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evil. Ye patrician families, that croak, and complain, and forebode the downfall of the republic, here is the origin of your evils. Instead of training your son to waste his time, as an idle young gentleman at large; instead of inculcating on your daughter that the incessant tinkling of a harpsichord, or a scornful and ladylike toss of the head, or dexterity in waltzing, are the chief requisites to make her way in life; if you can find no better employment for them, teach him the use of the grubbing-hoe, and her to make up garments for your servants. Train your son and daughter to an employment, to frugality, to hold the high front and to walk the fearless step of independence. When your children have these possessions, you may go down to the grave in peace as
regards their temporal fortunes. Western Review, 1835.
The SHORES OF THE OHIO.
It was now the middle of November. The weather up to this time had been, with the exception of a couple of days of fog and rain, delightful. The sky has a milder and lighter azure than that of the Northern States. The wide, clean sand-bars stretching for miles together, and now and then a flock of wild geese, swans, or sand-hill cranes, and pelicans, stalking along on them; the infinite varieties of form of the towering bluffs; the new tribes of shrubs and plants on the shores; the exuberant fertility of the soil, evidencing itself in the natural as well as cultivated vegetation; in the height and size of the corn, of itself alone a matter of astonishment to an inhabitant of the Northern States; in the thrifty aspect of the young orchards, literally bending under their fruit; the surprising size and rankness of the weeds, and, in the enclosures where cultivation had been for a while suspended, the matted abundance of every kind of vegetation that ensued, all these circumstances united to give a novelty and freshness to the scenery. The bottom forests everywhere display the huge sycamore, the king of the Western forest, in all places an interesting tree, but particularly so here, and in Autumn, when you see its white and long branches among its red and yellow fading leaves. You may add, that in all the trees that have been stripped of their leaves, you see them crowned with verdant tufts of the viscus or mistletoe, with its beautiful white berries, and their trunks entwined with grape-vines, some of them in size not much short of the human body. To add to this union of pleasant circumstances, there is a delightful temperature of the air, more easily felt than described. There is something, too, in the gentle and almost imperceptible motion," as you sit on the deck of the boat, and see
* This was written, of course, before the age of steamboats.
the trees apparently moving by you, and new groups of scenery still opening upon your eye, together with the view of these ancient and magnificent forests which the axe has not yet despoiled, the broad and beautiful river, the earth and the sky, which render such a trip at this season the very element of
As regards the vanity of the Indian, we have not often had the fortune to contemplate a young squaw at her toilet; but, from the studied arrangement of her calico jacket, from the glaring circles of vermilion on her plump and circular face, from the artificial manner in which her hair, of intense black, is clubbed in a coil of the thickness of a man's wrist, from the long time it takes her to complete these arrangements, from the manner in which she minces and ambles, and plays off her prettiest airs, after she has put on all her charms, we should clearly infer that dress and personal ornament occupy the same portion of her thoughts that they do of the fashionable woman of civilized society. In regions contiguous to the whites, the squaws have generally a calico shirt of the finest colors.
A young Indian warrior is notoriously the most thoroughgoing beau in the world. Bond Street and Broadway furnish no subjects that will undergo as much crimping and confinement, to appear in full dress. We are confident that we have observed such a character, constantly occupied with his paints and his pocket-glass, three full hours, laying on his colors, and arranging his tresses, and contemplating, from time to time, with visible satisfaction, the progress of his growing attractions. When he has finished, the proud triumph of irresistible charms is in his eye. The chiefs and warriors, in full dress, have one, two, or three broad clasps of silver about their arms; generally jewels in their ears, and often in their noses; and nothing is more common than to see a thin, circular piece of silver, of the size of a dollar, depending from the nose, a little below the upper lip.
Nothing shows more clearly the influence of fashion: this ornament, so painfully inconvenient as it evidently is to them, and so horridly ugly and disfiguring, seems to be the utmost finish of Indian taste. Painted porcupine-quills are twisted in their hair Tails of animals hang from their hair behind. A necklace of bear's or alligator's teeth, or of claws of the bald eagle, hangs loosely down, with an interior and smaller circle of large red beads; or, in default of them, a rosary of red hawthorns surrounds the neck. From the knees to the feet, the legs are ornamented with great numbers of little, perforated, cylindrical pieces of silver or brass, that emit a simultaneous tinkle as the person
walks. If to all this he add an American hat, and a soldier's coat of blue, faced with red, over the customary calico shirt of the gaudiest colors that can be found, he lifts his feet high, and steps firmly on the ground, to give his tinklers an uniform and full sound, and apparently considers his appearance with as much complacency as the human bosom can be supposed to feel. This is a very curtailed view of an Indian beau; but every reader competent to judge will admit its fidelity, as far as it goes, to the description of a young Indian warrior when prepared to take part in a public dance.
WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING, 1780–1842.
“Thou livest in the life of all good things;
“Farewell, good man, good angel now! this hand
Then leap to thread the free unfathoin'd blue.
“When that day comes, oh, may this hand grow cold,
William Ellery Channing was born at Newport, Rhode Island, April 7, 1780. His father was William Channing, Esq., an eminent lawyer, and his mother was the daughter of William Ellery, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. He graduated at Harvard University in 1798, with the highest honors of the institution, and, after leaving college, pursued the study of theology. He became distinguished as a preacher, and at nearly the same time received an invitation from two religious societies in Boston to settle with them as their pastor. He accepted the call from the church in Federal Street, which was then the smaller and weaker of the two; and his ordination took place on the 1st of June, 1803.
The society rapidly increased under his charge, his reputation and influence in the community became marked and extensive, and his assistance was soon eagerly sought in a broader sphere of exertion and usefulness. In 1812, he was appointed “Dexter Lecturer on Biblical Criticism” in Harvard University; but the state of his health did not allow him to enter on the duties of the office, and he resigned it the following year. He was then chosen a member of the Corporation of the college, and held a seat in this board till 1826. In 1820, the honorary degree of D.D. was conferred on him. In 1822, he visited Europe for his health, which was somewhat improved by the voyage; but a feeble constitution and liability to disease proved great impediments to his labors through his life, and it is astonishing how much, with such drawbacks, only accomplished.
In 1830, when the anti-slavery feeling began to take more outward form in Boston, Dr. Channing's sympathies were warmly with it, though he did not then join the ranks of the “abolitionists,” technically so called. His interest in the subject, however, increased from year to year, and in 1831 he published his work on slavery, which showed that his whole heart was in the great cause of humanity." In October, 1834, he preached a sermon to his people upon the mob violence exerted in Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Cincinnati, and other cities in the country, against the friends of liberty. In 1837, he addressed his celebrated Letters to Henry Clay against that nefarious plot to extend the area of slavery, the annexation of Texas. In 1840, he reviewed Joseph John Gurney's Letters on West India Emancipation ; and in 1842, he delivered an address at the anniversary of the abolition of slavery in the West Indies, held August 1, at Lenox, Massachusetts. This was his last public address. His health had been very feeble for a long time, and, being taken with typhus fever, his exhausted frame sunk under it, and he died October 2, 1842. His end was calm and peaceful. Sustained by the consolations of religion, he met, undismayed, his summons into the future world, assured of a happy immortality.
Of the moral purity of Dr. Channing's character, it is scarcely possible to speak too highly. In every relation of life, he deserved unqualified praise. His conduct was a daily exhibition of the characteristic evangelical virtues, purity of heart, ardent love to God, habitual obedience to his will, benevolence to man, and those amiable qualities which shed a constant sunshine through the breast of their possessor, and strongly endeared him to all within the circle of his friendship and acquaintance. In the latter period of his life, he took a deep and earnest interest in the cause of Freedom, at a time when such a position was uniformly attended, to a greater or less degree, by the coldness or loss of friends, by obloquy, reproach, misrepresentation, ostracism from accustomed social circles, and, in some parts of the country, by mobs and personal violence.”
Dr. Channing's numerous contributions to the “Christian Examiner” and other reviews, together with his sermons, addresses, and miscellaneous works, have been
! “There is one word that covers every cause to which Channing devoted his talents and his heart, and that word is FREEDOM. Liberty is the key of his religious, his political, his philanthropic principles. Free the slave, free the sers, free the ignorant, free the sinful. Let there be no chains upon the conscience, the intellect, the pursuits, or the persons of men. Free agency is the prime distinction and privilege of humanity. It is the first necessity of a moral being. Extinguish freedom, and you extinguish humanity. Tyranny is spiritual murder, as sin is moral suicide.”—Discourse of Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D. 2 Though of a frame so attenuated and feeble that one might fear that the very wind would blow him away, he had a high and dauntless soul, a moral courage that shone most illustrious when such qualities were most needed ; and when, in November, 1837, the news of the murder of Owen P. Lovejoy, in Alton, Illinois, for defending his free press, reached Boston, he headed a petition to the civil authorities for the use of Faneuil Hall for a meeting of citizens, to express their disapprobation of such deeds of lawless violence. It is commentary enough upon * the character of soul required at that time to head such a petition, to say that, even with the name of Channing in the most conspicuous position, it was refused. Men who thus stand out boldly for the right, regardless of consequences, deserve to be held up as an example for imitation to all coming generations.
collected and published in six volumes, by his nephew, William E. Channing, which have passed through numerous editions. Among the most admired of his general writings are his Remarks on the Character and Writings of John Milton; on Bonaparte; on Fenelon; and on Self-Culture. Of the last it has been justly said, that “its direct appeal to whatever of character or manliness there may be in the young, is almost irresistible.”
THE PURIFYING INFLUENCE OF POETRY.
We believe that poetry, far from injuring society, is one of the great instruments of its refinement and exaltation. It lifts the mind above ordinary life, gives it a respite from depressing cares, and awakens the consciousness of its affinity with what is pure and noble. In its legitimate and highest efforts, it has the same tendency and aim with Christianity, that is, to spiritualize our nature. True, poetry has been made the instrument of vice, the pander of bad passions; but when genius thus stoops, it dims its fires, and parts with much of its power; and even when poetry is enslaved to licentiousness and misanthropy, she cannot wholly forget her true vocation. Strains of pure feeling, touches of tenderness, images of innocent happiness, sympathies with what is good in our nature, bursts of scorn or indignation at the hollowness of the world, passages true to our moral nature, often escape in an immoral work, and show us how hard it is for a gifted spirit to divorce itself wholly from what is good. Poetry has a natural alliance with our best affections. It delights in the beauty and sublimity of outward nature and of the soul. It indeed portrays with terrible energy the excesses of the passions; but they are passions which show a mighty nature, which are full of power, which command awe, and excite a deep though shuddering sympathy. Its great tendency and purpose is to carry the mind be. yond and above the beaten, dusty, weary walks of ordinary life; to lift it into a purer element, and to breathe into it more profound and generous emotion. It reveals to us the loveliness of nature, brings back the freshness of youthful feeling, revives the relish of simple pleasures, keeps unquenched the enthusiasm which warmed the spring-time of our being, refines youthful love, strengthens our interest in human nature by vivid delineations of its tenderest and loftiest feelings, spreads our sympathies over all classes of society, knits us by new ties with universal being, and, through the brightness of its prophetic visions, helps faith to lay hold on the future life.
We are aware that it is objected to poetry that it gives wrong views and excites false expectations of life, peoples the mind with shadows and illusions, and builds up imagination on the ruins of wisdom. That there is a wisdom against which poetry wars—the