CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 4 (continued 3)

On his farm at Ellisland, Burns continued some few years; but the novelty of his situation soon wore off, and then returned the irregularities, to which, from his warm imagination, and his love of society, and his independent turn of mind, he was so strongly predisposed. Fearing that his farm alone would be insufficient to procure for him that independence, which he had hoped one day or other to attain, he applied for and obtained the office of exciseman, or as it was vulgarly called guager, for the district in which he lived. About the year 1792, he was solicited to contribute to a collection of Scottish songs, to be published by Mr. Thompson, of Edinborough. Abandoning his farm, which, from neglect and mismanagement was by no means productive, and receiving from the Board of Excise an appointment to a new district, with a salary of 70l. per annum, he removed to a small house in Dumfries, and commenced the fulfilment of his literary engagement with Mr. Thompson. His principal songs were written during this time, and day after day was adding heighth and durability to the towering and imperishable monument, which will hand down his name and fame to many generations.

But now commences his rapid and melancholy decay, the fast withering consumption of his mental and physical faculties. His had been a short but brilliant course in literature—a short and melancholy one indeed, in other respects. Defeated in his hopes, mortified in the discovery that of the two classes of friends who offered him their society and their example in the outset of his career, he had chosen the least improving and efficient as his guides and counsellors—he fast declined into that common receptacle of dust which covers alike the remains of the gifted and the simple, the prudent and the weak. He was worn with toil and poverty, and disappointed hope.

"Can the laborer rest from his labor too soon? He had toiled all the morning, and slumbered at noon."

* * * * *

Imprudent in the declaration of his political sentiments, Burns lost the path to preferment in the line of his political duties; easily enticed beyond the sway of his sober and virtuous resolutions, he became broken in health, and destitute of resources; too proud to beg and too proud to complain, his temper became irritable and gloomy, and at length a fever, attended with delirium and debility, terminated his life in the thirty-eighth year of his age. Leaving a widow, who is still living in the house where he died,² and four sons, of whom three are also at present living. Thus died Robert Burns, "poor, but not in debt, and bequeathing to posterity a name, the fame of which will not soon be eclipsed."

² Since deceased.

Burns, though he sometimes forgot his homage to the purer and brighter and more enduring orbs of heaven, in chasing the ignis fatuus lights of earth, must ever interest us as a poet and a man. A great many considerations may be properly urged in answer to the too common, and far from just charges upon his moral character. I am of opinion, that his own declaration, made not many months previous to his death, is capable of full and complete support and proof, by a reference to all the circumstances of his life. When accused of disloyalty to his government, he says, in a letter to a distinguished friend—

"In your hands, sir, permit me to lodge my strong disavowal, and defiance of such slanderous falsehoods. Be assured—and tell the world, that Burns was a poor man from his birth, and an exciseman from necessity; but—I will say it! the sterling of his honesty, poverty could not debase, and his independent British spirit, oppression might bend, but could not subdue!"

I have advanced the opinion that the crisis of Burns's fate was his visit, his first visit to Edinborough. From that event may be dated the complete establishment of his character during his after life; and with those who received him there, and undertook the task of doing what they, in their wisdom, thought expedient for the cultivation of his genius, and for his advancement or settlement in life, must, I think, rest the credit or the blame of much—of almost all his future excellence or failure. Burns went into the midst of that gay and literary circle, ready and liable to receive the most striking impressions, as the guides of his opinions and the regulators of his actions. It was another world! It had all the freshness of a new existence in the eyes, and to the mind of the rustic Ayrshire bard. Strong-minded and high-hearted as he was, he could not but look up to his new friends and patrons, as exemplars for his own imitation: and although he was not visibly perplexed with the flashings of these new and unaccustomed lights, yet he was, at heart, led astray by them. They were like the fabled corpse-fires, which danced merrily before the wildered eyes of the traveller, luring him onward to his doom—a grave! He had left the "bonnie banks of Ayr," a young plant, shooting luxuriantly up into a tall and rugged, but healthful tree; and it was upon the new soil, into which it had been transplanted, that this beautiful exotic received an inclination which was destined to be a final one. And yet I would not throw upon the fame of such men as Stewart, and Blair, and Robertson, and McKenzie, the imputation of design, or even of imprudence, in thus being accessory to the melancholy ruin, which followed the victim's acceptance of their kind, and really benevolent patronage. It is only to be lamented that upon his arrival at Edinburgh, he was not introduced at once, and alone, into that circle, which might reasonably have been designated as the only one, in which such a genius and character as Burns's could be duly appreciated and cultivated. But the secret is, he was regarded by them, not as a being for their sympathy, but a thing for the indulgence of their curiosity. In the language of another, "By the great he was treated in the customary fashion; entertained at their tables and dismissed: certain modica of pudding and praise are, from time to time, gladly exchanged for the fascination of his presence; which exchange once effected, the bargain is finished, and each party goes his several way."

Instead of treating with him, as a man, whose genius entitled him to a stand upon their own proud and distinguished level, all uncultivated and unpolished as that genius was—they universally spoke to him, and of him, as an object of patronage—as something that was to become valuable to the world, only through their instrumentality. This feeling, this mode of treatment, are not to be objected to, in themselves considered: their existence was natural, and, rightly conducted, might have been made productive of much good, and lasting happiness to him, who was their subject. But Burns was not the man to rest quietly under the most oppressive burthen that a proud man can ever feel—Patronage. And thus his relative situation to his literary friends could not but be viewed by a mind so sensitive as his own, in its true character. And we find (as soon as the novelty of a "ploughman-poet" had worn off—as every fashionable novelty will wear off in time,) that our poet began to remember that "a life of pleasure and praise would not support his family," and having experienced a portion of these reverses, which they, who depend on popular favor and flattery, must ever find inseparable therefrom—we see him stocking his little farm, and soon after adding the emoluments of the office of exciseman for the district of Ayr, to his scanty income. And here he might have been

"Content to breathe his native air, On his own ground,"

but for his kind yet misjudging friends, "the patrons," as they were called, "of his genius." Unfortunately for his future peace, each new arrival at his little home of Ellisland, of those who had known him at Edinborough, furnished proof that his old habits of conviviality were only interrupted, but by no means broken: And it was only by the frequency of these opportunities of good cheer in the society of the gay companions of his city life, that he became inattentive to his agricultural concerns, and that he finally lost the composure and happiness, which were the attendants of his new situation, and with these was lost his inclination to temperate and assiduous exertion.

I would not be understood as denying, in this argument, a previous, perhaps a natural tendency in the character of Burns, to undue and intemperate excitement: but the impression upon my own mind is strong, that this bias might have been checked and regulated, and turned to good account by the noble and learned patrons of his genius. Tried by the statutes of strict morality, a man like Burns has many things to plead in his own defence, which those of less mind and dimmer intellect cannot justly claim as their own: and it is in the unwillingness to make this distinction, that the world are, too often, unfair judges in cases of character. A distinguished writer thus elegantly remarks, upon a similar subject.

"The world is habitually unjust in its judgments: It is not the few inches of deflection from the mathematical orbit, which are so easily measured, but the ratio of these to the whole diameter, which constitutes the real aberration. With the world, this orbit may be a planet's, its diameter the breadth of the solar system: or it may be a city hippodrome, nay, the circle of a mill-course, its diameter a score of feet or paces—but the inches of deflection, only, are measured; and it is assumed that the diameter of the mill-course, and that of the planet, will yield the same ratio when compared with them. Here, then, lies the root of the blind, cruel condemnation of such men as Robert Burns, which one never listens to with approval. Granted—the ship comes into harbor with her shrouds and tackle damaged, and is the pilot therefore blame-worthy, because he has not been all-wise and all-powerful? For us to know how blame-worthy he is, tell us how long and how arduous his voyage has been."

But, after all, it is chiefly with Burns as a poet that we have to do—it is in this light that posterity will regard him, and it is into the hands of this tribunal that he must, finally, be resigned. I would that time had allowed me to refer more particularly to the works of this delightful bard, than I have been enabled to do on the present occasion. They began with his earliest, and were continued until his latest years. Scattered along his devious, and often gloomy path, they seem like beautiful wild flowers, which he threw there to cheer and animate the passer-by, with their undying bloom and sweet fragrance. "In the changes of language his songs may, no doubt, suffer change—but the associated strain of sentiment and of music will perhaps survive, while the clear stream sweeps down the Vale of Yarrow, or the yellow broom waves on the Cowdenknowes."

I have had occasion, in the course of this essay, to remark, that the songs of Burns are, by far, the most finished productions of his muse: and his admirers may safely rest his fame upon them alone, even if his longer and more elaborate poems should fail to secure him the immortality he deserves. The celebrated Fletcher somewhere says, "Give me the making of a people's songs, and let who will make their laws!" And Burns has, in the composition of his songs, placed himself on an equality with the legislators of the world! for where, in the cottage or the palace, are they unsung? Whose blood has not thrilled, and whose lip has not been compressed, as the noble air of "Scots! wha hae wi' Wallace bled!" has swelled upon his ear? Who cannot join in the touching and beautiful chorus of his "Auld lang syne?" Who has not laughed over his "Willie brewed a peck o' maut," nor felt the rising tear of sympathetic sadness whilst listening to his "Farewell to Ayr!" and his celebrated "Mary in Heaven?" In all these, and many more, which are familiar as very proverbs in our mouths, the poet has shown such a versatility, and yet such an entireness of talent—such tenderness and delicacy in his sorrow—yet withal, so pure and delightful a rapture in his mirth; he weeps with so true and feeling a heart, and laughs with such loud, and at the same time such unaffected mirth, that he finds sympathy wherever his harp is strung. The subjects he chose, and the free, natural style in which he treated them, have won him this praise—and it shall endure, the constant and lasting tribute of generation after generation.

But it has been beautifully said, (and who will not agree in the sentiment?) that "in the hearts of men of right feelings, there exists no consciousness of need to plead for Burns. In pitying admiration, he lies enshrined in all our hearts, in a far nobler mausoleum than one of marble: neither will his works, even as they are, pass away from the memory of men. While the Shakspeares and Miltons roll on like mighty rivers through the country of thought, bearing fleets of traffickers and assiduous pearl-fishers on their waves, this little Vauclusa Fountain will also arrest the eye: For this also is of nature's own and most cunning workmanship, and bursts from the depths of the earth with a full, gushing current, into the light of day. And often will the traveller turn aside to drink of its clear waters, and muse among its rocks and pines."

For Heaven, sweet bard! on thee bestowed A boon, beyond all name: And, bounteous, lighted up thy soul With its own native flame. Soft may thy gentle spirit rest, Sweet poet of the plain! Light lay the green turf on thy breast, Till it's illum'd again!

CHANGE.

If by my childhood's humble home I chance to wander now, Or through the grove with brambles grown, Where cedars used to bow, In search of something that I loved— Some little trifling thing To mind me of my early days, When life was in its spring,— I find on every thing I see A something new and strange; Time's iron hand on them and me Hath plainly written—Change. My pulse beats slower than it did When childhood's glow was on My cheek, and colder, calmer now Doth life's red current run. The stars I gaz'd with rapture on, When youthful hopes were high, With sterner years have seem'd to change Their places in the sky. And moonlit nights are plenty now— How few they used to be! When, with my little urchin crew, I shouted o'er the lea. I've sought the places where we play'd Our boyish "hide and call;" Alas! the tyrant Change has made A common stock of all— And bartered for a place of graves That lea and all its bloom: O, how upon the walls I wept, To think of Change and Doom! The lovely lawn where roses grew, Is strewn with gravestones o'er; And half my little playmate crew Have slept to wake no more Till Change itself shall cease to be, And one successive scene Of stedfastness immutable Remain where Change hath been. It may sometimes make old men glad To see the young at play; But always doth my soul grow sad When thoughts of their decay Come rushing with the memories Of what my own hopes were— When Hudson's waters and my youth Did mutual friendship share.

MANUAL LABOR SCHOOLS.

[Their importance as connected with Literary Institutions.¹]

¹ This Address was delivered by the Rev. E. F. Stanton, before the "Literary Institute" of Hampden Sidney College, at its annual commencement in September last, and is now published, for the first time, at the request of the Institute.

The proper connection of physical, moral, and intellectual culture, in a course of education, is a subject which, judging from the defective systems that have almost universally prevailed, has hitherto been but imperfectly understood, and whose importance has been but superficially estimated. Man is a being possessed of a compound nature, which consists of body, mind and spirit. In other words, he has animal, intellectual, and moral powers. He is destined for existence and action in two worlds—in this, and in that which is to come. He is formed for an earthly, and an immortal state. Any system of education, therefore, which restricts attention to either of these constituent portions of his nature, is necessarily and essentially defective. It is the cultivation which assigns to each its appropriate share, that constitutes the perfection of education. But few appear to admit, at least practically, the importance of improving the mind to any great extent by the aids which Literature and Science bestow. Fewer still are in favor of making religious instruction a distinct and indispensable part of their plan. Yet smaller is the number of those who would allow any suitable prominence to be given to the cultivation of the physical powers: and probably by far the most diminutive of all is the proportion of those who would contend for a just and equable combination in the improvement of the whole man, body, mind, and spirit.

The monitory experience of past ages, which, if duly heeded, might prevent a recurrence of serious disasters that have befallen other generations, is overlooked or disregarded, as the devotees of a worldly pleasure discredit the assurance of the sage, that "all is vanity and vexation of spirit," and each in its turn, and for itself, must try the experiment which wisdom had beforehand decided to be folly. Vanity seeks the preferment arising from novel discoveries; and inflated with an apprehension of superior knowledge, disdains to receive the instructions of former ages, and in spite of experience, gives an unrestrained indulgence to wild and hurtful extravagances. Enough has long since been disclosed in the history of mankind, if they were sufficiently docile and apt, to have demonstrated, to the satisfaction of all, that on the early and assiduous inculcation of religious principle, depend the temporal, to say nothing of the eternal welfare of individuals, and the peace and prosperity of nations. The world, by this time, ought to have known, even if Revelation had not proclaimed it, that righteousness, by which I mean religion, is the stability and safeguard of nations—that it cannot be dispensed with—that no substitute can be made for it—and that no government can be prosperous or lasting without it. Devoid of religious principle, the educated are but madmen; and the more extensive and brilliant their talents, whether natural or acquired, the more completely are they accoutred for the work of mischief. Within the recollection of the present generation, South America, and Greece, and France, where Romish corruptions and infidel perfidy have obtained the ascendancy, and rooted out a pure Christianity, have alternately struggled for the establishment of freedom. Our own nation, so deeply enamored of the "fair goddess," have looked on with an intensity of interest that bordered on inebriation, and have hailed them as brethren of the republican fraternity. But how soon have our hopes been disappointed, and our exultation proved to be premature. The despotism which has been thrown off, has been speedily succeeded by another which was scarcely less odious and intolerable. Their temple of freedom was not reared on the rock of religious principle, but on the sand. The tempest of ungoverned passions, which righteousness only has the power to allay, beat vehemently upon it, and it fell; and great has been the fall of it. Better that a population deficient in virtue, (the virtue which a pure religion only can impart,) be also deficient in knowledge. There is no regenerating or transforming influence in literature and science. The reverse of this, however, is the practical creed of most politicians. Religion with them, if not an odious and obsolete affair, is regarded as of secondary or inconsiderable importance; and all the attention which, in their estimation, it deserves, is to leave it for a spontaneous development. But the issue of such an experiment is sure to result in an absence of the fear of God, and an exuberant growth of noxious and destructive passions. If no plan can be devised, which in its operation shall secure an inseparable connection between literature and religion in our American academies and colleges, their demolition were devoutly to be desired, and our youth might better be reared in ignorance and barbarism.

These observations are made in passing, to anticipate an impression which might arise in the minds of some who may accompany us in the sequel of this discussion, that we are for giving to the physical an importance over every other department of education. So far from admitting that this is the position which we intend to assume, we would here be distinctly understood to allow, if you please, that it is the least important of all, and sinks as far in comparison with the cultivation of the mind and the heart, as the body is inferior to the soul, or as the interests of time are transcended by those of eternity. But the body, though comparatively insignificant, is still deserving of special regard. The corporeal is a part of the nature which the infinite Creator has bestowed on us—a piece of mechanism "curiously wrought," and "fearfully and wonderfully made." The body is the casement of the mind—the tenement in which the soul resides—the "outer" in which dwells the "inner man." With the nature of this union we are mostly unacquainted. We know, however, that it is close, and that the influences which body and mind exert on each other are reciprocal and powerful.

A gentleman of our own country, who has been at great pains to investigate this subject himself, and to collect the opinions of others on it, has embodied in a pamphlet, which has been published, a mass of information of the most valuable kind; but the production to which I refer has been only partially circulated in this region, and therefore has probably attracted less notice here than almost any where else in the Union. And since I have ample evidence to believe that his observations, and those of others which accompany them, are better suited to subserve the purpose which I have in view, than any of my own which I might hope to offer, I shall indulge myself on this occasion in the liberty of making somewhat copious extracts from his labors.

The individual to whom I allude, was appointed the General Agent of "the Society for promoting Manual Labor in Literary Institutions," which was formed in the city of New York in July of 1831, "under the conviction," as their committee remark, "that a reform in our seminaries of learning was greatly needed, both for the preservation of health, and for giving energy to the character by habits of useful and vigorous exercise." Shortly after entering upon the prosecution of his object, in an extensive tour of observation in the northern and western states, the journey of the agent,² as his employers relate, was interrupted by serious accidents which befel him, one of which (and we notice the narrative as an apt and striking illustration of the excellency of that system of training to which he had been accustomed, and which it was the design of his agency to recommend,) was the carrying away of the stage in Alum Creek, near Columbus, in the state of Ohio. "The creek," as they inform us, "being swollen by the great flood, in crossing, at midnight, the swiftness of the current forced the whole down the stream, till the stage-wagon came to pieces, and the Agent was thrown directly among the horses. After being repeatedly struck down by their struggles, he became entangled in the harness, and hurried with them along the current. At length, released from this peril, he reached the shore, and grasped a root in the bank; but it broke, and again the stream bore him on to the middle of the channel. At length he espied a tree which had fallen so that its top lay in the water, and by the most desperate efforts, all encumbered as he was with his travelling garments, he succeeded in reaching a branch; but his benumbed hands refused their grasp, and slipped, and then he was swept among some bushes in an eddy, where his feet rested on the ground. Here in the dead of night, in the forest, ignorant whether there was a house or a human being within many miles, bruised and chilled in the wintry stream, he seems calmly to have made up his mind to die, sustained by the hopes of the religion which he professed. But Providence had determined otherwise, and reserved him for farther usefulness. His cries were heard by a kind hearted woman on the opposite side of the stream, who wakened her husband; and, after a few days detention, he proceeded on his journey. From the accounts (the committee continue,) which are already before the public, it seems plain that nothing but a constitution invigorated by manual labor, and a soul sustained by the grace of God, could have survived the hardships of that night."

² Mr. Weld.

There are probably but few who will dissent from this decision; and we will add, that in our opinion, a preservation so extraordinary, exclusive of a Providential interposition which some will think they discern in it, affords an argument for manual labor schools, or physical education, more pointed, and perhaps conclusive, than all which this indefatigable agent has said himself, or gleaned from the testimony of others, although this composes an amount of evidence of the most convincing kind.

In the report alluded to, the Agent himself observes that "God has revealed his will to man upon the subject of education. It is written in the language of nature, and can be understood without a commentary. This revelation consists in the universal consciousness of those influences which body and mind exert upon each other—influences innumerable, incessant, and all-controlling; the body continually modifying the state of the mind, and the mind ever varying the condition of the body.

"Every man who has marked the reciprocal action of body and mind, surely need not be told that mental and physical training should go together. Even the slightest change in the condition of the body often produces an effect upon the mind so sudden and universal, as to seem almost miraculous. The body is the mind's palace; but darken its windows, and it is a prison. It is the mind's instrument; sharpened, it cuts keenly—blunted, it can only bruise and disfigure. It is the mind's reflector; if bright, it flashes day—if dull, it diffuses twilight. It is the mind's servant; if robust, it moves with swift pace upon its errands—if a cripple, it hobbles on crutches. We attach infinite value to the mind, and justly; but in this world, it is good for nothing without the body. Can a man think without the brain?—can he feel without nerves?—can he move without muscles? The ancients were right in the supposition that an unsound body is incompatible with a sound mind. [They looked only for the mens sana in corpore sano.] He who attempts mental effort during a fit of indigestion, will cease to wonder that Plato located the soul in the stomach. A few drops of water upon the face, or a feather burnt under the nostril of one in a swoon, awakens the mind from its deep sleep of unconsciousness. A slight impression made upon a nerve often breaks the chain of thought, and the mind tosses in tumult. Let a peculiar vibration quiver upon the nerve of hearing, and a tide of wild emotion rushes over the soul. The man who can think with a gnat in his eye, or reason while the nerve of a tooth is twinging, or when his stomach is nauseated, or when his lungs are oppressed and laboring; he who can give wing to his imagination when shivering with cold, or fainting with heat, or worn down with toil, can claim exemption from the common lot of humanity.

"In different periods of life, the mind waxes and wanes with the body; in youth, cheerful, full of daring, quick to see, and keen to feel; in old age, desponding, timid, perception dim, and emotion languid. When the blood circulates with unusual energy, the coward rises into a hero; when it creeps feebly, the hero sinks into a coward. The effects produced by the different states of the mind upon the body, are equally sudden and powerful. Plato used to say that all the diseases of the body proceed from the soul. [With more of propriety, we think, it may be said, that at least three-fourths of the diseases that afflict humanity, arise from an injudicious treatment of the body. But be this as it may, the fact is too obvious to be disputed, that the mind acts powerfully upon the animal frame.] The expression of the countenance is mind visible. Bad news weaken the action of the heart, oppress the lungs, destroy appetite, stop digestion, and partially suspend all the functions of the animal system. An emotion of shame flushes the face; fear blanches it; joy illuminates it; and an instant thrill electrifies a million of nerves. Powerful emotion often kills the body at a stroke. Chilo, Diagoras, and Sophocles died of joy at the Elean games. The news of a defeat killed Philip V. One of the Popes died of an emotion of the ludicrous, on seeing his pet monkey robed in pontificals, and occupying the chair of state. The door-keeper of Congress expired upon hearing of the surrender of Cornwallis. Pinckney, Emmet, and Webster are recent instances of individuals who have died either in the midst of an impassioned burst of eloquence, or when the deep emotion that had produced it had suddenly subsided. Indeed, the experience of every day demonstrates that the body and mind are endowed with such mutual susceptibilities, that each is alive to the slightest influence of the other. What is the common-sense inference from this fact? Manifestly this—that the body and the mind should be educated together.

"The states of the body are infinitely various. All these different states differently affect the mind. They are causes, and their effects have all the variety which mark the causes that produce them. If then different conditions of the body differently affect the mind, some electrifying, and others paralyzing its energies, what duty can be plainer than to preserve the body in that condition which will most favorably affect the mind? If the Maker of both was infinitely wise, then the highest permanent perfection of the mind can be found only in connection with the most healthful state of the body. Has infinite wisdom established laws by which the best condition of the mind is permanently connected with any other than the best condition of the body? When all the bodily functions are perfectly performed, the mind must be in a better state than when these functions are imperfectly performed. And now I ask, is not that system of education fundamentally defective, which makes no provision for putting the body in its best condition, and for keeping it in that condition? A system which expends its energies upon the mind alone, and surrenders the body either to the irregular promptings of perverted instinct, or to the hap-hazard impulses of chance or necessity? A system which aims solely at the development of mind, and yet overlooks those very principles which are indispensable to produce that development, and transgresses those very laws which constitute the only ground-work of rational education? Such a system sunders what God has joined together, and impeaches the wisdom which pronounced that union good. It destroys the symmetry of human proportion, and makes man a monster. It reverses the order of the constitution; commits outrage upon its principles; breaks up its reciprocities; makes war alike upon physical health and intellectual energy, dividing man against himself; arming body and mind in mutual hostility, and prolonging the conflict until each falls a prey to the other, and both surrender to ruin.

"The system of education which is generally pursued in the United States, is unphilosophical in its elementary principles; ill adapted to the condition of man; practically mocks his necessities, and is intrinsically absurd. The high excellences of the system in other respects are readily admitted and fully appreciated. Modern education has indeed achieved wonders. But what has been done meanwhile for the body? [Nothing—comparatively nothing.] The prevailing neglect of the body in the present system of education, is a defect for which no excellence can atone. Nor is this a recent discovery. Two centuries ago Milton wrote a pamphlet upon this subject, in which he eloquently urged the connection of physical with mental education in literary institutions. Locke inveighs against it in no measured terms. Since that time, Jahn, Ackerman, Salzman, and Franck, in Germany; Tissot, Rousseau, and Londe, in France; and Fellenberg, in Switzerland, have all written largely upon the subject."

In addition to what this individual has himself said, he has exhibited in the pamphlet referred to, an amount of testimony derived from a number of the most distinguished literary men in our country, to the imperfections of the existing system of education which is truly overwhelming, and enough, we should think, could it be universally disseminated, to arouse and restore to reason the whole civilized world. Indeed, we indulge the hope that it has planted the seeds of a revolution in our literary institutions; and our only surprise is, that it should advance with no greater celerity. The following important positions, however, in regard to the subject, may now be considered as established. Constant habits of exercise are indispensable to a healthful state of the body. A healthful state of body is essential to a vigorous and active state of mind. The habit of exercise should commence with the ability to take it, and should be continued with that ability through life. Of the different kinds of exercise, as a general rule, agricultural, being the most natural, and to which the human constitution is best adapted, is the most unobjectionable; mechanical is the next; and walking and riding are the employments which follow in the rear. The exercise most profitable, for the most part will be that which is most useful. The neglect of exercise, with sedentary men, has occasioned fearful havoc of health and life; and the wilful neglect of it, with those who have had an opportunity to be enlightened with respect to its necessity and value, is a species of suicide, and, therefore, an immorality. The connection of manual labor establishments with literary institutions, has been found to be greatly conducive to health and morals, as also to proficiency in the various departments of human learning; and as far as experience has gone, the promise which they give of success is all that their most sanguine projectors had anticipated.

On the subject of manual labor schools, a deep interest has within a few years been excited in various parts of the Union. Like all other enterprises which aim at the accomplishment of extensive good, it has met with opposition and discouragements; but originating in the principles of true wisdom, and supported by arguments and facts which none can gainsay or resist, its ultimate triumph may safely be predicted, and confidently anticipated.

Whether the system of physical education shall receive the countenance, or is suited to the peculiar circumstances of the southern country, may with some be made a question; but we are ready to hazard the assertion, that whatever obstacles of a peculiar nature may here lie in the way of reducing it to practice, if properly considered, they must be seen to be in truth the most powerful inducements that can be urged for its adoption.

The country in which physical education cannot prevail, in the onward march of improvements for which the present age is distinguished, must necessarily be destined to be outstripped in the pursuit of those objects which constitute the felicity and the glory of a people. That this country is to fall behind, and to be contented to remain there, is to suppose an event too disreputable for tolerance, and too much opposed to a laudable spirit of emulation to be cheerfully acquiesced in. The south needs men of vigorous constitutions for professional avocations and other purposes, as well as the rest of the world, and if she has them, must obtain them by the same process. Trained on a different plan, her sons, in comparison with others, will be effeminate and inefficient. Many of them, as has happened with others in past times, would become the prey of incurable disease, or fall the victims of an untimely grave. According to the most accurate investigations that have been made, at least one-fourth of the individuals who, for several years past, have been educated in our American colleges, have been completely prostrated in their course, or have survived only to drag out an existence rendered burdensome to themselves and unprofitable to others. The voice of warning on this topic, while mournful and alarming, is as "the voice of many waters."

Distinguished intellectual excellence depends, we believe, to a greater extent than almost any have imagined, on a robust frame of the body; and in farther corroboration of the views that have already been expressed on this subject, I would request the privilege of subjoining a few passages of striking originality, from the pen of the powerful and popular author of the essay "On Decision of Character."

"As a previous observation," he remarks, "it is beyond all doubt that very much of the principles that appear to produce, or to constitute this commanding distinction, (of decision of character) depends on the constitution of the body. It is for physiologists to explain the manner in which corporeal organization affects the mind; I only assert the fact, that there is in the material construction of some persons, much more than of others, some quality which augments, if it does not create, both the stability of their resolution, and the energy of their active tendencies. There is something that, like the ligatures which one class of Olympic combatants bound on their hands and wrists, braces round, if I may so describe it, and compresses the powers of the mind, giving them a steady and forcible spring and reaction, which they would presently lose, if they could be transferred into a constitution of soft, yielding, treacherous debility. The action of strong character seems to demand something firm in its corporeal basis, as massive engines require for their weight and for their working, to be fixed on a solid foundation. Accordingly I believe it would be found, that a majority of the persons most remarkable for decisive character, have possessed great constitutional firmness. I do not mean an exemption from disease and pain, nor any certain measure of mechanical strength, but a tone of vigor, the opposite to lassitude, and adapted to great exertion and endurance. This is clearly evinced in respect to many of them, by the prodigious labors and deprivations which they have borne in prosecuting their designs. The physical nature has seemed a proud ally of the moral one, and with a hardness that would never shrink, has sustained the energy that could never remit.

"A view of the disparities between the different races of animals inferior to man, will show the effect of organization on disposition. Compare, for instance, a lion with the common beasts of our fields, many of them composed of a larger bulk of animated substance. What a vast superiority of courage, impetuous movement, and determined action; and we attribute this difference to some great dissimilarity of modification in the composition of the animated material. Now it is probable that some difference, partly analogous, subsists between human bodies, and that this is no small part of the cause of the striking inequalities in respect of decisive character. A very decisive man has probably more of the physical quality of a lion in his composition than other men.

"It is observable that women in general have less inflexibility of character than men; and though many moral influences contribute to this difference, the principal cause is, probably, something less firm in the corporeal texture. Now, one may have in his constitution a firmness of texture, exceeding that of other men, in a much greater degree than that by which men in general exceed women.

"If there have been found some resolute spirits powerfully asserting themselves in feeble vehicles, it is so much the better; since this would authorize a hope, that if all other grand requisites can be combined, they may form a strong character, in spite of the counteraction of an unadapted constitution. And on the other hand, no constitutional hardness will form the true character without those grand principles; though it may produce that false and contemptible kind of decision which we term obstinacy; a mere stubbornness of temper, which can assign no reason but its will, for a constancy which acts in the nature of dead weight rather than of strength; resembling less the reaction of a powerful spring than the gravitation of a big stone."

In opposition to the system of education which we would defend, a voice of objection has been raised, to which it may not be improper to pay a passing regard.

It has been preferred as an objection to manual labor schools, which we shall assume, are, on the whole, the most unexceptionably expedient that has been proposed for connecting exercise with a course of literary training,³ that youth who have been unaccustomed to manual labor, and who have been permitted to indulge in idleness and sportive amusements for the purpose of recreation, will feel an insuperable aversion to the toils and restraints which such a revolution in their habits, as the one contemplated, will impose on them.

³ Gymnastic exercises are both dangerous and frivolous.

The process of taming, though quite essential to the unruly, to "flesh and blood" is never "joyous, but rather grievous." The objection started is something like that which the celebrated Rush, in some of his original effusions, has observed is met with in the case of certain morbid patients, whose weak stomachs refuse milk as a diet. The food itself, in the judgment of the acute physician, is of the most simple, inoffensive, and invigorating character; and the fact that it is rejected is the proof that it is needed. The intemperate can ill brook the privation of alcohol; the epicure and debauché will not relinquish with good will the gratification of inordinate appetites; nor will the slothful, who turns himself in his bed as the door on the hinges, give up with cheerfulness the luxury of laziness. But the true and proper question for determination is, would it not be doing to loungers and profligates themselves, as well as to others, a kindness, to put them upon a course of regimen, (provided it can be done without too great an exertion of violence,) which should bring them back to nature, and constrain them to a just and proper observance of the salutary laws of industry, sobriety, and temperance? With such an authority we think that the parents and guardians of youth every where should be invested; and those who should manifest a spirit of insubordination against its exercise, if that spirit could not be quelled by a temperate yet firm resistance, would exhibit the proof of a temper that ought to be regarded in a young man as a positive disqualification for receiving an education.

In our apprehension it is by no means among the most trivial considerations that recommend the manual labor feature in a system of education, that it furnishes an admirable test by which to try the spirit of a pupil, as well as a choice expedient to invigorate his health and inure him to habits of diligence and sobriety. A young man whose aversion to a manual labor school is so strong that it cannot be overcome, when the subject has been fairly presented to his mind, it may safely be taken for granted, is not worth educating. The community would lose nothing by the operation of a system which should exclude him from the ranks of its literati. Especially would the test in question operate favorably in the education of the beneficiaries of the church, whom she is at present somewhat extensively engaged in patronizing and preparing for her future ministry. Great as we conceive it, and great as the history of past ages has proved it to be, is the hazard which the church runs of rearing an impure priesthood, by proposing the gratuitous education of all the professedly "indigent and pious" who will apply for her bounty. The temptation to insincerity which is thus held out is too powerful to be resisted by depraved human nature. The church for safety in this respect must raise munitions and throw up her ramparts, to guard against the admission of unhallowed intruders. And what better defence, we would ask, could the ingenuity of man have devised for the prevention of the evils adverted to, than that the entire amount of contributions which are made for the education of candidates for the ministry, should flow to them exclusively through the manual labor channel? An inspired Apostle has said, that if any man will not work, neither shall he eat: and in perfect accordance, as we think, with the spirit of this declaration, we would unhesitatingly affirm, that if any man, who has the ministry in view, when the opportunity is fully presented, will not enter a manual labor school, and labor, working with his own hands, for at least a part of his support, neither should he eat the bread of the church, nor be fostered by her charities to minister at her altars.

To say that students for their recreation need something more amusing and sportive than the useful and sober exercises of agricultural and mechanical employment, is to say that the propensity of young men to levity and frivolity is so powerful that it cannot be, and ought not to be, controlled; that to aim to instil into them the habits and sentiments of gravity and sobriety is an unnatural and impracticable undertaking; and that it is more advisable to treat them as merry Andrews than as possessing the dignity of rational, immortal and accountable creatures.

Let a system of education make provision for nothing but what is elevated and useful, and still space enough will be left for all the frivolity and sporting which any can deem to be absolutely essential. These things will take care of themselves, and will inevitably come in, on any plan that may be adopted, to secure all the advantages which they are capable of affording.

Another objection which has been preferred to manual labor schools is, that they contribute but little or nothing to the support of the student.

The truth on this subject, as could be satisfactorily shown is, that, as might naturally be expected, manual labor schools, being a novel experiment in this country, have had to struggle, as do all similar enterprises of benevolence at the outset, with formidable obstacles; and in some instances, through injudiciousness in their location, or mismanagement in their arrangements, have either been abandoned, or have failed to fulfil the expectations of their projectors. Mercantile and other adventurers often fail in their plans. At the same time it is undeniable, that some institutions of this sort have succeeded beyond all previous calculations, and the students that composed them have not only enjoyed better health than others, and made more rapid advances in knowledge, but a portion of them have, by the avails of their labors, defrayed the whole of their expenses; a few have done more; and a majority have diminished them about one-half. Manual labor establishments, therefore, will do something (we ought not to expect them to do every thing,) towards cheapening education, even in the infancy of their existence; and the thought can hardly fail to be cheering to American republicans and patriots, that in the full tide of successful operation which we believe will attend their maturer age, "full many a flower" which but for them would be "born to bloom and blush unseen," will shed its "sweetness on" Columbia's "air."

But admit for a moment that manual labor schools are an utter failure as regards the pecuniary advantages which they afford. Admit, if you please, that the manual labor feature is an expensive part of education, and that to comply with it an education will cost more than on any other plan. The argument for their utility remains alike unanswered and unshaken. Is not the education thus obtained a more perfect one? Is it not immensely more valuable? Are health, morals, useful habits, vigorous intellects, and life, worth nothing? Is money expended for the improvement and preservation of these thrown away?

If manual labor schools increased the expenses of education fourfold, they would still deserve the warm patronage of the public, and all who have the ability should send their sons to them to be educated, in preference to any other institutions, even should they have as many of them as the Patriarch, or be endowed with the riches of Crœsus.

It is an ill-judged economy which saves money at the sacrifice of life, health, and morals. Let this subject be understood by an intelligent and Christian community, and manual labor schools will not be left to languish and die without endowments, while on other institutions of less substantial claims, they are lavished with a princely munificence.

In this place, it may not be amiss to attend for a short time, to the testimony of some of the pupils and superintendants of manual labor schools, who have detailed the results of their observation and experience, and which is strong and decided in their favor.

In one instance the pupils say, that "believing the results of experiment weightier than theory, we beg leave respectfully to express those convictions respecting the plan of our institution, which have been created solely by our own experience in its details. 1. We are convinced that the general plan is practicable. 2. That the amount of labor required (three hours per day) does not exceed the actual demands of the human system. 3. That this amount of labor does not retard the progress of the student, but by preserving and augmenting his physical energies, does eventually facilitate it. 4. That the legitimate effect of such a system upon body and mind, is calculated to make men hardy, enterprising and independent; and to wake up within them a spirit perseveringly to do, and endure, and dare. 5. Though the experiment at every step of its progress has been seriously embarrassed with difficulties, neither few in number nor inconsiderable in magnitude, as those know full well who have experienced them, yet it has held on its way till the entire practicability of the plan stands embodied in actual demonstration. In conclusion, (they add,) we deem it a privilege, while tendering this testimony of our experience, to enter upon the record our unwavering conviction, that the principle which has been settled by this experiment involves in its practical developments an immense amount of good to our world; it is demanded by the exigences of this age of action, when ardor is breathing for higher attempt, and energy wakes to mightier accomplishment."

On a subsequent occasion another set of pupils belonging to the same institution, express their convictions in a similar tone of approbation.

"The influence of the system," they say, "on health, is decidedly beneficial, as all of us can testify who have pursued it for any length of time. We can pursue our studies not only without injury, but with essential advantage. Not only is our bodily power increased instead of being diminished on this plan, but the powers of the mind are augmented, while moral sensibility is not blunted by hours of idleness and dissipation. We suffer no loss of time, as no more is spent in labor than is usually spent by students in recreation; and we are taught to improve every hour. Our opinion is, that intellectual progress is accelerated rather than retarded by this system. In its success, we are convinced, is deeply involved the prosperity of education, and the great work of evangelizing the world."

The students of Cumberland College in the State of Kentucky, say, "we beg leave to state the results of our own experience. Having been for a considerable time, members of a manual labor institution, we have had an exhibition of its principles and efficacy continually before us; and we are convinced that labor, for two hours or more each day, is essential to the health of all close students, and equally necessary for the development of the mind."

The young men in the theological institution at Hamilton, in the State of New York, say, "we feel the fullest conviction that every student who neglects systematic exercise, is effecting the ruin of his physical and moral powers. Nor is the influence of this unpardonable neglect less perceptible or deleterious, as it regards his moral feelings. Without it, however pure his motives, or ardent his desire to do good, we have but faint hopes of his success. Such habits as he would inevitably form, we believe, would ruin all the nobler energies of his nature. We think three hours appropriate exercise each day will not eventually retard progress in study. We must say, from five or six years experience in the institution, we have not learned that any close student has ever completed an entire course of study without serious detriment to health. We hope, however, our present system of exercise will soon enable us to exhibit a different statement. In the preservation and improvement of health, we have found an unspeakable benefit arising from systematic exercise. Without it, we deem it impossible for the close student to preserve his health."

The superintendants of a kindred institution, in a document which they have laid before the public, declare, that they "have great satisfaction in being able to state that a strong conviction pervades the minds of the young men generally, as well as their own, that laborious exercise for three hours per day does not occupy more time than is necessary for the highest corporeal and mental energy; that so far from retarding literary progress, it greatly accelerates it; that instead of finding labor to encroach upon their regular hours of study, they find themselves able, with a vigorous mind, to devote from eight to ten hours per day to intellectual pursuits; that under the influence of this system, mental lassitude is seldom if ever known; that good health and a good constitution are rarely if ever injured; that constitutions rendered delicate, and prostrated by hard study without exercise, have been built up and established; that this system with temperance is a sovereign antidote against dyspepsia and hypochondria, with all their innumerable and indescribable woes; that it annihilates the dread of future toil, self-denial, and dependence; secures to them the practical knowledge and benefits of agricultural and mechanical employments; gives them familiar access to, and important influence over that great class of business men, of which the world is principally composed; equalizes and extends the advantages of education; and lays deep and broad the foundations of republicanism; promotes the advancement of consistent piety, by connecting diligence in business with fervency of spirit, and will bless the church with such increasing numbers of ministers of such spirit and physical energy, as will fit them to endure hardness as good soldiers of Jesus Christ."

We are every day more and more impressed with the importance and practicability of the manual labor system, as the only one by which the increasing hundreds and thousands of the pious and talented sons of the church can be raised up with the enterprise, and activity, and power of endurance, which are indispensable for the conversion of the world to God.

To these statements the individual who has collected them, adds his own testimony in the following language: "I have been for three years and a half a member of a manual labor school. The whole number of my fellow students during that period was about two hundred. I was personally acquainted with every individual, and merely 'speak what I know,' and 'testify what I have seen,' when I state that every student who acquired a reputation for sound scholarship during this time, was a fast friend of the manual labor system. The most intelligent, without a single exception, were not only thoroughly convinced of the importance of the system, but they loved it with all their hearts. They counted it a privilege and a delight to give their testimony in its favor, and they did it in good earnest. Their approval of the system rose into an intelligent and abiding passion; and it is no marvel that it was so; for they had within them a permanent, living consciousness of its benefits and blessings. They felt it in their bodies, knitting their muscles into firmness, compacting their limbs, consolidating their frame work, and thrilling with fresh life the very marrow of their bones. They felt it in their minds, giving tenacity to memory, stability to judgment, acuteness to discrimination, multiform analogy to the suggestive faculty, and daylight to perception. They felt it in their hearts, renovating every susceptibility, and swelling the tide of emotion. It is true, with a few, a very few of the students, the system was unpopular, and so were languages and mathematics, philosophy and rhetoric, and every thing else in the daily routine, save the bed and the dinner table. Such students were snails in the field, drones in the workshop, dumb in debate, pigmies in the recitation room, and cyphers at the black board.

"In every manual labor school which I visited in my tour," he continues, "it was the invariable testimony of trustees and teachers, that the talent, the scholarship, the manliness, the high promise of all such institutions, were found among the pupils who gave the manual labor system their hearty approval; whereas if there were among the students brainless coxcombs, sighing sentimentalists, languishing effeminates, and other nameless things of equivocal gender; to prostitute their delicate persons to the vile outrage of manual labor, was indeed a sore affliction!"

We shall close these selections by adding to them the testimony of an individual⁴ of distinguished literary attainments, whose advantages for obtaining correct information on this topic, as well as many others, have been of the most favorable kind.

⁴ Professor Stuart.

"The God of nature," he observes, "has designed the body for action; and all efforts to counteract this design, end of course in disappointment, sooner or later. The same God has designed that men should cultivate their minds; and I never can believe that this is deleterious in itself; it is so only when we neglect what he has bidden us to observe, i.e. daily discipline and effort to preserve health.

"Students want vacations, journeys, remission from employment, &c. &c. and this at a great expense of time and money. Why? Because they will not be faithful, every day, to watch over their health, and to use all the requisite means for its preservation. Why should the farmer, the mechanic, the merchant, the physician, the lawyer, support a never ceasing round of employment, and the student not? Is there any curse laid by heaven upon study? No; it is inaction—laziness—that makes all the mischief, and occasions all the expense. This is my full persuasion from thirty years experience, and somewhat extensive observation."

To these selections others of similar interest and importance might be added from the Report from which they have been derived, particularly the numerous and harmonious opinions of literary men, on the necessity and utility of regular systematic exercise to the student; but our time forbids the indulgence, and the maxim of Festina ad finem admonishes us to cut short this address.

From the view that has been taken, we perceive then, with a clearness which cannot be mistaken, that the manual labor system of education is applauded by "a cloud of witnesses," and commended to our patronage and attention by arguments and facts innumerable, palpable, and unanswerable. Will the inquiry be misplaced, when we ask, Shall it here, (on this consecrated ground, this literary high place, which is destined to send forth a mighty stream of influence for good or ill, to an extent which no arithmetic can calculate,) shall it here receive the countenance and patronage which it so richly deserves? Manual labor schools are already in successful operation in this southern country, and the prosperity that has attended them has been such as to silence the cavils of opposers, and remove the apprehensions of the distrustful. With all enlightened and candid persons there can be but one mind respecting their practicability and their peculiar importance in this southern region. It is the very section perhaps, of all others, within the limits of our republic, that is best adapted to their growth, both on account of its soil and climate, and in which, from its peculiar situation, their influence is most imperiously demanded.

Again, then, I ask, will "the ancient and honorable Dominion" consent to be outstripped by her neighbors in an enterprise of so much grandeur and promise? Will parents, instructors, and pupils, repose in inglorious ease, and cry a little more sleep, a little more folding of the hands to sleep, while others in the race of competition press forward and bear off the prize? Will the young men of Hampden Sidney and Union Seminary sit still; or will they "awake, arise, and put on their strength?" Interests that are dear as honor and life, are suspended on the practical reply which this inquiry receives.

It is stated, as is probable on good authority, that in years that have gone by, "some of the Virginian philanthropists offered to educate some of the Indians, and that they received from the shrewd savages the following reply." (He that hath ears to hear, let him hear what the savages have said to the civilized!)

"Brothers of the white skin! You must know that all people do not have the same ideas upon the same subjects; and you must not take it ill that our manner of thinking in regard to the kind of education which you offer us does not agree with yours. We have had in this particular some experience. Several of our young men were some time since educated at the Northern Colleges, and learned there all the sciences. But when they returned to us, we found they were spoiled. They were miserable runners. They did not know how to live in the woods. They could not bear hunger and cold. They could not build a cabin, nor kill a deer, nor conquer an enemy. They had even forgotten our language; so that not being able to serve us as warriors, or hunters, or counsellors, they were absolutely good for nothing."

The calamities which are here set forth in such graphic terms have by no means been confined to the fathers and the sons of the forest. The white young men of Virginia, in great numbers, have since been educated in like manner "at Northern Colleges," or nearer home: and when restored to their parents and guardians have been found, for the most part, like the sons of the red men, to be "absolutely good for nothing." They have proved to be "miserable runners." Not one in twenty of them has risen to eminence in professional life. They could "bear neither hunger nor cold." They were practically ignorant of mechanical and agricultural employments, and strongly averse to them; too high minded and indolent to labor, and too weak and effeminate to "serve as warriors, and hunters, and counsellors." Will Virginian parents learn a lesson from their own past experience and that of their savage predecessors? The corrective which we propose for the evil complained of, (and it is too serious for merriment,) is the immediate introduction of the manual labor system into all our institutions of learning. If this feature is introduced and kept up in them, with a prominence proportioned to its importance, our youth, who are educated in them, if not fitted for usefulness and distinction in the departments of law, medicine and theology, will not be utterly "spoiled" as the sons of the red men were; but will be good "runners," useful and respectable laborers, mechanics, planters, and farmers. This, after all, is the population, of which, more than any other, Virginia needs an increase. The low state of mechanic arts and of agriculture among us, or rather the prevailing vice of indolence, is the true source of the present disasters which are so often made the theme of popular declamation by stump orators and upstart politicians. It is indolence, more than any or every thing else, that checks the spirit of enterprise; that covers this fairest portion of our continent with sackcloth, and spreads over it the sable shroud of desolation. Let then a revolution be effected in our system of education. Let our youth be trained for the duties of practical life. Let them be instructed in what is useful, as well as ornamental; and let them bring minds stored with the riches of learning and science, to bear and act on the subject of most absorbing temporal interest to the American people, I mean the neglected subject of agriculture, and all will yet be well. The citizens of the South will then be independent indeed, and not in boast. Labor, like "marriage," will be "honorable in all." The work which misguided abolitionists are laboring, with a zeal that would be becoming in a better cause, to perform by a meddlesome and violent interference, will be effected by the gradual and voluntary agency of her own inhabitants. Her population will multiply. Commerce will thrive. Barren fields will be clothed with verdure. The productions of the earth will be increased. Crowded cities and smiling villages will spring up. The halls of legislation will be occupied by the hardy and virtuous cultivators of the soil, the men of all others the most safe to be entrusted with the enactment and administration of laws. Colleges, academies, and schools, will prove the nurseries of enlightened, healthful, industrious, and happy freemen; and Christianity, untrammelled by the obstacles that now so powerfully impede its progress, with a field wide and waving with a luxuriant harvest open and inviting before her, will send abroad her genial and regenerating influences, and render this the Paradise of lands.

We will conclude this, perhaps too protracted performance, in the language of an Indian Cazique.

"Would you know," he asked, "how I would have my children instructed in the ways of men? Look at this handful of dust gathered from the golden bed of the silver-flowing Aracara. What an infinite number of particles—yet how few the grains of ore which we prize; how great the toil which is necessary to sift out and separate them from the worthless heap in which they are concealed; even so it is with the history of the generations of men, from the creation downwards. Events have passed which no tongue can number; but the events which mark the character of human nature, and which are worthy of being treasured up in our memories, are but few, and only by the eye of wisdom to be distinguished.

"Let my children then be taught what these few events are; let them be spared the life's labor of turning over the mountain of dross which time has heaped up, in search of the scattered gems which are to lighten their path through the world; conduct them at once into the only treasury of true knowledge—that treasury which Philosophy has gleaned from the experience of thousands of generations."

SONG OF LEE'S LEGION.

Our chargers are plunging and pawing the ground, And champing and tossing the white foam around— So fleet to pursue, and so mighty to crush, No foe will remain in the path where they rush. Away, then, my heroes—away, then, away! Let "Freedom or Death!" be the watchword to-day. Remember the burnings we witnessed last night; The fair and the feeble we passed in their flight; The wail of the wounded, the red blood that flowed, Still warm in the path, where by moonlight we rode. Away, then, &c. The marauder is nigh—he is hurrying back; The sand, as we gallop, still falls in his track. On! on! then, our swords for the battle are rife, And soon they shall drink at the fountain of life. Away, then, &c.

Prince Edward.

NATURAL BRIDGE OF PANDI,

IN COLOMBIA, SOUTH AMERICA.

The Bridge of Pandi is distant two days journey from Bogotá. We made it less toilsome by remaining several days at Fusugazugá—an intermediate village, which possesses the advantage of a fine climate and refreshing verdure, unknown to the plain upon which this city stands. The bridge is situated considerably lower—almost in the tierra caliente hot country—where the thermometer rose to 86°, but still the heat was not very oppressive.

Our first view of the bridge was just at the moment when such a scene is most impressive. The sun had sunk behind the mountains. We were without a guide, nor did we need one. We had merely to follow the high road—a mule path—down into a deep ravine, near the bottom of which we heard the sound of rushing waters. On reaching the bridge, this sound and the dismal shrieks of numerous birds of night—the sole occupants of this gloomy region—called our attention to the scene below us. We then first knew we were upon the bridge of Pandi. Three hundred and fifty-eight feet beneath, rushes a stream, called Suma Paz, which fills the entire chasm—being, if we can trust our sight under circumstances so deceptive, about thirty or forty feet wide. We could see the deep chasm and the dark waters of the stream—but where was the bridge which Nature built? We were standing upon a rude structure of logs with railings so frail as almost to dismay the most daring; but upon closer examination we discovered that it rested upon several huge fragments which had fallen and lodged so as to form the bridge for which we were searching. The edges of the largest rock rest upon other rocks on one side, and on the other upon the sloping face of the severed mountain. Upon this we descended, and enjoyed a better view of what the imagination is so readily inclined to paint as infernal regions. The cries of the birds echo from the depths below, like the shrieks of troubled souls destined to the sad fate of never leaving the abodes to which their sins had driven them. Night was rapidly approaching; and with the feelings which the scene had inspired, we retraced our steps to the little village of Pandi or El Mercadillo, to which we had to clamber nearly half a league. Our hamacs welcomed us to rest, and after the fatigues of the day, sleep soon robbed us of our wandering thoughts.

On the following morning, we repeated our visit to the bridge, and reviewed the whole more leisurely. Although the awe of the preceding evening had subsided, our admiration was undiminished. The same Great Being which had ruptured the mountain asunder and opened a fearful fissure, had thrown down the loose fragments, and so lodged them as to contribute to the convenience as well as to arouse the astonishment and wonder of all who crossed. The natives of the country have destroyed much of the effect by the rude logs which they have laid upon the rocks across the chasm. It is also remarkable, that this fissure could not be passed elsewhere for many leagues in either direction.

How will the Natural Bridge of Pandi compare with that of Rockbridge County in Virginia? The beauty of this must sink before the awful and grand sublimity of the other. In that you would look in vain for the well turned arch of this, while the latter is deficient in the almost unfathomable abyss and in the surrounding scenery and in the roaring waters of that of Pandi. I should have observed, that no means exist of reaching the bottom—nor is it desirable, as the bridge in itself, seen from below, cannot be imposing.

The birds which occupy the ledges and caverns formed by the ruptured rock, are called "Pajaros del Puente"—Birds of the Bridge—and are not known elsewhere. They are birds of night, and sally out only after it is dark into the neighboring dense forests, in search of the fruit with which they maintain themselves. If perchance the light of day overtake them before they regain their dark abodes, it is so noxious to them that they cannot survive it. Thus say the natives—and that this is shown by their being many times found dead in the paths of the mountains. They are equal in size to a pheasant—their color is a reddish brown, and their beaks square and very hard.

LINES

On the Statue of Washington in the Capitol.

It is our WASHINGTON that you behold, Whom Nature fashioned in her grandest mould, To be the leader of a noble band, The friends of freedom, and their native land: A perfect hero, free from all excess; Above Napoleon, though he dazzled less: Not quite so great for what he did, 'tis true, But greater far for what he did not do: And, nought he ought not, all he ought, to be, He made his country, and he left her, free.

EPIGRAM.

"A party, you tell me," says Dick, not invited, But who would not believe such a beau could be slighted; "A party at Modeley's?—can't possibly be; For how could he have such a thing without me?"

FALL OF TEQUENDÁMA,

IN COLOMBIA, SOUTH AMERICA.

The Salto de Tequendama, a remarkable cascade, of which we had heard much, and which has been described in most glowing language, is distant to the southwest of Bogotá about fifteen miles. We had made arrangements to visit it a fortnight ago, but the illness of one of our party caused us to defer it. We now determined to see the fall, and return to the city on the same day. To accomplish our design, we set out before day (about 5 o'clock) this morning. A rapid ride of an hour and a half brought us to the small village of Suácha, situated upon the plain of Bogotá, near its southern border. The last earthquake, from which Bogotá suffered so severely, was felt with the utmost violence at Suácha, and prostrated entirely the church, which is again rising from its ruins. Our route continued a league further over the plain, and we crossed the river Funza, whose course has been very circuitous through the plain, but is particularly devious where we passed over it, upon an uncouth and not very safe bridge, to the Hacienda de Canoas. The river winds sluggishly to our left towards the fall. Our path led over the high hills which appear to have been once the banks of the great lake which must have covered the plain which the view from these heights embraces. To eminences which are wholly devoid of trees succeed others which are well wooded, where we enter a more picturesque region, worthy of the fine scene which we were now eager to witness. We were convinced that we were near it, and listened for the deafening roar which we expected would betray the rush of the waters into the tremendous gulf that receives them. The path was steep, and shortly before we arrived at the spot where it was necessary to alight from our horses, the sounds of the fall reached us; but we were distant from it a few hundred yards only. My first sensation was disappointment, when I stood upon the brink of the chasm into which a stream whose greatest width is estimated at forty feet, is precipitated to a depth which did not seem to exceed three hundred feet, but which is estimated to be more than six hundred. The river being now uncommonly low, a sheet of water about fourteen or fifteen feet in width, is tossed about thirty feet upon a ledge of rocks, from which it dashes in foam to the bottom of the deep abyss, a large proportion of it dissipating in spray. The foot of man has never trodden the bottom of this chasm. Its sides are perpendicular to a considerable distance below, and the strata of rock are exactly horizontal, so that no means of descending have yet been discovered within the curvilinear aperture, where the mountain seems to have parted and given passage to the Funza.

Attempts have been made repeatedly to reach the foot of the cataract by ascending the bed of the river, into which it is easy to enter at some distance below. A fall of about twenty feet had resisted heretofore the efforts of every adventurer. A party of Americans preceded us to-day, provided with ladders and ropes, with a determination to surmount this obstacle. In this they succeeded, but another yet more difficult presented itself—this they also surmounted with the strengthened hope of having then overcome every obstruction which resisted the accomplishment of their wishes. They were too sanguine. On ascending further, a fall of about forty feet now stared them in the face, and resisted all their efforts. Perpendicular rocks enclosed the narrow chasm. The only possible ascent was through the dashing torrent—with this they struggled nobly, but they had not the means of resisting it. The abode of innumerable parrots, whose screams, heard faintly at the height on which we stood, warned us of the exertions made to encroach upon their domain, that continues unmolested and untrodden by man. We spent more than two hours at the fall, hoping to witness the success of the enterprising adventurers. Although disappointed in this respect, we were amply compensated by the increased admiration with which we viewed this beautiful fall, notwithstanding it is seen so imperfectly. There are two spots from which good views may be obtained. We must leave to the fancy to imagine the grand effect of a sight from beneath it. It is to be hoped that ladders will be placed or that some means will be discovered to gratify the ardent desire one naturally feels of seeing to the best advantage this admirable work of nature.

The Fall of Tequendáma has been compared with the cataract of Niagara. Such a comparison cannot be instituted fairly. In the one, nature has been most lavish with her grandeur and sublimity: the other she has endowed liberally with the beautiful and the picturesque. The height of Tequendáma may be four times greater than that of Niagara; its width not the thirtieth part: and to judge the comparative volume of the waters of both, it suffices to reflect, that Tequendáma drains the river Funza; Niagara the waters of four inland seas, which united, are not exceeded in size by the Gulf of Mexico.

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. IX.

The proudest land of all, That circling seas admire— The Land where Power delights to dwell, And War his mightiest feats can tell, And Poesy to sweetest swell, Attunes her voice and lyre. Aristophanes.

The ship in which I had embarked soon fell down the river, and, aided by a favorable breeze, we quickly shot by the massy and motionless scenery of the majestic Rappahannock. Changing our course we entered one of the beautiful and tributary waters of the Chesapeake, and dropped anchor directly in front of an antique mansion, the stately residence of a proud and well known name. An extensive garden, which declared the taste and pedantry of its owner, for its chaste and beautiful model was drawn from the pages of the Odyssey, stretched its broad walks to the margin of the river. A throng of merry girls and romping boys poured down from the porch of the house, welcoming with glad voices that, happiest of all Virginian visiters, an importing ship. Disguising myself I leaped into the boat which left the vessel, and ere its keel had grated on the sand, many negroes had rushed into the water, and were dragging it to the shore with songs of triumph and congratulation. An elderly gentleman, grave, dignified and thoughtful—peace to his fair-top boots and glittering buckles!—now appeared and commenced the usual ledger conversation with Captain Z. about the quality and price of his tobacco, and in a whisper he told him on no account to sacrifice his "new ground sweet scented." Holding a paper in his hand he called aloud to his family to enter their wishes on that magic tablet, which he was about to send home. No commercial newspaper ever declared a more incongruous catalogue of the comforts of life and the luxuries of opulence: lace and iron, silk and spades, wine and jesuit's bark, all figured in the same column; and when the negroes were called on to declare what they wanted, they filled the mystic page with calico, fiddle strings and bottles. Many a bronzed and ebon colored child was led up to old massa by its mother, and each lisping petition for a hat or a fishing hook, was sacredly entered on the list.

I returned to the ship, and dropping a hasty line to my uncle, informing him of the reasons which compelled me to leave Virginia, despatched it by the last canoe which quitted our side, and retiring to sleep I did not awake until the ship was dancing gaily over the broad waters of the Atlantic. I looked on the furrowed track behind me—and, far in the amber west, the lessening glory of the Virginian coast was sinking in the wilderness of waters. With a fixed and quenchless eye I watched its expiring outline, and when it had sunk down into a wavy and shadowy mist, I felt as the exile whose pulseless heart has heard the requiem of hope and the knell of love. Young, inexperienced, and ignorant of the world, I was launched like a rotten barque in the tempestuous ocean of man, while home, love, hope and all the primal sympathies of the human heart, were to me, sealed, buried, and forever annihilated. I had fled!—leaving a name associated with the scorn of honor and the vengeance of society. Who that heard of me would believe me innocent in the duel with Ludwell, or who would believe that self-defence prompted my attack on the life of Pilton? God in his goodness gave us tears! I had them not, and from a tearless eye I became sullen and satisfied, with no human passion but an increased affection for Ellen Pilton, which streamed through my heart like phosphoric words on the dark walls of a cavern. I was proud to be the victim of wayward and adverse circumstances, and yielding to their mystic control, I found that destiny weaves an argument which philosophy cannot unravel.

On the second day of our voyage, Scipio presented himself, telling me that he was sent from Chalgrave with letters for the ship, that he had discovered me through my disguise, that he had secreted himself on board of the vessel, and that he was determined to follow me to the end of the world. I soon settled the manner and purpose of his appearance with the captain, and found in the priceless fidelity of my servant, a green spot on which my heart might rest from its storm of revenge and misanthropy.

Cheered by the balmy spirit of the western gale our gallant ship sped her onward course, and the glad cry of land which echoed through the vessel as we approached the beetling coast of England fell on my ear like words of mercy to the prisoned captive. Standing on the quarter deck, I saw before me the bustle, hurry and turmoil of commerce. The surface of the water was chequered with a dense throng of vessels, while, broadly floating in the breeze, appeared that proud flag on whose glory the sun rises, and over whose empire he sets. As a Virginian! as one whom early education and childish associations had inspired, I gazed with a hallowed enthusiasm on that rugged land, which looked down from its iron-bound eyre, the eagle of the deep—that land which my boyish feelings had made the seat of intellect and the dwelling place of genius. The early colonists had called it by the tender name of Home; and the mellow tales of its glory, which had been poured into my infant ear, were now started into life and freshness. It was the land of Sir Philip Sydney, Hampden and Pope, and on each spot of its classic earth Poetry had raised her hallowed memorials, and Patriotism its stirring examples. From the frozen sea to the burning tropics her name is respected, her influence felt, her example imitated, her kindness cherished, her resentment dreaded, while a radiant wake of glory streams behind the path of her march. Far in the forests of the western world, the names of her gifted sons who have asserted the triumphs of virtue or the dignity of man, are heard, and are re-echoed back from the Thames to the Ganges, and from the Volga to the Mississippi. In the solitude of power she stands alone, a massy trunk, resisting anarchy and bending to every storm of revolution, yet rising from each assault in more verdant and luxuriant foliage. Philosophy may claim the gigantic birth of Printing—Religion the Reformation, and Science the discovery of Gunpowder, as the great engines which opened the path of civilization. The mind of England seized these mighty levers, her hand perfected them, and achieved for herself that towering fame which pours its lustre from the table-land of the world. This picture was the dream of ignorance. Alas! how soon was its frost-work melted before the light of truth! Unconscious of the hideous vice which lurked beneath the gorgeous fabric, I saw only its glowing outline—I was ignorant of its rapine, fraud and avarice—its selfishness of motive and act—its singleness of empire and power, and of that universal corruption which yields power to wealth, and honors to knavery. The demon of gain is abroad throughout England—a pestilence which walketh in the darkness of the human heart, expanding its ravenous arms in her cities, or secretly hugging its penny in her lowliest cottages. Her metropolis is the shamble of the universe—a capacious reservoir, where vice elbows virtue, and where selfishness festers itself into the loathsome obesity of the toad. Every thing is on sale, and in the "mixed assortment" of her merchandise, even learning, genius and wit, succumb to the secret spirit of her ledger.

"E'en the learned pate Ducks to the golden fool."

Without her Christianity, which often blooms in guileless and untainted simplicity, her blood-stained empire would tumble to the earth. It is the influence of this holy faith which neutralizes the excess of profligacy, and stimulates her expanded philanthropy. Excited by its spirit, benevolence becomes religion, patriotism springs into virtue, and in the remotest corners of the earth we see the charity of the Christian opening the purse and heart of the Englishman.

I leave the narrative of sights and curiosities to the guide book. Born in the wilderness, my mind was as rugged as the grandeur of the forest, and like the native Indian I had naught to admire but the still and noiseless majesty of my own beautiful land. The stately palaces—the lofty towers and all the fantastic pageantry which opulence engenders, were but the moral to the fine sarcasm which antiquity has fabled in the bridge of Salmoneus. Man's "brief authority" decorates folly with a pyramid or a cathedral, and succeeding ages call it glory. What son of Virginia would barter her broad rivers—her sunny sky—her fertile plains, and her snow-capped mountains, for the crumbling monuments of tyranny and superstition, or the fœtid marts of gain? Who would exchange the infant purity of the western world for the hoary vice and aged rottenness of Europe? Uncontaminated by the example of England, we have yet seized from her the sacred flame of freedom—her habeas corpus without the act of impressment—her bill of rights without a borough representation, and the rose of civil liberty transplanted to the west has bloomed without a thorn.

I was soon in London, and received many marks of attention and kindness from the representatives of an old commercial house, which for years had sold every hogshead of tobacco from the Granby plantations. My bills were honored, and at the instance of Scipio I took a suite of rooms in the most fashionable street of the city. Without letters of introduction, and too proud to search for my many noble relatives, (my uncle had drugged me with their amors, duels and honors!) I succumbed in silence to that cheerless solitude which flaps its funeral wing around the indurated selfishness of a crowded city. At the Virginia Coffee House, I frequently found many of my own countrymen, who were making the tour of Europe only because their fathers had done it. An utter contempt of money—a carelessness of air and manner—a generous and open hearted confidence in every one—a familiarity with the Doncaster and Epsom turf—an anxious zeal in attending the courts of Westminster, and the gallery of the House of Commons, with a thorough knowledge of the literary history of England, and the places hallowed by Shakspeare and the Spectator, were their striking and changeless characteristics.

Shortly after my permanent and fixed residence had been made, I was lounging, as was my wont, in the crowded walks of the Exchange—the only idle being in that heated and feverish walk of gain, when a loud cry broke through the multitude and a horse dashed near me, the foot of his rider hanging in the stirrup. I instantly sprang forward, caught the bridle, leaped on his back, and leaning down I rescued the unfortunate rider from his perilous situation. From this event an intimacy commenced between Col. R—— and myself. His history was brief. High birth and fortune smiled on his cradle. Entering into manhood he had purchased a commission in the army, and had lived out Swift's spirited description of the man of fashion, "in dancing, fighting, gaming, making the circle of Italy, riding the great horse and speaking French." Satiated with the world, he had left it without being either a churl or a misanthrope. He resided in a costly villa near London, which his taste had decorated with elegance and refinement. The massy richness of an aged grove, soothed, without chilling the fancy, and through its broad vista the glimmering light lent itself to diversify uniformity without diminishing grandeur. Consistency towered above vanity, for there were no glades rolled into gravelled plains, nor trees sheared into fantastic foliage—that sickly taste which finds honor in the sacrifice of simplicity, and pride in its outrage on nature. The walls of his house were hung with rare and deeply mellowed paintings, and his capacious library was stocked with the heavy tomes of ancient lore. Gone are those good old books!—their spirit has been turned into a tincture!—their life and soul have been abridged—the stern Clitus has been disgraced by a Persian dress—the march of mind cannot brook a folio! The education of Col. R—— was deeply tainted with the forgotten glory of his library—a wild flower blooming amid the silence of a neglected ruin. He had literature without pedantry, learning without arrogance; and being neither author nor compiler, he yet mingled on equal terms of compliment and civility with the gifted names of his land. Proud pre-eminence of genius! respected even in its slumbers. Though its possessor be unknown to print, though his pen sleep in idleness, like the prophet, the sacred flame plays around his brow and lightens up his onward course.

In his society I drank from a deep stream of intellect pure and unalloyed happiness—yet dashed into bitterness by the remembrance that under his protection I had first visited a gaming table—though he had carried me thither more for the purpose of portraying human character than of making me either the proselyte or victim of its insidious vice.

Come Lionel! said he, gently touching my shoulder, as I was deeply absorbed in the unhallowed rites of the blind goddess—leave this dangerous place! Your warm blood and ardent temperament cannot withstand its harlotry. Crush in its infancy that juggling fiend, which martyrs the pride of mind—the dignities of virtue, the immunities of education, and the consolations of religion.

His warning voice fell on a sodden ear. Seated at a long table, in a magnificent saloon blazing with lights and ornamented with costly curtains of damask, whose billowy drapery dropped over grotesque and luxurious furniture, I bowed with prostrate devotion to the idol of Chance. I was in the temple of suicide—the hell of earth; and inebriated with its deadly vapor, I saw not the thronging crowd, whose passion-stricken countenances alternately displayed the rapid transitions from joy to sadness, from successful cupidity to luckless despair. I went through the usual vicissitudes of the game. I won. Success made me bold, failure excited me to more and more dangerous enterprise. I had drawn on our tobacco merchant until my bills were protested, nor could I ask from Col. R—— the wages of humanity. I paid a heavy premium to one of the loungers of the table, to teach me a system by which I might always win. Duped by its deceitful sophistry, I risked my all—my watch, breast-pin, and all the jewelry of my dress were successively staked and lost. My hand was on the golden locket consecrated as the gift of Isa Gordon. With a painful struggle I preserved it from the gripe of despair, and quitted the accursed table a bankrupt and a beggar!

When I reached my lodgings, Scipio met me with his usual kindness, which I repelled with a severity and harshness that called a tear to his eye. Go! cried I, leave me, I am a broken man and a friendless beggar, I give you your freedom. Go! and for God's sake do not longer tempt my avarice! An unusual cheerfulness spread itself over his countenance—the convincing indication of my fallen fortune. The idea was no sooner conceived, than my despair gave it certainty, and rising I drove my servant from the room with a blow and a curse.

I sold all the furniture with which I had supplied my rooms, and again rushed to the gaming table. The fickle goddess had forever deserted me, and, lost to all sense of shame, I hung around the table, a silent spectator of the deep, passionate, and thrilling drama.

About a week after Scipio's departure, a gentleman accosted me at the table, and delivered a letter which he informed me he had brought from Liverpool. It was written in the sententious style of a merchant, and enclosed a draft in my favor on an eminent banker for fifty pounds.