DEPARTMENT OF BIOGRAPHY.
The portion of the new world earliest colonized by the Spaniards was the Island of St. Domingo, Hayti, or Hispaniola, discovered by Columbus in his first voyage in the year 1492. For nearly twenty years this island was the only colony of importance held by the Spaniards in the new world; here alone did they occupy lands, build towns, and found a regular commonwealth. Cuba, although the second of the islands discovered by Columbus, remained long uncolonized; indeed it was not till the year 1509 that it was circumnavigated, and ascertained to be an island. At length, in 1511, Don Diego Columbus, the great admiral’s son, governor of Hispaniola, despatched a force of three hundred men, under Don Diego Velasquez, to take possession of the island. Velasquez soon subdued the island, the natives of which offered but little resistance, and he was shortly afterwards appointed governor, subordinate to the governor of Hispaniola. Ambitious of sharing in the glory to be derived from the discovery of new countries, Velasquez fitted out one or two expeditions, which he despatched westward, to explore the seas in that direction. In one of these expeditions, which set out in 1517, commanded by a rich colonist called Cordova, the peninsula of Yucatan was discovered, and the existence of a large and rich country called Culua or Mexico ascertained. Elated with this discovery, Velasquez fitted out another expedition under his nephew, Juan de Grijalva, who leaving Cuba in April 1518, spent five months in cruising along the newly-discovered coast, and trafficking with the natives for gold trinkets and cotton cloths, very skillfully manufactured. The result of this expedition was the importation to Cuba of gold and jewels to the amount of twenty thousand pesos, or upwards of fifty thousand pounds.
Delighted with this success, Velasquez wrote home to Spain announcing his discovery, and petitioning for authority from the king to conquer and colonize the country which his subordinates, Cordova and Grijalva, had discovered. Without waiting, however, for a reply to his petition, he commenced fitting out a much larger squadron than either of the two former; and this he placed under the command of Hernando Cortez, a respectable Spanish hidalgo, or gentleman, residing in the island, and who was at this time thirty-three years of age.
Cortez proceeded with the greatest activity in making his preparations. ‘Borrowing money for the pupose,’ says Bernal Diaz, the gossiping chronicler of the Conquest, ‘he caused to be made a standard of gold and velvet, with the royal arms and a cross embroidered thereon, and a Latin motto, the meaning of which was, ‘Brothers, follow this holy cross with true faith, for under it we shall conquer.’ It was proclaimed by beat of drum and sound of trumpet, that all such as entered the service in the present expedition should have their shares of what gold was obtained, and grants of land, as soon as the conquest was effected. The proclamation was no sooner made than, by general inclination as well as the private influence of Cortez, volunteers offered themselves everywhere. Nothing was to be seen or spoken of but selling lands to purchase arms and horses, quilting coats of mail, making bread, and salting pork for sea-store. Above three hundred of us assembled in the town of St. Jago.’ These preparations were likely to be interrupted. Velasquez, ruminating the probable consequences of the expedition, had begun to repent of having appointed Cortez to the command, and was secretly plotting his removal. Cortez, perceiving these symptoms, determined to outwit his patron. Accordingly, on the night of the 18th of November 1518—having warned all the captains, masters, pilots, and soldiers to be on board, and having shipped all the stores that had been collected—Cortez set sail from the port of St. Jago without announcing his intention to Velasquez, resolving to stop at some of the more westerly ports of the island for the purpose of completing his preparations, where he would be beyond the reach of the governor. Nothing could exceed the rage of Velasquez at the sudden departure of Cortez. He wrote to the commandants of two towns at which he learned that the fleet had put in for recruits and provisions, to seize Cortez, and send him back; but such was the popularity of Cortez, that both were afraid to make the attempt.
At last all was ready, and Cortez finally set sail from Cuba on the 18th of February 1519. The expedition, which consisted of eleven vessels, most of them small, and without decks, met with no disaster at sea, but arrived safely at the island of Cozumel, off the coast of Yucatan, after a few days’ sail. Here Cortez landed, to review his troops. They consisted of five hundred and fifty-three soldiers, not including the mariners, who amounted to one hundred and ten. They possessed sixteen horses, some of them not very serviceable, ten brass field-pieces, four smaller pieces called falconets, and thirty-two cross-bows; the majority of the soldiers being armed with ordinary steel weapons. Attending on the army were about two hundred Cuba Indians, and some Indian women. And as religion in those days sanctioned military conquest, there were in addition two clergymen—Juan Diaz, and Bartholomew de Olmedo.
For nine or ten days the Spaniards remained at Cozumel, making acquaintance with the natives, who were very friendly. Here Cortez, whose zeal for the Catholic religion was one of the strongest of his feelings, made it one of his first concerns to argue with the natives, through an interpreter, on the point of their religion. He even went so far as to demolish their idols before their eyes, and erect an altar to the Virgin on the spot where they had stood. The natives were horror-struck, and seemed at first ready to fall upon the Spaniards, but at length they acquiesced.
While at Cozumel, Cortez had the good fortune to pick up a Spaniard, who, having been wrecked in his passage from Darien to Hispaniola in the year 1511, had for seven years been detained as a slave among the Indians of Yucatan. The name of this poor man was Jeronimo de Aguilar; he had been educated for the church; and as he could speak the language of Yucatan, his services as an interpreter were likely to be very valuable. On the 4th of March 1519, the fleet, consisting of eleven vessels, commanded respectively by Cortez, Pedro de Alvarado, Alonzo Puerto Carrero, Francisco de Montejo, Christoval de Olid, Diego de Ordaz, Velasquez de Leon, Juan de Escalante, Francisco de Morla, Escobar, and Gines Nortes, set sail from Cozumel, and on the 13th it anchored at the mouth of the river Tabasco or Grijalva, flowing into the south of the Bay of Campeachy.
The expedition had now reached the scene of active operations; it had arrived on the coast of the American continent. Cortez does not appear to have been naturally a bloodily-disposed man. He was only what a perverted education and the vices of his times had made him—a man full of mighty notions of the Spanish authority; of its right to take, by foul or fair means, any country it liked; and not without an excuse from religion to rob and kill the unfortunate natives who dared to defend their territories.
We have now therefore, to record the beginning of a most unjust and merciless war of aggression. As Cortez, with his followers, sailed up the river as far as Tabasco, he everywhere observed the natives preparing to repel his attack, and at length he was brought into collision with them—of course overpowering them by the force of arms, with immense slaughter. On reaching Tabasco, his soldiers fought their way through dense masses of Indians, who discharged among them perfect clouds of arrows and stones. Pushing through the streets, which were lined with houses, some of mud, and some of stone, the victors reached a large open square in the centre, where temples of large size were erected. Here the troops were drawn up; and Cortez, advancing to a large ceiba-tree which grew in the middle, gave it three slashes with his sword, and took possession of the city and country in the name of his royal master Don Carlos, king of Castile.
Next day another battle was fought between the Spaniards and the Tabascans on the plain of Ceutla, a few miles distant from the city. For an hour the Spanish infantry fought in the midst of an ocean of enemies, battling on all sides, beating one wave back, only that another might advance—a little islet encircled by the savage breakers. At length, with the assistance of their horse—a terrible sight to the Indians—the Spaniards were victorious. The spirit of the Tabascans was now completely subdued. Their chiefs came to the camp of Cortez with faces and gestures expressive of contrition, and brought him presents of fowls, fish, maize, and numerous gold toys representing many kinds of animals in miniature. For the horses, they brought a feast of turkeys and roses! They also gave Cortez twenty Indian girls to attend the army. To his inquiries respecting the country whence they obtained the gold, they replied by repetitions of the words ‘Culua’ and ‘Mexico,’ and pointing to the west. Having obtained all the information the Tabascans could give him, Cortez resolved to proceed on his voyage. Accordingly, after a solemn mass, which the Indians attended, the armament left Tabasco, and after a short sail, arrived off the coast of St. Juan de Ulua, the site of the modern Vera Cruz. It was on Holy Thursday (April 20th), in the year 1519, that they arrived at the port of St. Juan de Ulua, the extreme eastern province of the Mexican dominions properly so called. The royal flag was floating from the mast of Cortez’s ship. The Spaniards could see the beach crowded with natives, who had come down to gaze at the strange ‘water-houses,’ of which they had formerly seen specimens. At length a light pirogue, filled with natives, some of them evidently men of rank, pushed off from the shore, and steered for the ship of Cortez. The Indians went on board without any symptoms of fear, and, what was more striking, with an air of ease and perfect good-breeding. They spoke a different language from that of the inhabitants of Cozumel or the Tabascans—a language, too, which Aguilar did not understand. Fortunately, one of the twenty Indian girls presented by the Tabascans to the Spaniards was a Mexican by birth. This girl, whose Spanish name of Donna Marina is imperishably associated with the history of the conquest of Mexico, was the daughter of a chief, but, by a singular course of events, had become a slave in Tabasco. She had already attracted attention by her beauty, sweetness, and gentleness, and she had been mentioned to Cortez. Her services now became valuable. The Mexican was her native language; but by her residence in Tabasco, she had acquired the Tabascan, which language was also familiar to Aguilar. Interpreting, therefore, what the Mexicans said into Tabascan to Aguilar, Aguilar in turn interpreted the Tabascan into Spanish; and thus, though somewhat circuitously, Cortez could hold communication with his visitors.
The Aztec visitors who came on board the ship of Cortez, informed him that they were instructed by the governor of the province to ask what he wanted on their coast, and to promise that whatever he required should be supplied. Cortez replied that his object was to make the acquaintance of the people of those countries, and that he would do them no injury. He then presented them with some beads of cut glass, and after an entertainment of wine, they took their departure, promising that Teuthlille, the governor of the province under their great emperor, should visit him the next day.
Next day, Friday the 21st of April 1519, Cortez landed with his troops, and had an interview with Teuthlille, who received the visitors with suspicion; and this feeling was not lessened by the parade of mounted dragoons and firing of guns with which the Spanish commander thought fit to astonish him and the other natives. Sketches were taken of the appearance of the strangers, in order to be sent to Montezuma, the king of the country, who was likewise to be informed that the white men who had arrived on his coast desired to be allowed to come and see him in his capital.
Here we pause to present a short account of the Mexican empire, in which Cortez had landed; also of the character and government of this monarch, Montezuma, whom the Spaniards expected soon to be permitted to visit.
If a traveler, landing on that part of the coast of the Mexican gulf where Cortez and his Spaniards landed three hundred and thirty years ago, were to proceed westward across the continent, he would pass successively through three regions or climates. First he would pass through the tierra caliente, or hot region, distinguished by all the features of the tropics—their luxuriant vegetation, their occasional sandy deserts, and their unhealthinesss at particular seasons. After sixty miles of travel through this tierra caliente, he would enter the tierra templada, or temperate region, where the products of the soil are such as belong to the most genial European countries. Ascending through it, the traveler at last leaves wheat-fields beneath him, and plunges into forests of pine, indicating his entrance into the tierra fria, or cold region, where the sleety blasts from the mountains penetrate the very bones. This tierra fria constitutes the summits of part of the great mountain range of the Andes, which traverses the whole American continent. Fortunately, however, at this point the Andes do not attain their greatest elevation. Instead of rising, as in some other parts of their range, in a huge perpendicular wall or ridge, they here flatten and widen out, so as to constitute a vast plateau, or table-land, six or seven thousand feet above the level of the sea. On this immense sheet of table-land, stretching for hundreds of miles, the inhabitants, though living within the tropics, enjoy a climate equal to that of the south of Italy; while their proximity to the extremes both of heat and cold enables them to procure, without much labor, the luxuries of many lands. Across the table-land there stretches from east to west a chain of volcanic peaks, some of which are of immense height, and covered perpetually with snow.
This table-land was known in the Mexican language by the name of the plain of Anahuac. Near its centre is a valley of an oval form, about two hundred miles in circumference, surrounded by a rampart of porphyritic rock, and overspread for about a tenth part of its surface by five distinct lakes or sheets of water. This is the celebrated valley of Mexico—called a valley only by comparison with the mountains which surround it, for it is seven thousand feet above the level of the sea. Round the margins of the five lakes once stood numerous cities the relics of which are yet visible; and on an islet in the middle of the largest lake stood the great city of Mexico, or Tenochtitlan, the capital of the empire which the Spaniards were now invading, and the residence of the Mexican emperor, Montezuma.
The origin of the Mexicans is a question of great obscurity—a part of the more extensive question of the manner in which America was peopled. According to Mr. Prescott, the latest and one of the best authorities on the subject, the plains of Aanahuac were overrun, previous to the discovery of America, by several successive races from the north-west of the continent where it approaches Asia. Thus, in the thirteenth century, the great table-land of central America was inhabited by a number of races and sub-races, all originally of the same stock, but differing from each other greatly in character and degree of civilization, and engaged in mutual hostilities. The cities of these different races were scattered over the plateau, principally in the neighborhood of the five lakes. Tezcuco, on the eastern bank of the greatest of the lakes, was the capital of the Acolhuans; and Tenochtitlan, or Mexico, founded in 1325, on an island in the same lake, was the capital of the Aztecs.
In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries the dominant race in the plains of Anahuac was the Acolhuans, or Tezcucans, represented as a people of mild and polished manners, skilled in the elegant arts and possessing literary habits and tastes—the Athenians, if we may so call them, of the new world. The most celebrated of the Tezcucan sovereigns was Nezahualcoyotl, who reigned early in the fifteenth century. By this prince a revolution was effected in the political state of the valley of Anahuac. He procured the formation of a confederacy between Tezcuco and the two neighboring friendly cities of Mexico and Tlacopan, by which they bound themselves severally to assist each other when attacked, and to carry on wars conjointly. In this strange alliance Tezcuco was the principal member, as being confessedly the most powerful state; Mexico stood next; and lastly Tlacopan, as being inferior to the other two.
Nezahualcoyotl died in 1470, and was succeeded on the Tezcucan throne by his son Nezahualpilli. During his reign the Tezcucans fell from their position as the first member of the triple confederacy which his father had formed, and gave place to the Aztecs or Mexicans. These Aztecs had been gradually growing in consequence since their first arrival in the valley. Decidedly inferior to the Tezcucans in culture, and professing a much more bloody and impure worship, they excelled them in certain qualities, and possessed, on the whole, a firmer and more compact character. If the Tezcucans were the Greeks, the Aztecs were the Romans of the new world. Under a series of able princes they had increased in importance, till now, in the reign of Nezahualpilli, they were the rivals of their allies, the Tezcucans, for the sovereignty of Anahuac.
In the year 1502, a vacancy occurred in the throne of Tenochtitlan, or Mexico. The election fell on Montezuma II, the nephew of the deceased monarch, a young man who had already distinguished himself as a soldier and a priest or sage, and who was noted, as his name—Montezuma (sorrowful man)—implied, for a certain gravity and sad severity of manner. The first years of Montezuma’s reign were spent in war. Carrying his victorious arms as far as Nicaragua and Honduras in the south, and to the shores of the Mexican gulf in the east, he extended the sovereignty of the triple confederacy, of which he was a member, over an immense extent of territory. Distant provinces he compelled to pay him tribute; and the wealth of Anahuac flowed from all directions towards the valley of Mexico. Haughty and severe in his disposition, and magnificent in his tastes, he ruled like an Oriental despot over the provinces which he had conquered; and the least attempt at rebellion was fearfully punished, captives being dragged in hundreds to the capital to be slaughtered on the stone of human sacrifice in the great war temple. Nor did Montezuma’s own natural-born subjects stand less in dread of him. Wise, liberal, and even generous in his government, his inflexible justice, and his lordly notions of his own dignity, made him an object less of affection than of awe and reverence. In his presence his nobles spoke in whispers; in his palace he was served with a slavish homage; and when he appeared in public, his subjects vailed their faces, as unworthy to gaze upon his person. The death of Nezahualpilli, in 1516, made him absolute sovereign in Anahuac. On the death of that king, two of his sons, Cacama and Ixtlilxochitl, contended for the throne of Tezcuco. Montezuma sided with Cacama; and the dispute was at length ended by a compromise between the two brothers, by which the kingdom was divided into two parts—Cacama obtaining the southern half with the city of Tezcuco, and Ixtlilxochitl the northern half.
Thus, at the period of the arrival of the Spaniards, Montezuma was absolute sovereign of nearly the whole of that portion of central America which lies between the Gulf of Mexico and the Pacific Ocean—the kings of Tezcuco and Tlacopan being nominally his confederates and counselors, according to the ancient treaty of alliance between the three states, but in reality his dependents. The spot where Cortez had landed was in one of the maritime provinces of Montezuma’s dominions.
It is a singular but well-authenticated fact, that at the time the Spaniards landed in America a general expectation prevailed among the natives of the arrival of a mysterious race of white men from the East, who were to conquer the country. This was especially the case in Mexico. There was a tradition among the Mexicans that, some ages before the arrival of the Spaniards, and while yet the Aztec empire was in its infancy, there appeared in Anahuac a divine personage called Quetzalcoatl. He was a man of benevolent aspect, tall in stature, with a white complexion, long dark hair, and a flowing beard; and he came from the East. He resided in Anahuac for many years, teaching the Mexicans numerous arts and sciences, and reforming their manners; and under his care the country flourished and became happy. At length some difference arose between him and the Mexicans, and they no longer paid respect to the words of the good Quetzalcoatl. He then announced to them that he was going to depart from their country. Proceeding eastward, delaying a little while at Cholula, a city which ever afterwards was regarded as sacred, he arrived at the sea-shore. Embarking on board a little skiff made of serpents’ skins, he pushed out to sea, and as the Mexicans strained their eyes after him, he disappeared in the distance, going, as it seemed, to the East. Before he departed, however, he delivered a prophecy, that at some future time people of his race, with white complexions like his, would come from the East to conquer and possess the country.
The tradition of Quetzalcoatl’s prophecy was rife among the natives of Anahuac when Cortez arrived, and it was with a kind of religious awe that Montezuma and his people heard of the arrival of the white men in their ‘water-houses.’ Cortez and his men constituted, as we have seen, this body. Teuthlille’s messengers, announcing their arrival, had already reached Montezuma; and he was deliberating in what manner he should receive the strangers. In order to learn his decision, let us return to the Spaniards on the sea-coast.
The Spaniards, supplied by the natives with plenty of everything which they required, were waiting the return of the messengers to Montezuma. After six days they returned, accompanied by Teuthlille. They bore with them a splendid present from Montezuma to the Spanish emperor. It consisted of loads of finely-wrought cotton, ornamented with featherwork; and a miscellaneous collection of jewels and articles of gold and silver, richly carved, of which the most attractive were two circular plates as large as carriage-wheels, one of gold, valued at more than fifty thousand pounds, and intended to represent the sun; the other of silver, and representing the moon. As they gazed on the kingly present, the Spaniards could scarcely contain their raptures. The message which accompanied it, however, was less satisfactory. Montezuma was happy to hear of the existence of his brother, the king of Spain, and wished him to consider him as his friend; he could not, however, come to see the Spaniards, and it was too far for them to come and visit him. He therefore hoped they would depart, and carry his respects to his brother, their monarch.
To this Cortez, thanking Montezuma for his present, replied that he could not leave the country without being able to say to his king that he had seen Montezuma with his own eyes; and the ambassadors again departed, carrying a sorry present from Cortez to Montezuma. After another interval of six days they returned, with another gift little inferior in value of the former, and informed Cortez that the great Montezuma had received his present with satisfaction, but that, as to the interview, he could not permit any more to be said on the subject. Cortez, though greatly mortified, thanked them politely, and returned to Montezuma a second message to the same effect as the former, but couched in more decided language. The Mexicans withdrew in distrust, and ceased to barter with the Spaniards, or to bring them supplies.
Meanwhile differences had been springing up among the Spaniards themselves, the partisans of Velasquez insisting that they ought now to return to Cuba, and that it was folly to think of founding a settlement. Pretending to yield to the clamors of these persons, Cortez issued orders for embarkation on the following day. Immediately the other party, consisting of the friends of Cortez, flocked to his tent, and implored him not to give up the enterprise which had been so successfully begun. This was precisely what Cortez wished. Accordingly, after some delay he seemed to yield; and revoked the order for embarkation, he announced his willingness to found a settlement in the name of the Spanish sovereign. Forthwith the new city, although not a stone of it had yet been raised, and the site had alone been determined on, was named Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz—‘The Rich Town of the True Cross.’ Magistrates were immediately appointed in the king’s name; the two captains Puerto Carrero and Montejo, the latter a friend of Velasquez, being nominated alcaldes, and others to different offices. ‘Thus,’ says Mr. Prescott, ‘by a single stroke of the pen the camp was transformed into a civil community.’
At the first sitting of the new magistracy, Cortez appeard before it, with his cap doffed, and formally resigned his commission from Velasquez into its hands. He then withdrew; but after a short time was recalled, and informed that he had been unanimously appointed by them, in the king’s name, ‘Captain-General and Chief-Justice of the colony.’ Thus, by a clever stroke of policy, had Cortez shaken off all connection with Velasquez. He held his command now directly from the king, and could be superseded only by royal authority. The friends of Velasquez were at first furious with rage; but Cortez at length soothed them into acquiescence.
A little before the conclusion of these proceedings, an event of some consequence happened. This was the arrival in the Spanish camp of five Indians, differing in dress and language from the Mexicans. They informed Cortez that they were a deputation sent by the caçique of Cempoalla, a city at a little distance on the sea-coast, the capital of the Totonacs, a nation which had been recently conquered by Montezuma, and was now groaning under his yoke. They were sent by their caçique to beg a visit of the Spaniards to Campoalla. A light instantly flashed upon the mind of Cortez. He saw that Montezuma’s empire was not so firmly compacted as he had supposed, and that it might be possible to divide it against itself, and so overthrow it. He therefore dismissed the ambassadors kindly, and promised a speedy visit to Campoalla.
Accordingly, as soon as the disturbance which had arisen among his men was quashed, Cortez marched to Campoalla, a city not rich, but prettily built, and containing a population, as it appeared, of about thirty thousand inhabitants. He was cordially received by the caçique, a large and very corpulent man. Remaining some time in Campoalla and its neighborhood, while the city of Villa Rica was being built, the Spaniards soon gained the reverence and good-will of the inhabitants, the Totonacs, who willingly submitted themselves to the dominion of the distant monarch Don Carlos, of whom the Spaniards told them. Here the Spaniards were horrified by the symptoms of human sacrifice, which were perpetually visible in the temples—the blood-stained walls, and the fragments of human flesh which lay about; and, fired with religious enthusiasm, they resolved to put a stop to such practices by tearing down the idols. Cortez informed the caçique of his intention; but although the announcement filled him with speechless dismay, no opposition was offered, and the idols were broken in pieces, and burnt before the eyes of the Totonacs, while the priests went about shrieking like demons. ‘These priests,’ we are told, ‘were dressed in long black mantles, like sheets with hoods: their robes reached to their feet. Their long hair was matted together with clotted blood; with some it reached to the waist, and with others to the feet: their ears were torn and cut, and they smelt horribly, as it were of sulphur and putrid flesh.’
The destruction of their idols did not alienate the Totonacs from the Spaniards; on the contrary, it raised their opinion of them, inasmuch as they saw the gods patient under the indignity. The intercourse of the two parties, therefore, continued; and, by his frequent conversations with the caçique, Cortez gained greater insight every day into the condition of Montezuma’s empire.
By this time the town of Villa Rica had been nearly finished, and nothing remained to prevent the Spaniards from commencing their march into the interior. Before beginning it, however, Cortez deemed it advisable to send a report of his proceedings to Spain, to be laid before the king, knowing that Velasquez must have represented his conduct in very disadvantageous terms to the home government. Accordingly, Cortez drew up one letter, and the magistrates of the new colony another, detailing the whole of the incidents of the expedition down to the foundation of Villa Rica, and announcing that they were on the point of commencing their march into the heart of the country. To increase the effect of the letters, they were accompanied by nearly all the gold that had been collected, together with the splendid gifts of Montezuma, and such curiosities as might interest the learned of Spain. The business of carrying these letters to the king was intrusted to Montejo and Puerto Carrero, and they were instructed, above all, to endeavor to secure the appointment of Cortez as captain-general of the colony. On the 26th of July 1519, the little ship set sail, freighted with a more precious cargo than had ever yet been packed within the timbers of a vessel from the new world. The pilot was instructed to make direct for Spain, landing at no intermediate station, and especially avoiding Cuba.
The departure of this vessel seems to have raised thoughts of home in the minds of some of those who were left behind. A conspiracy was formed by some of the soldiers and sailors, along with the clergyman Diaz, to sieze a vessel and return to Cuba. The conspiracy was discovered; two of the ringleaders were hanged, and the rest whipped or confined. Foreseeing, however, that such conspiracies would be constantly occurring, unless effectual means were taken to prevent them, Cortez came to the resolution, almost unparalleled in the annals of heroism, of destroying the ships which had brought him to Mexico. Accordingly, taking counsel with a few of his most attached followers, he procured a report from the pilots that the vessels were not seaworthy, and caused them to be broken in pieces and sunk, before the majority were aware of his design. When the Spaniards thus saw themselves shut up in a strange and populous country, with no means of retreat, their first impulse was one of rage and despair, and Cortez had nearly fallen a sacrifice. As he foresaw, however, the daring act had the effect of bracing his men to a pitch of resolution all but supernatural. Besides, by the destruction of the fleet, he obtained a reinforcement of a hundred and ten men—the mariners formerly employed in the ships being now converted into soldiers, and very good ones, as it afterwards proved.
All being now ready, Cortez, leaving a considerable force as a garrison to the new settlement of Villa Rica, under the command of Juan de Escalante, set out from the territory of the Totonacs, on his march inland, on the 16th of August 1519. His army consisted of four hundred Spaniards on foot, and fifteen horse, accompanied by thirteen hundred Cempoallan warriors, and a thousand tamanes, or Indian body slaves, furnished by the caçique of Cempoalla, who were to carry the heavy burdens, and perform other laborious offices. Advancing through the tierra caliente, they began to ascend the mountains which separate it from the vast table-land of Anahuac. A few days’ march across the tierra templada and the tierra fria, brought the Spaniards to a small mountain province of Tlascala, situated about half-way between the sea-coast and the Mexican valley. The Tlascalans were a brave and high-spirited people, of the same race as the Aztecs. They had refused, however, to submit to the empire of Montezuma, and were the only people in Anahuac who bade defiance to his power, preferring poverty and hardship in their mountain home to the loss of independence. The government of Tlascala was a kind of feudalism. Four lords or caçiques held their courts in different quarters of the same city, independently of each other, and yet mutually allied; and under these four chieftans the Tlascalan population, nobles and commons, was ranged as subjects. On the approach of the Spaniards, a consultation was held among the Tlascalan lords and their counselors as to how the strangers should be received; some being inclined to welcome them, in hopes of being able, by their assistance, to cope with Montezuma; others maintaining that the Spaniards were enemies, who ought to be repulsed by all means. The latter opinion prevailed, and three desperate battles were fought between the Tlascalans under the command of Xicotencatl, a brave and able young chief, the son of one of the four caçiques, and the Spanish invaders. These engagements were far more serious than the battles which the Spaniards had fought with the Tabascans; and it required the utmost exertion of Castilian valor, directed by all the ability of Cortez, to gain the victory. But Indian courage against the flower of European chivalry—the maquahuitl, or war-club, dreadful instrument as it was, with its sharp flinty blades, against muskets and artillery—coatings of war-paint, or doublets of featherwork, against Spanish mail—were a very unequal contest; and, as usual, the losses of the Spaniards were as nothing compared with the apparent fierceness of the struggle. But how could the little army hope to advance through a country where such battles had to be fought at every step? If such were their reception by the Tlascalans, what might they not expect from the richer and more powerful Mexicans? Such were the reflections of the Spanish soldiery. The idea of their ever reaching Mexico, says Bernal Diaz, was treated as a jest by the whole army. Fortunately, when these murmurs were reaching their height, the Tlascalans submitted, and sent ambassadors to beg the friendship of the Spaniards; and on the 23d of September 1519 the Spaniards entered the city of Tlascala, a large and populous town, which Cortez compared to Grenada in Spain. Here they were cordially received by the four caçiques, and especially by the elder Xicotencatl; and in a short time an intimacy sprung up between the Tlascalans and the invaders, and a treaty was concluded, by which the Tlascalans bound themselves to assist the Spaniards throughout the rest of their expedition. Here, as elsewhere, Cortez showed his zeal for the Catholic faith by endeavoring to convert the natives; and it is probable that the same scenes of violence would have taken place at Tlascala as at Cempoalla, had not the judicious father Olmedo interfered to temper the more headlong fanaticism of the general.
While in Tlascala, Cortez received various embassies from provinces in the neighborhood anxious to secure his good-will. About the same time an embassy was received from Montezuma himself, entreating Cortez not to place any reliance upon the Tlascalans, whom he represented as treacherous barbarians; and now inviting him, in cordial terms, to visit his capital, pointing out the route through the city of Cholula as the most convenient. This route was accordingly adopted, and the Spaniards, accompanied by an army of six thousand Tlascalan warriors, advanced by it towards Mexico. Their approach gave great alarm, and Montezuma set on foot a scheme for their massacre at Cholula, which, however, was discovered by Cortez, who took a terrible vengeance on the sacred city. Montezuma, overawed, again made overtures of reconciliation, and promised the Spaniards an immense quantity of gold if they would advance no farther. This Cortez refused, and the Spanish army, with the Tlascalan warriors, left Cholula, and proceeded on their march, met everywhere by deputations from neighboring towns, many of which were disaffected to the government of Montezuma. The route of the army lay between two gigantic volcanic mountains, and the march, for a day or two, was toilsome, and bitterly cold. At last, ‘turning an angle of the sierra, they suddenly came on a view which more than compensated their toils. It was that of the valley of Mexico; which, with its picturesque assemblage of water, woodland, and cultivated plains, its shining cities and shadowy hills, were spread out like some gay and gorgeous panorama before them. Stretching far away at their feet were seen noble forests of oak, sycamore, and cedar; and beyond, yellow fields of maize, and the towering maguey, intermingled with orchards and blooming gardens. In the centre of the great basin were beheld the lakes, their borders thickly studded with towns and hamlets; and in the midst, like some Indian empress with her coronal of pearls, the fair city of Mexico, with her white towers and pyramidal temples, reposing, as it were, on the bosom of the waters—the far-famed “Venice of the Aztecs.”’
Descending into the valley, the Spaniards halted at Ajotzinco, a town on the banks of the southernmost of the five lakes. Meanwhile Montezuma was in an agony of indecision. When intelligence reached him that the Spaniards had actually descended into the valley, he saw that he must either face the strangers on the field of battle, or admit them into his capital. His brother, Cuitlahua, advised the former; but his nephew, Cacama, the young lord of Tezcuco, was of the contrary opinion, and Montezuma at length sent him to meet the Spaniards, and welcome them to his dominions. Cacama accordingly set out in state, and arrived at Ajotzinco just as the Spaniards were about to leave it. When he came into the presence of Cortez, he said to him, ‘Malintzin, here am I and these lords come to attend you to your residence in our city, by order of the great Montezuma.’ Cortez embraced the prince, and presented him with some jewels. After a while Cacama took his leave, and the Spaniards resumed their march. Traveling along the southern and western banks of Lake Chalco, they crossed the causeway which divides it from Lake Zochichalco, and advanced along the margin of the latter to the royal city of Iztapalapan, situated on the banks of the great Tezcucan lake over against Mexico. To the eyes of the Spaniards, all they saw in their journey seemed fairy land.
ENTRY INTO MEXICO—RESIDENCE THERE—DESCRIPTION OF THE CITY.
It was on the 7th of November, 1519, that the Spaniards arrived at Iztapalapan; and here they spent the night, lodged in magnificent palaces built of stone, the timber of which was cedar. From this position the eye could sweep over the whole expanse of the Tezcucan lake. Canoes of all sizes might be seen skimming along its surface, either near the middle, or close to the banks, where the thick woods came down to the water’s edge. Here also, moving slowly along the margin of the lake, might be seen a still stranger sight—the chinampas, or floating-gardens—little islands consisting of earth laid on rafts, planted with flowers, shrubs, and fruit-trees, and containing a small hut or cottage in the centre, occupied by the proprietor, who, by the means of a long pole, which he pushed against the bottom, could shift his little domain from place to place. But what fixed the eyes of the Spaniards above all else was the glittering spectacle which rose from the centre of the lake—the queenly city of Mexico, the goal of their hopes and wishes for many months past. In a few hours they would be within its precincts—a few hundred men shut up in the very heart of the great Mexican empire! What might be their fate there!
The islet on which Mexico was built was connected with the mainland by three distinct causeways of stone, constructed with incredible labor and skill across the lake, and intersected at intervals by drawbridges, through which canoes might pass and repass with ease. The causeway by which the Spaniards must pass connected the island with the southern bank of the lake, about half way across to which it branched off into two lines, one leading to the city of Cojohuacan, the other meeting the mainland at a point not far from Iztapalapan, where the Spaniards were quartered. This causeway was about eight yards wide, and capable of accommodating ten or twelve horsemen riding abreast. It was divided, as before-mentioned, by several drawbridges; a circumstance which the Spaniards observed with no small alarm, for they saw that, by means of these drawbridges, their communication with the mainland could be completely cut off by the Mexicans.
On the morning of the 8th of November, 1519, the army left Iztapalapan, and advanced along the causeway towards the capital. First went Cortez, with his small body of horse; next came the Spanish foot, amounting to not more than four hundred men; after them came the Indian tamanes, carrying the baggage; and last of all came the Tlascalan warriors, to the number of about five thousand. As they moved along the causeway, the inhabitants of the city crowded in myriads to gaze at them, some finding standing-room on the causeway itself, others skimming along the lakes in canoes, and clambering up the sides of the causeway. A little more than half way across, and at a distance of a mile and a half from the city, the branch of the causeway on which the Spaniards were marching was joined by the other branch; and here the causeway widened for a small space, and a fort or gateway was erected, called the Fort of Xoloc. On arriving at the gateway, the army was met by a long procession of Aztec nobles, richly clad, who came to announce the approach of the emperor himself to welcome the Spaniards to his capital. Accordingly, when the remainder of the causeway had been almost traversed, and the van of the army was near the threshold of the city, a train was seen advancing along the great avenue. ‘Amidst a crowd of Indian nobles, preceded by three officers of state bearing golden wands, the Spaniards saw the royal palanquin of Montezuma, blazing with burnished gold. It was borne on the shoulders of nobles, and over it a canopy of gaudy featherwork, powdered with jewels, and fringed with silver, and was supported by four attendants of the same rank. They were barefooted, and walked with a slow measured pace, and with eyes bent on the ground. When the train had come within a convenient distance, it halted; and Montezuma, descending from his litter, came forward, leaning on the arms of the lords of Tezcuco and Iztapalapan—the one his nephew, the other his brother. As the monarch advanced under the canopy, the obsequious attendants strewed the ground with cotton tapestry, that his imperial feet might not be contaminated by the rude soil. His subjects, of high and low degree, who lined the sides of the causeway, bent forward with their eyes fastened on the ground as he passed, and some of the humbler class prostrated themselves before him.’
Cortez and the Mexican emperor now stood before each other. When Cortez was told that the great Montezuma approached, he dismounted from his horse, and advanced towards him with much respect. Montezuma bade him welcome, and Cortez replied with a suitable compliment. After some ceremonies, and the exchange of presents, Montezuma and his courtiers withdrew, the Spaniards following. Advancing into the city, wondering at all they saw—the long streets, the houses which, in the line along which they passed, belonged mostly to the noble and wealthy Mexicans, built of red stone, and surmounted with parapets or battlements; the canals which here and there intersected the streets, crossed by bridges; and the large open squares which occurred at intervals—the Spaniards were conducted to their quarters, situated in an immense square in the centre of the city, adjoining the temple of the great Mexican war-god. Montezuma was waiting to receive them; and the Spaniards were surprised and delighted with the princely generosity with which he supplied their wants.
Next day Cortez paid a visit to Montezuma in his palace, attended by some of his principal officers. In the conversation which ensued, Cortez broached the topic of religion, and informed Montezuma ‘that we were all brothers, the children of Adam and Eve, and that as such, our emperor, lamenting the loss of souls in such numbers as those which were brought by the Mexican idols into everlasting flames, had sent us to apply a remedy thereto by putting an end to the worship of these false gods.’ These remarks seemed to displease Montezuma, who, however, made a polite reply. Day after day the intercourse between Cortez and Montezuma was renewed; the Spanish soldiers also became gradually familiar with the Mexicans. Bernal Diaz, the old soldier of Cortez, to whom we are indebted for the most minute and interesting account of the Conquest, thus describes Montezuma and his household: ‘The great Montezuma was at this time aged about forty years, of good stature, well-proportioned, and thin; his complexion was much fairer than that of the Indians; he wore his hair short, just covering his ears, with very little beard, well arranged, thin, and black. His face was rather long, with a pleasant countenance, and good eyes; gravity and good-humor were blended together when he spoke. He was very delicate and clean in his person, bathing himself every evening. He had a number of mistresses of the first families, and two princesses, his lawful wives. He had two hundred of his nobility as a guard, in apartments adjoining his own. They entered his apartment barefooted, their eyes fixed on the ground, and making three inclinations of the body as they approached him. In addressing him, they said, ‘Lord; my lord; great lord.’ His cooks had upward of thirty different ways of dressing meat, and they had earthen vessels so contrived as to keep it always hot. For the table of Montezuma himself above three hundred dishes were dressed, and for his guards above a thousand. It is said that at times the flesh of young children was dressed for him; but the ordinary meats were domestic fowls, pheasants, geese, partridges, quails, venison, Indian hogs, pigeons, hares, and rabbits, with many other animals and birds peculiar to the country. At his meals, in the cold weather, a number of torches of the bark of a wood which makes no smoke, and has an aromatic smell, were lighted; and, that they might not throw too much heat, screens ornamented with gold, and painted with figures of idols, were placed before them. Montezuma was seated on a low throne or chair, at a table proportioned to the height of his seat. The table was covered with white cloths and napkins, and four beautiful women presented him with water for his hands. Then two other women brought small cakes of bread; and when the king began to eat, a large screen of wood gilt was placed before him, so that people should not, during that time, see him. He was served on earthenware of Cholula, red and black. While the king was at table, no one of his guards, or in the vicinity of his apartment, dared for their lives make any noise. Fruit of all the kinds that the country produced was laid before him; he ate very little; but from time to time a liquor, prepared from cocoa, and of a stimulative quality, as we were told, was presented to him in golden cups. At different intervals during the time of dinner there entered certain Indians, hump-backed, very deformed and ugly, who played tricks of buffoonery; and others who, they said, were jesters. There was also a company of singers and dancers, who afforded Montezuma much entertainment. During the time Montezuma was at dinner, two very beautiful women were busily employed making small cakes with eggs, and other things mixed therein. These were delicately white; and when made, they presented them to him on plates covered with napkins. After he had dined, they presented to him three little canes, highly ornamented, containing liquid amber, mixed with an herb they call tobacco; and when he had sufficiently viewed and heard the singers, dancers, and buffoons, he took a little of the smoke of one of these canes, and then laid himself down to sleep; and thus his principal meal concluded.’
After describing other parts of Montezuma’s household, including a great aviary or collection of birds, and a menagerie, the chronicler gives us an account of Cortez’s first tour through the city, accompanied by Montezuma. They first visited the great bazaar or market, held in the western part of the city. ‘When we arrived there, we were astonished at the crowds of people, and the regularity which prevailed, as well as at the vast quantities of merchandise which those who attended us were assiduous in pointing out. Each kind had its particular place of sale, which was distinguished by a sign. The articles consisted of gold, silver, jewels, feathers, mantles, chocolate, skins, dressed and undressed, sandals, and other manufactures of the roots and fibres of nequen, and great numbers of male and female slaves, some of whom were fastened by the neck in collars to long poles. The meat market was stocked with fowls, game, and dogs. Vegetables, fruits, articles of food ready dressed, salt, bread, honey, and sweet pastry made in various ways, were also sold here. Other places in the square were appropriated to the sale of earthenware, wooden household furniture, such as tables and benches, firewood, paper, sweet canes filled with tobacco, mixed with liquid amber, copper axes and working-tools, and wooden vessels highly painted. Numbers of women sold fish, and little loaves made of a certain mud which they find in the lake, and which resembles cheese. The makers of stone-blades were busily employed shaping them out of the rough material; and the merchants who dealt in gold had the metal in grains, as it came from the mines, in transparent tubes, so that they could be reckoned; and the gold was valued at so many mantles, or so many xiquipils of cocoa, according to the size of the quills. The entire square was enclosed in piazzas, under which great quantities of grain were stored, and where were also shops for various kinds of goods. Courts of justice, where three judges sat to settle disputes which might arise in the market, occupied a part of the square, their under-officers, or policemen, being in the market inspecting the merchandise.’
Proceeding from the market-place through various parts of the city, the Spaniards came to the great teocalli, or temple, in the neighborhood of their own quarters. It was a huge pyramidal structure, consisting of five stories, narrowing above each other like the tubes of an extended spy-glass (only square in shape), so as to leave a clear pathway round the margin of each story. The ascent was by means of a stone stair, of a hundred and fourteen steps. Arrived at the summit, Cortez and his companions found it to be a large flat area, laid with stone; at one end of which they shuddered as they saw a block of jasper, which they were told was the stone on which the human victims were laid when the priests tore out their hearts to offer to their idols: at the other end was a tower of three stories, in which were the images of the two great Mexican deities Huitzilopochtli and Tezcatlipoca, and a variety of articles pertaining to their worship. ‘From the top of the temple,’ says Bernal Diaz, ‘we had a clear prospect of the three causeways by which Mexico communicated with the land, and we could now perceive that in this great city, and all the others of the neighborhood which were built in the water, the houses stood separate from each other, communicating only by small drawbridges and by boats, and that they were built with terraced tops. The noise and bustle of the market-place below us could be heard almost a league off; and those who had been at Rome and Constantinople said that, for convenience, regularity, and population, they had never seen the like.’ At the request of Cortez, Montezuma, though with apparent reluctance, led the Spaniards into the sanctuary or tower where the gods were. ‘Here,’ says Diaz, ‘were two altars, highly adorned with richly-wrought timbers on the roof, and over the altars gigantic figures resembling very fat men. The one on the right was their war-god, with a great face and terrible eyes. This figure was entirely covered with gold and jewels, and his body bound with golden serpents; in his right hand he held a bow, and in his left a bundle of arrows. Before the idol was a pan of incense, with three hearts of human victims, which were burning, mixed with copal. The whole of that apartment, both walls and floor, was stained with human blood in such quantity as to cause a very offensive smell. On the left was the other great figure, with a countenance like a bear, and great shining eyes of the polished substance whereof their mirrors are made. The body of this idol was also covered with jewels. An offering lay before him of five human hearts. In this place was a drum of most enormous size, the head of which was made of the skins of large serpents: this instrument, when struck, resounded with a noise that could be heard to the distance of two leagues, and so doleful, that it deserved to be named the music of the infernal regions.’
This state of things could not last. Cortez, of course, had no intention of leaving Mexico, now that he had made good his quarters in it; but as it was not to be expected that Montezuma and his subjects would continue their friendly intercourse with him if they supposed that he purposed to remain, he saw the necessity of taking some decided step to secure himself and his men against any outbreak which might occur. The step which he resolved upon in his own mind was the seizure of Montezuma. By having him in their power, he would be able, he imagined, to maintain a control over the whole population of the city—amounting, it is believed, to nearly three hundred thousand. Nor was a pretext wanting to give an appearance of justice to the daring act which they contemplated. Cortez had just received intelligence that a battle had been fought between the garrison which he had left at Villa Rica, and a body of Mexicans under the command of the Mexican governor of a province adjacent to the Spanish settlement. Although Cortez cared little for this occurrence, he resolved to avail himself of it for his purpose; so, after a night spent in prayer for the blessing of God on what he was about to do, he proceeded with five of his officers and the two interpreters, Donna Marina and Aguilar, to Montezuma’s palace. The monarch, as usual, received him kindly; but when Cortez, after upbraiding him with being the cause of the attack made on the Spanish garrison of Villa Rica, as well as with the attempt made by the Cholulans to arrest his own progress towards Mexico, informed him that he had come to make him prisoner, he could no longer contain him self, but gave full vent to his rage and astonishment. But the rage of an Indian prince was impotent against the stern resolutions of the European general; and as the helpless monarch gazed on the unyielding countenances of his visitors, whose fingers were playing with the hilts of their swords, his anger changed into terror: he was seized with a fit of trembling, and the tears gushed into his eyes. Without any resistance, he was removed in his royal litter to the Spanish quarters, giving it out to his nobles and subjects that he went voluntarily, on a visit to Cortez, and desiring them to remain quiet.
Another degradation awaited the unhappy monarch. He was obliged to surrender the governor and three other chiefs, who had led the attack on the garrison of Villa Rica; and these were burned alive, by the orders of Cortez, in front of Montezuma’s palace, the emperor himself being kept in irons while the execution was going on.
All this took place within ten days of the arrival of the Spaniards in Mexico; and for three or four months Montezuma continued a prisoner in the Spanish quarters. Here he was attended with the most profound respect, Cortez himself never approaching him without taking off his cap, and punishing severely every attempt on the part of any of his soldiers to insult the royal captive. Such instances, however, were very rare; for the kindly demeanor of Montezuma, his gentleness under his misfortunes, and, above all, his liberality to those about him, won the hearts of the Spaniards, and made him a general favorite. Nor did Montezuma make any attempt to regain his liberty. Attended by his officers as usual, he received deputations, and transacted business; amused himself by various Mexican games, and appeared to delight in the society of some of the Spaniards, for whom he had contracted a particular partiality.
The Spanish general was now absolute in Anahuac; Montezuma acted under his instructions; and officers were sent out in different directions to survey the country, and ascertain the situation and extent of the gold and silver mines, as if all belonged to the king of Spain. Nor was the formal cession of the kingdom by Montezuma long delayed. Assembling all his nobles at the instigation of Cortez, the Indian monarch addressed them, desiring them to concur with him in surrendering their empire to the Spaniards, who were to come from the rising sun. ‘“For eighteen years,” he said, “that I have reigned, I have been a kind monarch to you, and you have been faithful subjects to me; indulge me, then, with this last act of obedience.” The princes, with many sighs and tears, promised Montezuma, who was still more affected, that they would do whatever he desired. He then sent a message to Cortez, telling him that, on the ensuing day, he and his princes would tender their allegiance to his majesty, our emperor. This they accordingly did at the time appointed, in the presence of all our officers and many of our soldiers, not one of whom could refrain from weeping on beholding the agitation and distress of the great and generous Montezuma.’
Montezuma accompanied the surrender of his kingdon with the gift of an immense treasure, which he had concealed in an apartment within their quarters, desiring it to be sent to Spain, as tribute-money to King Charles from his vassal Montezuma. The sight of this treasure roused the avaricious passions of the Spanish soldiers, and they clamored for a division of the wealth which had been collected since their entrance into Mexico, Cortez was obliged to yield to their demand. The whole wealth amassed during their residence in Mexico amounted, according to Mr. Prescott’s calculation, to about seven millions of dollars of our money, including not only the gold cast into ingots, but also the various articles of jewelry, which were of too fine workmanship to be melted down. The mode of division was this:—First, his majesty’s fifth was set aside; next, a fifth of the remainder was set aside for Cortez; after that, all the debts of the expedition were to be discharged, excluding the amount vested in the expedition by Velasquez, the payment of agents in Spain, etc.; then the losses incurred in the expedition were to be made good, including the expense of the ships sunk off Villa Rica, the price of the horses killed, etc.; and lastly, certain individuals in the army, as the clergyman and the captains, were to receive larger allowances than the rest. ‘By the time all these drafts were made,’ says Bernal Diaz, ‘what remained for each soldier was hardly worth stooping for;’ in other words, instead of amounting to two or three thousand pounds, as they had expected, each soldier’s share came only to about three hundred pounds. Many refused to take their shares, complaining of injustice in the division, and it required all the skill and management of Cortez to soothe the spirits of the discontented. Not a few, it appeared in the end, were no richer for all the prize money they had obtained than when they left Cuba; for, as Bernal Diaz tells us, ‘deep gaming went on day and night with cards made out of the heads of drums.’
Only one source of discomfort now remained to Cortez. This was the continuance of the idolatrous worship of the Mexicans. This subject occupied his thoughts incessantly; and he could not persuade himself that his efforts would be meritorious in the eyes of God, or even that he could hope for permanent success, until the false gods of the Mexicans had been shattered in pieces, and their temples converted into Christian sanctuaries. Not only as a devout Catholic did he abominate the existence of a false worship in a country over which he had control, but, as a man, as a native of a civilized country, he shrunk in abhorrence from the bloody and sickening rites which formed part of the religion of the Mexicans—their human sacrifices—accompanied strangely enough, among a people so polished and so advanced in ingenious arts, by the practice of cannibalism. At length Cortez announced to Montezuma that he must allow at least a part of the great temple to be converted into a Christian place of worship. Montezuma had been a priest, and the proposal was perhaps the most shocking that could have been made to him. He gave his consent, however, and one of the sanctuaries on the top of the temple was purified, and an altar and a crucifix erected in it.
This last act filled up the measure of Mexican endurance. To see their monarch a prisoner, to surrender their kingdom and its treasures—these they could submit to; but could they sit tamely under an insult offered to their gods? Hither and thither though the city ran the priests, with haggard faces, and hair clotted with blood, stirring up the zeal of the inhabitants, and denouncing woes unless the Spaniards were expelled. The crisis was imminent, and every possible precaution was used to prevent a sudden surprise by the excited Mexicans.
It was now the month of May, 1520, and the Spaniards had been six months in the Mexican capital. Suddenly the little army was thrown into consternation by intelligence of an unexpected kind received by Cortez.
It will be remembered that, before advancing into the interior of the country, Cortez had dispatched a vessel to Spain with letters to the emperor, Charles V, and a quantity of treasures. Contrary to the instructions of Cortez, the vessel touched at Cuba on its voyage; and a sailor escaping, conveyed to Velasquez an account of all that had taken place in the expedition, down to the foundation of Villa Rica. The rage of Velasquez exceeded all bounds. He wrote letters to the home government, and also to the court of colonial affairs established in Hispaniola; and not content with this, he instantly began to fit out a second expedition, which was to proceed to Mexico, depose or decapitate Cortez, and seize the country for the Spanish sovereign in the name of the governor of Cuba. The fleet was larger, with one exception, than any yet fitted out for the navigation of the seas of the new world. It consisted of nineteen vessels, carrying upwards of a thousand foot soldiers, twenty cannons, eighty horsemen, a hundred and sixty musketeers and cross-bowmen, besides a thousand Indian servants—a force sufficient, as it seemed, to render all resistance on the part of Cortez hopeless. Velasquez at first intended to command the expedition in person; but, as he was too old and too unwieldy for such a laborious task, he intrusted it to Don Pamfilo de Narvaez, described as a man, about forty-two years of age, of tall stature, and large limbs, full face, red beard, and agreeable presence; very sonorous and lofty in his speech, as if the sound came out of a vault; a good horseman, and said to be valiant.’
The fleet anchored off the coast of Mexico, at St. Juan de Ulua, on the 23d of April, 1520. Here Narvaez received information which astonished him—that Cortez was master of the Mexican capital; that the Mexican emperor was his prisoner; that the country and its treasures had been surrendered to the Spanish sovereign; and that at present his rival was as absolute in it as if he were its monarch. This information only increased his anxiety to come to a collision with Cortez; and, with singular imprudence, he went about among the Indians, declaring, in a blustering manner, that Cortez was a rebel against his sovereign, and that he had come to chastise him, and to set Montezuma free.
Narvaez’s first step was to send three messengers, one of them a priest, to the garrison of Villa Rica, to summon them to surrender. The commandant of the garrison, appointed shortly after the death of Juan de Escalante, was Gonsalvo de Sandoval, a young officer, a native of the same town as Cortez, and who had already won the esteem of his general and of the whole army by his valor and services. When the messengers of Narvaez, arriving at Villa Rica, presented a copy of Narvaez’s commission, and summoned the garrison to surrender, Sandoval, without any ceremony, caused them to be seized, strapped to the backs of Indian porters, and instantly sent across the country to Mexico in charge of one or two soldiers, who carried a note to Cortez, informing him of what had happened. Cortez, after thoroughly gaining them over by kind words and presents, sent them back to sow the seeds of dissension in Narvaez’s army. At the same time he entered into a correspondence with Narvaez, which led to no definite result. As there was great danger that Narvaez would succeed in alienating the Cempoallans from Cortez, if he were permitted to remain in his present position, Cortez resolved to leave Mexico with a part of his men, march to the sea-coast, and, if necessary, give battle to Narvaez. This was a perilous step; but, in the circumstances, it was absolutely necessary.
Leaving a garrison of a hundred and forty men in Mexico, under the command of Pedro de Alvarado, who appeared by far the fittest person for so responsible a post, Cortez set out with the rest of his force, amounting to less than two hundred soldiers, only five of whom were cavalry, and by rapid marches reached the Totonac territories, where he was reinforced by Sandoval and his small body of men. Altogether, Cortez’s army did not amount to more than a fifth part of that of Narvaez. They were veterans in service, however, and, under such a leader as Cortez, were prepared to attempt impossibilities. Narvaez, in the meantime, was in close quarters at Cempoalla, aware that his rival was on his march, but little suspecting that he was so near. On the night of the 26th of May, 1520, Cortez and his brave little band, crossing with difficulty a swollen river which lay between them and their countrymen, advanced stealthily towards Narvaez’s quarters, surprised the sentinels, and shouting the watchword, ‘Espiritu Santo!’ dashed in among the half-awakened, half-armed foe. The struggle did not last long; for Sandoval, with a small body of picked men, springing up the stairs of the house where Narvaez was lodged, succeeded, after a hand to hand fight with the general and his followers, in making him prisoner, after he had lost an eye, and been otherwise severely wounded. On learning the fall of their leader, the rest yielded; and when daylight came, Cortez, ‘seated in an arm-chair, with a mantle of an orange color thrown over his shoulders, and surrounded by his officers and soldiers,’ received the salutations and the oaths of allegiance of all the followers of Narvaez. In his treatment of these new friends his usual policy was conspicuous: he plied them with flatteries, and loaded them with gifts, till his own veterans began to be envious. Thus, by a single bold stroke, which cost him but a few men, Cortez had crushed a formidable enemy, and increased his own force sixfold. Fortune favors the brave! His army now amounted to thirteen hundred men, exclusive of the garrison he had left in Mexico; and of these thirteen hundred nearly a hundred were cavalry. With such a force, he might now prosecute his designs in Mexico with every prospect of success, and bid defiance to all the efforts of the Mexicans to regain their independence.
He was disagreeably roused from these self-congratulations by intelligence from Mexico. Some difference had occurred between Pedro de Alvarado and the Mexicans, in consequence of which the latter had risen en masse, and were besieging the Spaniards in their quarters. Without loss of time he commenced his march towards the capital, leaving a hundred men at Villa Rica. At Tlascala he was joined by two thousand of his faithful mountain allies; and the whole army then pushed on for the Mexican valley, anxious to relieve Alvarado, whom the Mexicans were now trying to reduce by blockade. On the 24th of June they reached the great lake, and marched along the causeway without opposition, but amidst an ominous stillness. Alvarado clasped his general in his arms for joy; and now for the first time Cortez learned the origin of the revolt. Alvarado, suspecting some conspiracy among the Aztec nobles, had treacherously massacred a number of them collected at a religious festival, and the inhabitants had risen to take vengeance for the injury. Cortez sharply rebuked his officer for his misconduct; but the evil was already done, and to punish Alvarado would have been attended with no good effect. Moodily and bitterly, therefore, Cortez expended his vexation on the unhappy Mexican monarch, accusing him of being concerned in the insurrection, and calling upon him to check it, and procure provisions for the Spaniards. Montezuma complied as far as lay in his power: Cortez also used his best endeavors to allay the storm; and for a while it appeared as if their efforts were successful.
The calm was only temporary. The day after the arrival of Cortez, a soldier, who had been sent on an errand by Cortez, returned breathless and bloody to the Spanish quarters. He had been fallen upon by a multitude of Mexicans, who endeavored to drag him away in their canoes for sacrifice, and he had only escaped after a desperate struggle. The whole city, he said, was in arms; the drawbridges were broken down: and they would soon attack the Spaniards in their strong hold.
The news was too true. The Aztecs poured along the streets like a flood, approaching the square where the Spaniards were lodged, while the terraced roofs of all the houses in the vicinity were crowded with slingers and archers, ready to shower their missiles upon the besieged. And now commenced a struggle which lasted seven days and to which there is no parallel in history. Day after day the fighting was renewed, the Spaniards either making a sally upon the besiegers, or beating them back when they advanced to storm or set fire to their quarters. The only relaxation was at night, when the Mexicans generally drew off. The Spaniards were always victorious; but their losses were considerable in every action, and the perseverance of the Mexicans alarmed them. Instead of yielding to their first defeats, they seemed to act on the conviction that they must be defeated continually until the Spaniards were all slain. This resolution astonished Cortez, who till now had undervalued the courage of the Aztecs. His soldiers, especially those who had come into the country with Narvaez, heaped reproaches upon him; although when they saw his conduct in the fray—the bravery with which he would spur his horse into the thickest of the enemy, the generosity with which he would risk his own life to rescue a comrade from the hands of a crowd of Aztecs—their reproaches were lost in admiration.
Wearied out by his incessant efforts, and perceiving the hopelessness of continuing a contest against so many myriads of enemies—for recruits were flocking in from the neighboring country to assist the Mexicans against the common foe—Cortez resolved to try the effects of negotiation, and to employ Montezuma as his intercessor. At his request, therefore, Montezuma, dressed in his imperial robes, appeared on a terraced roof, where he was visible to the multitude gathered in the great square. A silence ensued, and Montezuma was parleying with four nobles who approached him, when suddenly a shower of stones and arrows fell on the spot where he was standing. The Spanish soldiers tried to interpose their bucklers; but it was too late; Montezuma fell to the ground, his head bleeding from the effects of a blow with a stone. He was immediately removed, and every means used for his recovery: nor was the wound of itself dangerous. But his kingly spirit had received a wound which no words could heal; he had been reviled and struck by his own subjects, among whom hitherto he had walked as a sacred being: he refused to live any longer. He tore the bandages from his head, and rejected all nourishment; and in a short time the Spaniards were informed that their unhappy prisoner was dead. Cortez and many of the men could not refrain from weeping; and the body was surrendered to the Mexicans with every testimony of respect.
The fighting was now commenced with greater fury, and prodigies of valor were performed by the Spaniards; but all to no purpose. Another attempt was made to induce the enemy to come to terms. The only answer was the threat that they would all be sacrificed to the gods, and the appalling information, ‘You cannot escape; the bridges are broken down.’ At last, as death was before their eyes, it was determined by Cortez, and all the officers and soldiers, to quit the city during the night as they hoped at that time to find the enemy less alert.
Towards midnight, on the 1st of July 1520, they left their quarters secretly, most of the soldiers loading themselves with the gold which remained over and above the royal share, and proceeded as silently as possible towards the western causeway leading to Tlacopan, by which, as being the shortest of the three (two miles long), they thought it would be the easiest to effect a passage. In this causeway there were three drawbridges, separated by intervals nearly equal; and aware that these had been destroyed by the Mexicans, Cortez had provided a portable bridge, made of timber, the carriage of which he intrusted to forty picked soldiers. The van of the army was led by Sandoval, with two hundred foot and a body of horse under his command; the baggage, large guns and prisoners came next, guarded by Cortez and a band of veterans; and the rear was brought up by Pedro de Alvarado and Valasquez de Leon, commanding the strength of the infantry.
The night was dark and rainy. The Spaniards reached the causeway without being interrupted. The portable bridge was laid across the first moat or gap, and a great part of the army had gone over it in safety, and were already approaching the second gap, when, through the stillness of the night, there was heard the boom of the great drum from the top of the Mexican war temple, the rushing of myriads of pursuers along the causeway from behind, and the splashing of the oars of thousands of canoes full of warriors, which were advancing through the lake on both sides of the causeway. Showers of arrows fell on the rearguard as they were passing over the portable bridge; and the Aztecs, clambering up the sides of the causeway, grappled with the soldiers, and tried to drag them into the water. Throwing off these assailants by main strength, Alvarado and his men steadily and expeditiously moved on. Meanwhile the vanguard under Sandoval having reached the second gap, were waiting until the portable bridge should be brought up to enable them to cross it. Goaded with the arrows which were discharged upon them in clouds from the Aztec canoes, they grew impatient of the delay, and began to cast anxious glances backward along the causeway for the appearance of the bridge. Suddenly the appalling news was passed along that the bridge had stuck so fast at the first opening that it could not be pulled up. The weight of the men and heavy baggage crossing it had fastened it into the earth so firmly as to defy extrication. When this awful intelligence reached the vanguard, order and command were at an end; uproar and confusion ensued; and, seized with the instinct of self-preservation, each man tried to shift for himself. Flinging themselves headlong into the gap, they struggled with the Mexican warriors in the water, upsetting their canoes in their drowning agonies. Rank after rank followed, each trampling upon the bodies of its predecessors, and floundering among the canoes which lay between them and the opposite side. Sandoval and a few of the cavalry swam their horses across; some of the foot also were able to reach the side of the causeway and climb up; but of the vanguard, the great majority were drowned, or slain, or carried off wounded in the Mexican canoes. Meanwhile on came the rest of the army; men, carriages, guns, baggage, all were swept into the trench, which was soon choked up by the wreck. Over this bridge of broken wagons, bales of cotton, and the dead bodies of their companions and enemies, Cortez and his veterans were able to reach the other side of the trench with less difficulty. Here, joining Sandoval and the few survivors of his band, they dashed along the causeway towards the third and last opening, regardless of the darts and arrows which the Mexicans discharged among them from their canoes. Reaching the third trench, they crossed it in the same manner as the last, but without so much loss, and were rapidly approaching the mainland, when looking back through the dim morning light, they saw Alvarado and his rearguard pent up on the causeway between the second and third bridges, and almost overborne by the Mexicans who surounded them. Cortez, Sandoval, and a few of the horse instantly wheeled round to the rescue; and recrossing the third gap, shouted their battle-cry, and interposed between the Spaniards and their pursuers. This timely succor enabled most of the infantry to escape; and at length all had crossed the opening except Cortez, Sandoval, Alvarado, and a few others. Cortez, Sandoval, and the rest soon followed, carried through by their horses; and only one man remained upon the Mexican extremity of the causeway. It was Pedro de Alvarado; his horse was slain; and he was standing on the brink, surrounded by enemies ready drag him off, should he plunge into the trench. Five or six warriors were already advancing from behind to seize him, when, casting one glance at the opposite edge where his countrymen were waiting him, he planted one end of his long lance among the rubbish which choked up the gap, and, rising in the air, cleared it at a bound. The spot where this tremendous feat was executed still bears the name of Alvarado’s Leap.
The Mexicans now desisted from the pursuit; and the relics of the Spanish army, advancing along the remainder of the causeway, entered Tlacopan. Here they did not remain long, being anxious to place themselves beyond the reach of the Mexicans, and to arrive at Tlascala, the city of their faithful allies. They were now able to count the losses which they had sustained during the night. About four hundred and fifty Spaniards, and nearly four thousand Tlascalans, had been drowned, slain, or made prisoners during the passage along the causeway; a loss which, added to the numbers killed in the battles within the city, reduced the army to little more than a fourth of what it had been when it entered Mexico ten days before. But the most deplorable part was the loss of all the artillery, firearms, and ammunition, not so much as a musket remaining among the five hundred who survived. Still, under this accumulation of misfortunes, his heart did not sink; and his resolution was taken not to leave the country till he had regained his former footing in it, and annexed it as a province to the dominions of his sovereign.
His first object was to reach Tlascala, where he might recruit the strength of his men—almost all of whom were stiff with wounds—and arrange his future proceedings. After many difficulties, and another great battle, in which he defeated the Mexicans, he reached it on the 9th of July, 1520. They were kindly received by the generous mountaineers, who withstood all the solicitations of the Mexican sovereign, Cuitlahua, Montezuma’s brother and successor, that they would assist him in driving the Spaniards out of the country.
It was early in autumn before Cortez left Tlascala. His intention was first to punish several states of Anahuac which had revolted during his absence in Mexico, especially the districts of Tepeaca and Cachula; and then, after having reduced the whole country east of the Mexican valley, to return to the capital itself, and take it by storm. With a force so reduced as his, without cannons or other firearms, this was an apparently hopeless enterprise; but hopeless was a word of which Cortez did not know the meaning. Fortunately, while engaged in subduing the eastern districts of Anahuac, he received reinforcements which he never anticipated. Velasquez, ignorant of the fate of the expedition which he had sent under Narvaez, and supposing that Cortez was by this time a prisoner in the hands of his rival, had despatched a ship with stores, arms, and ammunition to the colony of Villa Rica. The vessel touched at the port; the captain and his men disembarked, suspecting nothing, and were instantly seized by the officer of Cortez; nor did it require much persuasion to induce the whole crew to enlist under the standard of a man of whom they had heard so many eulogies. A second vessel sent by Velasquez soon afterwards shared the same fate; three ships sent by the governor of Jamaica to prosecute discoveries, and plant colonies in central America, chancing also to land at Villa Rica, their crews joined the army of Cortez; and lastly, a merchant vessel, loaded with provisions and all the necessaries of war, arrived at the Mexican coast, and was purchased by Cortez—sailors, cargo, and all.
Having completely subjugated all Anahuac to the east of the Mexican valley, Cortez resolved to found a second Spanish colony in the interior of the country, which should form a half-way station between Villa Rica and the city of Mexico. The site chosen was Tepeaca, and the name given to the settlement was Segura de la Frontera. From this spot Cortez wrote a second letter to Charles V, giving an account of the expedition from the date of the last letter down to the foundation of Segura, and announcing his intention of marching immediately to reconquer Mexico.
It was five months after the date of their expulsion from Mexico before the Spaniards were in a condition once more to march against it. Part of the necessary preparations consisted, as we have seen, in the subjugation of those parts of Anahuac which adjoined the Mexican valley on the east; but another cause of delay was the construction of thirteen brigantines at Tlascala, under the direction of Martin Lopez, a skillful shipwright, who had accompanied Cortez. These vessels were to be taken to pieces, and transported, together with the iron-work and cordage belonging to the ships which Cortez had destroyed off Villa Rica, across the mountains to the great Mexican lake. At length all was ready, and on the 28th of December 1520 the whole army left Tlascala on its march towards Mexico. It consisted of about six hundred Spaniards, with nine cannons, and forty horses, accompanied by an immense multitude of native warriors, Tlascalans, Tepeacans, and Cholulans, amounting probably to sixteen thousand men, besides the tamanes, who were employed in transporting the brigantines. Garrisons had of course been left at Villa Rica and Segura.
No opposition was offered to the invaders on their march, the Mexicans fleeing at their approach; and on the 1st of January, 1521, they took possession of the city of Tezcuco. Cuitlahua, Montezuma’s successor on the throne, was now dead, and his place was occupied by his nephew, Guatemozin, yet a young man, but the most heroic and patriotic of all the Mexicans. The policy of Cortez was first to subdue all the states and cities on the margin of the five lakes, so as to leave Mexico without protection or assistance, and then to direct his whole force to the final reduction of the capital. For four months, therefore, Cortez, Sandoval, Alvarado, and his other officers were employed, sometimes separately, sometimes in concert, in reconnoitering expeditions into various parts of the Mexican valley—from Chalco, on the banks of the southernmost, to Xaltocan, an island in the northernmost lake. Scarcely a day of these four months was passed in idleness; and it would require far more space than we can afford to do justice to all the engagements in which the Spaniards were victorious, or to all the feats of personal valor performed by Cortez, Alvarado, Olid, Sandoval, and other brave cavaliers. Passing over these, as well as the account of a conspiracy among his men, which the prudence and presence of mind of Cortez enabled him to quash, and of the execution of the Tlascalan chief, Xicotencatl, for deserting the Spaniards, we hasten to the concluding scene.
On the 10th of May, 1521, the siege commenced. Alvarado, with a hundred and fifty Spanish infantry, thirty cavalry, and eight thousand Tlascalans, took up his station at Tlacopan, so as to command the western causeway; Christoval de Olid, with the same number of cavalry and Indians, and a hundred and seventy-five infantry, commanded one of the branches of the southern causeway at Cojohuacan; and Sandoval, with a force nearly equal, the other branch of the same causeway at Iztapalapan. Cortez himself took the command of the flotilla of brigantines. For several days the three captains conducted operations more or less successfully at their respective stations, one of Alvarado’s services having consisted in destroying the pipes which supplied the Mexicans with fresh water, so that, during the rest of the siege, they had no other way of procuring a supply than by means of canoes. The brigantines, when they were launched, did immense service in overturning and dispersing the Mexican canoes, and also in protecting the flanks of the causeways on which the other detachments were pursuing their operations. At length, after much resistance on the part of the Mexicans, the two causeways, the western and the southern, were completely occupied by the Spaniards; and Sandoval having, by Cortez’s orders, made a circuit of the lake, and seized the remaining causeway of Tepejeca, the city was in a state of blockade. But so impatient were the Spaniards of delay, that Cortez resolved on a general assault on the city by all the three causeways at once. Cortez was to advance into the city from Xoloc, Alvarado from his camp on the western causeway, and Sandoval from his camp on the northern, and the three detachments, uniting in the great square in the centre of the city, were to put the inhabitants to the sword. The plan had nearly succeeded. The vanguard of Cortez’s party had chased the retreating Mexicans into the city, and were pushing their way to the great square, when the horn of Guatemozin was heard to sound, and the Aztecs rallying, commenced a furious onset. The neglect of Cortez to fill up a trench in one of the causeways impeded the retreat of the Spaniards in such a way as to cause a dreadful confusion, and it was only by efforts almost superhuman that they were able to regain their quarters. Their loss amounted to upwards of a hundred men, of whom about sixty had been taken alive.
This triumph elated the Mexicans as much as it depressed the Spaniards and their allies. It was prophesied by the Mexican priests that in eight days all the Spaniards should be slain; the gods, they said, had decreed it. This prediction, reported in the quarters of the besiegers, produced an extraordinary effect on the allies. They regarded the Spaniards as doomed men, refused to fight with them, and withdrew to a little distance from the lake. In this dilemma Cortez showed his wonderful presence of mind, by ordering a total cessation of hostilities for the period specified by the Mexican gods. When the eight days were passed, the allies, ashamed of their weakness, returned to the Spanish quarters, and the siege recommenced. These eight days, however, had not been without their horrors. From their quarters the Spaniards could perceive their fellow-countrymen who had been taken prisoners by the Mexicans dragged to the top of the great war temple, compelled to dance round the sanctuary of the gods, then laid on the stone of sacrifice, their hearts torn out, and their bleeding bodies flung down into the square beneath.
Famine now assisted the arms of the Spaniards; still, with that bravery of endurance for which their race is remarkable, the Mexicans continued the defense of the city, and it was not till it had been eaten into, as it were, on all sides, by the Spaniards, that they ceased to fight. On the 14th of August a murderous assault was commenced by the besiegers. It lasted two days; and on the evening of the second some canoes were seen to leave the city, and endeavor to reach the mainland. They were chased, and captured; and on board of one of them was found Guatemozin, with his family and his principal nobles. Guatemozin’s capture was the signal of complete defeat; and on the 16th of August, 1521, the city was surrendered to the Spaniards. The population was reduced to about forty thousand, and in a few days all these had disappeared, no one knew whither. The city was in ruins, like some huge churchyard with the corpses disinterred and the tombstones scattered about.
Thus was the ancient and beautiful city of Mexico destroyed, and its inhabitants slain or dispersed. A monstrous act of unjustifiable aggression had been completed. Following up this great blow, Cortez pursued the conquest of the country generally; and in this, as well as in organizing it into a colony of Spain, he did not experience any serious difficulty. On proceeding to Spain, he was received with honor by Charles V. He returned to Mexico in 1530; and again revisiting Spain in 1540, for the purpose of procuring the redress of real or alleged grievances, he died in 1547, in the sixty-third year of his age. It is very much to be lamented that, in the execution of his purposes of colonization, the monuments of Mexican civilization were everywhere destroyed, leaving nothing to future generations but the broken relics of palaces, temples, and other objects of art, scattered amidst the wilderness. Some of these ruined monuments, recently explored by Stephens and other travelers, show that the ancient Mexicans had made remarkable advances in social life as well as in the arts, more particularly architecture; and what renders all such relics the more interesting to the archæologist, is the growing conviction, that the old Mexican civilization was of an original type—a thing noway derived from, or connected with, the civilization of Egypt, or any other nation in the eastern hemisphere.
It is consolatory to know that the Spaniards have not succeeded in making Mexico a perpetual tributary of their rapacious monarchy. The cruelties they committed seem to have contained in themselves the elements of retribution. After a career of indolence, oppression, and bigotry, extending to comparatively recent times, their yoke has been thrown off; and their feeble and ignorant successors may be said to be in the course of coming under the thraldom of their Anglo-Saxon neighbors. It is difficult to compassionate the fate which appears to await the slothful and proud race whose ancestors laid the ancient empire of Mexico in ruins.
WILLIAM PENN.
William Penn, the celebrated founder of Pennsylvania, was born in London on the 14th of October, 1644. He was the only son of Sir William Penn, a naval commander of distinction, first during the Protectorate of Cromwell, and afterwards in the service of Charles the II, from whom he received the honor of knighthood. His health having suffered from his active duties, Admiral Penn retired from service in 1666, although then only in the forty-fifth year of his age. His wife, the mother of William Penn, was the daughter of a merchant in Rotterdam.
Penn received his preliminary education at Chigwell, in Essex, near his father’s country residence. From Chigwell school he was removed, at twelve years of age, to a private academy in London; and having made great progress in all the usual branches of education, he was entered, at the age of fifteen years, as a gentleman commoner at Christ-church, Oxford. At college he is said to have been remarkable not more for his sedateness and attention to study, than for his extreme fondness for all athletic sports. His first bias, too, towards the opinions of that religious sect of which he became afterwards so distinguished an ornament, the Society of Friends, was produced at this period of his life. It was the effect of the preaching of one Thomas Loe, once a member of the university of Oxford, but who had embraced the doctrines of the Quakers, and was now a zealous propagator of the same.
Serious and thoughtful from his childhood, young Penn was strongly impressed by the views of religious truth which Loe inculcated; and the consequence was, that he and a few of his fellow-students who had been similarly affected, began to absent themselves from the established worship of the university, and to hold private meetings among themselves for devotional purposes. For this breach of the college rules a fine was imposed upon them by the authorities of the university. Neither Penn nor his associates were cured of their disposition to nonconformity by this act of severity; they still continued to hold their private meetings, and naturally became more zealous in their views as they saw those views prohibited and discountenanced. Their zeal soon manifested itself in an act of riot. An order having been sent down to Oxford by Charles II that the surplice should be worn by the students, as was customary in ancient times, Penn and his companions were so roused by what they conceived a return to popish observances, that, not content with disobeying the order themselves, they attacked those students who appeared in the obnoxious surplices, and tore them off their backs. So flagrant an outrage on college discipline could not be allowed to pass without severe punishment, and accordingly Penn and several of his companions were expelled. As may be conceived, Admiral Penn was by no means pleased when his son returned home with the stigma attached to him of having been expelled from college; nor was he more satisfied when he learned the cause. Himself untroubled with any such religious scruples as those which his son professed, he could not make any allowance for them, but, on the contrary, insisted that he should give them up, and live as any young gentleman of good family and loyal principles might be expected to do. The young man meeting his father’s remonstrances with arguments in self-defense, the hasty old admiral turned him out of doors.
Through his mother’s intercession a reconciliation soon took place; and the admiral determined, as the best means of finishing his son’s education, and possibly of curing him of what he considered his over-religiousness, to send him to spend a year or two in France. Penn accordingly left England in 1662, and was absent on the continent till 1664. On his return to England, his father was much pleased to find him so polished in demeanor and manners, and did not doubt but his intention in sending him abroad had been in a great measure fulfilled. By his advice Penn became a student of Lincoln’s Inn, where he continued till 1666, when his father sent him over to Ireland to manage his pretty extensive estates in the county of Cork. In this commission he conducted himself entirely to his father’s satisfaction, residing sometimes on the estates themselves, sometimes in Dublin, where he had the advantage of mixing in the society attending the court of the Duke of Ormond, lord-lieutenant of Ireland, and his father’s friend. While attending to his business in Ireland, however, a circumstance befell him, which might have induced his father to have acted differently, could he have foreseen it. Being accidentally one day in Cork, he heard that Thomas Loe, the person whose preaching had so deeply affected him at Oxford, was to address a meeting of Quakers in that city. Penn could not think of losing the opportunity of again seeing and hearing his old friend, and accordingly he entered the place where Loe was to preach. He took his seat, and had waited for a few minutes, when the preacher rose, and commenced his sermon with the following striking words:—‘There is a faith which overcometh the world; and there is a faith which is overcome by the world.’ The words, and the sermon which they introduced, seemed adapted to his own case. Had not his faith been one which had been overcome by the world? and was it not, therefore, a weak, poor, and useless thing? Such was the force of this reflection, strengthened as it was by intercourse with Loe, that he resolved from that day to devote himself to the service of religion, and to adhere to the sect whose principles he respected most. In short, from that time Penn became a professed Quaker.
Nonconformity in religious observances was at that time somewhat dangerous. In Scotland, a religious persecution was fiercely raging; and although in other parts of the kingdom the spirit of bigotry on the part of the government did not manifest itself to the same extent, yet everywhere throughout Great Britain and Ireland dissenters were subject to grievous annoyances; and it was in the power of any meddlesome or narrow-minded person to point to numerous persecuting laws existing in the statute-book, and to demand that they should be put in force against them. Accordingly, William Penn soon paid the price of his conscientiousness. Making it a point, ever after his meeting with Loe, to attend the religious assemblies of the Quakers in preference to those of the Established Church, he was apprehended, along with eighteen others, on the 3d of September 1667, and carried before the mayor of Cork, charged with transgressing the act against tumultuous assemblies passed seven years before. The mayor, perceiving Penn to be a gentlemen, offered him his liberty on condition that he would give security for his good behavior in future; but Penn refused to comply with this condition, and was therefore committed to prison with the others. From prison he addressed a letter to the Earl of Orrery, then lord president of Munster, and a friend probably of Admiral Penn, requesting his inteference to procure the release of himself and his companions. The earl immediately ordered the release of Penn; the others, it would appear, however, were permitted to remain in prison.
Meanwhile some friend of the family, resident in Ireland, had conveyed to the admiral the unwelcome intelligence that his son had joined the Quakers. Without any delay the old man summoned his son home; and their first interview was a stormy one. The admiral at length, finding that his son had become a confirmed Quaker, and losing hope of moving him further, only stipulated that the youth should consent to depart so far from the customs of his sect, as to take off his hat in the presence of the king, the Duke of York, and himself! After a violent struggle between filial affection and religious convictions, William announced that he could not agree even to this limited amount of hat worship, and was again turned out of doors.
Thus driven out into the world, and disqualified by his previous education for earning his livelihood by any ordinary profession, Penn would have fared badly, had not his mother, without the admiral’s knowledge, kept up a communication with him, and supplied him with money out of her own purse. Not long afterwards, being now in the twenty-fourth year of his age, he began to preach at meetings of those who, like himself, had embraced the tenets of the Quakers. About the same time, too, he commenced his career as a polemical pamphleteer—a character which he kept up till his dying day, having in the course of his life published an immense number of controversial pamphlets in defense of his sect and of religious liberty in general. The title of his first work, published in 1668, was as follows:—‘Truth Exalted, in a short but sure Testimony against all those Religions, Faiths, and Worships, that have been formed and followed in the darkness of Apostacy; and for that Glorious Light which is now risen, and shines forth in the Life and Doctrine of the despised Quakers, as the alone good old way of Life and Salvation.’ To account for the somewhat bombastic appearance of this title, as well as for much in the conduct of William Penn and other early Quakers, which might otherwise seem difficult to explain, it must be mentioned that the early Quakers differed considerably from the modern Society of Friends with respect to the ideas which they entertained regarding the importance of their own sect. George Fox, William Penn, and the early Quakers in general, regarded Quakerism as a ‘glorious light’—a new dispensation, destined to abrogate existing forms of faith, and restore Christianity to its primitive purity. Hence their sanguine mode of speaking concerning their own mode of faith; hence their extraordinary exertions to make proselytes; and hence that activity, and even restlessness in society, which distinguished the early Quakers from their modern successors.
William Penn was a great accession to the sect whose views he had adopted. Both by the publication of pamphlets and by public debates, he endeavored to make an impression in favor of the Quakers. One of his publications, a pamphlet, called ‘The Sandy Foundation Shaken,’ gave so much offense to some of the established clergy, and especially to the bishop of London, that Penn was apprehended, and sent as a prisoner to the Tower. During his imprisonment here, which lasted seven months, he wrote his ‘No Cross, no Crown,’ one of the most popular of all his works; the leading idea of it being, ‘that unless men are willing to lead a life of self-denial, and to undergo privations and hardships in the course of their Christian warfare; that is, unless they are willing to bear the cross, they can not become capable of wearing the crown—the crown namely, of eternal glory.’ At length Penn was discharged by an order from the king, who was probably moved to this act of leniency by his brother, the Duke of York, Admiral Penn’s friend.
The admiral by this time was disposed to be reconciled to his son, whose constancy to his opinions he could not help admiring, notwithstanding that he had no predilection for the opinions themselves. Partly to keep him out of harm’s way, he sent him a second time on a mission of business to Ireland. While dutifully fulfilling the business on which he had been sent, Penn employed a great part of his time in Ireland in preaching and writing tracts in favor of Quakerism. He likewise visited many poor persons of his sect who were suffering imprisonment for their fidelity to their convictions; and, by means of his representations and his influence he was able to procure from the lord-lieutenant the discharge of several of them. On his return to England he was kindly received by his father, and took up his abode once more in the paternal mansion.
The spirit of intolerance had, in the meantime, become more rampant in the government; and in 1670, parliament passed the famous act against conventicles, by which it was attempted to crush nonconformity in England. The Quakers of course were visited with the full severity of the act; and William Penn was one of its first victims. Proceeding one day to the place of meeting, which he attended in Gracechurch Street, he found the door guarded by a party of soldiers, who prevented him from entering. Others of the congregation coming up, gathered round the door, forming, with the chance loiterers, who were attracted by curiosity, a considerable crowd. Penn began to address them; but had hardly begun his discourse when he and another Quaker named William Mead, who was standing near him, were seized by the constables, who were already provided with warrants, for the purpose, signed by the lord mayor, and conveyed to Newgate, whence they were brought to trial at the Old Bailey sessions on the 3d of September, 1670. As this trial was really very important, we shall detail the proceedings at some length. The justices present on the bench on this occasion were Sir Samuel Starling, lord mayor of London; John Howel, recorder; five aldermen and three sheriffs. The jury consisted, as usual, of twelve men, whose names deserve to be held in honor for the noble manner in which they performed their duty. When the prisoners Penn and Mead entered the court they had their hats on, according to the custom of their sect. One of the officers of the court instantly pulled them off. On this the lord mayor became furious, and ordered the man to replace the hats on the heads of the prisoners, which was no sooner done, than the recorder fined them forty marks each for contempt of court in wearing their hats in presence of the bench. The trial then proceeded. Witnesses were called to prove that, on the 15th of August last, the prisoners had addressed a meeting of between three and four hundred persons in Gracechurch Street. Penn admitted that he and his friend were present on the occasion referred to, but contended that they had met to worship God according to their own conscience, and that they had a right to do so. One of the sheriffs here observed that they were there not for worshipping God, but for breaking the law. ‘What law?’ asked Penn. ‘The common law,’ replied the recorder. Penn insisted on knowing what law that was; but was checked by the bench, who called him ‘a saucy fellow.’ ‘The question is,’ said the recorder at length, ‘whether you are guilty of this indictment.’ ‘The question,’ replied Penn, ‘is not whether I am guilty of this indictment, but whether this indictment be legal. It is too general and imperfect an answer to say it is the common law, unless we know where and what it is; for where there is no law, there is no transgression; and that law which is not in being, is so far from being common that it is no law at all.’ Upon which the recorder retorted, ‘You are an impertinent fellow, sir. Will you teach the court what law is? It is lex non scripta; that which many have studied thirty or forty years to know, and would you have me tell you in a moment?’ Penn immediately answered, ‘Certainly, if the common law be so hard to be understood, it is far from being very common; but if Lord Coke in his Institutes be of any consideration, he tells us that common law is common right, and that common right is the great charter privileges confirmed.’ ‘Sir,’ interrupted the recorder, ‘you are a troublesome fellow, and it is not to the honor of the court to suffer you to go on.’ ‘I have asked but one question,’ said Penn, ‘and you have not answered me, though the rights and privileges of every Englishman are concerned in it.’ ‘If,’ said the recorder, ‘I should suffer you to ask questions till to-morrow morning, you would be never the wiser.’ ‘That,’ replied the imperturable Penn, ‘is according as the answers are.’ After some further conversation, or rather altercation, the mayor and recorder became enraged. ‘Take him away, take him away,’ they cried to the officers of the court; ‘turn him into the bale dock.’ This order was obeyed, Penn protesting as he was removed, that it was contrary to all law for the judge to deliver the charge to the jury in the absence of the prisoners. But now a second contest commenced—a contest between the bench and the jury. The latter, after being sent out of court to agree upon their verdict, unanimously returned the following one—‘Guilty of speaking in Gracechurch Street.’ The bench refused to receive this verdict; and after reproaching the jury, sent them back for half an hour to reconsider it. At the end of the half hour the court again met, and the prisoners having been brought in, the jury delivered precisely the same verdict as before, only this time they gave it in writing, with all their names attached. The court upon this became furious; and the recorder addressing the jury, said, ‘Gentlemen, you shall not be dismissed until we have such a verdict as the court will accept; and you shall be locked up without meat, drink, fire, and tobacco. You shall not think thus to abuse the court; we will have a verdict by the help of God, or you shall starve for it!’ On this Penn stood up and said: ‘My jury, who are my judges, ought not to be thus menaced; their verdict should be free, and not compelled; the bench ought to wait upon them and not to forestall them. I do desire that justice may be done me, and that the arbitrary resolves of the bench may not be made the measure of my jury’s verdict.’ The court then adjourned, the jury, including one who complained of ill health, being locked up without food, fire, or drink. Next morning, on being brought in, they still returned the same verdict. They were violently reproached and threatened; and the recorder even forgot himself so far as to say that ‘he had never till now understood the policy and prudence of the Spaniards in suffering the Inquisition among them; and that certainly it would never be well in England till something like the Spanish Inquisition were established there.’ The jury were again locked up without food, drink, tobacco, or fire, for twenty-four hours. On the third day, the natural and glorious effect of this brutality on the minds of Englishmen was produced. In place of the indirect acquittal contained in their former verdict, they now, with one voice, pronounced the prisoners ‘Not guilty!’ Upon some paltry legal pretense they were all fined for their contumacy, and sent to prison till the fine should be paid. Penn himself was shut up till he should pay the mulct for contempt of court. This he would not do; but his father, it is thought, laid down the money for him, and he was liberated.
Penn’s father dying immediately after his liberation, left him a clear estate of £1500 a-year—a considerable property in those days. The old man had by this time been brought to regard his son’s conduct in a more favorable light than he had done at first; and one of his dying advices to him was, to ‘suffer nothing in this world to tempt him to wrong his conscience.’
For twelve months after his father’s death Penn proceeded as before, preaching habitually at meetings of persons of his own persuasion, writing tracts and treatises in defense of Quakerism, and on other theological and political topics, among which was an account of the recent trial of himself and Mead, and engaging also in oral controversy with several dissenting preachers who had inveighed against the Quakers from their pulpits. His activity soon brought him into fresh trouble. Towards the end of the year 1671, he was again apprehended on the charge of preaching to an illegal assembly, and brought before Sir John Robinson, lieutenant of the Tower, who was one of his judges on the former trial. Sir Samuel Starling was also present. Unable to convict the prisoner on the conventicle act, Sir John, who was resolved not to let him escape, adopted another plan, and required him to take the oath of allegiance to the king, well knowing that, as it was contrary to the principles of the Quakers to take an oath at all, he would refuse, and thereby subject himself to imprisonment. ‘I vow, Mr. Penn,’ said Sir John Robinson, on his refusal, ‘I am sorry for you. You are an ingenious gentleman; all the world must allow you, and do allow you that; and you have a plentiful estate; why should you render yourself unhappy by associating with such a simple people?’ ‘I confess,’ said Penn in reply, ‘I have made it my choice to relinquish the company of those that are ingeniously wicked, to converse with those that are more honestly simple.’ ‘I wish you wiser!’ said Sir John. ‘And I wish thee better!’ replied Penn. ‘You have been as bad as other folks,’ observed the judge? ‘When and where?’ cried Penn, his blood rising at this accusation of hypocrisy. ‘I charge thee to tell the company to my face.’ ‘Abroad and at home too,’ said Sir John. Penn, indignant at this ungenerous taunt, exclaimed, ‘I make this bold challenge to all men, women, and children upon earth, justly to accuse me with having seen me drunk, heard me swear, or speak one obscene word, much less that I ever made it a practice. I speak this to God’s glory, who has ever preserved me from the power of these pollutions.’ Then turning to his calumniator, and forgetting for a moment his wonted meekness, ‘Thy words,’ said he, ‘shall be thy burden, and I trample thy slander as dirt under my feet!’
The result of the trial was, that Penn was committed to Newgate for six months. In prison he composed and published several new works, all connected with the subject of religious toleration, especially as it concerned his own sect. On his release, he made a tour through Holland and Germany, apparently for the purpose of disseminating the doctrines of Quakerism; but few particulars are known respecting this tour. On his return to England in 1673, being now in the twenty-eighth year of his age, he contracted a marriage with Gulielma Maria, daughter of Sir William Springett, of Darling, in Sussex, and a lady of great beauty and accomplishments. After their marriage, they took up their residence at Rickmansworth, Hertfordshire, where his wealth would have enabled Penn, had he so chosen, to lead the life of an influential country gentleman. Nothing, however, could cool the enthusiasm of Penn in behalf of what he esteemed a great and glorious cause; and for three or four years after his marriage, he was incessantly occupied in the composition of controversial pamphlets, defending the Quakers against the attacks and misrepresentations of other sects, and in traveling from place to place for the purpose either of preaching, or of conducting a debate with an antagonist. Early in 1677, he removed his residence from Rickmansworth, in Herts, to Worminghurst, in Sussex. In the same year, in company with the celebrated George Fox and Robert Barclay, he made a second religious tour through Holland and Germany, visiting, among others, the Princess Elizabeth of the Rhine, daughter of the king of Bohemia, and granddaughter of James I of England, who had shown considerable interest in the doctrines of the Quakers, and who received him very graciously. On his return to England, we find him engaged in a remonstrance to parliament in behalf of the Quakers, which deserves some notice. At that time, as the readers of history well know, a strong feeling prevailed throughout the nation against the Roman Catholics, who were suspected of innumerable plots and conspiracies against the church and state, which, for the most part, had no existence except in the fancies of the most bigoted portion of the Protestants. The feelings against the Catholics became so high, that all the existing laws against them were rigorously put in force, and much persecution was the consequence—twenty pounds a-month being the penalty of absence from the established worship of the country.
In order, however, to distinguish between the Roman Catholics and other dissenters, so that the former alone might suffer, it was proposed in parliament that a test should be offered, whereby, on taking a particular oath, a suspected party might escape. This of course was quite a sufficient method for dissenters in general, who had no objection to take the required oath; but for Quakers, who objected to oaths altogether, the plan was of no advantage. On refusing to take the oath, they would be liable to be treated as Jesuits, or Roman Catholics in disguise. On this point William Penn presented a petition to the House of Commons, in which he prayed that, with regard to the clause for discriminating between Roman Catholics and others, the mere word of a Quaker should be deemed equivalent to an oath; with this addition, however, that if any Quaker should be found uttering a falsehood on the occasion, he should be subject to exactly the same punishment as if he had sworn falsely. Being admitted to a hearing before a committee of the House of Commons, he spoke in support of his petition, insisting that it was hard that the Quakers ‘must bear the stripes of another interest, and be their proxy in punishment.’ ‘But mark,’ he continued, in words which did him and his sect much honor, when contrasted with the general intolerance of those times, ‘I would not be mistaken. I am far from thinking it fit, because I exclaim against the injustice of whipping Quakers for Papists, that Papists should be whipped for their consciences. No: for though the hand pretended to be lifted up against them hath lighted heavily upon us, yet we do not mean that any should take a fresh aim at them, or that they should come in our room; for we must give the liberty we ask, and cannot be false to our principles, though it were to relieve ourselves; for we have good will to all men, and would have none suffer for a truly sober and conscientious dissent on any hand. And I humbly take leave to add, that those methods against persons so qualified do not seem to me to be convincing, or indeed adequate, to the reason of mankind; but this I submit to your consideration.’ The effect of Penn’s representations was such, that a clause for the relief of Quakers was actually introduced into the bill then before the House: the prorogation of parliament, however, put a stop to the progress of the bill.
Passing over Penn’s further exertions, both by speech and writing, in the cause of Quakerism and of religious toleration in England, as an account of these would not possess much interest now, we come to the most important event in his life—namely the foundation of the North American colony of Pennsylvania.
PENN LED TO TAKE AN INTEREST IN THE AMERICAN COLONIES—OBTAINS A GRANT OF PENNSYLVANIA.
After various unsuccessful attemps, two English colonies had been planted on the eastern coast of North America in the early part of the seventeenth century. The more southern of the two was called Virginia, and was colonized principally by mercantile adventurers; the more northern was called New England, and was colonized principally by Puritans, who, driven by persecution from the mother country, had crossed the Atlantic in order to enjoy liberty of conscience in a new country of their own founding. From the year 1620, a constant stream of emigrants from Great Britain had been pouring into these colonies; so that, towards the latter part of the century, the coast on both sides of the Potomac river was overspread by a British population—those on the north side of the river calling themselves New Englanders, and those on the south side Virginians. The manner in which the colonization was carried on was as follows:—The king granted to some nobleman, or to some mercantile company, a certain territory roughly marked out; this nobleman or company again either sold the property in lots to intending emigrants, or themselves organized an emigration on a large scale, and superintended the foundation of a colony on the territory in question. It is evident, therefore, that the purchase and sale of lands in America had become, in the reign of Charles II, a favorite branch of speculation; some parties buying portions of land with an actual view to settle in the new world, or at least to possess property in it, others buying with the mere intention of selling again. Now, it so happened that, in the year 1664, the Duke of York, afterwards James II, who had obtained from his brother Charles II a grant of a great part of the New England coast, conveyed over a portion of it, under the name of New Jersey, to Lord Berkeley and Sir George Carteret. Lord Berkeley again disposed of his half share to two members of the Society of Friends—John Fenwick and Edward Byllinge. It appears that some dispute arose between these two individuals respecting their shares in the land which they had purchased; for, in the year 1775, we find William Penn, who seems to have been a friend of both, acting as arbitrator between them, and endeavoring to persuade Fenwick to yield, and, for the credit of the body to which he belonged, not to carry the dispute to a court of law. His remonstrances were effectual; the difference between Fenwick and Byllinge was adjusted, and the former emigrated to New Jersey, apparently in the mere capacity of superintendent for Byllinge, while Byllinge himself remained at home.
This was Penn’s first connexion with the American colonies; a connexion, it will be observed, quite casual, but which was followed by important consequences. Byllinge becoming involved in pecuniary difficulties, conveyed over his property in New Jersey to his creditors, prevailing upon William Penn to act as trustee, along with two of the creditors, for the judicious application of the property to the purpose of discharging his debts. Penn entered on the business with much alacrity; and after concluding an arrangement with Sir George Carteret, by which the boundaries of his and Byllinge’s share of New Jersey were defined—the former under the name of East New Jersey and the latter under that of West New Jersey—he prepared to turn his position, as Byllinge’s trustee for West New Jersey, to the best account. The property having been divided into a hundred lots, Fenwick, Byllinge’s agent, was paid off with ten of these, and the remaining ninety were to be applied for the behoof of the creditors. All that was necessary now was to invite promising emigrants to settle in these lands; and with this view Penn drew up a constitution, consisting of a number of articles of mutual agreement which the purchasers of the lands were to sign, and which were characterised by his own spirit of liberality and toleration. At the same time in order that no one might embark in the undertaking without a full knowledge of the condition of the country he was going to, and the difficulties which he must encounter, he and his colleagues published ‘A description of West New Jersey,’ embracing all the information they had it in their power to give. In consequence of these representations, about eight hundred respectable settlers, most of them Quakers, embarked for New Jersey in the beginning of 1678.
Once led to take an interest in the American colonies, nothing was more natural for William Penn, situated as he was, a member of a persecuted sect, who had all his life been struggling ineffectually for the attainment for himself and his fellows of some measure of religious liberty, than to conceive the project of heading an emigration on a large scale, to consist of Quakers and other dissenters. Might he not be the instrument of founding a new state, which, constructed upon better and sounder principles than those which regulated the old state of Europe, would one day become great and flourish? Or even supposing that so noble a prospect were never to be realized, would it not in itself be a good and philanthropic action, to remove some hundreds of families from a land where they were suffering continual wrong for conscience sake, and plant them in a land where, supporting themselves by the sweat of their brow, they might still eat their bread in peace, and bless God the giver? Such were the thoughts that recurred again and again to the mind of William Penn, as instance after instance of persecution presented itself to his view. Intelligence which he received of the prosperity of the colonists, whom, in his capacity as trustee for Byllinge, he had been instrumental in sending out to New Jersey, confirmed him in the notion which he was indulging; and at length he formed the decided resolution to head an extensive scheme of emigration on his own account.
Fortunately the execution of this project was facilitated by a claim which Penn had upon government. His father, Admiral Penn, had at different times advanced sums of money to the needy and dissolute government of Charles II, which, together with arrears of pay, amounted to £16,000; and as his father’s heir Penn was of course entitled to the payment of this debt. In lieu of the money, Penn proposed that government should make him a grant of a tract of country in New England, yet uncolonised—the tract, namely, lying to the north of Maryland, bounded on the east by the Delaware river, extending as far to the west as Maryland, and as far to the north as was plantable. He had no doubt been led to fix on this territory by favorable accounts which he had received of its resources. When the application was made to government, considerable opposition was offered to Penn’s proposal, on the ground that he was a Quaker. At length, however, on the 4th of March, 1681, a royal charter was granted, constituting Penn full and absolute proprietor, under the British crown, of all the land which he had petitioned for. The rights with which this charter invested him were most ample. ‘The use,’ says his biographer, Mr. Clarkson, ‘of all ports, bays, rivers, and waters in the specified territory, of their produce, and of all islands, mountains, soils, and mines there, was wholly granted to him. He was to hold the territory in free and common soccage by fealty only, paying two beaver skins annually, and a fifth of all the gold and silver discovered, to the king. He had the power of making laws, with the advice, assent, and approbation of the free men of the territory assembled for the raising of money for public uses; of appointing judges and other officers; and of pardoning and reprieving, except in cases of willful murder and high treason. He had the power of dividing the province into towns, hundreds, and counties; of erecting and incorporating towns into burghs, and burghs into cities; of selling or alienating any part or parts of the said province, in which case the purchasers were to hold by his grant; of constituting fairs and markets; and of making ports, harbors, and quays. He had the power of assessing, reasonably, and with the advice of the free men assembled, customs on goods laden and unladen, and of enjoying the same, saving only to the king such impositions as were and should be appointed by act of parliament. In the case of incursion by neighboring barbarous nations, or by pirates or robbers, he had power to levy, muster, and train to arms all men in the said province, and to act as their captain-general, and to make war upon and pursue the same.’ To these general provisions were added many regulations in detail, the whole charter amounting to one of the most full and absolute ever granted to a subject. With regard to the name of the new territory, Penn proposed at first that it should be called New Wales, by way of companionship, it may be supposed, to New England. Objections however, being taken to this name, he proposed Sylvania, as one which the woody nature of the country rendered suitable; and ultimately this name was adopted, with the prefix of the word Penn, in honor of William Penn’s father, for whom both the king and the Duke of York had a great regard. Penn was anxious to have this prefix struck out, as apparently too assuming; and he actually made application for that purpose: the king, however, insisted that the name Pennsylvania should remain, as accordingly it did.
Penn immediately took steps for the colonization of his newly acquired territory. He first published a paper giving ‘Some Account of the Province of Pennsylvania in America, lately granted under the Great Seal of England to William Penn;’ and to this paper he annexed a statement of the terms on which he intended to sell his land to emigrants. According to this statement, he was to sell a hundred acres for forty shillings, reserving, for legal reasons, a perpetual quit-rent of one shilling for every hundred acres. He next published a list of those conditions as to the future management of the colony on which he was willing to part with his land to purchasers. The most prominent of these conditions related to the manner in which he wished the native Indians to be treated by those who settled in the new territory. With a degree of humanity rare in that age, though quite in consonance with his own noble character, he forewarned all his adherents that he was determined to put the native Indians on a level with the colonists as regarded civic rights, and that all differences between the two parties should be settled by an equal number of referees from both sides.
As it was deemed necessary, moreover, that intending settlers should have some previous idea of the form of government to be adopted in the new colony, Penn drew up a rough outline of such a constitution as he wished to be established, and as he had no doubt would meet the approbation of all likely to be interested. This constitution embraced twenty-four articles, of which the first, named by Penn the Great Fundamental, was as follows:—‘In reverence to God, the father of light and spirits, the author as well as object of all divine knowledge, faith, and worship, I do for me and mine, declare and establish for the first fundamental of the government of my province, that every person that doth and shall reside therein shall have and enjoy the free profession of his or her faith and exercise of worship toward God, in such a way and manner as every such person in conscience shall believe is most acceptable to God.’
All the necessary preparations having been made, three ships full of emigrants set sail for Pennsylvania in the end of 1681. The superintendence of this first detachment was intrusted by Penn to his relative, Colonel Markham, assisted by commissioners. These were instructed to open up a communication with the natives, and to make all possible arrangements for the establishment of a peaceful relation between them and the future colony. With this view they carried a letter, writen in Penn’s own hand, and addressed to the Indians; of which remarkable document the following is a copy:—‘There is a great God and Power which hath made the world and all things therein, to whom you and I, and all people, owe their being and well-being, and to whom you and I must one day give an account for all that we have done in the world. This great God hath written his law in our hearts, by which we are taught and commanded to love, and to help, and to do good to one another. Now this great God hath been pleased to make me concerned in your part of the world; and the king of the country where I live hath given me a great province therein. But I desire to enjoy it with your love and consent, that we may always live together as neighbors and friends; else what would the great God do to us; who hath made us, not to devour and destroy one another, but to live soberly and kindly together in the world? Now, I would have you well observe that I am very sensible of the unkindness and injustice which have been too much exercised toward you by the people of these parts of the world, who have sought to make great advantages by you, rather than to be examples of goodness and patience unto you. This, I hear, hath been a matter of trouble to you, and caused much grudging and animosities, sometimes to the shedding of blood, which hath made the great God angry. But I am not such a man, as is well known in my own country. I have great love and regard toward you, and desire to win and gain your love and friendship by a kind, just, and peaceable life; and the people I send are of the same mind, and shall in all things behave themselves accordingly; and if in anything any shall offend you or your people, you shall have a full and speedy satisfaction for the same, by an equal number of just men on both sides, that by no means you may have just occasion of being offended against them. I shall shortly come to see you myself, at which time we may more largely and freely confer and discourse of these matters. In the meantime, I have sent my commissioners to treat with you about land, and a firm league of peace. Let me desire you to be kind to them and to the people; and receive the presents and tokens which I have sent you, as a testimony of my good-will to you, and of my resolution to live justly, peaceably, and friendly with you.
I am your loving friend, William Penn.’
Penn was busy making preparations to follow the settlers, whom he had already despatched, when he was afflicted by the death of his mother, for whom he had ever manifested the greatest affection. Shortly after this melancholy event, he published in full the constitution to which we have already alluded, under the title, ‘The Frame of Government of the Province of Pennsylvania, in America, together with certain Laws agreed upon in England by the Governor and divers Freemen of the aforesaid Province, to be further explained and confirmed there by the first Provincial Council that shall be held.’ After stating in the preface that he ‘does not find a model of government in the world that time, place, and some singular emergencies have not necessarily altered, and that it is not easy to frame a civil government that shall serve all places alike,’ he proceeds to detail the arrangements which, after due deliberation and consultation, he concluded to be advisable in the meantime. The following is the summary of these arrangements, given by Penn’s biographer, Mr. Clarkson:—‘The government,’ he says, ‘was placed in the governor and freemen of the province, out of whom were to be formed two bodies; namely, a Provincial Council, and a General Assembly. These were to be chosen by the freemen; and, though the governor or his deputy was to be perpetual president, he was to have but a treble vote. The provincial council was to consist of seventy-two members. One-third part—that is, twenty-four of them—were to serve for three years; one-third for two; and the other third for only one year. It was the office of this council to prepare and propose bills; to see that the laws were executed; to take care of the peace and safety of the province; to settle the situation of ports, cities, market-towns, roads, and other public places; to inspect the public treasury; to erect courts of justice, institute schools, and reward the authors of useful discoveries. Not less than two-thirds of these were necessary to make a quorum; and the consent of not less than two-thirds of such a quorum was required in all matters of moment. The general assembly was to consist, the first year, of all the freemen; and the next of two hundred. These were to be increased afterwards according to the increase of the population of the province. They were to have no deliberative power; but when bills were brought to them from the governor and provincial council, they were to pass or reject them by a plain “Yes” or “No.” They were to present sheriffs and justices of the peace to the governor; of the number presented by them, he was to select half. They were to be elected annually. All elections of members, whether to the provincial council or to the general assembly, were to be by ballot. This charter, or frame of government, was not to be altered, changed, or diminished in any part or clause of it, without the consent of the governor, or his heirs or assigns, and six parts out of seven of the freemen both in the provincial council and general assembly.’
Another precaution which Penn took before departing for America deserves to be noticed. To prevent any future dispute between himself or his heirs, and the Duke of York and his heirs, with regard to the proprietorship of Pennsylvania, he procured from his royal highness a written surrender of all his claims, real or supposed, to the lands in question. Not only so; but being aware, also, that, adjoining the district which had been granted him by royal charter, there was a tract of land called ‘the Territories,’ already inhabited by Swedes and Dutch, and belonging to the Duke of York, the possession of which would, he conceived, be advantageous to the infant colony of Pennsylvania, he made application to the duke with a view to obtain it. The duke willingly agreed; and by a deed of feoffment, dated August 24, 1682, the Territories were formally made over to William Penn and his successors.
Nothing remained now but to take leave of his wife and children before embarking on an undertaking then more hazardous than, with our present notions of America and its distance from England, we can well conceive. This he did in a letter of counsel addressed jointly to his wife and children, some passages of which are so impressive and honorable to the writer, that we cannot refrain from giving a brief specimen:—‘My dear wife—Remember thou wast the love of my youth, and much the joy of my life—the most beloved as well as most worthy of all my earthly comforts; and the reason of that love was more thy inward than thy outward excellencies, which yet were many. God knows, and thou knowest it, I can say it was a match of Providence’s making; and God’s image in us both was the first thing, and the most amiable and engaging ornament in our eyes. Now I am to leave thee, and that without knowing whether I shall ever see thee more in this world, take my counsel into thy bosom, and let it dwell with thee in my stead while thou livest.’ He next addresses himself to his children. ‘Be obedient to your dear mother, a woman whose virtue and good name is an honor to you; for she hath been exceeded by none in her time for her integrity, humanity, virtue, and good understanding—qualities not usual among women of her worldly condition and quality. Therefore honor and obey her, my dear children, as your mother, and your father’s love and delight; nay, love her too, for she loved your father with a deep and upright love, choosing him before all her many suitors. And though she be of a delicate constitution and noble spirit, yet she descended to the utmost tenderness and care for you, performing the painfullest acts of service to you in your infancy as a mother and a nurse too. I charge you, before the Lord, honor and obey, love and cherish, your dear mother.’
On the 1st of September, 1682, the ship Welcome, of three hundred tons burthen, set sail from Deal with William Penn and about a hundred other emigrants, mostly Quakers, on board. She had not sailed many days when the small-pox broke out in the ship, and raged so violently, that about thirty of the passengers died. The rest arrived safely at their destination after a voyage of six weeks, the Welcome anchoring in the Delaware river about the middle of October.
The territory of Pennsylvania which William Penn had selected in North America possessed natural advantages of no ordinary kind. ‘It may be doubted,’ says one authority, ‘whether a more widely-diversified region exists upon the face of the earth, or one of similar area in which the vegetable and mineral productions are more numerous.’ Scarcely any part is level; the country is a perpetual alternation of hill and valley. Watered by many large rivers, as the Delaware, the Susquehanna, the Schuylkill, the Alleghany, the Ohio, etc., as well as by innumerable rivulets, it seemed a most inviting country for emigrants. A general perception of these advantages had no doubt actuated Penn in his choice of this particular region. At the time, however, when he made the choice, all was wild and uncultivated—a tract, for the most part, of jungly forest-land, traversed in silence by idle streams. ‘At the beginning of the year 1681,’ says the author of an American history of Philadelphia, ‘the tract of ground upon which Philadelphia now stands was covered with forests; and men and beasts had a pretty equal right to it. Tradition has preserved the anecdote, that, in the year 1678, a ship called the Shields of Stockton, the first that had ever ventured so high up the Delaware, approached so close to the shore in tacking as to run her bowsprit among the trees which then lined the bank, and the passengers on board, who were bound for Burlington, remarked upon it as an advantageous site for a town. Little could they foresee the city that was to be erected on that spot, or the contrast between its growth and that of the still humble village for which they were destined.’
Sailing up the Delaware, Penn first reached the Territories, already mentioned as having been ceded to him by the duke of York, and as being inhabited by Dutch and Swedes. These people, now Penn’s subjects, and who had been prepared for his coming by Colonel Markham, were ready to give him a hearty welcome. About three thousand of them were assembled at Newcastle, where he first landed, a little below the site of the present Philadelphia. Here there was a magistracy and a courthouse, in which Penn, after formally taking possession of the country, delivered an address, assuring the inhabitants of his intentions to govern them in a spirit of kindness and regard for their interests. From Newcastle, Penn proceeded to New York, that he might form a better idea of affairs as they stood in a part of the country already colonized. Returning to Newcastle, he summoned a general assembly of the settlers, at a place called Upland, but to which he then gave the name of Chester. When the general assembly met, it consisted of free settlers indiscriminately from the province and from the territories; all such as chose to take part in the proceedings at this first assembly being, in terms of one of the articles of the constitution, at liberty to do so. A speaker having been chosen, one of the first acts of the assembly was to pass an act uniting the territories and the province, and naturalizing Swedes, Dutch, and all foreigners within the boundaries of the entire region. The laws drawn up by Penn in England were then confirmed, with some modifications and additions. Among these additions the following deserve notice:—‘All children of the age of twelve were to be taught some useful trade or handicraft, to the end that none might be idle in the province. All pleadings, processes, and records in courts of law were to be as short as possible. All fees of law were to be moderate, and to be hung up on tables in the courts. All persons wrongfully imprisoned or prosecuted were to have double damages against the informer or prosecutor. All fines were to be moderate. With respect to the criminal part of these laws, one new principle was introduced. William Penn was of opinion, that though the deterring others from offenses must continue to be the great end of punishment, yet in a community professing itself Christian, the reformation of the offender was to be inseparably connected with it. Hence he made but two capital offenses—murder, and treason against the state; and hence also all prisons were to be considered as workshops, where the offenders might be industriously, soberly, and morally employed. Thus all was begun fairly; the settlers, most of them sensible and religious men, who had experienced the effects of intolerant and bad government, manifesting a laudable desire to lay down at the outset liberal and generous principles for the government in all time coming of the colony which they would have the responsibility of founding.
In the opinion of Penn, something was still wanting before he could proceed another step in the colonization of Pennsylvania. The greater number of his cotemporaries, to whom lands were ceded in these regions by the government at home, held that they had by that cession acquired all the necessary rights, and that no other parties were entitled to a voice in the matter. Not so, thought William Penn. We have seen how he had instructed his commissioners to open up the way to a friendly communication with the native Indians, and how he had sent a letter to the latter, expressing his wish to ‘enjoy the lands with their love and consent.’
His commissioners had obeyed his instructions, and had made a bargain with the natives before his arrival. In order publicly to ratify this bargain in person, Penn, shortly after his arrival, made arrangements for meeting the chief men of the Indians, who were still numerous in the region. A grand convocation, accordingly, of the Indians and settlers, the latter headed by Penn, was held near the site of the present city of Philadelphia, under the spreading boughs of a prodigious elm tree. The natives came to the place of meeting in great numbers, and all armed; Penn came, with his friends, unarmed. The only mark of distinction which the leader of the settlers presented, was a sash of blue silk network, and the parchment-roll which he held in his hand, and which contained the conditions of the treaty. The Indians, on his approach, threw down their arms, and seated themselves on the ground; on which their chiefs—one of whom, as being the principal, wore a chaplet with a small horn attached, the primitive symbol of power—announced to Penn that they were ready to hear him. Tradition has preserved the main points in Penn’s address on this memorable occasion. He began, ‘The Great Spirit, who made him and them, who ruled the heaven and the earth, and who knew the innermost thoughts of man, knew that he and his friends had a hearty desire to live in peace and friendship with them, and to serve them to the utmost of their power. It was not their custom to use hostile weapons against their fellow-creatures, for which reason they had come unarmed. Their object was not to do injury, and thus provoke the Great Spirit, but to do good. They were then met on the broad pathway of good faith and good will, so that no advantage was to be taken on either side, but all was to be openness, brotherhood, and love.’ After these and other words, he unrolled the parchment, and by means of the same interpreter, conveyed to them, article by article, the conditions of the purchase, and the words of the compact then made for their eternal union. ‘Among other things,’ says Mr. Clarkson, ‘they were not to be molested in their lawful pursuits, even in the territory they had alienated, for it was to be common to them and the English. They were to have the same liberty to do all things therein relating to the improvement of their grounds, and providing sustenance for their families, which the English had. If any disputes should arise between the two, they should be settled by twelve persons, half of whom should be English, and half Indians.’ He then paid them for the land, and made them many presents besides from the merchandise which had been spread before them. Having done this, he laid the roll of parchment on the ground, observing again that the ground should be common to both people. He then added that he would not do as the Marylanders did—that is, call them children or brothers only, for often parents were apt to whip their children too severely, and brothers sometimes would differ; neither would he compare the friendship between them and him to a chain, for the rain might sometimes rust it, or a tree might fall and break it; but he should consider them as the same flesh and blood as the Christians and the same as if one man’s body were to be divided into two parts.
He then took up the parchment and presented it to the sachem who wore the horn in the chaplet, and desired him and the other sachems to preserve it carefully for three generations, that their children might know what had passed between them, just as if he had remained with them to repeat it.
The Indian chiefs answered in lengthened speeches, and pledged themselves ‘to live in love with William Penn and his children so long as sun and moon should endure.’ The treaty was concluded—a treaty of which it has been remarked with truthful severity, that it was the only one concluded between savages and Christians that was not ratified by oaths, and the only one that never was broken! The great elm-tree under whose boughs it was concluded stood for a hundred and thirty years after, an object of veneration to the people around.
The purchase of Pennsylvania from the Indians having been concluded, and the land in a great measure surveyed by a person who had been brought out for the purpose, Penn, who had already established his own residence on an island in the Delaware, a few miles below the falls of Trenton, opposite the site of the present Burlington, and to which he had given the name of Pennsburg, next turned his attention to the foundation of a town in some advantageous locality. After mature deliberation, a place, called by the Indians Coaquannoc, was chosen as the site. It was the very spot which had struck the passengers on board the South Shields of Stockton, on their way to Burlington, as so well adapted for a city. A neck of land situated between two navigable rivers, the Delaware and the Schuylkill, with quarries of good building stone in the immediate neighborhood, the place seemed to be marked out by nature for the purpose. Accordingly, previous to Penn’s arrival, some of the settlers whom he had sent out had taken up their habitations on the spot, erecting bark huts, the art of constructing which they were taught by the Indians; or digging caves, which they fitted up so as to afford tolerable accommodation, in the high bank overhanging the Delaware.
The site of the city having been determined on, the surveyor, Thomas Holmes, drew up, under Penn’s direction, a map or plan according to which the streets were to be laid out. ‘According to this plan,’ says Mr. Clarkson, ‘there were to be two large streets, the one fronting the Delaware on the east, and the other the Schuylkill on the west, of a mile in length. A third, to be called High street, of one hundred feet broad, was to run directly through the middle of the city, so as to communicate with the streets now mentioned, at right angles—that is, it was to run through the middle from river to river, or from east to west. A fourth, of the same breadth, to be called Broad street, was to run through the middle also, but to intersect High street at right angles, or to run from north to south. Eight streets, fifty feet wide, were to be built parallel to High street—that is, from river to river; and twenty of the like width, parallel to Broad street, crossing the former. The streets running from north to south were to be named according to their numerical order—First street, Second street, Third street, and so on; and those from east to west according to the woods of the country—as Vine street, Spruce street, Sassafras street, Cedar street, and so on. There was to be, however, a square of ten acres in the middle of the city, each corner of which was to be reserved for public offices. There was to be also, in each quarter of it a square of eight acres, to be used by the citizens in like manner as Moorfields in London.’ To the ‘distractingly regular city,’ as Mr. Dickens calls it, thus mapped out, but not one house of which had yet been built, he gave the name of Philadelphia, in token of the principle of brotherly love on which it was founded—brotherly love among English, Swedes, Dutch, Indians, and men of all languages and nations.
The work of building commenced apace. Within a few months of Penn’s arrival, as many as twenty-three ships, loaded with emigrants from Somersetshire, Cheshire, Lancashire, Wales and Ireland, sailed up the Delaware, and anchored off the site of the new town. Most of the emigrants they brought to the settlement were men such as Penn wished to see in his colony, sober and industrious persons, who had left Great Britain in order that they might lead a quiet and peaceable life, undisturbed by persecution. A number of them brought out with them a variety of implements and pieces of machinery, which were of great use in the infant state of the colony. Accommodated first in temporary huts, or the caves beforementioned, on the banks of the Delaware, they gradually distributed themselves through the settlement at their pleasure—few of them, however, removing far at first from the site of the town. As these removed, and provided themselves with better residences, their old habitations, the Indian-built huts, and the caves on the river bank, were taken possession of by new-comers, who in their turn made way for others, mutual benevolence and assistance being the rule of the settlement. It was in one of the rude caves dug in the river bank that the first native Philadelphian was born. This person, whose name was John Key, and who died in 1767, at the age of eighty-five, always went by the name of First-born.
In the spring of 1683 the affairs of the new colony presented a very flourishing appearance. The more recently-arrived settlers had experienced some hardships during the winter, but on the whole, fewer than might have been anticipated, and the new year was entered upon with cheerfulness and hope. The following extract contains the recollections, in old age, of one of the first Pennsylvanian settlers, by name Richard Townsend, and may be taken at once as a succinct account of the rise of the colony, and as an illustration of the simple and devout character of the early settlers: ‘After our arrival,’ he says, ‘we found it a wilderness. The chief inhabitants were Indians, and some Swedes, who received us in a friendly manner; and though there was a great number of us, the good hand of Providence was seen in a particular manner, in that provisions were found for us by the Swedes and Indians at very reasonable rates, as well as brought from divers other parts that were inhabited before. After some time I set up a mill on Chester Creek, which I brought ready framed from London, which served for grinding corn and sawing boards, and was of great use to us. Besides, with Joshua Tittery, I made a net and caught great quantities of fish, which supplied ourselves and many others; so that, notwithstanding it was thought near three thousand persons came the first year, we were so providentially provided for, that we could buy a deer for about two shillings, and a large turkey for about a shilling, and Indian corn for about two shillings and sixpence per bushel. And as our worthy proprietor treated the Indians with extraordinary humanity, they became very civil and loving to us, and brought us in abundance of venison. After our arrival, there came in about twenty families from High and Low Germany, of religious, good people, who settled about six miles from Philadelphia, and called the place German Town. About the time German Town was laid out, I settled upon my tract of land, which I had bought of the proprietor in England, about a mile from thence, where I set up a house and a corn-mill, which was very useful to the country for several miles round; but there not being plenty of horses, people generally brought their corn on their backs many miles. I remember one man had a bull so gentle that he used to bring his corn on him instead of a horse. Being now settled within six or seven miles of Philadelphia, where I left the principal body of friends, together with the chief place of provisions, flesh meat was very scarce with me for some time, of which I found the want. I remember I was once supplied, by a particular instance of Providence, in the following manner: As I was in my meadow mowing grass, a young deer came and looked on me. I continued mowing, and the deer in the same attention to me. I then laid down my scythe and went towards him, upon which he ran off a small distance. I went to my work again, and the deer continued looking on me; so that several times I left my work to go towards him, but he still kept himself at a distance. At last, as I was going towards him, and he, looking on me, did not mind his steps, he ran forcibly against the trunk of a tree, and stunned himself so much that he fell; upon which I ran forward, and getting upon him, held him by the legs. After a great struggle, in which I had almost tired him out, and rendered him lifeless, I threw him on my shoulders, holding him fast by the legs, and with some difficulty, on account of his fresh struggling, carried him home, about a quarter of a mile, to my house; where, by the assistance of a neighbor who happened to be there, and who killed him for me, he proved very serviceable to my family. I could relate several other acts of Providence of this kind, but omit them for brevity. As people began to spread, and to improve their lands, the country became more fruitful, so that those who came after us were plentifully supplied; and with what we exceeded our wants, we began a small trade abroad; and as Philadelphia increased, vessels were built, and many employed. Both country and trade have been wonderfully increasing to this day, so that, from a wilderness, the Lord, by his good hand of providence, hath made it a fruitful land; on which things to look back, and observe all the steps, would exceed my present purpose.’
To this we may add an extract from a letter written by Penn himself to a society of traders in England, who had purchased a large quantity of land in Pennsylvania, and which sketches the history of the colony down to the date at which it was written, August 1683:—‘The country,’ he says, ‘lies bounded on the east by the river and bay of Delaware and Eastern Sea. It hath the advantage of many creeks, or rivers rather, that run into the main river or bay, some navigable for great ships, some for small craft. Our people are mostly settled upon the upper rivers, which are pleasant and sweet, and generally bounded with good land. The planted part of the province and territories is cast into six counties—Philadelphia, Buckingham, Chester, Newcastle, Kent, and Sussex—containing about four thousand souls. Two general assemblies have been held, and with such concord and despatch, that they sat but three weeks, and at least seventy laws were passed, without one dissent in any material thing. And for the good government of the said counties, courts of justice are established in every county, with proper officers—as justices, sheriffs, clerks, constables—which courts are held every two months. Philadelphia, the expectation of those that are concerned in this province, is at last laid out, to the great content of those here that are anyways interested therein. The situation is a neck of land, and lieth between two navigable rivers, Delaware and Schuylkill; whereby it hath two fronts upon the water, each a mile, and two from river to river. But this I will say for the good providence of God, that of all the many places I have seen in the world, I remember not one better seated; so that it seems to me to have been appointed for a town, whether we regard the rivers, or the conveniency of the coves, docks, springs, the loftiness and soundness of the land, and the air, held by the people of these parts to be very good. It is advanced, within less than a year, to about fourscore houses and cottages, such as they are, where merchants and handicrafts are following their vocations as fast as they can; while the countrymen are close at their farms. Some of them got a little winter corn in the ground last season, and the generality have had a handsome summer crop, and are preparing for their winter corn. They reaped their barley this year in the month called May, the wheat in the month following; so that there is time in these parts for another crop of divers things before the winter season. We are daily in hopes of shipping to add to our number; for, blessed be God, here is both room and accommodation for them. I bless God I am fully satisfied with the country, and entertainment I got in it; for I find that particular content which has always attended me, where God in his providence hath made it my place and service to reside.’
Even in Pennsylvania, young as the colony was, and composed of better materials than most colonies, crime soon made its appearance. Before the first grand jury summoned in the province in March, 1683, a settler named Pickering was brought to trial for issuing counterfeit silver coin—an offense which one would not have expected to find at so early a stage in the history of a new society. The man having been found guilty, was sentenced to pay a fine of forty pounds, to be employed towards the erection of a court-house—a much more lenient sentence than would have been awarded in the mother country. Before the same jury a woman named Margaret Mattson was tried for witchcraft. The verdict returned deserves notice for its peculiarity: it was, that the accused was ‘guilty of having the common fame of being a witch, but not guilty in manner and form as she stands indicted.’ This verdict probably meant that the jury found the prisoner guilty of a notoriously malicious disposition—the true offense of many of the poor wretches whom the barbarous British justice of that day condemned to the stake.
At midsummer 1684 the population of the colony amounted to upwards of seven thousand souls—English, Irish, Scotch, Welsh, Dutch, Swedes, and Germans. About twenty different townships had been established; and Philadelphia could boast of a population of two thousand five hundred persons, well lodged in about three hundred houses, all regularly built according to the prescribed plan.
Attracted by Penn’s reputation for just and honorable dealing, and by reports of the flourishing condition of the settlement, ships were arriving in quick succession with new settlers from different countries of the old world. Seeing the success of his project thus so far happily realized, Penn, who had now been two years in America, resolved to return to England. His reasons for doing so were twofold. In the first place, a dispute had arisen between him and Lord Baltimore, the proprietor of the adjoining province of Maryland, as to the boundaries of their respective territories; and this dispute had at length become so warm, that there was no hope of settling it except by being personally present to represent the state of the case to the home government. Again, intelligence had reached Penn in America that the dissenters in the mother country, and especially those of his own persuasion, were suffering greater persecutions than ever; and even if he had not hoped to effect something in their behalf by his personal influence at court, it was Penn’s nature, wherever he saw persecution going on, to desire to be in the midst of it, either to help the sufferers, or at least to write against the oppressors. Accordingly, on the 12th of August, 1684, William Penn set sail for England, having made all necessary arrangements for the government of the colony during his absence. The supreme power was vested in the provincial council; as president of which he named Thomas Lloyd, a Quaker preacher, who had emigrated from Wales.
In February, 1685, four months after Penn’s return to England, Charles II died, and was succeeded by his brother the Duke of York, under the title of James II. It has already been mentioned that the duke had always manifested a liking for Penn, at first as the son of his friend, Admiral Penn, and afterwards on account of his own merits. This liking he continued to exhibit in a very marked manner after his accession to the crown; and Penn, to improve the opportunities of usefulness which his free access to the king afforded him, took up his residence at Kensington, in order to be near the palace. The following passage from Gerard Croese’s history of the Quakers will give an idea of the intimate terms on which Penn was with James II. ‘William Penn,’ says Croese, ‘was greatly in favor with the king, and the Quakers’ sole patron at court. The king loved him as a singular and sincere friend, and imparted to him many of his secrets and counsels. He often honored him with his company in private, discoursing with him of various affairs, and that not for one, but many hours together, and delaying to hear the best of his peers, who at the same time were waiting for an audience. Penn being so highly favored, acquired thereby a number of friends. Those also who formerly knew him, when they had any favor to ask at court, came to, courted, and entreated Penn to promote their several requests. Penn refused none of his friends any reasonable office he could do for them, but was ready to serve them all, but more especially the Quakers, and these wherever their religion was concerned. They ran to Penn without intermission, as their only pillar and support, who always caressed and received them cheerfully, and effected their business by his interest and eloquence. Hence his house and gates were daily thronged by a numerous train of clients and suppliants, desiring him to present their addresses to his majesty. There were sometimes there two hundred or more.’ Earl Buchan, in his life of Fletcher of Saltoun, relates an instance of Penn’s great influence at the court of James II. By his advice many exiled Presbyterians were permitted to return to their native country, and among others Sir Robert Stuart of Coltness, who had taken refuge in Holland. On his return, however, Sir Robert ‘found his estate and only means of subsistence in the possession of the Earl of Arran, afterwards Duke of Hamilton. Soon after his coming to London he met Penn, who congratulated him on his being restored to his native country. Coltness sighed, and said, “Ah, Mr. Penn, Arran has got my estate, and I fear my situation is about to be now worse than ever.” “What dost thou say?” says Penn; “thou surprisest and grievest me exceedingly. Come to my house to-morrow, and I will set matters right for thee.” Penn went immediately to Arran. “What is this, friend James,” said he to him, “that I hear of thee? Thou hast taken possession of Coltness’s estate. Thou knowest that it is not thine.” “That estate,” says Arran, “I paid a great price for. I received no other reward for my expensive and troublesome embassy in France than this same estate; and I am certainly much out of pocket by the bargain.” “All very well, friend James,” said the Quaker; “but of this assure thyself, that if thou dost not give me this moment an order on thy chamberlain for two hundred pounds to Coltness, to carry him down to his native country, and a hundred a-year to subsist on till matters are adjusted, I will make it as many thousands out of thy way with the king.” Arran instantly complied; and Penn sent for Sir Robert, and gave him the security.’
Although it is certain that, in thus acting the part of private adviser to the king, William Penn had the good of the country in view; and although there can be no doubt that, in that capacity, he rendered many services to the cause of civil and religious liberty, yet the prudence of his conduct in so mixing himself up with court affairs is somewhat questionable. At all events, his intimacy with the king subjected him to many imputations and suspicions, which it was difficult to clear away. The efforts of James to restore the supremacy of the Roman Catholic church being then the great subject of interest in the nation, it was concluded that Penn was privy to all the king’s plans and measures; that he was coöperating with him for the overthrow of Protestantism; in short, that he was a Papist. The absurdity of such rumors would have been evident to any one who had taken the trouble to look back on Penn’s former life; but in a time of public excitement, the extravagance of a story is no security against its being believed. Members of the Church of England, Protestant dissenters of all denominations, even the Quakers themselves, joined in the cry against Penn, and he became one of the most unpopular men in England. To say that he was a Papist, was not enough; he was stigmatised as a Jesuit, wearing the mask of a Quaker, in order the better to accomplish his purposes. It was currently reported that he had been educated at St. Omer’s; that he had taken priest’s orders at Rome; that the pope had given him a dispensation to marry; and that he was in the habit of officiating at the celebration of mass before the king at Whitehall and St. James’. Of these rumors Penn took no notice, except when they reached him through some of his friends, who were anxious that he should take some steps to exculpate himself. On such occasions he used to say that he had a personal regard for the king, and that he believed him to mean well, and at heart to be in favor of toleration; that as for the king’s secret and arbitrary schemes for the restoration of the Catholic religion, he knew nothing of them; that his aim had ever been to use his influence ‘to allay heats, and moderate extremes, even in politics;’ and that the only ground on which he could conceive the charge of his being a Papist to have been founded, was his anxiety to admit all sects alike to the benefits of religious freedom.
These representations were of no avail in clearing his reputation with the public; and accordingly, in the year 1688, when James II was expelled from the kingdom, and William of Orange appointed his successor, Penn was one of those who were likely to suffer from their friendship with the fallen monarch. Four different times he was arrested and examined on a charge of being a Jesuit, and a secret partisan of the exiled king; but no instance of guilt could be proved against him. On one of these occasions, when he was examined before King William in council, a letter was produced which James II had sent to Penn, but which government had intercepted. In this letter James desired Penn ‘to come to his assistance, and to express to him the resentments of his favor and benevolence.’ On being asked why King James wrote to him, Penn replied that this was no fault of his; that if the king chose to write to him, he could not prevent it. As for the king’s meaning in the letter, he supposed it was that he should assist in an attempt to restore him to the throne. This, however, he had no intention to do. He had always loved King James, and had received many favors from him and he should be willing to render him any private service he could, but nothing more. This candid and manly defense produced its effect, and Penn was discharged.
Wearied out with these annoyances, and having no great public duty now to detain him in England, seeing that the toleration he had so long struggled for was realised, at least to a great extent, under the government of King William, Penn was anxious to return to his American colony, where his presence was greatly desiderated, on account of various differences which had broken out among the settlers. He was preparing to set sail in 1690, when his departure was prevented by a fresh charge of treason preferred against him by a wretch of the name of Fuller, who was afterwards publicly declared to be a cheat and impostor, but whose true character was not then known. Not wishing to run the risk of being convicted on the oath of such a man, who would not scruple, of course, as to the means he would employ in making out his case, Penn lived in great seclusion in London for several years, occupying himself in writing replies to the letters he received from America, and in composing numerous tracts on subjects congenial to his tastes and disposition. In the year 1693, his misfortunes reached their height. Early in the year he was deprived of the governorship of Pennsylvania, which was annexed, by royal commission, to that of the province of New York. Towards the end of the same year his wife died. Before this time, however, a reaction had begun in his favor. His own character began to be better appreciated by King William, while that of his accuser, Fuller, became disgracefully notorious. Accordingly, Penn being admitted to plead his cause before the king and council, was honorably acquitted; and shortly after, by a royal order, dated the 20th of August 1694, he was reinstated in his government.
It was not, however, till the year 1699 that Penn returned to Pennsylvania, from which he had been absent about fifteen years. The interval of five years between his restoration to the governorship and his return to the colony was spent in preaching tours through England and Ireland, and in conducting those controversies out of which he appeared to be out of his natural element. In 1696 he contracted a second marriage with Hannah, daughter of Thomas Callowhill, a merchant of Bristol; and not long afterwards his eldest son, by the former marriage, died in his twenty-first year.
Accompanied this time by his wife and family, Penn returned to America in November 1699, and immediately commenced revising the conduct of his substitutes during his absence, and adopting new measures for the good of the colony. A discussion has been raised as to the wisdom and disinterestedness of Penn’s government of Pennsylvania during this his second visit, and indeed during the latter part of his proprietorship; some contending that he did not show the same liberality as at the outset, and others defending him from the charge. Among the former, the most distinguished critic of Penn is Benjamin Franklin, whose judgment is, that Penn began his government as a man of conscience, proceeded in it as a man of reason, and ended it more as a man of the world. Penn’s most zealous apologist against this charge of Franklin is his biographer, Mr. Clarkson. To examine minutely the arguments on both sides, would not answer any good purpose; it may be sufficient to remark, that the charge of Franklin is founded on certain changes introduced by Penn into the political constitution of Pennsylvania, to increase his own authority as governor, and that it does not effect the general spirit in which Penn fulfilled his important trust, which was uniformly that of mildness, justice, and benevolence. It was not to be expected that a constitution or frame of government prepared on the other side of the Atlantic by the mere pen, and transplanted to the new world, would satisfy the actual wants of the colony, or require no change. Accordingly, that there should be differences of opinion between the colonists and the governor on some points, or among the various classes of the colonists themselves, was natural enough; the merit of Penn and the early Pennsylvanians was, that, notwithstanding these differences, the general spirit of the administration was healthy and tolerant. ‘Governments,’ said Penn himself, ‘depend upon men, rather than men upon governments. Like clocks, they go from the motion which men give them. Let men be good, and the government cannot be bad. If it be ill, they will cure it. No government could maintain its constitution, however excellent it was, without the preservation of virtue.’ Thus it was that, although Pennsylvania at its commencement had its political disputes, it had a security for prosperity in the character of its founders.
Two objects which occupied a great share of Penn’s attention in his capacity of governor of Pennsylvania, were the condition of the negroes who had been imported into the settlement, and the civilization of the North American Indians with whom the colonists were brought into contact. ‘Soon after the colony had been planted,’ says Mr. Clarkson, ‘that is in the year 1682, when William Penn was first resident in it, some few Africans had been imported; but more had followed. At this time the traffic in slaves was not branded with infamy as at the present day. It was considered, on the other hand, as favorable to both parties: to the American planters, because they had but few laborers in comparison with the extent of their lands; and to the poor Africans themselves, because they were looked upon as persons thus redeemed out of superstition, idolatry, and heathenism. But though the purchase and sale of them had been adopted with less caution upon this principle, there were not wanting among the Quakers of Pennsylvania those who, soon after the introduction of them there, began to question the moral licitness of the traffic. Accordingly, at the yearly meeting for Pennsylvania in 1688, it had been resolved, on the suggestion of emigrants from Crisheim, who had adopted the principles of William Penn, that the buying, selling, and holding men in slavery was inconsistent with the tenets of the Christian religion. In 1696, a similar resolution had been passed at the yearly meeting of the same religious society for the same province. In consequence of these noble resolutions, the Quakers had begun to treat their slaves in a manner different from that of other people. In 1698, there were instances where they had admitted them into their meeting-houses, to worship in common with themselves.’
Penn, on his return, keenly took up the cause of the negroes, both in his private capacity as a member of the Society of Friends, and in his public one as governor. ‘He began to question,’ says Mr. Clarkson, ‘whether, under the Christian system, men ought to be consigned to unconditional slavery; whether they ought to be bought and sold. This question he determined virtuously, and in unison with the resolutions of the two forementioned yearly meetings of the Quakers. He resolved, as far as his own powers went, upon incorporating the treatment of the negroes, as a matter of Christian duty, into the discipline of the religious body to which he belonged. He succeeded; and a minute was passed by the monthly meeting of Philadelphia, and properly registered there, by which a meeting was appointed more particularly for the negroes once every month; so that, besides the common opportunities they had of collecting religious knowledge by frequenting the places of public worship, there was one day in the month in which, as far as the influence of the monthly meeting extended, they could neither be temporally nor spiritually overlooked. Having secured their good treatment in a certain degree among those of his own persuasion, his next object was to secure it among others in the colony, on whom the discipline of the Quakers had no hold, by a legislative act. This was all he could do at present. To forbid the bringing of slaves into the colony was entirely out of his power. He had no command whatever over the external commerce of the mother country. He was bound, on the other hand, by his charter, to admit her imports, and at this moment she particularly encouraged the slave trade. His first step, then, was to introduce a bill into the assembly which should protect the negroes from personal ill treatment, by fair trials and limited punishments, when they committed offenses; and which, at the same time, by regulating their marriages, should improve their moral condition. This he did with a view of fitting them by degrees for a state of freedom; and as the bill comprehended not only those negroes who were then in the province and territories, but those who should afterwards be brought there, he hoped that it would lay the foundation of a preparatory school for civilization and liberty to all of the African race.’ This bill, unfortunately, he was unable to carry, at least in its full extent. But the good effects of his exertions, so far as they did succeed, were ultimately seen. From the time that the subject of negro treatment was introduced into the discipline of the Pennsylvanian Quakers by Penn, it was never lost sight of by that body. Individual Quakers began to refuse to purchase negroes, others to emancipate those in their possession; and at length it became a law of the society that no member should hold slaves. In the year 1780, not a Quaker possessed a slave in Pennsylvania; and from that time slavery dwindled away in the state, till, in the year 1810, there were only eight hundred slaves in Pennsylvania, in a population of nearly a million.
Penn’s success with the Indians was similar. Unable to do much for them legislatively, he did much by his example and influence, visiting them personally, and trying by all means to establish a friendly commercial intercourse with them. Whatever advances in the arts of civilized life were made in the early part of the eighteenth century by the Indian tribes of the northwest, were due originally to William Penn; and for more than fifty years after his death, his name was remembered among them as that of a ‘true and good man.’
Penn was roused from his quiet and benevolent labors in behalf of the colonists, the negroes, and the Indians, by the intelligence that a movement had been begun in England for the abolition of the proprietary system of governing the American colonies. Deeply interested in this intelligence, he thought it due to his interests to embark for England, where, accordingly, he arrived in December 1701.
The bill which had brought him from America was not proceeded with; and the accession of Queen Anne to the throne in 1702 was a favorable event for his interests. Penn, however, never returned to America, but spent the remaining sixteen years of his life in England. It is melancholy to add that these last years of the existence of so good a man were clouded with misfortune. His outlay on Pennsylvania had far exceeded the immediate returns which the property could yield; and the consequence was, that he was involved in pecuniary embarrassments. To meet these, he was obliged, in 1709, to mortgage the province for £6600. The loss of a lawsuit added to his difficulties; and for some time he was a prisoner within the rules of Fleet. In 1712, he agreed to sell his rights to government for £12,000. The bargain, however, was never concluded, owing to his being incapacitated by three apopletic fits, which, following each other rapidly, deprived him to a great extent of memory and consciousness. He lingered on, however, till the 30th of July 1718, when he died at Ruscombe, in Berkshire, in the seventy-fourth year of his age.
Penn’s appearance and personal habits are thus described by Mr. Clarkson:—‘He was tall in stature, and of an athletic make. In maturer years he was inclined to corpulency; but used a great deal of exercise. His appearance at this time was that of a fine portly man. He was very neat, though plain in his dress. He walked generally with a cane. He had a great aversion to the use of tobacco. However, when he was in America, though he was often annoyed by it, he bore it with good-humor. Several of his particular friends were one day assembled at Burlington; while they were smoking their pipes, it was announced to them that the governor’s barge was in sight, and coming up the river. The company supposed that he was on his way to Pennsburg, about seven miles higher up. They continued smoking; but being afterwards unexpectedly informed that he had landed at a wharf near them, and was just entering the house, they suddenly concealed their pipes. Perceiving, from the smoke, when he entered the room what they had been doing, and discovering that the pipes had been hid, he said pleasantly, ‘Well, friends, I am glad to see that you are at least ashamed of your old practice.’ ‘Not entirely so,’ replied Samuel Jennings, one of the company; ‘but we preferred laying down our pipes to the danger of offending a weak brother.’ They then expressed their surprise at this abrupt visit, as, in his passage from Philadelphia, not only the tide, but the wind had been furiously against him. He replied, with a smile on his countenance, ‘that he had been sailing against wind and tide all his life.’
The colony made rapid progress after Penn’s death, settlers being attracted to it from all parts of the old world by the freedom of its constitution and its natural advantages. The proprietorship was vested in the heirs of Penn by his second marriage, his children by his first marriage having inherited his British estates, which, at the time of Penn’s death were of greater value than his American property. In the year 1752, while Pennsylvania was still a British colony, the French made encroachments on it from the north-west, and built Fort Duquesne—now Pittsburg. Philadelphia, the capital of Pennsylvania, speedily grew in size and importance. Its name is associated with some of the most distinguished events in the history of the United States. It was there that the delegates of the various colonies assembled in the year 1774, when they declared against the right of the mother country to tax the colonies; and it was also there that the famous declaration of independence was proclaimed in 1776. On the conclusion of the war of independence, Penn’s descendants sold their right of proprietorship over Pennsylvania to the American government for £130,000. Philadelphia continued to be the seat of the federal government till the year 1800. In the present day it is a large and populous city, celebrated for the number of its foundations and benevolent institutions, all less or more originating in the philanthropic principles early introduced into Pennsylvania.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.
This celebrated individual, the youngest but two of a family of seventeen children, was born at Boston, in Massachusetts, on the 17th of January, 1706. His father was at first a dyer, and afterwards a soap-boiler and tallow-chandler, and had quitted England in order to escape the prosecution of the non-conformists, under Charles II. His son Benjamin was sent to a grammar-school at eight years of age, with a view of being educated for the church; but this design was soon abandoned, and the subject of our memoir, after having made a slight progress in writing and arithmetic, returned home, and assisted at his father’s trade. This employment was very irksome to Franklin, whose inclinations had become directed to a sea-faring life; and it was at length agreed that he should be apprenticed to his cousin who was a cutler. An obstacle to this, however, arose in the amount of premium required, and he was eventually bound, in his twelfth year, to his brother James, a printer.
He soon made great progress in this business, and an acquaintance formed with several booksellers’ apprentices, enabled him to indulge his love of reading, by borrowing books, which they had facilities to obtain. ‘It has often happened to me,’ he says, in a memoir of the early part of his life, ‘to pass the greater part of the night in reading by my bed-side, when the book had been lent to me in the evening, and was to be returned the next morning, lest it might be missed or wanted.’ This disposition being noticed by a Mr. Matthew Adams, who had a large collection of books, he offered the use of them to Franklin, who soon became an author, and composed several little pieces in verse. Two of these, a ballad, called ‘The Lighthouse Tragedy,’ and a song on the noted pirate, Blackbeard, were, by his brother’s directions, printed: but the most unpoetic part of the story remains to be told—their author was despatched about the town to sell them. Franklin says, ‘the first had a prodigious run, because the event was recent, and had made a great noise;’ but ‘they were wretched verses in point of style—mere blindman’s ditties.’ His father seems to have been of the same opinion, for he ridiculed the productions; ‘and thus,’ says their author, ‘my exultation was checked, and I escaped the misfortune of being a very miserable poet.’ At this period he formed an acquaintance with a young man of the name of Collins, who was also a great lover of books. They were frequently together, and were both fond of disputation, which they sometimes carried on in writing. This, probably, assisted in bringing out some of the dormant qualities of Franklin’s mind; but his style was greatly inferior to that of his rival, to improve which he took the following method:—‘I bought,’ he says, ‘an odd volume of The Spectator, read it over and over, and was much delighted with it. I thought the writing excellent, and wished, if possible, to imitate it. With this view, I took some of the papers, and making short hints of the sentiments in each sentence, laid them by a few days; and then, without looking at the book, tried to complete the papers again, by expressing each hinted sentiment at length, and as fully as it had been expressed before in any suitable words that should occur to me. Then I compared my Spectator with the original, discovered some of my faults, and corrected them. But I found I wanted a stock of words, or a readiness in recollecting and using them, which I thought I should have acquired before that time, if I had gone on making verses; since the continual search for words of the same import, but of different length to suit the measure, or of different sound, for the rhyme, would have laid me under constant necessity of searching for variety, and also have tended to fix that variety in my mind, and make me master of it. Therefore I took some of the tales in the Spectator, and turned them into verse; and, after a time, when I had pretty well forgotten the prose, turned them back again. I also, sometimes, jumbled my collection of hints into confusion, and, after some weeks, endeavored to reduce them into the best order, before I began to form the full sentences and complete the subject. This was to teach me method in the arrangement of my thoughts. By comparing my works with the original, I discovered many faults, and corrected them; but sometimes had the pleasure to fancy that, in certain particulars of small consequence, I had been fortunate enough to improve the method of the language; and this encouraged me to think that I might, in time, come to be a tolerable English writer, of which I was extremely ambitious.
Franklin added to his habits of industry a self-denial and control over his passions, even at this early age, which were truly surprising. When about sixteen, a work fell into his hands, which recommended vegetable diet: this he determined to follow, and undertook to provide for himself, upon his brother’s allowing him one-half of the ordinary expense of his board, of which half, even, he contrived, by great abstemiousness, to save a considerable portion. Here was a new fund for the purchase of books; and he accordingly obtained such as enabled him to perfect himself in those elementary branches of knowledge in which he was deficient, among which were arithmetic and geometry.
In 1720, his brother established a public paper, entitled The New England Courant, the second that had appeared in America. Franklin was employed to distribute the copies, and, occasionally, being present at the meetings which were held at his brother’s house, by a number of literary characters, who were contributors, his love of authorship was rekindled, and he sent a communication in the usual way, but in a feigned hand. It was received, and commented upon in Franklin’s hearing; who, in his memoir, tells us, he had, ‘the exquisite pleasure to find that it met with their approbation, and that, in the various conjectures they made respecting its author, no one was mentioned who did not enjoy a high reputation in the country for talents and genius.’ Many other articles were written, and forwarded in the same manner, and, being equally well received, their author made himself known; expecting that the discovery would insure for him more respect and greater fraternal indulgence than he had previously experienced. His brother, however, continued to treat him with much rigor, and being a man of ungovernable passions, frequently proceeded to the extremity of blows. ‘This severe and tyrannical treatment,’ says Franklin, ‘contributed, I believe, to imprint on my mind that aversion to arbitrary power, which, during my whole life, I have ever preserved.’
The brothers, however, had soon occasion to be reconciled with each other. James, in consequence of an offensive article in the Courant, was taken into custody, and imprisoned for a month; Benjamin, during that period, was intrusted with the management of the paper, in which he inserted several pasquinades against the governor and other persons in authority. James’s enlargement was accompanied with an arbitrary order, that he should ‘no longer print the newspaper called The New England Courant.’ To evade this order, it was determined that his brother’s indentures should be given up, and the paper, in future, be printed in the name of Benjamin Franklin. A new contract was at the same time secretly entered into between the parties, by which Benjamin’s services were to be secured for the remainder of the term of his former apprenticeship; but, a fresh quarrel arising, Franklin thought proper to separate from his brother; ‘dishonorably,’ as he candidly acknowledges, ‘availing himself of the circumstance that the contract could not safely be produced.’
Being unable to obtain employment in Boston, he determined upon going to New York; but, apprehending his father would object to this resolution, he sold a part of his books to procure a small sum of money, and departed privately. On his arrival at the latter place, he applied for employment to a printer, who, having no occasion for his services, recommended him to extend his journey to Philadelphia.
His arrival at Philadelphia is thus recorded by himself:—‘I was in my working-dress, my best clothes being to come from New York by sea. I was covered with dirt; my pockets were filled with shirts and stockings; I was unacquainted with a single soul in the place, and knew not where to seek a lodging. Fatigued with walking and rowing, and having passed the night without sleep, I was extremely hungry, and all my money consisted of a Dutch dollar, and about a shilling’s worth of coppers, which I gave to the boatmen for my passage. At first they refused it on account of my having rowed; but I insisted on their taking it. Man is sometimes more generous when he has little money than when he has plenty; perhaps to prevent his being thought to have but little. I walked towards the top of the street, gazing about, till near Market Street, where I met a boy with bread, and, inquiring where he had bought it, I went immediately to the baker he directed me to. I asked for biscuits, meaning such as we had at Boston; that sort, it seems, was not then made in Philadelphia. I then asked for a threepenny loaf, and was told they had none. Not knowing the different prices, nor the names of the different sorts of bread, I told him to give me threepennyworth of any sort. He gave me, accordingly, three great puffy rolls. I was surprised at the quantity, but took it; and, having no room in my pockets, walked off with a roll under each arm, and eating the other. Thus I went up Market Street, passing by the door of Mr. Read, my future wife’s father, when she, standing at the door, saw me, and thought I made, as I certainly did, a most awkward, ridiculous appearance. Then I turned and went down Chestnut street, and part of Walnut street, eating my roll all the way; and, coming round, found myself again at Market street wharf, near the boat I came in, to which I went for a draught of river water; and, being filled with one of my rolls, gave the other two to a woman and her child that came down the river in the boat with us, and were waiting to go farther. Thus refreshed, I walked again up the street, which, by this time, had many clean dressed people in it, who were all walking the same way. I joined them, and thereby was led into the great meeting-house of the Quakers, near the market. I sat down among them, and, after looking round awhile, and hearing nothing said, being very drowsy, through labor and want of rest the preceding night, I fell fast asleep, and continued so till the meeting broke up, when some one was kind enough to rouse me. This, therefore, was the first house I was in, or slept in, in Philadelphia.’
He was not long in obtaining employment with a printer of the name of Keimer; and, during his stay at Philadelphia, was favorably noticed by the governor, Sir William Keith, who frequently invited him to his table; and at length promised to advance the funds requisite to place him in business on his own account. He had previously advised his young protegé to proceed to Boston and ask assistance from his father, who, however, gave no encouragement to the scheme, but dismissed Franklin with his blessing, who retured to Philadelphia. Sir William now recommended him to visit England, in order to procure an adequate stock of printing materials, and establish a connection with some London booksellers; and offered to furnish him with letters of credit and introduction. Upon this recommendation, Franklin set sail for England, but the ship which carried him to London, in December, 1724, was found to have carried none of the promised letters from the governor of Pennsylvania.
He was now thrown entirely upon his own resources, and having taken lodgings in Little Britain, at one shilling and ninepence per week, he got into work at Palmer’s printing-house, in Bartholomew Close, in which employ he continued for nearly a year. From Palmer’s he removed to Watts’s, near Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where, by his companions, he was dubbed the Water-American. ‘From my example,’ he says, ‘a great many of them left off their muddling breakfast of beer, bread, and cheese, finding they could, with me, be supplied from a neighboring house with a large porringer of hot water-gruel, sprinkled with pepper, crumbled with bread, and a bit of butter in it, for the price of a pint of beer, viz., three-halfpence.’ About this period, he fell in with some deistical companions, renounced his religious principles, commenced sceptic, and published A Dissertation on Liberty and Necessity, Pleasure and Pain, in answer to Wollaston’s Religion of Nature. This work introduced him to the notice of Sir Hans Sloane, Dr. Mandeville, Dr. Pemberton, and other eminent persons, though Franklin acknowledged the printing of it as one of the errors of his life. After having been in London eighteen months, he accepted the offer of a Mr. Denham, a merchant of Philadelphia, to return with him as his clerk, at a salary of £50. He arrived at Philadelphia on the 11th of October, 1726: but, Mr. Denham dying in the following year, his clerk was compelled to return to his former occupation, and again entered into the employ of Keimer; acting in the several capacities of letter-founder, ink-maker, engraver, and copper-plate-printer. The press which he used in the latter calling was constructed by himself, and was the first erected in America. A quarrel with Keimer, led to a final separation between him and Franklin, who now entered into partnership with a young man of the name of Meredith. ‘We had scarcely,’ says Franklin, ‘opened our letters and put the press in order, before George House, an acquaintance of ours, brought a countryman to us, whom he had met in the street inquiring for a printer. All our cash had been expended in the variety of particulars we had been obliged to procure, and this countryman’s five shillings, being our first fruits, and coming so seasonably, gave me more pleasure than any money I have ever since received.’ The frugality and industry of Franklin soon brought their business into a thriving condition, and he began to think of establishing a newspaper, when he was anticipated by Keimer, who started one of his own. He now wrote, in conjunction with a friend, a series of papers called The Busy Body, which so much eclipsed the publication of his rival, that he was glad to dispose of his paper, at any price, to Franklin. Meredith proving inattentive to business, Franklin was pursuaded to dissolve partnership, and take the concern entirely into his own hands, which he was enabled to accomplish, through the liberal assistance of two acquaintances, who were members of the Junto. This was a club, established by Franklin, for the discussion of subjects connected with morals, politics, and natural philosophy; it eventually became the centre of thought for the whole people; and contributed, in a great degree, to the success of their struggle for independence.
In September, 1730, he married a female to whom he had been previously attached, when she was Miss Read, but who, during his absence, had conceived herself forgotten, and given her hand to a potter, of the name of Rogers. This person had involved himself in debt, and fled to the West Indies, but Franklin’s affection was not damped by the probability of the lady’s first husband being still alive, and he consented to make her his spouse.
In 1732, he published his celebrated almanac, under the name of Richard Saunders, more generally known as Poor ‘Richard’s Almanack,’ and which became so celebrated for its numerous happily-expressed and valuable moral maxims. These were collected, many years afterwards, into a little tract, called The Way to Wealth; having for its object the extension of industry and economy, habits which no man ever practiced more successfully than Franklin himself. Dr. Bard a Scotchman, residing in Philadelphia, used to say to him, ‘The industry of this Franklin is superior to any thing of the kind I ever witnessed. I see him still at work when I return from the club at night, and I find he is at it again in the morning, before his neighbors are out of bed.’ On one occasion, having laid down a rule that he would compose a sheet a day of a particular work, in folio, he had the misfortune, after his evening’s labor, to derange two whole pages. Such, however, was his perseverance, that he distributed and composed them anew before he retired to bed.
In 1736, he commenced his political career, by being appointed clerk to the general assembly; and, in the following year, entered upon the duties of post-master. He was also appointed an alderman, and put into the commission of the peace; but took no part in the business of the bench, commonly employing himself, while sitting with his brother magistrates, ‘in contriving magic squares and circles.’ From this period, till 1744, he was actively and usefully employed in instituting fire companies, erecting public buildings, and establishing philosophical societies. In 1744, during the war between England and France, he particularly distinguished himself in procuring means of resistance against the enemy, and succeeded in bringing over the Quakers to give their pecuniary aid. They were, however, particularly scrupulous not to acknowledge that their grants were connected with the principle of warfare. When, therefore, the assembly was applied to, for a certain quantity of gunpowder, the members would not comply with the request; but voted £3,000 to be placed in the hands of the governor, ‘for the purchase of bread, flour, wheat, or other grain.’ The governor was advised not to accept the grant, but he replied—‘I shall take the money; “other grain” means gunpowder.’ Franklin, hearing of this, suggested that the insurance companies, which were also well stocked with Quakers, might likewise very properly contribute their aid, by a grant for the purchase of fire-engines.
In 1745, he published an account of his newly-invented fire-place; and, in 1747, was elected a member of the general assembly; in which he was an active defender of the rights of the citizens in opposition to the encroachments of the proprietaries. He introduced several measures relative to the local government of Philadelphia; and busily employed himself in establishing public schools and founding hospitals. In 1749, he took one of his workmen into partnership; and was thus enabled to devote a considerable portion of his time to scientific pursuits, of which it is now time to give some account. At this period, our readers need not, perhaps, be told that electricity was a science which could hardly be said to consist of anything more than a collection of unsystematized and ill-understood facts. Franklin’s attention seems to have been first directed to this subject in 1746, when, being at Boston, he met with a Dr. Spence, who had lately arrived from Scotland, and showed him some electrical experiments. They were not very expertly performed, ‘but being,’ said Franklin, ‘on a subject quite new to me, they equally surprised and pleased me. Soon after my return to Philadelphia, our library company received, from Mr. Peter Collinson, F. R. S., of London, a present of a glass tube, with some account of the use of it in making experiments. I eagerly seized the opportunity of repeating what I had seen at Boston; and, by much practice, acquired great readiness in performing those also which we had an account of from England, adding a number of new ones. I say much practice, for my house was continually full, for some time, with persons who came to see these new wonders. To divide a little of this incumbrance among my friends, I caused a number of similar tubes to be blown in our glass-house, with which they furnished themselves; so that we had, at length, several performers.’
None were now more zealous in electrical investigations, than Franklin; he was continually devising new experiments, and falling upon important results. He exhibited the power of points in drawing and throwing off the electrical matter; and made the grand discovery of a positive and negative state of electricity. By means of this discovery he satisfactorily explained the phenomena of the Leyden phial, which was at that time exciting the wonder of all Europe, and had caused philosophers so much perplexity. His happiest conjecture, however, was that of the identity between lightning and the electric fluid, though it was not till 1752, that he was enabled, effectually, to establish this important fact. He had long entertained the bold idea of ascertaining the truth of this doctrine, by actually drawing lightning from the clouds; and at length it occurred to him that he might procure communication between them and the earth by means of a common kite. With this simple apparatus, he awaited the approach of a thundercloud, and the kite was raised, but no sign of electricity appeared. His suspense and anxiety were almost insupportable; when suddenly he observed the loose fibres of the string to move; he presented his knuckle to the key by which it was held, and received a strong spark. On this experiment depended the fate of his theory. Repeated sparks were drawn from the key—a phial was charged—a shock given—and this brilliant discovery placed upon an immutable basis.
Franklin, from time to time, forwarded accounts of his experiments to England, for the information of the Royal Society; but they were not admitted into the printed transactions of that learned body. His friend, Mr. Collinson, gave them to Cave, for insertion in The Gentleman’s Magazine; but Cave, with great judgment, thought proper to publish them separately, in a pamphlet, the preface to which was written by Dr. Fothergill. By the additions which were subsequently made to this little work, it swelled into a quarto volume, and became the text-book of the science. It was translated into French, German, and Latin, and attracted the attention of all the philosophers in Europe. In France, the highest honors were paid to Franklin’s labors: Buffon, D’Alibard, and De Lor, repeated and confirmed his experiments; and the king himself, Louis XV, became a spectator of them. Russia, even, participated in this ardor, and the amiable Richmann fell a martyr to his zeal—an unfortunate flash from the conductor putting a period to his existence. Eventually, the Royal Society began to reconsider the matter; and Franklin’s grand experiment, the object of which had, at first, been treated with ridicule, was verified by Canton, and other members. Franklin was, accordingly, without solicitation, elected a fellow, and had paid to him the unusual honor of being chosen without payment of the customary fees. He was also presented with the Copley medal for the year 1753; and, at a subsequent period, he had the degree of LL.D. conferred upon him by the Universities of St. Andrew’s, Edinburgh, and Oxford.
We now resume our account of Franklin’s political career. In the year just mentioned, he was presented with the degree of M.A., by the College of Cambridge, in New England; and, in the same year, he was appointed deputy postmaster-general for the British colonies. The American post-office had never previously made any returns for the revenue; but under the management and improvements of Franklin, it yielded to the crown three times as much as the post-office of Ireland. In 1754, he drew up his celebrated Albany Plan of Union, as a means of defense against the depredations of the Indians. The rejection of this plan was followed by the introduction of British troops into the colonies; this produced taxation, and was soon succeeded by the war, which ended in the final loss of America to the mother-country.
In 1755, when the expedition of Gen. Braddock, to dispossess the French of some of their encroachments, was in preparation, a difficulty arose for want of wagons, which Franklin supplied to the number of one hundred and fifty. The expedition, however, failing, he was in danger of a ruinous loss, but was relieved from his obligations by the interference of the governor. He was, subsequently, instrumental in forming a militia bill; and he was appointed colonel of the Philadelphia regiment of one thousand two hundred men, which he held until the troops were disbanded by order of the English government.
On the 27th of July, 1757, Franklin arrived in London, in the character of agent to the general assembly, for the purpose of advocating the privileges of the people against the illiberal and unjust encroachments of the proprietaries. Much prejudice and delusion existed at the time in relation to the affairs of America; and Franklin, in consequence, published, anonymously, a work, entitled An Historical Review of the Constitution and Government of Pennsylvania. During his sojourn in England, he was engaged in a variety of political controversies, and was examined before a committee of the whole house of commons, relative to the practicability of enforcing the stamp act, which, in consequence of the information he afforded, was repealed. He returned to Philadelphia in the summer of 1762; and shortly afterwards received the thanks of the assembly, and a grant of £5,000. In 1764, through the exertions of the proprietaries, he lost his seat in the house; but there still remained in it a majority of his friends, and he was appointed to resume his agency at the court of Great Britain.
In 1766, he visited Holland and Germany; and, in the following year, France, where Louis XV showed him particular marks of attention. After his return to England he got embroiled relative to some political papers which had been clandestinely furnished to him, and which he forwarded to America, where they were published. He was, in consequence, dismissed from his office of deputy postmaster-general, after having been summoned before the privy-council, and severely censured. He was now looked upon by government with considerable jealousy, and it was proposed to arrest him upon the charge of fomenting a rebellion; but being apprised of this intention, he contrived to leave England secretly, in March, 1775.
On his return to Philadelphia, he was elected a delegate to the congress, and took an active part in bringing about a revolution. It was at this period he wrote the following memorable letter to his old friend in England, Mr. Strahan, the king’s printer:—
‘Philadelphia, July 5, 1775.
‘Mr. Strahan:—You are a member of parliament, and one of that majority which has doomed my country to destruction. You have begun to burn our towns, and murder our people. Look upon your hands! They are signed with the blood of your relations. You and I were long friends:—you are now my enemy, and I am
Yours, ‘B. Franklin.’
In 1776, although in his seventy-first year, he was called upon by Congress, to proceed to France, for the purpose of completing the negotiations begun by Silas Deane; and, in 1777, he was appointed plenipotentiary to the French court. He had now not only created a host of political enemies in Great Britain, but was also attacked by certain philosophical opponents. Mr. Wilson, F.R.S., protested against pointed conductors, and performed several experiments, in order to prove the superiority of knobs. In consequence of Wilson’s declarations, the pointed lightning conductors were taken down from the queen’s palace, a circumstance which gave rise to the following epigram:—
‘Whilst you, great George, for safety hunt,
And sharp conductors change for blunt,
The empire’s out of joint:
Franklin a wiser course pursues:
And all your thunder fearless views,
By keeping to the point.’
A definitive treaty of peace having been signed between Great Britain and the United States, on the 3d of September, 1783, Franklin requested to be recalled home. He arrived at Philadelphia in September, 1785, and was afterwards twice elected president of the assembly. His last public act was the signing of a memorial, on the 12th of February, 1789, for the abolition of slavery.
He had been, for many years, subject to attacks of the gout, to which, in 1782, was added a nephritic colic; and, about the same period, he suffered the first pains of a disease, the most distressing in the list of bodily infirmities. They were three things he had always dreaded; and he used to observe, that, in relation to this complication of disorders, he was ‘something like the woman who had always entertained a great aversion to presbyterians, parsons, and Irishmen, and at last married an Irish presbyterian parson.’ These maladies confined him to his bed during the greater part of the last year of his life; but, notwithstanding the severe pains he labored under, his natural cheerfulness never forsook him. His mental faculties were unimpaired, and his memory continued unaffected to the last hour of his existence. He was often obliged to take large doses of opium; but, in his moments of ease, he amused himself with reading, or in affectionate conversation with his family. He died on the 17th of April, 1790, and was buried on the 21st of April, in the cemetery of Christ’s Church, Philadelphia. On the occasion of his funeral, every possible mark of public respect was shown to his memory: a general mourning, for one month, was ordered throughout America; and the national assembly of France paid a like honor in remembrance of his virtues.
PETER THE GREAT.
Peter, Czar, or Emperor of Russia, usually styled The Great, was one of the most remarkable persons in the history of modern times. A sketch of his life may therefore prove interesting, as furnishing an example of what may be accomplished for the benefit of mankind by one enterprising mind. But first as regards the country over which it was his fortune to rule.
Russia is a territory of vast extent in the northern part of Europe and Asia. Presenting every variety of climate, this extensive region, which is really an aggregation of various countries, was inhabited in the seventeenth century by a barbarous people, having little intercourse with the more civilized nations of the earth. The degree of advancement in knowledge or social usages was very much that of Turkey in recent times The Russian people knew little or nothing of the useful arts, were rude in manners, dressed in cumbrous garments, and the men wore long beards, according to the ancient Asiatic custom. There was scarcely any kind of school-learning or education; even the priests were grossly ignorant and superstitious. For one thing, they believed and taught that the world was created in autumn, when the fruits were ripe; unconscious that, when it is autumn in one hemisphere, it is spring in the other.
At the period to which we refer—the middle of the seventeenth century, or about the time of the Commonwealth in England—the Russian people might have been divided into four classes: the Boyards or noblemen who estimated their wealth by the number of serfs or slaves upon their estates—these wretched serfs, of course, by far the most numerous body of all; and the military, a turbulent set, who, as we shall see, often resorted to the most violent means to obtain their ends. Indeed so common and revolutionary had been revolts of the Strelitzes, or soldiery of the capital, that the government has been epigrammatically called ‘a despotism tempered by assassination.’ The fourth class, and one which often took part in the factions of the time, were the priesthood, the established religion being the form of the Greek church. The monarchy was absolute, the will of the sovereign being law; but it was not, as Poland was, an elective monarchy. The male issue, however, of the ancient sovereigns failing, and several pretenders to the throne having miserably perished, the chief Boyards assembled a council, at which they elected a youth, named Michael Romanow, to be czar. He was the son of a powerful nobleman, and related, by the mother’s side, to the ancient czars. This took place in 1613, at the period when his father was detained a prisoner by the Poles, with whom the Russians were at war. An exchange of prisoners, however, was soon after effected; and it is thought that, during the life of the old man, he governed, though in his son’s name. It is not our purpose to enter into the wars or troubles of this reign. Michael Romanow made no alteration in the state, either to the improvement or corruption of the administration. He died in 1645, and was succeded by his son Alexis Michaelowitz (or son of Michael), who ascended the throne by hereditary right.
Alexis, who was the father of Peter the Great, appears to have been more enlightened than any of his predecessors. He introduced manufactures of silk and linen; and, though unable to keep them up, he had the merit of their first establishment. He endeavored to form something like a code of laws, imperfect though they were; and he peopled the deserts about the Wolga and the Kama with Polish and Tartarian families, whom he had taken prisoners in his wars, employing them in agriculture—before his reign, prisoners of war being the slaves of those to whose lot they fell. But he had little time to perfect his plans, being snatched away by a sudden death in 1677, at the age of forty-six. Alexis had been twice married. By his first wife, the daughter of the Boyard Meloslauski, he left two sons, and either four or six daughters. By his second wife, who was the daughter of the Boyard Nariskin, and who survived him, he left Peter and the Princess Nathalia, the former having been born at Moscow on the 30th of May 1672. Alexis had caused his eldest son, Theodore, to be acknowledged his successor a year before his death, and he ascended the throne at the age of fifteen: this prince inherited his father’s abilities and disposition, but was of a sickly, feeble constitution. The second son was Ivan, or John, who was miserably infirm, being almost blind and deaf, and subject to convulsions. Of the six daughters, we need only mention Sophia, who was less remarkable for her great talents than for the wicked and mischievous use she made of them.
Peter was but four years old at the time of his father’s death, and was for a while little regarded. But the czars married without regard to birth, and had likewise the power of choosing a successor; and, conscious that his brother Ivan was incapacitated by his infirmities for governing, Theodore, on his deathbed, nominated his youngest brother Peter heir to the crown. This occurred when Peter was in his tenth year, but not before his promising abilities had aroused the jealousy of his sister Sophia. Probably from the difficulty of finding suitable husbands for them, it had been the custom for the daughters of the czars to retire into a monastery; but this designing princess had no such inclination; and on the death of Theodore, she found herself almost the natural guardian of two brothers, one of whom was, from his infirmities, incapable of governing; and the other, on account of his youth, she believed it possible to depose. In a word, she aimed at sovereignty, although pretending to advocate the claim of Ivan, and representing that she desired only to hold the reins for him.
A succession of revolts was the consequence of her stratagems and intrigues; and the most savage cruelties were perpetrated by all parties. Sophia evidently sought some pretense for deposing Peter, and accordingly she employed emissaries to stir up the soldiery against the Nariskin family, especially the two uncles of Peter, spreading a report that one of them had put on the imperial robes, and had attempted to strangle prince John; adding, moreover, that the late czar, Theodore, had been poisoned at their instigation by a Dutch physician. Finally, she made out a list of forty noblemen, whom she denounced as enemies to the state, and deserving of death. The mutineers began by attacking two nobles, named Dalgorouki and Matheof, whom they threw out of the palace windows. These unfortunates were received by the Strelitzes on the points of their spears, and speedily despatched, their dead bodies being afterwards dragged into the great square. Soon after this, meeting with Athanasius Nariskin, brother to the young czarina, and one of the uncles of Peter, they murdered him in like manner, and, breaking open the doors of a church where some of the proscribed had taken refuge, they dragged them from the altar, and stabbed them to death. But it would be a horrible task to narrate the atrocities which followed—the murder of the innocent physician and of the other Nariskin, and the dreadful tortures by the knout, and other forms which were practiced on the wretched victims.
Finally, Sophia succeeded in associating the name of her imbecile brother in the sovereignty; the two princes, John and Peter, being proclaimed joint czars in 1682, and herself denominated co-regent with them. She then publicly approved of the outrages which had been committed, and rewarded the perpetrators of them, confiscating, for this purpose, the estates of the proscribed; and so completely did she enjoy all the honors of a sovereign, thet her bust was engraven on the public coin. She signed all despatches, held the first place in the council, and exercised unlimited power. But new insurrections broke out; and finally, she was induced to strengthen her authority by admitting to her councils her favorite and lover, prince Basil Galitzin, whom she created generalissimo, minister of state, and lord-keeper. This new minister was a man of distinguished abilities, and had received a much better education than the rest of his countrymen. One of his prudent measures was to distribute the most mutinous of the Strelitzes among different regiments, situated at distant parts of the empire.
While Galitzin was engaged with the army, Sophia governed and acted at Moscow as if altogether independent of her brothers the czars. A circumstance, however, soon took place which put an end to her intrigues and interference. In 1689, Peter’s marriage with Eudoxia Federowna Lapuchin, effected through the influence of his prudent mother, withdrew him in a great measure from those dissipating vices which Sophia had done all in her power to encourage, and thus gave him a new hold on the affections of the people. Sophia having desired to be present, as regent, at a religious celebration at which czars themselves were commonly present, Peter opposed it in vain; and a few faithful Strelitzes having betrayed to him her intention to assassinate him, with his wife, mother, and sister, he took refuge with them for a while in the convent of the Trinity. Here he summoned to his aid General Gordon, a Scotchman, who, with all the foreign officers, immediately hastened to Peter. The young czar soon found himself surrounded by numerous friends; and these, animated by his personal bravery, and encouraged by his affable and generous demeanor, quickly put him in a position to resist the machinations of his sister. He accordingly compelled Sophia to take the veil, while Galitzin and a few others were banished to Siberia. Peter now hastened to Moscow, into which he made a solemn entrance, and in sight of all the people embraced Ivan, who left the whole of the power in the more able hands of his brother. From this instant he began to reign in reality as Peter I, although the name of the infirm Ivan remained as joint czar till his death in 1696.
One of the most cruel wrongs Sophia had committed on her brother, was that of keeping him in ignorance, and surrounding him, at the very age when character is formed, with every temptation to excess and dissipation. It cannot be supposed that he escaped the contamination of such lures; but most truly has it been said, that ‘his virtues were all his own, his vices those of his education and country.’ He early evinced one quality of a great mind—the comprehension of his own ignorance, joined to the most ardent thirst for knowledge. His, too, was that faculty inseparable from the man born for a great ruler—that quick and certain appreciation of the character and talents of others, which always enabled him to know the fit instrument with which to work out his plans. Thus, happening to dine one day at the house of the Danish minister, he was struck with the manners and conversation of the private secretary, at once perceiving the superiority of his mind. This was a youthful Genevese, named Le Fort, who had been educated for a mercantile profession; but being of an adventurous disposition, and early displaying decided military talents, had enlisted as a volunteer, and served in the low countries. After encountering several dangers, and having a narrow escape of transportation to Siberia, though for what offense we cannot discover, he found his way to Moscow, and obtained employment in the capacity we have mentioned.
Le Fort had received the advantages of a European education, and possessed great powers of observation. It was he who explained to the czar the wonderful superiority of the trained and disciplined troops of western Europe over the wild soldiery of Russia; and now it was that Peter conceived the daring plan of annihilating the Strelitzes, who had so often been instrumental in setting up and deposing monarchs. But his measures were at present cautious and secret. Soon after his friendship—for it deserved the name—with his young adviser, the czar formed a regiment on the European system, to which he appointed Le Fort colonel; and, to give his people a lesson of subordination, he entered himself as drummer! Indeed, as we shall see, it was his custom to aim at the root of all knowledge, and thoroughly master the subjects he took in hand; and he knew that he could not more thoroughly acquire a knowledge of military affairs than by passing through all the gradations of the profession.
It was through the same individual that Peter became acquainted with another person, who, in the sequel, exercised scarcely less influence in the empire than Le Fort himself. This was Menzikoff, a youth of the very humblest origin, who sought his fortune in Moscow at the age of fourteen, and became apprentice to a pastry-cook. He used to hawk cakes and pies about the streets, recommending them in a kind of song of his own composing. It was while engaged in this occupation that he attracted the attention of Le Fort, who entered into conversation with him, and, pleased with his ready wit, brought him to the czar. On Peter he must have made an equally favorable impression, for we find him mentioned as a royal page soon afterwards.
About the same time that Peter organized the body-guard under Le Fort’s direction, he commenced building some vessels, with which he purposed sailing down the Don, and attacking Azoph, which was then in the hands of the Turks. A reference to the map of Europe will show the importance of this place, which is in fact the key to the Black Sea; and nothing proves more completely the genius of Peter the Great, than the intuitive knowledge he possessed of the importance of maritime power, and the wants of his vast empire. Hemmed in by enemies—for in those days neighboring states were commonly such—the Black Sea commanded by the Turks, and the Baltic by the Swedes, he felt that his country could never be great till seaports were wrested from them. Former czars had issued edicts forbidding their subjects to travel beyond the empire. Peter saw that the great difficulty was, not to keep people in, but for anybody to get out; and he knew there was no better method of enlightening the ignorant, and of removing prejudices, than to encourage the influx of civilized strangers, and to afford facilities for his own people to travel in other countries. We are the last who would find merit in the exploits of mere military heroes or conquering rulers, but it is impossible to withhold our admiration from the youthful czar at this period of his career. The Ottoman empire was then one of the most powerful states in the world. A very few years before, Vienna had been besieged by 200,000 Turks, and the Emperor Leopold compelled to flee from his capital; and Sweden was a country greatly superior in the scale of civilization, possessing disciplined and experienced troops—soon to have Charles XII, the most warlike monarch in Europe, at their head. But it was not from any love of ‘the game of war’ that Peter contemplated aggressions on his neighbors, but as the necessary means to a great end. He could not humanize his people without seaports; so seaports he was determined to have.
It is said that, in his childhood, Peter I had an absurd dread of water; indeed to such an extent, that crossing a river would throw him into convulsions. A story is told of his having narrowly escaped drowning when about five years old, the fright received on that occasion being the origin of this future antipathy; but, for our own part, we have very little faith in the tradition of the czar’s ‘hydrophobia.’ He was subject all his life to epileptic fits; but as his brothers had been afflicted with something similar, they were most probably hereditary. Perhaps the story of his dread of water was invented, to heighten the wonder of his achievements on that element. At all events, if it ever existed, it must early have been conquered; for in his boyhood he appears to have amused himself by paddling about the river Yausa, which passes through Moscow, in a little Dutch skiff, which had attracted him, from its being so superior to the flat-bottomed boats with which alone he was acquainted. Even when he had never seen the ocean, and was five hundred miles distant from the sea, he comprehended the wants of his vast unwieldy empire, and resolved that it should become a maritime power.
Accordingly, in 1695, he sailed down the Don, and attacked Azoph; but this first campaign was unsuccessful, chiefly in consequence of the desertion of an artillery officer named Jacob, who nailed up the Russian cannon, turned Mohammedan, and, going over to the Turks, defended the town against his former master. The czar, however, was not likely to be discouraged by a single failure. He renewed his attack the following year; and as the death of his brother John just at this time had thrown into his treasury the income which had maintained the dignity of the nominal czar, he had the means of strengthening and supplying his forces in a more efficient manner. The new ship-yard at Woronetz, on the Don, furnished him in the summer of 1696 with a fleet of twenty-three galleys, two galleasses, and four fire-ships, with which he defeated the Turkish fleet off Azoph. All relief by sea being now cut off, he pushed the siege with renewed vigor, and in two months—July 29—the Russians entered Azoph. To secure the possession of this key to the Black Sea, he enlarged and strengthened the forts, constructed a harbor capable of admitting heavy vessels, and gave orders for fifty-five war-ships to be built, at the same time keeping in view the construction of a canal whereby to connect the Don and the Volga.
A year or two before these events Peter had divorced himself from his wife, whom he had married in his boyhood—a wife chosen for him, not a partner of his own choice. Many reasons have been assigned for this step; but the true one appears to be, that she was a woman of mean intellect, a slave of superstition and bigotry, the mere creature of the priests, and that, consequently, she opposed herself to all his plans of reformation; for the priests, knowing that their power would melt away before the torch of knowledge, lost no opportunity of vilifying the czar, and thwarting his schemes if possible. Peter certainly committed an error of judgment in leaving his son Alexis under her care, as the result proved; but to our mind it was a proof of kindness and consideration to the mother, which reveals a more feeling heart than historians generally allow him to have possessed.
A desirable seaport acquired, and an unsuitable wife got rid of, Peter’s next step was to send a number of young Russians to finish their education in Italy, Germany, and Holland. Hitherto Russia had been without an official representative in any of the states of Europe; but the czar fitted out a splendid embassy to the States-General of Holland, of which Le Fort and Menzikoff were the principal plenipotentiaries, Peter himself accompanying them, though simply as an attache to the mission. The ease and security with which he left his vast empire to the government of deputies, prove how firmly established was his power. Passing through Riga, on his way to Holland, he sought permission to visit the fortifications; but was refused by the Swedish governor—an indignity which Peter resolved to punish by and by. Proceeding through Prussia, he was received by the king with great respect, and with all the pomp and circumstance of royalty. Here Peter separated himself from the embassy, and proceeded to Holland, traveling privately, and as fast as possible. He arrived at Amsterdam fifteen days before his ambassadors, and engaged a small apartment in the dockyard belonging to the admiralty. He soon afterwards adopted the habit of a Dutch skipper, and in that dress proceeded to Saardam, where he enrolled himself as a journeyman carpenter, under the name of Peter Michaeloff, in the employment of a ship-builder named Calf. Here he lived in a little shingle hut for seven weeks, made his own bed, and prepared his own food—corresponded with his ministers at home, and labored at the same time in ship-building.
Such was the manner in which Peter the Great proposed to acquire the art of ship-building; as willing to work as a carpenter for this purpose, as he had been for another to do a drummer’s duty in his model regiment. Truly does one of his earliest biographers remark, ‘that many sovereigns have laid down their authority from weariness of the cares and troubles of empire, but he alone quitted his dominions in order to study the art of governing them.’ What a picture of Peter the Great presents itself to the contemplative mind at this period; and what a meeting must that have been which accidentally took place between him and the duke of Marlborough at Saardam! For the English noble was well aware that, in the workman ‘Peter Michaeloff,’ he beheld the undisputed proprietor of a quarter of the globe, the autocrat who had the power of life and death over all its inhabitants; in short, the czar of Muscovy. Peter was at this time, 1697, twenty-five years of age, and is described as a large, powerful man, with bold and regular features, dark-brown hair, that fell in natural curls about his neck, and a dark, keen eye, which glanced from one object to another with singular rapidity. He was dressed on that occasion in a red woolen shirt and duck trousers, and a sailor’s hat, and was seated, with an adze in his hand, upon a rough log of timber which lay upon the ground. He was conversing with great earnestness and much gesticulation with some strangers, his countenance displaying, by its strong and varying expression, the interest he took in their discourse. The soldier-duke—is it not easy to imagine the contrast of costume and character?—approached, and opened a slight conversation by some remarks on the art of ship-building. While they were thus engaged, a stranger in a foreign costume appeared, bearing an enormous letter in his hand; the journeyman started up, and snatching the packet, tore off the seals, and eagerly perused it, while the stately Marlborough walked away unregarded!
Who can tell what this very despatch contained! Most probably life or death, freedom or slavery, fame or fortune, of one or many of his subjects hung upon the word of that ‘foreign journeyman.’ It was while handling the compass and the adze at Saardam that the confirmation was brought him of the double, or rather rival, nomination of Augustus, elector of Saxony and prince of Conti, to the vacant throne of Poland; and Peter, already assuming the right to be a king-maker, promised to assist Augustus with thirty thousand troops. Meanwhile his army was gaining fresh victories near Azoph; but Peter had a nobler ambition than the desire of military glory. He continued to improve himself in different arts, passing frequently from Saardam to Amsterdam to hear lectures on anatomy; and he made himself capable of performing several operations in surgery. He also mastered the Dutch language, and made considerable progress in mathematics, civil engineering, and the science of fortification; besides visiting every literary, charitable, or scientific institution, and the paper-mills, saw-mills, and all manufacturing establishments, which he examined carefully, with the intention of introducing similiar ones into his own empire.
‘What is that?’ was his constant exclamation at beholding anything new; nor would his inquiring mind rest for a moment till he obtained an explanation. We can fancy the astonishment of the quiet, lethargic Hollanders at this energetic prince, who, though choosing to work as a carpenter, took no pains to conceal his rank; flying about the country with an activity of mind and body equally incomprehensible to them, and seeking knowledge with more ardour and avidity than other princes had ever sought even pleasure.
Peter spent about nine months in the Netherlands, during which time a sixty-gun ship was completed from his own draught and model, and at much of the carpentry of which he worked with his own hand. This vessel, said to be an admirable specimen of naval architecture, he sent to Archangel—for as yet the czar had not a seaport on the Baltic. He then crossed over to England, where he was received with great attention by William III, who deputed the Marquis of Caermarthen to attend him, and devote himself to the service of the czar. Peter’s chief object was to examine the dockyards and maritime establishments of England as he had done those of Holland; but though he still preserved his incognito, he no longer worked as a journeyman. Yet, according to an old writer, ‘he would often take up the tools and work with them; and he frequently conversed with the builders, who showed him their draughts, and the method of laying down, by proportion, any ship or vessel.’ At first he lodged in York Buildings, while in London; and the last house next the river, on the east side of Buckingham Street, near the Strand, is said to have been inhabited by him; but afterwards, that he might be near the sea, he occupied a house belonging to the celebrated John Evelyn at Deptford.
Under the date of January 30, 1698, we find in Evelyn’s diary as follows:—‘The czar of Muscovy being come to England, and having a mind to see the building of ships, hired my house, Saye’s Court, and made it his court and palace, new furnished by the king.’ And just about this time Mr. Evelyn’s servant writes to his master thus:—‘There is a house full of people, and right nasty. The czar lies next your library, and dines in the parlour next your study. He dines at ten o’clock, and at six at night; is very seldom at home a whole day; very often in the king’s yard, or by water, dressed in several dresses. The king is expected there this day: the best parlour is pretty clean for him to be entertained in. The king pays for all he has.’ What a glimpse one gets at the past through such gossip as this!
Though the czar did not now carry his enthusiasm so far as to work as a carpenter, yet his fondness for sailing and managing boats was as eager here as in Holland. Sir Anthony Deane and the Marquis of Caermarthen were almost daily with him on the Thames, sometimes in a sailing yacht, and at others rowing in boats—an exercise in which both the czar and the marquis are said to have excelled. The Navy Board received directions from the Admiralty to hire two vessels, to be at the command of the czar whenever he should think proper to sail on the Thames, to improve himself in seamanship. In addition to these, the king made him a present of the Royal Transport, with orders to have such alterations and accommodations made in her as his czarish majesty might desire; and also to change her masts, rigging, sails, etc. in such a way as he might think proper, to improve her sailing qualities. But his great delight was to get into a small-decked boat belonging to the dockyard, and taking only Menzikoff, and three or four others of his suite, to work the vessel with them, he being the helmsman. By this practice he said he should be able to teach them how to command ships when they got home. Having finished their day’s work, they used to resort to a tavern in Great Tower Street, close to Tower Hill, to smoke their pipes, and to drink beer and brandy. The landlord had the czar of Muscovy’s head painted, and put up for his sign, which continued till the year 1808, when some one took a fancy to the old sign, and offered the then occupier of the house to paint him a new one for it. A copy was accordingly made from the original, which maintains its station to the present day, as the sign of the ‘Czar of Muscovy.’
While in England, Peter also directed his attention to engineering; and, what is curious, received a doctorate from the university of Oxford. He took into his service upwards of five hundred persons—officers, engineers, cannoneers, surgeons, etc.; in particular, a body of skillful engineers and artificers, whom he despatched to Russia, for the purpose of carrying out a great project which he had already arranged in his own far-seeing mind. This was to open a communication, by locks and canals, between the rivers Volga and Don and the Caspian Sea. And it may convey an idea of the ignorance and superstition with which Peter had to contend, that this noble scheme raised an outcry among the priests and nobles, who declared it was ‘a piece of impiety to turn the streams one way which Providence had directed another.’ Ferguson, the celebrated engineer and geometrician, entered into his service, and was the first person who brought arithmetic into use in the exchequer of Russia. Previously, they had made use only of the Tartarian method of reckoning, by balls strung upon a wire.
In the latter end of 1698, Peter returned to Holland on his way home; and on taking leave of King William, he presented him with a ruby of the value of £10,000, drawing it from his waistcoat pocket, ‘wrapped up in a bit of brown paper.’ It was truly a royal present, though not given after a very royal fashion; but Peter had a great contempt for forms and ceremonies, and William III was far too sensible a man to stand very greatly upon them. Peter also, in return for the attentions bestowed on him by the Marquis of Caermarthen, conferred on that nobleman the right to license every hogshead of tobacco exported to Russia, and to charge five shillings for each license. This must have brought a large revenue, for an English company had thought it worth while to pay £15,000 for the monopoly of the exportation. While in London, his attention was forcibly attracted to the magnificent building of Greenwich Hospital, which, until he had visited it, and seen the old pensioners, he had some difficulty in believing to be anything but a royal palace. King William having asked him one day how he liked his hospital for decayed seamen, the czar answered, ‘If I were the adviser of your majesty, I should counsel you to remove your court to Greenwich, and convert St. James’ into a hospital.’
From Holland, Peter traveled to Vienna, most probably to have an interview with the emperor of Germany, who was no doubt very glad to obtain an ally against his old enemies, the Turks. He was received with great pomp; but, in the midst of the festivities which marked his arrival, news reached him that an insurrection had broken out in Moscow, though it had already been quelled by the energy and decision of General Gordon, whom he had left in authority. This intelligence, however, induced him to give up a visit to Italy, which he had intended; and traveling with his usual speed, he hastened back to his capital. He soon discovered that the Strelitzes had been instigated to rebellion by the Princess Sophia, who, taking advantage of her brother’s absence, had hoped to resume her authority. Several of the ringleaders were hanged within sight of Sophia’s window, and others condemned to a more cruel death, and broken on the wheel. Certainly, when we consider how sanguinary the laws were at that period, even in the most civilized states of Europe, we cannot consider this retaliation undue severity on the part of Peter; indeed it appears to have been a necessary step to secure his own authority. As for the absurd stories which were current at the time, and which we are sorry to find repeated by many respectable writers, no credit should attach to them. We mean the stories of the wholesale massacres which took place—Peter and his chief officers turning butchers themselves, and reveling in this preäppointed slaughtering with as little compunction as sportsmen when they find themselves in a preserve of game. A closer examination of facts and authorities dispels the whole as an idle report, exaggerated as it traveled from mouth to mouth, and quite out of keeping with the real circumstances of the case. It is true that Peter had already done a great many things ‘with his own hand’ that sovereigns had seldom done before; but then they were things which no one but himself was clever enough to do. His indifference to war (except as the means to his great ends), commented on with evident astonishment by an English churchman, whom he conversed with when he visited Oxford, is a proof that he was not of a sanguinary disposition; and besides this, he wanted men so much both for soldiers and workmen, that he could not spare the two or three thousand subjects who are said to have been beheaded, or otherwise slaughtered, for after-dinner pastime. It is much more likely that he should have set them to work in the hardest and meanest capacity on the canals and bridges he was already forming.
In 1699, Peter experienced a severe loss in the death of his friend and counselor, General Le Fort, on whom he bestowed funeral honors similar to those awarded to former sovereigns. He assisted, himself, in the procession, marching after the captains as a lieutenant, which rank he held in Le Fort’s regiment. It was also about this time that he lost his able general, Gordon, whose soldierly qualities had been so essential to him in the reformation of his army. Menzikoff, who had risen from obscurity by his talents and activity, now became the favorite and counselor of Peter. The Strelitzes—those instruments of insurrection and turbulence—were now supplanted by twenty-seven new regiments of infantry and two of cavalry, who, within three months, were disciplined and brought into marching order. Nothing but merit and length of services was regarded in the appointment of officers. Besides the reconstitution of the military, Peter now devoted himself with incessant activity to the internal regulation of his empire, which assumed, by degrees, the appearance of a new creation.
It was now that the czar turned his attention to change the inconvenient customs of his people. To do this, he began by levying a tax upon long beards and petticoats; patterns of closebodied coats being hung up in public places. But so attached were they to old customs, that his revenue was increased, instead of their dress being altered. His next proceeding savors somewhat of the ludicrous. He stationed tailors and barbers at each of the gates of Moscow, whose duty it was to cut the beard and whiskers of every man who entered, and ‘to cut his petticoats all round about.’ In the process of the latter mutilation, the victim was made to kneel down, when his garments were clipped on a level with the ground. An anecdote is told which has something almost affecting, in the proof it affords of the earnestness with which these poor people clung to their unclean and inconvenient habits. The czar on one occasion met an old man coming from the barber, and addressed him, saying that he looked like a young man, now he had lost his beard; upon which the man put his hand into his bosom, and drew forth the beard which had been cut off, telling the czar he should preserve it, in order to have it put into his coffin, that he might be able to produce it to St. Nicholas in the other world!
About this time the czar altered the commencement of the year from the 1st of September to the 1st of January—a proceeding which gave almost equal offense to his people, who thought he was undertaking to change the course of the sun. He next instituted assemblies for the encouragement of social intercourse between the sexes, that people might have a reasonable opportunity of forming suitable marriages. Hitherto wives had been sought in the Asiatic manner—the bride being given away or sold by her parents, without being previously seen by the intended bridegroom. And while all these social and moral reformations were going on, Peter was building a fleet on the Don, connecting that river with the Volga, and planning to wrest a sea-coast territory from a warlike nation, on which to build a new metropolis—St. Petersburg.
Hitherto the capital of Russia had been Moscow, which, being inland, was ill adapted for commerce. With a view to remedy this defect, Peter fixed on a site for his new capital at the mouth of the river Neva, and adjoining the Gulf of Finland. But the land in this quarter was not his own: it belonged to Sweden. His object was therefore to seize upon one or two provinces, add them to Russia, and then commence building his town. It is distressing to have to relate such a circumstance of a man whom, on other grounds, we are inclined to respect. According to the way in which history is usually written, the commission of such acts is not only not reprobated, but in some cases is commended. We, however, cannot unite in glossing over acts of injustice, even though they be done by kings. Peter was guilty of rapacity, and the only excuse that can be found for him is, that he did nothing more than what all sovereigns of his time considered it no crime to commit. To attain his desired end in this and other respects, Peter, in 1700, entered into a political alliance with Augustus, king of Poland and elector of Saxony, and the king of Denmark. These three potentates combining against the youthful Charles of Sweden—who, by a sort of miracle, proved himself, at eighteen years of age, the greatest general in Europe—the czar determined to take from him the provinces of Ingria and Carelia; Augustus desired to regain Esthonia and Livonia, ceded by Poland to Charles XI; and Denmark wished to regain Holsten and Sleswick. Peter invaded Ingria at the head of 60,000 men; and, desirous to find some pretext for his aggressions, could choose no better one than that his ambassadors had been charged exorbitant prices for provisions while passing through that province on their way to Holland; though he also reminded them that he himself had been insulted by being refused a sight of the citadel of Riga!
At the latter end of September Peter laid siege to Narva, a fortified town on the river Narowa, just at the time that Charles was engaged with the Danes, and putting an end to the war in Denmark. This, however, was accomplished in a few weeks; and then, at the head of only 9000 troops, he came to the relief of Narva. Peter, probably astonished that the place had held out so long, but never doubting of ultimate success, left the army encamped before Narva to meet a body of nearly 30,000 men, whom he had sent for. The reason of this proceeding cannot be easily explained; for certainly the presence of the czar was most required with the main body, already 60,000 strong, at the scene of action. Probably he went forth to meet the reinforcement only from the restlessness of mind and impatience of delay which were part of his character. It was a false step, however. During his absence, on the 19th of November, Charles came up to Narva, and taking advantage of a tremendous snow-storm, which beat directly in the faces of the Russians, fell upon them, and with his 9000 men completely routed or captured an army of nearly seven times the number. The prisoners taken were nearly 40,000; and the inconvenience of the long petticoats was at last discovered, since they hindered a great number from—running away! Never was a more ignominious defeat, though the czar bore it with the greatest philosophy. ‘I know very well,’ he said, ‘that the Swedes will have the advantage of us for a considerable time; but they will teach us at length to beat them.’
On the occasion of this defeat, the priests composed a prayer to St. Nicholas, which was publicly offered up. It besought his assistance against those ‘terrible, insolent, furious, dreadful, invincible destroyers,’ who had fallen upon them ‘like lions and bears deprived of their young—frightening, wounding, and killing them by thousands’—and declaring that such calamities could only have befallen them from ‘witchcraft and sorcery.’ Peter, however, did not wait for the help of St. Nicholas. He entered into negotiations with the kings of Denmark and Poland to assist him with troops, and to keep up the quarrel with Charles XII; at the same time he melted the church and convent bells of Moscow to found cannon, and made every preparation for his intended campaign in the ensuing spring. But amid all his preparations for war, Peter never lost sight of those projects which were to bring forth their fruits in peace. At this period he was founding hospitals and schools, erecting linen and paper factories, and importing sheep from Saxony, gathering together smiths, braziers, and artificers of every description, and having the mines of Siberia explored for ore.
It is not our purpose to detail the battles and sieges which took place in the course of the following year or two, although we must mention one of them more particularly, as it was the occasion of introducing to Peter a person who henceforth took part in his fortunes. Marienburg was a little town on the confines of Ingria and Livonia, which, besieged by Peter’s army, surrendered at discretion. Either through accident or design, the Swedes who defended it set fire to the magazine, which so incensed the Russians, that they destroyed the town, and carried away all the inhabitants. Among the prisoners was a young girl of about sixteen years of age, a Livonian by birth, who had been brought up from charity in the house of a Lutheran minister. There is no reason to suppose she had occupied any higher station than that of servant in his family; but it is said that she had been married to a Swedish soldier, who fell in the siege, the very day before it took place. This widowed orphan was taken to the camp of one of the Russian generals. Precisely how or when Peter first saw her, can never be known; but the best authenticated and most likely story is, that while engaged in handing round dried fruits and liquors at the house, or in the tent of Prince Menzikoff, the Livonian slave, known only by the name of Martha, first attracted the attention of the czar. According to his invariable custom, when pleased by the manners or countenance of any one, he entered into conversation with her, and soon discovered that she possessed a mind of more than ordinary intelligence. To this she joined, as events proved, a cheerful and lively disposition, a kind heart, and an amiable temper. No doubt Peter had penetration enough to see that she was precisely the woman who could share his enthusiasm, sympathise in his plans, and be, in short, the wife he wanted. The meanness, or indeed obscurity of her birth, was no obstacle to him; he had absolute power to raise her to the loftiest condition in his empire; and, accordingly, by the name of Catherine, which she now adopted, he married her at first privately, but a few years afterwards with the state and ceremony of public nuptials. Thus was chosen the partner of his throne, and his successor upon it.
It was soon after these events—1700—that the death of ‘the patriarch,’ or supreme head of the Russian church, afforded the czar an opportunity of beginning some wholesome reforms in that quarter. He had thought it necessary to commence his military career by fulfilling the humblest duties of a soldier, and we have seen that he set about learning the art of ship-building by working with his own hands; but when he boldly annihilated the office of patriarch, and placed himself, without any preparatory steps, at the head of the church, he probably thought there was nothing the priests could teach him which he desired to learn. Certainly a set of men who believed that sanctity dwelt in a beard, and who were in the habit of placing letters of introduction to their patron saint in the hands of deceased persons when laid in their coffins, were not likely to meet with much respect from a great reformer like Peter I: and the few whose glimmer of intelligence raised them above the gross superstition and corruption of the mass, must have experienced all the temptations of self-interest to oppose themselves to the projects of the czar; for they must have known that the nation once enlightened, their power would be gone.
Let us however, not be misunderstood in the use we may make of the words ‘nation’ and ‘people.’ As a nation—as a people—the Russians are not to this day sufficiently enlightened to choose their own legislators and enjoy a constitutional form of government; and, sunk in the ignorance and barbarism from which Peter partially raised them, a perfect despot, such as he was, was the only ruler that could have had power enough to help them.
The printing-press, which Peter had introduced, vomited forth libels of various sorts upon him; and he was denounced as Antichrist by the priests. A few, however, defended him from this charge, but only because ‘the number six hundred and sixty-six was not to be found in his name, and he had not the sign of the beast.’
It was about this time that the czar took an excellent opportunity of showing that new customs are generally better than old ones. On the occasion of the marriage of one of his sisters, he invited the principal Boyards and ladies of Moscow to celebrate it, requiring them to appear dressed after the ancient fashion. The dinner was served up in the manner of the sixteenth century. By an ancient superstition, it was forbidden to kindle a fire on a wedding day; accordingly, though it was winter, no fire was permitted. Formerly, the Russians never drank wine, so none was provided; and when the guests murmured at any of the unpleasant arrangements, Peter replied, ‘These were the customs of your ancestors, and you say old customs are the best.’ A practical lesson of more force than wordy arguments, and one that might afford a useful hint in much more recent times.
Having obtained the provinces he required, Peter set about building St. Petersburg; in the execution of which work he overcame difficulties which would have discouraged any other man. The spot he fixed upon was a miserable morass, half under water, without wood, or clay, or stones, or building materials of any kind; with a barren soil, and a climate of almost polar severity. The resolution to build this city has always been spoken of as an act of extreme rashness; for, to its other disadvantages, it was liable to be flooded by the waters of the gulf on the prevalence of a south-west wind, more particularly if the wind should blow at a time when the ice of the Neva was breaking up in the summer thaws.
Whether Peter was aware of all these disadvantages, is not clearly ascertained. It is only certain that, notwithstanding every drawback, he continued the building of St. Petersburg, which, under his marvelous energy, soon became a splendid city, adapted for commerce with all the world. What he began, his successors have finished; and St. Petersburg now vies in grandeur with any city in Europe. Although never seriously injured by flooding, as was anticipated, it has on divers occasions been exposed to great alarm, and the safety of the inhabitants has been endangered. Indeed inundations are so frequent in many of the low parts, that water is as much dreaded in St. Petersburg as fire in many other cities; accordingly, precautions have been taken to guard as much as possible against any such calamity. When an inundation is anticipated, a cannon is fired from the Admirality, and signal-flags hoisted on the steeples, and the alarm-gun is repeated every hour until the danger appears at an end.
When the river rises so high as to lay the lowest streets under water, the alarm-gun is fired every quarter of an hour; and in proportion as the peril increases, the cannons are more frequently fired, until minute-guns are understood to be a cry of despair, summoning boats to the assistance of the drowning people.
The highest inundation of which there is any record occurred on the 17th of November 1824; and in every street there is a painted mark, showing the height to which the waters rose. The Russians speak with a shudder of the sufferings which took place on that occasion. The rise of the river was at first gradual and stealthy; but, impelled by a furious west wind, it soon came streaming through the streets, lifting some of the carts and equipages from the ground, but drowning many horses, which were unable to extricate themselves from the heavier vehicles to which they were attached. A description is given of the trees in the public squares being as much crowded with human beings as they had ever been seen with sparrows; and a story is told of a gardener who, having been engaged in clipping some trees on an acclivity, had not observed the rise of the water until it was too late to seek any other refuge than the roof of a garden pavilion. But here he was joined by such a host of rats and mice, that he was in no small danger of being devoured by them. Fortunately, however, a dog and a cat sought refuge in the same spot, and, with such powerful allies, he remained in safety all night. The river subsided to its accustomed channel the next day; but, dreadful as the loss of life and property had been, the worst effects had still to follow. Many houses fell in from the injury they had received, and it was long before the damp could be expelled from those which remained. Almost universal sickness was the consequence, and a fearful mortality from the epidemics which raged for weeks afterwards.
To return, however, to Peter. His chief antagonist was Charles XII of Sweden, one of the greatest soldiers of his age. Charles had evidently nothing more dignified in his nature than might belong to a gladiator or prize-fighter. He lived as if men came into the world to fight, and for nothing else. He had no idea of such a condition as peace. He laughed at all social and domestic ties, and made a jest of the severest trials of human affections. He had not a heart capable of love or friendship himself, and despised all those who had. He was simply destructive; no fertilizing or humanizing influence followed his career; and when, at a later period, his absence on a disastrous expedition had been protracted for years, and his neglected and impoverished subjects besought him to return home, his answer was, that he would send ‘one of his boots to govern them’—a sorry jest, but one that sufficiently showed his nature.
‘His was a name at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral, or adorn a tale.’
Peter, on the other hand, never encouraged war, except for the furtherance of some great object. While fighting battles, he was at the same time planning cities, founding hospitals and scholastic institutions, forming canals, building bridges, and traveling about to superintend everything himself, under all circumstances, and in all seasons; and by such means undermining his constitution, and sowing the seeds of disease, which carried him off in the prime of life. In his early years his habits were intemperate, it is true; but though he is reported to have said, ‘I can reform my people, but I cannot reform myself,’ he did reform those pernicious habits which had been systematically inculcated by the machinations of the infamous Sophia, and in the latter part of his life lived abstemiously. Peter was a creator, constructor, and reformer among his people, and well deserved the title of Great.
While Charles was busy elsewhere, Peter took the opportunity of again attacking Narva. He laid siege to it by sea and by land, although a large body of his troops were still in Poland, others defending the works at St. Petersburg, and another detachment before Derpt. But after several assaults on one side, and a most determined resistance on the other, Narva was at length taken, the Czar being among the first to enter the city sword in hand. His behavior on this occasion must have gained him the respect and even the affection of his new subjects. The besiegers had forced their way into the town, where they pillaged and exercised all the cruelties so common with an infuriate soldiery. Peter ran from street to street, rescued several women from the brutal soldiers, and endeavored by every means to put an end to violence and slaughter, killing with his own hand two of the ruffians who had refused to obey his orders. He entered the town-hall, whither the citizens had run in crowds for shelter, and, laying his reeking sword upon the table, he exclaimed, ‘This sword is not stained with the blood of your fellow-citizens, but with that of my own soldiers, which I have spilt to save your lives!’
As soon as Peter had acquired the provinces he wished, he became anxious for peace; but violence always suggests reprisals; and Charles was by no means inclined to lose a portion of his territory without further fighting. He in fact determined on undertaking an inroad into Russia, and dictating a treaty of peace at Moscow. Peter, who knew the nature of the Russian territory and population, was not alarmed at this decision of his rival. His clear intellect perceived the difficulties which the rigorous climate and vast extent of country to be traversed must present to an invading army, and he took measures quietly to increase these impediments. The army of Charles ravaged the country wherever they went, and put to death, without remorse, hundreds of the peasantry, whom they suspected of concealing from them grain or other provisions. It may convey some idea of the demoralizing influence of war, and the strange distorted notions which prevailed, to mention that the chaplain of the king of Sweden praises these executions as acts of justice on the part of his master!
The Czar, with his army, retreated slowly before the advancing enemy—thus drawing them on, step by step, into the heart of a barren country, until the northern monarchs and their followers were lost to the world among the wildernesses of ancient Scythia. But the circumstances of the Czar were very different from those of the invader. He was at home, knew even the wilderness, and was in safe and convenient communication with his own cities and magazines. His hundred thousand men were well provided, and, before the snows of winter set in, were in comfortable quarters. About this time Mazeppa, the hetman of the Cossacks, deserts from Peter to Charles, and so far changes the purpose of the latter, that instead of proceeding direct to Moscow, he resolves first to reduce the Ukraine, which is a fertile territory lying between ancient Poland and Moldavia, and was then, as now, belonging to Russia. Some of the Swedish officers implored their king to halt, and go into the best quarters they could find for the winter. But no; he would go on; and after the loss of thousands of his men from cold, hunger, disease, and misery of all sorts, he laid siege to Pultowa, a town of the Ukraine, in the month of May, 1709, with the remnant of 80,000 men, now numbering less than 20,000!
On the 15th of June the Czar came up to assist his besieged town; by a feint, which deceived the Swedes, he succeeded in throwing 2000 men into the place; and a few days afterwards the famous battle of Pultowa took place, at which the Swedish army was completely routed and destroyed. Both sovereigns appeared in the front of the battle, although Charles, having received a wound a few days before, which had broken the bones of his foot, was carried about in a litter, to give directions; and the litter being shattered by a cannon-ball, he was then supported on the pikes of his soldiers, several of whom fell in this dangerous service. However, when all was over, desperation lent him strength; for he was able to make his escape on horseback. In its results, this battle was one of the most important ever fought in Europe. Had the Czar fallen, there can be no question his people would have sunk back into the barbarism from which he was striving to draw them, and Denmark, Poland, and Russia, must have received laws from the brutal Swede. By the mercy of Providence these horrors were averted; and henceforth Charles became an object of pity rather than dread.
After the battle, Peter invited the Swedish officers taken prisoners to dinner, and drank to their health as ‘his masters in the art of war.’ His prophetic words at Narva were now verified: the Swedes had indeed taught the Russians to beat them. However, the greater part of these ‘masters’—officers, subalterns, and privates—were sent to Siberia; for Charles had refused an exchange of prisoners previous to the battle, and now Peter would not grant it. Meanwhile Charles escaped to Bender, and took refuge among the Turks. By his emissaries he represented to the sultan the growing power of Russia, revived in him the desire to recover Azoph, and to expel the Russians from the Black Sea; and finally succeeded in bringing about a declaration of war from Turkey against the Czar. The Turks commenced hostilities by imprisoning the Muscovite ambassador, upon which Peter levied an army, and marched to the frontier of Turkey at the head of 40,000 men. Before setting out, however, he made a public proclamation of his previous marriage with Catherine, who insisted upon accompanying him in this campaign.
It is a singular circumstance that, in this expedition, Peter fell into an error almost identical with that which had led to the overthrow of his rival. Charles had trusted to the representations of the double traitor Mazeppa, who promised to supply him with food and men; and Peter allowed himself to be led into a hostile and barren country, relying on the faithless hospodar of Moldavia, who had promised him similar assistance. On reviewing the coincidence, one cannot help fancying that perhaps, after all, there might be less of stratagem on the part of the czar than chance movements, which led the Swede on to his ruin, or surely he would not have been blind to the consequences of conduct so similar. To be brief: when Peter had crossed the river Pruth, he found himself near Jassy, hemmed in between an army of Turks and another of Tartars, with a rapid river rolling between him and his dominions, with scarcely any provisions, and without perceiving the means of procuring them; and in this manner were the 40,000 Russians held at bay by enemies whose numbers were said to amount to 200,000. Still they fought desperately; a sort of protracted battle going on for three days, during which time 18,000 men were lost. The situation of the czar was dreadful. One can imagine the agony of mind he must have endured at the thought of perhaps himself being paraded as a captive at Constantinople: yet retreat was impossible; and escape from death or capture seemed equally hopeless.
In this hour of torture and distress the czar shut himself up in his tent, either to take counsel of himself, or to hide his deep mortification. He gave strict orders that no one should disturb him; but the wife who had shared his perils, and knew his heart, ventured to transgress these commands, and made her way to his side. She found him in terrible convulsions—an attack of the fits to which he was subject having been brought on by the agony of his mind. Catherine, who possessed an extraordinary power of calming him on these occasions, applied the usual remedies; and, assuming a cheerful manner, described the idea which had suggested itself to her mind as a means of escaping the threatened ruin.
Certainly this idea was so simple and natural a thing, under the circumstances, that the only marvel is, that it had not occurred to Peter himself and his entire staff. She proposed that a negotiation should be attempted; and, to comply with the custom of approaching the grand vizier with presents, she stripped herself of her jewels, and ransacked the camp for every article of value that might make a suitable offering. It is not likely that, on this military tour, she had encumbered herself with any costly ornaments, and two black foxes’ skins are the only articles we find specially mentioned.
She it was who chose the officer she considered most intelligent and trustworthy for the important mission to the vizier, and she it was who gave him his instructions. Some hours having elapsed after his departure, it was feared that he had been killed, or was detained a prisoner; and a council of war was held, at which we find Catherine was present. At this council it was resolved that, if the Turks refused to enter into a treaty of peace, rather than lay down their arms and throw themselves on their mercy, the Russians would risk their lives by attempting to cut their way through the enemy. During this interval, Peter, despairing of any favorable results from the mission, and reduced to despondency, wrote to the senate at Moscow—‘If I fall into the hands of the enemy, consider me no longer as your sovereign, and obey no commands which shall proceed from the place of my confinement, though it should be signed by my own hand. If I perish, choose the worthiest among you to succeed me.’
The return of the messenger, however, prevented these desperate measures, for he brought the intelligence that an honorable treaty had been agreed to by the vizier. The partisans of Charles XII have always upbraided what they call the cowardice of the Turkish governor on this occasion; but it seems to us that he behaved in a dignified and enlightened manner, and, in consenting to put an end to the war, consulted the interests of his country, a hundred times more than if he had sacrificed fresh troops in opposing the czar, and driving the Russian army to desperation. Hostilities were suspended immediately; and soon afterwards articles were signed, by which Azoph was surrendered to the Turks, the czar excluded from the Black Sea, the Russian army withdrawn beyond the Danube, and the promise given of a free passage to Charles XII through Russia to his own dominions. Much as this seems for Peter to have sacrificed, that Catherine’s services were considered extraordinary is proved beyond question; and several years afterwards, on the occasion of her being crowned empress, Peter again publicly acknowledged them, referring to that ‘desperate occasion’ in these words—‘She signalized herself in a particular manner by a courage and presence of mind superior to her sex, which is well known to all our army, and to the whole Russian empire.’
The fury of Charles on hearing of this treaty knew no bounds. He sought the Turkish camp, and insulted the vizier to his face, who retorted only by some bitter sarcasms on his own prostrate condition. He refused to take advantage of his right to return home; and, still nourishing the insane hope of being able to attack Moscow, he lingered at Bender till 1714, when the Turks, heartily tired of their troublesome guest, sent an army to dislodge him, and he made his way to Sweden in the disguise of a courier.
Of Charles XII of Sweden we need only further say that he fell from a chance ball, which entered his temple, and killed him on the spot, on the 11th of December 1718, while conducting the siege of Frederickshall, a small town in Norway; just in time, according to some historians, to prevent a union with his old opponent the czar to disturb the government of Great Britain. If the mere existence of such a scourge as Charles XII were not in itself too grave a subject for mirth, one might be amused at the acknowledgments of his panegyrist Voltaire, who, in summing up his character, alludes to his great qualities, of which he says—‘One alone would have been enough to immortalize any other prince;’ and yet admits that they caused the misery of his country. And that his ‘firmness, become obstinacy, led to the sufferings of his army in the Ukraine, and its detention in Turkey; that his liberality degenerated into profusion, and ruined Sweden; that his justice sometimes’—we should say very often—‘approached to cruelty; and that the maintenance of his authority verged upon tyranny.’ Moreover, that he ‘gained empires to give them away.’ Yes; for the mere pleasure, to him, of fighting and slaughtering! What a pity he was not born a butcher instead of a king! If an admirer acknowledged thus much, what was the truth likely to have been?
Meanwhile Peter had been going on with his mighty reforms, notwithstanding the opposition of the ignorant and superstitious priesthood, who worked on the people by every means in their power. They taught them that all these alterations were in direct opposition to the will of Heaven; and among other tricks, persuaded them that the pictures of the saints wept at their transgressions. This deception was contrived by making a cavity behind the head of the picture, and filling it with water; then, when the occasion arrived that it was proper for the tears to flow, a little fish was put into the water, which, splashing about, forced out the water at the eyes of the painting.
In 1715–16, Peter indulged himself by making a second tour in Europe, taking Catherine with him. He visited Saardam, where, eighteen years before, he had worked as a ship-builder; and where he was now received with every demonstration of honor and regard. It is related that he showed the czarina, with much interest, the little cabin in which he had worked and lived. There were some political reasons which detained Peter for nearly three months in Holland. He was nearer the centre of intelligence than at home concerning the purposes of other powers, some of whom were plotting against him. However, after conducting a correspondence, and drawing up a treaty with France, he returned to St. Petersburg, traveling by way of Berlin.
We come now to a dark and mysterious passage in the life of Peter the Great. Alexis, Peter’s son by his divorced wife, appears to have possessed naturally but an inferior intellect, joined to that species of low cunning which often belongs to it, without any moral qualities to counterbalance such defects; and unfortunately his mistaken education had confirmed him in his vices and follies. We have already mentioned that, on his marriage being dissolved, Peter allowed his son to remain with his mother. The consequence was, that from an early age he was placed under the control of the priests, who not only instilled into his mind their own superstitious notions, but taught him that the changes in the government and manners of the people effected by the czar were acts offensive to God. It is impossible to help sympathizing with Peter in the disappointment he must have felt at finding his only son a stupid, and yet mischievous and profligate creature; for the only son which Catherine brought him died a mere infant. Remembering that the Russian succession was vested in the will of the autocrat, who was supposed to have a perfect right to bequeath the sovereignty to whomsoever he pleased, every candid reader will acknowledge that Peter was quite justified in disinheriting his unworthy son, whose first act, on gaining the reigns of government, would have been to undo, to the best of his ability, the great works of his predecessor. But it is impossible to justify the extreme severity of the czar, although we can comprehend the excuses which might be offered for it. Not that historians do offer them, for they seem, almost without exception, to dwell on the darkest side of the question, almost without remembering the provocatives to his wrath. The simple truth is a deep enough tragedy.
When Alexis was about twenty years of age, which appears to have been as soon as Peter discovered the mischief that was done, he tried to repair it, by placing a different order of persons about him, and sending him to travel. When he came back, he married him to an amiable and intelligent princess of the house of Brunswick, who died in less than four years, literally of a broken heart, from the neglect, cruelty, and profligacy of her brutal husband. After her death, Peter wrote a letter to his son, which concluded with these words:—‘I will still wait a little time to see if you will correct yourself; if not, know that I will cut you off from the succession as we lop off a useless member. Don’t imagine that I mean only to frighten you; don’t rely upon your being my only son; for if I spare not my own life for my country and the good of my people, how shall I spare you? I would rather leave my kingdom to a foreigner who deserves it, than to my own son who makes himself unworthy of it.’ And in a subsequent letter, Peter said—‘Take your choice; either make yourself worthy of the throne, or embrace a monastic state.’
But Alexis seemed not at all inclined to do either; although, during fits of pretended penitence, he was willing to do anything. There is no doubt, however, that the terror of the Czar was, that even if his son entered a monastery, he might still at his death be placed at the head of that party who were opposed to reform, and so recover the throne. It seems to us that this dread of future ruin to the country is the true explanation of Peter’s severity; for, taking into account the barbarism of the times, and the sanguinary laws all over Europe, we can find no evidence of a cruel disposition in the history of Peter the Great.
Before the Czar set out for Germany and France, he visited his son, who was then on a bed of sickness. On this occasion Alexis solemnly promised that, if he recovered, he would embrace a monastic life; but his father was no sooner out of Russia, than the prince became suddenly well, and entered upon his former life of riot and dissipation. Some intelligence of what was occurring at home reached the Czar, and he wrote a peremptory letter to his son, desiring him either to enter a monastery without delay, or join him at Copenhagen. Upon this Alexis declared his intention of going to Copenhagen, and drew money from Menzikoff for his traveling expenses. But, apparently frightened at the thought of meeting his father—and really it is easy to fancy the incensed czar an object of great terror to the culprit—he proceeded to Vienna, there to concoct some treasonable schemes with the emperor of Germany, who, however, alarmed at the probable consequences, got rid of him; and from Vienna he turned his steps to Naples. His plan seems to have been to get out of his father’s way as far as possible, and wait the chances of life and death that might place him in some new position. But Peter I, either as a sovereign or a father, was not a personage to be treated in this manner. Accordingly, we find him despatching two messengers to Naples, to bring Alexis back to Moscow by fair means or foul. There is evidence that he accompanied them, on the solemn assurance of his father’s forgiveness; and this deception certainly gives the darkest hue to the trial and condemnation which followed.
As soon as Alexis arrived at Moscow, which was in February, 1718, a council was called, at which he was publicly disinherited; and after a long private conference with the czar, the particulars of which never transpired, Alexis was arraigned as a criminal, and tried for conspiring against his father’s life and throne by a body of ‘ministers and senators, estates military and civil.’ Peter was so accustomed to make his own will the law, that in this array of judges there is clear evidence that he wished in some measure to throw the responsibility from his own shoulders, or rather to seem to do so; for no doubt the judges only strove to decide in the manner which should best please their master. After all, the condemnation chiefly rested upon the confession of Alexis himself, and the acknowledgments of his mistress, his companions, and his confessor; and the words of these were wrung from them on the rack. Certainly Alexis made himself out to be much more guilty than any other evidence proved; and yet the czar’s only excuse for revoking his pardon was, that it had been promised ‘on condition that he confessed everything.’
There can be no doubt that this weak and vicious young man had been quite ready to lend himself to any plot; or, according to his own words, ‘If the rebels had asked me to join them in your lifetime, I should most likely have done so—if they had been strong enough.’ And in answer to another question, he said that he ‘had accused himself in confession of wishing the death of his father;’ but that the priest had replied that God would pardon it, as they all wished it as much.
At last he is found guilty. A council of clergy, who are among those referred to for a sentence, quote from the Bible, and especially Absalom’s case, and recommend mercy. But further transgressions are said to have come to light, and the ministers, senators, and generals unanimously condemned him to death, without stating the manner or time of the same, and of course well knowing that the breath of the czar could revoke their edict.
Whether Peter intended to save his son, or really to permit his execution, is among those secrets which history can never pierce. The sentence alone literally terrified Alexis to death! On hearing it read, he fell into a fit, from the effects of which he never recovered, although he regained his senses sufficiently to implore the presence of his father. An interview was granted, at which it is said both father and son shed tears; and finally, after receiving the pardon of the czar, and the consolations of religion, the miserable Alexis breathed his last in prison on the 7th of July.
The most absurd stories were current for a long time, and repeated from mouth to mouth, and copied by one biographer after another. They are still to be found in many otherwise grave authorities. The very number and variety of these tales falsify them all. The czar was accused of poisoning his son (sending openly one messenger after another for the poison); other accounts say that he knouted him to death with his own hands; others, that he cut off his head himself, and had it privately stitched on again. The best argument against such fables is, that if Peter really wished his son’s death, he had only to let the so-called ‘course of justice’ have its way. Besides, the circumstance of his receiving extreme unction, when on the point of death, is a fact authenticated and established.
As may be imagined, Catherine did not escape her share of these accusations; but all the evidence which remains tends to prove that, so far from meriting them, she endeavored to incline her husband to the side of mercy.
We are drawing near the close of the active and eventful life of Peter the Great. We need not dwell upon his Persian campaign, in which, after having found a pretext for a quarrel, because he wanted one, he acquired those sunny provinces to the south of the Caspian, which compensated for the loss of Azoph. ‘It is not land I want, but water,’ was his frequent exclamation, when studying the requirements of his vast empire. The ruler who had first evinced his love of maritime affairs by paddling a skiff upon the Yausa, and who had inherited only a wild and barbarous inland country, was now the master of a respectable navy, the lord of the sunny Caspian and of the icy Baltic.
After his return from Persia in 1722, we find him, as usual after any lengthened absence, instituting examinations for mal-administration. The vice-chancellor Schaffiroff, one of his favorites, was condemned to death; but on the scaffold his punishment was commuted to banishment. Menzikoff was sentenced to pay 200,000 rubles into the exchequer, and was deprived of a great part of his income, and flogged by the emperor’s own hand. For the infliction of this punishment Peter used his dubina—a cane of thick Spanish reed. Several others were disgraced, flogged, or heavily fined—thus at once showing the czar’s impartiality, and proving how well he knew the impossibility of reforming the masses while corruption existed in high places.
In July 1724, Peter again conducted a fleet against Sweden, to enforce his claims on Sweden and Denmark in behalf of the duke of Holstein. Having effected this purpose, he returned to Cronstadt, where he celebrated, by a splendid parade, the creation of his navy, which now consisted of forty-one ships of war, with 2106 cannon, and 14,960 seamen. It was on this occasion that he caused the little skiff we have mentioned to be brought from Moscow, and to be consecrated by the name of the Little Grandsire—the father of the Russian navy. This little shallop is still preserved at St. Petersburg with almost religious veneration.
The last years of this great monarch’s life were employed in providing against the inundations to which his new capital was exposed in the autumn, in continuing the Ladoga canal, and in the erection of an academy of sciences. He turned his attention next to the examination and punishment of state criminals; to the promotion of the labors of the legislative body; and the establishment of the order of ‘Alexander Newsky;’ the improvement of the condition of the monks; the banishment of the Capuchins from Russia; and a new commercial treaty with Sweden. He also betrothed his favorite daughter Anna to the duke of Holstein in 1724, having already placed the crown, with great pomp, upon the head of his wife Catherine on the 18th of the preceding May, in token of his love and gratitude. He likewise provided that an education should be given to the surviving son of the unhappy Alexis, such as would become a future emperor of Russia—his only son by Catherine having died, as before mentioned, when a child, in 1717.
Peter had been for a considerable time in a weak state of health; but he owed the acceleration of his death to an act of humanity. Late in the autumn of 1724, going to visit the forge and manufactory of arms at Systerbeck he saw a boat filled with soldiers and sailors stranded, and sent a shallop to assist, but which failed in the attempt. Determined to gain his end, he set out for the spot himself; and as his vessel could not quite reach the spot, he leaped into the water, and waded to the boat, which he aided in getting off. A severe cold followed this dangerous but humane act, and this, in addition to the painful disorder from which he had long been suffering, brought on the most fatal symptoms. These came on so suddenly at last, and his sufferings were so great, that he was unable to make his last wishes perfectly intelligible. There is, however, little or no doubt that he intended to appoint his wife his successor. His words, so far as they could be understood, expressed this; and on the very day of his death she succeeded him without opposition. Catherine watched by his bedside, without quitting him, for the last three nights of his life; and he breathed his last in her arms January 28, 1725, being only in his fifty-fourth year.
The reader of this brief biography may sum up the character of Peter the Great more satisfactorily than we can do it for him; for different minds will estimate differently his services to his country. That he was a man of powerful and original genius, who did everything himself, and was never the instrument of others, must be conceded on all hands. His ardor was joined with prudence and resolution. His violent passions and sensual excesses were the fruits of the barbarism of his nation, his imperfect education, and uncontrolled power. His services to a people so ignorant and barbarous were of the greatest possible value; indeed all of good that Russia now enjoys may, without much exaggeration, be ascribed to him. But, for him, or such as him, they might have remained till now as rude and powerless as when he found them. Among the Russians his name is venerated as it deserves to be. St. Petersburg, the city of his love and of his creation—‘the western portal of the empire’—is now a magnificent metropolis, with palaces, arsenals, quays, bridges, academies, and temples, rising one beyond another; albeit that the severity of its climate must forever be a drawback to its many advantages.
COUNT RUMFORD.
Benjamin Thompson, better known by the name of Count Rumford, which he afterwards acquired, was born at Woburn in Massachusetts on the 26th of March 1753. His ancestors appear to have been among the earliest of the colonists of Massachusetts, and in all probability came originally from England. They seem to have held a respectable rank among their neighbors, and to have been for one or two generations moderately wealthy.
Ebenezer Thompson, the grandfather of Count Rumford, held a captain’s commission in the militia of the province, and was therefore a man of some repute in the place where he resided. Count Rumford’s father, whose name was also Benjamin, dying while his son was a mere infant, the mother and child continued in the grandfather’s house, which had been their home even while the husband was alive. In October 1755, however, the old man died, leaving a small provision for his grandson, barely sufficient, it would appear, to maintain him till he should arrive at an age to be able to do something for himself. In the following year Mrs. Thompson, whose maiden name was Ruth Limonds, married a second husband, Josiah Pierce, also a resident in Woburn; and the boy accompanied his mother to the house of his stepfather, who stipulated, however, that he should receive the weekly sum of two shillings and fivepence for the child’s maintenance till he attained his eighth year. His grandfather’s little legacy seems to have furnished the means of meeting this demand.
As soon as young Thompson was able to learn his letters, he was sent to the school of his native town, taught by a Mr. John Fowle, who is said to have been ‘a gentleman of liberal education, and an excellent teacher;’ and here in company with all the children of the place, he was taught reading, writing, arithmetic, and a little Latin, having the reputation, it is said, of being a quick boy. At the age of eleven he left the school of Woburn, and joined one taught by a Mr. Hill at Medford, under whose care he made greater advances in mathematics than he had attempted under Mr. Fowle. The only circumstances from which we can form an idea of the progress he made, is the statement that his knowledge of mathematics and astronomy was sufficient to enable him to calculate eclipses.
At thirteen years of age Thompson was bound apprentice to Mr. John Appleby, a respectable merchant in Salem, the second town in point of size in Massachusetts, although at that time it must have been little more than a village. His occupations with Mr. Appleby were principally those of a clerk in the counting-house; and he appears to have had sufficient leisure, while attending to his duties, to extend his reading and his acquaintance with scientific subjects. At this time also he began to exibit a taste for designing and engraving, as well as for mechanical invention. Among other contrivances upon which he exercised his ingenuity, was one for solving the famous problem of the Perpetual Motion; a chimera upon which young men of a turn of mind similar to his often try their untaught powers. One evening, we are informed, the young speculator was so sure that he had at length found out the Perpetual Motion, that he set out with the secret in his head to Woburn, intending to communicate it to a friend and old schoolfellow, Loammi Baldwin, in whose knowledge in such matters he placed great confidence. Loammi spent the night discussing the project with him, and so sensibly, that we are told young Thompson became convinced of the mechanical impossibility of his or any other Perpetual Motion, and returned to his counting-house in Salem next morning, resolved to attempt something less magnificent and more practicable.
About this time the differences between the mother country and the American colonies were beginning to assume a serious aspect. The imposition of the famous stamp tax in 1765 had excited great indignation among the colonists, and its repeal in the following year was celebrated with proportionate rejoicings. At Salem, where the commercial interest predominated, it was determined that there should be a great display of fireworks on the occasion; and as the town did not possess a professional pyrotechnist, Mr. Appleby’s clerk contrived to get his services in that capacity accepted. Unluckily, while preparing some detonating mixture, he handled the pestle so as to cause an explosion, by which he was so severely burnt that his life was despaired of. At length he was able to remove from his mother’s house at Woburn, to which he had been carried after the accident, and resume his employment at Salem. The renewed attempts of the mother country, however, to impose taxes on the colonies, followed as they were by the resolution of the merchants in the colonies not to import any of the products of the mother country, produced such a stagnation of trade in Salem, as at other towns, that Mr. Appleby, having no occasion for the further services of a clerk, was glad to give young Thompson up his indentures, and allow him to return to Woburn.
This happened apparently in 1767 or 1768; and for a year or two afterwards, Thompson’s course of life seems to have been wavering and undecided. In the winter of 1769 he taught a school at Wilmington; and some time in the same year he seems to have thoughts of pursuing the medical profession, for which purpose he placed himself under Dr. Hay, a physician in Woburn, and entered zealously upon the study of anatomy and physiology. While with Dr. Hay, he is said to have exhibited greater fondness for the mechanical than for other parts of the profession, and to have amused himself by making surgical instruments. How long Thompson pursued his medical studies is uncertain; in 1770, however, we find him resuming his mercantile avocations, in the capacity of a clerk in a dry-goods store at Boston, kept by a Mr. Capen. He was in Boston during the famous riots which took place on the attempt to land a cargo of tea from a British vessel contrary to the resolution of the colonists against admitting British goods. Mr. Capen’s business seems to have declined in the critical circumstances of the colony, as Mr. Appleby’s had formerly done; and Thompson was again obliged to return to Woburn. During the summer of 1770, he attended, in company with his friend Baldwin, a course of lectures on experimental philosophy delivered in Harvard College; and at no time of his life does he seem to have been so busily intent upon the acquisition of knowledge. Besides attending the lectures of the professor, he instituted experiments of his own of various kinds, some of which were the germs of valuable conclusions which he published in after-life. In particular, we may mention a course of experiments which he began for ascertaining and measuring the projectile force of gunpowder.
Thompson, though still only in his seventeenth year, had acquired that degree and kind of reputation which it is usual for youths of his stamp to obtain among intelligent acquaintances; and late in 1770, he was invited by Colonel Timothy Walker, one of the most important residents in the thriving village of Rumford, now Concord, in New Hampshire, to take charge of an academy in that place. Accepting the invitation, Thompson, says his American biographer, Dr. Renwick, ‘found himself caressed and welcomed by a society not wanting in refinement or pretensions to fashion. His grace and personal advantages, which afterwards gained him access to the proudest circles of Europe, were already developed. His stature of nearly six feet, his erect figure, his finely-formed limbs, his bright blue eyes, his features chiseled in the Roman mould, and his dark auburn hair, rendered him a model of manly beauty. He acquired an address in the highest degree prepossessing; and at the counter of the Boston retailer, had learnt, from its fashionable customers, the polish of manner and dialect which obliterates all peculiarities that are provincial, and many of those that are national. He possessed solid acquirements far beyond the standard of the day, and had attained already the last and highest requisite for society—that of conversing with ease, and in a pure language, upon all the subjects with a knowledge of which his mind was stored. In addition, he possessed the most fascinating of all accomplishments, for he had a fine voice; and although far from a proficient in music as a science, sang with taste, and performed on several instruments.’ With such advantages the young schoolmaster appears to have made an impression on not a few female hearts in the country village where he shone; on none, however, so decidedly as on that of Mrs. Rolfe, a colonel’s widow, possessed of what was then considered a large fortune, and although considerably older than himself, still young and handsome enough, according to his biographer, ‘to render it probable that a feeling more creditable than one arising from interested motives led him to seek her hand.’ However this may be, the affair was soon brought to a happy conclusion. On giving out his vacation for the year 1772, the young schoolmaster stepped into the widow’s carriage and then drove together to Boston, where he fitted himself with a dress in the extreme of fashion of the day, scarlet being then a favorite color. Clad anew from top to toe, he reëntered the equipage, which whirled away towards Woburn. The astonishment of the villagers at seeing their young townsman in such a guise, and in such company, was past description. ‘Why, Ben, my child,’ said his mother, gazing at his splendid outfit as he dismounted at the door, ‘how could you spend your whole winter’s earnings in this way?’ In the presence of his fair companion the youth could hardly explain, and he was obliged to employ a friend to break the subject of his intended marriage to his mother. No objections were offered on her part, although she took twenty-four hours to deliberate on the matter; and the happy pair drove back to Rumford, where the wedding was forthwith celebrated, the bridegroom being then in his twentieth year.
After his marriage, Thompson took his place as one of the wealthiest inhabitants of the district in which he resided, and mixed in the best society which the colony afforded. It was not long before he made the acquaintance of his Excellency John Wentworth, the governor of the colony, who, anxious, no doubt, in the critical circumstances in which the American dependencies of Great Britain were then placed, to attach to the party which sided with the mother country as many influential colonists as he was able, lost no time in endeavoring to gain over so promising a man as Thompson. A vacancy having occurred in a regiment of the New Hampshire militia, Governor Wentworth gave the commission, which was that of major, to his new friend: an act of attention which, while it seems to have been gratifying to Thompson, did not fail to procure him much ill-will from the officers already in the service, over whose heads he had been promoted. From this period Thompson began to be unpopular in his native province. He was represented as a friend of Great Britain, and an enemy to the interests of the colonies; and this charge was the more readily believed, on account of the marked kindness with which he continued to be treated by the governor, and the indifference which he exhibited to those political questions which were agitating all around him. The truth seems to be, that not only was Thompson, as a man in comfortable circumstances, and fond of the consideration and opportunities of enjoyment which they afforded him, averse to any disturbance, such as a war between the colonies and the mother country would cause, but that his constitution and temperament, his liking for calm intellectual pursuits, disqualified him from taking part in political agitation. Many men who have distinguished themselves in literature and science have, as a matter of principle, kept themselves aloof from the controversies and political dissensions of their time, alleging that, however important such questions might be, it was not in discussing them that their powers could be employed to most advantage. In the case of Thompson, however, who as yet had not begun to lay claim to the character of a man devoted to scientific pursuits, his countrymen thought, not altogether unreasonably, that they had grounds of complaint. What employment was he engaged in, that he ought to be exempted from the duty of a citizen—that of taking an interest in public affairs? So, probably, the most candid and considerate of the American patriots reasoned; and as for the great mass of the populace, they condemned him in the usual summary manner in which the public judges. Not a name was more detested in Massachusetts than that of Benjamin Thompson. He was denounced as a sycophant of the British—a traitor to the interests of the colonies—an enemy of liberty. To such a length did the public hatred of him proceed, that at length, in the month of November 1774, the mob of Concord had resolved to inflict on him the punishment which several other unpopular persons had already experienced—that of being tarred and feathered in the open streets. Receiving intelligence of the design of the mob before it could be carried into execution, Thompson had no alternative but to withdraw from Concord to some other part of the provinces where political excitement did not run so high. Accordingly, he quitted his wife and an infant daughter, who had been born in the previous year, and took refuge first in his native town of Woburn, from which he afterwards removed to Charleston. From Charleston, after a few months residence, he went to Boston, which was then garrisoned by a British army commanded by General Gage.
Thompson was well received by General Gage and the officers of the British army; and his intercourse with them, while it probably gave him a stronger bias towards the side of the mother country than he had yet exhibited, did not contribute to remove the bad opinion his countrymen had formed of his patriotism. Having returned in the spring of 1775, to his native town of Woburn, where he was joined by his wife and daughter, he again ran the risk of being tarred and feathered. The mob surrounded the house where he resided early one morning, armed with guns and sticks, and but for the interference of his old friend Loammi Baldwin, who arrived at the spot in time to use his influence with the crowd, serious consequences might have ensued.
The commencement of open hostilities between the colonists and the British troops in May 1775, made Thompson’s position still more critical. As a major in the militia of the province, he would probably have acted on the side of the patriots, obeying the orders of the Provincial Congress, which had superseded the old government; but the odium attached to his name was such, that his very zeal on the patriotic side would have been misrepresented. In order, therefore, to clear himself of all suspicion, and that he might thenceforth live on good terms with his countrymen, he demanded a trial before the Committee of Correspondence established at Woburn by authority of the new power. The trial was granted: he was put under arrest; and an advertisement was inserted in the newspapers for all who had charges to prefer against his patriotism to come forward. Besides the general allegation of his being a Tory, and a friend and correspondent of Governor Wentworth and General Gage, the only charge made against him on his trial was, that he had been instrumental in sending back to their colors two British deserters, having procured their pardon from General Gage during his residence in Boston. This, which ought properly to have been regarded as a mere act of mercy, was construed in a less favorable manner by Thompson’s judges; and although, on the conclusion of his trial, the court declared that he had done nothing which could legally be considered as a crime, he was set at liberty without the satisfaction of a full and formal acquittal. Against this treatment he protested in the strongest manner, insisting that he should either be punished as guilty, or declared innocent; but his protests were unheeded.
With a view, apparently, to convince his countrymen of his patriotism by actual service, or possibly because he could enjoy more quiet in the army than the ill-will of his fellow-citizens would allow him in his own house, Thompson, as soon as his trial was over, joined a detachment of the troops of Congress stationed at Chelsea. ‘In the hopes of obtaining a commission,’ says his biographer, ‘he paid great attention to tactics, and assisted at the drills of the yet undisciplined forces. He also took up the study of fortification, which he pursued with his usual ardor. Towards the close, however, of the summer of 1775, his position had become irksome, and even dangerous. Suspicions, which it seemed impossible to allay, shut against him all access to military rank in the continental army. He now could not go from place to place within the lines of the army, without being pointed at as the famous Tory Thompson; and though military discipline sheltered him from actual violence, he was exposed to insults that a man of spirit could not brook, and which his position prevented him from resenting. If thus treated within the army, he might infer what awaited him when he should emerge from the out-posts of the camp.’ In these circumstances, he came to the desperate resolution of leaving his native country. ‘I cannot any longer,’ he writes to his father-in-law on the 14th of August 1775, ‘bear the insults that are daily offered to me. I cannot bear to be looked upon and treated as the Achan of society. I have done nothing that can deserve this cruel usage. And notwithstanding I have the tenderest regard for my wife and family, and really believe I have an equal return of love and affection from them, though I feel the keenest distress at the thoughts of what Mrs. Thompson and my parents and friends will suffer on my account, and though I foresee and realize the distress, poverty, and wretchedness that must attend my pilgrimage in unknown lands, destitute of fortune, friends, and acquaintances, yet all these evils appear to me more tolerable than the treatment which I meet with at the hands of my ungrateful countrymen.’
Two months after writing the above, he carried his resolution into effect. Paying off his debts, and converting some of his property into cash, with the expressed intention of removing to some of the southern states, where he might live in greater security, he set out from Cambridge, the headquarters of the American army, on the 10th of October 1775, accompanied by his half-brother, Josiah Pierce, who took leave of him at the nearest post-town. ‘From that hour,’ says his biographer, ‘until the close of the revolutionary struggle, his friends and relatives were without any positive tidings of his fate.’ From accounts afterwards received, it appeared that he had reached Newport on the 11th of October, apparently undecided as to his future movements; that there finding a boat belonging to the British frigate Scarborough, he went on board that vessel, and was afterwards landed at Boston, which his friend General Gage, as commander of the British garrison, was at that time maintaining against the American forces. Here he remained under the protection of the British till the evacuation of the town in March 1776, when he again embarked on board the Scarborough, and set sail for England, the bearer of despatches from General Gage to Lord George Germain, the British secretary of state for colonial affairs. Thus had he fairly renounced all connexion with his native country, and gone to push his fortunes in the old world.
Arriving in England, as he did, the bearer of gloomy despatches, and sustaining the equivocal character of a deserter from the American cause, Thompson soon proved that he was a man who could command his fortune anywhere. The capacity in which he had come over introduced him to various public men, who could not fail to be struck by his abilities, as well as charmed by his manner; and the consequence was, that in a short time after his arrival he was offered a post in the colonial office. Probably the minister was of opinion that none of all the American refugees, who then swarmed in London, was able to render such assistance as Thompson in conducting the department over which he presided.
Of whatever nature were the services which Thompson rendered to the public business, they must have been of considerable value; for in 1780, four years after his arrival in England, he was raised by his patron, Lord Germain, to the post of under-secretary of state for the colonies; an instance of promotion which, considering the circumstances in which the subject of it stood, is almost unexampled. The usual accompaniment of such a situation was, and is, a seat in parliament; and according to the practice of those days, when noblemen had seats in the House of Commons at their disposal, Lord Germain, if he had so chosen, might have conferred a seat on his American protege; but it was probably imagined that the admission into parliament of a man so unpopular in America would be attended with disadvantages, and that, at all events, Thompson’s talents were better fitted for the desk than the senate. The income and consequence, however, which he derived from his office, gave him admission to the highest metropolitan circles; and he had thus opportunities not only of becoming known, but also of exercising his inventive mind in many pursuits not immediately connected with his official duties. Fertility—a disposition to propose improvements in all departments—seems to have been his most striking characteristic; and it was probably this ready genius for practical reforms in everything which came under his notice, that recommended him so much to public men. A man who, in his general intercourse with society, can drop valuable suggestions, allowing others to grasp at them, and enjoy the credit of carrying them into effect, is likely to be a favorite. Thompson appears to have been such a man—a person who, holding no ostensible post but that of under-secretary for the colonies, could yet, out of the richness of an ever-inventive mind, scatter hints which would be thankfully received by men of all professions.
While concerning himself generally, however, in a variety of matters, Thompson was at the same time following out certain specific lines of scientific investigation. ‘As early as 1777,’ says his biographer, ‘he made some curious and interesting experiments on the strength of solid bodies. These were never published, and would probably have been superseded by more full investigations made by subsequent experiments. In 1778, he employed himself in experiments on the strength of gunpowder, and the velocity of military projectiles, and these were followed by a cruise of some months in the channel fleet, where he proposed to repeat his investigations on a larger scale.’ On this subject Thompson communicated several papers to the ‘Philosophical Transactions’ of the Royal Society, of which he had become a member. Passing over these scientific lucubrations, we hasten to reach that period of Rumford’s life at which he found himself in a situation to give full scope to his genius for improvements.
As the war between great Britain and the colonies proceeded, it became evident that the latter must triumph. The anti-American party in Great Britain lost ground; and on the news of the capitulation of Lord Cornwallis reaching England, a division took place in the cabinet, and Lord George Germain found it necessary to resign office. As his policy, however, in American affairs, had been agreeable to the wishes of George III, he retired with the honors of a peerage, and was able still to forward the interests of his friends. Not the least distinguished of these was Under-Secretary Thompson, who, whether he had cooperated with his principal in all his measures and views, or whether, ‘according to his own statement afterwards to Cuvier, he was disgusted at Lord Germain’s want of judgment,’ had at least done a sufficient amount of work to deserve a parting token of regard. Accordingly, by the influence of the fallen minister, Thompson was sent out to New York, in the year 1781, with the royal commission of major, which was afterwards changed for that of lieutenant-colonel, charged with the task of organizing an efficient regiment of dragoons out of the broken and disjointed native cavalry regiments which had been fighting on the royalist side. What were to be the specific uses of this force are now uncertain. The regiment, fortunately, was of no avail.
Peace having been concluded between the United States and Great Britain, Colonel Thompson, shortly after his return obtained leave of absence in order that he might travel on the continent.
Passing through France on his way to Vienna he had reached Strasburg on the German frontier, when an incident occurred which changed his prospects and gave a direction to his life different from what he intended, or could have anticipated. A review of the garrison of Strasburg being held, he presented himself on the field as a spectator, ‘mounted on a superb English horse, and in the full uniform of his rank as a colonel of dragoons. The French officers were eager to make the acquaintance of a conspicuous stranger, the more so that his attendance at a review of French troops in full English uniform was regarded as an act of courtesy which deserved a return. Among those who entered into conversation with him was Prince Maximilian, nephew and presumptive heir of the Elector of Bavaria, and who had served as the commander of a French regiment in the American war. So agreeable was the impression which Thompson made on the prince, that on learning his circumstances and intentions, the later offered him an introduction to his uncle the Bavarian elector, in case he should be inclined to alter his design of proceeding to Vienna, and make trial of the Bavarian service. The proposal pleased Thompson, and, furnished with the prince’s letter of introduction, he set out for Munich. Wherever he went he seems to have had the art, almost in spite of himself, of conciliating favor; and on his very first audience with the Elector of Bavaria, he was offered an important situation at court. Still clinging, however, to his resolution to visit Vienna, he did not accept the offer; but after spending some time at Munich, during which the elector’s esteem for him increased more and more, he set out for the Austrian capital. The elector, however, continued to send him pressing invitations to enter his service; and learning at Vienna that the Turkish war was likely to be brought to a speedy conclusion, Colonel Thompson at length promised that, provided he could obtain the consent of his British majesty, he would take up his residence at Munich. Proceeding to London, in order to obtain the consent which was required, he was received with great kindness by George III, who conferred on him the honor of knighthood, and gave him permission, while resigning the command of his regiment, to retain the title of lieutenant-colonel, and the half-pay attached to it.
In the close of the year 1784, Sir Benjamin Thompson took up his residence in Munich, filling the posts of aid-de-camp and chamberlain to the elector, thus connected both with the military and civil service. Charles Theodore, the ruling prince of Bavaria, was a man of enlightened mind, whose ambition was to elevate the state over which he reigned to a high rank among the various members of the German confederacy. The aristocracy of Bavaria itself not furnishing men of sufficient liberality of view to coöperate with him in his designs of improvement, and the prejudices of the court preventing him from employing able men from among the people, even had there been any such qualified for his purpose, he had judiciously resolved to employ foreign talent in the difficult work of reforming his dominions. The capacity, therefore, in which Sir Benjamin Thompson took up his residence in Munich was that of a man who, unconnected by ties of blood or interest with the people of Bavaria, and furnished only with general ideas applicable to all times and places, was to make it his business, under the auspices of the elector, to take a general survey of the condition of Bavaria, with a view to rectify as much as possible of what was wrong in it. A more noble or responsible situation can scarcely be conceived; and the dignity and responsibility will appear all the greater, when we reflect that the government of Bavaria, being, in its nature despotic, the powers of a man in Thompson’s position—that, namely, of virtual though not ostensible prime minister—were almost unlimited, seeing that there were no constitutional forms, and nothing but the absolute will of the elector, to check or thwart his proceedings.
Another circumstance which rendered the situation of Sir Benjamin Thompson a peculiarly interesting one, was the position of Bavaria at the time. ‘Most of those,’ says Cuvier, ‘who are called to power by adventitious circumstances, are led astray by the opinion of the vulgar. They know that they will infallibly be called men of genius, and be celebrated in prose and verse, if they succeed in changing the forms of government, or in extending the territory of their sovereign but a few additional leagues.’ Happily for Count Rumford, Bavaria at this period had no such temptations for her ministers. Her constitution was fixed by the laws of the empire, and her frontiers defined by the more powerful states who were her neighbors. She was, in short, reduced to that condition which most states consider so hard a one—namely, to have her whole attention confined to the sole object of ameliorating the fortune of her people. The whole attention of Sir Benjamin Thompson, therefore, was necessarily to be concentrated on the internal condition of Bavaria—a country about the size of Scotland, but considerably more populous.
The first subject which occupied the attention of the American-born prime minister of Bavaria was the condition of the army. There were three reasons for this early consideration of the state of the army. In the first place, the condition of the continent of Europe at the time rendered the state of the defensive force a matter of extreme importance to so critically situated a state as Bavaria; in the second place, Thompson’s own tastes inclined him to take an interest in military matters; and lastly, in a despotic state, where a little physical force might be necessary to compel the people to adopt good sanitary or other regulations, the army was the natural instrument to be employed in all such reforms, and to render this instrument efficient was but to begin at the right end.
Omitting all the miscellaneous improvements of a minor or mechanical nature which were effected by Thompson in matters connected with military service—as, for instance, in the construction of cannon, in the uniform of the soldiers, their drill, &c.—let us attend to the moral principle which ruled all his proceedings with regard to the organization of the army. ‘I have endeavored,’ he says, ‘in all my operations, to unite the interest of the soldier with the interest of civil society, and to render the military force even in time of peace, subservient to the public good. To facilitate and promote these important objects, to establish a respectable standing army, which should do the least possible harm to the population, morals, manufactures, and agriculture of the country, it was necessary to make soldiers citizens, and citizens soldiers.’ To this principle, or at least to the precise form in which it is here stated, different persons will make different objections, according as their sympathies are civil or military; but Rumford’s general view, that soldiers should be treated as men, cannot be excepted against. The army being essentially the offspring of an age of physical force, it is certainly difficult to organize it conformably to the spirit of an age which repudiates physical force. To do this—in other words, to make the army, as such, a moral agent—is impossible; but it is quite possible to render a large general culture, and much individual freedom, compatible with strict discipline; and at all events, the modern maxim is, that the army is a part of society, employed, it is true, in services of a peculiar nature, which require a peculiar organization, but not on that account cut off from the general mass of the community. Such was the maxim of the Bavarian minister. Besides what he did to increase the physical comfort of the soldier by superior food, clothing and accomodation, he adopted means for the intellectual and moral improvement of all connected with the military service. ‘Schools were established in all the regiments for instructing the soldiers and their children in reading, writing, and arithmetic. Besides these schools of instruction, others, called Schools of Industry, were established in the regiments, where the soldiers and their children were taught various kinds of work, and from whence they were supplied with raw materials to work for their own emolument.
As nothing is so certainly fatal to morals as habitual idleness, every possible means was adopted that could be devised to introduce a spirit of industry among the troops. Every encouragement was given to the soldiers to employ their leisure time when they were off duty in working for their own emolument; and among other encouragements, the most efficacious of all, that of allowing them full liberty to dispose of the money acquired by their labor in any way they should think proper, without being obliged to give any account of it to anybody.’ Besides working at their various trades for such as chose to employ them, the soldiers were employed as laborers ‘in all public works, such as making and repairing highways, draining marshes, repairing the banks of rivers, &c.; and in all such cases the greatest care was taken to provide for their comfortable subsistence, and even for their amusement. To preserve good order and harmony among those who were detached upon these working parties, a certain proportion of officers and non-commissioned officers were always sent with them, and these commonly served as overseers of the works, and as such were paid.’
The particular plan, however, which enabled Thompson, while he was improving the personal condition of the soldier, and turning the peace establishment to greater account than before for the general good of the country, at the same time to diminish greatly the expense of its support, was that of permanent garrisons. The whole army was distributed through the various cities of the electorate, each city being garrisoned by troops drawn from the surrounding district. This plan possessed many advantages. ‘A peasant would more readily consent to his son engaging himself to serve as a soldier in a regiment permanently stationed in his neighborhood, than in one at a great distance, or whose destination was uncertain; and when the station of a regiment is permanent, and it receives its recruits from the district of country immediately surrounding its head-quarters, the men who go home on furlough have but a short journey to make, and are easily assembled in case of emergency.’ Every encouragement was given to all who could be spared from garrison duty to go home on furlough; an arrangement which was both agreeable to the men—who, during their absence, might be cultivating their little family farms, or otherwise employing themselves at any trade—and economical for the state, because, while the men were on furlough, they received no pay, but only their rations. Thus, while in every garrison town there remained a sufficient nucleus of men to do garrison-duty, and who, while receiving full military pay, were at liberty to earn additional money during their leisure time by extra work, the greater part of the army were distributed through the community, pursuing the ordinary occupations of citizens, but ready to assemble at a few hours’ notice, and bound to be in the field at least six weeks every year. The assumed necessity for such a state of military preparation gives one a striking idea of the condition of the continent at this epoch.
Not content with the mere negative achievement of organizing the army, so that ‘it should do the least possible harm,’ Thompson endeavored to make it an instrument of positive good. His plan of permanent garrisons and easy furloughs, by establishing a constant flux of men to and from a centre, suggested the somewhat novel idea of making the army the medium for spreading useful improvements of all kinds through the country. Supposing, for instance, that pains were taken to teach the soldiers in garrison any useful art not then known in Bavaria, but which might be naturalized there, it is obvious that when these men were distributed over the country on furloughs, they would carry with them not only their own superior industrial habits, but the art itself. The improvement of Bavarian agriculture by this means was one of Thompson’s most anxious wishes. Very few of the recent improvements in that art, he says, such as the cultivation of clover and turnips, the regular succession of crops, &c., had then found their way into general practice; and, above all, the potato was almost unknown in Bavaria. With a view to introduce a better system of agriculture, and especially with a view to naturalize the potato among the Bavarians, Thompson devised the system of military gardens—that is, ‘pieces of ground in or adjoining to the garrison towns, which were regularly laid out, and exclusively appropriated to the use of the non-commissioned officers and private soldiers belonging to the regiments in garrison.’ In these gardens every private soldier was assigned a piece of ground, about three hundred and sixty-five square feet in extent. This piece of ground was to remain the sole property of that soldier as long as he served in the regiment: he was to be at liberty to cultivate it in any way, and to dispose of the produce in any way he chose; if, however, he did not choose to work in it, but wished rather to spend his pay in idleness, he might do so; but in that case the piece of ground was to be taken from him, and so also if he neglected it. Every means was used to attach the soldiers to their garden labor: seeds and manure were furnished them at a cheap rate; whatever instruction was necessary, was given them; and little huts or summer-houses were erected in the gardens, to afford them shelter when it rained. ‘The effect of the plan,’ says Rumford, ‘was greater and more important than I could have expected. The soldiers, from being the most indolent of mortals, and from having very little knowledge of gardening, became industrious and skillful cultivators, and grew so fond of vegetables, particularly potatoes, that these useful and wholesome productions began to constitute a very essential part of their daily food. These improvements began also to spread among the farmers and peasants throughout the whole country. There was hardly a soldier that went on furlough that did not carry with him a few potatoes for planting, and a little collection of garden seeds; and I have already had the satisfaction to see little gardens here and there making their appearance in different parts of the country.’
After reforming the army, the next subject which occupied the attention of the Bavarian statesman was one of universal and perpetual interest—the condition of the poor. In order, however, not to be interrupted in our narrative of his measures for the relief of the poor of Bavaria, we shall note a few of the principal events in his personal history during the period of his residence in that country. In 1784, when he commenced his residence in Bavaria, he was thirty-one years of age. The titles which were then conferred on him were, as we have already informed our readers, those of aid-de-camp and chamberlain. Soon afterwards, however, he received the appointments of member of the council of state, and major-general in the army; the elector at the same time procuring him the decorations of two orders of Polish knighthood, in lieu of the Bavarian order, which the rules of German knighthood prevented him from bestowing. The scientific part of the community also showed their esteem for him by electing him a member of the academies of Munich and Manheim. All this took place not long after Thompson had settled in Munich. Every year of his subsequent stay brought him fresh honors. In 1787, when on a visit to Prussia, he was chosen a member of the Academy of Sciences at Berlin; in Bavaria, to follow the list of dignities given by his American biographer, ‘he attained the military rank of lieutenant-general, was commander-in-chief of the general staff, minister of war, and superintendent of the police of the electorate; he was for a short time chief of the regency that exercised sovereignty during the absence of the elector; and in the interval between the death of the Emperor Joseph and the coronation of his successor Leopold, the elector becoming vicar of the empire, availed himself of the prerogatives of that office to make him a Count of the Holy Roman Empire.’ When this last dignity was conferred on him, Thompson chose the title of Count of Rumford, in memory of the American village where he had once officiated in the humble capacity of schoolmaster. Although it was not till the year 1790, that this title was bestowed on him and the measures we are about to detail were for the most part matured before that time, we shall consult our convenience by henceforth calling him Count Rumford.
The condition of the poor, and the mode of treating them, are questions which every country on earth must incessantly be occupied with; but in few countries, probably, was the necessity of coming to some decided practical conclusion on the subject more glaring, more imperious, than in Bavaria at the time when Count Rumford undertook the social survey of that state. Beggary had there become an enormous and apparently ineradicable evil—a weed overgrowing the whole field. The beggars almost ate up the industrious part of the community. ‘The number of itinerant beggars of both sexes and all ages, as well foreigners as natives, who strolled about the country in all directions, levying contributions upon the industrious inhabitants, stealing and robbing, and leading a life of indolence and the most shameless debauchery, was quite incredible; and so numerous were the swarms of beggars in all the great towns, and particularly in the capital, so great their impudence, and so perserving their importunity, that it was almost impossible to cross the streets without being attacked, and absolutely forced to satisfy their clamorous demands. They not only infested all the streets, public walks, and public places, but they even made a practice of going into private houses; and the churches were so full of them, that people at their devotions were continually interrupted by them, and were frequently obliged to satisfy their demands in order to be permitted to finish their prayers in peace and quiet. In short, these detestable vermin swarmed everywhere; and not only their impudence and clamorous importunity were without any bounds, but they had recourse to the most diabolical arts and most horrid crimes in prosecution of their trade. The growing number of the beggars, and their success, gave a kind of eclat to their profession; and the habit of begging became so general, that it ceased to be considered as infamous, and was by degrees in a manner interwoven with the internal regulations of society. Herdsmen and shepherds who attended their flocks by the roadside, were known to derive considerable advantage from the contributions which their situation enabled them to levy from passengers; and I have been assured that the wages they received from their employers were often regulated accordingly. The children in every country village, and those even of the best farmers, made a constant practice of begging from all strangers who passed; and one hardly ever met a person on foot upon the road, particularly a woman, who did not hold out her hand and ask for charity.’
Count Rumford determined to grapple with this enormous evil, and, if possible, suppress mendicancy in Bavaria. His sagacity and general knowledge of mankind taught him to believe the achievement practicable, and he had already paved the way by his reform of the army. Other preliminaries, however, were necessary; and assisted by the genius of the government of Bavaria, where a sudden stroke of benevolent despotism was more in keeping than it would be elsewhere, he resolved first thoroughly to mature his scheme, and then to pounce upon the beggars when he was prepared to receive them. Although he knew that the people of Bavaria would gladly accept any measure which would relieve them from the dreadful scourge which they had so long borne, yet as so many schemes previously proposed had failed, he resolved to carry his plan into successful execution before he asked a farthing from the people in support of it. The elector’s treasury was accordingly drawn upon for the amount of money necessary in advance.
Munich was to be the scene of his first experiment. And first of all, a building was necessary to receive the beggars when they should be apprehended. A suitable edifice was found situated in the Au, one of the suburbs of Munich. ‘It had formerly been a manufactory, but for many years had been deserted, and falling to ruins. It was now completely repaired, and in part rebuilt. A large kitchen, with a large eating-room adjoining it, and a commodious bakehouse, were added to the buildings; and workshops for carpenters, smiths, turners, and such other mechanics, were established, and furnished with tools. Large halls were fitted up for spinners of hemp, for spinners of flax, for spinners of cotton, for spinners of wool, and for spinners of worsted; and adjoining to each hall a small room was fitted up for a clerk or inspector of the hall. Halls were likewise fitted up for weavers of woolens, weavers of serges and shalloons, for linen weavers, for weavers of cotton goods, and for stocking-weavers; and workshops were provided for clothiers, clothshearers, dyers, saddlers; besides rooms for wool-sorters, wool-carders, wool-combers, knitters, seamstresses, etc. Magazines were fitted up, as well for finished manufactures, as for raw materials, and rooms for counting-houses; storerooms for the kitchen and bakehouse; and dwelling-rooms for the inspectors, and other officers. The whole edifice, which was very extensive, was fitted up in the neatest manner possible. In doing this, even the external appearance of the building was attended to. It was handsomely painted without as well as within; and pains were taken to give it an air of elegance, as well as of neatness and cleanliness.’
All these preparations having been made apparently without exciting any special degree of public curiosity, New-Year’s Day of the year 1790 was chosen for the grand stroke, that being a day when Munich was sure to be unusually full of Beggars. The military was posted through the streets, so as to command the whole town, and the neighboring country was occupied by patrols of cavalry. In the mean time, having assembled at his own residence the magistrates of Munich, and a number of military officers and citizens of rank and dignity, Count Rumford expounded to them his scheme, and requested them to accompany him into the streets where the most difficult part of the work, that of arresting the beggars, was to commence. ‘We had hardly got into the street,’ says Rumford in his narrative of the proceedings, ‘when we were accosted by a beggar, who asked us for alms. I went up to him, and laying my hand gently upon his shoulder, told him that from thenceforward begging would not be permitted in Munich; that if he really stood in need of assistance (which would be immediately inquired into), the necessary assistance should certainly be given him; but that begging was forbidden, and if he was detected in it again, he would be severely punished. I then delivered him over to an orderly-sergeant, who was following me, with directions to conduct him to the Town-Hall, and deliver him into the hands of those he should find there to receive him. Then turning to the officers and magistrates who accompanied me, I begged they would take notice that I had myself, with my own hands, arrested the first beggar we had met; and I requested them not only to follow my example themselves, by arresting all the beggars they should meet with, but that they should also endeavor to persuade others, and particularly the officers and soldiers of the garrison, that it was by no means derogatory to their character, or in any way disgraceful to them, to assist in so useful and laudable an undertaking. These gentlemen having cheerfully and unanimously promised to do their utmost to second me in this business, dispersed into the different parts of the town, and, with the assistance of the military, the town was so thoroughly cleared of beggars in less than an hour, that not one was to be found in the streets.’
The beggars being all taken to the Town-Hall, their names were written down, and they were dismissed to their own homes, with directions to repair next day to the ‘Military Workhouse,’ as the new establishment was called, in consequence of its being fitted out with money from the military chest, and destined chiefly to supply the army with clothing etc. Here they were told they would find comfortable warm rooms, a good warm dinner every day, and work for such as were able to labor, with good wages, which should be regularly paid. They might, or might not come, just as they chose, but at all events they were not to beg any more; and if they appeared in the streets, they should be apprehended. The circumstances of them all, they were told, were immediately to be inquired into, and relief granted to such as required it.
The plan met with immediate success. On the next day a great number of the beggars attended at the Military Workhouse; the rest hid themselves; and so rigorous and effective were the measures adopted to apprehend mendicants, that after trying in vain to renew their old practices, these too were obliged at length to yield. The experiment having succeeded so far, it was judged advisable to appeal to the public for their support; and a paper was accordingly drawn up by Professor Babo of Munich, urging the citizens to do their utmost to rid themselves of the scourge of mendicancy, by coöperating in the new scheme. In this paper allusion is made to a practice of the beggars, which may be here mentioned, as a proof of the deplorable viciousness of the whole system. The beggars of Munich, it appears, drove a lucrative trade in communion and confessional certificates, which they obtained from the clergy by attending twice or thrice a-day at the holy sacrament, and at confession, and afterwards sold to such of the citizens as were averse to church-going, and yet desirous of avoiding the inconveniences which neglect of religious observances entailed in a place where the Roman Catholic clergy had so much power.
Professor Babo’s address having been circulated, with an outline of Count Rumford’s scheme, the citizens of Munich gladly agreed to contribute, to enable the project to be fairly carried out; and indeed, accustomed as they had been to meet the incessant demands of the beggars by as incessant giving, they saw in the new plan not only an immediate moral relief, but a prospect of pecuniary saving. Rumford’s principle was, to depend entirely upon the voluntary contributions of the charitable. The city was divided into sixteen districts; the names of all the inhabitants of each district who were willing to subscribe were taken down, with a note of the sum each volunteered to contribute. This sum might be altered at the pleasure of the subscriber—increased, diminished, or even altogether retracted. The sums were to be collected regularly on the last Sunday of every month, by an officer who was to go round on purpose among the subscribers of each district. Arrangements were also made for the receipt of miscellaneous donations, both large and small; and every possible means was adopted to beget a public confidence in the administration of the fund collected, by making the publication of all accounts imperative.
Two distinct things had now been accomplished by Count Rumford—he had established a workhouse, and he had secured a fund for the relief of the poor. Although the two objects were mixed up together at the commencement, and are of necessity included under the general descriptive head of the ‘Suppression of Mendicancy,’ they ought not to be confounded. In seizing upon the beggars, Count Rumford had adopted the most practicable means for arriving at a very desirable end—the discrimination of the merely idle from the really necessitous. To classify these two sorts of persons was his first object. When this was done, his work then divided itself into two parts—the reclaiming of the idle to habits of industry, and the relief of the really necessitous. The modes of operation for the one and for the other were expressly kept independent; indeed it was one of Rumford’s most careful provisions that the workhouse should not wear the aspect of an institution supported by charity. We shall describe first the progress of the workhouse by which Rumford meant to suppress idleness, and then the means which he employed for relieving the distress which still remained.
Before the opening of the Military Workhouse, it had been fitted up with looms, spinning-machines, &c., as well as furnished with raw materials, especially hemp, the spinning of which is easily learnt. During the first week 2600 mendicants, of both sexes, and various ages, entered the establishment. ‘For the first three or four days,’ says Rumford, ‘it was not possible entirely to prevent confusion. There was nothing like mutinous resistance among the poor people; but their situation was so new to them, and they were so very awkward in it, that it was difficult to bring them into any tolerable order. At length, however, by distributing them among the various halls, and assigning to each his particular place, they were brought into such order, as to enable the inspectors and instructors to begin their operations. Those who understood any kind of work were placed in the apartments where the work they understood was carried on; and the others being classed according to their sexes, and as much as possible according to their ages, were placed under the immediate care of the different instructors.’
Every care was taken to promote the comfort of the people while at work, and to render their work agreeable to them. It being winter, the rooms were well warmed by fires kept regularly burning; the whole establishment was swept twice every day; attention was paid to the ventilation; as far as elegance was possible in halls devoted to work, it was consulted; and the kindest usage was the order of the institution. The people arrived at the establishment at a fixed hour in the morning; they continued at work till the hour of dinner, when they repaired to the dining-hall, where they were furnished with a good dinner of white bread and fine rich soup; and after some hours of further work, they were dismissed, as from any other manufactory, and had all the rest of their time at their own disposal. Besides the dinner-hour, which was allowed as relaxation to all in the establishment, two additional hours, one in the morning, the other in the afternoon, were allowed to the children, during which they were assembled in one of the halls, and taught reading, writing, and arithmetic, by a master paid for the purpose; and as the regular hours of labor were not longer than in any other manufactory, neither they nor the adults were overworked. Lastly, every person in the establishment was regularly paid the wages fixed for the sort of labor he was employed in. The main feature of the scheme was, to impress upon those who attended the establishment that they were not necessarily paupers by their attendance there, but workmen entitled to the wages which they received. ‘The workhouse,’ says Rumford, ‘was merely a manufactory, like any other manufactory, supported by its own private capital, which capital has no connexion whatever with any fund destined for the poor.’ In order to keep this vividly before the workpeople, an inscription, in letters of gold, was placed over the main entrance of the establishment—‘No alms will be received here.’
It is evident, however, considering the expenses of setting the establishment agoing, considering all the inducements which were held out at first to allure the people to it, especially that of paying them the ordinary rate of wages while they were yet wretchedly bad workmen, in order to keep up their courage—it is evident, in these circumstances, that the institution must at first have been maintained at a loss. Although hemp was selected at first as the material for learners to begin with, as being cheap, yet such was the awkwardness of the beginners, that even in this material a considerable loss was sustained. ‘By an exact calculation, it was found,’ says Rumford, ‘that the manufactory actually lost more than three thousand florins upon the articles of hemp and flax during the first three months. But we were not discouraged by these unfavorable beginnings; and if the establishment was supported at some little expense in the beginning, it afterwards richly repaid the loss.’ By constant practice, the workmen became expert, so that not only hemp, but much more expensive materials, could be intrusted to them with safety; and in a short time it was no longer a mere benevolent pretense to treat them as men earning their wages by a fair amount of labor, for such became the fact. The bustle and activity of the establishment increased from year to year. In the sixth year of its existence the demand upon it for goods amounted to half a million of florins; and the net profits of the six years were calculated at one hundred thousand florins.
It will readily suggest itself to persons acquainted with the doctrines of political economy, that an objection might be raised to Count Rumford’s experiment, from a consideration of what may have been its effects upon the labor market. As all the articles manufactured in the Military Workhouse for the supply of the Bavarian army had formerly been manufactured by other persons, it is evident that the immediate effect of the establishment of the workhouse was to withdraw so much custom from those other persons, whoever they may have been. A moment’s consideration, however, of the state of Bavaria, will rob the consideration of whatever threatening look it may wear in the case which we are now concerned with. These persons, now supporting themselves by the labor of their own hands, had formerly been mendicants, living at the expense of the industrious portion of the community; and viewing the matter, therefore, in its pecuniary aspect alone, the question with the people of Munich was, whether they sustained a greater loss by admitting 2600 persons to be competitors with themselves in the labor market, or by supporting the same 2600 persons as mendicants. Add to this, the moral comfort of living in a town where not a beggar was to be seen, and the still more exquisite satisfaction of reflecting that a number of their fellow-creatures, formerly loathsome, vicious, and wretched, were now living in cleanliness, propriety, and happiness. On the merits of the institution in this point of view, hear the words of count Rumford himself. After alluding to the expertness which the members of the establishment acquired in the various manufactures, he proceeds—‘But what was quite surprising, and at the same time interesting in the highest degree, was the apparent and rapid change which was produced in their manners. The kind usage they met with, and the comforts they enjoyed, seemed to have softened their hearts, and awakened in them sentiments as new and surprising to themselves as they were interesting to those about them. The melancholy gloom of misery, the air of uneasiness and embarrassment, disappeared by little and little from their countenances, and were succeeded by a timid dawn of cheerfulness, rendered most exquisitely interesting by a certain mixture of silent gratitude which no language can describe. In the infancy of this establishment, when these poor creatures were first brought together, I used very frequently to visit them, to speak kindly to them, and to encourage them; and I seldom passed through the halls where they were at work without being a witness to the most moving scenes. Objects formerly the most miserable and wretched, whom I had seen for years as beggars in the street; young women, perhaps the unhappy victims of seduction, who, having lost their reputation, and being turned adrift in the world without a friend and without a home, were reduced to the necessity of begging to sustain a miserable existence, now recognized me as their benefactor, and with tears dropping fast from their cheeks, continued their work in the most expressive silence. If they were asked what the matter was with them, their answer was, ‘Nichts’ [‘Nothing’], accompanied by a look of affectionate regard and gratitude so touching, as frequently to draw tears from the most insensible of the bystanders. Why should I not mention the marks of affectionate respect which I received from the poor people for whose happiness I interested myself? Will it be reckoned vanity if I mention the concern which the poor of Munich expressed in so affecting a manner when I was dangerously ill?—that they went publicly in a body in procession to the cathedral church, where they had divine service performed, and put up public prayers for my recovery?—that, four years afterwards, on hearing that I was again dangerously ill at Naples, they of their own accord set apart an hour each evening, after they had finished their work in the Military Workhouse, to pray for me; for me—a private person—a stranger—a Protestant!’
Having thus described the procedure at the Military Workhouse—which, although it was established with a philanthropic design, and had at first the aspect of a charitable institution, was in fact no such thing, but a mere commercial concern, yielding a profit on the capital invested in it—we shall now briefly narrate Count Rumford’s plan of dealing with the pauperism of Munich—with the real poverty and destitution which remained after all that could be effected by the Military Workhouse.
The entire management of the poor of Munich was put into the hands of a committee, consisting of four of the principal Bavarian ministers of state—namely, the president of the council of war, the president of the council of regency, the president of the ecclesiastical council, and the president of the chamber of finances; and these four were to choose each a counselor of his own department to assist him. Neither the presidents nor the counselors were to be paid for their labors in this committee; and the secretary, clerks, and inferior officers required, were to be paid, not out of the fund for the poor, but immediately from the treasury. The mode of reaching the poor was as follows:—The whole town, containing about 60,000 inhabitants, was divided into sixteen districts, the houses being all regularly numbered. In each district, a respectable citizen was chosen to be inspector of the poor within its limits. This inspector, whose services were to be purely voluntary, and unpaid, was to have for his assistants a priest, a physician, a surgeon, and an apothecary. The business of the inspector was to receive applications for relief, to inquire into the circumstances of the applicants, to furnish immediate assistance if it was required, and, where assistance might be delayed, to refer to the committee. Relief was granted, as might be required, in clothing, in medical aid, or in weekly sums of money; but in making the allowance, care was taken to find out how much the applicant was in a condition to earn. If he was able to work, work was provided for him, either at the Military Workhouse, or at home, to be delivered at the workhouse. The fact of his having been industrious, was certified by a government stamp affixed by the overseers of the workhouse every week to a slip of paper, on which also was marked the sum he had earned, and whatever was necessary for his support over and above this sum was granted. Those who could not work, were of course provided for. The funds out of which all the provisions were made consisted, as we have already said, of the voluntary contributions of the inhabitants. There were a few legacies for the poor; certain fines, also, went into the poor’s fund; but the great mass of the money required was collected statedly from the citizens in the manner described in a previous page, not by assessment, but by purely voluntary subscription. Besides donations in food and clothing, the sum collected in ready money during five years from the inhabitants of Munich was 200,000 florins, which was found amply sufficient for all purposes. It must be remembered, however, that the peculiar circumstances of the people of Munich, in having just been relieved from the scourge of mendicancy, made them more apt to fall into the habit of voluntary subscriptions than probably might be the case with the inhabitants of other towns not so circumstanced. Indeed the citizens of Munich effected a clear pecuniary saving by the change—a saving amounting in all to more than two-thirds. This saving consisted of two items:—First, an actual diminution of the mass of pauperism, numbers of those who formerly subsisted by charity being now able to support themselves either in whole or in part; and secondly, a retrenchment of all that waste which accompanies a private dispensation of charity, as compared with a system of general management, where, in consequence of the wholesale scale of operations, economy can be studied. The value of this second consideration will appear when we come to speak of Count Rumford’s devices for economising food and fuel.
It will now be seen how the Military Workhouse, and the system of management for the poor, worked into each other’s hands, although in principle totally independent of each other. No part of the Military Workhouse was under the control of the committee for the poor, except only the kitchen and bakehouse, which, as being supported out of the funds for the poor, were placed under their management.
Having thus described, at considerable length, Count Rumford’s measures for the suppression of mendicancy in Munich, it only remains to be added that our description is to be taken rather as a historical account of an interesting and apparently successful experiment, than as a thorough appreciation of its merits as a social scheme. To criticise all the details of Count Rumford’s plan, especially as a plan of universal application, would require much space, and would lead to controversy. It may be safely said, however, that while some parts of the scheme may be theoretically objectionable, and others may not be adapted for circumstances different from those in which they had their origin, the general features of the scheme are as sound as the spirit which prompted it was philanthropic.
PLANS FOR ECONOMISING FOOD AND FUEL.
As one of Count Rumford’s reasons for preferring a general system for the administration of charity was the superior economy which it admitted, especially in the articles of food and fuel, it is not to be wondered at that he turned his attention to a consideration of the subject of food and fuel itself. In doing so, he opened up a new field for the exercise of his practical genius. What is the cheapest way of feeding large bodies of men? and what is the most economical way of applying heat for the purposes of warmth, of cooking, and of manufactures? These are questions upon which Count Rumford occupied himself more zealously and more successfully than any one had done before him, or, probably, than any one has done since his time. With the former question he was engaged while yet resident in Bavaria—one of his subsidiary schemes for the benefit of the poor there, and in other large towns, being the establishment of public kitchens and dining-rooms, where the poor, or indeed the laboring classes generally, might be supplied with better food at a cheaper rate than in their own houses. As the subject of cookery—of the improvements which are possible in the mode of preparing food for the use of man, whether with respect to economy, or to the gratification of the palate, or to both—is one to which scientific men have not yet applied themselves with sufficient zeal, we will note down such of Rumford’s conclusions on it as do not appear to be antiquated. The importance which Count Rumford himself attached to the subject will appear from his extraordinary saying, that ‘the number of inhabitants who may be supported in any country upon its internal produce, depends almost as much upon the state of its art of cookery as upon that of its agriculture.’
With regard to the materials of food, it needs only to be mentioned that Rumford, besides recommending in Bavaria a larger use of vegetables generally, advocated in a special manner the introduction of the potato, and of Indian corn—the former by cultivation, the latter by importation. In recommending Indian corn, he says, ‘The common people in the northern parts of Italy live almost entirely upon it, and throughout the whole continent of America it makes a principal article of food. In Italy it is called polenta; and it is there prepared in a variety of ways, and forms the basis of a number of very nourishing dishes. The most common way of using it in that country is to grind it into meal, and, with water, to make it into a thick kind of pudding, like what in England is called hasty-pudding, which is eaten with various kinds of sauce, and sometimes without sauce.’ In America, besides being used for puddings, it forms an ingredient of bread. In testimony to its pleasantness and wholesomeness as an article of food, he mentions the circumstance of the universal fondness of the Americans for it; and that the negroes, in countries where both rice and Indian corn are grown, invariably prefer it to rice, alleging that ‘rice turns to water in their bellies,’ but ‘Indian corn stays with them, and makes them strong to work.’
As to the best mode of preparing food for the purposes of economy, Rumford’s grand recipe was—soup. ‘At the time when Rumford entered the service of the elector,’ says his biographer, Dr. Renwick, ‘the pay of the private soldier was no more than about three cents a day; under his administration it was raised to about four cents. Out of this he was compelled to purchase every article of food, except bread, of which a ration of little more than two pounds was issued to him. When we compare this scanty allowance with the rations of our own army and navy, we should fancy that the condition of the Bavarian soldiers must have been miserable in the extreme; but so far from this being the case, they are described as ‘the finest, stoutest, and strongest men in the world, whose countenances show the most evident marks of health and perfect contentment.’ Such was the skill in cookery possessed by the Bavarian soldier, that he was enabled to subsist on two-thirds of his scanty pay, and, in addition, to save five-sixths of his ration of bread, which he sold.’ By inquiries and experiments, Rumford became convinced that the cause of the mystery lay in the fact, that the Bavarian soldier used his food almost universally in the form of soup. ‘What surprised me not a little,’ he says, ‘was the discovery of the very small quantiy of solid food which, when properly prepared, will suffice to satisfy hunger, and support life and health; and the very trifling expense at which the stoutest and most laborious man may in any country be fed. After an experience of nearly five years in feeding the poor at Munich, it was found that the cheapest, most savory, and most nourishing food that could be prepared was a soup composed of pearl barley, pease, potatoes, cuttings of fine wheaten bread, vinegar, salt, and water, in certain proportions. I constantly found that the richness or quality of a soup depended more upon a proper choice of the ingredients, and a proper management of the fire, than upon the quantity of solid nutritious matter employed—much more upon the art and skill of the cook, than upon the amount of the sums laid out in the market. I found also that the nutritiousness of a soup, or its power of satisfying hunger, and affording nourishment, seemed always to be in proportion to its apparent richness or palatableness.’
Struck with these remarkable results, Rumford endeavoring to explain them, by supposing that the water used in converting solid nutritious matter into soup became of itself nutritious, serving not merely as the vehicle for food, but really constituting a part of the food itself. This supposition of Rumford is now ascertained to be a mistake. ‘Physiologists, however,’ says Dr. Renwick, ‘have reached the true explanation. The quantity of matter required to supply the waste of the body at all ages, and furnish the material for the growth of the young, is small compared with the actual capacity of the digestive organ, while the latter is not satiated, nor the appetite satisfied, unless it receive a certain degree of distention. A quantity of warm liquid, holding so much nutritious matter in solution as to render digestion necessary, will fulfill the latter object as well as an equal bulk of solid food; while the necessity of expelling the excess above the actual wants of the system many in the latter case be productive of evil.’
With such a decided preference for the soup form of food as Count Rumford had been led to entertain, it is not to be wondered at that soup was an essential feature in all his schemes for the benefit of the poor. Soup was the great article of food employed in his experiments in Munich; and in his contemplated project of public kitchens and dining-rooms for large towns, the necessary condition of success was, that soup should be the staple diet. He even went into the details of the composition of soup; and his essays contain receipts for making various kinds of soup, with and without butcher-meat. The following judicious observations of Rumford’s American biographer seem to sum up both the merits and the demerits of these experiments and speculations:—‘The only question which admits of doubt is, how the description of food preferred by Rumford is adapted to the circumstances of all countries. Now, to the greater part of the Anglo-Saxon race, soup, if not an abomination, will never be received as the staple of more than one daily meal; while tea and coffee, whose use Rumford reprobates, with their accompaniment of sugar, have become necessaries of life. In Paris, soup, which became for a while the fashionable mode of administering charity, was well adapted to the habits of the people; but in England and America it was received with grumbling, or rejected by all who could in any other mode obtain food. One reason no doubt was, that it was considered sufficient to make the food nutritious, without attempting to make it pleasing to the palate. This defeat is far from inherent; for the soups of Rumford, whether containing none but vegetable matter, or a mixture of animal substance, may be easily rendered as delicious as the most costly preparations of the French kitchen.’
Besides the general schemes which we have mentioned, Count Rumford was engaged, during his residence in Bavaria, in many minor plans of social improvement; indeed, as we have already said, he acted the part of surveyor-general of the abuses of the electorate. It was not in the nature of things that he should be able to proceed in his various innovations and reforms without provoking some jealousy and opposition among the Bavarian nobles: the support and favor, however, of the elector never failed him, and with the people at large he was exceedingly popular. In the year 1794, finding his health greatly impaired by his close attention to business, he obtained leave of absence from the elector, and employed sixteen months in traveling through various parts of the continent, especially Italy. During his absence, two very gratifying testimonies of respect and gratitude were borne to him by the Bavarians. The first was, the erection of a monument to commemorate his public services. The other was still more honorable to him: it was the resolution, already referred to, of the inmates of the Military Workhouse, when they heard that he was dangerously ill at Naples, to set apart an hour every evening to pray for his recovery. In 1795 Rumford returned to Bavaria, but left it almost immediately, to proceed on a visit to England. Here he was received with all distinction, and his opinion and advice were asked by all engaged in philanthropic schemes. To save himself the labor thus entailed upon him, he resolved to publish an account of his doings and experiments in Bavaria, and accordingly prepared for the press the two volumes of essays which go by his name. The only subject of general interest in these essays, apart from the purely scientific disquisitions, which remains to be mentioned by us, is that of fuel.
In undertaking to reform chimneys and fireplaces, Count Rumford had three objects in view—the saving of fuel, the prevention of smoke, and the avoidance of the injury to health arising from drafts. The extent of his services in this unpretending but most important department will be better estimated if we consider the state of fireplaces in most European countries fifty or sixty years ago. ‘The most polished nations of antiquity,’ says Dr. Renwick, ‘had no other means of providing for the issue of the smoke of their fires than by leaving openings in the roof. They indeed appear, in some instances, to have heated apartments by flues circulating beneath the floors, which must have terminated in a vertical funnel, thus forming an approximation to the chimney; but there appears to be no instance of the arrangement of an open hearth and vertical flue until late in the middle ages. Chimneys and fireplaces of the latter date are still to be seen in the kitchens and halls of baronial mansions; but the hearths were of great size, the arched openings wide and lofty, insomuch that they could be entered by persons standing upright, and admitted seats to be placed on each side of the fire. The latter, indeed, were the only places where the warmth of the fire could be enjoyed without exposure to the currents of cold air continually rushing in to join the ascending column in the chimney. Even when an increasing scarcity of fuel compelled less extravagant modes of applying it to be sought, the arched opening remained of a large size, the fireplace of a depth equal in extent to its front, and the walls were carried back perpendicularly to the latter. In England, where coal had come into almost universal use as a fuel, the grates in which it was burnt were almost exact cubes, and were lined with cast-iron on the sides and back. The evils of these fire-places may be recollected by all whose age reaches fifty; and they are remembered with feelings in which shuddering and scorching are strangely combined, but which are almost unknown, and scarcely to be imagined, by the present generation. Chimneys which did not smoke were the exception to the general rule; and the exposure of the surface of the body to cold currents generated the acute pains of rheumatism, while the frequent alternations of an increased and checked perspiration caused colds, to be followed, in regular course, by pulmonary complaints. In this state of things Rumford undertook to remedy the manifold evils of the open fireplace.’
Observing that the heat of a mass of blazing fuel in a grate consisted of two parts—that which radiated into the room, and served the purposes of warmth; and that which, by heating the column of air in the chimney, caused it to ascend, Rumford saw that an enormous saving could be effected by diminishing the size of the grate. Instead of a cubical mass of fuel, such as was generally used, he proposed to employ a grate of ordinarily broad front, but not deep backward, and with the sides not perpendicular to the front, but inclining. The effect of this was to limit the fire to the single function of warming the room by radiation from its front, while the mass of coal which had formerly been consumed without any benefit to the apartment was saved. In order, however, to prevent the smoking of the chimneys which would have arisen from this diminution of the burning mass, another change was necessary, and this was the narrowing the throat of the chimney, so as to allow no more air to pass through it than the precise quantity required to maintain the combustion. ‘The immoderate size of the throats of chimneys,’ says Rumford, ‘is the great fault of their construction. It is this fault which ought always first to be attended to in every attempt which is made to improve them; for however perfect the construction of a fireplace may be in other respects, if the opening left for the passage of the smoke is larger than is necessary for that purpose, nothing can prevent the warm air of the room from escaping through it; and whenever this happens, there is not only an unnecessary loss of heat, but the warm air which leaves the room to go up the chimney being replaced by cold air from without, drafts of cold air cannot fail to be produced in the room, to the great annoyance of those who inhabit it.’
Such is a general description of Count Rumford’s alterations in fireplaces. The subject, however, was pursued by him to its minutest details, and illustrated by numerous and specific plans for curing smoky chimneys under all possible circumstances. He likewise invented various forms of stoves and grates, intended to exhibit the model perfection of an apparatus for heating rooms, or for cooking victuals. So thorough and complete was his investigation of the subject, that little remained afterwards to be added to his conclusions; and it may be said, that any case of the continuance of a smoky chimney after the publication of his essays, arose from a neglect or misapplication of the principles there developed.
After some stay in Great Britain, he returned to Munich in 1796, accompanied by his daughter, who had come over from America at his request, her mother having died in 1792. What were Count Rumford’s relations with America, during the long interval of his absence from it, we have no means of ascertaining; as far as can be inferred, however, he seems to have maintained little correspondence with his former friends in the United States till after his wife’s death; and one cannot help remarking the unpleasing circumstance, that while on one side of the Atlantic the husband was enjoying an honorable position, and filling a large space in the public eye, the wife and daughter continued during the life of the former to reside on the other.
Rumford, on his return to Munich, was occupied in very important affairs. The advance of the French republican army under Moreau obliged the elector to quit the capital, leaving a council of regency, with Rumford at its head. Rumford succeeded in the arduous task of freeing Bavaria from invasion, and his conduct on this occasion increased his reputation with the elector and with the people. Among other tokens of the elector’s gratitude for his services, he was permitted to settle one-half of the pension which he enjoyed on his daughter, to be paid during her lifetime. In 1798 the elector, partly with a view to gratify him with an honor which he knew he desired, and partly to afford him another opportunity of relaxation for the improvement of his health, appointed him ambassador at the court of Great Britain. On arriving in London, however, Rumford found, that in consequence of the English legal fiction, by which a born subject of the country is declared incapable of ever alienating his allegiance, he could not be received as the Bavarian ambassador. Mortified as he must have been by this circumstance, and still more deeply grieved by the loss of his friend and patron, the Elector Charles Theodore, who died in 1799, Rumford contemplated returning to spend the remainder of his life in the land of his birth. In compliance with a formal invitation which he received from the United States government, he was making preparations for his return, and had written to a friend to secure a cottage in the vicinity of Boston, as a ‘quiet little retreat,’ when he was led to change his design, and remain in London, in the society of which he occupied a conspicuous place. During several years, a great part of the Count Rumford’s time was devoted to the interests of the Royal Institution, of which he may be considered the founder. The objects of this institution, now one of the recognized scientific establishments of the world, and one which can boast of having given employment to such men as Young, Davy, Brande, and Faraday, were ‘to diffuse the knowledge and facilitate the general introduction of useful mechanical inventions and improvements, and to teach, by courses of philosophical lectures and experiments, the application of science to the useful purposes of life.’ Such an institution was precisely the one which Rumford was qualified to superintend; and in its early history, the influence of his peculiar habits of thought is discernable in the choice of subjects for investigation by the members. Subsequently, the institution assumed the high scientific character which it yet holds.
In 1802, Count Rumford left England, and spent some time in travel. Revisiting Munich, he found the workhouse which he had planned, and which had been instrumental in producing so much good, abolished, and the new elector, Maximilian, friendly indeed but indisposed to follow the footsteps of his predecessor. Accordingly, after assisting in modeling a Bavarian academy of sciences, he took farewell of his adopted country, and went to reside in Paris, retaining an income of about £1200 from the Bavarian court. At the same time his daughter returned to America, her father having abandoned his intention of returning along with her. In Paris, Count Rumford appears at first to have gained the good-will and esteem which had attended him so remarkably during his previous life; and not long after he began his residence there, he contracted a second marriage with the widow of the celebrated Lavoisier, put to death during the French Revolution. From 1804 to 1814 he resided with his wife at Auteuil, a villa at a short distance from Paris, the property of Madame Lavoisier, and the scene of many of her former husband’s discoveries. Here Rumford employed himself in scientific pursuits of a miscellaneous nature. The union of the American-born citizen of the world with the widow of the illustrious Frenchman does not appear to have been a happy one; and there is evidence that, towards the end of his life, Rumford had become unpopular in Parisian society. Cuvier attributes this to a certain coarseness and want of urbanity of manner; possibly, however, the fault was less in the person criticised than in the Parisian standard of criticism, for the charge seems inconsistent with the tenor of Rumford’s life.
Rumford’s death took place at Auteuil on the 21st of August 1814, in the sixty-second year of his age. He left some bequests for the promotion of science in America; the rest of his property, which does not appear to have been great, he left to his relatives. His only daughter inherited the title of Countess of Rumford, with the continuation of her father’s Bavarian pension. She is, we believe, still alive, and has long resided in Paris.
Rumford, whose memoirs we have now detailed, was not a faultless character, or a person in every respect exemplary; but making due allowances for circumstances in which he was at the outset unfortunately placed, and keeping in mind that every man is less or more the creature of the age in which he lives, we arrive at the conclusion, that few individuals occupying a public position have been so thoroughly deserving of esteem. The practical, calm, and comprehensive nature of his mind, his resolute and methodical habits, the benevolence and usefulness of his projects, all excite our admiration. Cuvier speaks of Rumford as ‘having been the benefactor of his species without loving or esteeming them, as well as of holding the opinion that the mass of mankind ought to be treated as mere machines.’ A remark this which is applicable to not a few men who have been eminent for labors of a humane description, and which naturally gives rise to this other remark—that a good intellectual method, directed to practical ends, is often of more value to mankind than what is called a good heart.
NICOLAS COPERNICUS.
In the whole range of human science, no subject is calculated to excite such sublime ideas as astronomy; and to its study, therefore, the greatest minds have been directed both in ancient and modern times. Ancient, however, as are the investigations into the relations of the heavenly bodies, a correct idea of the planetary system was scarcely known before the sixteenth century of the Christian era. The theory generally received on that subject by the Chaldeans, Egyptians, Greeks, and other ancient nations, and which continued predominant till a comparatively recent period, described the earth as the center of all bodies occupying space, while the Moon, Venus, Mercury, the Sun, the planets, and the stars, revolved around it on a succession of solid spheres, at different distances, and at different rates of speed, so as to produce the appearances which are daily and nightly presented to our eyes in the heavens. Six centuries before the commencement of our era, Anaximander, Pythagoras, and other Grecian philosophers, had conceived some faint notion of a more correct system; but when they ventured to suggest that the sun was a fixed body, and that the earth was only one of a set of planets moving round it, they experienced so much persecution on account of the inconsistency of their doctrines with the religious ideas of the people, that they failed to establish their theory on a permanent basis. When learning and the arts revived in Italy in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, some attention was paid in the universities to astronomy; but the system taught was no better than that which Aristotle, Ptolemy, and other ancient astronomers had sanctioned, and which represented the sun and planets as moving round the earth. The time at length arrived for the revival of the correct notions entertained by Anaximander and Pythagoras.
Nicolas Copernicus, the modern to whom the honor of reviving that doctrine is due, was born, February 19, 1473, at Thorn, on the Vistula—a place now included in the dominions of the king of Prussia. The father of Copernicus was a native of Westphalia, a part of Germany: he had chanced to settle at Thorn, as a surgeon, about ten years before the birth of his son. Young Copernicus was educated for the profession of medicine at the university of Cracow; but his favorite studies were mathematics, perspective, astronomy, and painting. At an early age, inspired by an eager wish to distinguish himself in astronomy, he proceeded to Italy, and studied that science at the university of Bologna. It is supposed that a discovery of his teacher Dominic Maria, respecting the changes of the axis of the earth, was what first awakened his mind to the errors of the planetary system then taught. From Bologna he proceeded to Rome, where for some time he taught mathematics with great success—pursuing all the while, as far as circumstances would permit, his astronomical observations.
When he afterwards returned to his native country, his maternal uncle, the bishop of Ermeland, appointed him a canon in the cathedral of Frauenburg and at the same time he was nominated by the inhabitants of his native town to be archdeacon in one of their churches. He then resolved to devote his life to three objects—the performance of his clerical duties, gratuitous medical attendance on the poor, and the pursuit of his favorite studies. His residence was established in one of the houses belonging to the canons of Frauenburg, on the brow of a height near the cathedral, where astronomical observations could be conducted under very favorable circumstances; and in its walls are still to be seen the openings which he made, in order to observe the passage of stars across the meridian. It is supposed to have been about the year 1507 that he first became convinced of the superiority of the planetary theory of Pythagoras. He determined, however, to be very cautious in adopting, and still more cautious in announcing, an opinion so much at variance with the ordinary ideas of mankind. Mathematical instruments were in that age very rude, and the telescope had not been invented. The only implements which Copernicus had for making observations were two, coarsely framed of firwood, with measures marked by lines of ink. Thus provided, he devoted himself for several years to the inquiries necessary for proving his theory; and at length, about the year 1530, he had completed a work, in which the whole system was expounded—namely, the immobility of the sun in the centre of the planetary system; while its apparent motion, and the alternations of day and night, were to be attributed to the annual and diurnal movements of the earth. The real distances of the planets, and the declination of the pole of the earth, were also explained.
The doctrines of Copernicus were already known to a considerable number of learned and comparatively enlightened persons, who received them with due respect; and it is creditable to the Romish church that several of its dignitaries were among the number. But the bulk of mankind, including their religious teachers, were then comparatively ignorant, and accordingly prejudiced; and however firm the conviction of the astronomer as to the truth of his theory, he yet hesitated to make it public, dreading the opposition it would have to encounter—seeing that it opposed the inveterate prejudices of the learned, and the illusory testimony of the senses. In reasoning, they acted under the guidance of rules which made it scarcely possible for them to ascertain truth, or to acknowledge it when it was presented to them in the clearest light. If anything had been said in former times by a person whose memory they respected, they would not willingly listen to anything which contradicted, or seemed to contradict it. They walked, in short, by authority, and not by the dictates of reflection; and the consequence was, that every new truth which experience or the inquiries of the best minds brought forth, had to contend with the less worthy notions which had come down from earlier and darker ages. Amongst the opinions received by them, was that which represented the earth as the immovable centre of the universe. It was sanctioned by the greatest men of ancient times; it had long been taught; it was conformable to the common appearances of things; and various passages in the Scriptures were believed to assert it, though in reality those passages only do not contradict (and this probably for wise purposes) the ordinary ideas of mankind respecting the stability of the earth. Copernicus only acted, therefore, with necessary caution, when he hesitated to publish the work which had cost him the labor of so many years.
Rheticus, one of the friends to whom he had communicated his theory, at length, in 1540, ventured to give an outline of it to the world in a small pamphlet, which he published without his name. As this excited no disapprobation, the same person reprinted it next year with his name. In both publications the doctrines were ascribed openly to Nicolas Copernicus. About the same time, a learned man, Erasmus Reinhold, in a work which he published, spoke of the new doctrines with the greatest respect, and styled their author a second Ptolemy; for it often happens that the greatest compliment that can be paid to the discoverer of truth, is to mention him in the same breath with some founder of error. Copernicus now allowed himself to be pursuaded by his friends to publish his work; and it was accordingly put to press at Nuremburg, under the care of some learned persons of that city. But he was now an old man, and it was not his lot to live to see the book published. As soon as it was printed, a copy of it was sent to him by his friend Rheticus, but it only reached him, May 23, 1543, a few hours before he expired. He appeared to be scarcely conscious of the object to which so many years of his life had been devoted. But his mission was accomplished. Committed to the perpetuating operations of the infant printing-press, all danger was over of losing the germ of those great and fertile truths which in our days render astronomy the most perfect of sciences.
The theory of Copernicus was thus brought before the world; but, whether from the death of the philosopher, or because little disturbance of popular notions was anticipated from so learned a work, or from whatever other circumstances, it was visited with no marks of reprobation from any quarter at the time. In proportion, however, as it became known, so did its opponents increase. Those were the days when the fagot and stake made short work with those who presumed to strike out a course of thinking for themselves; and though the author of the system and its immediate adopters passed unmolested, yet during the century which ensued were its followers and supporters persecuted with all the zeal and cruelty that bigotry and ignorant prejudice could devise. Truth, however, is imperishable; and, though repressed and retarded for a season, is ever sure to take its right place among the established beliefs of mankind. And thus it has been with the Copernican theory, whose importance to the progress of accurate science we cannot in reality over-estimate. To form anything like an adequate idea of the value of its author’s services to the cause of science, we must place ourselves back in the time and circumstances which saw their birth. Then, it must be remembered, the want of telescopes rendered all appearances in the sky much more difficult of explanation than they would have been a century later. The accumulated errors and superstitions of fourteen centuries were not to be easily shaken and removed; neither were the prejudices and dogmas of the learned to be disturbed with impunity. What might have been astronomical science, was, even in the writings of the fathers, little better than a mass of absurd and subtle disquisitions on the substance of the heavens and the heavenly bodies. All these Copernicus had to surmount; and the elaboration of his theory presents an ever-memorable example of the power of patient and earnest thought in the investigation of a complicated subject, and acuteness of discrimination between the true and the fallacious.
TYCHO BRAHE.
Of eminent astronomers, the next in point of time was Tycho Brahè, who, though adopting the Ptolemaic notion of the earth being the fixed and immovable centre of the universe, yet did good service to the progress of the science by his numerous observations and discoveries. Descended of an ancient and noble family, originally of Sweden, but settled in Denmark, Tycho was born December 14, 1546, at Knub Strup, in the bailiwick of Schönen, the jurisdiction of which was then held by his father. When seven years old, he commenced the study of the classics, his education, as well as that of his brothers, being intrusted to private tutors. His father dying, his uncle sent him, in 1559, to study philosophy and rhetoric at Copenhagen, where it was intended to train him for some civil employment. The great eclipse of the sun on the 21st August 1560, happening at the precise time the astronomers foretold, he began to look upon astronomy as something divine; and purchasing the tables of Stadius, gained some notion of the theory of the planets. His thoughts were now wholly engrossed with astronomy; and though sent by his uncle, in 1562, to study jurisprudence at Leipsic, mathematics, and not law, were the subject of his private labors. It is told of him, that, having procured a small celestial globe, he was wont to wait till his tutor had gone to bed, in order to examine the constellations and learn their names; and that, when the sky was clear, he used to spend whole nights in viewing the stars. He abandoned the amusements and pleasures fitting for his age, and devoted his pocket-money to the purchase of mathematical and astronomical books, the perusal of which he persisted in, in spite of the remonstrances and rebukes of his preceptor. About this time he also began to apply himself to chemistry, less perhaps for the cause of the science, than with a view to discover the Philosopher’s Stone and the grand Elixir of Life—a digression from his astronomical career, prompted no doubt by the natural supersition and enthusiasm of his constitution.
In 1571 he returned to Denmark; and was favored by his mother’s brother, Steno Belle, a lover of learning, with a convenient place at the castle of Herritzvad, near Knub Strup, for conducting his observations and building a laboratory: but marrying a peasant girl beneath his rank, such a violent quarrel ensued between him and his relations, that Frederick II, king of Denmark, was obliged to interpose to reconcile them. In 1575, he began his travels through Germany, and proceeded as far as Venice, meeting with the kindliest attention from various philosophers and crowned heads. This attention, conjoined with certain offers made him by the Landgrave of Hesse, and the greater facility of procuring better apparatus, induced him to think of removing his family to Basil; but Frederick of Denmark, being informed of his design, and unwilling to lose such an ornament to his country, promised (to enable him to pursue his studies) to bestow upon him for life the island of Hveen in the Sound, to erect an observatory and laboratory there, and to defray all the expenses necessary for carrying on his designs. Tycho Brahè readily embraced this proposal; and, accordingly, the first stone of the observatory was laid in August 1576. The king also bestowed on him a pension of two thousand crowns, a fee in Norway, and a canonry, which brought him one thousand more. In this retreat he was visited by various princes; among others, by James VI of Scotland, when proceeding to Denmark to marry the princess Anne. This monarch, of literary memory, made the astronomer several presents, and with his own hand wrote some verses in his praise. In Uranienborg, for such he had styled his new erection, he framed that system of the universe which is yet known by his name; namely, that the earth remains fixed and immovable as the grand centre, and that the sun and all the heavenly bodies revolve around it—a doctrine the reverse of that of Copernicus, which all succeeding astronomers have adopted. But though mistaken in this conception, we are indebted to him for a more correct catalogue of the fixed stars; for several important discoveries respecting the motions of the moon and comets, and the refraction of the rays of light; and for valuable improvements in astronomical instruments. Tycho was likewise a skillful chemist, and found in poetry his recreation from severer studies. His Latin poems are said to exhibit considerable merit; but his chemical manipulations partook too much of the alchemy of his day to be of use to future inquirers.
Happy might our philosopher have been in the castle of Uranienborg, had not his impetuous character, and his fondness for satire, made him many enemies, who prejudiced Christian IV, the successor of Frederick II, against him. On the death of his patron, he was deprived of his pension, fee, and canonry; and finding himself incapable of bearing the expenses of his observatory, he went to Copenhagen, whither he brought some of his instruments, and continued his observations in the city, till Valkendorf, chamberlain to Christian, commanded him, by the king’s orders, to discontinue them. He then removed his family to Rostock, and afterwards to Holstein, to solicit Henry Ranzon to introduce him to the Emperor Rodolphus, who was a great friend to astronomy and astrology. Succeeding in his wishes, he was received by the emperor with the greatest civility and respect; provided with a magnificent house, till he could procure one more fit for astronomical observations; allotted a pension of three hundred crowns; and promised, upon the first opportunity, a fee for himself and his descendants. Unluckily he did not long enjoy this happy situation; for, being suddenly taken ill with a fatal disease, he was cut off on the 24th of October 1601, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. He was interred with great pomp and ceremony in the principal church of Prague, where a noble monument was erected to his memory; thus like many other men of eminence, receiving in a strange land the honors that had been denied him in his own.
Tycho was, notwithstanding his faults and weaknesses, a remarkable man for the age in which he lived; his errors and misjudgments being to a great extent those of his era. His skill in astronomy is universally admitted; and though failing to establish his system over that of Copernicus, yet no one can deny him the merit of advancing by his labors the progress of the science. That he was addicted to astrology, presages, and the occult sciences, is true; but these were features of the age more than of individuals: that he was impetuous, sarcastic, and unamiable, is to be regretted; but it must also be admitted that the grossest injustice was done him and the cause of science by the successor of his patron. Most of his works, which were numerous, and written in Latin, are still extant. The Emperor Rodolphus purchased his expensive astronomical and other instruments; but they were mostly destroyed after the battle of the Weisseberg, near Prague, in 1620. A large sextant alone remains in Prague. The famous brass celestial globe, which was six feet in diameter, and cost about a thousand pounds, returned to Copenhagen after various adventures, but perished in the great fire of 1728. The castle of Uranienborg, where he nightly watched and pondered, has long been in ruins, leaving scarcely a trace of its structure and character. All, however, has not perished, nor been fruitless. ‘It was the friendship of Tycho,’ says an eminent authority, ‘which formed Kepler, and directed him in the career of astronomy. Without this friendship, and without the numerous observations of Tycho, of which Kepler found himself the depositary after the death of his master, he would never have been able to discover those great laws of the system of the world which have been called ‘Kepler’s Laws,’ and which, combined with the theory of central forces, discovered by Hüygens, conducted Newton to the grandest discovery which has ever been made in the sciences—that of universal gravitation.’
GALILEO.
The Copernican theory, which Tycho had labored in vain to supersede, was next received and supported by an Italian philosopher, whose name and history are inseparably interwoven with the progress of astronomy. That illustrious individual, Galileo Galilei, usually known by his Christian name, was born at Pisa in 1564. His father, a Tuscan nobleman of small fortune, caused him to be educated for the profession of medicine at the university of his native city. While studying there, he became deeply sensible of the absurdities of the philosophy of Aristotle, as it had then come to be taught, and he became its declared enemy. That spirit of observation for which he was so distinguished was early developed. When only nineteen years old, the swinging of a lamp suspended from the ceiling of the cathedral in Pisa, led him to investigate the laws of the oscillation of the pendulum, which he was the first to employ as a measure of time. He left it incomplete, however, and it was brought to perfection by his son, Vincenzo, and particularly by Hüygens, the latter of whom must be regarded as the true inventor of the pendulum. About this period Galileo devoted himself exclusively to mathematics and natural science, and in 1586 was led to the invention of the hydrostatic balance. In 1589, his distinction in the exact sciences gained for him the chair of mathematics in his native university, where, immediately on his installation, he began to assert the laws of nature against a perverted philosophy. In the presence of numerous spectators, he performed a series of experiments in the tower of the cathedral, to show that weight has no influence on the velocity of falling bodies. By this means he excited the opposition of the adherents of Aristotle to such a degree, that, after two years, he was forced to resign his professorship. Driven from Pisa, he retired into private life; but his genius being appreciated in another part of Italy, he was, in 1592, appointed professor of mathematics in Pudua. He lectured here with unparalleled success. Scholars from the most distant regions of Europe crowded round him. He delivered his lectures in the Italian language instead of Latin, which was considered a daring innovation.
During eighteen years which he spent at Padua, he made many discoveries in natural philosophy, which he introduced into his lectures, without regard to their inconsistency with the doctrines previously taught. Among these may be mentioned his discovery of the rate of descent in falling bodies; certain improvements on the thermometer; some interesting observations on the magnet; and a number of experiments relative to the floating and sinking of solid bodies in water. In 1609, hearing that one Jansen, a Dutchman, had made an instrument by which distant objects were made to appear near, Galileo, whose mind was prepared for the discovery, instantly conceived on what principle it was constructed, and, without losing a day, he fashioned a similar instrument with many improvments: such was the origin of the telescope, the most interesting of all instruments connected with science.
Turning his optical tube towards the heavens, Galileo perceived the moon to be a body of uneven surface, the elevations of which he computed by their shadows; and the sun to be occasionally spotted; and from the regular advance from east to west of these spots, he inferred the rotation of the sun, and the inclination of its axis to the plane of the ecliptic. From a particular nebula, which his rude instrument enabled him to resolve into individual stars, he even conjectured, what Lord Rosse has but recently proved, that the whole Milky Way was but a vast assemblage of stars and systems. He discovered that the planet Venus waxed and waned like the moon, that Saturn had something like wings by its sides (afterwards found to be a ring), and that Jupiter was surrounded by four satellites. It is now altogether impossible to imagine the wonder and delight with which these discoveries must have filled the mind of a philosopher like Galileo, who had perhaps long surmised that all was not as it seemed in the heavens, but despaired of ever being able to penetrate the mystery. In the year 1611, while entering upon his investigations, he was induced, by the invitation of his prince, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, to return to Pisa, and resume the chair of mathematics there, with a large salary. It was consequently at that city that he first gave his discoveries to the world. That persecution which had only been suspended by accident in the case of Copernicus, now fell with full weight on the head of the Italian philosopher. Having openly declared, in a work which he published, that his discoveries proved the truth of the Copernican theory, he was denounced by the clergy as a heretic, and obliged, in 1615, to proceed to Rome, and appear before the court of Inquisition, who obliged him to promise that he would never more broach such dangerous doctrines. It has been stated, but is not quite certain, that he was on this occasion imprisoned by the Inquisition for five months, and that he would have suffered still more severely if the Grand Duke had not interceded for him.
For several years he observed the silence enjoined upon him, but continued to pursue the study of the true theory of the heavens. Panting to make known to the world a complete account of the system of Copernicus, yet dreading the prejudices of his enemies, he fell upon the expedient of writing a work, in which, without giving his own opinion, he introduces three persons in a dialogue, of whom the first defends the Copernican system, the second the Ptolemæan (or that of Aristotle), and the third weighs the reasons of both in such a way, that the subject seems problematical, though it is impossible to mistake the preponderance of arguments in favor of Copernicus. With this great work, which is still held in reverence, Galileo went to Rome in 1630, in the sixty-sixth year of his age, and, by an extraordinary stretch of favor, received permission to print it. Scarcely had it appeared at Rome and Florence, when it was attacked by the disciples of Aristotle, and most violently of all by the teacher of philosophy at Pisa. A congregation of cardinals, monks, and mathematicians, was appointed to examine his work, which they unhesitatingly condemned as highly dangerous, and summoned him before the tribunal of the Inquisition. This blow fell heavily on the head of Galileo, now an old man, and left defenseless by the death of his friend and patron, Cosmo II. He was compelled to go to Rome in the winter of 1633, and was immediately immured in a cell in one of the prisons of the Inquisition. There he remained for several months, when, being brought before an assembly of his judges, he was condemned to renounce, kneeling before them, with his hand upon the gospels, what were called the ‘sinful and detestable errors and heresies’ which he had maintained. The firmness of Galileo gave way at this critical moment of his life: he pronounced the recantation. But at the moment he rose, indignant at having sworn in violation of his conviction, he exclaimed, stamping his foot, ‘E pur si muove!’—(‘It still moves!’) Upon this dreadful relapse into heresy, he was sentenced to imprisonment in the Inquisition for life, and every week for three years was to repeat the seven penitential psalms; his ‘Dialogues’ were also prohibited, and his system utterly condemned. Although Galileo was in this manner sentenced to confinement, it appeared to those who judged him that he would not be able, from his age, to endure such a severe punishment, and they mercifully banished him to a particular spot near Florence.
Here Galileo lived for several years, employing his time in the study of mechanics and other branches of natural philosophy. The results are found in two important works on the laws of motion, the foundation of the present system of physics and astronomy. At the same time he tried to make use of Jupiter’s satellites for the calculation of longitudes; and though he brought nothing to perfection in this branch, he was the first who reflected systematically on such a method of fixing geographical longitudes. He was at this time afflicted with a disease in his eyes, one of which was wholly blind, and the other almost useless, when, in 1637, he discovered the libration of the moon. Blindness, deafness, want of sleep, and pain in his limbs, united to embitter his declining years; still his mind was active. ‘In my darkness,’ he writes in the year 1638, ‘I muse now upon this object of nature, and now upon that, and find it impossible to soothe my restless head, however much I wish it. This perpetual action of mind deprives me almost wholly of sleep.’ In this condition, and affected by a slowly-consuming fever, he expired in January, 1642, in the seventy-eighth year of his age. His relics were deposited in the church of Santa Croce, at Florence, where posterity did justice to his memory by erecting a splendid monument in 1737.
Galileo is represented by his biographers as of diminutive stature, but strong and healthy, of agreeable countenance, and lively conversation and manner. He preferred living in the country, where his relaxations consisted in the cultivation of his garden, and in the company and conversation of his friends. He loved music, drawing, and poetry; and is said to have been so fond of Ariosto, that he knew the whole of the ‘Orlando’ by heart. He had few books; ‘the best book,’ he said, ‘is nature.’ A complete edition of his works, in thirteen volumes, appeared at Milan in 1803, the style of which is natural and fluent, so elegant and pure, that it has been held up by competent judges as a model of classical Italian. ‘Altogether,’ says Professor Playfair, ‘Galileo is one of those to whom human knowledge is under the greatest obligation. His discoveries in the theory of motion, in the laws of the descent of heavy bodies, and in the motion of projectiles, laid the foundation of all the great improvements which have since been made by the application of mathematics to natural philosophy. If to these we add the invention of the telescope, the discoveries made by that instrument, the confirmation of the Copernican system which these discoveries afforded, and lastly, the wit and argument with which he combated and exposed the prejudice and presumption of the schools, we must admit that the history of human knowledge contains few greater names than that of Galileo.’
KEPLER.
Cotemporary with Tycho Brahé and Galileo, and to some extent the associate and successor of the former, was John Kepler, one of the most eminent astronomers who have appeared in any age, and to whom the science is indebted for much of its present perfection. He was born December 27, 1571, at Wiel in Wurtemberg, and was descended of a noble but reduced family. His father, originally an officer of distinction in the army of Wurtemberg, was, at the time of young Kepler’s birth, in the humble capacity of a small inn-keeper; and thus, as is too often the case with genius, our philosopher had to struggle into fame through poverty and the vicissitudes of his father’s fortune. Poor, unbefriended, of a weakly constitution, and one of the most diminutive of children, Kepler received the rudiments of knowledge at the Monastic school of Maulbrunn, where he gave early indications of talent, and of that irrepressible spirit which, amid the severest obstructions, was never diverted from the main object of its pursuit. After his father’s death, which took place in his eighteenth year, he left Maulbrunn, and succeeded in entering the college of Tubingen. Here he completed the course of study then prescribed—first philosophy and mathematics, and then theology; taking the degree of Bachelor in the year 1588, and that of Master of Philosophy in the year 1591. Of apt inquiring powers as a divine, and of more than average eloquence as a preacher, Kepler could now have readily succeeded in the church; but mathematics and the exact sciences were his favorite themes; and it may be fairly questioned if ever he turned a single thought to the clerical profession, beyond what the curriculum of the university compelled. In 1593–4, his reputation as a geometrician had so increased, that he was invited to fill the mathematical chair in the university of Gratz, in Styria. Here he pursued his astronomical studies with the most commendable zeal, devoting himself especially to the investigation of the physical causes of the motion of the celestial bodies.
Shortly after his installment, he married a lady descended from a noble family, and was beginning to enjoy that domestic happiness and studious quiet so congenial to his wishes, when persecution on account of his religion compelled him to leave Gratz, to which, however, he was afterwards recalled by the states of Styria. Meanwhile Tycho Brahé, who had come to Germany, and was comfortably settled under the munificent patronage of Rodolphus, fixed upon Kepler as a suitable assistant, and soon induced him, by urgent letters and flattering promises, to accept of the situation. Compelled in a great measure by the unsettled state of affairs in Austria, Kepler speedily repaired to Prague, and applied himself, in conjunction with Tycho, to the completion of the Rodolphine Tables, which were first published at Ulm in 1626. At Tycho’s recommendation, he was established at that place; but as his office and science did not afford him a subsistence, he studied medicine, in order to gain a livelihood by its practice. The emperor had assigned him a salary, but in the period of trouble which preceded the Thirty Years’ War, it was not paid. Even when he was appointed imperial mathematician by Matthias, Rodolphus’ successor, his hopes of recovering his arrears were disappointed. Fresh controversies with the clergy, and the disturbed state of the country, made his situation very uncomfortable: he therefore left Lintz, repaired to Ratisbon, declined an invitation to England, was confirmed by the succeeding emperor, Ferdinand, in the office of imperial methematician, and afterwards went to Ulm to superintend the printing of the Rodolphine Tables. In 1627 he returned to Prague, and received from the emperor six thousand guilders. He finally became a professor at Rostock, on the recommendation of Albert, duke of Wallenstein, but did not receive the promised compensation. In 1630 he went, by permission of the emperor, to Ratisbon, to claim payment of the arrears of his pension; but he was there seized with a violent fever, supposed to have been brought upon him by too hard riding; and to this he fell a victim in the month of November, in the fifty-ninth year of his age. In 1808, a monument, consisting of a Doric temple enshrining his bust, was erected to his memory in Ratisbon by Charles Theodore Von Dalberg.
Kepler is represented by his biographers as a man of small stature, thin, of a weak constitution, and defective sight; but of somewhat gay and sportive manners. He was attached to his science with the most fervent enthusiasm; he sought after truth with eagerness, but forgot, in the search, the maxims of worldly prudence. To him were allotted but a scanty share of what are commonly esteemed the pleasures of life; but he endured all calamities with firmness, being consoled by the higher enjoyments which science never fails to impart to her true and cordial votaries. ‘As an astronomer,’ says Lalande, ‘he is as famous in astronomy for the sagacious application which he made of Tycho’s numerous observations (for he was not himself an observer), as the Danish philosopher for the collection of such vast materials.’ To him, says another authority, the world is indebted for the discovery of the true figure of the planetary orbits, and the proportions of the motions of the solar system. Like the disciples of Pythagoras and Plato, Kepler was seized with a peculiar passion for finding analogies and harmonies in nature; and though this led him to the adoption of strange and ridiculous conceits, we shall readily be disposed to overlook these, when we reflect they were the means of leading him to the most important discoveries. He was the first who discovered that astronomers had been mistaken in ascribing circular orbits and uniform motions to the planets, since each of them moves in an ellipse, having one of its foci in the sun; and after a variety of fruitless efforts, he, on the 15th of May 1618, made his splendid discovery, that the squares of the periodic times of the planets are always in the same portion as the cubes of their mean distances from the sun. The sagacity of this wonderful man, and his incessant application to the study of the planetary motions, pointed out to him some of the genuine principles from which these motions originate. He considered gravity as a power that is mutual between bodies; that the earth and moon tend toward each other, and would meet in a point so many times nearer to the earth than to the moon as the earth is greater than the moon, if their motions did not prevent it. His opinion of the tides was, that they arise from the gravitation of the waters towards the moon; but his notions of the laws of motion not being accurate, he could not turn his conceptions to the best advantage. The prediction he uttered at the end of his epitome of astronomy, has been long since verified by the discoveries of Sir Isaac Newton; namely, that the determination of the true laws of gravity was reserved for the succeeding age, when the Author of Nature would be pleased to reveal these mysteries.
NEWTON.
The year in which Galileo died, was that in which Isaac Newton was born. This eminent individual, who was destined to establish the truth of the discoveries of his illustrious predecessors, Copernicus and Galileo, was born on the 25th of December 1642, at Coltersworth, in Lincolnshire, where his father cultivated his own moderate paternal property. After receiving the rudiments of education, under the superintendence of his mother, he was sent, at the age of twelve, to the grammar school at Grantham, where the bias of his early genius was shown by a skill in mechanical contrivances, which excited no small admiration. Whilst other boys were at play, his leisure hours were employed in forming working models of mills and machinery; he constructed a water-clock from an old box, which had an index moved by a piece of wood sinking as the drops fell from the bottom, and a regular dial-plate to indicate the hours.
On his removal from school, it was intended that he should follow the profession of a farmer, but his utter unfitness for the laborious toils of such a life was soon manifested. He was frequently found reading under a tree when he should have been inspecting cattle, or superintending laborers; and when he was sent to dispose of farming produce at Grantham market he was occupied in solving mathematical problems in a garret or hay-loft, whilst the business was transacted by an old servant who had accompanied him to town. These strong indications of the bias of his disposition were not neglected by his anxious mother; she sent him again for a few months to school, and on the 5th of June 1660, he was admitted a student of Trinity College, Cambridge.
The combination of industry and talents, with an amiable disposition and unassuming manners, naturally attracted the notice of his tutors, and the friendship of his admiring companions; amongst these was Isaac Barrow, afterwards justly celebrated as a preacher and a mathematician. Saunderson’s Logic, Kepler’s Optics, and the Arithmetic of Infinites by Wallis, were the books first studied by Newton at Cambridge. He read the geometry of Descartes diligently, and looked into the subject of judicial astrology, which then engaged some attention. He read little of Euclid, and is said to have regretted, in a subsequent part of his life, that he had not studied the old mathematician more deeply.
The attention of Newton, while he was pursuing his studies at Cambridge, was attracted to a branch of natural philosophy hitherto little understood—namely, light. It was the opinion of the celebrated philosopher Descartes that light is caused by a certain motion or undulation of a very thin elastic medium, which he supposed pervaded space. Newton overturned this theory. Taking a piece of glass with angular sides, called a prism, he caused the sun to shine upon it through a small hole in the shutter of a darkened apartment. By this experiment he found that the light, in passing through the glass, was so refracted or broken, as to exhibit on the wall an image of seven different tints or colors; and after varying his experiments in a most ingenious way, he established the very interesting facts, that light is composed of rays resoluble into particles, that every ray of white light consists of three primary and differently colored rays (red, yellow, and blue), each of which three is more or less refrangible than the other. This remarkable discovery laid the foundation of the science of optics.
In 1665, the students of the university of Cambridge were suddenly dispersed by the breaking out of a pestilential disorder in the place. Newton retired for safety to his paternal estate: and though he lost for a time the advantages of public libraries and literary conversation, he rendered the years of his retreat a memorable era in his own existence, and in the history of science, by another of his great discoveries—that of the theory of gravitation, or the tendency of bodies towards the center of our globe. One day, while sitting in his garden, he happened to see an apple fall from a tree, and immediately began to consider the general laws which must regulate all falling bodies. Resuming the subject afterwards, he found that the same cause which made the apple fall to the ground, retained the moon and planets in their orbits, and regulated, with a simplicity and power truly wonderful, the motions of all the heavenly bodies. In this manner was discovered the principle of gravitation, by a knowledge of which the science of astronomy is rendered comparatively perfect.
On his return to Cambridge in 1667, he was elected Fellow of Trinity College; and two years afterwards, he was appointed professor of mathematics in the place of his friend Dr. Barrow, who resigned. His great discoveries in the science of optics formed for some time the principal subject of his lectures, and his new theory of light and colors was explained, with a clearness arising from perfect knowledge, to the satisfaction of a crowded and admiring audience. He was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society in 1671, and is reputed to have been compelled to apply for a dispensation from the usual payment of one shilling weekly, which is contributed by each member towards the expenses. He had at this period of life no income except what he derived from his college and professorship, the produce of his estate being absorbed in supporting his mother and her family. His personal wishes were so moderate, that he never could regret the want of money, except as much as it limited his purchases of books and scientific instruments, and restricted his power of relieving the distresses of others. About the year 1683, he composed his great work, The Principia, or Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy. In 1688, the memorable year of the Revolution, he was chosen to represent the university in parliament, and the honor thus conferred on him was repeated in 1701. His great merit at last attracted the notice of those who had it in their power to bestow substantial rewards, and he was appointed warden of the Mint, an office for which his patient and accurate investigations singularly fitted him, and which he held with general approbation till his death. Honors and emoluments at last flowed upon him. Leibnitz, having felt envious of the discoveries of Newton, tried to revenge himself by transmitting a problem, which he thought would show his superiority, by baffling the skill of the English mathematician. It was received by Newton in the evening, after his usual day’s labor at the Mint, and he solved it before he retired to rest. After this there was no further attempt made to traduce his fame. In 1705 he received the honor of knighthood from Queen Anne.
Newton’s benevolence of disposition led him to perform all the minor duties of social life with great exactness; he paid and received frequent visits; he assumed no superiority in his conversation; he was candid, cheerful, and affable: his society was therefore much sought, and he submitted to intrusions on his valuable time without a murmur; but by early rising, and by a methodical distribution of his hours he found leisure to study and compose, and every moment which he could command, he passed with a pen in his hand and a book before him. He was generous and charitable—one of his maxims being, that those who gave nothing before death, never, in fact, gave at all. His wonderful faculties were very little impaired, even in extreme old age; and his cheerful disposition, combined with temperance and a constitution naturally sound, preserved him from the usual infirmities of life. He was of middle size, with a figure inclining to plumpness; his eyes were animated, piercing, and intelligent; the general expression of his countenance was full of life and kindness; his sight was preserved to the last; and his hair in the decline of his days was white as snow. The severe trial of bodily suffering was reserved for the last stage of his existence, and he supported it with characteristic resignation. On the 20th of March 1727, he expired at the advanced age of eighty-four years.
The character of Newton cannot be delineated and discussed like that of ordinary men; it is so beautiful, that the biographer dwells upon it with delight, and the inquiry, by what means he attained an undisputed superiority over his fellow-creatures, must be both interesting and useful. Newton was endowed with talents of the highest order; but those who are less eminently gifted, may study his life with advantage, and derive instruction from every part of his career. With a power of intellect almost divine, he demonstrated the motions of the planets, the orbits of the comets, and the cause of the tides of the ocean; he investigated with complete success, the properties of light and colors, which no man before had even suspected; he was the diligent, sagacious, and faithful interpreter of nature, while his researches all tended to illustrate the power, wisdom, and goodness of the Creator. Notwithstanding, also, his reach of understanding and knowledge, his modesty was such, that he thought nothing of his own acquirements; and he left behind him the celebrated saying, ‘that he appeared to himself as only a child picking up pebbles from the shore, while the great ocean of truth lay unexplored before him.’
HUYGENS.
While Newton, in England, was thus enlarging the boundaries of astronomy, and conferring upon it a degree of accuracy and system hitherto unknown, a number of continental philosophers were contributing materials, which, though of an humble character, were not the less necessary to the future progress of the science. First among these was Christian Hüygens, Lord of Zeelhem, born at the Hague on the 14th of April 1629, and descended of a rich and respected family. His father, secretary and counselor to the Princess of Orange, and distinguished as a scholar and poet, was not slow in observing the genius of his son, and, full of paternal solicitude for his improvement, became his first instructor. He early taught him music, arithmetic, and geography—says a writer in the Encyclopædia, from which we select the materials of this notice—and initiated him, when about thirteen, in the knowledge of mechanics, for which the boy had evinced a surprising aptitude. At fifteen, he received the assistance of a master in mathematics, under whose tuition he made great progress; and at sixteen, was sent to Leyden, to study law under the eminent jurisconsult Vinnius. He did not, however, permit jurisprudence to divert him from his mathematical studies, which he now prosecuted with success as well as afterwards at Breda, at the university of which he resided from 1646 to 1648. In these two cities he had respectively as masters two very able geometers, Francis Schooten and John Pell; and his first essays were so successful, that they attracted the notice of Descartes, to whom the author, in his admiration of that great philosopher, had communicated them. Descartes predicted his future greatness, but did not live to appreciate his discoveries.
On quitting the university, Hüygens, as was then the custom, made the tour of Europe; and after his travels, settled in his native country, where he commenced that series of inventions which have rendered his name so justly celebrated. Between the years 1650–60, his pursuits were chiefly mathematical, resulting in several publications of acknowledged merit. In 1655 he traveled into France, and took the degree of Doctor of Laws at Angers; and in 1658 made known his invention of the pendulum clock. In the following year he published his discoveries relative to the planet Saturn; discoveries which inseparably associate his name with the science of astronomy. Galileo had endeavored to explain some of the appearances exhibited by that planet. He had at first observed two attendant stars, but some time afterwards was surprised to find that they had disappeared. Hüygens, desirous to account for these changes, labored with his brother Constantine to improve the construction of telescopes; and having at length made an instrument of this kind, possessing greater power than any which had yet been contrived, he proceeded to observe the phases of Saturn, and to record all the different aspects of that planet. The results were of equal interest and importance to the science of astronomy. He discovered a satellite of that planet which had hitherto escaped the notice of astronomers; and after a long course of observation, he showed that the planet is surrounded by a solid and permanent ring, which never changes its situation. In 1660 he took a second journey into France; and the year following he visited England, where he communicated the art of polishing glasses for telescopes, and was admitted a member of the Royal Society. The air-pump, then recently invented, he materially improved; and about the same time he also discovered the laws of the collision of elastic bodies, as did afterwards Wallis and Wren, who disputed with him the honor of the discovery. After a stay of some months in England, Hüygens returned to France, where, in 1633, his merit became so conspicuous, that Colbert resolved to bestow on him such a pension as might induce him to establish himself at Paris. This resolution was not carried into effect until 1665, when letters in the king’s name were written to the Hague, where the philosopher then resided, inviting him to repair to Paris, and offering him a considerable pension, with other advantages. Hüygens accepted the proposal; and from 1666 to 1681, settled at Paris, where he was admitted a member of the Royal Academy.
During this period he was chiefly engaged in mathematical pursuits: he wrote and published several works, which were favorably received; and he invented and improved some useful instruments and machines. By continued application, his health began to be impaired, and he at length found it necessary to return to his native country—a step somewhat accelerated by the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, which rendered him liable to molestations, although assured of the fullest privilege to follow his own religious opinions. He accordingly left the French metropolis in 1681; passed the remainder of his days in his own country, and in the pursuit of his favorite subjects; and died at the Hague on the 8th of June 1683, in the sixty-seventh year of his age. ‘This illustrious man,’ continues our authority, ‘gave his whole time to science; he loved a quiet studious life, and found sufficient enjoyment in pursuing curious and useful researches. He was modest, amiable, cheerful, and in all respects as estimable in private life as he was eminent in science. It is not a little singular that the discovery of the real nature, or at least of the true figure, of the luminous ring which encompasses the planet Saturn, should have been made by the same individual who invented the pendulum clock and the micrometer.’ His inventions, however, were more of a mathematical and mechanical than of an astronomical character; and we safely predict, that had Hüygens lived in the present day, he would have risen to superlative fame as a mechanician and engineer.
HALLEY.
Dr. Edmund Halley, a name well known in the annals of astronomy, was the only son of a soap-boiler in London, and was born in 1656. He received the rudiments of his education at St. Paul’s School in his native city; and in his seventeenth year, became a commoner in Queen’s College, Oxford. At first he applied himself to the study of the languages and sciences, but at length gave himself wholly up to that of astronomy; and before he had attained his nineteenth year, published a method of finding the aphelia and eccentricity of planets, which supplied a defect in the Keplerian theory of planetary notions. By some observations on a spot on the sun’s disk in the summer of 1676, he established the certainty of the motion of that body round its own axis; and in the same year fixed the longitude of the Cape of Good Hope, by his observations of the occultation of Mars by the Moon. Immediately after, he went to St Helena, where he staid till 1678, completing a catalogue of the fixed stars of the southern hemisphere, which was published in the following year, and gained for its author the appellation of the ‘Southern Tycho.’ In 1679 he was called upon to settle a dispute between the English philosopher Hooke and the celebrated Hevelius, respecting the use of optical instruments in astronomy, and for this purpose went to Dantzic, where with honorable impartiality, he decided against his own countryman. In 1680 he made the tour of Europe, making the acquaintance of Cassini at Paris, and completing his observations from the Royal Observatory of France on the comet which now bears his name. After spending the greater part of 1681 in Italy, he returned to England, and settled at Islington, where he fitted up an observatory for his astronomical researches.
In 1683 he published his Theory of the Variation of the Magnetical Compass, in which he endeavored to account for the phenomenon, by the supposition of the whole globe being one great magnet, having four circulating magnetical poles or points of attraction. His theory, though unsatisfactory, is ingenious. The doctrines of Kepler relative to the motions of the planets next engaged his attention; and finding himself disappointed in his endeavors to obtain information on the subject from Hooke and Sir Christopher Wren, he went to Cambridge, where Newton, then mathematical professor, satisfied his inquiries. In 1691 he was candidate for the Savilian professorship of astronomy at Oxford—a chair which he would have obtained, had he not refused to profess his thorough belief in all the doctrines of the Christian religion, as taught by the church of England. For the purpose of making further observations relative to the variation of the compass, he set sail on a voyage in 1699 (having obtained the command of a vessel from King William, who was anxious to promote the cause of geographical and astronomical science); and after traversing both hemispheres, and making important observations at numerous stations, he returned to England in September 1700. As the result of his researches, he published a general chart, showing at one view the variation of the compass in all those seas where the English navigators were acquainted; and thus laid the foundation of that department of science which has since received the attention of the greatest philosophers. His next employment, under the patronage of the king, was to observe the tides in the English Channel, with the latitudes and longitudes of the principle headlands; observations which were shortly after published in a large map of the Channel. In 1703, he was engaged by the emperor of Germany to survey the coast of Delmatia; and returning in November of that year to England, he was elected Savilian professor of geometry on the death of Dr. Wallis, and was also honored with the diploma of LL.D.; a title somewhat more in consonance with his pursuits than that of ‘Captain,’ by which he had been styled from the time of his appointment to the command of the surveying vessel furnished him by King William. Dr. Halley now gave his mind more entirely to mathematics, translating into Latin from the Arabic and Greek several treatises, which he afterwards published with supplementary matter, such as those of Appolonius and Serenus.
In 1719 he received the appointment of astronomer-royal at Greenwich, where he afterwards chiefly resided, devoting his time to completing the theory of the motion of the moon, which notwithstanding his age, he pursued with enthusiastic ardor. In 1721 he began his observations, and for the space of eighteen years, scarcely ever missed taking a meridian view of the moon when the weather was favorable. He died at Greenwich in 1742, at the advanced age of eighty-six, having spent one of the most active and useful lives on record. His honors and titles were numerous, but no more than his multifarious occupations and achievements entitled him to. In all he exhibited the same promptness of resolve and incessant assiduity, willing to assist or be assisted; and never deigning it beneath him to confess when ignorant, nor to receive information from any quarter, however humble. Whether as Captain Halley, as secretary to the Royal Society, consulting engineer to the emperor of Germany, or astronomer-royal, he was the same ardent, prompt, and indefatigable laborer. His publications and papers were numerous; he gave important assistance to Dr. D. Gregory in the preparation of the conic sections of Appolonius; and to Halley are we also indebted for the publication of several of the works of Sir Isaac Newton, who had a particular friendship for him, and to whom he frequently communicated his discoveries.
FERGUSON.
We pass by several authors and observers who contributed during the time of Hüygens and Halley, to the advancement of astronomy, to notice the life of an individual whose career, while beneficial to the science under review, furnishes an ever-memorable instance of the acquirement of knowledge under the most pressing difficulties and obstructions. The most of those to whom we have adverted were men in independent circumstances, or at least so situated as to obtain at once a liberal education and the patronage and support of the great and wealthy. James Ferguson, the ingenious experimental philosopher, mechanist, and astronomer, to whom we allude, had no such advantages. He was born in 1710, a few miles from Keith, a village in Banffshire, in the north of Scotland. His parents were of the poorest order, but honest and religious, and, by toilsome labor in the cultivation of a few rented acres, contrived to rear to manhood a large family of children. Of the manner in which James acquired the rudiments of education, and how he struggled to rise from obscurity to distinction, we have a most interesting account in a memoir by himself, which we cannot do better than quote in an abridged form.
After mentioning how he learned to read with a very scanty aid from an old woman and his father, and that little more than three months’ tuition at the grammar school of Keith was all the education he ever received, he thus proceeds:—‘My taste for mechanics was soon developed; but as my father could not afford to maintain me while I was in pursuit only of these matters, and as I was rather too young and weak for hard labor, he put me out to a neighbor to keep sheep, which I continued to do for some years; and in that time I began to study the stars in the night. In the daytime I amused myself by making models of mills, spinning-wheels, and such other things as I happened to see. I then went to serve a considerable farmer in the neighborhood, whose name was James Glashan. I found him very kind and indulgent; but he soon observed, that in the evenings, when my work was over, I went into a field with a blanket about me, lay down on my back, and stretched a thread with small beads upon it, at arms-length, between my eye and the stars, sliding the beads upon it till they hid such and such stars from my eye, in order to take their apparent distances from one another; and then, laying the thread down on a paper, I marked the stars thereon by the beads, according to their respective positions, having a candle by me. My master at first laughed at me; but when I explained my meaning to him, he encouraged me to go on; and, that I might make fair copies in the daytime of what I had done in the night he often worked for me himself. I shall always have respect for the memory of that man.
‘I soon after was introduced by a schoolmaster whom I knew to a Mr. Cantley, an ingenious man, who acted as butler to Thomas Grant, Esq., of Achoynaney, and from whom I received some instruction, particularly in decimal arithmetic, algebra, and the first elements of geometry. He also made me a present of ‘Gordon’s Geographical Grammar,’ which at that time was to me a great treasure. There is no figure of a globe in it, although it contains a tolerable description of the globes, and their use. From this description I made a globe in three weeks at my father’s, having turned the ball thereof out of a piece of wood, which ball I covered with paper, and delineated a map of the world upon it, made the meridian ring and horizon of wood, covered them with paper, and graduated them: and I was happy to find that by my globe, which was the first I ever saw, I could solve the problems. But this was not likely to afford me bread; and I could not think of staying with my father, who, I knew full well, could not maintain me in that way, as it could be of no service to him; and he had, without my assistance, hands sufficient for all his work.’
Thinking it would be a very easy matter to attend a mill, and that he would have plenty of leisure for study, poor Ferguson next engaged himself to a miller; but the fellow turned out to be a harsh, ignorant drunkard, who required every moment of the boy’s time, starving and ill-using him besides, so that at the end of a year he had to betake himself to the roof of his father. He next hired himself to a farmer; but here, again, he was worked beyond the strength of his naturally delicate constitution: illness ensued, and he had again to seek the paternal refuge. ‘In order to amuse myself in this low state, I made a wooden clock, the frame of which was also of wood; and it kept time pretty well. The bell on which the hammer struck the hours was the neck of a broken bottle. Having then no idea how any timekeeper could go but by a weight and a line, I wondered how a watch could go in all positions, and was sorry that I had never thought of asking Mr. Cantley, who could very easily have informed me. But happening one day to see a gentleman ride by my father’s house, which was close by a public road, I asked him what o’clock it then was; he looked at his watch, and told me. As he did that with so much good-nature, I begged of him to show me the inside of his watch; and though he was an entire stranger, he immediately opened the watch, and put it into my hands. I saw the spring-box with part of the chain round it, and asked him what it was that made the box turn round; he told me that it was turned round by a steel spring within it. Having then never seen any other spring than that of my father’s gun-lock, I asked how a spring within a box could turn the box so often round as to wind all the chain upon it. He answered that the spring was long and thin, that one end of it was fastened to the axis of the box, and the other end to the inside of the box; that the axis was fixed, and the box was loose upon it. I told him I did not yet thoroughly understand the matter. ‘Well my lad,’ says he, ‘take a long thin piece of whalebone, hold one end of it fast between your finger and thumb, and wind it round your finger, it will then endeavor to unwind itself; and if you fix the other end of it to the inside of a small hoop, and leave it to itself, it will turn the hoop round and round, and wind up a thread tied to the outside of the hoop.’ I thanked the gentleman, and told him I understood the thing very well. I then tried to make a watch with wooden wheels, and made the spring of whalebone; but found that I could not make the watch go when the balance was put on, because the teeth of the wheels were rather too weak to bear the force of a spring sufficient to move the balance, although the wheels would run fast enough when the balance was taken off. I enclosed the whole in a wooden case very little bigger than a breakfast teacup; but a clumsy neighbor one day looking at my watch, happened to let it fall, and turning hastily about to pick it up, set his foot upon it, and crushed it all to pieces; which so provoked my father, that he was almost ready to beat the man, and discouraged me so much, that I never attempted to make such another machine again, especially as I was thoroughly convinced I could never make one that would be of any real use.’
He now turned his attention to the repairing and cleaning of clocks, and in this way managed for some time to make a livelihood. While traveling the country for this purpose, he happened to attract the notice of Sir James Dunbar of Durn, who bestowed upon him the warmest patronage, and requested him to make his mansion his home. While there, geometry, mechanics, and astronomy, alternately engaged him. ‘Two large globular stones stood on the top of his gate; on one of them I painted with oil colors a map of the terrestrial globe, and on the other a map of the celestial, from a planisphere of the stars which I copied on paper from a celestial globe belonging to a neighboring gentleman. The poles of the painted globe stood toward the poles of the heavens; on each the twenty-four hours were placed around the equinoctial, so as to show the time of the day when the sun shone out, by the boundary where the half of the globe at any time enlightened by the sun was parted from the other half in the shade; the enlightened parts of the terrestrial globe answering to the like enlightened parts of the earth at all times; so that, whenever the sun shone on the globe, one might see to what places the sun was then rising, to what places it was setting, and all the places where it was then day or night throughout the earth.’
While enjoying the hospitality of Durn, he was introduced to Lady Dipple, Sir James’ sister, who also extended to him the warmest patronage. This lady, seeing his taste for design, employed him in drawing patterns for needlework on gowns, aprons, etc., recommending his work to her acquaintances, and in a short while created, as it were, a flourishing domestic trade for the young philosopher. On removing to Edinburgh, she advised Furguson to accompany her household, in which he would have the benefit of another year’s hospitality, assured that, in the more extensive field of the metropolis, he would have a much better opportunity of rising into notice. Thither he accordingly went; was introduced into new families of distinction; drew and designed for fancy needlework; and latterly turned his attention to miniature painting, in which he so far excelled, that for six-and-twenty after, it was the business to which he trusted for a maintenance. But while engaged in painting, and enjoying the estimation of those who had been his patrons, ‘I somehow or other took a violent inclination to study anatomy, surgery, and physic, all from reading of books and conversing with gentlemen on these subjects, which for that time put all thoughts of astronomy out of my mind; and I had no inclination to become acquainted with any one there who taught either mathematics or astronomy, for nothing would serve me but to be a doctor.
‘At the end of the second year I left Edinburgh, and went to see my father, thinking myself tolerably well qualified to be a physician in that part of the country, and I carried a good deal of medicines, plasters, etc., thither; but to my mortification, I soon found that all my medical theories and study were of little use in practice. And then finding that very few paid me for the medicines they had, and that I was far from being so successful as I could wish, I quite left off that business, and began to think of taking to the more sure one of drawing pictures again. For this purpose I went to Iverness, where I had eight months’ business. When I was there, I began to think of astronomy again, and was heartily sorry for having quite neglected it at Edinburgh, where I might have improved my knowledge by conversing with those who were very able to assist me.’
Having spent some time in astronomical pursuits at Inverness, Furguson returned to Edinburgh, where he made himself known to Mr. Maclaurin, professor of mathematics, by whom he was kindly patronized, and instructed in points wherein he was deficient. Being greatly delighted with the orrery of the professor, he set about constructing one after a somewhat different principle, and succeeded so well in the undertaking that his patron not only commended it to the young men attending his class, but desired the constructor to read them a lecture on it. This so far encouraged the young philosopher, that he instantly set about the construction of another more complex, and of higher finish. This was purchased by Sir Dudley Rider when Ferguson first went to London; and he mentions in his memoir, that altogether eight orreries were constructed chiefly by his own hand, and that in no two of them was the wheelwork alike. We now follow him to London, whither he went in May 1743.
‘I had a letter of recommendation from Mr. Baron Eldin at Edinburgh to the Right Hon. Stephen Poyntz, Esq., at St. James’, who had been preceptor to his Royal Highness the late Duke of Cumberland, and was well known to be possessed of all the good qualities that can adorn a human mind. To me his goodness was really beyond my power of expression; and I had not been a month in London, till he informed me that he had written to an eminent professor of mathematics to take me into his house, and give me board and lodging, with all proper instructions to qualify me for teaching a mathematical school he (Mr. Poyntz) had in view for me, and would get me settled in it. This I should have liked very well, especially as I began to be tired of drawing pictures; in which, I confess, I never strove to excel, because my mind was still pursuing things more agreeable. He soon after told me he had just received an answer from the mathematical master, desiring I might be sent immediately to him. On hearing this, I told Mr. Poyntz that I did not know how to maintain my wife during the time I must be under the master’s tuition. ‘What!’ says he, ‘are you a married man?’ I told him I had been so ever since May, in the year 1739. He said he was sorry for it, because it quite defeated his scheme, as the master of the school he had in view for me must be a bachelor.
‘He then asked me what business I intended to follow. I answered that I knew of none besides that of drawing pictures. On this he desired me to draw the pictures of his wife and children, that he might show them, in order to recommend me to others; and told me that when I was out of business, I should come to him, and he would find me as much as he could—and I soon found as much as I could execute; but he died in a few years after, to my inexpressible grief.
‘Soon afterwards it appeared to me, that although the moon goes round the earth, and that the sun is far on the outside of the moon’s orbit, yet the moon’s motion must be in a line—that is, always concave towards the sun; and upon making a delineation representing her absolute path in the heavens, I found it to be really so. I then made a simple machine for delineating both her path and the earth’s on a long paper laid on the floor. I carried the machine and delineation to the late Martin Felkes, Esq., president of the Royal Society, on a Thursday afternoon. He expressed great satisfaction at seeing it, as it was a new discovery; and took me that evening with him to the Royal Society, where I showed the delineation, and the method of doing it.
‘In the year 1747, I published a dissertation on the phenomena of the harvest moon, with a description of a new orrery, in which there are only four wheels. But having never had grammatical education, nor time to study the rules of just composition, I acknowledge that I was afraid to put it to press; and for the same cause, I ought to have the same fears still. But having the pleasure to find that this my first work was not ill received, I was emboldened to go on in publishing my ‘Astronomy,’ ‘Mechanical Lectures,’ ‘Tables and Tracts relative to several Arts and Sciences,’ a small treatise on ‘Electricity,’ and ‘Select Mechanical Exercises.’
‘In the year 1748, I ventured to read lectures on the eclipse of the sun that fell on the 14th of July in that year. Afterwards I began to read astronomical lectures on an orrery which I made, and of which the figures of all the wheelwork are contained in the 6th and 7th plates of ‘Mechanical Exercises.’ I next began to make an apparatus for lectures on mechanics, and gradually increased the apparatus for other parts of experimental philosophy, buying from others what I could not make for myself. I then entirely left off drawing pictures, and employed myself in the much pleasanter business of reading lectures on mechanics, hydrostatics, hydraulics, pneumatics, electricity, and astronomy; in all which my encouragement has been greater than I could have expected.’
To this narrative we shall add the few particulars which are necessary to complete the view of Ferguson’s life and character. It was through the zeal of George III in behalf of science, that Ferguson was honored with the royal bounty of £50 a-year. His majesty had attended some of the lectures of the ingenious astronomer, and often, after his accession, sent for him to converse upon scientific topics. He had the extraordinary honor of being elected a member of the Royal Society, without paying either the initiatory or the annual fees, which were dispensed with in his case, from a supposition of his being too poor to pay them without inconvenience. To the astonishment of all who knew him, it was discovered, after his death, that he was possessed of considerable wealth—about £6000. ‘Ferguson,’ says Charles Hutton in his Mathematical Dictionary, ‘must be allowed to have been a very uncommon genius, especially in mechanical contrivances and inventions, for he constructed many machines himself in a very neat manner. He had also a good taste in astronomy, as well as in natural and experimental philosophy, and was possessed of a happy manner of explaining himself in a clear, easy, and familiar way.
His general mathematical knowledge, however, was little or nothing. Of algebra he understood little more than the notation; and he has often told me that he could never demonstrate one proposition in Euclid’s Elements; his constant method being to satisfy himself as to the truth of any problem with a measurement by scale and compasses.’ He was a man of very clear judgment in everything that he professed, and of unwearied application to study: benevolent, meek, and innocent in his manners as a child: humble, courteous, and communicative: instead of pedantry, philosophy seemed to produce in him only diffidence and urbanity. After a long and useful life, worn out with study, age, and infirmities, he died November 16, 1776.
SIR WILLIAM HERSCHEL.
The science of astronomy, which, from the time of Copernicus, had been gradually improving, through the laborious exertions of Tycho Brahè, Galileo, Kepler, Hüygens, Newton, Halley, Delisle, Lalande, and other eminent observers of the starry firmament, was considerably advanced by the discoveries of Herschel, whose biography now comes under our notice.
William Herschel was born at Hanover on the 15th of November 1738. He was the second of four sons, all of whom were brought up to their father’s profession, which was that of a musician. Having at an early age shown a peculiar taste for intellectual pursuits, his father provided him with a tutor, who instructed him in the rudiments of logic, ethics, and metaphysics, in which abstract studies he made considerable progress. Owing, however, to the circumscribed means of his parents, and certain untoward circumstances, these intellectual pursuits were soon interrupted, and at the age of fourteen he was placed in the band of the Hanoverian regiment of guards, a detachment of which he accompanied to England about the year 1757 or 1759. His father came with him to England, but after the lapse of a few months, he returned home, leaving his son, in conformity with his own wish, to try his fortune in Great Britain—the adopted home of many an ingenious foreigner. How or when he left the regimental band in which he had been engaged, we are not informed. After struggling with innumerable difficulties, and no doubt embarrassed by his comparative ignorance of the English tongue, he had the good fortune to attract the notice of the Earl of Darlington, who engaged him to superintend and instruct a military hand at the time forming for the Durham militia. After fulfilling this engagement, he passed several years in Yorkshire, in the capacity of teacher of music. He gave lessons to pupils in the principal towns, and officiated as leader in oratorios or concerts of sacred music—a kind of employment in which the Germans are eminently skilled, from their love of musical performances. Herschel, however, while thus engaged in earning an honorable livelihood, did not allow his professional pursuits to engross all his thoughts. He sedulously devoted his leisure hours in improving his knowledge of the English and Italian languages, and in instructing himself in Latin, as well as a little Greek. At this period he probably looked to these attainments principally with a view to the advantage he might derive from them in the prosecution of his professional studies; and it was no doubt with this view also that he afterwards applied himself to the perusal of Dr. Robert Smith’s ‘Treatise on Harmonics’—one of the most profound works on the science of music which then existed in the English language. But the acquaintance he formed with this work was destined ere long to change altogether the character of his pursuits. He soon found that it was necessary to make himself a mathematician before he could make much progress in following Dr. Smith’s demonstrations. He now, therefore, turned with his characteristic alacrity and resolution to the new study to which his attention was thus directed; and it was not long before he became so attached to it, that almost all the other pursuits of his leisure hours were laid aside for its sake.
Through the interest and good offices of a Mr. Bates, to whom the merits of Herschel had become known, he was, about the close of 1765, appointed to the situation of church-organist at Halifax. Next year, having gone with his elder brother to fulfill a short engagement at Bath, he gave so much satisfaction by his performances, that he was appointed organist in the Octagon chapel of that city, upon which he went to reside there. The place which he now held was one of some value; and from the opportunities which he enjoyed, besides, of adding to its emoluments by engagements at the rooms, the theatre, and private concerts, as well as by taking pupils, he had the certain prospect of deriving a good income from his profession, if he had made that his only or his chief object. This accession of employment did not by any means abate his propensity to study for mental improvement. Frequently, after the fatigue of twelve or fourteen hours occupied in musical performances, he sought relaxation, as he considered it, in extending his knowledge of the pure and mixed mathematics. In this manner he obtained a competent knowledge of geometry, and found himself in a condition to proceed to the study of the different branches of physical science which depend upon the mathematics. Among the first of these latter that attracted his attention, were the kindred departments of astronomy and optics. Some discoveries about this time made in astronomy awakened his curiosity, and to this science he now directed his investigations at his intervals of leisure. Being anxious to observe some of those wonders in the planetary system of which he had read, he borrowed from a neighbor a two-feet Gregorian telescope, which delighted him so much, that he forthwith commissioned one of larger dimensions from London. The price of such an instrument, he was vexed to find, exceeded both his calculations and his means; but though chagrined, he was not discouraged; he immediately resolved to attempt with his own hand the construction of a telescope equally powerful with that which he was unable to purchase; and in this, after repeated disappointments, which served only to stimulate his exertions, he finally succeeded.
Herschel was now on the path in which his genius was calculated to shine. In the year 1774, he had the inexpressible pleasure of beholding the planet Saturn through a five-feet Newtonian reflector, made by his own hands. This was the beginning of a long and brilliant course of triumphs in the same walk of art, and also in that of astronomical discovery. Herschel now became so much more ardently attached to his philosophical pursuits, that, regardless of the sacrifices of emolument he was making, he began gradually to limit his professional engagements and the number of his pupils. Meanwhile, he continued to employ his leisure in the fabrication of still more powerful instruments than the one he first constructed; and in no long time he produced telescopes of from seven to twenty feet focal distance. In fashioning the mirrors for these instruments, his perseverance was indefatigable. For his seven-feet reflector, it is asserted that he actually finished and made trial of no fewer than two hundred mirrors before he found one that satisfied him. When he sat down to prepare a mirror, his practice was to work at it for twelve or fourteen hours, without quitting his occupation for a moment. He would not even take his hand from what he was about, to help himself to food; and the little that he ate on such occasions was put into his mouth by his sister. He gave the mirror its proper shape more by a natural tact than by rule; and when his hand was once in, as the phrase is, he was afraid that the perfection of the finish might be impaired by the least intermission of his labors.
It was on the 13th of March, 1781, that Herschel made the discovery to which he owes, perhaps, most of his popular reputation. He had been engaged for nearly a year and a-half in making a regular survey of the heavens, when, on the evening of the day that has been mentioned, having turned his telescope—an excellent seven-feet reflector, of his own constructing—to a particular part of the sky, he observed among the other stars, one which seemed to shine with a more steady radiance than those around it; and, on account of that, and some other peculiarities in its appearance, which excited his suspicion, he determined to observe it more narrowly. On reverting to it after some hours, he was a good deal surprised to find that it had perceptibly changed its place—a fact, which, the next day, became still more indisputable. At first he was somewhat in doubt whether or not it was the same star, which he had seen on these different occasions; but after continuing these observations for a few days longer, all uncertainty upon that head vanished. He now communicated what he had observed to the royal astronomer, Dr. Maskelyne, who concluded that the luminary could be nothing else than a new comet. Continued observation of it, however, for a few months, dissipated this error; and it became evident that it was, in reality, a hitherto undiscovered planet.
This new world, so unexpectedly found to form a part of the system to which our own belongs, received from Herschel the name of Georgium Sidus, or Georgian Star, in honor of the king of England; but by continental astronomers, it has been more generally called either Herschel, after its discoverer, or Uranus. He afterwards discovered, successively, no fewer than six satellites or moons, belonging to his new planet.
The anouncement of the discovery of the Georgium Sidus, at once made Herschel’s name universally known. In the course of a few months the king bestowed upon him a pension of £300 a-year, to enable him entirely to relinquish his engagements at Bath; and upon this, he came to reside at Slough, near Windsor. He now devoted himself entirely to science, and the constructing of telescopes, and observations of the heavens, continued to form the occupations of the remainder of his life.
Astronomy is indebted to him for many more most interesting discoveries besides the celebrated one of which we have just given an account, as well as for a variety of speculations of the most ingenious, original, and profound character. But of these we cannot here attempt any detail.
He also introduced some important improvements into the construction of the reflecting telescope, besides continuing to fabricate that instrument of dimensions greatly exceeding any that he had formerly attempted, with powers surpassing, in nearly a corresponding degree, what had ever been before obtained. The largest telescope which he had ever made was his famous one of forty feet long, which he erected at Slough, for the king.
It was begun about the end of the year 1785, and on the 28th of August 1789 the enormous tube was poised on the complicated but ingeniously-contrived mechanism by which its movements were to be regulated, and ready for use. On the same day a new satellite of Saturn was detected by it, being the sixth that had been observed attendant on that planet. A seventh was afterward discovered, by means of the same instrument. This telescope has since been taken down, and replaced by another of only half the length, constructed by the distinguished son of the subject of our present sketch.
So extraordinary was the ardor of this great astronomer in the study of his favorite science, that for many years, it has been asserted, he never was in bed at any hour during which the stars were visible, and he made almost all his observations, whatever the season of the year, not under cover, but in his garden, in the open air—and generally without an attendant. By these investigations Herschel became acquainted with the character of the more distant stars, upon which he wrote a variety of papers. In 1802, he presented to the Royal Society a catalogue of five thousand new nebulæ, nebulous stars, planetary nebulæ, and clusters of stars; thus opening up a boundless field of research, and making the world aware of the sublime truth of there being an infinitude of heavenly bodies far beyond the reach of ordinary vision, and performing in their appointed places the offices of suns to unseen systems of planets.
These discoveries established Herschel’s claims to rank amongst the most eminent astronomers of the age, and amply merited the distinctions conferred upon him by learned bodies and the reigning prince. In 1816, George IV, then prince regent, invested him with the Hanoverian and Guelphic order of knighthood. He was now, from being originally a poor lad in a regimental band, rewarded for his long course of honorable exertion in the cause of science. Herschel (now Sir William) did not relinquish his astronomical observations until within a few years of his death, which took place on the 23d of August, 1822, when he had attained the age of eighty-three. He died full of years and honors, bequeathing a large fortune, and leaving a family which has inherited his genius.
SIMON BOLIVAR.
The Spanish colonies of South America remained for three centuries in quiet submission to the mother country, if we except the desperate attempt of the Peruvian Indians, under Tupac Amaru, to throw off the yoke of their oppressors. Never were despotism, avarice and slavish obsequiousness to power, more thoroughly displayed than in Spanish America, under the government of the viceroys and captains-general, who, with all the principal officers of the viceroyal court, were sent to America from Madrid, and who, without being under any efficient responsibility, administered their authority with every species of tyranny and venality. Justice was bought and sold, and the most important legal decisions were made in favor of the highest bidder. The mercantile policy of the parent country was equally despotic and rapacious. The establishment of manufactures was not permitted, while cargoes of Spanish commodities, the refuse of the shops, were forced, in barter for silver and gold, upon a half-civilized people, who neither wanted nor could possibly use them. Foreign commerce was interdicted on pain of death; all social improvement was suppressed; and to prevent the inhabitants from knowing the extent of their degradation, all intercourse whatever was strictly forbidden with any country or people, besides Spain and Spaniards, and allowed even with them under many restrictions. Superstition and ignorance were upheld as the surest support of the colonial system; so that, previous to 1810, the whole continent, from Lima to Monte Video, contained but one wretched printing-press, and that in the hands of the monks, who consigned to the dungeons of the Inquisition every man who possessed a prohibited book.
The example of the revolt of the British North American colonies had a slow effect in propagating revolutionary ideas in the south; and the usurpation of the crown of Spain by Napoleon precipitated those movements which resulted, after a bloody struggle, in wresting from the dominion of Spain the whole of her continental possessions in America. In this momentous contest, Simon Bolivar bore the most conspicuous part, and his life comprises the substance of the history of the country in which his military exploits were performed during its most eventful period.
This celebrated man was born in the city of Caraccas, in July, 1783. He belonged to a family of distinction, and was one of the few natives of the Spanish colonies who were permitted to visit Europe. After finishing his studies at Madrid, he went to France, and during his stay at Paris rendered himself an acceptable guest in its social circles, by the amenity of his manners, and his other personal recommendations. In the midst, however, of all the seductions of that gay capital, his sanguine temper and ardent imagination anticipated the task which the future fortunes of his country might impose upon him, and even in his twenty-third year he is said to have contemplated the establishment of her independence. While at Paris his favorite occupation was the study of those branches of science which contribute to the formation of the character of a warrior and statesman. Humboldt and Bonpland were his intimate friends, and accompanied him in his excursions in France; nor did he think his travels finished till he had visited England, Italy, and a part of Germany. On his return to Madrid, he was married, and shortly afterwards returned to America, where he arrived in 1810, at the very moment when his countrymen were about to unfurl the standard of independence. On his passage homeward, he visited the United States, where he gathered some political knowledge which subsequent events rendered highly useful to him.
The revolution began in Venezuela on Good Friday, April 19, 1810, when, by a popular movement, the captain-general of Caraccas was arrested and deposed, and a congress convened to organize a new government. The talents and acquirements of Bolivar pointed him out as the best qualified person to be placed at the helm; but he disapproved of the system adopted by the congress, and refused a diplomatic mission to England. He even declined any connection with the government, though he continued a staunch friend to the cause of independence. But at length he consented to proceed to England, where he solicited the British cabinet in vain to espouse the cause of the revolution. Finding them resolved to maintain a strict neutrality, he returned to Caraccas after a short stay. In the mean time, the declaration of independence was boldly maintained by military force. Miranda was appointed commander-in-chief. Bolivar took the post of colonel in the army, and governor of Puerto Cabello, the strongest place in Venezuela.
Success attended the arms of the patriots till 1812, when a remarkable event caused them the most serious reverses. In March of that year a violent earthquake devastated the whole province, and among other places totally destroyed the city of Caraccas, with all its magazines and munitions of war. This dreadful calamity, in which twenty thousand persons perished, happened, by a most remarkable coincidence, on the anniversary of the very day in which the revolution had broken out, two years before. The priesthood, who, as a body, were devoted to the royal interest, eagerly seized upon this circumstance. In their hands, the earthquake became the token of the Divine wrath against the revolutionary party. The superstitious multitude were easily deluded and terrified with such representations and denunciations. Priests, monks, and friars, were stationed in the streets, vociferating in the midst of credulous throngs of people trembling with fear, while the royalist commanders improved the occasion by overrunning one district after another. Bolivar was compelled to evacuate Puerto Cabello. Miranda’s conduct having become suspicious, he was arrested by the patriot leaders and delivered up to the Spanish commander, who sent him to Spain, where he died in a dungeon. Bolivar is supposed to have had a share in this transaction, in consequence of which he has been severely censured. There were some circumstances, however, which appeared to justify a suspicion that Miranda was engaged in a hostile plot with the British cabinet.
Bolivar was now entrusted with the command of an army of six thousand men, which he led across the mountains to the further extremity of New Granada. In the hostilities of this period, deeds of the most revolting ferocity were perpetrated by the royalist troops, and the whole country was reduced to a frightful state of misery. On the most trivial pretexts, old men, women and children, were arrested and massacred as rebels. Friars and military butchers reigned triumphant. One of the Spanish officers, named Suasola, cut off the ears of a great number of patriots, and had them stuck in the caps of his soldiers for cockades. Bolivar, who had hitherto conducted the war with great forbearance, was inflamed with indignation at these cruelties; he swore to avenge his countrymen, and declared that every royalist who fell into his hands should be consigned to the vengeance of his soldiery. But this spirit of inexorable justice and retaliation ill accorded with Bolivar’s character, and it was exercised only on one occasion, when eight hundred Spaniards were shot. Afterwards it was formally announced by Bolivar, that ‘no Spaniard shall be put to death except in battle. The war of death shall cease.’
The royalists, who, by the practice of the most bloody and ferocious atrocities, had gained possession of nearly the whole country, now began to give way before the arms of Bolivar. Passing from one victory to another, he drove the enemy from every post, and on the 4th of August, 1814, made his triumphant entry into the renovated city of Caraccas. The enthusiasm and joy of the people exceeded all bounds, and this was certainly the most brilliant day in his whole career. Greeted by the acclamations of thousands of the inhabitants, artillery, bells and music, the Liberator was drawn into the city in a triumphal car by twelve beautiful young ladies, of the first families of the capital, dressed in white, and adorned with the patriot colors, while others crowned him with laurel, and strewed his way with flowers. All the prisons were thrown open, and hundreds who had been suffering for political opinions came forth, pale and emaciated, to thank him for their liberation. The royalists throughout the province capitulated, and the triumph of the patriots was complete.
Bolivar was now constituted dictator, and entrusted with unlimited power. This measure was prompted by the sentiments of enthusiasm and gratitude during the first moments of exultation in the people; but, as is the case in all infant republics, they soon began to give manifestations of a jealousy for that liberty which had cost them such sacrifices. The power of the dictator, who delegated his authority to his inferior officers, by whom it was frequently abused, redoubled their apprehensions. Suspicions arose, that the primary object of Bolivar was his own aggrandisement. In consequence of this, on the 2d of January 1814, he made a formal tender of his resignation. This lulled the suspicions of the people, and the royalists having begun to rally and arm their negro slaves, he was solicited to retain the dictatorship. The war was now renewed, and many battles were fought. On the 14th of June, 1814, Bolivar was defeated at La Puerta, with the loss of fifteen hundred men; and again, on the 17th of August, near his own estate of San Mateo, where the negro leader Boves, with a squadron of cavalry named the ‘infernal division,’ with black crape on their lances, rushing with hideous shouts from an ambush, scattered his remaining forces, and would have made him a prisoner but for the fleetness of his horse. His cousin, Ribas, was taken and shot, and his head set upon the wall of Caraccas. Bolivar’s beautiful family mansion was burned to the ground, and he was compelled, in September, to leave the royalists again in complete possession of all Venezuela, while thousands of the patriot army deserted to their ranks.
In spite of these reverses, we find him, in December of the same year, at the head of two thousand men, marching upon the city of Bogota, which he stormed and captured. But other circumstances having caused him to despair of any permanent success against the Spaniards at that time, he left the country in May 1815, and retired to Jamaica. The war in Europe being brought to a close, the Spanish government were enabled to send an army of twelve thousand men, under General Morillo, to Venezuela and New Granada. This commander overran both provinces, and executed two thousand of the inhabitants. While Bolivar resided at Kingston, in Jamaica, he employed himself in writing a defense of his conduct in the civil war of New Granada, and issued several spirited exhortations to the patriots, for which his assassination was attempted by the royalist party. A Spaniard, stimulated by a bribe of fifty thousand dollars and a promise of perfect absolution by the church, ventured upon this undertaking. He obtained admission into Bolivar’s apartment, and stabbed to the heart his secretary, who, by chance, was lying in the general’s hammock.
From Jamaica, Bolivar proceeded to Hayti, where he raised a force of blacks and patriot emigrants, with which he landed in Cumana, in July, 1816. But, at Ocumare, he was surrounded by the royalists, defeated with great slaughter, and again expelled from the country. A few months afterwards, he landed once more upon the continent, and, after a battle of three days, completely routed the army of Morillo. This success reinstated him in the office of captain-general, and supreme head, and he followed up this advantage by other victories over the royalists. On the 15th of February, 1819, the congress of the Venezuelan republic was installed at Angostura, when Bolivar submitted the plan of a republican constitution, and formally laid down his authority. A strong representation of the exigencies of the times was again pressed upon him and became his inducement to resume it. In the following summer he undertook an expedition across the Cordilleras. Fatigue and privations of every kind were endured with exemplary fortitude in the advance of the army through this wild, precipitous and barren region, where they lost their artillery and most of their equipments. On the heights of Tunja, they found a Spanish army of three thousand five hundred men, whom they instantly attacked and defeated. This, and a subsequent victory at Boyaca, compelled the Spanish commander-in-chief, Barreyro, to surrender the remnant of his army. Samano, the Spanish viceroy, fled from Bogota, leaving in the treasury a million of dollars behind him; and the deliverance of New Granada was complete.
The immediate consequence of this success was the union of the two provinces of Venezuela and New Granada, under the title of the Republic of Columbia, and Bolivar was appointed president, in 1819. It would much exceed our limits to relate all the military events which followed till the final expulsion of the Spanish armies from the country. Peru had now revolted, and solicited the aid of the Columbians. Bolivar marched an army into that country in 1822, drove the royalists from Lima, and was appointed dictator by the Peruvian congress. On the 6th of August, 1824, he gained the important victory of Junin, and the Peruvian congress shortly after tendered him a present of a million of dollars, which he refused. The royalists being again defeated at Ayacucho, by General Sucre, on the 9th of December, 1824, the war of Spanish American independence was finally closed, after one hundred thousand lives had been sacrificed. Bolivar resigned the dictatorship of Peru in the following February, and in his tour through the country, witnessed one uninterrupted scene of triumph and extravagant exultation,—of dinners, balls, bull-fights, illuminations, triumphal arches and processions. A sumptuous banquet was given on the summit of the famous mountain of Potosi, and the Liberator, in the enthusiasm excited by the excessive adulation which he received, exclaimed on that occasion, ‘The value of all the riches that are buried in the Andes beneath my feet is nothing compared to the glory of having borne the standard of independence from the sultry banks of the Oronoco, to fix it on the frozen peak of this mountain, whose wealth has excited the envy and astonishment of the world.’
A new republic, formed out of the conquered provinces, was now constituted, and named, from the Liberator, Bolivia. From this republic he received a gift of a million of dollars, on condition that the money should be appropriated to the liberation of negro slaves in that territory. At the request of the congress, he framed a scheme of government, known as the ‘Bolivian code.’ This was adopted both in Bolivia and by the congress of Lima, where Bolivar was made president. On the 22d of June, 1826, a scheme projected by him for a grand congress of the Spanish American republics, was carried into effect, and this meeting, consisting of deputies from Columbia, Mexico, Guatimala, Peru and Bolivia, was convened at Panama. The main object of this congress was to establish an annual convention of state representatives, to discuss diplomatic affairs, decide international disputes, promote liberal principles, and insure a union of strength in repelling any foreign attack. This was a noble idea, but too vast an undertaking for the means of performance which actually existed within the control of the Liberator, and it led to no great practical results.
On the return of Bolivar to Columbia, he found two thirds of the republic in a state of insurrection. Great dissatisfaction existed in Venezuela with the central government, and the inhabitants, headed by Paez, a mulatto general, rose and declared themselves in favor of a federal system. Bolivar, having reached Bogota, the capital, assumed extraordinary powers, being authorized to take that step by the constitution, in its provisions for cases of rebellion. He then proceeded to Venezuela; but, instead of punishing the insurgents, he announced a general amnesty, and confirmed Paez in the general command which he had assumed. This led to strong suspicions that the insurrection had been instigated by Bolivar, in order to afford a pretext for assuming the dictatorship, and that he and Paez had acted with a collusive understanding. The truth, on this subject, has never yet been clearly revealed. The presence of Bolivar quieted the commotion, as, in spite of the suspicions which rested upon him, his popularity was still very great. He addressed a letter to the senate of Columbia, disclaiming all ambitious designs, and offering his resignation. This proposal caused violent debates in the congress, and many members voted to accept it; but a majority were in favor of continuing him in office.
At a congress held at Ocana, in March, 1828, Bolivar assumed more of an anti-republican tone, and recommended strengthening the executive power. Many of his adherents, in which the soldiery were included, seconded his views, and declared that the people were not prepared to appreciate the excellence of institutions purely republican; a fact of which there can be little doubt. They carried this doctrine, however, to an unwarrantable extreme, by insisting that the president should be intrusted with absolute discretionary power. This proposition was indignantly rejected by a majority of the congress, and the partisans of Bolivar vacated their seats; in consequence of which, that body was left without a quorum, and dissolved. The city of Bogota then took the matter into its own hands, and conferred upon Bolivar the title of Supreme Chief of Columbia, with absolute power to regulate all the affairs of government. His immediate concurrence in this illegal and revolutionary measure has been deemed a sufficient proof that it was brought about by his instigation. On the 20th of June, 1829, he entered that city in magnificent state, and assumed his authority. These proceedings could not but lead to violent measures. An attempt was soon made to assassinate the dictator. Several persons broke into his chamber at midnight, and shot two officers of the staff, who were with him; Bolivar himself only escaped by leaping out of the window and lying concealed under a bridge. Santander, the vice-president, and several officers of the army, were tried and convicted of being implicated in this conspiracy. The former was sentenced to death, but Bolivar was satisfied with banishing him from Columbia.
The whole country became rent with factions, commotions and rebellion. The popularity of the Liberator was gone, and his authority was disclaimed in almost every quarter. The events which ensued do not require to be specified here, as they are nothing more than a repetition of what had been acted over many times before. At length, Bolivar, finding his influence at an end, and his health and spirits broken, determined to withdraw from public life, take leave of the country, and retire to Europe. At a general convention at Bogota, in January, 1830, he resigned his authority for the last time, and rejected many entreaties to resume it. He withdrew to the neighborhood of Carthagena, where he spent nearly two years in retirement, when, finding his end approaching, he issued his farewell address to the people of Columbia, in the following words:—
‘Columbians,—I have unceasingly and disinterestedly exerted my energies for your welfare. I have abandoned my fortune and my personal tranquillity in your cause. I am the victim of my persecutors, who have now conducted me to my grave: but I pardon them. Columbians, I leave you. My last prayers are offered up for the tranquillity of my country; and if my death will contribute to this desirable end, by extinguishing your factions, I shall descend with feelings of contentment into the tomb that is soon to receive me.’ A week afterwards, he breathed his last, at San Pedro, near Carthagena, on the 17th of December, 1831, at the age of forty-eight.
His death appears to have afflicted his countrymen with the deepest sorrow and remorse. In an instant they forgot the jealousies and suspicions which had filled their breasts, with regard to their great chief, and, by a sudden revulsion of feeling, they indulged in the most bitter self-reproach at the reflection, that the man who had devoted his fortune and his life to the liberation and welfare of his country, had sunk under their ungenerous reproaches, and died of a broken heart, the victim of national ingratitude. Almost every town in Columbia paid honors to his memory by orations, funeral processions, and other demonstrations of grief and respect.
The fortunes of this eminent man were most singular. During one period his was regarded as one of the greatest characters of modern times. At the present moment he is almost forgotten; and another generation may witness the revival of his fame. In the early part of his career he was believed to be a disinterested patriot; at the close he had totally lost the confidence of his countrymen, and he died tainted with the suspicion of intriguing with the French government to subjugate the country by European arms and establish a monarchy. There are some acts of his life which have an equivocal character; but, judging of his whole conduct from such evidence as is within our reach, we are compelled to pronounce his acquittal of the charge of entertaining designs hostile to the liberties of his country. Bolivar is not to be judged by the standard which we apply to the character and merits of Washington. The cool-tempered, orderly, intelligent, and well educated North Americans, who achieved their independence with a moderation, sobriety and self-restraint, which drew forth the applause and admiration of the world, were a very different race from the heterogeneous population of Columbia, ignorant, insubordinate, superstitious, fanatical, ferocious, little advanced in civilization, and subject to all the sudden impulses of a rash and fiery southern temper. It was impossible to govern such men, amid the turbulence of jealous factions, by the weak instrument of a written constitution.
The proofs of Bolivar’s disinterestedness are very strong. He sacrificed a large fortune in the cause of his country; and had many opportunities of acquiring enormous wealth, all of which he neglected. As a military commander, he is entitled to high praise. Though often defeated, his perseverance and fortitude, in rising superior to every obstacle, are everywhere conspicuous. The difficulties of marshalling, disciplining, and leading an army to battle during the revolution of Columbia, are hardly to be conceived. Bolivar’s troops often consisted chiefly of desperate adventurers, eager only for pay and plunder; ragged Creoles, Indians, naked negroes, and cavalry of half-savage Llaneros mounted on wild horses. Whole regiments often deserted from one side to the other, and back again, according to the chance of success.
The fatigues, cares and anxieties to which he was constantly exposed during a most eventful career of nearly twenty years, were strongly marked in his countenance, and at forty-five he had the appearance of a man of sixty. He was capable of enduring the most severe labor; was a remarkably bold horseman, and was fond of dancing in his spurs. He was abstemious in personal matters, but hospitable and highly munificent in giving entertainments. His manners were easy and dignified, and he was gifted with an extraordinary faculty of prompt repartee in conversation. In one instance, he was known to give seventeen unpremeditated answers in succession, each of which, if prepared by deliberate study, would have been admired for its happy adaptation to the subject and the occasion. In proposing a toast, in returning thanks, or in speaking impromptu on any casual subject, he never was surpassed.
FRANCIA, THE DICTATOR.
This singular individual, named José Gaspar Rodriguez Francia, was born near Assumpcion, in Paraguay, in the year 1757. His father was either a Frenchman or a Portuguese, and his mother a Paraguay Creole.
He was one of several children. At the university of Cordova, in Tucuman, he received such an education as a classical seminary in the interior of South America could furnish. Being a person of a shrewd, saturnine disposition, and retired, studious habits, he contrived, by close application, to acquire a degree of knowledge seldom placed within the reach of a student whose pursuits were watched by the jealous ecclesiastics of that region. In addition to the branches of education common in the university, he contrived to acquire some knowledge of algebra, geometry and Greek. Having prosecuted his studies through the ordinary term, he returned to Paraguay, and entered into practice as a lawyer. His professional reputation, in that country where justice was regularly bought and sold, was not only unsullied by venality, but conspicuous for rectitude. The following anecdote of his uprightness has been related by a writer no way disposed to be unduly partial to the subject of it.
Francia had an acquaintance in Assumpcion, of the name of Domingo Rodriguez. This man had cast a longing eye upon a certain Naboth’s vineyard; and this Naboth, named Estanislao Machain, was Francia’s open enemy. Rodriguez, never doubting that the young advocate, like other lawyers, would undertake an unrighteous cause for a suitable reward, went to him, offered a liberal retaining fee, and directed him to institute a suit in law, for the recovery of the estate in question. Francia saw at once that the pretensions were founded in injustice and fraud; and he not only refused to act as his counsel, but plainly told Rodriguez, that, much as he disliked his antagonist, Machain, yet if he persisted in his iniquitous suit, he would himself undertake the cause of the injured party. Covetousness, however, is not so easily driven from its purpose. Rodriguez persisted, and, as he was a man of great fortune, the suit appeared to be going against Machain and his estate. At this critical stage of the affair, the slave who attended the door of the luckless Machain, was astonished, one evening, to see Francia present himself before it, wrapped up in his cloak. Knowing that the doctor and his master, like Montague and Capulet, were ‘smoke in each other’s eyes,’ he refused him admittance, and ran to inform his master, of this strange and unexpected visit. Machain, no less struck by the circumstance than his slave, for some time hesitated, but at length determined to admit his old enemy. In walked the silent visitor to Machain’s chamber, and spread the papers connected with the law-case upon the table.
‘Machain,’ said Francia, ‘you know I am your enemy. But I know that my friend Rodriguez meditates, and will certainly, unless I interfere, carry on against you an act of gross and lawless aggression. I have come to offer my service in your defense.’ The astonished man could scarcely credit his senses; but he poured forth his expressions of gratitude in terms of thankful acquiescence.
Pleas, it would appear, are made in that country by writing. The first paper sent into court confounded the adverse counsel, and staggered the judge, who was in their interest. ‘My friend,’ said that functionary to the leading advocate for the plaintiff, ‘I cannot proceed in this matter, unless you bribe Dr. Francia to be silent.’ ‘I will try,’ was the answer; and the advocate went to him with a hundred doubloons. He offered them as a bribe to Francia, to let the matter slip; and more surely to gain his consent, he advised him that this was done at the suggestion of the judge himself.
‘Leave my house, with your vile proposals and contemptible gold!’ was the indignant answer; amd the menial tool of the unjust judge waited for no further dismissal. Francia, putting on his capote, hurried at once to the residence of that magistrate. ‘Sir,’ said he, after mentioning the attempt to bribe him, ‘you are a disgrace to law, and a blot upon justice. You are, moreover, completely in my power; and unless tomorrow you pronounce a decision in favor of my client, I will make your seat upon the bench too hot for you; and the insignia of your judicial office shall become the emblems of your shame.’ The morrow did not fail to bring a decision in favor of Francia’s client. The Judge lost his character, and the young doctor’s fame resounded far and wide.
His uncommon reputation for integrity, a more than common acuteness and learning in his profession, profound knowledge of the foibles and peculiarities of his countrymen, together with his fame for a mysterious familiarity with the occult sciences, soon caused Dr. Francia to be regarded as a most remarkable personage. In the deplorable state of ignorance then existing in South America, it was a wonderful faculty that enabled a man to multiply and substract the letters of the alphabet; to read a language written in strange characters; to measure an angle, and ascertain the height of a mountain with a theodolite. Francia, celebrated for universal knowledge, stood upon high vantage-ground, and in a great public exigence could not fail to be looked upon as one of the individuals destined to take the lead in public affairs.
When the province of La Plata revolted from Spain, the people of Paraguay refused to acknowledge the authority of the former government; in consequence of which an army was sent from Buenos Ayres, in 1810, under Gen. Belgrano, to reduce Paraguay. He was defeated and driven back. The next year a revolutionary government was established, and Francia, who had previously been in public office as a member of the municipal council and mayor of the capital, Assumpcion, was appointed secretary of the congress. Everything was in confusion; the army, as is usual on such occasions, seemed inclined to take the lead, and for some time, faction and terror alone prevailed; but Francia, at this critical moment, obtained an ascendancy which he never afterwards lost. His superior talents, address and information were continually in requisition and made him indispensable on all occasions. Nothing of any importance could be transacted without him. The members of the congress were entirely inexperienced in political matters, and grossly illiterate. Such a body attempted to found a republic, and we are told that their constitution was compiled from passages in Rollin’s Ancient History!
The business proceeded with small success under such auspices. Intrigues, cabals and factions disgusted Francia to such a degree that he resigned his office, and retired to his country seat. The reader may wish for a picture of so remarkable a man as this Dionysius, of the western world, and we will copy the following description of him at the period of his retirement. It is drawn by an English merchant, who resided in Paraguay at that time:
‘On one of those lovely evenings in Paraguay, after the south-west wind had both cleared and cooled the air, I was drawn, in my pursuit of game, into a peaceful valley, remarkable for its combination of all the striking features of the scenery of the country. Suddenly I came upon a neat and unpretending cottage. Up rose a partridge; I fired, and the bird came to the ground. A voice from behind called out, ‘Buen tiro.’—‘a good shot.’ I turned round, and beheld a gentleman of about fifty years of age, dressed in a suit of black, with a large scarlet capote, or cloak, thrown over his shoulders. He had a mate-cup in one hand, a cigar in the other; and a little urchin of a negro, with his arms crossed, was in attendance by the gentleman’s side. The stranger’s countenance was dark, and his black eyes were very penetrating; while his jet hair, combed back from a bold forehead, and hanging in natural ringlets over his shoulders, gave him a dignified and striking air. He wore on his shoes large golden buckles, and at the knees of his breeches the same.
‘In exercise of the primitive and simple hospitality common in the country, I was invited to sit down under the corridor, and to take a cigar and mate, or cup of Paraguay tea. A celestial globe, a large telescope, and a theodolite, were under the little portico; and I immediately inferred that the personage before me was no other than Doctor Francia. He introduced me to his library, in a confined room, with a very small window, and that so shaded by the roof of the corridor, as to admit the least portion of light necessary for study. The library was arranged on three rows of shelves, extending across the room, and might have consisted of three hundred volumes. There were many ponderous books on law; a few on the inductive sciences; some in French, and some in Latin, upon subjects of general literature, with Euclid’s Elements, and some schoolboy treatises on algebra. On a large table were several heaps of law papers and processes. Several folios, bound in vellum, were outspread upon it. A lighted candle, though placed there solely to light cigars, lent its feeble aid to illumine the room; while a mate-cup and inkstand, both of silver, stood on another part of the table. There was neither carpet nor mat on the brick floor; and the chairs were of such ancient fashion, size, and weight, that it required a considerable effort to move them from one spot to another.’
Francia’s withdrawal left the government without an efficient adviser. Embarrassments multiplied, and a second congress was convened; ‘such a congress,’ we are told, ‘as never met before in the world; a congress which knew not its right hand from its left; which drank infinite rum in the taverns, and had one wish,—that of getting on horseback home to its field-husbandry and partridge-shooting!’ Such men, and we need not wonder, could not govern Paraguay. Francia was called from his retirement, and a new constitution was formed, with two chief magistrates, called consuls. Francia and a colleague were appointed to these offices for one year; each in supreme command for four months at a time; but as the former took the precedence, he had two thirds of the year for his own term of authority. Two carved chairs were prepared for the use of the consuls, one inscribed with the name of Cæsar, and the other with that of Pompey. It is needless to say which of the consuls took possession of the former. By consummate address and management, and by the influence which he had obtained over the troops, Francia got rid of his colleague at the close of the year, in 1814, and was proclaimed dictator for three years. At the end of that time, he found no difficulty in assuming the dictatorship for life. From the moment that he felt his footing firm, and his authority quietly submitted to, his whole character seemed to undergo a remarkable change. Without faltering or hesitation, without a pause of human weakness, he proceeded to frame the boldest and most extraordinary system of despotism that was ever the work of a single individual. He assumed the whole power, legislative and executive; the people had but one privilege and one duty,—that of obedience. All was done rapidly, boldly, unreservedly, and powerfully; he well knew the character of the people at whose head he had placed himself, and who, strange to say, once thought themselves possessed of energy and virtue enough for a republic.
The army, of course, was his chief instrument of power. It consisted of five thousand regular troops, and twenty thousand militia. He took care to secure their most devoted attachment, and it does not appear that during his whole career of despotism the smallest symptom of disaffection was ever manifested in their ranks. Francia, at the time of his accession to the supreme authority, was past the age when any dormant vice, save that of avarice, is likely to spring up in the character. He was not dazzled with the pomp and circumstance of exalted rank, nor even by that nobler weakness, the desire of fame; for he took no pains to make an ostentatious display of his power, or spread his reputation among foreign nations, or hand his name down to posterity. On the contrary, he carefully shrouded himself, and, as far as possible, his dominions, in haughty seclusion. His ruling, or rather his absorbing passion, was a love of power, and of power for itself alone. It was with him a pure, abstracted principle, free from desire of the splendor which usually surrounds it, of the wealth which usually supports it, and of the fame which usually succeeds it.
The most remarkable feature in his administration was the perfect isolation in which he placed the country. Intercourse with foreign nations was absolutely interdicted. Commerce was at an end. The ships lay high and dry, their pitchless seams yawning, on the banks of the rivers, and no man could trade but by the Dictator’s license. No man could leave Paraguay on any pretext whatever, and it became as hermetically sealed against the escape of its inhabitants as the ‘Happy Valley’ of Abyssinia. In this restrictive policy he was assisted by the peculiar geographical features of the country. Paraguay, in the midst of an immense and thinly-peopled continent, stood alone and impenetrable; its large rivers, wide forests and morasses, render traveling difficult and hazardous. Any one attempting to cross the frontiers must encounter the danger of losing himself in the wilderness, of being destroyed by those immense and terrible conflagrations to which the thick woods are subject, of excessive fatigue and exposure, of starvation, and attacks from venomous reptiles, wild beasts and savages. The only possibility of escape is during the time that the river Paraguay overflows the surrounding plains; it is then barely practicable. A Frenchman, with five negroes, made the attempt in 1823. One of them died of fatigue, another by the bite of a snake. At one time they were surrounded by the burning woods; and at another were involved in an immense glade in the midst of a forest, where they wandered about for fifteen days in search of an outlet, and were finally obliged to return by the opening through which they escaped. Being at last so reduced by fatigue and famine that they were unable to resist a single man, they were recaptured by a sergeant of militia.
But Francia’s tyranny was not without signal benefits to the country. The land had peace, while all the rest of Spanish America was plunged into frightful anarchy, raging and ravening like a huge dog-kennel gone mad. Paraguay was domineered over by a tyrant, but Peru and Mexico, Chili and Guatimala, suffered the oppression of forty tyrants. Francia’s soldiers were kept well drilled and in strict subordination, always ready to march where the wild Indians or other enemies made their appearance. Guard-houses were established at short distances along the rivers, and around the dangerous frontiers; and wherever an Indian cavalry horde showed itself, an alarm-cannon announced the danger; the military hastened to the spot, and the savage marauders vanished into the heart of the deserts. A great improvement, too, was visible in other quarters. The finances were accurately and frugally administered. There were no sinecures in the government; every official person was compelled to do his work. Strict justice between man and man was enforced in the courts of law. The affair of Naboth’s vineyard could not have occurred under the Dictator’s rule. He himself would accept no gift, not even the smallest trifle. He introduced schools of various sorts, promoted education by all the means in his power, and repressed superstition as far as it could be done among such a people. He promoted agriculture in a singular manner, not merely making two blades of grass grow where one grew before, but two crops of corn in a season. In the year 1820, a cloud of locusts devastated the whole country, and the prospect of universal famine threatened the land. The summer was at an end, and there was no foreign commerce by which supplies might be obtained from abroad. Francia hit upon an expedient, such as had never entered into the contemplation of any man in Paraguay before. He issued a peremptory command, ordering, under a severe penalty, that the farmers throughout the country should sow their lands anew. The result was, that a second crop was produced, and the people amazed with the important discovery that two harvests were, every year, possible in Paraguay. Agriculture made immense progress; the cultivation of many articles, before unknown in the country, was now successfully introduced, and, among others, rice and cotton. Manufactures kept pace with agriculture, and the clothing of the people, which had previously, for the most part, been imported ready made, at a great expense, was now entirely produced at home.
The city of Assumpcion was an assemblage of narrow, crooked, irregular streets, interspersed with trees, gardens, and clumps of tropical vegetation. It had no pavements, and, standing on a slope of ground, the sandy thoroughfare was torn by the rain into gullies, impassable, except by taking long leaps. Numerous springs issued from the soil in every part of the city, and formed streams, or stagnated into pools, where every species of filth became deposited. Francia determined on having it remodeled, paved, and straightened. The inhabitants were ordered to pull down their houses, and build them anew. The cost to private purses was great, and caused infinite grumbling; but Assumpcion is now an improved, paved city, and possesses convenient thoroughfares.
The stern temper and arbitrary political system of Francia led him to acts which could not fail of being denounced as the wanton excesses of a sanguinary disposition. He put to death upwards of forty persons, as we are assured by a traveler, who utters the bitterest denunciations against him. He had frightful prisons, and banished disorderly persons to a desolate spot in the wilderness. How far his executions were wanton and unjustifiable, we have not sufficient means of judging. In the early part of his career, a plot was formed for the purpose of taking his life; it was discovered, and executions followed; after which we hear nothing more of these sanguinary deeds. His enemy, the bandit chieftain Artigas, had done a great deal of injury to Paraguay, and had incensed him further by fomenting revolts among his Indians. Yet, when one of this chieftain’s lieutenants rebelled against him, and forced him to retreat with the wreck of his army, Artigas threw himself on the mercy of the Dictator, and was treated with clemency. He suffered him to reside in Paraguay, assigned him a house and lands, with a pension, and ordered the governor of the district to furnish him besides with whatever accomodations he desired, and to treat him with respect.
The Dictator’s treatment of foreigners who found their way into his dominions, was most rigorous and unjust, and has contributed more than any other cause to blacken his character among strangers. Paraguay was a sort of mouse-trap, easy enough to get into, but very difficult to get out of. M. Bonpland, the fellow-traveler of Humboldt, and two Swiss naturalists, wandering into Francia’s domains, were detained there many years. Sometimes, by special permission, an individual was allowed to leave the country, but these instances were rare. The foreigners detained were informed that they might pursue what avocations they pleased, provided they did not interfere with the government.
The father of Francia was a man of very eccentric habits; his brothers and one of his sisters were lunatics, and the Dictator himself was subject to fits of hypochondria, which seem occasionally to have affected his intellect. When under such influences, he would shut himself up for several days. On one of these occasions, being offended at the idle crowds gazing about the government-house, he gave the following order to a sentinel:—‘If any person presumes to stop and stare at my house, fire at him; if you miss him, this is for a second shot, (handing him another musket loaded with ball;) if you miss again, I shall take care not to miss you!’ This order being quickly made known throughout the city, the inhabitants carefully avoided passing near the house, or, if their business led them that way, they hurried on with their eyes fixed on the ground. After some weeks, an Indian, who knew nothing of the Spanish language, stopped to gaze at the house, and was ordered to move on, but continued to loiter. The sentinel fired, and missed him. Francia, hearing the report, was alarmed, and summoned the sentinel. ‘What news, friend?’ On being told the cause, he declared that he did not recollect having given such an order, and immediately revoked it.
The domestic establishment of the Dictator of Paraguay consisted of four slaves, three of them mulattoes, and the fourth a negro, whom he treated with great mildness. He led a very regular life, and commonly rose with the sun. As soon as he was dressed, the negro brought him a chafing-dish, a kettle, and a pitcher of water. The Dictator made his own tea; and after drinking it, he took a walk under the colonnade fronting upon the court, smoking a cigar, which he always took care previously to unroll, in order to ascertain that it contained no poison; although his cigars were always made by his sister. At six o’clock came the barber, an unwashed and ragged mulatto, given to drink, but the Dictator’s only confidential menial. If his excellency happened to be in good humor, he chatted over the soap-dish, and the shaver was often intrusted with important commissions in preparing the public for the Dictator’s projects; so that he might be said to be the official gazette of Paraguay. He then stepped out, in his dressing-gown of printed calico, to the outer colonnade, an open space which ranged all around the building; here he walked about, receiving at the same time such persons as he admitted to an audience. About seven, he withdrew to his room, where he remained till nine. The officers then came to make their reports, and received orders. At eleven, his chief secretary brought the papers which required inspection by him, and wrote from his dictation till noon. He then sat down to a table, and ate a frugal dinner. After this, he took a siesta, drank a cup of mate, and smoked a cigar. Till four or five in the afternoon, he again attended to business; the escort then arrived to attend him, and he rode out to inspect the public works. While on this duty, he was armed with a sabre and a pair of double-barreled pocket-pistols. He returned home about nightfall, and sat down to study till nine, when he took his supper, consisting of a roast pigeon and a glass of wine. In fine weather, he took an evening walk in the outer colonnade. At ten, he gave the watchword, and, returning into the house, he fastened all the doors with his own hands.
Though possessing unlimited sway over the finances of the state, he made no attempt to enrich himself, and his small salary was always in arrears to him. His two nephews, who were officers in the army, were dismissed, lest they should presume upon their relationship. He banished his sister from his house, because she had employed a grenadier, one of the soldiers of the state, on some errand of her own. He was a devoted admirer of Napoleon, whose downfall he always deplored. The Swiss traveler, Rengger, who, after a long detention, was permitted to depart, left behind him a print of the French emperor. Francia sent an express after him, inquiring the price of it. Rengger sent him for answer, that the print was at his excellency’s service,—he did not sell such trifles. The Dictator immediately despatched the print after him;—he would receive no gifts. There seems to have originally existed in him somewhat of the simple and severe virtue, which is more characteristic of a stern republican than of a sanguinary tyrant. He has left one witticism upon record, which we will subjoin, as it is much in character. Rengger, who was a surgeon, was about to dissect a body. ‘Doctor,’ said the Dictator, ‘examine the neck, and see whether the Paraguayans have not an extra bone there, which hinders them from holding up their heads, and speaking out.’
In the accounts which were written of this extraordinary man during his lifetime, he has been represented as an arbitrary and cruel oppressor, universally detested, and whose death, inasmuch as he had made no provision for the continuance of the government, would plunge the state into anarchy and ruin. Both these representations have been completely falsified by the event. Francia died peaceably, on the twentieth day of September, 1840, aged eighty-three; the people crowding round his house with much emotion, and even, as we are assured, with tears of anxiety and sympathy. The funeral discourse pronounced on the occasion surprised the world; it was filled with praises of the deceased Dictator, whom it represented as the real father of his country.
Enough is known of Dr. Francia to assure us that he was a most remarkable individual; but it would be both difficult and unsafe to draw his character with confidence and minuteness, from the meagre and questionable materials which we possess respecting him. That he was a man of iron integrity in a country where corruption and venality were almost matters of course with public men; that he spent thirty years of his life in toilsome devotion to his country; that he was above the vulgar love of money, and disdained to take advantage of his unlimited power for enriching himself,—are all incontrovertible facts; that his government was also, on the whole, advantageous to his country, is not to be denied. But what were the motives which guided his conduct? Was it patriotism, or a simple love of power? Why adopt so strange a system of policy—that of interdicting all intercourse with other nations? Was it from a conviction that this was best adapted to the condition of the people, or that it was indispensable to the preservation of his despotic sway? Why enshroud himself in such mysterious isolation, holding as little commerce of affection and sympathy with his fellow-men us of trade with foreign nations? These are questions which we cannot easily answer. If we may rely upon the scattered glimpses of his career that have been presented to us, we should venture to decide that the main elements of his character consisted of stern integrity and devoted patriotism; blended, however, with natural sternness of temper, a love of power, and a conviction that a despotic government was best suited to the condition of the people. His singular habits were, probably, the result of native eccentricity; his exclusive policy was doubtless adopted with the double motive of perpetuating his authority, and insuring tranquillity to the country. Of the vigor of his mind and energy of his character, there can be no doubt. That he should have created and sustained, for thirty years, the sternest despotism that the world ever witnessed, in the heart of a continent where everything besides was tending to the dissolution of tyrannical power and the establishment of popular institutions, is a phenomenon that may well excite the curiosity and astonishment of the world. We may, indeed, suppose that his government was modeled after that of the Jesuits, the effects of which were still visible in his time; but that he should have been able to assume to himself, and exercise for so long a period, the unlimited power wielded by these sagacious priests, must still excite our surprise.
ALEXANDER WILSON.
This extraordinary man, who, from being originally an operative weaver, became by his own unaided exertions one of the most celebrated ornithologists of his day, was born in Paisley on the 6th of July 1766. His father was a distiller, poor in fortune, though said to have been endowed with an active and sagacious mind. He was so unfortunate as to lose his mother at the early age of ten, and was left without the tender and judicious care which a mother alone can give. On attaining his thirteenth year, he was bound apprentice for three years to his brother-in-law, to learn the business of a weaver, and on the expiry of this term, continued to work as a journeyman for four years more.
The employment of a weaver was by no means congenial to the disposition and propensities of the future ornithologist; but as his father, though a highly respectable man in character, was in very indifferent circumstances, young Wilson had no choice left, but was compelled to adopt that which was readiest and most easily attained. It is much to his credit, however, that though he must have felt—indeed it is certain that he did feel, and that at a very early age—that he was fitted for higher things, he yet diligently labored at the humble but honorable calling to which destiny had appointed him, and never allowed such feelings to interrupt his industry. At this period of his life he indulged in a predilection for poetical composition, and wrote several pieces which appeared in the ‘Glasgow Advertiser;’ but in these juvenile attempts he was not very successful, nor was he ever, at any after period, fortunate in this department of literature, though his poetical productions are certainly not without very considerable merit.
Having continued at the loom, as already said, for four years as a journeyman weaver, at the end of this period he abandoned the business, to accompany his brother-in-law, who had commenced traveling merchant or pedlar, in a tour through the eastern districts of Scotland—an employment which, though it could scarcely claim any sort of precedence in point of rank over that which he had left, he yet gladly embraced, as it at once released him from the confinement and dull monotony of his former occupation, and permitted him to indulge in one of his strongest propensities, which was to ramble over hill and dale, and to enjoy unfettered and unrestrained, the beauties of his native land. With such a disposition, it is not to be wondered at that, as a pedlar, he made much greater progress in the study of nature, and perhaps of man, and in the extending of his ideas, than in the improvement of his fortunes. The acquisition of money was no object with him, and of course, as it was not sought, it was not found.
At this time Burns was in the zenith of his fame, and Wilson, tempted by his success, resolved to publish his poems—the accumulated pieces of preceding years—and in 1789, contracted with a printer in Paisley for this purpose, but was obliged to abandon the idea for the time, for want of means to carry it into effect. He, however, published them some time afterwards, with the title of ‘Poems, Humorous, Satirical, and Serious,’ at his own risk, after having in vain endeavored to procure subscribers, and carried them about with him in his hawking expeditions, but met with little or no success in the sale of them. Finding that he could make nothing of either poetry or traffic, he returned once more to his loom, at which he was again quietly seated, when he learned that a debating society in Edinburg had proposed for discussion the question, whether Ferguson or Allan Ramsay had done most honor to Scottish poetry. Seized with an ambition to distinguish himself on this occasion, he borrowed from a friend the poems of Ferguson, which he had never read before, and in a few days produced a poem, which he entitled the ‘Laurel Disputed,’ and in which he awarded the palm to Ferguson. With this poem in his pocket, he proceeded to Edinburg, and recited it before the audience assembled to hear the discussion. Before he left Edinburg, he also recited in public two other poems, and acquired by all a considerable degree of respect and favor. He likewise contributed occasionally, about this time (1791), to a periodical work called ‘The Bee.’ But though Wilson’s poetical efforts procured him some reputation, they did nothing for him in the way of advancing his worldly interests. The volume of poems which he published in 1789, at which period he was only twenty-two years of age, went through two small editions in octavo, but without yielding the author any pecuniary advantage. His literary reputation was, nevertheless, considerably increased by the publication of his ‘Watty and Meg,’ a poem in the Scottish dialect, and of such decided merit, that it was universally ascribed to Burns on its first appearance, which was in 1791. It is a droll and satirical description of a drunken husband and scolding wife, and shows that the author possessed a fund of broad humor.
Having soon after this embroiled himself in some serious disputes which took place in his native town between the operative weavers and their employers, by writing some severe personal satires on certain individuals of the latter class, he found his residence in Paisley no longer compatible with his comfort or happiness, and therefore determined on proceeding to America. But before taking his departure, he called on those persons whom he had satirised, expressed his sorrow for what he had done, and solicited their forgiveness. This circumstance is a pleasing proof of the generosity of his nature—that which follows a very striking one of the determination of his character. Although he had resolved on going to America, he did not possess a single shilling wherewith to pay his passage. To supply this desideratum, he instantly abandoned every other pursuit, and for four months labored with incessant industry at his loom, confining the expense of his living during this time to one shilling in the week. The result of this perseverance and rigid economy was, that at the end of the period named, he found himself in possession of the requisite sum, but nothing more. With this he set out for Portpatrick on foot, crossed to Belfast, and there engaged a passage to America; and he arrived at New York on the 14th of July 1794, with only a few shillings in his pocket, and even these were borrowed from a fellow-passenger.
Up till this period, and indeed for several years after, Wilson exhibited no indications of a genius or even predilection for that particular department of natural history in which he afterwards acquired so brilliant a name; but it is said that, immediately after landing in America, and while proceeding from the place of his disembarkation to Newcastle, his attention was strongly excited by the specimens of the feathered inhabitants of the New World which he met with, and that he was particularly delighted with the splendor of the plumage of a red-headed woodpecker, which he shot by the way. Whether or not his genius received on this occasion that bent which afterwards led to such splendid results, it is certain that he always retained a lively recollection of the feelings of surprise and delight with which he for the first time contemplated the beauties of the American woodpecker.
For many years after his arrival in America, Wilson’s condition underwent but little improvement. He found there nearly the same difficulties to contend with, and prospects nearly equally cheerless, with those he had left behind him in his native land. The first employment he obtained was with a copperplate printer in Philadelphia; but this he soon relinquished, and betook him to his original trade, weaving. This he again resigned for the pack; but his success as a pedler was not sufficient to induce him to continue by it, and he abandoned it also, and commenced teacher; making his first experiment in this laborious and somewhat precarious profession near the town of Frankford in Pennsylvania. While in this situation, he in a great measure repaired the defects of his early education, by close and unremitting study in various departments of science and knowledge; and, as has often been the case, by instructing others, he taught himself. He afterwards removed to Milestown, where he remained for several years, adding a little to the limited income arising from his school, by surveying land for farmers.
At the end of this period he applied for and obtained the appointment of schoolmaster of the Union School in the township of Kingsessing, within a few miles of Philadelphia; and it is from this period that his history in the pursuit of the bird creation commences, although he yet entertained that branch of natural history only in common with others, and by no means confined his studies to the feathered tribes. His attention was equally engrossed by a host of other animals; and his apartment, as described by himself, had the appearance of Noah’s ark, being crowded with opossums, squirrels, snakes, lizards, and other animals. Finding his ignorance of drawing a serious drawback in his new pursuit, he applied to the acquisition of this art with such diligence and determination of purpose, that he in a very short time succeeded in obtaining a command of the pencil, that enabled him to sketch from nature with great fidelity and spirit. It was not, however, till the year 1803 that Wilson conceived the magnificent design of his American Ornithology, and even then his ideas on the subject fell very far short of the great work he afterwards achieved. At this period he contemplated little more than ‘making a collection of the finest American birds,’ as he himself writes to a friend in Paisley. Having mentioned his intention to some of his American friends, they endeavored to dissuade him from prosecuting it, and, with a sincere regard for his interest, pointed out to him the formidable difficulties which he would have to encounter, and which appeared to them insurmountable. But they spoke in vain. Wilson’s ardor and enthusiasm was more than a match for their prudence; and trusting to his own resources, he quietly but resolutely proceeded with his design; although—and it is a curious fact—when he began his stupendous work on American Ornithology, he did not know even the names of more than three or four of the American birds. But from this moment he devoted himself with a zeal and energy to the accomplishment of his enterprise, which removed all obstacles as fast as they presented themselves, and swept away all difficulties, as straws are swept away by the stream.
In October 1804, with his gun on his shoulder he made the first of that series of perilous journeys through the wilds of America, which he found it necessary to perform to obtain an accurate and intimate knowledge of the birds of the forest; and amidst privations and hardships which few men but himself would have voluntarily encountered, he completed a journey of twelve hundred miles on foot, through deep snows, boundless forests, deep and dangerous rivers, and over wild and desolate mountains. But the experience of this perilous and painful excursion, instead of damping his ardor, had the effect only of increasing it. In the spring of the following year, he had completed drawings of twenty-eight rare birds, and about this time also made an attempt to acquire the art of engraving on copper, thinking, in the devotedness of his enthusiasm, that he might, by diligence and perseverance, soon attain such a proficiency in this art as would enable him to execute the plates for his contemplated work; and he actually completed two: but when he had got this length, he became dissatisfied with the result of his labors, and abandoned the pursuit. At this period the general aspect of his affairs, and those, in particular, which related to his undertaking, were exceedingly gloomy. He was without means and without money, and was persevering in a course which his friends thought an imprudent one, and was therefore without even words of encouragement to cheer him on his way. But neither these disheartening considerations, nor any other, could deter him from prosecuting his great design. So far from being discouraged by the difficulties which surrounded him, he declared that he would proceed with his plan even if it should cost him his life; and, in that noble spirit which belongs to true genius alone, exclaimed, ‘I shall at least leave a small beacon to point out where I perished.’
At the close of the year 1805, he made an unsuccessful attempt to be appointed to take part in an exploratory expedition which the American government was then about to send to the valley of the Mississippi. He addressed his application on this occasion to President Jefferson, stating to that functionary what he had done in the prosecution of his intended work on American ornithology, and representing the advantages which the being permitted to accompany the party would afford him in furthering his views. To this communication—from what cause is now unknown—he obtained no reply, and of course did not join the expedition. Soon after this, more cheering prospects presented themselves to the enterprising ornithologist. A Mr. Samuel F. Bradford, a publisher in Philadelphia, who was about to print an edition of Rees’s Cyclopedia, engaged Wilson, on what the latter himself called liberal terms, to superintend the publication of that work. But this connection presented another inducement to Wilson, and one which had infinitely greater attraction for him than any which related to his own personal advantage. This was the prospect it afforded him of procuring a publisher for his work; and so far he was not disappointed. On his explaining the nature and object of his undertaking, Mr. Bradford readily consented to become his publisher; and in September 1808, the first volume of ‘American Ornithology’ appeared, one of the most splendid books by far which had then emanated from the American press; but unfortunately the price was, though necessarily, much too high for a country comparatively in its infancy, and which had not then had time to turn its attention to the arts or sciences, or to acquire a sufficient taste for them to encourage such an expensive appeal on their behalf. The price of the work, when completed, was to be one hundred and twenty dollars. It is not therefore at all surprising to find that, even a considerable time after its publication, its ingenious, but in this respect certainly injudicious author, could only boast of forty-one names on his list of subscribers. This number, however, he afterwards increased to two hundred and fifty, by traveling through the country, and visiting the different towns in quest of patrons; but these, he himself says, were obtained ‘at a price worth more than five times the amount;’ and they no doubt were so, if wounded feelings, fatigue of body and mind, and all the humiliations to which such a mission must of necessity have frequently subjected him, be taken into the account. From this tour he returned to New York in March 1809.
Two hundred copies only of the first volume of the Ornithology had been printed, but it was now thought advisable to throw off three hundred more; which was accordingly done: and in the meantime Wilson assiduously employed himself in preparing the second volume for the press, although he neither had yet benefited to the extent of a single dollar by the publication of his work, nor was likely to do so. The second volume appeared in January 1810; and immediately after its appearance, the author set out on another tour in quest of support and patronage. This time he penetrated into the western part of the States, or valley of the Ohio and Mississippi. At Pittsburg, he succeeded beyond his expectations in getting subscribers; and after ascertaining that the roads were such as to render a land journey impossible, he bought a small boat, which he named the Ornithologist, intending to proceed in it down the Ohio to Cincinnati, a distance of more than five hundred miles. Some advised him not to undertake the journey alone; but he had made up his mind, and only waited, exploring the woods in the interval, till the ice had left the the stream. At length the time arrived for his departure on this inland voyage. His provision consisted of some biscuit and cheese, and a bottle of cordial, given him by a gentleman in Pittsburg: one end of the boat was occupied by his trunk, greatcoat, and gun; and he had a small tin vessel, with which to bale his boat, and to drink the water of the Ohio. Thus equipped, he launched into the stream. The weather was calm, and the river like a mirror, except where fragments of ice were floating down. His heart expanded with delight at the novelty and wildness of the scene, The song of the red-bird in the deep forests on the shore, the smoke of the various sugar-camps rising gently along the mountains, and the little log-huts which here and there opened from the woods, gave an appearance of life to a landscape which would otherwise have been lonely and still. He could not consent to the slow motion of the river, which flowed two miles and a half an hour; he therefore stripped himself for the oar, and added three miles and a half to his speed. Our traveler’s lodgings by night were less tolerable than his voyage, as he went down the desolate stream. The first night was passed in a log-cabin, fifty-two miles below Pittsburg, where he slept on a heap of straw.
Having reached Cincinnati, he there got a few subscribers for his work, and then proceeded to Louisville, where he sold his boat. He next walked a distance of seventy-two miles to Lexington, whence he traveled to Nashville, exploring on his journey some of the remarkable caverns of Kentucky. He had thoughts of extending his tour to St. Louis; but after considering that it would detain him a month, and add four hundred miles to his journey, without perhaps adding a single subscriber to his list, he gave up the plan, and prepared for a passage through the wilderness towards New Orleans. He was strongly urged not to undertake it, and a thousand alarming representations of hardship and danger were set before him; but, as usual, he gave fears to the winds, and quietly made preparations for the way. He set out on the 4th of May, on horseback, with a pistol in each pocket, and a fowling-piece belted across his shoulder. During this adventurous journey he suffered severely from the heat of the sun, and all the changes of the weather. His exposure by night and day brought on an illness, which he with difficulty surmounted. He had occasion to travel among the Indians, who, it seems, treated him with great kindness; and though dreadfully worn out with fatigue, he enjoyed the journey very much. He reached New Orleans on the 6th of June, and shortly after embarked in a vessel for New York, and from thence he proceeded to Philadelphia, where he arrived on the 2d of August 1810.
Wilson now applied himself with unwearied industry to the preparation of the third volume of his Ornithology. At this time, he says that the number of birds which he had found, and which had not been noticed by any other naturalist, amounted to forty. Between this period and 1812 he made several other journeys throughout the country, partly with the view of promoting the sale of his publication, and partly to procure materials for his study, an object which he never lost sight of—seldom traveling, whatever might be the immediate or ostensible cause of his changing place, without his fowling-piece.
In the year above named, he received a gratifying proof of the estimation in which his merits were beginning to be held. This was his being chosen a member of the Society of Artists of the United States: and in the spring of the following year, he was admitted to the American Philosophical Society in Philadelphia. But this extraordinary man was not destined to see either the completion of his meritorious labors, or to enjoy the triumph of achieving all that he designed. The excessive labor and fatigue of both body and mind to which he had for many years subjected himself, gradually undermined his constitution, and prepared it to yield to the first act of indiscretion to which it should be exposed; and this, unfortunately, now very soon occurred.
While sitting one day with a friend, he caught a glimpse from the window of a rare bird, for which he had long been vainly looking out. The instant he saw it he seized his gun, rushed out of the house in pursuit of it, and after an arduous chase, during which he swam across a river, succeeded in killing it; but he succeeded at the expense of his life. He caught a violent cold; this was followed by dysentery, which carried him off after an illness of ten days. He died on the morning of the 23d August 1813, in the forty-seventh year of his age, and was buried in the cemetery of the Swedish church in Southwark, Philadelphia. A plain marble monument, with an inscription intimating his age, the place and date of his birth, and of his death, marks the place of his sepulture.
Wilson had completed the seventh volume of his Ornithology before he died, and was engaged, when seized with his last illness, in collecting materials for the eighth. At this he labored with an assiduity and unintermitting industry which called forth the remonstrances of his friends. His reply, while it seems to indicate a presentiment of his premature fate, is at the same time characteristic of his extraordinary enthusiasm and diligence. ‘Life is short,’ he would say on these occasions, ‘and nothing can be done without exertion.’ Nor is a wish which he repeatedly expressed to a friend some time before his death, less characteristic of his amiable nature and deep admiration of the works of his Creator. This wish was that he might be buried where the birds might sing over his grave.
His person is described as having been tall and handsome, rather slender than robust; his countenance expressive and thoughtful, and his eye intelligent. Unfortunately for himself, the speculation in which he engaged with so much ardor yielded him no remuneration; for he had committed the serious error of issuing his work on too expensive a scale. From the publication he derived no profits whatever; and the heavy expenses he had to incur in his journeys, as well as his ordinary outlays, were only paid by the wages he received in the capacity of colorer of his own plates. Of the many active men whose biographies are before the public, there is not, perhaps, one whose life presents such a heroic resolution in the pursuit of science as Wilson. Although this most indefatigable genius did not live to enjoy the reward of his diligence, he certainly anticipated what has come to pass—that this work would always be regarded as a subject of pride by his adopted country, as it certainly is by the country which gave him birth, and would secure a high degree of honor for him whose name it bears.
JAMES WATT.
James Watt, the son of a merchant, was born at Greenock, in Scotland, on the 19th of January, 1736. He received the first part of his education at a school in his native place, and completed it at home, by his own diligence. The science of mechanics, for which he afterwards became so famous, formed, at an early age, his favorite study; and, in conformity with his desire, he was, at the age of eighteen, apprenticed to a mathematical instrument-maker, in London. The bad state of his health, however, which had before retarded his progress at school, compelled him to return, after a year’s stay in the metropolis, to Scotland. This was all the instruction he ever received in the business for which he was intended, yet he must have attained considerable skill, as, in 1757, he, at the recommendation of some relations, commenced the practice of it, at Glasgow, and was immediately appointed mathematical instrument-maker to the college. He continued to hold this situation till 1763, when he married, left his apartments in the university, for a house in the town of Glasgow, and commenced the profession of a general engineer. He soon acquired a high reputation; and in making surveys and estimates for canals, harbors, bridges, and other public works, was as extensively employed in his own country, as Brindley had been in England.
His attention to the employment of steam, as a mechanical agent, had been, in the first instance, excited by witnessing some experiments of his friend Mr. John (afterwards Dr.) Robison, and he had also made some experiments himself, with a view of ascertaining its expansive force. It was not, however, till 1763–4 that he began to devote himself seriously to the investigation of the properties of steam, and to ascertain those results upon which his fame was to be founded. An examination of Newcomen’s engine, a model of which had been sent him to repair, revived all his former impressions respecting the radical imperfections of the atmospheric machine, to the improvements of which he now ardently devoted himself. One of his first discoveries was, that the rapidity with which water evaporates, depends simply upon the quantity of heat which is imbibed, and this again on the extent of the surface of the vessel containing the water, exposed to the fire. He ascertained also the quantity of coals necessary for the evaporation of any given quantity of water, the heat at which it boils under various pressures, and many other particulars never before accurately determined.
VIEW ON GRAND RIVER, OHIO.
BRIDGE, CONEAUT RIVER.
He now proceeded to attempt a remedy of the two grand defects of Newcomen’s engine—the necessity of cooling the cylinder before every stroke of the piston, by the water injected into it; and the non-employment of the machine, for a moving power, of the expansive force of the steam. On account of the first defect, a much more powerful application of heat than would otherwise have been requisite was demanded for the purpose of again heating the cylinder, when it was to be refilled with steam. To keep this vessel, therefore, permanently hot, was the grand desideratum; and Watt at length hit upon an expedient equally simple and successful. His plan was to establish a communication, by an open pipe, between the cylinder and another vessel, the consequence of which would be, that when the steam was admitted into the former, it would flow into the latter, so as to fill that also. Supposing, then, that the steam should here only be condensed, by being brought into contact with cold water, or any other convenient means, a vacuum would be produced, into which, as a vent, more steam would immediately rush from the cylinder; this steam would also be condensed; and so the process would go on, till all the steam had left the cylinder, and a perfect vacuum had been effected in that vessel, without so much as a drop of cold water having touched or entered it. The separate vessel alone, or the condenser, would be cooled by the water used to condense the steam; which, instead of being an evil, would tend to quicken and promote the condensation. Experiments fully confirmed Watt in these views; and the consequence was, not only a saving of three-fourths of the fuel formerly required to feed the engine, but a considerable increase of its power.
In overcoming this difficulty, Watt was conducted to another improvement, which effected the complete removal of what we have described as the second radical imperfection of Newcomen’s engine, namely, its non-employment, for a moving power, of the expansive force of the steam. The effectual way, it occurred to him, of preventing any air from escaping into the parts of the cylinder below the piston, would be to dispense with the use of that element above the piston, and to substitute there likewise the same contrivance as below, of alternate steam and a vacuum. This was to be accomplished by merely opening communications from the upper part of the cylinder to the boiler, on the one hand, and the condenser on the other; and forming it, at the same time, into an air-tight chamber, by means of a cover, with only a hole in it to admit the rod or shank of the piston, which might, besides, without impeding its freedom of action, be padded with hemp, the more completely to exclude the air. It was so contrived, accordingly, by a proper arrangement of the cocks, and the machinery connected with them, that while there was a vacuum in one end of the cylinder, there should be an admission of steam into the other; and the steam so admitted now served, not only by its susceptibility of sudden condensation, to create the vacuum, but also, by its expansive force, to impel the piston.
These were the principal fundamental improvements in an engine, which has since been brought to such perfection of action and power, as to form one of the most triumphant eras in the history of human ingenuity. Instead of entering into all the subsequent contrivances which Watt invented, we cannot give a better idea of his splendid success, than by quoting the language of a recent writer. ‘In the present state of the engine, it appears a thing almost endowed with intelligence. It regulates, with perfect accuracy and uniformity, the number of its strokes in a given time, counting or recording them, moreover, to tell how much work it has done, as a clock records the beats of its pendulum; it regulates the quantity of steam admitted to work; the briskness of the fire, the supply of water to the boiler; the supply of coals to the fire; it opens and shuts its valves with absolute precision as to time and manner; it oils its joints; it takes out any air which may accidentally enter into parts which should be vacuous; and, when anything goes wrong, which it cannot of itself rectify, it warns its attendants by ringing a bell; yet, with all these talents and qualities, and even when exerting the power of six hundred horses, it is obedient to the hand of a child; its aliment is coal, wood, charcoal, or other combustible; it consumes none while idle; it never tires, and wants no sleep; it is not subject to malady when originally well made, and only refuses to work when worn out with age; it is equally active in all climates, and will do work of any kind; it is a water-pumper, a miner, a sailor, a cotton-spinner, a weaver, a blacksmith, a miller, etc., etc.; and a small engine, in the character of a steam pony, may be seen dragging after it, on a railroad, a hundred tons of merchandise, or a regiment of soldiers, with greater speed than that of our fleetest coaches. It is the king of machines; and a permanent realization of the genii of eastern fable, whose supernatural powers were occasionally at the command of man.’
Watt had, however, another difficulty to surmount; that of bringing his invention into practice. Having no pecuniary resources of his own, he applied to Dr. Roebuck, who had just established the Carron iron works, to advance the requisite funds; which he consented to do, on having two-thirds of the profits made over to him. A patent was accordingly obtained in 1769, and an engine soon after erected; but the failure of Dr. Roebuck thwarted the project, for a time, and the subject of our memoir returned to his business of a civil engineer. At length, in 1774, a proposal was made to him, to remove to Birmingham, and enter into partnership with the celebrated hardware manufacturer, Mr. Boulton. Dr. Roebuck’s share of the patent was shortly afterwards transferred to Mr. Boulton, and the firm of Boulton and Watt commenced the business of making steam-engines, in the year 1775. From this date, Mr. Watt obtained from parliament an extension of his patent for twenty-five years, in the course of which he added several new improvements to the mechanism of his engine. In particular, he exerted himself, for many years, in contriving the best methods of making the action of the piston communicate a rotatory motion in various circumstances; and, between the years 1781 and 1785, he took out four different patents, for inventions relating to this object.
The invention of Watt was fully appreciated in the scientific world. In 1785, he was elected a fellow of the Royal Society; in 1806, LL.D., by the University of Glasgow; and, in 1808, a member of the French Institute. He died on the 25th of August, 1819, in the eighty-fourth year of his age, leaving behind him a name that will descend to posterity, in connexion with an invention that has already gone far to revolutionize the whole domain of human industry. ‘The trunk of an elephant,’ it has been truly said of this machine, ‘that can pick up a pin, or rend an oak, is as nothing to it. It can engrave a seal, and crush masses of obdurate metal like wax before it; draw out, without breaking, a thread as fine as gossamer; and lift a ship of war, like a bauble, in the air. It can embroider muslin, and forge anchors; cut steel into ribands, and impel loaded vessels against the fury of the winds and the waves.’
JOHN HOWARD.
John Howard, whose name as a philanthropist must be familiar to a number of our readers, was born at Clapton, in the parish of Hackney, in the immediate vicinity of London, in or about the year 1727. His father was an upholsterer and carpet-warehouseman, who had acquired a considerable fortune in trade, and had retired from business to live at Hackney. Being a dissenter, and a man of strong religious principles, he sent his son at an early age to be educated by a schoolmaster named Worsley, who kept an establishment at some distance from London, where the sons of many opulent dissenters, friends of Mr. Howard, were already boarded. The selection appears to have been injudicious; for in after-life Mr. Howard assured an intimate friend, with greater indignation than he used to express on most subjects, ‘that, after a continuance of seven years at this school, he left it not fully taught any one thing.’ From Mr. Worsley’s school he was removed, probably about the age of fourteen, to one of a superior description in London, the master of which, Mr. Eames, was a man of some reputation for learning. His acquisitions at both seminaries seem to have been of the meagre kind then deemed sufficient for a person who was to be engaged in commercial pursuits; and it is the assertion of Mr. Howard’s biographer, Dr. Aikin, founded on personal knowledge, that he ‘was never able to speak or write his native language with grammatical correctness, and that his acquaintance with other languages—the French perhaps excepted—was slight and superficial.’ In this, however, he did not differ perhaps from the generality of persons similarly circumstanced in their youth, and destined, like him, for business.
At the age of fifteen or sixteen Mr. Howard was bound apprentice by his father to Messrs. Newnham and Shipley, extensive wholesale grocers in Watling Street, who received a premium of £700 with him. His father dying, however, shortly afterwards, and the state of his health or his natural tastes indisposing him for the mode of life for which he had been destined, he made arrangements with his masters for the purchase of the remaining term of his apprenticeship, and quitted business. By the will of his father, who is described as a strict methodical man, of somewhat penurious disposition, he was not to come into possession of the property till he had attained his twenty-fourth year. On attaining that age, he was to be entitled to the sum of £7000 in money, together with all his father’s landed and moveable property: his only sister receiving, as her share, £8000 in money, with certain additions of jewels, etc., which had belonged to her mother. Although nominally under the charge of guardians, Mr. Howard was allowed a considerable share in the management of his own property. He had his house at Clapton, which his father’s parsimonious habits had suffered to fall into decay, repaired or rebuilt, intending to make it his general place of residence. Connected with the repairing of this house an anecdote is told of Mr. Howard, which will appear characteristic. He used to go every day to superintend the progress of the workmen; and an old man who had been gardener to his father, and who continued about the house until it was let some time afterwards, used to tell, as an instance of Mr. Howard’s goodness of disposition when young, that every day during the repairs he would be in the street, close by the garden wall, just as the baker’s cart was passing, when he would regularly buy a loaf and throw it over the wall, saying to the gardener as he came in, ‘Harry, go and look among the cabbages; you will find something for yourself and family.’
After passing his twentieth year, Mr. Howard, being of delicate health, quitted his native country, and made a tour through France and Italy, which lasted a year or two; but of the particulars of which we have no account. On his return to England, probably about the year 1750, he took lodgings in Stoke Newington, living as a gentleman of independent property and quiet, retired habits, and much respected by a small circle of acquaintances, chiefly dissenters. The state of his health, however, was such as to require constant care. His medical attendants, thinking him liable to consumption, recommended to him a very rigorous regimen in diet, which ‘laid the foundation,’ says one of his biographers, ‘of that extraordinary abstemiousness and indifference to the gratifications of the palate which ever after so much distinguished him.’ This condition of his health obliged him also to have recourse to frequent changes of air and scene. Newington, however, was his usual place of residence. Here, having experienced much kindness and attention during a very severe attack of illness from his landlady, Mrs. Sarah Loidoire, an elderly widow of small property, he resolved to marry her; and although she remonstrated with him upon the impropriety of the step, considering their great disparity of ages—he being in his twenty-fifth, and she in her fifty-second year—the marriage was concluded in 1752. Nothing but the supposition that he was actuated by gratitude, can account for this singular step in Mr. Howard’s life. The lady, it appears, was not only twice as old as himself, but also very sickly; and that no reasons of interest can have influenced him, is evident, as well from the fact that she was poor in comparison with himself, as from the circumstance of his immediately making over the whole of her little property to her sister. Mr. Howard seems to have lived very happily with his wife till her death shortly afterwards, in November, 1755.
On his wife’s death, he resolved to leave England for another tour on the continent. In his former tour he had visited most of the places of usual resort in France and Italy; during the present, therefore, he intended to pursue some less common route. After some deliberation, he determined to sail first to Portugal, in order to visit its capital, Lisbon, then in ruins from the effects of that tremendous earthquake the news of which had appalled Europe. Nothing is more interesting than to observe the effects which great public events of a calamitous nature produce on different minds; indeed one of the most instructive ways of contrasting men’s dispositions, is to consider how they are severally affected by some stupendous occurrence. It is to be regretted, therefore, that we are not informed more particularly by Howard’s biographers of the reasons which determined him to visit the scene of the awful catastrophe which had recently occurred in Portugal—whether they were motives of mere curiosity, or whether they partook of that desire to place himself in contact with misery, that passion for proximity to wretchedness which formed so large an element in Howard’s character, and marked him out from the first as predestined for a career of philanthrophy.
Before leaving England to proceed on his tour to the south of Europe, Mr. Howard broke up his establishment at Stoke Newington, and, with that generosity which was so natural to him, made a distribution among the poorer people of the neighborhood of those articles of furniture for which he had now no necessity. The old gardner already mentioned used to relate that his dividend of the furniture on this occasion consisted of a bedstead and bedding complete, a table, six new chairs, and a scythe. A few weeks after this distribution of his furniture, Mr. Howard set sail in the Hanover, a Lisbon packet. Unfortunately, the vessel never reached her destination, being captured during her voyage by a French privateer. The crew and passengers were treated with great cruelty by their captors, being kept for forty hours under hatches without bread or water. They were carried into Brest, and confined all together in the castle of that place as prisoners of war. Here their sufferings were increased; and after lying for many hours in their dungeon without the slightest nourishment, they had a joint of mutton thrown in amongst them, which, not having a knife to cut it, they were obliged to tear with the hands, and gnaw like dogs. For nearly a week they lay on straw in their damp and unwholesome dungeon, after which they were separated, and severally disposed of. Mr. Howard was removed first to Morlaix, and afterwards to Carpaix, where he was allowed for two months to go about on parole—an indulgence usually accorded to officers only, but which Mr. Howard’s manners and behavior procured for him from the authorities. He was even furnished, it is said, with the means of returning to England, that he might negotiate his own exchange for some French naval officer, a prisoner of war in the hands of the English. This exchange was happily accomplished, and Mr. Howard was once more at liberty, and in England. His short captivity in France, however, was not without its good effects, by interesting him strongly in the condition of those unfortunate men who, chancing like himself to be captured at sea during war, were languishing in dungeons both in France and England, and atoning by their sufferings for the mutual injuries or discords of the nations to which they belonged. Mr. Howard’s imprisonment may be said to have first given a specific direction to his philanthropic enthusiasm. In his ‘Account of the State of Prisons,’ published a considerable time afterwards, he subjoins the following note to a passage in which he contrasts the favorable treatment which prisoners of war usually receive, with the cruelties which domestic prisoners experience:—‘I must not be understood here to mean a compliment to the French. How they then treated English prisoners of war I knew by experience in 1756, when a Lisbon packet in which I went passenger, in order to make the tour of Portugal, was taken by a French privateer. Before we reached Brest, I suffered the extremity of thirst, not having, for above forty hours, one drop of water, nor hardly a morsel of food. In the castle of Brest I lay for six nights upon straw; and observing how cruelly my countrymen were used there and at Morlaix, whither I was carried next, during the two months I was at Carpaix upon parole I corresponded with the English prisoners at Brest, Morlaix, and Dinnan. At the last of these towns were several of our ship’s crew and my servant. I had sufficient evidence of their being treated with such barbarity, that many hundreds had perished, and that thirty-six were buried in a hole at Dinnan in one day. When I came to England, still on parole, I made known to the Commissioner of Sick and Wounded Seamen the sundry particulars, which gained their attention and thanks. Remonstrance was made to the French court; our sailors had redress; and those who were in the three prisons mentioned above were brought home in the first cartel-ships. Perhaps what I suffered on this occasion increased my sympathy with the unhappy people whose case is the subject of this book.’ In Mr. Howard’s conduct, as here described by himself, we discern the real characteristic of active philanthropy. How few men are there who, like him, would have turned a personal misfortune to such good account; and who, while enduring sufferings themselves, would have occupied their thoughts with the means of putting an end, for all time coming, to the system which permitted such sufferings! Most men would have occupied the time of their imprisonment with sighs and lamentations; and once at liberty, they would have returned gleefully to the enjoyment of their homes, without troubling themselves about their less fortunate fellow-sufferers whom they had left behind, or at least without conceiving that their exertions could do anything for their benefit. But it is the characteristic of men like Howard, when once their attention is called to a wrong, not to rest until they have seen it rectified.
On his return to England, Mr. Howard went to reside on the small estate of Cardington, near Bedford, which had been left him by his father, and which he had increased by the purchase of an additional farm. He appears to have resided here for the next two years, leading the life of a quiet country gentleman, superintending his farms, and earning the respect and good-will of all the neighborhood, by his attention to the comforts of his tenants, and his charities to the poor. It was during this period also, on the 13th of May 1756, that he was elected a fellow of the Royal Society; an honor which did not necessarily imply that he possessed reputation as a scientific man, or even a man of brilliant abilities, but only that he was a gentleman of respectability, who, like many others of his class, took an interest in scientific pursuits. Howard’s attainments in science do not seem to have ever been very great, and the only point of his character which connected him particularly with a scientific body, was his taste for meteorological observations.
On the 25th of April 1758, Mr. Howard contracted a second marriage with Miss Henrietta Leeds, eldest daughter of Edward Leeds, Esq., of Croxton, Cambridgeshire. The lady whom he had selected as his partner in life is described as amiable, affectionate, pious, and in every way worthy of such a husband. Her tastes were the same as his, and she cordially seconded all his charitable plans for the assistance and relief of those who depended upon his benevolence.
For seven years Mr. Howard enjoyed uninterrupted happiness in the society of his wife. During this period he resided first at Cardington, next for about three years at Watcombe in Hampshire, and latterly at Cardington again. The even tenor of his existence during these years presents few incidents worth recording. Reading, gardening, and the improvement of his grounds, occupied most of his time. His meteorological observations were likewise diligently continued; and it is mentioned, as a proof of his perseverance in whatever he undertook, that on the setting in of a frost, he used to leave his bed at two o’clock every morning while it lasted, for the purpose of looking at a thermometer which he kept in his garden. His charities, as before, were profuse and systematic. His desire, and that of his wife, was to see all around them industrious and happy. To effect this, they used all the influence which their position as persons of property and wealth gave them over the villagers and cottagers in their neighborhood. One of their modes of dispensing charity was to employ persons out of work in making articles of furnature or ornament; and in this way, it is said, Mrs. Howard soon increased her stock of table-linen to a quantity greater than would ever be required by any household.
On the 31st of March 1765, Mrs. Howard died in giving birth to a son, the first and only issue of their marriage. This event was a source of poignant affliction to her husband. On the tablet which he erected to her memory in Cardington church, he caused to be inscribed the following passage from the book of Proverbs:—‘She opened her mouth with wisdom, and on her tongue was the law of kindness.’ Her miniature was ever after his constant companion by sea or land; and the day of her death was observed by him annually as a day of fasting, meditation and prayer.
From the death of his wife in 1765 to the end of the year 1769, Mr. Howard appears to have remained in England, and at Cardington as before, with the exception of a month or six weeks in the year 1767, which he devoted to a tour through Holland. His principal occupation during these four years was the education of his infant son. From the circumstance that this boy, when he arrived at the years of manhood, conducted himself in a profligate manner, and at last became insane, much attention has been drawn to Mr. Howard’s mode of educating him in his infancy; some insisting that his conduct as a parent was harsh and injudicious, others going so far as to asert that this man—whom the world reveres as a philanthropist, and whose benevolent soul yearned for the whole human race—was in his domestic relations a narrow and unfeeling tyrant. This last assertion—although, abstractly considered, there is nothing impossible or absurd in it, inasmuch as we may conceive such a thing as real philanthropy on a large scale conjoined with inattention to one’s immediate duties as a husband or father—appears to have absolutely no foundation whatever in Howard’s case; and to have originated either in malice, or in that vulgar love of effect which delights in finding striking incongruities in the characters of great men. Nor does the other assertion—that Howard’s mode of educating his infant son was harsh and injudicious—appear more worthy of credit. The truth seems to be, that Howard was a kind and benevolent man, of naturally Strict and methodical habits, who entertained, upon principle, high ideas of the authority of the head of a family. A friend of his relates that he has often heard him tell in company, as a piece of pleasantry, that before his marriage with his second wife he made an agreement with her, that in order to prevent all those little altercations about family matters which he had observed to be the principal causes of domestic discomfort, he should always decide. Mrs. Howard, he said, had cheerfully agreed to this arrangement; and it was attended with the best effects. The same principle of the supremacy of the head of a family—a principle much less powerful in society now than it was a generation or two ago—guided him in his behavior to his son. ‘Regarding children,’ says Dr. Aikin, ‘as creatures possessed of strong passions and desires, without reason and experience to control them, he thought that nature seemed, as it were, to mark them out as the subjects of absolute authority, and that the first and fundamental principle to be inculcated upon them was implicit and unlimited obedience.’ The plan of education here described may to some appear austere and injudicious, while others will cordially approve of it, as that recommended by experience and common sense; but at all events, the charges of harshness and cruelty which some have endeavored to found upon it are mere calumnies, refuted by all who knew Mr. Howard, and were witnesses to his affection for his son.
Sensible of the loss which the boy had sustained by the death of his mother, Mr. Howard placed him, in his fifth year, under the care of a lady in whom he had confidence, who kept a boarding-school at Cheshunt in Hertfordshire. This and other arrangements having been made, he went abroad on a fourth continental tour towards the end of 1769. Proceeding through the south of France, and spending a few weeks in Geneva, he visited most of the remarkable places in Italy, some of them for the second time; and returned home through Germany in the latter part of 1770, having been absent in all about twelve months.
When Howard had again settled at Cardington, he resumed his benevolent schemes of local improvement. It appears that the vicinity of Bedford, and Cardington especially, was inhabited by a very poor population, liable to frequent visitations of distress from the fluctuations of the only manufacture which yielded them employment—that of lace; as well as generally from the unhealthy and marshy nature of the soil, rendering agues prevalent. Mr. Howard’s first care with respect to those to whom he was attached as landlord, was to improve their dwellings. ‘At different times,’ says his biographer, Mr. Brown, ‘he pulled down all the cottages on his estate, and rebuilt them in a neat but simple style, paying particular attention to their preservation, as much as possible, from the dampness of the soil. Others which were not his property before, he purchased, and reërected upon the same plan; adding to the number of the whole by building several new ones in different parts of the village. To each of these he allotted a piece of garden-ground, sufficient to supply the family of its occupier with potatoes and other vegetables; and generally ornamented them in front with a small fore-court, fenced off from the road by neat white palings, enclosing a bed or two of simple flowers, with here and there a shrub, or an evergreen; thus imparting to these habitations of the poor, with their white fronts and thatched roofs, that air of neatness and comfort so strikingly characteristic of everything in which he engaged.’ ‘These comfortable habitations, which he let at a rent of twenty or thirty shillings a year,’ says another biographer, Dr. Aikin, ‘he peopled with the most industrious and sober tenants he could find; and over them he exercised the superintendence of master and father combined. He was careful to furnish them with employment, to assist them in sickness and distress, and to educate their children.’ In consequence of these exertions of Mr. Howard, aided and seconded by those of his friend and relative, Samuel Whitbread, Esq., who possessed property in the same neighborhood, ‘Cardington, which seemed at one time to contain the abodes of poverty and wretchedness, soon became one of the neatest villages in the kingdom—exhibiting all the pleasing appearances of competence and content, the natural rewards of industry and virtue.’ Industry and cleanliness were the two virtues which Mr. Howard sought by all means to naturalize among the villagers of Cardington. It was his custom to visit the houses of his tenants now and then, conversing with them on the state of their affairs. During such visits he was particular in requesting them to keep their houses clean; and it was one of his standing advices that they should ‘swill the floors well with water.’ After talking with the children, he would tell them, at parting, to be ‘good boys and girls, and keep their faces and hands clean.’
Among Mr. Howard’s other benefactions to the locality of Cardington, he established schools for the education of the boys and girls of the neighborhood, in the rudiments of knowledge. Of these it was strictly required that they should regularly attend some place of worship on Sundays; whether the established church, or any other, was indifferent, provided it was a church at all. His anxiety on this point also led him to convert one of his cottages into a preaching station, where the neighboring clergymen of different pursuasions, or occasionally a clergyman from a distance passing through the village, might officiate to such as chose to attend; and very rarely was the little congregation without at least one sermon a week. Mr. Howard, when at Cardington, was invariably present at these meetings. His regular place of worship was the Old Meeting-house at Bedford, of which the Rev. Mr. Symonds was pastor for 1766 to 1772. In the latter year, however, when Mr. Symonds declared his adherence to the theological tenets of the Baptists, Mr. Howard seceded along with a considerable part of the congregation, and established a new meeting-house. The truth is, however, that, with all his piety, and indeed on account of the very strength and sincerity of it, the theological differences of sects occupied very little space in his attention, and did not in the least affect his schemes of philanthropy; and though a dissenter of a particular denomination himself, dissenters of all other denominations, as well as members of the established church, were equally the objects of his respect and his benevolent solicitude.
The following recollections of Mr. Howard’s habits at this period, by the Rev. Mr. Townsend, who resided with him at Cardington for a short period, in the interval between the secession from the Old Meeting-house, and the erection of the new one, may be interesting: ‘He found him,’ he said, ‘not disposed to talk much; he sat but a short time at table, and was in motion during the whole day. He was very abstemious; lived chiefly on vegetables, ate little animal food, and drank no wine or spirits. He hated praise; and when Mr. Townsend once mentioned to him his labors of benevolence’—not those general ones for which he is now so celebrated, but his exertions for the improvement of the condition of the people in his neighborhood—‘he spoke of them slightingly, as a whim of his, and immediately changed the subject.’ ‘He was at all times,’ adds his biographer, Mr. Brown, ‘remarkably neat in his dress, but affected no singularity in it. Though he never thought it right to indulge in the luxuries of life, he did not despise its comforts. Wine or fermented liquors of any kind he himself never drank; but they were always provided, and that of the best quality, for his friends who chose to take them. He always maintained an intercourse of civility with some of the most considerable persons in the country, and was on visiting terms with the greater part of the country gentlemen around him, and with the most respectable inhabitants of the town of Bedford, churchmen and dissenters. His aversion to mix much with promiscuous assemblies was the result of his religious principles and habits, which taught him that this was no very profitable method of spending his time; yet however uncomplying he might be with the freedoms and irregularities of polite life, he was by no means negligent of its received forms; and though he might be denominated a man of scruples and singularities, no one would dispute his claim to the title of a gentleman.’
From these details our readers will be able to fancy Mr. Howard as he was in the year 1773—a widower country gentleman, of plain, upright, methodical habits, aged about forty-six; devout and exemplary in his conduct, and a dissenter by profession, but without any strong prejudices for or against any sect; temperate and economical, but the very reverse of parsimonious; fond of traveling, and exceedingly attentive to what fell under his observation; of a disposition overflowing with kindness at the aspect of a miserable object, and prompting him to go out in search of wretchedness, and to distribute over his whole neighborhood the means of comfort and happiness. Such was Mr. Howard in the year 1773; and if he had then died, his name would never have been so celebrated as it is over the world, but would only have been remembered in the particular district where his lot was cast, as the names of many benevolent landlords and good men are locally remembered all over the country. Fortunately, however, a circumstance happened which opened for this unostentatious benefactor of a village a career of world-wide philanthropy. This was his election, in the year 1773, to the important office of high-sheriff of the county of Bedford. Regarding the special circumstances which led to his election to such a post, we have no information. It may be mentioned, however, that, in accepting the office, he subjected himself to the liability of a fine of £500—the laws which disqualified dissenters from holding such offices not having been yet repealed, although they were practically set at defiance by the increasing liberality of the age. A story was indeed once current that Mr. Howard, on his nomination to the office, stated to earl Bathurst, then lord chancellor, his scruples about accepting it, arising from the fact of his not being a member of the Church of England; and that lord Bathurst, in reply, gave him an assurance of indemnification, in case any malicious person should endeavor to put the law in force against him. This story, however, does not appear to have been well-founded.
The duties of a high-sheriff in England are important and various. To him are addressed the writs commencing all actions, and he returns the juries for the trial of men’s lives, liberties, lands and goods. He executes the judgments of the courts. In his county he is the principal conservator of the peace. He presides in his own court as a judge; and he not only tries all causes of forty shillings in value, but also questions of larger amount. He presides at all elections of members of parliament and coroners. He apprehends all wrongdoers, and for that purpose, he is entitled to break open outer-doors to seize the offender. He defends the county against riot, or rebellion, or invasion. The sheriff takes precedence of all persons in the county. He is responsible for the execution of criminals. He receives and entertains the judges of assize, on whom he is constantly in attendance whilst they remain in his shire. To assist him in the performance of his duties, the sheriff employs an under-sheriff, and also a bailiff and jailers, from whom he takes security for their good conduct. Such was the office to which, fortunately for society, Mr. Howard was appointed at the annual election of sheriffs in the year 1773.
The office of high-sheriff became a different thing in the hands of such a man as Howard from what it had been before. It was no longer a mere honorable office, all the drudgery of which was performed by the under-sheriff; it was no longer the mere right of going in state twice a-year to meet the judges, and of presiding during the gayeties of an assize-week; it was a situation of real power and laborious well-doing. Already alive to the existence of numerous abuses in prison management—as well by his general information respecting the institutions of the country, as by his own experience of prison life in France seventeen years before—he had not been a month in office before all the faculties of his heart and soul were engaged in searching out and dragging into public notice the horrible corruptions and pollutions of the English prison system.
Within Mr. Howard’s own cognizance as sheriff of Bedfordshire, there were three prisons—the county jail, the county bridewell, and the town jail, all in Bedford; and, as a matter of course, it was with these that his inquiries commenced. Various abuses struck him in their management, particularly in that of the county jail, the accommodations of which, whether for the purposes of work, health, or cleanliness, he found very deficient. But what roused his sense of justice most of all, was to find that the jailer had no salary, and depended for great part of his income on the following clause in the prison regulations:—‘All persons that come to this place, either by warrant, commitment, or verbally, must pay, before being discharged, fifteen shillings and fourpence to the jailer, and two shillings to the turnkey.’ The effect which this and similar exactions from prisoners in the Bedford jail made upon him, will be best learned from his own statement prefixed to his ‘Account of the State of Prisons.’ ‘The distress of prisoners,’ he says, ‘of which there are few who have not some imperfect idea, came more immediately under my notice when I was sheriff of the county of Bedford; and the circumstance which excited me to activity in their behalf was seeing some who, by the verdict of juries, were declared not guilty—some on whom the grand jury did not find such an appearance of guilt as subjected them to trial—and some whose prosecutors did not appear against them—after having been confined for months, dragged back to jail, and locked up again till they should pay sundry fees to the jailer, the clerk of assize, etc. In order to redress this hardship,’ he continues, ‘I applied to the justices of the county for a salary to the jailer in lieu of his fees. The bench were properly affected with the grievance, and willing to grant the relief desired; but they wanted a precedent for charging the county with the expense.’
With a view to find the precedent required, Mr. Howard undertook to visit the jails of some of the neighboring counties, that he might inquire into the practice adopted there. His first visits were to the jails of Cambridge and Huntingdon; and in the course of the same month—November 1773—he prosecuted his tour through those of the following counties in addition—Northampton, Leicester, Nottingham, Derby, Stafford, Warwick, Worcester, Gloucester, Oxford, and Buckingham. In each and all of these jails he found abuses and grievances; different, indeed, in one from what they were in another, and in some fewer and less shocking than in others, but in all disgraceful to a civilized country. In all of them, the income of the jailer was derived, as at Bedford, from fees exacted from the prisoners, and not from a regular salary; nay, in one of them the sheriff himself drew fees from the prisoners; and in another, that of Northampton, the jailer, instead of having a salary, paid the county £40 a-year for his office. To enter into the details of his investigations of the abuses of the various prisons above enumerated, as these are given in the first edition of his ‘Account of the State of Prisons,’ would be impossible; suffice it to say, that Mr. Howard’s reports on the various jails he visited are not mere general assertions that this or that jail was defective in its arrangements, but laborious and minute accounts of the statistics of each—containing in the briefest possible compass, every circumstance respecting every jail which it could possibly be useful to know. Indeed no parliamentary commission ever presented a more searching, clear, and accurate report than Howard’s account of the state of the prisons he visited.
His visits to the jails of the counties adjoining Bedford had only disclosed to him those depths of misery which he was yet to sound. ‘Looking into the prisons,’ he says, ‘I beheld scenes of calamity which I became daily more and more anxious to alleviate. In order, therefore, to gain a more perfect knowledge of the particulars and extent of it, by various and accurate observation, I visited most of the county jails in England.’ This more extensive tour was begun in December 1773, and by the 17th of that month he had inspected the jails of the counties of Hertford, Berks, Wilts, Dorset, Hants, and Sussex; occupying, therefore, it will be perceived, a much less space of time in his survey than most official commissioners, and yet probably doing the work much better. The next six weeks he appears to have spent at Cardington with his son, then about eight years of age, and at home no doubt on his Christmas vacation; but towards the end of January 1774, his philanthropic tour was resumed. The jails of Rutlandshire were first visited, then those of York: on his journey southward from York he passed through the shires of Lincoln, Norfolk, Suffolk, and Essex, visiting the prisons of each: a fortnight was then devoted to an examination of the monster prisons of London: from London he set out on a journey to the western counties, inspected the jails of Devon, Cornwall, Somerset, Hereford, and Monmouth; and, after a short absence, returned to London, having, in the course of three months of expeditious and extensive, but most thorough scrutiny, acquired more knowledge of the state of English prisons than was possessed by any other man then living. Such is the effect of having a definite object in view, and attending exclusively to it. If we measure ability by mere largeness of intellect, there were undoubtedly hundreds of abler men than Howard then alive in England; but what is the lazy and languid greatness of these intellectual do-nothings compared with the solid greatness of a man like Howard, who, gifted by God with a melting love for his fellow-men, laboriously and steadily pursued one object, made himself master of one department, and dragged into daylight one class of social abuses till then unknown or unheeded?
It happened by a fortunate conjunction, that at the time Mr. Howard was pursuing his prison inquiries, a few members of the legislature were interesting themselves in the same subject. In the previous session of parliament a bill had been introduced into the House of Commons by Mr. Popham, member for Taunton, proposing the payment of jailors, not by fees from the prisoners, as heretofore, but out of the county rates. The bill had been dropped in committee on the second reading; but the subject of prison management was resumed next session, the principal movers in the inquiry being Mr. Popham, and Mr. Howard’s intimate friends, Mr. St. John and Mr. Whitbread. It would appear that it had been in consequence of consultations with Mr. Howard that these gentlemen broached the subject in parliament at so early a period in the session; at all events, we find Mr. Howard immediately after his return from his western tour, examined before a committee of the whole House regarding his knowledge of the state of English prisons. So full and valuable were the details submitted to the committee by Mr. Howard, that on the House being resumed, the chairman of the committee, Sir Thomas Clavering, reported that ‘he was directed by the committee to move the House that John Howard, Esq., be called in to the bar, and that Mr. Speaker do acquaint him that the House are very sensible of the humanity and zeal which have led him to visit the several jails of this kingdom, and to communicate to the House the interesting observations he has made upon that subject.’ The motion was adopted unanimously; and Mr. Howard had, accordingly, the honor of receiving the public thanks of the House for his philanthropic exertions. To show however, how little the spirit which animated these exertions was understood or appreciated, we may mention that it is related that during his examination before the committee, one member put the question to him, ‘At whose expense he traveled?’
Mr. Howard, however, was still only at the commencement of his labors. In the month of March 1774, only a few days after receiving the thanks of the House of Commons, he set out for the extreme north of England, to visit the jails there. In an incredibly short space of time he had traversed the counties of Durham, Northumberland, Cumberland, Westmoreland, Lancaster, Chester, and Shropshire, visiting the jails in each; then, after revisiting those of Stafford, Derby, Nottingham, Leicester, and Northampton, he returned home to Cardington; from which, after a week’s repose he sent out for Kent. With the examination of the jails of Kent, Mr. Howard’s first survey of the jails of England may be said to have been finished. To give once for all, an idea of the minute and thorough manner in which he discharged his self-imposed duty, we may quote his remarks on the county jail at Durham. After giving a list of the officials and their salaries, he proceeds thus:—‘The high jail is the property of the bishop. By patent from his lordship, Sir Hedworth Williamson, Bart., is perpetual sheriff. The court for master’s side debtors is only 24 feet by 10: they are permitted sometimes to walk on the leads. They have beds in the upper hall, and in several other rooms. Their rooms should be ceiled, that they might be lime-whited, to prevent infectious disorders, and that great nuisance of bugs, of which the debtors complain much here and other places. Common side debtors have no court; their free wards, the low jail, are two damp, unhealthy rooms, 10 feet 4 inches square by the gateway. They are never suffered to go out of these except to chapel, which is the master’s side debtor’s hall; and not always to that: for on Sunday, when I was there, and missed them at chapel, they told me they were not permitted to go thither. No sewers. At more than one of my visits I learned that the dirt, ashes, etc., had lain there many months. There is a double-barreled pump, which raises water about 70 feet. Felons have no court; but they have a day-room, and two small rooms for an infirmary. The men are put at night into dungeons: one, 7 feet square, for three prisoners; another, the great hole, 16½ feet by 12, has only a little window. In this I saw six prisoners, most of them transports, chained to the floor. In this situation they had been for many weeks, and were very sickly; their straw on the stone floor almost worn to dust. Long confinement, and not having the king’s allowance of two shillings and sixpence a-week, had urged them to attempt an escape; after which the jailer had chained them as already mentioned. There is another dungeon for women felons, 12 feet by 8; and up stairs, a separate room or two. The common side debtors in the low jail, whom I saw eating boiled bread and water, told me that this was the only nourishment some had lived upon for near a twelvemonth. They have, from a legacy, one shilling and a sixpence a-week in winter and one shilling a-week in summer, for coals. No memorandum of it in the jail: perhaps this may in time be lost, as the jailer said two others were—namely, one of Bishop Crewe, and another of Bishop Wood, from which prisoners had received no benefit for some years past. But now the bishop has humanely filed bills in Chancery, and recovered these legacies, by which several debtors have been discharged. Half-a-crown a-week is paid to a woman for supplying the debtors with water in the two rooms on the side of the gateway. The act for preserving the health of prisoners is not hung up. Jail delivery once a-year. At several of my visits there were boys between thirteen and fifteen years of age confined with the most profligate and abandoned. There was a vacant piece of ground adjacent, of little use but for the jailor’s occasional lumber. It extends to the river, and measures about 22 yards by 16. I once and again advised the enclosing this for a court, as it might be done with little expense; and it appears that formerly here was a doorway into the prison. But when I was there afterwards in January 1776, I had the mortification to hear that the surgeon, who was uncle to the jailer, had obtained from the bishop, in October preceding, a lease of it for twenty-one years, at the rent of one shilling per annum. He had built a little stable on it.’
Having completed his survey of the English jails, Mr. Howard turned his attention next to those of Wales; and by the end of the autumn of 1774, he appears to have visited the principal jails in that principality. During these last months the field of his inquiries had been extended, so as to embrace a new department. ‘Seeing,’ he says ‘in two or three of the jails some poor creatures whose aspect was singularly deplorable, and asking the cause of it, the answer was, ‘They were lately brought from the bridewells.’ This started a fresh subject of inquiry. I resolved to inspect the bridewells; and for that purpose traveled again into the counties where I had been; and indeed into all the rest, examining houses of correction, city and town jails. I beheld in many of them, as well as in the county jails, a complication of distress.’
Mr. Howard’s philanthropic labors for now nearly a twelve-month had of course made him an object of public attention, and it became obviously desirable to have such a man in parliament. Accordingly, at the election of 1774, he was requested by a number of the electors of Bedford to allow himself to be put in nomination for that town, in the independent interest, along with his friend Mr. Whitbread. Mr. Howard consented; but when the polling had taken place, the numbers stood thus—Sir William Wake, 527 votes; Mr. Sparrow, 517; Mr. Whitbread, 429; and Mr. Howard, 402. A protest was taken by the supporters of Mr. Whitbread and Mr. Howard, most of whom were dissenters, against the election of the two former gentlemen, on the ground that the returning officers had acted unfairly in rejecting many legally good votes for Messrs. Whitbread and Howard, receiving many legally bad ones for the other two candidates. Petitions impeaching the return were also presented to the House of Commons by Mr. Whitbread and Mr. Howard.
Nothing, however, could divert our philanthropist from his own peculiar walk of charity, and the interval between the election and the hearing of the petitions against its validity was diligently employed by him in a tour through Scotland and Ireland, for the purpose of inspecting the prisons there, and comparing them with those of England and Wales. With the Scotch system of prison management he seems to have been, on the whole, much better pleased than with that of England; and he mentions, with particular approbation, that in Scotland ‘all criminals are tried out of irons; and when acquitted, they are immediately discharged in open court,’ and that ‘women are not put in irons.’ Still he found sufficient grounds for complaint in the state of the prisons themselves. ‘The prisons,’ he says, ‘that I saw in Edinburgh, Glasgow, Perth, Stirling, Jedburgh, Haddington, Ayr, Kelso, Nairn, Banff, Inverness, etc., were old buildings, dirty and offensive, without courtyards, and also generally without water.’ ‘The tolbooth at Inverness,’ he afterwards observes, ‘has no fire place, and is the most dirty and offensive prison that I have seen in Scotland.’ In the Irish prisons he found, as might have been expected, abuses even more shocking than those he had generally met with in England.
In March 1775, Mr. Howard having by this time returned to England, his petition and that of Mr. Whitbread against the return of Sir William Wake and Mr. Sparrow were taken into consideration by a committee of the House of Commons. On a revision of the poll, the numbers, after adding the good votes which had been rejected, and striking off the bad ones which had been accepted, stood thus—Mr. Whitbread, 568; Sir William Wake, 541; Mr. Howard, 537; Mr. Sparrow, 529. Thus, although by a small majority, Mr. Howard lost the election; his friend, Mr. Whitbread, who had formerly been in the same predicament, was now returned at the top of the poll in lieu of Mr. Sparrow.
It was perhaps a fortunate circumstance for the world that Mr. Howard did not succeed in being returned to parliament. He might no doubt have been of great service as a member of the legislature; but his true function was that which he had already chosen for himself—a voluntary and unofficial inquirer into the latent miseries of human society. It was not so much as a propounder of schemes of social improvement that Mr. Howard appeared; it was rather as an explorer of unvisited scenes of wretchedness, who should drag into the public gaze all manner of grievances, in order that the general wisdom and benevolence of the country might be brought to bear upon them. In a complex state of society, where wealth and poverty, comfort and indigence, are naturally separated from each other as far as possible, so that the eyes and ears of the upper classes may not be offended and nauseated by the sights and sounds of wo, the interference of this class of persons—inspectors, as they may be called, whose business it is to see and report—is among the most necessary of all acts for social wellbeing.
Mr. Howard having completed his survey of the prisons of Great Britain, began to prepare his reports for publication. ‘I designed,’ says he, ‘to publish the account of our prisons in the spring of 1775, after I returned from Scotland and Ireland. But conjecturing that something useful to my purpose might be collected abroad, I laid aside my papers, and traveled into France, Flanders, Holland, and Germany.’ The precise route which he pursued during this, his fifth continental tour, is not known; he appears, however, to have gone to France first. He gives the following account of his attempt to gain admission to the famous Bastile of Paris. ‘I was desirous of examining it myself, and for that purpose knocked hard at the outer gate, and immediately went forward through the guard to the drawbridge before the entrance of the castle. But while I was contemplating this gloomy mansion, an officer came out much surprised, and I was forced to retreat through the mute guard, and thus regained that freedom which, for one locked up within those walls, it is next to impossible to obtain.’ On this singular adventure of Mr. Howard one of his biographers makes the following remark. ‘In the space of four centuries, from the foundation to the destruction of the Bastile, perhaps Mr. Howard was the only person that was ever compelled to quit it reluctantly.’ Although denied admission to the Bastile, Mr. Howard was able to obtain entrance into the other prisons of Paris. His first application, indeed, for admittance to the Grand Chatelet was unsuccessful; but happening to remark that, by the tenth article of the arrêt of 1717, jailers were authorized to admit persons desirous of bestowing charity on the prisoners, he pleaded it before the Commissaire de la Prison; and in this way gained admission not only to that prison, but to the others. Except for the horrible subterranean dungeons, in which he found that certain classes of prisoners were sometimes confined in France, he appears to have considered the prisons in that country better managed than those of England.
Mr. Howard’s proceedings in France, French Flanders, and the Netherlands, will be best gathered from the following letter to a friend:—‘I came late last night to this city; the day I have employed in visiting the jails, and collecting all the criminal laws, as I have got those of France. However rigorous they may be, yet their great care and attention to their prisons is worthy of commendation: all fresh and clean; no jail distemper; no prisoners ironed. The bread allowance far exceeds that of any of our jails; for example, every prisoner here has two pounds of bread a-day; once a-day, soup; and on Sunday, one pound of meat. I write to you, my friend, for a relaxation from what so much engrosses my thoughts. And indeed I force myself to the public dinners and suppers for that purpose, though I show so little respect to a set of men who are so highly esteemed (the French cooks), that I have not tasted fish, flesh, or fowl since I have been this side the water. Through a kind Providence I am very well; calm, easy in spirits. The public voitures have not been crowded, and I have met, in general, agreeable company. I hope to be in Holland the beginning of next week.’
After visiting the principal prisons in Holland and part of Germany, most of which seem to have particularly pleased him, when contrasted with those at home, Mr. Howard returned to England in the end of July, 1775. Not to rest, however; for he immediately commenced a second survey of the English prisons. This was interrupted, in the beginning of the year 1776, when he made a trip to Switzerland to visit the Swiss jails, taking some of the French ones in his way. Returning to England, he resumed his second survey of the English and Welsh prisons; and when this was completed to his satisfaction in the beginning of 1777, he took up his residence for the spring at the town of Warrington, in Lancashire, where he had resolved to have his work on prisons printed. His reasons for printing the book there, rather than in London, were various; one of them was, that he wished to be near his friend Dr. (then Mr.) Aikin, employed as a surgeon in Warrington, whose literary talents were of assistance to him in fitting the work for publication. Dr. Aikin gives the following account of the process which Mr. Howard’s notes underwent, in order to qualify them for being sent to press—his own composition, as our readers are already aware, being none of the most correct in a grammatical point of view. ‘On his return from his tours,’ says Dr. Aikin, ‘he took all his memorandum-books to an old, retired friend of his, who assisted him in methodising them, and copied out the whole matter in correct language. They were then put into the hands of Dr. Price, from whom they underwent a revision, and received occasionally considerable alterations. With his papers thus corrected, Mr. Howard came to the press at Warrington; and first he read them all over carefully to me, which perusal was repeated sheet by sheet, as they were printed. As new facts and observations were continually suggesting themselves to his mind, he put the matter of them upon paper as they occurred, and then requested me to clothe them in such expressions as I thought proper. On these occasions such was his diffidence, that I found it difficult to make him acquiesce in his own language, when, as frequently happened, it was unexceptionable. Of this additional matter, some was interwoven with the text, but the greater part was necessarily thrown into notes.’ So intent was he upon the publication of the work, that, ‘for the purpose,’ we are told by his biographer, Mr. Brown, ‘of being near the scene of his labors, he took lodgings in a house close to his printer’s shop; and during a very severe winter he was always called up by two in the morning, though he did not retire to rest till ten. His reason for this early rising was, that in the morning he was least disturbed in his work of revising the sheets as they came from the press. At seven he regularly dressed for the day, and had his breakfast; when, punctually at eight, he repaired to the printing-office, and remained there till the workmen went to dinner at one, when he returned to his lodgings, and putting some bread and raisins, or other dried fruit, in his pocket, generally took a walk in the outskirts of the town, eating, as he walked, his hermit fare, which, with a glass of water on his return, was the only dinner he took. When he had returned to the printing-office, he generally remained there until the men left work, and then repaired to Mr. Aikin’s house, to go through with him any sheets which might have been composed during the day; or, if there were nothing upon which he wished to consult him, he would either spend an hour with some friend, or return to his own lodgings, where he took his tea or coffee in lieu of supper, and at his usual hour retired to bed.’
In April 1777 appeared the work which had cost him so much labor. Its title was, ‘The State of the Prisons in England and Wales, with Preliminary Observations, and an Account of some Foreign Prisons. By John Howard, F.R.S.’ Although the work was very bulky, consisting of 520 quarto pages, with four large plates, yet ‘so zealous was he,’ says Dr Aikin, ‘to diffuse information, and so determined to obviate any idea that he meant to repay his expenses by the profitable trade of book-making, that he insisted on fixing the price of the volume so low, that, had every copy been sold, he would still have presented the public with all the plates and great part of the printing.’ Besides, he distributed copies profusely among all persons who possessed, or might possibly possess, influence in carrying his benevolent views into effect. ‘As soon as the book appeared,’ continues Dr. Aikin, ‘the world was astonished at the mass of valuable materials accumulated by a private unaided individual, through a course of prodigious labor, and at the constant hazard of life, in consequence of the infectious diseases prevalent in the scenes of his inquiries. The cool good sense and moderation of his narrative, contrasted with that enthusiastic ardor which must have impelled him to the undertaking, were not less admired; and he was immediately regarded as one of the extraordinary characters of the age, and as a leader in all plans of meliorating the condition of that wreched part of the community for whom he interested himself.’
To give an idea of the extent of the evils of the prison system in the time of Howard, and of the thorough manner in which these were taken cognizance of by him, we will present our readers with an abridgment of the introductory section of his work, in which, before passing to his special report on the state of the various prisons which he had visited, he gives a summary, or ‘General View of Distress in Prisons.’ The extracts will be found not only interesting in their connexion with Howard’s life, but also interesting in themselves.
‘There are prisons,’ he begins, ‘into which whoever looks will, at first sight of the people confined, be convinced that there is some great error in the management of them; their sallow, meagre countenances declare, without words, that they are very miserable. Many who went in healthy, are in a few months changed to emaciated, dejected objects. Some are seen pining under diseases, ‘sick and in prison,’ expiring on the floors, in loathsome cells, of pestilential fevers and confluent small-pox; victims, I must not say to the cruelty, but I will say to the inattention, of sheriffs and gentlemen in the commission of the peace. The cause of this distress is, that many prisons are scantily supplied, and some almost totally destitute, of the necessaries of life.
‘Food.—There are several bridewells in which prisoners have no allowance of food at all. In some, the keeper farms what little is allowed them; and where he engages to supply each prisoner with one or two pennyworths of bread a-day, I have known this shrunk to half, sometimes less than half the quantity—out of, or broken from, his own loaf. It will perhaps be asked—Does not their work maintain them? The answer to that question, though true, will hardly be believed. There are few bridewells in which any work is done, or can be done. The prisoners have neither tools nor materials of any kind, but spend their time in sloth, profaneness, and debauchery, to a degree which, in some of those houses that I have seen, is extremely shocking.… The same complaint—want of food—is to be found in many county jails. In above half of these debtors have no bread, although it is granted to the highwayman, the housebreaker, and the murderer; and medical assistance, which is provided for the latter, is withheld from the former. In many of these jails, debtors who would work are not permitted to have any tools, lest they should furnish felons with them for escape, or other mischief. I have often seen these prisoners eating their water-soup (bread boiled in mere water), and heard them say, ‘We are locked up, and almost starved to death.’ As to the relief provided for debtors by the benevolent act 32d of George II, I did not find in all England and Wales, except in the counties of Middlesex and Surrey, twelve debtors who had obtained from their creditors the fourpence a-day to which they had a right by that act. The truth is, some debtors are the most pitiable objects in our jails. To their wanting necessary food, I must add not only the demands of jailers, etc., for fees, but also the extortion of bailiffs. These detain in their houses (properly enough denominated spunging-houses), at an enormous expense, prisoners who have money. I know there is a legal provision against this oppression; but the mode of obtaining redress is attended with difficulty, and the abuse continues. The rapine of these extortioners needs some more effectual and easy check: no bailiff should be suffered to keep a public-house.… Felons have in some jails two pennyworth of bread a-day; in some, three halfpennyworth; in some, a pennyworth; in some, none. I often weighed the bread in different prisons, and found the penny loaf seven ounces and a half to eight ounces; the other loaves in proportion. It is probable that, when this allowance was fixed by its value, near double the quantity that the money will now purchase might be bought for it; yet the allowance continues unaltered, and it is not uncommon to see the whole purchase, especially of the smaller sums, eaten at breakfast—which is sometimes the case when they receive their pittance but once in two days; and then on the following day, they must fast. This allowance being so far short of the cravings of nature, and in some prisons lessened by farming to the jailer, many criminals are half-starved; such of them as at their commitment were in health, come out almost famished, scarcely able to move, and for weeks incapable of labor.
‘Water.—Many prisons have no water. This defect is frequent in bridewells and town jails. In the felon’s courts of some county jails there is no water; in some places where there is water, prisoners are always locked up within doors, and have no more than the keeper or his servants think fit to bring them; in one place they were limited to three pints a-day each—a scanty provision for drink and cleanliness.
‘Air.—And as to air, my reader will judge of the malignity of that breathed in prisons, when I assure him that my clothes were, in my first journeys, so offensive, that in a postchaise I could not bear the windows drawn up, and was therefore obliged to travel commonly on horseback. The leaves of my memorandum-book were often so tainted, that I could not use it till after spreading it an hour or two before the fire; and even my antidote—a vial of vinegar—has, after using it in a few prisons, be come intolerably disagreeable. I did not wonder that in those journeys, many jailors made excuses, and did not go with me into the felons’ wards. From hence any one may judge of the probability there is against the health and life of prisoners crowded in close rooms, cells, and subterranean dungeons for fourteen or fifteen hours out of the four-and-twenty. In some of these caverns the floor is very damp; in others there is an inch or two of water; and the straw, or bedding, is laid on such floors—seldom on barrack bedsteads. Where prisoners are not kept in underground cells, they are often confined to their rooms, because there is no court belonging to the prison—which is the case in many city and town jails; or because the walls round the yard are ruinous, or too low for safety; or because the jailor has the ground for his own use. Some jails have no sewers or vaults; and in those that have, if they be not properly attended to, they are, even to a visitor, offensive beyond description. How noxious, therefore, to people constantly confined in those prisons! One cause why the rooms in some prisons are so close, is the window tax, which the jailors have to pay; this tempts them to stop the windows, and stifle the prisoners.
‘Bedding.—In many jails, and in most bridewells, there is no allowance of bedding or straw for prisoners to sleep on; and if by any means they get a little, it is not changed for months together, so that it is offensive, and almost worn to dust. Some lie upon rags, others upon the bare floors. When I have complained of this to the keepers, the justification has been, The county allows no straw; the prisoners have none but at my cost.
‘Morals.—I have now to complain of what is pernicious to the morals of prisoners; and that is, the confining all sorts of prisoners together—debtors and felons, men and women, the young beginner and the old offender; and with all these, in some counties, such as are guilty of misdemeanors only. In some jails you see—and who can see it without sorrow?—boys of twelve and fourteen eagerly listening to the stories told by practised criminals of their adventures, successes, stratagems, and escapes.
‘Lunatics.—In some few jails are confined idiots and lunatics. These serve for sport to idle visitants at assizes, and at other times of general resort. Many of the bridewells are crowded and offensive, because the rooms which were designed for prisoners are occupied by the insane. When these are not kept separate they disturb and terrify the other prisoners.
‘Jail Fever.—I am ready to think that none who have given credit to what is contained in the foregoing pages, will wonder at the havoc made by the jail fever. From my own observations in 1773, 1774, and 1775, I was fully convinced that many more prisoners were destroyed by it than were put to death by all the public executions in the kingdom.[3] This frequent effect of confinement in prison seems generally understood, and shows how full of emphatical meaning is the curse of a severe creditor, who pronounces his debtor’s doom to rot in jail. I believe I have learnt the full import of this sentence from the vast numbers who, to my certain knowledge, and some of them before my eyes, have perished by the jail fever. But the mischief is not confined to prisons. In Baker’s Chronicle, p. 353, that historian, mentioning the assize held in Oxford in 1577 (called, from its fatal consequences, the Black Assize), informs us that ‘all who were present died within forty hours—the lord chief baron, the sheriff, and about three hundred more’—all being infected by the prisoners who were brought into court. Lord Bacon observes, that ‘the most pernicious infection next the plague, is the smell of a jail when the prisoners have been long, and close, and nastily kept; whereof,’ he says, ‘we have had in our time experience twice or thrice, when both the judges that sat upon the jail, and numbers of those who attended the business, or were present, sickened and died.’ At the Lent assize in Taunton, 1730, some prisoners who were brought thither from Ivelchester jail infected the court; and lord chief baron Pengelly, Sir James Sheppard, sergeant, John Pigot, Esq., sheriff, and some hundreds besides, died all of the jail distemper. At Axminster, a little town in Devonshire, a prisoner discharged from Exeter jail in 1755, infected his family with that disease, of which two of them died; and many others in that town afterwards. The numbers that were carried off by the same malady in London in 1750—two judges, the lord mayor, one alderman, and many of inferior rank—are well known. It were easy to multiply instances of the mischief; but those which have been mentioned are, I presume, sufficient to show, even if no mercy were due to prisoners, that the jail distemper is a national concern of no small importance.[4]
‘Vicious examples.—The general prevalence and spread of wickedness in prisons and abroad by discharged prisoners, will now be as easily accounted for as the propagation of disease. It is often said, ‘a prison pays no debts;’ I am sure it may be added, that a prison mends no morals. Sir John Fielding observes, that ‘a criminal discharged, generally by the next session after the execution of his comrades, becomes the head of a gang of his own raising.’ And petty offenders who are committed to bridewell for a year or two, and spend that time, not in hard labor, but in idleness and wicked company, or are sent for that time to county jails, generally grow desperate, and come out fitted for the perpetration of any villainy. Half the robberies in and about London are planned in the prisons, and by that dreadful assemblage of criminals, and the number of idle people who visit them. Multitudes of young creatures, committed for some trifling offense, are totally ruined there. I make no scruple to affirm, that if it were the wish and aim of magistrates to effect the destruction, present and future, of young delinquents, they could not devise a more effectual method than to confine them so long in our prisons, those seats and seminaries of idleness and every vice.
‘These gentlemen who, when they are told of the misery which our prisoners suffer, content themselves with saying, “let them take care to keep out,” prefaced perhaps with an angry prayer, seem not duly sensible of the favor of Providence which distinguishes them from the sufferers. They do not remember that we are required to imitate our gracious Heavenly Parent, who is kind to the unthankful and to the evil; they also forget the vicissitudes of human affairs; the unexpected changes to which all men are liable; and that those whose circumstances are affluent, may in time be reduced to indigence, and become debtors and prisoners. As to criminality, it is possible that a man who has often shuddered at hearing the account of a murder, may, on a sudden temptation, commit that very crime. Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall, and commiserate those that are fallen.’
Such, in an abridged form, is the introductory section of Mr. Howard’s work, entitled ‘A General View of Distress in Prisons;’ but in order fully to appreciate the enormous extent of his labors, it would be necessary to follow him into the remainder of the work, in which he describes and criticises, one by one, the various prisons, both foreign and British, which he had visited during the preceding four years. It is only in this way that one can gain an adequate conception of the misery and wretchedness of the prison system of Great Britain in the latter part of the eighteenth century.
Mr. Howard did not consider that his labors were over when he had published his work on prisons, and laid before the world grievances which had long flourished in society undetected and unknown. In the end of the first edition of his work, he had made a promise that, ‘if the legislature should seriously engage in the reformation of our prisons, he would take a third journey through the Prussian and Austrian dominions, and the free cities of Germany. This,’ he says, ‘I accomplished in 1778, and likewise extended my tour through Italy, and revisited some of the countries I had before seen in pursuit of my object.’ His observations during this tour he published in a second edition of his work in 1780. Wishing, before the publication of a third edition, to acquire some further knowledge on the subject, he again visited Holland, and some cities in Germany. ‘I visited also,’ he says, ‘the capitals of Denmark, Sweden, Russia, and Poland; and, in 1783, some cities in Portugal and Spain, and returned through France, Flanders, and Holland.’ The substance of all these travels he threw into a third and final edition of his work on prisons.
Thus, during ten years, had Howard labored incessantly at a single object, allowing no other to interfere with it; traveling almost without intermission from place to place, and undergoing innumerable risks. From a table drawn up by one of his biographers, it appears that, between 1773 and 1783, he had traveled on his missions of philanthropy, at home and abroad, upwards of forty thousand miles. Forty thousand miles traveled in ten years!—not from mountain to mountain, or from one object of natural beauty to another, but from jail to jail, and bridewell to bridewell—no wonder that Howard, on the retrospect of such a labor fairly accomplished, wrote in his diary, ‘I bless God who inclined my mind to such a scheme.’
During his journeys in Great Britain and Ireland, Mr. Howard was usually accompanied by a single servant. He traveled generally on horseback, at the rate of forty miles a-day. ‘He was never,’ says his biographer, Dr. Aikin, ‘at a loss for an inn. When in Ireland, or the Highlands of Scotland, he used to stop at one of the poor cabins that stuck up a rag by way of sign, and get a little milk. When he came to the town he was to sleep at, he bespoke a supper, with wine and beer, like another traveler; but made his man attend him, and take it away while he was preparing his bread and milk. He always paid the waiters, postilions, etc., liberally, because he would have no discontent or dispute, nor suffer his spirits to be agitated for such a matter; saying that, in a journey which might cost three or four hundred pounds, fifteen or twenty pounds in addition were not worth thinking about.’
In the spring of 1784 Mr. Howard, now about fifty-seven years of age, retired to his estate of Cardington, intending to spend the remainder of his life in peace and quiet, assisting in his private capacity in furthering those schemes of prison improvement which his disclosures had set on foot. He resumed the mode of life which he had led before commencing his prison inquiries; with this difference, that, being now a distinguished public character, his visitors were more frequent and more numerous than formerly. There was one sad circumstance, however, which embittered the peace of this benevolent man. His only son, who had received his early education at several academies in England, and had been sent in his eighteenth year to the university of Edinburgh, and placed under the care of the venerable and well-known Dr. Blacklock, had unhappily contracted habits of extravagance and dissipation; which, to any parent, and especially to one of Howard’s principles, must have caused poignant grief. Already the unfortunate young man had shown symptoms of that malady, brought on by his own imprudent and vicious conduct, which ultimately settled into complete insanity. Of the full extent of this domestic misfortune Mr. Howard was not yet aware.
After nearly two years of repose, interrupted only by the circumstance to which we have alluded, Mr. Howard resolved to quit home on a new mission of philanthropy, fraught with greater danger than the one he had accomplished so successfully. During his inquiries into the state of prisons, his attention had been often directed to the spread of infectious diseases, and the inadequacy of the means provided for checking the progress of fever, pestilence, etc., whether originating in jails or elsewhere. The subject thus suggested to him occupied much of his thoughts during his leisure at Cardington; and he at length determined to devote the remainder of his life to an inspection of the principal hospitals and lazarettos of Europe, with a view to ascertain their defects, and the possibility of effecting such improvements in them as would in future preserve the populations of Europe from the ravages of that dreadful visitation—the plague.
Towards the end of November 1785, Mr. Howard left England on his new expedition of philanthropy. He proceeded first to France, with a view to inspect the lazaretto at Marseilles; but, owing to the jealousy of the French government, it was with the utmost difficulty he could accomplish his object; indeed he narrowly escaped apprehension and committal to the Bastile. After visiting the hospitals of Genoa, Leghorn, Pisa, and Florence, he next proceeded to Rome. Here he was privately introduced to Pope Pius VI, himself a benevolent man. On this occasion the ceremony of kissing the pope’s toe was dispensed with; and at parting, his holiness laid his hand on his visitor’s head, saying kindly, ‘I know you Englishmen do not mind these ceremonies, but the blessing of an old man can do you no harm.’ From Rome our traveler went to Naples, and thence to Malta, pursuing always, as his single object, a knowledge of the state of the hospitals on his route. Writing from Malta to a friend in England, he says, ‘I have paid two visits to the Grand Master. Every place is flung open to me. I am bound for Zante, Smyrna, and Constantinople. One effect I find during my visits to the lazaretto; namely a heavy headache—a pain across my forehead; but it has always quite left me in an hour after I have come from these places. As I am quite alone, I have need to summon all my courage and resolution.’
After remaining about three weeks at Malta, Mr. Howard set out for Zante. ‘From thence,’ he says, ‘in a foreign ship I got a passage to Smyrna. Here I boldly visited the hospitals and prisons; but as some accidents happened, a few dying of the plague, several shrunk at me. I came thence to Constantinople, where I now am, about a fortnight ago. As I was in a miserable Turk’s boat, I was lucky in a passage of six days and a half. I am sorry to say some die of the plague about us. One is just carried before my window; yet I visit where none of my conductors will accompany me. In some hospitals, as in the lazarettos, and yesterday among the sick slaves, I have a constant headache; but in about an hour after it always leaves me. I lodge at a physician’s house, and I keep some of my visits a secret.’ From Constantinople he returned to Smyrna, where the plague was also raging; his object being to obtain a passage from that port to Venice, in order that he might undergo the full rigors of the quarantine system, and be able to report, from personal observation, respecting the economy of a lazaretto. On the voyage from Smyrna to Venice, the ship in which he sailed was attacked by a Tunis privateer, and all on board ran great risks. At length, after a desperate fight, a cannon loaded with spikes, nails, and old iron, and pointed by Mr. Howard himself, was discharged with such effect upon the corsair vessel, that it was obliged to sheer off. From Venice he writes thus to his confidential servant Thomasson, at Cardington; the letter being dated Venice Lazaretto, October 12, 1786:—‘I am now in an infectious lazaretto, yet my steady spirits never forsook me till yesterday, on the receipt of my letters. Accumulated misfortunes almost sink me. I am sorry, very sorry, on your account. I will hasten home; no time will I lose by night or day. But forty days I have still to be confined here, as our ship had a foul bill of health, the plague being in the place from whence we sailed. Then that very hasty and disagreeable measure that is taken in London wounds me sadly indeed. Never have I returned to my country with such a heavy heart as I now do.’ The two circumstances which he alludes to in this extract as distressing him so much, and making him so anxious to leave Venice and return home, were the misconduct of his son, of which he had received further accounts, and a proposal which had just been made in London, and of which intelligence had been conveyed to him, to erect a monument to commemorate the nation’s sense of his former philanthropic labors.
The term of his quarantine at Venice being finished, he proceeded to Trieste, and thence to Vienna. How the thoughts of his sad domestic affliction mingled and struggled with his daily exertions in connexion with the great object of his tour, we may learn from the following touching postscript to a letter to Mr. Smith of Bedford, written from Vienna, and dated 17th December 1786:—‘Excuse writing, etc., as wrote early by a poor lamp. What I suffered, I am persuaded I should have disregarded in the lazaretto, as I gained useful information. Venice is the mother of all lazarettos; but oh, my son, my son!’ At Vienna Mr. Howard had an interview with the Austrian emperor, who entered into conversation with him on the subject of his tour, discussed with him the state of the prisons and hospitals in his Austrian dominions, and expressed his intention to adopt some of his suggestions for their improvement. The attention shown by the emperor to his distinguished visitor procured him the notice of many of the courtiers; and a characteristic anecdote is told of his interview with the governor of Upper Austria and his lady. The Austrian noble asked Howard, in a somewhat haughty manner, what he thought of the prisons in his government. ‘The worst in all Germany,’ said Howard; ‘particularly as regards the female prisoners; and I recommend your countess to visit them personally, as the best means of rectifying the abuses in their management.’ ‘I!’ said the astonished countess; ‘I go into prisons!’ and she rapidly descended the staircase with her husband, as if shocked beyond measure. The philanthropist indignantly followed, and called after her, ‘Madam, remember you are but a woman yourself; and must soon, like the most miserable female in a dungeon, inhabit a little piece of that earth from which both of you sprung.’
Returning home in February 1787, after an absence of fifteen months, Mr. Howard found his unhappy son a confirmed and incurable lunatic. For some time he attempted to keep him in his own house at Cardington, under a mild restraint; at length, however, he yielded to the advice of the medical attendants, and suffered him to be removed to a well conducted asylum at Leicester.
The proposal to erect a memorial to Mr. Howard, was so strenuously resisted by him on his return to England, that it was obliged to be given up. Out of £1533 which had been subscribed for the purpose, about £500 pounds were returned to the donors: the remainder was placed in the stocks—£200 of it being employed in obtaining the discharge of fifty-five poor prisoners in London, a similar sum in the striking of a medal in memory of Howard, and the rest being appropriated, after his death, to the object for which it had been collected. Howard’s opposition to the scheme of erecting to him any species of monument, amounted to positive antipathy; indeed nothing was more remarkable in his character than his dislike to be praised for what he had done. When one gentleman happened to speak to him respecting his services to society in a flattering manner, Howard interrupted him by saying, ‘My dear sir, what you call my merit is just my hobby-horse.’
The three years which followed Mr. Howard’s return from his first tour through the lazarettos of Europe, were spent by him in a new general inspection of the English, Scotch, and Irish prisons, with a view to ascertain whether any improvements had been effected in them since his former survey; and in the preparation of a work giving an account of his recent continental journey. This work was entitled, ‘An Account of the Principal Lazarettos of Europe, with Papers Relative to the Plague;’ and was published in the year 1789. It contained, in the form of an appendix, additional remarks on the state of British prisons.
In the conclusion of his work on Lazarettos, Howard announced his intention of again quitting England to visit the hospitals of Russia, Turkey and the Eastern countries, in order to gain more accurate and extensive views of the plague. ‘I am not insensible,’ he says, ‘of the dangers that must attend such a journey. Trusting, however, in the protection of that Providence which has hitherto preserved me, I calmly and cheerfully commit myself to the disposal of unerring wisdom.’ ‘Should it please God to cut off my life in the prosecution of this design, let not my conduct be uncandidly imputed to rashness or enthusiasm, but to a serious, deliberate conviction that I am pursuing the path of duty, and to a sincere desire of being made an instrument of more extensive usefulness to my fellow-creatures than could be expected in the narrower circle of a retired life.’ With regard to his objects in undertaking this journey, his biographer, Dr. Aikin, observes that he had various conversations with him on the subject; and found rather a wish to have objects of inquiry pointed out to him by others, than any specific views present to his own mind.
On the 4th of July 1789, Mr. Howard, accompanied by a single servant, quitted England on his last philanthropic journey. He passed through Holland, part of Germany, Prusia, and several cities of Russia, examining the state of the hospitals; and about the end of the year had reached Cherson, a new settlement of the Russian empress at the mouth of the Dnieper. This was destined to be the closing scene of his labors.
Visiting, according to one account, the Russian hospital of the place; according to another, a young lady, whose friends were anxious that he should prescribe for her, as he had done successfully in many similar cases, he caught a malignant fever, which, after an illness of twelve days, carried him off on the 20th of January, 1790, in the sixty-fourth year of his age. On his deathbed he showed the same calm and Christian spirit which had distinguished him through life. To Admiral Priestman, who resided at Cherson, and who visited him during his illness, and endeavored to amuse and cheer him by his remarks, thinking to divert his thoughts, he said, ‘Priestman, you style this a dull conversation, and endeavor to divert my mind from dwelling on death; but I entertain very different sentiments. Death has no terrors to me; it is an event I always look to with cheerfulness, if not with pleasure; and be assured the subject is more grateful than any other. I am well aware that I have but a short time to live; my mode of life has rendered it impossible that I should get rid of this fever. I have no method of lowering my nourishment, and therefore I must die. It is such jolly fellows as you, Priestman, that get over these fevers.’ Then alluding to the subject of his funeral, he continued—‘There is a spot near the village of Dauphigny; this would suit me nicely. You know it well, for I have often said that I should like to be buried there; and I beg of you as you value your old friend, not to suffer any pomp to be used at my funeral; nor any monument, nor monumental inscription whatever, to mark where I am laid; but lay me quietly in the earth, place a sun-dial over my grave, and let me be forgotton.’ These directions were in spirit, although not strictly complied with; and on the 25th of January 1790, the body of Howard was buried in the spot which he had chosen near the village of Dauphigny, at a little distance from Cherson.
The authorities and the inhabitants of the place testified their respect for him by attending his remains to the grave. Instead of the sun-dial, a small brick pyramid was erected on the spot. In Cardington church, according to his direction, a plain slip of marble was erected by his wife’s tomb, bearing this inscription: ‘John Howard; died at Cherson, in Russian Tartary, January 20th, 1790. Aged 64. Christ is my hope.’ A more stately monument was soon afterwards erected to his memory in St. Paul’s Cathedral. Howard’s son, who never recovered from his malady, died in April 1799, in his thirty-fifth year.
GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON.
George Gordon, the only son of Captain John Byron, by his second wife, Miss Gordon, of Gight, and grandson of the celebrated Admiral Byron, was born in Holles Street, London, on the 22d of January, 1788. His ancestry, of which he is said to have been more proud than of having been the author of Childe Harold and Manfred, was composed of persons of distinction, but possessing much of that daring recklessness of character which so early displayed itself in the subject of our memoir. His great uncle, Lord William, to whom he succeeded, was tried for killing his relation, Mr. Chaworth, in a duel; and his father, who had caused his first wife to die of a broken heart, after having seduced her, when Marchioness of Carmarthen, became the husband of our poet’s mother, as he openly avowed, for her fortune alone; after the dissipation of which, he separated from her, and died at Valenciennes, in 1791. At this time, young Byron resided, with his mother, at Aberdeen, where in November, 1792, he was sent to a day school; but, according to his own account, ‘learned little there, except to repeat by rote the first lesson of monosyllables.’ After remaining a year in this school, he was placed with a clergyman, named Ross, under whom, he says, he made astonishing progress; and observes, that the moment he could read, his grand passion was history. His next tutor was named Paterson; with him, he adds, ‘I began Latin in Ruddiman’s grammar, and continued till I went to the grammar-school, where I threaded all the classes to the fourth, when I was recalled to England by the demise of my uncle.
The anecdotes which are told of him at this time, display his temper in an unfavorable light, both in his infancy and boyhood. Mr. Moore relates, that whilst yet in petticoats, being angrily reprimanded by his nurse for having soiled or torn a new frock, in which he had just been dressed, he got into one of his ‘silent rages’ (as he himself has described them), seized the frock with both his hands, rent it from top to bottom, and stood, in sullen stillness, setting his censurer and her wrath at defiance. The same authority tells us, that once, in returning home from school at Aberdeen, Byron fell in with a boy who had, on some former occasion, insulted him, but had then got off unpunished; little Byron, however, at the time, promising to ‘pay him off’ whenever they should meet again. Accordingly, on this second encounter, though there were some other boys to take his opponent’s part, he succeeded in inflicting upon him a hearty beating. On his return home, breathless, the servant inquired what he had been about, and was answered by him, with a mixture of rage and humor, that he had been paying a debt, by beating a boy according to promise; for that he was a Byron and would not belie his motto. Other anecdotes are told of him, which show him to have been passionate and resentful to that degree, as to leave it doubtful whether the description of him as ‘a malignant imp’ is not more applicable to his early years, than that of ‘a lively, warm-hearted, and high-spirited boy.’ Before closing our account of his infancy, we should not omit to state that he suffered much from the malformation of one of his feet, which gave him much pain and mortification throughout his life. Even when a child, an allusion to this infirmity so provoked him, that he once struck at a person who remarked it, with a little whip which he held in his hand, exclaiming impatiently, as his eyes flashed fire, ‘Dinna speak of it!’ He himself says, in some memoranda of his early days, that he never felt greater horror and humiliation than when his mother, in one of her fits of passion, called him a ‘lame brat:’ and it is certain, that he always felt it as a sort of ignominy, notwithstanding Mr. Moore’s assertion that in after-life, ‘he could sometimes talk indifferently, and even jestingly, of this lameness.’ His attachment to Mary Duff commenced when he was only eight years of age; but, though, eight years afterwards, the account of her marriage with another, ‘nearly threw him into convulsions,’ and for a while embittered his existence, it was, he adds, ‘the recollection, not the attachment, which afterwards recurred to me so forcibly.’ This affection, however, was not without its influence upon his mind, and probably tended to increase that love of contemplation and solitude, which he is said to have sometimes carried to a dangerous excess among the mountainous scenery of the highlands.
In 1798, he prepared to quit Scotland for Newstead, in consequence of his accession to his family title, of which, perhaps, he was not a little proud; for his mother having said to him, some time in the previous year, whilst perusing a newspaper, that she hoped to have the pleasure of some time or other reading his speeches in the house of commons; he replied, ‘I hope not; if you read any speeches of mine, it will be in the house of lords.’ On his arrival at Newstead, he continued his studies under Mr. Rogers, a schoolmaster in the neighborhood, and was also attended by a quack of the name of Lavender, who had undertaken to cure the defect in his foot. Of this man he had a great abhorrence, and took every opportunity of ridiculing him; and, about the same time, the first symptom of his predilection for rhyming showed itself in four lines of doggerel, respecting an old woman who had given him some offense. In 1799, he was removed to London; and at the suggestion of his guardian, the Earl of Carlisle, placed under the care of Dr. Baillie, who also attended him on his subsequent removal to the school of Dr. Glennie, at Dulwich, where he appears to have gained the esteem both of his master and schoolfellows. His reading in history and poetry, says Dr. Glennie, was far beyond the usual standard of his age; and ‘he showed an intimate accquaintance with the historical parts of Holy Scriptures;’ an assertion which serves to confirm the subsequent declaration of Byron himself, ‘that he was a great reader and admirer of the Old Testament, and had read it through and through before he was eight years old.’ The progress he was rapidly making under Dr. Glennie was, unfortunately, interrupted by the foolish indulgence of his mother, who took him home so frequently, and behaved with so much violence when remonstrated with on the subject, that lord Carlisle determined upon removing his ward to Harrow, whither he was sent in his fourteenth year.
In 1800, he had, as he expresses himself, made ‘his first dash into poetry; the ebullition,’ he adds ‘of a passion for my first cousin, Margaret Parker, one of the most beautiful of evanescent beings.’ This was succeeded by his attachment for Miss Mary Chaworth, whom he used to meet during the Harrow vacations; she was two years older than himself, and does not appear to have given sufficient encouragement to his addresses, to warrant his declaration ‘that she jilted him:’ especially as she was, at the time of their first acquaintance, engaged to Mr. Musters, whom she subsequently married. There is no doubt, however, that his affection for the lady (who is now dead) was sincere, and that the loss of her had an embittering influence upon his future life. A person, who was present when Miss Chaworth’s marriage was first announced to him, has thus described the scene that occurred:—‘Byron, I have some news for you,’ said his mother. ‘Well, what is it?’ ‘Take out our handkerchief first, you will want it.’ ‘Nonsense!’ ‘Take out your handkerchief, I say.’ He did so, to humor her. ‘Miss Chaworth is married.’ An expression very peculiar, impossible to describe, passed over his pale face, and he hurried his handkerchief into his pocket; saying with an affected air of coldness and nonchalance, ‘Is that all?’ ‘Why, I expected,’ said his mother, ‘you would have been plunged into grief.’ He made no reply, and soon began to talk about something else.
This took place in 1805, the year of his leaving Harrow, which he quitted with the character of a plain-spoken, clever and undaunted, but idle boy. His master, Dr. Drury, for whom he always entertained respect and affection, spoke of him as one who ‘might be led by a silken string to a point, rather than by a cable;’ and being asked his opinion of his pupil, after some continuance at Harrow, by lord Carlisle, he replied, that ‘he had talents which would add lustre to his rank.’ Though generally, however, reputed to be too indolent to excel in school, it seems that he collected a vast fund of information, which was little suspected by those who saw him only when idle, in mischief, or at play. ‘The truth is,’ he says, ‘that I read eating, read in bed, read when no one else read, and had read all sorts of reading since I was five years old, though I never met with a review till I was in my nineteenth year.’ He was not, at first, liked by his schoolfellows; but with some of them he ultimately formed friendships, to which he always reverted with a melancholy delight, broken, as most of them were, by his own waywardness, or the peculiar circumstances which attended his subsequent career.
His intrepidity was shown in several pugilistic combats, many of which he undertook in the defense and protection of other boys. One of his schoolfellows says, that he has seen him fight by the hour like a Trojan, and stand up, against the disadvantages of his lameness, with all the spirit of an ancient combatant. On the same person’s reminding him of his battle with Pitt, he replied, ‘You are mistaken, I think; it must have been with Rice-pudding Morgan, or Lord Jocelyn, or one of the Douglases, or George Raynsford, or Pryce (with whom I had two conflicts), or with Moses Moore (the clod), or with somebody else, and not with Pitt; for with all the above-named, and other worthies of the fist, had I an interchange of black eyes and bloody noses, at various and sundry periods. However, it may have happened, for all that.’ He also told Captain Medwin, in allusion to two of his actions at Harrow, that he fought Lord Calthorpe for writing ‘D—d atheist’ under his name; and prevented the school-room from being burnt, during a rebellion, by pointing out to the boys the names of their fathers and grandfathers on the walls.
In 1805, he was entered of Trinity College, Cambridge, which he describes as ‘a new and heavy-hearted scene to him;’ adding, it was one of the deadliest and heaviest feelings of his life, to feel that he was no longer a boy. His chief ambition seems to have been to attain the reputation of a rake and a spendthrift; and his principal fear, lest he should become too fat, to prevent which, he took as much violent exercise as his naturally delicate constitution would allow. Among other of his eccentricities, for which he was more remarkable than his profligacy, though he seemed to take a pride in exaggerating the latter, it is said that he kept a bear, with the intention, as he observed, of training it up for a degree. The time not passed by him at the university, he at first spent with his mother, at Southwell, but her violent temper, which his own was not calculated to appease, soon led to their separation; and he afterwards resided in London, Little Hampton, Harrowgate, and other places of fashionable resort. At this period, he is said to have been remarkably bashful, though he subsequently so far overcame his shyness, as to take a prominent part in some private theatricals at Southwell. In November, 1807, his Hours of Idleness was printed at Newark; and, in the following year, appeared the memorable criticism upon them in The Edinburgh Review, which was decidedly unjust, though few, perhaps, will agree with the subject of our memoir, that these poems were as good as any he ever produced. The impression which the ciriticism above-mentioned made upon our poet, is described, by one who witnessed his fierce looks of defiance, during a first perusal of it, as fearful and sublime. Among the less sentimental effects of this review upon his mind, says Mr. Moore, he used to mention that, on the day he read it, he drank three bottles of claret to his own share after dinner; that nothing, however, relieved him till he had given vent to his indignation in rhyme; and that ‘after the first twenty lines, he felt himself considerably better.’ During the progress of the satire, he passed his time alternately at Newstead, London, and Brighton, where he took lessons in boxing, and appeared in public with a mistress who accompanied him, dressed in boy’s clothes, and whom he introduced as his young brother.
On coming of age, in 1809, he apprised Lord Carlisle of his wish to take his seat in the house of peers; and to the formal reply of the earl, and his refusal to afford any information respecting the marriage of our poet’s grandfather, is owing the bitterness with which he attacked the former in his English Bards. He at length took his seat on the 13th of March, and went down to the house for that purpose, accompanied only by Mr. Dallas, whom he had accidentally met. ‘He was received,’ says that gentleman, ‘in one of the ante-chambers, by some of the officers in attendance, with whom he settled respecting the fees he had to pay: one of them went to apprise the lord-chancellor of his being there, and soon returned for him. There were very few persons in the house. Lord Eldon was going through some ordinary business. When Lord Byron entered, I thought he looked still paler than before; and he certainly wore a countenance in which mortification was mingled with, but subdued by, indignation. He passed the woolsack without looking round, and advanced to the table, where the proper officer was attending to administer the oaths. When he had gone through them, the chancellor quitted his seat, and went towards him with a smile, putting out his hand warmly to welcome him; and, though I did not catch his words, I saw that he paid him some compliment. This was all thrown away upon Lord Byron, who made a stiff bow, and put the tips of his fingers into Lord Eldon’s hand. The chancellor did not press a welcome so received, but resumed his seat; while Lord Byron carelessly seated himself, for a few minutes, on one of the empty benches to the left of the throne, usually occupied by the lords in opposition. When, on his joining me, I expressed what I had felt, he said, “If I had shaken hands heartily, he would have set me down for one of his party; but I will have nothing to do with any of them, on either side: I have taken my seat, and now I will go abroad.” We returned to St. James’ Street, but he did not recover his spirits.’ Another account states that he offended the chancellor by replying to him, when he apologized for requiring the evidence of Admiral Byron’s marriage, as being a part of his duty: ‘Your lordship was exactly like Tom Thumb; you did your duty, and nothing more.’
Shortly after he had taken his seat, his satire was published anonymously, of which, though the success, at the time, highly gratified him, he, some years afterwards, wrote, ‘Nothing but the consideration of its being the property of another, prevents me from consigning this miserable record of misplaced and indiscriminate anger to the flames.’ Before a second edition was published, he left England, accompanied by Mr. Hobhouse, under the influence of those melancholy feelings, which he has described in the early part of the first canto of Childe Harold, in which poem a pretty accurate account of his travels is given, during his two years’ residence abroad. Almost every event he met with, he has made subservient to his muse, particularly the incident on which is founded his Giaour, and it was during this tour that he swam from Sestos to Abydos.
In July, 1811, he returned to England, and being visited by Mr. Dallas, put into his hands a Paraphrase of Horace’s Art of Poetry, expressing a wish that it should be printed under the latter’s superintendence; but he mentioned nothing of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, until Mr. Dallas expressed his surprise that he should have written so little during his absence. He then told his friend that ‘he had occasionally written short poems, besides a great many stanzas in Spenser’s measure, relative to the countries he had visited;’ and, at the same time, handed them to Mr. Dallas, observing, that they were not worth troubling him with. This gentleman had no sooner perused the poem, than he endeavored to persuade the author of its superiority, in every respect, to the Paraphrase of Horace; but it was not until after much real or affected reluctance, that he consented to the publication of Childe Harold, in preference to that of the former. He had scarcely made up his mind on the subject, before he was called to Newstead, by the illness of his mother, who, however, died a short time before his arrival, on the 1st of August. He is said to have been sincerely affected at her loss; and, on being found sitting near the corpse of his mother, by Mrs. Byron’s waiting-woman, he, in answer to her remonstrance with him for so giving way to grief, exclaimed, bursting into tears, ‘I had but one friend in the world, and she is gone!’ His subsequent conduct, however, had an eccentricity about it, which brought the sincerity of his grief into question:—‘On the morning of the funeral,’ says Mr. Moore, ‘having declined following the remains himself, he stood looking, from the abbey door, at the procession, till the whole had moved off; then turning to young Rushton, who was the only person left besides himself, he desired him to fetch the sparring gloves, and proceeded to his usual exercise with the boy. He was silent and abstracted all the time; and, as if from an effort to get the better of his feelings, threw more violence, Rushton thought, in his blows than was his habit; but, at last,—the struggle seeming too much for him,—he flung away the gloves, and retired to his room.’
A few months after the death of his mother, a correspondence took place between himself and Mr. Moore, the poet, of whose duel with Mr. Jeffrey, Byron had given a ludicrous, but untrue, account in his English Bards. After several letters of an explanatory, rather than hostile, nature, had passed on both sides, and in which each exhibited a manly and forbearing spirit, they became mutual friends, and remained so ever afterwards. On the 27th of February, 1812, Lord Byron made his first speech in the house of lords, on the subject of the Nottingham Frame-breaking Bill, and appears to have pleased both himself and his hearers. Mr. Dallas, who met him coming out of the house, says, that he was greatly elated; and, after repeating some of the compliments which had been paid him, concluded by saying, ‘that he had, by his speech, given the best advertisement for Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage,’ which was two days afterwards published. The effect upon the public, as his biographer observes, was electric; as he has himself said, in his memoranda, ‘he awoke one morning, and found himself famous.’ The first edition of his work was disposed of instantly; ‘Childe Harold,’ and ‘Lord Byron,’ were the theme of every tongue; the most eminent literati of the day, including many whom he had attacked in his satire, left their names at his door; upon his table lay the epistolary tribute of the statesman and philosopher, the billet of some incognita, or the pressing note of some fair leader of fashion; and, in fine, ‘he found himself among the illustrious crowds of high life, the most distinguished object.’ The sum of £600 which he received for the copyright of the poem, he presented to Mr. Dallas; observing, ‘he would never receive money for his writings;’ a resolution which he subsequently abandoned. Among other results of the fame he had acquired by his Childe Harold, was his introduction to the prince regent, which took place at a ball, at the request of his royal highness, whose conversation so fascinated the poet, that had it not been, says Mr. Dallas, for an accidental deferring of the next levee, he bade fair to become a visitor at Carlton House, if not a complete courtier.
In the spring of 1813, he published, anonymously, his poem on waltzing; and as it was not received with the applause he anticipated, did not avow himself to be its author. In the same year, appeared The Giaour, and The Bride of Abydos; the former of which reached a fifth edition in four months. Mr. Murray offered him a thousand guineas for the copyright of the two poems, but he still refused to derive any pecuniary benefit from his writings. In 1814, his Corsair was published; the copyright of which he presented to Mr. Dallas. Fourteen thousand copies of the poem were sold in one day; but the popularity which this and his other works had procured for him, began to be lessened by his verses to the Princess Charlotte, and by a certain peculiarity of conduct which was looked upon as more indecorous than eccentric. Under these circumstances, he was persuaded to marry, and, in consequence, proposed to Miss Milbanke, the daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke; but was at first met with a polite refusal. He was however, not so much mortified as not to make her a second offer, though he says, in his memoranda, that a friend strongly advised him against doing so; observing that Miss Milbanke had, at present, no fortune, and that his embarrassed affairs would not allow him to marry without one; that she was, moreover, a learned lady, which would not at all suit him.’ He then agreed that his friend should write a proposal for him to another lady, and a refusal being the consequence, he said, ‘you see, after all, Miss Milbanke is to be the person: I will write to her:’ which he accordingly did, and was accepted. His marriage took place at Seaham, on the 2d of January, 1815; a day to which he seems to have always reverted with a shudder, and on which he, in reality, perhaps, experienced those emotions so touchingly described in his beautiful poem of The Dream. Superstition had, no doubt, some influence over his mind on the occasion; for, in addition to the circumstances hereafter related in his own words, he fancied, a short time previous to his marriage, that he had seen, at Newstead, the ghost of the monk which was supposed to haunt the abbey, and to appear when misfortune impended over the mansion,—a legend which he was versified in the sixteenth canto of Don Juan. His own memoranda relative to his union form an interesting prelude to its unhappy consequences. ‘It had been predicted by Mrs. Williams,’ says he, ‘that twenty-seven was to be the dangerous age for me. The fortune-telling which was right: it was destined to prove so. I shall never forget the 2d of January. Lady Byron was the only unconcerned person present: Lady Noel, her mother, cried: I trembled like a leaf, made the wrong responses, and after the ceremony called her Miss Milbanke. There is a singular history attached to the ring:—the very day the match was concluded, a ring of my mother’s that had been lost, was dug up by the gardener at Newstead. I thought it was sent on purpose for the wedding; but my mother’s marriage had not been a fortunate one, and this ring was doomed to be the seal of an unhappier union still. After the ordeal was over, we set off for a country seat of Sir Ralph’s; and I was surprised at the arrangements for the journey, and somewhat out of humor to find a lady’s maid stuck between me and my bride. It was rather too early to assume the husband, so I was forced to submit; but it was not with a very good grace. I have been accused of saying, on getting into the carriage, that I had married Lady Byron out of spite, and because she had refused me twice. Though I was, for a moment, vexed at the prophecy, or whatever you may choose to call it, if I had made so uncavalier, not to say brutal, a speech, I am convinced Lady Byron would instantly have left the carriage to me and the maid. She had spirit enough to have done so, and would properly have resented the insult. Our honeymoon was not all sunshine; it had its clouds; and Hobhouse has some letters which would serve to explain the rise and fall in the barometer; but it was never down at zero.’
About ten months after his marriage, the birth of his daughter took place; an event that was, in a few weeks, followed by a total separation of the parents. So many various reasons have been assigned for this step, by the friends of either party, and so much more than has yet come to light, has been insinuated by Lady Byron herself, that the real cause of their continued disunion still remains a mystery. Our poet has avowed, both in his conversation and correspondence, that, during his residence with his wife, he had nothing to complain of; and it was only when he found her unwilling to resume her connection with him that he gave vent to that bitterness of spirit with which he alludes to her in some of his poems. Mr. Moore speaks with all evident bias in favor of the subject of his biography; but whatever inferences may be drawn from the sacrifice of the papers relating to this affair, at the request of Lady Byron’s family,—and the previous request of the lady herself to her husband, that he would not publish them, on his sending them to her for perusal, which she declined,—it is clear, from the facts that have as yet been made public, that the conduct of Lord Byron was at least as culpable, as that of his wife appears, in the absence of further explanation, to have been extraordinary. Many excuses, however, are to be made for the subject of our memoir, who was most unwarrantably calumniated on the occasion, and publicly taxed with crimes, of which conjugal infidelity was not the least, though, perhaps, at the time of its imputation, the most unjustifiable. The ostensible cause of their separation was the involvement of his lordship’s affairs, and his connexion with the managing committee of Drury Lane, which led him into a course of life unsuitable to the domestic habits of Lady Byron. ‘My income, at this period,’ says his own account of the affair, ‘was small, and somewhat bespoken. We had a house in town, gave dinner parties, had separate carriages, and launched into every sort of extravagance. This could not last long. My wife’s £10,000 soon melted away. I was beset by duns, and at length, an execution was levied, and the bailiffs put in possession of the very beds we had to sleep on. This was no very agreeable state of affairs, no very pleasant scene for Lady Byron to witness; and it was agreed she should pay her father a visit till the storm had blown over, and some arangements had been made with my creditors.’
The lady, however, expressed her determination never to return to him, in a letter which had been preceded by one, beginning, as he ludicrously says, ‘dear duck!’ ‘You asked me,’ he says in a communication to Captain Medwin, ‘if no cause was assigned for this sudden resolution?—if I formed no conjecture about the cause? I will tell you: I have prejudices about women; I do not like to see them eat. Rousseau makes Julie un peu gourmande; but that is not at all according to my taste. I do not like to be interrupted when I am writing. Lady Byron did not attend to these whims of mine. The only harsh thing I ever remember saying to her was, one evening, shortly before our parting. I was standing before the fire, ruminating upon the embarrassment of my affairs, and other annoyances, when Lady Byron came up to me, and said, “Byron, am I in your way?” to which I replied, “D——bly!” I was sorry, and reproached myself for the expression; but it escaped me unconsciously,—involuntarily: I hardly knew what I said.’
His lordship’s next poems were, Lara, The Siege of Corinth, and Parisina; the two last of which appeared in February, 1816; and, in the following April, he again left England, having previously published The Sketch, and his celebrated Fare-thee-well. He set out upon his travels in no very dejected state of mind, which may be accounted for by an observation in one of his letters, that ‘agitation or contest of any kind gave a rebound to his spirits, and set him up for the time.’ After reaching France, he crossed the field of Waterloo, and proceeded by the Rhine, to Switzerland, where he became acquainted with Shelley; and, whilst at Geneva, began the composition of a poem founded on his recent separation; but hearing that his wife was ill, he threw the manuscript into the fire. From Switzerland he proceeded to Italy, where he resided principally at Venice, and transmitted thence to London his third and fourth cantos of Childe Harold, the Prisoner of Chillon, and other poems, Manfred, and The Lament of Tasso. He also wrote, in that city, his Ode to Venice, and Beppo, which he is said to have finished at a sitting. His mode of living is accurately described in his own letters from Italy, which show him to have been equally candid and shameless in the confession of his amours. The first connexion he formed was with the wife of a linen-draper, in whose house he lodged; and highly censurable, says Mr. Moore, as was his course of life, while under the roof of this woman, ‘it was venial, in comparison with the strange, head-long career of license, to which he subsequently so unrestrainedly and defyingly abandoned himself.’ It will be unnecessary, after this admission from his most partial biographer, to say more than, that, after a gross and degrading course of libertinism, his desires were contracted into a passion for the Countess Guiccioli; with whom he first became acquainted in the April of 1819, and, in a few months, he became her acknowledged paramour. In the same year he was visited, at Venice, by Mr. Moore, to whom he made a present of the memoirs, which have been before alluded to. He brought them in, says Mr. Moore, one day, in a white leather bag, and holding it up, said, ‘look here; this would be worth something to Murray, though you, I dare say, would not give sixpence for it.’—‘What is it?’—‘My life and adventures:—it is not a thing that can be published during my life-time, but you may have it, if you like,—there, do whatever you please with it.’ In giving the bag, continues Mr. Moore, he added, ‘you may show it to any of our friends you think worthy of it.’
The Countess Guiccioli having gone back to Ravenna, at her husband’s desire, lord Byron was about to return to England, when a letter from his inamorata changed his mind, and he resumed his connexion with her, on her separation from her husband, which took place, on an understanding that she should in future reside with her father, Count Gamba. She acoordingly, in July 1820, removed from Ravenna to the count’s villa, a distance of about fifteen miles from the city, where our poet now took up his abode, visiting Madam Guiccioli once or twice in a month. After he had been about a twelvemonth at Ravenna, the state of the country began to render it unsafe for him to remain there any longer; and the Gambas (the father and brother of the Countess Guiccioli) having been exiled, he was induced to remove with them to Pisa, in the autumn of 1821. It appears, that he was himself suspected of having secretly joined the Carbonari; but, though such was the fact, and he had received warnings to discontinue his forest rides, he, as he observes, ‘was not to be bullied,’ and did not quit Ravenna till he had shown the authorites he was not afraid of remaining. His poetical productions, within the three last years, were, Mazeppa, his tragedies of Marino Faliero, the Two Foscari, and Sardanapalus, The Prophecy of Dante, Cain, and several cantos of Don Juan, the sixteenth canto of which he completed at Pisa. At this place he also wrote Werner, The Deformed Transformed, Heaven and Earth, and the celebrated Vision of Judgment; the two last of which appeared in The Liberal, the joint production of himself, Mr. Shelley, and Mr. Leigh Hunt, who had joined his lordship at Pisa. Of this periodical it is unnecessary to say more, in this, place, than that it failed after the fourth number, and gave rise to a prosecution against the publisher, on account of The Vision of Judgment.
An affray with some soldiers of Pisa, who, for some reason or other, had attempted to arrest our poet, and some other Englishmen, induced him to remove, with the Gambas, to Leghorn, and, subsequently, to Geneva, where he took up his residence, in September, 1822. The fervor of his attachment had now, probably, declined towards the Countess Guiccioli; and, anxious for more stirring scenes than those in which he had hitherto mixed, he engaged in a correspondence with the leaders of the insurrection in Greece, which ended in his departure for that country, in the summer of 1823. He has been censured by some for quitting Italy without having made a provision for his mistress, but it seems that she had refused to accept of any: upon what terms they parted is doubtful; for according to Mr. Galt, a friend of his was told, by the lady herself, ‘that she had not come to hate lord Byron, but she feared more than loved him.’ Her brother, however, Count Gamba, accompanied his lordship to Cephalonia, where he equipped forty Suliotes to assist in the defense of Missolonghi, and undertook to provide a loan of £12,000 for the equipment of a fleet against the Turks.
In the beginning of January 1824, he entered Missolonghi, where the inhabitants, who hailed his coming as that of a Messiah, received him with enthusiastic demonstrations of respect and applause. He began by attempting to induce the Greeks to a more civilized system of warfare than had been lately carried on; and, with this view, he not only personally rescued a Turk from some Greek sailors, on the very day of his landing, but released several prisoners in the town, and sent them back to Prevesa, in the hope that it would beget a similar mode of treatment towards the captives in the hands of the Turks. He then formed a brigade of Suliotes, five hundred of whom he took into his pay; and ‘burning,’ says Colonel Stanhope, ‘with military ardor and chivalry, prepared to lead them to Lepanto.’ The insubordination, however, among the troops, and the differences that hourly arose amid the half-famished and ill-accoutred garrison, rendered this step impracticable, and threw him into a state of feverish irritation, that destroyed his self-possession at a time when it was most necessary to the cause he was struggling to serve. An attack of epilepsy was the consequence of this state of mind, and on his recovery, he was strongly urged to remove, for a while, from the marshy and deleterious air of Missolonghi. This he indignantly refused to do; ‘I will remain here,’ he said, to Captain Parry, ‘until Greece is secure against the Turks, or till she has fallen under their power. All my income shall be spent in her service; but, unless driven by some great necessity, I will not touch a farthing of the sum intended for my sister’s children. When Greece is secure against external enemies, I will leave the Greeks to settle their government as they like. One service more, and an eminent service it will be, I think I may perform for them. You Parry, shall have a schooner built for me, or I will buy a vessel; the Greeks shall invest me with the character of their ambassador, or agent: I will go to the United States, and procure that free and enlightened government to set the example of recognizing the federation of Greece as an independent state. This done, England must follow the example, and Greece will then enter into all her rights as a member of the great commonwealth of Christian Europe.’
This was the last ebullition of a mind which was now tottering to its final decadence; though it occasionally broke out in those meteor-like flashes, which had belonged to its early vigor. On the 12th of April, a fever, of whose premonitory symptoms he had not been sufficiently heedful, confined him to his bed, and his physician, Dr. Bruno, proposed bleeding him, as the only means of saving his life. This, however, he repeatedly refused; declaring, that he had only a common cold, and that he would not permit the doctor to bleed him for the mere purpose of getting the reputation of curing his disease. At length, on the 14th, after some controversy among the physicians, who now all saw the necessity of bleeding, he consented to the operation; and also on the 16th, saying as he stretched out his arm, ‘I fear they know nothing about my disorder; but, here, take my arm, and do whatever you like.’ On the 17th, his countenance changed, and he became slightly delirious; he complained that the want of sleep would drive him mad; ‘and,’ he exclaimed to his valet, Fletcher, ‘I would ten times sooner shoot myself than be mad; for I am not afraid of dying—I am more fit to die than people imagine.’ It was not, however, till the 18th, that he began to think himself in danger, when he called Fletcher to his bed-side, and bid him receive his last instructions. ‘Shall I fetch pen, ink, and paper?’ said the valet, as he approached; ‘Oh, my God! no;’ was his reply; ‘you will lose too much time, and I have it not to spare.’ He then exclaimed, ‘Oh! my poor dear child!—my dear Ada—could I have but seen her—give her my blessing.’ And, after muttering something unintelligibly, he suddenly raised his voice, and said, ‘Fletcher, now, if you do not execute every order which I have given you, I will torment you hereafter, if possible.’ The valet replying that he had not understood one word of what his lordship had been saying, ‘Oh, my God?’ he exclaimed, ‘then all is lost, for it is now too late, and all is over: yet, as you say, God’s will, not mine, be done—but, I will try to—my wife! my child! my sister!—you know all—you must say all—you know my wishes.’ Here his words became unintelligible. Stimulants were now, in direct opposition to the opinion of Dr. Bruno, administered to him, after taking which, he said, ‘I must sleep now,’ and never spoke again. For twenty-four hours he lay in a state of lethargy, with the rattles occasionally in his throat; and at six o’clock in the evening of the 19th, an exclamation of Fletcher, who saw him open and then shut his eyes, without moving hand or foot, announced that his master was no more.
The death of lord Byron created a mournful sensation in all parts of the civilized world; his failings were forgotten in his recent struggles for the delivery of Greece, and one universal sound of admiration and regret was echoed throughout Europe. The authorities of Missolonghi paid every token of respect to his memory that reverence could suggest, and before his remains were deposited in their final resting place, some of the most celebrated men of the present century had, in glowing terms, expressed their sense of his merits. His body after having been brought to England, and refused interment in Westminster Abbey and St. Paul’s, was conveyed to Hucknell church, near Newstead, in conformity to a wish of the poet, that his dust might be mingled with his mother’s. As the procession passed through the streets of London, a sailor was observed walking, uncovered, near the hearse, and on being asked what he was doing there, replied, that he had served lord Byron in the Levant, and had come to pay his last respects to his remains; ‘a simple but emphatic testimony,’ observes Mr. Galt, ‘to the sincerity of that regard which his lordship often inspired, and which, with more steadiness, he might always have commanded.’
The character of lord Byron has, of late years, been so frequently and elaborately discussed, that a lengthened dissertation upon it, in this place would be equally tedious and superfluous. Its best development is furnished by his memoirs, and having read these, we may, without fear of controversy, come to the conclusion, that in regard to his relation to society he was neither a great nor a good man. Had he been desirous of becoming so, it was not impossible for him to have succeeded; the path of rectitude was not a greater mystery to him than to other men; and the metaphysical subtlety that has been employed to prove him the possessor of high and virtuous principles, only shows how far he has diverged from the track to which his panegyrists would wish to restore him. It has been said, that he was not driven to profligacy by inclination, but was goaded into it by the world’s attributing to him vices of which he was not guilty, but which he in consequence, out of scorn and defiance, chose to commit. ‘I took,’ he himself says, ‘my gradation in the vices with great promptitude, but they were not to my taste; I could not be a libertine without disgust; and yet this very disgust, and my heart thrown back upon itself, threw me into excesses, perhaps, more fatal than those from which I shrank.’ This is a metaphysical apology, calculated, perhaps, to mystify the judgment, and cajole the sympathies, of a portion of mankind, towards him by whom it is put forth; but, surely, it is nothing more than the reckless avowal of a perverted and a depraved mind, too indolent, too weak, or too proud, to adopt any other mode of blunting the sting of one vice, than by plunging into another still more odious. We confess we are not among those who see in the circumstances of his lordship’s life sufficient reason for that waywardness of mind and conduct, of which his poetical and moral character form so singular a combination; and from which, after all, he only averts our contempt, by investing it with an aspect that disdains our pity. Lord Byron is not the only sensitive young man who has entered upon life with blighted hopes, but it is doubtful whether the remembrance of them would be accepted as an apology for a similar career to that of his lordship, even though the sufferer possessed not the faculty of venting his anguish in verse, the opportunity of drowning it in dissipation, or the means and leisure of softening it by travel and amusement.
The subject of our memoir, however, was not without redeeming qualities: he was brave, generous and benevolent; but he was also passionate, disingenuous, and resentful; and more ready to inflict a wound, than to submit to one himself. He was sensitive to a painful degree, both in his sentiments, and his feelings; but, though he writhed under an attack upon either, his pride hindered him from showing what he suffered, even when such emotions proceeded from impulses the most honorable to human nature. He certainly took pleasure in showing the dark side of his character to the world; for those who were admitted to an unreserved intimacy with him, give indubitable testimony of his possessing, in a very eminent degree, all the social and companionable qualities, a heart exquisitely alive to the kindness of others towards himself, and a hand unhesitatingly prompt in complying with the supplications of distress. There is, indeed, no reason to doubt his own allegation (for falsehood was not one of his characteristics) when he says, ‘If salvation is to be bought by charity, I have given more to my fellow-creatures in this life, than I now possess. I never in my life, gave a mistress so much as I have some times given a poor honest man in distress.’ Captain Medwin describes him as the best of masters, and as being perfectly adored by his servants, to whose families and children he also extended an affectionate kindness. His habits, in the latter part of his life, were regular and temperate, even to ascetic abstinence; he seldom ate meat or drank wine, living chiefly upon biscuits, coffee, eggs, fish, vegetables, and soda water, of which he has been known to drink fifteen bottles in a night. Riding, swimming, and pistol-shooting, were his favorite amusements; and one of three things which he used to pride himself upon, was his ability to snuff out a candle with a bullet, at twenty yards distance;—the other two were, his feat of swimming across the Hellespont, and being the author of a poem (The Corsair), of which fourteen thousand copies were sold in one day. He had a great partiality for children; and, besides the affection he always manifested for his child Ada, he is said to have felt severely the loss of a natural daughter, born in 1817, and who died at five years of age. Prejudice, affectation, and vanity, displayed themselves in many parts of his conduct; he would talk of avoiding Shakspeare, lest he should be thought to owe him any thing; and delighted in the addition of Noel to his name, because, as he said, Bonaparte and he were the only public persons whose initials were the same; peculiarities which induced Mr. Hazlitt to call him ‘a sublime coxcomb.’ His pride of birth we have before alluded to: it would probably have been somewhat diminished, had he been aware of the singular fact of a baton sinister being in the escutcheon of his family. Though he professed to despise the opinion of the world, no man was a greater slave to it, in some respects, than himself. Speaking of duelling, he would say, ‘we must act according to usages; any man will, and must fight, when necessary—even without a motive.’ He was himself concerned in many duels, as second, but only in two as principal; one was with Mr. Hobhouse, before he became intimate with him. Of his person he was particularly vain, and it was certainly of superior order; he was about five feet eight and a half inches in height, with a high forehead, adorned with fine, curling chesnut hair; teeth, says an Italian authoress, which resemble pearls; hands as beautiful as if they had been the works of art; eyes of the azure color of the heavens; cheeks delicately tinged with the hue of the pale rose; and withal, a countenance, in which the expression of an extraordinary mind was fascinatingly conspicuous.
The religious sentiments of Lord Byron appear to have been much misrepresented: ‘I am no bigot to infidelity,’ he says, in one of his letters, ‘and did not expect that, because I doubted the immortality of man, I should be charged with denying the existence of a God.’ Mr. Moore having suspected that Mr. Shelley swayed his lordship’s opinions, the latter writes, ‘pray, assure Mr. Moore that I have not the smallest influence over lord Byron in this particular; if I had, I certainly should employ it to eradicate from his great mind the delusions of Christianity, which, in spite of his reason, seem perpetually to recur, and to lay in ambush for the hours of sickness and distress.’ It is doubtful, however, though he educated his natural daughter in the Catholic faith, and he himself observed some of its ceremonies, whether he was a believer in the tenets of Christianity. He perceived and needed the consolation to be derived from a sincere adoption of its creed, but his intellectual pride would not suffer him to prostrate his reason at the humiliating shrine of faith.
The following anecdotes are interesting, and, upon the whole, favorable illustrations of the paradoxical character of lord Byron:—A young lady of talent being reduced to great hardships on account of her family, came to the resolution of calling on lord Byron, at his apartments in the Albany, for the purpose of soliciting his subscription to a volume of poems. Having no knowledge of him, except from his works, she entered his room with diffidence, but soon found courage to state her request, which she did with simplicity and delicacy. He listened with attention, and, when she had done speaking, began to converse with her in so gentle and fascinating a manner, that she hardly perceived he had been writing, until he put a slip of paper into her hand, saying it was his subscription; ‘but,’ added he, ‘we are both young, and the world is very censorious; and so, if I were to take any active part in procuring subscribers to your poems, I fear it would do you harm rather than good.’ The young lady, on looking at the paper, found it a check for £50. During his residence at Venice, the house of a shoemaker, who had a large family, being destroyed by fire, lord Byron ordered a new habitation to be built at his own expense, and presented the tradesman with a sum equal in value to the whole of his loss. Whilst at Metaxata, in the island of Cephalonia, hearing of several persons having been buried under an embankment which had fallen in, he immediately hastened to the spot, accompanied by his physician. After some of their companions had been extricated, the laborers becoming alarmed for themselves, refused to dig further, when he himself seized a spade, and, by his exertions, assisted by the peasantry, succeeded in saving two more persons from certain death. One of his household having subjected him to much perplexity by his amorous propensities, he hit upon the following means for curing them:—A young Suliote of the guard being dressed up like a woman, was instructed to attract the notice of the gay Lothario, who, taking the bait, was conducted by the supposed female to one of lord Byron’s apartments, where he was almost terrified out of his senses by the sudden appearance of an enraged husband, provided for the occasion. The following anecdote shows how jealous he was of title:—an Italian apothecary having sent him, one day, a packet of medicines addressed to Monsieur Byron, he indignantly sent the physic back to learn better manners. His coat of arms was, according to Leigh Hunt, suspended over the foot of his bed; and even when a schoolboy at Dulwich, so little disguised were his high notions of rank, that his companions used to call him the Old English Baron. When residing at Mitylene, he portioned eight young girls very liberally, and even danced with them at their marriage feast; he gave a cow to one man, horses to another, and silk to several girls who lived by weaving. He also bought a new boat for a fisherman who had lost his own in a gale; and he often gave Greek Testaments to the poor children. At Ravenna, he was so much beloved by the poor people, that his influence over them was dreaded by the government; and, indeed, wherever he resided, his generosity and benevolence appear to have been eminently conspicuous.
Of the merits so universally acknowledged of lord Byron, as a poet, little need be said; in originality of conception, depth and vigor of thought, boldness of imagination, and power of expression, he is unrivaled. His most sublime performances are Manfred, Childe Harold, Heaven and Earth, and Cain; the first of these pieces has been highly commended by Goëthe, who pronounces some parts of it superior to some of the productions of Shakspeare. His great and favorable art lies in his portraiture of the human character, thrown back upon itself by satiety, conscious of its own wreck, yet disdaining penitence for the vices it acknowledges, unable to find relief in itself, and scorning to derive consolation from others. In this respect, he surpasses Milton, who has only depicted the horrors of remorse; a far less difficult task. Satan has an end in view, to which he is driven by despair and hate: Manfred has none, yet, in the stern apathy of his soul, he appears to us more terribly sublime even than Lucifer himself. Don Juan is lord Byron’s most remarkable production; and contains some of his finest and most common-place passages, and shows a command of language and versatility of style that have never been equaled. The tendency, however, of this and some other of his poems, cannot be too explicitly condemned. In Don Juan, sensuality has one of its most powerful and accomplished advocates; the sting by which it is followed he calls the misfortune of nature, instead of the consequence of vice; and, thus, instead of exalting our notions of virtue, makes us regard the exercise of it as a melancholy and irksome duty.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
Percy Bysshe Shelley, eldest son of Sir Timothy Shelley, Baronet, of Castle Goring, Sussex, was born in that county, on the 4th of August, 1792. At the age of thirteen he was sent to Eton, where he was distinguished from his schoolfellows by a melancholy and reserved disposition, and an abstinence from every amusement natural to youth. He soon began to develop a rigid, unconventional tenacity of character, in relation to what he deemed the reason and justice of things, and he was in consequence, at an earlier period than usual, removed to the University of Oxford. Here his penetrating and inquisitive mind displayed more fully that pertinacious but conscientious eccentricity, which forbade his assent to the most common truths without investigation; and, in consequence of publishing a pamphlet, in which he attacked the ordinarily received notions of the being of God, he was expelled from the university, on his refusal to retract his opinions. This step drew upon him the displeasure of his family, whose total discountenance of him soon after followed, on his marriage, at the age of about seventeen or eighteen, with a lady equally young. The union ended in misery to both; after the birth of two children they separated by mutual consent, and Mrs. Shelley subsequently destroying herself, the subject of our memoir was looked upon as her murderer, and spoken of with proportionate obloquy.
A perusal of Mr. Godwin’s Political Justice, had first induced Shelley to adopt the systematic rule of conduct, by which he subsequently squared all his actions, at the sacrifice of every worldly interest. His conduct was, in consequence, equally noble and extraordinary; and though, it is said, ‘he had only to become a yea and nay man in the house of commons, to be one of the richest men in Sussex,’ he declined it to live upon a comparative pittance. After a visit to Italy, where he formed a friendship with lord Byron, and composed his Rosalind and Helen, and Ode to the Euganean Hill, he returned to England, and married the daughter of Mr. Godwin, with whom he resided for some time at Great Marlow, in Buckinghamshire. Here he was remarkable for his unostentatious charity; and he not only administered pecuniary relief to the poor, but visited them when sick in their beds, having previously gone the round of the hospitals, on purpose to be able to practice on occasion. At Marlow, he composed the Revolt of Islam, his introduction to which, addressed to his wife, is, perhaps, one of the most beautiful and touching pieces of poetry ever composed. About this time he was deprived of the guardianship of his two children, in consequence of his alleged sceptical notions, and of certain peculiar opinions respecting the intercourse of the sexes. After his separation from them, which deeply affected him, and increased his disgust towards the institutions of his country, he returned, with his family by his second wife, to Italy, where he joined lord Byron and Leigh Hunt in a periodical called The Liberal. In June, 1822, he visited the former, at Pisa, and, on the 7th of July, set off, in a boat, on his return to his own family, at Lerici, in the bay of Spezzia; when a tremendous storm came on, and, in a week afterwards, the body of Shelley, with those of Mr. Williams and a seaman, his only companions, were washed on shore near Villa Reggio. Their remains, after having been interred by the Italian authorities, were, at the request of their respective friends, dug up, and reduced to ashes, when those of Shelley were deposited in the Protestant burial ground at Rome, near the grave of Keats.
In person, Mr. Shelley was tall and slight, of a consumptive constitution, and subject to spasmodic pains, the violence of which would sometimes force him to lie on the ground till they were over. The marks of premature thought and trouble were more visible in his frame than his countenance, which, says the writer from whom we have before quoted, ‘had a certain seraphical character, that would have suited a portrait of John the Baptist, or the angel whom Milton describes as “holding a reed tipped with fire.”’ He had a small, but well-shaped face, with a fair and delicate complexion, cheeks not devoid of color, and large animated eyes, that had almost an appearance of wildness. His voice was weak and shrill, and had a peculiar effect on those who heard it for the first time. He passed a solitary and temperate life; rising early in the morning, and retiring to bed at ten o’clock, having, in the meantime written, studied, and read to his wife, and taken sparingly of his meals, which consisted, at dinner, of vegetables, as he partook neither of meat nor wine. His purse, though he possessed but a very limited income, was at the service of all who needed it; it was not uncommon with him, says our previous authority, to give away all his ready money, and be compelled to take a journey on foot, or on the top of a stage, no matter during what weather. He allowed to a literary acquaintance a pension of £100 per annum; but says Mr. Leigh Hunt, ‘the princeliness of his disposition was seen most in his behavior to myself, who am proud to relate, that Mr. Shelley once made me a present of £1,400 to extricate me from debt, and his last sixpence was ever at my service, had I chosen to share it.’ The following anecdote is told of lord Byron, and some of his cotemporaries; Shelley, at the time, being on a visit to his house at Hampstead:—‘As I approached my door,’ said Mr. Hunt, ‘I heard strange and alarming shrieks, mixed with the voice of a man. The next day it was reported, by the gossips, that Mr. Shelley, no Christian (for it was he who was there), had brought some very strange female into the house, no better of course than she ought to be. The real Christian had puzzled them: Mr. Shelley, in coming to our house that night, had found a woman, lying near the top of the hill, in fits. It was a fierce winter night, with snow upon the ground, and winter loses nothing of its fierceness at Hampstead. My friend, always the promptest, as well as most pitying, on these occasions, knocked at the first houses he could reach, in order to have her taken in, but the invariable answer was that they could not do it. At last, my friend sees a carriage driving up to a house at a little distance. The knock is given; the warm door opens; servants and lights pour forth. Now, thought he, is the time. He puts on his best address, which anybody might recognize for that of the highest gentleman, as well as an interesting individual, and plants himself in the way of an elderly person, who is stepping out of the carriage with his family. He tells his story; and asks him if he will go and see the poor woman. ‘No, sir; there’s no necessity for that sort of thing, depend on it; imposters swarm everywhere, the thing cannot be done. Sir, your conduct is extraordinary.’ ‘Sir,’ cried Mr. Shelley, at last, forcing the flourishing householder to stop, out of astonishment, ‘I am sorry to say that your conduct is not extraordinary; and, if my own seems to amaze you, I will tell you something that may amaze you a little more, and, I hope, will frighten. It is such men as madden the spirits and patience of the poor and wretched; and, if ever a convulsion comes in this country, which is very probable, recollect what I tell you; you will have your house, that you refuse to put this miserable woman into, burnt over your head.’ ‘God bless me, sir! dear me, sir!’ exclaimed the frightened wretch, and fluttered into his mansion. The woman was then brought to our house, which was at some distance, and down a bleak path; the next day my friend sent her comfortably home and, adds Mr. Hunt, this was one of the most ordinary of Shelley’s actions.
As a poet, we think Shelley has never been surpassed; and we could point out many of his passages which are without their equal, even if we look for their parallel in the works of Shakspeare, Byron, and Milton. But the wild speculative sublimity of his thoughts, the refined intellectuality of his ideas, and the mysterious intertexture of sentiment with feeling, which are the characteristics of his poetry, will always hinder him from becoming popular. Yet, with all this, there is a simplicity about his writings, as remarkable, it has been observed, as its views and speculations are remote and peculiar. A very just notion of his style has been taken by the biographer to whom we have before alluded, who observes, that in all Shelley’s works there is a wonderfully sustained sensibility, and a language lofty and fit for it. ‘He has the art,’ continues the same authority, ‘of using the stateliest words and the most learned idioms without incurring the charge of pedantry, so that passages of more splendid and sonorous writing are not to be selected from any writer since the days of Milton; and yet, when he descends from his ideal world, and comes home to us in our humble bowers, and is yearning after love and affection, he attunes the most natural feelings to a style so proportionate, and withal to a modulation so truly musical, that there is nothing to surpass it in the lyrics of Beaumont and Fletcher.’ In addition to the works before mentioned, Shelley is the author of Queen Mab, Alastor, Prometheus Unbound, the tragedy of The Cenci, and a volume of posthumous poems.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
Oliver Goldsmith, the son of a clergyman, was, according to some writers, born in 1729, at Elphin, in Roscommon, Ireland; but, according to the inscription on his monument, at Fernes, in the province of Leinster, on the 29th of November, 1731. After having acquired the rudiments of education at a private school, he was, in June, 1744, admitted a sizer of Trinity College, Dublin, where he graduated B. A., in 1749, but did not display remarkable abilities in the course of his academical studies. Being destined for the medical profession, he attended some courses of anatomy in Dublin; and, in 1751, entered the University of Edinburgh, where he studied medicine under the different professors. His thoughtless, though generous, disposition, soon involved him in difficulties; and in order to avoid arrest for the debt of a friend, for which he had made himself responsible, he was obliged to quit Scotland abruptly. He arrived at Sunderland in the early part of 1754, when his person was secured, but, being released, through the friendship of Dr. Sleigh, he sailed to Rotterdam; and, after visiting great part of Flanders, proceeded to Louvain, where he remained some time, at the expense of his uncle, and took his degree of bachelor in physic. Hence, it is said, with only one clean shirt, and no money in his pocket, he set out on foot for Geneva, which he reached by a circuitous route, in the course of which he supported himself by his abilities, musical and classical. ‘My learning,’ he says, ‘procured me a favorable reception at most of the religious houses I visited, and whenever I approached a peasant’s house, I played one of my most merry tunes, and that generally procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for the next day; this, however, was not the case with the rich, who generally despised both me and my music.’
On his arrival at Geneva, he was appointed tutor and traveling companion to a young gentleman of fortune, with whom he continued until they entered the south of France, where, in consequence of a disagreement, they parted. Goldsmith, however, did not turn his steps homeward, till he had still further gratified his passion for travel, although he was obliged to resort to his flute, as before, for lodging and subsistence. The death of his uncle, during our author’s stay abroad, had reduced him to these exigencies, and on his arrival in London, in the winter of 1758, a few halfpence constituted the whole of his finances. In this extremity, he applied for employment to the apothecaries, but his awkward appearance, and broad Irish accent, were much against him; and it was only from motives of humanity, that a chemist, at length, consented to take him into his service. Hearing, however, that his old friend, Dr. Sleigh, was in London, he paid him a visit, and accepted an asylum in his house, but soon afterwards left it, for an ushership at the Rev. Dr. Milner’s academy at Peckham. In this situation he did not remain long; for, having obtained some reputation from criticisms he had written in The Monthly Review, he entered into an engagement with the proprietor, and, coming to London, took lodgings near the Old Bailey, and commenced authorship as a profession. Besides writing for The Review, he produced a weekly pamphlet, called The Bee; An inquiry into the Present State of Learning in Europe; and contributed several Essays to The Public Ledger, in which his Citizen of the World appeared, under the title of Chinese Letters. These publications had brought him both fame and emolument, and, in 1765, at which time he resided in the Temple, he added to them by the production of his celebrated poem The Traveler. This had been written during his residence abroad, and was revised and printed at the recommendation of Dr. Johnson, his acquaintance with whom was soon followed by that of other eminent literary characters of the day. In 1766, appeared his Vicar of Wakefield, and his History of England, in a series of letters, two of his most successful performances, and which were received with immediate applause. In 1768, his comedy of The Good-natured Man, was brought out at Covent Garden, with a prologue by Dr. Johnson; but the success of it was not proportionate to its merits. In 1770, appeared his exquisite poem of The Deserted Village, for which he received £100, but could hardly be prevailed upon to accept it, until satisfied that the profits of the bookseller could afford that sum. It is, indeed, said by one of his biographers, that he went back and returned the money, observing, ‘he had not been easy since he received it;’ and left it to the bookseller to pay him according to the profits of the sale.
In 1772, was acted his celebrated comedy of She Stoops to Conquer, concerning the acceptance and success of which he appears to have been equally anxious and doubtful. His letter to Colman, about this time, does not represent his circumstances in a very favorable light: ‘I have, as you know,’ he says, ‘a large sum of money to make up shortly; by accepting my play, I can readily satisfy my creditors that way; at any rate, I must look about to some certainty to be prepared. For God’s sake, take the play, and let us make the best of it; and let me have the same measure, at least, which you have given as bad plays as mine.’ During the first performance of the comedy, he is said to have walked all the time in St. James’ Park, in great uneasiness, until, thinking it must be over, he hastened to the theatre. His ears were assailed with hisses as he entered the green-room; when he eagerly inquired of Mr. Colman the cause.—‘Psha! psha!’ said Colman, ‘don’t be afraid of squibs, when we have been sitting on a barrel of gunpowder these two hours.’ The fact was, that the comedy had been completely successful, and that it was the farce which had excited these sounds so terrific to Goldsmith.
In the following year, his last theatrical piece, entitled The Grumbler, a farce, altered from Sedley, was acted, for the benefit of Mr. Quick; but it was not repeated, and was never printed. His other productions are, a Roman History, a History of England, in four volumes, a Grecian History, and a History of the Earth and Animated Nature, compiled from Buffon and others. He had acquired more than a sufficiency, by his writings, for his comforts and necessaries; but his indiscriminate and improvident liberality, added to a passion for gaming, rendered his emoluments comparatively useless; and at length threw him into a state of despondency, which terminated in a nervous fever, and deprived him of life on the 4th of April, 1774. He was buried in the Temple Church, and a monument was afterwards erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey, at the expense of a literary club to which he belonged, with an inscription by Dr. Johnson. He is described as a ‘poet, natural philosopher, and historian; who left no species of writing untouched, or unadorned by his pen, whether to move laughter, or draw tears. He was a powerful master over the affections, though, at the same time, a gentle tyrant; of a genius at once sublime, lively, and equal to every subject: in expression at once noble, pure, and delicate.’
The character of Goldsmith was in the highest degree good-natured and benevolent; he was every one’s friend, and any one’s dupe; retaining, as he did, amid all his worldly experience, his natural simplicity and philanthropy of heart. But he was not truly estimable; for he was, with all his good qualities, improvident, dissipated, and meanly jealous of a literary rival. He was also, at times, impetuous and passionate; but corrected himself upon a moment’s reflection; and it is said his servants would throw themselves in his way upon these occasions, as they were certain of being rewarded after the anger of their master had subsided. Mrs. Piozzi describes him as a poor fretful creature, eaten up with affectation and envy, and the only person she ever knew who acknowledged himself to be envious. It is known that he used his pen better than his tongue; and the same lady calls his conversation a strange mixture of absurdity and silliness. Some one who saw him for the first time in company, declared he was ‘the most solemn coxcomb he had ever met with;’ and the phrase of ‘inspired idiot’ is well known as applied to him. As an author he is to be considered in the character of a poet, historical compiler, novelist, essayist, and dramatist; in all of which he has been so far successful, as to leave some work in these respective departments of literature, alone sufficient to perpetuate his reputation. It is as a poet, however, that he will be chiefly esteemed; The Traveler, The Deserted Village, and The Hermit, are unrivaled in their class; and, though Dr. Aikin has placed them at the head of the minor compositions, will always retain their original popularity. His literary qualifications cannot be better described than in the words of Dr. Johnson, who calls him ‘a man of such variety of powers, and such felicity of performance, that he always seemed to do best that which he was doing: a man, who had the art of being minute, without tediousness; and general, without confusion; whose language was copious, without exuberance; exact, without constraint; and easy, without weakness.’ Johnson was always ready to testify to the merits of Goldsmith; and being, one day, of a party at Sir Joshua Reynolds’, where several affirmed that the author of The Traveler had neither talent nor originality, he rose with great dignity, looked them full in the face, and exclaimed, ‘If nobody was suffered to abuse poor Goldy but those who could write as well, he would have few censors.’
Many anecdotes are told of his credulous simplicity, and indiscriminate benevolence. Sitting, one evening, at the tavern where he was accustomed to take his supper, he called for a mutton chop, which was no sooner placed on the table, than a gentleman near him, with whom he was intimately acquainted, showed great tokens of uneasiness, and wondered how the doctor could suffer the waiter to place such a stinking chop before him. ‘Stinking!’ said Goldsmith, ‘in good truth I do not smell it.’ ‘I never smelled anything more unpleasant in my life,’ answered the gentleman; ‘the fellow deserves a caning for bringing you meat unfit to eat.’ ‘In good troth,’ said the poet, relying on his judgment, ‘I think so too; but I will be less severe in my punishment.’ He instantly called the waiter, and insisted that he should eat the chop, as a punishment. The waiter resisted, but the doctor threatened to knock him down with his cane if he did not immediately comply. When he had eaten half the chop, the doctor gave him a glass of wine, thinking that it would make the remainder of the sentence less painful to him. When the waiter had finished his repast, Goldsmith’s friend burst into a loud laugh. ‘What ails you now?’ said the poet. ‘Indeed, my good friend,’ said the other, ‘I never could think that any man, whose knowledge of letters is so extensive as yours, could be so great a dupe to a stroke of humor; the chop was as fine a one as I ever saw in my life.’ ‘Was it?’ said Dr. Goldsmith, ‘then I will never give credit to what you say again; and so, in good truth, I think I am even with you.’ Being pressed by his tailor for a debt, he appointed a day for payment, and procured the money in due time; but before the tailor came, Glover called on the doctor, and related a piteous tale of his goods being seized for rent. The thoughtless and benevolent Goldsmith immediately gave Glover all the money he possessed. When the tailor arrived, Goldsmith assured him that had he called a little earlier he should have had his money; ‘but’ added he, ‘I have just parted with every penny I had in the world to a friend in distress. I should have been a cruel wretch, you know, not to have relieved him when it was in my power.’ In the suite of the doctor’s pensioners was one Jack Pilkington, who had served the doctor so many tricks, that he despaired of getting any more money from him, without resorting to a chef d’œuvre once for all. He accordingly called on the doctor one morning, and running about the room in a fit of joy, told him his fortune was made. ‘How so Jack?’ says the doctor. ‘Why,’ replied Jack, ‘the Duchess of Marlborough, you must know, has long had a strange penchant for a pair of white mice; now, as I knew they were sometimes found in the East Indies, I commissioned a friend of mine, who was going out there, to get them for me, and he is this morning arrived with two of the most beautiful little animals in nature.’ After Jack had finished this account with a transport of joy, he lengthened his visage, by telling the doctor all was ruined, for without two guineas, to buy a cage for the mice, he could not present them. The doctor unfortunately, as he said himself, had but half-a-guinea in the world, which he offered him. But Pilkington was not to be beat out of his scheme; he perceived the doctor’s watch hanging up in his room, and after premising on the indelicacy of the proposal, hinted that if he could spare that watch for a week, he could raise a few guineas on it, which he would repay him with gratitude. The doctor accordingly took down the watch, and gave it to him, which Jack immediately carried to the pawnbroker’s,—raised what he could on it, and never once looked after the doctor, till he sent to borrow another half-guinea from him on his deathbed, which the other, under such circumstances, very generously sent him. One afternoon, as Colonel O’Moore and Mr. Burke were going to dine with Sir Joshua Reynolds, they observed Goldsmith (also on his way to Sir Joshua’s) standing near a crowd of people, who were staring and shouting at some foreign women in the windows of one of the houses in Leicester Square. ‘Observe Goldsmith,’ said Mr. Burke to Colonel O’Moore, ‘and mark what passes between him and me by-and-by at Sir Joshua’s.’ They passed on, and arrived before Goldsmith, who came soon after, and Mr. Burke affected to receive him very coolly. This seemed to vex poor Goldsmith, who begged Mr. Burke would tell him how he had the misfortune to offend him. Burke appeared very reluctant to speak, but, after a good deal of pressing, said ‘that he was really ashamed to keep up an intimacy with one who could be guilty of such monstrous indiscretions as Goldsmith had just exhibited in the square.’ Goldsmith, with great earnestness, protested he was unconscious of what was meant. ‘Why,’ said Burke, ‘did you not exclaim, as you were looking up at those women, What stupid beasts the crowd must be for staring with such admiration at those painted Jezebels, while a man of my talents passes by unnoticed?’ Goldsmith was horror-struck, and said, ‘Surely, surely, my dear friend, I did not say so.’ ‘Nay,’ replied Burke, ‘If you had not said so, how should I have known it?’ ‘That’s true,’ answered Goldsmith, with great humility: ‘I am very sorry; it was very foolish: I do recollect that something of that kind passed through my mind, but I did not think I had uttered it.’
EDWARD GIBBON.
This celebrated historian, the son of a gentleman who for some time represented the borough of Petersfield in parliament, was born at Putney, on the 27th of April, 1737. After having received the elements of instruction at a day school, and under a private tutor, he was, in 1746, sent to an academy at Kingston-upon-Thames; and from thence, in 1748, to Westminster, where he entered the school, and resided in a boarding-house kept by his aunt. His delicate health soon occasioned his removal from Westminster school, though he subsequently attempted to renew his attendance there, after having passed some time at Bath and Winchester, by the advice of his physicians. In his fifteenth year, he was placed under the care of the Rev. Mr. Philip Francis, the translator of Horace: and, on the 3d of April, 1752, he was matriculated as a gentleman commoner of Magdalen College, Oxford. Here, according to his own account, ‘he spent fourteen months, the most unprofitable of his whole life,’ and appears to have been conspicuous only for his dissipation and extravagance. Such a mode of passing his time he attributes less to his own inclination, than to the negligence of his tutors, whom he charges with recommending no plan of study for his use, and prescribing no exercises for his inspection. ‘I was not,’ he says, ‘devoid of capacity or application;’ and insinuates that he might have arrived at academical distinction, ‘in the discipline of a well-constituted university, under the guidance of skillful and vigilant professors.’
His departure from Oxford was hastened by his adoption of the catholic faith, his conversion to which he attributed to a perusal of Bossuet’s Exposition of the Catholic Doctrine, and the History of the Protestant Variations. At a future period he observes: ‘To my present feelings, it seems incredible that I should ever believe that I believed in transubstantiation. But my conqueror oppressed me with the sacramental words, “this is my body;” and dashed against each other the figurative half-meanings of the protestant sects. Every objection was resolved into omnipotence; and, after repeating, at St. Mary’s, the Athanasian creed, I humbly acquiesced in the mystery of the real presence.’ On his arrival in London, he introduced himself to a priest, renounced the protestant, and was admitted a member of the Romish church, in June, 1753. His father was highly indignant at his religious conversion, and sent him, in consequence, to Lausanne in Switzerland, where he resided in the house with Mr. Pavillard, and ‘spent nearly five years with pleasure and profit.’ His tutor, who was a minister, spared no effort to convince him that he had come to an erroneous conclusion concerning the catholic doctrine; and his exertions, aided by the mature reflections of his pupil, were at length successful. ‘The various articles of the Romish creed,’ says our author, ‘disappeared like a dream; and, after a full conviction, on Christmas day, 1754, I received the sacrament in the church of Lausanne.’ During his stay in this city, he made rapid and profitable progress in his studies; and, besides opening a correspondence with the chief literati of the continent, he acquired a knowledge of French and Italian, and perfected his acquaintance with the Greek and Latin languages.
Previous to his leaving Lausanne, he formed an attachment to a Mademoiselle Curchod, the commencement and termination of which, in his own words, is too interesting to be omitted. ‘I saw,’ he says, ‘and loved. I found her learned, without pedantry; lively in conversation; pure in sentiment; elegant in manners. She permitted me to make her two or three visits in her father’s house. I passed some happy days there in the mountains of Burgundy, and her parents honorably encouraged the connexion. In a calm retirement, the gay vanity of youth no longer fluttered in her bosom. She listened to the voice of truth and passion, and I might presume to hope I had made some impression on a virtuous heart. At Crassy and Lausanne, I indulged my dream of felicity; but, on my return to England, I soon discovered that my father would not hear to this strange alliance. After a painful struggle, I yielded to my fate. I sighed as a lover; I obeyed as a son: my wound was insensibly healed by time, absence, and the habits of a new life. My cure was accelerated by a faithful report of the tranquillity and cheerfulness of the lady herself; and my love subsided into friendship and esteem. A rich banker of Paris, a citizen of Geneva, had the good fortune and good sense to discover and possess this inestimable treasure; and, in the capital of taste and luxury, she resisted the temptation of wealth, as she had sustained the hardships of indigence. The genius of her husband has exalted him to the most conspicuous station in Europe; and Mademoiselle Curchod is now the wife of M. Necker.’
In 1758, he returned to England, and took up his residence at his father’s house, where he devoted himself to the gradual collection of a library, and to a strict course of reading. In 1761, he acquired some reputation on the continent, but little at home, by the publication of a small work, written in the French language, entitled, Essai sur l’Etude de la Littérature. His literary occupation received an interruption in the same year, by his entering as captain in the Hampshire militia, in which he remained till the peace of 1763. He then set out for Paris, where the reputation he had acquired by his Essai, procured him an introduction to the first literary and fashionable circles. After a stay of eleven months at Lausanne, he proceeded to Rome, where, as ‘he sat musing amongst the ruins of the capital, while the bare-footed friars were singing vespers in the Temple of Jupiter, the idea of writing the decline and fall of the city first started to his mind.’ He returned from Italy in 1765, and again entered the militia as lieutenant-colonel commandant; but resigned the situation on the death of his father, in 1770. The interval between these periods was passed by him in a variety of amusements and occupations, partly in the country, and partly in London, where, in conjunction with other travelers, he established a weekly convivial meeting, under the name of the Roman Club. Alluding to this period of life, he says, ‘I lamented that, at the proper age, I had not embraced the lucrative pursuits of the law or of trade, the chances of civil office or India adventure, or even the fat slumbers of the church.’ His regret at the want of a profession arose, in a great measure, from an apprehension of being left, in his old age, without a sufficient maintenance; a fear that acted as a stimulus to his subsequent exertions.
He had already-made some progress in a History of the Revolutions of Switzerland, and, in conjunction with his friend Mr. Deyverdun, had produced two volumes of a literary journal, entitled Memoires Littéraires de la Grande Bretagne. The former, however, he committed to the flames, before it was finished, and the latter met with little encouragement. His next performance was more successful; it was a masterly refutation of Warburton’s hypothesis that Virgil’s description of Æneas’ descent into the shades was an allegorical representation of the hero’s initiation into the Eleusinian mysteries. About two years after the death of his father, he sat down steadily to the composition of the first volume of his celebrated history. ‘At the outset,’ he says, ‘all was dark and doubtful; even the title of the work, the true era of the decline and fall of the empire, the limits of the introduction, the division of the chapters, and the order of the narrative; and I was often tempted to cast away the labor of seven years;’ and, again, ‘three times did I compose the first chapter, and twice the second and third, before I was tolerably certain of their effect.’ At length, in 1776, previously to which he had been returned to parliament for the borough of Liskeard, through the influence of his cousin, Mr. Eliot, appeared the first quarto volume of his Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. It was received with a burst of applause, and almost immediately reached a third edition; but the most gratifying result to its author was the spontaneous approbation of Hume and Robertson. ‘My book,’ says Gibbon, ‘was on every table, and almost on every toilette.’ The two chapters, however, in which revealed religion was impugned, gave rise to various attacks; but he only thought fit to reply to one, by Mr. Davis, who called in question ‘not the faith, but the fidelity of the historian.’
In parliament, our author was a silent supporter of ministers, and was employed by them to compose, in the French language, a manifesto against that government, which was sent as a state paper to all the courts of Europe, under the title of Memoire Justificatif. For this service he was appointed one of the lords commissioners of trade and the plantations, but on the retirement of the North administration, his place being abolished, he meditated a retirement to Lausanne, for the purpose of completing his History. Previously to his departure from England, the second and third volumes had appeared in 1781, in which he tells us, ‘his Ecclesiastical History still breathed the same spirit of freedom;’ but, ‘that his obstinate silence, with regard to former attacks, had damped the ardor of the polemics.’ In 1783, he sold every thing but his library, and proceeded to Lausanne; where, in conjunction with his friend, Mr. Deyverdun, he took an elegant and beautifully situated house, and devoted himself to the composition of his History, and the pleasures of the society which the place afforded. In four years he brought his Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire to a termination, and seems to have arrived at the close of his literary labors with mingled feelings of regret and delight. ‘It was,’ he says, ‘on the day, or rather night, of the 27th of June, 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last lines of the last page, in a summer-house in my garden. After laying down my pen, I took several turns in a berceau, or covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflected from the waters, and all nature was silent. I will not dissemble the first emotions of joy, on the recovery of my freedom, and, perhaps, the establishment of my fame. But my pride was soon humbled, and a sober melancholy spread over my mind, by the idea that I had taken an everlasting leave of an old and agreeable companion, and that whatsoever might be the future date of my history, the life of the author might be short and precarious. I will add two facts, which have seldom occurred in the composition of six, or at least five, quartos: First—My rough manuscript, without any intermediate copy, has been sent to press. Second—Not a sheet has been seen by any human eyes excepting those of the author and the printer. The faults and merits are exclusively my own.’
In April, 1788, the publication of the concluding volumes took place, under his own superintendence, for which purpose he had come to London, where he passed most of his time with Lords North and Sheffield, and resided with the family of the latter. In July, he returned to Lausanne, but the death of his friend Deyverdun, which occurred shortly afterwards, and ‘the tide of emigration and wretchedness,’ caused by the explosion of the French revolution, had broken the charm which that place once had for him. In 1791, he was visited by Lord Sheffield, and in 1793, on the death of that nobleman’s wife, he, at the earnest desire of the former, proceeded to England, and again took up his residence at his friend’s house. After some months spent in familiar intercourse with the principal political and literary characters of the time, he sunk under the effects of a hydrocele, the result of a rupture, with which he had been afflicted for nearly thirty years. He was tapped several times previously to his decease, which took place on the 16th of January, 1794. On the preceding day he had talked as usual, and, so far from anticipating his death, said, ‘that he thought himself good for a life of ten, twelve, or perhaps twenty years.’
The character of Gibbon, in many points, resembled that of Hume; he died a bachelor; was a gentleman, a sceptic, and a historian; treated his literary antagonists with contempt, and had a dignified sense of his own abilities. He was careful to retain his place in society, by a strict adherence to its established rules; and as he lived for the world, took care not to lose its esteem by any conduct inconsistent with the calmness of a philosopher, the dictates of honor, or the maxims of morality. He possessed a lofty mind and spirit, but acted rather from motive than principle; and, as a politician, he can be considered in no other character than that of a ministerial follower for the sake of convenience and emolument. His conduct in his domestic relations was in the highest degree exemplary; and in his friendships he was sincere, constant, and ardent. He possessed great natural powers of mind, which he assiduously studied to improve: in conversation he is described, by Lord Sheffield, as ready, cheerful, entertaining, brilliant, illuminating, and interesting. As an author, he is among the most distinguished of the eighteenth century; but the lapse of forty years has somewhat impaired his reputation for a style which is now generally admitted to be enigmatical, pompous, and elaborate, where it should have been concise, simple, and explicit. Dr. Beattie says, ‘Such is the affectation of his style, that I could never get through the half of one of his volumes;’ and a celebrated bishop observed of his ‘bulky quartos,’ that they were ‘only fit for the gloom and horror of wintry storms.’ None can deny to it, however, a pervading splendor, stateliness, and majesty; and, indeed, the writer seems to be always on his guard against a common expression, as if he were afraid of degrading his own powers, by descending to the level of ordinary capacities. It is thus that he has some passages of surprising and matchless beauty; and where his language is in keeping with his subject, the understanding is readily captivated, and the ear unconsciously delighted.
As to the matter of his history, the principal charges against him are the grave ones of a covert attempt to overthrow a belief in revealed religion, and a complacent indelicacy of description, especially in the latter volumes. To this he answers, that ‘the licentious passages are confined to the notes, and to the obscurity of a learned language;’ an apology which few, perhaps, will consider sufficient. His attack on Christianity he himself seems to have regretted, though he never retracted. ‘Had I believed,’ he says, ‘that the majority of English readers were so fondly attached, even to the name and shadow of Christianity; had I foreseen that the pious, the timid, and the prudent, would feel, or affect to feel, with such exquisite sensibility; I might, perhaps, have softened the two invidious chapters, which could create many enemies, and conciliate few friends.’ His pathetic observations at the close of his memoirs, show that his own notions offered no security for felicity here, if, as he insinuated, those of others would fail to do so hereafter. After quoting the opinion of Fontenelle, who, he observes, fixes our moral happiness to the mature season in which our passions are supposed to be calmed, our duties fulfilled, our ambition satisfied, our fame and fortune established on a solid basis, he says, ‘I am far more inclined to embrace than to dispute this comfortable doctrine. I will not suppose any premature decay of mind or body; but I must reluctantly observe, that two causes, the abbreviation of time, and the failure of hope, will always tinge with a browner shade the evening of life.’ In a letter to Lord Sheffield, after the death of his wife, he says, ‘the only consolation in these melancholy trials to which human life is exposed, the only one at least in which I have any confidence, is the presence of a real friend.’
DAVID HUME.
This celebrated historian was born at Edinburgh, on the 26th of April, 1711. He was of a good family, both by father and mother, and the former dying whilst he was an infant, he was brought up under the care of his mother, whom he describes as a women of singular merit. A passion for literature took possession of him at a very early period of his education, and, in consequence of his sobriety and studious disposition, he was destined by his family for the law; but ‘while they fancied,’ he says in his autobiography, ‘I was poring upon Voet and Vinnius, Cicero and Virgil were the authors which I was secretly devouring.’ His health, however, becoming impaired by sedentary application, he, in 1634, went to Bristol, with a view of engaging in mercantile pursuits, but found them unsuitable to his disposition, that in a few months afterwards he took up his residence in France, and laid down a plan of life which he steadily and successfully pursued. ‘I resolved,’ he says, ‘to make a very rigid frugality supply my deficiency of fortune; to maintain unimpaired my independency; and to regard every object as contemptible, except the improvement of my talents in literature.’
After a stay of three years abroad he returned to England, and, in 1738, published his Treatise of Human Nature, the fate of which he describes by saying, ‘it fell dead born from the press.’ Of too sanguine a temperament to be discouraged, he continued his literary labors, and in 1742, printed, at Edinburgh, the first part of his Essays, which were received in a manner that fully compensated for his former disappointments. In 1745, he went to England as tutor to the young Marqueis of Annandale, and after remaining in that situation for a twelvemonth, he stood candidate for the professorship of moral philosophy at Edinburgh, but although strongly supported, the notoriety of his sceptical opinions prevented his success. In 1746, he accepted an invitation from General St. Clair to attend him as a secretary to his expedition, which ended in an incursion on the coast of France; and, in 1747, he accompanied him in his military embassy to the courts of Vienna and Turin. During his residence at the latter place, imagining that his Treatise of Human Nature had failed of success from the manner rather than the matter, he published the first part of the work anew, under the title of an Inquiry concerning Human Understanding. Its new shape, however, made but little difference in its success; and on his return from Italy, Hume observes, ‘I had the mortification to find all England in a ferment, on account of Dr. Middleton’s Free Inquiry, while my performance was entirely overlooked and neglected.’
His disappointment was increased by the failure of a new edition of his Essays; but borne up by the natural cheerfulness of his disposition, he, in 1749, went to his brother’s residence in Scotland, and composed his Political Discourses, and Inquiry concerning the Principles of Morals, both of which were published at Edinburgh in 1752. At this time his former publications had begun to attract notice, and more than one answer had been written to his Essays, of which, however, he took no notice, having made a fixed resolution, which he inflexibly maintained, never to reply to any body. His Political Discourses were favorably received both abroad and at home, but his Principles of Morals, although, in his own opinion, incomparably the best of all his writings, came, as he says, unnoticed and unobserved into the world. In the year of its application, already mentioned, he was chosen librarian to the Faculty of Advocates, when the large library, of which he had the command, suggested to him the idea of writing the History of England, ‘Being frightened,’ he says, ‘with the notion of continuing a narrative through a period of seventeen hundred years, I commenced with the accession of the House of Stuart; an epoch when I thought the misrepresentation of faction began chiefly to take place.’ The history of this period appeared in one quarto volume, in 1754; but instead of meeting with the applause which he confesses he expected, it was assailed, as he tells us, ‘by one cry of reproach, disapprobation, and even detestation.’ The only individuals of literary consideration from whom he received encouragement to proceed, were the primates of England and Ireland, Drs. Herring and Stone; whilst the sale was so inconsiderable, that, in the course of a twelvemonth, only forty-five copies were disposed of. He attributed the opposition it met with to the regret expressed by the author of the fate of Charles the First and the Earl of Stafford; but, in all probability, it arose from the contemptuous tone in which he spoke of adverse religious parties.
He was so far discouraged by the reception of his work, that he resolved to quit his country for ever, and pass the remainder of his days in France. The war, however, breaking out between that country and England, his intention was frustrated, and he determined to persevere in his historical design. In the meantime he published his Natural History of Religion, which was answered by Warburton in the name of Dr. Hurd, in ‘a pamphlet,’ says our author, that ‘gave me some consolation for the otherwise indifferent reception of my performance.’ In 1756, appeared his second volume of the History of England, containing the period from the death of Charles the First till the Revolution; and, in 1759, it was succeeded by the History of the House of Tudor. This performance was not less obnoxious than his first published volume, but being now grown ‘callous against the impressions of public folly,’ he devoted himself, with calm perseverance, of the early part of the English History, which he completed in two volumes, in 1761.
Notwithstanding the altogether unfavorable reception of his History of England, which had now become a chief standard work, our author received a sum for the copyright, which, together with a pension he enjoyed through the influence of Lord Bute, had procured him not only independence but opulence. He therefore meditated passing the rest of his life in philosophical retirement, when, in 1763, he accepted an invitation to accompany the Earl of Hertford on his embassy to Paris, where his literary reputation obtained for him a reception, which, after the apathy of his own countrymen, astonished and delighted him. He remained at the French capital, in the situation of charge d’affaires, until the beginning of 1766, when he returned to England in company with the celebrated Rousseau, who is said to have repaid the delicate and generous behavior of our author with his usual ingratitude. In 1767, he was appointed under secretary of state to Mr. Conway, and after holding that situation for about two years, he returned to Edinburgh, in 1769, with a fortune of £1,000 a year. The next four years of his life were passed in the enjoyment of ease and reputation; the succeeding portion is best described towards the close of his autobiography, dated April 18th, 1776. ‘In spring 1775,’ he says, ‘I was struck with a disorder in my bowels, which at first gave me no alarm, but has since, as I apprehend it, become mortal and incurable. I now reckon upon a speedy dissolution. I have suffered very little pain from my disorder; and what is more strange, have, notwithstanding the great decline of my person, never suffered a moment’s abatement of my spirits; insomuch, that were I to name a period of my life, which I should most choose to pass over again, I might be tempted to point to this latter period. I possess the same ardor as ever in duty, and the same gayety in company. I consider, besides, that a man of sixty-five, by dying, cuts off only a few years of infirmities; and though I see many symptoms of my literary reputation’s breaking out at last with additional lustre, I know that I could have but a few years to enjoy it. It is difficult to be more detached from life than I am at present.’
After having finished the account of his life, he, at the request of his friends, went to England for the improvement of his health, but returned with no benefit, after a few weeks’ stay at London and Bath. He now employed himself in correcting his works for a new edition, and considering himself as a dying man, talked familiarly and even jocularly of his approaching dissolution. To one of his friends, who, struck by his cheerfulness, could not help expressing hopes of his recovery, he said, ‘Your hopes are groundless; I am dying as fast as my enemies, if I have any, could wish, and as easily and cheerfully as my best friends could desire.’ His weakness increased daily, until the afternoon of the 26th of August 1776, when he expired, says Dr. Black, ‘in such a happy composure of mind, that nothing could exceed it.’
Hume seemed to have formed a very just estimate of his own character: he describes himself as a man of mild disposition, of command of temper, of an open, social, and cheerful humor, capable of attachment, but little susceptible of enmity, and of great moderation in all his passions. This account of himself is fully corroborated by Dr. Adam Smith, who speaks of his social and intellectual qualities in the highest strain of eulogy: ‘Upon the whole,’ says the doctor, in his concluding remarks upon the death of Hume, ‘I have always considered him, both in his lifetime and since his death, as approaching as nearly to the idea of a perfectly wise and virtuous man, as, perhaps, the nature of human frailty will permit.’ Of this frailty he exhibited no inconsiderable portion in treating all systems of religion as founded in superstition; and, perhaps, there was a levity of conduct immediately preceding his death, which was beyond the dignity even of a philosopher, as it was certainly very opposite to the unpretending resignation of a dying Christian. His person had no affinity to his mind; his face was broad and flat, his mouth wide, his eyes vacant, and the corpulency of his whole person is said to have been better fitted to communicate the idea of a turtle-eating alderman, than of a refined philosopher. At Turin he fell in love with a lady, and addressing her, declared that he was “abime aneanti.” “Oh! pour aneanti,” replied the lady, “ce n’est en effet qu’une operation très naturelle de votre systême.”
In his intellectual character he takes his place in the first rank of modern philosophical sceptics, and it must be confessed that few writers have insisted on their theories with more vigor, self-command, or ability. The merit of his History of England is now generally allowed, though notwithstanding his own claim to perfect impartiality, prejudices, particularly in favor of the House of Stuart, appear in his work, and he has been accused of coloring facts to support his favorite and somewhat erroneous position that the English constitution cannot be considered as a regular plan of liberty before the reigns of the first two Stuarts. Upon the whole, however, few historians are more free from prejudice than Hume; nor is he often excelled in the clearness and eloquence of his style. About seven years after his death appeared an Essay on Suicide, generally believed to have been the production of his pen, and which, it is said, would have appeared in his lifetime, had not the booksellers been afraid to publish it.
An anecdote of Hume is told in one of Dr. Beattie’s letters to Mrs. Montague, which shows that however sincere a sceptic our author may have been, he admitted the propagation of his opinions might be destructive to the morals, if not the happiness, of at least one half of the intellectual world. ‘Mr. Hume,’ says Beattie, ‘was boasting to Dr. Gregory, that among his disciples in Edinburg, he had the honor to reckon many of the fair sex. “Now tell me,” said the doctor, “whether if you had a wife or a daughter, you would wish them to be your disciples? Think well before you answer me; for, I assure you, that, whatever your answer is, I will not conceal it.” Mr. Hume, with a smile, and some hesitation, made this reply: “No; I believe scepticism may be too sturdy a virtue for a woman.”’ At another time, Mrs. Mallet, wife of the poet, meeting him at an assembly, boldly accosted him in these words: ‘Mr. Hume, give me leave to introduce myself to you; we Deists ought to know each other.’ ‘Madam,’ replied he, ‘I am no Deist; I do not style myself so; neither do I desire to be known by that appellation.’
ALEXANDER POPE.
Alexander Pope was born in Lombard Street, London, of Roman Catholic parents, on the 22d of May, 1688. He was according to Johnson, more willing to show what his father was not, than what he was; but his principal biographers make him the son of a linen-draper, who had grown rich enough to retire from business to Binfield, near Windsor. Alexander was deformed from his birth, and of so delicate a constitution, and such weakness of body, that he constantly wore stays; and when taking the air on the water, had a sedan-chair in the boat, in which he sat with the glasses down. He received the early part of his education at home, and, when about eight, was placed under the care of one Taverner, a Romish priest, who taught him the rudiments of Latin and Greek. His taste for poetry was first excited by the perusal of Ogilby’s Homer and Sandy’s Ovid; and, on his removal to school at Twyford, near Winchester, he exercised his talents in verse, by lampooning the master. He was next sent to a school in the vicinity of Hyde Park Corner, whence his occasional visits to the play-house induced such a fondness for theatrical exhibitions, that he composed a play from Ogilby’s Iliad, with some verses of his own intermixed, which was acted by his schoolfellows.
About twelve years of age, when he wrote his earliest production, The Ode of Solitude, he was called by his father to Binfield, where he improved himself by translating into verse the Latin classics, and in reading the English poets. The versification of Dryden particularly struck him, and he conceived such a veneration for the genius of that poet, that he persuaded some friends to take him to the coffeehouse which he frequented, and pleased himself with having seen him. As early as 1702, he had put into more elegant verse Chaucer’s January and May, and The Prologue to the Wife of Bath; and in the same year, he translated the epistle of Sappho to Phaon, from Ovid. At this time, the smoothness of his versification, which might be said to be formed, surpassed his original; ‘but this,’ says Johnson, ‘is a small part of his praise; he discovered such acquaintance both with human and public affairs, as is not easily conceived to have been attainable by a boy of fourteen, in Windsor Forest.’
In 1703, he passed some time in London, in the study of the French and Italian languages; and on his return to Binfield, wrote a comedy, a tragedy, or epic poem, with panegyrics on all the princes of Europe, and, as he confesses, ‘thought himself the greatest genius that ever was.’ Many of the productions upon which he founded this idea of himself, he subsequently destroyed; nor is it from an earlier period than 1705, that his life, as an author, is properly computed. In that year, he wrote his Pastorals, which, together with the very elegant and learned preface, received the praise of all the poets and the critics of the time; to whose society he, in the following year, more particularly introduced himself, by attending Will’s Coffee-house, in London, where most of them used to assemble. His pastorals did not appear until 1709, and in the same year he wrote, and in 1711 published, his Essay on Criticism, which he seems to have considered either so learned or so obscure, as to declare that ‘not one gentleman in sixty, even of a liberal education, could understand it.’ The piece was translated into French and German, and however overrated may have been the author’s estimation of it, has not been inadequately praised by Johnson, who observes that it displayed extent of comprehension, nicety of distinction, acquaintance with mankind, and knowledge both of ancient and modern learning, not often attained by the maturest age and longest experience. The essay, however, was not without opponents, and was attacked in a bitter and elaborate pamphlet, by Dennis, in consequence of some lines applied to him by Pope, whom he designated as ‘a little affected hypocrite, who had nothing in his mouth at the same time but truth, candor, friendship, good-nature, humanity and magnanimity.’ In this year, he also wrote his Messiah, first published in The Spectator, and his verses on the Unfortunate Lady, who, we are told by Ruffhead, having been removed by her guardian into a foreign country to avoid the addresses of Pope, put an end to her life by stabbing herself with a sword.
His next production was The Rape of the Lock, which is considered the most airy, the most ingenious, and the most delightful of all his compositions. The origin of it is too well known to need repetition here; but it is doubtful, as generally asserted, whether it had the effect of reconciling the parties whose conduct gave rise to the subject. On its first appearance, Addison called it a delicious little thing, and urged Pope not to alter it: he was, however, too confident of improving it to follow this advice, and considerably altered, and added to, the poem. ‘His attempt,’ says Johnson, ‘was justified by its success: The Rape of the Lock stands forward in the classes of literature as the most exquisite example of ludicrous poetry.’ In 1712, he published The Temple of Fame, and, about the same period, his Eloise to Abelard; to the composition of which he was led, according to Savage, by the perusal of Prior’s Nut-brown Maid. In 1713, appeared his Windsor Forest, the conclusion of which is said to have given pain to Addison, both as a poet and politician; but this is doubted by Johnson, who, in proof of the apparant friendship that continued to exist between the two poets, refers to the prologue of Cato, written by Pope, and also to a defense of that tragedy against the attacks of Dennis. About this time, the subject of our memoir is said to have studied painting under Jervis, and to have made progress enough to take the portraits of several of his friends.
He now turned his attention to the completion of his Iliad, which he offered to subscribers in six quarto volumes, for six guineas. The subscription soon rose to an amount that, while it gratified, at the same time alarmed him, when he thought of the extent of his undertaking; which, he says, disturbed him in his dreams at night, and made him wish that somebody would hang him. It was also given out, by some of his enemies, that he was deficient in Greek; and Addison, who does certainly, in this instance, seem to have been jealous of the fame of Pope, hinted to the Whigs, with a view to impede the subscription, that he was too much of a Tory; whilst this suspected him to be of the other party, in consequence of his contributions to Steele’s Guardian. His genius, however, carried him above all difficulties; and at the rate of about fifty lines per day, he soon completed the whole of the volumes, though his repeated alterations delayed the appearance of the sixth until 1720. The clear profit which he gained by this work amounted to £5,324 4s.; a sum that relieved him from his present pecuniary difficulties, and enabled him to secure himself against future ones, by the purchase of considerable annuities.
The Iliad, which is described by the author’s biographer already mentioned, as not only one of the noblest versions of English poetry ever seen by the world, but, as one of the greatest events in the annals of learning, was a source of much annoyance to Pope, both during its progress and after its completion. Whilst it failed to gain him a patron, it also lost him a friend; the coldness of Addison he returned with indignation, and the overtures of Lord Halifax with indifference and contempt. He had taken umbrage at the conduct of the former, in endeavoring to create a rivalry between his translation of Homer and Tickall’s; the appearance of which, at the same time with his own, he had good reasons for attributing to the instrumentality of Addison. A reconciliation between them was afterwards attempted to be brought about, by Steele; but the interview only increased their mutual dislike, which continued to the end of their lives. Another reason assigned for Pope’s quarrel with Addison, is, that he had given one Gildon ten guineas to abuse the former in a letter, which was published respecting Wycherley. ‘On hearing of which,’ says Pope, ‘I wrote a letter to Mr. Addison, to let him know that I was not unacquainted with this behavior of his; that if I were to speak severely of him in return for it, it should not be in such a dirty way; that I should rather tell him myself fairly of his faults, and allow his good qualities; and that it should be something in the following manner. I then adjoined the first sketch of what has since been called my satire on Addison,—the character of Atticus.’ Our author’s contempt for Lord Halifax arose from that nobleman’s delay in the bestowal of his patronage, until he had secured some compliment, in the way of dedication or otherwise, which the poet was not over anxious to render. ‘They, probably,’ says Johnson, ‘were suspicious of each other: Pope would not dedicate till he saw at what rate his praise was valued; Halifax thought himself entitled to confidence, and would give nothing unless he knew what he should receive.’
Pope had removed to his celebrated villa, at Twickenham, in the year 1715, when the first volume of his Iliad was published, from which time he generally continued to reside there. In 1717, he collected his former works into one quarto volume; and in 1720, partaking of the national infatuation, he lost a slight sum of money in the South Sea stock. In 1721, he was induced, by a reward of £217 12s., to give his name and labors to an edition of Shakspeare, in which his various errors were detected and exposed with all the insolence of victory, by Theobald, in a book called, Shakspeare Restored. From this time, says Johnson, Pope became an enemy to editors, collators, and verbal critics; and hoped to persuade the world that he miscarried in this undertaking only by having a mind too great for such minute employments. The same authority tells us that, in 1723, he appeared as a witness on the trial of Bishop Atterbury, and that, in the few words he had to utter, he made several blunders. In 1725, appeared his translation of the Odyssey, in which he was assisted by Broome and Fenton; the former of whom he is said to have treated with great illiberality. About the year 1726, he had the misfortune to be overturned in the water whilst passing a bridge in a friend’s coach, by which he narrowly escaped drowning, and lost the use of two of his fingers from the breaking of the windows. Upon this occasion he received a letter of consolation from Voltaire, whom he had previously entertained at this table, where he is said to have talked with so much grossness, that Pope was driven from the room.
In 1727, he joined with Swift in the publication of three volumes of Miscellanies, wherein was inserted his Art of Sinking in Poetry; and in the following year appeared his Dunciad, a general attack against all the inferior authors of his time, whom he distinguished by the appellation of The Dunces. ‘On the day the book was first vended,’ says Pope, ‘a crowd of authors besieged the shop; entreaties, advices, threats of law and battery, nay, cries of treason, were all employed to hinder the coming out of the Dunciad.’ The poem excited a great sensation in all quarters, and was presented to the king and queen by Sir Robert Walpole. It is said to have blasted the literary reputation of all those whom it touched, and to have driven many of them to such an extent of hatred against the author, that they held weekly clubs to consider how they might injure him, and brought his image in clay for the purpose of executing him in effigy. In 1731, he published a poem on Taste, by which he incurred the odium of all parties, in consequence of ridiculing, under the name of Timon, his former friend and patron, the Duke of Chandos; to whom he wrote an explanatory letter, as full of hypocrisy as his verses were of ingratitude. In 1733, he published anonymously, the first, and in 1735, under his own name, the fourth part of his Essay on Man; the idea of which he acknowledges to have received from Bolingbroke, who is said to have ridiculed Pope as having advanced in it principles of which he did not perceive the consequence, and as blindly propagating opinions contrary to his own. Pope certainly appears to more advantage as a poet than a theologist in this production; which was on its translation into French, attacked with great skill by Professor Crousaz, of Switzerland, who discovered that many of the positions contained inferences against the doctrines of revelation. Warburton, however, defended the essay, in a manner that ever afterwards secured him the gratitude and friendship of Pope, who took the opportunity of acknowledging that he had not explained his own meaning properly, and of disclaiming any intention to propagate the principles of Bolingbroke.
His next poems in succession, were An Epistle to lord Bathurst, the Characters of Men and of Women, several imitations of Horace, Dr. Donne’s Satires, and an Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. In 1737, he published, by subscription, a quarto volume of his Correspondence; for the previous publication of which, by Curill, whom he had prosecuted in the house of lords, he accounts, in his preface, by saying that his letters had been stolen from a friend’s library, and thence sent privately to the press. There is, however, good reason to believe that they were printed with his own connivance, in order to give him an opportunity of subsequently publishing them himself, without incurring the imputation of vanity. In 1738, at which time he was visited by the Prince of Wales, and was of the opposition party, he published two Satirical Dialogues, in which he attacked several statesmen, but with a view rather of displaying his powers as a satirist than his sentiments as a patriot. These works were followed, in 1742, by a fourth book of The Dunciad, which brought on a paper war between himself and Cibber; his attack against whom he repeated, in a new edition of that work, in a strain of virulence that contributed more to the amusement of his readers than to his own reputation. From this time his vital powers gradually declined; he gave over original composition, and passed his time in the correction and revisal of his former works, and in social intercourse with his intimate friends, the chief of whom appear to have been Warburton and lord Bolingbroke. An asthma, with which he had been for some years affected, now terminating in a dropsy, his end visibly approached; he met it with resignation and calmness; and after having taken the sacrament, and exclaimed, a short time previously to death, ‘there is nothing meritorious but friendship and virtue!’ he expired, on the 30th of May, 1744, so placidly that the attendants did not ascertain the exact time of his dissolution. He was interred at Twickenham, where a monument was erected to him by Warburton, to whom he lelft half his library and the copyright of such of his works already printed as were not otherwise disposed of.
The character of Pope has been differently estimated by his biographers, Warburton, Bowles, Warton and Johnson. The last seems to have treated it in the most impartial manner; but his view of it is too diffuse and incongruous to be altogether satisfactory. Upon the whole Pope seems to have been more deserving of praise than he is represented; he has been considered exclusively in his literary character to have had justice done to him as a man. His reputation even as a poet, in the complete sense of the word, has been a subject of dispute with many; but it is idle to deny him a title to which none have so zealously, if so successfully, aspired. It is not to be denied that, upon the ground-work of others, he has raised some of his most beautiful superstructures; but from whatever sources he may have drawn his ideas, he has transferred them immortally to his own verses, by the manner in which he there enshrined them. His Iliad will probably continue to supersede all other translations; whilst the exquisite machinery of the sylphs in The Rape of the Lock, and the vigorous animation and pathetic tenderness pervading his Verses on the Unfortunate Lady, evince an original genius which may successfully challenge competition: His avowed model was Dryden; between whom and himself, Johnson, in drawing an elaborate comparison, says, that where the one delights the other astonishes; that Dryden is sometimes vehement and rapid,—Pope always smooth, uniform, and gentle. His conclusion seems to be that the former wrote the brighter paragraphs, the latter the better poems. ‘Pope,’ he observes, ‘had perhaps the judgment of Dryden; but Dryden certainly wanted the diligence of Pope.’ His Ode to St. Cecelia’s Day, the same authority thinks inferior to Dryden’s, but his Epistle of Eloise to Abelard he ranks as one of the most happy productions of human wit. For seductive eloquence and splendor of imagery, his Essay on Man is unequaled; but stripped of their ornaments, the sentiments will be found commonplaces and the diction bombastic. His epistolary writings, composed, doubtless, with a view to publication, attest the care and elegance of his pen, but are too full of that affectation and ambition, with which he himself confesses his early letters to have been vitiated.
Vanity and affectation were principal features in the character of Pope; like Byron, he pretended a hatred of the world, whilst his highest pleasure consisted in pleasing those who lived in it; and his egotism is sufficiently manifest in the contempt with which he treated all excellence in others that had not some affinity with his own. One of his boasts was, that he never obtained the notice of one titled acquaintance by adulation or servility; and Johnson, in confirming this, says, that he never flattered those whom he did not love or praised those whom he did not esteem. An exception to this, however, appears in his conduct towards Lord Hervey and Lady Wortley Montagu, in a memoir of whom he will be found apologizing in a strain of meanness and hypocrisy commensurate with the grossness and vindictiveness of his previous abuse. But though sometimes violent in his attacks and mean in his retreat, he was warm and constant in his friendships; and his social qualities, says Johnson, exhibit a perpetual and unclouded effulgence of general benevolence. Though his fortune was far from splendid, he assisted Dodsley with £100 to open a shop, and of the subscription of £40 a-year that he raised for Savage, £20 were paid by himself.
In his domestic concerns, he was frugal almost to parsimoniousness; in proof of which, it is said, that he used to write his compositions on the backs of letters; and after a scanty entertainment to two of his guests, would place a single pint of wine, with two small glasses, upon the table, and say, ‘Gentlemen, I leave you to your wine.’ He, however, would sometimes give a splendid dinner to a party of his friends, and is said himself to have been so great an epicure, that his heart was often won by a present of some luxury for his table. He used constantly to call for coffee in the night, when it is not probable he took much sleep, if the story of Lord Oxford’s domestic be true, that she was called from her bed, by him, four times in one night, to supply him with paper, lest he should lose a thought. He did not excel in conversation; and it was said no merriment of others, or of his own, excited him to laughter. There appears to have been a certain littleness and artifice in his intercourse with mankind, particularly with regard to trifles, which made Lady Bolingbroke say that ‘he played the politician about cabbages and turnips.’ In his person, he was so much beneath the middle stature, that, to bring him to a level with common tables, it was necessary to raise his seat; his countenance was, upon the whole, prepossessing, and his eyes were animated and expressive. His physical debility continued throughout his life; to conceal the tenuity of his legs, he wore three pairs of stockings; and being unable to dress or undress himself, could neither retire to rest, nor rise, without assistance.
An important feature in his private history, is his intimacy with Martha Blount, the daughter of a Catholic gentleman, near Reading, who is said to have been his intimate confidant and companion through life. She possessed great influence over him, and though she treated him with great neglect for some time previous to his death, he left her the greater part of his property. With this temporary exception, those to whom Pope was attached, remained his warm friends to the last; and Bolingbroke, who wept over him in his last illness, said, ‘I never knew in my life a man that had so tender a heart for his particular friends, or more general friendship for mankind.’ Having discovered, however, after the death of Pope, whom he had commissioned to procure a few impressions of his Patriot King, that he had ordered one thousand five hundred copies to be privately printed, Bolingbroke was so enraged at the transaction, that he exerted his utmost efforts to blast the memory of the man over whom he had so lately shed tears of affection and regret. For this artifice, of which the motive is not apparent, Warburton attempted to apologize; but in so unsatisfactory a manner, that it produced an answer, by Mallet, in A Letter to the most Impudent Man living.
We conclude our memoir of this paradoxical character, with the following anecdotes respecting him:—Lord Halifax having expressed himself dissatisfied with several passages in Pope’s translation of the Iliad, the latter observed to Garth, that, as he could not see where any alteration could be made for the better, his lordship’s observation had laid him under some difficulty. ‘All that you need do,’ said Garth, laughing, ‘is to leave them just as they are; call on Lord Halifax two or three months hence, thank him for his kind observations on those passages, and then read them to him as altered.’ Pope followed his advice, waited on Lord Halifax some time after, said he hoped his lordship would find his objections to those passages removed, read them to him exactly as they were at first, and his lordship was extremely pleased with them, and cried out, ‘ay, now they are perfectly right; nothing can be better.’
On Pope’s receiving, at his house, the Prince of Wales, with the most dutiful expression of attachment, the former remarked, ‘how shall we reconcile your love to a prince with your professed indisposition to kings, since princes will be kings in time?’ ‘Sir,’ replied the poet, ‘I consider royalty under that noble and authorized type of the lion; while he is young, and before his nails are grown, he may be approached and caressed with safety and pleasure.’ During his last illness, a squabble happening between his two physicians, Dr. Burton and Dr. Thompson, who mutually charged each other with hastening the death of their patient by improper prescriptions, Pope silenced them by saying, ‘gentlemen, I only learn by your discourse that I am in a dangerous way; therefore all I now ask is, that the following epigram may be added, after my death, to the next edition of The Dunciad, by way of postscript—
Dunces rejoice, forgive all censures past,
The greatest dunce has kill’d your foe at last.
Pope, though some have attributed them to Young, is also said to have composed, on being asked for an extempore couplet, by lord Chesterfield, the following lines, with the pencil of that nobleman:—
Accept a miracle, instead of wit
See two dull lines with Stanhope’s pencil writ.
JOHN ADAMS.
John Adams, a distinguished patriot of the revolution, was born at Braintree, Massachusetts, October 19, 1735. The ancestors of Mr. A. had left England for the wilds of America, in order to enjoy their religious opinions unmolested. They were among the first settlers of Massachusetts, Henry Adams, the great-great-grandfather of John, and one of the original proprietors of the town of Braintree, having fled from England, with other Puritans, in the year 1630. Their condition was that of substantial yeomen, who possessed the fee simple of their lands, and maintained themselves and families by manual labor. Mr. A. having, when yet a boy, evinced great fondness for books, and readiness in learning, his father determined to give him a collegiate education, and placed him, in consequence, under the care of Mr. Marsh (who was afterwards the preceptor of the celebrated Josiah Quincy), that he might be prepared for entrance into the university of Cambridge. He remained in that institution until the year 1755, when he received his bachelor’s degree, and in 1758 that of master of arts. Whilst at college, he is said to have been distinguished by intense application, retentiveness of memory, acuteness of reasoning, boldness and originality of thought, strength of language, and an honesty of character which could neither assume nor tolerate disguise. After he had left college, he commenced the study of law, at Worcester, with colonel James Putnam, and, during the period he was so engaged, instructed pupils in the Latin and Greek languages, in order to be able to defray his expenses himself. Before proceeding farther, it may not be amiss to notice the posture of affairs in Massachusetts at that epoch. For a long time past, that province had been disturbed by almost unremitted contentions between its inhabitants and the parliament of Great Britain, on various important subjects. The English legislature had, in fact, nothing to do with the colonies, as all dominion acquired by conquest or discovery invariably accrued to the king. To him alone the emigrants paid allegiance and applied for protection, and, although parliament always affected to believe itself entitled to regulate their concerns, they received very little interruption from it in the exercise of the privilege granted them by the king of governing and legislating for themselves. In the course of time, however, parliament became jealous of the power, approaching to independence, which they enjoyed, and began to impose unconstitutional restraints upon their commerce, to violate their charters, and, in short, to treat them so arbitrarily, that their spirit was completely roused, and a vigorous resistance called forth. Massachusetts, especially, had become a theatre of perpetual struggle for power on the one side, and for freedom on the other. But it was hitherto only an intellectual warfare, no idea of a separation from the mother country having been entertained. In 1758, Mr. A. left the office of colonel Putnam, and entered that of Jeremiah Gridley, then attorney-general of the province, and of the highest eminence at the bar. Gridley had, some years previously, superintended also the legal studies of James Otis, and, proud of his two pupils, used often to say, that ‘he had raised two young eagles, who were, one day or other, to peck out his eyes.’ In 1759, Mr. A. was admitted, at his recommendation, a member of the bar of Suffolk. Mr. A. commenced the practice of his profession in that part of his native town now called Quincy, but first brought himself into notice by his defense of a prisoner in the county of Plymouth, from which time a sufficiency of lucrative business generally occupied his attention. In 1761, he was admitted to the degree of barrister at law, and shortly afterwards was placed in the possession of a small landed estate by his father’s decease. In February of this year, an incident occurred, which inflamed his enthusiasm in the cause of his country’s rights to the highest pitch. The British cabinet had long shown a desire to assert the sovereign authority of parliament over the colonies in all cases of taxation and internal policy; but the first evidence of its having determined to do so was an order in council, issued this year, enjoining the officers of the customs in Massachusetts Bay to execute the acts of trade, and make application for writs of assistance, to the supreme judicature of the province. These writs were a species of general search-warrants, authorizing those who were empowered to carry them into effect to enter all houses, warehouses, etc., for the purpose of discovering and seizing such goods as were not discharged from the taxes imposed upon them by the acts. The officers of the customs applied for them, in pursuance of their instructions, to the court at Salem, but the demand was refused, on account of doubts concerning their constitutionality. It was then determined to have the affair argued by counsel in Boston. Great alarm now pervaded the whole community. Mr. Otis was engaged, by the merchants of Salem and Boston, to oppose the concession of so formidable an instrument of arbitrary power. In order to do so with entire freedom, he resigned the lucrative station of advocate-general in the court of admiralty, which he then enjoyed. Of the masterly manner in which he performed his duty, Mr. A., who was present at the discussion, has transmitted a vivid account. ‘Otis,’ says he, ‘was a flame of fire! With a promptitude of classical allusion, a depth of research, a rapid summary of historical events and dates, a profusion of legal authorities, a prophetic glance of his eyes into futurity, and a rapid torrent of impetuous eloquence, he hurried away all before him. American Independence was then and there born.’ He afterwards adds, ‘Every man of an immensely crowded audience appeared to me to go away, as I did, ready to take arms against writs of assistance.’ Speaking of this discourse on another occasion, he said, ‘that James Otis, then and there, first breathed into this nation the breath of life.’ In 1764, he married Abigail Smith, second daughter of the Rev. William Smith, of Weymouth, and grand-daughter of colonel Quincy, of Mount Wollaston, a lady every way worthy of her husband, endowed by nature with a countenance singularly noble and lovely, and with a mind whose fine powers were improved by an excellent education. Her ardor in the cause of her country was as elevated as his own, and her piety unaffected and exemplary. About a year afterwards, Mr. A. published in the Boston Gazette several pieces, under the title of ‘An Essay on Canon and Feudal Law,’ which were reprinted in London, in 1768, and called ‘A Dissertation on Canon and Feudal Law.’ It is, perhaps, not the smallest proof of its merit, that it was there attributed to Gridley, who at that time enjoyed the highest reputation for ability. The friends of the colonies in England termed it ‘one of the very best productions ever seen from North America.’ The name of the real author was afterwards divulged, in 1783, when it was published in Philadelphia, by Robert Bell, in a pamphlet form, with lord Sheffield’s observations on the commerce of the American States, and entitled ‘An Essay on Canon and Feudal Law, by John Adams, Esq.’ It seems to have been the principal object of the author to extinguish, as far as possible, the blind and almost superstitious veneration of his countrymen for the institutions of the parent country, by holding up to their abhorrence the principles of the canon and feudal law, and showing to them the conspiracy which existed between church and state, for the purpose of oppressing the people. He inculcates the sentiments of genuine liberty, as well as the necessity of correct information on the part of his fellow-citizens, in order that they might be prepared to assert and maintain their rights by force, if force should ever become necessary. It was indeed a work eminently calculated to excite the people of America to resist, at all hazards, any infringement of their liberties. In December, 1765, Mr. A. was engaged, as counsel with Mr. Gridley and Mr. Otis, to support, before the governor and council, a memorial presented to the former, from the town of Boston, praying that the courts, which had been closed on account of the opposition to the stamp act, might again be opened. Through their united exertions, the petition was successful. In the same year, he removed to Boston, where he continued in the practice of his profession on a very extensive scale. After he had resided there about two years, the crown officers of the province, thinking, perhaps, that his patriotism was not without its price, made him an offer, through Mr. Sewall (between whom and himself an intimate friendship subsisted, formed at the time when he was studying with colonel Putnam), of the office of advocate-general in the court of admiralty, the most lucrative post in the gift of the governor. This office also was one which conducted its incumbents directly to the highest provincial honors. He refused it, however, as he says in his preface to the late edition of Novanglus, ‘decidedly and peremptorily, though respectfully.’ In 1769, he was appointed chairman of the committee chosen by the town of Boston, for the purpose of drawing up instructions to their representatives, to resist the encroachments of the British government. His colleagues were R. Dana and Jos. Warren. At the time they were thus employed, the metropolis was invested by an armed force, both by sea and land, and the state-house surrounded by a military guard, with cannon pointed at the door. Large majorities of both houses of parliament had signified their approval of the measures adopted by the king; had promised him their support, and besought him to prosecute, within the realm, all those who had been guilty of treasonable acts, in Massachusetts, since the year 1767, in accordance with the decree of parliament of the 35th of Henry VIII. Nevertheless, the committee performed their task with undaunted firmness, and reported the instructions which, no doubt, contributed to produce the strong resolutions subsequently adopted by the legislature of Massachusetts. It was on account of these instructions and resolutions, that the provincial garrison was withdrawn, by order of the governor, from the castle, and regular troops, in the pay of the crown, substituted. The instructions also formed one of the specific charges made against the colony by the committee of the lords of council for plantation affairs, to the lords of council, July 6, 1770.
A striking example of the firmness and uprightness of Mr. A. occurred during the course of that year. He had, hitherto, been very active in stimulating the people of his province to the strenuous maintenance of their rights, and had thereby aided in producing an excitement greater than he could have wished, and which he found it necessary to counteract. The people of Boston had become exasperated at the idea of a garrison placed in their city, and were extremely hostile to the soldiers composing it. These feelings led to an attack upon a party of them under the command of captain Preston, March 5. They fired on the assailants in self-defense, and killed several of them. The soldiers were immediately arraigned before the civil authority, and Mr. Adams, in conjunction with Josiah Quincy and Mr. Sampson S. Blowers, was requested to aid them upon their trial. Although the minds of the people were inflamed almost to madness, and the defense of the accused seemed to involve a certain loss of popularity, Mr. A. immediately undertook to act as their advocate. Mr. A. was no demagogue; he saw that the honor of his country was at stake, and he rejoiced, as has been well said, in the opportunity of showing to the world, that the cause of America did not depend upon a temporary excitement, which could stifle the voice of justice, but upon the sober, steady, persevering determination of the people to support their rights. The cause was conducted by him and his colleagues with great ability, and the soldiers were all acquitted save two, who were found guilty of manslaughter, received a slight branding as a punishment, and were then discharged. Scarcely any thing which occurred during the revolution confers more honor upon the national character, and did more service to the cause of America, than this triumph of justice. Mr. A. soon received a proof that the public confidence in him was not diminished, by his election, in May, 1770, to the legislature of his state, as one of the representatives of the town of Boston. His conduct in this new situation displayed the same patriotism, courage and hostility to the despotism of the mother country, by which he had always been distinguished. He took a prominent part in every public measure, and served on several committees, who reported some of the most important state papers of the time; among which were the address and protest to the governor against the removal of the general court from Boston to Cambridge. In Bradford’s History of Massachusetts, we find the following account of a controversy in which Mr. A. was engaged in the year 1773. ‘The ministerial regulation for paying the salary of the judges, which rendered them wholly dependent on the crown, was the occasion of a learned and able discussion in the public papers, by William Brattle, senior member of the council, and John Adams. The essays of the latter were written with great learning and ability, and had a happy effect in enlightening the public mind on a question of very great importance. It subjected him, indeed, to the displeasure of governor Hutchinson and the ministerial party; and at the next election in May, when chosen by the assembly into the council, the governor gave his negative to the choice. These essays were published in the Boston Gazette of February, 1773, under Mr. Adams’ proper signature, and would make a pamphlet of 50 or 60 pages.’ In 1774, he was again rejected by governor Gage, and soon afterwards he was appointed one of the committee of the town of Boston, who prepared the celebrated resolutions on the Boston port-bill. June 17, of this year, governor Gage, having dissolved the assembly, this body, before separating, passed a resolution to appoint a committee to meet other committees from other colonies, for the purpose of consulting upon their common interests, and, in consequence, Mr. Thomas Cushing, Mr. Samuel Adams, Mr. John Adams and Mr. Robert Treat Paine were elected to the first continental congress, which met at Philadelphia in the following September. Soon after Mr. A. was chosen, an incident occurred which gives an idea of his feelings on contemplating this great and daring national movement. His friend Sewall, who had taken the ministerial side in politics, and was at that time attorney-general of the province, hearing of his election, invited him to a morning walk, in the course of which he endeavored to dissuade him from his purpose of assuming the seat in congress to which he had been appointed. He told him that the determination of Great Britain to pursue her system was fixed; that her power was irresistible, and would involve him in destruction, as well as all his associates who persevered in opposition to her designs. ‘I know,’ replied he, ‘that Great Britain has determined on her system, and that very determination determines me on mine. You know that I have been constant and uniform in opposition to her designs. The die is now cast. I have passed the Rubicon. Sink or swum, live or die, survive or perish with my country, is my fixed, unalterable determination.’ On bidding him adieu, Mr. A. said to his friend, ‘I see we must part, and with a bleeding heart I say, I fear forever. But, you may depend upon it, this adieu is the sharpest thorn on which I ever set my foot.’ Mr. A. took his seat in congress, September 5, 1774, the first day of their session, and was soon chosen a member of some of the most important committees, such as that which drew up the statement of the rights of the colonies, and that which prepared the address to the king. He and his colleagues carried with them the character of being so thoroughly desirous of independence, that, before they arrived at Philadelphia, warning had been given to them, by many of the most respectable inhabitants of the Middle States, not to utter a word on that subject, as it was as unpopular as the stamp act itself. Almost all the delegates from the other colonies were impressed with the idea that England could be brought to terms, without resorting to a declaration of independence. Washington alone, of the Virginia delegation, was doubtful whether the measures adopted by congress would be efficacious in attaining the object for which they were designed. In one of his letters, Mr. A. says, that Richard Henry Lee used the following language to him, when they parted: ‘We shall infallibly carry all our points; you will be completely relieved; all the offensive acts will be repealed; the army and fleet will be recalled, and Britain will give up her foolish project.’ On his return to Massachusetts, he became engaged in a controversy with his friend Sewall, who was writing a series of essays under the appellation of Massachusettensis, for the purpose of vindicating the cause of the government party. Mr. A.’s papers were published in the Boston Gazette, with the signature of Novanglus, and exhibit the cause of America in the most triumphant and favorable light. When Mr. A. resumed his seat in congress the following year, hostilities had in reality commenced between Great Britain and the colonists, though as yet not openly declared, and the blood of numbers of brave men had stained the plains of Lexington and Concord. On receiving the account of this battle, congress determined upon war. It was necessary to fix upon some one for the post of commander-in-chief of the troops which were ordered to be raised. The eyes of all the New England delegation were turned upon General Ward, then at the head of the army in Massachusetts. At a meeting of them, when that officer was proposed for nomination, Mr. A. alone dissented, and urged the selection of George Washington, one of the representatives from Virginia. He was resisted, and left the meeting with the declaration that Washington on the next day should be nominated. He was accordingly nominated, at the instigation of Mr. A., by governor Johnstone of Maryland, and chosen without an opposing voice. Five days after the appointment of General Washington, Mr. Jefferson made his first appearance on the floor of congress, having been chosen by the people of Virginia to fill the place of Patrick Henry, who had lately been elected the governor of that province. Between this distinguished man and Mr. A. a friendship speedily arose, which subsisted, with a short interruption, during the remainder of their lives. When Mr. A. returned to Massachusetts, after the dissolution of the congress of 1775, the post of chief justice of the state was offered to him, which he declined, on account of his belief that he should be able to render more effectual service to the cause of his country in its national councils. At the time that he resumed his seat in them in 1776, hostilities were active between Great Britain and the colonies. But the object of the latter was as yet merely to resist the authority assumed by the parent country to impose taxes upon them at pleasure. Few persons entertained the idea of a dissolution of connexion; very few, even of the delegates in congress, seemed to desire it; but among those few John Adams was the foremost. We have already mentioned its unpopularity. As soon as Mr. A. was suspected in Philadelphia of being an advocate of that measure, he was represented constantly in the most odious light, and even pointed at and avoided on appearing in the streets. Still, however, he persevered, made every day proselytes, and, May 6, 1776, moved in congress a resolution, which was, in fact, a virtual declaration of independence, recommending to the colonies ‘to adopt such a government as would, in the opinion of the representatives of the people, best conduce to the happiness and safety of their constituents and of America.’ This passed, after a hard struggle, on the 15th of the same month, and was the prelude to the glorious and daring resolution, moved by Richard Henry Lee, of Virginia, on the 7th of June following, and seconded by Mr. A., ‘that these united colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent states; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British crown; and that all political connexion between them and the state of Great Britain is, and of right ought to be, totally dissolved.’ The debate upon this motion was of the most animated character. It continued from the 7th to the 10th, when the further discussion of the measure was postponed to the 1st of July. A committee of five was also appointed to prepare a provisional draft of a declaration of independence. The members of it were chosen by ballot, and were Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, Roger Sherman, and Robert R. Livingston. Mr. Jefferson and Mr. A. were deputed a sub-committee to prepare the instrument, the former of whom, at the earnest solicitation of the latter, became its author.
On the 1st of July, Mr. Lee’s resolution was again considered, and debated during that and the following day, when it was finally adopted. The draft of the declaration was then submitted for the purpose of undergoing an examination in detail. It was passed on the 4th of the same month, as prepared by Mr. Jefferson, with only a few alterations, which were made through a prudent deference to the views of some of the states. Mr. A. always preferred the draft as it originally stood. The declaration was not adopted without serious opposition from many members of the congress, including John Dickinson, one of the ablest men in that assembly. But their arguments were completely overthrown by the force and eloquence of Mr. A., whose speech on the subject of independence is said to have been unrivaled. Mr. Jefferson himself has affirmed, ‘that the great pillar of support to the declaration of independence, and its ablest advocate and champion on the floor of the house, was John Adams.’ Speaking of his general character as an orator, the same illustrious man observed, that he was ‘the Colossus of that congress: not graceful, not elegant, not always fluent in his public addresses, he yet came out with a power, both of thought and expression, which moved his hearers from their seats.’ Mr. Silas Deane, who was a commissioner with Dr. Franklin and Mr. Arthur Lee, at the court of Versailles, having been recalled, Mr. A. was chosen, Nov. 28, 1777, to fill his place. By this appointment, he was released from the laborious and important duties of chairman of the board of war, which post he had filled since June 13, 1776. It is stated that he was a member of ninety committees, twice as many as any other representative, except Richard Henry Lee and Samuel Adams, of twenty-five of which he was chairman, though it was the policy to put Virginia generally at the head. Among these committees were several of the greatest consequence; one of them was that which was sent to Staten Island at the request of lord Howe, who had solicited an interview with some of the members of congress, which, however, produced no effect, on account of the refusal of his lordship to consider them as commissioners from congress, and the declaration of Mr. A., that ‘he might view him in any light he pleased, except in that of a British subject.’ About two months after his appointment, Mr. A. embarked in the Boston frigate, and arrived safely at his place of destination, though an English fleet had been despatched to intercept him. The treaties of commerce and alliance with France were signed before he reached that country, and, after remaining there until the following August, he returned to the United States, the nomination of Dr. Franklin as minister plenipotentiary to the court of Versailles having superseded the powers of the commissioners. Immediately on his arrival, he was elected a member of the convention to prepare a form of government for the state of Massachusetts, and placed upon the sub-committee chosen to draft the project of a constitution, to be laid before that body. The general frame of the constitution, particularly the manner of dividing and distributing power, and the clause respecting the duty incumbent upon government with regard to the patronage of literature and the arts and sciences, were the work of his pen. Three months after his return, congress again sent him abroad with two commissions, one as minister plenipotentiary to negotiate a peace, the other to form a commercial treaty with Great Britain. He embarked in the French frigate Sensible, Nov. 17, and was forced to land at Corunna, in Spain, from which place he traveled over the mountains to Paris, where he arrived in Feb, 1780. After remaining a short time in that city, having found the French court jealous of his commission to form a treaty of commerce with Great Britain, he repaired to Holland in Aug. 1780, the same year in which congress passed a vote of approbation of his conduct, instead of recalling him, as the French minister, count de Vergennes, had solicited them to do, on account of his refusal to communicate to him his instructions about the treaty of commerce, and his opposition to a claim set up by France, that, when congress called in the old continental money at forty for one, a discrimination ought to have been made, in favor of the French holders of that paper. The June previous to his journey to Amsterdam, Mr. A. was appointed in the room of Mr. Laurens to obtain loans in Holland, and, in December of the same year, was invested with full powers to negotiate a treaty of amity and commerce with that country. Mr. A. at first had to contend with great difficulties in Holland. He was opposed by the whole influence of the British government, as well as by the power of the prince of Orange, and even, strange as it may appear, by the intrigues of France herself, the professed friend and avowed ally of the United States. He found the people of Holland entirely unacquainted with the affairs of his country, and immediately began to impart to them information concerning that subject, using, for this purpose, principally, two newspapers, one called the Leyden Gazette, and the other Le Politique Hollandois, in which he wrote various political articles. He also published a series of twenty-six letters, in answer to a set of queries proposed to him by Mr. Kalkoen, an eminent jurist of Amsterdam, containing an account of the rise and progress of the dispute with Great Britain, and of the resources, spirit and prospects of the United States. These epistles, together with some essays written by Mr. Kalkoen, drawing a comparison between the struggles of the United States for their liberty, and those formerly made by the seven United Provinces, which eventuated in their independence, had a great effect in enlightening the people of Holland, and inspired them with sentiments highly favorable to the American cause. Shortly afterwards, Dec. 21, 1780, a rupture took place between England and Holland, occasioned by the accession of the latter to the armed neutrality, and the discovery of a negotiation between Mr. Lee, the American commissioner at Berlin, and Mr. Van Berckel the pensionary of Amsterdam, for a treaty of amity and commerce. Even at this early period, he had formed an opinion decidedly in favor of the establishment of a navy, and expressed it in almost all his letters home. In July, 1781, he was summoned to Paris for the purpose of consulting upon the offer of mediation made by the courts of Austria and Russia, and suggested an answer adopted by the French court, which put an end to the negotiation on that subject; the mediating powers refusing to acknowledge the independence of the United States without the consent of Great Britain.
Oct. 19, 1781, Mr. A., in opposition to the advice of the duke de la Vauguion, the French minister at the Hague, and on his own responsibility, communicated to their high mightinesses his letters of credence, presenting to their president also, at the same time, a memorial, dated April 19th, in which he justified the declaration of independence, and endeavored to convince the people of Holland that it was for their interest to form a connection with the United States and to give them support in their difficulties. As he had not yet been acknowledged by the States General as the minister of a sovereign and independent nation, the president could not receive the memorial in form, but he engaged to make a report of the substance of what had been communicated to him by Mr. A. In the August previous, Mr. A. had received instructions to propose a triple alliance between France, the United Provinces and the United States, to exist as long as hostilities were carried on by the latter against Great Britain, one of the indispensable conditions of which, on the part of Holland, was the recognition of American independence. The alliance never was effected, but the latter object Mr. Adams accomplished. Jan. 9, 1782, not having received a reply to his memorial, he waited upon the president, and demanded a categorical answer. The States General then took the subject immediately into consideration, and Mr. A. was acknowledged, April 19, as ambassador of the United States to their high mightinesses, and three days afterwards was received as such. Having obtained assurance that Great Britain would recognize the independence of the United States, he repaired, in Oct. 1782, to Paris, whither he had refused to go before such assurance was given, to commence the negotiation for peace, and there met Dr. Franklin, Mr. Jay and Mr. Laurens, who, as well as Mr. Jefferson, had been appointed his colleagues. Their instructions, a part of which was ‘to undertake nothing without the knowledge and concurrence of the ministers of France, and ultimately to govern themselves by their advice and opinion,’ placed them almost entirely under the control of the French court. They were greatly displeased at being thus shackled, and, after a short time, finding themselves in a very embarrassing situation, they boldly determined to disobey their instructions, and act for themselves and for their country, without consulting the ministers of a supposed treacherous ally. The definitive treaty of peace was ratified Jan. 14, 1783.
After serving on two or three commissions to form treaties of amity and commerce with foreign powers, Mr. Adams, in 1785, was appointed the first minister to London. It is related that, upon his introduction to the king, the latter, knowing his disgust at the intrigues of the French court, and wishing to compliment him, expressed his pleasure at seeing a minister who had no prejudices in favor of France, the natural enemy of his crown. The reply of Mr. Adams evinced his patriotism and honesty of character. ‘May it please your majesty,’ said he, ‘I have no prejudices but for my own country.’ In 1787, whilst in London, he published his Defense of the American Constitutions against the attacks which they had sustained, and in October of that year, by his own request, he was allowed to return to the United States. Congress, at the same time that they gave him such permission, passed a resolution of thanks to be presented to him for his able and faithful discharge of the various important commissions with which he had been entrusted. Immediately after his return, Mr. Adams was elected the first vice-president of the United States under the new constitution, and reëlected as such in 1793. He discharged the duties of his office until March 4, 1797, when he succeeded to the presidency, vacated by the resignation of General Washington. This great man’s confidence he possessed in an eminent degree, and was consulted by him as often as any member of the cabinet. As the two parties in the senate were nearly balanced, Mr. Adams, while acting, ex officio, as president of that body, had often to decide questions, by his casting vote, of the highest importance, and which had excited a great deal of party feeling. One instance of this occurred, when Mr. Clarke’s resolution prohibiting all intercourse with Great Britain on account of the capture of several American vessels by British ships, and other grievances, was brought before the senate, after having been adopted by the house of representatives, April 18, 1794. Upon this bill the senators were equally divided, and Mr. Adams decided against it, thinking that it would have no good effect upon the policy of England, would injure us as much as her, and perhaps occasion a war.
In 1797, he became, we have said, president of the United States. It will not be necessary to enter into a detail of the events of his administration, as they belong rather to the department of the historian than of the biographer. It will be sufficient to mention a few important circumstances. When he commenced the discharge of the duties of his office, he found the government embroiled in a dispute with France, and, in one of his earliest communications to congress, complained, in dignified and eloquent language, of a grievous insult offered by the government of that country to the ambassador of the United States. Wishing still to preserve peace, he despatched a commission consisting of three envoys, Messrs. Pinckney, Marshall and Gerry, to France. The French government treated them in the most contumelious manner. Such, however, was the violence of party spirit, and so large a portion of the American people entertained an enthusiastic admiration of France, that even the measures which Mr. Adams then took for sustaining the national dignity had no inconsiderable effect in diminishing his popularity.
Mr. Adams was the founder of the American navy. Before his administration, scarcely an American ship of war was to be seen upon the ocean; but, during this period, by his strenuous exertions, mainly, a very respectable naval force was created. His administration, however, was not of long continuance, having pleased neither of the two great parties which divided the country (the greatest praise, perhaps, that it could receive), his measures being too strong for the democrats and too weak for the federalists. In consequence of this, after his term of four years had expired, March 4, 1801, it was found that his adversary, Mr. Jefferson, had succeeded by a majority of one vote. After his retirement to his farm in Quincy, Mr. Adams occupied himself with agricultural pursuits, obtaining amusement from the literature and politics of the day. He was nominated as governor of Massachusetts, but declined being a candidate, wishing only for repose. During the disputes with England, which occurred while Mr. Jefferson was in office, Mr. Adams published a series of letters, in a Boston paper, supporting the policy of the administration. His published writings, besides those which we have already mentioned, are ‘Discourses on Davila,’ composed in 1790, while he was vice-president, and printed in June and July of that year, in the Gazette of the United States. In 1816, Mr. Adams was chosen member of the electoral college, which voted for the elevation of Mr. Monroe to the presidency; and, the following year, sustained the greatest affliction he had ever been called upon to endure, by the loss of his wife. On this occasion, he received a beautiful letter of condolence from Mr. Jefferson, between whom and himself their former friendship, interrupted for a time by the animosities of party, had been revived. In 1820, he was elected a member of the convention to revise the constitution of his state, and chosen its president. This honor he was constrained to decline, on account of his infirmities and great age, being then 85 years old; but he attended the convention as a member, and fulfilled the duty incumbent upon him as such. After that, his life glided away in uninterrupted tranquillity, until the 4th of July, 1826, when he breathed his last with the same hallowed sentiment on his lips, which on that glorious day, fifty years before, he had uttered on the floor of congress—‘Independence forever.’ On the morning of the jubilee, he was roused by the ringing of the bells and the firing of cannon, and, on being asked by the servant who attended him, whether he knew what day it was, he replied, ‘O yes! it is the glorious 4th of July—God bless it—God bless you all.’ In the course of the day, he said, ‘It is a great and glorious day,’ and, just before he expired, exclaimed, ‘Jefferson survives.’ But Jefferson had already, at one o’clock, that same day, rendered his spirit into the hands of its Creator.
THOMAS JEFFERSON.
Thomas Jefferson, the third President of the United States of America, was born April 2, (old style,) 1743, at Shadwell, in Albemarle County, Virginia, and was the eldest of eight children. His father, though his education had been entirely neglected in early life, being a man of strong mind, acquired, by subsequent study, considerable information. He died when the subject of our sketch was about twelve years old, having previously given him every means of knowledge that could be procured, and left him a considerable estate. After going through a course of school instruction, young Jefferson entered the college of William and Mary where he remained for two years. He then commenced the study of law under the guidance of the celebrated George Wythe, by whom, in 1767, he was introduced to its practice, at the bar of the general court of the colony, at which he continued until the revolution. In 1769 he was elected a member of the provincial legislature from the county where he resided, and made a fruitless effort, in that body, for the emancipation of the slaves. By this time a spirit of opposition had been excited in the colonies to the arbitrary measures of the British government; and when the governor of Virginia dissolved the general assembly, in 1769, in consequence of the sympathy which was displayed by the majority of its members with the feelings which had been manifested in Massachusetts, they met, the next day, in the public room of the Raleigh tavern, formed themselves into a convention, drew up articles of association against the use of any merchandise imported from Great Britain, and signed and recommended them to the people. They then repaired to their respective counties, and were all reëlected, except those few who had declined assenting to their proceedings. In 1773 Mr. Jefferson associated himself with several of the boldest and most active of his companions in the house, (‘not thinking,’ as he says himself, ‘the old and leading members up to the point of forwardness and zeal which the times required,’) and with them formed the system of committees of correspondence, in a private room of the same Raleigh tavern. This system was adopted as the best instrument for communication between the different colonies, by which they might be brought to a mutual understanding, and a unity of action produced. This end was completely accomplished, as well as another object, that of exciting throughout the colonies a desire for a general congress. It was accordingly resolved that one should be held, and in Virginia a convention was assembled for the purpose of choosing delegates. Of this convention Mr. Jefferson was elected a member; but being suddenly taken ill on the road, as he was repairing to Williamsburg, its place of meeting, he sent on to its chairman, Peyton Randolph, a draft of instructions which he had prepared as proper to be given to the delegates who should be sent to congress. It was laid on the table for perusal; but, though approved by many, the sentiments contained in it were too bold to be adopted by the majority: ‘tamer sentiments,’ in his own words, ‘were preferred, and, I believe, wisely preferred; the leap I proposed being too long, as yet, for the mass of our citizens.’ The position that he maintained was, that the relation between Great Britain and the colonies was exactly the same as that between England and Scotland, after the accession of James, and until the union, and the same as her relations with Hanover, having the same executive chief, but no other political connection. In this doctrine, however, the only person who entirely concurred with him was George Wythe, the other patriots ‘stopping at the half-way house of John Dickinson, who admitted that England had a right to regulate our commerce, and to lay duties on it for the purposes of regulation, but not of raising revenue.’ Though the paper was not adopted, the convention, nevertheless, caused it to be printed in a pamphlet form, under the title of a Summary View of the Rights of British America. Having found its way to England, it was taken up by the opposition, and, with a few interpolations of Mr. Burke, passed through several editions. It procured for its author considerable reputation, and likewise the dangerous honor of having his name placed on a list of proscriptions, in a bill of attainder, which was commenced in one of the houses of parliament, but was speedily suppressed. June 21, 1775, Mr. Jefferson took his seat for the first time in congress, having been chosen to fill the place of Peyton Randolph, who had resigned. In this new capacity, he persevered in the decided tone which he had assumed, always maintaining that no accommodation should be made between the two countries, unless on the broadest and most liberal basis. After serving on several committees, he was at length appointed a member of that, whose report has linked the name of its author with the history of American independence. June 7, 1776, the delegates from Virginia, in compliance with the instructions of the convention, moved that congress should declare the United Colonies free and independent states. This gave rise to a warm and protracted debate; for as yet there were many who continued to cling to the hope of a peaceful adjustment. In the course of the discussion, it appearing that several colonies were not yet fully ripe for separation, it was deemed prudent to defer the final decision of the question for a short time; and, in the meanwhile, a committee was appointed to prepare a declaration of independence, consisting of John Adams, doctor Franklin, Roger Sherman, Robert R. Livingston, and Mr. Jefferson. The last named gentleman was requested to draw up the paper, which he did, and it was reported to the house, after receiving a few alterations from doctor Franklin and Mr. Adams. On the first of July, the day selected for deciding upon the original motion of the Virginia delegates, it was carried in the affirmative by a large majority, and two or three days afterwards by a unanimous vote. The declaration of independence was then brought before the house, by which, though generally approved, it was, in some respects, modified. Those passages, especially, which conveyed censure upon the people of England, were either greatly softened, or entirely omitted, as the idea was still entertained that the colonies possessed friends in England, whose good will it would be proper to cherish; and a clause reprobating the slave-trade was canceled, in complaisance to some of the Southern States, who were largely engaged in the traffic. The debates respecting the declaration occupied three days, on the last of which, the fourth of July, it was signed by every member present, except John Dickinson, who deemed a rupture with the mother country, at that moment, rash and premature. September 2, 1776, Mr. Jefferson retired from his seat in congress, and, on the 7th of October, took his place in the legislature of Virginia, of which he had been elected a member from his county. In this situation he was indefatigable in his labors to improve the imperfect constitution of the state, which had been recently and hastily adopted before a draft of one which he had formed on the purest principles of republicanism, had reached the convention, which was deliberating at Richmond. The chief service which he performed was as a member of a commission for revising the laws, consisting, besides himself, of Edmund Pendleton, George Wythe, George Mason, and Thomas Ludwell Lee, by whom no less than 126 bills were prepared, from which are derived all the most liberal features of the existing laws of the commonwealth. The share of Mr. Jefferson in this great task was prominent and laborious. June 1, 1779, he was chosen the successor of Mr. Henry in the office of governor of the state, and continued in it for two years, at the end of which period he resigned, ‘from a belief,’ as he says, ‘that, under the pressure of the invasion under which we were then laboring, the public would have more confidence in a military chief, and that, the military commander being invested with the civil power also, both might be wielded with more energy, promptitude, and effect, for the defense of the state.’ General Nelson was appointed in his stead. Two days after his retirement from the government, he narrowly escaped capture by the enemy, a troop of horse having been despatched to Monticello, where he was residing, for the purpose of making him prisoner. He was breakfasting, when a neighbor rode up at full speed with the intelligence that the troop was ascending a neighboring hill. He first sent off his family in a carriage, and, after a short delay for some indispensable arrangements, mounted his horse, and, taking a course through the woods, joined them at the house of a friend, a flight in which it would be difficult to discern any thing dishonorable, although it has been made the subject of sarcasm and reproach without end by the spirit of party. June 15, 1781, Mr. Jefferson was appointed minister plenipotentiary, in conjunction with others, to negotiate peace then expected to be effected, through the mediation of the empress of Russia; but he declined, for the same reason that had induced him, in 1776, to decline also the appointment of a commissioner, with doctor Franklin, to go to France in order to negotiate treaties of alliance and commerce with that government. On both occasions the state of his family was such that he could not leave it, and he ‘could not expose it to the dangers of the sea, and of capture by the British ships then covering the ocean.’ He saw, too, that ‘the laboring oar was really at home,’ especially at the time of his first appointment. But, in November, 1782, congress having received assurances that a general peace would be concluded in the winter and spring, renewed the offer which they had made the previous year; and this time it was accepted; but the preliminary articles being agreed upon before he left the country, he returned to Monticello, and was chosen (June 6, 1783) a member of congress. It was during the session at Annapolis, that, in consequence of Mr. Jefferson’s proposal, an executive committee was formed, called the committee of the states, consisting of a member from each state. Previously, executive and legislative functions were both imposed upon congress; and it was to obviate the bad effects of this junction, that Mr. Jefferson’s proposition was adopted. Success, however, did not attend the plan; the members composing the committee quarreled, and finding it impossible, on account of their altercations, to fulfill their duties, they abandoned their post, after a short period, and thus left the government without any visible head, during the adjournment of congress. May 7, 1784, congress, having resolved to appoint another minister, in addition to Mr. Adams and doctor Franklin, for negotiating treaties of commerce with foreign nations, selected Mr. Jefferson, who accordingly sailed from Boston, July 5, and arrived in Paris August 6. Doctor Franklin was already there, and Mr. Adams having, soon after, joined them, they entered upon the duties of their mission. They were not very successful, however, in forming the desired commercial treaties, and, after some reflection and experience, it was thought better not to urge them too strongly, but to leave such regulations to flow voluntarily from the amicable dispositions and the evident interests of the several nations. In June, 1785, Mr. Adams repaired to London, on being appointed minister plenipotentiary at the court of St. James, and, in July, doctor Franklin returned to America, and Mr. Jefferson was named his successor at Paris. In the February of 1786, he received a pressing letter from Mr. Adams, requesting him to proceed to London immediately, as symptoms of a better disposition towards America were beginning to appear in the British cabinet, than had been manifested since the treaty of peace. On this account he left Paris in the following March, and on his arrival in London, agreed with Mr. Adams on a very summary form of treaty, proposing ‘an exchange of citizenship for our citizens, our ships, and our productions generally, except as to office.’ At the usual presentation, however, to the king and queen, both Mr. Adams and himself were received in the most ungracious manner, and, after a few vague and ineffectual conferences, he returned to Paris. Here he remained, with the exception of a visit to Holland, to Piedmont and the south of France, until the autumn of 1789, zealously pursuing whatever was beneficial to his country. September 26 of that year he left Paris for Havre, and, crossing over to Cowes, embarked for the United States. November 23 he landed at Norfolk, Va., and, while on his way home, received a letter from President Washington, covering the appointment of secretary of state, under the new constitution, which was just commencing its operation. He soon afterwards received a second letter from the same quarter, giving him the option of returning to France, in his ministerial capacity, or of accepting the secretaryship, but conveying a strong intimation of desire that he would choose the latter office. This communication was produced by a letter from Mr. Jefferson to the president, in reply to the one first written, in which he had expressed a decided inclination to go back to the French metropolis. He then, however, consented to forego his preference, and, March 21, arrived in New York, where congress was in session, and immediately entered upon the duties of his post. It would be altogether inconsistent with our limits to give a minute account of the rest of Mr. Jefferson’s political life. This could not be done without writing the history of the United States for a certain period. We must therefore content ourselves with stating that he continued to fill the secretaryship of state, until the 31st of December, 1793, when he resigned. From that period until February, 1797, he lived in retirement. In this year he was elected vice-president of the United States, and, in 1801, was chosen president by a majority of one vote over his competitor, Mr. Adams. At the expiration of eight years he again retired to private life, from which he never afterwards emerged. The rest of his life was passed at Monticello, which was a continued scene of the blandest and most liberal hospitality. Such, indeed, was the extent to which calls upon it were made, by foreigners as well as Americans, that the closing year of his life was embittered by distressing pecuniary embarrassments. He was forced to ask permission of the Virginia legislature to sell his estate by lottery, which was granted. Shortly after Mr. Jefferson’s return to Monticello, it having been proposed to form a college in his neighborhood, he addressed a letter to the trustees, in which he sketched a plan for the establishment of a general system of education in Virginia. This appears to have led the way to an act of the legislature, in the year 1818, by which commissioners were appointed with authority to select a site, and form a plan for a university, on a large scale. Of these commissioners, Mr. Jefferson was unanimously chosen the chairman, and, Aug. 4, 1818, he framed a report, embracing the principles on which it was proposed the institution should be formed. The situation selected for it was at Charlottesville, a town at the foot of the mountain on which Mr. Jefferson resided. He lived to see the university—the child of his old age—in prosperous operation, and giving promise of extensive usefulness. He fulfilled the duties of its rector until a short period before his death, which occurred on the 4th of July, 1826, the fiftieth anniversary of the declaration of independence, and within the hour in which he had signed it.
In person, Mr. Jefferson was tall and well formed; his countenance was bland and expressive; his conversation fluent, imaginative, various and eloquent. Few men equaled him in the faculty of pleasing in personal intercourse, and acquiring ascendancy in political connection. He was the acknowledged head of the republican party, from the period of its organization down to that of his retirement from public life. The unbounded praise and blame which he received as a politician, must be left for the judgment of the historian and posterity. In the four volumes of his posthumous works, edited by his grandson, Thomas Jefferson Randolph, there are abundant materials to guide the literary or historical critic in forming an estimate of his powers, acquirements, feelings and opinions. His name is one of the brightest in the revolutionary galaxy. Mr. Jefferson was a zealous cultivator of literature and science. As early as 1781, he was favorably known as an author, by his Notes on Virginia. He published, also, various essays on political and philosophical subjects, and a manual of Parliamentary Practice, for the use of the Senate of the United States. In the year 1800 the French national institute chose him one of their foreign members. The volumes of posthumous works, in addition to an auto-biography of the author to the year 1790, consist principally of letters from the year 1775 to the time of his death, and embrace a great variety of subjects.
SAMUEL ADAMS.
Samuel Adams was one of the most remarkable men connected with the American revolution. He was descended from a family that had been among the early planters of New England, was born in Boston, September 27, 1722, was educated at Harvard college, and received its honors in 1740. When he took the degree of master, in 1743, he proposed the following question: ‘Whether it be lawful to resist the supreme magistrate, if the commonwealth cannot be otherwise preserved?’ He maintained the affirmative, and this collegiate exercise furnished a very significant index to his subsequent political career. On leaving the university, he engaged in the study of divinity, with the intention of becoming a clergyman, but did not pursue his design. From his earliest youth, his attention was drawn to political affairs, and he occupied himself, both in conversation and writing, with the political concerns of the day. He was opposed to governor Shirley, because he thought too much power was conferred upon him, and was the friend of his successor, Pownal, as the latter assumed the popular side. He became so entirely a public man, and discovered such a jealous, watchful and unyielding regard for popular rights, that he excited the general attention of the patriotic party, and they took the opportunity, in the year 1766, to place him in the legislature. From that period till the close of the revolutionary war, he was one of the most unwearied, efficient, and disinterested assertors of American freedom and independence. He grew conspicuous very soon after his admission into the house, of which he was chosen clerk, it being then the practice to take that officer from among the members. He obtained the same kind of influence, and exercised the same indefatigable activity in the affairs of the legislature, that he did in those of his town. He was upon every committee, had a hand in writing or revising every report, a share in the management of every political meeting, private or public, and a voice in all the measures that were proposed, to counteract the tyrannical plans of the administration. The people soon found him to be one of the steadiest of their supporters, and the government was convinced that he was one of the most inveterate of its opponents. When his character was known in England, and it was also understood that he was poor, the partisans of the ministry, who felt annoyed by the ‘disturbances in America,’ resorted to the usual practice, when the clamorous grow too troublesome, and proposed that he should be quieted by a participation in some of the good things they were enjoying. Governor Hutchinson, in answering the inquiry of a friend, why he was not silenced in this manner, wrote, with an expression of impatient vexation—‘Such is the obstinacy and inflexible disposition of the man, that he never can be conciliated by any office or gift whatever.’
He continued in the legislature till 1774, when he was sent to the first congress of the old confederation. He was subsequently chosen secretary of Massachusetts in 1775, which office was performed by deputy during his absence. He was one of the signers of the declaration of 1776, which he labored most indefatigably and unhesitatingly to bring forward. He was an active member of the convention that formed the constitution of Massachusetts; and, after it went into effect, he was placed in the senate of the state, and for several years presided over that body. In 1789, he was elected lieutenant-governor, and held that office till 1794, when, after the death of Hancock, he was chosen governor, and was annually reëlected till 1797. He then retired from public life, and died at his house in Winter street, Boston, October 2d, 1803, in the 82d year of his age. He was one of that class who saw very early, that, ‘after all, we must fight;’ and, having come to that conclusion, there was no citizen more prepared for the extremity, or who would have been more reluctant to enter into any kind of compromise. After he had received warning at Lexington, in the night of the 18th of April, of the intended British expedition, as he proceeded to make his escape through the fields with some friends, soon after the dawn of day, he exclaimed, ‘This is a fine day!’ ‘Very pleasant, indeed,’ answered one of his companions, supposing he alluded to the beauty of the sky and atmosphere. ‘I mean,’ he replied, ‘this day is a glorious day for America!’ His situation at that moment was full of peril and uncertainty, but, throughout the contest, no damage to himself or to his country ever discouraged or depressed him. The very faults of his character tended, in some degree, to render his services more useful, by concentrating his exertions, and preventing their being weakened by indulgence or liberality towards different opinions. There was some tinge of bigotry and narrowness both in his religion and politics. He was a strict Calvinist; and, probably, no individual of his day had so much of the feelings of the ancient Puritans as he possessed. In politics, he was so jealous of delegated power, that he would not have given our constitutions inherent force enough for their own preservation. He attached an exclusive value to the habits and principles in which he had been educated, and wished to adjust wide concerns too closely after a particular model. One of his colleagues, who knew him well, and estimated him highly, described him, with good-natured exaggeration, in the following manner: ‘Samuel Adams would have the state of Massachusetts govern the Union, the town of Boston govern Massachusetts, and that he should govern the town of Boston, and then the whole would not be intentionally ill-governed.’ It was a sad error of judgment that caused him to undervalue, for a period at least, the services of Washington during the revolutionary war, and to think that his popularity, when president, might be dangerous. Still, these unfounded prejudices were honestly entertained, and sprang naturally from his disposition and doctrines. During the war, he was impatient for some more decisive action than it was in the power of the commander-in-chief, for a long time, to bring about; and when the new constitution went into operation, its leaning towards aristocracy, which was the absurd imputation of its enemies, and which his anti-federal bias led him more readily to believe, derived all its plausibility from the just, generous and universal confidence that was reposed in the chief magistrate. These things influenced his conduct in old age, when he was governor of Massachusetts, and while the extreme heat of political feelings would have made it impossible for a much less positive character to administer any public concerns, without one of the parties of that day being dissatisfied. But all these circumstances are to be disregarded, in making an estimate of his services. He, in fact, was born for the revolutionary epoch; he was trained and nurtured in it, and all his principles and views were deeply imbued with the dislikes and partialities which were created during that long struggle. He belonged to the revolution; all the power and peculiarity of his character were developed in that career; and his share in public life, under a subsequent state of things, must be considered as subordinate and unimportant. His private habits were simple, frugal and unostentatious. Notwithstanding the austerity of his character, his aspect was mild, dignified and gentlemanly. He was entirely superior to pecuniary considerations, and, after having been so many years in the public service, must have been buried at the public expense, if the afflicting death of an only son had not remedied this honorable poverty.
JAMES OTIS.
James Otis, a distinguished American patriot, was born February 5, 1724–5, at Great Marshes, in what is now called West Barnstable, Mass. His family was one of the most respectable in the colony, and of English origin. In June, 1739, he entered Cambridge college. The first two years of his collegiate course are said to have been given more to amusement than to study, his natural disposition being vivacious and ardent; but subsequently he was distinguished for his application and proficiency. After finishing his course at the university, he devoted eighteen months to the pursuit of various branches of literature, and then entered upon the study of the law in 1745, in the office of Mr. Gridley. Under that eminent lawyer he employed his legal novitiate, and then went to Plymouth, where he was first admitted to the bar. The two years, however, of his residence in that town, were more occupied in study than in practice, so that, when he removed to Boston, in 1750, he was well qualified to assume a high rank in his profession. This he quickly did: his practice became very extensive. On one occasion, he went, in the middle of the winter, to Halifax, in consequence of urgent solicitation, to defend three men accused of piracy, and procured their acquittal. Although his professional engagements were so numerous, he cultivated his taste for literature, and, in 1760, published a treatise, entitled the Rudiments of Latin Prosody, with a Dissertation on Letters and the Principles of Harmony, in poetic and prosaic Composition, collected from the best Writers. He also composed a similar work on Greek prosody, which remained in manuscript, and perished with all his papers. It was never printed, as he said, because ‘there were no Greek types in the country, or, if there were, no printer knew how to set them.’
In 1755, he married Miss Ruth Cunningham, the daughter of a respectable merchant, who brought him a dowry at that time considered very large. Amid all the embarrassments which his affairs subsequently experienced, in consequence of his entire devotion to the concerns of the public, he sacredly preserved the fortune which he received with his wife, to whom it returned after his death. The public career of Mr. Otis dates from the period when he made his famous speech against the ‘writs of assistance,’ for which an application had been made, by the officers of the customs, to the superior court of Massachusetts, in pursuance of an order in council, sent from England, to enable them to carry into effect the acts of parliament regulating the trade of the colonies. When that order arrived, Otis was advocate-general, and was, consequently, requested to lend his professional assistance in the matter; but, deeming the writs to be illegal and tyrannical, he refused, and resigned his station. He was then applied to, to argue against the writs, which he immediately undertook to do, in conjunction with Mr. Thacher, and in opposition to his former preceptor, Mr. Gridley, the attorney-general. Of the discourse which he pronounced, president Adams the elder says, ‘Otis was a flame of fire; with a promptitude of classical allusions, a depth of research, a rapid summary of historical events and dates, a profusion of legal authorities, a prophetic glance of his eyes into futurity, and a rapid torrent of impetuous eloquence, he hurried away all before him. American independence was then and there born. Every man, of an immense crowded audience, appeared to me to go away as I did, ready to take arms against writs of assistance.’ The court adjourned for consideration, and, at the close of the term, the chief-justice, Hutchinson, delivered the opinion: ‘The court has considered the subject of writs of assistance, and can see no foundation for such a writ; but, as the practice in England is not known, it has been thought best to continue the question to the next term, that, in the mean time, opportunity may be given to know the result.’ When the next term came, however, nothing was said about the writs; and though it was generally understood that they were clandestinely granted by the court, and that the custom-house officers had them in their pockets, yet it is said that they were never produced or executed. Otis had now fully committed himself against the designs of the British ministry, and thenceforward bent all his energies to maintain the freedom of his country. At the next election of members of the legislature, in May, 1761, he was chosen, almost unanimously, a representative from Boston, and soon became the leader, in the house, of the popular party. For the detail of his course, during the period in which he was a representative, we must refer our readers to the biography of him by Mr. Tudor. In 1765, Mr. Otis was chosen, by the Massachusetts legislature, one of the members of a committee appointed to meet the committees of the legislatures of other colonies at New York, in consequence of the passage of the stamp-act by parliament. They met in convention October 19, in the same year, and named three committees to prepare addresses to the king, lords and commons. On the last Mr. Otis was placed. In this convention, Mr. Otis made the acquaintance of many distinguished men, from different colonies, and subsequently maintained, with several of them, a friendship and correspondence.
In May, 1767, after the repeal of the stamp-act, Mr. Otis was elected speaker of the house of representatives; but he was negatived by the governor, who entertained a peculiar animosity towards him, from his indefatigable endeavors to defeat every plan of encroachment. In the summer of 1769, the vehement temper of Mr. Otis was so much wrought upon by the calumnies which he discovered that the commissioners of the customs in Boston had transmitted to England concerning him, by which, indeed, they sought to have him tried for treason, that he inserted an advertisement in the Boston Gazette, denouncing them in severe terms. The next evening he happened to go to the British coffee-house, where one of the commissioners, a Mr. Robinson, was sitting with a number of officers of the army, navy and revenue. As soon as he entered, an altercation arose, which was quickly terminated by a blow from Robinson’s cane. Otis immediately returned it with a weapon of the same kind, when the lights were extinguished, and he was obliged to defend himself, single-handed, against numbers. After some time the combatants were separated. Robinson retreated by a back passage, and Otis was led home, wounded and bleeding. He received a deep cut on his head; and to this has been partly attributed the derangement under which he afterwards labored. Soon after this transaction, he instituted an action against Robinson, and obtained an award of £2,000 sterling damages, which, however, he gave up on receiving a written apology, in which the defendant acknowledged his fault and begged his pardon.
In 1770, he retired into the country on account of his health. At the election in 1771, he was again chosen a representative; but this was the last year that he took a part in public concerns, except occasionally to appear at a town-meeting. He withdrew, also, almost entirely, from the practice of his profession. His mind became seriously affected, and continued so, with some lucid intervals, until his death. Sometimes he was in a frenzied state; at others, he exhibited rather the eccentricity of a humorist than absolute derangement. The two last years of his life were passed at Andover. After he had been there for some time, he was supposed to be completely restored, and returned to Boston. He resumed his professional engagements, and pleaded a cause in the court of common pleas, in which he displayed considerable power, but less than was his wont. The interval of reason was not, however, of long duration, and he was induced to go back to Andover. Six weeks after his return, he was killed by a stroke of lightning, in the sixtieth year of his age, May 23, 1783.
The chief defect of Mr. Otis’ character was his irascibility. His merits are well summed up in the following extract from the work of Mr. Tudor, to which we have before alluded:—‘In fine, he was a man of powerful genius and ardent temper, with wit and humor that never failed; as an orator, he was bold, argumentative, impetuous and commanding, with an eloquence that made his own excitement irresistibly contagious: as a lawyer, his knowledge and ability placed him at the head of his profession; as a scholar, he was rich in acquisition, and governed by a classic taste; as a statesman and civilian, he was sound and just in his views; as a patriot, he resisted all allurements that might weaken the cause of that country to which he devoted his life, and for which he sacrificed it.’ It is greatly to be regretted that, during his derangement, he destroyed all his papers; sufficient evidence, however, of his power as a writer, remains in the various state papers of which he was the author whilst a member of the legislature, though they were subjected to the revising pen of Samuel Adams, whose patient temper permitted him to undergo the labor of correcting and polishing, which the ardor of the other disdained.
FISHER AMES.
Fisher Ames, one of the most eloquent of American statesman and writers, was born at Dedham, in Massachusetts, April 9th, 1758, of very respectable parents. Soon after the completion of his 12th year, he was admitted to Harvard college, with the reputation of uncommon talents and attainments. Diligence, regularity and success marked his collegiate course of four years. After receiving his degree, in 1774, the narrow circumstances of his widowed mother compelled him to postpone, for several years, the accomplishment of his original purpose of studying the law. In the interval, he acted as an assistant teacher in a public school, and continued to cultivate classical literature, to the signal improvement of his taste and fancy. At length, in 1781, he commenced the practice of the law, with the stock of knowledge which he had acquired in the office of a member of the profession, in Boston. Opportunity soon occurred for the display of his superior qualifications, both as a speaker and essay writer. The fame which followed his early efforts conduced to place him in the Massachusetts convention for ratifying the constitution, in 1788. From this sphere, in which he made a deep impression by some of his speeches, particularly that on biennial elections, he passed to the house of representatives in the state legislature. Here, he soon became so eminent as an orator and man of business, that the voters of the Suffolk district elected him their first representative in the congress of the U. States. He had not been long in that assembly before his friends and admirers were satisfied that they had not overrated his abilities. He won there the palm of eloquence, besides proving himself equal to the discussion of the deepest subjects of politics and finance, and the execution of the most arduous committee labors. He remained in congress during eight years, the whole of Washington’s administration, which he constantly and zealously defended. ‘His speech on the British treaty,’ says his distinguished biographer, doctor Kirkland, ‘was the era of his political life. For many months, he had been sinking under weakness, and, though he had attended the long and interesting debate on the question which involved the constitution and the peace of the U. States, it was feared he would be unable to speak. But when the time came for taking a vote so big with consequences, his emotions would not suffer him to be silent. His appearance, his situation, the magnitude of his subject, the force and the pathos of his eloquence, gave this speech an extraordinary power over the feelings of the dignified and numerous assembly who heard it. When he had finished, a member in opposition moved to postpone the decision of the question, that they might not vote under the influence of a sensibility which their calm judgment might condemn.’ On the retirement of Washington, Mr. A. returned to his residence at Deadham, where he occupied himself with the management of his farm and the practice of the law. The latter he relinquished in a few years, owing to the decline of his health; but he felt too deep an interest in the welfare of his country to withdraw his mind and pen from politics. He published a considerable number of essays, relating chiefly on the contest between Great Britain and revolutionary France, as it might affect American liberty and prosperity. No writer evinced more ardor for the success of Britain, or more horror of the character and tendencies of the French despotism. In 1804, Mr. A. was chosen president of Harvard college,—an honor which he declined. When Washington died, Mr. A., then a member of council of the commonwealth, was appointed to pronounce his funeral eulogy before the legislature of Massachusetts. The injury which his constitution sustained in 1795 was never fully repaired. From that period his health declined, until, at length, after an extreme debility for two years, death ended his sufferings. He expired July 4th, 1808; and, when the intelligence of this event was received, a public meeting of citizens was held, in order to testify the general respect for his character. His remains were carried to Boston, where they were interred with honors such as had not been before paid to those of any private citizen. In 1809, his works were issued in a large octavo volume, with prefatory notices of his life and character, from the pen of the reverend doctor Kirkland, president of Harvard college, who had enjoyed his personal friendship and intimacy. The volume is fraught with profound remarks, various historical lore, and eloquent declamation. Although the political interest of most of the topics is gone, there remains much to captivate and reward attention in the richness of fancy, warmth of feeling, beauty of language, and felicity of copious illustration, which distinguish almost every page. Fisher Ames left seven children and a wife, to whom he was tenderly attached. In person, he exceeded a little the middle stature, was well-proportioned and perfectly erect. His features and countenance were fine, and his manners easy and affable. Of his delivery as an orator, his biographer states, that he did not systematically study the exterior graces of speaking, but his attitude was firm, his gesticulation natural and forcible, his voice clear and varied, and his whole manner earnest and expressive. According to the same authority, all the other efforts of his mind were probably surpassed by his powers of conversation.
COLONEL AARON BURR.
Colonel Aaron Burr was born on the 6th of February 1756, at Newark, in New Jersey. His father, the Rev. Aaron Burr, was the first president of the College of New Jersey, which was opened at Newark, but was subsequently removed to Princeton; his mother was the daughter of the Rev. Jonathan Edwards, so distinguished as a metaphysician and divine, and who succeeded his son-in-law in the presidency of the College. The former died in 1757, and the latter in the following year, leaving only two children, Aaron and a daughter, afterwards the wife of Judge Tappan Reeve, of Conneticut. Colonel Burr inherited from his father a considerable property. He was graduated at Princeton when only 16 years old. When in his 20th year he joined the American army, after the battle of Bunker’s Hill, in the neighborhood of Boston. Here he volunteered to accompany General Arnold in the expedition against Quebec. This officer led the detachment under his command into Canada, by way of the Kennebec, and through the wilderness between the St. Lawrence and the settlements in the regions now constituting the state of Maine. On his arrival at Chaudière pond, Burr was sent with a communication to General Montgomery, who was advancing from the state of New York with the forces under his immediate orders; and who was so much pleased with the young messenger as to appoint him to be one of his aids-de-camp. In this capacity Burr was present at the battle of Quebec, and near the person of the General when he was killed. On his return from Canada, in May, 1776, he proceeded to the city of New York, on being ‘notified verbally, that it would be agreeable to the commander-in-chief’ that he should do so. But it would seem that Colonel (then already Major) Burr, for some reason or other, failed to make a favorable impression personally on General Washington. He, in consequence, became, in his turn, dissatisfied, and even inclined to quit the service; when through the instrumentality of Governor Hancock, he obtained the appointment of aid-de-camp to General Putnam,—an appointment which he gladly accepted.
In July 1777, he was promoted to the rank of a Lieutenant Colonel; but was obliged, in March 1779, to resign his commission in the army, on account of the impaired state of his health. He had, on various occasions, during the war, highly distinguished himself by his bravery, vigilance, and skill, and had been repeatedly selected by Washington to execute his commands on important emergencies, although that great man and admirable judge of character, had formed but a low estimate of his principles and morals. On retiring from the army, and after an interval of repose required for the restoration of his health, Colonel Burr applied himself to the study of the law, as well to provide himself with an adequate field for distinction among his countrymen in his future life, as to repair the pecuniary losses which he had incurred, during the period of his military service, by the liberality and extravagance of his expenditure. He commenced the practice of his profession at Albany, in the month of April, 1782, and married in July following. As soon as the British troops had evacuated the city of New York, at the conclusion of the war, in November, 1783, he removed thither, where he speedily acquired an extensive and lucrative practice. He was a member of the Legislature during the sessions of 1784 and 1785; but as that body met in the city where he resided, and as he took part in its deliberations only on a few of the most important questions which came before it for its decision, his professional avocations suffered scarcely any interruption; and it was only after the existing constitution of the Union went into operation that he became prominent as a party politician. In 1789, he was appointed attorney-general of the state. In January, 1791, he was elected a senator of the United States; and he took his seat in that body in the autumn of that year. He was appointed, in October, 1792, to be a judge of the supreme court of the state of New York, but declined the appointment; preferring to hold his position in the United States Senate, as one of the most prominent leaders of the party (the democratic) to which he belonged. At the presidential election which took place in the autumn of 1800, an equal number of votes were found to have been given for the two highest candidates on the list, Mr. Jefferson and Colonel Burr; and it, in consequence, devolved on the members of the House of Representatives, voting by states, to decide which of these gentlemen should hold the office of president, and which of them that of vice-president. Notwithstanding that, prior to the choice of electors, Mr. Jefferson was alone intended, by the party that nominated him, as their candidate for the presidency, it was not until after 36 ballotings that the contest was decided in his favor. From this time forth, as from the circumstances of the case might naturally have been expected, Colonel Burr lost the confidence of the majority of his former political friends; and the attempts which he made to ingratiate himself with those to whom he had been heretofore opposed were only partially successful. In 1804, he was a candidate for the office of governor of New York, but failed of being elected. He was supported by a portion of both the political parties; by a minority of the democrats, and a majority of the federalists. Of the latter party, General Hamilton had been one of those who most earnestly opposed him; and a duel took place, on the 11th of July, between these distinguished men, growing out of their rivalship and adverse relation to each other. Burr was the challenger, conceiving himself to have been injuriously spoken of at the period of the preceding election by Hamilton, who was mortally wounded in the encounter. Colonel Burr continued at his post in the Senate of the United States till within two days of the expiration of his term of service as vice-president; the last public duty of any importance performed by him having been to preside at the trial of Judge Chase, who was impeached by the House of Representatives for ‘high crimes and misdemeanors.’ It was not very long afterwards that he formed the scheme of his singular, and even yet not satisfactorily explained, western expedition, which led to his arrest, and trials at Richmond, in Virginia, in August and September, 1807, for treason first, and then for a misdemeanor. He was acquitted or both these charges. In June, 1808, he embarked from New York for England; induced to take this step, in a certain degree, by the personal and political prejudices that had been excited against him, by the death of Hamilton, and by the equivocal course he had pursued in the western country, but, in a degree also, by an expectation of being able to obtain encouragement and assistance from some of the European governments, for attempting the emancipation of the Spanish American colonies from the oppressive domination of the mother country,—a project which he had long contemplated. His efforts in this respect were, however, entirely unsuccessful; and he returned to the United States in June, 1812, after an absence abroad of 4 years. He opened an office in the city of New York, and practiced the law there, but without attracting the attention of the public to any considerable extent. In 1816, General Toledo, then in the city of New York, and whose object in visiting the United States was ‘not only to obtain the means of continuing the war (of Mexico against Spain), but to seek the person best capable of employing them,’ invited him to ‘assume the management’ of the ‘political and military affairs’ of the Mexican republic. Colonel Burr declined this invitation. But again, in 1819, he received a commission from the government of Venezuela, authorizing him to raise troops for the sea and land service of that republic, and pledging itself to pay all debts of his contracting in the exercise of the authority granted him. Colonel Burr died on the 14th of September, 1836, in the 81st year of his age, on Staten Island, where he had passed the summer for the benefit of the pure air. Agreeably to his own request, his body was conveyed to Princeton, to be there buried.
ALEXANDER HAMILTON.
Alexander Hamilton was born in 1757, in the island of Nevis. His father was a native of England, and his mother of the island. At the age of 16, he became a student of Columbia college, his mother having emigrated to New York. He had not been in that institution more than a year, before he gave a brilliant manifestation of the powers of his mind in the discussion concerning the rights of the colonies. In support of these he published several essays, which were marked by such vigor and maturity of style, strength of argument, and wisdom and compass of views, that Mr. Jay, at that time in the meridian of life, was supposed, at first, to be the author. When it had become necessary to unsheath the sword, the ardent spirit of young Hamilton would no longer allow him to remain in academic retirement; and before the age of 19, he entered the American army, with the rank of captain of artillery. In this capacity, he soon attracted the attention of the commander-in-chief, who appointed him his aid-de-camp, with the rank of lieutenant-colonel. This occurred in 1777, when he was not more than 20 years of age. From this time, he continued the inseparable companion of Washington during the war, and was always consulted by him, and frequently by other eminent public functionaries, on the most important occasions. He acted as his first aid-de-camp at the battles of Brandywine, Germantown, and Monmouth, and, at the siege of Yorktown, he led, at his own request, the detachment that carried by assault one of the enemy’s outworks, Oct. 14, 1781. In this affair, he displayed the most brilliant valor. After the war, colonel Hamilton then about 24, commenced the study of the law, as he had at that time a wife and family depending upon him for support. He was soon admitted to the bar. In 1782, he was chosen a member of congress from the state of New York, where he quickly acquired the greatest influence and distinction, and was always a member and sometimes chairman of those committees to which were confided such subjects as were deemed of vital interest to the nation. The reports which he prepared are remarkable for the correctness and power which characterize every effort of his pen. At the end of the session, he returned to the practice of his profession in the city of New York, and became eminent at the bar. In 1786, he was chosen a member of the legislature of his state, and was mainly instrumental in preventing a serious collision between Vermont and New York, in consequence of a dispute concerning territorial jurisdiction. He was elected a delegate of New York to the convention which was to meet at Philadelphia, in order to form a constitution for the United States. As the doors of the convention were closed during its sittings, and its records have never been given to the world, it is not possible to state the precise part which he acted in that body. It is well ascertained, however, that the country is, at least, as much indebted to him for the excellencies of the constitution, as to any other member of the illustrious assembly. Hamilton and Madison were the chief oracles and artificers. After the adoption of the constitution by the convention, he associated himself with Mr. Madison and Mr. Jay, for the purpose of disposing the public to receive it with favor. The essays which they wrote with that design, addressed to the people of New York, during the years 1787 and 1788, are well known under the name of the Federalist, and contributed powerfully to produce the effect for which they were composed. The larger portion of them was written by Hamilton. In 1788, he was a member of the state convention of New York, which met to deliberate on the adoption of the federal constitution, and it was chiefly in consequence of his efforts that it was accepted. On the organization of the federal government, in 1789, he was appointed to the office of secretary of the treasury. This was a situation which required the exercise of all the great powers of his mind; for the public credit was, at that time, in the lowest state of depression; and, as no statistical account of the country had ever been attempted, its fiscal resources were wholly unknown. But before Hamilton retired from the post, which he did after filling it during somewhat more than five years, he had raised the public credit to a height altogether unprecedented in the history of the country, and, by the admirable system of finance which he established, had acquired the reputation of one of the greatest financiers of the age. His official reports to congress are considered as masterpieces, the principles which he advocated in them still continue to exercise a great influence in the revenue department of the American government. Whilst secretary of the treasury, he was, ex officio, one of the cabinet counselors of president Washington; and such was the confidence reposed by that great man in his integrity and ability, that he rarely ventured upon any executive act of moment without his concurrence. He was one of the principal advisers of the proclamation of neutrality issued by Washington in 1793, in consequence of an attempt made by the minister of France to cause the United States to take part with his country in the war then waging between it and England. This measure he defended in a series of essays, under the signature of Pacificus, which were successful in giving it popularity. In 1795, Hamilton resigned his office, and retired to private life, in order to be better able to support a numerous family by the practice of his profession. In 1798, however, when an invasion was apprehended from the French, and a provisional army had been called into the field, his public services were again required. President Adams had offered the chief command of the provisional army to Washington, who consented to accept it on condition that Hamilton should be chosen second in command, with the title of inspector-general. This was accordingly done; and, in a short time, he succeeded in bringing the organization and discipline of the army to a high degree of excellence. On the death of Washington, in 1799, he succeeded, of course, to the chief command. The title of lieutenant-general, however, to which he was then entitled, was, from some unexplained cause, never conferred on him. When the army was disbanded, after the cessation of hostilities between the United States and France, general Hamilton returned again to the bar, and continued to practice, with increased reputation and success, until 1804. In June of that year, he received a note from colonel Burr,—between whom and himself a political had become a personal enmity,—in which he was required, in offensive language, to acknowledge or disavow certain expressions derogatory to the latter. The tone of the note was such as to cause him to refuse to do either, and a challenge was the consequence. July 11, the parties met at Hoboken, and on the first fire Hamilton fell mortally wounded, on the same spot where, a short time previously, his eldest son had been killed in a duel. He lingered until the afternoon of the following day, when he expired. The sensation which this occurrence produced throughout the United States, had never been exceeded on this continent. Men of all political parties felt that the nation was deprived of its greatest ornament. His transcendent abilities were universally acknowledged; every citizen was ready to express confidence in his spirit of honor and his capacity for public service. Of all the coadjutors and advisers of Washington, Hamilton was doubtless the one in whose judgment and sagacity he reposed the greatest confidence, whether in the military or civil career; and, of all the American statesmen, he displayed the most comprehensive understanding and the most varied ability, whether applied to subjects practical or speculative. A collection of his works was issued in New York, in three octavo volumes, some years after his death. His style is nervous, lucid and elevated; he excels in reasoning, founded on general principles and historical experience. General Hamilton was regarded as the head of the federalists in the party divisions of the American republic. He was accused of having preferred, in the convention that framed the federal constitution, a government more akin to the monarchical; he weakened the federal party by denouncing president Adams, whose administration he disapproved, and whose fitness for office he questioned. But his general course, and his confidential correspondence, show that he earnestly desired to preserve the constitution, when it was adopted, and that his motives were patriotic in his proceedings towards Mr. Adams. Certain it is that no man labored more faithfully, skillfully and efficiently, in organizing and putting into operation the federal government.
PATRICK HENRY.
Patrick Henry, the second son of John and Sarah Henry, and one of nine children, was born May 29, 1736, in the county of Hanover and colony of Virginia. Until ten years of age, Patrick Henry was sent to a school in the neighborhood, where he learned to read and write, and made some small progress in arithmetic. He was then taken home, and, under the direction of his father, who had opened a grammar school in his own house, he acquired a superficial knowledge of the Latin language. At the same time, he made a considerable proficiency in the mathematics, the only branch of education for which, it seems, he discovered, in his youth, the slightest predilection. He was passionately addicted to the sports of the field, and could not brook the confinement and toil which education required. His father, unable to sustain the expense of his large and increasing family, found it necessary to qualify his sons, at a very early age, to support themselves. With this view, Patrick was placed, at the age of fifteen, behind the counter of a trader in the country. In the next year, his father purchased a small adventure of goods for his two sons, William and Patrick, and ‘set them up in trade.’ William’s habits of idleness were such, that the chief management of their concerns devolved upon the younger brother, and that management was most wretched. One year put an end to this experiment, and Patrick was engaged, for the two or three following years, in settling the accounts of the firm as well as he could. At the early age of eighteen, he married a Miss Shelton, the daughter of a respectable farmer in the neighborhood; and, by the joint assistance of their parents, the young couple were settled on a small farm, where, with one or two slaves, Mr. Henry had to dig the earth for subsistence. His want of agricultural skill, and his unconquerable aversion to every species of systematic labor, caused him, after a trial of two years, to abandon this pursuit. His next step seems to have been dictated by absolute despair; for, selling off his little possessions at a sacrifice for cash, he entered a second time into the unauspicious business of merchandise. But the same want of method, the same facility of temper, soon became apparent. He resumed his violin, his flute, his books, his inspection of human nature, and not unfrequently shut up his shop to indulge himself in the favorite sports of his youth. His reading, however, began to assume a more serious character. He studied geography, read the charters and history of the colony, and became fond of historical works generally, particularly those of Greece and Rome, and, from the tenacity of his memory and the strength of his judgment, soon made himself master of their contents. Livy was his favorite; and, having procured a translation, he made it a rule to read it through, once, at least, in every year, during the earlier part of his life. The second mercantile experiment in a few years left him a bankrupt; every remnant of his property was gone, and his friends were unable to assist him any further. As a last effort, he determined to make trial of the law. No one expected him to succeed; his unfortunate habits were by no means suited to so laborious a profession, and the situation of his affairs forbade an extensive course of reading. After a six weeks’ preparation, he obtained a license to practice the law, being at this time of the age of four and twenty. He was, at the time of his admission to practice, not only unable to draw a declaration or a plea, but incapable, it is said, of the most common and simple business of his profession, even the mode of ordering a suit, giving a notice, or making a motion in court. For three years, the wants and distresses of his family were extreme. The profits of his practice could not have supplied them even with the necessaries of life; and he seems to have spent the greatest part of his time, both during his study of the law and the practice of the first two or three years, with his father-in-law, Mr. Shelton, who then kept a tavern at Hanover court-house. Whenever Mr. Shelton was from home, Mr. Henry supplied his place in the tavern. The controversy between the clergy on the one hand, and the legislature and people of the colony on the other, touching the stipend claimed by the former, which had created a great excitement in Virginia, was the occasion on which his genius first broke forth. The display which he made in the parsons’ cause, as it was popularly called, placed him, at once, at the head of his profession, in that quarter of the colony in which he practiced. In the year 1764, he removed to the county of Louisa, and resided at a place called the Roundabout. In the autumn of the same year, a contest having occurred, in the house of burgesses, in the case of Mr. James Littlepage, the returned member of the county of Hanover, who was charged with bribery and corruption, the parties were heard by counsel, before the committee of privileges and elections, and Henry was on this occasion employed by Mr. Dandridge, the rival candidate. Henry distinguished himself by a brilliant display on the subject of the rights of suffrage. Such a burst of eloquence, from a man so very plain and humble in his appearance, struck the committee with amazement; a deep silence took place during the speech, and not a sound but from his lips was to be heard in the room.
In 1765, he was elected member of the house of burgesses, with express reference to an opposition to the British stamp-act. After having waited in vain for some step to be taken by another, and when the session was within three days of its expected close, he introduced his celebrated resolutions on the stamp-act. After his death, there was found among his papers one sealed, and thus indorsed:—‘Enclosed are the resolutions of the Virginia assembly, in 1765, concerning the stamp-act. Let my executors open this paper.’ Within was found a copy of the resolutions in his own hand-writing. On the back of the paper containing the resolutions, is the following indorsement, also in his hand-writing:—‘The within resolutions passed the house of burgesses in May, 1765. They formed the first opposition to the stamp-act, and the scheme of taxing America by the British parliament. All the colonies, either through fear, or want of opportunity to form an opposition, or from influence of some kind or other, had remained silent. I had been for the first time elected a burgess a few days before, was young, inexperienced, unacquainted with the forms of the house, and the members that composed it. Finding the men of weight averse to opposition, and the commencement of the tax at hand, and that no person was likely to step forth, I determined to venture, and alone, unadvised, and unassisted, on a blank leaf of an old law book, wrote the within. Upon offering them to the house, violent debates ensued. Many threats were uttered, and much abuse cast on me, by the party for submission. After a long and warm contest, the resolutions passed by a very small majority, perhaps of one or two only. The alarm spread throughout America with astonishing quickness, and the ministerial party were overwhelmed. The great point of resistance to British taxation was universally established in the colonies. This brought on the war, which finally separated the two countries, and gave independence to ours. Whether this will prove a blessing or a curse, will depend upon the use our people make of the blessings which a gracious God hath bestowed on us. If they are wise, they will be great and happy. If they are of a contrary character, they will be miserable. Righteousness alone can exalt them as a nation. Reader, whoever thou art, remember this; and in thy sphere, practice virtue thyself, and encourage it in others.
P. Henry.
It was in the midst of the debate above-mentioned, that he exclaimed, ‘Cæsar had his Brutus, Charles the First his Cromwell, and George the Third—‘Treason!’ cried the speaker—‘Treason, treason!’ echoed from every part of the house. Henry faltered not for an instant; but taking a loftier attitude, and fixing on the speaker an eye of fire, he finished his sentence with the firmest emphasis—‘may profit by their example. If this be treason, make the most of it.’ From this period, Mr. Henry became the idol of the people of Virginia; nor was his name confined to his native state. His influence was felt throughout the continent, and he was every where regarded as one of the great champions of colonial liberty. In the year 1769, he was admitted to the bar of the general court. He wanted that learning, whose place no genius can supply to the lawyer; and he wanted those habits of steady and persevering application, without which that learning is not to be acquired. But on questions before a jury, his knowledge of human nature, and the rapidity as well as justness of his inferences, from the flitting expressions of the countenance, as to what was passing in the hearts of his hearers, availed him fully. The defense of criminal cases was his great professional forte. The house of burgesses of Virginia, which had led the opposition to the stamp-act, kept their high ground during the whole of the ensuing contest.
Mr. Henry having removed again from Louisa to his native county, in the year 1767 or 1768, continued a member of that house till the close of the revolution; and there could be no want of boldness in any body of which he was a member. He was one of the standing committee of correspondence and inquiry concerning the pretensions of the British, which was appointed by the house, March 12, 1773. He was also of the number of delegates sent by Virginia to the first general congress of the colonies, which assembled in Philadelphia, September 4, 1774. When the congress rose, he returned home, and entered the legislature of Virginia again, determined upon prosecuting the work of national independence. In this career, he became, by his zeal and efficiency, obnoxious to the royal governor, and to all who were disposed to maintain the royal cause, or who dreaded the resort to force.
When intelligence was received of the battles of Lexington and Concord in Massachusetts, Henry summoned volunteers to meet him, in order to compel the governor of Virginia (lord Dunmore) to restore a quantity of powder which the latter had caused to be taken from the public magazine at Williamsburg. This was the first military movement in Virginia. The governor issued a proclamation, calling upon the people to resist it; but Henry, at the head of a considerable corps, obliged his lordship to consent to the payment of a pecuniary compensation for the powder withdrawn. The volunteers returned in triumph to their homes. As soon, however, as all seemed again quiet, the governor sent forth, though without any effect, a violent manifesto against ‘a certain Patrick Henry, and a number of deluded followers,’ etc.
Henry took a leading party in all the subsequent measures which ended in the prostration of the royal authority, and the erection of an independent government in Virginia. The colonial convention of 1775 elected him the colonel of the first regiment, and the commander of ‘all the forces raised and to be raised for the defense of the colony.’ He soon resigned this command, from a belief that he could serve the cause of his country more effectually in the public councils than in the field. Immediately upon his resignation he was elected a delegate to the convention, and, not long after, the first governor of the commonwealth—a post in which he proved signally serviceable, by sustaining the public spirit during the revolutionary struggle, providing recruits and supplies for the continental army, and crushing the intrigues of the tories who infested Virginia. His administration was prolonged by reëlections until 1779, when he retired from the office, being no longer eligible without intermission, according to the constitution. As a member of the legislature, to which he at once returned, he continued to serve the great cause until the end of the war, when he was again elected governor of Virginia. The state of his affairs obliged him to resign the station in the autumn of 1786. In December of that year, he was appointed by the legislature one of the deputies to the convention, held at Philadelphia, for the purpose of revising the federal constitution. This appointment he declined, it being necessary for him to resume the practice of the law, in order to make some provision for his family. During the six following years, he regularly attended the courts, and his great reputation obtained for him lucrative business. His next appearance in political life was as a member of the convention, which was to decide the fate of the federal constitution in Virginia. Some of the features of that instrument inspired him with fears for the liberties of the country. All his great powers of eloquence and his personal influence were exerted to procure the rejection of it. The amendments proposed by Virginia originated in the objections so vehemently and plausibly urged by him and his associates. He became, nevertheless, a convert to the excellence of the system, and an earnest federalist, in the twofold acceptation of the term. In the spring of 1791, he bade a final adieu to public life, and, in 1794, to the bar, at which he had gained some brilliant triumphs, which are commemorated by his distinguished biographer William Wirt (Life of P. Henry, Philadelphia, 1817). In 1796, the post of governor of the state was once more tendered to him and refused. In the following year, his health began to decline, and continued to sink gradually until the moment of his death, which took place on the 6th of June. Mr. Henry, by his two marriages, was the father of fifteen children. By his first wife, he had six, of whom two only survived him; by his last, he had six sons and three daughters, all of whom, together with their mother, were living at his death. He had been fortunate during the latter part of his life; and, chiefly by the means of judicious purchases of lands, left his family, large as it was, not only independent, but rich. In his habits of living he was remarkably temperate and frugal. He seldom drank any thing but water; and his table was furnished in the most simple manner. His morals were strict. As a husband, a father, a master, he had no superior. He was kind and hospitable to the stranger, and most friendly and accommodating to his neighbors. He was nearly six feet high; spare, and what may be called raw-boned, with a slight stoop of the shoulders; his complexion was dark, sun-burned, and sallow, without any appearance of blood in his cheeks; his countenance grave, thoughtful and penetrating, and strongly marked with the lineaments of deep reflection: the earnestness of his manner, united with an habitual contraction or knitting of his brows, and those lines of thought with which his face was profusely furrowed, gave to his countenance, at some times, the appearance of severity. Henry was gifted with a strong and musical voice, and a most expressive countenance, and he acquired particular skill in the use of them. His style of speaking, to judge from the representations of his hearers, was altogether more successful than that of any of his cotemporaries. He could be vehement, insinuating, humorous and sarcastic by turns, and always with the utmost effect. He was a natural orator, of the highest order, combining imagination, acuteness, dexterity and ingenuity, with the most forcible action and extraordinary powers of face and utterance. As a statesman, his principal merits were sagacity and boldness. His name is brilliantly and lastingly connected with the history of his country’s emancipation.
JOHN HANCOCK.
John Hancock, was born at Quincy, near Boston, and was the son and grandson of an eminent clergyman, but, having early lost his father, was indebted for his liberal education to his uncle, a merchant of great wealth and respectability, who sent him to Harvard university, where he was graduated in 1754. He was then placed in the counting-house of his benefactor, and not long afterwards visited England, where he was present at the coronation of George III, as little prescient as the monarch himself of the part which he was destined to act in relation to the English government. On the sudden demise of his uncle, in 1764, he succeeded to his large fortune and extensive business; both of which he managed with great judgment and munificence. As a member of the provincial legislature, he exerted himself with zeal and resolution against the royal governor and the British ministry, and became so obnoxious to them, in consequence, that in the proclamation issued by general Gage, after the battle of Lexington, and a few days before that of Bunker hill, offering pardon to the rebels, he and Samuel Adams were especially excepted, their offenses being ‘of too flagitious a nature to admit of any other consideration than that of condign punishment.’ This circumstance gave additional celebrity to these two patriots, between whom, however, an unfortunate dissention took place which produced a temporary schism in the party which they headed, and a long personal estrangement between themselves. In fact, they differed so widely in their modes of living and general dispositions, that their concurrence in political measures may be considered one of the strongest proofs of their patriotism. Hancock was a magnificent liver, lavishly bountiful, and splendidly hospitable; Samuel Adams had neither the means nor the inclination for pursuing a similar course. He was studiously simple and frugal, and was of an austere, unbending character.
Hancock was president of the provincial congress of Massachusetts, until he was sent as a delegate from the province to the general congress at Philadelphia, in 1775. Soon after his arrival there, he was chosen to succeed Peyton Randolph as president of that assembly, and was the first to affix his signature to the declaration of independence. He continued to fill the chair until the year 1779, when he was compelled by disease to retire from congress. He was then elected governor of Massachusetts, and was annually chosen from 1780 to 1785. After an interval of two years, during which Mr. Bowdoin occupied the post, he was reëlected, and continued in the office until his death, Oct. 8, 1793, at the age of 56 years. In the interval, he acted as president of the convention of the state for the adoption of the federal constitution, for which he finally voted. (An able sketch of his character is contained in Tudor’s Life of Otis.) The talents of Hancock were rather useful than brilliant. He seldom spoke, but his knowledge of business, and facility in despatching it, together with his keen insight into the characters of men, rendered him peculiarly fit for public life. As the president of a deliberative assembly, he excelled. His voice was sonorous, his apprehension of questions quick; he was well acquainted with parliamentary forms, and inspired respect and confidence by his attention, impartiality and dignity. In his private life, he was eminent for his hospitality and beneficence. He was a complete gentleman of the old school, both in his appearance and manners; dressing richly, according to the fashion of the day, keeping a handsome equipage, and being distinguished for politeness and affability in social intercourse. When Washington consulted the legislature of Massachusetts upon the propriety of bombarding Boston, Hancock advised its being done immediately, if it would benefit the cause, although nearly his whole property consisted in houses and real estate in that town.
ETHAN ALLEN.
Ethan Allen, a brigadier-general in the American revolutionary army, was born in Salisbury, Connecticut, but was educated principally in Vermont, to which state his parents emigrated whilst he was yet young. His education was of a limited character. In the disturbances which agitated Vermont, he took an active part against the royal authority, in favor of the Green mountain boys, the name by which the settlers in that territory were designated.
In 1775, soon after the battle of Lexington, in compliance with the request of the legislature of Connecticut, Allen collected a body of about 230 Green mountain boys, and marched against the fortresses of Ticonderoga and Crown Point, for the purpose of taking them by assault. At Castleton, he was joined by colonel Arnold, who had received directions from the Massachusetts committee of safety to raise a corps of men for the same purpose, but, failing to accomplish that object, he determined to proceed with the small force of colonel Allen. They arrived at the lake opposite to Ticonderoga, on the evening of May 9, and, having with great difficulty procured boats, landed 83 men on the other shore during the night. The day beginning to dawn, however, Allen was obliged to attack the fort before his rear could cross the lake, having previously animated his soldiers, by a harangue, which he concluded with saying, ‘I now propose to advance before you, and in person to conduct you through the wicket-gate; but, inasmuch as it is a desperate attempt, I do not urge on any one contrary to his will. You that will undertake voluntarily, poise your fire-locks.’ They all immediately poised their fire locks. He then advanced at the head of the centre file to the wicket-gate, where a sentry snapped his fusee at him, and retreated through the covered way, followed by Allen, who formed his men upon the parade. The apartments of the commanding officer having been pointed out to him by a sentry who asked quarter, he instantly repaired thither, and, holding his sword over captain de Laplace, whom he found undressed demanded, the surrender of the fort. The latter asking him by what authority, ‘I demand it,’ said Allen, ‘in the name of the great Jehovah, and of the continental congress.’ De Laplace was constrained to comply with the summons, and the fort, with its stores and garrison, was given up. On the same day, also, Allen obtained possession of Crown Point, and soon after captured a sloop-of-war, the only armed vessel on lake Champlain, and thus accquired the entire command of the lake.
In the following autumn, he was twice despatched into Canada, to engage the inhabitants to lend their support to the American cause. In the last of these expeditions, he formed a plan, in concert with colonel Brown, to reduce Montreal. September 10, 1775, Allen accordingly crossed the river, at the head of 110 men, but was attacked, before Brown could join him, by the British troops, consisting of 500 men, and, after a most obstinate resistance, was taken prisoner. The events of his captivity he himself has recorded in a narrative compiled by him after his release, in the most singular style, but apparently with great fidelity. For some time he was kept in arms, and treated with much severity. He was sent to England as a prisoner, with an assurance, that, on his arrival there, he would meet with the halter. During the passage, extreme cruelty was exercised towards him and his fellow-prisoners. They were all, to the number of 34, thrust, hand-cuffed, into a small place in the vessel, enclosed with white-oak plank, not more than 20 feet wide by 22 long. After about a month’s confinement in Pendennis castle, near Falmouth, he was put on board a frigate, January 8, 1776, and carried to Halifax. Thence, after an imprisonment of five months, he was removed to New York. On the passage from Halifax to the latter place, Allen was treated with great kindness by captain Smith, the commander of the vessel, and evinced his gratitude by refusing to join in a conspiracy to kill the British captain and seize the frigate. His refusal prevented the execution of the plan. He remained at New York for a year and a half, sometimes in confinement, and sometimes at large, on parole. On May 6, 1778 Allen was exchanged for colonel Campbell, and immediately afterwards repaired to the head-quarters of General Washington, by whom he was received with much respect. As his health was impaired he returned to Vermont, after having made an offer of his services to the commander-in-chief, in case of his recovery. His arrival in Vermont was celebrated by the discharge of cannon; and he was appointed to the command of the state militia, as a mark of esteem for his patriotism and military talents. A fruitless attempt was made by the British to bribe him to lend his support to a union of Vermont with Canada. He died suddenly at his estate in Colchester, February 13, 1789.
General Allen was a man of strong and enterprising, but haughty and restless mind. Although his education had been circumscribed, he was daring in his pretensions to knowledge, and bold and peremptory in his assertions. Besides the narrative of his captivity, which we have noticed, and a number of pamphlets in the controversy with New York, he published a ‘Vindication of the Opposition of the Inhabitants of Vermont to the Government of New York, and their right to form an independent State,’ 1779, and a work, entitled, ‘Allen’s Theology, or the Oracles of Reason,’ the first formal publication in the United States openly directed against the Christian religion. Allen was a confirmed infidel. He adopted some of the most fantastical and absurd notions imaginable, believing, with Pythagoras, that the soul of man, after death, would live again in beasts, birds, fishes, etc. He often told his friends, that he himself would live again under the appearance of a large white horse. However, there is an anecdote extant, which proves that he professed to entertain those ideas more from an affectation of singularity, than from conviction. Whilst sitting in his library, conversing with a physician by the name of Elliot, Allen was informed that his daughter was dying, and desired to speak with him. He immediately repaired to her chamber, followed by Dr. Elliot. His wife was distinguished for her piety, and had instructed her daughter in the principles of Christianity. As soon as her father stood at her bedside, she said to him, ‘I am about to die; shall I believe in the principles you have taught me, or shall I believe in what my mother has taught me?’ He became greatly agitated; his chin quivered; his whole frame shook; and, after waiting a few moments, he replied, ‘Believe what your mother has taught you.’
BENEDICT ARNOLD.
Benedict Arnold was one of the most distinguished generals in the American army during the earlier part of the contest of the colonies with Great Britain, and subsequently infamous as a traitor to his country, was born in Connecticut, of obscure parentage, and received an education suitable to an humble condition. The occupations of his youth were not fitted to prepare him for the functions which he was called upon to exercise in the sequel. At first a dealer in horses, he sustained losses in his trade. Eager for renown, greedy of money, the troubles of his country inspired him with the hope of acquiring fame and fortune by the profession of arms: accordingly, on the breaking out of the revolutionary war, he embraced the cause of his countrymen with enthusiasm, and took the command of a company of volunteers at New Haven. He soon won a high military reputation. Washington, encouraged by secret advices that the Canadians were inclined to make part of the Union, projected the surprise of Quebec. This hazardous undertaking required leaders at once active, vigilant, bold, and inflexibly patient. He committed it to Montgomery and colonel Arnold, as the most capable. He exhorted them, with extreme earnestness, to treat the Canadians as friends, as fellow-citizens, and to punish severely the least irregularities of the soldiery. Arnold began his march in the month of September. He conducted his small force through deserts which man had never before penetrated. The river of Kennebeck had overflowed its banks; he crossed it by swimming, or on rafts. Unknown streams presented a new obstacle: he diverted their course. The snow fell in abundance; a few hours of sun during the day were insufficient to thaw the ice formed in the long and severe nights of the northern autumn; but nothing could arrest his progress. He was always in the van with the pioneers, who cut a passage through this wild country, and, at the end of each march, had arrived before the enemy knew of his approach. He thus put in practice a maxim which he was fond of repeating: ‘In war, expedition is equivalent to strength.’ The last division, conducted by a man less resolute and persevering, returned; while he, at the head of the two first, sustained the courage of the soldiers, who were exhausted by fatigue, hunger and every species of suffering. After two months of toil, all impediments were overcome, and he encamped before the fortress, but with a band so much enfeebled, that he was obliged to await the arrival of Montgomery, who approached by another route. Montgomery died gloriously in an assault, December 31, 1775. Arnold was severely wounded in the leg, and forced to convert the siege into a blockade. He was not, however, to be daunted by any reverse. From the bed to which his wound confined him, he infused into the little army, the command of which had now devolved upon him, his own spirit of determination and confidence. The enterprise failed: the courage and intelligence which he exhibited throughout, placed him, nevertheless, in the first class of American officers. He served with better fortune, and still greater distinction, in the subsequent campaigns, and bore a considerable part in that in which Burgoyne and his army were made prisoners. He fought with his usual intrepidity in the engagement which immediately preceded the capitulation. The first to throw himself into the intrenchments of the enemy, he was animating his men by his example, when a ball shattered the leg already wounded at the siege of Quebec. As he was borne from the ranks to his tent, he still issued orders for the continuance of the assault. The boldness of Arnold was so great, that he was accused of a disposition to entangle himself rashly in perilous situations; but it could not be denied, that his rapid discernment supplied him, in the midst of danger, with the surest expedients, and that success always justified his daring. The admiration of his fellow-citizens kept pace with his services. His love of glory was accompanied with an equally strong love of pleasure and dissipation, and he was very unscrupulous about the mode of obtaining the means of gratifying it. His ill-gotten wealth he squandered in frivolous expenses, or mere ostentation. Montreal, the second city of Canada, was, under his command, a scene of injustice and rapacity, and the Canadians soon abandoned the design of joining the confederation. The attempt on Canada was abandoned, and, the wounds of Arnold being not yet healed, he could be invested only with some stationary command. Washington, though he detested his vices, did not wish to leave his talents idle. The English having evacuated Philadelphia, he directed Arnold to take possession of that city with some troops of the Pennsylvania line,—a delicate charge for a man so prone to extend his powers, and define them according to his interests. It was not long before he displayed in this city a magnificence as foreign to the habits of the country, as it was unseasonable in the midst of the calamities of war. He even lodged in his house the French envoy and all his suite on their arrival. From this time, too, he began to profess an extraordinary attachment to the French, and great zeal for an alliance with them. To relieve himself from the difficulties into which his extravagance had plunged him, he resorted to the same oppression and extortion which had rendered his authority odious to the Canadians. Under pretense of the wants of the army, he forbade the shopkeepers to sell or buy; he then put their goods at the disposal of his agents, and caused them afterwards to be resold with a profit. He prostituted his authority to enrich his accomplices, and squabbled with them about the division of the prey. The citizens applied for redress to the courts of justice. But, with his military authority as his shield, he set at defiance both justice and the laws. At length, however, a representation of the grievances which the state was suffering, was made to congress by the president of the executive council of Pennsylvania, a man of firm and upright character, who had endeavored in vain to repress the overweening and predatory spirit of Arnold, and a committee was appointed to inquire into the subject. Arnold replied to the charges with arrogance. Some members of congress were of opinion that he should be suspended from his military functions until the investigation of his public conduct was brought to an issue; but the accusation had become an affair of party, and he had influence enough to cause this proposition to be set aside. Congress at length resolved to lay the complaints against him before the commander-in-chief.
As soon as Arnold saw that the resolutions of congress would be of this tenor, he resigned the command which he held in Philadelphia. He was tried before a court martial, and condemned, January 20, 1779, to be reprimanded by the commander-in-chief. Congress ratified the sentence, and Washington, having caused the culprit to appear before him, performed the task with the considerate delicacy which he thought due to so distinguished an officer. Arnold, however, quitted the army, and, thenceforth, nourished an implacable hatred towards the cause which he had so brilliantly defended. The embarrassment of his affairs was at this time such, that private aid would not suffice to extricate him. He had, some time before, formed a partnership with some owners of privateers, who paid his share of the expenses of equipment, and expected to be compensated for their advances by his countenance and protection; but the chances were adverse, and, instead of profits to be divided, there were losses to be borne. Arnold, now without credit or authority, was no longer regarded by the owners as any thing more than an ordinary partner. They exacted his proportion of the loss, and their knowledge of his difficulties only served to render them more urgent in their suit. In this extremity he tried a last resort.
Congress, at the commencement of the revolution, committed an error which proved of great detriment to the finances. It entrusted some officers with agencies which had no immediate connection with the business of command or military service. Arnold, the least proper for such trusts, was charged with considerable ones, and had large claims for moneys and stores furnished in the expedition to Canada. The commissioners to whom they were referred for settlement, reduced them very considerably. He appealed from their decision to congress, who pronounced that the commissioners had shown more lenity than rigor in the liquidation of his accounts. Disappointed in all his expectations, Arnold at last determined to betray his country, and to make his treason in a high degree useful to England, that it might procure him a full pardon for his share in the revolt of the colonies. He wished to be regarded as a subject returned to his allegiance, and worthy of the honorable rewards due to faithful and virtuous citizens. As a first step, the British commanders were to be made acquainted with his discontent, but in so guarded a manner as to leave a retreat open in case the offers which might be made to him should not prove satisfactory. Particular circumstances facilitated the communications between them.
As soon as the English commander was apprized of the disposition of Arnold, he despatched emissaries charged with such offers as were most likely to determine a man whose hesitation was only about the means and conditions. Some of Arnold’s proceedings, about this period, warrant the supposition, that he at first meant to tamper with his brother officers, but relinquished this design on more mature reflection. He took good care that nothing of his real intentions should be divined by the subaltern English agents; but there was, at New York, a man whom he thought he could trust without risk. This was Charles Beverley Robinson, an American by birth, and a colonel in the British army, whose property all lay within the United States. His mansion, situated on the Hudson, was included in the American lines, and three miles lower than the forts upon the opposite bank. The commanding officers of West Point, having found it deserted, had made it their quarters. Arnold wrote to this officer, that the ingratitude of his country, and other considerations to be afterwards disclosed, had produced a change in his political sentiments; that he aspired to merit, thenceforward, the favor of the king; that he could render signal services; and wished to enter into a correspondence on the subject with Sir Henry Clinton. This overture was well received, and, a direct communication with the English general being established, it was agreed that Arnold should dissemble, with the utmost care, his discontent; that he should make every effort to obtain a command from general Washington; that, as soon as he succeeded, he should consult with Sir Henry Clinton as to his future movements, and be guided by the instructions which would be given by him. From this time, he entirely altered his manner and language. He affected to have forgotten the affront of the reprimand, and pretended to feel a more lively attachment than ever to the cause of independence.
The country through which the Hudson flows was the principal theatre of the war. A station in this quarter would, he thought, best answer his purpose. He was well acquainted with the localities. He examined, with minute attention, in what spot, by what operations, he could most beneficially second the enterprises of the British, and which was the most important position to betray into their hands. New York was, at this time, in the hands of the British, who had assembled there the greatest part of their troops. The fortress of West Point, a military station of very great importance, is distant twenty leagues from this city. Arnold aimed at the chief command of this post, with a view of betraying it into the hands of the British, with the garrisons, and the arms and immense stores which were deposited there; for Fort Clinton contained, besides the ammunition necessary for its own defense, the stock of powder of the whole army. The command of the fort had been entrusted to general Howe, an officer of tried courage, but of limited capacity, who could be employed elsewhere without inconvenience to the service. The wounds of Arnold did not as yet allow him to mount on horseback; they did not disqualify him, however, for conducting the defense of a citadel. He had early secured the patronage of some of the leading men of the State of New York, and Washington was prevailed upon to consign West Point to him. Being a traitor to his own country, he was apprehensive lest those to whom he was about to sell himself, might prove treacherous to him. He felt anxious to receive the price of his ignominious bargain at the moment of its ratification; but he could extort nothing more than a promise of 30,000 pounds sterling, and the assurance that he should be maintained in the British army in the rank of brigadier-general, which he already held. About a month previous (July 10, 1780,) the first division of the French army arrived at Newport, in the State of Rhode Island. The situation of the English became every day more and more critical. Sir Henry Clinton had relinquished his projected expedition. He urged Arnold to fulfill his engagements, and supposed the thing easy for a general who was master of the forts and the river; but there were, in fact, numerous obstacles in the way, and of these the presence of the commander-in-chief was the most serious. Arnold knew his vigilance and activity. He insisted, therefore, with Clinton on the necessity of deliberation, adding, however, that all should be in readiness to improve the first favorable opportunity. A young officer of foreign extraction served in the British Army. He was endowed with all the qualities which render a man useful to his country, and dear to society. This was John Andre, adjutant-general of the British army. General Sir Henry Clinton had taken him as his aid-de-camp, and did not disdain him as a counselor. To him Clinton committed the business of negotiating with Arnold. A correspondence ensued between Arnold and Andre, under the names of Gustavus and Anderson. Mercantile relations were feigned, to disguise the real object, and an American, whose dwelling stood between the lines that separated the two armies, served as a common messenger. At this period the rumor began to spread of a second division of the French army having sailed, and that Washington only awaited its arrival to begin the siege of New York. The marshal de Castries, who then administered the department of the marine with so much reputation, had, in fact, advised the French envoy of the approaching departure of a second expedition. Clinton caused Arnold to be told that it was time to act; that a day must be fixed for the surrender of the forts; and that, if time were given to the allies to effect a junction, it might no longer be in the power of Arnold himself to fulfill his engagements. He asked, also, plans of the forts, and the instructions necessary for the safe guidance of the British troops when they were sent to take possession of West Point. Arnold replied to these new importunities in the language concerted with Andre: ‘Our master goes away the 17th of this month. He will be absent five or six days. Let us avail ourselves of this interval to arrange our business. Come immediately and meet me at the lines, and we will settle definitively the risks and profits of the copartnership. All will be ready; but this inteview is indispensable, and must precede the sailing of our ship.’ It was thus that Arnold apprized Clinton of the approaching departure of the commander-in-chief. Washington had, in fact, given a rendezvous to count de Rochambeau, general of the French land forces, and to the chevalier de Ternay, commander of the squadron. They were to meet at Hartford, in Connecticut, to confer about the operations of this and the ensuing campaigns. But Arnold was not correctly advised as to the period of Washington’s departure, and the mistake led to important consequences. He had, in other letters, solicited an interview with Andre, and he now exacted it as a condition indispensable for the prosecution of the enterprise. Hitherto, everything had succeded beyond his hopes. There had been a total absence of those mysterious rumors, and vague surmises, which accompany, and seem to portend, a great conspiracy. Never had so momentous a plot been more felicitously brought so near to its execution. This profound secrecy was owing to the precaution of Arnold, in not having unbosomed himself to any of his own countrymen, and in admitting only Andre and Robinson as correspondents. He took credit for this policy, and his urgency for an interview with Andre arose chiefly from his resolution to confide to the hands of this officer alone the maps and particular information which Clinton demanded.
The 17th of September, the day specified for the departure of Washington, passed, and he was still at West Point. Arnold advertised Clinton of the delay, and explained his mistake by mentioning a circumstance which had not been before noted. The 17th fell on a Sunday,—a day which the Americans consecrated entirely to the duties of religion, and on which most of them abstained even from journeys, which, elsewhere, would be thought indispensable. Clinton admitted this explanation the more readily as he knew that Washington respected the scruples of others, and was himself very religious. To obviate untoward accidents, it was agreed that Andre should leave New York only on the 19th of September, and reach the American forts about the 20th. He accordingly embarked in the night on board the Vulture sloop-of-war. Clinton sent with him Beverly Robinson, the colonel through whom Arnold had made his first overture. He expected that the prudence of this officer would moderate the ardor of Andre. Moreover, Arnold occupied Robinson’s house, and the private affairs, which he, as a refugee, had to adjust with congress, furnished a plausible pretense for his approaching the American lines and posts. September 20, they arrived almost opposite to fort Montgomery, situated on the same side as West Point, five miles lower down. They cast anchor in sight of the nearest American redoubts, but beyond the reach of some small cannon, the only artillery of those redoubts. The Vulture got aground at low water. The movement on board, and some signals which she made, alarmed the vigilance of colonel Livingston, who commanded at Verplanck’s Point. He ascertained, on reconnoitering, that the sloop might be sunk by one or two pieces of heavy cannon; and as those of the forts which he commanded were of too small a calibre, he requested larger from Arnold. The general refused them, to the great surprise of Livingston. But tacit obedience is the life of discipline, and he acquiesced in some idle excuse. Two days elapsed after the Sunday, and still Washington had, apparently, made no preparations for departure. Arnold was himself uneasy at this disappointment; but the apprehension of exciting suspicion by too frequent communications prevented him from making it known to Clinton. The English general was informed of it through another channel. He knew the unprincipled character of Arnold, and could comprehend the probability of a snare masked by a counterfeit scheme of treason. He was the more disquieted as Andre and Robinson were already far on their way; and there was equal inconvenience in leaving them ignorant, or advising them of their danger. If Arnold were sincere in his defection, his return to New York would disconcert all Arnold’s measures, and expose him to serious risks. If he deceived the British, all the risks were for Andre and Robinson. They had not, as yet, been able to communicate with the shore, but, persuaded that Washington must have set out for Hartford, they put in execution a stratagem, arranged beforehand with Arnold, to facilitate the rendezvous. Robinson wrote to the American general, Putnam, as if to transact with him business relating to his property, and proposed an interview. In this letter was enclosed another to general Arnold, wherein Robinson solicited a conference with him, in case Putnam should be absent. The packet, being directed to Arnold, would be opened only by him; but if, perchance, it fell into other hands, the whole could be read without exciting suspicion of a plot. This letter was despatched to the shore by a flag of truce as soon as the sloop had cast anchor. It happened to be on the very day fixed by Washington for his departure. He had never meant to set out earlier, and had neither sanctioned nor contradicted the various rumors current on the subject. He left his quarters in the morning, and, on reaching the bank, found Arnold there with his barge, ready to transport him to the other side. In crossing, Washington remarked the sloop with the English flag, and took a spy-glass to observe her more narrowly. Some moments after, he gave to an officer near him, in a low voice, according to his usual mariner, an order probably of no consequence, which Arnold was unable to overhear. Arnold was guilty, and whatever he could not immediately penetrate, alarmed his fears. He supposed that the general could not remain ignorant of the circumstance of the flag of truce, and, doubtful even whether he might not be already acquainted with it, he thought it well to show him the two letters which he had received, asking him, at the same time, what course he ought to pursue. Washington, in the presence of several persons, dissuaded him from seeing Robinson, and directed him to give for answer to this officer, that his private business appertained exclusively to the jurisdiction of the civil authority. They touched the shore just as this conversation ceased. The commander-in-chief, whose presence kept Arnold in the greatest perplexity, landed, and pursued his journey to Hartford. Thus was the main obstacle removed, and the plot could proceed. The opinion uttered by Washington, in such positive terms, concerning the conference with Robinson,—the order heard by several persons present,—became, however, a law for Arnold, with respect to his ostensible conduct. It was, in this way, the first obstacle that thwarted the measures concerted between him and Andre. They could not meet publicly under the auspices of a flag of truce, and, though Andre had used this means to reach the lines, they were obliged to arrange a secret interview.
On the morning after the departure of Washington, Arnold sought out a man called Joshua Smith, well known to be devoted to the English, although he resided within the American posts. He made him the bearer of two passports to be carried on board the Vulture, one for Andre, under the fictitious name of Anderson; the other for Charles Beverley Robinson, who had not the same reason for practicing disguise. He charged him with a letter also, in which he urged them to repair to him on shore. Smith waited until nightfall, and then proceeded to the English sloop in a boat which Arnold had provided for him. Andre and Robinson expected that Arnold would himself visit them, and they were surprised when his emissary, Smith, appeared before them alone. Robinson declared that he would not go on shore, and used every effort to deter his companion; but the young man, full of impatience and ardor, saw only the chances of success, would listen to no remonstrance, and could not brook the idea, either of returning to New York without having executed his mission, or of exposing the main enterprise to miscarriage, by a caution which his rivals would infallibly stigmatise as cowardice. He put on a gray surtout, to hide his uniform, and accompanied Smith on shore. Arnold was waiting to receive him at the water’s edge. They discoursed there for some time; but, as they were liable to be surprised, Arnold led him towards the house of Smith, when he immediately laid before him plans of the forts, a memoir, composed (for a better use) by the chief engineer, Duportail, on the means of attacking and defending them, and minute instructions with respect to the measures to be taken by the British for the occupation of them, when he (Arnold) should have done his part in opening the way. They presumed that Washington had already reached Hartford, and they were right; for he was there, at the same hour, in consultation with the French commander.
Arnold and Andre, calculating anxiously the probable length of Washington’s absence, supposed he would return in three or four days, that is, on the 25th or 26th of September, and one or other of these days was fixed for the execution of the plot. It was settled that Andre should go back in all haste to New York; that the English troops, which were already embarked, under pretense of a distant expedition, should be held ready to ascend the river, and sail at the first signal; that to facilitate the reduction of West point, Arnold should march out of the forts all the troops destined for the defense, and entangle them in gorges and ravines, where he would pretend to await the English assailants, while these were to debark on another side, and enter by passes left unguarded; and, at all events, the garrison and troops were to be so distributed, that, if they did not surrender at the first summons, they must be immediately cut in pieces. He informed Andre that the chain which was stretched across the river from West point to Constitution island, forming, when perfect, an effectual bar to the passage of the river, was now no longer an impediment. He had detached a link, ostensibly to have it mended; the smiths would not return it for some days; and the two ends of the chain were held together by a fastening too weak to bear even a slight concussion. The English would know at what moment they were to advance, by the kindling of fires, in the night, under the directions of Arnold, on the adjacent eminences. A single cannon fired from their ships, to be followed by a similar discharge from the shore, would proclaim that they had perceived the signals. Other tokens agreed upon were to furnish, successively, information of the several distances of the British forces in their approach. When they had arrived within three miles of the fortress, two English officers, in American uniform, were to ride full gallop to Arnold’s quarters, to learn how matters stood and to hasten with the intelligence to the British naval commander. Then only was Arnold to put in motion that portion of the garrison which remained in the works, and station it at posts which would not be attacked. They agreed upon the countersign to be given on the 24th and 25th. Arnold delivered to the Englishman drafts of all the works, and of the passes leading to them, several memoirs, written with his own hand, and full returns of the garrison and the forces of each division of the army. He had never before allowed a single paper to go out of his hands, which might expose him to detection. But he now saw no danger in confiding these to Andre, who was to reëmbark directly on board the sloop, and make sail for New York. Andre returned alone to the beach, whence a boat was to convey him to the Vulture. But this arrangement was defeated by an obstacle wholly unexpected. At an early hour, Livingston, still disturbed at the proximity of the sloop, had, of his own authority, caused a four-pounder to be dragged from his redoubt to a point of land from which the shot could reach the vessel. She was aground, and had already sustained some damage from the piece of the American officer, when she began to float again at the rising of the tide. Robinson took advantage of this circumstance to weigh anchor, and remove some miles lower down, beyond the reach of similar attack. This change of station attracted the notice of the master and rowers of the boat in which Andre expected to regain the sloop. They were Americans. The movements which they had witnessed for the two last days were unusual; and although men of their description, accustomed to ferry all persons indifferently from one side of the river to the other, did not affect to be of any party, they were unwilling to commit themselves. When Andre proposed to them to convey him to the sloop, they told him that it was too far, and peremptorily refused to go. He went back immediately to Arnold, and urged him to exert his authority in so serious a predicament. But the latter, perplexed at his unlooked-for-appearance, and already harassed with various disappointments, durst not attempt to compel the men, and told him he must submit to return by land; to lay aside his uniform altogether, and assume another dress. Andre changed his coat for one which Smith provided. Arnold now wished to withdraw the papers which he had entrusted to him; he thought it hazardous to send them by land. But Andre was very desirous of showing to Clinton with what punctuality he had executed his mission. These papers were a trophy of which he would not, therefore, allow himself to be dispossessed. He observed to Arnold, that danger of any kind could now no longer be in question, except so far as to show that they both despised it; and added, that he would keep the papers, which brought him into greater peril than Arnold, and, to allay his fears, would secrete them in his boots. Arnold submitted, and, leaving Andre in Smith’s house, returned to his quarters, from which he had been absent since the day before. The Patrol, spread through the whole neighborhood, made it imprudent for Andre to begin his journey before twilight. He was accompanied by Smith: each had a passport from Arnold, ‘to go to the lines of White plains, or lower, if the bearer thought proper; he being on public business.’ They were accosted, at Compond, by an American officer of militia, who told them that it was too late for them to reach, that evening, any other quarters. In order not to awaken his suspicions, they resolved to pass the night there. The next day, 23d, they crossed the Hudson to King’s ferry, pushing forward when they were not observed, and slakening their pace to conceal their eagerness, wherever they were likely to be seen. By means of their passports, they traversed all the American posts without molestation. They arrived, uninterrupted, a little beyond Pine’s bridge, a village situated on the Croton: they had not, however, crossed the lines, although they could descry the ground occupied by the English videttes. Smith, looking all around, and perceiving no one, said to Andre, ‘You are safe—good bye,’ and retook, at full speed, the road by which they had come. Andre, on his part, believing himself out of danger, and all further precaution superfluous, put spurs to his horse. He had proceeded four leagues onward with the same good fortune; he could see the Hudson once more, and was about entering Tarrytown, the border village, when a man, armed with a gun, sprung suddenly from the thickets, and seizing the reins of his bridle, exclaimed, ‘Where are you bound?’ At the same moment, two others ran up, who were armed in like manner, and formed, with the first part of the patrol of volunteer militia that guarded the lines. They were not in uniform, and Andre, preöccupied by the idea that he was no longer on enemy’s ground, thought that they must be of his own party. It did not, therefore, occur to him to show him his passport, which was sufficient to deceive Americans, and could not alter his destination, if those who arested him were of the English side. Instead of answering their question, he asked them, in his turn, where they belonged to. They replied, ‘To below,’—words referring to the course of the river, and implying that they were of the English party. ‘And so do I,’ said Andre, confirmed in his mistake by this stratagem. ‘I am,’ continued he, in a tone of command, ‘an English officer on urgent business, and I do not wish to be longer detained.’ ‘You belong to our enemies,’ was the rejoinder, ‘and we arrest you.’ Andre, struck with astonishment at this unexpected language, presented his passport; but this paper, after the confession he had just made, only served to render his case more suspicious. He offered them gold, his horse, and promised them large rewards, and permanent provision from the English government, if they would let him escape. These young men, whom such offers did but animate the more in their duty, replied, that they wanted nothing. They drew off his boots, and detected the fatal papers. They no longer hesitated to carry him before colonel Jameson, who commanded the out-posts. When questioned by that officer he still called himself Anderson, the name mentioned in his passport, and evinced no discomposure; he had recovered all of his presence of mind, and, forgetful of his own danger, thought only of Arnold’s, and of the means of extricating him. To apprise him of it safely, he begged Jameson to inform the commanding officer of West Point that Anderson, the bearer of his passport, was detained. Jameson thought it more simple to order him to be conducted to Arnold. He was already on the way, and the thread of the conspiracy was about to be resumed in the interview of the accomplices, when the American colonel, recollecting that the papers found upon the prisoner were in the hand-writing of Arnold himself, and adverting to the several extraordinary features of the business, sent, in all haste, after the pretended Anderson, and had him conveyed, under guard, to Old Salem. He despatched, at the same time, an express to Washington, charged with a letter containing a circumstantial account of this affair, and with the drafts and other papers taken from the prisoner. But the commander-in-chief, who set out on the same day, the 23d of September, to return to his army, had pursued a different route from that by which he went to Hartford, and the messenger was compelled to retrace his steps without having seen him. This delay proved the salvation of Arnold.
Jameson was a gallant soldier, but a man of an irresolute temper, and no great sagacity; moreover, treachery on the part of Arnold appeared impossible to one of an ingenuous and honorable character. He began to view his first suspicions as an outrage to an officer distinguished, as Arnold was, by so many noble exploits, and, wishing to reconcile the deference due to him with the performance of his own duty, he wrote him, that Anderson, the bearer of his passport, had been arrested on the 23d. Arnold did not receive this intimation until the morning of the 25th. It was on a Monday; and the same day, or the one following, had been selected for the consummation of the plot. Until that moment, he had believed success infallible. The exhilaration which this belief produced was even remarked, and he ascribed it to his expectation of the speedy arrival of his general, ‘for whom he had pleasant news.’ He was busy with the appropriate arrangements for the reception of a body of more welcome visitors, when he received the letter of Jameson. Those who were present on the occasion recollected, afterwards, that he could not, at first, conceal his dismay and extreme agitation; but that, recovering himself quickly, he said, in a loud voice, that he would write an answer; and, dismissing all about him, withdrew, to reflect on the course which it was best to adopt. The entrance of two American officers, however, interrupted his musings. They were sent by the commander-in-chief, and informed Arnold, that he had arrived that morning at Fishkill, a few leagues from West Point; that he was to have set out a few hours after them, and could not be far distant. Thus did the most alarming circumstances rapidly succeed each other. The traitor had no resource but a precipitate flight. Suppressing his emotion, he told the two officers that he wished to go and meet the general alone, and begged them not to follow him. He then entered the apartment of his wife, exclaiming—‘All is discovered:—Andre is a prisoner:—The commander-in-chief will know every thing:—The discharge of cannon, which you hear, is a salute, and announces that he is not far off:—Burn all my papers:—I fly to New York.’ He embraced her, as well as their infant child, whom she carried in her arms, and, solely intent on his escape, left her, without waiting for her reply, mounted the horse of one of the two officers, and rushed towards the Hudson, which was not far from his house. He had taken the precaution to have always ready a barge well-manned: he threw himself headlong into it, and caused the boatmen to make for the English sloop, with all possible dispatch. The barge, bearing a flag of truce, was still visible from the heights when Washington arrived. The two officers related to him what they had witnessed. Arnold had absconded. His wife, in the agonies of despair, seemed to fear for her infant, and maintained an obstinate silence. No one knew how to explain these extraordinary incidents. The commander-in-chief repaired, without delay, to the fort of West Point, where, however, he could learn nothing of a decisive import. But some orders, issued by Arnold the day before, redoubled his suspicions: he returned to the quarters of the general, and at this instant Jameson’s messenger presented himself, and delivered the packet with which he was charged. Washington seemed, for a few minutes, as it were, overwhelmed by the discovery of a crime which ruined the fame of an American general, and wounded the honor of the American army. Those who were near him anxiously interrogated his looks in silence, which he broke by saying,—‘I thought that an officer of courage and ability, who had often shed his blood for his country, was entitled to confidence, and I gave him mine. I am convinced now, and for the rest of my life, that we should never trust those who are wanting in probity, whatever abilities they may possess. Arnold has betrayed us.’ Meanwhile, the precautions required by the occasion were every where taken. General Heath, a faithful and vigilant officer, was substituted for Arnold at West Point; the commanders of the other posts were admonished to be on their guard. Greene, who had been invested with the command of the army during the absence of Washington, recalled within the forts the garrisons which the traitor had dispersed, and marched a strong division near to the lines. Hamilton lost not an instant in repairing to King’s Ferry, the last American post on the side of New York. He had the mortification to learn, that a very short time before his arrival, Arnold’s barge had glided by with the swiftness of an arrow, and was then getting along side the Vulture, some miles lower down, opposite Teller’s Point,—an anchorage situated at the head of the great basin of the Hudson, which is called Tappan bay. Livingston had remarked the barge that carried the fugitive, and, his suspicions being roused by the strange movements of the two or three days previous, would have stopped it, had not the sailors of his spy-boats been ashore when it passed. Messengers were sent to all the states of the Union, and to the French general, to inform them of this event. The express which bore the news to congress traveled with such rapidity, that he reached Philadelphia on the same day that the discovery was made in the camp. The magistrates were immediately directed to enter the house of Arnold, and to seize and examine his papers. They found nothing there relating to the conspiracy; but he had left memoranda which furnished ample proof that he was guilty of the extortions and peculations of which he had been accused two years before.
Jameson caused his unknown prisoner to be strictly guarded. The latter at first suppressed his true name, from consideration for Arnold; but, the day after his capture, supposing that the American general had had time to make his escape, he said to Jameson,—‘My name is not Anderson; I am major Andre.’ The death of Andre, though ignominious, was happiness in comparison with the life of Arnold. Upon his establishment in the army of Great Britain, he found it necessary to make some exertions to secure the attachment of his new friends. With the hope of alluring many of the discontented to his standard, he published an address to the inhabitants of America, in which he endeavored to justify his conduct. He had encountered the dangers of the field, he said, from apprehension that the rights of his country were in danger. He had acquiesced in the declaration of independence, though he thought it precipitate. But the rejection of the overtures made by Great Britain, in 1778, and the French alliance, had opened his eyes to the ambitious views of those who would sacrifice the happiness of their country to their own aggrandizement, and had made him a confirmed loyalist. He artfully mingled assertions, that the principal members of congress held the people in sovereign contempt. This was followed, in about a fortnight, by a proclamation, addressed ‘to the officers and soldiers of the continental army,’ who have the real interest of their country at heart, and who are determined to be no longer the tools and dupes of congress and of France. To induce the American officers and soldiers to desert the cause which they had embraced, he represented that the corps of cavalry and infantry, which he was authorized to raise, would be upon the same footing with the other troops in the British service; that he should with pleasure advance those whose valor he had witnessed: and that the private men, who joined him, should receive a bounty of three guineas each, besides payment at the full value for horses, arms, and accoutrements. His object was the peace, liberty and safety of America. These proclamations did not produce the effect designed, and in all the hardships, sufferings and irritations of the war, Arnold remains the solitary instance of an American officer who abandoned the side first embraced in the contest, and turned his sword upon his former companions in arms. He was soon despatched, by Sir Henry Clinton, to make a diversion in Virginia. With about 1700 men, he arrived in the Chesapeake in January 1781, and, being supported by such a naval force as was suited to the nature of the service, he committed extensive ravages on the rivers, and along the unprotected coasts. It is said, that, while on this expedition, Arnold inquired of an American captain, whom he had taken prisoner, what the Americans would do with him, if he should fall into their hands. The officer replied, that they would cut off his lame leg, and bury it with the honors of war, and hang the remainder of his body in gibbets.
After his recall from Virginia, he conducted an expedition against New London in his native state of Connecticut. He took fort Trumbull, Sep. 6, with inconsiderable loss. On the other side of the harbor, lieutenant-colonel Earyre, who commanded another detachment, made an assault on fort Griswold, and, with the greatest difficulty, entered the works. An officer of the conquering troops asked who commanded. ‘I did,’ answered colonel Ledyard, ‘but you do now,’ and presented him his sword, which was immediately plunged into his own bosom. A merciless slaughter now commenced of the brave garrison, who had ceased to resist, and the greater part were either killed or wounded. After burning the town, and the stores which were in it, Arnold returned to New York in eight days. He survived the war but to drag on, in perpetual banishment from his native country, a dishonorable life amid a nation that imputed to him the loss of one of the brightest ornaments of its army—the lamented Andre. He transmitted to his children a name of hateful celebrity. He obtained only a part of the debasing stipend of an abortive treason. His complaints soon caused it to be known, that all the promises by which he had been inveigled were not fulfilled. But baffled treason appears always to be overpaid, and the felon is the only one who thinks he experiences injustice. He enjoyed, however, the rank of brigadier-general; but the officers of the British army manifested a strong repugnance to serve with him. He possessed their esteem while he fought against them; they loaded him with contempt when treason brought him over to their side. He resided principally in England after the conclusion of the war, was in Nova Scotia, and afterwards to the West Indies, where he was taken prisoner by the French, from whom he escaped, and, returning to England, died in Gloucester place, London, June 14, 1801.
HORATIO GATES.
Horatio Gates was born in England, in 1728. He early embraced the career of arms, and rose to the rank of major by the force of merit alone. At the capture of Martinico, he was to aid general Monkton, and, after the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, was stationed at Halifax in Nova Scotia. Seven years afterwards, he was again called into active life, by the breaking out of a new war, and was with Braddock when that unfortunate commander was defeated, in 1755. In consequence of a severe wound which he received in the battle, he was for some time debarred from active service; and, at the conclusion of the peace, he repaired to his native country. He soon, however, returned, and purchased an estate in Virginia, on which he resided until the commencement of the revolutionary war in 1775, when he was appointed adjutant-general by congress, with the rank of brigadier. In July, 1775, he accompanied the commander-in-chief to Massachusetts, where he continued until June in the following year, when he received the chief command of the army which had just retreated from Canada. This gave great umbrage to general Schuyler, who had hitherto superintended the forts and garrisons of New York, and now expressed his determination to resign, unless the injury were redressed. Congress, in consequence, endeavored to reconcile the pretensions of the two generals, by assigning to them authorities in some measure independent of each other. Schuyler was directed to provide and equip a naval armament, in order to obtain and preserve the command of the lakes and rivers which maintained the communications between Canada and the maritime and Hudson country, and Gates was enjoined to coöperate in this service as far as laid in his power. But they were only able to equip about 15 vessels, half of which were little better than boats, which were placed under the command of Arnold, who was opposed by a much superior force under Carleton. The first step of Gates occasioned some surprise and much clamor. The American forces had retreated to Crown Point, where such ravages were made among them by the small-pox, that Gates abandoned that fortress, and concentrated his army at Ticonderoga. This movement, which opened to the enemy the whole navigation of lake Champlain, was greatly condemned by Washington and all the field-officers. The unexpected retreat of general Carleton relieved them from the necessity of defending Ticonderoga. After this retreat, Gates marched with a considerable detachment to the assistance of general Washington, and continued with him, during his operations in the middle colonies, until the spring of 1777, when he resumed his command on the northern frontier. Here he was shortly afterwards superseded by Schuyler. But in August following, when Burgoyne had obtained possession of Ticonderoga, defeated St. Clair, occupied fort Ann and Skeensborough, and had arrived at fort St. Edward, on the upper branches of the Hudson, Gates was reinstated in the command. At fort St. Edward, Burgoyne remained for some time, in order to collect necessaries, and then, passing the Hudson, encamped at Saratoga. Gates immediately put himself in motion with an equal force, and, Sep. 19, an almost general engagement took place without any decisive result. Oct. 8, another action occurred, in which the British were totally defeated, and, on the 16th, Bugoyne surrendered with his whole army. This was, perhaps, the most important achievement of the whole war, or the one which had the greatest effect in giving it a favorable result.
About this time, when the popularity of general Gates was at its highest point, intrigues were commenced for elevating him to the station occupied by Washington, which were as shameful as they were unsuccessful. How far he himself was engaged in them, or whether he was concerned in them at all, it is not in our power to state; nor should we wish to enter into any details respecting it.
In June, 1780, Gates received the chief command of the southern districts. In this quarter, the affairs of the colonies were in a very bad condition. Charleston had been taken, and general Lincoln captured. When Gates assumed the command of the southern army, it scarcely amounted to 1500 men, badly supplied in every respect. After collecting all the troops he could, and equipping them as well as he was able, he advanced against the enemy, whom he met, August 16, under Cornwallis, at Camden, where the Americans were totally defeated. About fifty days after this disaster, general Greene was sent to supersede Gates, whose conduct was subjected to the investigation of a special court. After a long and tedious inquiry, he was finally acquitted, and reinstated in his command in 1782; but, in the interim, the war had been brought to a glorious termination by the capture of Cornwallis. When peace was made, he retired to his Virginia estate, and, in 1790, removed to New York, having first emancipated all his slaves, and provided for such of them as could not provide for themselves. On his arrival at New York, he was presented with the freedom of the city, and, in the year 1800, was chosen a member of the state legislature, in consequence of the critical balance of parties at that time, but resigned the seat as soon as the purpose for which he accepted it was gained. He died April 10, 1806, in the 78th year of his age.
General Gates possessed a handsome person, rather inclined to corpulency in the middle of his life; was courteous in his manners, and kind and generous in his disposition. He was a classical scholar and a sincere Christian.
THADDEUS KOSCIUSKO.
Thaddeus Kosciusko, the last generalissimo of the republic of Poland, one of the noblest characters of his age, was descended from an ancient and noble, though not rich family, in Lithuania, aad was born in 1756. He was educated in the military school at Warsaw. The prince Adam Czartoriski, perceiving his talents and industry, made him second lieutenant in the corps of cadets, and sent him, at his own expense, to France, where he studied drawing and the military art. After his return, he was made captain. But the consequences of an unhappy passion for the daughter of Sosnowski, marshal of Lithuania (who was afterwards married to the prince Jos. Lubomirski), obliged him to leave Poland. Solitary studies, particularly in history and mathematics, and an elevated character, prepared him for the struggle for freedom, in which he engaged under Washington, who made him his aid. He distinguished himself particularly at the siege of Ninety-Six, and was very highly esteemed by the army and the commander-in-chief. He and Lafayette were the only foreigners admitted into the Cincinnati. Kosciusko received the rank of general, and, in 1786, returned to Poland. When the Polish army was formed (1789), the diet appointed him a major-general. He declared himself for the constitution of May 3, 1791, and served under prince Joseph Poniatowski. In the campaign of 1792, he distinguished himself against the Russians at Zieleneck and Dubienka. At the latter place, under cover of some works which he had thrown up in the course of 24 hours, he repulsed, with 1000 men, three successive attacks of 18,000 Russians, who prevailed only after the loss of 4,000 men. Kosciusko retired without having suffered severely. When king Stanislaus submitted to Catharine, he, with sixteen other officers, left the army, and was, therefore, obliged to retire from Poland. He went to Leipsic; and the legislative assembly of France, at this time, gave him the rights of a French citizen. The Poles becoming impatient under the oppression of Russia, some of Kosciusko’s friends in Warsaw determined to make an effort for the liberation of their country. They chose Kosciusko as their general, and made him acquainted with their plans. He imparted them to the counts Ignatius, Potocki and Kolontai in Dresden, who thought the enterprise injudicious. Kosciusko, however, went to the frontier, and sent general Zajonczeck and general Dzialynski into the Russian provinces of Poland, to prepare everything in silence. But when the Polish army was merged, in part, in the Russian, and the remainder reduced to 15,000 men, the insurrection broke out before the time fixed on. In Posen, Madalinski forcibly opposed the dissolution of his regiment. All now flew to arms; the Russian garrison was expelled from Cracow. Just at this moment, Kosciusko entered the city. The citizens now formed the act of confederation of Cracow (March 24, 1794), and Kosciusko, at their head, called upon the Poles to restore the constitution of May 3. Kosciusko then advanced to meet the Russian forces. Without artillery, at the head of only 4,000 men, part of whom were armed only with scythes and pikes, he defeated 12,000 Russians at Raclawice (April 4, 1794.) His army was now increased to 9,000 men, and he formed a junction with general Grochowski.
In the mean time, the Russian garrisons of Warsaw and Wilna had been put to death, or made prisoners. Kosciusko checked the outbreak of popular fury, sent troops against Volhynia, and organized the government at Warsaw. He marched out of the city, with 13,000 men, to oppose 17,000 Russians and Prussians, attacked them at Szezekocini, June 6, but was defeated after an obstinate conflict. He retreated to his entrenched camp before Warsaw. The Prussians took Cracow. Disturbances broke out, in conseqence, in Warsaw, June 28. The people murdered a part of the prisoners, and hung some Poles who were connected with the Russians. But Kosciusko punished the guilty, and restored order. The king of Prussia now formed a junction with the Russians, and besieged Warsaw with 60,000 men. Kosciusko, however, kept up the courage of his countrymen. After two months of bloody fighting, he repelled, with 10,000 men, a general assault. All Great Poland now rose, under Dombrowski, against the Prussians. This circumstance, together with the loss of a body of artillery, compelled the king of Prussia to raise the siege of Warsaw. Thus this bold general, with an army of 20,000 regular troops and 40,000 armed peasants, maintained himself against four hostile armies, amounting together to 150,000 men.
KOSKIUSKO’S MONUMENT.
His great power consisted in the confidence which his fellow-citizens reposed in him. The nephew of the king, once his general, served under him. Kosciusko had unlimited power in the republic, but he displayed the integrity of Washington, and the activity of Cæsar. He attended to procuring supplies, superintended the raising and payment of money, and prevented plundering and fraud, and was equally active in the council and the field. His days and nights, all his powers, were devoted to his country. He secured the administration of justice, abolished bondage, and finally restored to the nation, May 29, in the supreme national council which he established, the great power which had been delegated to him. Catharine at length decided the contest by an overwhelming superiority of numbers. Suwaroff defeated the Poles under Sierakowski at Brzec, in Volhynia, September 18th and 19th. Repnin penetrated through Lithuania, and formed a union with Suwaroff; general Fersen was to support them with 12,000 men. To prevent this, Kosciusko marched from Warsaw with 21,000 men. Poninski was to have supported him with his division; but the Russians intercepted the messenger. The united Russian armies under Fersen attacked the Poles, who were not more than one-third as strong as the Russians, October 10, at Macziewice (about 50 miles from Warsaw); they were three times repulsed, but, on the fourth attack, they broke through the Polish lines. Kosciusko fell from his horse covered with wounds, exclaiming ‘Finis Poloniæ’ and was made prisoner by the enemy. In losing him, his country lost all. Suwaroff stormed Praga November 4; Warsaw capitulated on the 9th; Madalinski left Great Poland; an Austrian army appeared before Lublin. But the noble efforts of the conquered had awakened the regard of Europe towards the unhappy country, and the dearest hopes of the nation—the restoration of their monarchy, with a free constitution—found a powerful support in public opinion. Catharine caused the hero and his noble colleagues, who were prisoners of war, to be thrown into a state prison. Paul I gave them their liberty, and distinguished Kosciusko by marks of his esteem. He presented his own sword to the general, who declined it with these words—‘I no longer need a sword, since I have no longer a country.’ To the day of his death, he never again wore a sword. Paul then presented him with 1,500 peasants, and his friend Niemcewicz, the poet, with 1,000. When on the Russian frontier, Kosciusko declined this present by a letter. He and his friend now went by the way of France and London, where Kosciusko was treated with distinction, to America (1797).
His fortune was very small. On his return to his native country after the war of the revolution, he had received a pension from America, and he now found there such a reception as he deserved. In 1798, he went to France. His countrymen in the Italian army presented to him the sabre of John Sobieski, which had been found (1799) at Loretto. Napoleon afterwards formed the plan of restoring Poland to its place among the nations, and thus, at the same time, injuring Russia, and extending his own power over the east of Europe. But Kosciusko would take no part in this struggle, which was conducted by Dombrowski, in 1807–8, being prevented less by ill health than by having given his word to Paul I never to serve against the Russians. To Napoleon’s proposals he answered, that ‘he would exert himself in the cause of Poland, when he saw the country possessed of its ancient territories, and having a free constitution.’ Fouche tried every means to carry him to Poland. An appeal to the Poles, which appeared under his name in the Moniteur of November 1, 1806, he declared to be spurious.
Having purchased an estate in the neighborhood of Fontainebleau, he lived there in retirement until 1814. April 9, 1814, he wrote to the emperor Alexander, to ask of him an amnesty for the Poles in foreign lands, and to request him to become king of Poland, and to give to the country a free constitution, like that of England. In 1815, he traveled with lord Stuart to Italy, and, in 1816, he settled at Soleure. In 1817, he abolished slavery on his estate of Siecnowicze, in Poland. He afterwards lived in retirement, enjoying the society of a few friends. Agriculture was his favorite occupation. A fall with his horse from a precipice, not far from Vevay, occasioned his death, October 16, 1817, at Soleure. He was never married. In 1818, prince Jablonowski, at the expense of the emperor Alexander, removed his body, which, at the request of the senate, the emperor allowed to be deposited in the tomb of the kings at Cracow. A monument was also erected to his memory, and the women went into mourning for his loss.
NATHANIEL GREENE.
Nathaniel Greene, a major-general in the American army, was born, May 22, 1742, near the town of Warwick in Rhode Island. His father was an anchor smith, and, at the same time, a Quaker preacher, whose ignorance, combined with the fanaticism of the times, made him pay little attention to the worldly learning of his children, though he was very careful of their moral and religious instruction. The fondness for knowledge, however, of young Greene was such, that he devoted all the time he could spare to its acquisition, and employed all his trifling gains in procuring books. His propensity for the life of a soldier was early evinced by his predilection for works on military subjects. He made considerable proficiency in the exact sciences; and, after he had attained his twentieth year, he added a tolerable stock of legal knowledge to his other acquisitions. In the year 1770, he was elected a member of the state legislature, and, in 1774, enrolled himself as a private in a company called the Kentish Guards. After the battle of Lexington, the state of Rhode Island raised what was termed an army of observation, in order to assist the forces collected in Massachusetts, for the purpose of confining the British within the limits of Boston, and chose Greene its commander, with the title of major-general. His elevation from the ranks to the head of three regiments, may give some idea of the estimation in which his military talents were held. June 6, 1775, he assumed his command before the lines of Boston; and, not long afterwards, General Washington arrived, to take the command in chief of the American forces. Between these two distinguished men an intimacy soon commenced, which was never interrupted. Greene accepted a commission from congress of brigadier-general, although, under the state, he held that of major-general; preferring the former, as it promised a larger sphere of action, and the pleasure of serving under the immediate command of Washington. When the American army had followed the enemy to New York, after the evacuation of Boston, they encamped, partly in New York and partly on Long Island. The division posted upon the island was under the orders of Greene; but, at the time of its unfortunate affair with the enemy, he was suffering under severe sickness, and General Sullivan was in command. When he had sufficiently recovered his health, he joined the retreating army, having previously been promoted to the rank of major-general, and was appointed to command the troops in New Jersey destined to watch the movements of a strong detachment of the British, which had been left in Staten Island. December 26, 1776, when Washington surprised the English at Trenton, Greene commanded the left wing of the American forces, which was the first that reached the town, and, having seized the enemy’s artillery, cut off their retreat to Princeton. Next summer, Sir William Howe having embarked with a large force at New York, for the purpose of landing on the eastern shore of the Chesapeake, and thence marching to Philadelphia, Washington hastened to oppose him; and, September 11, the battle of the Brandywine took place, in which the Americans were defeated. In this affair, Greene commanded the vanguard, together with Sullivan, and it became his duty to cover the retreat, in which he fully succeeded. After General Howe had obtained possession of Philadelphia, the British army, in consequence of this victory, encamped at Germantown, where an attack was made upon it by Washington, October 4, 1777, in which Greene commanded the left wing. The disastrous issue of this attempt is well known; but it has been asserted, that the left wing was the only part of the American army which had the good fortune to effect the service allotted it that day. The next service upon which General Greene was engaged, was that of endeavoring to prevent lord Cornwallis from collecting supplies, for which he had been detached into the Jerseys, with 3000 men; but, before Greene could bring him to an action, he had received reinforcements, which gave him so great a superiority, that the American general was recalled by the commander-in-chief. In March of the following year, Greene, at the solicitation of Washington, accepted the appointment of quarter-master-general, on two conditions; that he should retain his right of command in time of action, and that he should have the choice of two assistants. At the battle of Monmouth, in the ensuing month of June, he led the right wing of the second line, and mainly contributed to the partial success of the Americans. After this, he continued engaged in discharging the duties of his station until August, when he was sent to join Sullivan, who, with the forces under his command, aided by the French fleet under D’Estaing, was preparing to make an attempt upon Newport in Rhode Island, then in possession of the enemy. The command of the left wing of the troops was assigned to Greene. The enterprise, however, failed, in consequence of some misunderstanding between Sullivan and D’Estaign; and the consequent retreat of the American army was covered by Greene, who repulsed an attack of the enemy with half their number. When General Washington, alarmed for the safety of the garrisons on the North river, repaired to West Point, he left Greene in command of the army in New Jersey. The latter had not been long in that command, before he was attacked, near Springfield, by a force much superior to his, under Sir Henry Clinton; but the enemy were repulsed, though they burned the village. This affair happened June 23. October 6, he was appointed to succeed the traitor Arnold in the command at West Point. In this station, however, he continued only until the 14th of the same month, when he was chosen by General Washington to take the place of General Gates, in the chief direction of the southern army. From this moment, when he was placed in a situation where he could exercise his genius without control, dates the most brilliant portion of Greene’s career. The ability, prudence and firmness which he here displayed, have caused him to be ranked, in the scale of our revolutionary generals, second only to Washington. December 2, 1780, Greene arrived at the encampment of the American forces at Charlotte, and, on the 4th, assumed the command. After the battle of the Cowpens, gained by Morgan, January 17, 1781, he effected a junction with the victorious General, having previously been engaged in recruiting his army, which had been greatly thinned by death and desertion; but the numbers of Cornwallis were still so superior, that he was obliged to retreat into Virginia, which he did with a degree of skill that has been the theme of the highest eulogy. He, soon afterwards, however, returned to North Carolina, with an accession of force, and, March 15, encountered Cornwallis at Guilford court-house, where he was defeated; but the loss of the enemy was greater than his, and no advantages accrued to them from the victory. On the contrary, Cornwallis, a few days afterwards, commenced a retrograde movement towards Wilmington, leaving many of his wounded behind him, and was followed for some time by Greene. Desisting, however, from the pursuit, the latter marched into South Carolina, and a battle took place, April 25, between him and lord Rawdon, near Camden, in which he was again unsuccessful, though again the enemy were prevented by him from improving their victory, and, not long after, were obliged to retire. May 22, having previously reduced a number of the forts and garrisons in South Carolina, he commenced the siege of Ninety-Six, but in June the approach of lord Rawdon compelled him to raise it, and retreat to the extremity of the state. Expressing a determination ‘to recover South Carolina, or die in the attempt,’ he again advanced, when the British forces were divided, and lord Rawdon was pursued, in his turn, to his encampment at Orangeburg, where he was offered battle by his adversary, which was refused. September 8, Greene obtained a victory over the British forces under Colonel Stewart, at Eutaw Springs, which completely prostrated the power of the enemy in South Carolina. Greene was presented by congress with a British standard and a gold medal, as a testimony of their sense of his services on this occasion. This was the last action in which Greene was engaged. During the rest of the war, however, he continued in his command, struggling with the greatest difficulties, in consequence of the want of all kinds of supplies, and the mutinous disposition of some of his troops. When peace released him from his duties, he returned to Rhode Island; and his journey thither, almost at every step, was marked by some private or public testimonial of gratitude and regard. On his arrival at Princeton, where congress was then sitting, that body unanimously resolved, that ‘two pieces of field ordnance, taken from the British army at Cowpens, Augusta, or Eutaw,’ should be presented to him by the commander-in-chief. In October, 1785, Greene repaired, with his family, to Georgia, some valuable grants of lands near Savannah having been made to him by that state. He died June 19, 1786, in his 44th year, in consequence of an inflammation of the brain, contracted by exposure to the rays of an intense sun. General Greene possessed, in a great degree, not only the common quality of physical courage, but that fortitude and unbending firmness of mind, which are given to few, and which enabled him to bear up against the most cruel reverses, and struggle perseveringly with, and finally surmount, the most formidable difficulties. He was ever collected in the most trying situations, and prudence and judgment were distinguishing traits in his character. In his disposition, he was mild and benevolent; but when it was necessary, he was resolutely severe. No officer of the revolutionary army possessed a higher place in the confidence and affection of Washington, and, probably, none would have been so well calculated to succeed him, if death had deprived his country of his services during the revolutionary struggle.
FREDERIC WILLIAM AUGUSTUS STEUBEN.
Baron von Frederic William Augustus Steuben; a distinguished Prussian officer, who attached himself to the American cause in the revolution of 1776. He had been aid-de-camp to Frederic the Great, and had attained the rank of lieutenant-general in his army. Sacrificing his honors and emoluments in Europe, Steuben came to America in 1777, and tendered his services to congress, as a volunteer in their army, without claiming any rank or compensation. He received the thanks of that body, and joined the main army under the commander-in-chief at Valley Forge. Baron Steuben soon rendered himself particularly useful to the Americans, by disciplining the forces. On the recommendation of general Washington, congress, in May 1778, appointed the baron inspector-general of the army, with the rank of major-general. His efforts in this capacity were continued with remarkable diligence, until he had placed the troops in a situation to withstand the enemy. In the estimates of the war office, 5000 extra muskets were generally allowed for the waste and destruction in the army; but such was the exact order under the superintendence of Steuben, that in his inspection return, but three muskets were deficient, and those accounted for. A complete scheme of exercise and discipline, which he composed, was adopted in the army by the direction of congress. He possessed the right of command in the line, and at one period was at the head of a separate detachment in Virginia. At the battle of Monmouth he was engaged as a volunteer. When reviewing the troops, it was his constant custom to reward the disciplined soldier with praise, and to pass severe censure upon the negligent. Numerous anecdotes are related illustrative of the generosity, purity and kindness of his disposition. After the treacherous defection of Arnold, the baron held his name in the utmost abhorrence. One day, he was inspecting a regiment of light horse, when that name struck his ear. The man was ordered to the front, and presented an excellent appearance. Steuben told him that he was too respectable to bear the name of a traitor; and at his request the soldier adopted that of the baron, whose bounty he afterwards experienced, and brought up a son by the same name.
At the siege of Yorktown, baron Steuben was in the trenches at the head of a division, where he received the first offer of lord Cornwallis to capitulate. The marquis de Lafayette appeared to relieve him in the morning; but, adhering to the European etiquette, the baron would not quit his post until the surrender was completed or hostilities recommenced. The matter being referred to general Washington, the baron was suffered to remain in the trenches till the enemy’s flag was struck. After the capture of Cornwallis, when the superior American officers were paying every attention to their captives, Steuben sold his favorite horse in order to raise money to give an entertainment to the British officers, as the other major-generals had previously done. His watch he had previously disposed of to relieve the wants of a sick friend. On another occasion, when he desired to reciprocate the invitations of the French officers, he ordered his people to sell his silver spoons and forks saying it was anti-republican to make use of such things, and adding, that the gentlemen should have one good dinner if he ate his meals with a wooden spoon for ever after. Steuben continued in the army till the close of the war, perfecting its discipline. The silence and dexterity of his movements surprised the French allies. He possessed the particular esteem of general Washington, who took every proper opportunity to recommend him to congress; from which body he received several sums of money, that were chiefly expended in acts of charity, or in rewarding the good conduct of the soldiers.
Upon the disbandment of the continental army at Newburgh, many affectionate bonds, formed amidst the danger and hardships of a long and arduous service, were to be broken asunder for ever. At this season of distress, the benevolent Steuben exerted himself to alleviate the forlorn condition of many. He gave his last dollar to a wounded black, to procure him a passage home. Peace being established, the baron retired to a farm in the vicinity of New York, where, in the society of his friends, and the amusements of books and chess, he passed his time as comfortably as his exhausted purse would allow. The state of New Jersey had given him a small farm, and that of New York 16,000 acres of land in the country of Oneida. The exertions of colonel Hamilton and general Washington subsequently procured him an annuity of $2500, from the general government. He built a log house, and cleared 60 acres of his tract of land, a portion of which he partitioned out, on easy terms, to twenty or thirty tenants, and distributed nearly a tenth among his aid-de-camps and servants. In this situation he lived contentedly, until the year 1795, when an apoplectic attack put an end to his life, in his sixty-fifth year. An abstract of his system of military manœuvres was published in 1779. The year preceding his death, he published a letter on the established militia and military arrangements.
BARON DE KALB.
Baron De Kalb, a major-general in the American army, was born in Germany, about the year 1717. When young, he entered into the service of France, in which he continued for 42 years, and obtained the rank of brigadier-general. In 1757, during the war between England and France, he was sent, by the French government, to the American colonies, in order to learn the points in which they were most vulnerable, and how far the seeds of discontent might be sown in them towards the mother country. He was seized, while in the performance of this commission, as a suspected person, but escaped detection. He then went to Canada, where he remained until its conquest by the British, after which he returned to France. In 1777, during the war of the revolution, he came a second time to the U. States, and offered his services to congress. They were accepted, and he was soon after made a major-general. At first he was placed in the northern army, but when the danger which threatened Charleston from the formidable expedition under sir Henry Clinton, in 1778, rendered it necessary to reinforce the American troops in the south, a detachment was sent to them, consisting of the Maryland and Delaware lines, which were put under his command. Before he could arrive, however, at the scene of action, general Lincoln had been made prisoner, and the direction of the whole southern army in consequence devolved upon the baron, until the appointment of general Gates. August 15th, Gates was defeated near Camden by lord Rawdon, and in the battle, baron de Kalb, who commanded the right wing, fell, covered with wounds, while gallantly fighting on foot. A tomb was erected to his memory, by order of congress, in the cemetery of Camden.
RICHARD MONTGOMERY.
Richard Montgomery, a major-general in the army of the U. States, was born in 1737, in the north of Ireland. He embraced the profession of arms, and served under Wolfe, at Quebec, in 1759; but, on his return to England, he left his regiment, although his prospects for promotion were fair. He then removed to America, for which country he entertained a deep affection; he purchased an estate in New York, about 100 miles from the city, and married a daughter of judge Livingston. His feelings in favor of America were so well known, that, on the commencement of the revolutionary struggle, he was entrusted with the command of the continental forces in the northern department, in conjunction with general Schuyler. The latter, however, fell sick, and the chief command in consequence, devolved upon Montgomery, who, after various successes (the reduction of fort Chamblee, the capture of St. John’s, and of Montreal), proceeded to the siege of Quebec. This he commenced Dec. 1, 1775, after having formed a junction with colonel Arnold, at Point-aux-Trembles; but, as his artillery was not of sufficient calibre to make the requisite impression, he determined upon attempting the capture of the place by storm. He made all his arrangements, and advanced, at the head of the New York troops, along the St. Lawrence. He assisted, with his own hands, in pulling up the pickets that obstructed his approach to the second barrier, which he was resolved to force, when the only gun fired from the battery of the enemy killed him and his two aid-de-camps. The three fell at the same time, and rolled upon the ice formed on the river. The next day his body was brought into Quebec, and buried without any mark of distinction. Congress directed a monument, with an inscription, to be erected to his memory, and placed in front of St. Paul’s church, in New York, and, July 8, 1818, his remains were brought from Quebec, in consequence of a resolve of the state of New York, and interred near the monument. General Montgomery was gifted with fine abilities, and had received an excellent education. His military talents, especially, were great; his measures were taken with judgment, and executed with vigor The sorrow for his loss was heightened by the esteem which his amiable character had gained him. At the period of his death, he was only 38 years of age.
GILBERT MOTIER LAFAYETTE.
Gilbert Motier Lafayette, (formerly marquis de,) was born at Chavagnac, near Brioude, in Auvergne, Sept. 6, 1757, was educated in the college of Louis le Grand, in Paris, placed at court as an officer in one of the guards of honor, and, at the age of 17, was married to the granddaughter of the duke de Noailles. It was under these circumstances that the young marquis de Lafayette entered upon a career so little to be expected of a youth of vast fortune, of high rank, of powerful connections, at the most brilliant and fascinating court in the world. He left France secretly for America, in 1777, and arrived at Charleston, South Carolina, April 25, being then 19 years old. The state of this country, it is well known, was at that time most gloomy: a feeble army, without clothing or arms, was with difficulty kept together before a victorious enemy; the government was without resources or credit, and the American agents in Paris were actually obliged to confess that they could not furnish the young nobleman with a conveyance. ‘Then,’ said he, ‘I will fit out a vessel myself;’ and he did so. The sensation produced in this country, by his arrival, was very great: it encouraged the almost disheartened people to hope for succor and sympathy from one of the most powerful nations in Europe. Immediately on his arrival, Lafayette received the offer of a command in the continental army, but declined it, raised and equipped a body of men at his own expense, and then entered the service as a volunteer without pay. He lived in the family of the commander-in-chief, and won his full affection and confidence. He was appointed major-general in July, and, in September, was wounded at Brandywine. He was employed in Pennsylvania and Rhode Island in 1778, and, after receiving the thanks of his country for his important services, embarked at Boston, in January, 1779, for France, where it was thought that he could assist the cause more effectually for a time. The treaty concluded between France and America, about the same period, was, by his personal exertions, made effective in our favor, and he returned to America with the intelligence that a French force would soon be sent to this country. Immediately on his arrival, he entered the service, and received the command of a body of infantry of about 2000 men, which he clothed and equipped, in part, at his own expense. His forced march to Virginia, in December, 1780, raising 2000 guineas at Baltimore, on his own credit, to supply the wants of his troops; his rescue of Richmond; his long trial of generalship with Cornwallis, who boasted that ‘the boy could not escape him;’ the siege of Yorktown, and the storming of the redoubt, are proofs of his devotion to the cause of American independence. Desirous of serving that cause at home, he again returned to France for that purpose. Congress, which had already acknowledged his merits on former occasions, now passed new resolutions, Nov. 23, 1781, in which, besides the usual marks of approbation, they desired the American ministers to confer with him in their negotiations. In France, a brilliant reputation had preceded him, and he was received with the highest marks of public admiration. Still he urged upon his government the necessity of negotiating with a powerful force in America, and succeeded in obtaining orders to this effect. On his arrival in Cadiz, he found 49 ships with 20,000 men, ready to follow him to America, had not peace rendered it unnecessary. A letter from him communicated the first intelligence of that event to congress. The importance of his services in France may be seen by consulting his letters in the Correspondence of the American Revolution, (Boston, 1831.) He received pressing invitations, however, to revisit the country. Washington in particular, urged it strongly; and, for the third time, Lafayette landed in the United States, Aug. 4, 1784. After passing a few days at Mount Vernon, he visited Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York, Boston, etc., and was everywhere received with the greatest enthusiasm and delight. Previous to his return to France, congress appointed a deputation, consisting of one member from each state, ‘to take leave of him on behalf of the country, and assure him that these United States regard him with particular affection, and will not cease to feel an interest in whatever may concern his honor and prosperity.’ After his return, he was engaged in endeavoring to mitigate the condition of the Protestants in France, and to effect the abolition of slavery. In the assembly of the notables, in 1787, he proposed the suppression of lettres de cachet, and of the state-prisons, the emancipation of the Protestants, and the convocation of the representatives of the nation. When asked by the count D’Artois, since Charles X, if he demanded the states-general—‘Yes,’ was his reply, ‘and something better.’ Being elected a member of the states-general, which took the name of national assembly (1789), he proposed a declaration of rights, and the decree providing for the responsibility of the officers of the crown. Two days after the attack on the Bastile, he was appointed (July 15) commander-in-chief of the national guards of Paris. The court and national assembly were still at Versailles, and the populace of Paris, irritated at this, had already adopted, in sign of opposition, a blue and red cockade (being the colors of the city of Paris). July 26, Lafayette added to this cockade the white of the royal arms, declaring at the same time that the tri-color should go round the world. On the march of the populace to Versailles (October 5 and 6), the national guards clamored to be led thither. Lafayette refused to comply with their demand, until, having received orders in the afternoon, he set off, and arrived at 10 o’clock, after having been on horseback from before daylight. He requested that the interior posts of the chateau might be committed to him; but this request was refused, and the outer posts only were entrusted to the national guards. This was the night on which the assassins murdered two of the queen’s guards, and were proceeding to further acts of violence, when Lafayette, at the head of the national troops, put an end to the disorder, and saved the lives of the royal family. In the morning he accompanied them to Paris. On the establishment of the Jacobin club at Paris, he organized, with Bailly, then mayor of Paris, the opposing club of Feuillans. Jan. 20, 1790, he supported the motion for the abolition of titles of nobility, from which period he renounced his own, and has never since resumed it. The constitution of a representative monarchy, which was the object of his wishes, was now proposed, and July 13, 1790, was appointed for its acceptance by the king and the nation, and, in the name of 4,000,000 national guards, Lafayette swore fidelity to the constitution. Declining the dangerous power of constable of France, or generalissimo of the national guards of the kingdom, after having organized the national militia, and defended the king from the popular violence, he resigned all command, and retired to his estates. The first coalition against France (1792) soon called him from his retirement. Being appointed one of the three major-generals in the command of the French armies, he established discipline, and defeated the enemy at Philippeville, Maubeuge and Florennes, when his career of success was interrupted by the domestic factions of his country. Lafayette openly denounced the terrible Jacobins, in his letter of June 16, in which he declared that the enemies of the revolution, under the mask of popular leaders, were endeavoring to stifle liberty under the excesses of licentiousness. June 20, he appeared at the bar of the assembly, to vindicate his conduct, and demand the punishment of the guilty authors of the violence. But the Mountain had already overthrown the constitution, and nothing could be effected. Lafayette then offered to conduct the king and his family to Compiègne. This proffer being declined, he returned to the army, which he endeavored to rally round the constitution. June 30, he was burnt in effigy at the Palais-Royal, and Aug. 5, was accused of treason before the assembly. Still he declared himself openly against the proceedings of August 10; but, finding himself unsupported by his soldiers, he determined to leave the country, and take refuge in some neutral ground. Some persons have charged general Lafayette with a want of firmness at this period; but it is without a full understanding of the situation of things. Conscious that a price was set on his head at home, knowing that his troops would not support him against the principles which were triumphing in the clubs and the assembly, and sensible that, even if he were able to protract the contest with the victorious faction, the frontiers would be exposed to the invasions of the emigrants and their foreign allies, with whom he would have felt it treason against the nation to have negotiated, he had no alternative. Having been captured by an Austrian patrol, he was delivered to the Prussians, by whom he was again transferred to Austria. He was carried, with great secrecy, to Olmutz, where he was subjected to every privation and suffering, and cut off from all communication with his friends, who were not even able to discover the place of his confinement until late in 1794. An unsuccessful attempt was made to deliver him from prison by Dr. Bollman, a German, and colonel Huger, of Charleston, S. C. His wife and daughters, however, succeeded in obtaining admission to him, and remained with him nearly two years, till his release. Washington had written directly to the emperor of Austria on his behalf, without effect; but, after the memorable campaign of Bonaparte in Italy, the French government required that the prisoners at Olmutz should be released, which was done Aug. 25, 1797, after a negotiation that lasted three months. Refusing to take any part in the revolutions of the 18th Fructidor, or of the 18th Brumaire, he returned to his estate at La Grange, and, declining the dignity of senator, offered him by Bonaparte, he gave his vote against the consulate for life, and, taking no further part in public affairs, devoted himself to agricultural pursuits. On the restoration of the Bourbons, in 1814, he perceived that their principles of government were not such as France required, and he did not therefore leave his retirement. The 20th of March, 1815, again saw Napoleon on the imperial throne, and endeavoring to conciliate the nation by the profession of liberal principles Lafayette refused, though urged, through the medium of Joseph, to see him, protested against the acte additionnel of April 22, declined the peerage offered him by the emperor, but accepted the place of representative, to which the votes of his fellow-citizens called him. He first met Napoleon at the opening of the chambers: the emperor received him with great marks of kindness, to which, however, he did not respond; but, although he would take no part in the projects of Napoleon, he gave his vote for all necessary supplies, on the ground that France was invaded, and that it was the duty of all Frenchmen to defend their country. June 21, Napoleon returned from Waterloo, and it was understood that it was determined to dissolve the house of representatives, and establish a dictatorship. Two of his counselors informed Lafayette that in two hours the representative body would cease to exist. Immediately on the opening of the session, he ascended the tribune, and addressed the house as follows: ‘When, for the first time after an interval of many years, I raise a voice which all the old friends of liberty will still recognize, it is to speak of the dangers of the country, which you only can save. This, then, is the moment for us to rally round the old tri-colored standard, the standard of ‘89, of liberty, of equality, of public order, which we have now to defend against foreign violence, and domestic usurpation.’ He then moved that the house declare itself in permanent session, and all attempts to dissolve it high treason; that whoever should make such an attempt, should be considered a traitor, etc. In the evening, Napoleon sent Lucien to the house, to make one more effort in his favor. Lucien, in a strain of impassioned eloquence, conjured the house not to compromise the honor of the French nation by inconstancy to the emperor. At these words, Lafayette rose in his place, and, addressing himself directly to the orator, exclaimed, ‘Who dares accuse the French nation of inconstancy to the emperor? Through the sands of Egypt, and the wastes of Russia, over 50 fields of battle, this nation has followed him devotedly; and it is for this that we now mourn the blood of three millions of Frenchmen.’
This appeal had such an effect on the assembly, that Lucien resumed his seat without finishing his discourse. A deputation of five members from each house was then appointed to deliberate in committee with the council of ministers. Of this deputation, general Lafayette was a member, and he moved that a committee should be sent to the emperor to demand his abdication. The arch-chancellor refused to put the motion; but the emperor sent in his abdication the next morning (June 22). A provisional government was formed, and Lafayette was sent to demand a suspension of hostilities of the allies, which was refused. On his return, he found Paris in possession of the enemy; and, a few days after (July 8), the doors of the representatives’ chamber were closed, and guarded by Prussian troops. Lafayette conducted a number of the members to the house of Lanjuinais, the president, where they drew up a protest against this act of violence, and quietly separated. Lafayette now retired once more to La Grange, where he remained till 1818, when he was chosen member of the chamber of deputies. Here he continued to support his constitutional principles, by opposing the laws of exception, the establishment of the censorship of the press, the suspension of personal liberty, etc, and by advocating the cause of public instruction, the organization of a national militia, and the inviolability of the charter.
In August, 1824, he landed at New York, on a visit to the United States, upon the invitation of the president, and was received, in every part of the country, with the warmest expressions of delight and enthusiasm. He was proclaimed, by the popular voice, ‘the guest of the nation,’ and his presence was everywhere the signal for festivals and rejoicings. He passed through the 24 states of the Union in a sort of triumphal procession, in which all parties joined to forget their dissensions, in which the veterans of the war renewed their youth, and the young were carried back to the doings and sufferings of their fathers. Having celebrated, at Bunker hill, the anniversary of the first conflict of the revolution, and, at Yorktown, that of its closing scene, in which he himself had borne so conspicuous a part, and taken leave of the four ex-presidents of the United States, he received the farewell of the president in the name of the nation, and sailed from the capital in a frigate named, in compliment to him, the Brandywine, September 7, 1825, and arrived at Havre, where the citizens, having peaceably assembled to make some demonstration of their respect for his character, were dispersed by the gendarmerie. In December preceding, the congress of the United States made him a grant of $200,000, and a township of land, ‘in consideration of his important services and expenditures during the American revolution.’ The grant of money was in the shape of stock, bearing interest at six per cent., and redeemable December 31, 1834. In August, 1827, he attended the obsequies of Manuel, over whose body he pronounced a eulogy. In November, the chamber of deputies was dissolved. Lafayette was again returned a member by the new elections. Shortly before the revolution of 1830, he traveled to Lyons, etc., and was enthusiastically received—a striking contrast to the conduct of the ministers towards him, and an alarming symptom to the despotic government. During the revolution of July, 1830, he was appointed general-in-chief of the national guards of Paris, and, though not personally engaged in the fight, his activity and name were of the greatest service. To the Americans, Lafayette, the intimate friend of Washington, had appeared, in his late visit, almost like a great historical character returning from beyond the grave. In the eyes of the French, he was a man of the early days of their revolution—a man, moreover, who never changed side or principle. His undeviating consistency is acknowledged by all, even by those who do not allow him the possession of first rate talents. When the national guards were established throughout France, after the termination of the struggle, he was appointed their commander-in-chief, and his activity in this post was admirable. August 17, he was made marshal of France. His influence with the government seems to have been, for some time, great, but whether his principles were too decidedly republican to please the new authorities (a few days after the adoption of the new charter, he declared himself against hereditary peerage, and repeatedly called himself a pupil of the American school), or whether he was considered as the rallying point of the republican party, or whatever may have been the reason, he sent in his resignation in December, 1830, which was accepted, and count Lobau appointed chief of the national guards of Paris. Lafayette declared from the tribune, that he had acted thus in consequence of the distrust which the power accompanying his situation seemed to excite in some people. On the same occasion, he also expressed his disappprobation of the new law of election. Shortly before his resignation, he exerted himself most praiseworthily to maintain order during the trial of the ex-ministers. The Poles made him first grenadier of the Polish national guards. He died at Paris, May 18, 1834. Regnault-Warin’s Memoires sur le General Lafayette (Paris, 1824), contains many facts relative to his political life in France. His secretary, M. Levasseur, published an account of his tour in the United States (Paris, 1825), which has been translated in America.
ISRAEL PUTNAM.
Israel Putnam, a distinguished soldier in the French and English wars, and subsequently in that of the revolution, was born of English parents, at Salem, in the then province of Massachusetts, Jan. 7th, 1718. Being intended for a farmer, he received only a common education. He had a strong mind, vigorous constitution, great bodily strength, enterprise and activity, excelled in athletic exercises, and, while a stripling, was ambitious of performing the full labor of manhood. He married very young, and removed, in 1739, to Pomfret, in Connecticut, where he had purchased a tract of land. During his residence there, his flocks and those of his neighbors being terribly thinned by a monstrous she wolf, Putnam with a few associates, traced the ferocious animal to a deep cavern in a rock. Into this he crept alone, with a torch in one hand and a musket in the other, and, at the utmost personal risk, destroyed the creature. When the war of 1755 broke out between France and England, he was appointed, at the age of thirty-seven, commander of a company, enlisted the necessary number of recruits from the young men in his vicinity, and joined the army then commencing the campaign near Crown Point. His services as a partisan officer were unremitting and great, and caused him to be promoted, in 1757, to the rank of major, by the legislature of Connecticut. In 1758, he fell into the Indian ambuscade, and was taken prisoner, when returning to Fort Edward from an expedition to watch the enemy’s movements near Ticonderoga. The Indians were about to burn him to death, having already tied him to a tree and set fire to a circle of combustibles around him, when he was rescued by the interposition of their leader, Molang, a famous French partisan officer. He was then carried to Ticonderoga, where he underwent an examination before the Marquis De Montcalm, who ordered him to Montreal. There he found several fellow prisoners, among whom was colonel Peter Schuyler, who immediately visited, and found him almost destitute of clothing and dreadfully wounded and bruised. The colonel supplied him with money and, having clothed himself in a decent garb, he was immediately treated with the respect due his rank. An exchange of prisoners procured Putnam his liberty. He resumed his military duties, and, having been previously appointed a lieutenant-colonel, rendered especial service at the siege of Montreal by the British, in 1760. In 1762, after war had been declared between England and Spain, he accompanied the expedition, under Lord Albemarle, against the Havana. In 1764, having been appointed colonel, he marched, at the head of a regiment, with general Bradstreet, against the savages of the western frontier. On his return from this expedition, which resulted in a treaty between the contending parties, he betook himself, once more, to a country life, filled several offices in his native town, to represent it in the general assembly. In 1770, he went, with general Lyman and some others, to explore a grant of land on the Mississippi. General Lyman died there; but Putnam returned after having made some improvements on his tract. When hostilities commenced between England and the colonies (April 18th, 1775,) Putnam received the intelligence as he was plowing in the middle of a field; he left his plow there, unyoked his team, and, without changing his clothes, set off for the scene of action. Finding the British shut up and closely invested with a sufficient force in Boston, he returned to Connecticut, levied a regiment under colonial authority, and marched to Cambridge. His colony now appointed him a major-general on the provincial staff, and congress soon after confirmed to him the same rank on the continental. About this time the British offered him the rank of a major-general in his majesty’s army, with a pecuniary remuneration for his treason; but the temptation could not influence him. In the several preparatory operations for the battle of Bunker’s hill, he took an active part. After the commencement of the retreat at the battle of Bunker’s hill, Putnam arrived on the field with a reinforcement, and performed everything to be expected from a brave and experienced officer; the enemy pursued the retreating Americans to Winter hill, but Putnam halted there, and drove them back, under cover of their ships. On the evacuation of Boston, March 17th 1776, the greater part of the forces were dispatched to New York, and Putnam was, some time after, sent thither to take upon him the command. After the disastrous action on Long Island, and general Washington’s masterly retreat from thence, Putnam was nominated to the command of the right grand division of the army. He served some time in the vicinity of New York and was sent to the western side of the Hudson, and shortly after, to suprintend the fortifications of Philadelphia. After the battles of Trenton and Princeton, he was posted at Princeton, where he continued till the ensuing spring, with a very inferior force, guarding a considerable extent of frontier, curtailing and harrassing the enemy, without sustaining the least disaster. During his stay at Princeton, by attacking the foraging parties of the enemy and assemblages of the disaffected who infested his vicinity, he captured nearly a thousand prisoners.
In the spring of 1777, he was appointed to the command of a separate army in the highlands of New York. There was no regular enemy in this neighborhood, but the country around was filled with tories, and a species of banditti, called cow-boys, who committed shocking depredations. Many of the tories clandestinely traversed the country, with messages from one British army to another, and even on recruiting expeditions for the royal service. One of them, a lieutenant in the new tory levies, was detected in the American camp, and reclaimed by governor Tryon, his commander, with threats of vengeance in case of his punishment. He received this laconic answer from general Putnam: ‘Sir: Nathan Palmer, a lieutenant in your king’s service, was taken in my camp as a spy; he was tried as a spy; he was condemned as a spy; and you may rest assured, Sir, he shall be hanged as a spy.… P. S. Afternoon. He is hanged.’ After the capture of Fort Montgomery, Putnam selected West Point as the best calculated site for a fortress to protect the river. The reputation it afterwards attained, evinced the judiciousness of this selection. After the battle of Monmouth, Putnam was posted, for the winter, at Reading in Connecticut, that he might protect the country adjoining to the Sound, and the garrison at West Point. While he was on a visit to one of his outposts governor Tryon advanced upon him with 1500 men. Putnam had with him but 150 men and two field-pieces, with which he kept the enemy at bay some time. At length, seeing the enemy preparing to charge, he ordered his men to retire to a swamp, while he plunged down a precipice so steep as to have artificial steps, nearly one hundred in number, for the use of foot passengers. The enemy’s dragoons stopped short, afraid to venture, although within a sword’s length of him. While they went round the brow of the hill to gain the valley, he raised a force sufficiently strong to pursue Tryon on his retreat. In the campaign of 1779, he commanded the Maryland line, stationed near West Point. In the autumn of this year, the American army retired into winter quarters, at Morristown, and Putnam accompanied his family into Connecticut for a few weeks. At the commencement of his journey from thence to Morristown, while on the road between Pomfret and Hartford, he was seized with an extraordinary numbness of his right hand and foot, which crept gradually upon him, until his right side became, in a considerable degree, paralyzed. This severe affliction produced a transient depression of his mind; but he conquered his dejection, and resumed his naturally cheerful temper. He was still able to walk and ride moderately, and the faculties of his mind were unimpaired. In this situation he lived to see his country enjoying that independence of which he had been so able a champion, and died at Brookline, in Connecticut, May 29th 1790, aged seventy-two years.
STEPHEN DECATUR.
Stephen Decatur, a celebrated American naval officer, was born January 5, 1779, on the eastern shore of Maryland, whither his parents had retired while the British were in Philadelphia. He entered the American navy in March, 1798, and was soon promoted to the rank of first lieutenant. While at Syracuse, attached to the squadron of commodore Preble, he was first informed of the fate of the American frigate Philadelphia, which, in pursuing a Tripolitan corsair, ran on a rock about four and a half miles from Tripoli, and was taken by the Tripolitans, and towed into the harbor. Lieutenant Decatur conceived the project of attempting her recapture or destruction. He selected, for this purpose, a ketch, and manned her with 70 volunteers. February 16, 1804, at 7 o’clock at night, he entered the harbor of Tripoli, boarded the frigate, though she had all her guns mounted and charged, and was lying within half-gun shot of the bashaw’s castle and of his principal battery. Two Tripolitan cruisers were lying within two cables’ length, on the starboard quarter and several gun-boats within half-gun-shot on the starboard bow, and all the batteries upon the shore were opened upon the assailants. Decatur set fire to the frigate, and continued alongside until her destruction was certain. For this exploit, the American congress voted him thanks and a sword, and the president immediately sent him a captaincy. The next spring, it being resolved to make an attack upon Tripoli, commodore Preble equipped six gun-boats and two bombards, formed them into two divisions, and gave the command of one of them to captain Decatur. The enemy’s gun-boats were moored along the mouth of the harbor, under the batteries, and within musket-shot. Captain Decatur determined to board the enemy’s eastern division, consisting of nine. He boarded in his own boat, and carried two of the enemy’s boats in succession. When he boarded the second boat, he immediately attacked her commander, who was his superior in size and strength, and, his sword being broken, he seized the Turk, when a violent scuffle ensued. The Turk threw him, and drew a dirk for the purpose of stabbing him, when Decatur, having a small pistol in his right pocket, took hold of it, and, turning it as well as he could, so as to take effect upon his antagonist, cocked it, fired through his pocket, and killed him. When Commodore Preble was superseded in the command of the squadron, he gave the frigate Constitution to Decatur, who was afterwards removed to the Congress, and returned home in her when peace was concluded with Tripoli. He succeeded commodore Barron in the command of the Chesapeake, after the attack made upon her by the British man-of-war Leopard. He was afterwards transferred to the frigate United States. In the war between Great Britain and the United States, while commanding the frigate United States, he fell in, Oct. 25, 1812, with the Macedonian, mounting 49 carriage-guns, one of the finest of the British vessels of her class, and captured her after an engagement of an hour and a half. When captain Carden, the commander of the Macedonian, tendered him his sword, he observed that he could not think of taking the sword of an officer who had defended his ship so gallantly, but should be happy to take him by the hand. In a letter written five days after the capture, he says, “I need not tell you that I have done every thing in my power to soothe and console captain Carden; for, really, one half the pleasure of this little victory is destroyed in witnessing the mortification of a brave man, who deserved success quite as much as we did who obtained it.” In January, 1814, commodore Decatur, in the United States, with his prize the Macedonian, then equipped as an American frigate, was blockaded at New London by a British squadron greatly superior in force. A challenge which he sent to the commander of the British squadron, sir Thomas Hardy, offering to meet two of the British frigates with his two ships, was declined. In January, 1815, he attempted to set sail from New York, which was blockaded by four British ships; but the frigate under his command, the President, was injured in passing the bar, and was captured by the whole squadron, after having maintained a running fight of two hours and a half with one of the frigates, the Endymion, which was dismantled and silenced. After the conclusion of peace, he was restored to his country, in 1815. The conduct of the Barbary powers, and of Algiers in particular, having been insulting to the United States, on the ratification of peace with Great Britain, war was declared against Algiers, and a squadron was fitted out, under the command of commodore Decatur, for the purpose of obtaining redress. In the spring of 1815, he set sail, and, June 17, off cape de Gatt, captured an Algerine frigate, after a running fight of 25 minutes, in which the famous admiral Rais Hammida, who had long been the terror of the Mediterranean sea, fell. The American squadron arrived at Algiers June 28. In less than 48 hours, Decatur terrified the regency into his own terms, which were, mainly, that no tribute should ever be required, by Algiers, from the United States of America; that all Americans in slavery should be given up without ransom; that compensation should be made for American property seized; that all citizens of the United States, taken in war, should be treated as prisoners of war are by other nations, and not as slaves, but held subject to an exchange without ransom. After concluding this treaty, he proceeded to Tunis, where he obtained indemnity for the outrages exercised or permitted by the bashaw. Thence he went to Tripoli, where he made a similar demand with like success, and procured the release of 10 captives, Danes and Neapolitans. He arrived at the United States Nov. 12, 1815, was subsequently appointed one of the board of navy commissioners, and was residing at Washington, in that capacity, when he was killed in a duel with commodore Barron, March 22, 1820, occasioned by his animadversions on the conduct of the latter. Courage, sagacity, energy, self-possession, and a high sense of honor, were the characteristic traits of Decatur. From his boyhood, he was remarkable for the qualities which presage eminence in naval warfare. He enjoyed the sea as his element. He possessed an active, muscular frame, a quick and penetrating eye, and a bold, adventurous and ambitious spirit.
COMMODORE ISAAC HULL.
Commodore Isaac Hull, was born in Connecticut, March 9th 1775. His father was an officer in the American army during the whole of the revolutionary war, and was detained for a long time a prisoner in the Jersey prison-ship. Commodore Hull’s passion for the sea was very early displayed, and became stronger as he grew up. With the hope of diverting his attention to other pursuits, he was sent by his friends to his uncle, General William Hull, at Boston, where he went to school. The object desired, however, not having been accomplished, they consented to his making a voyage. This proved a disastrous one; the vessel in which he sailed being wrecked on the coast of Ireland. He nevertheless returned home fortified in his resolution of leading the life of a seaman, which his family no longer opposed. At the age of 19, he already commanded a ship to London. On the passage of a bill by Congress for the increase of the navy, he made application for a lieutenantcy in the U. S. service, and devoted himself assiduously, while awaiting the decision of the government in his case, to the studies necessary for the naval profession. He was commissioned as a lieutenant on the 9th of March 1798, the day on which he completed his 23d year. He was ordered to the frigate Constitution, then preparing for sea at Boston. For a period of about four years, he was occupied in cruising on the West India station, for the protection of American merchantmen going to or returning from the Windward Islands. In 1808, he distinguished himself by cutting out of the harbor of Port Platte, in the island of Hayti, the French letter of marque, the Sandwich; an enterprise executed with great gallantry and spirit, and without any loss to the assailants. On the return of the Constitution to Boston, Lieutenant Hull was directed to superintend the repairs of the ship; but before this service was completed, he was ordered to proceed as first lieutenant of the frigate Adams to the Mediterranean. He subsequently commanded the schooner Enterprise of 12 guns, and rendered in her effectual aid to Captain Rodgers in the John Adams, in capturing a large corsair before the harbor of Tripoli. The next vessel that he was appointed to command was the Argus of 16 guns, which was in 1804; in which year, also, he was promoted to the rank of a master-commandant. He was made a captain in 1806. In the Argus, he cruised for some time off the coast of Morocco to watch the movements of corsairs in the ports of that state; and after rejoining Commodore Preble’s squadron off Tripoli, he was ordered to the Bay of Naples, and charged with the protection of American property in the event of the French gaining possession of that city. The next office intrusted to him was the conveying, on board of his vessel, of General Eaton and his officers to Alexandria, in Egypt. He at length returned to the United States, after an absence of four years and three months, and was immediately ordered to superintend the construction of gun-boats, in pursuance of the system adopted during the administration of President Jefferson. He was successively appointed to the command of the Norfolk Navy-Yard, and gun-boats on that station; to the command of the frigate Chesapeake; to that of the Constitution, in which vessel he conveyed to France, Mr. Barlow, the American minister to Napoleon; and to that of the navy-yard and gun-boats in the harbor of New York. At the commencement of the war of 1812, Captain Hull was appointed once more to command the Constitution frigate. He sailed in her from Annapolis on the 12th of July; and in the course of a few days an opportunity was afforded him of exhibiting a specimen of skillful seamanship and naval manœuvring, of so extraordinary a nature as to excite the admiration even of the enemy. After a chase of nearly three days, and as many nights, he succeeded in effecting his escape from a British squadron consisting of the Africa 64 gun-ship, 4 frigates and a brig. On the 19th of the following month, he had the good fortune to encounter the Guerriere, one of the frigates of this squadron, single-handed. There is, perhaps, no instance on record of a greater execution having been performed by an equal force, and in an equal time, in naval warfare, than was done by the Constitution on the present occasion. Although there was an interval of about two hours between the firing of the first and the last shot, the battle was really won in a fourth part of that time. Of the Americans 14 only, of the British 79, were killed or wounded; and while the Constitution was so little injured as to be ready to engage another frigate immediately afterwards, had she been called upon to do so, the Guerriere was completely dismasted, and reduced to a mere wreck. On his return into port, Captain Hull gave up the command of the Constitution, ‘with a feeling,’ to use the words of Mr. Cooper, ‘that was highly creditable to him, in order to allow others an equal chance to distinguish themselves; there being unfortunately many more captains than vessels in the navy at that trying moment.’ He was then appointed to the command of the navy-yard at Boston, and about a year afterwards was transferred to that at Portsmouth, in New Hampshire, where he remained until he was selected to be one of the first Navy Commissioners. After holding this office for a few months only, he accepted once more the command of the Boston station, and remained there eight years. At the expiration of this time, he was sent, in the frigate United States, to command the American squadron in the Pacific Ocean. Returning home in three or four years, he was ordered to the command of the Washington Navy-Yard. There he spent seven years, and, having obtained leave of absence, went to Europe with his family, and continued abroad two years. Upon his return, he was employed on various courts-martial, and other duties, for about 12 months. He was then appointed to the command of the line-of-battle-ship Ohio, and of the Mediterranean squadron; which cruise lasted nearly three years. Commodore Hull, finding his health to have become seriously impaired by the unremitted and arduous duties which he had been called upon to perform, asked for, and had granted to him, an unconditional leave of absence from the naval service. He established himself in the city of Philadelphia in the month of October 1842. And he died here on the 13th of February 1843. He was ever exemplary in the performance of his private, as of his public duties; and the modesty, amiability, and courtesy, of his intercourse with others, as strikingly characterized him as did his self-possession and intrepidity in danger.
OLIVER HAZARD PERRY.
Oliver Hazard Perry, a distinguished American naval officer, was born at Newport, Rhode Island, in August, 1785. His father was an officer in the United States navy, and he was early destined to follow his father’s profession. In 1798, he entered the service as a midshipman on board the sloop of war General Greene, then commanded by his father; and, when that vessel went out of commission, he was transferred to a squadron destined to the Mediterranean. He served during the Tripolitan war, and, though debarred, by his extreme youth, from an opportunity of distinguishing himself, he acquired, by his conduct, the regard and favor of his superior officers, and the friendship and esteem of his associates. Continuing sedulously attentive to his profession, he rose with sure and regular steps. In 1810, he was attached, as lieutenant-commandant, to the squadron of commodore Rodgers, at New London, and employed in cruising in the sound, to enforce the embargo act. In the following spring, he had the misfortune to be wrecked on Watch Hill reef, opposite Stonington, in consequence of having become enveloped in a thick mist, which prevented all possibility of ascertaining his course. By his intrepidity and coolness, however, he succeeded, in a great measure, in saving the guns and property, and got off all his crew. He was examined before a court of inquiry, at his own request, in relation to the loss, and not merely acquitted of all blame, but highly applauded for his conduct. He also received a very complimentary letter, on the occasion, from the secretary of the navy, Mr. Hamilton. Soon after this event, he returned to Newport, where he married the daughter of doctor Mason.
In the beginning of 1812, he was promoted to the rank of master and commander, and ordered to the command of the flotilla of gun-boats stationed at the harbor of New York. After remaining there a year, he grew tired of the irksome and inglorious nature of this service, and solicited to be removed to another of a more active kind. His request was complied with; and, as he had mentioned the lakes, he was ordered to repair to Sacket’s Harbor, lake Ontario, with a body of mariners, to reinforce commodore Chauncey. Such was his popularity amongst the sailors under his command, that, as soon as the order was known, almost all of them volunteered to accompany him. The rivers being completely frozen at the time, he was obliged, at the head of a large number of chosen seamen, to perform the journey by land, which he safely accomplished. Not long after his arrival at Sacket’s Harbor, commodore Chauncey detached him to take command of the squadron on lake Erie, and superintend the building of additional vessels. He immediately applied to increase his armament, and, with extraordinary exertions, two brigs, of twenty guns each were soon launched at Erie, the American port on the lake. When he found himself in a condition to cope with the British force on the same waters, although the latter were still superior in men and guns, he sought the contest, and, on the morning of the 10th of September, 1813, he achieved the victory which has given his name a permanent place in the history of his country. The details of this famous action, the manner in which it was brought to a fortunate issue by the intrepidity of the commander, in exposing himself in a small boat, for the purpose of shifting his flag from a vessel no longer tenable to one in which he could continue the fight, and in which he did continue it until the enemy’s pennant was lowered, are matters of history familiar to all. The merit of Perry is greatly enhanced by the reflection, that, whilst no victory was ever more decidedly the result of the skill and valor of the commander, this was the first action of any kind he had ever seen. The moderation and courtesy which he displayed towards the enemy, after the termination of the contest, were worthy of the gallantry by which it was gained, and caused the British commander, who had lost the battle by no fault of his, to say that ‘the conduct of Perry towards the captive officers and men, was sufficient of itself to immortalize him.’ In testimony of his merit, Perry was promoted to the rank of captain, received the thanks of congress and a medal, and the like marks of honor from the senate of Pennsylvania.
After the evacuation of Malden by the enemy, Perry acted as a volunteer aid to general Harrison, in his pursuit of the British, and was present at the battle of Moraviantown, October 5. At the time of the invasion of Maryland and Virginia, he commanded a body of seamen and mariners on the Potomac. He was afterwards appointed to command the Java frigate, built at Baltimore, and, on the conclusion of peace with England, sailed, in 1815, in the squadron under commodore Decatur, despatched to the Mediterranean to settle affairs between the United States and Algiers. While in that sea, some difference arose between him and Mr. Heath, commandant of marines on board his ship. This produced a courtmartial, by which both were subjected to a private reprimand from commodore Chauncey; but the affair did not terminate until a hostile meeting had taken place. The duel was fought in New Jersey, opposite to New York, in the summer of 1818. Neither party was injured, Heath having missed his aim, and Perry having fired in the air. In June, 1819, commodore Perry sailed from Chesapeake in the United States ship John Adams, for the West Indies and a cruise, with sealed orders, and was subsequently joined by other vessels, the whole under his command. His term of service, however, was near its end. In August, 1820, he was attacked by the yellow fever, and, after a few days’ illness, expired on the twenty-third of the same month, just as the vessel in which he was entered Port Spain, Trinidad. He was buried the next day with due honor; and in his own country every tribute of respect was paid to his memory. Congress made a liberal provision for the maintenance and education of his family.
JOHN MARSHALL.
John Marshall, Chief Justice of the United States, was born in Fauquier county, Virginia, on the 24th of September 1755. He was the son of Colonel Thomas Marshall, a planter of a moderate fortune, who afterwards served with distinction in the American army, during the war of the Revolution; and he was the eldest of 15 children. Colonel Marshall had removed with his family to a place called ‘The Hollow’ in the mountains east of the Blue Ridge, and, from the want of schools in that neighborhood, became of necessity the first instructor of his son. Being a man of vigorous intellect, though of a comparatively limited education, he succeeded in efficiently training the opening faculties of the latter, and imbuing him with a taste for literature. At the age of 14, young Marshall was placed under the charge of a Mr. Campbell, a respectable clergyman, at the distance of 100 miles from home, and remained with him a year; and he then pursued his classical studies for another year, under the direction of a Scottish gentleman who resided in his father’s family, and had lately become the pastor of the parish to which he belonged. This was all the formal instruction which he received at this period of his life, as he was never at any college. On the breaking out of the revolutionary war, Mr. Marshall embraced with ardor the cause of his country, and was engaged in the action at the Great Bridge, where Lord Dunmore was defeated by the provincial militia. He was appointed a lieutenant in the continental army in July 1776, and promoted to the rank of a captain in May 1777. He was present at the battles of Brandywine, Germantown, and Monmouth, and continued to serve with distinction until the time of enlistment of the troops with which he served had expired, when he returned to Virginia. An interval of 9 or 10 months was now occupied by him in prosecuting the study of the law, which he had already previously entered upon. Having been admitted to the bar, he again joined the army in October 1780, and served under the orders of Baron Steuben, in the defense of Virginia from the invasion of a British force commanded by General Arnold. But before the renewed invasion of the State in the following year, there being more officers than was required by the Virginia line, he resigned his commission; and, on the reöpening of the courts of law after the surrender of Lord Cornwallis, he commenced the practice of his profession, in which he rose rapidly to distinction. In the course of the year 1782, Mr. Marshall was chosen first a member of the Legislature, and then of the Executive Council. On his resignation of the last-mentioned office in 1784, he was, though residing at the time in Richmond, elected a member of the Legislature from his native county of Fauquier; and in 1787, he represented the county of Henrico in the same body. We next find him, as one of the delegates to the convention of Virginia which met in June 1788 for the ratification of the constitution of the United States, ably defending against its adversaries the provisions of this instrument,—especially those relating to the powers of taxation, over the militia, and of the judiciary, granted by it to the general government. He was elected a member of the Legislature from the city of Richmond in 1789, 1790 and 1791. He declined a reëlection in 1792, and from this period until 1795, was occupied uninterruptedly in the practice of his profession. His friends were, however, unwilling in a season of great political excitement,—it was just after the conclusion of ‘Jay’s treaty,’—that he should remain abstracted from any participation in public affairs; and they, accordingly, elected him once more to the Legislature; where, if he did not succeed in preventing the adoption of resolutions approving of the votes of the senators from Virginia, against the ratification of the treaty, on the ground of its inexpediency,—to him at least it was in a great measure owing that they did not touch the constitutional objection, and that they disclaimed all intention to censure the motives of the President of the United States (General Washington) in ratifying it. The extraordinary ability displayed at this time by Mr. Marshall obtained for him a conspicuous position in every part of the country, and he came to be regarded as a proper person to fill the highest political offices. Accordingly, he was offered successively the appointments of attorney-general of the United States, and minister to France, (on the recall of Mr. Monroe, in 1796,) both of which he declined. He continued in the Legislature of Virginia, where, however, he participated in the discussions only on important questions of general policy, his attention being for the most part given to his professional business, which had now become very extensive and lucrative. On his refusal to accept of the embassy to France, General Pinckney was appointed in his stead. But the French government (the Directory) having refused to receive the latter, Mr. Adams, who was then the president, deemed it proper to make a last effort to preserve peace with France, by sending a special mission to that country. For this purpose, Mr. Marshall, in conjunction with General Pinckney and Mr. Gerry, was selected; and in the then existing critical posture of our foreign relations, he did not feel himself at liberty, as before, to decline the appointment tendered to him. The mission was unsuccessful, the American envoys not having been even received as such. Their letters, addressed to Talleyrand, the French minister of foreign affairs, are attributed to the pen of Mr. Marshall, and have been applauded as admirable specimens of diplomacy. In the summer of 1798, Mr. Marshall returned to the United States; in 1799, at the urgent request of General Washington, he became a candidate and was elected to Congress; and in 1800, he was appointed secretary of war, and then secretary of state. During the short period that he was in Congress, it is needless to say that he ranked among the ablest of that body, and on all constitutional questions above every other member. ‘When he discussed them,’ remarks Mr. Binney, in his Eulogy of Mr. Marshall, ‘he exhausted them; nothing more remained to be said, and the impression of his argument effaced that of every one else.’ The speech which he delivered on the surrender of the person of Jonathan Robbins, on the requisition of the British minister in this country, under a clause of the treaty with Great Britain, upon a charge of murder committed on board a British frigate,—which speech is believed to be the only one that he ever revised,—is thus characterized by the same gentleman: ‘It has all the merits, and nearly all the weight, of a judicial sentence. It is throughout inspired by the purest reason, and the most copious and accurate learning. It separates the executive from the judicial power by a line so distinct, and a discrimination so wise, that all can perceive and approve it. It demonstrated that the surrender was an act of political power which belonged to the executive; and by excluding all such power from the grant of the constitution to the judiciary, it prepared a pillow of repose for that department, where the success of the opposite argument would have planted thorns.’ It may be mentioned that, during his term of service in Congress, he voted for the repeal of the obnoxious section of the act commonly known by the name of the ‘Sedition Law,’ and evinced his superiority to mere considerations of party, by thus voting in opposition to all the members with whose political opinions his own generally corresponded. On the 31st of January 1800, Mr. Marshall became Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States, an office which he filled with the highest honor to himself, and with the greatest advantage to his country, for upwards of 36 years. ‘The decision of the Supreme Court of the United States,’ we again quote the words of Mr. Binney, ‘have raised the renown of the country, not less than they have confirmed the constitution. In all parts of the world, its judgments are spoken of with respect. Its adjudications of prize law are a code for all future time. Upon commercial law it has brought us nearly to one system, befitting the probity and interest of a great commercial nation. Over its whole path, learning and intelligence and integrity have shed their combined lustre.’ Judge Marshall was a member of the convention which met in the year 1829, for revising the constitution of Virginia. He spoke with much power on both of the great questions which divided and agitated the parties composing that body, namely, the basis of representation and the tenure of judicial office; and while he contributed, by the sound sense and moderation of his views in reference to the former, to produce a compromise between the extreme opinions entertained concerning it, he was in no ordinary degree instrumental in causing the tenure of good behavior, for the judges of the Superior Courts, to be adopted in the proposed constitution, guarded ‘by a clause against the construction which had in one instance prevailed, that the repeal of the law establishing the court, and by a mere majority, should dissolve the tenure, and discharge the judge upon the world.’ Having been for some months in feeble health, he visited Philadelphia that he might have the benefit of the most skillful medical aid, and died in that city, on the 6th of July 1835. Judge Marshall published his ‘Life of Washington’ in 1805, in 5 volumes. It was greatly improved and compressed into 2 volumes, in a second edition which appeared in 1832. The first volume of the original work was published in a separate form in 1824, under the title of ‘The History of the American Colonies.’
JOHN PAUL JONES.
PAUL JONES.
John Paul Jones was born at Arbingland, in Scotland, July 6th 1747. His father was a gardener, whose name was Paul; but the son assumed that of Jones in subsequent life, for what reason is not known. Young Paul early evinced a decided predilection for the sea, and, at the age of 12, was bound apprentice to a respectable merchant of Whitehaven, in the American trade. His first voyage was to America, where his elder brother was established as a planter. He was then engaged for some time in the slave-trade, but quitted it in disgust, and returned to Scotland, in 1768, as passenger in a vessel, the captain and mate of which died on the passage. Jones assumed the command, at the request of those on board, and brought the vessel safe into port. For this service, he was appointed by the owners master and supercargo. While in command of this vessel, he punished a sailor who afterwards died of a fever at the island of Tobago—a circumstance which gave rise to an accusation against Jones, of having caused his death, by the severity of the punishment upon him; but this has been completely refuted. Jones was afterwards in command of the Betsy, of London, and remained some time in the West Indies, engaged in commercial pursuits and speculations, by which it is said he realized a handsome fortune. In 1773, he was residing in Virginia, arranging the affairs of his brother, who had died intestate and childless, and about this time took the name of Jones. In Virginia he continued to live until the commencement of the struggle between the colonies and mother country. He offered his services to the former, and was appointed first of the first lieutenants, and designated to the Alfred, on board of which ship, to use his own language in one of his letters, ‘he had the honor to hoist, with his own hands, the flag of freedom, the first time it was displayed on the Delaware.’ Soon after this, we find Jones in command of the Providence, mounting 12 four-pounders, with a complement of 70 men, cruising from the Bermudas to the Gut of Canso, and making 16 prizes in little more than six weeks. In May, 1777, he was ordered to proceed to France, where the American commissioners, Franklin, Deane and Lee, were directed to invest him with the command of a fine ship, as a reward of his signal services. On his arrival in France, he was immediately summoned to Paris by the commissioners. The object of this summons was to concert a plan of operations for the force preparing to act against the British in the West Indies, and on the coast of America. This plan, which certainly did great honor to the projector, though untoward delays and accidents prevented its immediate success, was afterwards openly claimed by Jones as his own, without acknowledging the assistance or participation of the American commissioners or the French ministry. The Ranger was then placed under his orders, with discretion to cruise where he pleased, with this restriction, however, that he was not to return to France immediately after making attempts upon the coasts of England, as the French government had not yet declared itself openly as the ally of the U. States. April 10th 1778 he sailed on a cruise, during which he laid open the weakness of the British coast. With a single ship, he kept the whole coast of Scotland, and part of that of England, for some time, in a state of alarm, and made a descent at Whitehaven, where he surprised and took two forts, with 30 pieces of cannon, and set fire to the shipping. In this attack upon Whitehaven, the house of the earl of Selkirk, in whose service the father of Jones had been gardener, was plundered, and the family plate carried off. But the act was committed without his knowledge, and he afterwards made the best atonement in his power. After his return to Brest with 200 prisoners of war, he became involved in a variety of troubles, for want of means to support them, pay his crew, and refit his ship. After many delays and vexations, Jones sailed from the road of St. Croix, August 14th, 1779, with a squadron of seven sail, designing to annoy the coasts of England and Scotland. The principal occurrence of this cruise was the capture of the British ship of war Serapis, after a bloody and desperate engagement, off Flamborough head, September 23d, 1779. The Serapis was a vessel much superior in force to Jones’ vessel, the Bon Homme Richard, which sunk not long after the termination of the engagement. The sensation produced by this battle was unexampled, and raised the fame of Jones to its acme. In a letter to him, Franklin says, ‘For some days after the arrival of your express, scarce any thing was talked of at Paris and Versailles, but your cool conduct and persevering bravery during that terrible conflict. You may believe that the impression on my mind was not less strong than on that of the others. But I do not choose to say, in a letter to yourself, all I think on such an occasion.’ His reception at Paris, whither he went on the invitation of Franklin, was of the most flattering kind. He was every where caressed; the king presented him with a gold sword, bearing the inscription, Vindicati maris Ludovicus XVI remuneratur strenuo vindici, and requested permission of congress to invest him with the military order of merit—an honor never conferred on any one before who had not borne arms under the commission of France. In 1781, Jones sailed for the U. States, and arrived in Philadelphia February 18 of that year, after a variety of escapes and rencounters, where he underwent a sort of examination before the board of admirality, which resulted greatly to his honor. The board gave it as their opinion, ‘that the conduct of Paul Jones merits particular attention, and some distinguished mark of approbation from congress.’ Congress passed a resolution, highly complimentary to his ‘zeal, prudence and intrepidity.’ General Washington wrote him a letter of congratulation, and he was afterwards voted a gold medal by congress. From Philadelphia he went to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to superintend the building of a ship of war, and, while there, drew up some admirable observations on the subject of the American navy. By permission of congress, he subsequently went on board the French fleet, where he remained until the conclusion of peace, which put a period to his naval career in the service of the U. States. He then went to Paris, as agent for prize-money, and, while there, joined in a plan to establish a fur-trade between the north-west coast of America and China, in conjunction with a kindred spirit, the celebrated John Ledyard. In Paris, he continued to be treated with the greatest distinction. He afterwards was invited into the Russian service, with the rank of rear-admiral, where he was disappointed in not receiving the command of the fleet acting against the Turks in the Black sea. He found fault with the conduct of the prince of Nassau, the admiral; became restless and impatient; was intrigued against at court, and calumniated by his enemies; and had permission, from the empress Catharine, to retire from the service with a pension, which was never paid. He returned to Paris, where he gradually sunk into poverty, neglect, and ill health, until his death, which was occasioned by jaundice and dropsy, July 18th 1792. His last public act was heading a deputation of Americans, who appeared before the national assembly to offer their congratulations on the glorious and salutary reform of their government. This was before the flight of the king. Jones was a man of signal talent and courage; he conducted all his operations with the most daring boldness, combined with the keenest sagacity in calculating the chances of success and the consequences of defeat. He was, however, of an irritable, impetuous disposition, which rendered him impatient of the authority of his superiors, while he was, at the same time, harsh in the exercise of his own; and he was deficient in that modesty which adorns great qualities and distinguished actions, while it disarms envy and conciliates jealousy. His early education was of a very limited kind. It terminated when he went to sea, at the age of twelve, but he supplied its defects by subsequent study, so as to enable himself to write with fluency, strength and clearness, and to sustain his part respectably in the polished society into which he was thrown. In his letters, he inculcates the necessity of knowledge for naval officers, and intimates that he had devoted ‘midnight studies’ to the attainment of that information which he deemed requisite in his situation. His memorials, correspondence, etc., are quite voluminous. He also wrote poetry, and in Paris was a great pretender to ton, as a man of fashion, especially after his victory over the Serapis, which, of course, gave him great eclat amongst the ladies of the French capital. At this period, he is described by an English lady then resident of Paris, as ‘a smart little man of thirty-six; speaks but little French, and appears to be an extraordinary genius, a poet as well as a hero.’ An account of his life has been written by J. H. Sherburne (Washington, 1828).
GENERAL ANDREW JACKSON.
General Andrew Jackson was born on the 15th of March, 1767, at the Waxsaw settlement, in South Carolina. His parents emigrated to this country, two years previously, from the north of Ireland. He lost his father at a very early age; and the task of bringing him up devolved exclusively upon his mother. Intending him, it is said, to become a clergyman, she resolved, though restricted in her pecuniary circumstances, to give him a liberal education. For this purpose, she placed him at an academy, where he continued until his studies were interrupted by the advance of the British troops into the neighborhood, during the revolutionary war. Young as he was (scarcely 14 years of age), in company with an elder brother, he joined the American army. Before long, however, they had the misfortune of being made prisoners by the enemy, who maltreated them as rebels, and inflicted upon them injuries of which the brother died after having been exchanged. Andrew Jackson commenced the study of the law at Salisbury, in North Carolina, in the winter of 1784, and was admitted to the bar in 1786. In 1788, he removed to Nashville, then a new settlement in the western district of North Carolina. This district having been ceded to the United States, and organized into a territory in 1790, he was appointed to the office of United States’ attorney; and when the territory, in its turn, in 1796 became the state of Tennessee, he was a member of the convention to frame a constitution for it, and took a conspicuous part in the proceedings of this body. He was immediately afterwards chosen a representative, and in the next year a senator, in Congress. But his seat in the Senate he held only for a single session, alleging, as a reason for resigning it, his distaste for the intrigues of politics. On this, he was appointed by the Legislature of Tennessee to be a judge of the Supreme Court of that state; an office which he accepted with reluctance, and from which he soon retired to his farm on the Cumberland river, near Nashville. And there he continued to reside till the breaking out of the war with Great Britain, in 1812. During the earlier part of his residence in Tennessee, General Jackson had repeatedly distinguished himself by his prowess, in the warfare carried on by the settlers with their Indian neighbors, and had even earned from the latter, by his exploits, the appellations of ‘Sharp Knife’ and ‘Pointed Arrow.’ That after attaining to a prominent position in civil life, he should be selected by his fellow-citizens to occupy a corresponding military rank among them, was therefore almost a matter of course. The war of 1812, accordingly, found him a major-general of one of the divisions of the Tennessee militia. In the month of November of that year, he proceeded, by the direction of the government, at the head of a body of between two and three thousand volunteers, who had assembled on his invitation, down the Mississippi to Natchez, for the protection of the country against an apprehended hostile movement on the part of the Indians. The danger having passed away, he was ordered by the secretary of war to disband his troops on the spot. This order he did not hesitate to disobey, on account, as he stated, of many of his men being sick, and unprovided with the means of paying their expenses on their way home. They returned accordingly in a body with their General, whose apology for the course which he pursued was accepted by the government. In 1813 and 1814, General Jackson was employed against the Creek and Muscogee Indians, who had invaded the frontier settlements of Alabama and Georgia, and inflicted on the inhabitants the usual horrors of savage warfare. After a succession of bloody victories achieved by him over those tribes, they agreed, by a treaty concluded in August, 1814, to lay down their arms. In the month of May of this year, he was appointed a major-general in the service of the United States; and having first seized upon the town of Pensacola, in consequence of the admission into its harbor, by the Spanish governor, of a British squadron to refit, he proceeded to take the command of the forces intended for the defense of New Orleans against the approaching attack of the enemy. On arriving there on the 1st of December, he took his measures with the utmost decision and promptness. Becoming convinced of the expediency of taking precautions against the treachery of some disaffected individuals, he proposed to the Legislature of Louisiana, then in session, to suspend the privilege of the writ of Habeas Corpus. Impatient, however, of the time consumed in deliberating on his proposal, he proclaimed martial law, thus at once superseding the civil authority by the introduction of a rigid military police. Towards the enemy he acted with the same determined energy. Scarcely had the British troops effected a landing, when he marched against them, and by unexpectedly assailing them, in the night of the 22d of December, gained some advantages; the most important of which was that for which this movement of the General was chiefly made, namely, the impression produced upon his followers of their own ability to perform successfully the part assigned to them, at least while commanded by him, as well as that communicated to the invaders, of the formidable character of the opposition which they were destined to encounter. The contest for the possession of New Orleans was brought to a close by the memorable battle of the 8th of January, 1815, which raised the reputation of the American commander to the highest pitch among his countrymen, and served as a satisfactory apology with many for the strong measures adopted by him before the landing of the enemy, as well as for others which he adopted immediately after the retreat of the latter. General Jackson’s next public employment was the conduct of the war against the Seminole Indians, in 1818. With a force composed of Tennessee volunteers and Georgia militia, he penetrated into Florida to the retreats of the savages and fugitive slaves who had joined them, and set fire to their villages. He likewise took possession, without hesitation, of several of the Spanish posts in that region, whence the Indians had been supplied with arms and ammunition, and executed two Englishmen who had been actively engaged in this trade. The posts were restored by the orders of the government; but an attempt in the House of Representatives in Congress to inflict a censure upon General Jackson, for the irregularity of his proceedings, was defeated, after very protracted debates, by a considerable majority. When Florida was transferred by Spain to the United States, he was appointed the first governor of the new territory (in 1821). He resigned this office, and returned to his farm near Nashville, in the following year. In 1823, he was once more chosen to represent the State of Tennessee in the Senate of the United States, but resigned his seat in that body on becoming a prominent candidate for the presidency. Of the electoral votes which were given in the end of the year 1824, he received 99, Mr. Adams 84, Mr. Crawford 41, and Mr. Clay 37. The election devolved, by the provisions of the constitution, on the members of the House of Representatives in Congress, voting by states, and Mr. Adams was selected to be the president. In 1828, and again in 1832, General Jackson was chosen to fill that high office; in the former instance, by 178 of the electoral votes to 83 given in favor of Mr. Adams; and, in the latter, by a majority of 170 electoral votes above his opponent, Mr. Clay. He survived his presidency somewhat more than 8 years, dying at his residence, the ‘Hermitage,’ near Nashville, on the 8th of June, 1845. Though enfeebled in body, he retained his mental faculties, apparently undiminished, till the day of his death. ‘The violence of political strife,’ as is remarked by a writer in the American Almanac for 1846, ‘will long confuse men’s judgment of his character and abilities as a whole; but will accord to him the praise of great firmness, energy, decision, and disinterestedness,—of remarkable military skill, and ardent patriotism.’
GEN. SCOTT.
WINFIELD SCOTT
Winfield Scott, commander-in-chief of the American army, was born June 13, 1786, near Petersburg, Virginia. He is descended from a Scotch family, who were obliged to take refuge in America after the rebellion of 1745. After completing his preparatory education, he spent a year or two at William and Mary college, and afterward studied the law, and was admitted to the bar in 1806. In the autumn of 1807, he emigrated to South Carolina, intending to practice his profession at Charleston, but meeting with difficulties in the attainment of his object, he returned to the north. The political events of the country were then rapidly approaching the crisis of 1812; a bill had passed through Congress to enlarge the army, and Scott having applied for a commission, was appointed, in 1808, captain in a regiment of light artillery, and was ordered the following year to join the army in Louisiana, under the command of General Wilkinson. For some act of insubordination toward his commander he was suspended for a year, but he again joined the army before the commencement of the war. Shortly after that event, he received a lieutenant-colonel’s commission, and was posted at Black Rock, on the Niagara frontier. His first active service was at the attack of Qeenstown heights, where he took command of the American force after all the superior officers were killed or wounded. This affair, as is well known, ended disastrously, and Scott, with the survivors of his men, became prisoners-of-war. From Queenstown he was sent to Quebec, and shortly after exchanged. In the following year he distinguished himself at the attack on Fort George, in the descent upon York, and the capture of Fort Matilda, on the St. Lawrence. In March, 1814, he was made brigadier-general; July 3, in the same year, he captured Fort Erie, and on the fifth he fought the bloody battle of Chippewa, in which both sides claimed the victory. On the 25th of the same month was fought the still more sanguinary battle of Niagara or Lundy’s Lane. In this well-fought contest, General Scott was badly wounded, and his life is said to have been despaired of for some weeks. Philadelphia and Baltimore having been threatened with an attack, Scott was requested to take command of the forces in that vicinity. On his way to the scene of his duties, he passed through Princeton, and the learned dignitaries of the college in that town conferred upon the general the honorary degree of master of arts, a curious compliment, probably having some reference to the art of war. About the same time he was promoted to the rank of major-general, the highest grade in the army, he being at that time but twenty-eight years of age. On the conclusion of the peace, in 1815, he was tendered the post of secretary of war, but declined to accept it; and the same year he paid a visit to Europe, principally for the purpose of improving himself in his profession. About 1833 he brought the Black-Hawk war, in the north-western frontier, to a successful termination, and he was shortly after in command at the commencement of the Seminole war in Florida; but this not being so successful as was anticipated, he was ordered home and deprived of his command. In 1837-’38 he was stationed on the Niagara frontier to enforce the neutrality of the United States during the ‘patriot war’ in Canada; and soon afterward he superintended the removal of the Cherokee Indians beyond the Mississippi. By the death of General Macomb, in 1841, General Scott became commander-in-chief of the army. The scene of his next exploits was Mexico. After some difficulty with the president and secretary of war, General Scott was permitted to lead a force to Vera Cruz. The events of that campaign are recent and well known. San Juan de Ulloa was captured March 27, 1847; the battle of Cerro Gordo was fought on the 18th of April; the battle of Contreras on the 19th of August; and the battle of Churubusco on the following day; and after the storming of Molino del Rey and Chapultepec, the city of Mexico was captured September 14, 1847.
ZACHARY TAYLOR.
Zachary Taylor was born in Orange County, Virginia, in November, 1784. He was the second son of Col. Richard Taylor, whose ancestors emigrated from England about two centuries ago, and settled in Eastern Virginia. The father, distinguished alike for patriotism and valor, served as colonel in the revolutionary war, and took part in many important engagements. About 1790 he left his Virginian farm, and emigrated with his family to Kentucky. He settled in the ‘dark and bloody ground,’ and for years encountered all the trials then incident to border life. The earliest impressions of young Zachary were the sudden foray of the savage foe, the piercing warwhoop, the answering cry of defiance, the gleam of the tomahawk, the crack of the rifle, the homestead saved by his father’s daring, the neighboring cottage wrapped in flames, or its hearth-stone red with blood. Such scenes bound his young nerves with iron, and fired his fresh soul with martial ardor; working upon his superior nature they made arms his delight, and heroism his destiny. Zachary was placed in school at an early age, and his teacher, who now resides in Preston, Connecticut, still loves to dwell on the studiousness of his habits, the quickness of his apprehension, the modesty of his demeanor, the firmness and decision of his character, and a general thoughtfulness, sagacity, and stability, that made him a leader to his mates and a pride to his master.
After leaving school, the military spirit of young Taylor was constantly fanned by the popular excitement against the continual encroachments of England; and soon after the murderous attack of the British ship Leopard upon the Chesapeake, in 1808, he entered the army as first lieutenant in the 7th regiment of infantry. He soon gained distinction in border skirmishes with the Indians, and the declaration of war with England found him promoted to the rank of captain. Within sixty days after the commencement of hostilities in 1812, the imbecility of Hull lost to the country its Michigan territory, and fearfully jeoparded the whole northwestern region. It was of the utmost importance to entrust the few and feeble forts of that great dominion to men of established valor and discretion. Captain Taylor was at once invested with the command of Fort Harrison, situated on the Wabash, in the very heart of the Indian country. The defenses of this post were in a miserable condition, and its garrison consisted of only fifty men, of whom thirty were disabled by sickness. With this little handful of soldiers, the young commander immediately set about repairing the fortifications. He had hardly completed his work, when, on the night of the 4th of September, an alarm shot from one of his sentinels aroused him from a bed of fever, to meet the attack of a large force of Miami Indians. Every man was at once ordered to his post. A contiguous block house was fired by the enemy, and a thick discharge of bullets and arrows was opened upon the fort. The darkness of the night, the howlings of the savages, the shrieks of the women and children, the fast approaching flames, and the panic of the debilitated soldiers, made up a scene of terror, but could not shake the determination nor the judgment of the young chieftain. He inspired his men with his own courage and energy. The flames were extinguished, the consumed breastworks were renewed, and volley answered volley for six long hours till day break enabled the Americans to aim with a deadly precision that soon dispersed their foes. This gallant repulse, at odds so unfavorable, prompted a report from Major General Hopkins to Governor Shelby that ‘the firm and almost unparalleled defense of Fort Harrison had raised for Captain Zachary Taylor a fabric of character not to be affected by eulogy;’ and forthwith procured from President Madison a preferment to the rank of brevet major, the first brevet, it is said, ever conferred in the American army.
VIEW NEAR FORT ANCIENT, OHIO.
VIEW OF MILFORD.
Major Taylor continued actively engaged throughout the war; but being without a separate command, he had no opportunity to again signalize himself by any remarkable achievement. After the treaty of peace, he remained at the West, faithfully performing his duties at different military posts, and preparing himself for any future call to more active service. In 1832, he was promoted to the rank of colonel; and soon after the opening of the Florida war, he was ordered to that territory. Here he was in constant service, and distinguished himself for his discretion and gallantry in circumstances of the most trying difficulty and peril. His entire career won for him universal esteem and confidence.
The greatest achievement of Colonel Taylor in Florida was his victory of Okee-Chobee, which was gained on the 25th of December, 1837. The action was very severe, and continued nearly four hours. The Indians, under the command of Alligator and Sam Jones, numbered about 700 warriors, and were posted in a dense hammock, with their front covered by a small stream, almost impassable on account of quicksands, and with their flanks secured by swamps that prevented all access. Colonel Taylor’s force amounted to about 500 men, a portion of whom were inexperienced volunteers. By an extraordinary effort, the stream in front was crossed, under a most galling fire of the enemy, by our soldiers, who sunk to the middle in the mire. A close and desperate fight ensued, during which the five companies of the sixth infantry, who bore the brunt of the fray, lost every officer but one, and one of these companies saved only four privates unharmed. The enemy’s line was at last broken, and their right flank turned. They were soon scattered in all directions, and were pursued until near night. The American loss was 26 killed and 112 wounded; that of the Indians was very large, but never definitely ascertained. Throughout the whole engagement, Colonel Taylor was passing on his horse from point to point within the sweep of the Indian rifles, emboldening and directing his men, without the least apparent regard for his own personal safety. This victory had a decisive influence upon the turn of the war; and the government immediately testified their sense of its importance by conferring upon its gallant winner the rank of brigadier-general by brevet.
In the following May, General Taylor succeeded General Jesup in the command of the Florida army, and in this capacity, during two years, he rendered vast services to the country by quelling the atrocities of Indian warfare, and restoring peace and security to the southern frontier. In 1840, at his own request, he was relieved by Brigadier-general Armistead, and was ordered to the southwestern department. Here he remained at various head-quarters until government had occasion for his services in Texas.
The project for the annexation of Texas, which was first officially broached in the last year of President Tyler’s administration, acquired more and more weight and influence, until finally, in March, 1845, an act to that effect was passed by both Houses of Congress, and was soon after ratified by the Texian government. Mexico, although the independence of Texas had been long before de facto secured, stoutly protested against the annexation. The special American envoy sent to the Mexican capital to attempt an adjustment of this and other difficulties, was refused a hearing, and great preparations were carried on by the Mexican government for another invasion of Texas. In June, General Taylor received orders to advance with his troops over the Sabine, and protect all of the territory east of the Rio Grande, over which Texas exercised jurisdiction. He accordingly marched into Texas, and in August concentrated his forces, amounting to about 3000 men, at Corpus Christi. Receiving orders from Washington to proceed to the Rio Grande, the general, with his little army, moved westward in March, 1846; and after considerable suffering from the heat and the want of food and water, reached the banks of the river opposite Matamoras on the 28th of the month. Colonel Twiggs, with a detachment of dragoons, in the mean time took possession of Point Isabel, situated on an arm of the Gulf, about 25 miles east. General Taylor took every means to assure the Mexicans that his purpose was not war, nor violence in any shape, but solely the occupation of the Texian territory to the Rio Grande, until the boundary should be definitively settled by the two republics.
After encamping opposite Matamoras, the American general prepared with great activity for Mexican aggression, by erecting fortifications, and planting batteries. The Mexicans speedily evinced hostile intentions. General Ampudia arrived at Matamoras with 1000 cavalry and 1500 infantry, and made overtures to our foreign soldiers to ‘separate from the Yankee bandits, and array themselves under the tri-colored flag!’ Such solicitations were of course spurned with contempt. The American general was summoned to withdraw his forces at the penalty of being treated as an enemy; he replied that, while avoiding all occasion for hostilities, he should faithfully execute the will of his government. General Arista soon after arrived at Matamoras, and, superseding Ampudia, issued a proclamation to the American soldiers, begging them not to be the ‘blind instruments of unholy and mad ambition, and rush on to certain death.’ He immediately threw a large body of troops over the river, in order to cut off all communication between General Taylor and his dépôt at Point Isabel. A detachment of 61 soldiers, under Captain Thornton, was waylaid by a Mexican force of ten times their number, and after a bloody conflict and the loss of many lives, was obliged to surrender. With but eight days’ rations, and the country to the east fast filling up with the Mexican troops, the position of General Taylor became very critical. He at once resolved, at every hazard, to procure additional supplies; and, leaving the fort under the command of Major Brown, he set out with a large portion of his army, on the 1st of May, for Point Isabel. He reached that place the next day, without molestation. Soon after his departure, the Mexicans opened their batteries upon Fort Brown. The fire was steadily returned with two long eighteen and sixteen brass six pounders by the garrison, which numbered about 900 men. The bombardment of the fort was kept up at intervals from batteries in its rear, as well as from the town, for six days. The Americans, though possessed of little ammunition, and having to mourn the fall of their gallant commander, sustained the cannonade with unyielding firmness until the afternoon of the 8th, when their hearts were thrilled with exultation by the answering peal of General Taylor at Palo Alto.
On the evening of the 7th, the American general, with about 200 men and 250 wagons left Point Isabel for the relief of Fort Brown, and after advancing seven miles encamped. The next morning he resumed his march, and at noon met 6000 Mexican troops under Arista, with 800 cavalry, and seven field pieces, in line of battle, on a plain flanked at both sides by small pools, and partly covered in front by thickets of chaparral and Palo Alto. General Taylor at once halted, refreshed his men, advanced to within a quarter of a mile of the Mexican line, and gave battle. The conflict first commenced between the artillery, and for two hours, Ringgold’s, and Duncan’s, and Churchill’s batteries mowed down rank after rank of the enemy. The infantry remained idle spectators until General Torrejon, with a body of lancers, made a sally upon our train. The advancing columns were received with a tremendous fire, and faltered, broke, and fled. The battle now became general, and for a time raged with terrific grandeur, amid a lurid cloud of smoke from the artillery, and the burning grass of the prairie. It rested for an hour, and then again moved on. The American batteries opened with more tremendous effect than ever; yet the ranks of the enemy were broken only to be refilled by fresh men courting destruction. Captain May charged upon the left, but with too few men to be successful. The chivalrous Ringgold fell. The cavalry of the enemy advanced upon our artillery of the right to within close range, when a storm of cannister swept them back like a tornado. Their infantry made a desperate onset upon our infantry, but recoiled before their terrible reception. Again they rallied, and again were they repulsed. Panic seized the baffled foe, and soon squadron and column were in full retreat. The conflict had lasted five hours, with a loss to the Americans of 7 killed and 37 wounded, and to the Mexicans of at least 250 killed and wounded.
In the evening, a council of war was held upon the propriety of persisting to advance upon Fort Brown, in spite of the vastly superior force of the enemy. Of the thirteen officers present some were for retreating to Point Isabel, others for intrenching upon the spot, and only four for pushing ahead. The general, after hearing all opinions, settled the question by the laconic declaration, ‘I will be at Fort Brown before to-morrow night, if I live.’ In the morning the army again marched.
The enemy were again met most advantageously posted in the ravine of Resaca de la Palma within three miles of Fort Brown. About 4 P. M. the battle commenced with great fury. By order of General Taylor, May, with his dragoons, charged the enemy’s batteries. The Mexicans reserved their fire until the horses were near the cannons’ mouth, and then poured out a broadside which laid many a poor fellow low. Those of the dragoons not disabled rushed on, overleaped the batteries, and seized the guns. The enemy recoiled, again rallied, and with fixed bayonets returned to the onset. Again they were repulsed. The ‘Tampico veterans’ came to the rescue, were met by the dragoons now reinforced with infantry, and all but seventeen fell sword in hand after fighting with the most deperate bravery. This decided the battle. The flanks of the enemy were turned, and soon the rout became general. The Mexicans fled to the flat boats of the river, and the shouts of the pursuers and the shrieks of the drowning closed the scene. A great number of prisoners including fourteen officers, eight pieces of artillery, and a large quantity of camp equipage fell into the hands of the victors. The American loss was 39 killed and 71 wounded; that of the enemy in the two actions was at least 1000 killed and wounded. Fort Brown was relieved, and the next day Barita on the Mexican bank was taken by colonel Wilson without resistance.
The victories of the 8th and 9th filled our country with exultation. Government acknowledged the distinguished services of General Taylor by making him Major-general by brevet; congress passed resolutions of high approval; Louisiana presented him with a sword, and the press everywhere teemed with his praise.
As soon as means could be procured, General Taylor crossed the Rio Grande, took Matamoras without opposition, and made colonel Twiggs its governor. The army soon received large volunteer reinforcements, and on the 5th of August the American general left Matamoras for Camargo, and thence proceeded through Seralos to Monterey, where he arrived the 19th of September. The Mexicans, under General Ampudia, had placed this strongly fortified town in a complete state of defense. Not only were the walls and parapets lined with cannons, but the streets and houses were barricaded and planted with artillery. The bishop’s palace on a hill at a short distance west of the city was converted into a perfect fortress. The town was well supplied with ammunition, and manned with 7000 troops of the line, and from 2000 to 3000 irregulars. The attack commenced on the 21st, and two important redoubts without the city, and an important work within, were carried with a loss to the Americans in killed and wounded of not less than 394. At three the next morning, a considerable force under General Worth dragged their howitzers by main strength up the hill, and assaulted the palace. The enemy made a desperate sortie, but were driven back in confusion, and the fortification was soon taken by the Americans with a loss of only 7 killed and 12 wounded. The next night, the Mexicans evacuated nearly all their defenses in the lower part of the city. The Americans entered the succeeding day, and by the severest fighting slowly worked their way from street to street and square to square, until they reached the heart of the town. General Ampudia saw that further resistance was useless, and, on the morning of the 24th, proposed to evacuate the city on condition that he might take with him the personel and materiel of his army. This condition was refused be the American general. A personal interview between the two commanders ensued, which resulted in a capitulation of the city, allowing the Mexicans to retire with their forces and a certain portion of their materiel beyond the line formed by the pass of the Rinconada and San Fernando de Presas, and engaging the Americans not to pass beyond that line for eight weeks. Our entire loss during the operations was 12 officers and 108 men killed, 31 officers and 337 men wounded; that of the enemy is not known, but was much larger. The terms accorded by the conqueror were liberal, and dictated by a regard to the interests of peace; they crowned a gallant conquest of arms with a more sublime victory of magnanimity.
General Taylor could not long remain inactive, and with a bold design to seek out the enemy and fight him on his own ground, he marched as far as Victoria. But by the transfer of the seat of the war to Vera Cruz, he was deprived of the greater portion of his army, and was obliged to fall back on Monterey. Here he remained until February, when, having received large reinforcements of volunteers, he marched at the head of 4,500 men, to meet Santa Anna; and on the 20th, took up a position at Buena Vista, the great advantages of which had previously struck his notice. On the 22d, a Mexican army of 20,000 made its appearance, and Santa Anna summoned the American commander to surrender. General Taylor, with Spartan brevity, ‘declined acceding to the request.’ The next morning the ten-hours’ conflict began. We shall not attempt to rehearse the history of that fearful battle: it is written forever on the memory of the nation. The advance of the hostile host with muskets and swords and bayonets gleaming in the morning sun; the shouts of the marshaled foemen; the opening roar of the artillery; the sheeted fire of the musketry; the unchecked approach of the enemy; the outflanking by their cavalry and its concentration in our rear; the immovable fortitude of the Illinoians; the flight of the panic-stricken Indianians; the fall of Lincoln; the wild shouts of Mexican triumph; the deadly and successful charge upon the battery of O’Brien; the timely arrival of General Taylor from Saltillo, and his composed survey, amid the iron hail, of the scene of battle; the terrible onset of the Kentuckians and Illinoians; the simultaneous opening of the batteries upon the Mexican masses in the front and the rear; the impetuous but ill-fated charge of their cavalry upon the rifles of Mississippi; the hemming-in of that cavalry, and the errand of Lieutenant Crittenden to demand of Santa Anna its surrender; the response of the confident chieftain by a similar demand; the immortal rejoinder, ‘General Taylor never surrenders!’ the escape of the cavalry to a less exposed position; its baffled charge upon the Saltillo train; its attack upon the hacienda, and its repulse by the horse of Kentucky and Arkansas; the fall of Yell and Vaughn; the insolent mission, under a white flag, to inquire what General Taylor was waiting for; the curt reply ‘for General Santa Anna to surrender;’ the junction, by this ruse, of the Mexican cavalry in our rear with their main army; the concentrated charge upon the American line; the overpowering of the battery of O’Brien; the fearful crisis; the reinforcement of Captain Bragg ‘by Major Bliss and I;’ the ‘little more grape, Captain Bragg;’ the terrific carnage; the pause, the advance, the disorder, the retreat; the too eager pursuit of the Kentuckians and Illinoians down the ravines; the sudden wheeling around of the retiring mass; the desperate struggle, and the fall of Harden, McKee, and Clay; the imminent destruction, and the rescuing artillery; the last breaking and scattering of the Mexican squadrons and battalions; the joyous embrace of Taylor and Wool; and Old Rough and Ready’s ‘’Tis impossible to whip us when we all pull together;’ the arrival of cold nightfall; the fireless, anxious, weary bivouac; the general’s calm repose for another day’s work; the retreat of the enemy under the cover of darkness—are not all these things familiar to every American schoolboy? The American loss was 267 killed, 456 wounded, and 23 missing. The Mexicans left 500 dead on the field, and the whole number of their killed and wounded was probably near 2000. History tells not of a battle more bravely contested and more nobly won: and well did the greatest warrior of the age, in learning it, exclaim, ‘General Taylor’s a general indeed!’
The victory of Buena Vista was the last and crowning achievement of General Taylor’s military life. His department in Mexico was entirely reduced by it to subjection, and the subsequent operations of his army were few and unimportant. At the close of the war he retired from Mexico, carrying with him not only the adoration of his soldiers, but even the respect and attachment of the very people he had vanquished. Louisiana welcomed him with an ovation of the most fervent enthusiasm. Thrilling eloquence from her most gifted sons, blessings, and smiles, and wreaths from her fairest daughters, overwhelming huzzas from her warm-hearted multitudes, triumphal arches, splendid processions, costly banners, sumptuous festivals, and, in short, every mode of testifying love and homage was employed; but modesty kept her wonted place in his heart, and counsels of peace were, as ever, on his tongue. His prowess in conflict was no more admirable than his self forgetfulness in triumph.
His last great deed had hardly ceased to echo over the land, before the people began to mark him out for their highest gift. He coveted no such distinction, and constantly expressed a wish that Henry Clay might be the chosen one. But the popular purpose grew stronger and stronger, and General Taylor was named for the presidency by one of the great political parties of the country. During the political contest he remained steadfastly true to himself. He neither stooped nor swerved, neither sought nor shunned. He was borne by a triumphant majority to the presidential chair, and in a way that has impelled the most majestic intellect of the nation to declare, that ‘no case ever happened in the very best days of the Roman Republic, where any man found himself clothed with the highest authority of the state under circumstances more repelling all suspicion of personal application, all suspicion of pursuing any crooked path in politics, or all suspicion of having been actuated by sinister views and purposes.’
The inaugural address of President Taylor was redolent with old-fashioned patriotism, and breathed the very spirit of Washington. And his subsequent administration, though beset by sectional strifes of fearful violence, was conducted with wisdom, firmness, equanimity, and moderation, on great national principles, and for great national ends. Owing to his profound deference to the coördinate branches of government, and his inability to either dictate or assume, his policy in reference to some of the exciting questions of the day was not, during the short period of his administration, fully proclaimed to congress, and pressed upon its adoption; but, though a southern man and a slaveholder, he had deliberately and explicitly declared himself in favor of the prompt and untrammeled admission of California into the Union. He was taken away in the midst of the controversy, just as he was about to submit his views upon the subject to the representatives of the people. His last public appearance was in doing homage to Washington, on the birthday of our liberties, and his last official act was adding a new guaranty to the peace of the world, by signing the convention recently concluded between our country and Great Britain respecting Central America. Disease soon did its work. Confronting Death with the fearless declaration, ‘I am prepared—I have endeavored to do my duty,’ the old hero succumbed—his first and last surrender.
General Taylor married in early life a lady of Virginia, and was connected either by affinity or blood, with many of the most noted families of the Old Dominion. His excellent consort, a son, and a daughter, survive him. In person, General Taylor was about five feet eight inches in height, and like most of our revolutionary generals, was inclined to corpulency. His hair was gray, his brow ample, his eye vivid, and his features plain but full of firmness, intelligence and benevolence. His manners were easy and cordial, his dress, habits, and tastes simple, and his style of living temperate in the extreme. His speeches and his official papers, both military and civil, are alike famed for their propriety of feeling and their chastity of diction. His private life was unblemished, and the loveliness of his disposition made him the idol of his own household and the favorite of all who knew him. His martial courage was only equaled by his Spartan simplicity, his unaffected modesty, his ever wakeful humanity, his inflexible integrity, his uncompromising truthfulness, his lofty magnanimity, his unbounded patriotism, and his unfaltering loyalty to duty. His mind was of an original and solid cast, admirably balanced, and combining the comprehensiveness of reason with the penetration of instinct. Its controlling element was a strong, sterling sense, that of itself rendered him a wise counselor and a safe leader. All of his personal attributes and antecedents made him preëminently a man of the people, and remarkably qualified him to be the stay and surety of his country in its day of danger.
A braver soldier never wielded sword—
A gentler heart did never sway in council.
But he is dead—and millions weep his loss.
JOHN E. WOOL.
John E. Wool, a distinguished American general, was born in Newburgh, New York, in 1789. He received but a scanty education, and passed the greater part of his youth in the store of a merchant at Troy, in the situation of clerk. He afterwards commenced the study of law, but at the end of a year he gave up the idea of following this profession, and, war having been declared with Great Britain, he procured a captain’s commission in a regiment of infantry, and joined the forces under General Van Rensselaer, on the Niagara frontier. In the course of this war he distinguished himself greatly. For his services at Queenstown he was promoted to the rank of major; and for his gallant conduct at Plattsburgh he was made lieutenant-colonel, by brevet. During the interval of peace which followed the treaty of Ghent, Colonel Wool performed several important services. In 1832, he was despatched to Europe, for the purpose of procuring information on military matters; and in discharge of that duty he traveled through France and Belgium, and was present at Antwerp during the siege of that city by the French. In 1836, he superintended the removal of the Indians from the Cherokee country to the Arkansas; and, in 1838, he was placed in command of the Maine frontier during the troubles arising out of the boundary question. In 1841, he had risen by successive steps to the rank of brigadier-general. During the war with Mexico, General Wool was attached to the army under General Taylor; and it was to his skill and energy that the Americans were greatly indebted for the victory of Buena Vista. For his services on this occasion he was appointed major-general by brevet. Since the conclusion of the Mexican war, General Wool has been in command of the northeastern division of the American army, and now resides in the city of Troy.
GEN. WOOL.
DANIEL WEBSTER.
Daniel Webster was born in the town of Salisbury, New Hampshire, January 18, 1782. His father, Major Ebenezer Webster, was one of the pioneers of the settlement in that quarter. He served with credit in the old French war, and also in the war of the revolution, especially under Stark, at Bennington. Major Webster established himself in a newly-granted township at the confluence of the Winnipisiogee and Pemigewasset, after the peace of 1763. In this region, then lying almost in a state of nature, the great orator and statesman was born, and passed the first years of his life. His opportunities of education were very deficient, and he was indebted for his earliest instruction to his mother, who was a woman of character and intelligence. For a few months only, in 1796, he enjoyed the advantages of Phillips’ Exeter academy. Here his education for college commenced; it was completed under the Rev. Dr. Wood, of Boscawen. He entered Dartmouth college in 1797, and during the four years of his study there, gave plain indications of future eminence. Soon after his graduation, he engaged in professional studies, first in his native village, and afterward at Fryeburg, in Maine, where at the same time he had the charge of an academy. He eked out his frugal salary by acting as a copyist in the office of register of deeds. He was moved to these strenuous exertions by the wish to aid his brother to obtain a college education. Having completed his law-studies in the office of governor Gore, of Boston, he was admitted to the bar of Suffolk, Massachusetts, in the year 1805. He immediately commenced the practice of law in his native state and county. His father, a man of sterling sense and character, who for the last twelve years of his life had been a judge of the court of common pleas, died in 1806, but not without the satisfaction of hearing his son’s first speeches at the bar. In 1807, Mr. Webster removed to Portsmouth in his native state, and soon became engaged in a most respectable and extensive, but not very lucrative practice. In 1812, he was chosen one of the members of congress from New Hampshire, and in due time was reëlected. Although among the youngest members of the house of representatives, and entirely without legislative experience, he rose at once to the front rank, both in the despatch of business and in debate. Among his associates in the house were Clay, Cheves, Lowndes, Calhoun, Forsyth, and other members of great ability. It was soon felt and admitted that he was worthy to be named with the ablest of them. It was the remark of Mr. Lowndes ‘that the south had not his superior, nor the north his equal.’ Finding the professional fields at Portsmouth inadequate to the support of a growing family, Mr. Webster removed to Boston in 1816. His professional reputation had grown as rapidly as his fame as a statesman. He placed himself at once by the side of the leaders of the Massachusetts bar. He had already appeared before the supreme court of the United States in Washington. By his brilliant argument in the Dartmouth college case, carried by appeal to Washington in 1817, he took rank among the most distinguished jurists in this country. In 1820, Mr. Webster was chosen a member of a convention called for the purpose of revising the constitution of Massachusetts. No one exercised a more powerful influence over its deliberations. He was offered, about this time, a nomination as a senator of the United States, but declined. In 1822, he yielded to the most pressing solicitations to become a candidate for the place of representative of the city of Boston in the eighteenth congress, and was chosen by a very large majority. This step involved a great sacrifice of professional interest. He took his seat in Congress in December, 1823, and early in the session made his celebrated speech on the Greek revolution, an effort which at once established his reputation as one of the first statesmen of the age. In the autumn of the same year he was reëlected by a vote of 4,990, out of 5,000 cast. In 1826 he was again a candidate, and not a hundred votes were thrown against him. Under the presidency of Mr. Adams (1825–29), he was the leader of the friends of the administration, first in the house of representatives, and afterward in the senate of the United States, to which he was elected in June, 1827. His great speech on the Panama mission was made in the first session of the nineteenth congress. When the tariff law of 1824 was brought forward, Mr. Webster spoke with great ability against it on the ground of expediency. He represented one of the greatest commercial constituencies in the Union; and his colleagues, with a single exception, voted with him against the bill. This law, however, forced a large amount of the capital of New England into manufactures; and in 1828 Mr. Webster sustained the law of that year for a more equal adjustment of the benefits of protection. The change which took place in his course in this respect was the result of the circumstances alluded to, and was approved by his constituents. Mr. Webster remained in the senate under the administration of Gen. Jackson, and Mr. Van Buren, a period of twelve years. During this time the most important questions were discussed, measures of the highest moment to the country were brought forward, and political events and combinations of the most novel and extraordinary character succeeded each other. Under all changes of men and measures, Mr. Webster maintained the position of a constitutional and patriot statesman, second to none who had ever devoted himself to the service of his country. In 1830, he made what is generally regarded the ablest of his parliamentary efforts, his second speech in reply to colonel Hayne of South Carolina. This gentleman in a speech on a resolution moved by Mr. Foote, of Connecticut, relative to the surveys of the public lands, had indulged in some personalities against Mr. Webster, had commented with severity on the political course of the New England states, and had laid down in rather an authoritative manner those views of the constitution usually known as the doctrines of ‘nullification.’ Mr. Webster was accordingly called upon to defend himself from the insinuations of the distinguished senator from South Carolina, to vindicate New England, and to point out the fallacies of nullification. To accomplish these objects, he employed all the resources of the most skillful rhetoric, polished sarcasm, and acute argument. The records of modern eloquence contain nothing of superior force and beauty. The second speech of Mr. Webster in this debate may be regarded as the greatest effort of this consummate orator. Shaping his public course by principle, and not by the blind impulse of party, Mr. Webster, though opposed to the administration of General Jackson, gave it a cordial support in its measures for the defense of the Union in 1832-’33. The doctrines of the president’s proclamation against the theories of South Carolina were mainly adopted from Mr. Webster’s speeches, and he was the chief dependence of the administration upon the floor of congress. When, however, the financial system of general Jackson was brought forward and fully developed, it was strenuously opposed by Mr. Webster. He foretold with accuracy the explosion which took place in the spring of 1837, and contributed materially to rally the public opinion of the country alike against the first phase of the new financial system, which was that of an almost boundless expansion of paper currency, issuing from the state banks, and against the opposite extreme, which was adopted as a substitute, that of an exclusive use of specie in all payments to or by the government. Mr. Webster maintained with great force of argument, and variety of illustration, the superior convenience of the financial system which had been adopted in the infancy of the government, with the approval of every administration, from that of Washington down, viz: that of a mixed currency of specie and convertible paper, kept within safe bounds by the law requiring all payments to be made in specie or its equivalent, and regulated by a national institution acting as a check upon the state banks. The clear and forcible manner in which these principles were inculcated by Mr. Webster contributed materially to the downfall of Mr. Van Buren’s administration. In 1839, Mr. Webster made a short visit to Europe. His time was principally passed in England, but he devoted a few weeks to the continent. His fame had preceded him to the old world, and he was received with the attention due to his character and talents at the French and English courts, and in the highest circles of both countries. On the accession of General Harrison to the presidency, Mr. Webster was placed at the head of his cabinet as secretary of state. His administration of the department during the two years he remained in it was signalized by the most distinguished success. The United States was at that time involved in a long standing controversy with Great Britain, on the subject of the northeastern boundary of Maine. To this had been added the difficult questions arising out of the detention of American vessels by British cruisers on the coast of Africa. Still more recently, the affair of M’Leod, in New York, had threatened an immediate rupture between the two governments. The correspondence between the United States’ minister, in London, in 1841, Mr. Stevenson and the British secretary of state for foreign affairs, Lord Palmerston, was of an uncompromising character. Other causes of mutual irritation existed, which the limits of this sketch do not permit us to enumerate.
DANIEL WEBSTER.
RESIDENCE OF DANIEL WEBSTER.
Shortly after the accession of General Harrison, the Melbourne administration was overturned in England, and Sir Robert Peel returned to power. This cotemporary change of government in the two countries was favorable to a settlement of the long-standing difficulties. Mr. Webster, after coming into the department of state, intimated to the British minister that the government of the United States was convinced of the impossibility of settling the boundary-line by adhering to the course hitherto pursued—that of topographical explorations, with a view to the literal execution of the treaty of 1783—but was prepared to adopt a conventional line, on the basis of mutual gain and concession, if such a line could be agreed upon. The new ministry, taking advantage of this overture, immediately determined to send Lord Ashburton as a special envoy to the United States, to negotiate upon this and the other subjects in controversy. Massachusetts and Maine were invited to take part by their commissioners in the negotiation; and on August 9, 1842, the treaty of Washington was ratified by the senate. By this treaty the boundary dispute, which had lasted fifty years, was happily adjusted. An amicable and efficient arrangement was made for joint action in the suppression of the slave-trade, and an agreement entered into for a mutual extradition of fugitives from justice. The other subjects of discussion at that period, between Great Britain and the United States, with the exception of the Oregon boundary, were happily disposed of in the correspondence accompanying the treaty. The terms of this important treaty were equally honorable and satisfactory to both parties. Mr. Tyler’s cabinet was broken up in 1842, but Mr. Webster remained in office till the spring of 1843, being desirous of putting some other matters connected with our foreign relations in a prosperous train. Steps were taken by him in the winter of 1842-’3, which led to the recognition of the independence of the Sandwich islands by the principal maritime powers. His last official act was the preparation of the instructions of General C. Cushing, as commissioner for negotiating a treaty with China. With the commencement of Mr. Polk’s administration, Mr. Webster returned to the senate of the United States. He remained a member of that body during the whole of the administration of Mr. Polk, and till the death of General Taylor. Though unconnected with the executive government, he rendered the most material service in the settlement of the Oregon dispute. It has been publicly stated by Mr. M’Gregor, the distinguished member of parliament for Glasgow, that a letter written to him by Mr. Webster, and shown to the British ministers, led them to agree to the adoption of the line of boundary which was established in 1846. Mr. Webster opposed the Mexican war on principle; and in the full persuasion, which events have confirmed, that acquisitions of territory would disturb the balance of the Union, and endanger its stability. He, however, concurred in granting the supplies which were required for the efficient conduct of the war. His second son, Major Edward Webster, with the entire approbation of his father, accepted a commission in the Massachusetts regiment of volunteers, and sunk under the exposures of the service in Mexico. He was a young man of great promise. In conformity with Mr. Webster’s anticipations, the acquisition of Mexican territory led to agitations on the subject of slavery, which, during the years 1849-’50, seriously threatened the Union. The question whether slavery should exist in California seemed likely to lead to the renewal of the Missouri controversy, aggravated by all the bitterness which has grown out of the struggles of the last fifteen years. Mr. Webster entertained the most serious apprehensions of an inauspicious result. The convention of the people of California having unanimously adopted a constitution by which that question was disposed of, without the interference of congress, Mr. Webster conceived the hope that, by mutual concession on other and less important points, the harmony of the South and North could be restored, and a severance of the Union averted. With a view to this consummation, he made his great speech of March 7, 1850. A very powerful influence was exerted by this speech on the public mind. While the debates on what have been called the ‘compromise measures’ were in progress in the senate, General Taylor died. The chair of state was assumed by President Fillmore, who immediately called Mr. Webster to the department of state. His administration of the office was marked with characteristic ability and success. In a series of public addresses of unsurpassed ability, made in different parts of the Union, he enforced the great duty of mutual concession, in reference to the sectional controversy which so seriously alarmed the country. In December, 1850, the famous Hülsemann letter was written, to which Kossuth has applied the epithet of ‘immortal.’ Mr. Webster, by his firm and judicious manner of treating the Cuba question, obtained of the Spanish government the pardon of the followers of Lopez, who had been deported to Spain. About the same time, he received from the English government an apology for the interference of a British cruiser with an American steamer in the waters of Nicaragua. This is the second time that the British government has made a similar concession at the instance of Mr. Webster. The first was in reference to the destruction of the ‘Caroline,’ at Schlosser. It has been affirmed that these are the only occasions on which the British government has ever apologized for the conduct of its affairs. Mr. Webster’s intellectual efforts were not confined to politics. He filled a place second to none of his cotemporaries at the American bar, and his discourses upon various historical and patriotic anniversaries are among the brightest gems of modern eloquence. The works of Mr. Webster have been lately published in six volumes, 8vo, with a biographical memoir by Mr. Edward Everett, from which the preceding sketch has been for the most part extracted. He died at his residence in Marshfield, Massachusetts, on the 24th day of October, 1852.
HENRY CLAY.
Henry Clay was born April 12, 1777, in Hanover county, Virginia. His father was a Baptist clergyman, of small means, who died when his son was only five years of age. He was one of a large family of children, who were left under the care of their mother—a firm-minded and truly excellent woman. Henry’s early advantages consisted in the privilege of attending a common country Virginia school; and such were the circumstances of the widow, that thus early, he was obliged to contribute to the support of the family. His work was generally on the farm. At fourteen years of age he was placed in a small retail shop in Richmond, Va. The next year he entered the office of Mr. Tinsley, clerk of the high court of chancery, where among other valuable acquaintances, he attracted the notice and acquired the friendship of the distinguished and beloved Chancellor Wythe—one of the venerated signers of the declaration of independence. With him the poor orphan found a patron and a home. Under the direction of his great benefactor, and for the purpose of studying his profession, he entered the law office of Robert Brooke, attorney general of the State. In 1797 he moved to Lexington, Ky., where before he commenced the practice of the law, he devoted some months to severe study. Such were the youthful trials of this great man. The foundation of his long, eminent, patriotic and glorious career was thus, not family, nor wealth, nor titles, but talents, industry, integrity, and worth. Our space will not permit a full detail of a progress alike honorable to a people who saw and appreciated his value as a man, and to the patriot who devoted himself zealously to the public service. This commenced in 1797, when he took part in the debates relating to the call of a convention to form a constitution for Kentucky, and in 1798, when he zealously entered the field against the celebrated alien and sedition laws. As soon as he was eligible, he was elected to the legislature of Kentucky. He was a leading member until 1806, when he was sent to the senate of the United States, to fill the place occasioned by the resignation of General Adir. This, however, was only a fraction of a term; and at the close of the session, Mr. Clay was again chosen to a seat in the legislature. He was speaker several years. In 1809, he was a second time elected to the United States senate and to fill a fractional part of a term. This expired in 1811, when he was elected a member of the house of representatives. On the first ballot he was elected speaker, which office he filled with distinguished ability. It is no more than justice to remark, that thus far Mr. Clay had proved himself equal, and more than equal, to every place which he had been called upon to fill. Indeed, he was a member of the republican party, and so signal had been his eloquence, his patriotism, his influence and his efficiency, as to have attracted the eyes of the nation. He nobly sustained the administration of Mr. Madison and the war of 1812. After the conclusion of the treaty of Ghent, Mr. Clay, with Mr. Adams and Mr. Gallatin, went to London, where a commercial convention between this country and Great Britain was concluded. Mr. Clay was again elected to the house of representatives in 1815, and again made speaker. Subsequently, after two years absence from congress, he was reëlected in 1823, and again made the speaker, which place he filled until 1825, when he was appointed secretary of state by John Quincy Adams. Mr. Clay was speaker of the house from 1811 to 1825, with the exception of two years, during which time he voluntarily retired from congress.
HENRY CLAY.
HON. LEVI WOODBURY.
Mr. Clay continued in the office of secretary of state until 1829. Two years later, in December, 1831, he was again elected to the senate of the United States, and continued a member of that body until March 31, 1842, when he resigned. Mr. Clay lived in elegant retirement at Ashland, until he was again (1849) elected to the senate. And here, after a brilliant parliamentary career, he closed his life, as his friend John Quincy Adams did, with his harness on—still serving the country for whose welfare his heart so fervently beat. He died on the 29th of June, 1852.
HON. JUDGE WOODBURY.
The subject of the accompanying likeness is one, perhaps, as well known to the people of this country as any name engraven upon its political scroll. His long public service has been such as to keep him prominently before the public eye for forty years, during which period he has sustained an unsullied reputation, and has commanded the respect and a large share of the confidence of all parties. Mr. Woodbury graduated at Dartmouth College in 1809, and immediately applied himself to the study of the law, which he subsequently practiced with credit and success until 1816, when he was appointed secretary of the senate of the United States, and during the following year judge of the superior court. Shortly after this we find him a member of General Jackson’s cabinet, and in 1823, governor of New Hampshire. In the year 1825, Mr. Woodbury was chosen to the United States senate. In 1831, we find him secretary of the navy. In 1834, we find him secretary of the treasury, and find him again in the senate of the United States from New Hampshire, in 1841. In the autumn of 1845, a vacancy occurred on the bench of the supreme court of the United States, by the demise of Judge Story; this appointment was offered to Mr. Woodbury and accepted. Such are a few of the important datas in the career of Mr. Woodbury’s life, and would space permit us, we should be pleased, in this connection, to go into an elaborate description of his personal characteristics and patriotism. His character has ever been remarkable for firmness and consistency, and whether as a citizen, a politician, or a jurist, he has been found a steady supporter of the constitution of the United States.
BIRTH PLACE OF JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.
HON. ROBERT RANTOUL, JR.
We can give no better sketch of Mr. Rantoul’s life than to quote from Hon. Charles Sumner’s eulogy pronounced in congress. He was born August 13th, 1805, at Beverly, in the county of Essex, the home of Nathan Dane. Here under happy auspices of family and neighborhood, he commenced life. His excellent father, honored for his public services, venerable also in years and flowing silver locks, yet lives to mourn his last surviving son. The sad fortune of Burke is renewed. He who should have been as posterity, is now to this father in the place of ancestry. Mr. Rantoul was early a member of the legislature of Massachusetts, and there won his first fame. For many years he occupied a place in the board of education in that state. He was also, for a time, collector of the port of Boston, and afterwards attorney of the United States for Massachusetts. During a brief period he held a seat in the senate, and finally, in 1851, by the choice of his native district, remarkable for its intelligence and public spirit, he became a representative in the other branch of our national legislature. In all these spheres he performed most acceptable service, and the future promised opportunities of a higher character, to which his abilities, industry and fidelity would have amply responded. By fitness, by study, knowledge and experience, he was formed for public service, but he was no stranger to other pursuits. Early devoted to the profession of the law, he followed it with assiduity and success. In the antiquities of our jurisprudence, few were more learned, and his arguments at the bar, were thorough. Nor were his intelligence and promptness in all emergencies of a trial easily surpassed. Literature, neglected by many under the pressure of professional duties, was always cultivated by him. His taste for books was enduring. He was a constant student, amidst his manifold labors, professional and public. He was a reformer in the warfare with evil. He was enlisted earnestly and openly as a soldier for life. As such, he did not hesitate to encounter opposition, to meet obloquy, and to brave his enemies. His conscience, pure as goodness, sustained him in every trial, even that sharpest of all, the desertion of friends; and yet while earnest in his cause, his zeal was tempered beyond that of the common reformer. He knew well the difference between the ideal and the actual, and sought by practical means, in harmony with public sentiment, to promote the public interest. Recognizing in the social and political system the essential elements of stability and progress, he discerned the office of the conservative and the reformer; but he saw, also, that a blind conservatism was not less destructive than a blind reform. He was the faithful supporter of common schools, the glory of New England. By word and example he sustained the cause of temperance. Some of his most devoted labors, commencing in the legislature of Massachusetts, were for the abolition of capital punishment. With its final triumph, in the progress of civilization, his name will be indissolubly connected. In harmony with these noble reforms was the purity of his private life; there he was blameless. In manners, he was modest, simple and retiring. In conversation, he was disposed to listen rather than to speak, though all were well pleased when he broke silence, and in apt language declared his glowing thoughts. But in the public assembly, before the people, he was bold and triumphant. As a debater, he rarely met his equal. Fluent, earnest, rapid, incisive, his words at times came forth like a flashing scimitar. Few could stand against him; he always understood his subjects, and then clear, logical, and determined, seeing his point before him, pressed forward with unrelenting power. His speeches were enriched by study, and contained passages of beauty—but he was most truly at home in dealing with practical questions arising from exigencies of life. Few had studied public affairs more intelligibly. As a constant and effective member of the democratic party, he had become conspicuous by the championship of its doctrines. There was no topic of national moment that did not interest him. Northwestern and Western interests were near his heart.
FRANKLIN PIERCE.
WILLIAM R. KING.
In person, Mr. Rantoul was of medium height, of spare figure, and restless activity both of mind and body. His manner of speaking was peculiar to himself; with great rapidity of utterance, his sentences were simple in their construction, and his language selected less with reference to ornament than to strength. Devoted to his profesion and studies, of abstemious habits, great purity of character, the friend of all moral movements of society, he was snatched away in the prime of life, when his talents, matured by earnest study, were unfolding themselves to the world with much power.
FRANKLIN PIERCE.
Franklin Pierce, president of the United States, is the son of Benjamin Pierce, who rose to the rank of brigade-major in the American army during the revolutionary war, and held several political offices in the state of New Hampshire. Franklin Pierce was born in the western part of that state, in the town of Hillsborough in 1804, and after completing his academical studies, entered Bowdoin college, Maine. Immediately on leaving college he commenced his legal studies with Judge Howe, of Northampton, Mass., but subsequently returned to his native state and, finally finished his studies at Amherst Mass. He was admitted to the bar and commenced the practice of his profession in his native town; but before the end of two years he was elected a representative in the state legislature, and during his second year’s service was chosen speaker of the house. In 1833 he was elected to congress, and remained a member of the house of representatives for four years. During this period, General Pierce, although a firm supporter of democratic measures, seldom distinguished himself as a debater, being modest and unassuming in his character, and rather quick to hear and slow to speak. In 1837 he was elected a member of the United States senate, but, after five years’ service in that body, resigned his seat, intending to devote himself wholly to his profession. He had been more than ten years in public life and he felt the necessity of giving his attention to his private affairs, which had suffered in his absence. He accordingly settled in Concord, the capital of his native state, and resumed his practice at the bar, with a firm resolution to be withdrawn for the future from public life. He rose to high distinction as an advocate, being considered one of the ablest lawyers in New Hampshire. He firmly adhered to his resolution of accepting no political office; he declined to be a candidate for governor of the state, or United States senator, and he also refused the offices of attorney-general and secretary of war, which were tendered him by President Polk. On the breaking out of the Mexican war, however, General Pierce, deeming that his services were required in the cause of his country, enrolled himself as a private soldier in the New England regiment, but President Polk sent him a colonel’s commission, and subequently raised him to the rank of brigadier-general in March, 1847. His command consisted of 2,500 men, with whom he landed at Vera Cruz, June 28, 1847. He distinguished himself in most of the battles which were fought between Vera Cruz and the city of Mexico, and made himself highly popular with the men under his command. On the restoration of peace between the two countries, he resigned his commission, and returned home, where he met with a brilliant reception from his fellow-citizens. He was elected president of the United States in 1852.
SAMUEL FINLEY BREESE MORSE.
Samuel Finley Breese Morse, an American artist, better known, perhaps, as the inventor of the electric telegraph, is the eldest son of the Rev. Jedediah Morse, the first American geographer, and was born in Charlestown, Massachusetts, April 27, 1791. He was educated at Yale College, where he graduated in 1810. He had from a very early age determined to be a painter; and his father finding his passion for art incorrigible, consented to indulge him in his wishes; and he accordingly sailed for England, under the charge of Mr. Allston, and arrived in London, in August, 1811. Here he formed an intimacy with C. R. Leslie, and the first portraits of either of these artists painted in London were likenesses of each other. Mr. Morse made rapid progress in his profession. In 1813, he exhibited at the Royal Academy his picture of “The Dying Hercules,” of colossal size, which received high praise from the connoisseurs, and the plaster model which he made of the same subject, to assist him in his picture, received the prize in sculpture, the same year. Encouraged by this success, the artist determined to contend for the premium in historical composition offered by the academy the following year. The picture, the subject of which was, “The Judgment of Jupiter, in the case of Apollo, Marpessa, and Idas,” was completed in time, but Mr. Morse was obliged to leave England before the premiums were to be adjudged, and was consequently excluded from the privilege of competing for the prize. Mr. West afterward assured him that he would undoubtedly have won it. On his return to America, he settled in Boston, but he met with so little encouragement, that he removed to New Hampshire, where he found employment in painting portraits at $15 per head. He was induced by his friends to remove to Charleston, South Carolina, and there his art proved more profitable. About 1822, he took up his residence in New York, where he found his works and talents more justly appreciated, and his skill as an artist put into requisition. Under a commission from the corporation, he painted a full length portrait of Lafayette, then on a visit to the United States. It was shortly after this, that Mr. Morse formed that association of artists which resulted in the establishment of the National Academy of Design, of which he was elected president; and it is worthy of note, that the first course of lectures on the subject of art read in America, was delivered by him before the New York Athenæum, and afterward repeated to the students of the academy. In 1829, he paid a second visit to Europe, and remained abroad three years. On his return from Europe, in the packet-ship Sully, in 1832, a gentleman, in describing the experiments that had just been made in Paris with the electro-magnet, the question arose as to the time occupied by the electric fluid in passing through the wire, stated to be about one hundred feet in length. On the reply that it was instantaneous (recollecting the experiments of Franklin,) he suggested that it might be carried to any distance, and that the electric spark could be a means of conveying and recording intelligence. This suggestion, which drew some casual observation of assent from the party, took deep hold of Professor Morse, who undertook to develop the idea which he had originated; and, before the end of the voyage, he had drawn out and written the general plan of the invention with which his name will be inseparably connected. His main object was to effect a communication by means of the electro magnet that would leave a permanent record by signs answering for the alphabet, and which, though carried to any distance, would communicate with any place that might be on the line. His first idea was to pass a strip of paper, saturated with some chemical preparation that would be decomposed when brought in connection with the wire, along which the electric current was passing, and thus form an alphabet by marks, varying in width and number, that could be made upon the paper at the will of the operator, and by this means avoid separating the wire at the different points of communication. On his return to New York, he resumed his profession, still devoting all his spare time, under great disadvantages, to the perfection of his invention. Finding his original plan impracticable, he availed himself of the action of the electro-magnet upon the lever as a mode of using pens and ink, as in the ruling machine. Of these he had five, with the idea of securing the required characters from one of the pens. These he abandoned for pencils, and after a trial of various means for obtaining the end desired, and finding by experiment he could obtain any requisite force from the lever, he adopted the stylus or steel point for indenting the paper, and it is this he has since used. After great difficulty and much discouragement, Professor Morse in 1835 demonstrated the practicability of his invention by completing and putting in operation in the New York university, a model of his ‘Recording Electric Telegraph’—the whole apparatus, with the exception of a wooden clock which formed part of it, having been made by himself. In 1837, he abandoned his profession, with great regret, hoping to make his invention a means of resuming it, under easier and more agreeable circumstances. In the same year, he filed his caveat at the patent-office in Washington; and it is somewhat singular that, during this year (1837), Wheatstone, in England, and Steinheil, in Bavaria, both invented a magnetic telegraph, differing from the American and from each other. Wheatstone’s is very inferior, not being a recording telegraph, but requiring to be watched by one of the attendants—the alphabet being made by the deflection of the needle. Steinheil’s, on the contrary, is a recording telegraph, but from its complicated and delicate machinery, has been found impracticable for extended lines. At a convention held in 1851 by Austria, Prussia, Saxony, Wurtemberg, and Bavaria, for the purpose of adopting a uniform system of telegraphing for all Germany, by the advice of Steinheil, Professor Morse’s was the one selected. From the sultan of Turkey he received the first foreign acknowledgment of his invention in the bestowal of a nishan, or order—the ‘order of glory:’ a diploma to that effect was transmitted to him with the magnificent decoration of that order in diamonds. The second acknowledgment was from the king of Prussia, being a splendid gold snuffbox, containing in its lid the Prussian gold medal of scientific merit. The latest acknowledgment is from the king of Wurtemberg, who transmitted to him (after the adoption of the Telegraph treaty by the convention above mentioned) the ‘Wurtemberg Gold Medal of Arts and Sciences.’ In 1838, he went to England, for the purpose of securing a patent there, but was refused through the influence of Wheatstone and his friends, under the pretense that his invention had already been published there. All that could be adduced in proof of this was the publication in an English scientific periodical of an extract copied from the New York ‘Journal of Commerce,’ stating the results of his invention, without giving the means by which they were produced. In the following spring, he returned to this country, and in 1840 perfected his patent at Washington, and set about getting his telegraph into practical operation. In 1844, the first electric telegraph was completed in the United States, between Baltimore and Washington; and the first intelligence of a public character which passed over the wires was the announcement of the nomination of James K. Polk, as the democratic candidate for the presidency, by the Baltimore convention. Since then, he has seen its wires extend all over the country, to the length of more than fifteen thousand miles—an extent unknown elsewhere in the civilized world. His success has led to the invasion of his patent rights by others, whom he has finally succeeded in defeating, after an expensive and protracted litigation. Professor Morse still clings to the idea of resuming his early profession of painting, to which he is strongly attached, and in the progress of which he has always taken a deep interest. As an artist, he has always enjoyed a very high reputation. His tastes inclined to historical painting, but circumstances did not often permit him to indulge in it; he was mainly engaged in the painting of portraits. In 1820, he painted a large picture of the interior of the house of representatives, with portraits of the members, which passed into the possession of an English gentleman; and in 1832, while in Paris, he made a beautiful picture of the Louvre gallery, copying in miniature the most valuable paintings. He resides at Locust Grove, two miles south of Poughkeepsie, on the banks of the Hudson river.
EUCLID CREEK.
SCENE BY MOONLIGHT AT RED BANK, OHIO.
PROF. MORSE.
DAGUERRE.
M. DAGUERRE.
This far-famed Frenchman, who has given his name to the art which he first discovered, the Daguerreotype, died not long since, at his residence, near Paris. The likeness which we present herewith, is from an original, taken after his own style and invention, and is necessarily correct. It would be superfluous for us to enlarge upon the merits of an art so familiar to all. Daguerre was an artist, a painter, and also possessed considerable chemical talent and taste; and it was while experimenting for other purposes, that he discovered the art which now bears his name. It was destined, however, to be wonderfully improved by other hands, and it is said that the Americans have produced by far the most perfect and beautiful specimens of the art that have ever yet been exhibited. Daguerre was favorably known to the world before the announcement of his discovery of the Daguerreotype. His attempts to improve panoramic paintings, and the production of dioramic effects, were crowned with the most eminent success. His pictures attracted much attention at the time of their exhibition. In them the alternate effects of night and day—of storm and sunshine—were beautifully produced. To these effects of light were added others, arising from the decomposition of form, by means of which, for example, in the ‘Midnight Mass,’ figures appeared where the spectators had just beheld seats, altars, etc.; or, again, as in ‘The Valley of Goldau,’ in which rocks tumbling from the mountains replaced the prospect of a smiling valley. He was in the 62d year of his age at the time of his death, and is represented to have been an extremely modest and worthy man, and one devoted to his profession of the fine arts.
VICTOR HUGO.
VICTOR HUGO.
Victor Hugo, a politician, one of the most prominent living French writers, was born February 26, 1802. The political contrariety which has marked his career may be said to have been inherited by Hugo, his father having been one of the first volunteers of the republic, and his mother, a Vendéan by birth and sentiment, a proscribed royalist, wandering while yet a girl in the Bocage of La Vendée. At the date of his birth, his father was a colonel in the army of Napoleon; and the child, born almost amid the roar of cannon, followed with its mother the steps of Bonaparte. From Besancon he was carried to Elba, from Elba to Paris, from Paris to Rome, from Rome to Naples, before he was five years of age, so that he exclaims, ‘I made the tour of Europe before I began to live.’ In Naples he resided about ten years, his father having been appointed governor of Avellino. In 1809 he returned to France with his two brothers and his mother, by whom he was educated within the walls of the convent of the Feuillantes, where the family had taken up its residence. He here received the benefit of classical instruction from an old general, whom his mother was then concealing from the imperial police. At the close of 1811, his father, then a general and majordomo of Joseph Bonaparte’s palace at Madrid, sent for his family to join him in that capital, and Victor accompanied his mother to Spain. He remained at Madrid about a year, and returned to the old convent until the restoration of 1814. This event, by exciting in his mother and father the opposite feelings of joy and indignant grief, led to their separation. Victor was placed by his father in a private academy, where he studied mathematics, it is said with great success, previous to his intended removal to the polytechnic school. In 1816 he published his parable of ‘The Rich and Poor,’ and an elegy called the ‘Canadian.’ In 1817 he was a competitor for a prize on the ‘Advantages of Study,’ offered by the academy. In 1819, having committed himself to a literary career with his father’s consent, he wrote two odes, entitled ‘The Virgins of Verdun,’ and ‘The Restoration of the Statue of Henri IV,’ and sent them to the Academy of Floral Fêtes, at Toulouse, by which they were both crowned. In 1820 he published his ‘Infant Moses in the Nile.’ In 1822 appeared the first volume of his ‘Odes and Ballads,’ a collection of occasional pieces, all breathing a royalist spirit. His ‘Hans of Iceland,’ and ‘Bug-Jargal,’ though not published until some years later, were written about this time. Before the close of the same year the young poet married Mdlle. Foucher, and rising into distinction as a royalist writer, he received a pension from Louis XVIII. In 1826 he published a second volume of ‘Odes and Ballads,’ which betrayed an inward revolution in his political and literary opinions. In the succeeding year he composed a drama, called ‘Cromwell,’ intended to assert the freedom of the Christian and romantic drama, against the theory of Aristotle’s unity, as understood and practiced by Racine. He prefaced it with a dramatic theory of his own, to which, however, he hardly gave a fair chance of success, since its accompanying illustration contained scarcely a feature of merit. In 1828 he published his ‘Orientals,’ a poem of finished versification, but destitute of force or spirit. In 1829, Victor Hugo published his ‘Last Days of a Condemned Prisoner,’ and so vividly depicted the anticipated tortures of a man left for execution, that the terrific interest of the work gave it an immense success. Hugo now prepared to make a second attack on the stiff and unnatural dramatic system prevalent in his country. On the 26th February, 1830, his ‘Ernani’ was played at the Théâtre Français. The indignation of the old and the enthusiasm of the new party knew no bounds. The academy went so far as to lay a complaint against the innovation at the foot of the throne, but Charles X, with a good sense which would have been very serviceable to him four months later, replied, that ‘in matters of art he was no more than a private person.’ Meanwhile the drama, which was far superior in construction to ‘Cromwell,’ succeeded. Shortly after the revolution of July, his ‘Marion de Lorme,’ embodying his new political tastes, and which had been suppressed by the censorship under the restoration, was brought out, and was considered theatrically successful. In January, 1832, his play, ‘Le Roi S’amuse,’ was performed at the Théâtre Français, and the next day interdicted by the government. This was scarcely necessary, the piece had not been warmly received; in fact, people, however willing to be amused, especially at the expense of monarchs, did not like to see the quondam royalist employed in burlesquing the historical heroes of their country. M. Hugo afterward published a number of dramatic pieces of various merit; among them are ‘Lucrèce Borgia,’ ‘Marie Tudor,’ ‘Angelo,’ and ‘Ruy Blas.’ His greatest novel is ‘Nôtre Dame de Paris.’ He has since produced ‘Chants du Creépuscle,’ and ‘Voix Intérieures.’ In the works of this poet may be found some of the sublimest creations of French poetry. It is to be regretted that, side by side with these, the author’s preverted taste led him to place images the most monstrous and disgusting. He was created a peer of France by Louis Philippe, and, on the downfall of that monarch, avowing the principles of the revolution, was returned to the constituent, and afterward to the national assembly, of which he was one of the few eloquent speakers. He is also a leading member of the Peace Congress, and was its president in 1849—a position remarkable enough for the author of the bellicose ‘Lettres du Rhin.’ He was an energetic opponent of Louis Napoleon in December, and on that account was compelled to fly to Brussels in an assumed name.
OMAR PASHA.
Omar Pasha who commands the Turkish army, is an Austrian subject, and a native of Coroalia. He was born in 1801, at Vaski, a village situated in the circle of Ogulina, thirteen leagues from Fiume. His family name is Lattas. His father was lieutenant-administrator of the circle; his uncle was a priest of the United Greek Church. Admitted, when very young, into the School of Mathematics of Thurm, near Carlstadt, in Transylvania, after having completed his studies with distinction, the young Lattas entered the corps of the Ponts et Chaussees, which, in Austria, is organized on a military footing. In 1830, in consequence of a misunderstanding with his superiors, he left for Turkey, and embraced Islamism. Khosrew Pasha, who was then Seraskier, took him under his protection, procured him admission into the regular army, and attached him to his personal staff. He then gave him his ward in marriage, who was one of the richest heiresses in Constantinople, and a daughter of one of the Janizaries, whose head he had caused to be cut off in 1827, when that corps revolted against Sultan Mahmoud. In 1833, Lattas, who had taken the name of Omar, was chief of battalion, and was appointed aid-de-camp, and interpreter to General Chrzanowski, who had charge of the instruction of the Ottoman troops encamped near Constantinople. Omar was thenceforward actively employed in the reörganization of the Turkish army, and, still protected by Khosrew Pasha, obtained successively important missions and command in the army. The troubles of Syria, and the Albanian insurrection of 1846, gave him occasion to distinguish himself, and attracted to him the attention of the Sultan. He was sent to the Kurdistan, and succeeded in obtaining the submission of that province, which was nearly independent of the Porte. Named in 1848 to the command of the army, sent to the Danubian provinces, he made the authority of the Sultan respected, while at the same time he respected the susceptibilities and the privileges of those provinces, placed, as they were, under the double protection of Russia and Turkey. The year 1851 was the most brilliant period of the military career of Omar Pasha. Named commander-in-chief of Bosnia, the principal chiefs of which had refused to recognize Tanzimat—that is, the new organization of his empire—he combatted successfully, though with an inferior force, the Beys of that country. At last he was sent to Montenegro, where he found himself for the first time commanding an army of 30,000 men. The intervention of Austria, as is known, put a term to that expedition before decisive operations could be commenced. At the present date, Omar Pasha is at the head of nearly 100,000 men in the Crimea.
OMAR PASHA.
EDWARD EVERETT.
Edward Everett, an American orator, scholar, and diplomatist, was born in Dorchester, Massachusetts, in April 1794. His father was a respectable clergyman in Boston; and his elder brother was minister at the court of Spain. He received his early education at Boston, and entered Harvard college when little more than thirteen years old, leaving it with first honors four years later, undecided as to a pursuit for life. He turned his attention for two years to the profession of divinity; but, in 1814, he was invited to accept the new professorship of Greek literature at Cambridge, Massachusetts, with permission to visit Europe. He accepted the office; and, before entering on its duties, embarked at Boston for Liverpool. He passed more than two years at the famous university of Göttingen, engaged in the study of the German language and the branches of learning connected with his department. He passed the winter of 1817–18 at Paris. The next spring he again visited London, and passed a few weeks at Cambridge and Oxford. While in England, he acquired the friendship of some of the most eminent men of the day; among others, of Scott, Byron, Jeffrey, Campbell, Mackintosh, Romilly, and Davy. In the autumn of 1818, he returned to the continent, and divided the winter between Florence, Rome, and Naples. In the spring of 1819, he made a short tour in Greece. Mr. Everett came home in 1819, and entered at once upon the duties of his professorship. Soon after his return, he became the editor of the ‘North American Review,’ a journal, which, though supported by writers of great ability, had acquired only a limited circulation. Under its new editor, the demand increased so rapidly that a second and sometimes a third edition of its numbers was required. One of his first cares as editor was, to vindicate American principles and institutions against a crowd of British travelers and critics, who were endeavoring to bring them into contempt. The spirit with which he performed his task checked this system of assault; and Campbell, who had inadvertently admitted into ‘The New Monthly Magazine’ a paper of the same description, made a handsome amende. In 1824, Mr. Everett delivered the annual oration before the Phi-Beta-Kappa Society, at Cambridge, Massachusetts. The entire discourse was favorably received; but the peroration, being an apostrophe to Lafayette, who was present, touched a chord of sympathy in an immense audience, already excited by the unusual circumstances of the occasion. This was the first of a series of orations and addresses delivered by Everett on public occasions of almost every kind during a quarter of a century, and lately collected in two volumes. Up to 1824, he had taken no active interest in politics; but his articles in the review had evinced his acquaintance with the wants and spirit of the nation, and his recent oration had brought him prominently before the public. The constituency of Middlesex, Massachusetts, without any solicitation on his part, returned him to congress by a great majority over the regular candidate. For ten years he sat in congress, and proved himself a working member, never taking advantage of his superior powers to detain the house with oratorical display, but taking part in every debate of importance. In 1835, he retired from congress, and was for four successive years chosen governor of Massachusetts. In 1839, he was again a candidate for the same honor, but was defeated on local questions by a majority of one out of more than 100,000 votes. In 1841, he was appointed to represent the United States at the court of St. James, a position for which he was peculiarly qualified by his knowledge of the European tongues, and his acquaintance with the then mooted boundary question. Although the secretaryship of state at Washington was held by four different statesmen, of various politics, during Everett’s mission, he enjoyed the confidence and approbation of all. His firmness, high intelligence, and assiduous habits, won him great respect in England; and his scholarship was recognized in the bestowal of the degree of D. C. L. by the universities of Oxford and Cambridge. He returned to America in 1845, and was chosen president of Harvard college, which office he resigned in 1849. He now lives at Boston, employed on his promised ‘Treatise on the Law of Nations.’
WASHINGTON IRVING.
Washington Irving was born in the city of New York, April 3, 1783, in which place his father, William Irving, had been settled as a merchant some twenty years. After receiving an ordinary school education, at the age of sixteen, he commenced the study of the law. Three years later he contributed, under the signature of Jonathan Oldstyle, a series of letters to the ‘Morning Chronicle,’ a newspaper of which his brother, Peter Irving, was editor. These juvenile essays attracted much notice at the time, were extensively copied by other journals, and in 1823 or 1824 were collected and published without the sanction of the author. In 1804, in consequence of ill health, he sailed for Bordeaux on a visit to Europe, and traveled through the south of France to Nice, where he took a felucca to Genoa, in which city he remained some two months. He then went by sea to Sicily, made the tour of the island, crossed from Palermo to Naples, passed through Italy, meeting Allston at Rome, who strongly recommended his devoting himself to art, thence over the St. Gothard, through Switzerland to Paris, where he remained several months. He then went to Holland, whence he embarked for England, where he spent part of the autumn, and returned to New York in March, 1806, completely restored to health. He again resumed the study of the law, and was admitted to the bar in November of that year, but never practiced. Shortly after he took the chief part in ‘Salmagundi,’ the first number of which appeared in January, 1807, and the last in January, 1808. In December the following year, he published his ‘Knickerbocker’s History of New York.’ In 1810, two of his brothers, who were engaged in commercial business, one being at the head of the establishment in New York, and the other in Liverpool, gave him an interest in the concern, with the understanding that he was not to enter into the duties and details of the business, but pursue his literary avocations. During the war with Great Britain, in 1813–14, he edited the ‘Analectic Magazine,’ and in the fall of the latter year, joined the military staff of the governor of the state of New York, as aid-de-camp, and military secretary, with the title of colonel. On the close of the war, May, 1815, he embarked for Liverpool, with the intention of making a second tour of Europe, but was prevented by the sudden and great reverses which followed the return of peace, overwhelming, after a struggle of two or three years, in which Mr. Irving took an active part to avert the catastrophe, the house in which his brothers had given him an interest, and involving him in its ruin. In 1818, he determined to try his pen as a means of support, and commenced the papers of the ‘Sketch-Book,’ which were transmitted piecemeal from London, where he resided, to New York for publication. Three or four numbers were thus published, when, finding that they attracted notice in England, he had them published in a volume, February, 1820, by Mr. John Miller; but he failing shortly after, the work was transferred to Mr. Murray, with a second volume, published in July of that year. Mr. Murray had bought the copyright for £200, but its success far surpassing his expectations, he sent Mr. Irving, of his own accord, first £100, and the sale still increasing, an additional £100. After a residence of five years in England, Mr. Irving removed to Paris in August, 1820, and remained there till July of the following year, when he returned to England and published his ‘Bracebridge Hall’ in London and New York in May, 1822. The following winter he passed in Dresden, returned to Paris in 1823, and crossed to London in May, 1824, to publish his ‘Tales of a Traveler,’ which appeared in August of that year in two volumes, and in four parts in New York. In August, he returned to Paris, and in the autumn of 1825, visited the south of France, spending part of the winter in Bordeaux. In February, 1826, he left that city for Madrid, where he remained two years. Here he wrote the life of ‘Columbus,’ which appeared in 1828. In the spring of 1828, he left Madrid on a tour to the south of Spain, visiting Granada and the main points mentioned in the ‘Chronicles of the Conquest of Granada, by Fray Agapida,’ of which he had made a rough sketch. This he prepared for the press at Seville, and transmitted to London and New York for publication; it appeared in 1829. In the spring of this year he again visited Granada, and resided some three months in the Alhambra, where he collected materials for the work published under that name in 1832. In July he went to England, being appointed secretary of legation to the American embassy in London, which office he held until the return of Mr. M’Lane in 1831, when, after remaining a few months as chargé, he resigned, on the arrival of Mr. Van Buren. While in England, in 1830, Mr. Irving received one of the fifty-guinea gold-medals, provided by George IV, for eminence in historical composition; the other was awarded to Mr. Hallam, the historian. In 1831, the university of Oxford conferred on Mr. Irving the degree of LL.D. In the spring of 1832, he returned to New York, after an absence of seventeen years. His return was greeted on all hands with the warmest enthusiasm; a public dinner was given to him, at which Chancellor Kent presided; and similar testimonials were offered in other cities, but which he declined. In the summer of this year he accompanied Mr. Ellsworth, one of the commissioners for removing the Indian tribes west of the Mississippi, and whom he had met on a tour to the west, on his expedition. The most interesting portion of this journey has appeared in the ‘Tour on the Prairies,’ published in 1835. This was followed in the same year by ‘Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey,’ and ‘Legends of the Conquest of Spain.’ In 1836 he published ‘Astoria,’ and in the following year he published ‘The Adventures of Captain Bonneville.’ In 1839 he entered into an engagement which lasted two years, with the proprietors of the ‘Knickerbocker Magazine,’ to furnish monthly articles for that periodical. In February, 1842, he received, unsolicited, the appointment of minister to Spain. He left for Madrid on the 10th of April of that year. His official duties terminating in the summer of 1846, he returned to this country, and, in 1848, commenced the publication of a revised edition of his works which had long been out of print. In 1849 he published ‘Oliver Goldsmith, a Biography,’ and ‘Mahomet and his Successors,’ 1849–50. He has recently published a life of Washington. Mr. Irving is essentially the man of his works, genial, warm-hearted, and benevolent; so much so, that all who see him would be apt to forget the author in the man. He has a countryseat, ‘Sunnyside,’ on the banks of the Hudson, twenty-five miles from the city of New York, which is now his home.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
William Cullen Bryant, an American journalist and poet, was born at Cummington, Hampshire county, Massachusetts, November 3d, 1794. His forefathers, for three generations, were medical men; but this family penchant for physic did not exist, apparently, in the case of our poet, who changed the professional current by becoming a lawyer. For ten years he followed the tortuous course of legal practice, but at last gave it up for the more genial profession of literature. In 1808, Mr. Bryant published a little collection of poems, written before he had completed his fourteenth year, entitled, ‘The Embargo, and other Poems.’ In 1821, he published at Cambridge, Massachusetts, the volume entitled, ‘The Ages, and other Poems.’ In 1825, he came to New York, when he became one of the editors of the ‘New York Review’ (which, however, had but a short existence), and published several poems and tales, which quickly became popular. From this point he went on successfully, writing in the chief periodical publications, in conjunction with some of the leading American authors of his day, and becoming, moreover, the editor of a New York paper, the ‘Evening Post.’ In 1834–35, and also in 1845, he traveled in Europe, writing descriptions of what he saw for his journal in America. Mr. Bryant again visited Europe in 1849, and on his return published his ‘Letters of a Traveler,’ being a resume of his tours in Europe and this country. He has gained a high reputation by his poems; and his political writings in favor of free trade and free discussion, against monopolies of all kinds, are marked with clearness and vigor. He has labored earnestly to diffuse a taste for the fine arts in this country, and was president of the Apollo Association, prior to its incorporation as the American Art Union.
GEORGE BANCROFT.
George Bancroft, the distinguished American author and historian, was born at Worcester, Massachusetts, in the year of 1800. His father, who was himself an author and a doctor of divinity, gave to his son’s mind the bent and disposition which in after-years conducted him to celebrity, position, and power. Not yet seventeen, Mr. Bancroft graduated at Harvard college, with honors, and soon entered upon a course of literary pursuits, having as their ultimate end the profession of a historian. In 1818, he went to Europe, and there studied at Göttingen and Berlin, enjoying the high advantages of the most thorough system of instruction and the society of distinguished and cultivated men. After an absence of four years, during which he traveled in England, Switzerland, Germany, and Italy, he returned to the United States. His first sphere of labor was naturally in accordance with his previous life, and he was appointed tutor of Greek in Harvard college. A love of intellectual independence and the desire to engraft upon the academic system in New England the German method of instruction, led him in company with a literary friend, to separate labors in the field of instruction, which were pursued for some time in the interior of New England, but afterward abandoned for duties of a more public and permanent character. During the interval of severer labors, Mr. Bancroft made many contributions to American literature, especially from the stores of German thought and intellect, then comparatively sealed, even to educated men in the United States. He early adopted decided political opinions, attaching himself to the democratic party, in whose behalf his first vote was cast. In 1826, in a public oration, afterward published, he announced as his creed ‘universal suffrage and uncompromising democracy;’ and in the ranks of the liberal party he rose to political preferment and distinction rarely attained by one whose career at the outset was so purely that of a scholar. In 1834, Mr. Bancroft published the first volume of his ‘History of the United States,’ a work to which he had long devoted his thoughts and researches and in which he laid the foundation of a reputation at once permanent and universal. The first and two succeeding volumes of the work, comprising the colonial history of the country, were hailed with the highest satisfaction, as exhibiting for the first time, in a profound and philosophical manner, not only the facts but the ideas and principles of American history. In January, 1838, Mr. Bancroft received from President Van Buren the appointment of collecter of the port of Boston, a post of more responsibility than profit, which he occupied until the year 1841, discharging its duties with a fidelity which proved that a man of letters may also be a man of business, in the strictest sense of the term. In 1844, he was the candidate of the democracy of Massachusetts for the office of governor of the state; and though the party was in the minority, his unusually large vote, greater than that which any other democratic candidate has since received, attested his popularity. In the spring of 1845, Mr. Bancroft was called by President Polk to a seat in the cabinet, and the administration of the navy department, over which he presided with an energy and efficiency which, notwithstanding the short period of his connection with it, perpetuated themselves in numerous reforms and improvements, of lasting utility to the naval service. In 1846, he was appointed minister-plenipotentiary to Great Britain, and there represented the United States, until succeeded by Mr. Abbott Lawrence, in 1849. In England, the prestige of Mr. Bancroft’s literary reputation and his high social qualities contributed to enhance the popularity and respect which attached to him during his entire diplomatic career, which was one of complete satisfaction to the government which he represented and to that to which he was accredited. On his return, he fixed his residence in the city of New York, and resumed more actively the prosecution of his historical labors. The fourth volume of his history appeared early in 1852. It includes the opening scenes of the great drama of American independence, and amply sustains the interest and dignity of the work by which Mr. Bancroft has inseparably linked his name with the annals of his country.
WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT.
William Hickling Prescott, an eminent American historian, was born in Salem, Massachusetts, in 1796, the son of an able lawyer, and grandson of that Prescott who commanded our troops at Bunker’s Hill. When he was twelve years of age his family removed to Boston, where Prescott has since resided, and where his classical training, begun in the place of his birth, was continued with success by Dr. Gardiner, a pupil of Dr. Parr. In 1811 he entered Harvard college, and was graduated there in 1814, with honors appropriate to his favorite studies, and with an intention to devote himself to the legal profession. But the great misfortune of his life had already befallen him. Before he had been graduated, an accidental blow had deprived him of the sight of one eye, and the natural consequences soon followed. The other became weakened by the increased labor thrown upon it; and, after a severe illness, during which he was entirely blind, he found the sight of his remaining eye so much impaired, that he was compelled to give up his professional studies and his hopes of success at the bar. The next two years he spent in Europe, traveling for his health in England, France, and Italy, and seeking the aid of the great oculists of London and Paris. He returned to America with renovated health, but for his misfortune found no relief. Still he was not disheartened, but turned with alacrity to those studies which remained yet within his reach. He resolved to become, in the best sense of the word, a historian, and freely gave himself ten years to prepare for the task, by a course of the classical reading he had always loved. He then selected his subject, and, having done this, gave ten years more to his ‘History of Ferdinand and Isabella,’ one of the few important periods in the affairs of modern Europe that seemed to invite the hand of a master. With this great work, in 1838, at the age of forty-two, he appeared before the world as an author, publishing simultaneously in London and Boston. It was received on both sides of the Atlantic, with unhesitating applause. It has since run through many editions, and been translated into German, Italian, French, and Spanish. During his labor on this work, Mr. Prescott’s vision had been somewhat improved by a diminution of the sensibility which had led to earlier inflammations, and which had compelled him to live in a darkened apartment, relying entirely on a reader when collecting his materials. His ‘Conquest of Mexico,’ therefore, first printed in 1843, though prepared largely from manuscript documents, was perhaps a work of less troublesome toil than his first had been. The prompt honors that it received were even more brilliant than those paid to the ‘Ferdinand and Isabella,’ and having before been admitted to several of the distinguished academies of Europe, he was now elected a member of the French institute. His ‘Conquest of Peru’ appeared in 1847. It is marked by the same striking events which distinguished its predecessors, and is, with the exception of a volume of collated miscellanies, his last work. It is understood that he is now engaged in writing a ‘History of Philip II.’ In 1850 he made a short visit to England, where he was received with marked kindness and respect by whatever is most distinguished in society and letters, and where the ancient university of Oxford conferred on him the honorary degree of doctor in the civil law.
HIRAM POWERS.
Hiram Powers, sculptor, was born in Woodstock, Vermont, July 29, 1805. He was the eighth child of a family of nine, and his parents were plain country people, who cultivated a little farm. He acquired such education as the district school afforded, and he also found leisure to get some knowledge of divers kinds of handicraft, among which was the art of drawing. His father finding it difficult to maintain his family upon his farm removed to Ohio, where he shortly after died, and the future artist was thrown upon his own resources. He set out for Cincinnati to seek his fortune, and found employment in a reading-room connected with one of the principal hotels of the city, and afterwards became clerk in a produce store, where he remained until his principal failed. He then found a situation with a clockmaker, by whom he was employed in collecting debts, and afterwards in the mechanical part of the business; but, although this employment was not disagreeable to him, he aspired to some higher branch of the arts. In Cincinnati, he made the acquaintance of a Prussian, who was engaged upon a bust of general Jackson, and with some little instruction in the art of modeling obtained from him, Mr. Powers was soon able to produce busts in plaster of considerable merit, in fact one of his earliest he has declared, himself, to have been unsurpassed in likeness and finish by any of his later works. He then felt that his vocation was the arts, and he formed a connection with the Western Museum at Cincinnati, where, for about seven years, he superintended the artistic department, such as wax-work shows etc. After leaving this place he visited Washington in 1835, hoping to gain some reputation as an artist, which would enable him to increase his business, and furnish him the means of visiting Italy. In this he was not disappointed. After spending some time in the capital engaged in taking the busts of the most eminent men of the day, he was enabled, by the liberality of Mr. N. Longworth, to accomplish his long-cherished scheme; and in 1837 he landed in Florence. For some time after his arrival he continued to devote himself principally to busts, but he soon determined to employ his spare time on the production of an ideal work; the subject determined upon was ‘Eve.’ Just before the model of this statue was completed, Mr. Powers received a visit from the celebrated Thorwalsden, who was then passing through Florence. He expressed himself in terms of high admiration of the artist’s busts; and, in reference to these, declared Powers to be the greatest sculptor since Michael Angelo. The statue of ‘Eve’ also excited his admiration: and to the artist’s apology that it was his first statue, he replied that any man might well be proud of it, as his last. When the model of ‘Eve’ was completed, he began the ‘Greek Slave,’ which was finished in eight months. This, the best known and most admired of all Mr. Powers’ works, has been exhibited throughout the United States, and at the Great Exhibition at London. There are two copies in existence besides the original, one of which recently formed one of the prizes distributed by the Western Art-Union. Among some of his finest works are portraits of Jackson, Webster, Adams, Calhoun, Chief-Justice Marshall and many persons of less eminence. He has also produced some ideal busts; the ‘Proserpine’ is one of the finest.
CITY OF BARCELONA—SPAIN.