Chapter 4

“Testis Metaurum flumen et AsdrubalDevictus, et pulcher fugatisIlle dies Latio tenebris.”

Although the possession of Milan and the submission of Lombardy were consequences of the battle of Lodi, Bonaparte was disappointed in one of the principal objects which he hoped to gain by it. Wukassowich andColli, feebly annoyed by Kilmaine, had crossed the Adda at Cassano, in the forenoon of the day; he forced a passage at Lodi, and taking the upper route, by the way of Brescia, to Mantua, were beyond the reach of interception. Relinquishing, therefore, further efforts against these Generals, he determined to attack Pizzighitone before it could be put in a state of defence, and marched for that purpose on the morning of the 11th, down the left bank of the Adda. The flight of a few shells seconded by the cannonade of Mesnard from the right bank of the river, compelled the garrison of three hundred men, which Liptay had left behind him, to surrender. Cremona, a more important fortress, opened its gates the same day to General Beaumont, who after charging a body of the fugitives from Lodi, appeared before it with an advance guard of cavalry.

From this point, which was the present limit of his career, Bonaparte determined to lead back his forces in order to secure the country they had overrun; and turning his views toward Milan, resolved to impress on that capital and other cities of Lombardy, the stamp of French authority, in the room of that which his victories had expelled. This operation, which first called into exercise his abilities for government, appears to have awakened the germs of that high ambition, which, nurtured by the possession of great civil qualities, placed him so far above all the other Generals of his age, and conducted him to a sphere of elevated greatness which a mind supported by military talents alone, and ambitious only of success in war, can never reach. In recurring to the events of his early life, he afterwards said—“Neither my success on the thirteenth of Vendemiaire, nor in the campaign of Montenotte, made me believe myself a superior man. It was not until after the battle of Lodi, that I began to think I might become a decisive actor on our political theatre. Then it was, that the first spark of high ambition was kindled in my soul.”

Suspending for the moment his further advance towards the Adige, he thus disposed of his troops: The light division lately commanded by Laharpe, was distributed along the Adda from Como to Cassano; and that of Serrurier, which had been under orders to occupy Pavia, was recalled and posted at Lodi, Pizzighitone and Cremona, so as to complete the possession of the line of the Adda. From this last place, he was to observe the discomfited forces of Beaulieu, who were reassembling behind the Oglio and the Mincio. Augereau was directed to take possession of Pavia, and to exhibit in that celebrated city, which was next to Milan itself in importance, one of the finest divisions of the invading army; while to Masséna was assigned the still more honorable duty, of receiving the keys of the noble capital of Lombardy. At the head of his division, this distinguished General marched from Lodi, on the 13th of May.

The hostile forces being now separated, the imperialists collecting their shattered battalions within the Venetian frontier, and the republicans spreading their victorious divisions over the plains of Lombardy, the reader's attention will be inclined to turn from the constant success of the one, and the uniform defeat of the other party, to the conduct of their respective commanders. He will observe that while a lamp of foresight guided the French General, the Austrian was bewildered in a cloud of uncertainty. Though active, courageous, and experienced, Beaulieu was throughout the struggle, as distracted in his efforts as a sightless pugilist, who knows neither where to aim nor to expect a blow; and although operating in the open field and in a populous quarter of his own country, was invariably subjected to the effect of surprise. The passage of the Po, the combat of Fombio, the victory of Lodi, operations which constituted the leading acts of this brilliant section of the campaign, were, each of them, the result of an attempt, which had it been foreseen, might have been frustrated. But while Beaulieu was guarding the Po at Valenza, Bonaparte had passed it at Placentia; while he was preparing to support Liptay at Fombio, that General was already defeated; and while he felt unassailable and meditated offensive operations at Lodi, he was himself overthrown by a blow of such quick and incalculable energy, that it was impossible to fear, withstand, or recover from it.

The confusion and dismay which these circumstances spread through the ranks of the imperial army, are aptly exemplified by the anecdote which Bonaparte records of an old Hungarian captain, with whom among other captives he fell in, while making the rounds of his camp, the night after the surrender of Pizzighitone. The prisoner, who did not know to whom he spoke, being asked by the General what he thought of the state of the war, replied—“nothing could be worse, and that it was altogether incomprehensible.” “We have to do,” he added, “with a young General who is at one moment in our front, at another in our rear, and the next on our flanks. One knows not how to take him. This manner of making war, against all rules, is insupportable.”

Bonaparte on the other hand, seizing the initiative by his boldness and maintaining it by his activity, divined the intentions of his adversary on all occasions, and confounded them, as with the overruling force of destiny. Accordingly, though operating with little more than his vanguard, he predominated irresistibly in the campaign, defeating the corps which came in his way, terrifying those which kept out of it, and in defiance of obstructions that seemed to others insurmountable, by an electric shock of genius and audacity, hurling to the ground the military strength and political power of his once gigantic antagonist.

BY OMEGA.

A Roman matron thus addressed her son:“Why, at this time, wilt thou put armor on;No foreign foes menace thy native land,No hostile galleys seek her guarded strand—At peace with all but Gods, thou dost not hopeIn martial pride with Heavenly power to cope?Oh say thou goest not, as much I fear,To view yon gulph of terror and despair:It open'd at the word of angry Jove,And 'till our prayers win mercy from above,A million, brave as thou, might spend in vainTheir strength or lives to close its depths again.No answer, Marcus? Ah, my heart sinks downWith sad presentiment of ills unknown.Why shade those ringlets, trimm'd with scrup'lous care,A brow whose gloom thy mother cannot cheer?And deck'd more gaily than a bridegroom—whyTurn'st thou on me a grave and mournful eye?Remain with me, my son, but this one day—To-morrow take my blessing with thee;—say,Shall she who gave thee birth implore in vain?Unblest by me, what canst thou hope to gain?”To this alone he calmly made reply— |His gaze on her, his right hand raised on high— }“Safety for Rome——renown that ne'er shall die!” |No kind farewell, tho' shower'd her grief like rain—He knew himself, nor dar'd to look again;But shook his plume, suppress'd the gathering tear,Turn'd his proud horse, and urg'd his fleet career.His parent gazed in that convulsive griefWhich burns the heart, nor finds in tears relief—No Spartan she to bid him wear his shield,Or be borne on it from the battle field.“Oh Death,” she cried, “a desolate mother see!In mercy strike, and set my spirit free!I'll seek my son on thy unfriendly shore,My heart assures me he returns no more.”* * * * *Though Rome's ten thousands throng'd the Forum: there—All stood aloof in more than mortal fear,Save now and then, a veteran or a priestApproach'd the gulph, more hardy than the rest,And gaz'd on what the boldest might confound—So vast its depth, so black, and so profound.Sulphurous, stifling exhalations rose,With hollow sounds, perchance the laboring throesOf a new Ætna, whose volcanic ireMight burst ere long, and deluge Rome with fire:But when the priestly train, in pomp and state,Proclaimed aloud the stern decree of Fate,That never more should close that dread abyss,Or Rome know safety, 'till the appointed priceOf peace with Heav'n were paid, by burying thereAll that she held most precious—then despairGave way to patriotic hope, and soonMoney and costliest goods were tossing downWith eager haste, 'till Curtius rode alongThe precipice, and thus bespoke the throng.“Romans, withhold your gifts—the Gods beholdUnmoved this reckless waste of gems and gold!Think ye the wealth of conquer'd realms can saveTh' imperill'd city from this yawning grave—That Rome, whose banner to the skies unfurl'd,Proclaims the future mistress of the world,Can bring, when to her last resources driven,No purer, costlier boon to proffer HeavenThan sordid ore, which every miser craves,The bane of freedom, and the life of slaves?Be sure it needs in this abyss to throwWhat gold ne'er bought, and Gods alone bestow.Our guardian deities do most approveOf military courage, and the loveOf native land; and if within my heartThese virtues may be found, I now departAlone to fathom the impervious gloom,And be this gulph my altar and my tomb!Oh may propitious Jove with favor seeThis sacrifice, and Rome remember me!”Rider and horse have reached the brink—one bound,And, like a dream, he disappeared!——no sound,No shout of triumph, or of dread, to tellHis fate, who dar'd so nobly and so well.Strange horror, admiration, and regret,Spell-bound that multitude—thereon was setSilence unearthly—even as with a sealUnbroken—'till a muttering thunder-peal,Low, sad and solemn, through the empyrean rung,As tho' the Gods his funeral requiem sung—While slowly to its music closed the tombThat held the saviour and the pride of Rome.The act—its motives—its results, imprestA sacred awe on every Roman breast.In silence to their rescued homes they turn'd,And inly blest the hero while they mourn'd;They rais'd no arch, in vain triumphal pride,Recording how or wherefore Curtius died—No column trophy-crown'd: no sculptured stone;These but emblazon what were else unknown:A death whose influence might ne'er depart,Had shrin'd his heroism in every heart.Immortal Curtius, Heaven hath deigned to hearThy aspirations and thy dying prayerFor Rome and for thy memory: it shall beA watchword to the patriot and the free'Till Rome shall perish. Since thy deed sublime,Two thousand years have join'd the flight of Time;Earth's mightiest empires, one by one o'erthrown,Have seen thy country matchless and alone;Supreme in arts and arms. Her godlike raceOf statesmen, poets, orators, who graceTh' eternal city's annals, have arisen,And shone, and set like stars—and o'er the sceneOf her departing greatness, trod the throngOf unredeeming tyranny and wrong;The Goth, the Vandal, and the Hun have givenHer pride and grandeur to the winds of heaven.New times, new creeds, new worlds have sprung to birth,And countless changes overswept the earth,But kindles still the generous emotionOf youth, at thy heroic self-devotion;Nor may the votaries of a purer faith,And loftier hopes, think slightly of thy death—For had thy lot in after days been thrown,Thou might'st have been a Christian, and have knownThe ardent zeal which, shrinking not t' engageThe fangs of beasts, or man's more brutal rage,Had given thy spirit from the flames to rise,And seek a martyr's crown beyond the skies;By thy example fired in many a landShall future Washingtons and Hampdens stand,Unbought by gold, unaw'd by despot power,Between their country and her perilous hour—And in the historic page their names shall shineIn stainless lustre, unimpaired, like thine.

Richmond, July 25.

THE HOUSE OF LORDS.

The chamber of the House of Lords is close to that of the Commons. The constant communication between these two bodies, renders it necessary that they should sit within the same palace. The recent destruction of the old Parliament House, by fire, has not separated them. Their temporary chambers are connected by temporary passages, leading from one to the other. Along them Members of the House of Commons, personally, carry their bills to the bar of the Peers; while the Peers despatch their messengers to lay their own before the representatives of the people.

The Ministers do not fail to avail themselves of this proximity. Being entitled to a seat only in that chamber to which they belong as Members of Parliament, when any struggle between themselves and the opposition is going on at the same time in both houses, they are at least enabled to exchange messages, from minute to minute, and to regulate their movements accordingly.

Thanks to this proximity, the noise and uproar of the popular branch, has alone, more than once, made the members of the more aristocratic body tremble on their seats. While the fanatical coalition of the Lords, temporal and spiritual, assailed the intrepidly defended, but badly fortified ministry of Lord Melbourne, more than once, the thundering voice of the Commons has relaxed the fury of the assailants, and encouraged the resistance of the besieged. The victorious cry of the reformers, led by Lord John Russell, often threw into confusion the conquered conservatres of Sir Robert Peel.

But it is necessary to describe this second arena of political warfare.

The chamber of the Lords is of the same form as that of the Commons—a lengthened square. The benches are generally placed in the same way; but the decorations are of a more striking appearance. Looking from the only gallery, common to the public and the reporters, you behold the throne immediately in front. This throne is not, as in France, a piece of furniture placed in the chamber every year, on the first day of the session. Here it is immovable.

Below is the celebrated woolsack, the seat of the real President of the assembly. Custom has determined that this must be a sort of sack—a bench without a back.

The apartment for the clerks is separated from the woolsack by two benches, on which two places are reserved for the Masters in Chancery, the official messengers of the chamber.

The covering and drapery of the throne, the hangings of the walls, the carpet, the screens, the benches, cushions and backs, every thing is red in this hall. Red is the aristocratic color. When the Peers, on the occasion of a visit from the King, are seated in state, with their red mantles, the whole appearance of the chamber is more dazzling than imposing. The appearance of the Commons at the bar, in their simple every day dress, presents a striking contrast. One smiles in spite of himself on reflecting that those are not the masters, who are thus sumptuously dressed in garments of purple.

This hall, in which the Lords are temporarily convened, was formerly the bed-chamber of Edward the Confessor. One can well imagine that if the four hundred and thirty nobles should take it into their heads to meet at the same time, that this room would with great difficulty contain them; but this fancy rarely ever seizes them. It is a great occasion which draws together even two hundred. The Peers enjoy a singular privilege which renders personal attendance almost unnecessary. They can vote by proxy. So that, when any one of them desires to travel on the continent, he leaves, if he choose, a power with some Peer of his own party, who exercises this delegated right of voting as often as he pleases, when he pleases, and how he pleases, except in divisions of a committee. Formerly the royal authority alone could render these powers available. Now even this is not required. At the present time, the Duke of Wellington, for instance, has his pocket full of tory votes.

The Peers who are in the habit of attending Parliament, find the present hall very small and uncomfortable. The government, which is building a new Parliament House, has consulted them on its dimensions; and it has been decided that it shall be neither very large nor very small. No one ever thought of building it on the supposition that the whole of the Peers would assemble at one time within its walls. This hypothesis has never even been suggested. The number of Peers present at the same time, has never been greater than on the question of the passage of the principal amendment attempted against parliamentary reform, the 7th of May, 1832. On that occasion there were two hundred and sixty-seven members in the house. That number was taken as the maximum: each member will be allowed three feet square. It is evident that the noble Lords are divided between the desire to be seated comfortably, and the fear of having too large an apartment, in which on some day or other a crowd of intruders may lodge themselves.

One word on the constitution of this chamber. Nothing can be more various than the elements of which it is composed. It has, first, its Peerages hereditary under the law of primogeniture—these are the English Peerages, and are beyond all comparison the most numerous; next, the Scotch and Irish Peerages, which are elective, but on different principles. The Scotch Peers are nominated only for a single Parliament; the Irish are for life. There are besides Ecclesiastical Peers, Archbishops and Bishops, English or Irish, who sit, the former on their own right, and for life, the latter by turns, every year, four by four.

In England the Peerage forms the only nobility possessed of any real title. One who is not a Peer has no legal title. The sons of Peers are not authorized to assume, in their public acts, any title of nobility. Even the eldest sons are only Lords by general consent and courtesy. The official list of the Peerage is the only official list of the nobility. The peerages are of different ranks; and among those of the same class, the most ancient has precedence. Thus there are in the first place, Dukes, then Marquises, Earls, Viscounts, and Barons. The Bishops and Archbishops, known as Lords Spiritual, are ranked according to their respectivedignity. The Archbishops of England have the rank of Dukes, and even precede them. The Archbishop of Canterbury, the primate and head of the church, is a sort of English Pope, and follows immediately after the Princes of the blood. He is the first Peer of the House of Lords. The Lord Chancellor (when there is one) is, in virtue of his office, the second; and the Archbishop of York is the third. The Bishops are ranked as Barons, and have precedence of them.

The Barons of Kingsale, like the Grandees of Spain, enjoy the exclusive and hereditary privilege of remaining uncovered in the presence of the King. The Peers have no other privileges, (excepting the peculiar style in which they are addressed, as “his grace,” or the “right honorable,”) which are not common to them all. Their chief privileges are those which prevent the seizure of their goods, their being arrested for debt, or judged by default in any civil action. They cannot be held to answer any criminal process but before their Peers. The reason of the inviolability of their persons in these and many other cases, is to be found in the fiction by which the Peers are all considered as counsellors of the King, and therefore secured in this perfect personal freedom, that they may be always ready to serve the necessities of the crown.

The House of Lords can only exclude a member and deprive him of the privileges of his rank, by convicting him of some capital or infamous crime. However, Blackstone mentions that, during the reign of Edward IV, George Neville, Duke of Bedford, was degraded by act of Parliament, on account of his poverty, which prevented his keeping up a style suited to his rank as a Peer. This fact is the more curious, as it is the only one of the kind, in the whole history of Parliament. Subsequently, a practice the very reverse has prevailed. So that, recently, the Earl of Huntingdon, though reduced to extreme indigence, has succeeded in establishing a contested claim to the Peerage, and the King has endowed him to enable him to sustain his rank as becomes a nobleman.

In England the aristocracy is firmly established. Each Peerage rests, at least fictitiously, on a real title, based on landed property. France and Spain, with a much larger and more ancient and illustrious nobility, have, however, never had a powerful and deeply-rooted aristocracy. If the French noblesse of the States-General had formed a political body strongly seated, properly supported, and distinctively marked, the revolution could not have overthrown them with as much ease as it did. Louis XVIII undertook, in 1814, to construct an upper house; he was too late—the materials were wanting—he built with sand on a foundation of sand.

It is now two years since M. Martinez de la Rosa also endeavored to form one in Spain. Well! in the country where every body is ahidalgo, he was unable to find grandees andtilulosfor his frail edifice. He went to work like the French political masons in 1831; he took political economists, philosophers, judges, lawyers, poets, merchants, and mixed them all up with the little of true nobility that remained. With this mortar he built hisproceres, destined to last about as long as the new Peers of France.

It is certain that the British Peerage has no longer the solid strength it once possessed; but, though weakened and shaken, it maintains itself by the vigor of its original organization; it does not absolutely arrest the popular torrent, but it resists, even in letting it pass along. However, this flood will not always dash without injury, around the House which forms an obstacle to its course; it is fast undermining its foundations; and will soon or late overthrow the whole mass. It will have been long submerged while Westminster Abbey still mirrors itself in the Thames. Such is the lot of the works of the middle ages. Its buildings outlive its strongest institutions.

The British Peerage is not only a legislative body; it is at the same time a court of justice—not an extraordinary court for the trial of its own members or persons accused of high treason, but a permanent and regular court—a supreme court of appeals in civil matters. These two attributes are, however, as distinct as the unavoidable consequences of this double capacity will permit; good sense has corrected in practice, the theoretical absurdity of the law. Although every Peer is born a competent judge in every cause, as he is a born legislator, the House of Lords only sits as a common tribunal when it is represented by the lawyers belonging to its own body. For example, Lord Brougham or Lord Lyndhurst, both Ex-Chancellors, usually sit in the morning, and give a final judgment on civil suits brought to that court.

No divorce can be pronounced but by act of Parliament. The Peers decide on all process for separation. As in these cases the only question is about facts which no legal knowledge is required to comprehend, they are decided indifferently by the Law-Peers, or any others present at the commencement of the political session. So the House of Lords is at the same time a court and a legislative chamber; a barbarous amalgam.

If the strict rules of ceremony were preserved, the Peers should sit according to their ranks; that is to say, Dukes on the first benches, Marquisses on the second, and the Barons on the third. This order is, however, not observed. They range themselves like the Commons, according to the political party to which they belong, Barons, Earls, Dukes or Marquisses indiscriminately. During the session just closed, the ministry of the whigs and their friends, occupied the seats to the right of the woolsack; the opposition of the tories, those on the left.

We use the terms “whigs” and “tories,” for these words are most suitable to the House of Lords. The whole aristocracy being centered in that House, the Peers only represent themselves; they do not express the will of such or such a party, but their own will. Lord Durham and Lord Brougham, both radicals, are anomalies and differ entirely from their fellows.

The political classification of the House of Lords, is more simple and easy than that of the Commons. There is at present, as during the last century, in the Upper House, two different shades of aristocracy, which fiercely contend for power and the emoluments of office; thetories, consistent at least with their anti-liberal principles, the triumph of which, if such triumph could be accomplished peacefully and without a revolution, would be the only safety for the Peerage; thewhigs, very much embarrassed by their pretended popular opinions, of the sincerity of which proofs by acts and not by words, are begun to be required.

Numerically these two divisions are far from beingequal. Counting consciences, you would have ten tories for one whig. However, in 1832 the whig minority forced the tories to capitulate; and, since that time assisted by the pressure from without, it has more than once dictated the law to its adversaries. But the period is rapidly approaching when the true majority will attempt to break the yoke, perceiving that concessions can no longer avail to secure its safety. It would be at least as becoming to seize the sword, and fall in defending its ramparts, as to wait seated on its curule chairs, the political death which threatens it.

The rules and customs of the two chambers in some respects resemble, and in others differ from each other.

In the House of Lords the members remain covered as in the Commons; and in the former chamber more etiquette is preserved. It is more rare to see their Lordships convert their benches into beds, or imitate with their legs the signs of a telegraph. The murmurs of the House are more subdued and civilized, the disapprobations expressed with more courtesy; the arena of discussion generally presents less animating and striking scenes; there is more concession, and more unity. You witness none of that strife of common-places which exasperate to so great a degree the patience and the politeness of the Lower House. There, for one eloquent harangue, you will have to submit to ten stupid ones, which serve no other end than to lengthen and injure the discussion. In the Lords able speakers are not so common, and do not abuse to so great a degree their right of speaking. It is true that the Peerage is but a groupe, but a little intrenched garrison; and you should not expect either reserve, or discretion, or discipline, in such a multitude as the Commons; an impatient army bivouacing whole nights on the benches, and where each soldier wishes to be a conqueror.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

Being an humble imitation of the style of some modern poets, by the prism of whose fancy the most common objects are invested with the hues of poesy, even as the sunbeam turneth to diamonds the dews which heedless night hath flung over the earth.

There is more in thy history than meetsThe eye of cold observance. Had'st thou wordsTo speak imprisoned secrets, how would allThy silent, chiselled labyrinths resoundWith thought transcending eloquence! Deep things—The passionate breathings of a hidden voice,And young and fond imaginings that swellThe fountains of a yet untroubled soul,Ere to the world its flowings have gone forth—Thou hast been witness to. Thou hast reposed,Pressed by a pearly hand, upon a browStainless and lofty; and thou hast been wornWhen the full tide of youth and lovelinessCoursed wildly through her heart, o'erlooking allHer regal swanlike grace; moved when she moved,In blest obedience—perchance hast stoopedTo watch the speakings of her mantling cheek,And felt the haughtiest tossings of a headWhose classic beauty might a Phidias shame.And when the hour of twilight musings cameAnd thy fair mistress in the leafy bower,Or by the curtained casement, lay entrancedIn all the dreamy luxury of thought,When the soft odors of the sleeping flowersStole forth on dewy wing to visit her,And bathe her brow in sweetness—when she lookedTo the far, quiet stars, that glanced abroadIn silent, glorious beauty—thou hast strayedCarelessly through the long fair locks that layLike a sun-kindled cloud across her neck:Lifting each half unconscious tress in pride,Fondly and lingeringly entwining it,As loth to quit thy lovely resting place.And thou art—aye, sweet shell—more favored farTo owe thy polish to her gentle touch,Than the most honored worshipper who kneelsBefore her shrine: than he who holds thee nowBetwixt a reverential thumb and finger,Absorbed in admiration of thy worth.

New York, 1836.

“What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.”—Shakspeare.

Shakspeare was mistaken. There is a great deal—there is almost every thing in names. Their influence is felt at all times, and under all circumstances. In war and peace—in morals, literature and religion—in the world of fashion—and above all, in politics, the despotism of names is all powerful, universal and irresistible. Nay, Shakspeare himself is authority against Shakspeare. Does he not make the gentle Juliet say to her lover, “'Tis but thynamethat is my enemy”—that fatal name which separated two devoted hearts—which planted thick sorrows in their path, and finally shrouded them in one common sepulchre! Does he not put into the mouth of one of Antony's captains, “I'll humbly signify what in hisname, thatmagical word of war, we have effected.” And again, speaking of the great Pompey, “hisnamestrikes more than could his war resisted.” Names indeed govern the world; and it is not among the least ingenious of all human contrivances that the world should be so governed. I do not wish to speak of the moral guilt and future accountability of those who combine to delude the ignorant—who chain mens' minds to some false idol, or enlist them in some scheme of abomination, whose iniquities are artfully veiled under the names of virtue, patriotism, and the like. If the denunciations of the eloquent Hebrew prophet against those who call evil good, and good evil—who put darkness for light, and light for darkness—who call bitter sweet, and sweet bitter—are not sufficient to alarm such delinquents, it would avail nothing for uninspired tongues and pens to attempt their conviction and reform.

Inliterature, how remarkable and how injurious is the influence of names, apart from any actual or intrinsic merit. How common is it to estimate an opinion or sentiment, not by the wisdom of the one or the purity of the other, but by the authority of him who pronouncesit. A false, immoral, or stupid passage in a book, which bears on its title-page the name of a popular writer, is often received with favor, when precisely the same offence in an unknown author would be almost certain to bring down upon him the lash of criticism. Take for example one of England's most renowned bards—one, not more known even in his own country than on this side of the Atlantic—whose “Melodies” are lisped by our amorous youths and sentimental maidens, and whose name has become a “household word”—a passport to every festival where music, love and wine are the sources of enjoyment. Among his “National Airs” so called, Mr. Moore has written the following lines, which have no doubt been admired by every pretty miss in the country, as the very perfection of poetry, sentiment, and even good sense.

Flow on, thou shining river,But, ere thou reach the sea,Seek Ella's bower, and give herThe wreaths I fling o'er thee.And tell her thus, if she'll be mine,The current of our lives shall be,With joys along their course to shine,Like those sweet flowers on thee.But if, in wandering thither,Thou find'st she mocks my prayer,Then leave those wreaths to witherUpon the cold bank there.And tell her thus, when youth is o'er,Her lone and loveless charms shall beThrown by upon life's weedy shore,Like those sweet flowers from thee.

Now the plain English prose of all this, when divested of the magic of Mr. Moore's numbers, is something like the following. “Take, gentle river, these pretty flowers which I fling upon thy surface, and before thou reachest the great ocean, be pleased to flow into the bower of my fair Ella; and if it be not miracle enough, good river, for thee to rush into a lady's bower, without either drowning her or wetting her garments, be pleased to perform another wonderful feat andspeak to her—tell her if she will only marry me, our joys whilst we are floating down life's current, shall resemble these wreaths which are borne upon thy bosom. But mark me, river!—if this insensible girl is resolved that she will not accept a good offer, why then roar like another cataract, toss these worthless wreaths on the shore to wither and rot, and tell this cruel Ella that she will live and die an ugly, neglected old maid.”

Now, whilst it is fully conceded that the figure ofpersonificationis perfectly legitimate, especially in poetry; yet there are certain degrees of it which should never be attempted, unless connected with subjects of great dignity, or which inspire powerful emotion—and it must not be forgotten that the excellence of poetry does not consist so much in the form or arrangement of its words as in the value and beauty of the thoughts and sentiments which it expresses. A gentle zephyr stealing into a lady's bower and lulling her into repose, or whispering in her ear the sighs of an absent lover, is natural and agreeable enough; but a river, or even rivulet, turning from its course and performing the same office, is a conception which would be very ridiculous in any other than apopularpoet. It would be tedious to point out other examples of similar extravagance in Moore, and one only shall suffice—a song which has occasioned abundant fluttering in female hearts, and which for impious hyperbole was never excelled:

Why does azure deck the sky,But to be like thine eyes of blue?Why is red the rose's dye?Because it is thy blush's hue, &c. &c.

In which said song the poet very calmly shows that all that is bright, and fair, and sweet in creation, was made purposely to resemble some young lady of his acquaintance. And yet all these trifles and absurdities, to say nothing of the frequent obscene allusions of the same author, have acquired an extensive popularity under the influence of a popularname.

It would be no difficult task to extend these remarks so as to embrace a long list of distinguished writers, both in prose and verse, who have perpetrated various offences against sound morals as well as good sense, but with whom the lustre of reputation, like the mantle of charity, has not only shielded them from censure, but imparted a kind of dignity and splendor to their failings. Enough perhaps has been said to illustrate the influence of names in the empire of literature.

How is it in the empire of the church? But here I tread upon sacred ground, and must use both brevity and caution. That truth exists in religious doctrine as well as in other things, will not be denied, except by unthinking scepticism or perverted reason. The difficulty has always been in finding her out—in distinguishing her sacred vestments and celestial carriage from the skilful imitations of imposture. The diamond may be known, by the tests of experiment, from the gems which mimic its lustre; but there is no moral chemistry which can separate truth from error, and resolve each into its proper elements. In fact, it seems to be one of the fallacies which have obtained currency among mankind, that truth and error are natural antagonists. So far from it, they are scarcely ever to be found in a state of disunion or repulsion. Error winds itself around the stately column of truth, as the creeper folds in its poisonous embrace the sturdy oak of the forest. Not that they are not in themselves essentially different—but so are the gasses which are found in combination in the water we drink, or in the atmosphere we breathe. What tremendous influence has been wielded by the simple wordchurch, from the very first ages of christianity down to the present time! That name alone has covered a multitude of sins, and sanctified innumerable crimes. What torrents of blood have been shed under the crimson banner oforthodoxy, and how many meek and conscientioushereticshave fled from the tender embraces of that holy and infallible mother, who has assumed the supreme government of the soul in this world, as well as the direction of its immortal destiny hereafter. But I only dwell upon this subject in order to show how much we are deceived by empty, unmeaning names. That there is such a treasure as “pure and undefiled religion,” none but the hardened infidel or remorseless libertine will deny. That it is always necessarily found under the priestly robe, or connected with the “sober brow,” neither candor nor charity itself will contend for—and yet, some how or other, the world has identified the sacred gift with a certain sanctimonious exterior, and with certain peculiar ceremonials, and there are few, perhaps, who reflect that it may be more frequently traced in the abodesof humility and wretchedness, in the sighs of a contrite heart, and in the tears of penitential guilt.

But how is it in the world offashion?What is fashion? Many attempts have been made to define what in truth is undefinable. It is an emptyname—a mere shadow, and yet is of substance sufficient to be felt and seen and understood almost every where. A popular English novelist, writing of his own country, says—“The middle classes interest themselves in grave matters: the aggregate of their sentiments is calledOPINION. The great interest themselves in frivolities, and the aggregate oftheirsentiments is termedFASHION. The first is the moral representative of the popular mind—the last of the aristocratic.” But this definition is unsatisfactory. Fashion executes its decrees with as much energy and effect upon those who are excluded from its mystic circle, as upon them who reside within its pale; upon the popular mind as well as the aristocratic. Its frivolities bewilder and dazzle the multitude who abjure them, as well as the chosen few with whom they originate. Imagine this mysterious agent, or whatever it may be called, personified, and endowed with the majesty and power of a queen,—and what are her attributes? A fickle, inconstant, inscrutable and unscrupulous being—selecting her subjects from every rank and condition, and with every diversity in morals and intellect—yet investing them with an uniform and exclusive badge of distinction; exacting from her followers the most unbounded homage, and repaying them often with the sacrifice of peace, health, fortune, self-respect and virtue; instilling into those who throng around her throne the poison of impure and corrupting pleasures, and in those who are banished to the outer courts, awakening the worst passions of envy, discontent and hatred, added to a debasing sense of inferiority. Fortune is not more capricious in dispensing her favors than this empress of smiles and frowns. By her command, dullness is transformed into wit, and deformity into grace. The withered maiden of forty is arrayed in the matchless charms of blooming seventeen, and the notorious libertine becomes transmuted into the fascinating and agreeable companion. If a despot of bodily shape and form, were to cause his power and caprice to be felt in all the minute concerns and occupations of society; if he were to ordain laws regulating the dress—furniture—social intercourse and amusements of his subjects, and in so doing should levy an oppressive tax upon their fortunes, time and comforts—the spirit of freedom would circulate like the electric fluid from one end of the community to the other; the tyrant would be resisted with fearless and determined perseverance. And yet doth fashion issue her imperial decrees equally as despotic and calamitous in their effects, without other aid than the influence and magic of her name—whilst her subjects, so far from opposing resistance, render an implicit and delighted obedience to her mandates. And what is this inexorable arbitress at last but aname?What is this capricious and mysterious intermeddler in human affairs but a vain shadow? a creature of imagination only, and yet as powerful as Cæsar and Napoleon in all their glory! Shakspeare was wrong; there is much—there is every thing innames.

In that great concern of human society—the structure and action of thepolitical machine, how does the matter stand? Are the governed portion of mankind—I mean a majority of them—influenced by things or names? The recorded experience of past ages, and our own particular observation, will answer the question. The master spirits who have ruled mankind with success, have studied the genius of the people with whom they lived. National glory was at one time, if it be not now, the passion of the French, and Napoleon well knew how to avail himself of a moral lever of such tremendous force. Administering to that all devouring and never satiated appetite, he found it an easy task to wade through tears and blood to the goal of his ambition. Preceding the period of his meteor-like and almost miraculous career, the French nation had been intoxicated by seraphic dreams of liberty and equality. Awakening from a long and gloomy night of slavery, they became suddenly bewitched by the doctrines of a new philosophy, (to them at least new,) which proclaimed the sovereignty of the people—and it was long before the horrors of Revolution could dispel the enchantment. The leaders in that dark and bloody episode of human history, retained their ascendancy so long as the names oflibertyandequalitycould be skilfully employed for their purposes. Anappeal to the people, or a compliment to their sovereign power, wisdom and virtue, was the daily prologue to those scenes of human butchery, which posterity will regard as incredible fictions. “Oh liberty!” said the beautiful Madame Roland, as she bowed her neck to the guillotine—“what crimes are committed in thyname!”

Are we free in our day from these disastrous influences? Have names no fatal magic with us—sufficiently fatal to unloose the bands of society—to subvert institutions, long cherished and venerated, and finally to dissolve the fairest fabric which ever realized the visions of hope, or the speculations of philosophy? Alas! have we not studied human nature enough to know, thatallmen are not honest and patriotic, and that some are sufficiently selfish, cunning, cruel and ambitious to work out their own designs, and accomplish their own evil desires, although calamity should overspread society, and millions go supperless to bed? Are there not hundreds of demagogues who are willing to flatter and wheedle and delude the people into final enslavement, if in the whirlwinds of their own creation they can ride into power and office? With what calm and shameless effrontery do such men constantly exert before our eyes a controlling power over the yet doubtful destinies of this infant republic! To fulfil the purposes of ambition, the vilest appeals are made to the lowest and basest passions of the multitude. Thepride of democracyis a never failing chord to be skilfully touched, when some wicked design or atrocious mischief is meditated. The popular good—the welfare of the dear people—is the favorite string played upon by worn out political hacks and corrupt aspirants to office. Does a well tried and virtuous patriot stand in the way, and refuse his sanction to the bold assaults, or disguised and no less dangerous encroachments of power? He is instantly denounced as an odious and insidiousaristocrat, and is forthwith delivered over to the tender mercies of the faithful—the greatdemocratic republican family—the self-styled conservators of the only true and genuine principles of liberty—whose peculiar province it is to keep the republic pure, by a patriotic monopoly of all itsoffices and honors. It would indeed be perfectly amusing, if it were not at the same time a subject of sad contemplation, to hear the termsaristocraticanddemocratic, in the party contests of the day—familiarly applied to things and persons having no one quality—to justify such idle distinctions. The man for example who is “clothed in purple and fine linen, and fares sumptuously every day”—who drives his splendid equipage with liveried servants, who “lies down in luxury and rises in sloth”—that man is a member, or if you choose, the leader of the plain republican party—whilst the humble homespun pedestrian, who walks by the wheels of the other's chariot—whose bread is earned by the sweat of his brow, but who is sufficiently independent to think for himself—is denounced as anaristocrat, or what is worse, aFederalistof the genuine stamp—and is thought unworthy of all communion with the faithful, or at least of all participation in equal political benefits.Epithetsare the powerful weapons with which bad and ambitions men have in all countries finally succeeded in overturning all that was valuable and good—all that was wise and beneficent; and unless the people of these States shall in time become sufficiently enlightened, to distinguish thequalitiesof things from theirnames, we shall assuredly ere long add another to that gloomy procession of republics,WHICH HAVE VANISHED FOREVER FROM THE EARTH.

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