2 Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain heather, Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. 3 How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start? How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, 4 When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming; 5 But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When, 'wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch, by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, (LAURENCE STERNE was born in Clonmell, Ireland, November 24, 1713, and died in London, March 18, 1768. He was educated at the university of Cambridge, became a clergyman of the church of England, and in that capacity resided for many years in Sutton, in Yorkshire. He was the author of "Tristram Shandy," a novel; "A Sentimental Journey through France and Italy;" and of several published sermons. He was a man of peculiar and original genius, remarkable alike for pathos and humor, and with an unrivalled power of giving truth and consistency to characters marked by whims and oddities. "Tristram Shandy," his principal story, has little or no story, and fails in interest as a continuous narrative; but the personages are admirably drawn, and it abounds with exquisite scenes and sketches. His writings are defaced by grave offences against decorum, his style is deficient in simplicity, and his sentimentality is often exaggerated and mawkish ; but in his airy, fantastic, and indescribable humor, there is a grace and life over which time has no power. Few persons now read Sterne as a whole, and yet few writers are better known, such is the enduring popularity of portions of his writings, such as the story of Le Fevre, from "Tristram Shandy," and the following sketch from the "Sentimental Journey."] AND as for the Bastile! the terror is in the word. Make the most of it you can, said I to myself, the Bastile is but another word for a tower, and a tower is but another word for a house you cannot get out of. Mercy on the 5 gouty! for they are in it twice a year- but, with nine livres a day, and pen and ink and paper and patience, albeit a man cannot get out, he may do very well within, at least for a month or six weeks; at the end of which, if he is a harmless fellow, his innocence appears, and he 10 comes out a better and a wiser man than he went in. I had some occasion (I forget what) to step into the court-yard, as I settled this account; and remember I *The Bastile was a building in Paris, originally a royal castle, and afterwards used as a state prison. It was destroyed by the populace July 14, 1789 and thus was commenced the French Revolution. : walked down stairs in no small triumph with the conceit of my reasoning. Beshrew the sombre pencil! said I, vauntingly, for I envy not its power, which paints the evils of life with so hard and deadly a coloring. The mind sits 5 terrified at the objects she has magnified herself, and blackened reduce them to their proper size and hue, she overlooks them. It is true, said I, correcting the proposition; the Bastile is not an evil to be despised; but strip it of its towers—fill up the fosse—unbarricade the doors 10 call it simply a confinement, and suppose it some tyrant of a distemper and not of a man which holds you in it, the evil vanishes, and you bear the other half without complaint. 66 I was interrupted in the heyday of this soliloquy, with 15 a voice which I took to be of a child, which complained it could not get out.' I looked up and down the passage, and seeing neither man, woman, nor child, I went out without further attention. In my return back through the passage, I heard the 20 same words repeated twice over; and looking up, I saw it was a starling hung in a little cage. I can't get out," said the starling. "I can't get out I stood looking at the bird: and to every person who came through the passage, it ran fluttering to the side 25 towards which they approached it, with the same lamentation of its captivity. "I can't get out," said the starling. God help thee! said I; but I will let thee out, cost what it will; so I turned about the cage, to get the door; it was twisted, and double twisted so fast with wire, there was no 30 getting it open without pulling the cage to pieces. I took both hands to it. The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance, and thrusting his head through the trellis, pressed his breast against it, as if impatient. I fear, poor 35 creature! said I, I cannot set thee at liberty. "No," said the starling-"I can't get out. I can't get out." I never had my affections more tenderly awakened; nor do I remember an incident in my life, where the dissipated spirits, to which my reason had been a bubble, were so suddenly called home. Mechanical as the notes were, yet 5 so true in tune to nature were they chanted, that in one moment they overthrew all my systematic reasonings upon the Bastile; and I heavily walked up stairs, unsaying every word I had said in going down them. Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery! said I 10 still thou art a bitter draught; and though thousands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account. It is thou, thrice sweet and gracious goddess, addressing myself to LIBERTY, whom all, in public or in private, worship, whose taste is grateful, and 15 ever will be so, till NATURE herself shall change—no tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron with thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious heaven! cried I, 20 kneeling down upon the last step but one in my ascent 25 30 grant me but health, thou great Bestower of it; and give me but this fair goddess as my companion—and shower down thy mitres, if it seems good unto thy divine providence, upon those heads which are aching for them. The bird in his cage pursued me into my room; I sat down close to my table, and leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination. I was going to begin with the millions of my fellowcreatures born to no inheritance but slavery; but finding, however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it near me, and that the multitudes of sad groups in it did but distract me — I took a single captive, and having first 35 shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture. I beheld his body half wasted away with long expecta tion and confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it was which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish; in thirty years 5 the western breeze had not once fanned his blood-he had seen no sun, no moon in all that time nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice: his children -But here my heart began to bleed, and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait. 10 He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the farthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed; a little calendar of small sticks was laid at his bed, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there — he had one of these little 15 sticks in his hand, and with a rusty nail he was etching another day of misery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down, shook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his 20 legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle. He gave a deep sigh—I saw the iron enter into his soul-I burst into tears I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn. XXVII.—CHARACTER OF SAMUEL ADAMS. TUDOR. [WILLIAM TUDOR was born in Boston, January 28, 1779, and died in Rio Janeiro, March 9, 1830. He was graduated at Harvard College in 1796. He was the author of "Letters on the Eastern States," a "Life of James Otis," and a volume of "Miscellanies," and contributed many articles to the "Monthly Anthology," and the "North American Review" of which latter he was the first editor. He was chargé d'affaires for the United States, in Brazil, at the time of his death. An anonymous work published in 1829, called "Gebel Teir,” was by him. He was one of the founders of the Boston Athenæum, and to him the country is indebted for the first suggestion of the Bunker Hill Monument. He was a correct and scholarly writer, and a most estimable and amiable man. The following extract is from the "Life of James Otis." |