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poh! I have a thousand things to do yet, and have not time to die. To-be-sure, when my time comes-when Heaven so wills it, I must go; so must all, young and old-but I have no reason to believe, from this affair, that a very speedy departure has been decreed for me.-But enough of this, too; it is rather in the P. P. style, the importance of a man to himself.

I should be extaciated, (as old Col. Laval, my neighbor, calls it,) to meet you in Albemarle, in Buckingham, or any where, this summer; and, if my health should make it necessary, somewhere or other, I will go.

I am distressed at the cause which carries you from home. Alas, my friend, this is rather a scurvy world, after all. I could be very melancholy, if I would, when I reflect on it—" but grieving's a folly." All that remains for us is to do the best we can, and acquire the stoicism of Shakspeare's "who fortune's buffets and rewards with equal patience takes:"-so, "Away with melancholy, nor doleful changes ring, on life," &c.

By-the-bye, did you ever see such a miserable fist as the Neapolitans have made of it? Are these the descendants of Brutus and Cato? O shame and disgrace unspeakable and indelible, in such a cause! I had begun to feel the same sort of throbbing with which my heart beat, near thirty years ago, in the cause of France and was already panting to go to Naples, and take a hand with them-was chaunting every morning, as soon as I awoke,

"Merrily every bosom boundeth,

Merrily oh, merrily, oh!

Where the song of Freedom soundeth,
Merrily oh, merrily oh!”

When, behold this miserable, mean, pitiful, sneaking capitulation arrives. O, how different from the movement of France, in the youth of her revolution! Even at this moment my blood runs cold, my breast swells, my temples throb, and I find myself catching my breath, when I recall the ecstacy with which I used to join in that glorious apostrophe to Liberty in the Marseilles Hymn, “O Liberty! can man resign thee, once having felt thy gen'rous flame." And then the glorious, magnificent triumphs of the arms of France, so every way worthy of her cause! O,

how we used to hang over them, to devour them, to weep and sing, and pray over these more than human exertions and victories! And how were the names of those heroes of Liberty, "in our flowing cups, freshly remembered," and celebrated almost to idolatry! Alas! where are they, and where is their cause now?

But France was great and glorious even in her transition, and in her fall. As for these yelping Neapolitan puppies, the only fate worthy of them is to perish in their own grotto del cano. But can this be the end of it? Can this be the end of such a cause; can Heaven suffer it? Are kings and tyrants, only, worthy of its care?

I cannot, yet, but hope that with the political light which the last half century has shed upon the cause of human liberty, and which has been so extensively diffused throughout Europe, illustrated by the great and steady movement of our political ship through the ocean of human affairs, that cause will not expire. They cannot believe all that has passed a feverish dream, and so turn over and go to sleep again, in the long night of despotism, while they have before them the waking reality of our gov

ernment.

The tyrants may have quelled the Carbonari, and extinguished some of the coal-pits in Naples, but Vesuvius and Ætna yet burn; so does Cotopaxi :—and so, also, I trust, does and will, the cause of Liberty, till the tyrants of the earth are buried under its eruptions.

Remember me affectionately to Tucker and Holmes.

I write in my office, in great haste.

Heaven bless you! Let me hear from you.

Your friend, in sempiternum.

WM. WIRT.

During this summer Mr. Wirt, in company with his family, made a journey to the north, and spent some time in the neighborhood of Saratoga, Lake George, and other places of note connected with the war of Independence. To him, who had been 'till now an entire stranger to this region, this was a journey of most absorbing interest. The beauty of the country was fascination itself to one so capable of feeling it; but the revolu

tionary associations were far more potent to charm him than even the scenery. This tour continually suggested to him the most lively and affectionate remembrances of his old friend in Virginia, William Pope, who was somewhat distinguished in the circle of his acquaintance for his assiduous devotion to the preservation of every incident belonging to the personages and history of the war of 1776. Mr. Wirt, therefore, had scarcely got home from his journey, before he sat down to pour out, in a letter to Pope, the whole story of his travel over this enchanted ground. The letter will speak for itself. But as it refers to subjects which had supplied many an hour of merriment to the parties in this correspondence, and which cannot be understood by the reader without a preliminary explanation, I take occasion to furnish this, by recording an anecdote which may yield some amusement in the perusal.

Mr. Pope told many excellent stories,-indeed, was somewhat famous for the irresistible comic effect he could impart to a narrative in which variety of characters was required to be described. The bar of Virginia will long retain the traditions of his good-fellowship and amusing talent, as his contemporaries still delight to remember them.

The reference to Charles Colley, will be intelligible by the following story, which was one that often disturbed the gravity of Mr. Pope's associates. I give it very nearly in the words of Mr. Wirt himself, from some memoranda in my possession.

"To enable you to enter into the story," says the Attorney General,-"I must remind you that, before the Revolution, there was very little intercourse between the colonies. A poor man in Virginia who, at that day, had had the good fortune to have crossed the line into Maryland, on one side, or North Carolina, on the other, was considered by his neighbors as a sort of prodigy, and gave himself airs of consequence, upon the strength of his travels, and considered himself as fully invested with the traveller's privilege as Bruce or Munchausen.

"At the commencement of the war, troops were marched from Virginia to the aid of Massachusetts. Amongst the militia destined for this service on one occasion, went Charles Colley, the hero of this story, who was the son of a poor planter in the

barren county of Louisa. Charles was an overgrown, gawky lad, entirely illiterate, who considered a march to Boston pretty much in the light of a journey to the other world. He performed his tour of duty as a soldier, in the company of Capt. Johnson, in the third Virginia regiment, commanded by Col. Tom Marshall.

"Before they marched they had a motto, worked upon their hunting-shirts-" Liberty or Death"-but Colley objected to it in his own case, and proposed an amendment. 'Liberty or Death,' he affirmed, 'was too blood-thirsty ;'-so he desired his sister to mark his shirt differently, and insert Liberty or be Crippled.' In the course of his campaigns he was in the battles of Brandywine, Germantown and White Plains; and when the war was over he was one of but eleven of his original company who survived to return to their home in Louisa.

"On the evening after his return, his father collected his country neighbors to hear Charles talk about the wars and foreign parts, and to eat water-melons and drink cider.

"William Pope, then a lad of fifteen,"-continues Mr. Wirt,"was an unbidden guest at this feast-a sly dog, with an eye for the ludicrous, a zest for humor, and a power of mimicry which I have never seen surpassed. More droll things have happened to this same William Pope, or in his presence, than to any other man with whom I was ever acquainted. His eye and his relish for the ludicrous were so quick and perpetually on the alert that nothing escaped him. He saw the joke afar off, and was often in convulsions of laughter, whilst others were gaping and wondering what the d-1 was the matter.

"You are to imagine half a dozen country clowns, rather advanced in life, dressed in Osnaburg shirts and trowsers, with bare feet, assembled on the occasion. The father is spokesman to Charles, and intent upon his object-to draw him out.

"After spitting his tobacco juice out of one corner of his mouth and wiping his lips with his sleeve, he speaks in a drawling, snuffling voice :—

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Well, Charles, have you got nothing to tell your neighbors about your travels? "

Why, father," says Charles, in the same tone,-" By blood! I saw so much, that I don't know whare to begin." "Can't you tell how far you went to the North?"

"By blood, I went so far to the North, that the North Star was to the South!"

After a pause of wonder and exclamation amongst the company, the father asks," Did n't you larn no songs at camp?"

"O yes,―a heap."

"Well, can't you give us one?"

"I've got such a cold, father, that I hardly think I can sing." Here Charles tries to get up a cough.

"Well, anyhow, only try. We're all friends here."

The company all join in, and cry out, "Come on, Charley, try it."

"Well," says Charles, "I'll try it, to 'bleege you, just to shew a willing mind."

Upon this, Charles gets up and leans his head against the arch over the fire-place, as if in meditation. Then, after a few preparatory coughs, he begins his song,-throwing his head back, and singing low and slow, and very much through the nose. At the end of every verse, he drops his head and shakes it, with solemn emphasis, by way of increasing the effect. The song runs thus:

Come, all ye bold Virginians, I'd have you for to know It's for to help the

Bostons You must prepare to go. Our king, he has fell out with us, And courage scems to

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