping off the ears; so that it rarely happened, that a large concourse of people could assemble, without a considerable proportion of them, and oftentimes more, being deprived of their auricular members. Hence we view, my brethren, the propriety of that frequent remark of our Saviour, when addressing a mixed multitude, 'He that _hath_ ears to hear, let him hear!'' It was the same profound biblical critic, who made St Paul's similitude, touching his late conversion, ('as one born out of due time,') quite level to the comprehension of his hearers, by explaining, that the apostle 'was undoubtedly a seven-months' child!'

EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.

[9] 'PATER ABRAHAM,' mark! You had better examine your Bible 'with especial care' once more. Did not Pharaoh make the children of Israel turn out the regular quantity of brick, whether they had _straw_, or not? Our modern version, however, may not answer to the Pater's original.

EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.

[10] Literally _strohkopf_, a straw-head, a dunce.

NATURE.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF MATTHISON.

I.

ILLUM'D by reddening skies, stands glittering
On tender blade the dew;
And undulates the landscape of the spring
Upon the clear stream's blue.

II.

Fair is the rocky rill, the blossom'd tree,
The grove with gold that gleams;
Fair is the star of eve, which close we see
To yonder purple gleams.

III.

Fair is the meadow's green, the dale's thick bush,
The hill's bright robe of flowers;
The alder-stream, the pond's surrounding rush,
And lilies' snowy showers.

IV.

Oh! how the host of beings are made one
By Love's enduring band!
The glow-worm, and the fiëry flood of sun,
Spring from one Father's hand.

V.

Thou beckonest, Almighty, if the tree
Lose but a bud that's blown;
Thou beckonest, if in immensity
One sun is sunk and gone!

FRANCIS MITFORD.

NUMBER THREE.

WE spake of BRUMMELL's opinions of Canada. 'Canada,' said he, 'is a mere incubus on the already bloated back of England. The profits derived from the trade of that colony scarcely defray the enormous expenses of her establishments. Nor is this the worst. The question of her boundary will one day involve us in a most bloody and expensive war, demanded, perhaps, by national pride, but repugnant to our most vital interests; a war, too, with a nation of brothers, with whom we ought to have but one common view; that of peaceably extending our laws, language, and commerce, over the most distant part of the globe. Should there be a war, whether England emerges from that contest vanquished or triumphant, the consequences must be equally fatal. Alienation of the present strong and growing friendship will result, which must tend, more or less, to restrict the extensive commerce between the two countries, to the great injury of Great Britain; for though the United States may easily obtain from other countries the manufactures which she now obtains from us, at, in the first instance, a triflingly-enhanced price, yet the grand staple article of cotton cannot be purchased any where so good, or on such advantageous terms, as in the United States. The necessity imposed by war on that country of procuring manufactured commodities elsewhere, would, no doubt, continue in a great measure, by choice, after peace. The best thing England can do with Canada, is to present her (with her own consent) to the United States, or to manumit her from all colonial trammels, and declare her independent. Thus, by enlisting the pride of the Canadians on the side of a separate government, she may perhaps succeed in preventing a junction between this colony and the United States--if indeed England can be said to have any real interest in the hindrance of such a junction. Fifty thousand men sent over to Canada, in case of war with the United States, at the expense of twenty-five millions, will not suffice to keep Canada from being overrun by her powerful neighbours; all military speculations on the subject, to the contrary notwithstanding.'

* * * * *

WHERE is the mortal who has expatriated himself, without feeling a yearning after home? Home! magical word! bringing with it vivid recollections of the sweetest scenes of childhood, and those days of youth, when the mind, freed from care, bounds with joy at the slightest favorable event! Every man, in considering his home, looks only to the most pleasing events which occurred during his residence there, and is apt to consider all the disagreeable circumstances of his existence as receiving a still darker tinge from his stay abroad. Mitford was no exception to the general rule. He determined to return to London, at all hazards.

This resolve was confirmed by another motive. He had long loved--ardently loved. The life of dissipation, and even of riot, which he had led, had not been able to efface the holy passion from his soul. There it burned, at once a safeguard to, and a promoter of, other virtues. The fair Marguerite was lovely, rich, and constant in her attachment to him. Neither the sneers of friends, nor the ill reports of enemies, were able to efface his image from her mind. Friendship may be dissolved; fortune may desert us; but woman's love blossoms in eternal spring, and only blooms the more, amid the wintry blasts of adversity.

A late correspondence apprized him that her hand and fortune awaited him. This determined his movements, and he found himself in London. But the necessary preparatives for a marriage, however fortunate, require money--without which the wings of Cupid are clogged; and though Mitford might have relieved himself by an application to his lady-love, whose purse was at her own disposal, yet he could not bear to owe a favor before marriage.

He bethought himself of an expedient. Whenever a man wants money in London, the surest way to obtain it, is by offering to lend it, or by offering some great prospective advantage for the sum required. Many a man parts with what he has, to one whom he thinks will increase his store when he requires it; but no man parts with his money to one whom he thinks has none.

A dashing advertisement graced the pages of the 'Post' and 'Herald' newspapers:

'EXTRAORDINARY FACILITY.--The advertiser, possessing great
influence in a certain high quarter, would feel disposed to
promote the interest of any gentleman of standing and talent,
who has a thousand pounds at his disposal. Address 'A. M.,'
Standish's Rooms, Regent-street.

'N. B. No indiscretion need be apprehended.'

We need scarcely say, that our hero answered to the initials of 'A. M.' The applications were numerous. Mitford made a special appointment with one whom he thought likely to answer his purpose. He had chambers for the occasion in Lincoln's Inn.

The applicant had recently arrived from the East Indies, and had some property. The idea of obtaining a respectable post, with a good salary, at once to increase his income and employ his leisure, attracted him. Our hero received him in a dimly-lighted apartment. His back was toward the window. When you are afflicted with a diffidence, over which you have no control, on important occasions, always turn the dorsal vertebræ toward the light.

The business was soon opened. The applicant was anxious to embrace the ideal advantage offered.

'But, my dear Sir,' said Mitford, 'it will be necessary to have some security in hand, before you are inducted. Without at all doubting your punctuality, you are aware that in matters of business, particularity is necessary: beside, I must consult the wishes of my principal.

The stranger paused! He slowly drew forth his pocket-book, took out a post bill for £1000, and handed it to Mitford.

* * * * *

HOW may not a man, by false sophistry, tame his mind to the commission of a tortuous act! Honesty in man, is like virtue in woman. The possibility of violating it must not for a moment enter the imagination. In either case, deliberation is destruction.

Mitford, who would not for any consideration have omitted the payment of a debt of honor; who would have resisted the slightest imputation on his character unto death; thus reasoned with himself: 'I am on the point of marrying a fortune; why should I hesitate to appropriate this money, for a few days, when I shall have ample means to repay it? To be sure, I must endorse the note; but then the certainty of refunding the amount takes away any moral obliquity that might otherwise attach to the act.'

Thus soliliquized Mitford; and, endorsing the note, he committed forgery.

* * * * *

A SPLENDID party had assembled at Sidmouth-Terrace, to celebrate a bridal festival. Lights beamed far into the park, illuminating all around. Revelry and joy breathed throughout.

Mitford was there. The sanction of the church was about to seal the happiness of our hero for ever, when suddenly three officers interrupted the bridal ceremonies, and seizing Mitford on a warrant for forgery, conducted him to prison.

To describe the distress of the bride--the confusion of the guests--would be impossible. We leave it to the imagination of our readers.

The process of the law was rapid. The day of trial arrived. Mitford pleaded not guilty.

All that the most able counsel could effect, was done for him. The witnesses were brow-beaten; the jury harangued; but he was found guilty.

The judge passed sentence of death.

* * * * *

'LA!' said Mrs. Minikin, the haberdasher's wife, 'to-morrow is the day when that there gen'leman is to be hung for forgery. Let's go see him.'

'My dear,' said Mr. Minikin, 'you know I never likes them there sort of things. If it was a reg'lar mill, then I might go; but I never likes to see no one tucked up.'

'Oh, but, my dear,' said the gentle Mrs. Minikin, 'it is not entertaining, I grant, to see them there riff-raffs which is usually hung; but this is a gen'leman. Only consider,' said she, in her most endearing manner, 'how delightful to see one of them there 'igh-flyers hung!' And the pliant Mr. Minikin consented.

* * * * *

LET us now turn to the dungeon which contained this ill-fated man. There, on a scanty supply of straw, a dim light glimmering through the bars of his cell, rendering the interior still more desolate, by revealing its wretchedness, lay Mitford--pale, emaciated, and bearing on his countenance the conviction, that the world and himself were now disjointed. Ever and anon the echoing wheels of some patrician chariot conveyed to his ear the mirth and gayety that reigned without. But what was all this to him? His heart was never more to beat at the sight of beauty; ambition could no longer convey elevation to his mind. A few short hours, and he must be brought forth to satisfy the stern severity of the law, and furnish food to the gaping curiosity of thousands. And was this to be the termination of his career? Was it for this a mother's holy tears had blessed his advent to the world?--that a father's toil had left him reposing amid the luxuries of wealth? All, all was now shortly to terminate in the scaffold's terrors, and worse than the scaffold's terrors, in the scaffold's shame.

While these thoughts passed through his mind, scalding tears coursed down his cheeks, moistening the straw on which he lay; not tears extracted by craven fear, but holy drops of penitence.

From this state of mind he was soon awakened by the reverend clergyman, whose duty it was to prepare him for his approaching awful change. He whispered to him the hope of divine mercy, so unquenchable that the most heinous offences failed to suppress it; that it was true he must suffer a public punishment, at once as an example, and an earthly atonement for his crime; but the benign Saviour of mankind had passed through all the ignominy of a public execution, with a resigned spirit, as an offering for the sins of others; and in virtue of that offering, he must himself hope for forgiveness, and suffer with resignation.

The holy man left Mitford more collected in mind, and resolved to submit to his inevitable fate with piety and courage.

* * * * *

THE morning dawned. The fatal bell had struck; the scaffold had been erected; the gaping multitude, anxious for some horrid show to awaken their morbid sensibilities, clogged up in thousands every avenue to the sacrificial altar. Those whom the doom of the law had fixed that morning to be their last, stood upon the scaffold; but Mitford was not there; and the great unwashed, who had that day gone to enjoy the luxury of seeing a gentleman hung, returned disappointed of half the show.

The mystery must be solved. The betrothed of Mitford had forwarded a petition to the king, and another to the queen, requesting a commutation of punishment; but these documents had to pass through so many avenues of the palace, that they never reached the royal eye. Receiving no answer, and almost despairing of success, she flew to the Secretary of State.

Sir Robert Peel then filled the responsible situation of the Home Department. And here let us pause, to do justice to one of the greatest men of modern times; to one who, at no distant day, is destined to fill a large space in the world's eye. His father, sprung from the canaille, by the aid of the spinning-jenny, left his son in possession of one of the most ample fortunes, even in the wealthiest country in the world. The father, of rank tory principles, was farther recommended to royal notice, by the gift of twenty thousand pounds to carry on a war, which, however unpopular with the nation, a profligate ministry had induced that nation to believe its honor interested in prosecuting. The son was thus introduced to royal favor; and it is well known, that George the Third entertained great personal partiality for him. He commenced life as a statesman, having, in the outset of his political career, been inducted into the office of Under Secretary of State. His whole public life has been a life of office. His experience is thus greater than that of any man now living. Unfortunately, having commenced his career as an advocate for tory principles, his party have always pursued his leaning toward more liberal principles as a crime, while the more liberal party have always looked with suspicion on his aid, and viewed him as an enemy in their camp. As a debater, he is unrivalled; and if many surpass him in those burning and flowery sentences by which eloquence is distinguished, none equal him as a ready and always a sensible debater. But in our times, it unfortunately happens, that if a man commences his life by advocating bad principles, consistency forces him to adhere to them. The present world of politics, unlike the divine world to come, admits of no repentance. Once take your course in evil, you must adhere to it, if you wish to preserve your reputation. To change for the better, is certain perdition. Thus because Sir Robert Peel advocated Catholic emancipation, which he had all his previous life opposed, every contumelious epithet that rancor could invent, was hurled at him by his old friends; while the advocates of that measure viewed his accession to their ranks, not merely with distrust, as but a late convert, but with jealousy, as tending to rob them of some portion of the merit of carrying it on the very point of their success. And John Bull refused, from the hands of Sir Robert Peel and his colleagues, a greater measure of reform and retrenchment than even the original advocates held forth. Thus it is, a thief may reform, or become a useful member of society, if he will only amend; but a politician must look to nothing but consistency.

* * * * *

THE fair Marguerite found no difficulty in gaining access to Sir Robert. Her beauty, her distress, her tale at once simple and affecting, all conspired to move him. He laid her petition and her woes at the foot of the throne. Majesty was pleased to find extenuating circumstances in Mitford's case, and a reprieve was granted to him.

The bitter draught of grief had been too much for the gentle Marguerite. Her faculties had been too nervously awakened. While her lover required her aid, reason had kept its throne. His safety insured, she became a maniac, and the inmate of a mad-house.

Still farther mercy awaited our hero. After some detention in prison, he was liberated, on condition that he should leave the kingdom, never to return.

* * * * *

YEARS had now elapsed. Mitford's error and his shame had alike been forgotten; and it was supposed he was dead. It was not until the tempest of a new revolution awoke regenerated France to a sense of the wrongs endeavored to be inflicted on her by a Bourbon, whose family a million of foreign bayonets had seated on the throne, and until Paris taught all the capitals of Europe how easily a large city could resist a well-appointed army, that a ray of light was shed upon his fate.

The barriers of the Rue Richelieu had been erected by the people, and were furiously attacked by squadrons of infantry and cavalry. The Parisians, led by a most intrepid young man, evidently a foreigner, defended it to the very utmost. Three charges had been made, and successfully repulsed. A fourth threatened to carry the barriers. Some of the pickets were overthrown; and already had a few of the light cavalry penetrated within. A few stout hearts strove hand to hand with the military, but numbers had given way. In this emergency, the gallant leader of the people, waving his tri-colored flag, sprang in front of the wavering multitude. His gestures, his example, rëanimated them. Again they pressed forward, and bearing with them the tide of victory, they successfully repulsed the military; but their leader had sealed his conquest with his life. He fell, fighting hand to hand and foot to foot with the leader of the hostile soldiery, and their bodies lay close together, in the sleep of death.

The strife of the three days past, honorable interment was awarded the fallen and patriotic brave. Among the latter was not forgotten the youthful stranger, who had so well defended the barriers of the Rue Richelieu. The papers on his person proved him to be an Englishman. That Englishman was FRANCIS MITFORD.

SERENADE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF BÜRGER.--BY J. J. CAMPBELL.

I.

WITH song and lyre let sleep now fly;
To song and lyre take bounden heed!
The wakeful minstrel, that am I,
Fair sweetheart! ever true at need.
O, open thou the clear sunshine
Of those blue laughing eyes of thine!

II.

Through night and gloom I hither tramp,
At hour when spirits are in view;
Long since, there glimmers not a lamp
The hush'd-up cottage-window through:
Long since has rested, sweet and blest,
What love and fond desire let rest.

III.

On his wife's bosom cradled keeps
His weary head, the husband dear;
While to his favorite hen close creeps,
Upon the roost, good chanticleer;
And sparrow on the eaves is eyed,
Couching with true-love by his side.

IV.

Oh! when will these dull times be sped,
Until I too creep close to thee;
Until in sweet repose my head
Upon thy bosom nestled be?
When lead'st thou me unto the side
O, priest! of my sweet little bride?

V.

How would I then so heartily,
So dear, so very dear, thee hold!
How would I, oh! how would then we
Each other in our arms enfold!
Yet patience! time, too, slippeth on--
Be thou but true, my darling one!

VI.

And now, dear soul! good-night once more;
God keep thee with his shelt'ring might!
What God keeps, that is well watch'd o'er,
And kept from danger and affright.
Adieu!--now close the sunny shine
Of those blue laughing eyes of thine!

MOHEGAN LANGUAGE AND GEOGRAPHICAL NAMES.

TO THE EDITORS OF THE KNICKERBOCKER:

_Michilimackinack, August 2, 1837._

IN making some inquiries recently of a party of the Mohegan tribe--the remnant of whom have made their way to this quarter within a few years--I find that they have preserved their traditionary history for the last two centuries, or more, with a degree of accuracy which is not common to the native tribes in this region. It is very well known, from published data, that this ancient tribe occupied Long-Island and the contiguous main land, on the discovery of the country, whence in process of time they withdrew eastwardly into Connecticut, and afterward went west into Massachusetts. They appear, from the first, to have had the means of instruction, which have been continued up to the present time, with perhaps less interruption than among most of the other tribes. This may account in part for the better preservation of their traditions. Many of them being able to read, could refer to some things in printed documents. Others appear to have retained with tenacity that traditionary lore which the aged among the tribes generally employ the leisure of their superannuated days in handing down to the young.

During the long residence of this tribe at Stockbridge, (Mass.,) they were commonly Stockbridges, and after the revolutionary war, when they transferred their residence to Oneida, in western New-York, they naturally retained this name, and finally bore it with them to their present location in Wisconsin territory. I disclaim any intention to sketch their history; and wish no farther to allude to it, than appears to be necessary to bring forward a few facts in the character of their language, and particularly their names for the places of their former residence, on the lower parts of the Hudson. And as this is a matter of which but little is generally known, it has appeared to me of sufficient local interest, to justify the liberty I take in addressing these remarks to you.

The Mohegan is readily recognised as a type of the Algonquin or (as Mr. Gallatin has recently denominated it,) the 'Lenapee-Algonkin' family, and bears a strong resemblance, both in sound and syntax, to the dialects of some of the existing lake tribes. This affinity is very striking in its grammatical structure, and its primitive words. Derivatives, with all our tribes, are subject to interchange their consonants, or drop them entirely, which creates a necessity of being constantly on the alert to detect these exchanges. Moreover, the accent is uniformly moved, or doubled, often creating primary and secondary accents in the same phrase, which, in an unwritten language, is alone sufficient to account for numerous mutations. But what, more than any other principle, affects the _sound_ of Indian words, in their concrete and derivative states, is the large stock of (so to say) floating particles, which come into these words in the shape of prefixes and suffixes. These are, in their offices, almost as numerous as the purposes of person, tense, number, quality, position, etc., may require. But while their respective office remains precisely the same, in almost any given number of dialects in a mother language, it is found that the several tribes pique themselves in giving these auxiliary particles a sound peculiar to themselves, by which something like _nationality_ is kept up. Thus in two dialects indicating the least change in the primitives or derivatives, to be found among all the tribes, namely, the Chippewa and Ottowa, these particles, which, in the animate class for plural, are denoted by UG, and in the local inflections by ONG, and ING, in the one dialect, are respectively changed to UK, ONK, and INK, in the other.

Similar to this process, seems to have been the result of change between the ancient Algonquin and the Mohegan, the latter, like the Ottowa, constantly substituting K for G, and P for B, etc., but in other respects, it exhibits numerous gutturals, and some aspirates, which are but rarely found in the liquid flow of the Algic. It also embraces the (perhaps) Gothic sound of TH, which is wholly unknown (the Shawnee excepted) to the modern lake dialects.

Geographical terms, with the Indians, are found generally to unite some natural quality in the features or productions of the country with an indication of the locality; so that their names are not, as with us, simple nominatives, but (as in all other cases in these peculiar languages) the quality, action, etc., transfers itself to the object, and is expressed in a consolidated phrase. This is one of the most constant and distinguishing traits of these languages. Their nouns and adjectives, therefore, as well as their verbs, are transitives. Even their prepositions take a transitive character, and link themselves, as with 'hooks of steel,' to the objects to which they are applied. Thus their name for the island from which this letter is dated, is Place of the Gigantic Faëries, or, by another interpretation, Place of the Great Turtle. Detroit is, (literally translated,) Round-ward, or Rounds-by Place, denoting the sinuosities of the river in its approach. Sault St. Marie, 'At the Shallow Water with Rocks.' In another class of derivative words, the union of the substantive and adjective is without a local inflection, as in their name for Lake Superior, which is simply called, The Sea Waters; Mississippi, The Great River; Michigan, The Great Lake, etc.

This principle is found most fully to pervade the Mohegan. I requested one of the chiefs of the party above referred to, to pronounce their name for Long-Island. He replied, PAUM-NUK-KAH-HUK, signifying, Place of the Long Land. The name of the coast opposite to this island, at the mouth of the Hudson, or rather, across the Sound, he pronounced MON-AH'-TON-UK. Dropping the local inflection UK, meaning place, or land, we have the elements of Manhattan, the latter of which preserves the original quite as well as the generality of Indian names transmitted by English enunciation. Philologists will perceive, farther, that the aspirate H would be very naturally prefixed to the second syllable, while the sound of O, being the sound of O in the French word _ton_, might be expressed, nearly as well, by some of the modified sounds of A.

Judged by similar means of analysis, Sing-Sing is a corruption of OSIN-SINK, _i. e._, Place of Stones, or Rocks; Neversink from NAWAISINK, a phrase descriptive of highlands equi-distant between two waters, as Raritan Bay and the Atlantic. Minisink is, literally, Place of the Island. Tappan Sea _appears_ to be a derivative from a band of the Mohegans, who dwelt there, called TAPONSEES, or rather from the name of their village. After getting through the Highlands, names of Mohawk derivation occur. Poughkeepsie, Warwarsing, and Coxsackie, are, however, clearly of Mohegan origin. So far as I recollect, the ancient name of Albany, SKE-NEK-TA-DA, is the first term of the Iroquois type of languages, in ascending the Hudson, of which any notice is preserved. In proceeding east, west, or south-west from that point, geographical names of this character universally prevail. But it is to be remarked, that but few sonorous names occur, until reaching the districts of country formerly possessed by the Oneidas, Onondagas, and other western branches of this confederacy.

I am, gentlemen, very respectfully,

Your Obedient Servant,

HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT.

A FAREWELL.

FARE thee well!--the word is spoken,
That makes the past a dream to me;
The long delicious spell is broken--
Yet fare thee well, since thou art free!

Yes! thou art free; but oh, how shatter'd
This faithful heart thou couldst not know,
Nor see each crush'd affection scatter'd,
And yet with chilling coldness go!

Perchance unto this bosom's yearning,
Thou'dst answer with some kindred sigh,
Or seek to quell its secret burning,
With one glance from thy pitying eye.

Yet were it so, how would it cherish
That tender look, 'a death in life;'
Oh! better far at once to perish,
Than linger through hope's fever'd strife!

Then fare thee well!--mid others ranging,
Thou carest not to look on me;
Nor heedest the true love, unchanging,
That like a beacon, shines for thee.

Yet when the meteor has departed,
That lur'd thee to the world's caress,
When languid, drooping, broken-hearted,
Thou sinkest back in weariness;

Then come to one, who, though forsaken,
Still loved thee on, through weal and wo;
Nor would one memory awaken,
That o'er thy path a shade could throw.

Yes, come! and like the star of even,
My love shall cheer thine earthly way,
And in the blessed light of heaven,
Shine on, an ever-constant ray!

M. E. L.

WILSON CONWORTH.

NUMBER SIX.

'WEAK and irresolute is man.' I record a fault of human nature, as well as my own. I resolved and re-resolved, and am the same. Do I not blush while recording this weakness? Alas! I am dead to feeling, as it regards my fellows. I have no communion with the world, now. I pass by, unnoticed and unknown. Still, I have a love for mankind; and I make these confessions, hoping they may prove of use to others. I daily see others in the same predicament as myself, or, if not so far advanced, yet pursuing a course which will inevitably lead them where I now am. Yes! where I am; and what is that state? Solitariness, apathy, disgust, fretfulness, heart-ache; the absence of all the gentle sympathies of life; the death of all domestic affection; the familiarity of the vulgar and low-bred; the sneer of the foolish prosperous man; the contempt of the small thriving gleaner; the neglect of the busy, and the pity of the good. Oh! yes! one comfort yet remains; the prayers of the pious and truly religious.

But to my story. As hope began to fade from the heart of my dear Alice; as she saw I was beyond the influence of her prayers and entreaties; as she began to be acquainted with the real state of my habits; as she began to see, that not even my love for her availed any thing she began to despair. She had involved herself too deeply to retract. Her feelings had acquired the habit of loving me; and indeed, though an idle young man, I do not think it strange that such devotion and tenderness as I sometimes really felt and bestowed upon her, should have awakened some return.

I was well-bred, had a good person, could sing passably well, by myself, write good poetry, and was passionate and hot in my evidences of affection. I was an enthusiast, and women like decided tastes. They feel an assurance, a confidence in your good, quiet, smooth-faced, unexcitable, sensible man, if he be young, especially; but they love life and animation, even though it lead to slight errors. Women know the difficulty of restraining the feelings within the bounds of propriety; they are most open to impressions; the real creatures of feeling, they love feeling in others. They have many struggles with what they wish, and what they ought to do. They estimate in men the ardor of the temptation, as an offset to the fault. Hence they are forgiving.

Women are obliged to keep a constant guard over themselves. They know their own weakness, and self-protection arms them to the task. Many a high-souled woman knows this. When you do find a well-disciplined character in the female form, what a noble one it is! The labor of the undertaking, the education of self-control, has made her great. She is a whole host. Look at her influence in society; see the majesty of her deportment, the easy assurance of her countenance. How common men quail before her! What respect and attention she exacts from the titled profligate, and the talented vicious! She is all that is exalted on earth. There is no beauty to compare with such beauty; no wealth with such charms. She is the nicest workmanship of God; and in her dwells a soul that scatters blessings around her. 'The heart of her husband delighteth in her, and he has no need of spoil.'

Reader, if you are a father, and have seen the son of your hopes, the inheritor of your name, the bearer of your form and features, gradually falling a victim to low vices; if you are a mother, and can trace, in those features now bloated with excess, and in that eye now dimmed with sensuality, the semblance to the babe that drew its earliest food from your pure bosom, and remember that eye upturned to your face as the innocent lay cradled in your arms; if you are a sister, and mourn the ruin of your bed-fellow; or a brother, and seen your playmate in prison, you may form some notion of what the emotions of a fond heart are, when it beholds its stay gone, its prospects blighted, and its love thrown away upon an unworthy object. No! not altogether unworthy, but with just enough of good to keep alive the love, while it mocks all efforts to draw consolation, to answer the chord in her own bosom.

Love wishes its object to be perfect. None can or must compare with its choice. How fondly does woman cheat herself, if she can, into the belief that her choice is fortunate beyond human fortune! I weep--even I, who have not wept for years for my own misfortunes--I weep, as I recall the memory of the tears she shed over my irrevocable ruin. She did know my character, at last, and she predicted, even in spite of her love, all that has happened.

Shall I record that these tears were not a source of pain to me then? They satisfied my vanity. I always reserved reformation to myself, and thought she was mistaken; and these scalding tears, as they coursed down her cheeks, told me that I was beloved. Not even the misery of the object of my affection could prevent a triumph that I had over her--_her_, the sought-for by many--that I was preferred among a multitude. Is this nature? Was I hard-hearted? Would not any one feel the same? Let the reader examine his own heart, and answer.