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dignified, uncringing being that he was before, and considers his claims to respect not at all affected by his new and humble occupation. He connects no reproach with his poverty, and will not tolerate the contemptuous look, which is prone to follow the frown of Fortune. Let those who dispute the good sense of his deportment, take to arsenic, leave their families to the charities of strangers, and go the fearful journey before their time. They have not the resolution and fortitude of men on whom heaven has set its highest impress. They are examples of that weakness and vanity, from which our nature is not entirely exempt. But the man who thus wickedly sneaks out of the world, deserting his responsibilities, and betraying the trust reposed in him by the author of his existence, is unworthy of being sepulchred in company with those who have struggled with adversity, lived with respect, and died with honor.

There is not in the Turk, as many have been led to believe, a real contempt for learning. He has been induced to discourage it, from a just apprehension of the innovations it might introduce upon his ancient and venerated customs. He looks upon these transmitted usages as something sacred; he connects them with the highest splendors of his nation, the loftiest triumphs of his religion, and submits to a departure from them with clinging reluctance. It is not the elegance of the Fez, or the richness of the coiled cashmere, that makes him love the turban; it is because his ancestors wore that turban, — because they fought and bled beneath it — because they bowed with it upon their venerable, toil-wor n brows, toward Mecca. He still wears his belt, his yataghan, and pistols, not because they are mounted with jewels and gold, or for fear of surprise from an assassin, but because his forefathers wore them; because those great men, who have now gone from the earth, and whom he is left to represent, appeared at the hearth and in the field, at home and abroad, in these weapons of pride and trust. He refuses to relinquish his flowing robe, not that a simpler and less ample habit would not answer its purpose; but it is the mantle that fell from the prophetspirit of his father.

With these feelings, it is not surprising that he should wish to avoid coming in contact with those nations who have not this filial reverence, and with whom every novelty has a new charm — that he should watch with a jealous eye the spirit of change that is abroad — that he should discountenance this arrogance of untried experiment — that he should discourage the innovating tendencies of impatient knowledge—that he should wish to keep the orb of science upon the dim horizon of his mind, if in its bright and burning ascent, it must melt away the chain that binds him to the graves of his ancestral dead.

The violations committed upon these sacred attachments, by the innovations recently introduced under the royal signet, have shaken the Ottoman throne to its base; they have disturbed the confidence of the Mussulman in the piety and wisdom of his sovereign; and it will be an unexampled exhibition of forbearance or weakness in the nation, if this representative of the Prophet does not yet pay with his life the penalty of his presumption. You may trifle with a good man's property, and even sport with his reputation; but you must not touch the sanctity of his respect for those who have it no longer in their power to make their own defence. There is no affection so deep, as that hallowed by the grave; no attachment so profound, as that on which Death hath set its seal; for all that we there discover, remember, and mourn, is Goodness without its faults, Wisdom without its errors.

The calmness with which a Turk makes up his mind to die, the composure with which he bows to the hand of the executioner, though innocent of the crime alleged, are among his distinguishing characteristics, and may be traced to the evenness of constitutional habit, and those sentiments of submission, instilled by his education. He is taught from his earliest years to suppress, or at least conceal, his emotions; to preserve a calm exterior, whatever may be the agitation within; so that ere long he resembles a stream moving on with a bright, unbroken surface, though gloomy and pointed rocks darken and disturb its bed.

He is taught to consider his personal services, in peace or war, in the discharge of a civil trust, or in the perils of the tented field, ever at the call of his sovereign,—that the preservation or sacrifice of his life is submitted to measures he must not arraign, or to events upon which Fate has set its unalterable seal. When, therefore, death presents itself, whether in the burning breach, or on the sinking deck — whether in the shape of disease, or the firman of the Prophet's vicegerent — he submits, like one who feels that his days are numbered, and that tears, regrets, and dismay, are alike unavailing.

When charged with a crime of which he is utterly innocent, and he is required to make restitution with his life, he breathes no angry remonstrance — no humiliating supplication. He may whisper of a mistake, and ask a delay: if that be denied, he casts an appealing look to his God, and submits; and there may be no one feature, in the circumstances of his death, calculated to inspire him with fortitude, or a spirit of submissiveness. There may be no responsible tribunal, as in other lands, to sit in judgment upon his alleged offence—nojury.bound to render an impartial verdict, and ever disposed to the side of mercy; no witnesses, with whom pity nearly melts away the stern obligations of an oath — no counsel, whose professional ambition lies in the acquittal of his client — no solemn and formal delivery of the fatal sentence — no prison of preparation, and possible pardon — no prints, promulgating previous virtues, and deprecating the rigors of inexorable Justice — no lingering visits of unwearied friendship and affection — no consolatory assurances of the pitying priest — no gathering and breathless multitude around the last scene — no reconciling tears of sympathy, or halfformed threats of deliverance — none of those preludes and appendages which, with us, smooth the way to a death of ignominy, and make the obituary of the hapless victim to be read and wept over by commisserating millions.

He meets his death comparatively alone, — none to counsel, none to console! The headsman comes to him in the street, or the field, as the chance may be, and presents the fatal firman; he kneels, bares his neck; the scimetar flashes through its quick circuit; the sinking body and severed head fall together; the countenance for an instant betrays the parting pang; the eye twinkles a moment, then closes in everlasting night! How sudden, how appalling this transition! Life, light, and all the busy promises of hope, exchanged at once for the silence and perpetual darkness of death!

Were life a taper, that, if quenched, could be re-lighted, we might with less dread undergo the darkening change: but there is no Promethean spark that can re-kindle, if once extinguished, this vital flame. Henceforth only remain the shroud, the winding-sheet, and the worm. We are never more to be what we have been — never to come back to this varied world. It is this unreturning thought, that fills us with dread; the thought that we shall never come back to those whom we left here so faultless, so beautiful, and young — that we shall never again revisit this green earth — never stray among its founts and flowers — never hear the glad voices of the waking grove, or the sweet dirge of the murmuring shore, — never see the fresh morn break forth in breathing beauty from its purple pavilion, or the evening star go up upon its watch. It is this that strikes a saddening chill to the heart, and makes us shrink from the untried hereafter. Happy he, who, in this hour of final and lonely departure, hath the presence of Him, whose countenance lights up that desolate way, — who, in the earnest of his own triumph over the powers of darkness, and in the assurance of his unfailing love, hath taken

'from death its sting,

And from the grave its victory!'


It was a summer's eve. The God of Day Lay, like a wearied artist, on his couch Curtain'd with gold and purple, yet would look Oft through the vistas of its floating folds, With lingering gaze upon the fairyland, Where, through the fleeting hours, his pencil free Had roam'd with magic touch, until it grew 'Neath his enchanted eye, a matchless work, Bright with Elysian beauty; every tint Was wet with freshness, while a mellow shade Hung o'er the whole as a transparent veil, And spread such melting softness o'er each charm, It seem'd a world, half human, half divine. One spot was ripe with beauty: The green turf Wore a rich velvet mantle, wrought with gems, Thrown by the passing shower. The wooded bank Was redolent with perfumes, breath'd from buds That, woo'd by the soft breezes, just looked forth, To catch their whisper" d tones, then sank again, Beneath the liquid foliage: the wing'd tribes Of Nature's roving children, tireless stray'd, Like a refracted sunbeam, of all hues, And pourM their gladsome minstrelsy around. And yet it was not perfect: the deep harp, However tun'd to harmony, doth need An intellectual touch to wake it up, Unto a faultless measure. Even so. With Nature's self, in its most witching time, When tones are more than mortal, and all scenes Are full of light and beauty; when its spells

Arc bound with strongest links, and the full sense Luxuriates in a sort of charmed life, E'en then it is not perfect, if one touch Of sorrow or disease, one thralling yoke, Whether of disappointment, wrong, or crime, Weigh on the drooping spirit, — that dark spot, Like a thin cloud upon the sun's broad disc, Will cast a shadow o'er the extended whole!

Ckfrlcfte*. (S. C.,) December, 1635.


The American In England. By the author of'A Year in Spain.' In two vols. 12mo. New-York: Habpeh And Brothers.

The announcement of a book of travels in England, by the accomplished author of ' A Year in Spain,' was received by the literary public with no common interest. A comparatively long interval had elapsed since the appearance of his first work, which had been fairly incorporated with our national literature; and we looked forward confidently to another and similar addition to it from the same source. At the same time, we were well aware how difficult a task it is to write a second time after a first successful effort, and how the excellencies which are admired in a first production, are often unheeded in a second. This arises from the common expectation of finding each succeeding work superior to its predecessor, and the habit of judging rather by the increase of merit, than by any positive standard. The world become fastidious, when an author commences his career with a work of extraordinary worth, and, like a man who begins his dinner with the most delicious viands, refuse afterwards to partake of meaner intellectual fare.

But to the present work. Our author,' feeling,' as he says in his preface, 'an irresistible impulse to perpetrate a book,' left New-York on the first of November, 1833, in the packet ship Hannibal; and after touching at Portsmouth, landed at Gravesend, whence he proceeded to London. Nearly half of the first volume is taken up with the incidents of the voyage, and the remainder of the work, with the exception of a chapter on Portsmouth, and an account of a short excursion to Islington and Brighton, is devoted to a description of the metropolis. The writer, forreasons which he rather pointedly assigns in his preface, has declined to avail himself of various sources of information presented to him by his introduction to the domestic circles of those whose acquaintance he was enabled to cultivate; and has confined himself strictly to a description of such external scenes, and obvious peculiarities of national manners, as meet the eye of the ordinary traveler. We shall not debate with him the soundness of his reasons for so doing; though we are not ourselves aware of any impropriety necessarily accompanying a delineation, by a traveler, of characters or scenes in private life, but consider the fault to lie in the unskilfulness or malice of those who cannot amuse and instruct the world, without wounding individual sensibilities. The style of the book is flowing, and the language bears the marks of careful correction. We should think, from the turn of the periods, that the author was an especial admirer of Washington Irving, though he is no imitator. Still, we miss that charming naivete and delightful off-hand manner, which characterized the 'Year in Spain,' and find their absence inadequately supplied by an air of self-complacency, which, as it seems to us, occasionally obtrudes itself on the reader, and a few attempts at philosophizing on trivial subjects, scattered throughout the work. We must likewise object to the particularity of many of the descriptions, especially that of Drury-Lane Theatre and the audience, wherein sentences occur, which we are compelled to denominate coarse. We find the same fault in the dissertation on the old maids of Islington, together with the remarks of the author upon English ladies in general. We also dislike to see, in a book of travels, a long and minute description of squares and houses, in the guide-book style, wherein

* Street nods to street, eacti alley has its brother,
And half the volume just reflects the other.'

Had a European, by some fortunate chance, succeeded in entering Pekin, such a course might be excusable; but thus to set forth London in print, as the fruit of a trans-atlantic sejour, seems to us a work of supererogation. It is in connection with this enumeration of minutiae, that we would allude to the equivocal interpretation put upon it by the Quarterly Review, and the inference drawn from Mr. Willis's details of the domestic conveniences, so minutely set forth in his ' First Impressions;' and would hint to the author, that he is equally liable to the censure of the British reviewer, on the same grounds. As a specimen of misplaced and unsound philosophizing upon a comparatively trivial subject, we would instance the reflections of the writer upon the iron turnstile of Waterloo-Bridge. He cannot surely be ignorant of the fact, that our gasometers have been for years constructed on an analogous principle, which has not as yet, to our knowledge, been discovered to be adverse to the genius of our republican institutions; and that many similar contrivances might be pointed out as in common use throughout our country. We are surprised, too, at the delineation of the character of Charles I., which contradicts all history. Even Clarendon, with his acknowledged partiality, does not so laud him; though to our mind the article of Macaulay, in the Edinburgh Review, gives the only just portrait of this insincere and self-willed monarch that has yet been seen in print; and strips him of all the borrowed plumes in which the mistaken sympathy of the world had bedizened him.

But our brief space is nearly exceeded, and we are forced to conclude with the remark, that if no new laurels are gained by this work, it is the fault of the subject, and not of the author. There are some topics upon which the most eloquent fail to please, and some countries so worn down,

*Continuo passu Pnetercuntinm,'

that, to the traveler who chooses to follow in the beaten track of thousands, hardly a solitary blade of grass will present itself. Let it then be sufficient praise, that the author has not failed, but that he has accomplished all that could be reasonably expected, under the circumstances of his tour; above all, when he had voluntarily debarred himself from the two most attractive paths by which travelers can journey, and had contented himself with gleanings of the comparatively uninteresting. We may surely venture to hope, that one who has made so readable a work, on the tritcst of subjects, may, at some time not far distant, choose one worthy of his talents, and find, on German or Italian ground, those assistances to genius, and auspicious influences, denied him in the gloomy streets of London, and the sombre, unpicturcsque character of its inhabitants.

Bridgewater Treatise. Roget. Animal and Vegetable Physiology. In two large volumes. pp.871. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea And Blanchard.

A Work whose merits are incontrovertible, and which should be in the library of every thorough scholar and divine in our country. Such elaborate volumes could not have been produced without deep research, sound wisdom, and untiring industry.

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