CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 3 (continued 3)

When we have occasionally met the traders, as they were returning from their year's residence among the Indians, I have asked myself what mysterious excitement there could be in the spirit of gain, that will cause men to separate themselves from society, and voluntarily renounce those privileges incident to an intercourse with the world? But as I pass along my wonder ceases. There is such an union of beauty and grandeur in all the works of nature throughout this region, that it is impossible to be acquainted with them, and not wish to pass a life in their admiration. Following the impulse of my present feelings, I could joyfully make my home among these hills and valleys, and I should want no other. 'Tis true, the busy hum of men would not reach such a wild retreat, neither would their faithlessness and cold deceit.

And now, let me tell you how I have written this letter. We are waiting, at the Kewena Bay, for the arrival of some Indians to transport part of our baggage to the Ontonagon. Mr. S., and Mr. Houghton, with Lt. Clary, are by this time over the traverse. It was uncertain how soon we might be able to embark, but I resolved to devote what time I had to you. Accordingly at 5 o'clock this morning, I turned a chest upside down for a desk, planted myself against the tent-pole, and with the stump of a pen commenced operations. But alas! the sand flies and musquitoes made such a desperate onset that I was obliged to haul down my colors, and ingloriously fly for my life. I then waited until after breakfast, and commenced again with no better success. I then resorted to the open air; and placing my paper on a small bank, and standing on the stones below, with the sun at 90, pouring its rays upon my head, while with one hand and sometimes two, I battled insects of divers descriptions, at last have made black marks, over the greater part of this sheet. Should you in decyphering these hieroglyphics, come to any place where the subject was suddenly dropped and another commenced, without any apology, attribute it to a huge horse-fly, which lighting on my nasal protuberance, caused me to drop my pen, and with it my ideas. But here come a dozen of them, so good bye till you hear from me again.

M. L. WOOLSEY.

To —— ——.

III.

La Pointe, Lake Superior, July 17, 1831.

Instead of a sand bank for a writing desk, I am now seated by the side of a good table in your brother's house, and surrounded by comforts and conveniences that would be no discredit to a place less out of the world than La Pointe. We have luxuries that even the inhabitants of St. Mary's might envy. Our table groans beneath its load of white-fish and trout, veal and pigeons, rice-puddings and strawberries, all of which are served up à la mode, in Joseph's best style, assisted by the culinary skill of Plufe, the cook. We at present adopt the maxim, "Live while you may," for we well know that soon we will be out of the reach of every thing of this sort, and be glad to get our dish of corn-soup. This is a very pleasant island, and presents quite a village-like appearance. There are several large dwelling houses, besides the trading establishment, and cultivated fields, with cattle strolling about, that altogether make up a scene quite different from any thing I expected to see before arriving at Green Bay.

Since my first and last letter to you, we have passed through a variety of interesting incidents. As I closed my letter our Indians arrived, and in a short time we were on our way across the Kewena traverse. But now a fresh breeze had supplanted the calm atmosphere of the morning, and before we were half-way over the Bay, we began to anticipate a second edition of the troubles and danger experienced by Mr. S. in 1820. But we fortunately escaped, with no inconvenience but a slight wetting, and at 12 at night came up to the encampment of our friends,—when not wishing to disturb them, we spread our blankets upon the gravel, with the heavens for our canopy, and sought a few hours repose, previous to commencing an examination of Kewena Point. In this we promised ourselves an abundance of interest, and we suffered no disappointment. Such a banging the rocks have not experienced for many a day, and we robbed them of no inconsiderable quantity of their precious contents. The "King of the metals" will be under the necessity of holding another convention,³ and if some of the delegates do not appear with battered visages, and broken bones, then there is no virtue in our well-tried hammers. Now you know, as we go skipping down the vale of life, that it is not every circumstance that assumes a serious cast, but that we have a mixture, or a kind of dish which in Scotland, and by Dr. Johnson, would be called hodge-podge. So with us—after wearying ourselves in discovering copper mines, and hunting from their dark and stony enclosures the precious gems which here abounded, we would join with no little zest in the pleasures of the chase. One or two opportunities of doing this occurred while going round this Point. This was in the pursuit of quacks; and impelled by the purest patriotism, we were determined upon the extirpation of all that might fall in our way. What, ask you, is it possible, that the proscribed prescribers of "roots and herbs," and steam restoratives, have found their way to the lone regions of the north? Why no, not exactly this kind of quacks, but a species more honest, who tell us beforehand what they are, and which, of themselves, when properly prepared by a suitable apothecary, form an excellent remedy for a well-known disease, and which those in particular are apt to contract who labor for hours together among rocks and over mountains. But to tell a plain story:—while in our canoes we surprised several large broods of ducks, which happened to be in that state when their unfledged wings forbade them to fly, but when they were sufficiently large to furnish excellent game for the table. Consequently it was a trial of skill between our canoe-men and the poor quacklings, to see who could paddle the fastest; but like the boys and the frogs, while it was sport to the former, it was death to the latter. Although at first they literally walked over the water, yet their strength was soon exhausted; and what with the shouts of the men, which of themselves were sufficient to scare a duck out of its senses, and their own fatigue, they fell an easy prey to their enemies. But to secure the victims after they were run down, afforded us the most amusement. The men seemed to have given up their whole souls to the chase, and as the ducks would dive to escape being taken, they would endeavor to spear them with their poles and paddles, and these proving ineffectual, plunge in themselves regardless of the consequences. Their zeal was rewarded by the capture of twelve or fifteen of the unfortunate birds. The only fear I experienced during this enlivening scene, was that the Doctor would exhaust his stock of risibility, and in future we should be deprived of his hearty ha, ha, that makes one join in sympathy with him, before the story comes. He surrendered himself entirely to the power of Momus; but we have had abundant demonstration since, that he is still a subject of the laughing deity. But the afterpiece was the most interesting to us individually; what that was you must guess. But luckily the clouds now "began to gather blackness;" and before we had proceeded many miles, we were favored with a couple of smart showers, and finally obliged by the rain to go on shore—luckily, because this spot proved to be the richest in minerals and metals, that we had yet visited. Your brother discovered two rich veins of copper ore, and we found agates and other gems in quantities. While we were thumping about us, the Doctor got into the canoe for the purpose of seeking an encamping place. This was found at the bottom of a very pretty bay, but which nevertheless we dignified with the name of Musquito Cove. Here we were wind-bound, and I spent a half hour very pleasantly on the rocks, witnessing the foaming and dashing of the waves, that seemed enraged at the resistance which they met, while the rocks themselves groaned at the rencounter as if fearful of being shaken from their solid foundations. Here was a place for melancholy, and a mind like yours would have held a revelry with the wildness of the scene. My curiosity to witness the onset of the waters, prompted me to venture too near them, as I found by a salute, not very friendly, that left me in rather a moist condition; but although experience is the best school, yet forgetting myself, I was again reminded that being but a spectator, it would be well to retire from the influence of the battle shock.

³ Alludes to a jeu d' esprit poem.

* * * * *

This ceremony over, we turned our faces homewards, but stopped for a moment on the way to take a peep at the Superior. This was so pleasing that I felt no disposition to quit it, and continued my way over the rocks, until weariness alone induced me to return. My path was through a pleasant wood, and as I was loitering along, I was startled by the report of a gun, repeated three or four times in quick succession; and upon making up to the place from whence the sound proceeded, found that two of the men had been sent out to search for the supposed lost one. The wind had abated, and we left our camp as the sun began to dip below the horizon. The rest of my story I hope to have the pleasure of communicating to you by word of mouth.

You will not probably hear from us again until our arrival at the Sault.

In the meantime remember me to William, and the young gentlemen of your household.

M. L. W.

GREECE.

"Amphyction erected a Temple at Athens in honor of the Hours, in which those citizens who knew the value of time and opportunity habitually offered their sacrifices."

"To the Temple of the Hours! Let us early pay the vow; Aurora's bright and blushing kiss is on Hymettus' brow— And the Hours, that lead the dapple morn thro' trembling rays of light, Glance tow'rds the past eternity, with pinions stretch'd for flight. "To the Temple of the Hours! Deeper grows the orient blush, The light shafts of the polished Fane reflect the rosy flush; While dews are on the cypress bough and blooming myrtle spray, A sacrifice, as fresh and fair, we'll on their altar lay. "With offering we'll propitiate—invoke with lyre and song— And rich shall be the sacrifice—the music loud and long; Then, Hours, as lightly over us you wing your noiseless flight, Pour on our pathway, graciously, a flood of love and light." Thus Athens' sons. How vainly wise!—The scathing foot hath trod, Where many a costly Temple rose, to many an 'unknown God;' And Hours, with retribution fraught, on pinions bathed in woes, Long lingered where their beauteous Fane of tintless marble rose. And have those retributive Hours passed o'er, with leaden flight? On Athens breaks a brighter day? Dawns there a purer light? Rejoice! The "Star of Bethlehem" leads on a perfect day, And fades the Crescent from the skies, lost in its brighter ray. The altar 'To the unknown God,' the Temple to the Hours, 'The Prophets' crescent-mounted Mosques, fail from her cypress bowers; The Tissue from the Cross shall fall, by error wreathed so fair, Fall—and the shrinking drapery's folds reveal a Saviour there. Then, Greece, shall smile propitiously, the bright, the favoring Hours— Then praise shall rise, as sweet as breath from Tempe's vale of Flowers; Rise, from that heart of love—of woe—of poesy profound— The heart of Greece!—her sons are free—the noble mind unbound.

ELIZA.

Maine.

READINGS WITH MY PENCIL.

NO. I. "Legere sine calamo est dormire."—Quintilian.

1. "I am resolved, by the grace of God, always to make my heart and tongue go together: so as never to speak with the one what I do not think with the other."—Bishop Beveridge.

There is a fine philosophy in the above excellent determination of the pious and learned bishop: it is but a paraphrase of the homely maxim, "Honesty is the best policy." But the most striking idea conveyed by it is its negative character: the resolution being, not to speak all that the heart thinketh, but never to speak what it thinketh not.

2. "I deny the lawfulness of telling a lie to a sick man for fear of alarming him. You have no business with consequences: you are to tell the truth."—Dr. Johnson.

Boswell says that the Doctor said this to him. I do not doubt it. It is nothing new. St. Paul said it before Dr. Johnson. "What then? Shall we do evil that good may come? God forbid!" Now, a lie of this kind would be venial, where other lies, told upon occasions of less magnitude and importance, would be unpardonable. And the Doctor's idea seems to be very well explained in the next passage.

3. "All truth is not of equal importance; but if little violations be allowed, all violations will, in time, be thought little."—Dr. Johnson.

So much for Truth; which, according to Herodotus, was one of the three lessons inculcated by the ancient Persians upon their children.

4. "The Four Elements are the Four Volumes in which all Nature's works are written."—Jeremy Taylor.

What is that volume, red-bound and glittering with golden tooling, more brilliant than the highest reach of Art has ever approached; dazzling with its illuminated pages, which none can read but the eagle-eye of him who has learned to gaze upon the living light of heavenly Truth, as written by the finger of the Almighty Omniscient? It is the volume of Fire—Nature's Philosophy. That beautiful volume, delicately bound in soft cerulean, sparkling with starry splendors, and redolent of "that odor within the sense, so delicate, soft, and intense," which gives its pages the fragrance no less than the shining beauty of Paradise—that volume is Air—and it is Nature's Music and Poetry. See Nature's History in those two immense volumes, Earth and Water. In them read the History of Empires, their rise, decline, and fall: the History of Man; his birth, his life, and death: the History of Passion; its conception, development, and disappointment: the History of Evil; its origin, dominion, and decay: the History of Good; its slow and steady, yet neglected and uncultured growth—its secret yet secure and strong dominion—its lasting and undying strength: and the History of all Nature and her works—recording all her beauties, all her glories, all her triumphs, all her lessons, all her immortal lore!

5. "Not only by the warmth, And soothing sunshine of delightful things, Do minds grow up and flourish."—Akenside.

No more than flowers grow up and flourish best, when reared in a hot-house. Those flowers may have more beauty, but where is the strength which the free blowing blossom of the wilderness alone possesses? The corolla is delicate, its petals each a separate loveliness: but where is the noble stalk sustaining many and more voluminous, though less gaudy blossoms, which rears its enduring head aloft, living when the other is dead—fragrant when the other is withered upon the dewless earth around its drooping stem? Adversity has been the parent of master minds. Homer and Milton, and Shakspeare, and Burns—these were no hot-house plants in Nature's garden: they were born in obscurity; their upward growth was watered with the dew-like tears of adversity; they were reared in the great wilderness of the world, amid its storms, its tempests, and its fitful gleams of sunshine: and so "do minds grow up and flourish."

6. "Renewed friendships are to be conducted with greater nicety than such as have never been broken."—Rochefoucault.

Yes: just as one should handle a porcelain vase, once fractured and repaired, more carefully than before it was injured.

7. "I do not subscribe to the notion that poets are born," said Herbert.—Private Life.

Horace thought otherwise. I never agreed with the Venusian poet. Walter Scott was not a born poet: he was made by the scenes around him from his birth. Byron was not a native poet: his early "poetry" (?) proves the fact abundantly. His only true poetry was the result of circumstances. His first good poem was made by an article in the Edinburgh Review. His next was made by an unhappy marriage, and all the rest that deserved the name have an origin of the kind. Would Burns the cit have ever turned out what Burns the Ayrshire ploughman proved, think ye? And was Pope born a poet? No more than Napoleon was born Emperor of the French!

J. F. O.

EDITORIAL.

CRITICAL NOTICES.

PAUL ULRIC.

Paul Ulric: Or the Adventures of an Enthusiast. New York: Published by Harper & Brothers.

These two volumes are by Morris Mattson, Esq. of Philadelphia, and we presume that Mr. Mattson is a very young man. Be this as it may, when we called Norman Leslie the silliest book in the world we had certainly never seen Paul Ulric. One sentence in the latter, however, is worthy of our serious attention. "We want a few faithful laborers in the vineyard of literature, to root out the noxious weeds which infest it." See page 116, vol. ii.

In itself, the book before us is too purely imbecile to merit an extended critique—but as a portion of our daily literary food—as an American work published by the Harpers—as one of a class of absurdities with an inundation of which our country is grievously threatened—we shall have no hesitation, and shall spare no pains, in exposing fully before the public eye its four hundred and forty-three pages of utter folly, bombast, and inanity.

"My name," commences Mr. Mattson, "is Paul Ulric. Thus much, gentle reader, you already know of one whose history is about to be recorded for the benefit of the world. I was always an enthusiast, but of this I deem it inexpedient to say much at present. I will merely remark that I possessed by nature a wild and adventurous spirit which has led me on blindly and hurriedly, from object to object, without any definite or specific aim. My life has been one of continual excitement, and in my wild career I have tasted of joy as well as of sorrow. [Oh remarkable Mr. Ulric!] At one moment I have been elevated to the very pinnacle of human happiness, at the next I have sunk to the lowest depths of despair. Still I fancied there was always an equilibrium. This may seem a strange philosophy to some, but is it the less true? The human mind is so constituted as always to seek a level—if it is depressed it will be proportionately elevated, if elevated it will be proportionately depressed. But" says Mr. U., interrupting himself, "I am growing metaphysical!" We had thought he was only growing absurd.

He proceeds to tell us of his father who was born in Lower Saxony—who went, when only a year old, to England—who, being thrown upon the parish, was initiated into the mysteries of boot cleaning—who, at the age of ten, became a vender of newspapers in the city of London—at twelve sold potatoes in Covent Garden—at fifteen absconded from a soap-boiler in the Strand to whom he had been apprenticed—at eighteen sold old clothes—at twenty became the proprietor of a mock auction in Cheapside—at twenty-five was owner of a house in Regent Street, and had several thousand pounds in the Funds—and before thirty was created a Baronet, with the title of Sir John Augustus Frederick Geoffry Ulric, Bart., for merely picking up and carrying home his Majesty King George the Fourth, whom Mr. U. assures us upon his word and honor, his father found lying beastly drunk, one fine day, in some gutter, in some particular thoroughfare of London.

Our hero himself was born, we are told, on the borders of the Thames, not far from Greenwich. When a well grown lad he accompanies his father to the continent. In Florence he falls in love with a Countess in her thirty-fifth year, who curls his hair and gives him sugar-plums. The issue of the adventure with the Countess is thus told.

"You have chosen them with much taste," said the Countess; "a beautiful flower is this!" she continued, selecting one from among the number, "its vermillion is in your cheeks, its blue in your eyes, and for this pretty compliment I deserve a —— you resist eh! My pretty, pretty lad, I will! There! Another, and you may go free. Still perverse? Oh, you stubborn boy! How can you refuse? One—two—three! I shall devour you with kisses!"

* * * * * * * * * *

We have printed the passage precisely as we find it in the book—notes of admiration—dashes—Italics—and all. Two rows of stars wind up the matter, and stand for the catastrophe—for we hear no more of the Countess. Now if any person over curious should demand why Morris Mattson, Esq. has mistaken notes of admiration for sense—dashes, kisses, stars and Italics for sentiment—the answer is very simple indeed. The author of Vivian Grey made the same mistake before him.

Indeed we have made up our minds to forward Ben D'Israeli a copy of Paul Ulric. He will read it, and if he do not expire upon the spot, it will do him more real service than the crutch. Never was there a more laughable burlesque of any man's manner. Had Mr. Mattson only intended it as a burlesque we would have called him a clever fellow. But unfortunately this is not the case. No jackdaw was ever more soberly serious in fancying herself a peacock, than our author in thinking himself D'Israeli the second.

"Every day," says Paul after the kissing scene, "filled me with a new spirit of romance. I had sailed upon the winding streams of Germany; I had walked beneath the bright skies of Italy; I had clambered the majestic mountains of Switzerland." His father, however, determines upon visiting the United States, and taking his family with him. His reasons for so doing should be recorded. "His republicanism" says Paul, "had long rendered him an object of aversion to the aristocracy. He had had the hardihood to compare the salary of the President with the civil list of the king—consequently he was threatened with an indictment for treason! My mother suggested the propriety of immediately quitting the country."

Mr. Mattson does not give us an account of the voyage. "I have no disposition," says his hero, "to describe a trip across the Atlantic—particularly as I am not in a sentimental mood—otherwise I might turn over the poets, and make up a long chapter of extracts from Moore, Byron, and Rogers of the Old World, or Percival, Bryant, and Halleck of the New." A range of stars accordingly, is introduced at this crisis of affairs, and we must understand them to express all the little matters which our author is too fastidious to detail. Having sufficiently admired the stars, we turn over the next leaf and "Land ho!" shouts one of the seamen on the fore-topsail yard.

Arrived in Philadelphia, Mr. Ulric (our hero's father) "is divided," so says Mr. Mattson, "between the charms of a city and country life." His family at this time, we are told, consisted of five persons; and Mr. U. Jr. takes this opportunity of formally introducing to us, his two sisters Eleanor and Rosaline. This introduction, however, is evidently to little purpose, for we hear no more, throughout the two volumes, of either the one young lady or the other. After much deliberation the family fix their residence in "Essex, a delightful country village in the interior of Pennsylvania;" and we beg our readers to bear in mind that the surprising adventures of Paul Ulric are, for the most part, perpetrated in the immediate vicinity of this village.

The young gentleman (notwithstanding his late love affair with the Countess) is now, very properly, sent to school—or rather a private tutor is engaged for him—one Lionel Wafer. A rapid proficiency in Latin, Greek, Hebrew, music, dancing, and fencing, is the result; "and with these accomplishments," says the young calf, "I believed myself fitted for the noise and bustle of the world." Accordingly, his father having given him a flogging one afternoon, he determines upon running away. In two days he "arrives in one of the Atlantic cities." Rambling about the streets he enters into conversation with a sharper, who succeeds in selling him, for forty dollars, a watch made of tinsel and put together with paste. This and subsequent adventures in the city form the best portion of the book—if best should be applied, in any way, to what is altogether abominable. Mr. Ulric goes to the theatre, and the play is Romeo and Juliet. The orchestra "breaks forth in full chorus" and our hero soliloquizes. We copy his soliloquy with the end of placing before our readers what we consider the finest passage in Mr. Mattson's novel. We wish to do that gentleman every possible act of justice; and when we write down the few words to which we allude, and when we say that they are not absolutely intolerable, we have done all, in the way of commendation, which lies in our power. We have not one other word of praise to throw away upon Paul Ulric.

"Oh Music!—the theme of bards from time immemorial—who can sing of thee as thou deservest? What wondrous miracles hast thou not accomplished? The war-drum beats—the clarion gives forth its piercing notes—and legions of armed men rush headlong to the fierce and devastating battle. Again, the drum is muffled, and its deep notes break heavily upon the air, while the dead warrior is borne along upon his bier, and thousands mingle their tears to his memory. The tender lute sounds upon the silvery waters, and the lover throws aside his oar, and imprints a kiss upon the lips of his beloved. The bugle rings in the mountain's recesses, and a thousand spears are uplifted for a fearful and desperate conflict. And now the organ peals, and, with its swelling notes, the soul leaps into the very presence of the Deity."

Our hero decides upon adopting the stage as a profession, and with this view takes lessons in elocution. Having perfected himself in this art, he applies to a manager, by note, for permission to display his abilities, but is informed that the nights are engaged for two months ahead, and it would be impossible for him to appear during the season. By the influence, however, of some hanger-on of the theatre, his wishes are at length gratified, and he is announced in the bills as "the celebrated Master Le Brun, the son of a distinguished English nobleman, whose success was so unprecedented in London as to have performed fifty nights in succession at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane"—a sentence in which we are at a loss to discover whether the English nobleman, or the English nobleman's son, or the success of the English nobleman's son is the distinguished performer in question.

Our adventurer succeeds in his debût, and is in a fair way of becoming a popular performer, when his prospects are suddenly nipped in the bud. His valet one morning announces a Sir Thomas Le Brun, and Sir Thomas Le Brun proves to be that worthy gentleman Sir John Augustus Frederick Geoffry Ulric, Baronet. A scene ensues. Paul screams, and Sir John clenches his fist. The father makes a speech, and the son makes a speech and a bow. At length they fly into each other's arms, and the drama closes by the old personage taking the young personage home in his carriage. In all this balderdash about the stage, there is not one original incident or idea. The same anecdotes are told, but in infinitely better language, in every book of dramatic reminiscences since the flood.

Our author now indulges in what we suppose to be satire. The arrows of his wit are directed, with much pertinacity at least, against one Borel Bunting, by which name it strikes us that Mr. M. wishes to indicate some poor devil of an editor in bonâ fide existence—perhaps some infatuated young person who could not be prevailed upon, by love or money, to look over the MS. of Paul Ulric. If our supposition be true, we could wish Mr. Borel Bunting no better revenge than what the novelist has himself afforded by this public exposure of his imbecility. We must do our readers the favor of copying for their especial perusal, a portion of this vehement attack.

There has been much speculation as to the birthplace of Borel; (in this respect he somewhat resembled Homer) but if I have been correctly informed it was in one of the New England States. Further than this I cannot particularize. When he came to Essex he managed to procure a situation in a counting-house, which afforded him the means of support as well as leisure for study. He did not overlook these advantages, and gradually rose in public estimation until he became the editor of the Literary Herald. This gentleman was deeply read in the classics, and had also perused every novel and volume of poetry from the earliest period of English literature down to the present. Such had been his indefatigable research, that there was not a remarkable passage in the whole range of the Waverley fictions, or indeed any other fictions, to which he could not instantly turn. As to poetry, he was an oracle. He could repeat the whole of Shelley, Moore, and Wordsworth, verbatim. He was a very Sidrophel in his acquirements. He could tell

"How many scores a flea would jump;"

he could prove, also, "that the man in the moon's a sea Mediterranean," and

"In lyric numbers write an ode on His mistress eating a black pudding."

He composed acrostics extempore by the dozen; we say extempore, though it was once remarked that he was months in bringing them to maturity. He was inimitable, moreover, in his pictures of natural scenery. When a river, or a mountain, or a waterfall was to be sketched, Borel Bunting, of all others, was the man to guide the pencil. He had the rare faculty of bringing every thing distinctly before the mind of the reader—a compliment to which a majority of his brother scribes are not entitled.

Borel Bunting possessed also a considerable degree of critical acumen. Southey was a mere doggerelist; Cooper and Irving were not men of genius: so said Borel. Pope, he declared, was the first of poets, because Lord Byron said so before him. Tom Jones, he contended, was the most perfect specimen of a novel extant. He was also willing to admit that Goldsmith had shown some talent in his Vicar of Wakefield.

In a word, Borel's wonderful acquirements secured him the favorable attention of many distinguished men; and at length (as a reward of his industry and merit) he was regularly installed in the chair editorial of the "Literary Herald," an important weekly periodical, fifteen inches in diameter. His salary, it is supposed, was something less than that received by the President of the United States.

The Literary Herald, Borel (or rather, Mr. Bunting—we beg his pardon) considered the paragon of perfection. No one could ever hope to be distinguished in literature who was not a contributor to its columns. It was the only sure medium through which young Ambition could make its way to immortality. In short, (to use one of Bunting's favorite words,) it was the "nonpareil" of learning, literature, wit, philosophy, and science.

Mr. Bunting corresponded regularly with many distinguished individuals in Europe. I called upon him one morning, just after the arrival of a foreign mail, when he read me portions of seven letters which he had just received. One was from Lafayette, another from Charles X., a third from the author of a fashionable novel, a fourth from Miss L——, a beautiful poetess in London, a fifth from a German count, a sixth from an Italian prince, and a seventh from Stpqrstuwsptrsm, (I vouch not for the orthography, not being so well acquainted with the art of spelling as the learned Borel,) a distinguished Russian general in the service of the great "Northern Bear."

The most unfortunate charge that was ever preferred against Borel, in his editorial capacity, was that of plagiarism. He had inserted an article in his paper over his acknowledged signature, entitled "Desultory Musings," which some one boldly asserted was an extract from Zimmerman on Solitude; and, upon its being denied by the editor, reference was given to the identical page whence it was taken. These things boded no good to the reputation of the scribe; nevertheless, he continued his career without interruption, and, had he lived in the days of Pope, the latter might well have asked,

"Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through, He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain, The creature's at his dirty work again— * * * * * Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines."

Mr. Ulric now indulges us with another love affair, beginning as follows: "Oh thou strange and incomprehensible passion! to what canst thou be compared? At times thou art gentle as the zephyr; at others thou art mighty as the tempest. Thou canst calm the throbbing bosom, or thou canst fill it with wilder commotion. A single smile of thy benign countenance calleth new rapture to the anguished heart, and scattereth every doubt, every fear, every perplexity. But enough of this." True.

A young lady falls into a river or a ditch, (our author says she was fishing for a water-lily) and Mr. Ulric is at the trouble of pulling her out. "What a charming incident!" says Mr. Mattson. Her name is Violet, and our susceptible youth falls in love with her. "Shall I ever," quoth Paul, "shall I ever forget my sensations at that period?—never!!" Among other methods of evincing his passion he writes a copy of verses "To Violet," and sends them to the Literary Herald. All, however, is to little purpose. The lady is no fool, and very properly does not wish a fool for a husband.

Our hero now places his affections upon the wife of a silk-dyer. He has a rival, however, in the person of the redoubted editor, Borel Bunting, and a duel ensues, in which, although the matter is a hoax, and the pistols have no load in them, Mr. Mattson assures us that the editor "in firing, lodged the contents of his weapon in the ground a few inches from his feet." The chapter immediately following this adventure is headed with poetical quotations occupying two-thirds of a page. One is from Byron—another from All's Well that Ends Well—and the third from Brown's Lecture on Perpetual Motion. The chapter itself would form not quite half a column such as we are now writing, and in it we are informed that Bunting, having discovered the perpetual motion, determines upon a tour in Europe.

The editor being thus disposed of, Mr. Mattson now enters seriously upon the business of his novel. We beg the attention of our readers while we detail a tissue of such absurdity, as we did not believe it possible, at this day, for any respectable bookseller to publish, or the very youngest of young gentlemen to indite.

Let us bear in mind that the scene of the following events is in the vicinity of Philadelphia, and the epoch, the present day. Mr. Ulric takes a stroll one May morning with his gun. "Nature seems to be at rest," &c.—"the warbling of birds," &c.—"perched among trees," &c. was all very fine, &c. "While gazing," says Paul, "upon these objects," (that is to say, the warbling of the birds) "I beheld a young and beautiful female trip lightly over the grass, and seat herself beneath a willow which stood in the middle of a park." Whereupon our adventurer throws himself into an attitude, and soliloquizes as follows.

"It seems that there is an indescribable something in the features of many women—a look, a smile, or a glance of the eye—that sends the blood thrilling to the heart, and involuntarily kindles the flame of love upon its altar. It is no wonder that sages and philosophers have worshipped with such mad devotion at the shrine of beauty! It is no wonder that the mighty Pericles knelt at the feet of his beloved Aspasia! It is no wonder that the once powerful Antony sacrificed his country to the fatal embraces of the bewitching Cleopatra! It is no wonder that the thirst for glory cooled in the heart of the philosophic Abelard, when he beheld the beauty of the exquisite Heloise! It is no wonder, indeed, that he quitted the dry maxims of Aristotle to practise the more pleasing precepts of Ovid! But this is rhapsody!" It is.

The lady is dressed in white, (probably cambric muslin,) and Mr. Mattson assures us that her features he shall not attempt to describe. He proceeds, however, to say that her "eyes are hazel, but very dark," "her complexion pure as alabaster," her lips like the lips of Canova's Venus, and her forehead like—something very fine. Mr. Ulric attempts to speak, but his embarrassment prevents him. The young lady "turns to depart," and our adventurer goes home as he came.

The next chapter commences with "How mysterious is human existence!"—which means, when translated, "How original is Mr. Mattson!" This initial paragraph concludes with a solemn assurance that we are perishable creatures, and that it is very possible we may all die—every mother's son of us. But as Mr. M. hath it—"to our story." Paul has discovered the mansion of the young lady—but can see no more of the young lady herself. He therefore stands sentinel before the door, with the purpose "of making observations." While thus engaged, he perceives a tall fellow, "with huge black whiskers and a most forbidding aspect," enter the house, in a familiar manner. Our hero is, of course, in despair. The tall gentleman could be no other than the accepted lover of the young lady. Having arrived at this conclusion, Paul espies a column of smoke in the woods, and after some trouble discovers it to proceed from "a log dwelling which stood alone, with its roof of moss, amid the silence and solitude of nature." A dog barks, and an old woman makes her appearance.

This old lady is a most portentous being. She is, however, a little given to drinking; and offers our hero a dram, of which Mr. Mattson positively assures us that gentleman did not accept.

"Can you tell me," says Paul, "who lives in the stone house?"

"Do you mean the Florence mansion," she asked.

"Very like—who is its owner?"

"A man of the same name—Richard Florence."

"Who is Richard Florence?"

"An Englishman; he came to this country a year or two ago."

"Has he a wife?"

"Not that I know of."

"Children?"

"An only daughter."

"What is her name?"

"Emily."

"Emily!—Is she beautiful?"

"Very beautiful!"

"And amiable?"

"Her like is not to be found."

"What," [exclaims our hero, perhaps starting back and running his fingers through his hair]—"what are all the fleeting and fickle pleasures of the world! what the magnificent palaces of kings, with their imperial banquetings and gorgeous processions! what, indeed, are all the treasures of the earth or the sea, in comparison with the pure, the bright, the beautiful object of our young and innocent affections!!!"

The name of the old hag is Meg Lawler, and she favors Mr. Ulric with her private history. The morality of her disclosures is questionable—but "morals, at the present day, quoth Mr. Mattson, are rarely sought in works of fiction, and perhaps less rarely found." The gentleman means more rarely. But let us proceed. Meg Lawler relates a tale of seduction. It ends in the most approved form. "I knew," says she, "that the day of sorrow and tribulation was at hand, but alas, there was no saving power!" Here follows a double range of stars—after which, the narrative is resumed as follows.

Dame Lawler paused, and turning upon me her glaring and blood-shot eyes exclaimed—

"Do you think there is a punishment hereafter for the evil deeds done in the body?"

"Such," I replied, "the divines have long taught us."

"Then is my destroyer writhing in the agonies of hell!!"

Mr. Ulric is, of course, electrified, and the chapter closes.

Our hero, some time after this, succeeds in making the acquaintance of Miss Emily Florence. The scene of the first interview is the cottage of Meg Lawler. Mr. U. proposes a walk—the lady at first refuses, but finally consents.

"There were two paths," says our hero, "either of which we might have chosen: one led into the forest, the other towards her father's house. I struck into the latter—but she abruptly paused."

"Shall we continue our walk?" I asked, observing that she still hesitated.

"Yes," she at length answered; "but I would prefer the other path"—that is to say the path through the woods—O fi, Miss Emily Florence! During the walk, our hero arrives at the conclusion that his beloved is "some unfortunate captive whose fears, or whose sense of dependence, might render it imprudent for her to be seen in the society of a stranger." In addition to all this, Dame Lawler has told Mr. U. that "she did not believe Emily was the daughter of Mr. Florence"—hereby filling the interesting youth with suspicions, which Mr. Mattson assures us "were materials for the most painful reflection."

On their way home our lovers meet with an adventure. Mr. Ulric happens to espy a—man. Miss Emily Florence thus explains this momentous occurrence. "There is a band of robbers who have their retreat in the neighboring hills—and this was no doubt one of them. They are headed by a brave and reckless fellow of the name of Elmo—Captain Elmo I think they call him. They have been the terror of the inhabitants for a long time. My father went out sometime ago with an armed force in pursuit of them, but could not discover their hiding place. I have heard it said that they steal away the children of wealthy parents that they may exact a ransom." Once more we beg our readers to remember that Mr. Mattson's novel is a Tale of the Present Times, and that its scene is in the near vicinity of the city of Brotherly Love.

Having convinced her lover that the man so portentously seen can be nobody in the world but "that brave and reckless fellow" Captain Elmo, Miss Florence proceeds to assure Mr. U. that she (Miss Florence) is neither afraid of man nor the devil—and forthwith brandishes in the eyes of our adventurer an ivory-hilted dagger, or a carving-knife, or some such murderous affair. "Scarcely knowing what I did," says our gallant friend, "I imprinted a kiss (the first—burning, passionate, and full of rapture) upon her innocent lips, and—darted into the woods!!!" It was impossible to stand the carving-knife.

As Mr. U. takes his way home after this memorable adventure, he is waylaid by an old woman, who turns out to be a robber in disguise. A scuffle ensues, and our hero knocks down his antagonist—what less could such a hero do? Instead however of putting an end at once to his robbership, our friend merely stands over him and requests him to recite his adventures. This the old woman does. Her name is Dingee O'Dougherty, or perhaps Dingy O'Dirty—and she proves to be one and the same personage with the little man in gray who sold Mr. U. the tinsel watch spoken of in the beginning of the history. During the catechism, however, a second robber comes up, and the odds are now against our hero. But on account of his affectionate forbearance to Dingy O'Dirty no farther molestation is offered—and the three part with an amicable understanding.

Mr. Ulric is now taken ill of a fever—and during his illness a servant of Mr. Florence having left that gentleman's service, calls upon his heroship to communicate some most astounding intelligence. Miss Florence, it appears, has been missing for some days, and her father receives a letter (purporting to be from the captain of the banditti) in which it is stated that they have carried her away, and would only return her in consideration of a ransom. Florence is requested to meet them at a certain spot and hour, when they propose to make known their conditions. Upon hearing this extraordinary news our adventurer jumps out of bed, throws himself into attitude No. 2, and swears a round oath that he will deliver Miss Emily himself. Thus ends the first volume.

Volume the second commences with spirit. Mr. U. hires "three fearless and able-bodied men to accompany and render him assistance in the event of danger. Each of them was supplied with a belt containing a brace of pistols, and a large Spanish knife." With these terrible desperadoes, our friend arrives at the spot designated by the bandit. Leaving his companions near at hand, he advances, and recognizes the redoubted Captain Elmo, who demands a thousand pounds as the ransom of Miss Emily Florence. Our hero considers this too much, and the Captain consents to take five hundred. This too Mr. U. refuses to give, and with his three friends makes an attack upon the bandit. But a posse of robbers coming to the aid of their leader, our hero is about to meet with his deserts when he is rescued by no less a personage than our old acquaintance Dingy O'Dirty, who proves to be one of the banditti. Through the intercession of this friend, Mr. U. and his trio are permitted to go home in safety—but our hero, in a private conversation with Dingy, prevails upon that gentleman to aid him in the rescue of Miss Emily. A plot is arranged between the two worthies, the most important point of which is that Mr. U. is to become one of the robber fraternity.

In a week's time, accordingly, we behold Paul Ulric, Esq. in a cavern of banditti, somewhere in the neighborhood of Philadelphia!! His doings in this cavern, as related by Mr. Mattson, we must be allowed to consider the most laughable piece of plagiarism on record—with the exception perhaps of something in this same book which we shall speak of hereafter. Our author, it appears, has read Gil Blas, Pelham, and Anne of Gierstein, and has concocted, from diverse passages in the three, a banditti scene for his own especial use, and for the readers of Paul Ulric. The imitations (let us be courteous!) from Pelham are not so palpable as those from the other two novels. It will be remembered that Bulwer's hero introduces himself into a nest of London rogues with the end of proving his friend's innocence of murder. Paul joins a band of robbers near Philadelphia, for the purpose of rescuing a mistress—the chief similarity will be found in the circumstances of the blindfold introduction, and in the slang dialect made use of by either novelist. The slang in Pelham is stupid enough—but still very natural in the mouths of the cutthroats of Cockaigne. Mr. Mattson, however, has thought proper to bring it over, will I nill I, into Pennsylvania, and to make the pickpockets of Yankeeland discourse in the most learned manner of nothing less than "flat-catching," "velvet," "dubbing up possibles," "shelling out," "twisting French lace," "wakeful winkers," "white wool," "pig's whispers," and "horses' nightcaps!"

Having introduced his adventurer à la Pelham, Mr. Mattson entertains him à la Gil Blas. The hero of Santillane finds his cavern a pleasant residence, and so does the hero of our novel. Captain Rolando is a fine fellow, and so is Captain Elmo. In Gil Blas, the robbers amuse themselves by reciting their adventures—so they do in Paul Ulric. In both the Captain tells his own history first. In the one there is a rheumatic old cook—in the other there is a rheumatic old cook. In the one there is a porter who is the main obstacle to escape—in the other ditto. In the one there is a lady in durance—in the other ditto. In the one the hero determines to release the lady—in the other ditto. In the one Gil Blas feigns illness to effect his end, in the other Mr. Ulric feigns illness for the same object. In the one, advantage is taken of the robbers' absence to escape—so in the other. The cook is sick, at the time, in both.

In regard to Anne of Gierstein the plagiarism is still more laughable. We must all remember the proceedings of the Secret Tribunal in Scott's novel. Mr. Mattson has evidently been ignorant that the Great Unknown's account of these proceedings was principally based on fact. He has supposed them imaginary in toto, and, seeing no good reason to the contrary, determined to have a Secret Tribunal of his own manufacture, and could think of no better location for it than a cavern somewhere about the suburbs of Philadelphia. We must be pardoned for giving Mr. Mattson's account of this matter in his own words.

Dingee disappeared, [this is our old friend Dingy O'Dirty] Dingee, [quoth Mr. Mattson,] disappeared—leaving me for a time alone. When he returned, he said every thing was in readiness for the ceremony, [the ceremony of Mr. Ulric's initiation as a robber.] The place appointed for this purpose was called the 'Room of Sculls'—and thither, blindfolded, I was led.

'A candidate for our order!' said a voice, which I recognized as O'Dougherty's.

'Let him see the light!' exclaimed another in an opposite direction. The mandate was obeyed, and I was restored to sight.

I looked wildly and fearfully around—but no living object was perceptible. Before me stood an altar, hung about with red curtains, and ornamented with fringe of the same color. Above it, on a white Banner, was a painting of the human heart, with a dagger struck to the hilt, and the blood streaming from the wound. Directly under this horrible device, was written, in large letters,

THE PUNISHMENT OF THE UNFAITHFUL.

Around, wherever I turned my eyes, there was little else to be seen but skeletons of human bodies—with their arms uplifted, and stretching forward—suspended in every direction from the walls. One of them I involuntarily touched, and down it came with a fearful crash—its dry bones rattling upon the granite floor, until the whole cavern reverberated with the sound. I turned from this spectacle, and opposite beheld a guillotine—the fatal axe smeared with blood; and near it was a head—looking as if it had just been severed from the body—with the countenance ghastly—the lips parted—and the eyes staring wide open. There, also, was the body, covered, however, with a cloth, so that little was seen except the neck, mangled and bloody, and a small portion of the hand, hanging out from its shroud, grasping in its fingers a tablet with the following inscription:

THE END OF THE BETRAYER.

I sickened and fell. When I awoke to consciousness I found myself in the arms of O'Dougherty. He was bathing my temples with a fragrant liquor. When I had sufficiently recovered, he put his mouth close to my ear and whispered—'Where is your courage man? Do you know there is a score of eyes upon you?'

'Alas! I am unused to such scenes—I confess they have unmanned me. But now I am firm; you have only to command, and I will obey.'

'Bravo!' exclaimed O'Dougherty, 'you must now be introduced to the high priest of our order. He has taken his seat at the altar—prepared for your reception. I will retire that you may do him reverence—trusting soon to hail you as a brother.'

The curtains about the altar had been grouped up, and there, indeed, sat the high dignitary in all his splendor. He was closely masked, and reclined in a high-backed chair, with his head turned carelessly to one side, with an expression of the most singular good humor. At that moment, also, there issued from numerous recesses, which I had not hitherto observed, a number of grotesque-looking shapes, not unlike the weird sisters in Macbeth, who quietly took their stations around the apartment, and fixed upon me their fearful and startling gaze. Their garments were hanging in shreds—an emblem, perhaps, of their own desperate pursuits. Their faces were daubed with paint of various colors, which gave them a wild and fiendish aspect. Each one grasped a long knife, which he brandished furiously above his head, the blades sometimes striking heavily together. They then sprang simultaneously forward, forming themselves into a circle, while one stationed himself as the centre, around whom they slowly moved with dismal and half-suppressed groans. They continued this ceremony until some one exclaimed—

'Bring forth the dead!'

'Bring forth the dead!'—they all repeated, until the cavern rang with a thousand echoes.

The banditti now stood in a line, stretching from one end of the room to the other, and remained some time in silence. Directly a dead body—mutilated and bloody—was borne by some invisible agency into our presence. It rested upon a bier—without pall or other covering—a spectacle too horrible for description. I thought, at first, that it was some optical delusion—but, alas! it proved a fearful reality—a dread and reckless assassination, prompted by that hellish and vindictive spirit, which appeared so exclusively to govern the ruffians with whom I was voluntarily associated. The victim before me was a transgressor of their laws; and this punishment had been dealt out to him as the reward of his perfidy. Life, to all appearance, was extinct; but the sluggish and inert clay still remained, as if in mockery of all law—all humanity—all mercy.

'Behold the traitor!'—exclaimed one of the number.

'Behold the traitor!'—they all repeated in concert.

'Bear away the dead!'—commanded the priest at the altar.

'Bear away the dead! bear away the dead!'—was reiterated in succession by every tongue, until the lifeless body disappeared—and with it the fiendish revellers who had sported so terrifically in its presence.

We have only to say, that if our readers are not absolutely petrified after all this conglomeration of horrors, it is no fault either of Paul Ulric's, Morris Mattson's, or Dingy O'Dirty's.

Miss Emily Florence is at length rescued, and with her lover, is rowed down some river in a skiff by Dingy, who thus discourses on the way. We quote the passage as a specimen of exquisite morality.

"Had I the sensibility of many men, a recollection of my crimes would sink me into the dust—but as it is, I can almost fancy them to be so many virtues. I see you smile; but is it not a truth, that every thing of good and evil exists altogether in idea? The highwayman is driven by necessity to attack the traveller, and demand his purse. This is a crime—so says the law—so says society—and must be punished as our wise men have decreed. Nations go to war with each other—they plunder—burn—destroy—and murder—yet there is nothing wrong in this, because nations sanction it. But where is the difference between the highwayman, in the exercise of a profession by which he is to obtain a livelihood, and a nation, with perhaps less adequate cause, which despoils another of its treasures, and deluges it in blood? Is not this a proof that our ideas of immorality and wickedness are derived in a great measure from habit and education?" "The metaphysical outlaw," [says our hero,] "the metaphysical outlaw here concluded his discourse." [What an excessively funny idea Mr. Mattson must have of metaphysics!]

Having left the boat, taken leave of Dingy O'Dirty, and put on a pair of breeches, Miss Florence now accompanies our adventurer to a village hard by. Entering a tavern the lovers seat themselves at the breakfast table with two or three other persons. The conversation turns upon one Mr. Crawford, a great favorite in the village. In the midst of his own praises the gentleman himself enters—"and lo!" says Mr. Ulric, "in the person of Mr. Crawford, I recognized the notorious Captain Elmo!" The hue and cry is immediately raised, but the Captain makes his escape through a window. Our hero pursues him to no purpose, and in returning from the pursuit is near being run over by a carriage and six. The carriage doors happen to be wide open, and in the vehicle Mr. Ulric discovers—oh horrible!—Miss Emily Florence in the embrace of the fellow with the big whiskers!

Having lost his sweetheart a second time, our adventurer is in despair. But despair, or indeed any thing else, is of little consequence to a hero. "It is true," says Paul, "I was sometimes melancholy; but melancholy with me is as the radiant sunlight, imparting a hue of gladness to every thing around!!" Being, therefore, in excellent spirits with his melancholy, Mr. Ulric determines upon writing a novel. The novel is written, printed, published, and puffed. Why not?—we have even seen "Paul Ulric" puffed. But let us hasten to the dénouement of our tale. The hero receives a letter from his guardian angel, Dingy O'Dirty, who, it appears, is in England. He informs Mr. U. that Miss Florence is in London, for he (Dingy O'Dirty) has seen her. Hereupon our friend takes shipping for that city. Of course he is shipwrecked—and, of course, every soul on board perishes but himself. He, indeed, is a most fortunate young man. Some person pulls him on shore, and this person proves to be the very person he was going all the way to London to look for—it was Richard Florence himself. What is more to the purpose, Mr. F. has repented of promising Miss Emily to the fellow with the big whiskers. Every thing now happens precisely as it should. Miss E. is proved to be an heiress, and no daughter of Florence's after all. Our hero leads her to the altar. Matters come rapidly to a crisis. All the good characters are made excessively happy people, and all the bad characters die sudden deaths, and go, post haste, to the devil.

Mr. Mattson is a very generous young man, and is not above patronizing a fellow-writer occasionally. Some person having sent him a MS. poem for perusal and an opinion, our author consigns the new candidate for fame to immortality at once, by heading a chapter in Paul Ulric with four entire lines from the MS., and appending the following note at the bottom of the page.

From a MS. poem entitled "Drusilla," with which we have been politely favored for perusal. It is a delightful work, and shows the writer to be a man of genius and reflection. We hope it will not be long before the lovers of poetry are favored with this production; it will win deserved celebrity for its author.

And as a farther instance of disinterestedness, see this conversation between Mr. Mattson's hero, and a young lady in London who wrote for the annuals.

"What do you think of D'Israeli's novels?"—asked she.

"Excellent! Excellent!" I replied, "especially Vivian Grey: take for example the scene in the long gallery between Vivian, and Mrs. Felix Lorraine."

"Admirable!"—returned the young lady, "but, by the way, how do you like Bulwer?"

"Well enough," I answered.

"Pray, Mr. Ulric, how many female writers of distinction have you in America? Honest old Blackwood tells us of but two or three."

"And who are they?"

"Miss Gould, Miss Sedgwick, and Mrs. Sigourney."

"He should have added another—Miss Leslie."

We fancy it is long since Miss Leslie, Miss Gould, Miss Sedgwick, Mrs. Sigourney, Lytton Bulwer, and Ben D'Israeli have been so affectionately patted on the back.

Of Mr. Mattson's style the less we say the better. It is quite good enough for Mr. Mattson's matter. Besides—all fine writers have pet words and phrases. Mr. Fay had his "blisters"—Mr. Simms had his "coils," "hugs," and "old-times"—and Mr. M. must be allowed his "suches" and "so muches." Such is genius!—and so much for the Adventures of an Enthusiast! But we must positively say a word in regard to Mr. Mattson's erudition. On page 97, vol. ii, our author is discoursing of the novel which his hero is about to indite. He is speaking more particularly of titles. Let us see what he says.

"An ill-chosen title is sufficient to condemn the best of books. Never does an author exhibit his taste and skill more than in this particular. Just think for a moment of the Frenchman's version of Doctor Johnson's 'Rambler' into 'Le Chevalier Errant,' and what was still more laughable, his innocently addressing the author by the appellation of Mr. Vagabond! By the way, the modern fanatics were somewhat remarkable in the choice of their titles. Take for example the following—'The Shop of the Spiritual Apothecary' and 'Some fine Baskets baked in the Oven of Charity, carefully conserved for the Chickens of the Church, the Sparrows of the Spirit, and the Sweet Swallows of Salvation.'"

Having admired this specimen of deep research, let us turn to page 125, vol. ii. Mr. Ulric is here vindicating himself from some charges brought against his book. Have patience, gentle reader, while we copy what he says.

"In the first place we are accused of vulgarity. In this respect we certainly bear a strong resemblance to Plautus, who was censured by the satirical Horace for the same thing. Next come Ignorance, Vanity, and Stupidity. Of the first two, the classic reader will not forget that Aristotle (who wrote not less than four hundred volumes) was calumniated by Cicero and Plutarch, both of whom endeavored to make it appear that he was ignorant as well as vain. But what of our stupidity? Socrates himself was treated by Athenæus as illiterate; the divine Plato, called by some the philosopher of the Christians, by others the god of philosophers, was accused by Theopompus of lying, by Aristophanes of impiety, and by Aulus Gellius of robbery. The fifth charge is a want of invention. Pliny has alleged the same thing of Virgil—and surely it is some consolation to know that we have such excellent company. And last, though not least, is plagiarism. Here again Naucrates tells us that Homer pillaged some of his best thoughts from the library at Memphis. It is recorded, moreover, that Horace plundered from the minor Greek poets, and Virgil from his great prototype, Homer, as well as Nicander, and Apollonius Rhodius. Why then should we trouble ourselves about these sweeping denunciations?"

What a learned man is Morris Mattson, Esq.! He is intimately versed not only in Horace, Aristotle, Cicero, Plutarch, Virgil, Homer, Plato, Pliny, and Aristophanes—but (credat Judæus!) in Nicander, Aulus Gellius, Naucrates, Athenæus, Theopompus, and Apollonius Rhodius! I. D'Israeli, however, the father of Ben D'Israeli aforesaid, is (we have no hesitation in saying it,) one of the most scoundrelly plagiarists in Christendom. He has not scrupled to steal entire passages verbatim from Paul Ulric! On page 1, vol. ii, second edition, of 'The Curiosities of Literature,' in a chapter on Titles, we have all about Dr. Johnson, Le Chevalier Errant, and Mr. Vagabond, precisely in the language of Mr. Mattson. O thou abandoned robber, D'Israeli! Here is the sentence. It will be seen, that it corresponds with the first sentence italicized in the paragraph (above) beginning 'An ill-chosen title, &c.' "The Rambler was so little understood, at the time of its appearance, that a French Journalist has translated it 'Le Chevalier Errant,' and a foreigner drank Johnson's health one day, by innocently addressing him by the appellation of Mr. Vagabond!" And on page 11, of the same volume, we perceive the following, which answers to the second sentence italicized in the paragraph above mentioned. "A collection of passages from the Fathers is called 'The Shop of the Spiritual Apothecary'—one of these works bears the elaborate title 'Some fine Baskets baked in the Oven of Charity, carefully conserved for the Chickens of the Church, the Sparrows of the Spirit, and the Sweet Swallows of Salvation.'" There can be no doubt whatever of D'Israeli's having pilfered this thing from Paul Ulric, for Mr. Mattson having, inadvertently we suppose, written Baskets for Biscuits, the error is adopted by the plagiarist. But we have a still more impudent piece of robbery to mention. The whole of the erudition, and two-thirds of the words in the paragraph above, beginning 'In the first place we are accused of vulgarity,' &c. is to be found on page 42, vol. i, second edition, of The 'Curiosities!' Let us transcribe some of D'Israeli's words in illustration of our remark. We refer the reader for more particular information to the book itself.

"Horace censures the coarse humor of Plautus—Aristotle (whose industry composed more than four hundred volumes) has not been less spared by the critics. Diogenes Laertius, Cicero and Plutarch have forgotten nothing that can tend to show his ignorance, his ambition, and his vanity—Socrates, considered as the wisest, and most moral of men, Cicero treated as an usurer, and the pedant Athenæus as illiterate—Plato, who has been called, by Clement of Alexandria, the Moses of Athens; the philosopher of the Christians by Arnobius, and the god of philosophers by Cicero; Athenæus accuses of envy; Theopompus of lying; Suidas of avarice; Aulus Gellius of robbery; Porphyry of incontinence, and Aristophanes of impiety—Virgil is destitute of invention, if we are to give credit to Pliny—Naucrates points out the source (of the Iliad and Odyssey,) in the library at Memphis, which, according to him, the blind bard completely pillaged—Horace has been blamed for the free use he made of the minor Greek poets. Even the author of his (Virgil's) apology, has confessed that he has stolen, from Homer, his greatest beauties, from Apollonius Rhodius many of his pathetic passages, and from Nicander hints for his Georgics."

Well, Mr. Mattson, what have you to say for yourself? Is not I. D'Israeli the most impudent thief since the days of Prometheus?

In summing up an opinion of Paul Ulric, it is by no means our intention to mince the matter at all. The book is despicable in every respect. Such are the works which bring daily discredit upon our national literature. We have no right to complain of being laughed at abroad when so villainous a compound, as the thing we now hold in our hand, of incongruous folly, plagiarism, immorality, inanity, and bombast, can command at any moment both a puff and a publisher. To Mr. Mattson himself we have only one word to say before throwing his book into the fire. Dress it up, good sir, for the nursery, and call it the "Life and Surprising Adventures of Dingy O'Dirty." Humph!—Only think of Plato, Pliny, Aristotle, Aristophanes, Nicander, Aulus Gellius, Naucrates, Athenæus, Theopompus and Apollonius Rhodius!!

MARTIN'S GAZETTEER.

A New and Comprehensive Gazetteer of Virginia, and the District of Columbia: containing a copious collection of Geographical, Statistical, Political, Commercial, Religious, Moral and Miscellaneous Information, collected and compiled from the most respectable, and chiefly from original sources; by Joseph Martin. To which is added a History of Virginia from its first settlement to the year 1754: with an abstract of the principal events from that period to the independence of Virginia, written expressly for the work, by a citizen of Virginia. Charlottesville: Published by Joseph Martin. 1835.

We ought to have noticed this book sooner. Mr. Martin deserves well of the country for having laid the foundation, amidst numerous obstacles, of a work of great utility and importance. In his preface, he disavows all pretension to literary attainment, and claims only the merit of enterprise and perseverance in the execution of his design. He is entitled to all the rewards of a bold pioneer, struggling with pecuniary difficulties, and, we might add, with public indifference, in amassing a large amount of valuable information—interesting to almost every man in the Commonwealth. It is one of the evils attendant upon a high state of political excitement in any country, that what is really and substantially good, is forgotten or neglected. The resources of our great Commonwealth are immense, and if we could once get the public mind into a condition favorable to their full development, the most important consequences might be expected to follow. Societies and associations for collecting information in the various departments of moral and physical science, have abounded in most countries having the least pretension to civilization; and even in some of the States of our confederacy, it is known that an enlightened spirit of inquiry exists on the same subject. Our own state indeed, boastful as it is of its early history, the renown of some of its sons, and its abundant natural advantages, has nevertheless, we are pained to admit, manifested too little of that public spirit which has animated other communities. Of late, indeed, some signs have been exhibited of a more liberal and resolute course of action, and we are not without hope that these efforts will be crowned by highly useful and practical results.

It is because Mr. Martin has been obliged to rely principally upon individual contributions, in order to obtain which he must necessarily have used great diligence, and submitted to much pecuniary sacrifice, that we think him entitled to a double portion of praise. Few individuals would, under such circumstances, have incurred the risk of failure; and our wonder is, not that the work is not perfect, but that, contending with so many disadvantages, it should have so nearly accomplished what has been long a desideratum in Virginia literature. Our limits will not permit any thing like a minute analysis of its contents. The arrangement of the volume strikes us as superior to the ordinary alphabetical plan; and although there is much repetition even in its present form, much more we think has been avoided. That part of the General Description of the State, which especially treats of the climate, is admirably well written; and, considering the scantiness of the author's materials, owing to the general neglect of meteorological observations in Virginia, his reasoning is clear, forcible, and philosophical. In the Sketch which is given of the county of Louisa, we think we can recognize a pen which has not unfrequently adorned the pages of the "Messenger"—and the History of the State from its earliest settlement, appended to the work, is written with vigor and ability, and, as far as we can judge, with accuracy. If Mr. Martin is sustained by public liberality, which we earnestly hope will be the case, he will not only be enabled, in the next edition, to correct such imperfections as may be found to exist in the present, but to engraft a large amount of additional information, derived from authentic sources. The report of Professor Rogers, for example, on the Geology of Virginia, made to the present Legislature, will shed much light on the mineral resources of the State; and the report of the President and Directors of the Literary Fund, embracing as it does, detailed information with respect to all our literary institutions, will greatly illustrate the means in operation for diffusing the blessings and benefits of education. The statistical tables, too, can be revised and corrected in another edition; and we doubt not that many individuals into whose hands the work may fall, will voluntarily contribute such suggestions and improvements as their means of information will authorize. Such a work to the man of business, and to the traveller, and indeed to the general reader, is invaluable, and we heartily recommend it to public patronage.

ROSE-HILL.

Rose-Hill: A Tale of the Old Dominion. By a Virginian. Philadelphia: Key & Biddle.

This is an unpretending little duodecimo of about two hundred pages. It embraces some events connected with two (fictitious) families in the Western section of Virginia during the Revolution. The chief merit of the work consists in a vein of piety and strict morality pervading its pages. The story itself is interesting, but not very well put together, while the style might be amended in many respects. We wish the book, however, every success.

CHIEF JUSTICE MARSHALL.

1. An Eulogy on the Life and Character of John Marshall. Delivered at the request of the Councils of Philadelphia, on the 24th of September, 1835. By Horace Binney. pp. 55.

2. A Discourse on the Life, &c. of John Marshall, L.L.D. Pronounced on the 15th of October, 1835, at the request of the Suffolk Bar (Boston.) By Joseph Story, L.L.D., and published at their request, pp. 70.

3. An Oration on the Life and Character of John Marshall, late Chief Justice of the United States, pronounced before the Citizens of Alexandria, D. C. August 12, 1835. By Edgar Snowden. Published by request of the Committee of Arrangements.¹

¹ The late hour at which we have received this pamphlet, has prevented us from speaking as fully as we intended of its distinguished merits. It would have given us great pleasure to have embodied, in the text of this article, portions of Mr. Snowden's Oration—an Oration justly entitled to companionship with the Discourse of Judge Story, and the Eulogy of Mr. Binney. We must now, however, at this late day, confine ourselves to a general expression of commendation, and a short extract from the conclusion of the Oration.

"But the 'good' of Marshall is not interred with his bones. It lives after him, and will live after him in all time to come. The incense of virtue which he burned upon his country's altar, will continue to rise to heaven, and diffuse itself throughout the land for all following generations. When our children shall read the story of his life, they will find it one which, in its purity and beauty, cannot be surpassed by the history of any other man of our age. And who can calculate the extent of the influence of such a character upon the hearts and minds of this people, and even upon the future destinies of this country, in regulating the dispositions of those who aspire and those who are called to the high places of the nation? Who can say that it will not pervade the moral atmosphere, so as to correct many of those evil tendencies which we now see constantly developing themselves. We want such men as Marshall to rise up in our midst, and shed around the chastened light of their influence. The glare of military fame, and the glittering trappings of power, dazzle but too often to delude those who gaze at them with admiration. But upon the mellow radiance of his virtues we can all look with unclouded eyes—we can all dwell with unmingled satisfaction."

A formal criticism upon these discourses, is the least of our intentions in placing them at the head of this article. Not that they are either unworthy of criticism, or incapable of abiding its test: but that, slight and unpretending as they are in their form and guise, the consideration which their uncommon literary merits would otherwise ensure them, is in great part lost, in the overshadowing magnitude of their subject. To be engrossed by beauties or defects (if there are defects) in the style of a shilling pamphlet, when its theme is "the Life, Character and Services" of one who blended the benevolence and purity of Hale, the piercing and comprehensive genius of Mansfield, and the logical power of Erskine; and who, in the majestic simplicity of varied yet harmonious greatness, as we verily believe, is next to Washington; would be to imitate Seneca's grammarian, who in reading Virgil, thinks only of longs and shorts—disregarding all the charms of incident, and all the glories of imagery. What we have to say of the discourses, therefore, shall be little more, than that they are worthy of their authors; who by these productions, if THESE stood alone, have shown minds proof against the cramping tendencies of a profession, so much better fitted (according to Mr. Burke) to quicken and invigorate, than to open and liberalize the intellect. All of them have given narratives, crowded with interesting particulars; and, what might not have been expected from his less intimate association with the deceased, Mr. Binney seems to have acquired a larger store of these, than Judge Story. The latter, however, (what might have been as little expected from his grave judicial station, so long occupied) has adorned his pages more highly, with the flowers and graces of style.

But our main design in bringing them before our readers, is to present, at the smallest possible expense of labor to ourselves, an outline of his life, and a just view of his character, whose talents and virtues they have both so successfully commemorated. With this intent, we purpose making large extracts from the discourses; and even where we do not literally quote, we are willing to be regarded as merely paraphrasing them,—for by far the most of the incidents we are about to give, are drawn from no other source. We agree, with Lord Bacon, that in general, it is "only the meaner sort of books" that should be thus hashed and read at second-hand; and that "distilled books are, like common distilled waters, flashy things." But stinted time and space oblige us here to be content with a rifacimento, in which we trust our readers may still find much of the savor of the viands whence we make our extracts.

JOHN MARSHALL was born Sept. 24th, 1755, in Fauquier County, Virginia—a little more than two months after Braddock's defeat; and was the eldest of fifteen children, of Thomas Marshall, who was a colonel in the continental line of the Revolutionary Army, remarkable for courage, and for strength of mind. His courage was signalized at the Battles of Trenton and Brandywine; his regiment, at the latter, bearing the brunt of the attacking column led by Cornwallis in person. Though greatly outnumbered, it "maintained its position without losing an inch of ground, until both its flanks were turned, its ammunition nearly expended, and more than half the officers and one third of the soldiers were killed or wounded. Col. Marshall, whose horse had received two balls, then retired in good order to resume his position on the right of his division, but it had already retreated."² The heroism of such a father, could not be lost upon the son.

² 1. Marshall's Washington, 158.

The sparsely peopled region in which he lived, co-operating with a narrow fortune, afforded Col. Marshall but little opportunity for sending his children to school; and he was compelled to be almost exclusively himself their teacher. In his eldest son he early implanted a taste for English literature; "especially for poetry and history." At the age of twelve, John had transcribed the whole of Pope's Essay on Man, and some of his Moral Essays; and had committed to memory many of the most interesting passages of that distinguished poet.

"The love of poetry, thus awakened in his warm and vigorous mind, soon exerted a commanding influence over it. He became enamored of the classical writers of the old English school, of Milton, and Shakspeare, and Dryden, and Pope; and was instructed by their solid sense and beautiful imagery. In the enthusiasm of youth, he often indulged himself in poetical compositions, and freely gave up his leisure hours to those delicious dreamings with the muses, which (say what we may) constitute with many the purest source of pleasure in the gayer scenes of life, and the sweetest consolation in the hours of adversity.

"One of the best recommendations, indeed, of the early cultivation of a taste for poetry, and the kindred branches of literature, is, that it does not expire with youth. It affords to maturer years a refreshing relaxation from the severe cares of business, and to old age a quiet and welcome employment, always within reach, and always bringing with it, if not the charms of novelty, at least the soothing reminiscences of other days. The votary of the muses may not always tread upon enchanted ground; but the gentle influences of fiction and song will steal over his thoughts, and breathe, as it were, into his soul the fragrance of a second spring of life.

"Throughout the whole of his life, and down to its very close, Mr. Marshall continued to cultivate a taste for general literature, and especially for those departments of it, which had been the favorite studies of his youth. He was familiar with all its light, as well as its more recondite, productions. He read with intense interest, as his leisure would allow, all the higher literature of modern times; and, especially, the works of the great masters of the art were his constant delight."—[Judge Story.]

The entire compatibility of such a love for elegant literature with "the severe logic and closeness of thought, which belonged to" Judge Marshall's character, is well vindicated by Judge Story's observations, as well as by many illustrious examples. Among them may be named William Wirt. The flowery complexion of his writings, his evident delight in works of fancy, and the extraordinary graces of his oratory, made the multitude believe him to be "of imagination all compact." But he was in truth far more profoundly versed in the dry, intricate lore of his profession, and by far more capable of thridding its nicest subtleties, than thousands, whose whole minds have been occupied with its "mystic, dark, discordant" tomes. We have been told by one who knew him intimately, that there were few harder students than Mr. Wirt: and that our informant had known him repeatedly sit for six or seven hours at a time, intensely engaged in examining a single question of law; and this too, at a period of his life when the world thought him little more than a frothy declaimer, a spouter of poetry, and an inditer of light newspaper essays. But to return—Judge Story presents us most pleasing views of Col. Marshall's character, derived from conversations with his more distinguished son:

"I have often heard the Chief Justice speak of him in terms of the deepest affection and reverence."... "Indeed, he never named his father, without dwelling on his character with a fond and winning enthusiasm. It was a theme, on which he broke out with spontaneous eloquence; and in the spirit of the most persuasive confidence, he would delight to expatiate on his virtues and talents. 'My father,' he would say with kindled feelings and emphasis, 'my father was a far abler man than any of his sons. To him I owe the solid foundation of all my own success in life.' Such praise from such lips is inexpressibly precious. I know not whether it be most honorable to the parent, or to the child. It warms, while it elevates our admiration of both."

There is great truth in the remark, that children reared among numerous brothers and sisters are the more apt, on that account, to make good men and women. The kindly affections are more exercised; emulation, tempered by such love as prevents its festering into malignity, stimulates to greater activity of body and of mind; each one has less expectation of hereditary fortune—that great palsier of useful energies; and each comes in for less of that parental fondness, which, when concentrated upon one, or two, or three children, so often spoils their characters, and embitters their lives. To the influence of this truth upon young Marshall's destinies, add the judicious training and admirable example of an intelligent father, and the hardy, active life he led, in a wild and mountainous region abounding in game—and many of the best traits in his character, as well as much of his subsequent eminence, are at once accounted for.

At fourteen, he was sent to Westmoreland, one hundred miles off, where for a year he was instructed in Latin by a clergyman named Campbell, and where James Monroe was one of his fellow students. Returning then to his father's house, he, for another year, received instruction in Latin from a Scotch clergyman named Thompson; "and this was the whole of the classical tuition he ever obtained."³ By the assistance of his father, however, and the persevering efforts of his own mind, he continued to enlarge his knowledge, while he strengthened his body by "hardy, athletic exercises in the open air. He engaged in field sports; he wandered in the deep woods; he indulged his solitary meditations amidst the wildest scenery of nature; he delighted to brush away the earliest dew of the morning."... "It was to these early habits in a mountainous region, that he probably owed that robust and vigorous constitution, which carried him almost to the close of his life with the freshness and firmness of manhood."⁴

³ Mr. Binney.

⁴ Judge Story.

About his eighteenth year, when he had commenced the study of the Law, the lowering aspect of affairs between the Colonies and Great Britain attracted his notice, and he devoted himself chiefly to the acquiring of military skill, in a volunteer corps of the neighborhood. At length news came, of the battle of Lexington. A militia company, in which he held a commission, was ordered to assemble at a place ten miles from his father's house. Mr. Binney says, "A kinsman and contemporary, who was an eye witness of this scene, has thus described it to me:—"

"It was in May, 1775. He was then a youth of nineteen. The muster field was some twenty miles distant from the Court House, and a section of country peopled by tillers of the earth. Rumors of the occurrences near Boston, had circulated with the effect of alarm and agitation, but without the means of ascertaining the truth, for not a newspaper was printed nearer than Williamsburg, nor was one taken within the bounds of the militia company, though large. The Captain had called the company together, and was expected to attend, but did not. John Marshall had been appointed Lieutenant to it. His father had formerly commanded it. Soon after Lieutenant Marshall's appearance on the ground, those who knew him clustered about him to greet him, others from curiosity and to hear the news.

"He proceeded to inform the company that the Captain would not be there, and that he had been appointed Lieutenant instead of a better:—that he had come to meet them as fellow soldiers, who were likely to be called on to defend their country, and their own rights and liberties invaded by the British:—that there had been a battle at Lexington in Massachusetts, between the British and Americans, in which the Americans were victorious, but that more fighting was expected:—that soldiers were called for, and that it was time to brighten their fire arms, and learn to use them in the field;—and that if they would fall into a single line, he would show them the new manual exercise, for which purpose he had brought his gun,—bringing it up to his shoulder. The sergeants put the men in line, and their fugleman presented himself in front to the right. His figure, says his venerable kinsman, I have now before me. He was about six feet high, straight and rather slender, of dark complexion—showing little if any rosy red, yet good health, the outline of the face nearly a circle, and within that, eyes dark to blackness, strong and penetrating, beaming with intelligence and good nature; an upright forehead, rather low, was terminated in a horizontal line by a mass of raven-black hair of unusual thickness and strength—the features of the face were in harmony with this outline, and the temples fully developed. The result of this combination was interesting and very agreeable. The body and limbs indicated agility, rather than strength, in which, however, he was by no means deficient. He wore a purple or pale-blue hunting-shirt, and trowsers of the same material fringed with white. A round black hat, mounted with the bucks-tail for a cockade, crowned the figure and the man.

"He went through the manual exercise by word and motion deliberately pronounced and performed, in the presence of the company, before he required the men to imitate him; and then proceeded to exercise them, with the most perfect temper. Never did man possess a temper more happy, or if otherwise, more subdued or better disciplined.

"After a few lessons, the company were dismissed, and informed that if they wished to hear more about the war, and would form a circle around him, he would tell them what he understood about it. The circle was formed, and he addressed the company for something like an hour. I remember, for I was near him, that he spoke at the close of his speech of the Minute Battalion, about to be raised, and said he was going into it, and expected to be joined by many of his hearers. He then challenged an acquaintance to a game of quoits, and they closed the day with foot races, and other athletic exercises, at which there was no betting. He had walked ten miles to the muster field, and returned the same distance on foot to his father's house at Oak Hill, where he arrived a little after sunset."

"This is a portrait," to which, as we can testify with Mr. Binney, "in simplicity, gaiety of heart, and manliness of spirit," John Marshall "never lost his resemblance. All who knew him well, will recognize its truth to nature."

In the summer of 1775, he was appointed a Lieutenant in the "Minute Battalion;" and having been sent, in the next autumn, to defend the country around Norfolk against a predatory force under Lord Dunmore, he, on the 9th of December, had a full and honorable share in the successful action at the Great Bridge, which resulted in Lord D.'s defeat, and flight to his ships. In July 1776, being made lieutenant in the 11th Virginia Regiment in the Continental Service, he marched to the Middle States, where, in May 1777, he was promoted to a captaincy. Remaining constantly in service from this time until the close of 1779, he participated largely and actively in the most trying difficulties of the darkest period of the Revolution. He was in the skirmish at Iron Hill, and the battles of Brandywine, Germantown, and Monmouth. "He was one of that body of men, never surpassed in the history of the world, who, unpaid, unclothed, unfed,—tracked the snows of Valley Forge with the blood of their footsteps in the rigorous winter of 1778, and yet turned not their faces from their country in resentment, or from their enemies in fear."⁵ Acting often as Deputy Judge Advocate, he formed a wide acquaintance and influence among his brother officers. "I myself," says Judge Story, "have often heard him spoken of by these veterans in terms of the highest praise. In an especial manner, the officers of the Virginia Line, (now, 'few and faint, but fearless still') appeared almost to idolize him." During this period of his service he became acquainted with Gen. Washington and Col. Hamilton.

⁵ Mr. Binney.

In the winter of 1779, Captain Marshall was sent to Virginia as a supernumerary, to take the command of such men as the State Legislature might entrust to him. He used this opportunity, to attend a course of Law-Lectures, delivered by Mr. (afterwards Chancellor) Wythe, in William & Mary College; and Mr. (afterwards Bishop) Madison's Lectures on Natural Philosophy. In the following summer, he was licensed to practise Law; and in October, rejoined the army. It was probably on this occasion, that he went on foot from Virginia to Philadelphia, in order to be inoculated for the small pox; travelling at the rate of thirty-five miles daily. On his arrival, (as we learn from one to whom he related the incident,) he was refused admittance into one of the hotels, on account of his long beard and shabby clothing. He continued in the army till the end of Arnold's invasion of Virginia; when, there being still a redundancy of officers in the Virginia line, he resigned his commission, and devoted himself to his Law studies. The courts were then silenced in Virginia, by the tumult of War. As soon as they were opened, after the capture of Cornwallis, Mr. Marshall commenced practice.

"But a short time elapsed after his appearance at the bar of Virginia, before he attracted the notice of the public. His placidity, moderation, and calmness, irresistibly won the esteem of men, and invited them to intercourse with him;—his benevolent heart, and his serene and at times joyous temper, made him the cherished companion of his friends;—his candor and integrity attracted the confidence of the bar;—and that extraordinary comprehension and grasp of mind, by which difficulties were seized and overcome without effort or parade, commanded the attention and respect of the Courts of Justice. This is the traditionary account of the first professional years of John Marshall. He accordingly rose rapidly to distinction, and to a distinction which nobody envied, because he seemed neither to wish it, nor to be conscious of it himself."⁶

⁶ Mr. Binney.

In April 1782, he was chosen a member of the House of Delegates, in the Virginia Legislature; and in the next autumn, of the Executive Council. In January 1783, he married Miss Ambler, daughter of Jacquelin Ambler, then Treasurer of Virginia. To this lady he had become attached while in the army; and their union of nearly fifty years, amid the most devoted affection, was broken by her death, about three years before his own. Having fixed his residence in Richmond, he resigned his seat in the Council, the more closely to pursue his profession; but his friends and former constituents in Fauquier, nevertheless, elected him again to represent them in the Legislature. In 1787, he was chosen to represent the city of Richmond.

Times of civil trouble had now come, teeming with dangers hardly less than those which had beset the country ten years before. The Confederation, by which the States were united, was found too feeble a bond of union, and a still feebler means of concurrent action. It could resolve, legislate, and make requisitions upon the States; but had no power to effectuate its resolutions, laws, or requisitions. It could contract debts, but not lay taxes of any kind to pay them. It could declare war, but not raise armies to wage it. It could make treaties, but not so as to regulate commerce—perhaps the most frequent and important aim of treaties. Each State had the determining of its own scale of duties on imports; the power of coining money, and of emitting paper-money at pleasure: conflicting revenue-laws, therefore, and a disordered currency, made "confusion worse confounded." The public debt, incurred by the revolution, was unpaid. More than three hundred millions of continental paper money were unredeemed; and having depreciated to the value of one dollar for every hundred, had ceased to circulate. Public credit was nearly at an end: private credit, by the frequent violation of contracts, was at an equally low ebb: the administration of civil justice was suspended, sometimes by the wilful delinquency of the courts, sometimes by state-laws, restraining their proceedings. Commerce, Agriculture, Manufactures—industry of every kind,—were crippled. "Laws suspending the collection of debts; insolvent laws; instalment laws; tender laws; and other expedients of a like nature, which, every reflecting man knew would only aggravate the evils, were familiarly adopted, or openly and boldly vindicated. Popular leaders, as well as men of desperate fortunes, availed themselves (as is usual on such occasions) of this agitating state of things to inflame the public mind, and to bring into public odium those wiser statesmen, who labored to support the public faith, and to preserve the inviolability of private contracts." To strengthen the arm of the general government, and invest it with larger powers over the commerce, the money, and the foreign and mutual relations of the States—was believed by most people to be the only remedy for these intolerable evils. Mr. Marshall concurred with Gen. Washington, Mr. Madison, and the majority of their countrymen, in approving of this remedy; and as a member of the State Legislature, advocated the call of a Convention, to revise the Articles of Confederation. Whether they should be so altered, as to increase materially the powers of the Federal Government—was a question which in most of the State Legislatures elicited strenuous debates; and no where more, than in the Legislature of Virginia. The men of this day have little idea, how strong were the gusts of discussion at that momentous period. "It is scarcely possible," says Judge Story, "to conceive the zeal, and even animosity, with which the opposing opinions were maintained." The dissolution or continuance of the Union, was freely discussed: one party boldly advocating the former, as necessary to prevent the destruction of State-sovereignty; the other party pleading for UNION, as not only the sole cure for the immeasurable ills which were then afflicting the land, but as indispensable to the preservation of Liberty itself, in the several States. And Union, it was alleged, could not be preserved but by a more vigorous central government.