Introductory material (continued 4)

April 5th. Beheld the singular phenomenon of the sun rising while nearly the whole visible surface of the earth continued to be involved in darkness. In time, however, the light spread itself over all, and I again saw the line of ice to the northward. It was now very distinct and appeared of a much darker hue than the waters of the ocean. I was evidently approaching it, and with great rapidity. Fancied I could again distinguish a strip of land to the eastward—and one also to the westward—but could not be certain. Weather moderate. Nothing of any consequence happened during the day. Went early to bed.

April 6th. Was surprised at finding the rim of ice at a very moderate distance, and an immense field of the same material stretching away off to the horizon in the north. It was evident that if the balloon held its present course, it would soon arrive above the Frozen Ocean, and I had now little doubt of ultimately seeing the Pole. During the whole of the day I continued to near the ice. Towards night the limits of my horizon very suddenly and materially increased, owing undoubtedly to the earth's form being that of an oblate spheroid, and my arriving above the flattened regions in the vicinity of the Arctic circle. When darkness at length overtook me I went to bed in great anxiety, fearing to pass over the object of so much curiosity when I should have no opportunity of observing it.

April 7th. Arose early, and, to my great joy, at length beheld what there could be no hesitation in supposing the northern Pole itself. It was there, beyond a doubt, and immediately beneath my feet—but, alas! I had now ascended to so vast a distance that nothing could with accuracy be discerned. Indeed, to judge from the progression of the numbers indicating my various altitudes respectively at different periods, between six A.M. on the second of April, and twenty minutes before nine A.M. of the same day, (at which time the barometer ran down,) it might be fairly inferred that the balloon had now, at four o'clock in the morning of April the seventh, reached a height of not less certainly than 7254 miles above the surface of the sea. This elevation may appear immense, but the estimate upon which it is calculated gave a result in all probability far inferior to the truth. At all events I undoubtedly beheld the whole of the earth's major diameter—the entire northern hemisphere lay beneath me like a chart orthographically projected—and the great circle of the equator itself formed the boundary line of my horizon. Your Excellencies may however, readily imagine that the confined regions hitherto unexplored within the limits of the Arctic circle, although situated directly beneath me, and therefore seen without any appearance of being foreshortened, were still, in themselves, comparatively too diminutive, and at too great a distance from the point of sight to admit of any very accurate examination. Nevertheless what could be seen was of a nature singular and exciting. Northwardly from that huge rim before mentioned, and which, with slight qualification may be called the limit of human discovery in these regions, one unbroken, or nearly unbroken sheet of ice continues to extend. In the first few degrees of this its progress, its surface is very sensibly flattened—farther on depressed into a plane—and finally, becoming not a little concave, it terminates at the Pole itself in a circular centre, sharply defined, whose apparent diameter subtended at the balloon an angle of about sixty-five seconds; and whose dusky hue, varying in intensity, was, at all times darker than any other spot upon the visible hemisphere, and occasionally deepened into the most absolute and impenetrable blackness. Farther than this little could be ascertained. By twelve o'clock the circular centre had materially decreased in circumference, and by seven P.M. I lost sight of it entirely—the balloon passing over the western limb of the ice, and floating away rapidly in the direction of the equator.

April 8th. Found a sensible diminution in the earth's apparent diameter, besides a material alteration in its general color and appearance. The whole visible area partook in different degrees of a tint of pale yellow, and in some portions had acquired a brilliancy even painful to the eye. My view downwards was also considerably impeded by the dense atmosphere in the vicinity of the surface being loaded with clouds between whose masses I could only now and then obtain a glimpse of the earth itself. This difficulty of direct vision had troubled me more or less for the last forty-eight hours—but my present enormous elevation brought closer together, as it were, the floating bodies of vapor, and the inconvenience became, of course, more and more palpable in proportion to my ascent. Nevertheless I could easily perceive that the balloon now hovered above the range of great lakes in the continent of North America, and was holding a course due south which would soon bring me to the tropics. This circumstance did not fail to give me the most heartfelt satisfaction, and I hailed it as a happy omen of ultimate success. Indeed the direction I had hitherto taken had filled me with uneasiness, for it was evident that, had I continued it much longer, there would have been no possibility of my arriving at the moon at all, whose orbit is inclined to the ecliptic at only the small angle of 5°, 8', 48".

April 9th. To-day, the earth's diameter was greatly diminished, and the color of the surface assumed hourly a deeper tint of yellow. The balloon kept steadily on her course to the southward, and arrived at nine P.M. over the northern edge of the Mexican gulf.

April 10th. I was suddenly aroused from slumber, about five o'clock this morning, by a loud, crackling, and terrific sound, for which I could in no manner account. It was of very brief duration, but, while it lasted, resembled nothing in the world of which I had any previous experience. It is needless to say, that I became excessively alarmed, having, in the first instance, attributed the noise to the bursting of the balloon. I examined all my apparatus, however, with great attention, and could discover nothing out of order. Spent a great part of the day in meditating upon an occurrence so extraordinary, but could find no means whatever of accounting for it. Went to bed dissatisfied, and in a pitiable state of anxiety and agitation.

April 11th. Found a startling diminution in the apparent diameter of the earth, and a considerable increase, now observable for the first time, in that of the moon itself, which wanted only a few days of being full. It now required long and excessive labor to condense within the chamber sufficient atmospheric air for the sustenance of life.

April 12th. A singular alteration took place in regard to the direction of the balloon, and although fully anticipated, afforded me the most unequivocal delight. Having reached, in its former course, about the twentieth parallel of southern latitude, it turned off suddenly at an acute angle to the eastward, and thus proceeded throughout the day, keeping nearly, if not altogether, in the exact plane of the lunar ellipse. What was worthy of remark, a very perceptible vacillation in the car was a consequence of this change of route—a vacillation which prevailed, in a more or less degree, for a period of many hours.

April 13th. Was again very much alarmed by a repetition of the loud, crackling noise which terrified me on the tenth. Thought long upon the subject, but was unable to form any satisfactory conclusion. Great decrease in the earth's apparent diameter which now subtended from the balloon an angle of very little more than twenty-five degrees. The moon could not be seen at all, being nearly in my zenith. I still continued in the plane of the ellipse, but made little progress to the eastward.

April 14th. Extremely rapid decrease in the diameter of the earth. To-day I became strongly impressed with the idea, that the balloon was now actually running up the line of apsides to the point of perigee—in other words, holding the direct course which would bring it immediately to the moon in that part of its orbit, the nearest to the earth. The moon itself was directly over-head, and consequently hidden from my view. Great and long-continued labor necessary for the condensation of the atmosphere.

April 15th. Not even the outlines of continents and seas could now be traced upon the earth with anything approaching to distinctness. About twelve o'clock I became aware, for the third time, of that unearthly and appalling sound which had so astonished me before. It now, however, continued for some moments, and gathered horrible intensity as it continued. At length, while stupified and terror-stricken I stood in expectation of, I know not what hideous destruction, the car vibrated with excessive violence, and a gigantic and flaming mass of some material which I could not distinguish, came with the voice of a thousand thunders, roaring and booming by the balloon. When my fears and astonishment had in some degree subsided, I had little difficulty in supposing it to be some mighty volcanic fragment ejected from that world to which I was so rapidly approaching, and, in all probability, one of that singular class of substances occasionally picked up on the earth, and termed meteoric stones for want of a better appellation.

April 16th. To-day, looking upwards as well as I could, through each of the side windows alternately, I beheld, to my great delight, a very small portion of the moon's disk protruding, as it were, on all sides beyond the huge circumference of the balloon. My agitation was extreme—for I had now little doubt of soon reaching the end of my perilous voyage. Indeed the labor now required by the condenser had increased to a most oppressive degree, and allowed me scarcely any respite from exertion. Sleep was a matter nearly out of the question. I became quite ill, and my frame trembled with exhaustion. It was impossible that human nature could endure this state of intense suffering much longer. During the now brief interval of darkness a meteoric stone again passed in my vicinity, and the frequency of these phenomena began to occasion me much anxiety and apprehension. The consequence of a concussion with any one of them, would have been inevitable destruction to me and my balloon.

April 17th. This morning proved an epoch in my voyage. It will be remembered that, on the thirteenth, the earth subtended an angular breadth of twenty-five degrees. On the fourteenth, this had greatly diminished—on the fifteenth, a still more rapid decrease was observable—and on retiring for the night of the sixteenth I had noticed an angle of no more than about seven degrees and fifteen minutes. What, therefore, must have been my amazement on awakening from a brief and disturbed slumber on the morning of this day, the seventeenth, at finding the surface beneath me so suddenly and wonderfully augmented in volume as to subtend no less than thirty-nine degrees in apparent angular diameter! I was thunderstruck. No words—no earthly expression can give any adequate idea of the extreme—the absolute horror and astonishment with which I was seized, possessed, and altogether overwhelmed. My knees tottered beneath me—my teeth chattered—my hair started up on end. "The balloon then had actually burst"—these were the first tumultuous ideas which hurried through my mind—"the balloon had positively burst. I was falling—falling—falling—with the most intense, the most impetuous, the most unparalleled velocity. To judge from the immense distance already so quickly passed over, it could not be more than ten minutes, at the farthest, before I should meet the surface of the earth, and be hurled into annihilation." But at length reflection came to my relief. I paused—I considered—and I began to doubt. The matter was impossible. I could not in any reason have so rapidly come down. There was some mistake. Not the red thunderbolt itself could have so impetuously descended. Besides, although I was evidently approaching the surface below me, it was with a speed by no means commensurate with the velocity I had at first so horribly conceived. This consideration served to calm the perturbation of my mind, and I finally succeeded in regarding the phenomenon in its proper point of view. In fact amazement must have fairly deprived me of my senses when I could not see the vast difference, in appearance, between the surface below me, and the surface of my mother earth. The latter was indeed over my head, and completely hidden by the balloon, while the moon—the moon itself in all its glory—lay beneath me, and at my feet.

The stupor and surprise produced in my mind by this extraordinary change in the posture of affairs was perhaps, after all, that part of the adventure least susceptible of explanation. For the bouleversement in itself was not only natural and inevitable, but had been long actually anticipated as a circumstance to be expected whenever I should arrive at that exact point of my voyage where the attraction of the planet should be superseded by the attraction of the satellite—or, more precisely, where the gravitation of the balloon towards the earth should be less powerful than its gravitation towards the moon. To be sure I arose from a sound slumber with all my senses in confusion to the contemplation of a very startling phenomenon, and one which, although expected, was not expected at the moment. The revolution itself must, of course, have taken place in an easy and gradual manner, and it is by no means clear that, had I even been awake at the time of the occurrence, I should have been made aware of it by any internal evidence of an inversion—that is to say by any inconvenience or disarrangement either about my person or about my apparatus.

It is almost needless to say that upon coming to a due sense of my situation, and emerging from the terror which had absorbed every faculty of my soul, my attention was, in the first place, wholly directed to the contemplation of the general physical appearance of the moon. It lay beneath me like a chart, and although I judged it to be still at no inconsiderable distance, the indentures of its surface were defined to my vision with a most striking and altogether unaccountable distinctness. The entire absence of ocean or sea, and indeed of any lake or river, or body of water whatsoever, struck me, at the first glance, as the most extraordinary feature in its geological condition. Yet, strange to say! I beheld vast level regions of a character decidedly alluvial—although by far the greater portion of the hemisphere in sight was covered with innumerable volcanic mountains, conical in shape, and having more the appearance of artificial than of natural protuberances. The highest among them does not exceed three and three quarter miles in perpendicular elevation—but a map of the volcanic districts of the Campi Phlegræi would afford to your Excellencies a better idea of their general surface than any unworthy description I might think proper to attempt. The greater part of them were in a state of evident eruption, and gave me fearfully to understand their fury and their power by the repeated thunders of the miscalled meteoric stones which now rushed upwards by the balloon with a frequency more and more appalling.

April 18th. To-day I found an enormous increase in the moon's apparent bulk, and the evidently accelerated velocity of my descent began to fill me with alarm. It will be remembered that, in the earliest stage of my speculations upon the possibility of a passage to the moon, the existence in its vicinity of an atmosphere dense in proportion to the bulk of the planet had entered largely into my calculations—this too in spite of many theories to the contrary, and, it may be added, in spite of the positive evidence of our senses. Upon the resistance, or more properly, upon the support of this atmosphere, existing in the state of density imagined, I had, of course, entirely depended for the safety of my ultimate descent. Should I then, after all, prove to have been mistaken, I had in consequence nothing better to expect as a finale to my adventure than being dashed into atoms against the rugged surface of the satellite. And indeed I had now every reason to be terrified. My distance from the moon was comparatively trifling, while the labor required by the condenser was diminished not at all, and I could discover no indication whatever of a decreasing rarity in the air.

April 19th. This morning, to my great joy, about nine o'clock, the surface of the moon being frightfully near, and my apprehensions excited to the utmost, the pump of my condenser at length gave evident tokens of an alteration in the atmosphere. By ten I had reason to believe its density considerably increased. By eleven very little labor was necessary at the apparatus—and at twelve o'clock, with some hesitation, I ventured to unscrew the tourniquet, when, finding no inconvenience from having done so, I finally threw open the gum-elastic chamber, and unrigged it from around the car. As might have been expected, spasms and violent headach were the immediate consequence of an experiment so precipitate and full of danger. But these and other difficulties attending respiration, as they were by no means so great as to put me in peril of my life, I determined to endure as I best could, in consideration of my leaving them behind me momentarily in my approach to the denser strata near the moon. This approach, however, was still impetuous in the extreme, and it soon became alarmingly certain that, although I had probably not been deceived in the expectation of an atmosphere dense in proportion to the mass of the satellite, still I had been wrong in supposing this density, even at the surface, at all adequate to the support of the great weight contained in the car of my balloon. Yet this should have been the case, and in an equal degree as at the surface of the earth, the actual gravity of bodies at either planet being in the exact ratio of their atmospheric condensation. That it was not the case however my precipitous downfall gave testimony enough—why it was not so, can only be explained by a reference to those possible geological disturbances to which I have formerly alluded. At all events I was now close upon the planet, and coming down with most terrible impetuosity. I lost not a moment accordingly in throwing overboard first my ballast, then my water-kegs, then my condensing apparatus and gum-elastic chamber, and finally every individual article within the car. But it was all to no purpose. I still fell with horrible rapidity, and was now not more than half a mile at farthest from the surface. As a last resource, therefore, having got rid of my coat, hat, and boots, I cut loose from the balloon the car itself, which was of no inconsiderable weight, and thus, clinging with both hands to the hoop of the net-work, I had barely time to observe that the whole country as far as the eye could reach was thickly interspersed with diminutive habitations, ere I tumbled headlong into the very heart of a fantastical-looking city, and into the middle of a vast crowd of ugly little people, who none of them uttered a single syllable, or gave themselves the least trouble to render me assistance, but stood, like a parcel of idiots, grinning in a ludicrous manner, and eyeing me and my balloon askant with their arms set a-kimbo. I turned from them in contempt, and gazing upwards at the earth so lately left, and left perhaps forever, beheld it like a huge, dull, copper shield, about two degrees in diameter, fixed immoveably in the heavens overhead, and tipped on one of its edges with a crescent border of the most brilliant gold. No traces of land or water could be discovered, and the whole was clouded with variable spots, and belted with tropical and equatorial zones.

Thus, may it please your Excellencies, after a series of great anxieties, unheard of dangers, and unparalleled escapes, I had, at length, on the nineteenth day of my departure from Rotterdam, arrived in safety at the conclusion of a voyage undoubtedly the most extraordinary, and the most momentous ever accomplished, undertaken, or conceived by any denizen of earth. But my adventures yet remain to be related. And indeed your Excellencies may well imagine that after a residence of five years upon a planet not only deeply interesting in its own peculiar character, but rendered doubly so by its intimate connection, in capacity of satellite, with the world inhabited by man, I may have intelligence for the private ear of the States' College of Astronomers of far more importance than the details, however wonderful, of the mere voyage which so happily concluded. This is, in fact, the case. I have much—very much which it would give me the greatest pleasure to communicate. I have much to say of the climate of the planet—of its wonderful alternations of heat and cold—of unmitigated and burning sunshine for one fortnight, and more than polar severity of winter for the next—of a constant transfer of moisture, by distillation in vacuo, from the point beneath the sun to the point the farthest from it—of a variable zone of running water—of the people themselves—of their manners, customs, and political institutions—of their peculiar physical construction—of their ugliness—of their want of ears, those useless appendages in an atmosphere so peculiarly modified as to be insufficient for the conveyance of any but the loudest sounds—of their consequent ignorance of the use and properties of speech—of their substitute for speech in a singular method of inter-communication—of the incomprehensible connection between each particular individual in the moon, with some particular individual on the earth—a connection analogous with, and depending upon that of the orbs of the planet and the satellite, and by means of which the lives and destinies of the inhabitants of the one are interwoven with the lives and destinies of the inhabitants of the other—and above all, if it so please your Excellencies, above all of these dark and hideous mysteries which lie in the outer regions of the moon—regions which, owing to the almost miraculous accordance of the satellite's rotation on its own axis with its sideral revolution about the earth, have never yet been turned, and, by God's mercy, never shall be turned to the scrutiny of the telescopes of man. All this, and more—much more—would I most willingly detail. But to be brief, I must have my reward. I am pining for a return to my family and to my home: and as the price of any farther communications on my part—in consideration of the light which I have it in my power to throw upon many very important branches of physical and metaphysical science—I must solicit, through the influence of your honorable body, a pardon for the crime of which I have been guilty in the death of the creditors upon my departure from Rotterdam. This, then, is the object of the present paper. Its bearer, an inhabitant of the moon, whom I have prevailed upon, and properly instructed, to be my messenger to the earth, will await your Excellencies' pleasure, and return to me with the pardon in question, if it can, in any manner, be obtained.

I have the honor to be, &c. your Excellencies very humble servant,

HANS PHAALL.

Upon finishing the perusal of this very extraordinary document, Professor Rub-a-dub, it is said, dropped his pipe upon the ground in the extremity of his surprise, and Mynheer Superbus Von Underduk, having taken off his spectacles, wiped them, and deposited them in his pocket, so far forgot both himself and his dignity, as to turn round three times upon his heel in the quintescence of astonishment and admiration. There was no doubt about the matter—the pardon should be obtained. So at least swore with a round oath, Professor Rub-a-dub, and so finally thought the illustrious Von Underduk, as he took the arm of his brother in science, and without saying a word, began to make the best of his way home to deliberate upon the measures to be adopted. Having reached the door, however, of the burgomaster's dwelling, the Professor ventured to suggest, that as the messenger had thought proper to disappear—no doubt frightened to death by the savage appearance of the burghers of Rotterdam—the pardon would be of little use, as no one but a man of the moon would undertake a voyage to so horrible a distance. To the truth of this observation the burgomaster assented, and the matter was therefore at an end. Not so, however, rumors and speculations. The letter, having been published, gave rise to a variety of gossip and opinion. Some of the overwise even made themselves ridiculous, by decrying the whole business as nothing better than a hoax. But hoax, with these sort of people, is, I believe, a general term for all matters above their comprehension. For my part I cannot conceive upon what data they have founded such an accusation. Let us see what they say:

Imprimis. That certain wags in Rotterdam have certain especial antipathies to certain burgomasters and astronomers.

Don't understand at all.

Secondly. That an odd little dwarf and bottle conjurer, both of whose ears, for some misdemeanor, have been cut off close to his head, has been missing for several days from the neighboring city of Bruges.

Well—what of that?

Thirdly. That the newspapers which were stuck all over the little balloon were newspapers of Holland, and therefore could not have been made in the moon. They were dirty papers—very dirty—and Gluck, the printer, would take his bible oath to their having been printed in Rotterdam.

He was mistaken—undoubtedly—mistaken.

Fourthly. That Hans Phaall himself, the drunken villain, and the three very idle gentlemen styled his creditors, were all seen, no longer than two or three days ago, in the tippling house in the suburbs, having just returned, with money in their pockets, from a trip beyond the sea.

Don't believe it—don't believe a word of it.

Lastly. That it is an opinion very generally received, or which ought to be generally received, that the College of Astronomers in the city of Rotterdam—as well as all other Colleges in all other parts of the world—not to mention Colleges and Astronomers in general—are, to say the least of the matter, not a whit better, nor greater, nor wiser than they ought to be.

The d——l, you say! Now that's too bad. Why, hang the people, they should be prosecuted for a libel. I tell you, gentlemen, you know nothing about the business. You are ignorant of Astronomy—and of things in general. The voyage was made—it was indeed—and made, too, by Hans Phaall. I wonder, for my part, you do not perceive at once that the letter—the document—is intrinsically—is astronomically true—and that it carries upon its very face the evidence of its own authenticity.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SALE.

It is the law throughout the Old Dominion, When some poor devil dies in peace or battle, The executor must be of the opinion His goods are perishing, and sell each chattel; Whatever treads on hoof, or flies on pinion— Hogs, horses, cows, and every sort of cattle— Cups, saucers, swingle trees and looking glasses— Ploughs, pots and pans, teakettles and jackasses.

A man who never quotes, it has been said, will in return never be quoted. By way therefore of quoting, and at the same time of being quoted, I have quoted a poem of my own, which "will never be published," written in attempted imitation of Beppo, and describing a sale in Virginia. Who has not seen something like the following staring him in the face, on the side of a store or tavern, or upon the post of a sign-board where several roads meet? "I shel purceed to sel to the highest bidder, on Saterday the 3d of Janewary next, at Blank, all the housol and kitchen ferniter of the late David Double, Esq. together with all the horses, muels, sheep and hoges. Cash on all sums of five dollars and under, and a credit of twelve months on the ballance. Bond with aproved sekurity will be requierd," &c. Such a notification as the above, which is copied verbatim et spellatim, operates like an electric shock on a whole neighborhood in that portion of the country in which I reside, especially upon that part of the population which can least afford to buy bargains. The temptation of long credit is too great to be resisted, although no calculations of the ultimate ability to pay are ever made. The grand desideratum is, to obtain the necessary security, and to purchase to a greater amount than five dollars. I am myself infected by this prevailing malady, and frequently buy what is of no manner of use to me, simply because no cash is required, and bonds are hard to collect, and suits may be put off by continuances, and matters of this sort after all, may be settled by executors and administrators. Among the rest therefore, on the day appointed by the aforesaid notification, I mounted my horse, and sallied out upon the road leading to Blank, and fell in with a large party going to the sale, principally managers, as they call themselves now-a-days, on the neighboring estates. Formerly they were yclept overseers, but the term is falling into disuse, as conveying the idea of something derogatory. They were mounted in every variety of style; there were long tails, and bob tails, and nicked tails; and I saw at least one sheep skin saddle and grape vine bridle. By the by, talking of grape vines, what a country ours is for this invaluable article. Here is no need of hemp manufactories. Nature, in her exuberant goodness, has supplied an abundance of primitive rope, which is just as convenient and efficacious as the best cordage, whether a man wants to hang himself or a dog—whether he wants a cap for his fence, a backband for his plough-horse, a pair of leading lines, or a girth for his saddle. Why should we be the advocates of a tariff, when nature supplies us in peace or war with this and many other articles of the first necessity, among which I once heard a Chotanker enumerate mint. "Why," said he, "should we fear a dissolution of the union, a separation of the north from the south, when there is not a sprig of mint in all New England?" When this was said, peradventure it might be true; but to my certain knowledge, at this day the word julap is well understood much farther north than Mason's and Dixon's line. Pardon me, reader, this digression—for I am mounted to-day on a rough-going, headstrong animal, that will have his own way, and wants to turn aside into every by-path which he sees, and is as "willyard a pony" as that ridden by Dumbiedikes, when he followed Jeanie Deans to lend her the purse of gold. But to return. I cannot let this opportunity slip of singling out one of this group of horsemen for description, that you may have a graphic sketch of the sort of folks and horses that live hereabouts. Wert thou ever upon Hoecake Ridge? and hast thou ever met in winter, a thorough bred native of that region, mounted upon his little shaggy pony, "skelping on through dub and mire," like Tam O'Shanter? Here he was to-day, in his element, dressed in Nankin pantaloons and a thin cotton jacket, and riding in the teeth of a strong northwester, singing "Life let us cherish." His saddle had no skirts, having been robbed of those useless appendages by some rogue who wanted a pair of brogues; his bridle had as many knots as the sea serpent. But my business is not so much with him as with his pony, whose head and neck may be aptly represented by a maul and its handle. His tail is six inches long, and standing at an angle of forty-five degrees with his back; his hair is long and shaggy; he is cat-hammed, and his chest so narrow that his fore legs almost touch one another; his eyes snap fire when you plague him. You may talk of improving the breed of horses. Tell me not of your Eclipses, your Henrys—of Arabians or Turks. They may be all very well in their places, but this pony is the animal for my country. He can bite the grass which is absolutely invisible to human eyes, and subsist upon it. If you would give him six ears of corn twice a day, he would be almost too fat to travel. He never stumbles. Give him the rein, and he will pick his path as carefully as a lady. His powers of endurance exceed the camel's. His master is a sot, and his horse will stand all night at a tippling shop, gnawing a fence rail; he almost prefers it to a corn-stalk which has been lying out all winter, his common food. When his master comes forth and mounts, he studies attitudes. If the rider reel to the right, the pony leans to the starboard side; if to the left, he tacks to suit him. If the master fall, he falls clear, having no girth to his saddle, and the pony does not waste time in useless meditation upon accidents that will happen to the best of us, but moves homeward with accelerated velocity, leaping every obstacle in his way to his brush stable.

It was my good fortune to drop in alongside of the man who was mounted upon this incomparable animal, and complimenting him upon his philosophy in the selection of his song, and on the dexterity of his horse, I soon found he was a great politician, and we chatted most agreeably until our arrival at the place of sale. He was a violent ——, but not a word of politics; literature and politics are different matters altogether. You may be a great politician, you know, without a particle of literature. Politicians are the last people in the world to bear a joke; and if I were even to glance at the discourse of my neighbors, there are many who would not submit to this interference with their exclusive business; they would see in it "more devils than vast hell could hold." The world must therefore be content to lose the humor of my singular acquaintance, as I cannot possibly do justice to his conceptions without the mention of names. I shall die though, unless I find some occasion of disclosing them; for old Hardcastle's man Diggory was never more diverted at his story of the grouse in the gun-room, than was I at the political conceits of my Hoecake-ridger. Having arrived at Blank, we hung our horses, as Virginians always do after riding them, and entered the grounds before a venerable looking building which had been completely embowelled, and its contents were piled in promiscuous heaps in various parts of the yard. Within the great house, as it is usually styled, was already assembled around a blazing fire, a crowd of exceedingly noisy folks, all talking at once, and nobody apparently listening. The names of our leading men sounded on every side, and the Tower of Babel never witnessed a greater confusion of tongues. For my own part, it always makes me melancholy to contemplate this inroad of Goths and Vandals upon apartments which were once perhaps so sacred, and kept in order with such sedulous attention. It seems a profanation—a want of respect for the recently dead, and a cruel outrage upon the feelings of the surviving family. Nothing escapes the prying eye of curiosity—the rude footstep invades the very penetralia. The household gods, the Dii Penates are all upturned; and mirth and jesting reign amidst the precincts of woe. I felt like a jackal tearing open the grave for my prey. The crier, the high priest of these infernal orgies, now came forward with his badge of office, the jug of whiskey, and announced that the sale would commence as soon as he could wet his whistle, which he proceeded to do, and then began to ply his customers. It is wonderful to think how much ingenuity has been displayed in finding out metaphors to describe the detestable act of tippling. The renowned biographer of Washington and Marion has imbodied a number of these in one of his minor performances; but several which I heard this day were new to me, and escaped his researches; thus, I heard one upbraid another for being too fond of "tossing his head back," while a third invited his companion to "rattle the stopper"—and upon my taking a very moderate drink, and so weak that a temperance man would scarcely have frowned upon me, I was clapped on the back and jeered for my fondness of the creature, since I was willing to swallow an ocean of water to get at a drop. In a very short time the liquid fire of the Greeks ran through the veins of the crowd, and they were quickly ripe for bidding—

"Inspiring bold John Barleycorn, What dangers thou canst make us scorn; Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil— Wi' Usquebaugh we'll face the devil."

The "swats sae ream'd" in their noddles, that every thing sold at a price far beyond its value, and our crier became so exceedingly facetious, and cracked so many excellent ironical jokes, that it is a pity they should be lost. Being unskilled however in stenography, I could not take down his words, and only remember that every untrimmed old field colt was a regular descendant of Eclipse; the long nosed hogs were unquestionably Parkinson; the sheep, Merinoes; the cattle which were notoriously all horn, were short horns, &c. &c. They seemed to me but a scurvy set of animals; but those who saw through a glass darkly, seemed to entertain a very different opinion. The "mirth and fun grew fast and furious," "till first a caper sin anither" "they lost their reason a' thegither," and the sale closed in one wild uproarious scuffle for every thing at any price whatever.

It now became necessary to return home, an important consideration which had been wholly overlooked; and the difficulty of mounting our horses having been overcome after many trials, we began to "witch the world with" feats of "noble horsemanship." Such "racing and chasing" had not been seen since the days of Cannobie lea, and quizzing became the order of the evening. Perceiving the mettlesome nature of my steed, my friend the politician and philosopher, seemed resolved upon unhorsing me, notwithstanding my entreaties that he would forbear; and by dint of riding violently up to me, and shouting out at the top of his voice, he so alarmed my nag, that he seized the bit between his teeth, and away I flew, John Gilpin like, to the infinite amusement of my persecutor, until I was safely deposited in a mud hole, near my own gate, from whence I had to finish my journey on foot, and appear before my helpmate in a condition that reflected greatly upon my character. As a finale to this mortifying business, my purchases were brought home the next day, and were most unceremoniously thrown out of doors by my wife, as utterly useless, being literally sans eyes, sans teeth, sans every thing; cracked pitchers, broken pots, spiders without legs, jugs without handles, et id genus omne.

NUGATOR.

LITERARY NOTICES.

THE INFIDEL, or the Fall of Mexico, a romance, by the author of Calavar. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard.

The second effort of the author of Calavar, gives us no reason for revoking the favorable opinion which we expressed of his powers as a writer of fictitious narrative, in noticing the first. On the contrary, that opinion is confirmed and strengthened by a perusal of the Infidel. It is a work of great power, and although, as was the case with Calavar, it is chiefly occupied with the delineation of scenes of slaughter and violence—with the stratagems of war—the plots of conspirators—the stirring incidents of siege and sortie—and the thrilling details of individual prowess or general onslaught—yet it abounds in passages which give a pleasing relief to the almost too frequently recurring incidents of peril and adventure. It is true that this work does not possess, to by far the same extent, those enchanting descriptions of natural scenery, which abounded in Calavar: but the cause of this is probably to be found in the fact, that the scene of action is the same in both works, and in a natural aversion of the author to repeat his own pictures. Still, as a whole, we think the Infidel fully equal to its predecessor, and in some respects superior. The principal female character is drawn with far greater vigor, than marked the heroine of Calavar, although the prominent features in the sketch of the impassioned Monjonaza, are of a masculine kind. She is indeed a most powerful and eccentric creation, and adds much to the interest of the narrative. Still we think it problematical whether the author is capable of success in a purely feminine picture of female character. Zelahualla, the daughter of Montezuma, a gentler being than La Monjonaza, does not give him a claim to such a distinction, as she is brought forward but seldom, and sustains no important part in the action of the drama.

The period at which the narrative of the Infidel commences, is a few months after the disastrous retreat of the Spaniards from Mexico, during the "Noche Triste," so powerfully described in Calavar. Cortes had re-organized his forces, re-united his allies, and was preparing for the siege of Mexico, now rendered strong in its defences by the valor, enterprise and activity of the new emperor, Guatimozin. Tezcuco is the scene of the earlier events, where Cortes was engaged in completing his preparations, part of which consisted in the construction of a fleet of brigantines, to command the sea of Anahuac, and co-operate in the meditated attack upon the great city.

The hero of the story, Juan Lerma, a former protege of Cortes, but who has fallen under his displeasure, is the pivot on which the main interest of the work is made to turn. He is imprisoned, and ultimately rescued by Guatimozin, who carries him to Mexico. The details of a treasonable plot against the Captain General, headed by Villafana, one of the most complicated of villains, is skilfully interwoven with this portion of the narrative. The mysterious Monjonaza is also a prominent character in the scenes at Tezcuco.

The action changes in the second volume to Mexico, where the unfortunate Lerma is retained by the Emperor, who is described as possessing all the noble virtues of christianity, although his pagan faith gives the title to the book.

The details of the siege are given in the same powerful style as characterised the combats in Calavar. Indeed it is in descriptions of battles, that we think the author excels, and is transcendently superior to any modern writer. When his armies meet, he causes us to feel the shock, and to realize each turn of fortune by a minuteness of description, which is never confused. When his heroes engage hand to hand, we see each blow, each parry, each advantage, each vicissitude, with a thrilling distinctness. The war cry is in our ears—the flashing of steel—the muscular energy—the glowing eyes—the dilating forms of the warriors, are before us. The effect of such delineations it is difficult to describe; they arouse in us whatever of martial fire we possess, until we feel like the war horse viewing a distant combat, "who smelleth the battle afar off, the voice of the captains, and the shouting." Another point of excellence in our author, is the manner in which he paints to us the vastness of a barbarian multitude. His descriptions of myriads, appeal to the sense with graphic effect. Although we do not generally indulge in long extracts from works like this, yet, as it is difficult otherwise to convey an idea of the spirit with which such scenes are presented by the author, we take from the second volume the description of the battle of the ambuscades, the last successful struggle made by Guatimozin to repel the besiegers, who had already hemmed in the city on the several causeways, and mostly destroyed the water suburbs. The Mexicans, as a part of their system of defence, had perforated the causeways at short intervals, with deep ditches, which were conquered by the Spaniards, one by one, after the most obstinate resistance. Cortes, with his followers, on the occasion described, had forced one of the dikes, and with his characteristic impetuosity, pursued the flying Mexicans into the city, attended by about twenty horsemen only, the foot being far in the rear. The enemy gave way with apparent signs of fear, which was not habitual, and Cortes had already been advised that an ambuscade was evidently contemplated; but the frenzy of battle made him deaf to prudent counsel:

CHAP. XV, VOL. 2.

The horsemen pursued along the dike, spearing, or tumbling into the water, the few who had the heart to resist; and so great was, or seemed, the terror of the barbarians, that the victors penetrated even within the limits of the island, until the turrets of houses, from which they were separated only by the lateral canals, darkened them with their shadows. Upon these were clustered many pagans, who shot at them both arrows and darts, but with so little energy, that it seemed as if despondence or fatuity had robbed them of their usual vigor. Hence, the excited cavaliers gave them but little attention, not doubting that they would be soon dislodged by the infantry. They were even regardless of circumstances still more menacing; and if a lethargy beset the infidel that day, it is equally certain that a species of distraction overwhelmed the brains of the Spaniards. It seemed as if the great object of their ambition depended more upon their following the fugitives to the temple-square than upon any other feat; and to this they encouraged one another with vivas and invocations to the saints. They could already behold the huge bulk of the pyramid, rising up at the distance of a mile, as if it shut up the street; and its terraced sides, thronged with multitudes of men, seemed to prove to them, that the frighted Mexicans were running to their gods for protection. It is true, they perceived vast bodies of infidels blocking up the avenue afar, as if to dispute their passage beyond the canalled portion of the island; but they regarded them with scorn.

They rushed onwards, occasionally arrested by some flying group, but only for a moment.

There was a place, not far within the limits of the island, where they found the causeway, for the space of at least sixty paces, so delved and pared away on either side, that it scarce afforded a passage for two horsemen abreast. The device was of recent execution, for they beheld the mattocks of laborers still sticking in the earth, as if that moment abandoned. This circumstance, so strange, so novel, and so ominious, it might be supposed, would have aroused them to suspicion. The passage, as it was, so contracted, broken, and rugged, looked prodigiously like the Al-Sirat, or bridge to paradise of the Mussulmans,—that arch, narrow as the thread of a famished spider, over which it is so much easier to be precipitated than to pass with safety. Yet grim and threatening as it was, there was but one among the cavaliers who raised a voice of warning. As the Captain-General, without a moment's hesitation, pushed his horse forward, to lead the way, and without a single expression of surprise, the ancient hidalgo, who had twice before sounded a note of alarm, now exclaimed,—

"For the love of heaven, pause, señor! This is a trap that will destroy us."

"Art thou afraid, Alderete?" cried Cortes, looking back to him, grimly. "This is no place for a King's Treasurer," (such was Alderete, the royal Contador.)—"Get thee back, then, to the first ditch, and fill it up to thy liking. This will be charge enough for a volunteer."

"I will fight where thou wilt, when thou wilt, and as boldly as thou wilt," said the indignant cavalier; "but here play the madman no longer."

"I will take thy counsel,—rest where I am,—and, in an hour's time, see myself shut out from the city by a ditch, sixty yards wide! God's benison upon thy long beard! and mayst thou be wiser. Forward, friends! Do you not see? the knaves are running amain to check us, and recover their unfinished gap! On! courage, and on! Santiago and at them!"

It was indeed as Cortes said. The infidels, who blocked up the streets afar, were now seen running towards them, with the most terrific yells, as if to seize, before it was too late, a pass so easily maintained. The cavaliers, animated by the words of their leader, were quite as resolute to disappoint them, and therefore rode across as rapidly as they could. The pass was not only narrow, but tortuous and irregular; which increased the difficulties of surmounting it; so that the Mexicans, running with the most frantic speed, were within a bowshot, before Cortes had spurred his steed upon the broader portion of the dike. But, as if there were something dreadful to the infidels, in the spectacle of the great Teuctli of the East, thus again in their stronghold, they came to a sudden halt, and testified their valor only by yelling, and waving their spears and banners.

"Courage, friends, and quick!" cried Cortes. "The dogs are beset with fear, and will not face us. Ye shall hear other yells in a moment. Haste, valiant cavaliers! haste, men of Spain! and make room for the footmen, who are behind you."

The screams of the barbarians were loud and incessant; but in the midst of the din, as he turned to cheer his cavaliers over the broken passage, Don Hernan's ears were struck by the sound of a Christian voice, calling from the midst of the pagans, with thrilling vehemence.

"Beware! beware! Back to the causey! Beware!"

"Hark!" cried Alderete, who had already passed; "Our Saint calls to us! Let us return!"

"It is a trick of the fiend!" exclaimed Cortes, in evident perturbation of mind. "Come on, good friends, and let us seize vantage-ground; or the dogs will drive us, singly, into the ditches."

"Back! back!" shouted the cavaliers behind—"We are ambushed! We are surrounded!"

Their further exclamations were lost in a tempest of discordant shrieks, coming from the front and the rear, from the heavens above, and, as they almost fancied, from the earth beneath. They looked northward, towards the pyramid,—the whole broad street was filled with barbarians, rushing towards them with screams of anticipated triumph; they looked back to the lake,—the causeway was swarming with armed men, who seemed to have sprung from the waters; to either side, and beheld the canals of the intersecting streets lashed into foam by myriads of paddles; while, at the same moment, the few pagans, who had annoyed them from the housetops, appeared transformed, by the same spell of enchantment, into hosts innumerable, with spirits all of fury and flame.

"What says the king of Castile? What says the king of Castile now?" roared the exulting infidels.

"Santiago! and God be with us!" exclaimed Cortes, waving his hand, with a signal for retreat, that came too late: "Cross but this devil-trap again, and—"

Before he could conclude the vain and useless order, the drum of the emperor sounded upon the pyramid. It was an instrument of gigantic size and horrible note, and was held in no little fear, especially after the events of this day, by the Spaniards, who fabled that it was covered with the skins of serpents. It was a fit companion for the horn of Mexitli; which latter, however, being a sacred instrument, was sounded only on the most urgent and solemn occasions.

The first tap,—or rather peal, for the sound came from the temple more like the roll of thunder than of a drum,—was succeeded by yells still more stunning; and while the cavaliers, retreating, struggled, one by one, to recross the narrow pass, they were set upon with such fury as left them but little hope of escape.

If the rashness of Cortes had brought his friends into this fatal difficulty, he now seemed resolved to atone his fault, by securing their retreat, even although at the expense of his life. It was in vain that those few cavaliers who had succeeded in reaching him, before the onslaught began, besought him to take his chance among them, and recross, leaving them to cover his rear.

"Get ye over yourselves," he cried, with grim smiles, smiting away the headmost of the assailants from the street: "If I have brought ye among coals of fire, heaven forbid I should not broil a little in mine own person. Quick, fools! over and hasten! over and quick! and by and by I will follow you."

For a moment, it seemed as if the terror of his single arm would have kept the barbarians at bay. But, waxing bolder, as they saw his attendants dropping one by one away, they began to close upon him, and his situation became exceedingly critical. He looked over his shoulder, and perceived that his followers threaded their way along the broken dike with less difficulty than he at first feared. The very narrowness of the passage left but little foothold for the enemy; and their attacks, being made principally from canoes, were not such as wholly to dishearten a cavalier, whose steed was as strongly defended by mail as his own body. Encouraged by this assurance, the Captain-General still maintained his post, rushing ever and anon upon the closing herds, and mowing right and left with his trusty blade, while his gallant charger pawed down opposition with his hoofs. Thus he fought, with the mad valor that made his enemies so often deem him almost a demigod, until satisfied that his own attempt to cross the pass could no longer embarrass the efforts of his followers. Then, charging once more upon the pagans, and even with greater fury than before, he wheeled round with unexpected rapidity, and uttering his famous cry, "Santiago and at them!" dashed boldly at the passage.

Seven pagans sprang upon the path. They were armed like princes, and the red fillets of the House of Darts waved among their sable locks.

"The Teuctli shall have the tribute of Mexico!" shouted one, flourishing a battle-axe that seemed of weight sufficient, in his brawny arm, to dash out the charger's brains at a blow. The words were not understood by Cortes; but he recognized at once the visage of the Lord of Death.

"I have thee, pagan!" he cried, striking at the bold barbarian. The blow failed; for one of the others, springing at the charger's head with unexampled audacity, seized him by the bridle, so that he reared backwards, and thus foiled the aim of his rider. The next moment, the Spanish steel fell upon the neck of the daring infidel, killing him on the spot; yet not so instantaneously as to avert a disaster, which it seemed the object of his fury to produce. His convulsive struggles, as he clung, dying, to the rein, drove the steed off the narrow ledge; and thus losing his foothold, the noble animal rolled over into the deep canal, burying the Captain-General in the flood.

"The general! save the general!" shrieked the only Christian, who, in this horrible melèe, (for the battle was now universal,) beheld the condition of Cortes, and who, although on foot, and bristling with arrows that had stuck fast in his cotton-armor, and resisted by other weapons at every step, had yet the courage to run to the rescue. It was Gaspar Olea. His visage was yet wan, and expressive of the unusual horror preying upon his mind; yet he rushed forward, as if he had never known a fear. He exalted his voice, while crying for assistance, until it was heard far back upon the causeway; yet he reached the place of Don Hernan's mischance alone. The scene was dreadful: the nobles had flung themselves into the flood, and were dragging the stunned and strangling hero from the steed, which lay upon its side on the rugged and shelving edge of the dike, unable to arise, and perishing with the most fearful struggles; while, all the time, the elated infidels expressed their triumph with shouts of frantic joy.

"Courage, captain! be of good heart, señor!" exclaimed the Barba-Roxa, striking down one of the captors at a single blow: "Courage! for we have good help nigh," he continued, attacking a second with the same success: "Courage, señor, courage!"

No Mexican helm of dried skins, and no breastplate of copper, could resist the machete of a man like Gaspar. Yet his first success was caused rather by the Mexicans being so intently occupied with their captive, that they thought of nothing else, than by any miraculous exertion of skill and prowess. He slew two, before they dreamed of attack, and he mortally wounded a third, ere the others could turn to drive him back. A fourth rushed upon him, before he could again lift up his weapon, and grasping him in his arms, with the embrace of a mountain bear, leaped with him into the canal.

There were now but two left in possession of Cortes; yet his resistance even against these was ineffectual. His sword had dropped from his hand; a violent blow had burst his helmet, and confounded his brain; and he had been lifted from the water, already half suffocated. Yet he struggled as he could, and catching one of his foes by the throat, he succeeded in overturning him into the water, and there grappled with him among the shallows. The remaining barbarian, yelling for assistance, flung himself upon the pair; and though twenty Spaniards, headed by Bernal Diaz and the hunchback, were now within half as many paces, Cortes would have perished where he lay, had not assistance arose from an unexpected quarter.

Among the vast numbers who came crowding from the city over the broken passage, were several who knew, by the cry of the seventh noble, that Malintzin was in his hands; and they rushed forward, to ensure his capture. The foremost and fleetest of these was distinguished from the rest by a frame of towering height; and, had there been a Spaniard by to notice him, would have been still more remarkable from the fact, that he uttered all his cries in good, expressive Castilian. He bore a Spanish weapon, too, and his first act, as he flung himself into the ditch where Cortes was drowning, was to strike it through the neck of the uppermost noble. His next was to spurn the other from the breast of the general, whom he raised to his feet, murmuring in his ear,

"Be of good heart, señor! for you are saved."

What more he would have said and done can only be imagined; for, at that moment, the Barba-Roxa rushed out of the ditch, followed close at hand by the hunchback, Bernal Diaz, and others, and seeing his commander, as he thought, in the hands of a foeman, he lifted his good sword once again, and smote him over the head, crying,

"Down, infidel dog! and vive for Spain and our general!"

At this moment, there rushed up a crew of fresh combatants, Spaniards from the rear and infidels from the front. But before they closed upon him entirely, the Barba-Roxa caught sight of the man he had struck down, and beheld, in his pale and quivering aspect, the features of Juan Lerma.

The unhappy wretch, thus beholding the beloved youth, with his own eyes, a leaguer and helpmate of the infidel, and punished to death, as it seemed, by his hand, set up a scream wildly vehement, and broke from the group of Spaniards, who now surrounded Cortes, endeavoring to drag him in safety over the pass. The exile had been seen by others as well as Gaspar, and many a ferocious cry of exultation burst from their lips, as they saw him fall.

Meanwhile, Gaspar, distracted in mind, and dripping with blood, for he had not escaped from the ditch and the fierce embrace of his fourth antagonist, without many severe wounds, endeavored to retrace his steps to the spot where Juan had followed. It was occupied by infidels, who drove him into the ditch, where his legs were grasped by a drowning Mexican, who raised himself a little from the water, and displayed, between his neck and shoulder, a yawning chasm, rather than a wound, from which the blood, at every panting expiration of breath, rolled out hideously in froth and foam. It was the Lord of Death, thus struck by Juan Lerma, as he lay upon the breast of Cortes, and now perishing, but still like a warrior of the race of America. He clambered up the body of Gaspar, for it could hardly be said, that he rose upon his feet; and seeing that he grasped a Christian soldier, he strove to utter once more a cry of battle. The blood foamed from his lips, as from his wound; and his voice was lost in a suffocating murmur. Yet, with his last expiring strength, he locked his arms round the neck of the Spaniard, now almost as much spent as himself, and falling backwards, and writhing together as they fell, they rolled off into the deep water, where the salt and troubled flood wrapped them in a winding-sheet, already spread over the bosoms of thousands.

There is another scene which we had marked for extracting, but which our limits forbid inserting—a single combat on the stone of Temalacatl—in which a Spanish prisoner, doomed to the gladiatorial sacrifice, contends successfully against several antagonists. The details of this barbarous ceremony, are full of interest. The prisoner is bound by one foot to the stone of sacrifice, and if in this condition he kill six Mexicans, he is liberated, and sent home with honor; if he fail, he is doomed a sacrifice to the pagan deities. The narrative of this combat, is given with remarkable spirit and precision, and holds the reader in breathless excitement to the end.

The story closes as happily as could be expected from the nature of its incidents. The fall of Mexico, and the humiliation of its heroic emperor, excite a profound sympathy; and the death of Monjonaza, who dies broken hearted upon discovering that Juan, of whom she is passionately enamored, is her brother, throws a melancholy shade over the brightening fortunes of the hero.

Some of the minor characters are drawn with a vigorous hand. The dog Befo, is a powerful delineation of heroic fidelity, seldom equalled by his superiors of the human race. Gaspar Olea, the Barba-Roxa, or red haired, is a fine specimen of the bold, blunt, honest soldier; and Bernal Diaz, (the historian of the Conquest,) though little distinguished in the story, adds to its interest. The Lord of Death, is a fine picture of the lofty race of barbarians, who spurned the slavery of their foreign foe, and died in resisting it. Najara, the hunchback and the cynic, is also a well drawn character.

The Infidel will, we doubt not, enjoy a popularity equal to that of Calavar. It confirms public opinion as to the abilities of the author, who has suddenly taken a proud station in the van of American writers of romance. He possesses a fertility of imagination rarely possessed by his compeers. In many of their works, there is a paucity of events; and incidents of small intrinsic importance, are wrought up by the skill of the writer so as to give a factitious interest to a very threadbare collection of facts. Great ability may be displayed in this manner; but our author seems to find no such exertion necessary. The fertility of his imagination displays itself in the constant recurrence of dramatic situations, striking incidents and stirring adventures; so much so, that the interest of the reader, in following his characters through the mazes of perils and enterprizes, vicissitudes and escapes, which they encounter, is often painfully excited. If this be a fault, it is one which is creditable to the powers of the author, and indicates an exuberance of invention, which will bear him through a long course of literary exertions, and insure to him great favor with the votaries of romance.

Thera are some minor faults which might be noticed. As an instance, the author habitually uses the word "working" in describing the convulsions of the countenance, under the influence of strong passions: as, "his working and agonized visage"—"his face worked convulsively," &c. Although Sir Walter Scott is authority for the use of the word in this manner, we have always considered it a decided inelegance. But such blemishes cannot seriously detract from the enduring excellence of the work.

AN ADDRESS, delivered at his inauguration as President of Washington College, Lexington, Virginia, Feb. 21, 1835, by Henry Vethake.

We have read this address with unmingled pleasure. It is replete with strong common sense, and that quality is rarely much exercised in discussions of the subject of education. The opinions of President Vethake seem to us sound and practical: he has a full sense of the errors in the systems of instruction, which have prevailed too long in many of our institutions; and suggests alterations in the modes of teaching, which seem to us both practicable, and promising great benefits. We are constrained by the pressure of other matters, to confine ourselves to a brief notice of this address, and to curtail our extracts from its pages. The following strictures upon the old system of imparting information to students, will, we believe, be recognized as just and sensible, by every one who has reflected on the subject. Although these remarks are intended by the orator to refer to college exercises only, they apply with equal force to the faulty system of teaching pursued by nine-tenths of the conductors of our primary and elementary schools, at which the pupils are, in most cases, severely drilled in the study of mere words, while no corresponding knowledge of the things of which they are the symbols, is imparted by the teacher, who makes no effort to awaken the mental energies of the pupil; but is fully satisfied if he cultivate the memory, though the mind remain waste and uninformed. But to our extract:

"The error is an egregious one, which leads a student to suppose that his proper business is to store his mind as industriously as he can with the facts previously observed, and the opinions previously held, by others who lived before him. Its natural effect will be to deaden all originality of thought, and to degrade the individual, thus led astray, to a low rank in the scale of intelligence, when compared with that to which he would have entitled himself, with more correct ideas of the nature of education. The memory may have been cultivated to a considerable extent; imagination, and the reasoning power, will have remained nearly dormant. But this is not all. The individual in question will not even have acquired the ability to communicate what he has learned to others. To do so with clearness and order, is by no means always an easy matter; and it is one to which he has directed no portion of his attention, his mind having been exclusively occupied in passively receiving knowledge. And it may be added, that, although it should be conceded, that by pursuing the method of education against which my remarks are at present pointed, a greater amount of mere extraneous information can be acquired, yet this will generally be found to be true only for a comparatively short period. Those facts and opinions of which we read, that do not become the subjects of subsequent comparison and reflection, have, as it were, only a loose connection with our understandings, and, sooner or later, and sometimes very speedily, pass into oblivion. Hence it will be found that, if we have regard rather to the usefulness of manhood than to the display to be made by the youth of a college at an examination, as this is ordinarily conducted, the most effectual method even of storing the mind with what other men have observed and thought, is to regard the communication of knowledge to the student as altogether accessary to the great object of disciplining his mind, and of properly developing his various intellectual faculties. And not only will that individual, whose faculties have been most advantageously excited, be ultimately possessed of the greatest amount and range of information, but he will far surpass his competitors in the race of life, in the art of communicating, and, at proper times and places, displaying that information. He will also come to possess a capacity for attaining a still further measure of knowledge, whenever he may desire to do so, upon any subject that excites a particular interest in him, to which the man of mere memory is a total stranger.

"It is sufficiently to be lamented, that the student should occasionally fall of his own accord into the error I have been considering: but it is lamentable in a far greater degree, when his propensity to do so is encouraged by the faulty system of instruction pursued by his teacher. The young men in our colleges, have been, and still are, too frequently taught in a manner to operate thus injuriously. I refer, more particularly, to the practice of hearing them recite, on almost every subject, the contents, and the precise contents, of certain text books, with little or no accompanying comment, excepting what may be absolutely necessary for enabling them to comprehend the meaning of the work recited. In this manner of instruction, it is not geometry, or the spirit of geometry, that is acquired by the student, but what it is that Euclid, or Legendre, has delivered concerning geometry. It is not the philosophy of the human mind with which he is made acquainted; it is only the system of some distinguished author—be it that of Locke, or Reid, or Brown. It is true that we may easily conceive the reciting of a text book to be accompanied by an enlightened commentary on the part of the instructor, calculated to liberate the mind of the student from all undue subjection to the opinions, and to the peculiar classifications and modes of expression, of the author. We may, indeed, conceive the instructor to superadd every possible contrivance which is fitted to awaken in the mind of his pupils a spirit of independent inquiry. Still the tendency of the system is to degenerate into the mere recitation of the contents of the text book."

* * * * *

"Another reason why young men in our colleges are tempted to neglect the general cultivation of their minds, and to devote their whole study to the storing of their memories with the contents of the text books put into their hands, is that their comparative scholarship is very apt to be estimated by their instructors, not so much by the nature of the questions which they are able to answer correctly, and by the amount of thinking and originality displayed, as by the promptitude and fluency with which they can repeat what they have servilely learned. I have been told by more individuals than one, and by graduates of more institutions than one, that on discovering, while at college, the fact to be as I have just stated, and being anxious that the best account of them should go to their friends, from their professors, they at once resolved to subject themselves to the drudgery of committing the author they were appointed to study verbatim to memory, and that, by so doing, they did not fail to secure the object they had in view. The persons of whom I speak, were young men of talent, as well as ambitious of immediate distinction. Had their minds at the time been sufficiently matured to have adequately appreciated the uselessness and the folly of this method of study, without at the same time being matured enough to adopt, of their own suggestion, a more efficient and rational method, and had they been less influenced by present rewards, without as yet aspiring to the more substantial rewards of a future reputation among men, or without the loftier stimulant of duty, they might have become, like others among their fellow students, altogether negligent of their improvement, and perhaps have contracted the most ruinous habits. It is to the system of education, upon which I am animadverting, together with the mistakes made by the members of a college faculty, in deciding on the comparative scholarship of the students—which mistakes the latter are competent to judge of, with a good deal of accuracy—that the anomaly, so often remarked, of a young man's relative standing while in college, being so often but little indicative of his future standing in the world, is to be ascribed; and the explanation is likewise manifest why some individuals of peculiar energy of character, after wasting their time in almost complete idleness while at college, astonish their friends nevertheless, by the intellectual exertions of which they shew themselves to be capable, when an adequate motive is presented for exerting their energies. This solves the mystery too, why so many self-taught men, have, in despite of the disadvantages under which they labored, surpassed the graduates of colleges in usefulness and reputation; every acquisition made by a self-taught man, in consequence of the very difficulty of making it, being accompanied by a contemporary sharpening of his intellect, which the passive recipient of another's knowledge never experiences."

Of his suggestions for the remedy of this evil, we have room only for the following passage:

"The practical question now presents itself—what is the proper remedy for the evils that have been described? Are we to rest satisfied with the efficiency of our colleges and universities being rendered wholly dependent on the accident, as it may be called, of the instructors proving themselves, upon trial, to be possessed of intellectual powers of the highest, or at least of a very high order, that is, of powers which will exert themselves, and produce their proper fruit, under almost any circumstances whatever, of disadvantage? Or shall we abandon our institutions of learning, where these disadvantageous circumstances have hitherto been permitted to exist, and have afforded an opportunity to unskilful and indolent teachers to nip the evolving faculties of youth in the bud? We are, fortunately, not limited to a selection of either of these modes of proceeding. As a remedy for the evils described, the professors, in every department of instruction admitting of it, should, in my opinion, be obliged to prepare courses of lectures to the students. This would necessarily compel them to digest a system of knowledge for themselves, possessing more or less of originality in respect to thought or arrangement, of matter or of manner, according to the ability of the writer or speaker. Even if the lectures were only compilations from the writings of others, or should possess far inferior merit to various works on the same subject, that might be put into the hands of the student, the fitness of the professor to teach, will be greatly augmented, both because his information on the branch of instruction confided to him, will, in the preparation of his lectures, have become much more extensive, and because what he knows will be much more methodically arranged, than before. Those works, besides, which are supposed to be of greater value than the professor's lectures, are still as accessible as ever to the students; and the improvement of their instructor can surely in no wise interfere with the benefit to be derived by them from the perusal of the works of others."

A HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES, from the Discovery of the American Continent to the present time; by George Bancroft. Vol. 1. pp. 508. Boston: Charles Bowen. London: R. J. Kennett.

The interest we have felt in this work, is the true cause of our seeming neglect of it. This may appear paradoxical, but is easily explained.

In taking up the book, we naturally turned to that part of which we knew most, and in which we took the greatest interest. There was always something in the early history of Virginia on which we delighted to dwell, and we promised ourselves great pleasure from the contemplation of the character of our forefathers, as we expected to find it portrayed by a diligent historian, who had already acquired the character of a fine writer.

We did indeed find what was intended to be a favorable account of our ancestors. Yet we were disappointed. We found much of direct praise. Yet we were disappointed. We ought perhaps to feel obliged, by Mr. B's disposition to speak kindly of our forefathers, even while his applauses grate upon our feelings. But we are unfortunately constituted. What Mr. Bancroft gives as praise, we cannot accept as praise; and, what is worse, we cannot help suspecting, in all such cases, that a sneer, or something more mischievous, is intended.

Sterne, in his Sentimental Journey, tells us, that when on his way from Calais to Paris, he accidentally disclosed to his Landlord and Valet de Chambre, the astounding fact, that he had blundered into the heart of France without a passport, the former fell back from him three paces. At the same moment, his affectionate and grateful servant, by a like instinctive impulse, advanced three paces towards him.

The fall of Charles I, presented to his adherents a case somewhat analogous. History tells us that they were variously affected by it. Some fell back in dismay, while others found themselves drawn more closely toward his exiled son. The former soon found that the successful party had rewards in store for timely submission and zealous service. The latter, driven from their last rallying point, by the fatal battle of Worcester, did but submit, and that with undisguised reluctance, to what was inevitable.

Mr. Bancroft seems to think he does honor to our ancestors, by assigning them a place among the former. Now we had always supposed that their true place was among the latter, and we had moreover a sort of pride in so supposing. There are those who will say that there is great arrogance in thus claiming for them a place among the generous and brave and faithful. Others will call it folly to insist, at this day, on their fidelity to a king, and especially to one who had lost all means of rewarding, or even of using their zeal. We beg leave to set off these imputations against each other. We beg to be allowed to speak of our fathers as they were; and trust that one half of those who shall cavil at the character we impute to them, will acquit us of any very high presumption, when they see that we only claim for them such qualities, as the other half say we ought to be ashamed of. If the same individual is sometimes found assailing us, alternately on both grounds, his consistency in so doing is his affair, not ours.

If we know anything (and we think we do) of the character of the early settlers of Virginia, they were a chivalrous and generous race, ever ready to resist the strong, to help the weak, to comfort the afflicted, and to lift up the fallen. In this spirit they had withstood the usurpation of Cromwell while resistance was practicable, and, when driven from their native country, they had bent their steps toward Virginia, as that part of the foreign dominions of England, where the spirit of loyalty was strongest. We learn from Holmes, vol. i. p. 315, that the population of Virginia increased about fifty per cent. during the troubles. The newcomers were loyalists, who were added to a population already loyal. Could they, without dishonor, have been hearty in favor of the new order of things? They whose principles had driven them into exile? They who, had they remained, would have fought and fallen with Montrose?

The historical compends with which our youth was familiar, had taught us to form this estimate of the early settlers of Virginia; and we had the more faith in it, because it accords with the hereditary prejudices and prepossessions of the present day. It accounts too, for those peculiarities which, at this moment, form the distinctive features of the Virginian character. It is unique. Whether for better or worse, it differs essentially from that of every other people under the sun. How long it shall be before the "march of mind," as it is called, in its Juggernaut car, shall pass over us, and crush and obliterate every trace of what our ancestors were, and what we ourselves have been, is hard to say. It may postpone that evil day, to resist any attempt to impress us with false notions of our early history, and the character of our ancestors.

We had never looked narrowly into the contemporary authority for the traditions and histories that have come down to us. Mr. Bancroft's account of the matter has led us to do so. Hence our delay to notice his work. Our research has been rewarded by the pleasure of finding full confirmation of all our preconceived notions.

The point in contest between Mr. Bancroft and the received histories is this:

The histories represent Virginia as having been loyal to the last; as having stood in support of the title of Charles II, after every other part of the British dominions had submitted to Cromwell, and as having been the first to renounce the authority of the protector, and return to their allegiance. All this Mr. Bancroft denies; and all this, except the last proposition, (that in italics) we affirm. In proof, we appeal to the very authorities on which Mr. Bancroft relies.

Indeed, we are at a loss to know how he himself escaped the conclusion against which he protests so strongly. It may not be true that Charles II was proclaimed in Virginia, as Robertson says, before he had been recognized in England. Mr. Hening (1 Sts. at Large, p. 529, quoted by Bancroft) may be right, when he says, that, if such were the fact, the public records should show it. But his book is full of proof that the records are incomplete. Is there not such proof in this instance? Let us examine.

The first act of the session of March 1660, assumes the supreme power. The second appoints Sir William Berkeley governor, and prescribes that he shall govern according to the "auncient lawes of England, and the established lawes" of Virginia. The third repeals all laws inconsistent with "the power now established;" and the fourth makes it penal to "say or act anything in derogation" of the government thus established.

Here is evidence enough of a new order of things, and yet it is not so very clear what that new order was. Hening says (ubi supra) that Berkeley was elected just as Mathews had been. Wherein then was the innovation? The recital in the preamble of the act last quoted, (1 Hen. Sts. p. 531) may give a clue to this.

It is there set forth that "it hath been thought necessary and convenient by the present Burgesses of this Assembly, the representatives of the people, during the time of these distractions, to take the government into their own power, with the conduct of the auncient lawes of England, till such lawfull commission or commissions appear to us, as wee may DUTIFULLY submit to, according as by DECLARATION SET FORTH BY US doth MORE AMPLY appeare."

Now where is this MORE AMPLE DECLARATION, concerning their idea of such a commission as they might DUTIFULLY submit to? Is not here an hiatus valde deflendus? Yet such are the tattered manuscripts from which Mr. Hening's compilation is made, that the loss of the whole or a part of any document is quite common.

Enough appears, however, to show that this declaration did not amount to a recognition of Charles as king de facto; because the above mentioned Act I, directs that all writs shall issue in the name of the assembly. But it is equally clear that he was, at least tacitly, acknowledged as king de jure; that the government was established provisionally, and subject to his pleasure; and that the power assumed was held FOR HIM.

Now when we consider these things; when we find Robertson, on the authority of Beverley and Chalmers, saying that "as Sir William Berkeley refused to act under an usurped authority, they (the assembly) boldly erected the royal standard, and acknowledging Charles II to be their lawful sovereign, proclaimed him with all his titles;" we may doubt the accuracy of the statement, in extenso, but we cannot agree that even that statement shall be stigmatized as a fiction.

Mr. Hening tells us (1 Sts. p. 513) that Beverley was near the scene of action, and wonders that he should have misunderstood or misrepresented. Wonderful indeed it would have been; for in March 1662, we find him clerk to the House of Burgesses. See 2 Hen. Sts. p. 162. We find too, in the same volume, p. 544, that Berkeley refused to act without the advice of the council; that on receiving this he agreed to act, and that "HIS declaration TO BE governor (not the act electing him) were PROCLAIMED by order of the assembly." Berkeley (be it remembered) was the last royal governor, and his commission had never been revoked, his election is not for any specific term, and the act is accompanied with a condition that he shall call an assembly at least once in every two years. How is this, if he was only elected to fill the vacancy occasioned by the death of Mathews, who, just one year before, had been elected to serve two years. Is not Berkeley in of his old commission?

But of the loyalty of Virginia there can be no doubt. That this was in no wise abated by the fall of Charles I, and the exile of his son, is equally certain. The act, passed immediately after, making it high treason to justify the murder of the one, or to deny the title of the other, puts that out of dispute. They certainly did not stand out, when the battle of Dunbar and the fall of Montrose had left the loyal party without hope either in England or Scotland. But look at the very act of surrender. Study its terms, and see the temper displayed there. Do they acknowledge the authority of parliament or protector? No: they do but submit to power. There is no profession of allegiance, nor was any oath of allegiance ever administered during the commonwealth. They engage indeed so to administer their power as not to contravene "the government of the commonwealth of England, and the lawes there established." But this was a proceeding which a respect for private rights required. They stipulate moreover, that Virginia shall enjoy as free a trade as England herself, and put an end to all the authority of commissions from England. It was by such commissions that the king had governed. That "government by commissions and instructions" is declared to be for the future "null and void." The usurper had clutched the sceptre of the king of England. That of the king of Virginia he was not allowed to touch. Accordingly no more commissions came from England. We hear no more of them until the election of Berkeley. We are then told that the government is provisional, and only to endure until a lawful commission shall appear. What commission? Whose? The protector's? The parliament's? No. The act of surrender (1 Hen. St. p. 363) had abolished them. But it had not abolished the rights of the king; and the power of the assembly and governor is thus made to wait on them.

Strange as it may seem, the act of surrender contains no word recognizing the rightful authority of the parliament, nor impeaching that of the king. On the contrary, as if to exclude any such idea, this remarkable clause is inserted:

"That there be one sent home, at the present governor's choice, to give an accompt to HIS MA'TIE, of the surrender of HIS countrey."

Home! There is a simple pathos in the use of this word here, which speaks volumes to the heart. None can feel more deeply than we do, how utterly unworthy of this steady and passionate loyalty, was the wretch who was its object. But they knew not his faults. They only knew him in his lineage and his misfortunes; and though he had no place to lay his head, yet wherever their messenger might find the outcast, there was the home of their hearts. We mean nothing profane. God forbid! But we cannot help being reminded of the weak warm-hearted boy, who stood by his master's cross, and gazed with looks of love upon his dying face, when the stronger and bolder of his followers had "forsaken him and fled." We are more proud to be descended from the men who stood forward in the business of that day, than we should be to trace ourselves to Adam, through all the most politic and prudent self-seekers that the world has ever seen.

But to return to Mr. Bancroft. Affairs being thus settled, things went on quite peaceably; and he hence infers that the Virginians were entirely reconciled to Cromwell and his parliament. Moreover, he finds them claiming the supreme power, as residing in the colonial legislature; and from this he most strangely infers a loyalty to the parliament, the model of which he represents them as so eager to copy. Now Mr. Bancroft himself tells us (p. 170) that as early as 1619, Virginia first set the world the example of equal representation. From that time they held that the supreme power was in the hands of the colonial parliament, then established, and the king as king of Virginia. Now the authority of the king being at an end, and no successor being acknowledged, it followed as a corollary from their principles that no power remained but that of the assembly; and so they say. Does this look like a recognition of Cromwell and his parliament, or the reverse?

But Mr. Bancroft seems to think that Virginia could not have failed to be weaned from her attachment to the king, and won over to Cromwell and his parliament, by the magnanimity and justice of their proceedings. He adverts to the article in the treaty of surrender, by which Virginia had stipulated for a trade as free as that of England, and assures us that "its terms were faithfully observed till the restoration." (p. 241.) He adds at p. 246, that "the navigation act of Cromwell was not designed for the oppression of Virginia, and was not enforced within her borders." Hence he says (p. 241) that the pictures drawn by Beverley, Chalmers, Robertson, Marshall, and Holmes, of the discontent produced by commercial oppression, are all "pure fiction."

Now what says the reader to the following extract from a memorial on behalf of the trade of Virginia, laid before Cromwell in 1656?

"What encouragement the poor planter has had to sweeten his labor, since the Dutch were excluded trade, appears by the general complaint of them all, that they are the merchant's slaves, who will allow them scarce a half-penny a pound for their tobacco. Beside that, since the Dutch trade was prohibited, till this year there has been a great deal of their tobacco left behind for want of fraught, and spoiled, to the almost undoing of divers of them." ... "This is an inconveniency which has attended that act for navigation," "but unless it be a little dispensed withal, it will undoubtedly ruin part of the trade it was intended to advance. 'Tis true the people of themselves, some of them at least, have this year endeavored their own relief by secret trade with the Dutch," &c. &c.

Is not this decisive? If it does not prove the fact, it at least proves the complaint. Mr. Bancroft denies both. Perhaps this paper is a forgery. Perhaps Mr. Bancroft never saw it. YES HE DID. It is the same paper to which he refers at p. 247, note 2, in the very paragraph in which he says that Cromwell's navigation act was not designed for, nor enforced in Virginia. Mr. B. indeed says "the war between England and Holland necessarily interrupted the intercourse of the Dutch with the English colonies." But this memorial is of the year 1656, and peace had been concluded April 15, 1654.

Robertson speaks of the colonial governors during the interregnum, as having been named (that is his word) by Cromwell. This is roundly denied. On what authority? None. The election proves nothing certainly. It might have been a mere form, though it was probably something more. But what was easier than a recommendation which it would be perhaps best to conform to? How often was the speaker of the house of commons so chosen in England?

Mr. Bancroft's view of this matter stands thus: Virginia elected her own governors. Bennett, Digges, and Mathews, were commonwealth's men. She freely chose them as governors. Ergo. She had gone over to the commonwealth.

Now there is no proof of either of these propositions. We doubt both. For if it were established that these gentlemen were, as we suspect, forced on the colony, it would not be clear that they were therefore commonwealth's men. We doubt very much whether any such were to be found. They might have been the least violent among the royalists, and therefore preferred.

Of Col. Bennett we know something traditionally. The idea that he was a parliamentarian is new to us. We should require some better proof than the Collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society. He was indeed, one of the parliamentary commissioners at the time of the surrender. So was Claiborne, a warm friend and favorite of Sir William Berkeley, continued in his office of secretary of state, by the legislature, at Berkeley's request, after his restoration. 1 Hen. Sts. p. 547. Bennett himself retained his place at the council board, where he still found himself, as before the restoration, in the company of cavaliers, such as Morrison, Yardly, Ludlow, &c. &c.¹

¹ The characters and principles of these gentlemen may throw some light on the subject. If we can ascertain those of the members of the council, elected by the assembly, we shall have a clue to the temper of the assembly itself. We may know the tree by its fruit. If we find that body electing to a place in the council men of very decided political character, we shall have a right to believe that those associated with them by the vote of the same body were, at least, not zealous members of the opposite party. In this case the maxim "noscitur a socio," will surely apply. Let us see what lights we can bring to bear on this subject.