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had produced, and which no wisdom could have removed. They were equally beyond the control of both folly and wisdom. Lord Chatham might have delayed, as Lord North undoubtedly accelerated it. The claims of the colonies grew with their growth, and, of course, strengthened with their strength. The most moderate ministry and the most complying Parliament would have soon come to a stand. More would have been claimed than would have been granted, and less would not have contented.

overawe.

lution have no other apology. The force
sent to Boston was large enough to
provoke, but too small to
The curb applied was strong enough to
irritate, but was likely to snap at the
first plunge which that irritation would
cause. When the experiment came
to be made, Gen. Gage found that he
could not send Col. Grant's comple-
ment of troops over eighteen miles
without imminent hazard. In the next
experiment, three times that number
reached Bunker's Hill, only through
an excess of carnage.

Mr. Izard says, in one of his letters, that "the king seems to be struck with horror at the idea of treating with Congress." This was in 1775, about one year before the Declaration of Independence. At that time, proper endeavors at conciliation would probably have succeeded. Lord North, as a man of sense, may have known what endeavors were proper. There was but one way then open, and that way could not be taken, because the king regarded it with horror. This royal repugnance may have saved the independence of the colonies. It was certain to defeat all advances towards conciliation, even if Lord Howe had had the discretion and dignity to address General Washington by his title. Whether the stupid fastidiousness which led him to substitute "Mr." for

But these letters show that there was, near the outset of the Revolution, a medium behind the throne, which, like a window of stained glass, discolored the light that fell upon it. "John Barleycorn" was the standard of, not only the length of the inch, but of the length and breadth of nearly every royal measure. Lord Bute is the putative father of the Stamp-Act, which, like a little leaven, soon leavened the whole lump; and Col. Grant, another Scotchman, when it became necessary, in consequence of this rising, to send to the colonies a military force, said that one regiment could sweep them from Canada to Georgia. Lord Chatham would have laughed such an assertion to scorn, and Lord North, probably, did not believe it was founded in truth. It is probable, however, that the king did so believe. He had been educated as an English-General," originated in this repugman, and no doubt knew something of English history; but his family had come to the throne after the Roundheads had passed away. Any one of the family which had been expelled to make room for his family, would have understood the colonies. Any Stuart would have recollected that there was a large infusion among them of the sturdy spirit which had brought Charles I. to the block, and governed Britain from that Charles to the second Charles, with an outstretched arm that made all Europe tremble. Constant manifestations of this spirit had been given by the colonies. It had showed itself in unnumbered struggles. Hardfought fields could not have showed it more strongly. Few men, therefore, in England, could have been misled by the gasconade of Col. Grant. George III. must have been among that few, as the military measures which were taken at the opening of the Revo

nance, or in the pride or weakness of the commissioners, the effect was the same. When the first step is an insult, a second step is not often permitted to be taken. The course of the mother country had raised up a Continental Congress. A general revolt necessarily produced such a result. There must be a general head, and that head was the Congress; to that alone any appeal, under the circumstances, could be made. An appeal to any separate state would have been hopeless; to distinguished individuals equally so.

Neither states nor individuals could be applied to without an imputation of treachery. There was but one way open, therefore, to open pacification, and that way was the Continental Congress, but the commissioners could not take that way. The king's horror closed it up.

There can be little doubt that much of the wrong that was done in the times

we are alluding to, was done by the king, notwithstanding his constitutional incapacity to do any wrong. Mr. Izard says that "Doctor Hunter, a Scotchman, who is continually about the king's family, says publicly, that the four New-England Provinces ought to be extirpated." The king did not say this, and may not have thought it; still, a remark of that kind would not have been made in the royal purlieus, if it had been liable to rebuke. The atmosphere of the court must have been genial to such ill-weeds, or they would not have sprung up there.

Some may be deterred from patronising a continuation of these letters, because the preliminary notice of the editor leads to a probability that the acts or opinions of Franklin will be brought into question. Whether it was judicious in the editor thus to sound the alarm in advance, it is not for us to determine. It. was certainly frank and fair. The present volume contains nothing of this bearing. Even if it did, it would not have been the less acceptable to us, though entertaining the highest veneration for the memory of this distinguished patriot and philosopher. If the charges which those letters may contain were a fresh imputation, the case would be different. This is the publication of letters which were written seventy or eighty years ago. They speak the opinion of individuals at that time. Such opinions had their warrant then, and were honestly expressed. That warrant may no longer exist, and the opinions may all have been proved to be unfounded.. All this may be true, and still the letters be generally acceptable. The reputation of Franklin is now independent of all imputations of this kind. His public course in France has been viewed and reviewed in all its phases through more than fifty years, and is now well understood. What these letters will develope we do not know. We may, however, conjecture, without much chance of error.

It is known that many prominent men of America believed they saw, in Franklin's course while in France, some cause for censure or disapprobation. This remarkable man was made pet in Paris. His mind, his discoveries, his country, and even his costume, all contributed to render him an object

of general interest. He was almost unique in all these respects in that kingdom where rarities of all kinds found so much favor. His influence at the court was powerful, and it was always exerted in favor of his country. And his exertions there, on the whole, were undoubtedly more beneficial to this country than those of any other man. These services, in her time of need, will never be denied, nor can their reward be taken away. Still, it has been alleged, that when the question of final arrangement came, the lukewarmness or hesitation of that court were not met by Franklin with the same zeal and independence which marked the course of other Americans there, over whom the blandishments of the Parisian saloons had less influence, and who were more fresh from the scene of action, and better knew the sentiments and temper of the American people.

It was a season when shades of difference in opinion might well have floated around. Indeed, none probably approached the great questions which then were to be settled with minds made up. Such pre-determinations had excluded all chances of adjustment. Some strings were to be let down, others to be raised; otherwise harmony had never been attained. France had been liberal and kind in her aid, and she naturally, when the time of compensation arrived, looked for a corresponding return. Franklin may have rated her services too high, (though that could hardly have been done) while others, perhaps, rated them too low. Franklin saw only the noble and generous ally of America; others saw only the antagonists of Great Britain. Each saw the true color of the shield as it presented itself to their view, without probably being aware that the two sides had different colors.

We will now bring these desultory remarks to a close. Our object has been to raise, as far as in our power, in the public estimation, the character of letters of the description now before us. We regard them with great respect: they are likely to give us more truths in one page than a dozen pages of other writings. Objections to the correctness of history are innumerable. It is a stream that never receives all its tributaries until it ends; something, in every age, is pouring in on one side or the

other, showing that it is not full. Probably the most perfect history that ever was written, so far as the use of all materials applicable to its scope was concerned, is Gibbon's Decline and Fall, &c. He collected these materials around him, until he seemed to sit in the midst of "Seven Hills" of authorities. The unremitting labor of a strong mind and a long life enabled him to reduce these hills into a magnificent slope, that smoothly and majestically descended from the first Cæsar to the last; and yet he settled almost nothing but the fact, that almost nothing could be satisfactorily settled. His decisions, made after a patient investigation which few minds could have made, have been questioned, and will continue to be questioned. His notes, after all, are the spice of his work; they give the sayings of those who lived with the Cæsars. We turn from Gibbon to them, as we would turn from the sound

of a modern voice, to voices coming from ages long past. Each page of his text, like a luxuriant modern sofa, seems to stand on these notes, which, like richly-carved antique feet, of all forms, peep out from beneath.

Thus it is with these letters-they are transcripts of the past. In the volume before us, Mr. Izard and his correspondents speak as they spoke in 1774, 75, &c., &c. It is not looking back upon far-removed and indistinct scenes with a spy-glass, which brings them back only in parts, and with changed dimensions; they give views taken at the time, and on the spot. We wish such views were greatly multiplied. Hence, we are pleased to see the volume before us, and will be pleased to see those which are to follow. Such leaves are, doubtless, much scattered, and becoming every year more Those that can be gathered up are hence only the more valuable.

rare.

SONNET.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE YEMASSEE," "GUY RIVERS," &C.

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ling anything noble and genehowever deficient I may be in malities myself. I certainly have rapacity and heart to admire them." o take it back," answered the indual addressed, warmly grasping proffered hand, "I fully and entireke it back; for much as I may e doubted your nobility and generobefore, you have eloquently proved rself possessed of both, this morn"And now, boys," cried Lewis nard, after a moment's silence, wing himself into a pugilistic attiWho's for a fight?" Nobody pted the challenge; and the bell ging soon after, each individual hurly obeyed the summons, having ined, perhaps, some new ideas as to hat true courage, nobility, and geneity were, in the brief interval. Love as the motive of Gerald Morton's indness to Robert Hunt-disinterest, ardent affection, which fills young Hearts, aye, and old hearts too, (to the xclusion of every mean and unworthy beling,) oftener than some people in this world will allow-Love, in spite f his weaknesses, or rather the more for them, for the deepest pity added strength to his affection. He had, as the boys said, led Robert away, but for some time he did not speak, leaving the soft sweet air and thousand sights of rural summer beauty beneath their eyes, to exert their tranquilizing influence, before he addressed his companion. At length they reached the bridge which spanned the river, where Robert, unable any longer to endure the violence of his suppressed emotions, flung off the affectionate clasp on his shoulders, and resting his head on the railing of the bridge, burst into an uncontrollable fit of tears. "Yes, despise me as you will," he exclaimed, "you cannot despise me more than I do myself; and as I have given way to the most unmanly anger, I may as well yield to these manly tears." "Despise you, Roirt I repeated his companion, in a orrowful tone, "how little you know hatis in my heart." The boy was, perpe, struck by the sincerity and emoin the speaker's voice, for he raised end, and gazed long and inquiringthe other's face." Gerald," he aimed, at length, "Gerald Morton, lieve you, with my whole heart and I believe you; love and pity you

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feel for me, but not contempt. You are all that is fair, and frank, and noble,but I-what am I?" and the boy, with a gesture of despair, buried his face again in his hands. "Your greatest fault is this undervaluing of yourself, dear Robert," said his companion, kindly. "You exaggerate your faults or rather infirmities, to a most frightful extent, and then start in horror from the phantom you yourself have raised." "No! there is no exaggerating them," returned Robert, sadly. "Have I not again and again vowed to myself, and vowed to you, that I would not let that fool, idiot, that puppy of a fellow," he muttered between his compressed teeth

"George Addington, by his contemptible tricks rouse me to anger, and yet do I not daily yield to the temptation? But oh, Gerald-if you knew the bitter pride that poverty makes, and if you knew the hell upon earth I endure with this suspicious, sensitive temper of mine, you would indeed give me your deepest pity and sympathy." "You have them now-you have them now," said his companion, in a choked and agitated voice. "A child's glance will at times almost madden me," he continued, scarcely regarding the interruption; "every feeling that I have in the world seems to be a curse to me, I never look at my sisters' grace and beauty, but I gnash my teeth at the thought, that they will be sacrificed to some uncouth booby who has money, or waste their lives in the dreary, desolating struggle with poverty, which killed my poor mother. My father's gloom and misanthropy check the tenderness which should fill to the fount a child's nature; but I think how different he might have been, had fortune been kinder; and I have the picture of an old age like his before me, sternness and harshness, a distress to himself, and a terror to everybody else. I shall be just like him, only worse." "Stop! Robert, stop!" exclaimed Gerald Morton-" do not talk any more such wild and desperate, nay, they are wicked words. We have each our destiny in our own hands, to make or mar, as we will. No man, unless he desires, need be the victim of circumstances. We must control fortune, not be governed by itshape our own way, not follow in gloom and despair that which the veriest trifles have made for us; and, my dear,

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