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‘Several times I was disturbed in my occupation, to look round to inquire the cause of a crash, every now and then, like the breaking of glass; and at length I caught a glimpse of Reymes, slyly jerking a pebble, under his arm, through one of the windows. I recollected twice, in walking home with him, late at night, from the theatre, his quietly taking a brick-bat from out of his coat-pocket and deliberately smashing it through the casement of the Town Hall, and walking on and continuing his conversation as if nothing had happened. Crack! again. I began to suspect an abberration of intellect, and said:
‘‘Reymes, for heaven’s sake what are you doing?’
‘‘Showing my gratitude,’ said he; and crack! went another.
‘‘Showing the devil!’ said I; ‘you’re breaking the church windows.’
‘‘Why, I know it—certainly; what do you stare at?’ said the eccentric. ‘I broke nearly every pane three weeks ago; I couldn’t hit them all. After you have broken a good many, the stones are apt to go through the holes you’ve already made. They only finished mending them the day before yesterday; I came out and asked the men when they were likely to get done;’ and clatter! clatter! went another.
‘‘That’s excellent!’ said he, in great glee. ‘I hit the frame just in the right place; I knocked out two large ones that time.’
‘‘Reymes,’ said I, with temper, ‘if you don’t desist, I must leave off my drawing.’
‘‘Well,’ said he, ‘only this one,’ and crack! it went; ‘there! I’ve done. Since it annoys you, I’ll come by myself to-morrow and finish the job; it’s the only means in my power of proving my gratitude.’
‘‘Proving your folly,’ said I. ‘Why, Reymes, you must be out of your senses.’
‘‘Why, did I never tell you?’ said he. ‘Oh! then I don’t wonder at your surprise. I thought I had told you. I had an uncle, a glazier, who died, and left me twenty pounds, and this mourning-ring; and I therefore have made it a rule to break the windows of all public places ever since. The loss is not worth speaking of to the parish, and puts a nice bit of money in the pocket of some poor dealer in putty, with probably a large family to support. And now I’ve explained, I presume you have no objection to my proceeding in paying what I consider a debt of gratitude due to my dead uncle.’
‘‘Hold! Reymes,’ said I, as he was picking up a pebble. ‘How do you know but the poor fellow with the large family may not undertake to repair the windows by contract, at so much a year or month?’
‘‘Eh! egad, I never thought of that,’ said the whimsical, good-hearted creature. ‘I’ll suspend operations until I’ve made the inquiry, and if I’ve wronged him I’ll make amends.’
Mr. Cowell is a plain-spoken man, and seldom spares age or sex in his exposure of the secrets of the stage, and the appliances and means to boot which are sometimes adopted by theatrical men and women to make an old face or form ‘look maist as weel’s the new.’ The celebrated Mrs. Jordan, in performing with him, was always very averse to his playing near the foot-lights, greatly preferring to act between the second entrances. The ‘moving why’ is thus explained:
‘The fact is, she was getting old; dimples turn to crinkles after long use; beside, she wore a wig glued on; and in the heat of acting—for she was always in earnest—I have seen some of the tenacious compound with which it was secured trickle down a wrinkle behind her ear; her person, too, was extremely round and large, though still retaining something of the outline of its former grace:
‘And after all, ’twould puzzle to say where
It would not spoil a charm to pare.’
There is no calamity in the catalogue of ills ‘that flesh is heir to’ so horrible as the approach of old age to an actor. Juvenile tragedy, light comedy, and walking gentleman with little pot-bellies, and have-been pretty women, are really to be pitied. Fancy a lady, who has had quires of sonnets made to her eye-brow, being obliged, at last, to black it, play at the back of the stage at night, sit with her back to the window in a shady part of the green-room in the morning, and keep on her bonnet unless she can afford a very natural wig.’
Sad enough! sad enough! certainly, and as true as it is melancholy. But let us get on board the Yankee vessel which brings Mr. Cowell to America, and at his ‘present writing’ is lying off Gravesend. The difficulty he experienced in getting up a conversation with his fellow-passengers is a grievance still loudly complained of by his travelling countrymen:
‘It was a dark, drizzly, melancholy night; a fair specimen of Gravesend weather and the parts adjacent; no ‘star that’s westward from the pole’ to point my destined path, and furnish food for speculative thought; and, after sliding five or six times up and down some twenty feet of wet deck, I groped my way to the cabin. The captain was not on board, and I found myself a stranger among men. Of all gregarious animals man is the most tardy in getting acquainted: meet them for the first time in a jury-box, a stage-coach, or the cabin of a ship, and they always remind me of a little lot of specimen sheep from different flocks, put together for the first time in the same pen; they walk about and round and round, with all their heads and tails in different directions, and not a baa! escapes them; but in half an hour some crooked-pated bell-wether perhaps, gives a south-down a little dig in the ribs, and this example is followed by a Merino; and before the ending of the fair their heads are all one way, and you’ll find them bleating together in full chorus. Now, in the case of man, a snuff-box instead of the sheep’s horn, is an admirable introduction; for, if he refuses to take a pinch, he’ll generally give you a sufficient reason why he does not, and that’s an excellent chance to form, perhaps, a lasting friendship, but to scrape an acquaintance to a certainty; and if he takes it perhaps he’ll sneeze, and you can come in with your ‘God bless you!’ and so on, to a conversation about the plague in ’66, or the yellow fever on some other occasion, and can ‘bury your friends by dozens,’ and ‘escape yourself by a miracle,’ very pleasantly for half an hour. But in this instance it was a total failure: one said ‘I don’t use it;’ another shook his head, and the third emptied his mouth of half a pint of spittle, and said ‘he thought it bad enough to chaw!’’
When the vessel is fairly at sea, the social ice is gradually broken. It being just after the war, the rationale of the following brief dialogue between Mr. Cowell and the mate will be readily understood:
‘The mate was a weather-beaten, humorous ‘sea-monster;’ upon asking his name, he replied:
‘‘If you’re an Englishman and I once tell you my name, you’ll never forget it.’
‘‘I don’t know that,’ I replied; ‘I’m very unfortunate in remembering names.’
‘‘Oh, never mind!’ said he, with a peculiarly sly, comical look; ‘if you’re an Englishman you’ll never forget mine.’
‘‘Then I certainly am,’ I replied.
‘‘Well, then,’ said he drily, ‘my name’s Bunker! and I’m d–d if any Englishman will ever forget that name!’’
Mr. Cowell’s arrival, début, and theatrical progress and associations in this and other Atlantic towns, compose a diversified and palatable feast for the stage-loving public. His sketches of actors, male and female, native and foreign, are limned with an artistical hand. His picture of Kean’s fleeing from ‘the hot pursuit of obloquy’ is exceedingly vivid; and ‘old Mathews’ American ‘trip’ is well set forth. We find nothing so good, however, touching that extraordinary mime, as the following illustration of his sensitiveness to newspaper criticism, from the pen of the dramatic veteran, Moncrief:
‘‘Look here,’ he would say, taking up a paper and reading: ‘Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.—We last night visited this elegant theatre for the purpose of witnessing the performance of that excellent comedian, Mr. Belvi, as Octavian, in the ‘Mountaineers,’ for his own benefit. We hope it was for his own benefit, for it certainly was not for the benefit of any one else; for a more execrable performance we never witnessed. This gentleman had better stick to his comedy!’ Grant me patience; Heaven! There’s a fellow! What does he know about it? I suppose he would abuse my Iago—say that is execrable! Isn’t this sufficient to drive any body mad? Because a man happens to have played comedy all his life, ‘we’ takes upon himself to think as a matter of course he can’t play tragedy, though he may possess first rate tragic powers, as I do myself! I should have been the best Hamlet on the stage if I didn’t limp; but let me go on: ‘We have seen Elliston in the character.’ A charlatan, a mountebank; wouldn’t have me at Drury; and yet ‘we’ thinks he has a syllable the advantage of his competitor in this instance. We! we! as if the fellow had a parcel of pigs in his inside; we! we! Who’s we? Why don’t he say Tompkins, or whatever his name is, Tompkins thinks Elliston better in Octavian than Belvi; Belvi could kick Tompkins then; but who can kick we?’ etc., etc. And yet poor Mathews had no warmer admirers, no truer, no more constant friends than those whose occasional animadversions would thus excite his ire.’
After running a very successful and popular career at the Park-Theatre, our artist-actor is induced to assume the management of a circus-theatre just then in high vogue at the Tattersall’s building in Broadway. The subjoined was one of the many incidents which occurred on his assuming the reins of the establishment:
‘The company was both extensive and excellent; a stud of thirty-three horses, four ponies and a jack-ass, all so admirably selected and educated, that for beauty and utility they could not be equalled any where. The company was popular and our success enormous. Of course, like others when first placed in power, I made a total change in my cabinet. John Blake I appointed secretary of the treasury and principal ticket-seller; and to prove how excellent a judge I was of integrity and capacity, he was engaged at the Park at the end of the season, and has held that important situation there ever since. A delicious specimen of the Emerald Isle, with the appropriate equestrian appellation of Billy Rider, received an office of nearly equal trust, though smaller chance of perquisites—stage and stable door-keeper at night, and through the day a variety of duties, to designate half of which would occupy a chapter. He was strict to a fault in the discharge of his duty, as every urchin of that day who attempted to sneak into the circus can testify. Conway the tragedian called to see me one evening, and in attempting to pass was stopped by Billy, armed as usual, with a pitch-fork.
‘‘What’s this you want? Who are ye? and where are you going?’ says Billy.
‘I wish to see Mr. Cowell,’ says Conway.
‘Oh then, it’s till to-morrow at ten o’clock, in his office, that you’ll have to wait to perform that operation.’
‘But, my dear fellow, my name is Conway, of the theatre; Mr. Cowell is my particular friend, and I have his permission to enter.’
‘By my word, Sir, I thank ye kindly for the explination; and it’s a mighty tall, good-looking gentleman you are too,’ says Billy, presenting his pitch-fork; ‘but if ye were the blessed Redeemer, with the cross under your arm, you couldn’t pass me without an orther from Mr. Cowell.’
‘Joe Cowell,’ in years gone by, has made us laugh many a good hour; and we hold ourselves bound to reciprocate the pleasure he has afforded us, by warmly commending his pleasant, gossipping volume to the readers of the Knickerbocker throughout the United States.
An Elementary Treatise on Human Physiology: on the Basis of the ‘Précis Elémentaire de Physiologie’ of Magendie. Translated, enlarged, and illustrated with Diagrams and Cuts, by Prof. John Revere, M. D., of the University of New-York. In one volume. pp. 533. New-York: Harper and Brothers.
The American translator and editor of the volume above cited is of opinion that since the death of Sir Charles Bell, there is no physiologist who stands so preëminent as an original observer and inquirer, or who has contributed so much to the present improved state of the science by his individual efforts, as M. Magendie. In facility in experimenting upon living animals, and extended opportunities of observation, no one has surpassed him; while through a long professional career his attention has been chiefly devoted to physiological inquiries. There is one excellence which constitutes a predominant feature in his system of Physiology that cannot be estimated too highly by the student of medicine; and that is, the severe system of induction that he has pursued, excluding those imaginative and speculative views which rather belong to metaphysics than physiology. The work is also remarkable for the conciseness and perspicuity of its style, the clearness of its descriptions, and the admirable arrangement of its matter. The present is a translation of the fifth and last edition of the ‘Précis Elémentaire de Physiologie,’ in which the science is brought down to the present time. It is not, like many modern systems, merely eclectic, or a compilation of the experiments and doctrines of others. On the contrary, all the important questions discussed, if not originally proposed and investigated by the author, have been thoroughly examined and experimented upon by him. His observations, therefore, on all these important subjects, carry with them great interest and weight derived from these investigations. The translator and editor, while faithfully adhering to the spirit of the author, has endeavored, and with success, to strip the work of its foreign costume, and naturalize it to our language. He has added a large number of diagrams and pictorial illustrations of the different organs and structures, taken from the highest and most recent authorities, in the hope of rendering clearer to the student of medicine the observations and reasonings on their functions. He has also made a number of additions on subjects which he thought had been passed over in too general a manner in the original work of Magendie. In a word, his aim ‘to present a system of human physiology which shall exhibit in a clear and intelligible manner the actual state of the science, and adapted to the use of students of medicine in the United States,’ has been thoroughly carried out.
The Study of the Life of Woman. By Madame Necker de Saussure, of Geneva. Translated from the French. In one volume. pp. 288. Philadelphia: Lea and Blanchard. New-York: Wiley and Putnam.
The distinguished clergyman who introduces this excellent book to American readers does it no more than justice when he declares it to be the work of a highly gifted mind, containing many beautiful philosophical views of the relation which woman sustains in society, abounding in the results of careful observation, and characterized by a pervading religious spirit. It is adapted to accomplish great good, and its circulation would do much to aid those who have the care of youthful females, and who desire that they should fill the place in society for which they were designed. There is no work in our language which occupies the place that this is intended to fill; nor which presents so interesting a view of the organization of society by its great Author, and of the situation appropriated to woman in that organization. The book has reference more particularly to the elevated circles of society; to those who have advantages for education; who have leisure for the cultivation of the intellect and the heart after the usual course of education is completed, and who have opportunities of doing good to others. ‘It will supply a place which is not filled now, and would be eminently useful to that increasing number of individuals in our country. It is much to be regretted that not a few when they leave school seem to contemplate little farther advancement in the studies in which they have been engaged. A just view of the place which woman is designed to occupy in society, as presented in this volume, would do much to correct this error. We should regard it as an auspicious omen, if this work should have an extensive circulation in this country, and believe that wherever it is perused it will contribute to the elevation of the sex; to promote large views of the benevolence and wisdom of the Creator in regard to the human family, and to advance the interests of true religion.’
The American Review, and Metropolitan Magazine. Numbers five and six. pp. 588. New-York: Saxton and Miles, Broadway.
The number of this publication for the December quarter is a very good one. We were especially interested in the ‘Michael Agonistes’ of Mr. J. W. Brown, which is, in parts, both powerful and harmonious, and in a dissertation upon ‘Weir’s National Painting.’ The writer is of opinion that our eminent artist has made a sad mistake in the conception of his striking group, although he awards warm praise to certain portions of the picture. Still he says: ‘It argues slight knowledge of human nature to suppose that melancholy resignation characterized those who at Delft-Haven embarked for a land of civil and religious liberty; wild and inhospitable, to be sure, but still a land of Freedom. There were other thoughts in the hearts of that noble band than those of sorrow. Even had they been leaving the country of their birth, they would not have sorrowed; but as it was, bidding farewell to a land of foreigners, almost as hostile to freedom as their own, they felt not otherwise than joyful, and their bosoms were full of thoughtful, reasoning gladness. The parting kiss of that young wife must have tried, somewhat, the firmness of her husband, yet not enough to cloud his bright anticipations of the future. A different mood than that imagined by Mr. Weir should have pervaded the group, if we are not widely in error. ‘With all its faults,’ adds our critic, however, ‘The Embarkation of the Pilgrims,’ although not indicative of great genius, yet regarded as to execution, does honor to Mr. Weir. We should do injustice to the central group, did we omit to confess that the devotional grandeur of the face of the minister, raised to heaven in prayer, struck us with a feeling of awe, such as we had perhaps never before experienced.’ This especial tribute we have heard paid to this picture by every person whom we have heard refer to it.
EDITOR’S TABLE
American Manners and American Literature.—We ask the attention of every right-minded American to the following remarks, which we take the liberty of transcribing from a welcome epistle to the Editor, from one of our most esteemed and popular contributors. The follies which it exposes and the evils which it laments have heretofore formed the themes of papers in this Magazine from the pens of able correspondents, as well as of occasional comment in our own departments; but we do not remember to have seen the subject more felicitously handled than by our friend: ‘The crying vice of the nation, and the one which of all others most fastens the charge of inconsistency on our character and professions, is that apish spirit with which we admire and copy every thing of European growth. While we exalt our institutions, character and condition over those of all other nations, and give ourselves ‘a name above every name,’ is it not supremely absurd for city to vie with city and family with family in adopting the latest fashions in dress and opinions originating in nations which have grown old in profligacy, and abound in the worthless excrescences of society? We profess to be perfectly independent of all control in our thoughts and actions: ‘Nullius addicti jurare in verba magistri.’ Yet who more readily than we shout in chorus to the newest modes of thinking ushered into ephemeral life by philosophers across the water? Who adopt so early or carry so far the most outre and preposterous styles of dress invented in Paris, as our American belles and dandies? The newest cut in garments which was hatched in Paris beneath the crescent-moon, her waning rays see carried to its utmost verge in our bustling marts. We follow the revolutions in the configuration of coats, from square to round, and from round to angular, with as scrupulous and painful a precision as if our national honor depended on the issue. Nay, we are usually a little too faithful, and fairly ‘out-Herod Herod.’ Does the cockney of the ‘world’s metropolis’ compress his toes in boots tapering at an angle of forty degrees? The republican fop promenades Broadway with his pedal extremities squeezed into an angle of thirty; and the corns ensuing he bears with christian fortitude; for does he not find his ‘exceeding great reward’ in being more fashionable than the Londoner himself? Has the fat of the Siberian bear, or ‘thine incomparable oil, Macassar’ called forth a thicket of hair on the cheek of the Frenchman, reaching from the cerebral pulse to the submaxillary bone? Instantly the pews of our churches, the boxes of our theatres, and the seats of our legislative halls, are thronged with whey-faced apes, the moisture of whose brains has exuded in nourishing a frowning hedge, of which the dark luxuriance encircles the whole face, resembling the old pictures of the saints wherewith our childhood was amused, encompassed with a glory! When the whiskered ‘petit-mâitres’ of Hyde-Park shall begin to transport their adorable persons to this new world on a summer’s trip, they will be astonished not a little to be stared at on landing through opera-glasses by counterparts of themselves; exact to the last hair of the moustache. ‘Werily,’ will be their ejaculation, ‘hit his wery great presumption in these wulgar democrats to himitate us Henglish in this way-ah!’ Every easterly wind blows in a fleet laden with cargoes of folly, and every outward-bound vessel bears an order for fresh importations of absurdity, of which milliners and tailors are the shippers, and flirts and fops the consignees. So far has this mimicking spirit proceeded, that we regard neither climate nor season. Were some accident to delay for a few months our advices from Europe, I question not but our fashionable ladies would adopt in mid-winter the same form and materials for their dresses which the Parisian damsels sported on the Boulevards beneath the scorching dog-star. The changeful and chilly atmosphere of our sea-board differs widely from the genial airs of ‘La belle France,’ and to adopt their fashions in detail is about as wise and tasteful in us as it would be for the negro panting beneath the line to wrap himself in the furs of Siberia, and substitute for his refreshing palm-juice the usquebaugh of the Highlands. Who would not laugh himself into a pleurisy to see the dandies of Timbuctoo stalking along in solemn gravity beneath their torrid sun, encumbered with a Russian fur-cloak, or a Lapland ‘whip’ on a snow-sledge, driving his canine four-in-hand, with a Turkish turban and Grecian robe folded carelessly around him? Yet wherein do we greatly differ in our absurdities! Again: we profess to have lopped from our democratic tree the old-world customs of hereditary title and patrimonial honor. We are no respecters of persons. We have no reverence for ancestral virtues, and the lustre that shines only by reflection has no charms for us. We respect no grandees but ‘nature’s noblemen.’ We look through the glittering atmosphere of place, and title, and factitious distinction, at the man himself. The artificer of his own fortunes we hail as a brother. He who possesses superior abilities or unblemished integrity, we honor, though his hands be on the plough; and he who is imbecile or dishonest, we despise, though his brow be encircled by a coronet. All noble, consistent, rational, and right. But how is this? ‘Lo! a foreigner has landed on our shores.’ Well; what then? We also should be foreigners in Europe. ‘Yes; but he bears the honorable appendage of Lord, or Sir, or De, or Di, or Von, or Don.’ Happy, meanwhile, thrice happy the youth whom his titleship will allow to treat him; blessed, triumphantly blessed, the Miss whose charms have warmed into life the cold gaze of my Lord Highbred, or Monsieur De Nonchalance. And oh! beatified beyond all rapture the doting mother, who in her ripened and expanded miniature begins to realize her dreams of ‘young romance,’ and to hope by connection with a family more lineally descended from Adam than her own, to obtain a rank
‘Whose glory with a lingering trace,
Shines through and deifies her race!’
Truth, every word truth—satire most justly bestowed; and before relinquishing this general theme, let us ask the reader to admire with us the cognate remarks of a writer in the last number of the ‘North-American Review’ upon the importance of a Literature which shall be distinctive and national in its character, and not a rifacamento of the varying literatures of various nations: ‘The man whose heart is capable of any patriotic emotion, who feels his pulse quicken when the idea of his country is brought home to him, must desire that country to possess a voice more majestic than the roar of party, and more potent than the whine of sects; a voice which should breathe energy and awaken hope where-ever its kindling tones are heard. The life of our native land; the inner spirit which animates its institutions; the new ideas and principles, of which it is the representative; these every patriot must wish to behold reflected from the broad mirror of a comprehensive and soul-animating literature. The true vitality of a nation is not seen in the triumphs of its industry, the extent of its conquests, or the reach of its empire; but in its intellectual dominion. Posterity passes over statistical tables of trade and population, to search for the records of the mind and heart. It is of little moment how many millions of men were included at any time under the name of one people, if they have left no intellectual testimonials of their mode and manner of existence, no ‘foot-prints on the sands of time.’ The heart refuses to glow at the most astounding array of figures. A nation lives only through its literature, and its mental life is immortal. And if we have a literature, it should be a national literature; no feeble or sonorous echo of Germany or England, but essentially American in its tone and object. No matter how meritorious a composition may be, as long as any foreign nation can say that it has done the same thing better, so long shall we be spoken of with contempt, or in a spirit of benevolent patronage. We begin to sicken of the custom, now so common, of presenting even our best poems to the attention of foreigners, with a deprecating, apologetic air; as if their acceptance of the offering, with a few soft and silky compliments, would be an act of kindness demanding our warmest acknowledgments. If the Quarterly Review or Blackwood’s Magazine speaks well of an American production, we think that we can praise it ourselves, without incurring the reproach of bad taste. The folly we yearly practise, of flying into passion with some inferior English writer, who caricatures our faults, and tells dull jokes about his tour through the land, has only the effect to exalt an insignificant scribbler into notoriety, and give a nominal value to his recorded impertinence. If the mind and heart of the country had its due expression, if its life had taken form in a literature worthy of itself, we should pay little regard to the childish tattling of a pert coxcomb who was discontented with our taverns, or the execrations of some bluff sea-captain who was shocked with our manners. The uneasy sense we have of something in our national existence which has not yet been fitly expressed, gives poignancy to the least ridicule launched at faults and follies which lie on the superficies of our life. Every person feels, that a book which condemns the country for its peculiarities of manners and customs, does not pierce into the heart of the matter, and is essentially worthless. If Bishop Berkeley, when he visited Malebranche, had paid exclusive attention to the habitation, raiment, and manners of the man, and neglected the conversation of the metaphysician, and, when he returned to England, had entertained Pope, Swift, Gay, and Arbuthnot with satirical descriptions of the ‘compliment extern’ of his eccentric host, he would have acted just as wisely as many an English tourist, with whose malicious pleasantry on our habits of chewing, spitting, and eating, we are silly enough to quarrel. To the United States in reference to the pop-gun shots of foreign tourists, might be addressed the warning which Peter Plymley thundered against Bonaparte, in reference to the Anti-Jacobin jests of Canning: Tremble, oh! thou land of many spitters and voters, ‘for a pleasant man has come out against thee, and thou shalt be laid low by a joker of jokes, and he shall talk his pleasant talk to thee, and thou shalt be no more!’ In order that America may take its due rank in the commonwealth of nations, a literature is needed which shall be the exponent of its higher life. We live in times of turbulence and change. There is a general dissatisfaction, manifesting itself often in rude contests and ruder speech, with the gulf which separates principles from actions. Men are struggling to realize dim ideals of right and truth, and each failure adds to the desperate earnestness of their efforts. Beneath all the shrewdness and selfishness of the American character, there is a smouldering enthusiasm which flames out at the first touch of fire; sometimes at the hot and hasty words of party, and sometimes at the bidding of great thoughts and unselfish principles. The heart of the nation is easily stirred to its depths; but those who rouse its fiery impulses into action are often men compounded of ignorance and wickedness, and wholly unfitted to guide the passions which they are able to excite. We want a poetry which shall speak in clear, loud tones to the people; a poetry which shall make us more in love with our native land, by converting its ennobling scenery into the images of lofty thoughts; which shall give visible form and life to the abstract ideas of our written constitutions; which shall confer upon virtue all the strength of principle and all the energy of passion; which shall disentangle freedom from cant and senseless hyperbole, and render it a thing of such loveliness and grandeur as to justify all self-sacrifice; which shall make us love man by the new consecrations it sheds on his life and destiny; which shall force through the thin partitions of conventialism and expediency; vindicate the majesty of reason; give new power to the voice of conscience, and new vitality to human affection; soften and elevate passion; guide enthusiasm in a right direction; and speak out in the high language of men to a nation of men.’
