¹ This Tragedy is now in the press of Messieurs Saunders and Otley, (with whom Mr. Bulwer has made an exclusive arrangement for the issuing of his works here simultaneously with their appearance in England,) and will be published forthwith. We are indebted to the attention of these gentlemen for Act I, in anticipation, copied from the original MS.

ACT I.

SCENE I.—A Room in Whitehall. At the back, folding doors hung with black crape. Henry Martin—Harrison—Ireton.

IRETON. Does the crowd gather still?

HARRISON. Ay! Round the door
The godless idle cluster; nor with ease
Can our good guards—the tried men of the Lord—
Ward off the gapers, that, with thirsty mouths,
Would drink, as something sacred, the mute air
Circling the dust of him that was a king.

MARTIN. Ev'n as I passed the porch, a goodly cit,
Round and tun-bellied, plucked me by the robe:
‘Sir, can I see the king?’ quoth he. I frowned:—
‘There is no king!’ said I. ‘The man called Charles
Is the same clay as yours and mine. Lo! yonder
Lies, yet unburied, a brave draper's corpse;
Go ye and gaze on that!’ And so I passed.
Still the crowd murmured—‘We would see the king!’

IRETON. Ay, round the vulgar forms of royalty,
Or dead or quick, the unthinking millions press;
They love the very mummery of their chains,
And graceless walks unsceptred Liberty
To their coarse gaze. 'Twas a bold deed, that death!

HARRISON. A deed we ne'er had had the souls to do,
But for the audible mandates of the Lord.
I did not sleep seven nights before my hand
Signed that red warrant; and e'en now, methinks
Midnight seems darker and more sternly still
Than it was wont to do!

IRETON. A truce with this.
When saw ye last the General?

MARTIN. Scarce an hour
Hath joined the Past, since I did leave him praying.

IRETON. The pious Cromwell!—'Tis a blessed thing
To have a lodge above, and, when the air
Grows dim and rank on earth, to change the scene,
And brace the soul in thoughts that breathe of Heaven.
He bears him bravely then, that virtuous man?

MARTIN. Bravely; but with a graver, soberer mien
Than when we councilled on the deed now done.

IRETON. Yea, when he signed the warrant, dost thou mind
How, with the pen yet wet, he crossed thy face,
My honest Harry! ('twas a scurvy trick!)
And laughed till merry tears coursed down his cheek,
To see thy ruddy hues so streaked with black?
Ha! Ha!—and yet it was a scurvy trick!
And thou didst give him back the boon again,
And both laughed loud, like mad-caps at a school,
When the grim master is not by. I was
The man who, next to Cromwell, planned the act
Which sealed old England's freedom; yet that laugh
Made me look back—and start—and shudder!

MARTIN. Tush!
Thou know'st thy kinsman's merry vein what time
The humor's on him. I'll be sworn, nor he
Nor I thought lightlier of the solemn deed
For that unseemly moment;—'twas the vent
Of an excited pulse; and if our own,
The scaffold we were dooming to the Stuart,
We should have toyed the same.

HARRISON. Why prate ye thus—
Lukewarm and chill of heart? When Barak broke
The hosts of Sisera, after twice ten years
Of bondage, did the sons of Israel weep?
Or did they seek excuses for just mirth?
No; they sang out in honest joy—“Awake!
Captivity is captive! and the stars
Fought from their courses against Sisera.”
Our Sisera is no more—we will rejoice!

IRETON. (aside to Martin) Humor him Harry, or we 'scape not so
This saintly porcupine of homilies
Bristling with all the missiles of quotation:
Provoke him,—and he pricks you with a text.
(aloud) Right, holy comrade, thou hast well rebuked us.
But to return to earth. The General feels,
My Harry, how the eyes of the dumb world
Are fixed on us—how all of England's weal
Weighs on our shoulders, and with serious thought
Inclines him to the study of the HOUR:
For every moment now should womb designs,
And in the air we breathe the thundercloud
Hangs mute:—may Heaven disperse it on our foes!

MARTIN. Ireton, his soul foresees, and is prepared.
He will not patch new fortune with old fears,
Nor halt 'twixt doubt and daring. We have done
That which continued boldness can but bless;
And on the awful head we have discrowned
Must found our Capitol of Liberty!

HARRISON. (who has been walking to and fro, muttering to himself, suddenly turns round)
Who comes? thou hast ill omen on thy brow.
Art thou—nay, pardon!—soldier of the Lord!

SCENE II.—To them Sir Hubert Cecil.

CECIL. Where is the General? Where the lofty Cromwell?

IRETON. Young Cecil! Welcome, comrade! Just from Spain?
What news I pray? The dust upon thy garb
Betokens weary speed.

CECIL. False heart, away!
Where is thy master, bloodhound?

IRETON. Art thou mad?
Is it to me these words?—Or that my sword
Were vowed to holier fields, this hand——

CECIL. (fiercely) That hand!
Look on it well. What stain hath marred its white
Since last we met? And you, most learned Martin,
And you, text-mouthing Harrison—what saws
Plucked from the rotten tombs of buried codes,
What devilish garblings from the holy writ,
Gave ye one shade of sanction for that deed
Which murdered England's honor in her king?

HARRISON. (interrupting Martin and Ireton, as they are about to reply)
Peace! peace, my brethren! Leave to me the word:
Lo, my soul longs to wrestle with the youth.
I will expound to him. Thus saith the Lord——

CECIL. Blaspheme not! keep thy dark hypocrisies
To shroud thee from thyself! But peace, my heart!
I will not waste my wrath on such as these.
Most honest Ireton, did they tell me false,
Or is thy leader here? thy kinsman, Ireton?—
Oh God! hath stout-armed Cromwell come to this!—
The master deathsman of your gory crew?

IRETON. I would he were, young madman, to requite
Thy courteous quoting of his reverent name.
Go seek our England's David at his hearth,
And chide the arm that struck Goliah down.

HARRISON. I will wend with thee, rash idolator!
So newly turned to the false gods of Horeb;
My soul shall wrestle with thee by the way.

CECIL. (to Harrison, who is about to follow him)
Butcher, fall back!—there is a ghost behind thee,
That, with a hueless cheek and lifeless eye,
Forbids thee henceforth and for aye to herd
With men who murder not. And so farewell!
(exit Cecil)

HARRISON. (looking fearfully around)
A ghost! said he, a ghost?

MARTIN. Ay, General, ay;
And he who stands upon the deadly brink
Of Cromwell's ire, may well behold the ghosts
He goes so soon to join.
(Enter a Puritan Soldier)

SOLDIER. Worshipful Sirs,
The council of the faithful is assembled,
And the Lord President entreats your presence.

IRETON. Come, Martin; come, bold-hearted Harrison,
Bradshaw awaits.

HARRISON. Get thee behind me, Satan!
I fear thee not! thou canst not harm the righteous.
Ghost, quoth he! ghost! Seest thou a ghost, good Ireton?

IRETON. What, in broad day? Fie, General!

HARRISON. Satan walks
Daily and nightly tempting; but no more!
We'll to the council. Verily, my soul
Darkens at times the noon! The fiend is strong.
(exeunt)

SCENE III.—A Room in Cromwell's House. The Lady Claypole. Edith.

LADY CLAYPOLE. So leave we, then, the Past! The angry sky
Is cleared by that same thunderstroke which cleaves
The roof of kings; the dark time's crowning evil
Is o'er; the solemn deed, that stern men call
Necessity, is done;—now let us hope
A brighter day for England!

EDITH. Who knows Cromwell,
Knows him as one inflexibly austere
In what his head deems justice; but his heart
Is mild, and shrinks from the uncalled-for shedding
Ev'n of the meanest blood: yet would to Heaven,
For his own peace, that he had been less great,
Nor sate as judge in that most fearful court,
Where either voice was peril. What the world
Will deem his choice, lies doubtful in the clouds
That shade the time. Thank God that we are women!

LADY CLAYPOLE. Yea! in these hours of civil strife, when men
Know not which way lies conscience, and the night
Scares the soft slumbers from their haggard eyes
By schemes of what the morrow shall bring forth,
'Tis sweet to feel our weakness, and to glide
Adown the stream of our inactive thought!—
While, on the bank, towers crash and temples fall,
We sail unscath'd; and watch the unvex'd life
Mirror that peaceful heaven, earth cannot mar!
(after a pause, with a smile)
Yet scarce indeed unvex'd, while one wild power
Can rouse the tide at will, and wake the heart
To tempest with a sigh;—nay, blush not, Edith.

EDITH. I have no cause for blushes; and my cheek
Did wrong my thought, if it did speak of shame.
To love!—ah! 'tis a proud, a boastful joy,
If he we love is worthy of our love!

LADY CLAYPOLE. And that, in truth, is Cecil: with his name
Honor walks spotless, and this stormy world
Grows fair before his presence; in his tongue
Lurks no deceit; his smile conceals no frown:
Ev'n in his very faults, his lofty pride
And the hot frankness of his hasty mood,
There seems a heavenly virtue, by the side
Of men who stalk around, and, if they win
Truth to the soul, wear falsehood on the brow.

EDITH. Speak thus forever, dearest! for his praise
Makes thy voice music. Yes, he is all this;
And I, whose soul is but one thought of him,
Feel thought itself can compass not the girth
Of his wide merit. Was I not right to say
I could not blush to love him? Yet, methinks,
Well might I blush to feel that one like Cecil
Has love for Edith!

LADY CLAYPOLE. If, sweet coz, I cease
To praise him, it shall be for sweeter words
Ev'n than his praise!

EDITH. Impossible!

LADY CLAYPOLE. And yet,
Were I a maid that loved as Edith loves,
Tidings of him I loved were sweeter words
Ev'n than his praise.

EDITH. Tidings!—Oh, pardon, coz!—
Tidings from Spain?

LADY CLAYPOLE. No, Edith, not from Spain;
Tidings from London. Cecil is returned.
Just ere we met, his courier's jaded steed
Halted below. Sir Hubert had arrived,
And, on the instant, sought my father.

EDITH. Come!
And I to hear it from another's lips!

LADY CLAYPOLE. Nay, coz, be just: with matters of great weight—
Matters that crave at once my father's ear—
Be sure that he is laden.
(Enter a Servant)

SERVANT. Pardon, Madam!
Methought the General here!

LADY CLAYPOLE. Who asks my father?

SERVANT. Sir Hubert Cecil, just arrived from Spain,
Craves audience with his honor.

LADY CLAYPOLE. Pray his entrance.
Myself will seek the General. (exit servant)
Thank me, Edith!
If now I quit thee, wilt thou thank me less?

EDITH. I prithee stay!

LADY CLAYPOLE. Nay, Friendship is a star
Fading before the presence of Love's sun.
Farewell! Again, those blushes!—Edith, fie!
(exit Lady Claypole)

SCENE IV.—Cecil and Edith.

CECIL. Where is the General?—Where—Oh, Heaven! my Edith?

EDITH. Is there no welcome in that word? Am I
Unlooked for at thy coming?

CECIL. Pardon, Madam!
I—I—(aside) Oh, God! how bitter is this trial!
Why do I love her less? Why fall I not
At her dear feet? Why stand I thus amazed?
Is this not Edith? No! 'tis Cromwell's niece;
And Cromwell is the murtherer of my king!

EDITH. ‘Pardon’ and ‘madam!’—do I hear aright?
Art thou so cold? Do I offend thine eyes?
Thou turn'st away thy face! Well, Sir, 'tis well!
Hubert! still silent! (In a softer voice) Hubert!

CECIL. Oh, for grace!
For heaven's dear grace! speak not in that sweet tone!
Be not so like that shape that was my Edith!

EDITH. (Gazing upon him with surprise and anger, turns as if to
quit the stage, and then aside)
Sure he is ill! Keen travail and the cares
Of these unhappy times have touched the string
Of the o'erlabored brain. And shall I chide him?
I who should soothe? (Approaches and aloud) Art thou not well, dear Hubert?

CECIL. Well! well! the leaping and exultant health
Which makes wild youth unconscious of its clay,
Deeming itself all soul; the golden chain
Which link'd that earth, our passions—with that heaven,
Our hopes—why this was to be well! But now
One black thought from the fountain of the heart
Gushes eternally, till all the streams
Of all the world are poisoned,—and the Past
Hath grown one death, whose grim and giant shadow
Makes that chill darkness which we call ‘the Future!’
Where are my dreams of glory? Where the fame
Unsullied by one stain of factious crime?
And where—oh where!—the ever dulcet voice
That murmured, in the star-lit nights of war,
When the loud camp lay hushed, thy holy name?
Edith is mine no more! (taking her hand) Yet let me gaze
Again upon thee! No! thou art not changed
Ah! would thou wert! In that translucent cheek
The roses tremble, stirr'd as by an air,
With the pure impulse of thy summer soul—
On thy white brow chaste conscience sits serene—
There is no mark of blood on this fair hand—
Yet Cromwell is thy kinsman!

EDITH. By the vows
That we have plighted, look not on me thus!
Speak not so wildly! Hubert, I am Edith!
Edith!—thine own! oh! am I not thine own?

CECIL. My own!—my Edith! Yes, the evil deeds
Of that bold man cast forth no shade on thee,
Albeit they gloom the world as an eclipse
Whose darkness is the prophecy of doom!

EDITH. Hush! hush! What! know'st thou not these walls have ears?
Speak'st thou of Cromwell thus, upon whose nod
Hang life and death?

CECIL. But not the fear of death!

EDITH. What change hath chanc'd, since last we met, to blot
Thy champion and thy captain from thy grace?
Why, when we parted, was not thy last word
In praise of Cromwell? Was he not the star
By which thy course was lighted? Nay, so glowed
His name upon thy lips, that I—ev'n I—
Was vexed to think thou'dst so much love to spare!

CECIL. Ah, there's the thought—the bitter, biting thought!
Boy that I was, I pinned my faith to Cromwell;
For him forsook my kin; renounced my home,
My father's blessing, and my mother's love;
Gave up my heart to him, my thoughts, my deeds,—
Reduced the fire and freedom of my youth
Into a mere machine—a thing to act
Or to be passive as its master wills;
On his broad banner I affixed my name—
My heritage of honor; blindly bound
My mark and station in the world's sharp eye
To the unequal chances of his sword!
But then methought it was a freeman's blade,
Drawn, but with sorrow, for a nation's weal!

EDITH. And was it not so, Hubert?

CECIL. Was it? What!
When (with no precedent, from all the Past—
That solemn armory for decorous Murther!)
Some two score men assumed a people's voice,
And sullied all the labors of long years,
The laurels of a war for equal laws,
By one most tragic outrage of all law!
Oh, in that stroke 'twas not the foe that fell!
'Twas we who fought!—the pillar of our cause;
The white unsullied honor of our arms;
The temperate justice that disdains revenge;
The rock of law, from which war's standard waved;—
The certainty of RIGHT;—'twas these that fell!

EDITH. Alas! I half foreboded this, and yet
Would listen not to fear. But, Hubert, I—
If there be sin in that most doubtful deed—
I have not shared the sin.

CECIL. No, Edith, no!
But the sin severs us! Will Cromwell give
The hand of Edith to his foe?

EDITH. His foe!
What madness, Hubert! In the gloomy past
Bury the wrong thy wrath cannot undo;
Think but in what the future can repair it.

CECIL. I do so, Edith; and, upon that thought,
I built the wall 'twixt Cromwell and my soul.
The king is dead—but not the race of kings;
There is a second Charles! Oh, Edith, yet—
Yet may our fates be joined! Beyond the seas
Lives my lost honor—lie my only means
To prove me guiltless of this last bad deed!
Beyond the seas, oh, let our vows be plighted!
Fly with thy Cecil!—quit these gloomy walls,
These whited sepulchres, these hangman saints!
Beyond the seas, oh! let me find my bride,
Regain my honor, and record my love!

EDITH. Alas! thou know'st not what thou say'st. The land
Is lined with Cromwell's favorers. Not a step
But his eye reads the whereabout. From hence
Thou couldst not 'scape with life, nor I with honor!

CECIL. Ah, Edith, rob not Heaven of every star!
From home, and England, and ambition banished—
Banish me not from thee!

EDITH. What shall I say?
How act—where turn? Thy lightest word hath been
My law—my code of right; and now thou askest
That which can never be.

CECIL. Recall the word!
There's but one ‘never’ for the tongue of Love,
And that should be for parting—never part.
Oh, learn no other ‘never.’

EDITH. Must thou leave me?
Must thou leave England—thy old friends in arms—
The cause of Freedom—thy brave spirit's hope?
Must thou leave these? Is there no softer choice?

CECIL. None other—none!

EDITH. So honor bids thee act;
So honor conquers love! And is there, then,
No honor but for man? Bethink thee, Hubert,
Could I, unblushing, leave my kinsman's home,
The guardian of my childhood—the kind roof
Where no harsh thought e'er entered? For whate'er
Cromwell to others, he to me hath been
A more than parent. In his rudest hour
For me he wore no frown; no chilling word
Bade me remember that I had no father!
Shall I repay him thus:—desert his hearth
In his most imminent hour; betroth my faith
To one henceforth his foe; make my false home
With those who call him traitor; plight my hand
To him who wields a sword against his heart?—
That heart which sheltered me!—oh, never, Hubert!
If thou lov'st honor, love it then in Edith,
And plead no more.
(enter Servant)

SERVANT. The General hath sent word
That, just released from council, he awaits
Sir Hubert Cecil at Whitehall.

CECIL. I come!
(exit Servant)
So fare thee well!

EDITH. (passionately) Farewell!—and is that all?
And part we thus forever? Not unkindly?
Thou dost not love me less? Oh, say so, Hubert!
Turn not away; give me once more thine hand.
We loved each other from our childhood, Hubert;
We grew together; thou wert as my brother,
Till that name grew a dearer. I should seem
More cold—more distant; but I cannot. All
Pride, strength, reserve, desert me at this hour!
My heart will break! Tell me thou lov'st me still!

CECIL. Still, Edith, still!

EDITH. I'm answered—bless thee, Hubert!
One word! one parting word! For my sake, dearest,
Rein thy swift temper when thou speakest to Cromwell.
A word may chafe him from his steady mood
In these wild moments; and behind his wrath
There gleams the headsman's axe. Vex him not, Hubert!

CECIL. Fear not! This meeting hath unmanned my soul,
Swallowed up all the fierceness of my nature
As in a gulf! and he—this man of blood—
He hath been kind to thee! Nay fear not, Edith!
(exit Cecil)

EDITH. He's gone! O God support me! I have done
That which became thy creature. Give me strength!
A mountain crushes down this feeble heart;
Oh, give me strength to bear it, gentle Heaven!
(exit)

SCENE V—A Room at Whitehall; (the same as in Scene I) Enter Cromwell, Ireton, and Martin.

CROMWELL. So be it, then! At Windsor, in the vaults
Of his long line, let Charles's ashes sleep.
To Hubert and to Mildmay we consign
The funeral cares; be they with reverence paid.
Whoever of the mourners of the dead,
The friends and whilom followers would assist
In the grave rite, to them be licence given
To grace the funeral with their faithful wo.
We spurn not the dead lion.

MARTIN. Nobly said.
Wouldst thou I have these orders straight conveyed
To the king's friends?

CROMWELL. Forthwith good Martin.
(exit Martin)
So
With those sad ashes rest our country's griefs.
Henry, no phœnix from them must spring forth;
No second Charles! Within the self-same vault
That shrouds that harmless dust we must inter
Kingly ambition; and upon that day
Proclaim it treason to declare a king
In the King's son! The crown hath passed away
From Saul, and from the godless house of Saul.

IRETON. The Parliament is fearful, and contains
In its scant remnant many who would halt
Betwixt the deed and that for which 'twas done.

CROMWELL. They must be seen to, Henry! Seek me out
This eve at eight; we must confer alone.
Strong meat is not for babes! But of this youth,
This haughty Cecil! Thou hast seen him then?
Is he, in truth, so hot?

IRETON. By my sword, yea!
That which I told thee of his speech fell short
Of its rash madness.

CROMWELL. 'Tis a goodly youth;
Brave and sound hearted, but of little faith,
Nor suited to the hunger of these times,
Which feeds on no half acts! And for that cause,
And in that knowledge, when we had designed
To bring the King to London, I dismissed him
With letters into Spain. We must not lose him!
He is of noble birth; his house hath wealth;
His name is spotless:—he must not be lost!

IRETON. And will not be retained!

CROMWELL. Methinks not so.
He hath the folly of the eyes of flesh,
And loves my niece; by that lure shall we cage him.

IRETON. Yet he is of a race that, in these times,
Have fallen from the righteous.

CROMWELL. Ay, and so
The more his honest courage. In the day
When the king's power o'erflowed, and all true men
Joined in a dyke against the lawless flood,
His sire and I were co-mates—sate with Pym;
On the same benches—gave the self-same votes;
But when we drew God's sword against the king,
And threw away the sheath, his fearful heart
Recoiled before the act it had provoked;
And, halting neuter in the wide extremes,
Forbade his son to join us.

IRETON. But the youth—

CROMWELL. More bravely bent, forsook the inglorious sire,
And made a sire of Cromwell. In my host
There was not one that loved me more than Cecil!
Better in field than prayer, and more at home
Upon his charger than his knee, 'tis true;
But to all men their way to please the Lord!
To heaven are many paths!

IRETON. So near to thee,
And knew not of the end for which we fought?
Dreamt he it was against the man called king,
And not against the thing called kingly?

CROMWELL. So
The young man dreamed; and oft-times he hath said
When after battle he hath wiped his sword,
Oft hath he sighing said, ‘These sinful wars—
Brother with brother, father against son,
Strife with her country, victory o'er her children—
How shall they end? If to the hollow word
Of this unhappy king no truth is bound,
Shall the day come when he, worn out with blood,
Will yield his crown to his yet guiltless son,
And we made sure of freedom by firm laws,
Chain the calm'd lion to a peaceful throne?’

IRETON. The father's leaven still! most foolish hope
To plaster with cool prudence jarring atoms,
And reconcile the irreconcileable—
The rushing present with the mouldering past!

CROMWELL. Thou say'st it, Ireton! But the boy was young
And fond of heart; the times that harden us,
Make soft less thoughtful natures.
(enter a Puritan Soldier)

SOLDIER. Lo! your worship,
The youth hight Hubert Cecil waits thy pleasure!

CROMWELL. Friend, let him enter. Henry, leave us now!
At eight, remember!
(exit Ireton)
It hath lamely chanced
That Cecil should return upon the heat
And newness of these fierce events; a month
Had robbed him of their horror! While we breathe
Passion glides on to Memory:—and dread things,
That scared our thoughts but yesterday, take hues,
That smooth their sternness, from the silent morrow.
(Enter Cecil—Cromwell leaning on his sword at the farther end of the stage, regards him with a steadfast look and majestic mien)
Well, sir, good day! What messages from Spain?
(Cecil presents him despatches—Cromwell glances over them, looking, from time to time, at Cecil)

CECIL. (aside) What is there in this man that I should fear him?
Hath he some spell to witch us from ourselves,
And make our natures minion to his own?

CROMWELL. Plead they so warm for Stuart? 'tis too late!

CECIL. It is too late!

CROMWELL. Since last we parted, Hubert,
He, the high author of our civil wars,
Hath been their victim. 'Twas an evil, Hubert;
But so is justice ever when it falls
Upon a human life!

CECIL. God's mercy!—justice!
Why justice is a consequence of law—
Founded on law—begotten but by law!
By what law, Cromwell, fell the King?

CROMWELL. By all
The laws he left us! Prithee silence, Cecil!
Sir, I might threaten, but I will not:—hold!
And let us, with a calm and sober eye,
Look on the spectre of this ghastly deed.
Who spills man's blood, his blood by man be shed!
'Tis Heaven's first law—to that law we had come—
None other left us. Who, then, caused the strife,
That crimsoned Naseby's field, and Marston's moor?
It was the Stuart:—so the Stuart fell!
A victim, in the pit himself had digged!
He died not, Sir, as hated kings have died,
In secret and in shade—no eye to trace
The one step from their prison to their pall;
He died i' the eyes of Europe—in the face
Of the broad Heaven—amidst the sons of England,
Whom he had outraged—by a solemn sentence,
Passed by a solemn court. Does this seem guilt?
(It might be error—mortal men will err!)
But Guilt not thus unrobes it to the day;
Its deeds are secret, as our act was public.
You pity Charles! 'tis well; but pity more
The tens of thousand honest humble men,
Who, by the tyranny of Charles compelled
To draw the sword, fell butchered in the field!
Good Lord—when one man dies who wears a crown,
How the earth trembles—how the nations gape,
Amazed and awed!—but when that one man's victims,
Poor worms uncloth'd in purple, daily die,
In the grim cell, or on the groaning gibbet,
Or on the civil field, ye pitying souls
Drop not one tear from your indifferent eyes:
Ye weep the ravening vulture when he bleeds,
And coldly gaze upon the countless prey
He gorged at one fell meal. Be still young man;
Your time for speech will come. So much for justice;
Now for yet larger duties: to our hands
The peace and weal of England were consigned;
These our first thought and duty. Should we loose
Charles on the world again, 'twere to unleash
Once more the Fiend of Carnage: should we guard
His person in our prison, still his name
Would float, a wizard's standard, in the air,
Rallying fresh war on Freedom; a fit theme
To wake bad pity in the breasts of men;
A focus for all faction here at home,
And in the lewd courts of his brother kings.
So but one choice remained: it was that choice
Which (you are skilled methinks in classic lore,
And prize such precedent,) the elder Brutus
Made when he judged his children: such the choice
Of his descendant—when, within the senate
He sought to crush, the crafty Cæsar fell.

CECIL. Cæsar may find his type amidst the living;
And by that name our sons may christen Cromwell.

CROMWELL. Men's deeds are fair enigmas—let man solve them!
But men's dark motives are i' the Books of God.
(In a milder tone)
Cecil! thou wert as my adopted son.
Hast thou not still fought by my proper person—
Eat'n at my board—slept in my tent—conceived
From me thy rudiments and lore of war—
Hath not my soul yearned to thee—have I not
Brought thee, yet beardless, into mark and fame—
Given thee trust and honor—nay, to bind
Still closer to my sheltering heart thine own—
Have I not smiled upon thy love for Edith,
(For I, too, once was young,) and bid thee find
Thy plighted bride in my familiar kin—
And wilt thou, in this crisis of my fate,
When my good name stands trembling in the balance,
And one friend wanting may abase the scale,
Wilt thou thus judge me harshly—take no count
Of the swift eddies of the whirlpool time,
Which urge us on to any port for peace,
And set the brand of thy austere rebuke
Upon the heart that loved thee so? Fie! fie!

CECIL. Arouse thine anger, Cromwell! rate me, vent
Thy threats on this bare front—thy kindness kills me!

CROMWELL. Bear with me, son, as I would bear with thee!
Add not to these grim cares that press upon me.
Eke thou not out the evils of the time;
They are enow to grind my weary soul.
Restrain the harsher thoughts, that would reprove,
Until a calmer season, when 'tis given
To talk of what hath been with tempered minds;
And part we now in charity.

CECIL. O Cromwell,
If now we part, it is forever. Here
I do resign my office in thy hands;
Lay down my trust and charge,—

CROMWELL. [hastily] I'll not receive them;
Another time for this.

CECIL. There is no other.
I came to chide thee, Cromwell; ay, to chide,
Girt as thou art with power: but thou hast ta'en
The sternness from my soul, and made the voice
Of duty sound so grating to my ear,
That, for mine honor, I, who fear thee not,
Do fear my frailty, and will trust no more
My conscience to our meeting.

CROMWELL. Wouldst thou say
That thou wilt leave me?

CECIL. Yes.

CROMWELL. And whither bound?

CECIL. The king's no more; and in his ashes sleep
His faults. His son as yet hath wronged us not:
That son is now our king!

CROMWELL. Do I hear right?
Know'st thou, rash boy, those words are deadly? Know'st thou,
It is proclaimed “whoever names a king
In any man, by Parliament unsanctioned,
Is criminal of treason?”

CECIL. So 'tis said;
And those who said it, were themselves the traitors.

CROMWELL. This, and to me!—beware; on that way lies
My limit of forbearance.

CECIL. Call thy guards;
Ordain the prison; bring me to the bar;
Prepare the scaffold. This, great Cromwell, were
A milder doom than that which I adjudge
Unto myself. 'Tis worse than death to leave
The flag which waved above our dreams of freedom—
The Chief our reverence honored as a god—
The bride whose love rose-colored all the world—
But worse than many deaths—than hell itself,
To sin against what we believe the right.

CROMWELL. [moved and aside] And this bold soul I am about to lose!
[Aloud] If me thou canst forget, and all my love,
Remember Edith! Is she thy betrothed,
And wilt thou leave her too? Thou hid'st thy face.
Stay, Hubert, stay; I, who could order, stoop
And pray thee stay.

CECIL. No—no!

CROMWELL. [with coldness and dignity] Then have thy will.
Desert the cause of freedom at her need,—
False to thy chief, and perjured to thy love.
I do repent me that I have abased
Myself thus humbly. Go, Sir, you have leave;
I would not have one man in honest Israel
Whose soul hath hunger for the flesh of Egypt.

CECIL. [approaching Cromwell slowly]
Canst thou yet make the doubtful past appear
Done but in sorrowing justice?—canst thou yet
Cement these jarring factions—join in peace
The friends alike of royalty and freedom,
And give the state, secured by such good laws
As now we may demand, once more a king?

CROMWELL. A king! Why name that word? A head—a chief,
Perchance, the Commonwealth may yet decree!
Speak on!

CECIL. I care not, Cromwell, for the name;
But he who bears the orb and sway of power
Must, if for peace we seek, be chosen from
The Stuarts' lineage. Charles the First is dead:
Wilt thou proclaim his son?

CROMWELL. [laughing bitterly] An Exile, yes! A Monarch, never!

CECIL. Cromwell, fare thee well!
As friends we meet no more. May God so judge
As I now judge, believing thee as one
Whom a bold heart, and the dim hope of power,
And the blind wrath of faction, and the spur
Of an o'ermastering Fate, impel to what
The Past foretells already to the Future.
Dread man, farewell.
[exit Cecil]

CROMWELL. [after a pause] So from my side hath gone
An upright heart; and in that single loss,
Methinks more honesty hath said farewell,
Than if a thousand had abjured my banners.
Charles sleeps, and feels no more the grinding cares,
The perils and the doubts that wait on POWER.
For him, no more the uneasy day,—the night
At war with sleep,—for him are hushed, at last,
Loud Hate and hollow Love. Reverse thy Law,
O blind compassion of the human heart!
And let not death which feels not, sins not—weeps not—
Rob Life of all that Suffering asks from Pity.
[He paces to and fro the scene, and pauses at last opposite the doors at the back of the stage]
Lo! what a slender barrier parts in twain
The presence of the breathing and the dead—
The vanquisher and victim—the firm foot
Of lusty strength, and the unmoving mass
Of what all strength must come to. Yet once more,
Ere the grave closes on that solemn dust,
Will I survey what men have feared to look on.
[He opens the doors—the coffin of the king on the back ground lighted by tapers—Cromwell approaches it slowly, lifts the pall, and gazes, as if on the corpse within]
'Tis a firm frame; the sinews strongly knit;
The chest deep set and broad; save some grey hairs
Saddening those locks of love, no sign of age.
Had nature been his executioner
He would have outlived me! and to this end—
This narrow empire—this unpeopled kingdom—
This six feet realm—the overlust of sway
Hath been the guide! He would have stretched his will
O'er that unlimited world which men's souls are!
Fettered the earth's pure air—for freedom is
That air to honest lips;—and here he lies,
In dust most eloquent—to after time
A never silent oracle for kings!
Was this the hand that strained within its grasp
So haught a sceptre? this the shape that wore
Majesty like a garment? Spurn that clay—
It can resent not; speak of royal crimes,
And it can frown not: schemeless lies the brain
Whose thoughts were sources of such fearful deeds.
What things are we, O Lord, when at thy will
A worm like this could shake the mighty world!
A few years since, and in the port was moored
A bark to far Columbia's forests bound;
And I was one of those indignant hearts
Panting for exile in the thirst for freedom;
Then, that pale clay (poor clay that was a king!)
Forbade my parting, in the wanton pride
Of vain command, and with a fated sceptre
Waved back the shadow of the death to come.
Here stands that baffled and forbidden wanderer,
Loftiest amid the wrecks of ruined empire,
Beside the coffin of a headless king!
He thrall'd my fate—I have prepared his doom:
He made me captive—lo! his narrow cell!
[Advancing to the front of the stage]
So hands unseen do fashion forth the earth
Of our frail schemes into our funeral urns;
So, walking dream-led in life's sleep, our steps
Move blindfold to the scaffold or the throne!—
Ay, to the Throne! From that dark thought I strike
The light which cheers me onward to my goal.
Wild though the night, and angry though the winds,
High o'er the billows of the battling sea
My Spirit, like a bark, sweeps on to Fortune!

MEMOIRS OF MRS. HEMANS.¹

¹ From the Memoirs of Mrs. Hemans, by Chorley—now in the press of Messieurs Saunders and Otley, to whom we are indebted for some of the sheets.

It will be yet more clearly seen, from further portions of Mrs. Hemans' correspondence, with what devotion and gratitude she regarded German literature; she spoke of its language as “rich and affectionate, in which I take much delight:”—how she gratefully referred to its study as having expanded her mind and opened to her new sources of intellectual delight and exercise. For a while, too, she may have been said to have written under the shadow of its mysticism; but this secondary influence had passed away some time before her death. It is not the lot of high minds, though they may pass through and linger in regions where thought loses itself in obscurity, to terminate their career there. The “Lays of many Lands,” most of which appeared in the New Monthly Magazine, then edited by Mr. Campbell, were, we are told by herself, suggested by Herder's “Stimmen der Volker in Liedern.” Her next volume was formed of a collection of these, preceded by “The Forest Sanctuary.”

Mrs. Hemans considered this poem as almost, if not altogether, the best of her works. She would sometimes say, that in proportion to the praise which had been bestowed upon others of her less carefully meditated and shorter compositions, she thought it had hardly met with its fair share of success: for it was the first continuous effort in which she dared to write from the fulness of her own heart—to listen to the promptings of her genius freely and fearlessly. The subject was suggested by a passage in one of the letters of Don Leucadio Doblado, and was wrought upon by her with that eagerness and fervor which almost command corresponding results. I have heard Mrs. Hemans say, that the greater part of this poem was written in no more picturesque a retreat than a laundry, to which, as being detached from the house, she resorted for undisturbed quiet and leisure. When she read it, while in progress, to her mother and sister, they were surprised to tears at the increased power displayed in it. She was not prone to speak with self-contentment of her own works; but, perhaps, the one favorite descriptive passage was that picture of a sea burial in the second canto.

... She lay a thing for earth's embrace,
To cover with spring-wreaths. For earth's?—the wave
That gives the bier no flowers, makes moan above her grave!
On the mid-seas a knell!—for man was there,—
Anguish and love, the mourner with his dead!
A long, low, tolling knell—a voice of prayer—
Dark glassy waters, like a desert spread,—
And the pale shining Southern Cross on high,
Its faint stars fading from a solemn sky,
Where mighty clouds before the dawn grew red:—
Were these things round me? Such o'er memory sweep
Wildly when aught brings back that burial of the deep.
Then the broad lonely sunrise, and the plash
Into the sounding waves!—around her head
They parted, with a glancing moment's flash,
Then shut—and all was still....

The whole poem, whether in its scenes of superstition—the Auto da Fe—the dungeon—the flight, or in its delineation of the mental conflicts of its hero—or in its forest pictures of the free west, which offer such a delicious repose to the mind, is full of happy thoughts and turns of expression. Four lines of peculiar delicacy and beauty recur to me as I write, too strongly to be passed by. They are from a character of one of the martyr sisters.

And if she mingled with the festive train,
It was but as some melancholy star
Beholds the dance of shepherds on the plain,
In its bright stillness present, though afar.

But the entire episode of “Queen-like Teresa—radiant Inez”—is wrought up with a nerve and an impulse, which men of renown have failed to reach. The death of the latter, if, perhaps, it be a little too romantic for the stern realities of the scene, is so beautifully told, that it cannot be read without strong feeling, nor carelessly remembered. And most beautiful, too, are the sudden out-bursts of thankfulness—of the quick, happy consciousness of liberty with which the narrator of this ghastly sacrifice, interrupts the tale, to reassure himself—

Sport on, my happy child! for thou art free!

The character of the convert's wife, Leonor,—devotedly clinging to his fortunes, without a reproach or a murmur, while her heart trembles before him, as though she were in the presence of a lost spirit,—is one of those, in which Mrs. Hemans' individual mode of thought and manner of expression are most happily impersonated. As a whole, she was hardly wrong in her own estimate of this poem: and on recently returning to it, I have been surprised to find, how well it bears the tests and trials with which it is only either fit or rational to examine works of the highest order of mind. But here, also, would criticism be impertinent.

The next work of Mrs. Hemans, and the one by which she is most universally known, was the “Records of Woman,” published in 1828. In this, to use her own words, “there is more of herself to be found” than in any preceding composition. But even the slightest analysis of these beautiful legends would be superfluous; suffice it to say, that they were not things of meditation, but imagined and uttered in the same breath; like every line that she wrote, as far as possible from being a studied exercise. It is true, that in some lyrics more than others, her individual feelings are eagerly put forth—in those, for instance, wherein aspirations after another world are expressed, or which breathe the weary pining language of home sickness, or in which she utters her abiding sense of the insufficiency of fame to satisfy a woman's heart, however its possession may gratify her vanity—or wherein she speaks with a passionate self-distrust of her own art, of the impossibility of performance to keep pace with desire. The fervor with which these were poured forth seriously endangered a frame already undermined by too ardent a spirit, whose consuming work had been aided by a personal self-neglect, childish to wilfulness. So perilously, indeed, was she excited by the composition of Mozart's Requiem, that she was prohibited by her physician from any further exercise of her art, for some weeks after it was written. Few more genuine out-bursts of feeling have been ever poured forth than the three following verses of that poem.

“Yet I have known it long:
Too restless and too strong
Within this clay hath been the o'ermastering flame;
Swift thought that came and went,
Like torrents o'er me sent
Have shaken as a reed, my thrilling frame.
Like perfumes on the wind,
Which none may stay or bind,
The beautiful comes floating through my soul;
I strive with yearning vain,
The spirit to detain
Of the deep harmonies that past me roll!
Therefore disturbing dreams
Trouble the secret streams,
And founts of music that o'erflow my breast;
Something far more divine
Than may on earth be mine,
Haunts my worn heart, and will not let it rest.”

Most of the poems above referred to, were written at Rhyllon; the last and most favorite of Mrs. Hemans' residence at Wales. Some of them will be found colored by a shadow which had recently passed over her lot—the death of her mother. To this, which she always felt as an irreparable loss, will be found not a few touching allusions in many following letters.

A small woodland dingle, near Rhyllon, was her favorite retreat: here she would spend long summer mornings to read, and project, and compose, while her children played about her. “Whenever one of us brought her a new flower,” writes one of them, “she was sure to introduce it into her next poem.” She has unconsciously described this haunt over and over again with affectionate distinctness; it is the scene referred to in the “Hour of Romance,” and in the sonnet which is printed among her “Poetical Remains.”

“Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing,
O far off grassy dell?—And dost thou see,
When southern winds first wake the vernal singing,
The star-gleam of the wood anemone?
Doth the shy ring-dove haunt thee yet—the bee
Hang on thy flowers, as when I breathed farewell
To their wild blooms? and round the beechen tree
Still in green softness, doth the moss bank swell?”

Many of the imaginations which floated through her brain in this retirement, were lost in the more interrupted and responsible life, which followed Mrs. Hemans' departure from Wales; when the breaking up of her household, on the marriage of one of her family, and the removal of another into Ireland, threw her exclusively upon her own resources, and compelled her to make acquaintance with an “eating, drinking, buying, bargaining” world with which, from her disposition and habits, she was ill-fitted to cope. One of these unfinished works was the “Portrait Gallery,” of which one episode, “The lady of the Castle,” is introduced in the “Records.”

CONCLUDING LECTURE

Of the Course on the Obstacles and Hindrances to Education, arising from the peculiar faults of Parents, Teachers and Scholars, and that portion of the Public immediately concerned in directing and controlling our Literary Institutions.

BY JAMES M. GARNETT.

Since the first lecture of the course on the obstacles to all correct education was delivered, so much time has elapsed, and so many of you, probably, have not heard the whole, that some farther recapitulation than was given when I last addressed you, seems necessary fully to understand what I still wish to say in conclusion.

It will be recollected, I hope, that I have endeavored to fix upon parents themselves much the greater portion of the guilt, as well as the folly of creating these obstacles; since they, and the nurses whom they choose, are unquestionably the first moral and intellectual instructers of their children. I tried to prove that the deadly mischief was accomplished by a process commencing almost with their birth—a process which consists in checking or misdirecting the first dawnings of intellect and feeling in these helpless little beings; in teaching their heads, and neglecting their hearts; in cultivating sensual rather than intellectual appetites; in the irregularity of their moral discipline, which encourages or silently permits, at one time, the outbreaking of certain juvenile propensities, which, at another, they will severely punish; in performing this painful duty much oftener from caprice and wrath than sound judgment; in transferring their authority and their duties to others with far too little consideration; in their frequent changes of schools and teachers; in their reckless attacks upon the characters of both; in suffering their children often to choose for themselves—not only where, but what and how they shall be taught; in confounding the mere going to school and confinement in a school-room, with profitable study; in frequently disgusting their children with books in general, and all scholastic learning in particular, by making application to their lessons a punishment, rather than a pleasurable occupation; in preparing them for insubordination, by treating and speaking of the class of teachers as much inferior to themselves, and by taking part against the former, upon almost every occasion where complaints are made by either party; in making holidays seasons for feasting, idleness, and dissipation, rather than of rational recreation and agreeable diversity in the mode of intellectual and moral improvement; in educating their offspring for situations which they will probably never fill, and giving them tastes and desires never likely to be gratified, thereby disqualifying them at one and the same time, for attaining any of the real enjoyments of the present life within their reach, or for gaining the promised blessings of the life to come; but what is worse than all, in presenting a continual variance between their own precepts and practice, and substituting worldly motives as inducements to acquire knowledge, rather than the love and practice of wisdom and virtue, as absolutely essential to happiness, both in our present and future state of existence.

In speaking of the obstacles created by teachers as a class, I charged them with deficiency of moral courage in pursuing the course essential to the maintenance of that high station in society to which all well qualified teachers who faithfully discharge their duties are justly entitled. I accused them of making the business of teaching a mere stepping-stone to some other pursuit, rather than a regular profession for life; and, of course, neglecting the necessary means to give it that respectability and influence in society which it ought to have, and certainly would possess, if they took the same care to prepare themselves to become good teachers, that other men take to distinguish themselves in the particular professions which they have finally determined to pursue. Another charge against them was, that instead of always aiding each other as members of the same fraternity, their insane jealousy often operated in such a way, as to bring their whole class into disgrace and contempt; that their grand panacea for stimulating to study, is emulation—a nostrum, which may perhaps cure the disease of idleness, but will leave in its place those diabolical passions—jealousy, envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness; that their favorite punishments generally are corporeal ones, which can never do more than effect some temporary amendment of their pupil's conduct, without producing any in their bad principles; that the application of these punishments—these skin-deep remedies—is much oftener a process to work off the teacher's own angry passions, than to cure the pupil's faults—these last being considered rather as school annoyances, to be put out of the instructer's way with the least possible trouble and delay, than as deep-rooted diseases of the heart, requiring the utmost tenderness and skill in the methods of cure—diseases too, which must utterly destroy the sufferer's happiness, unless radically conquered. I also endeavored to show, that in their modes of teaching as well as in the books taught, they either obstinately follow the course in which they themselves have been taught, thereby precluding themselves from adopting any real improvements which the progress of society may produce; or they run wild in pursuit of every new project which the reckless spirit of innovation is so constantly obtruding on the public. It was likewise alleged against them, that their efforts, even when most zealously made, were too generally directed, solely to stocking the minds of their pupils with words, instead of being applied with still greater assiduity to fortifying their hearts with just principles of thought and action; that they made education to consist simply in what is called school learning, instead of rendering it a development as perfect as possible, of all our faculties, both intellectual and physical; hence the ascendancy given to mere scholastic and scientific acquirements, over those great moral and religious principles, without a thorough knowledge and practice of which, man, although educated, is little better than a beast of prey, furnished with increased powers of doing mischief. But the worst perhaps of all the faults ascribed to teachers, is, that they rarely manifest any particular interest in the moral and religious improvement of their pupils—any strong anxiety for their future happiness—any great solicitude for the correctness of their conduct, farther than the teacher's own ease and reputation are concerned; in a word, any of those kind, affectionate feelings towards them, which will almost invariably secure their warmest attachment, and at the same time establish an influence over them immeasurably more powerful that can possibly be created by any other means.

In illustrating the obstacles to education created by pupils, I endeavored to show, that they too generally look upon learning as physic, rather than food; that they mistake both the nature and extent of their teacher's authority over them, and consequently, of their own obligations to obedience; that they view all holidays or hours stolen from school as positive gains, rather than losses—at least of time, if nothing else; that to thwart their teachers is a proof of independence—to cheat them, an evidence of genius; that their own tastes and judgments are very soon deemed better guides for them, than their teacher's; that going to school at all, is a business, rather to please their parents than to benefit themselves—a most irksome restraint upon their natural liberty—a bondage which they may break as often as they can; and consequently, that their teachers are jailors, hired to confine, to teaze, and to punish, rather than good friends, ever ready to show them the best paths to knowledge, virtue, and happiness. I charged them generally with mistaking, while at school, the mere mechanical process, called “going through their books,” for thoroughly understanding and mastering their contents; hence such pupils always measure their scholarship, solely by the length of time they spend at school, and the number of pages which they there read, instead of estimating it by the amount of really useful acquirement. I likewise attempted to show that pupilage is viewed by vast multitudes of youth, as the period for idleness—for reckless enjoyment, rather than earnest and assiduous preparation for fulfilling faithfully all the important duties of adult life; that the great moral laws made for the government of mankind in general, were not, as they believe, made for boys and girls at school—or that they may break almost any of them with impunity, provided their teachers do not detect them; that no thought nor care for forming their future characters need molest them, until after they leave school, which will be quite soon enough to undertake so troublesome a business; and, of course, that they may offend as often as inclination prompts them—not only against good manners—but truth, justice, and honor, without the least hazard to their reputations. To crown the obstacles to correct education, created by the faults and errors of youth, I will state one omitted in its proper place, which prevails to a most deplorable extent; it is the belief, that the matters usually taught in schools, such as will enable the pupils to get a college diploma, comprehend the whole of what is called education; and that these requisites to collegiate honors are to be obtained, if at all, merely for worldly purposes, not as auxiliary means only, towards perfecting, as far as practicable, all those admirable faculties bestowed on us by God himself for the noblest of all uses—that of promoting human happiness, both in time and eternity.

Superadded to all these formidable obstructions to education as it should be, many more arise from other classes of society than parents, teachers, and scholars. The chief of these are, the want of persevering zeal in this vital cause, and the general neglect of all whose business it should be to inquire minutely and thoroughly into that part of the management of schools, which, very rarely, if ever, is made the subject of newspaper publication or individual scrutiny. Yet is this, beyond all comparison, the most important; I mean the particular methods of instruction, and the conduct of the teachers towards their pupils both in and out of school.

It is really not enough for the public to be told that at such and such schools, all arts, sciences, languages and accomplishments are taught dirt cheap, and in the shortest imaginable time—admitting the possibility of any such incredible promises being fulfilled. The main points—the great, essential groundwork of all right education, are the moral discipline—the punishments and rewards—but above all, the motives and inducements to study, which the teachers inculcate; for if this part of the process be essentially wrong, no other part can well work rightly. Into all these particulars, continual, earnest, and diligent inquiries should be made by competent judges—not to expose nor to injure individuals, but to supply what is deficient, and to correct what is wrong in all schools. Teachers themselves would not be long in setting about the work with due diligence, when they found public sentiment opposed to any part of their practice; and the community in general more disposed minutely and judiciously to investigate all such particulars relative to the management of schools, as it is always important, should be thoroughly known and understood. Most persons judge of schools by what they hear—not by what they see, or certainly know; and so little concern is usually felt about them, by any but those who have children there, that none else scarcely ever ask any questions on the subject. The consequence is, that although many will occasionally talk, as they do about various other matters which they do not understand, yet they rarely ever judge correctly. Idle gossip—the spirit of detraction—ignorance, and malice—will do infinitely more harm to these establishments, than the partiality of friendship, which is often equally blind, can ever do good; for the work of pulling down is always an easier, and frequently, to many, a much more agreeable task, than building up. Another great benefit which would result from so close and accurate a scrutiny as the one recommended, would be, that the investigators, and through them the public, would learn to make somewhat more charitable estimates of the difficulties which all teachers, especially of large schools, have always to encounter from the faults and vices of their scholars, aggravated by the interference of ignorant, injudicious, and immoral parents. All who would open the eyes of their understanding would certainly discover, that not a few of these difficulties infest even female schools, wherein the common opinion seems to be, at least with most parents in regard to their own daughters, that “nothing can in any wise enter that defileth;” or, in other words, that “the beau ideal” of woman—all innocence, purity and loveliness—is the real character of all her female children, and inseparably attaches to them, wherever found, whether at home or abroad. Such a discovery, possibly, might also lead such all-confiding parents to the painful, but salutary suspicion, that they themselves may have been, by early neglect on their part, the real cause of these sore evils. Notwithstanding these parental hallucinations in regard to daughters, all experience proves that girls differ from boys in their faults and vices, only according to the degree of their exposure in early life, to the contraction of bad principles and bad habits. What, in reality, are schools, either of boys or girls, but the world in miniature, annoyed and distracted by nearly all the same faults and vices—in a mitigated form, it is true, yet still operating to the extent of their respective spheres, and in proportion to the power of the peculiar temptations by which the pupils are assailed, as well as of the good and bad principles which they carry with them from home? This is true as the Gospel itself—yet where are the parents who could bear to have any of these follies and vices ascribed by this rule to their own children, especially if they were daughters, or would believe the accusation, if made? What would become of the luckless teachers who would have candor and hardihood enough to venture on such revolting disclosures? In all probability the loss of employment would be the consequence, if nothing worse befel them. Yet, that disclosures of this kind might very frequently and most justly be made in regard to many individuals in all large schools, none can possibly doubt, who will deliberately reflect on the composition of very many of these institutions. What would be the result of such reflection? Why, that many of the scholars have traits of character nearly as bad as could well be expected at so early a period of life, and habits such as inevitably lead to moral degradation and destruction, if not radically cured during the period of pupilage. Children of all grades of capacity, from the highest to the lowest—of all degrees of moral and literary acquirement, from a considerable portion of culture and improvement, to a very deplorable state of ignorance, idleness, and vice, and of all imaginable varieties of dispositions and tempers, are often found huddled together in these institutions. The unavoidable consequence is, that innumerable obstacles of almost invincible power to obstruct the progress of education, are continually presenting themselves—that numerous acts are committed to deplore, and a thousand things practised for which there can be no cure, unless both parental authority and public sentiment will steadily and most actively co-operate with the teachers, both in devising and applying the proper remedies. But how can this co-operation possibly be made, while the necessity for it is undiscerned—while the obstacles created by each party remain uncorrected, and the current coin between parents and teachers continues to be flattery and deception, instead of full and confidential disclosures by the last, of the children's faults and misdeeds, met by efficient support from the first, in every measure of salutary discipline? A reformation however, in these momentous particulars, is among the last things thought of, in regard to schools, where, in countless instances, the limbs and bodies of the pupils appear to be deemed much better worth training than their hearts and souls. If the first and last lesson taught a child, before it quits its home to be placed under other teachers, be, that the admiration and applause of the world must be the chief objects of pursuit, what success can the subsequent instructers possibly expect, who venture to inculcate a different lesson? What hope can they rationally entertain of substituting the love of wisdom and virtue—the fear of sin, and the holy desire of pleasing our Maker in all things, for the passions of pride, vanity, and ambition, sucked in almost with the mother's milk? Would it do to acquiesce so far in this primary instruction, as to tell the pupils that they must cherish these passions, but beware how they direct them? Would not such prescription be quite on a par in folly with granting a child inclined to drunkenness, liberty to drink every day to the point of intoxication, or with exposing ono who had any other vicious propensity, to opportunities of indulging it? The truth is, that if children are turned over immediately from the parent's to the teacher's hands, with passions rarely or never restrained—vicious inclinations and wills unsubdued—stubbornness, idleness, and insubordination habitually indulged, the tutor who attempts their correction has scarcely a possible chance of success. The very first serious effort would probably soon cause the removal of such pupils, who would be almost sure to complain, and would as surely be believed; for parents who spoil their children, are, most unfortunately, often found to confide in their veracity just in proportion as they should distrust it. But should the teacher's efforts to reform, fail to produce misrepresentations to the parents, they would usually be met by some such remonstrance as the following:—My father and mother never used to care about such things, and why should you? What right have you to condemn and forbid that which they suffered to pass unnoticed, and therefore, probably approved? Is the prospect any better, when there is no chance of appeal from the tutor's authority, nor of improper interference from such parents or guardians as have neither sense nor experience to know what is best for the children? It certainly ought to be, provided the instructers were well qualified for their offices. But alas! they too are often equally unfit, either from temper, ignorance, or subservience to the prevalent follies, prejudices, or culpable practices of the time present. If those whom it seems their interest to please, happen to be wrong-headed—unsettled in their principles, and vicious in their conduct, these suppliant teachers permit all their abstract notions of right to vanish into thin air, and will frequently abandon, not only their modes of teaching, but the matters to be taught, although confident of their great importance, that they may keep in favor with such really worthless patrons. It may be urged, at least, in mitigation of this, as well as several other faults of teachers, that they have to act both a difficult and most arduous part; for they have many wills, opinions, and principles besides their own to consult; many pernicious whims and wayward caprices to encounter; numerous prejudices to overcome; and not a few practices to oppose, which have either the parental sanction openly avowed in their favor, or that silent acquiescence in them, on which most children rely with equal confidence. Possessing little more than a mere nominal authority, and having always much work expected from them—such, for example, as making models of good conduct and literary acquirement out of all kinds of children—not only the well trained, but those who have been immeasurably petted and indulged—not only the talented, but the stupid—teachers are driven to the expedient of taking what generally appears to them “the shortest cut.” This is, if possible, to produce among their pupils, that anxious struggle for pre-eminence and victory over each other in scholarship, which can neither be excited nor kept alive without calling into action some of the worst passions of the human heart. But such struggle being recommended by the imposing misnomer of “noble, generous emulation,” passes without examination into its moral tendencies, and is almost every where resorted to, as the only effectual means to secure diligence, ardor, and perseverance in the pursuit of scholastic knowledge. To fulfil, therefore, the unreasonable expectation of such persons as seem to calculate on a child's education being finished with almost as great despatch as a dexterous cooper sets up and turns off his flour barrels—as well as to save themselves trouble, seems to be the chief, if not the only reason why teachers have so generally cultivated the principle of emulation in their schools, as a species of “king-cure-all.” It is a poor excuse however, for instilling into the youthful mind a poison which rarely fails to baffle all the future efforts of moralists and divines who attempt its extirpation. That it is entirely unnecessary, has been again and again demonstrated by some of the most eminent writers, and most successful teachers who have ever lived. All who are concerned in the business of education should make common cause against this fell destroyer of the soundest principles of instruction; and he or they who could succeed in its utter extinction, would deserve the united blessings of every parent and child in the United States.

The following very striking remarks, from “A practical view of Christian Education in its earliest stages,” by T. Babington, member of the British Parliament, are so apposite to my present purpose, that I cannot forbear to quote them. In speaking of the father's duty, this admirable writer says—“He must hold out examples to his child in such a way as not to excite emulation. To imitate an example is one thing: to rival any person, and endeavor to obtain a superiority over him, is another. It is very true, as is maintained by the defenders of emulation, that it is impossible to make progress towards excellence without outstripping others. But surely there is a great difference between the attainment of a superiority over others, being a mere consequence of exertions arising from other motives, and a zeal to attain this object, being itself a motive for exertion. Every one must see that the effects produced on the mind in the two cases will be extremely dissimilar. Emulation is a desire of surpassing others, for the sake of superiority, and is a very powerful motive to exertion. As such, it is employed in most public schools; but in none, I believe, ancient or modern, has it been so fully and systematically brought into action, as in the schools of Dr. Bell and Mr. Lancaster. Whatever may be the merits of the schools of either of these gentlemen in other respects, (a question which it is unnecessary to enter,) in this they appear to me to commit such an offence against christian morals, that no merits could atone for it. I cannot but think emulation an unhallowed principle of action, as scarcely, if at all, to be disjoined from jealousy and envy, from pride and contention—incompatible with loving our neighbor as ourselves—and a principle of such potency, as to be likely to engross the mind, and turn it habitually and violently from the motives which it should be the great business of education to cherish and render predominant—namely, a sense of duty, and gratitude, and love to God.” Instead of enlarging on this subject, I beg leave to refer to Mr. Gisborne's remarks upon it, in his “Duties of Women.” “If emulation (says he) is an unhallowed motive, it cannot innocently be employed, whatever good effects may be expected from it. We must not do evil that good may come. But if any christian should deem it not absolutely unhallowed, few will deny, I think, that it is questionable and dangerous. Even then, in this more favorable view of emulation, ought it to be used, unless it can be shown to be necessary for the infusion of vigor into the youthful mind, and for securing a respectable progress in literature? I can say, from experience, that it is not necessary for the attainment of those ends. In a numerous family with which I am well acquainted, emulation has been carefully and successfully excluded; and yet the acquirements of the different children have been very satisfactory. I can bear the same testimony with respect to a large Sunday School with which I have been connected for many years. I have often heard of virtuous emulation—but can emulation ever be so characterized in a christian sense? Whether it may in that loose sense of virtue which those adopt who take the worldly principle of honor for their rule, I will not stop to inquire.

“But it is not sufficient not to excite and employ emulation on plan and system, as a stimulus in education—great care ought to be taken to exclude it. And great care will be necessary, for it will be continually ready to show itself; and if not checked, it will soon attain strength, strike its roots deep in the heart, and produce bitter fruits, which, in the eyes of a christian, will be ill-compensated by the extraordinary vigor and energy it will give to scholastic studies. When examples are held out for imitation, (a very different thing, be it remembered, from emulation,) or as warnings, the child must be made sensible that its state in the sight of God is rendered neither better nor worse by the virtues or the faults of others, except so far as they may have influenced, or may have failed to influence, its own conduct—that it ought to love its neighbor as itself, and to rejoice in every advance made by another in what is good, and to lament over all his faults and defects, without one selfish thought being suffered to check the joy or the concern—that it ought therefore to wish all its companions all success in their common studies, with the same sincerity with which it wishes its own success—and to be affected by their faults and failures in the same manner it would be by its own. It should be made sensible, in proportion as it may give way to feelings the reverse of these, that its ‘eye will be evil because others are good’—and it will act in opposition to the injunction, ‘mind not every one his own things, but every one also the things of others,’ and to a whole host of Scriptural precepts and examples. These things must be inculcated, not by lectures in general terms, but by applying such views to all the little incidents which call for them as they successively arise. The child must also be made sensible, how much better it is for himself that his companions should be eminent for laudable attainments and good qualities; for that, in proportion to their excellences in these respects, they will be useful and estimable companions, and ought to be objects of his affection. All little boasts of having done better than this or that brother or sister, and every disposition to disappointment when they succeed best, should be most carefully checked, and the lesson of ‘rejoicing with them that do rejoice, and of weeping with them that weep,’ must be very diligently inculcated.”

To these authorities of Babington and Gisborne, I believe might be added that of every writer of any eminence on the subject of education, from the first who denounced emulation as an unchristian and most pernicious principle of action, to the most distinguished of our own times. Yet, strange to say, it continues to be made the master-wheel of the whole machinery of instruction in almost all the schools of the United States. Very few exceptions can any where be found. The deleterious nostrum is administered far more extensively than any quack medicine ever yet invented—nay, than all of them put together; and common sense and christian morality interpose their warning cries in vain. Parents, teachers, and scholars are all playing into each others hands, (if I may so express myself,) to perpetuate this fatal quackery; but the sin lies principally at the doors of the first. They influence and direct, mediately or immediately, the whole system of education; and if they will not commence the Herculean work of reformation, it must remain an utterly hopeless undertaking, since none else have either the authority or the power to make it. Self-amendment therefore in them, must necessarily precede amendment in others. But how is this to be brought about, when the leaders themselves, or rather those who should be so, in this vital work, are just as blind generally to their own faults, as so many insane persons; while the few who can see them, have not enough moral courage even to attempt their extirpation. The great popularity of emulation is easily explained: it saves parents the difficulty and trouble of explaining and enforcing the duty, demonstrating the advantages, and portraying the pleasures of literary, scientific, and moral acquirements; for teachers also, it is the same labor-saving process; while it imparts to the pupils themselves a stimulus to mental effort, similar to that which alcohol produces on bodily exertion—a stimulus that excites feeling, while it deadens judgment, and irresistibly transforms benevolence into the most unqualified selfishness. And thus it is, that instead of genuine christian morality and true religion being made the only basis of all education, a spurious principle of most pernicious tendency, fatal alike to both, is substituted for them. Such a principle is emulation, however sophistry may disguise, or our own bad passions recommend it. The victory for which it constantly goads us to struggle, must be obtained, cost what it may to the peace, the fame, or the happiness of others.

It may perhaps be objected, that if the moral and religious instruction of children were as much and as closely attended to as I seem to require, no time would be left for any thing else; and consequently, that on the principles here recommended, the mind would soon be miserably contracted by bigotry and fanaticism. Very far should I be, even if I had the privilege, from restraining the powers of the understanding, or limiting their exercise only to moral and religious subjects; although these, if prosecuted to their full extent, embrace quite enough for man's happiness in both worlds. No, God forbid; let these powers be carried to their highest point of attainable perfection—let them be most assiduously, most unceasingly cultivated to the latest period of human life, for such is the divine will of Him who bestowed them all. But I would invariably have it done in perfect accordance with His will, and solely for the promotion of human happiness—our own, of course, as well as that of others. It never should be done, for the wretchedly selfish, contemptible purpose of surpassing each other, and obtaining the applause of beings equally frail, imperfect, and sinful with ourselves.—Shall I be asked, if I would exclude the love of praise from human motives? Assuredly I would, if it cannot be used without being made a paramount principle. For however pure it may appear, at first, there is always so much impurity mixed with it, especially when it results in active emulation, that almost all who are nurtured upon such diet, soon learn to feed upon the garbage of indiscriminate applause, when they cannot procure the nicer dishes of this species of mental aliment. The taste for it is perpetually becoming more and more depraved by indulgence—whereas the love of God, and of wisdom and virtue as his requirements, can never run to excess, nor can ever operate in any other way than to enrich, improve, and exalt the soul for all the great purposes, both temporal and eternal, to which it was originally destined. Shall we be told that the first motive is so much easier to inculcate than the last, as to produce a necessity for resorting to it? I shall continue to deny the fact until the experiment can fairly be made. This has never yet been done in a sufficient number either of families or schools, to furnish the necessary proof, to say nothing of the utter incompatibility of the two kinds of motive as controlling principles of conduct. Let us endeavor to illustrate this by numbers. If a hundred children under the process of education, are constantly urged on in their course by the stimulants of emulation and ambition, for one who is taught that these are not proper motives of action, (and I believe the proportion is still greater,) ought we to wonder that ninety-nine should be found both emulous and ambitious—should be found preferring the lesser to the greater good? Ought we to feel any surprise if human praise, present, palpable, and certain—held up too as the most desirable thing in this world, should be much more highly esteemed, than the remote, and with very many, the doubtful prospect of gaining something, they know not what, in a world to come—by acting as if human praise, however delightful, should not be the mainspring of our conduct in the present life? Yet where shall we turn our eyes or ears, and not find it so? Where shall we search without finding this cancer shooting its fatal roots into the very centre even of the youngest hearts? The process begins with the nursery slang of—“dear, sweet, precious little darling!—ar'n't you the most beautifullest, the best, the smartest little child in the whole world? and sha'n't you be far before them all?” This inordinate, immeasurable excitation is continued in all possible forms and modifications, until the well grown son or daughter is transferred to some distant school with the valedictory dose of—“Farewell, my dearest child—be sure never to let any of your schoolmates get before you in your studies; you must outdo them all, or you will disgrace yourself and family.” With such food, thus seasoned by nurses, parents, teachers, companions and all, from the first dawnings of intellect to its maturity, when the youth of our country issue forth from their schools, academies, and colleges, “with all their blushing honors thick upon them,” where will the young brain be found that will not be turned with pride, vanity, and ambition? Where will be the young lady whose heart will not sicken at the thought of a rival in beauty or accomplishments?—where the young gentleman who would not be ready, should he deem it necessary, to assert his imaginary supremacy with sword and pistol, against all who might appear likely to cross his path, or mount the ladder of worldly honors and distinctions faster than he could? The driest tinder will not sooner blaze from contact with a lighted match, than will the passions of all young men, thus educated, take fire, and consume both others and themselves, if their selfish views of any kind are likely to be disappointed by conflicting claims to selfish gratifications. Can any persons, in their senses, believe it will be enough to save their sons and daughters from pride, vanity, and ambition, occasionally to tell them, “take care, my good children, you must not be either proud, vain, or ambitious,” although they themselves are continually sowing the seed of these vices, and using all suitable means to make them vegetate and ripen. Would it not be stark madness in parents to expect that their sons should obey their injunctions to sobriety, if they placed them under continual temptations to get drunk; or, that their daughters could long remain innocent, if exposed constantly to all the allurements of vice in its most seductive forms? Yet equally mad are all parents who first subject their children to all the corrupting influences of merely worldly morals, and then expect from them such uniform examples of virtuous conduct as can flow from no other imaginable source but the morality and religion of the Gospel of Christ Jesus himself. For the immoral propensities and vices of children, there is no other radical cure under heaven than christianity; but alas! in many, even of the most popular schools in the United States, both christian morals and the christian religion, if not actually a species of contraband, are yet untaught as an essential part of the regular scholastic course.

Human happiness being acknowledged on all hands to be the only legitimate object of all education—happiness both here and hereafter—it has always seemed to me passing strange, that we should act in regard to the vegetable kingdom, where mere abundant fructification is the only object, on much more rational principles than we do in relation to that to which we ourselves belong. For example, from the tops of such plants as man has subjected to his culture, we never expect even leaves, still less fruit, until we have first taken good care to give their roots all the appliances which we believe necessary and proper. But a course nearly opposite is generally pursued with the human subject. We go to work most laboriously upon the head, before we so much as think of the heart, which may well be called the root of all our actions. Teachers themselves too frequently take it for granted, that every thing which ought to be done in this behalf has already been done at home, and is therefore no part of their business. But the deplorable fact is, that in very many cases, nothing, or worse than nothing, has there been done. In every such instance, the all-essential duty, however often neglected, of teachers, is to exert every faculty they possess for remedying so deadly an evil, since no great and permanent good can ever be imparted to the pupil without it. But is this done generally, or even in many instances? To prove that it has not been done, an appeal has been made to the experience of all who have well examined this subject, and I challenge a denial. It has been affirmed that our schools in general, from the lowest to the highest, do not sufficiently attend to the inculcation of moral and religious principles—do not make them, as it were, the foundation, cement, and finishing of all the various materials which contribute to form the superstructure called Education. The charge is certainly a very serious one; but fortunately, if it be unjust, the difficulty of disproving it will not be very great. It may be done, first, by the various public notices of what the conductors of our schools generally promise to do for those confided to their care; and second, by an exposition, fully and faithfully made, how far and in what manner these promises are fulfilled. Shall we find, in a majority of these notices, any thing more than a brief, general declaration, “to attend strictly to the manners and morals of the pupils?” If we can, then are they acquitted so far as public pledges can go. Have we yet been informed, that in a majority of these schools a regular and constant course of moral instruction is given, and that religious principle, not only in the abstract, but in practice, is earnestly and most assiduously inculcated by every means in the power of the teachers? Then ought they to be acquitted also, on the score of performance. But let the appeal be made to these two tests when it may, and the melancholy truth of my assertion will flash conviction on the most incredulous minds. We shall find very many schools where languages, sciences, arts and accomplishments are well taught; while few, very few will be discovered, in which that alone which makes all these things of any permanent value, is taught at all, or taught in such a manner as to enable young people correctly to discriminate between the various species of knowledge, and to assign to each its just measure of real, intrinsic worth. For proof of this assertion, I would ask what body of trustees or visitors (call them what you please,) of our schools, do we ever hear of, making inquiries into any thing more than the literary qualifications and decent characters of those who either have, or offer to take charge of them? Would this be the case?—could it possibly happen, if religious and moral instruction held the rank which it ought to do, in their estimates of the comparative value of the matters to be taught? If the christian code of morals, the christian system of faith, have any advantage whatever over the faith and practice of those who think that they can do very well without christianity, or at least with a mere nominal belief in it, ought such inquiries ever to be neglected?—nay, should it not be considered an imperative duty always to make them? How many of our schools of any kind do we hear of, wherein even the formality of daily prayers, and regular attendance at places of public worship, are either insisted upon or recommended? Is this done in a majority of them? If not, how can the neglect be explained, but on the ground of disbelief in the duty and utility of these practices? And yet we are said to live in a christian community! and much offence, I presume, would be taken, were any person to address the public as if the contrary were the fact. But as trees must be judged by their fruit—not by their names, so must communities as well as individuals be characterized, rather by their practices than their professions.

There is still another and far stronger proof of our assertion, that moral and religious instruction is much and very generally neglected in our schools. Let any one who chooses to make the experiment, take, indiscriminately, any number of young persons, of both sexes, who have just left school, and ask them—“are you members of any particular christian church? If you are not, have you formed any distinct, settled religious opinions in consequence of the course of religious instruction received from your teachers? Has any regular, earnest, unremitting effort been made to instil into your minds the general principles of christianity?” I verily believe that the multitude answering in the negative would shock any one who had the least particle of true religion in him. To this opinion I have been led, not by vague conjecture, but by much inquiry and observation.

It may perhaps be urged, that even theological schools—schools exclusively devoted to moral and religious instruction, sometimes turn out infidels, hypocrites, and profligates upon society. I admit the fact, but deny that any inference can fairly be drawn from it which could, in the slightest degree, invalidate the assertion that moral and religious instruction should ever be made the basis of all education. But one method indeed, occurs to me, by which this vital truth (as I firmly believe it to be) could be rendered even doubtful. It would be fairly to compare, if practicable, the numbers of worthless young persons from all our schools of every kind. Then, if the proportion from theological institutions was greater than from any other, or even should it prove as great, the peculiar kind of instruction there given might well be deemed worthless. But if this proportion really be smaller, almost beyond calculation smaller, as I verily believe it will be found, it must be as clear as a cloudless sun that the religious and moral principles taught in theological schools, are infinitely more available in making good and virtuous men, than all the other principles put together which are taught in other schools, and are consequently greatly superior to them, even for this world's use. Shall I be asked by the scoffers at religion, if I would educate all our boys for parsons? I will reply by another question—will not the scoffers themselves be willing to educate their children for heaven, if there be such a place? If there be not, what could they possibly lose, even in the present life, by having them taught to believe that truth, justice, mercy, and charity in its broadest sense, with all other good qualities that exalt man to his highest state of moral and intellectual excellence, have no other sure foundation, no other permanent sanction, but christianity? As a mere matter of worldly calculation, and upon the supposition that there is error, or at least the risk of it on both sides, any rational man would think that the point should be settled forever, even by so simple an argument as the one used by Crambé with his master Martinus Scriblerus, when invited to join a society of free-thinkers. Crambé's advice was, “by no means to enter into their society unless they would give him sufficient security to bear him harmless from any thing that might happen after this life.” This is a kind of calculation which must always have some weight even with the most reckless, hardened sinner. As here presented in the identical words of Dean Swift, it may possibly have the appearance to some, of unbecoming levity on so momentous a subject. But I trust not, as nothing is more remote from my own intentions. No matter which can possibly engage our attention, can bear the smallest comparison with this in importance; and in this respect, the reformation of our schools throughout the country, is a subject of the deepest—the most vital interest. In many, very many of them, no religious instruction whatever is given; nor indeed, is there any regular, systematic course of moral study pursued as the most essential of the whole course; but (as I have before remarked) languages and sciences—sciences and languages, alternated in all imaginable modes and forms, constitute nearly the whole process of education for our sons; while our daughters, to compensate for their not being allowed to go quite so deep into such matters, have their feet and fingers taught to execute many truly marvellous tricks—and moreover, are instructed in the grand art of getting husbands by “dress and address,” as the quintessence of female education.

The sum and substance of all my remarks on this, as on former occasions, will prove, I hope, that many great and radical obstacles exist to the adoption and practice of a correct system of education, which are far from being necessary evils, although the various mischiefs done by them may be considered as working most fatally on the very vitals of society. Many of these obstacles have been, most justly, as I believe, ascribed to parents—many to teachers, numerous others to scholars, and not a few to the public in general. Whether these last will find any parents willing to acknowledge them, is more than I can tell. But believing that their existence cannot be denied—for they are seen and deeply felt every where—the conclusions to be drawn from such facts remain in their full force.

These are, that the teaching of the heart must always precede that of the head; that right motives must be inspired before good conduct can be expected, and that the Logadian plan of building houses from the tops downwards, must not be so closely imitated in rearing our edifices of education, if we wish them to answer any other than a very temporary and comparatively contemptible purpose. In other words, we must take care always to commence with the foundations, and have them exactly as they should be, or the superstructures can never be either useful or durable to the extent they might be made. These foundations are—not the alphabet, nor the arithmetical characters, nor grammars, nor dictionaries, nor foreign languages, nor sciences—but the love of God and man to be displayed in overt acts rather than by empty professions, and to govern, in fact, the whole life. To make our entire work indestructible hereafter, as well as estimable in the highest degree here, the main pillars, as well as the corner stones and whole groundwork must be—aye, must necessarily, absolutely, unconditionally be, such as will pass inspection in the next life, as well as in the present. This brings us back to what has heretofore been so much and so earnestly insisted upon—the unqualified, the sacred obligation of all who have any thing to do, from first to last, with educating the youth of our country, to make, as far as practicable, not only their motives, but the ultimate ends of their whole course of study, such as may bear examination at the last great and awful day of our final account before the Almighty Judge of heaven and earth. This most momentous truth of a final judgment in another state of existence, for all “our deeds done in the body,” instead of being the first thing taught to our children as soon as their minds are capable of receiving truth at all, is generally left to find its way into them as it may—to be forced upon them in after life, as it rarely fails to be, by the terrors, the remorse of a guilty conscience, reproaching them for the commission of deeds against which early moral and religious instruction might effectually have guarded them. Yes, my friends, if there be any truth in God's word, such instruction would guard—would save them from these terrors and this remorse. What awful responsibility then attaches to all those who neglect to give it! What an appalling consideration should it be, that thousands upon thousands of our youth are taught—so far as parental example can teach, to smother all thoughts of a final judgment in feasting; to drown them in intoxication; to forget them in the long and deadly sleep of a bestial debauch; or to banish them from the heart by the various pursuits of vanity, pride, avarice and ambition! Yet most of these very parents themselves well know, that all such sensualities and indulgences together are utterly unavailing always, to ward off the dark, solemn hour of serious reflection and agonizing remorse, which will come, soon or late, to all offenders against the laws of God. Then rushes on the startling remembrance of all their misspent hours—their vicious pursuits—their criminal deeds, to haunt their guilty imaginations with ceaseless terrors, and to leave them no rest but in the temporary oblivion procured by a repetition of some long practised debauchery or other. Such must inevitably be the fate, in a greater or less degree, of all who act as if no future accountability attached to them for present conduct; unless indeed, their profligacy has been so great, so incessant, as to have silenced entirely “the still, small voice of conscience;” and then, the sooner death sweeps them from the face of the earth the better—certainly for society, and none the worse probably for themselves. But what, my dear friends, does all this prove? Is it not demonstration strong as proof from holy writ, that religious and moral principle should invariably be made the basis of all education, and that nothing which is called education should be suffered to be carried on, unless in close connection with, and subordination to this all-absorbing truth of final and eternal punishment for sin—of final and eternal happiness for a life of holiness and virtue in the present world?

If this reasoning be just, why is it that a course of moral and religious instruction is either entirely omitted, or so little regarded in nearly all our schools, except such as are theological? Could it possibly be the case, if religious and moral principles were deemed just as essential among all orders of men, as in the clerical order? Yet if these principles be equally necessary to all, why is a matter so highly important—so indispensable to the well being and happiness of society—left in a great measure, to chance? Why are young persons at school, suffered to infer from the silence of their instructers, that no particular attention to this subject need be given, unless by those who design to become professional teachers of religion? Is it denied, even by infidels, that the principles and motives of conduct, so far as they can possibly be imparted by human means, are matters of infinitely more importance among the things to be taught, than any others which can be imagined under the name of knowledge? So far then, both believers and unbelievers agree. Both concur in the necessity of first instructing every child in that system of ethics which is to serve them through life as a rule of action; because all other information without this must be stock that they know not how to apply. Yet, neither infidels nor christians generally, if at all, give this vital instruction in any such manner, as to prove to their children, that they estimate it very far above all other, in the scale of real value. The necessity of imparting it being equally admitted by the adherents of the worldly system of morals, and by the believers in that system left to us by our blessed Saviour himself, as the only sure guide to happiness, either here or hereafter, neither party can find any justification for their most shameful neglect. By this, they leave those whom it is their sacred duty to guide, without either chart or compass to steer their course through all the difficulties and dangers of life. Some religious parents and teachers there are, who express such a mortal dread of what they please to call sectarianism, that they will not venture to teach even the great fundamental truths of religion, in which all christians, at least, entirely agree; and thus, religious instruction of every kind is excluded from the course of these marvellously scrupulous persons. Others again, who, without believing one word of the Holy Scriptures, are yet willing, as a matter of prudence, to treat both them and their doctrines with external respect—say, that they teach nothing which is contrary to christian morality and religion. Although it would be easy to prove that silence in such a cause is little, if any better than open hostility, I will meet the assertion in a more direct way, by denying its truth. The fact is, that in every school in the United States, wherein moral and religious instruction is neglected, many things are taught which are contrary to the principles of christianity. To prove this, look at the direction given to the conduct of the pupils—the motives by which they are actuated, and the objects at which they are taught to aim. Are not these all worldly? Are not many of them absolutely forbid by the plainest precepts of christianity? And what more need be asked to demonstrate the truth of my accusation? Numerous exemplifications have already been given of the false morality, and consequently false religion imbibed, if not actually taught, both under the parental roof, and in our schools. In fact, the instances are so abundant, that I have scarcely ever attempted to trace the immoral and irreligious opinions of any persons whatever to their primitive source, without discovering that these opinions were derived chiefly from the precepts and examples of their early instructers. Motives being the source of all actions, and principles their regulators, both must be made what they ought to be, or the actions themselves can never be morally good: yet most teachers appear to think that the principles and motives of their pupils are matters with which they have little or no concern. If their heads be filled with what is called scholastic learning—if they can be made punctually to obey scholastic rules, the instructers generally deem their part of the business of teaching accomplished, and the hearts of their scholars are left to form themselves. But what, in reality, can avail all the scholastic learning in the world, unless the possessors are first inspired with the only true and proper motive for acquiring it, at the same time that they are taught its only justifiable use? This motive is social, philanthropic, heavenly; it is the love of God and his creatures. It impels to unceasing beneficence on earth, and leads us to look to heaven for our final reward. But the motives encouraged at least, if not openly taught in a great majority of schools, as well as by most parents, are essentially selfish and exclusive: for their objects are personal fame and personal aggrandizement, to be gained at any expense whatever, of mortification and suffering to others, which successful rivalry can inflict, or eager, insatiate competition can procure. Such motives and such morality interpose no effectual bar to the indulgence of any strong passion which happens to seize upon the individual governed by them, provided only such indulgence be openly tolerated by fashion, or silently permitted. For example, they never prevent our sons from drunkenness, gambling, or blowing out each other's brains for the most trivial causes imaginable, while they almost encourage, by failing to mark with utter reprobation, a species of profligacy too revolting to be mentioned. In regard to our daughters, the prevalent system of instruction cherishes a passion for dress—for public amusements of all kinds in which females are permitted to join—for company keeping—for general admiration—which unfits them for domestic life, and leaves their hearts a prey to all the tormenting distractions of envy, jealousy, and disappointed pride and vanity. Against these vices so destructive to the happiness of both sexes, I know of no regular course whatever of religious and moral instruction in our schools generally, especially of the preparatory kind. Recitations in languages, and elementary books of science, with a little writing and cyphering, comprise the sum total of the matters taught; and whether the children are Mohammedans, heathens, infidels or christians, is an affair which seems to be thought not properly cognizable by teachers at all. Here let me once more repeat, that I never would make, even had I the power, any alteration whatever in our systems of instruction, which would tend, in the slightest degree, to prevent the youth of our country from reaching the highest attainable excellence in all the justifiable pursuits of life. But I would have it thoroughly and deeply impressed on their hearts, under all circumstances—at every period of their pupilage, and at all times, that truly moral conduct resulting from genuine religious principles, is “the one thing needful,” first and far above all, both for time and eternity. Nothing should ever be taught in any school, high or low, great or small, but in complete subordination to this most momentous, most vital truth: nor should any teacher whatever be suffered to neglect making this the chief object of pursuit for every scholar under his or her care.

This plan alone, with God's blessing to aid it, can ever achieve the so much needed scholastic reforms and amendments in the modes and general scope of parental instruction. This alone can ever materially diminish that enormous mass of vice and crime, with all their soul-sickening consequences, which renders this world a scene of such constant, indescribable wretchedness in so many of its aspects. And who are they, my friends, that make it so? Who are the poor, forlorn, outcast wretches, that have brought disgrace upon their sex, shame on their families, and endless woe upon themselves? Are they not, in almost every case, the miserable victims of infidel opinions imbibed in early youth, under parents and teachers who have incurred the deep and deadly guilt of neglecting to take care of their precious souls, until the critical hours for correcting their evil propensities had forever passed away? Who compose that motley, most pitiable group of both sexes, and of almost all ages, with which our jails and penitentiaries are filled? Who are the shedders of their brother's blood? Who the robbers and murderers for gold, for revenge, for lust? Who the hellish destroyers of female honor, purity and peace—the perpetrators of crimes that carry ruin, misery and death into the peaceful abodes of domestic life, tearing asunder the nearest and dearest ties of our existence, and outraging alike all laws, both human and divine? Are they persons who have been morally and religiously educated from infancy, or such as have been most shamefully, most guiltily neglected in these all important respects—such as have hardly so much as heard of any other bonds—any other fetters to restrain their criminal passions—to prevent their atrocious deeds, than the gossamer filaments of a mere worldly morality? Alas! my friends, the bare contemplation of such heart-rending results, from the neglect or perversion of education, is enough to make every mother of an infant yet guiltless of actual sin, press the little innocent still closer to her bosom than she would do from the ordinary impulse of maternal love, in shuddering apprehension of what may be its future fate. It is enough to make every father tremble in considering the future destiny of his child, lest some neglect of duty, some false instruction, some vicious example on his part, should bring this child of his heart to misery and destruction. Will you then, my dear hearers, do nothing to prevent such consummation, either as regards your own offspring or that of others? Can you, who have so much power—so deep an interest too in this momentous matter—can you deliberately and seriously contemplate these crying evils, this enormous aggregate of human guilt and woe, without ascribing it principally to our defective systems of education, and without some secret dread lest you yourselves individually may have, in some way or other, either directly or indirectly, contributed to augment it? Will you not add to your power of establishing, patronizing and regulating schools, the still more effectual influence of your example in the early instruction of your children, to make education what it should be, in all its branches? Can there be any thing that concerns us in the present life—is there any thing in the whole compass of thought, which should excite half such deep, heart-felt, all absorbing anxiety, as to remove this deadly curse of ignorance and vice from our land and nation? That it is removable—at least in a degree beyond all calculation, greater than we can judge from beholding its present widely spread mischief, none can doubt who believe in the scripture assurance, that if we train up our children in the way they shall go, they will not depart from it; or who confide in the extent to which, by the blessing of God, all human beings may be improved, both in knowledge and virtue, by means of education. Not only our own happiness, but that of our children and children's children, to the latest generation, are at stake; and it depends upon you, my friends, you, who, in full proportion to your numbers, can direct and control the education of the present race, whether this happiness shall be increased or destroyed to a degree which it has never yet reached. Upon your precepts and examples, while your children are under your own care, and upon your choice of preceptors, when you confide them to the care of others, it depends—whether these children shall prove curses or blessings to themselves, to their parents, and to their country. Let all our resources then, both mental and physical—all our available means, both of talent and wealth, be applied to the requisite extent, for the attainment of so glorious a purpose. The individuals who achieve it—if it ever is to be achieved, will merit the highest honors—the richest rewards that this world can bestow, and will enjoy all the happiness promised in the next, to the greatest benefactors of the human race.

And now, my friends, in bidding you farewell, permit me freely, but respectfully, to address my few concluding remarks still more personally to yourselves. Ye parents, who are conscious of faults that obstruct the education of your own offspring and are anxious to mend them—ye who still have children to be instructed, and cherish that deep solicitude for their continual improvement in knowledge and virtue, which it is your most sacred duty to cherish—ye teachers, who justly estimate the nature and extent of the momentous trusts confided to your honor, and the fatal consequences of neglecting to fulfil them—ye young men and maidens, who are still under pupilage—behold, I beseech you, the moral mirror which I have held up to your view. Search it again and again, and if you discern therein any similitude to your own defects, let it not be seen in vain. Oh! suffer it not to pass away “like the morning cloud or the early dew,” but set instantly, earnestly, perseveringly, about the vital work of extirpation, as your only hope for happiness either here or hereafter. Learn to consider—nay, never for a moment to forget, that nothing called education can have a shadow of pretence to be pronounced complete, but that which has for its basis the Gospel of Christ as well as its divine morality—that to act on every occasion as this directs, is true wisdom—and that to gain the power of doing so, you must cherish in your hearts, through all the vicissitudes of life, the same heavenly dispositions and sentiments which the pious Cowper has so feelingly expressed in the following admirable lines.

Thou art the source and centre of all minds,
Their only point of rest, Eternal Word!
From thee departing they are lost, and rove
At random, without honor, hope, or peace.
From thee is all that soothes the life of man,
His high endeavor and his glad success,
His strength to suffer, and his will to serve.
But oh! thou bounteous giver of all good,
Thou art of all thy gifts—thyself the crown.
Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor,
And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.

THE RAINBOW.

“The Rainbow,” by Campbell, “Triumphal Arch,” &c. is indeed a glorious piece, and worthy at once of the subject and the poet. Nor does it derogate much from his genius, though it does a little perhaps from his honesty, that he has borrowed (without acknowledgment) two or three of the finest thoughts and phrases in it from an older bard, a certain Henry Vaughan, who flourished about two centuries ago, and whose poems, says Montgomery, “amidst much harshness and obscurity, show gleams of rare excellence.” Thus these lines of Vaughan,

How bright wert thou when Shem's admiring eye,
Thy burning, flaming arch did first descry;
When Zerah, Nahor, Haram, Abram, Lot,
The youthful world's gray fathers, in one knot,
Did, with intentive looks, watch every hour
For thy new light, and trembled at each shower

evidently suggested that fine stanza of Campbell—

When o'er the green undeluged earth
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign.

But the verse which follows is an admirable addition of his own.

And when its yellow lustre smiled,
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child,
To bless the bow of God.

This finishes the picture, and makes it perfect. And Vaughan's two first lines,

Still young and fine, but what is still in view,
We slight as old and soil'd, though fresh and new,

together with his two last,

Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne,
And minds the covenant betwixt ALL and ONE,

obviously kindled Campbell's two closing stanzas—

As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.
For faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age
That first spoke peace to man.

A splendid improvement indeed! In short, Campbell's Rainbow (or the best part of it, from the fifth verse to the end,) is but a sort of secondary of Vaughan's, though it is not in this case, as in nature, fainter, but triumphantly brighter and more beautiful than the first.¹

¹ Perhaps the reader may like to see Vaughan's piece entire. Here it is.

THE RAINBOW.—By Henry Vaughan.

Still young and fine! but what is still in view
We slight as old and soil'd, though fresh and new;
How bright wert thou when Shem's admiring eye,
Thy burning, flaming arch did first descry;
When Zerah, Nahor, Haram, Abram, Lot,
The youthful world's gray fathers, in one knot,
Did, with intentive looks, watch every hour
For thy new light, and trembled at each shower.
When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair;
Storms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air;
Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours
Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers.
Bright pledge of peace and sunshine! the sure tie
Of thy Lord's hand, the object of his eye!
When I behold thee, though my light be dim,
Distant and low, I can in thine see Him,
Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne,
And minds the covenant betwixt All and One.

RIGHT OF INSTRUCTION.

Quare quoniam de re publica quærimus, hoc primum videamus quid sit id ipsum quod quærimus.

* * * * *

Est igitur, inquit Africanus, res publica res populi; populus autem non omnis hominum coetus quoquo modo congregatus, sed coetus multitudinis juris consensu et utilitatis communione sociatus.

* * * * *

Quare cum penes unum est omnium summa rerum, regem illum unum vocamus, et regnum eius rei publicae statum.

* * * * *

Itaque si Cyrus ille Perses iustissimus fuit sapientissimusque rex, tamen mihi populi res; ea enim est, ut dixi antea, publica; non maxime expetenda fuisse illa videtur, cum regeretur unius nutu. Ac modo si Massilienses nostri clientes per delectos et principes cives summa iusticia reguntur, inest tamen in ea condicione populi similitudo quædam servitutis.

* * * * *

Cur enim regem appellem Jovis optimi nomine hominem dominandi cupidum aut imperii singularis, populo oppresso dominantem, non tyrannum potius?

De Re Publica.

For the Literary Messenger to contain temperate articles upon general politics, and political economy, is in the humble opinion of the individual now writing, as manifestly proper, as it would be obviously the reverse for it to embark in the slightest degree in party strife. He was therefore decidedly pleased with the appearance of an article of the temper and tone of the letter in the last number upon the RIGHT OF INSTRUCTION. That article has so universally been attributed to the pen of the amiable and learned JUDGE HOPKINSON, that it would be affectation not to consider him as its author. This avowal, whilst it renders the boldness of an attempt at reply the more fearfully conspicuous, also renders more glaringly manifest the impropriety of suffering the gauntlet so gallantly thrown by so able and courteous a champion into the teeth of all Virginia's chivalry, to remain unaccepted. The fear that business, or inertness, or a belief that the question is settled, should prevent our distinguished men from entering the lists, and thus leave the impression that the cause of the Honorable Judge was deemed too righteous for our knights to risk the fate of the combat, has induced one little fitted for the controversy, with no little trepidation, to enter the lists. To drop a stale metaphor, I will venture to suggest a few plain reasons for thinking the argument of the Judge not entirely conclusive.

The Virginia doctrine of instructions is thus laid down by the Judge. “I understand that doctrine to be, that the instructions of a State Legislature to a Senator of the United States, are an authoritative lawful command, which he is bound implicitly to obey, and which he cannot disobey without a violation of his official duty as a Senator, imposing upon him the obligation to resign his place if he cannot, or will not, conform to the will of his Legislature.” There is but one fault to be found with this definition, which is the insertion of the word “official” instead of the word “moral.” We hold the obligation to obey instructions or resign to be a moral duty of the man, incident to the acceptance of the office, rather than the official duty of the Senator. The latter duties are prescribed by the constitution, the former are established by general principles of political ethics. This distinction may seem to be rather nice than important, since the establishment of either would lead to the same practical result. But as we are now discussing the propriety of that result, it is important to know precisely upon what principles the right is based, lest we lose our cause by a mistake in terms. If we contended for the official duty of the Senator, we could look only to the constitution for the establishment of the right, but contending for the moral duty as an honorable man and an honest politician, we may look to any source not incompatible with the provisions of that instrument. The learned Judge proceeds, after laying down his definition to state his objections. The doctrine appears to him “to be absolutely incompatible with the cardinal principles of our constitution, as a representative government; to break up the foundations which were intended to give it strength and stability, and to impart to it a consistent, uniform, and harmonious action; and virtually, to bring us back to a simple, turbulent democracy, the worst of all governments—or rather, no government at all.” We Virginians must be permitted to join issue with the Judge upon each of these conclusions, and I for one must confess that my mind is not satisfied either by the ingenuity or learning displayed by him. But as his reasons for his conclusions are developed in the progress of his argument, perhaps it will be better to unfold our objections to his conclusions whilst following his reasoning.

The Judge sustains his views in the first place, by combatting the arguments of some writer in the Richmond Enquirer, who had endeavored, it appears, to sustain the republican doctrine by the federal authority of MESSRS. KING, JAY and HAMILTON, and for this purpose quotes their speeches in the New York Convention, which adopted the federal constitution. The Judge also sustains his opinions upon general principles. He labored under the disadvantage of not having the debates of the New York Convention before him, and was therefore compelled to reason upon the isolated extracts quoted in the Enquirer, without examining the context of the speeches for modifications or explanations of the particular expressions quoted. The present writer having neither the debates in the New York Convention or the Enquirer before him, cannot enter into this branch of the subject. This he regrets, because, although the question is one which must be decided upon its merits, and not upon authority, yet to prove that the federal doctrines of the present day are contrary to those entertained by the founders of their own party, who were eminent and patriotic men, and largely concerned in the foundation of our government, would divest their doctrine of all the respect and sanctity which great names and great antiquity will sometimes give even to principles intrinsically wrong. The Judge then wisely endeavored to defend the federal patriarchs from our republican heresies, and made an effort to carry the war into Africa by showing, that even some of our republican fathers had repudiated our cherished doctrine. But has he succeeded in either? Without entering into that branch of the subject, we may be permitted to glance at his reasoning.

“Let us see. Mr. King is represented to have said, that ‘the Senators will have a powerful check in those who wish for their seats.’ This is most true—and in fact it is to this struggle for place that we owe much of the zeal for doctrines calculated to create vacancies. Mr. King proceeds—‘And the State Legislatures, if they find their delegates erring, can and will instruct them. Will this be no check?’ The two checks proposed, in the same sentence, and put upon the same footing, are the vigilance of those who want the places of the Senators, and the instructions which the State Legislatures can and will give to them. They are said to be, as they truly are, powerful checks, operating with a strong influence on the will and discretion of the Senator, but not as subjecting him, as a matter of duty, either to the reproaches of his rivals or the opinions of the Legislature. To do this, a check must be something more than powerful; it must be irresistible, or, at least, attended by some means of carrying it out to submission—some penalty or remedy for disobedience. I consider the term instruct, as here used, to mean no more than counsel, advise, recommend—because Mr. King does not intimate that any right or power is vested in the Legislature to compel obedience to their instructions, or to punish a refractory Senator as an official delinquent. It is left to his option to obey or not, which is altogether inconsistent with every idea of a right to command. Such a right is at once met and nullified by a right to refuse. They are equal and contrary rights.”

Here were two checks proposed by Mr. King to prevent misconduct in a Senator. The first was a continuing check, and would always operate upon his conduct, unless he was willing to give his rivals a great advantage, and would control him if he wished a re-election. The other was a check in the hands of the Legislature, ready to be applied to the prevention of any specific act of mischievous tendency by the Senator, and seems to have no connection in Mr. King's mind with the first check mentioned. The question put by him seems to imply that his mind considered this check as positively and inevitably effectual in any case in which it might be applied. We must remember that he was arguing in favor of adopting the constitution, and offered a second check by which honor and duty would control the Senators, upon whom the fear suggested in the other check would have no effect. But let us consider them with Judge H. in connection, and suppose that Mr. King meant to consider the two checks as parts of one whole, and that the instructions would be a check because others wished for the seat. This construction would make it very clear that Mr. K. thought the Senator would be obliged to obey or resign, because unless such was his duty, his competitors for the seat could not possibly accomplish their wishes by means of instructions. Mr. K. only called the first a powerful check, and not both, as the Judge inadvertently says. With regard to the last, Mr. K. triumphantly asks, “will this be no check?”—as if he considered that as conclusive, and this check certainly operative in cases to which the first would not extend. It is true Mr. K. says nothing about the power of the Legislature to enforce obedience, because they have no such power, but he puts an interrogatory, which he clearly thinks cannot be answered in the negative, and leaves the question as if the duty of obedience was too clear for dispute. If this was not his idea, whence his triumphant manner? Did any body ever doubt the power of a Legislature to advise or petition their Senators? Then why parade so paltry and worthless a right with so much pomp, and as a valuable security to the States? What good was this right to do those who wished for the seats?

What if the State Legislatures do not have power to punish? They have no power to punish any official delinquences in the Senator, however gross and palpable, or any other violation of moral duty. They have no right, if they enjoyed the gift of divination, to prescribe the course of the Senator by law, providing for all contingences, nor can they order punishment by an ex post facto law, or cause punishments to be inflicted without a regular judicial trial, for any offence, except an immediate violation of their own order. Even if a Senator violates his positive pledge, the Legislature cannot punish him. They appear to be in this respect like all other constituencies, at the mercy of their representatives. Whether he acts morally or officially wrong, they cannot as constituents punish him. Impeachment seems to be the only remedy provided by any constitution, for any delinquency of any Legislator acting in his official capacity; and this being in the hands of the body to which he belongs, is generally inefficient. It seems to be a sufficient answer to all arguments founded upon the incapacity of the Legislature to punish for a violation of this particular duty, to say that it cannot punish for a violation of any duty. Can it be hence inferred that the Senator has no duties? Unless it can, our adversary's argument is defective. Suppose it had the power to punish generally for what it deemed offences? Can any one doubt that it would punish this as one of the highest? But the power of subsequent punishment, or its absence, can neither create or extinguish a previous moral or official duty.

The Judge, in my humble judgment, begs the question, when he says, “it is left to his option to obey or not”—“a right to command is at once met and nullified by a right to refuse.” Our doctrine contends that he has no right to refuse, but we grant that he has the physical power to disobey, without the moral right. The only option which we allow him is that of resigning or obeying. If he resigns, of course, in ceasing to be our representative or servant, our commands cease to be of any force with regard to him.

The verbal criticisms entered into by the Judge, do not appear to me to sustain his case. To instruct is doubtless in its primitive meaning to teach, but the question is, when applied to the Senator,—teach what? Not certainly to give general information. Is it to impart superior knowledge upon the specific question to the Senator? This militates against the federal doctrine of the superior wisdom of the Senator; it supposes the legislative wisdom to be greater than his, and of course, as such, it ought to prevail. For what purpose would they enlighten him, if he was not bound to pursue the proper course thus pointed out? It must be remembered that teach does not mean to advise or request. If this legislative teaching, is not to give general information, or impart superior wisdom in particular cases, or request, or advise a particular course, only one thing remains to which the word teach can be applied, and that is the will or wishes of the Legislature; and the fact of teaching would seem to imply that he was to do their will if he knew what it was. They never teach unless they believe he intends to act contrary to their wishes, and their instructions are to inform him that he the servant has mistaken the will of his principal, and thus instruction given in cases of misapprehension or mistake of the will of the constituent, becomes the polite term for a command in other cases. This signification of command, is also one of the regular meanings of the word. Johnson gives “Authoritative mandate” as one of its significations. To give less force than this to the word, would make the Legislatures mere petitioners, and their instructions to Senators have precisely the force of their requests to the members of the House of Representatives. But none of our writers, old or modern, ever considered these requests as any sort of check upon the House of Representatives; but all look to the Senate as a check upon that body, and to check the Senate they say the State Legislatures may instruct. If requests will be of any avail as a check, why go around Robin Hood's barn, to bring them to bear?—why not have said at once, the State Legislatures may instruct their members in the House of Representatives? “Will this be no check?” Since an example has been set by such high authority, of investigating valuable rights by the light of the verbal critic's lamp, let us see if Dr. Johnson will not extend a hand to save the people as well as to prop their masters. He defines a representative to be “One exercising the vicarious power given by another”—and vicarious is “Deputed,— Delegated,—Acting in place of another.” We can find no authority here for one who acts in a representative capacity, to act according to his own will, and in direct opposition to the will of those in whose place he acts.

The idea advanced by JUDGE HOPKINSON, of the impropriety of the Senator's acting upon the dictation of others, and his own responsibility, seems a little disingenuous. The agent must be considered as released from all responsibility, when he is ordered by his principal to do a particular act. If he thinks that act illegal, or dishonorable, he need not do it, but he ought to resign. And all the responsibility rests upon the instructing Legislature. He has no right to set up his opinion or conscience as supreme law for any one but himself, and he is bound to presume that his constituents honestly differed in opinion with him. If he disobeys, he will find that the people will think it quite as probable that one man was wrong from corruption, as that a majority of their immediate representatives were corrupt. We do not maintain that “it is the official duty of the Senator to obey in all cases,” but it is his moral duty in all cases in which he is instructed to do a possible act, to obey or resign. But says, Judge H., he may by his resignation defeat his constituents. Be it so—the responsibility is upon them; but they cannot be defeated in as great a degree, by having no representative, as by being misrepresented. No vote is better than a vote against ourselves. Admit the reverse to be true, and can an involuntary, accidental defeat of the people's wishes, by a conformity to principle, be any excuse for a wilful and predetermined defeat of their will? Can the Senator say, if I had resigned, my successor might not have arrived in time to vote for you, and so I held to my place, and voted against you? When Judge H. contends that the will of the people may be defeated by the resignation of the Senator, and that he ought therefore not to resign, he admits that the will of the constituent ought to prevail, and of course that instructions ought to be obeyed.

The argument which contends that a Senator should not resign when he receives instructions which he cannot conscientiously obey, because his successor may obey, and thus perhaps violate the constitution, seems the most fallacious of all. It seems that because he has sworn as Senator to support the constitution, he must not resign. This oath surely only applies to his Senatorial career, and when his place is resigned his oath is expunged. If construed with the strictness required by the Judge, it would prevent his ever leaving his seat, or resigning, or declining a re-election. He would be bound always to be a Senator, if he possibly could, for fear his successor should violate the constitution. He has no more right to believe that his successor of the next month will violate the constitution, than his successor ten years hence. And if his oath requires him to hold on to defeat the one, it is equally obligatory with regard to the other, as far as any exertions on his part can effect the object. Thus Senators would be bound by their oaths to continue in office for life, if they could.

I have been a little surprised at seeing such language as the following from the pen of JUDGE HOPKINSON. “The people may instruct and the Legislatures may enjoin, and both will always, doubtless, be attended to with a deep respect and a powerful influence; but if with all this respect and under this influence, the representative or the Senator cannot, in his honest and conscientious judgment, submit himself to them, does he violate his official duty, and is he bound to relinquish his office? This is the question, and no affirmative answer to it, or any thing that implies it, can be found in any of the writings or speeches of any of the distinguished men at that time. The doctrine is of a later date; it is not coeval with the constitution, nor with the men who formed it.”

The Judge seems to me here to shift his ground in some degree. He evidently considers the instructions as doing something more than giving information, for the Senator could not be convinced either by respect or influence. To instruct a representative, generally supposes a difference of opinion between the agent and principal. If this difference does not exist, the instructions will of course be obeyed, and no question arises. If it does exist, the Senator is bound to obey or resign, or he is not. If the latter is the correct doctrine, he must disobey, because his conscientious conviction requires him not to obey. Instructions then must either convince his reason, or be entirely inoperative. It is mockery to talk of respect and influence. It would be criminal in a Senator to be swerved from the conscientious conviction of his mind as to his duty, by respect for any men or their influence, however exalted they might be. To say that a Senator is not bound to obey or resign, because his conscience requires him to retain his seat and disobey—but that he will in fact sometimes obey from respect or influence, is reasoning about as correctly as it would be to say, “That he ought not to be held responsible because he is honest, but that he may be trusted because he is corrupt, or will at least stretch his conscience from respect to us.”

But it was not for the purpose of noticing this little discrepancy that the passage was quoted. It was for the purpose of noticing the charge, that our “doctrine is of a later date; not coeval with the constitution or the men who formed it,” which is indeed a startling opinion to come from a gentleman of the acknowledged candor and learning of JUDGE HOPKINSON. The opinion was expressed in the haste of private correspondence, and upon investigation will not be adhered to. The doctrine was not only existing and well understood prior to our constitution, but was coeval with representation. That the agent should conform to the express will of his principal, is so natural, that we cannot doubt its establishment at once, wherever the valuable representative principle has been introduced into government. It is one of its chief recommendations. We have recorded evidence of the exercise of this power many times, and from remote periods, in the British Parliament. Many of these instances of command and obedience are collected by MR. LEIGH in his Report to the Virginia Legislature in 1812. The British Parliament was the great model upon which our statesmen framed our constitutions, and with its principles and history they always evinced an astonishing familiarity. We cannot suppose them ignorant of this great and obvious principle—a principle, beyond all question, of much more doubtful propriety in England then, and even now, than it can ever be in this country; because in England a few places elect representatives for the whole body of the people. But even there the true theory prevails, and the wisdom to which the constitution looks as governing the whole country, is that of the electors, and not the delegates. However small, ignorant, or obscure the place may be which sends a member, in that place the constitution supposes the wisdom to reside which is necessary to give one vote in Parliament, and not in the individual through whom the vote is given. If the constitution is in error, reform that, but do not usurp powers for the representatives. Hence the fate of the eloquent Burke before the electors of Bristol. In distributing more equally the elective power, our ancestors evinced both their justice and their wisdom. They saw no reason for supposing one portion of the country possessed of much more wisdom than another, whilst all alike required protection. The power of instructions and short terms they supposed a sufficient check to enable the people to protect themselves. Abundant evidence may be adduced to show that those great men were familiar with the importance, and obligation, and frequent exercise of this right. To prove this, we need go no farther than the Debates of the Virginia Convention which adopted the federal constitution. That constitution was no where more thoroughly discussed, or more warmly opposed, or opposed by men of more ability, than in that convention. Yet in their debates we find the right asserted both by opponents and advocates of the constitution; the one party contending that the right was not sufficiently secured by power to enforce its obligation—the other that the nature of the office, and the character of the men, would be a sufficient guarantee of their obedience. Instructions are frequently mentioned as a regular, legitimate, unquestionable mode of controlling the will of the representative. And the idea of disobedience is never suggested except in connection with other possible gross moral and official misconduct. Disobedience seemed to be considered as treachery to the constituent. As my authority is not accessible to all of your readers, you must allow me to quote liberally to sustain my opinions, at the hazard of encumbering your pages.

At page 69, MR. JOHN MARSHALL, so happily characterized by JUDGE HOPKINSON as “that great and pure man, that true and fearless patriot,” in answer to an argument of PATRICK HENRY, founded on the asserted rejection of the constitution by certain states, says, “New Hampshire and Rhode Island have rejected it, he tells us. New Hampshire, if my information be right, will certainly adopt it. The report spread in this country, of which I have heard, is that the representatives of that state having, on meeting, found they were INSTRUCTED TO VOTE AGAINST IT, RETURNED TO THEIR CONSTITUENTS, without determining the question, to convince them of their being mistaken, and of the propriety of adopting it.” This was a matter of overwhelming importance to the people of New Hampshire, in which their representatives were convinced that they ought to decide in a particular way, but being instructed differently, they would not carry out their own views, though in fact correct; but the whole convention resigned, to endeavor to convince them of their error. MR. MARSHALL quotes this instance of a whole body being prevented by instructions from doing the only work which they assembled to do, as a matter by no means astonishing or culpable, though he himself was of the same opinion with the representatives of New Hampshire. It was an example of good principle worthy of all imitation.

There are a few more remarks in the same speech which we cannot forbear from quoting. PATRICK HENRY was afraid to trust the power over both the sword and the purse to Congress, and was very jealous of the clause allowing Congress the power to keep secret certain matters, supposing that under the mantle of public necessity they would conceal their votes, and would violate the rights and instructions of their constituents without being detected. To this MR. MARSHALL says, “The honorable gentleman has asked, if there be any safety or freedom when we give away the sword and the purse? Shall the people at large hold the sword and the purse, without the interposition of their representatives? I apprehend that every gentleman will see the impossibility of this. Must they then not trust them to others? To whom are they to trust them but to representatives who are accountable for their conduct?” He then shows that secrecy is allowed in the British government, and proceeds thus. “We are threatened with the loss of our liberties by the possible abuse of power, notwithstanding the maxim, that those who give may take away. It is the people who give power and can take it back. What shall restrain them? They are the masters who gave it, and of whom their servants hold it.” We cannot doubt that one holding these sound republican principles, then at least, approved the noble example of resignation on account of instructions, which he had just before quoted.

PATRICK HENRY was the great champion of the opposition in that convention, and so decidedly federal in his construction of its terms after its adoption, that he was afterwards elected to oppose MR. MADISON'S celebrated resolutions of '98. Yet we find him admitting the right of instruction in its fullest extent throughout the state and federal governments, and never seeming to suppose that the obligation would be doubted, but at the same time contending with a wonderful forecaste that the responsibility of our representatives would be no protection to us, because though instructed, they would be out-voted by other delegates who could not be instructed by us. He says at page 230, “He tells us responsibility is secured by direct taxation. Responsibility, instead of being increased, will be lost forever by it. In our state governments our representatives may be severally instructed by their constituents. There are no persons to counteract their operations. They can have no excuse for deviating from our instructions. In the general government other men have power over the business. When oppressions may take place, our representatives may tell us we contended for your interest, but we could not carry our point, because the representatives from Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Connecticut, &c. were against us. Thus, sir, you may see there is no real responsibility.” Here are instructions referred to as a complete security in the state government against any legislation objected to by the people, and as completely obligatory upon our representatives from the state in Congress, and only failing to be a complete protection there too, because we cannot instruct the representatives of New Hampshire, &c. He places the representative in the attitude of apologizing, not for disobedience, but failure in accomplishing the wishes of the people. Disobedience did not seem to enter his imagination, much less the right to disobey.

In another place we find the same great orator plainly referring to the exercise of this right, as one of the greatest bulwarks of freedom; and inveighing against the constitution because it gives the Senators the power (not the right) to disobey with impunity. He would have the legislature to possess the power to recall in cases of disobedience. Look to his remarks at pages 252 and 253. He says, speaking of the project to barter away the navigation of the Mississippi to Spain, and the right of the United States to that navigation—“American interest was fully understood—New Jersey called her delegates for having voted against this right. Delegates may be called and instructed under the present system, but not by the new constitution. The measure of the Jersey delegates was averse to the interest of the state, and they were recalled for their conduct.” In this paragraph he did not mean to say that instructions would not be given, or ought not to be obligatory, but that bad men would have it in their power to disobey without fear, because they could not be recalled. This at least is the only construction which will make his language consistent with that previously quoted, and that which now follows, from the same speech and the same page. “At present you may appeal to the voice of the people, and send men to Congress positively instructed to obey your direction. You can recall them if their system of policy be ruinous. But can you, in this government, recall your Senators? or can you instruct them? YOU MAY INSTRUCT THEM, and offer your opinions; but if they think them improper, they may disregard them.” Here he thinks it would be a breach of duty to disregard them, and he objects to leave the power of disobedience in the hands of Senators, without the power to recall them, which he thinks made the control over them complete under the confederation, and would make it so under the constitution. But surely the power of subsequent punishment, or of providing against future mischief, from the hands of the same individual, does not create an antecedent duty either moral or official. The suggestion of punishment or prevention, implies the previous or possible violation of an existing duty. And the absence of a power to punish or prevent, cannot diminish the obligation of such duty, if admitted to exist. HENRY considered the force of instructions complete, by the mere power to recall, which certainly could not undo or invalidate the act done in violation of instructions; he therefore considered this recalling power necessary to make bad men perform the duty of obedience. He was satisfied with the articles of confederation, yet those articles do not mention a power to instruct, or a punishment for disobedience, any more than the present constitution. The subsequent power to punish by recall is the only difference. If we continue the same sentence, we shall find that he has coupled disobedience with bribery, and complains equally of absence of power to punish either. “If they give away, or sacrifice your most valuable rights, can you impeach or punish them? If you should see the Spanish ambassador bribing one of your Senators with gold, can you punish him? Yes—you can impeach him before the Senate. A majority of the Senate may be sharers in the bribe—will they pronounce him guilty who is in the same predicament with themselves? Where, then, is the security? I ask not this out of triumph, but anxiously to know if there be any real security.” It would seem from this that the old patriarch was not thoroughly convinced of the incorruptibility of Senators, and wished to provide some mode of punishment for their offences, from the high moral crime of disobedience, to the petit larceny business of taking a bribe—and he even supposed a majority of the Senate might be guilty of the latter offence!

The views of this illustrious man, and zealous champion of freedom, are still further developed at page 283. He is there again expressing his fears that the transactions in the Houses of Congress will be kept secret, and clearly thinks there would be no danger, if our representatives were all good men and would obey instructions, except that of being overruled by a majority. “But it will be told that I am suspicious. I am answered to every question, that they will be good men. In England they see daily what is going on in Parliament. They will hear from their Parliament in one thirty-ninth part of the time that we will hear from Congress in this scattered country. Let it be proposed in England to lay a poll tax, or enter into any measure that will injure one part and produce emoluments to another; intelligence will fly quickly as the rays of light to the people. They will INSTRUCT their representatives to oppose it, and will petition against it, and get it prevented or redressed instantly. Impeachment follows quickly a violation of duty. Will it be so here? You must detect the offence and punish the defaulter. How will this be done when you know not the offender, even though he had a previous design to commit the misdemeanor? Your Parliament will consist of sixty-five. Your share will be ten out of the sixty-five. Will they not take shelter by saying they were in the minority—that the men from New Hampshire and Kentucky out-voted them? Thus will responsibility, that great pillar of free government, be taken away.” He thus thinks the clause of secrecy will be used as a shield to conceal the offenders who violate instructions, or otherwise betray their constituents.

MR. NICHOLAS, in reply to some of these remarks by HENRY, says at page 257, “But we are not to calculate any thing on New Jersey. You are told she gave INSTRUCTION to her delegates to vote against the cession of that right (the navigation of the Mississippi.) Will not the same principles continue to operate upon the minds of the people of that state?

“We cannot recall our Senators. We can give them instructions, and if they manifestly neglect our interest, we have sufficient security against them. The dread of being recalled would impair their independence and firmness.”

MR. NICHOLAS thinks the dread of being recalled would impair independence and firmness; not the dread of being instructed, as contended for at the present day. He considers instructions as an efficient mode of insuring the desired course upon any specific question, on which it might be necessary to resort to them, but that a power of recall would produce a vaccillation and weakness in the course of the Senator, which might be highly mischievous. He clearly thinks the Senator must follow the wishes of his constituents, when specially instructed as to their will; but when not instructed, that he ought firmly and independently to act as he thinks best, and not as if he was in perpetual dread of losing his seat. He wishes a preventive remedy and not a punishment. No Senator ought to fear instructions, because they do not punish or injure him; on the contrary, they remove a fearful responsibility from his shoulders—a responsibility so great as to make the power of recall a constant source of terror: because a recall would disgrace him as far as the Legislature could produce that effect by its displeasure. But if a Senator either obeys instructions or resigns from conscientious scruples, he reaps honor instead of disgrace. A Legislature might recall, from caprice, or faction, or the envy of influential men, and the stigma could not be avoided by any good conduct on the part of the Senator; but if he is instructed, whether from any improper cause, or from the best, he cannot be injured or disgraced unless he wilfully disobeys. If the instructions are bad, and he either obeys or resigns, all the odium must fall upon the instructing Legislature, and not upon him. He will be sustained by their common ultimate masters, the people, and the Legislature will not.

Can it now be said that this doctrine is a new one, conjured up long since the formation of the constitution? When we find that instrument sustained in the convention by one party, on the ground that this very right existed in sufficient force in the State Legislatures, and would be regarded by men of sufficiently high standing and integrity to be elected Senators—and opposed by the other party, at one time, because the Legislature had no power to punish a violation of the right admitted to exist, and at another, because though complied with, it would not afford adequate protection, because our instructed delegates might be defeated and overruled by a majority coming from other States. In these debates MR. MADISON had so many objections of a graver import to answer, that he never seems to have thought it worth while to answer, specially, arguments based upon the mere possibility of the violation of an admitted duty by representatives of as high character as the Senators were likely to be—because all such arguments were answered specially by his coadjutors, (as in the instance of Mr. Nicholas) and generally by himself, in frequent asseverations that objections of that character, founded on the frailty of human nature, struck at the root of representation, and sapped the foundation of republican government. If his silence upon this particular subject was not a direct sanction of the arguments of his coadjutors, it certainly cannot be construed into disapprobation of their doctrine.

Since we cannot find this illustrious statesman opposed to us in the debates of the Virginia Convention, let us follow him to the pages of “The Federalist,” so triumphantly quoted by JUDGE HOPKINSON, and see if he is there opposed to this sacred principle.

A right so important, so often asserted in his presence as existing, so frequently exercised in those times, if disapproved, should have been directly denounced in the letters of Publius. That great work left little to conjecture in the thorough examination which it gave of the rights reserved or the powers conferred by the constitution. Every objection which the talent of its opposers, or the ingenuity of its friends could imagine, was ably discussed. This right is no where denied or objected to. The passages on which Judge H. relies, do not in my opinion sustain him. Nothing can be found in the numbers 62 and 63, specially quoted, unfavorable to the exercise of this right, or the force of the obligation of instructions. In those numbers, Mr. Madison is meeting two objections, of a similar character, to the constitution of the Senate. The one founded on the impossibility of recall, and the other the protracted duration of the term. The objections to the power of recall, we have already partially considered, and shown the wide difference which exists between that power and the right to instruct, as they affect the course of the Senator—the one being a power which may benefit a Senator, and cannot injure him, the other placing him and his character in a great measure at the mercy of jealous rivals, or the caprice of the factious. To have a very short term, would manifestly have an effect upon the Senator analagous to that produced by the power to recall. The fear of being turned out would operate as injuriously upon his firmness and independence as the fear of being recalled. Indeed it would be a source of greater terror, as the Legislatures could be more easily induced not to re-elect an officer whose term had expired, than to resort to the harsh measure of recalling one in the midst of his career. Both these objections were then of a similar character. Either of the powers demanded, would diminish the firmness and impair the independence of the Senator—prevent a sufficient continuation in office to ensure an adequate amount of information in public affairs to enable him to regulate foreign matters with skill, or pursue any uniform course of enlightened policy—and either would at the same time deprive the Senate of one of its principal badges of usefulness, as a check to the House of Representatives, with which it would have been too similar in its character and term of office to resist effectually its impulses to yield to popular opinion, or, as the Judge perhaps more properly expresses it, popular feeling. But none of these objections apply to instructions. They do not eject the Senator from office, unless he differs with his constituents upon some important question of constitutional law which is about to be practically acted upon; or unless he has in some manner committed his honor in opposition to his constituents. In either of these cases, the mischiefs of ejection sink to insignificance compared with the mischiefs of continuance. Upon the constitutional point he ought to presume the united wisdom of the two branches of his Legislature to be more capable of judging than his own; and if he has committed his honor, he ought to suffer, and not his constituents. In either case, the resignation is the privilege of the Senator, to enable him to remove himself from a delicate situation. It is not produced by the Legislature—it is no punishment—it is not a legal or official ejectment from office—it carries no stigma with it—it is an obedience to the requisitions of delicacy, and lofty honor, and not a compliance with the mandates of the Legislature. We instruct, and propriety, reason, and authority say he must obey; but justice says he may resign, if he cannot obey with honor. As well might it be objected to us, that we do not compel a Senator never to resign. Resignations for instructions no more shorten the term than other resignations; and as long as any are allowed, we must allow those made to save the conscience or honor. This is the only refuge; for duty requires obedience, and it would be dishonorable to disobey. The Senator, who is called a representative, has no right to save his conscience at the expense of his constituents, and throw their whole political weight in a direction precisely opposite to their express wishes. Instructions then neither vary or shorten the term of office. If they are obeyed, what harm is done? The will of the constituent has prevailed, as it ought to do, by the theory of our government. What if he resigns? The State is without a Senator, by his voluntary act to save his honor, and his successor perhaps carries into effect the will of his constituents. Where is the breach in the constitution? The same result might happen, because the Senator did not like his colleagues, or was in ill health, or embarrassed in circumstances, or accepted a federal office, or wished to travel, or engage in agriculture. If it is unconstitutional for a Senator to resign because his conscience or honor require him not to obey instructions, then is it equally unconstitutional for him to resign for any of these reasons, or any others which might occur to him. His failure to resign, or the want of power to compel resignation, cannot absolve him from the duty of obedience.

Instructions to Senators are always given by a solemn, deliberate, recorded act, passed by an organized body of representatives, responsible themselves to the people. Every delegate must account for the principles involved in his vote; but this responsibility is not generally held over him so rigidly when he votes for a Senator, unless he votes under express instructions, or the candidates represent opposite political principles. Many excuses may be given for voting for A in preference to B, though the latter may be most popular with the immediate constituents of the delegate; but the principles in the instructions must be fairly met and fully justified, to satisfy the people. Hence a greater responsibility is secured by instructions than by frequent elections.

A Senator who loves his country more than his place, can never fear instructions. They cannot, of course, then impair his independence or his firmness. The most which the fear of them ever could effect, would be to make him do the will of his constituents, which could surely do him no special harm. It was never supposed that the duration of office was to make a Senator firm against his constituents, and independent of their expressed will. But he was to be firm against his own fears, and independent of the House of Representatives or popular commotion. He is surely sufficiently far removed from the latter, when it can only affect him through the deliberate voice of two separate houses of the State Legislature. And then in truth it cannot affect him—he has nothing to dread: it only affects the vote of which he is the depository, and cannot remove him from his place. Is there no difference between a disposition to cater to every temporary whim or caprice which may sweep over the multitude, for fear of not being re-elected at the end of a short term, and a voluntary obedience to their deliberate will, expressed through two branches of their representatives? The House of Representatives will be sensitive at once to any commotion among the people. A temporary and dangerous excitement might lead them into improper acts, for fear of being turned out at the end of their short term. This house was expected to be thus sensitive, but the Senator's tenure of six years was given as a check to prevent this tendency from carrying the other house too far. That cannot be called a popular commotion which reaches him by the deliberate voice of two separate legislative bodies, acting under responsibility; but must be assumed by the Senator to be the deliberate judgment of all the people: it is, at all events, the deliberate judgment of all to whom he has a right to look. The Legislature has power by the constitution to elect him, and this carries with it the right to instruct him. But they exercise both these powers vicariously, and if they mistake the will of the people, they are responsible for their instructions, not the Senator for his obedience. His responsibility is removed by obedience or resignation. If he is “the anchor against popular fluctuations,” it is proper that like all other anchors, he should be hauled up when a favorable and permanent breeze enables the ship to proceed; and of this—not the anchor, but—those above it must judge. And if he hooks his fluke too deeply in the moorings, it is clear that unless there is a “capstan and cable” somewhere, he transcends the sphere of his utility, and does more harm than good by making a temporary stay a permanent fixture. PATRICK HENRY wanted to give the Legislature power in such cases to cut the cable; and I think it would be well if such a power could be lodged with the people in cases of disobedience, or other flagitious offences on the part of Senators.

But to meet the argument of the Judge fully, it is only fair to quote it:

“Mr. Madison's second reason for having a Senate, or second branch of the Legislative Assembly, is thus stated: ‘The necessity of a Senate is not less indicated by the propensity of all single and numerous assemblies to yield to the impulse of sudden and violent passions, and to be seduced by factious leaders into intemperate and pernicious resolutions.’ If this is true of the House of Representatives of the United States; if their intemperate and pernicious resolutions are to be guarded against and controlled by the more sedate and permanent power of the Senate, how much stronger is the reason when applied to the Legislatures of the States? Having their narrow views of national questions, and their local designs and interests as the first objects of their attention, it seems to me to be a strange absurdity to put the Senate as a guard and control over the House of Representatives, and then to have that Senate under the direction and control of the Legislatures of the States—or it may be, on a vital question, under the direction of the Legislature of the smallest State in the Union. Are there no local impulses and passions to agitate these Legislatures? no factious leaders to seduce them into intemperate and pernicious resolutions—and to induce them to prefer some little, local advantage, to ‘the general welfare?’ To give to the Senate the power, the will, and the courage to oppose and control these sudden and violent passions in the more popular branch of our national legislature, Mr. Madison says, ‘It ought moreover to possess great firmness, and consequently ought to hold its authority by a tenure of considerable duration.’ But what can that firmness avail, how will it be shaken, of what possible use will it be, if the Senator is bound to follow the dictates of a changing body, subject, emphatically to sudden impulses and seductions, at a distance from the scene of his deliberations, and deprived of the sources of information which he possesses, and acting in a different sphere of duty from that he moves in? Firmness in an agent who has no will of his own, no right to act but on the dictation of another, would not only be superfluous, but a positive evil and disqualification. It would produce struggles and perhaps refusal, where his duty was to submit. The more pliable the instrument in such a case, the belter would it answer the purposes it was designed for. To be firm, says Mr. Madison, the Senator must hold his authority by a tenure of considerable duration. But how can this be, if he is to hold it from year to year as the Legislature of his State may change its opinion on the same subject, and require him to follow these changes or to resign his place? The tenure of the Constitution, as Mr. Madison understood it, is essentially changed by this doctrine. These changes of opinions and measures are, in the opinion of Mr. Madison, a great and dangerous evil in any government, and show ‘the necessity of some stable institution’ such as our Senate was intended to be—but such as it cannot be on this doctrine of instructions.”

I must admit my inability to perceive the propriety of the Judge's conclusions from Mr. Madison's premises. He is afraid of instructions, because single and numerous bodies are apt to yield to passion and faction, and he hence thinks it absurd to place the Senate as a check upon the House of Representatives, if the State Legislatures are to remain as a check upon the Senate. There seems to be a double fallacy in this. Does the Senate possess an exclusive patent of exemption from faction and passion, and the other frailties of human nature, to which the House of Representatives and both branches of the State Legislature, are to be held peculiarly liable? The Senate, as a body, would not be checked by the State Legislatures, unless a majority was instructed; and if this was the case, we must suppose instructions sanctioned by so many bodies to be the dictates of true wisdom, and not the offspring of faction and passion. If only a few Senators are instructed, we must suppose the object to be deemed important by the instructing States; and so far from the likelihood of sudden or violent passion, or the seductions of factious leaders thus affecting Legislation, we find the securities proposed by Mr. Madison quadrupled in numbers, increased by the distance of the bodies, and doubled by the difference in their constitution. If two federal legislative bodies are likely to ensure the defeat of faction and passion, when both belong to the same government—the members of both are members of the same political parties, and both meet at the same place, how much less likely is passion or faction to succeed by means of instructions, when it has first to encounter the federal House of Representatives, and then in succession a State House of Delegates, and a State Senate, and lastly the chance of an uninstructed, or differently instructed majority in the federal Senate. Surely Judge H. forgot the dignity and candor of the philosophical inquirer, and in vindication of a favorite theory, assumed the armor of a partizan, when he contended, that the faction and passion intended to be defeated by the constitution of the Senate, would be promoted by adding additional checks—checks, too, which we cannot doubt were contemplated as one of the principal means of rendering the check afforded by the Senate effective. So far from promoting hasty, passionate, or factious legislation, do not these numerous checks present almost too many difficulties to the execution of the deliberate will of the people, which the Judge admits ought to govern? In doubtful questions, when parties are nicely balanced, a few recreant representatives, in either of the four bodies, can easily defeat any measure, however necessary, or earnestly desired by their constituents. If we suppose with the Judge, that the Senate is to be entirely controlled by the State Legislatures, then we should have fifty-three different deliberative bodies, representing the people in different capacities, and by different ratios, acting upon one subject. No measure could be carried through this ordeal by faction or passion, and instead of bringing us “back to a simple turbulent democracy,” we should have the best and the greatest quantity of checks upon turbulent legislation, of which any country could boast. If measures thus passed were not wise, it must be because the intelligence of the country is defective, and not because it is blinded by passion. The same reasoning applies to the instructions of any less number than the whole, because the uninstructed Senators must be presumed to act in accordance with the opinions of their constituents, and thus whether the instructed members carry their point, or are overruled by a majority, the deliberate sense of the community governs. But upon the theory of Judge H., not the sense of the community, whether deliberate or vaccillating, but the arbitrary and adverse will of the individuals who happen to be Senators, disposes of every thing which we hold dear—not only the lives and fortunes of our people, but the very constitution of our country. If a State may have “narrow views,” so may an individual. If a State may not wish to be taxed to cut a little inland canal, two thousand miles off, a Senator may wish an embassy, or a department, or a bank accommodation, or a federal judgeship. But if the States do have local views and interests, are they not bound to protect them, and have they not equal votes in the Senate for this very purpose? Mr. Jay says, “enlightened policy will soon teach that the interests of the whole can only be promoted by a proper regard for the interests of the parts.” If the States wish to oppress others, or advance themselves at the expense of all, they will be certainly overruled by the majority. If they wish to protect themselves from oppression, they ought to have weight, and no human being should have power to throw their own weight against them.

The people of the states would be peculiarly destitute of protection, if they could not instruct their Senators, because from the size of the districts and number of the constituents, it would be extremely difficult, if not impossible, to instruct a member of the House of Representatives, and hence PATRICK HENRY'S uneasiness for fear the Senator should disobey. What if the Senate should be “on a vital question under the control of the smallest state in the Union?”—Are the two houses of the Legislature of the smallest state less honest or less intelligent, than the individual Senator, who by supposition is about to oppose his own constituents and at least half of his co-Senators? Where is the evil? The will of the Legislature, which is responsible, prevails over that of the Senator, who is not responsible, unless he is for disobedience. Which adjustment of the question ought, by the theory of our government, to be most satisfactory? We cannot hold instructions to be an evidence of passion or faction in the Legislature, but disobedience we must hold to be a ground for suspecting the Senate. If neither of these operated, I can conceive no reason for not resigning, when obedience would be wicked or disgraceful. If Mr. Madison required firmness and independence in the Senator, against the instructions of his own constituents, as well as against the acts of the House of Representatives, as Judge H. supposes, then it is clear that he knew and understood the right, and its obligation, and feared it, and wished to provide against it, by protecting the Senator from its force. If such was his purpose, how egregiously has he failed—how bungling has been his work—how disingenuous his course—how unlike in all respects, is this to the other works of that great man? The length of term did not protect from instructions, because a Senator of one year may be instructed as well as one of six years. Where is the protection against this awful right? Mr. M. knew that it existed under the articles of confederation, and was exercised, yet he did not prohibit it in the constitution. He feared the power to recall, and he took away that; but it seems he feared this right, and left it. It is true that he provided no punishment for disobedience, but none existed under the confederation, and none had ever been found necessary in the British Parliament, the Convention of New Hampshire, the Congress, or the State Legislatures. If he feared the right, he must have wished it uprooted, yet he left it precisely as he found it. He was particularly cautious in concealing his antipathy in the Virginia Convention and the Federalist. In the latter he speaks of firmness necessary to resist the House of Representatives, and transient popular commotions which might affect that body, and I doubt not he meant to require firmness in obedience to instructions against the wishes of the House of Representatives as much as in any thing else. In the Virginia Convention he heard loud calls for the protection of the right, yet never denied its existence.

Suppose a question arises in the House of Representatives dangerous to a state. It is carried in that body by passion or faction against such manifestations of popular will as can be given. It is believed the Senators will go the same way. The people have no resource left, but instructions through their State Legislature. If this has no effect, our servants are our masters, and we are ruled by an oligarchy the more odious, because it presents us with a mockery of representation.

But it seems that Mr. Madison thinks the Senate “may be sometimes necessary as a defence to the people against their own temporary errors and delusions; he justly applauds the salutary interference in critical moments, of some respectable and temperate body of citizens, to check the misguided career, and to suspend the blow mediated by the people against themselves, until reason, justice, and truth can regain their authority over the public mind.” This is correct reasoning, but it cannot apply to the States or their Legislatures, but must allude to the people of the Union and the House of Representatives. The Senate cannot defend the people of any state from their own temporary delusions, or afford a salutary interference with the proceedings of a State Legislature. The latter body is supposed competent to act for itself, and not to require the protection of the United States Senate, and still less of an individual Senator. This argument might be urged in favor of a Senator instructing a State Legislature, with more propriety than against the reverse operation, because under the present system the State Legislatures have no connection with the United States Senators unless they instruct them, and thus if they choose to be wilful and refuse to instruct them, which by this new construction would be to ask his advice, they may ruin the people by their temporary errors and delusions, without ever giving their Senator the power to save them by the salutary interference of his “respectable and temperate” mandate.

But it is admitted that a temporary delusion may possibly exist among the people, which may induce the House of Representatives to pass acts so dangerous that it may be necessary for the Senate to “suspend” them. “But the deliberate sense of the community, ought and ultimately will prevail.” And yet a Senator has power to defeat this deliberate sense, as well as the temporary errors and delusions. He may suspend a good act, or he may fail to suspend a bad act. He may not only not concur with the House of Representatives when he ought, but he may concur with it when he ought not. Shall we have no “capstan and cable” to draw up our anchor in the one case, and no power to throw it out in the other? Must the temporary delusion prevail over the people's rights for six years, or the deliberate sense be delayed its healthy action for six years? Either question may be of vital and immediate importance. The single vote may saddle us with an enormous bank, with a controlling capital and an unlimited charter, or an oppressive tariff, which could not be repealed without ruin to many, or continued without ruin to ourselves. The temporary delusion may be a spirit of fanaticism, which may annihilate at a single blow, and forever, political peace and domestic happiness in half the Union, and yet the Senator may be infected with the contagion. A judgeship for life, or boundless wealth, may warp honest opinions, or buy up bankrupt profligacy. In short, a Senator may be sometimes wrong as well as the House of Representatives and the two branches of a State Legislature, and if he is a despot for the time of his election, he may do infinite mischief:—if he can be controlled by his State Legislature in particular votes by special instructions, he cannot do much harm, and may do as much good as the wisdom of his state, which is wiser than he is, will permit. Mr. Madison, when he spoke of the interference of the Senate, never could have meant to characterize the solemn and deliberate acts of a State Legislature, as the temporary errors and delusions of the people. Besides being too accurate in his language for this construction, he could not but believe that instructions would convey at least the best judgment of a majority of the Legislature. And he could not suppose it necessary for the United States Senator to protect the people against the best judgment of their own Legislature. The State Legislatures, in practice, possess the sovereign authority of the State; they make laws, and dispose of our persons and property; shall we appeal from them to their creature, the Senator, for protection?

If MR. MADISON had meant this he would certainly not only have prohibited State instructions to the Senator, but enforced Senatorial instructions to the Legislature. Why were we left without this protection from our temporary errors and delusions in so many important cases, and only provided with it in those cases in which we venture to instruct Senators? This doctrine proves too much. Why was Mr. Madison silent in our Convention, when his coadjutors asserted this right? When HENRY so often objected a want of power to enforce it, why did Mr. M. not say at once it did not exist, and end the objection? If he had said so, and contended for the correctness of his position on the ground that the Senator must be firm against his own masters, and independent of his own constituents, to protect the people of the States from themselves, would this constitution have been ratified by Virginia? Never. One blast of HENRY'S soul-stirring bugle would have called all his kindred spirits around him—he whose keen scent could snuff tyranny in the tainted gale, would have spurned an elective as haughtily as he had an hereditary tyrant—the debates would have ended there—the friends of the constitution and of Madison would have deserted him—the deceptive parchment would have been trodden under foot, and its noble champion left its only advocate. No one can read HENRY'S anxious searching after the responsibility of Senators, and his earnest calls for the power of enforcing obedience, and believe it would have been otherwise. He laughs to scorn the argument that they will be good men, from which MR. MADISON wishes him to infer that they would obey. With what withering contempt then would he have received a proposition to make them constitutionally independent, as he feared they would be actually? And to have told him that this was necessary to make them firm against us, would have been only an aggravation of the insult.

It is surprising to hear JUDGE HOPKINSON say, that the hundreds of individuals who compose the State Legislatures, from all parts of their respective states, “have no means of knowing the public sentiments which are not equally open to the Senators; nor are their inducements to conform to them more persuasive and strong.” If this was not an error, it would be perhaps best for the legislatures to delegate their powers to several individuals, and go home. Those wise men, whose judgment is capable of protecting the state from its own errors, and at the same time, know so well public sentiment, and have every inducement to conform to it, would constitute the best legislature. But so much of an error is the first part of the proposition deemed, that the usual and most accurate method of examining into popular sentiment, is by the sentiments of the representatives. Each is supposed best to know and to represent the opinions of his own county or district, and their united will is thought to be as accurate an approximation to the will of the people as human ingenuity can make. There is nothing else which affords us even data for estimating that will. The individual Senator has not probably a better knowledge of the wishes of the people than many of the single individuals who compose the legislature, especially if he is sent from a remote state, and has been long absent.

The inducements which the Senator may have to conform to the will of the people, may be as persuasive and strong as those of the members of the state legislature; and if they are, he will obey, unless his inducements to conform to the will of some one else are more persuasive and stronger. A Senator is a great man, and may expect executive promotion if this or that man is President, or this or that measure carried. We must suppose the latter inducements to preponderate, when he frustrates the will of the people, expressed in the only form in which it can reach him.

The Judge again quotes MR. MADISON. “MR. MADISON goes so far as to say, that as our governments are entirely representative, there is a total exclusion of the people, in their collective capacity, from any share in them.” This is true, and makes it the more iniquitous to deprive them of any share through their representatives. If they can neither act themselves, or act by their representatives, they only elect masters, and it is nonsense to say the will of the people prevails. Mr. M. could only have meant that no act of the people, in their collective capacity, was a governmental act; he did not mean to say that they were slaves, who periodically elected masters, but that they should never act in person, and only by their servants. The inference drawn from this remark, viz: that the Senator ought not to be bound by the will of all the people in his state, must be fallacious. If all the people of a state came to the Senate chamber, and wished to give a vote, they could not vote except through their Senator. It is so ordained in the constitution; but how can it be thence inferred that the Senator is not bound to obey them? This however is impracticable, and the Senator can only know the will of his state through the legislature. That body constitute his constituency. Whether it properly represents the people or not, is a question between its members and the people. No Senator would have thought of looking beyond his own constituents, but from the fact that they happen to act vicariously. If the same number of individuals, not being representatives, were selected by the constitution to elect Senators in the several states, it is clear that the Senators could not look to the public opinion of any persons except the electors. We must presume that the constitution meant to place the full power of instruction (if the right exists) exclusively in that body in which it had sufficient confidence to place the power of selection, and which only could practically exercise it. If the Senator does doubt, or is even sure that the legislature does not conform to the will of its own constituents, it will afford him no excuse for a similar violation. If a representative can look at all beyond the opinions of those who have a right to vote, then there is no limit. Where there are high freehold qualifications to suffrage, and instructions are given by every voter, a delegate may say, “The unqualified individuals outnumber you, and I will assume that they think differently”—nay, he may say, “the women, the children, the free blacks, paupers, Indians and slaves think differently, and they are a majority of my constituents.” What then becomes of those guards and checks in the constitutions, which presume superior wisdom in a particular class of persons, or that certain rights require especial protection, if the delegate may thus, by creating a new and fancied constituency for himself, and one too which can never act upon him, and the opinions of which can never be known either by instructions or elections, set aside the sovereignty vested by the constitutions? This would establish a government of petty tyrants, under ideal responsibility to a fancied constituency. Why was the election of Senators not given at once to the people of the states? I have no doubt one of the principal reasons was the impossibility of instructing. I do not believe Virginia would have adopted the constitution, with no means of instructing Senators. If the people of the states had elected, the legislature would then have only had power to request them, as it now has over the members of the House of Representatives. The legislature possessed the double advantage of facility of action, and a comparison and a discussion of views from all quarters, in selection and instruction, neither of which could be possessed by the people. The members of the legislature are Senatorial electors, chosen for that purpose by the federal government, and cannot strip themselves of the power and give it to the people of their state—nor could a state convention take it away from them. What right, then, has a federal Senator to say the people of Ohio do not sanction instructions given by her legislature, any more than to say the people of Maine or Louisiana do not sanction the same instructions. He has as much to do with the people of one state as of another.

Let us hear the Judge again.

“Instruction and resignation are not the means proposed by Mr. Madison to protect us from the corruption or tyranny of the Senate. He suggests no interference, in any way, on the part of the State Legislatures with their Senators, nor any control over them, during their continuance in office; but finds all the safety he thought necessary, and all that the constitution gives, in the ‘periodical change of its members.’ In addition to this, much reliance, no doubt, was placed, and ought to be so, on the expectation that the State Legislatures would appoint to this high and responsible office, only men of known and tried character and patriotism, having themselves a deep stake in the liberties of their country, and bound by all the ties of integrity and honor to a faithful discharge of their trust.”

Mr. Madison is here again providing against a rottenness in the Senate, which would not only set instructions at defiance, but every moral and political duty. He says, in effect, “you are afraid of a six years tenure, but you need not fear that, because at any given period only one third can have that duration, one third will hold for four, and one only for two years. Fear of not being re-elected, or a decreasing interest in the usurped power, will prevent them from corruption, tyranny, disobedience, and other iniquities. If all were at the same time tyrants of six years duration, you would be in danger; but the shortening term of some, and the hope that others will stay honest, is your protection. The honest ones will obey you from principle, the corrupt from fear.” This I conceive to be his opinion written out. For, says Mr. Nicholas in his presence, “we can instruct them”—and Patrick Henry says, in effect, “If they are bad men they will not obey—we ought to have a power of impeachment or recall, to make them obey; the rotation is not in my opinion sufficient surety of their obedience.” In those days goodness was thought to ensure obedience, but now it is thought if they are good men, “bound by all the ties of integrity and honor to a faithful discharge of their duty,” they will not obey, or need not, because so intelligent and so good—as if obedience was not the highest duty, or misrepresentation was the part of a faithful representative.

But let us look to the Federalist as we did to Dr. Johnson, in behalf of the other party. We find MR. MADISON, as well as his great coadjutors, HAMILTON and JAY, speaking of the Senate, not as a little oligarchy, or Holy Alliance of absolute sovereigns for six years, but as an assembly of the States. Measures, says he, will have to be approved first by a majority of the people, and then by a majority of the States. The States will be interested in preventing this, or carrying that. Thus again indicating the necessity of giving the States an influence over the people of the Union. Among the reasons for giving the elections to the State Legislatures, he says it not only favored a select appointment, “but gives to the State governments such an agency in the formation of the federal government, as must secure the authority of the former, and may form a convenient link between the two systems.” The link is formed by the election, but if the Senators then become independent and firm against their constituents, what secures the authority? The federal argument supposes the Senator at the moment of his election, to lose all connection with his State, and become entirely a federal officer, representing all the United States. If this is true, how is State authority secured by his election? Mr. Madison's argument in favor of the Senate, based upon the assertion that every resolution or law will have to pass first a majority of the people, and then a majority of States, is a gross fallacy, if the States have nothing to do with the matter. He says, this “complicated check on government may prove injurious,” &c.; but how is it more complicated, if the Senators are independent, than the British Parliament is rendered by the House of Lords, or any State government by its Senate? He also speaks of the power of the larger States to defeat small States when unreasonable, by power over the supplies.

But there is yet better evidence of Mr. Madison's opinion upon this subject than all this. He has himself as a legislator, exercised the right. I have not the instructing resolutions before me, but I discover the fact from my copy of the resolutions of '98, '99, and the debate of 1800.¹

¹ House of Delegates, Monday, January 20, 1800.

Resolved, That five thousand copies of the Report of the Select Committee, to whom were referred the answers of several States upon the Resolutions of the last Legislature, the said answers [and also the instructions to the Senators of this State in the Congress of the United States, together with the names of those who voted on each of these subjects,] be printed without delay; and that the Executive be requested, as soon as may be, to distribute them equally, in such manner as they shall think best, among the good people of this Commonwealth.

The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 10, September, 1836

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

EVERY DEPARTMENT OF

LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 10

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

CROMWELL.

MEMOIRS OF MRS. HEMANS.1

CONCLUDING LECTURE

THE RAINBOW.

RIGHT OF INSTRUCTION.

MEMOIRS OF MRS. HEMANS.¹