Chapter IV (2)

Perhaps you remember the interest her coming gave to all the lovers of mystery in our circle. She was dressed in black. Her child was about twelve or fourteen; beautiful as a fairy, and seemingly a visitor from some etherial sphere—so delicate, so gentle was her every glance and movement. They brought with them an elegant harp and guitar, and two richly painted portraits. Of their characters or former home, nothing could be gathered. She rented that house which you see among those lofty oaks, and furnished it in a style of neat simplicity and taste. Soon after she came, she issued proposals for a school, but few at first seemed disposed to patronize her; and though curiosity was strongly manifested to know who and what she was, all that could be gathered was the assertion that she was the widow of an officer, whose untimely death had left her friendless, and induced her, to seek among strangers, a home and support. Months passed by, and her correct deportment—the pure elegance of her manners, and her various accomplishments, gained her the good-will and confidence of some of the leading characters in the village, by whose influence a considerable number of scholars was soon procured. Among her friends and patrons was Mr. Wilton; and his daughter Clara, then {781} about the age of Matilda, was the first committed to her care.

Soon did the widow and her daughter engage the affections of the scholars, and a great intimacy took place between Matilda and Clara. The Wiltons were wealthy, and their influence great; yet, notwithstanding their efforts to induce Mrs. Clayton to mingle with society, she and Matilda remained secluded from all the gaieties and pleasures of the village. Often did their acquaintances stroll to the cottage to listen to their sweet voices as they sung to their instruments; and never shall I forget the tender tears I shed as I stood one moonlight evening near the lattice, and heard the widow play and sing these touching lines:

How hard it is with calmness to survey,
The scenes which memory bringeth to my view;
I fain would drive its spectre forms away,
And think ideal, what I know is true.
She brings back scenes of bliss beyond compare,
Recalls the joys which are forever fled—
I bathe their memory with my bitter tears,
And leave this spot to weep around the dead.
I gaze on thee, my own, my darling child—
I see “thy father’s softened image there;”
And oh! my tears arise to check thy smile,
And bid thee share thy widow’d mother’s care.
I’ve asked not pity, for too cold’s this world
To share the sorrows of the suffering poor;
From wealth’s high summit, when the wretch is hurled,
Alone they’re left their misery to deplore:
But conscious virtue will our solace be—
Perhaps we yet some feeling hearts may find;
While sweet’s the task to teach and succor thee,
My own Matilda, my dear orphan child;
And to our God our evening hymn we’ll raise,
For He did hear, when in our wo we cried;
The widow’s spouse—the orphan’s friend we’ll praise,
And dry our tears in hopes of bliss on high.

Even now I almost fancy I can hear her sweet tremulous voice, as it rose on the silent evening breeze, and still I seem to gaze on that lovely, though pallid face, as with tearful uplifted eye she sang those last lines of tender heart-touching piety and faith. But I have wandered from my narrative. Years rolled by, and still the widow’s school increased, and with it love and respect for her and her daughter. Clara Wilton had been the constant companion of the latter for near three years, and her proficiency in both solid and ornamental branches of education should have satisfied even her ambitious parents. But the fashionable error that a young lady’s education could never be completed at home, had found its way here, and Clara, with others, was removed from Mrs. Clayton’s maternal care, to mix with strangers, careless of their principles, and uninterested in their happiness.

You, who have known the course pursued in fashionable boarding schools—you who have seen the disappointed hopes—the perverted minds—the corrupted hearts which have been the result of injudicious plans of education, will not wonder when I tell you that the artless, affectionate Clara returned home, after two years _polish_, an altered, a sadly altered being. Matilda was now assisting her mother in the duties of the school-room. That budding beauty which in childhood charmed, was mellowed, refined, by the graces and dignity of the woman. That quiet spirit, whose benign influence had been felt by so many in the morning of life, now shed its purifying influence in a more extended circle. Matilda was admired—beloved. Many sought her society—she treated all with that amiable politeness which springs from a pure heart: but few could gain her confidence or tempt her from that deep retirement she had learned to love.

Clara still loved Matilda. Though fashion, folly, show and pleasure had filled her mind, still she often left the bustle of gay life, to spend an hour in that quiet, lovely spot, where she had spent her happiest days. Often did she strive to enlist Matilda under the banners of her leading pleasures, but she strove in vain. When crossed or afflicted at any real or imaginary loss, she told her the troubles that annoyed her; and often did Matilda point out the transitory nature of her favorite joys, and point her unsatisfied heart to the only fountain of perfect bliss.

Clara had many admirers, and frequently had the cottage been visited in her evening rambles by her and her friends, to listen to the elegant performance of its inmates, while Clara often joined the concert with her own clear and highly cultivated voice.

Among the number who had thus become known to Matilda, was James Williams, long an ardent admirer and evident favorite of Miss Wilton’s.

Long had he solicited her hand, but she would not decide his fate. Almost constantly with her, he had imagined her necessary to his happiness, and so long had been kept in a feverish excitement of love, and hope, and doubt, that he scarcely cared to have his case permanently fixed. Believing himself beloved, he rather enjoyed than disliked her frequent changes of deportment towards him, and had not yet learned that there was a deep and holy feeling meant by love, that he had never yet enjoyed.

But he saw Matilda. Again and again he repaired to the cottage, and ere he knew that he was in danger, he found himself completely enslaved by the artless, lovely manners, and rich and highly cultivated mind of her who never thought of conquest. But he was shackled, and how to break his bonds he knew not. Only one means presented itself, and that was to urge Clara to a decided and immediate step relative to him. She, unsuspecting his motive, and believing his happiness in her power, rejected him, vainly expecting to hear renewed declarations of affection, and to witness a sorrow and despair which she would, ere long, turn into hope and gladness.

But, like the captive bird, who after weeks of imprisonment finds the door of his cage unbarred, he exulted in his newly gained liberty, and with delightful speed burst asunder every tie that bound him to his captor, and sought again those joys which he had feared were lost to him forever. Clara loved him, if the heart of a gay unthinking girl could love. Little had she dreamed that in the lowly Matilda she could find a rival, and that too, in the only heart whose worship she had ever really valued. But in his speaking countenance she read that her rejection gave no pain, nor was she long in discovering the cause of his alienated affections. Clara was now awoke from more sleeps than one—she had awoke from confidence in love, to prove that she had been bewildered with an _ignis fatuus_; her feelings of resentment, envy and revenge, which had slumbered so long, were now aroused and glowed with the intensity of a long smothered flame.

{782} When she first left her native village, she was a stranger to the vices so prevalent among the young in modern times. But easy is the task to imbibe wrong sentiments—to learn that revenge is noble—that the end justifies the means, and that she who can best dissemble, most secretly effect her purposes, is most praiseworthy and admired.

Her feelings naturally ardent, needed but an exciting cause to call into active exercise some of the most uncontrollable, and unamiable passions. Clara might have made, with proper government when young, an excellent woman. But no early discipline had prepared her for usefulness and happiness. An only daughter, the heiress of a large estate and honorable name, and possessed of many personal graces—she had known no restraints—met with no crosses to her inclinations, and had been taught, by precept and example, that admiration, conquest, dress and fashion, were the objects at which she should tend—the summit of her ambition. Mrs. Clayton had endeavored to instil good principles in all her pupils’ minds; but what can the lessons of the school-room effect, when the family circle extinguishes all the good feelings produced during a few hours instruction? Self-love was Clara’s idol—self-love, alas! is too often the destroyer of its worshipper.

Williams soon became an open admirer of Miss Clayton. Gifted with talents, fortune, and a person of uncommon elegance, his mind well stored with literature, and his heart, though uninfluenced by solid piety, yet feelingly alive to many noble and brilliant virtues, he was formed to love with all the deep fervor of a virtuous soul, and formed to be beloved by one who could appreciate his character. No sooner did Williams declare himself the friend and equal of Miss Clayton, than the line of demarkation which had been drawn by the proud and rich gave way, and it soon became quite as fashionable to admire the gentle Matilda, as it had been to pay homage to her wealthier cotemporaries.

Nor did Williams alone desert Miss Wilton’s ranks. Among her former suitors was a young man of dissipated character, but polished manners, who would, no doubt, have been a successful competitor for her hand, had not Williams appeared upon the stage. Between these two, no good feelings existed; and no sooner did Dudley discover his attachment to Matilda, than he determined to oppose him. For some months no event occurred worth recital. Rumor declared Williams the future husband of Matilda; while Dudley, tired of his new flame, again returned to flatter the beautiful Clara.

It was evident that she was not happy, and also that the desertion of Williams was a source of real mortification; yet still her fondness for her rival continued, and she even seemed more devoted than ever to the society of her friend. Matilda loved her, and fondly imagined that she was likewise beloved. But the time for her marriage drew near. Clara possessed her confidence, and apparently enjoyed the approaching good fortune of her friend. At this juncture, business called Williams unexpectedly from the state. With a beating heart he bid adieu to his betrothed, promising to write every post, and extorting from her a like favor. One letter only was received from him, and that was cold and brief. Added to this, she was told that his departure was a finesse to avoid the fulfilment of his engagement—that he had spoken disrespectfully of her, and that she need not expect any farther tidings from him. But Matilda believed it not. She wrote. In a short time her letter was returned unopened. Still she could not believe him false. A month rolled by—a month of anguish, of suspense—but nothing farther was heard from him.

During this time Williams had received letters from his friends advising him to return no more—that Matilda had deceived him—that her conduct was improper in the extreme—that the story of her mother’s widowhood was an artful tale, invented to conceal the ignominious birth of her daughter, and that they were proved to be exiles from home, forced off by the resentment of their family. He, too, received a letter from Matilda, requesting to be exonerated from her vows, alleging a former attachment as the cause, which she declared herself unable to overcome. Nor did it end here. Dudley and Clara had so managed that the minds of the public should be prepared for the event of Williams’ desertion; and the unhappy girl soon found that not only had her lover fled, but with him her character, and of course her peace. At Williams’ request their school had been dismissed, and thus were they left, with sullied fame, and without the means of future support. In vain did they endeavor to investigate the matter. No one stepped forward to assist them, save some who lacked the ability to succor those whom they believed innocent. Two years passed by, and found their situation deplorable indeed. A deep melancholy had seized the widow’s mind; their efforts to re-assume their former office failed, and they were poor, friendless and afflicted. Matilda bore it with becoming dignity—all that industry and prudence could effect was done—but the rose was fled from her cheek, and the smile of peace was gone. Only by the bed side of the poor and dying, or afflicted, and within the walls of the house of God, did she venture to stray. But the influence of virtue will sooner or later be felt. Public sentiment cannot long remain stationary, and a reaction seemed gradually taking place in the Claytons’ favor. Again they requested to be patronised, and a few persons resolved again to try them. The fever of excitement was passed, and the minds of the community, as they grew more calm, began to look more closely into the nature of the case; and many now wondered that they had been so credulous as to believe what was so slightly proven. But it is needless to descend to particulars—suffice it to say, that they were again placed in a situation of comparative comfort; and many who had secretly shown some kindness to the sufferers, now boldly espoused their cause, and openly declared their belief in their innocence. Clara was still unmarried, and her deep hatred to Matilda now began to assume a more tangible form. No opportunity escaped her and Dudley, to asperse her character; and so marked was their enmity, that it attracted general attention.

Twelve months passed by, and their school increased, and with it their favor with the greater portion of their acquaintances. Dudley and Clara were to be married, and a great excitement existed in expectation of the gaieties of the scene. Never had such preparations been known, and consequently the approaching marriage was the theme of every tongue. The evening before the wedding, a large party of the young men of the village {783} and its vicinity, had assembled to celebrate some anniversary in which they were interested. After the business of the meeting was over, they agreed to drink to the happiness of Dudley and his Clara. One sally of mirth gave way to another, until Dudley and several others felt much exhilarated by their large potations. Dudley at length mentioned Williams—tauntingly alluded to his former attachment to Clara—attributed his rejection by her to his own influence—and wound up by asserting that it was not the only favor for which his friend had to thank him. Encouraged by the mirth his witticisms excited, he proceeded to state, in a strain of deep ridicule, that had not his superior discernment discovered the true character of Miss Clayton, and given the alarm, she would have now been the wife of Williams; and that, for the favor he had done him in getting him out of that dilemma, he should seek out the exile, and claim, by way of reward, a handsome legacy for his first. Among the number present was one who long had loved the innocent girl whose name was thus unceremoniously handled; a suspicion that Dudley was the cause of her ruin, darted through his mind, and he resolved to take him by guile. He accordingly asked if friendship for Williams had prompted him to the task of breaking off his chains. “No, indeed: I had a double motive. She, a proud wretch, had rejected me; and he, a villain, once had rivalled me; for a reason, good or bad, they loved each other, and I made them feel what they will not forget.” “And you can prove all that was said?” continued the other. Dudley was now alarmed, for there was something in young Maxwell’s look that showed he had said more than he intended to be understood. “Prove it!” said he, “assuredly I did it; and if necessary, can prove a great deal more than you have ever heard.”

The party dispersed at a late hour, but Maxwell arose next morning unrefreshed. He fancied he had found the clew to the labyrinth, and resolved, unsuspected and secretly, to discover, if possible, the mystery which he now saw had been so long thrown over that transaction. Maxwell, too, was Williams' friend. He alone knew his present residence, and he resolved, if possible, to investigate the matter, and restore, if innocent, happiness and fame to her whom he now believed unjustly deprived of both.

* * * * *

The halls of Wilton Lodge were glittering with a thousand lights—the merry peals of the violin resounded through the mansion—the gay dancers were seen in every direction—while feasting and profusion marked the splendid scene. Maxwell leant beside a lofty column, decorated with flowers and variegated lamps, and looked on the festive scene with a saddened heart.

Clara was arrayed in almost regal splendor. The jewels glistened in her hair—the pearls gave their pure forms to decorate her snowy neck and arms; every thing combined to make her happy and gay, and yet he thought that she was sad.

Wearied with the dance, she seated herself near the spot where Maxwell stood. He approached, and laughingly inquired why she looked so serious, where all was so gay and bright. She denied that such was the case, when he jestingly remarked, that he should think she was sighing for her old flame, young Williams, unless she looked more like a happy bride. A deep blush overspread her cheek, and with deep feeling she replied, that Matilda Clayton might grieve for him, for they suited better than any two she had ever known. He asked her why? Because, said she, her heart is false as a traitor’s, and his, like hers, inconstant and base. “You astonish me,” said Maxwell. “I know them both,” she replied, “and Mr. Dudley knows them too.” Maxwell said no more, and Clara rejoined the dance.

* * * * *

One month had scarcely elapsed since the marriage of Dudley, when the village was again excited by the appearance of Williams. No sooner had he arrived than a thousand vague reports and ideas were afloat, and the general sentence was, that his business was to see Matilda. He refreshed himself at the hotel, and taking Maxwell’s arm, strolled towards the cottage. The sun had set, and the moon was shining with an unusual brightness, and gave to the flowers and shrubberies around the cottage a more than natural beauty. They approached softly, for they recognized Matilda’s voice, and listening, heard these words:

Yes, false to me has been this world;
Its malice tore thy heart from me:
The shaft which at my peace was hurled,
Was deeply felt, I know, by thee.
Still conscious virtue is my stay,
Though yet a dart does rankle here—
He thinks me base and false as they
Who tore my bosom with despair.
I’ll blame him not; the poisonous breath
Of malice forced him thus to stray;
And fain I’d clasp the tyrant Death,
To wash that guiltless stain away.

Williams’ agitation became so great that his friend with difficulty prevented his betraying his nearness to the house; but caution was necessary, as it had been planned that Maxwell should go in alone, and by degrees apprise Matilda of W.’s arrival, and his object. He accordingly knocked at the door. Mrs. Clayton asked who was there. His name was given, and he immediately entered.

Seating himself near Matilda, he asked what event on earth could give her most pleasure? She blushed deeply, and replied, “to see all the world convinced that I am not deserving of the scorn which has been heaped upon me; true, a reaction has already taken place, but where there is mystery there is doubt, and doubt is the fruitful source of distrust. But why did I answer thus; excuse me, for as you entered I was brooding over the past—the bitter past.” “And did you ever suspect the enemies who at that dark period caused your sorrow?” “No,” she replied, “I would not be so unjust as to censure merely from suspicion; but let us drop so painful a theme—I was wrong to allude to it.” But Maxwell was resolved that it should not thus be dropped. “Miss Clayton,” said he, “did you never think that Dudley and his wife were deeply concerned in that nefarious business? Answer me, for I do believe that they were the entire cause.” He then proceeded to relate what he had heard from the lips of both, and concluded by saying, “I have written to Williams, stating my suspicions, and when he comes, I doubt not a full explanation and investigation will be the result.” “Williams!” repeated Matilda; “and do you know where he is? But I must thank you for the interest you have ever taken in my fate. Words are weak to paint the {784} feelings of a grateful heart. Oh! that you may be rewarded, even should your noble endeavors fail.” “But you have not told me,” he continued, “whether or not you think my charges against those persons just.” “I have feared it,” said she, “but I resolved to condemn no one until I _knew_ that they deserved it. Those who have writhed under the tortures of unmerited charges, will be the last to give like pangs.” “Farewell, Miss Clayton,” said he, “when next we meet, may it be to tell you that the sun of happiness has dawned again in your horizon, and that your wrongs are revenged.” “Talk not of revenge,” she replied; “I would not have it taken. ‘Judgment is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord,’ and to _him_ will I leave it.” She could say no more—tears streamed down her cheek. The widow pressed his hand, and exclaimed, “The Lord will bless, will reward thee!” Maxwell left the room, and rejoined the impatient Williams.

* * * * *

The excitement which reigned during the time that Williams and Maxwell were investigating the mystery of Matilda’s injuries cannot be described. Suffice it to say, that a complete exposure of a deep and villainous plot was the result. Dudley, exasperated at his conduct and that of his wife being detected, challenged Williams to a duel; but he refused, and wrote him a letter declaring his contempt of him and his wife, and his determined purpose neither to meet him or any other man for a purpose so ungentlemanly, and at direct variance with the laws of God and man. A suit against them was expected, but Matilda positively refused her consent to such a measure, declaring that money was no atonement for sorrow, and that, her innocence attested, she neither sought nor wished to punish her enemies, as she well knew they would suffer far more than they had forced her to endure. Need I add, that she soon became the wife of the only man she ever loved. A short time before their marriage the brother of Mrs. Clayton sought her out. Her father had died. On his death-bed he forgave her for marrying against his will, and left her a large estate. But happiness is brief at best. It was soon too evident that Matilda was not long for earth. Excitement and sorrow had undermined her health, and her husband saw but too plainly that the seeds of death were already sown.

But to return to Dudley. Disgraced and despised by the virtuous and good, he plunged into excesses of every kind. He and his wife were miserable; for, mutually sunk in each other’s estimation, their conduct manifested to all who knew them, the object for which they sacrificed their honor: truth and peace defeated, all was too much for even them to bear. Mr. Wilton did not long survive the shock his feelings had received. He died in less than twelve months after Williams’ return.

Clara’s health failed; penitence perhaps was little felt—but shame and wounded pride, and a cold neglectful husband, added to the pangs of a reproving conscience, carried her to the grave. She left one child, but that too has lately been laid by her side. Dudley is a bankrupt and a wanderer. Where he is I am unable to inform you. Rumor says that he has fallen a victim to the fury of a mob. And who reared that splendid monument to Clara’s memory? Her husband, neglectful, cruel to her while living, had it erected, as if in mockery—for it serves but to remind all who see it how little she deserved its inscription. But Matilda, my heart bleeds to think on her. She was the mother of one lovely child; but her health was gone. Her husband spared no pains to arrest the progress of disease; but it was in vain that he took her from north to south, from place to place: after two years absence from this village, she returned but to die. But how different was her end from that of her once beloved friend. The sympathy of all, the love of all, the blessings of the poor, accompanied her to her last home. Never shall I forget the joyful peace that illumined her dying face—nor the anguish of her mother, the agony of her husband, when, for the last time, she clasped her infant in her arms, poured out her heart in prayer, forgave her enemies, blessed her friends, and clasping her husband’s hand to her heart, breathed her last. You saw her tomb, and do you wonder that it says no external record is necessary for her praise. Two months ago, and I saw her laid in her last bed.

And what became of Maxwell? Williams had an only sister; she is an inestimable woman, and she is his wife. He has met a rich reward for his generous conduct towards Matilda and her husband. He lives in that beautiful spot where the Wiltons once resided. Williams has taken his child and its grandmother, and gone to reside among her friends. His heart is deeply wounded, but the piety of his wife has induced him to look above for comfort. Long might I dwell on the moral of this narrative, but it needs no comment with you.

The two tombs are called the “Contrast,” and justly do they deserve the appellation. Strangely blended in their destinies while living, it seems fit that they should thus repose near each other, if but to remind those who pass by, that _virtue_ and _vice_ alike meet their reward.

_Editorial_.

CRITICAL NOTICES.

MEDICAL REVIEW.

_The British and Foreign Medical Review, or Quarterly Journal of Practical Medicine and Surgery. Edited by John Forbes, M.D., F. R. S., and John Conolly, M.D. (American Edition.) Nos. I, II and III: For January, April, July, 1836._

If any augury of success is to be drawn from desert, this work may fairly be regarded as likely soon to assume a vanward place amongst its competitors for favor with the medical world. Whether we view the quantity or the quality of its matter—the number, variety, richness, or power of its articles—the comprehensiveness of its plan or the judiciousness of its arrangement—it equally strikes us as possessing the very first degree of merit.

Each number consists of four grand divisions: I. Analytical and Critical Reviews; II. Bibliographical Notices; III. Selections from Foreign Journals; IV. Medical Intelligence. So wide is the scope of each one of these divisions, and so copious its _filling up_, that a steady reader of the Review can hardly fail to know {785} every material step that medical science takes—every important discovery—every valuable publication, and almost every instructive case. Not the least commendable trait in the work, is the notice it takes of _foreign_ medicine; the attention it bestows upon the state of the profession and upon medical men, medical works, and medical institutions—not only in England—not only in Great Britain—not only in Europe—but in America, and even in Asia. It practically recognizes a great commonwealth of knowledge, pervading the whole earth; each province alike concerned, and alike entitled to be lighted and cheered by the sun of science; a widespread fraternity of intellect and benevolence, of which membership is limited to no climate or hemisphere. Thus we see notices of the state of medicine in Spain, Russia and Denmark; and of the medical journals now published in Great Britain, France, Italy, Denmark, Germany, the Colonies, and America. _En passant_, we state the number of these: in Germany 11; in Italy 5; in Denmark 4; in the United States 8; in Rio Janeiro 1; in Kingston (Jamaica) 1; in Calcutta 1; in France (including hebdomadal and tri-weekly papers,) 17. In Great Britain it seems there are but _six_.

We cannot too much admire the sound sense and enlarged philanthropy breathed in the following passage of the British Medical Review, occurring just after it has bespoken a regular exchange with its foreign contemporaries.

“It is our anxious desire and earnest hope to make it a freer medium of communication and a closer bond of union, between the members of the medical profession in all civilized countries, than has hitherto existed. It is delightful to all who cultivate the arts of peace, to live in times when the nations of the earth may freely communicate with each other, without restraint or difficulty: and it is doubly delightful to those who, like the members of our profession, are striving only for what is good, to find themselves associated in their labors with the virtuous and the wise of every land, differing indeed in the external and unessential characters of language, customs, and civil polity, but identified in the common desire to improve the physical, moral, and intellectual condition of man, and consequently, to augment the happiness, and exalt the dignity of the human race.” _No. I, p. 230_.

It pleases our pride as Americans, to observe the large space which our country evidently occupies in the opinion of the enlightened men who edit this Review. The physicians of the United States and their works, in its pages, fill twice the room, we believe, of those in any other foreign country, not excepting France or Germany; and there are repeated and unequivocal proofs, that the inconsiderable figure which this, like other departments of American science and literature, has hitherto made in British eyes, is now to be entirely changed. Mark the conciliatory and fraternal tone of what follows:

“The energetic character of the American people, whom we feel proud to regard as derived from a common ancestry with ourselves, and their astonishing progress during the last half century in the arts and sciences, are no less conspicuous in the actual state of medicine there, than in the other branches of human knowledge and social amelioration. Were we, however, not resolved to make the state of medical science among our North American brethren better known and more justly appreciated in England, we should almost be ashamed to confess how little we ourselves know of it, and how little is really known of it by the great majority of our best informed physicians and surgeons. While the medicine of France is familiar to most men of any education among us, and that of Germany and Italy is known to many, the condition of our science throughout the vast territories and in the immense cities of the United States, although recorded in our own language, and cultivated in the same spirit as by ourselves, is scarcely known to us at all. A striking proof of this is, that in some recent histories of medicine published in this country, by men of the very first talents and acquirements, scarcely any notice is taken of America, or of the improvements or discoveries for which we are indebted to American physicians and surgeons. An equally striking evidence is the extremely limited importation into this country of American books, and the non-circulation of American Journals among us. On the contrary, the extreme eagerness with which English books are received in America, is no less strikingly illustrated by the well known fact that all good works on British medicine are not only imported into, but are immediately republished in America, and circulated in vast numbers.” “Dr. Combe’s admirable work on Hygiene, has not only been reprinted in America, but circulated to the amount of 10,000.”

“The zeal with which medicine is cultivated in America, is equally manifested by the number and variety of the medical journals published there; and we are bound in fairness to add, that the original communications and criticisms contained in such of them as we have met with, sufficiently prove that it is not a zeal without knowledge.” _Id. p. 228_.

The foregoing extracts are worth making and worth reading, for two especial reasons: first, because in speaking so kindly of us, they tend to awaken a mutual throb of kindness in our own bosoms, and so to strengthen and multiply the ties of international affection; and second, because by showing us how insignificant we are in the civilized world, they severely and justly rebuke our national vanity, pampered so long by our Fourth of July orators and newspaper paragraphists, into the belief that we are “the greatest and most enlightened people on earth.”

Among the American physicians whose names are brought with praise before the British public in the Review before us, are Drs. Dunglison, Geddings, and Smith, of Baltimore, and Jackson (senior and junior,) of Boston. Though Dr. Dunglison is an Englishman born, we claim his professional merits chiefly for America, who has fostered, developed and matured, by appreciating and rewarding them. We sympathize in the gratification he must feel, at the emphatic and pre-eminent tribute rendered him in the preface, where he is classed _with_, yet _above_, the distinguished physicians of Berlin, Hamburg, Geneva, Madrid, and St. Petersburg, to whom obligations are acknowledged for valuable assistance.

In No. 2, is a very favorable review of Dr. Dunglison’s late work on the Elements of Hygiene. Like his prior and large work on Human Physiology, (of which, as well as of his Medical Dictionary, America is the birth place,) this valuable treatise is rather _technical_ than _popular_; being designed more for medical than for general readers.

In the same article, is a detailed notice of the before mentioned essay of Dr. Combe, on Hygiene—or, to give its proper title, “The Principles of Physiology applied to the Preservation of Health, and to the Improvement of Physical and Mental Education.” This is the work of which the Reviewer says 10,000 copies have been circulated in the United States; but as it has been stereotyped by the Harpers, and made a number of their “Family Library,” besides publication in other forms, we question if 20,000 copies be not nearer the truth. The whole range of physical authorship, we have long believed, does not present an equal to this modest little book of Dr. Combe’s, for curious, interesting, and valuable truth: not to physicians alone, or to {786} scholars, or to gentlemen, or to school-mistresses, but to every class of mankind, from the President of a College to the laborer in “his clouted shoon.” The topics it particularly treats of, are the structure and functions of the _skin_—of the _muscular system_—the _lungs_—the _bones_—and the _nervous system_, with the _mental faculties_, supposed to be connected with it. Annexed to each of these subjects are rules, “by the observance of which, each of them may be kept in health, and may conduce to the general health of the body.” “And thus the reader is led to wholesome customs, by being taught the _reason_ of their being wholesome.”

It is now admitted by all intelligent persons, except those captious and querulous praisers of time past, who abound in every age, that medicine is far advanced in a great and most salutary reformation, the progress of which is still _onward_. In nothing is this reform more conspicuous—nay, in nothing does it more _consist_—than in the profession’s now aiming to preserve health by timely precautions, instead of being satisfied to restore it when lost. In fact it is not now _medicine_ so much as _hygiene_; it is the art of preserving rather than the art of healing; _prevention_ rather than _cure_. And as much superior as prevention proverbially is to cure—so much better is the present plan of guarding the health by a judicious diet, seasonable clothing, dwellings properly warmed and aired, and a strict attention to cleanliness—than the old one, of letting luxury and debauchery have their course, and then trusting to expel their crudities and counteract their poison by physic. If the expelling agent—the antidote—had been always infallible (and alas, how many grave-yards prove the contrary!)—the _wear_ and _tear_ of constitution, produced by the action of the disease, and even of the remedy, was a clear _balance_ against the old system.

Dr. Combe’s work is emphatically an emanation of the reformed school of medicine; and though in that school the names of Broussais, Louis and Jackson may be more united by fame, we deem “Combe on Mental Health”[1] to have borne away from them all the palm of _usefulness_.

[Footnote 1: This is the title usually affixed to the back of Dr. C.’s book.]

In the three numbers of the Review, are many articles which we would fain mention, but _all_ would exceed our space, and we do not like the task of further selection. Some idea of the merits of the work (and incidentally of Dr. C.’s) was all we aimed to convey.

It is republished (quarterly) in New York, by W. Jackson, and in Baltimore by William Neal, who are authorized to receive subscriptions. The price is $5 _per annum_.

MR. LEE’S ADDRESS.

_Address delivered before the Baltimore Lyceum, Athenæum Society, William Wirt Society, Washington Lyceum, Philo-nomian Society and Franklin Association, Literary and Scientific Societies of Baltimore, on the 4th of July, 1836. By Z. Collins Lee, Esq._

Having reason to be well aware of Mr. Lee’s oratorical powers, we were not altogether at liberty to imagine his Address, merely from the deep attention with which, we are told, its _delivery_ was received, the impassioned and scholar-like performance we now find it upon perusal. Few similar things indeed have afforded us any similar pleasure. We have no intention, however, of speaking more fully, at this late day, of an Address whose effect must have depended so largely upon anniversary recollections. We allude to it _now_ with the sole purpose of recording, in brief, our opinion of its merits, and of quoting one of its passages without comment.

Is it now, as it was formerly, the necessary tendency of all alarming and apparently fatal convulsions of society and governments, to realize often permanent good out of temporary evil? The political revolutions which distinguished the close of the 18th century were accompanied with various secondary movements more benign and pacific in their character, and more lasting in their results, though not contemplated by the then apostles of anarchy. The changes to which I refer were perhaps among their legitimate results, and when they have been studied through a period longer than the perturbations which produced them, they will doubtless be ranked among the compensatory adjustments, in which Providence strikes a balance between present and overwhelming evils and future and permanent good; for in the political as well as in the natural world the desolating torrent, which sweeps away its bulwarks, often loses its power in the depths of its own excavations, whilst it forms a new barrier out of the very elements it displaced. Thus, in every country which has passed like ours through a great and sudden revolution, or been the scene of public excitement and party spirit, there will be a principle of adjustment and order springing out of the most dangerous and disorganizing commotions. That our land has been lately the witness of most daring outrages upon public peace and private rights—that the torch of the incendiary, and the more fearful and disgraceful out-breakings of lawless violence and ferocious passion, have trampled law and order before our eyes in the dust, and that life and property have been swept away by the sirocco breath of popular tumult, are melancholy facts attested in many parts of our country—and to one unacquainted with the genius of our institutions and the habits of our people, these were indeed most startling evidences of the inefficiency of the one and the unfitness of the other for self-government. But, my fellow-citizens, at the bottom of the American character and closely interwoven with its general sentiment, is a recuperative and renovating principle of right and order, which, sooner or later compensates for the devastation and ruin of one day, by years of order and submission to the laws, and binds as victims upon their own _Moloch_ altars the mad passions and daring spirits which perpetrated it. Let not, therefore, our confidence and hopes be diminished or torn from the true, essential and _conservative_ principles of our institutions, but rather let these evils stimulate us to greater zeal and more devoted labor, in spreading far and wide, by means of knowledge and religion, the true and only remedies—and though the storm may howl and the clouds gather over portions of the country, oh! let us still cling with unfaltering confidence to our _union_, to our _religion_, to our _liberties_. In this age kindred minds will unite their sympathies either for good or evil; wealth seeks its preservation by uniting itself to wealth—power strives to extend itself by an alliance with power—in such cases wealth and rank have frequently exercised a predominant influence, and brute force has still oftener enjoyed its short lived triumph; but intellectual power guided by high religious and moral motives, has never failed to establish its just rights and proper sway. The education therefore of the people, the diffusion of knowledge, and the encouragement of literature and science are the only safeguard for a government and social system like ours, exposed as they are to the double hostility of popular menace and the arrogant inroads of exclusive and aristocratic orders; but the most efficacious of all these elements of stability is that of intellectual power, whether it is exhibited in the statesman’s forethought and sagacity—in the philosopher’s powers of combination and judgment—or in the lighter and more elegant accomplishments of the scholar and the poet—the shaft of the stately column is not weakened by the acanthus that curls at its summit, nor is reason less enlightened when embellished by the imagination.

The foundation, therefore, of a literature peculiarly free and national, and the encouragement of all the arts of life, should be our first aim; and here, gentlemen of the societies, which have so honorably been dedicated to these noble objects, permit {787} me to animate, if I can, your laudable zeal, and invoke to you the praise and support of proud city—of the whole country. In your hands are deposited sacred and beneficial trusts—on your efforts as citizens and scholars depend much of the future prosperity and glory of Maryland. It is not enough therefore that you are the nominal and passive members of these scientific and literary associations, or the admirers of all that is beautiful in the culture of letters and the promotion of science. You may walk indeed through the gorgeous temple of knowledge and explore its holiest recesses or arcana, or bow before its altars with homage and adoration, but you must _unfold_ its portals and _lift high_ its gates that the people may enter, and become as enlightened as they are free. Above all, in aiding by your exertions in this great work, you should endeavor to found a literature whoso seat is the bosom of God—whose end the elevation of man. Let then the Bible be its chief pillar or corner stone, from whose pure pages and sublime truths, the waters of life may gush forth, and mingling with the full stream of rational and social prosperity, form

“——as deep and as brilliant a tide
As ever bore freedom aloft on its wave.”

THE PICKWICK CLUB.

_The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club: Containing a Faithful Record of the Perambulations, Perils, Travels, Adventures, and Sporting Transactions of the Corresponding Members. Edited by “Boz.” Philadelphia: Republished by Carey, Lea and Blanchard._

In our June “Messenger,” we spoke at some length of the “Watkins Tottle and other Papers,” by “Boz.” We then expressed a high opinion of the comic power, and of the rich imaginative conception of Mr. Dickens—an opinion which “The Pickwick Club” has fully sustained. The author possesses nearly every desirable quality in a writer of fiction, and has withal a thousand negative virtues. In his delineation of Cockney life he is rivalled only by the author of “Peter Snook,” while in efforts of a far loftier and more difficult nature, he has greatly surpassed the best of the brief tragic pieces of Bulwer, or of Warren. Just now, however, we can only express our opinion that his general powers as a prose writer are equalled by few. The work is to be continued, and hereafter we may give at some length the considerations which have led us to this belief. From the volume before us we quote the concluding portion of a vigorous sketch, entitled “A Madman’s MS.” The writer is supposed to be an hereditary madman, and to have labored under the disease for many years, but to have been conscious of his condition, and thus, by a strong effort of the will, to have preserved his secret from the eye of even his most intimate friends.

I don’t remember forms or faces now, but I know the girl was beautiful. I _know_ she was; for in the bright moonlight nights, when I start up from my sleep, and all is quiet about me, I see, standing still and motionless in one corner of this cell, a slight and wasted figure, with long black hair, which, streaming down her back, stirs with no earthly wind, and eyes that fix their gaze on me, and never wink or close. Hush! the blood chills at my heart as I write it down—that form is _hers_; the face is very pale, and the eyes are glassy bright: but I know them well. That figure never moves; it never frowns and mouths as others do, that fill this place sometimes; but it is much more dreadful to me, even than the spirits that tempted me many years ago—it comes fresh from the grave; and is so very death-like.

For nearly a year I saw that face grow paler: for nearly a year I saw the tears steal down the mournful cheeks, and never knew the cause. I found it out at last though. They could not keep it from me long. She had never liked me; I had never thought she did: she despised my wealth, and hated the splendor in which she lived;—I had not expected that. She loved another. This I had never thought of. Strange feelings came over me, and thoughts forced upon me by some secret power, whirled round and round my brain. I did not hate her, though I hated the boy she still wept for. I pitied—yes, I pitied—the wretched life to which her cold and selfish relations had doomed her. I knew that she could not live long, but the thought that before her death she might give birth to some ill-fated being, destined to hand down madness to its offspring, determined me. I resolved to kill her.

For many weeks I thought of poison, and then of drowning, and then of fire. A fine sight the grand house in flames, and the madman’s wife smouldering away to cinders. Think of the jest of a large reward, too, and of some sane man swinging in the wind, for a deed he never did, and all through a madman’s cunning! I thought often of this, but I gave it up at last. Oh! the pleasure of strapping the razor day after day, feeling the sharp edge, and thinking of the gash one stroke of its thin bright point would make!

At last the old spirits who had been with me so often before, whispered in my ear that the time was come, and thrust the open razor into my hand. I grasped it firmly, rose softly from the bed, and leaned over my sleeping wife. Her face was buried in her hands. I withdrew them softly, and they fell listlessly on her bosom. She had been weeping, for the traces of the tears were still wet upon her cheek. Her face was calm and placid; and even as I looked upon it, a tranquil smile lighted up her pale features. I laid my hand softly on her shoulder. She started—it was only a passing dream. I leaned forward again. She screamed, and woke.

One motion of my hand, and she would never again have uttered cry or sound. But I was startled, and drew back. Her eyes were fixed on mine. I know not how it was, but they cowed and frightened me; and I quailed beneath them. She rose from the bed, still gazing fixedly and steadily on me. I trembled; the razor was in my hand, but I could not move. She made towards the door. As she neared it, she turned, and withdrew her eyes from my face. The spell was broken. I bounded forward, and clutched her by the arm. Uttering shriek upon shriek, she sunk upon the ground.

Now I could have killed her without a struggle; but the house was alarmed. I heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs. I replaced the razor in its usual drawer, unfastened the door, and called loudly for assistance.

They came, and raised her, and placed her on the bed. She lay bereft of animation for hours; and when life, look, and speech returned, her senses had deserted her, and she raved wildly and furiously.

Doctors were called in—great men who rolled up to my door in easy carriages, with fine horses and gaudy servants. They were at her bedside for weeks. They had a great meeting, and consulted together in low and solemn voices in another room. One, the cleverest, and most celebrated among them, took me aside and bidding me prepare for the worst, told me—me, the madman!—that my wife was mad. He stood close beside me at an open window, his eyes looking in my face, and his hand laid upon my arm. With one effort I could have hurled him into the street beneath. It would have been rare sport to have done it; but my secret was at stake, and I let him go. A few days after, they told me I must place her under some restraint: I must provide a keeper for her. _I!_ I went into the open fields where none could hear me, and laughed till the air resounded with my shouts!

She died next day. The white-headed old man followed her to the grave, and the proud brothers dropped a tear over the insensible corpse of her whose sufferings they had regarded in her lifetime with muscles of iron. {788} All this was food for my secret mirth, and I laughed behind the white handkerchief which I held up to my face as we rode home, till the tears came into my eyes.

But though I had carried my object and killed her, I was restless and disturbed, and I felt that before long my secret must be known. I could not hide the wild mirth and joy which boiled within me, and made me when I was alone, at home, jump up and beat my hands together, and dance round and round, and roar aloud. When I went out, and saw the busy crowds hurrying about the streets: or to the theatre, and heard the sound of music, and beheld the people dancing, I felt such glee, that I could have rushed among them, and torn them to pieces limb from limb, and howled in transport. But I ground my teeth, and struck my feet upon the floor, and drove my sharp nails into my hands. I kept it down; and no one knew that I was a madman yet.