Chapter VI: Part 6

Our limits will enable us to glance at only one more of the prominent faults of this book. We refer to Mr. Bulwer's ideas on duelling. What do our readers think of such sophistry as this: 'There are some cases in which human nature and its deep wrongs will be ever stronger than the world and its philosophy. Duels and wars belong to the same principle; both are sinful on light grounds and poor pretexts. But it is not sinful for a soldier to defend his country from invasion, nor for a man, with a man's heart, to vindicate truth and honor with his life. The robber that asks me for money, I am allowed to shoot. Is the robber that tears from me treasures never to be replaced, to go free?' Again: 'As in revolutions all law is suspended, so are there stormy events and mighty injuries in life, which are as revolutions to individuals.' It follows, of course, that a revolution may take place 'in the little kingdom man,' whenever his majesty sees fit. It is unnecessary to show up the monstrosity of such politics, and of that morality which, guided alone by worldly philosophy, makes it sometimes sinful, and sometimes not, to take the life of a fellow being. There are men enough in the world who will fight as they judge expedient; but Mr. Bulwer is the only one who has had the hardihood to defend the practice, as sometimes under the sanction of omnipotence.

We had some remarks to make on the sudden transitions of character, as delineated by our author, which strike us as exceedingly unnatural. But we have already transcended our space, and only record an impression here, which must be apparent to every reader. On the appearance of the sequel to Ernest Maltravers, we may examine this fault at leisure.

* * * * *

MEMOIRS OF AARON BURR. With Miscellaneous Selections from his
Correspondence. By MATTHEW L. DAVIS. In two volumes. Volume
Two. pp. 449. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

THIS volume will prove even more generally interesting than its attractive predecessor, heretofore noticed in this Magazine. The early pages are devoted to an account of Col. Burr's habits and character, as a man and a lawyer; a history of the rise of political parties in this state, with copious extracts from various letters written during the war of the revolution; an account of the Clinton and Schuyler parties; Burr's political position on being elected Vice-President, and his course in that office; and a report of false entries made by Jefferson in his 'Ana,' of conversations said to have been held with Burr. Farther than this, we have not found leisure to read attentively; but on glancing hurriedly over the remaining pages, we perceive that they are devoted to a detail of the most prominent and interesting events in the life of the _notorious_ subject, interspersed with letters from various eminent Americans, and including a correspondence with his daughter Theodosia, a full account of the premeditated and disgraceful duel with General HAMILTON, his departure for England, the 'incidents of travel' in Great Britain, France, Germany, and Sweden, and his return to New-York, in 1811. We shall take another occasion to refer more in detail to the work, and in the mean time commend it to the attention of our readers, with the single remark, that we see nothing in its pages to change our opinion that the murderer of ALEXANDER HAMILTON can only pass without censure while he passes without observation; and that the less his friends or apologists meddle with his memory, the kinder they will be to his reputation.

* * * * *

AN ADDRESS DELIVERED BEFORE THE MEMBERS OF THE AMERICAN
INSTITUTE. By the Rev. ORVILLE DEWEY. Published at the request
of the Institute.

IT was our good fortune to form one of the dense auditory before whom this excellent Address was delivered; and although we are unable to convey to the reader an adequate idea of the effect its verbal publication produced, we may nevertheless afford a 'taste of its quality,' by a few choice extracts. We were pleased, at the very opening, to perceive that the Address was not to embrace political questions, connected with the arts of industry, nor to be a compendium of minute statistics, relating to the Institute, and manufactures in general--a course so common on such occasions. 'Figures cannot _lie_,' perhaps, but they can do things quite as disagreeable. Mere statistics are dismal bores to great masses, oftentimes, in the hands of matter-of-fact, hum-drum speakers, oppressively full of information; reminding the hearer of Swift's elixir, 'which being drank, presently dilates itself about the brain of the orator, whence instantly proceed an infinite number of abstracts, summaries, compendiums,' etc., all reducible upon paper, and fruitful of the most potent oscitant qualities. How many new members of Congress, who felt it their duty to attend to the public weal, in gratitude to their constituents, have been wakened by the watchful sergeant-at-arms, after the house had adjourned, from a deep sleep which had fallen upon them, as they 'by parcels something heard, but not attentively,' of 'figure-works and statistics,' from some arithmetical debater! 'In 1834, Sir, before the passage of the law creating the 'North American Window-Glass and Putty Company,' owing to the high price of putty in the United States, there were in ten counties in the state of Mississippi, nine hundred and sixty-two windows and a half, utterly destitute of glass; and it is worth stating, as a remarkable fact, that of the three hundred and twenty-seven panes which were fastened with a cheap adhesive substitute, the large number of two hundred and eighty-three were utterly useless. That putty--I say _that_ putty, Mr. Speaker--would not stick!' And thus proceeds the bore statistical,[16] in a speech 'thin sown with profit or delight.' But we are keeping the reader from 'metal more attractive.'

After a felicitous exordium, descriptive of the scene which the Fair presented to the eye of the spectator, the writer proceeds to consider the connection between the arts of industry, and especially the mechanic arts, and the intellectual and moral improvement of society. He shows that the mechanic, laboring at his work-bench, is toiling for the general improvement; that the man who designs and erects a noble structure, speaks to passing multitudes, who may never read a book, and helps to refine and humanize the ages that come after him; that 'even he who makes a musical instrument, is laying up, in those hidden chambers of melody, the sweet influences that shall amuse, and soften, and refine many a domestic circle through life; and he, yet more, who can place upon our walls the canvass glowing with life, becomes the household teacher of successive generations.' The orator next repudiates the idea, that labor-saving machinery has ever been the cause of permanently injuring the working-classes; and this position he clearly establishes, by a variety of well-chosen illustrations. A few remarks succeed, in relation to improvements in matters of comfort and economy, of which advantage might be taken by American house-keepers. The French bed, consisting of two thin matresses of wool, upon a foot deep of hay or straw, is pronounced to be four times as cheap as ours, and twice as comfortable. One half of the fuel, too, which is burnt in this country, the writer avers, is literally thrown away, the heat passing into the dead wall of the chimney. This is doubtless true. The excellent stoves of Dr. NOTT, however, now so generally demanded in all parts of the country, from his capable successors, Messrs. STRATTON AND SEYMOUR, of this city, have done much toward awakening attention to the great economy of heat and fuel, which they exemplify and inculcate.

Labor, the writer justly contends, exercises and tasks the intellect; and he repels, with proper earnestness and force, the too common error, that the mind never labors, save over the written page or the abstract proposition. 'The merchant, the manufacturer, the mechanic, is often a harder thinker than the student. The machinist and the engineer are employed in some of the finest schools of intellect.' The tasks for which no such consideration can be pleaded, such as the dull, heavy labors of the hod, the writer humanely hopes some method may yet be found to relieve.

Could any thing be more admirably reasoned, or more beautifully set forth, than the arguments in favor of the true nobility of labor, contained in the annexed paragraphs:

"How many natural ties are there between even the humblest
scene of labor, and the noblest affections of humanity! In this
view, the employment of mere muscular strength is ennobled.
There is a central point in every man's life, around which
all his toils and cares revolve. It is that spot which is
consecrated by the names of wife, and children, and home. A
secret and almost imperceptible influence from that spot,
which is like no other on earth, steals into the breast of the
virtuous laboring man, and strengthens every weary step of
his toil. Every blow that is struck in the work-shop and the
field, finds an echo in that holy shrine of his affections.
If he who fights to protect his home, rises to the point of
heroic virtue, no less may he who labors, his life long, to
provide for that home. Peace be within those domestic walls,
and prosperity beneath those humble roofs! But should it ever
be otherwise; should the time ever come when the invader's
step approaches to touch those sacred thresholds, I see in the
labors that are taken for them, that wounds will be taken for
them too; I see in every honest workman around me, a hero.

"So material do I deem this point--the true nobility of labor,
I mean--that I would dwell upon it a moment longer, and in a
larger view. Why, then, in the great scale of things, is labor
ordained for us? Easily, had it so pleased the great Ordainer,
might it have been dispensed with. The world itself might have
been a mighty machinery for the production of all that man
wants. The motion of the globe upon its axis might have been
the power, to move that world of machinery. Ten thousand wheels
within wheels might have been at work; ten thousand processes,
more curious and complicated than man can devise, might have
been going forward without man's aid; houses might have risen
like an exhalation,

----'with the sound
Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet,
Built like a temple.'

gorgeous furniture might have been placed in them, and soft
couches and luxurious banquets spread, by hands unseen; and
man, clothed with fabrics of nature's weaving, richer than
imperial purple, might have been sent to disport himself
in these Elysian palaces. 'Fair scene!' I imagine you are
saying; 'fortunate for us, had it been the scene ordained for
human life!' But where then, tell me, had been human energy,
perseverance, patience, virtue, heroism? Cut off with one blow
from the world; and mankind had sunk to a crowd, nay, far
beneath a crowd of Asiatic voluptuaries. No, it had _not_ been
fortunate. Better that the earth be given to man as a dark mass
whereon to labor. Better that rude and unsightly materials be
provided in the ore-bed and the forest, for him to fashion
into splendor and beauty. Better, I say, not because of that
splendor and beauty, but because the act creating them is
better than the things themselves; because exertion is nobler
than enjoyment; because the laborer is greater and more worthy
of honor than the idler. I call upon those whom I address,
to stand up for that nobility of labor. It is heaven's great
ordinance for human improvement. Let not that great ordinance
be broken down. What do I say? It is broken down; and it _has
been_ broken down for ages. Let it then be built up again;
here if any where, on these shores of a new world, of a new
civilization. 'But how,' I may be asked, 'is it broken down?'
'Do not men toil?' it may be said. They do indeed toil, but
they too generally do it because they must. Many submit to
it as, in some sort, a degrading necessity, and they desire
nothing so much on earth, as escape from it." * * * "This way
of thinking is the heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal
system; under which serfs labored, and gentlemen spent their
lives in fighting and feasting It is time that this opprobrium
of toil were done away. Ashamed to toil, art thou? Ashamed of
thy dingy work-shop and dusty labor-field; of thy hard hand,
scarred with service more honorable than that of war; of thy
soiled and weather-stained garments, on which mother Nature
has embroidered, midst sun and rain, midst fire and steam,
her own heraldic honors? Ashamed of these tokens and titles,
and envious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness and
vanity? It is treason to nature; it is impiety to heaven; it is
breaking heaven's great ordinance. TOIL, I repeat--TOIL, either
of the brain, of the heart, or of the hand, is the only true
manhood, the only true nobility!"

The orator next passes to the policy and necessity of extending a fostering care to the domestic industry of families, on their own property, and laments the want of employment, oftentimes, for the female members, who are in this country generally unwilling to seek it beyond the paternal roof. Manufactures, as of woollen cloths, stockings, etc. the culture of the mulberry, and the making of silk, are recommended as purely domestic occupations. The suggestions in regard to the disposition of our ample supply of water, when the Croton shall roll its refreshing stores into the metropolis, are conceived in a far-seeing and liberal spirit, and deserve earnest heed. We need not ask the reader to admire with us the subjoined extract, illustrating the advantages and comforts which have followed in the train of mechanical improvements:

"Our steam-boats and rail-roads are tending constantly to make
us a more homogeneous, sympathizing, and humane people. A visit
to one's distant friends, every body knows, is a very pleasant
thing; but are its uses in the great family of society often
considered? Intercourse, in such circumstances, is usually an
interchange of all the thoughts, views, and improvements that
prevail in different parts of the country. 'Their talk is of
oxen,' if you please, or it is of soils and grains, or it is
of manufactures and trade, or it is of books and philosophers;
but it is all good--good for somebody at least--good in the
main for every body. Thus, our steam-boats are like floating
saloons, and our rail-roads like the air-pipes of a mighty
whispering gallery; and men are conversing with one another,
and communicating and blending their daily thoughts, throughout
the whole length and breadth of the land. These means of
communication are thus constantly interchanging, not only
different views, but the advantages of different kinds of
residence. They are imparting rural tastes to the citizen,
and city polish to the countryman. I cannot help thinking,
that in time, they will produce a decided effect upon city
residence; relieving us, somewhat, of our crowded and overgrown
population; sending out many from these pent-up abodes in town,
to the green and pleasant dwelling places of the country.

"The progress of communication during the last twenty years,
leaves us almost nothing to wish, and yet entitles us to expect
every thing. Many of you remember what a passage up the Hudson
was, thirty years ago. You remember the uncertain packet,
lingering for a wind at the wharf, till patience was almost
exhausted; and then, at length, pursuing its zigzag course,
now waving in the breeze, now halting in the calm, like a
crazy traveller, doubtful of his way, or whether to proceed at
all. And now, when you set your foot on the deck of one of our
newly invented fire-ships, you feel as if the pawings of some
reined courser were beneath you, impatient to start from the
goal; anon, it seems to you as if the strength and stride of a
giant were bearing you onward; till at length, when the evening
shadow falls, and hides its rougher features from your sight,
you might imagine it the queenly genius of the noble river, as
it moves on between the silent shores, and flings its spangled
robe upon the waters."

Scarcely less beautiful, are the following reflections upon the moral tendencies of the mechanic arts, in leading the mind to the infinite wisdom of Nature and of the Author of Nature:

"If an intelligent manufacturer or mechanic would carefully
note down in a book all the instances of adaptation that
presented themselves to his attention, he would in time have a
large volume; and it would be a volume of philosophy--a volume
of indisputable facts in defence of a Providence. I could not
help remarking lately, when I saw a furnace upon the stream
of the valley, and the cartman bringing down ore from the
mountains, how inconvenient it would have been if this order
of nature had been reversed; if the ore-bed had been in the
valley, and the stream had been so constituted as to rise,
and to make its channel upon the tops of the ridges. Nay,
more; treasures are slowly prepared and carefully laid up in
the great store-houses of nature, against the time when man
shall want them. When the wood is cut off from the plains and
the hills, and fuel begins to fail, and man looks about him
with alarm at the prospect, lo! beneath his feet are found,
in mines of bitumen and mountains of anthracite, the long hid
treasures of Providence--the treasure-houses of that care
and kindness, which at every new step of human improvement,
instead of appearing to be superseded, seems doubly entitled
to the name of _Providence_." * * * "All nature is not only
a world of mechanism, but it is the work of infinite art;
and the mechanic-inventor and toiler is but a student, an
apprentice in that school. And when he has done all, what can
he do to equal the skill of the great original he copies; to
equal the wisdom of Him who 'has stretched out the heavens
like a curtain, who has laid the beams of his chambers in the
waters!' What engines can he form, like those which raise up
through the dark labyrinths of the mountains, the streams
that gush forth in fountains from their summits? What pillars,
and what architecture can he lift up on high, like the mighty
forest trunks, and their architrave and frieze of glorious
foliage? What dyes can he invent, like those which spread
their ever-changing and many-colored robe over the earth? What
pictures can he cause to glow, like those which are painted on
the dome of heaven?

"It is the glory of art, that it penetrates and develops the
wonders and bounties of nature. It draws their richness from
the valleys, and their secret stores from the mountains. It
leads forth every year fairer flocks and herds upon the hills;
it yokes the ox to the plough, and trains the fiery steed
to its car. It plants the unsightly germ, and rears it into
vegetable beauty; it takes the dull ore and transfuses it into
splendour, or gives it the edge of the tool or the lancet; it
gathers the filaments which nature has curiously made, and
weaves them into soft and compact fabrics. It sends out its
ships to discover unknown seas and shores; or it plunges into
its work-shops at home, to detect the secret, that is locked
up in mineral, or is flowing in liquid matter. It scans the
spheres and systems of heaven with its far sight; or turns
with microscopic eye, and finds in the drops that sparkle in
the sun, other worlds crowded with life. Yet more is mechanic
art the handmaid of society. It has made man its special
favourite. It clothes him with fine linen and soft raiment.
It builds him houses, it kindles the cheerful fire, it lights
the evening lamp, it spreads before him the manifold page of
wisdom; it delights his eye with gracefulness, it charms his
ear with music; it multiplies the facilities of communication
and ties of brotherhood; it is the softener of all domestic
charities--it is the bond of nations."

The Address is neatly executed, and will appear, as we learn, in the 'Journal of the American Institute.' It cannot fail to command a wide perusal and general admiration.

* * * * *

MEMOIRS OF THE LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. By J. G.
LOCKHART. Part Fifth. Philadelphia: CAREY, LEA AND BLANCHARD.

EACH succeeding volume of this work impresses us more thoroughly with the belief, that it is one of the most delightful biographies which the present century has produced. This may seem extravagant praise, to those who have not read the several 'Parts,' as they have appeared; yet it will be deemed but simply just, by all who have been so fortunate as to share with us in the pleasure of their perusal. The work has been a God-send in these 'juice-drained' literary times; and in the way of bright and eminent example, is now working its gentle triumphs upon the hearts of thousands in this country. We are more and more struck, as we read, with the great goodness, as well as intellectual greatness, of the illustrious subject; with the simplicity, truth, and sincerity ever in _alto-relievo_ in his character; the beauty of his daily life, adorned with integrity and honor; a course, public, literary, and domestic, replete with the noblest traits, born of good and generous impulses, ingrained and innate. The leading chapter in the 'Part' before us, describes Scott's hospitality and urbanity, as host at Abbottsford. When at the acmé of his fame, honored by kings and admired by the world, he would cheerfully devote his precious hours to intruding lion-hunters, and submit with patience and politeness to be over-poeted with small browsers on Parnassus, bored with the solemn applauses of learned dullness, the self-exalting harangues of the 'hugely literate,' the pompous simpers of condescending magnates, the vapid raptures of bepainted and periwigged dowagers, and questions urged with 'horse-leech avidity by under-bred foreigners.' Byron says of himself that 'none did love him.' How different from his great contemporary! Those who knew Scott, loved him not less than they admired his genius. Without pretence or self-esteem at home, he was equally so abroad. 'I am heartily tired,' he writes to his son from London, where literary menageries for the reception of 'lions' were constantly opened wide to him, 'I am heartily tired of fine company, and fine living, from dukes and duchesses, down to turbot and plover's eggs. It is very well for a while; but to be kept at it, makes one feel like a poodle-dog compelled to stand for ever on his hind-legs.' The spirit herein breathed, he preserved throughout his life, which was spent in delighting the literary world, and in the exercise of those qualities of the heart which 'assimilate men to angels, and make of earth a heaven.'

In reading the volume under notice, we experienced an 'excess of participation' in the richness of its stores. Hence it is full of dog's-ears, and pencilled passages, which we find it impossible to extract, and yet can scarcely consent to omit. For the present, however, we yield to necessity, promising our readers and ourselves the pleasure of an early renewal of this notice, after the volumes shall have been completed. We make a single extract, representing Scott as escaping from Abbotsford, upon which an avalanche of bores had descended, and taking refuge in the summer-cottage of his son-in-law, a mile or two distant. The touching allusion of the biographer to his recent loss, will not escape the notice of the reader:

"The clatter of Sybil Grey's hoofs, the yelping of Mustard
and Spice, and his own joyous shout of _reveillée_ under our
windows, were the signal that he had burst his toils, and meant
for that day to 'take his ease in his inn.' On descending,
he was to be found seated with all his dogs and ours about
him, under a spreading ash that overshadowed half the bank
between the cottage and the brook, pointing the edge of his
woodman's axe for himself, and listening to Tom Purdie's
lecture touching the plantation that most needed thinning.
After breakfast, he would take possession of a dressing-room
up stairs, and write a chapter of _The Pirate_; and then,
having made up and despatched his packet for Mr. Ballantyne,
away to join Purdie wherever the foresters were at work--and
sometimes to labor among them as strenuously as John Swanston
himself--until it was time either to rejoin his own party at
Abbotsford or the quiet circle of the cottage. When his guests
were few and friendly, he often made them come over and meet
him at Chiefswood in a body toward evening; and surely he never
appeared to more amiable advantage than when helping his young
people with their little arrangements upon such occasions. He
was ready with all sorts of devices to supply the wants of
a narrow establishment; he used to delight particularly in
sinking the wine in a well under the _brae_ ere he went out,
and hauling up the basket just before dinner was announced;
this primitive process being, he said, what he had always
practised when a young house-keeper, and in his opinion far
superior in its results to any application of ice; and in the
same spirit, whenever the weather was sufficiently genial, he
voted for dining out of doors altogether, which at once got rid
of the inconvenience of very small rooms, and made it natural
and easy for the gentlemen to help the ladies, so that the
paucity of servants went for nothing. Mr. Rose used to amuse
himself with likening the scene and the party to the closing
act of one of those little French dramas, where 'Monsieur le
Compte,' and 'Madame la Comtesse,' appear feasting at a village
bridal under the trees; but in truth, our 'M. le Comte' was
only trying to live over again for a few simple hours his own
old life of Lasswade.

"When circumstances permitted, he usually spent one evening
at least in the week at our little cottage; and almost as
frequently he did the like with the Fergusons, to whose table
he could bring chance visitors, when he pleased, with equal
freedom as to his daughter's. Indeed it seemed to be much a
matter of chance, any fine day when there had been no alarming
invasion of the Southron, whether the three families (which, in
fact, made but one) should dine at Abbotsford, at Huntly Burn,
or at Chiefswood; and at none of them was the party considered
quite complete, unless it included also Mr. Laidlaw. Death
has laid a heavy hand upon that circle--as happy a circle I
believe as ever met. Bright eyes now closed in dust, gay voices
for ever silenced, seem to haunt me as I write. With three
exceptions, they are all gone. Even since the last of these
volumes was finished, she whom I may now sadly record as, next
to Sir Walter himself, the chief ornament and delight of all
those simple meetings--she to whose love I owed my own place in
them--Scott's eldest daughter, the one of all his children who
in countenance, mind, and manners, most resembled himself, and
who indeed was as like him in all things as a gentle innocent
woman can ever be to a great man deeply tried and skilled in
the struggles and perplexities of active life--she, too, is
no more. And in the very hour that saw her laid in her grave,
the only other female survivor, her dearest friend Margaret
Ferguson, breathed her last also. But enough--and more than I
intended."

A spirited portrait by RAEBURN, pronounced the most faithful of the early likenesses taken of Scott, prefaces the present volume, which presents its usual excellence of paper and typography.

* * * * *

RORY O'MORE. A NATIONAL ROMANCE. By SAMUEL LOVER, Esq. In two
volumes, 12mo. pp. 429.

OLD Dan Tantalus himself was not more sadly bothered, than is a reviewer, tied to certain limits of space, and feeling the impossibility of dividing with his readers the pleasure of perusing a work of rare spirit and humor. Such emotions are ours, and such a work is 'Rory O'More.' Mr. LOVER has no superior in depicting--with the nicest perception of character and the keenest eye for fun--the peculiarities of the Irish people. We can give the reader no better idea of his ability and manner, than by saying, that he effects all with his pen which POWER achieves in his admirable personations of his countrymen. There is a life, a vraisemblance in his pictures, which will win for them enduring applause. This is our verdict; and we ask the reader to confirm it, as sure we are they will, by a perusal of the volume whose title stands at the head of this brief and inadequate notice.

FOOTNOTE:

[16] Since the above was in type, we have met, in the scientific deliberations of the 'Mudfog Association,' reported by the humorous 'Boz,' in the last number of 'Bentley's Miscellany,' with the remarks of two members greatly prone to these '_figures_ of speech.' They are too characteristic to be omitted here. The one stated, that he 'had found that the total number of small carts and barrows engaged in dispensing provisions to cats and dogs in the metropolis, was one thousand seven hundred and forty-three. The average number of skewers delivered daily with the provender, by each cart or barrow, was thirty-six. Now multiplying the number of skewers so delivered, by the number of barrows, a total of sixty-two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight skewers daily, would be obtained. Allowing that, of these sixty-two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight skewers, the odd two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight were accidentally devoured with the meat, by the most voracious of the animals supplied, it followed that sixty thousand skewers per day, or the enormous number of twenty-one millions nine hundred thousand skewers annually, were wasted in the kennels and dust-holes of London, which, if collected and warehoused, would in ten years' time afford a mass of timber more than sufficient for the construction of a first-rate vessel of war for the use of Her Majesty's Navy, to be called the 'Royal Skewer,' and to become, under that name, the terror of all the enemies of England!' This speaker was followed by an amateur philanthropist, of kindred parts, who had ascertained, from authentic data, 'that the total number of legs belonging to the manufacturing population of a town in Yorkshire, was, in round numbers, forty thousand, while the total number of chair and stool legs in their houses was only a fraction over thirty thousand, which, upon the very favorable average of three legs to a seat, yielded only ten thousand seats in all. From this calculation, it would appear--not taking wooden or cork legs into the account, but allowing two legs to every person--that ten thousand individuals, (one half of the whole population,) were either destitute of legs at all, or passed the whole of their leisure time in sitting upon boxes!'

EDITORS' TABLE.

A GLANCE AT BY-GONE TIMES.--Commend us to an old newspaper! Well does COWPER term it a 'happy work,' that 'folio of four pages.' In what a faithful and striking spirit of delineation are the features of the hallowed years behind the mountains called up, as one pores desultorily over a file of time-worn gazettes! It is exploring a Herculaneum of history, and ferretting out the minuter fragments which lie buried beneath the rubbish of old days, and which are fertile in materials for reflection, instruction, and amusement. A kind female friend (God bless the women! they are always devising some good or kind action,) has sent us an old volume of the BOSTON CENTINEL, the most ancient newspaper of which the Union can boast. Greatly have we fructified by the contents thereof; and at the risk, perhaps, of beguiling some reader, who may prefer neoterics before ancients, of a hearty yawn or two, we propose to devote a couple of pages, or more, to a notice of the dingy folio-tome in question.

After all, Solomon was right, when he said, 'The thing that hath been, is that which shall be, and that which is done, is that which shall be done;' there are few 'new things under the sun.' In glancing over these abstract and brief chronicles of the olden time, we find many points of resemblance between the past and the present. Then, as now, metaphysical adepts imagined they were invigorating their intellects, in the same manner as archers strengthen their arms, by shooting into the air; political wranglers were 'blowing the bellows of party, until the whole furnace of politics was red-hot with sparks and cinders;' popular fallacies were flourishing, and wonderful seemed the vigor of their constitutions; commentators were elucidating old authors into obscurity, quite after the manner of the present era; many of the _religii_ seem to have had religion enough to make them hate, but not enough to love, their brethren; officious meddlers were looking over other people's affairs, and overlooking their own; tragedians were strutting on public boards, 'with tin pots on their heads, for so much a night;' and small comedians, with brass enough to set up a dozen braziers, were quarrelling among themselves, and parading their importance and grievances before a public who cared nothing for either; there were public fêtes, frequent clamors of rejoicing communities, and occasional violent effervescence of popular transport. In short, to draw a long summary to a close, we have come to the conclusion, that notwithstanding the gradual desuetude of many old customs and observances, we have a great deal, at this much-boasted epoch, in common with the vanished generation. But gone are their eternally repeated sorrows and joys, the vain delusions, and transient struggles. Time has thrown his all-concealing veil over them. The bigotted polemic has found that men may journey heavenward by different roads, and that charity covereth many sins; ultra metaphysicians have learned, that there are realities enough to be sought after in life, and that a morbid yearning for the shadowy and intangible cannot come to good; and the actor, a forked shade, stripped of his regalities, and 'ferried over in a crazy Stygian wherry,' has entered upon a new theatre of action, where, unlike the one he has left behind him, the scenes and actors know no change. But let us turn over the ancient daily budgets to which we have alluded, and from which we are keeping the reader, who we will suppose looking over our shoulder, quite familiarly, and asking a great many questions.

'What is that long 'by authority' article, on the first page?' It is a congressional enactment, 'That a District of Territory, not exceeding ten miles square, to be located, as hereafter directed, on the river _Potomack_, at some place between the mouths of the Eastern branch and _Conogocheque_, be, and the same is hereby accepted for the Permanent Seat of the Government of the United States.' What a thriving town the 'City of Washington' must have been at this period! Here is an important postscript. It contains intelligence received at Boston from Philadelphia, in the short space of _seven days_--(they travel the distance now in eighteen hours!)--that a French frigate had arrived in the Delaware, supposed to have been despatched by the National Convention. Close beside this paragraph, is a very reasonable complaint, that those Americans who, despising to be copyists, call for 'Yankee-Doodle' at the play-house, can't be accommodated with their old favorite, because of the uproarious opposition of a tory faction. ''Most Horrid!' What is that under your thumb?' 'A son of Mr. Cox, the celebrated architect, in viewing a wild _Panther_, which a shew-man had in his possession, in _Medford_, was suddenly seized by the voracious animal, and his head and face torn in so shocking a manner, that his death would be a consolation to his desponding relatives. The strength of the animal was so great, that five persons could hardly disengage its teeth and claws from the unhappy victim of its rage. It is hoped the Legislature will provide by law for the security of the lives of people, that if persons will endeavor to obtain money, by the shew of wild beasts, that they be properly confined in cages.' '_Shew!_' This corruption is still extant in New-England. 'He _shew_ me a book he had purchased,' etc.

'We find a great deal said about 'Mr. PRIESTLY' here. He has fled to the United States 'for freedom from the rod of lawless power, and the arm of violence.' He is every where received with marked honor, his whereabout regularly recorded, and eminent individuals and public institutions are emulous to make their attentions acceptable to him. In juxtaposition with this, is one of the bloody ROBESPIERRE's plausible reports, just promulgated. We will not pause to read that. 'Stay! Let us see what all this theatrical display is about, before you turn the leaf.' The manager is going to give a 'Benefit' for the suffering Americans in the prisons of Algiers. Good! 'I wonder if that JEFFERSON, who is to be one of the attractions, was the father of our Philadelphia favorite, whylear?' This interrogation lights up Memory, with the suddenness of a 'loco-foco' match. The image is evoked; and that prince of comedians is before us. A very clever theatrical performance is now going on in the 'Dome of Thought.' Ah, 'Old Jefferson!' When shall we look upon _his_ like again? For years, we could never meet him, in ever so retired a lane of the city, without being presently seated in the play-house, devouring, with lively gusto, his inimitable comicalities. We had spirited performance going on, with nothing to pay. 'Where he walked, sate, or stood still, there was the theatre. He carried about with him pit, boxes, and galleries, and set up his portable play-house at corners of streets, and in the market-places. Upon flintiest pavement, he trod the boards still.' ''Well, vot of it?' Turn over.'

That long original poem is by PETER PINDAR. He is ridiculing the monarchical notions of the opposition, and the folly of paying court to mere outward form and show. His illustration is homely, but forcible. 'Who,' says he,

'Who would not laugh to see a TAYLOR bow
Submissive to a pair of satin breeches?
Saying, 'O Breeches, all men must allow
There's something in your aspect that betwitches!

'Let me admire you, Breeches, crown'd with glory;
And though _I made_ you, let me still _adore_ ye;'
Who would not quick exclaim, 'The TAYLOR's mad?'
Yet Tyrant-adoration is as bad.'

In reading Pindar, as has been observed of some other obsolete author, you may find fault with the antique setting, but intellectual jewels of truth are there, which can never grow out of date.

'Melancholy Event!' Skip that. A laugh is worth a hundred groans, in any state of the market. Read the 'Anecdote,' if it be good, under the song, 'GOD save great WASHINGTON,' at your right hand, third column: 'ANECDOTE--RECENT.--A certain newly-created Justice of the Peace, rather too much elated with the dignity of his office, riding out one day with his attendant, met a clergyman, finely mounted on a handsome gelding, richly caparisoned. When he first saw him, he desired his attendant to take notice how he would smoak the Parson. He accordingly rode up to him, and accosted him as follows: 'Sir your servant: I think, Sir, you are mounted on a very handsome horse.' 'Yes, Sir, I thank you, tolerably fleshy.' 'But what is the reason,' says the Justice, 'you do not follow the example of your worthy Master, who was humble enough to ride to Jerusalem on an Ass?' 'Why, to tell you the truth,' says the Clergyman, 'Government have made so many Asses Justices, lately, that an honest Clergyman can't find one to ride on.'

'Well said of the Dominie! There must have been more of Sterne than Sternhold about him. He evidently loved a joke, as well as old Pater Abraham à Sancta Clara.'

''Blanchard's Balloon.' An ascension, I suppose.' No; it is a political squib. Mr. Blanchard has given out, that his gas, owing to an unfortunate accident, has _also_ 'given out,' and that on account of the great expense, he is compelled to forego a second ascension. A wag advises him, as a cheap and expeditious method of obtaining an ample supply of gas, to place his balloon over the chimney of a house in which the 'Democratic Society' are to meet, in the evening, the members of which are expected to be highly inflated with a kind of light, combustible air, which will escape into his vessel, and answer his purpose admirably!

In these days of 'wars and rumors of wars' between the whites and Florida Indians, these twin poetical epistles will be apropos. The writer says, under date of Pittsburgh, 10th June,

'Since Friday last the news we've had,
Has been, dear Sir, extremely bad:
An Indian of the Senecas,
A white who swears to all he says,
Have brought a most alarming story,
The substance I shall set before ye:
Six nations of the Indians, set on
By Satan and the imps of Britain,
Have join'd the Indians to the westward,
By which we soon shall be quite prest hard;
They now are crossing o'er the lake,
Fort Franklin to surprise and take;
That Fort will certainly be taken,
And scarce a settler save his bacon.'

Two days after, he adds the following, by way of postscript:

'The news I wrote three days ago,
This day I learn is all untrue;
The British have not gain'd their ends,
The Senecas are still our friends:
Fort Franklin is in statu quo,
Nor dreads a white or yellow foe;
For Capt. DENNY finds he can go,
And I suppose is at Venango.

'Although t' extract the naked truth,
We put these traders on their oath;
Yet while they swear to what they say,
We find we're humm'd from day to day;
Hence, when I write to you again,
A second letter shall the first explain.'

In Animal Magnetism parlance, we 'will' the reader from off our shoulder, and close the book. It is matter-full, however, and peradventure we may open it yet again, anon.

MUSIC--MR. RUSSELL.--Our theatrical reporters have left us but brief space wherein to reply to a correspondent of the Philadelphia '_National Gazette_,' who, in a long communication bearing the signature of 'HONESTUS,' censures the tone of our remarks in relation to Mr. HENRY RUSSELL, the popular vocalist, and the peculiar style of his performances. Both the writer alluded to, and the editor who publishes and endorses his strictures, 'trust that the KNICKERBOCKER will not maintain a dignified silence' under their remarks, since, originating in a work supposed to be influential in leading public opinion, the observations complained of 'have inflicted deep injury on the profession of music, taking away incentive to honest professional toil, close study, and real science,' by elevating a false standard of musical excellence. The writer denies, in so many words, that Mr. RUSSELL ever received the honors in Italy, to which he lays claim; doubts his having been 'a pupil for three years under ROSSINI,' or that he studied under GENERALI, MAYERBEER, and other masters; affirms that 'The Brave Old Oak' is transposed, without acknowledgment, from LODER, save a few trifling alterations for the worse; that 'Some Love to Roam' does not bear the real composer's name; and that five-sixths of the 'Treatise on Singing,' recently issued, with Mr. RUSSELL's name as author, are plagiarized from a work on singing by Rodolph, who has been dead these thirty years.

We depart for once from our uniform practice of silence, in relation to newspaper comments upon articles which appear in the KNICKERBOCKER, to correct one or two errors of the correspondent in question. In regard to the honors received, and the studies pursued by Mr. RUSSELL, 'Honestus' will perceive, by reference to the article in our last number, that the entire paragraph touching his personal and musical history, is quoted from an article in the 'New-York Mirror,' far more laudatory and elaborate than the one which embodied it, as an extract. The _onus_, therefore, in so far as these statements and the remarks which they elicited are concerned, rests not with this Magazine. As to the remaining charges of 'Honestus,' _if established_, we shall be found not less ready than himself to counsel one capable of such deception, to lose no time in bringing down his pretensions to the level of his talents; and farther, commend him to a serious reflex upon the folly of a course so unworthy of his reputation. In the mean time, however, let it not be forgotten, that there are _two sides_ to this matter, and that Mr. RUSSELL is extant, to reply for himself to these anonymous accusations.[17]

The opinions we expressed of Mr. RUSSELL's singing, are entertained by the great majority of those who have heard him; and our remarks in regard to the musical _affectations_ of the day were not lightly hazarded, nor did they fail, as we have good reason to know, to strike an answering chord in the hearts of our readers. Italian effeminacy, elaborate ornament, (often known in musical parlance by the term 'difficult execution,') interpolated upon the simplest airs, demanded reprehension. It was ridiculous _imitation_, pressed by Fashion into the service, and was lamentably infectious, from the _prima donna_, down to the tawdry damsels who flirt at the tail of a chorus, and the piano-strumming miss, redolent of bread-and-butter. It would have irked even Aristophanes, the quintessential, to have heard, as we have heard, some such melody as 'John Anderson my Joe' garnished with attenuated and circumfused skeletons or shades of notes, in endless progression and recurrence, by your 'difficult execution'-er, bent on wreaking all the tones of his voice upon a single word. Bells jangled out of tune, and harsh, or 'the spheres touched by a raw angel,' would have the advantage, in comparative execrability, over such refined tinkerings of simple melody. It was this misplaced ornament, (rendered for a period _fashionable_, by the affected ecstasies of 'genteel' young men without brains, and small travelled amateurs, who voted it 'the thing,') that we condemned, and _not_ music, cultivated and improved by the great masters of the art.

LETTERS AND LIFE OF CHARLES LAMB.--There is at the 'Merchants' Exchange' in this city, the model of a machine for re-pressing cotton-bales. Would that some ingenious person would invent a similar process, by which much of the matter of such a work as TALFOURD's 'Letters of CHARLES LAMB, with a Sketch of his Life'--now lying damp before us, in all the luxury of London typography--could be re-pressed into these pages, for the gratification of our readers! In the absence, howbeit, of so desirable a power, we may present such condensed portions as can be subdued 'by hand,' withal. The letters in these volumes are connected by a 'thread of narrative,' which evinces a kindred spirit between Lamb and his biographer. The author of 'Ion' was an old and familiar friend of 'Elia's; hence he every where exhibits a thorough knowledge of his character, not less than a perfect appreciation of his originality of thought, the delicacy and refinement of his taste, and the fascination of his language. These familiar epistles set before us _the man_, as he lived, moved, and acted. We have here, too, the first germs of those delicate children of his brain, which have rarely been equalled, and never surpassed. We see the sources whence sprang the dainty thought, the charming image; and we may mark the daily creation and circumfusion of those felicitous conceits with which the name of 'Elia' is inseparably associated. What a reader was he; and how the ferreted beauties of the old worthies 'slid into his soul!' Upon the fertile suggestions of a creative, observant spirit, were inoculated and grafted the rich treasures of the elder intellects. But as our associate, in 'Brotherly Love,' (in a double sense,) has, since the above was penned, spoken elsewhere in this Magazine of these distinctive endowments and graces, we forbear farther comment. '_Revenons à Mouton._' Return we to LAMB:

As the volumes will hereafter be issued from the press of the Brothers HARPER, we shall postpone a 'prepared report' upon them, until another number; contenting ourselves, in the mean time, with a few selections, in the perusal of which we have had especial delight. The annexed--to plunge at once, _in medias res_, into the work--was addressed to a friend who was about to depart for the East, being haunted with the idea of oriental adventure:

"My dear friend, think what a sad pity it would be to bury
such _parts_ in heathen countries, among nasty, unconversable,
horse-belching, Tartar people! Some say, they are Cannibals;
and then, conceive a Tartar-fellow _eating_ my friend, and
adding the _cool malignity_ of mustard and vinegar! * * * The
Tartars, really, are a cold, insipid, smouchey set. You'll be
sadly moped (if you are not eaten) among them. Pray _try_, and
cure yourself. Take hellebore (the counsel is Horace's, 'twas
none of my thought _originally_.) Shave yourself oftener. Eat
no saffron, for saffron-eaters contract a terrible Tartar-like
yellow. Pray, to avoid the fiend. Eat nothing that gives the
heart-burn. _Shave the upper lip._ Go about like an European.
Read no books of voyages (they are nothing but lies,) only
now and then a romance, to keep the fancy under. Above all,
don't go to any sights of _wild beasts_. _That has been your
ruin._ Accustom yourself to write familiar letters, on common
subjects, to your friends in England, such as are of a moderate
understanding. And think about common things more. I supped
last night with Rickman, and met a merry _natural_ captain, who
pleases himself vastly with once having made a pun at Otaheite
in the O. language. 'Tis the same man who said Shakspeare he
liked, because he was _so much of the gentleman_. Rickman is a
man 'absolute in all numbers.' I think I may one day bring you
acquainted, if you do not go to Tartary first; for you'll never
come back. Have a care, my dear friend, of Anthropophagi! their
stomachs are always craving. 'Tis terrible to be weighed out at
five-pence a-pound. To sit at table (the reverse of fishes in
Holland,) not as a guest, but as a meat."

The attractions which a New-York 'May Day' would have had for one whose horror of 'moving' is thus naturally accounted for, may be readily conceived:

"What a dislocation of comfort is comprised in that word
moving! Such a heap of little nasty things, after you think all
is got into the cart; old dredging-boxes, worn-out brushes,
gallipots, vials, things that it is impossible the most
necessitous person can ever want, but which the women, who
preside on these occasions, will not leave behind, if it was
to save your soul; they'd keep the cart ten minutes to stow in
dirty pipes and broken matches, to show their economy. Then
you can find nothing you want for many days after you get into
your new lodgings. You must comb your hair with your fingers,
wash your hands without soap, go about in dirty gaiters. Was I
Diogenes, I would not move out of a kilderkin into a hogshead,
though the first had nothing but small beer in it, and the
second reeked claret. Our place of final destination--I don't
mean the grave, but No. 4, Inner Temple-lane--looks out upon a
gloomy church yard-like court, called Hare-court, with three
trees and a pump in it. Do you know it? I was born near it, and
used to drink at that pump when I was a Rechabite of six years
old."

A clever artist might readily transfer the following picture to the canvass, though his imagination were naught. It describes the misfortune of a 'cisled' fellow-clerk in the East India House, akin to one whom he elsewhere mentions, as 'pouring down goblet after goblet, the second to see where the first is gone, the third to see no harm happens to the second, a fourth to say there is another coming, and a fifth to say he is not sure he is the last:'