Penn and the Indians.

Yet thus could, in a savage-styled land,
A few—reviled, scorn’d, hated of the whole—
Stretch forth for Peace the unceremonious hand,
And stamp Truth, even on a sealed scroll.
They call’d not God, or men, in proof to stand:
They pray’d no vengeance on the perjured soul:
But Heaven look’d down, and, moved with wonder, saw
A compact fram’d, where Time might bring no flaw.

This stanza is in a delightful little volume, entitled “The Desolation of Eyam; the Emigrant, a tale of the American Woods; and other poems: By William and Mary Howitt, authors of the Forest Minstrel, &c.” The feeling and beauty of one of the poems, “Penn and the Indians,” suggested the present [engraving], after a celebrated print from a picture by the late Benjamin West. The following particulars are chiefly related by Mr. Clarkson, respecting the scene it represents.

King Charles II., in consideration of a considerable sum due from the crown for the services of admiral sir William Penn, granted to his son, the ever-memorable William Penn, and his heirs, in perpetuity, a great tract of land on the river Delaware, in America; with full power to erect a new colony there, to sell lands, to make laws, to create magistrates, and to pardon crimes. In August, 1682, Penn, after having written to his wife and children a letter eminently remarkable for its simplicity and patriarchal spirit, took an affectionate leave of them; and, accompanied by several friends, embarked at Deal, on board the Welcome, a ship of three hundred tons burthen. The passengers, including himself, were not more than a hundred. They were chiefly quakers, and most of them from Sussex, in which county his house at Warminghurst was seated. They sailed about the first of September, but had not proceeded far to sea, when the small-pox broke out so virulently, that thirty of their number died. In about six weeks from the time of their leaving the Downs they came in sight of the American coast, and shortly afterwards landed at Newcastle, in the Delaware river.

William Penn’s first business was to explain to the settlers of Dutch and Swedish extraction the object of his coming, and the nature of the government he designed to establish. His next great movement was to Upland, where he called the first general assembly, consisting of an equal number, for the province and for the territories, of all such freemen as chose to attend. In this assembly the frame of government, and many important regulations, were settled; and subsequently he endeavoured to settle the boundaries of his territory with Charles lord Baltimore, a catholic nobleman, who was governor and proprietor of the adjoining province of Maryland, which had been settled with persons of his own persuasion.

Penn’s religious principles, which led him to the practice of the most scrupulous morality, did not permit him to look upon the king’s patent, or legal possession according to the laws of England, as sufficient to establish his right to the country, without purchasing it by fair and open bargain of the natives, to whom, only, it properly belonged. He had therefore instructed commissioners, who had arrived in America before him, to buy it of the latter, and to make with them at the same time a treaty of eternal friendship. This the commissioners had done; and this was the time when, by mutual agreement between him and the Indian chiefs, it was to be publicly ratified. He proceeded, therefore, accompanied by his friends, consisting of men, women, and young persons of both sexes, to Coaquannoc, the Indian name for the place where Philadelphia now stands. On his arrival there he found the Sachems and their tribes assembling. They were seen in the woods as far as the eye could carry, and looked frightful both on account of their number and their arms. The quakers are reported to have been but a handful in comparison, and these without any weapon; so that dismay and terror had come upon them, had they not confided in the righteousness of their cause.

It is much to be regretted, when we have accounts of minor treaties between William Penn and the Indians, that there is not in any historian an account of this, though so many mention it, and though all concur in considering it as the most glorious of any in the annals of the world. There are, however, relations in Indian speeches, and traditions in quaker families, descended from those who were present on the occasion, from which we may learn something concerning it. It appears that, though the parties were to assemble at Coaquannoc, the treaty was made a little higher up, at Shackamaxon. Upon this Kensington now stands; the houses of which may be considered as the suburbs of Philadelphia. There was at Shackamaxon an elm tree of a prodigious size. To this the leaders on both sides repaired, approaching each other under its widely-spreading branches. William Penn appeared in his usual clothes. He had no crown, sceptre, mace, sword, halberd, or any insignia of eminence. He was distinguished only by wearing a sky-blue sash [365] round his waist, which was made of silk net-work, and which was of no larger apparent dimensions than an officer’s military sash, and much like it except in colour. On his right hand was colonel Markham, his relation and secretary, and on his left his friend Pearson; after whom followed a train of quakers. Before him were carried various articles of merchandise; which, when they came near the Sachems, were spread upon the ground. He held a roll of parchment, containing the confirmation of the treaty of purchase and amity, in his hand. One of the Sachems, who was the chief of them, then put upon his own head a kind of chaplet, in which appeared a small horn. This, as among the primitive eastern nations, and according to Scripture language, was an emblem of kingly power; and whenever the chief, who had a right to wear it, put it on, it was understood that the place was made sacred, and the persons of all present inviolable. Upon putting on this horn the Indians threw down their bows and arrows, and seated themselves round their chiefs in the form of a half-moon upon the ground. The chief Sachem then announced to William Penn, by means of an interpreter, that the nations were ready to hear him.

Having been thus called upon, he began. The Great Spirit, he said, 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, 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 him and them 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 with 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 himself with them to repeat it.

That William Penn must have done and said a great deal more on this interesting occasion than has now been represented, there can be no doubt. What has been related may be depended upon. It is to be regretted, that the speeches of the Indians on this memorable day have not come down to us. It is only known, that they solemnly pledged themselves, according to their country manner, to live in love with William Penn and his children as long as the sun and moon should endure.

Thus ended this famous treaty, of which more has been said in the way of praise than of any other ever transmitted to posterity. “This,” said Voltaire, “was the only treaty between those people and the Christians that was not ratified by an oath, and that was never broken.” “William Penn thought it right,” says the abbé Raynal, “to obtain an additional right by a fair and open purchase from the aborigines; and thus he signalized his arrival by an act of equity, which made his person and principles equally beloved. Here it is the mind rests with pleasure upon modern history, and feels some kind of compensation for the disgust, melancholy, and horror, which the whole of it, but particularly that of the European settlements in America, inspires.” Noble, in his Continuation of Granger, says, “He occupied his domains by actual bargain and sale with the Indians. This fact does him infinite honour, as no blood was shed, and the Christian and the barbarian met as brothers. Penn has thus taught us to respect the lives and properties of the most unenlightened nations.”—“Being now returned,” says Robert Proud, in his History of Pennsylvania, “from Maryland to Coaquannoc, he purchased lands of the Indians, whom he treated with great justice and sincere kindness. It was at this time when he first entered personally into that friendship with them, which ever afterwards continued between them, and which for the space of more than seventy years was never interrupted, or so long as the quakers retained power in the government. His conduct in general to these people was so engaging, his justice in particular so conspicuous, and the counsel and advice which he gave them were so evidently for their advantage, that he became thereby very much endeared to them; and the sense thereof made such deep impressions on their understandings, that his name and memory will scarcely ever be effaced while they continue a people.”

The great elm-tree, under which this treaty was made, became celebrated from that day. When in the American war the British general Simcoe was quartered at Kensington, he so respected it, that when his soldiers were cutting down every tree for fire-wood, he placed a sentinel under it, that not a branch of it might be touched. In 1812 it was blown down, when its trunk was split into wood, and cups and other articles were made of it, to be kept as memorials of it.

LINES

On receiving from Dr. Rush, of Philadelphia, a piece of the Tree under which William Penn made his Treaty with the Indians, and which was blown down in 1812, converted to the purpose of an Inkstand.

BY WILLIAM ROSCOE, ESQ.

From clime to clime, from shore to shore,
The war-fiend raised his hateful yell,
And midst the storm that realms deplore,
Penn’s honour’d tree of concord fell.

And of that tree, that ne’er again
Shall Spring’s reviving influence know,
A relic, o’er th’ Atlantic main,
Was sent—the gift of foe to foe!

But though no more its ample shade
Wave green beneath Columbia’s sky,
Though every branch be now decay’d,
And all its scatter’d leaves be dry;

Yet, midst this relic’s sainted space,
A health-restoring flood shall spring,
In which the angel-form of Peace
May stoop to dip her dove-like wing.

So once the staff the prophet bore,
By wondering eyes again was seen
To swell with life through every pore,
And bud afresh with foliage green.

The wither’d branch again shall grow,
Till o’er the earth its shade extend—
And this—the gift of foe to foe—
Become the gift of friend to friend.

In the “Conditions” between William Penn, as Proprietary and Governor of Pennsylvania, and the Adventurers and Purchasers in the same province, “in behalf of the Indians it was stipulated, that, as it had been usual with planters to overreach them in various ways, whatever was sold to them in consideration of their furs should be sold in the public market-place, and there suffer the test, whether good or bad: if good, to pass; if not good, not to be sold for good; that the said native Indians might neither be abused nor provoked. That no man should by any ways or means, in word or deed, affront or wrong any Indian, but he should incur the same penalty of the law as if he had committed it against his fellow-planter; and if any Indian should abuse, in word or deed, any planter of the province, that the said planter should not be his own judge upon the said Indian, but that he should make his complaint to the governor of the province, or his deputy, or some inferior magistrate near him, who should to the utmost of his power take care with the king of the said Indian, that all reasonable satisfaction should be made to the said injured planter. And that all differences between planters and Indians should be ended by twelve men, that is, by six planters and six Indians, that so they might live friendly together, as much as in them lay, preventing all occasions of heart-burnings and mischief. These stipulations in favour of the poor natives will for ever immortalize the name of William Penn; for, soaring above the prejudices and customs of his time, by which navigators and adventurers thought it right to consider the inhabitants of the lands they discovered as their lawful prey, or as mere animals of the brute-creation, whom they might treat, use, and take advantage of at their pleasure, he regarded them as creatures endued with reason, as men of the like feelings and passions with himself, as brethren both by nature and grace, and as persons, therefore, to whom the great duties of humanity and justice were to be extended, and who, in proportion to their ignorance, were the more entitled to his fatherly protection and care.”[366]

The identical roll of parchment given by William Penn to the Indians was shown by their descendants to some English officers some years ago. This information, with the following passages, will be found in the “Notes” to “Penn and the Indians,” the poem, by “William and Mary Howitt,” from whence the motto is taken:—

“What shows the scrupulous adherence of the Indians to their engagements in the most surprising light is, that long after the descendants of Penn ceased to possess political influence in the state, in comparatively recent times, when the Indian character was confessedly lowered by their intercourse with the whites, and they were instigated both by their own injuries and the arts of the French to make incursions into Pennsylvania, the ‘Friends’ were still to them a sacred and inviolable people. While the tomahawk and the scalping-knife were nightly doing their dreadful work in every surrounding dwelling—theirs were untouched; while the rest of the inhabitants abandoned their houses and fled to forts for security,—they found more perfect security in that friendship which the wisdom and virtue of Penn had conciliated, and which their own disinterested principles made permanent.”

In endeavouring to conclude with a specimen of the elegant poem of “William and Mary Howitt,” an unexpected difficulty of selection occurs—it is a piece of continuous beauty that can scarcely be extracted from, without injury to the stanzas selected; and therefore, presuming on the kind indulgence of the amiable authors, it is here presented entire:—

PENN AND THE INDIANS.

“I will not compare our friendship to a chain; for the rain might sometimes rust it, or a tree might fall and break it; but I shall consider you 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.”

W. Penn’s Speech to the Indians.

There was a stir in Pennsylvanian woods:
A gathering as the war-cry forth had gone;
And, like the sudden gush of Autumn floods,
Stream’d from all points the warrior-tribes to one.
Ev’n in the farthest forest solitudes,
The hunter stopped the battle-plume to don,
And turn’d with knife, with hatchet, and with bow,
Back, as to bear them on a sudden foe.

Swiftly, but silently, each dusky chief
Sped ’neath the shadow of continuous trees;
And files whose feet scarce stirr’d the trodden leaf;
And infant-laden mothers, scorning ease;
And childhood, whose small footsteps, light and brief,
Glanced through the forest, like a fluttering breeze,
Followed—a numerous, yet a silent band,—
As to some deed, high, fateful, and at hand.

But where the foe? By the broad Delaware,
Where flung a shadowy elm its branches wide,—
In peaceful garments, and with hands that bare
No sign of war,—a little band they spied.
Could these be whom they sought? And did they fare
Forth from their deserts, in their martial pride,
Thus at their call? They did. No trumpet’s tongue
Had pierced their wild-woods with a voice so strong.

Who were they? Simple pilgrims:—it may be,
Scarce less than outcasts from their native isles,—
From Britain,—birth-place of the great and free,
Where heavenly lore threw round its brightest smiles,
Then why depart? Oh seeming mockery!
Were they not here, on this far shore, exiles,
Simply because, unawed by power or ban,
They worshipped God but would not bow to man?

Oh! Truth! Immortal Truth! on what wild ground
Still hast thou trod through this unspiritual sphere!
The strong, the brutish, and the vile surround
Thy presence, lest thy streaming glory cheer
The poor, the many, without price or bound.
Drowning thy voice, they fill the popular ear,
In thy high name, with canons, creeds, and laws,
Feigning to serve, that they may mar thy cause.

And the great multitude doth crouch, and bear
The burden of the selfish. That emprize,
That lofty spirit of virtue which can dare
To rend the bands of Error from all eyes;
And from the freed soul pluck each sensual care,
To them is but a fable. Therefore lies
Darkness upon the mental desert still;
And wolves devour, and robbers walk at will.

Yet, ever and anon, from thy bright quiver,
The flaming arrows of thy might are strown;
And, rushing forth, thy dauntless children shiver
The strength of foes who press too near thy throne.
Then, like the sun, or thy Almighty Giver,
Thy light is through the startled nations shown:
And generous indignation tramples down
The sophist’s web, and the oppressor’s crown.

Oh might it burn for ever! But in vain—
For vengeance rallies the alarmed host,
Who from men’s souls draw their dishonest gain.
For thee they smite, audaciously they boast,
Even while thy sons are in thy bosom slain.
Yet this is thy sure solace,—that, not lost,
Each drop of blood, each tear,—Cadmean seed,
Shall send up armed champions in thy need.

And these were of that origin. Thy stamp
Was on their brows, calm, fearless, and sublime.
And they had held aloft thy heavenly lamp;
And borne its odium as a fearful crime,
And therefore, through their quiet homes the tramp
Of Rain passed,—laying waste all that Time
Gives us of good; and, where Guilt fitly dwells,
Had made them homes in execrable cells.

We dwell in peace;—they purchased it with blood.
We dwell at large;—’twas they who wore the chain,
And broke it. Like the living rocks they stood,
Till their invincible patience did restrain
The billows of men’s fury. Then the rude
Shock of the past diffused a mild disdain
Through their pure hearts, and an intense desire
For some calm land where freedom might respire.

Some land where they might render God his due,
Nor stir the gall of the blind zealot’s hate.
Some land where came Thought’s soul-refreshing dew
And Faith’s sublimer visions. Where elate,
Their simple-hearted children they might view,
Springing in joy,—heirs of a blest estate:
And where each worn and weary mind might come
From every realm, and find a tranquil home.

And they sought this. Yet, as they now descried
From the near forest, pouring, horde on horde,
Armed, painted, plumed in all their martial pride,
The dwellers of the woods—the men abhorred
As fierce, perfidious, and with blood bedyed,
Felt they no dread? No;—for their breasts were stored
With confidence which pure designs impart,
And faith in Him who framed the human heart.

And they—the children of the wild—why came
They at this summons? Swiftly it had flown
Far through their woods, like wind, or wind-sent flame,
Followed by rumours of a stirring tone,
Which told that, all unlike, except in name,
To those who yet had on their shores been known,
These white men—wearers of the peaceful vest,—
Craved, in their vales, a brother’s home and rest.

On the red children of the desert, fell
The tidings, like spring’s first delicious breath;
For they had loved the strangers all too well;
And still—though reaping ruin, scorn, and death
For a frank welcome, and broad room to dwell,
Given to the faithless boasters of pure faith,—
Their wild, warm feelings kindled at the sight
Of Virtue arm’d but with her native might.

What term we savage? The untutored heart
Of Nature’s child is but a slumbering fire;
Prompt at each breath, or passing touch, to start
Into quick flame, as quickly to retire:
Ready alike, its pleasance to impart,
Or scorch the hand which rudely wakes its ire:
Demon or child, as impulse may impel;
Warm in its love, but in its vengeance fell.

And these Columbian warriors to their strand
Had welcomed Europe’s sons,—and rued it sore,
Men with smooth tongues, but rudely armed hand;
Fabling of peace when meditating gore;
Who, their foul deeds to veil, ceased not to brand
The Indian name on every Christian shore.
What wonder, on such heads, their fury’s flame
Burst, till its terrors gloomed their fairer fame.

For they were not a brutish race, unknowing
Evil from good; their fervent souls embraced
With virtue’s proudest homage to o’erflowing
The mind’s inviolate majesty. The past
To them was not a darkness; but was glowing
With splendour which all time had not o’ercast;
Streaming unbroken from creation’s birth,
When God communed and walked with men on earth.

Stupid idolatry had never dimmed
The Almighty image in their lucid thought.
To him alone their jealous praise was hymned;
And hoar Tradition, from her treasury, brought
Glimpses of far-off times, in which were limned
His awful glory: and their prophets taught
Precepts sublime,—a solemn ritual given,
In clouds and thunder, to their sires from heaven.

And, in the boundless solitude which fills,
Even as a mighty heart, their wild domains;
In caves and glens of the unpeopled hills;
And the deep shadow that for ever reigns
Spirit-like in their woods; where, roaring, spills
The giant cataract to the astounded plains,
Nature, in her sublimest moods, had given,
Not man’s weak lore,—but a quick flash from heaven.

Roaming, in their free lives, by lake and stream;
Beneath the splendour of their gorgeous sky;
Encamping, while shot down night’s starry gleam,
In piny glades, where their forefathers lie;
Voices would come, and breathing whispers seem
To rouse within the life which may not die;
Begetting valorous deeds, and thoughts intense,
And a wild gush of burning eloquence.

Such were the men who round the pilgrims came.
Oh! righteous heaven! and thou, heaven-dwelling sun!
How from my heart spring tears of grief and shame,
To think how runs—and quickly shall have run
O’er earth, for twice a thousand years, your flame,
Since, for man’s weal, Christ’s victories were won;
Since dying, to his sons, love’s gift divine
He gave, the bond of brotherhood and the sign.—

Where shines the symbol? Europe’s mighty states,
The brethren of the cross—from age to age,
Have striven to quench in blood their quenchless hates;
Or—cease their armed hosts awhile their rage,
’Tis but that Peace may half unclose her gates
In mockery; that each diplomatic sage
May treat and sign, while War recruits his power
And grinds the sword fresh millions to devour.

Yet thus could, in a savage-styled land,
A few,—reviled, scorn’d, hated of the whole,
Stretch forth for peace the unceremonious hand,
And stamp Truth, even upon a sealed scroll.
They called not God, or men, in proof to stand:
They prayed no vengeance on the perjured soul:
But heaven look’d down, and moved with wonder saw
A compact framed, where time might bring no flaw.

Yet, through the land no clamorous triumph spread.
Some bursts of natural eloquence were there:
Somewhat of his past wrongs the Indian said;
Of deeds design’d which now were given to air.
Some tears the mother o’er her infant shed,
As through her soul pass’d Hope’s depictions fair;
And they were gone—the guileless scene was o’er;
And the wild woods absorb’d their tribes once more.

Ay, years have rolled on years, and long has Penn
Pass’d, with his justice, from the soil he bought;
And the world’s spirit, and the world’s true men
Its native sons with different views have sought.
Crushing them down till they have risen again
With bloodiest retribution; yet have taught,
Even while their hot revenge spread fire and scath,
Their ancient, firm, inviolable faith.

When burst the war-whoop at the dead of night,
And the blood curdled at the dreadful sound;
And morning brought not its accustomed light
To thousands slumbering in their gore around;
Then, like oases in the desert’s blight,
The homes of Penn’s peculiar tribe were found:
And still the scroll he gave, in love and pride,
Their hands preserve,—earth has not such beside.

Yes; prize it, waning race, for never more
Shall your wild glades another Penn behold:
Pure, dauntless legislator, who did soar
Higher than dared sublimest thought of old.
That antique lie which bent the great of yore,
And ruleth still—Expedience stern and cold,
He pluck’d with scorn from its usurped car
And showed Truth strong, and glorious as a star.

The vast, the ebbless, the engulphing tide
Of the white population still rolls on!
And quail’d has your romantic heart of pride,—
The kingly spirit of the woods is gone.
Farther, and farther do ye wend to hide
Your wasting strength; to mourn your glory flown,
And sigh to think how soon shall crowds pursue
Down the lone stream where glides the still canoe.

And ye, a beautiful nonentity, ere long,
Shall live but with past marvels, to adorn
Some fabling theme, some unavailing song.
But ye have piled a monument of scorn
For trite oppression’s sophistry of wrong.
Proving, by all your tameless hearts have borne,
What now ye might have been, had ye but met
With love like yours, and faith unwavering yet.

The authors of “Penn and the Indians” justly observe in the last note upon their exalted poem, that “it is William Penn’s peculiar honour to stand alone as a statesman, in opposing principle to expedience, in public as well as in private life. Even Aristides, the very beau-ideal of virtuous integrity, failed in this point. The success of the experiment has been as splendid as the most philosophic worshipper of abstract morals could have hoped for or imagined.” These sentences exemplify an expression elsewhere—“Politics are Morals.”

[365] This sash is now in the possession of Thomas Kett, Esq. of Seething-hall, near Norwich.

[366] Mr. Clarkson’s Life of W. Penn.

QUAKERS.
Origin of the Term.

On the 30th of October, 1650, the celebrated George Fox being at a lecture delivered in Derby by a colonel of the parliament’s army, after the service was over addressed the congregation, till there came an officer who took him by the hand, and said, that he, and the other two that were with him, must go before the magistrates. They were examined for a long time, and then George Fox, and one John Fretwell of Staniesby, a husbandman, were committed to the house of correction for six months upon pretence of blasphemous expressions. Gervas Bennet, one of the two justices who signed their mittimus, hearing that Fox bade him, and those about him, “tremble at the word of the Lord,” regarded this admonition so lightmindedly, that from that time, he called Fox and his friends Quakers. This new and unusual denomination was taken up so eagerly, that it soon ran over all England, and from thence to foreign countries.[367] It has since remained their distinctive name, insomuch, that to the present time they are so termed in acts of parliament; and in their own declarations on certain public occasions, and in addresses to the king, they designate themselves “the people called Quakers.” The community, in its rules and minutes, for government and discipline, denominates itself “The Society of Friends.”

[367] Sewel.

The Will
OF JOHN KEATS, THE POET.

To the Editor.

Sir,—Underneath I send you a copy of a document which “poor Keats” sent to Mr. ——, in August, 1820, just before his departure for Italy.

This paper was intended by him to operate as his last will and testament, but the sages of Doctors’ Commons refused to receive it as such, for reasons which to a lawyer would be perfectly satisfactory, however the rest of the world might deem them deficient in cogency:—

Copy.

“My share of books divide amongst my friends. In case of my death this scrap of paper may be serviceable in your possession.

“All my estate, real and personal, consists in the hopes of the sale of books, published or unpublished. Now I wish —— and you to be the first paid creditors—the rest is in nubibus—but, in case it should shower, pay —— the few pounds I owe him.”

Although too late to afford him any satisfaction or comfort, it did “shower” at last; and that, too, from a source which, in its general aspect, bears all the gloominess of a cloud, without any of its refreshing or fertilizing anticipations—I mean the Court of Chancery. This unexpected “shower” was sufficiently copious to enable the fulfilment of all the wishes expressed in the above note. His friends have therefore the gratification of knowing that no pecuniary loss has been (or need have been) sustained, by any one of those with whom he was connected, either by friendship or otherwise.

I am, Sir, &c. O. Z.