drunken witness, and having made him keep his right hand upraised for a quarter of an hour, while he was stuttering and hickupping through the legal formula, then concluding, Here you would kiss the book, if some d - d scoundrel had not stolen the only Bible in the office; but as I've got no Bible, please to kiss your hand;' to see this, and then to hear men prate of the obligations of a judicial oath, is enough to sicken any being who has any religious or moral scruples. But to return. I can tell a man's character at a glance, if I see him sworn in as a witness. I can read him through, as he kisses the book. There are various kinds of judicial swearers. First, there is the reckless, devil-may-care oath-taker, who smacks the Bible as if it were the lips of the prettiest girl in Christendom. Put that fellow down as a liar; don't believe a word of his story, however plausible it may be. Then, there is the sanctified swearer, who rolls his eyes toward heaven, and bows his head half way to the ground, as he inyokes his Creator's name. Put him down as both liar and hypocrite : a truly religious man would not make so much outward show of his heart felt reverence. Then, there is the man who tries to kiss clear of the cross, or salutes the thumb, which he has dexterously interposed between the book and his lips; set him down in your mind's tablet, as liar, hypocrite, and fool. He is trying to deceive his fellow man by a cunningly devised fable; ergo, he is a liar: he is assuming a virtue, when he has it not; ergo, he is a hypocrite; and he is idiot enough to imagine that by kissing his thumb, or not kissing the cross, he has cheated the Omniscient being, and entitled himself to perjure his soul, as it suits his interest. But the godly man, who feels the obligation he is incurring by the invocation of the Holy One of Israel, speaks his feelings so visibly by his countenance and involuntary demeanor, that the practised eye at once perceives and appreciates his character.

I HAVE not much faith in phrenology, but I am forced to confess, that there are some characters, which, if they cannot be explained by the principles of the science I have adverted to, must for ever remain riddles to me. I have seen men, who, if they were bribed to speak the truth; who, if convinced that the plain statement of a fact as it had occurred, would be as conducive to their interests as any prevarication or exaggeration concerning it; would yet equivocate and lie, in a manner truly astonishing. I will give you an example of this class, which will also serve me to illustrate the free-and-easy manner that prevails in such of our courts as are, with considerable pleasantry, denominated Justice' Courts,' (lucus a non lucendo.) Old JOSHUA BANES, familiarly called Uncle Josh.,' by the youngsters of the neighborhood, and Epitaph Josh.,' (from the fact of his lying like a tomb-stone,) by the legal wags of the vicinity, is the person to whom I refer. One day, at one of these courts, it became necessary, for the identification of an individual, to ascertain whether, at a certain place, he had turned to the right or the left, and as the point had arisen incidentally, it was unavoidable to swear the only individual present in court, who was known to be acquainted with the circumstances, and that person was Epitaph Josh.' With

much trepidation, and after considerable consultation with his client, Josh. was put upon the stand, by the attorney for the plaintiff, who, after the old man had taken his place, accosted him thus: Well, uncle Josh, the boys around here say that you can't tell the truth by accident; but I know you better, don't I, old fellow?' 'Yes, Billy, you've known the old man too well, to believe all the lies told on him. I've kissed the good Book, my son, and I'll tell the truth as straight as a shingle.' Go on, then, let us hear all about it.' 'Well, you see, there was a pretty smart shower of old men at Joe White's ' entertainment,' and we got talking about old times, and the like, and after we had taken a dram or two, may be three, I started up the road, and as I walked along pretty brisk, I saw a man a-bead of me, whom I first took for Jim Sikes, and when I looked again, I allowed it was Bill Thompson; and so he kept up the road' 'Stop, uncle; tell us now, you know that road, don't you ?' · Well I reckon I do; I travelled it before you were born: I've walked it, man and boy, these sixty years, and I've never been a squirrel's jump from it; there aint a green shrub, or an old stump on it, that I don't know by heart.' 'Very well, now go on with your story.' And so the man kept up the road, until he came to the Forks, and when he got there, he took to the right—' 'Huzza! I said so, (exclaimed the enthusiastic attorney,) I said uncle Josh. would tell the truth when it came to the push; the old man is the genuine thing, after all: you see, gentlemen of the jury, as he turned to the right, it must have been Sikes. During this outbreak of feeling, uncle Josh. had received a wink from the opposing counsel, and without noticing the interruption, proceeded with his evidence. 'Well, as I was saying, when he got there, he turned to the left —'Halloo! stop there, old man; none of you tricks upon travellers; you said, just this minute, that he took to the right. No, I did n't.' 'Yes, you did,' exclaimed a score of voices. Well, children, don't crowd the old man so; give him time. Memory aint picked up like chips. So I did say the right; your right, as you stand to me, Billy, and my left, as I stand to you; you know, my son, there are two rights 'Which neither make one wrong, nor one left, you old villain! Now listen to me. The road that leads up from Joe White's tavern, is straight, until it comes to a fork; the right hand side of the fork leads to Jim Sikes's house, and the left hand side to Bill Thompson's. Now, no more of your rights nor lefts, but just tell me, did the man you saw, go up Sikes's or Thompson's road? That's the question!' 'I dis-remember.' 'You 'dis-remember!' you hoary headed old scoundrel! Have you not travelled that road all your life? Have you ever been as far as a squirrel's jump from it? Don't you know every green bush and every old stump on it, by heart, and yet you can't tell which road the man took, no longer ago than last week?' 'No, Billy, my son, the old man is no chicken; he is getting old now. I was born in the Revolution, and when the British Sit down, you gray-haired alligator!' vociferated the exasperated attorney, sit down. You have perjured yourself, from the word 'go;' you have equivocated from Dan to Beersheba; you have lied from Joe White's tavern to the forks of the road; and if the jury believe one word you 've said, they are greater rascals than either you or the justice there takes them to be !'

This is but a homespun sketch of a scene in a Georgia justice' court; but the professional reader, who has practised in higher tribunals, and in other states, has doubtless often seen individuals of the same class with 'Epitaph Josh.'

MAYHEW.

THOMAS MAYHEW, commonly called Gov. Mayhew, at the age of seventy, succeeded in the Indian mission, to the vacant office of his son, who had perished at twenty-eight, on a voyage home to England, and continued unwearied in his ministry twenty-three years, having to walk nearly twenty miles to reach the Indian village, and concluding his life and labors together, aged ninety-three years.' AMERICAN HISTORY.

VOL. XII.

SPRING'S silvery clouds were floating light and fair,
And 'breathed in music' were the blue-bird's vows,
And scarlet flowers burst forth in sunny air,

Hanging with coral keys the maple's boughs,
And from its dusky cell blithe winged the golden bee,
And blossomed on the sod the low anemone.

And through the passes of the forest green,
And throng of columns in the wastes of pine,
An ancient man, with silver hair, was seen,

His pathway tracing, in no devious line;
Whom brake and thicket all in vain withstood,
And labyrinth untrod, of mazy underwood.

But sweeter melody than blue-bird's lay,
In these lone places o'er his spirit stole,

Low, filial tones, from earth scarce passed away,
Still echoed through the chambers of his soul,
And in the dim green woods, around him seemed to be
A voice for ever hushed, beneath the billowy sea.

And sound of parted feet to him seemed nigh,

All chance chords struck of memory's golden lyre,
For never more beneath the arching sky,

Might, as they walked, commune the son and sire;
Nor on the green-sward more, beloved foot-prints appear,
Where now he could but track fleet moccasin or deer.

Alas for him! the wave should break and fall,
Cresting and dashing o'er young heart and brow,
O'er raven locks, deep unto deep should call,
And low his hoary head in anguish bow;
Yet had the living sire been first recalled above,
What lesson had been lost of patient grief and love!

For o'er the green glades played the summer breeze,
That into life and bloom the wild rose woke;
And clapped their hands the multitude of trees,
The mountain-ash, the sycamore, and oak,
With interwoven boughs o'ershadowing the sod,
Where, lonely and bereaved, the missionary trod.

And autumn woods were tinctured like the sky,
As o'er the earth its sunset glory falls,

And through the wilds the wanderer still passed by;
Winter with crystal paved the forest halls,

His sceptre dropping gems where summer flowers had sprung,
And to the pilgrim's staff the ice unyielding rung.

64

Patient he toiled, and to the red man bore,

In low bark hut, on banks of sunny stream,
'Sweet words of life'* — of life, to die no more,

Of heaven, unpictured in the brightest dream;
And praise rose up to God, in ancient forests dim,
In accents wild and sweet, of holy psalm or hymn.

As danced the seasons in their ceaseless round,
The forest babe became a warrior bold,

Quivered and plumed, for chase or war-path bound,
Ere life's last ebbing sands the traveller told,

Or braved the wintry winds, he should not know return,
And at the fount was broke the undimmed golden urn.

On thy brief scroll of history enrolled,

Undying names, my native land! we trace;

And in the archives of the heart we fold

The records of our fathers' glorious race,

With Mayhew's deeds inscribed, of purest Christian fame,

That beautiful in meekness wrought, our love and reverence claim. Boston, October, 1838.

L.

A REPLY

TO THE ATTACK ON SIR WALTER SCOTT, IN THE KNICKERBOCKER FOR OCTOBER.

We believe this to be a sound principle of retributive justice, that an individual who fails fully to substantiate such charges of criminality as he voluntarily prefers and perseveringly argues against another, must be content to endure the penalty which he sought to inflict. It is our purpose to show whether the writer of the review, above cited, stands in this predicament.

We premise one thing only-which we do in contradiction of this writer's assumption, and in exposure of the essential defect of his whole argument that the every-day life (comprising the unpremeditated thoughts, words, and deeds) of the purest uninspired man that ever lived, cannot bear the test of a moral scrutiny which boasts nothing short of perfection as its standard; and, hence, that a man 'found wanting' under such microscopic investigation, is not to be successfully denounced as radically deficient in the very elements of honesty, by a fellow man who is necessarily liable, on the same ground, to the same denunciation.

We e quote, in the first place, the writer's view of the moral obligation under which he has felt compelled to review the life and character of Scott:

'It is true, Mr. Lockhart appears to have a lively consciousness that Scott could and did sometimes grievously err; but in the very face of his own testimony, in the summing up of his case, he claims for his father-in-law a character for worth and probity, that is utterly irreconcileable with his own facts. This circumstance constitutes the predominant moral defect of the book; for when such a conclusion is audaciously drawn from such premises, the world sustaining, or quietly submitting to, the justness of the former, we are not to be surprised if we find the young and inexperienced following in footsteps that are made to appear hallowed. We think it time that the voice of truth should be heard, in this matter; that those old and venerable principles which have been transmitted to us from God himself, should be fearlessly applied; and that public attention should be drawn to the really distinctive traits of Scott, in

Delaware phrase.

order that public opinion may settle down in decisions that are neither delusive nor dangerous. The limits of a monthly periodical will not allow full justice to be done to the subject, but we may have space enough to set inquiry on foot, and to give some check to the progress of fallacies and falsehoods.'

Here is a pretty distinct recognition of the moral obligation which rests upon mankind for the observance of truth; and no very indistinct intimation of the proper penalty which awaits the disregard of it. Here is also a pretty definite assertion that the character of Scott, as delineated by Lockhart, is stained with fallacies and falsehoods.

We quote again, to show, in his own language, some farther reasons of our critic for reviewing, and also his general statement of the defects of Scott's character.

'Some who are entirely disposed to acquiesce in the justice of our opinions, may feel a wish to inquire into the cui bono of the exposures* we are about to make; for the admiration of Scott's talents is so general and profound, that the imagination, in such instances, prefers to cherish a delusion in preferencet to giving up one of its own most pleasing pictures. The answer is not difficult to find. In the first place the failings, not to use a harsher term, of Sir Walter Scott, have been paraded before the world, in a way that really seems to bid defiance to principles; and, in their very teeth, we are called on to venerate a name that, in a moral sense, owes its extraordinary exaltation to some of the most barefaced violations of the laws of rectitude, that ever distinguished the charlatanism of literature. We think it time that some one should step forward in defence of truth. In the next place, Sir Walter Scott is not entitled to the benefit of the venerable axiom of 'Nil nisi bene de mortuis,'t since he commanded that his personal history should be published, and designated his biographer. A man has a perfect right to order his life to be given to the world, certainly, but after thus openly courting investigation, no one can claim in his behalf, that he is to be protected against just criticism, by the grave. Sir Walter Scott did more; he transmitted materials to his biographer, for this very work, and materials that reflect injuriously, and in many instances unjustly, on third persons; materials, too, that he knew would be published after he himself was removed from earthly responsibility; and least of all can it be said, that they who have been injured by the strictures of Sir Walter Scott, in this reprehensible manner, have not a perfect right to show their want of value. The very fact of designating a biographer, unless in extraordinary instances, infers something very like a fraud upon the public, as it is usually placing one who should possess the impartiality of a judge, in the position of an advocate, and leaves but faint hopes of a frank and fair exhibition of the truth. Nor does this cover all our objections. Mr. Lockhart, as we shall soon, and we think, unanswerably show, was one of the last men that Sir Walter Scott should have selected for this office, by his antecedents, his long connection with a periodical that was conceived, and which has been continued, in fraud; circumstances that no person, according to his own admissions, knew better than Sir Walter Scott, and which disqualify him for the task, since a man can no more maintain a connection with a publication like the Quarterly Review, which is notoriously devoted to profligate political partizanship, reckless alike of truth and decency, and hope to preserve the moral tone of his mind, than a woman can frequent the society of the licentious, aud think to escape pollution. We are not now following the loose example of the periodical we have mentioned, by dealing in unmeaning and frothy epithets, but that which we assert, we shall prove; and as our present object is connected with the sacred cause of truth and human rights, it shall be our aim to do it in the simple manner that best advances both. There is one more reason to be offered, why we think Sir Walter Scott, in this matter, is entitled to the benefit of no other considerations than those of abstract justice, and that is his Diary. In this Diary he comments freely and loosely on others, and yet he tells us that he has sworn never to erase a line that had once been written in it! We have even a right to infer, from the text and context, that some of these entries were made when his mind was not exactly in a fit condition to comment on others, and we find reason to believe, from the Diary itself, that he looked forward to its future publication.'

What does he mean by exposures, when he is merely treating of facts already published ? Prefers it in preference! We trust that the man capable of that sentence, will never presume to criticise the style of another.

Our critic's attempts at Latin, remind one of the Hero' of Major Jack's celebrated Letters. Quoth the brave old Ĝin'ral, ‘E Pluribus Unum, my friends, and sine qua non.' So our critic,' Cui bono, and Nil nisi bene de mortuis.' Now, cui bono is very good latin, though our critic do n't know how to use it: but Nil nisi, etc., which he largely calls a 'venerable axiom,' is as blundering a specimen of latinity as one professing to be a scholar could well introduce: furthermore, (to be very nice) by saying the axiom of Nil nisi,' he transforms his latin phrase into a latin author, and deprives us entirely of the axiom.'