of a much more important quality, the love of genuine and exalted religion.

ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT-FROM THE OLD BACHELOR.

I cannot present to my readers any instance of a happy manner, which is so extensively and tamiliarly known as that of Mr. Cooper, the tragedian. Many of us had read the dagger scene in Macbeth, a hundred times, before we saw that inimitable actor, and had supposed that we had perceived all the beauty and felt all the force of the passage. But, as for myself, when I came to see Mr. Cooper in that scene, all that I had perceived and felt before, became, in the comparison, so tame and insipid, that I seemed, nay I did, for the first time, understand the image which was in Shakespeare's mind. The horror-struck attitude and countenance-the deep, low, agitated whisper-" Is that a dagger that I see before me!"-the desperate convulsive attempt to clutch it-the increased amazement and frenzied consternation at the failure-his eyes starting wild with horror from their orbits, and slowly following the motion of the visionary dagger to the door of Duncan's chamber-" thou marshal'st me the way that I was going"-altogether had such an effect on me, that when I got relief by the momentary disappearance of the dagger, I found that I had been bereaved of my breath-my sinews and my muscles had been strained to a painful extremity-and I felt my hair descending and setting on my head, for it had been raised by sympathetic horror-And, what is still more wonderful, when I supposed his power of action exhausted on this scene, yet when the dagger re-appears at the door of Duncan's chamber,

And on its blade and dudgeon gouts of blood
Which was not so before-

It

it was clear that the performer's resources of action were as infinite and inexhaustible as the wonderful genius whose effusions he was painting to the eye and to the heart. His attitude! His look! That whisper! Tenfold horrors surrounded him!! was the most blood-chilling, the most petrifying spectacle I ever beheld! I am persuaded that human nature could not have endured the agonizing stretch of the nerves to which this master of his art was able to wind his audience! And all this, be it remembered, was the work of manner.

I shall be asked whether I propose the manner of the theatre as a model of our public speakers? I answer, not the vicious manner of the theatre-not the overloaded, extravagant, most unnatural gesticulation which we see practised on the stage. But let it be remembered, that this mode of action is improper and disgusting even on the stage itself. Shakespeare has given the true rule of action, which is universal in its application-"Suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you overstep not the modesty of nature." Now, is it not obvious that the manner which would be chaste and natural on the stage, would, in the expression of the same sentiment, be equally chaste and natural everywhere? The reason why there is more gesture on the stage than elsewhere, is because plays consist almost entirely of emotion; in the pulpit, senate, and bar, argument does or should preponderate. Now, no man, in his senses, would be so absurd as to apply the gesture which belongs to emotion, to the delivery of an argument; for that would not be to "suit the action to the word, the word to the action"-hence the quantity of action exhibited on the stage will always naturally and properly exceed that which belongs to any other theatre of public speaking. But the sub

jects sometimes coincide-arguments are found in plays and the passions often appear, and properly too, in the pulpit, senate, and bar-and whereon the subjects do coincide, the manner should be the same. Hence it is that the manner of action on the stage, as exhibited by master performers, may be observed and imitated to great advantage. Ministers of the gospel may, perhaps, be startled at a proposition so profane as that they should attend the theatre; and disgusted at an idea so absurd as that they should transfer the manner of the theatre to the pulpit. As to the profanity of the proposition, their acceding to it or not is a question between themselves and their sovereign judge; I am not afraid of the consequences of having made the proposition. I know that dramatic composition has been polluted by the most shameful licentiousness-on the exhibition of plays of that character, I, who am no divine, would never attend. But are there not, on the other hand, plays which inculcate the loftiest, the most heroic, the most Christian virtues? What sin would be committed by their attending the representation of such? What is the purpose of playing? Let Shakespeare answer the question"whose end both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature; scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure." I ask if the same be not also a part of the duty of the pulpit; and when the dramatic writer attains this purpose purely, I cannot discern what possible mischief there can be in listening to his lectures. Do not those who from an idea of its sinfulness refuse to attend the theatre, nevertheless read, and with rapture too, the plays of Shakespeare? If they do, where is the difference in point of guilt between reading the plays one's self, and hearing them read or recited by others? It is from my purpose to pursue this disquisition further. As to the other branch of the supposed objection, transferring the manner of the theatre to the pulpit, I will take the liberty to say that the transfer of all that is chaste and natural would give to the pulpit, an ease, a dignity, an animation, and en interest of which at present it stands in the most direful need. Who is not disgusted with the stiffness, the formality, the slow, mechanically measured enunciation, the nasal melody, the affected mouthings or the coarse sticity, the ear-crucifying sing-song, and the delirious raving and shrieking, which too often degrade the pulpit and defeat the very purpose of the institution? Has it never been the misfortune of the reader to observe in what an infinite variety of ways ministers contrive to murder that beautiful and sublime exclamation of the Psalmist― "Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Sabaoth! Heaven and Earth are full of the majesty of thy glory!" One will recite it in the same time and tone that he would read an advertisement in a newspaper; another will whine over it, so as to excite just as much interest as a schoolboy excites in whining over his lesson; another, with a smirk, will yelp over it, "holy-holy-holy," as if he had just started the game, to the great amusement of his congregation, who feel no other impulse than to cry "hark forward." I have no patience with men who thus indolently and shamefully neglect the cultivation of a correct manner, and ascend the pulpit only to mar, deform, by their hideous manner, the work of inspiration-How different from all this was the manner of the celebrated Duche, the chaplain of the old Congress! He had studied the language of nature in the cartoons of Raphael, and learned from them that the evangelic character loses nothing of its dignity by the boldest attitude and most impressive

cast of features, when they comport with the subject and the occasion. He had read the sacred scriptures, too, with the eye of genius, as well as that of faith; and in the exclamation just referred to, it was impossible for him not to imagine the train of reflection which probably led to it, and the holy yet enraptured manner in which it broke from the inspired poet. To recite this language of the psalmist correctly, it was necessary to recite it in the very spirit in which it was first conceived; and in doing so, there was no danger that a man of taste and judgment would overstep the modesty of nature. There are probably some yet alive, beside myself, who will remember Duche's mode of reciting it. It was preceded by a pause in which his eyes were raised with fearful awe, as if contemplating those glories of the firmament which David has so sublimely depicted in the 19th psalm-his hands were clasped on the pulpit before him-the admiration depicted on his countenance, gradually swelled with the truth of nature into a bolder expression, as the wonders of the creation seemed to pass in review before him, at the same time his clasped hands were slowly and touchingly removed from the pulpit to his breast-his heart, itself, seemed to expand with the augmenting tide of his sensations-no sound was heard, but that of the throbbing heart and convulsed breath-the recitation was begun slowly-and in a low and tremulous voice, as if repressed by the awful presence of the Deity, himself," Holy! Holy! Holy! Lord God of Sabaoth!" then his hands unclasped, his arms a little opened, and raised"Heaven!" then his arms wide extended, his face beaming with a smile of rapturous gratitude and admiration, and his brilliant voice liberated, and swelling to the end of the sentence, in its fullest richest tone-" and earth are full of the majesty of thy glory." There was no one who did not clearly perceive and deeply feel the whole beauty of the apostrophe: There were few who did not involuntarily start from their seats, with sympathetic rapture. Yet among the drones of the present day, this manner would be called theatrical, unworthy of the pulpit, unworthy of imitation. It is the common policy of dunces to decry that excellence which they cannot reach. But it is not for the mind, however good, to pass sentence on appeals made to the heart. Those are the best judges of Mr. Duche's manner, who had the happiness to hear him; and they will support me in the assertion, that his manner, so far from lowering the dignity and solemnity of the service, gave thein a hundred fold force and power. I will venture to say that if Mr. Duche's were the manner of the present day, our country would not, in every quarter of it, exhibit that spectacle so painful to the Christian's heart, of churches neglected, tumbling in ruins, and become almost the exclusive residence of the beasts of the field and birds of the air. Our regular ministers may rail on, if they please, against the prevalence of fanaticism and superstition. The fault is in themselves. People go to church, not to doze, but to worship; and it is not wonderful that they should prefer the man who makes them feel, to him who makes them sleep.

Let it not be understood that I am vindicating those fops and petit maitres whom we sometimes see in the pulpit; whose frivolous gesticulations would disgrace even the theatre itself. No: I speak of that majesty of action by which St. Paul made Felix tremble; and which is in the happiest harmony with the sublime composition of the Bible itself. this which I would have our ministers to cultivate; this, by which they might shake the souls of their hearers, instead of standing like automata in the

It is

sacred desk, and pouring through lips of wood, the productions of others; productions, which they do not feel themselves, and consequently cannot make

others feel.

Yet these gentlemen who are so much afraid to stir an arm or raise an eye, imagine the manner in which Bossuet delivered his discourses. Are they not satisfied that Bossuet sustained, by the grandeur of his manner, the boldest flights of his genius; that his action partook of that fervid spirit which inspired his orations; that it kept pace with it, ascending with it, and kindled in its noblest conflagration !

Yes; Bossuet's was a soul of empyrean flame: and pervaded his system with a force too strong to permit any portion of it to remain indifferent, while she was exhibiting her wondrous powers to others; Bossuet's was a soul firm and intrepid in her own strength; she walked abroad at her ease, and produced, on every occasion, that consentaneous gran deur of movement, which consummated her power, and made her irresistible.

If any one of our regular ministers should answer, "Give me Bossuet's genius and I will give you his action,”—I reply, this is the very objection; that you do give us the works of his and other great geniuses without their appropriate action. The sermons which we hear from the pulpit are frequently eloquent in themselves; yet from the cold coniposure with which they are recited, it is evident that they are the offspring of other minds: had they been the proper children of those who exibit them, there would have been a parental warmth which would infallibly have shown itself in their action.

I pray that our ministers may reflect upon this subject ere it be too late. If they will not be convinced by abstract argument, let them attend to the facts which are passing before their eyes; their own discourses are composed with the utmost purity and elegance; the reasoning good; the style, not only correct, but adorned with the most beautiful figures of speech-what is it that carries away the people from their discourses, at once chaste, strong, and embellished, to the meeting-houses of dissenting ministers? On the one hand, indolence or vanity, unwilling to acknowledge the mortifying truth, may impute it to a popular fit of fanaticism: on the other hand, vanity or delusion may impute it to the superior truth of the doctrines which are taught by the dissenters; but the fact is, that it proceeds almost entirely from manner, and the mysterious hold which this takes on human sympathy. The interesting warmth, the anxious earnestness with which the dissenter pours out his unpremeditated effusions (however coarse), reize the human heart with almost inextricable grasp, and enable him to lead it whithersoever he will. You may say that his action is redundant, ungraceful, vulgar, that it violates all rule; no matter; let it be as distorted and frantic as you please, as that of the Pythian priestess: it is earnest; it comes accompanied with a voice choked with tears, and shows that the man's whole soul is engaged for our good; he moves us; alarms us; melts us; and sends us home agitated on a subject of eternal importance. We find, too, that these men discover a deep and accurate knowledge of the human heart; they anticipate the topics of peace and consolation which the arch enemy of mankind will suggest to the alarmed soul, and by showing us their origin they forbid us to repose upon them. How different, how superior in point of attraction is all this to the soporific doses which are administered from velvet cushions!-If it should still be urged that all this is fanaticism-I desire that any sermon of Massillon's may be compared with the most impassioned of those which are delivered

from the dissenter's desk. You will find in Massillon, indeed, the rarest beauties of cultivated genius, the most powerful eloquence; but it is eloquence entirely void of ostentation; it seems, indeed, to burst from the man's heart in spite of himself, and to come accompanied with showers of tears just as irrepressible. But you will find Massillon's sermons marked with exactly the same strong characters which distinguished the dissenter; the same passionate importunity addressed to sinners; the same shuddering predictions of the fate which awaits the impenitent; the same necessity for the regeneration of the soul; the same intimate knowledge of the human heart, the same power of chasing a sin through every fold and envelopement, and pursuing and driving the sinner himself from every corner and recess of his own deceitful breast; the same warnings against the arts of the devil in resisting the work of grace in the soul; in short you will find in Massillon, blended with a personal meekness and humility (which it was impossible for him to affect, and which is in itself captivating in the highest degree) and with an eloquence, almost superhuman, all the dissenter's earnestness, tears, entreaties, supplications; all his cries, his adjurations; all his topics of persuasion and of alarm, all his enthusiasm, all his terror, all his raptures, and all that the dealers in opiates now choose to call fanaticism; yet no one ever dared to call Massillon a fanatic. Now the great doctrines which preached by the Roman Catholic, the Protestant, and the Dissenter, are the same, viz. the fall of man -the mediation-and salvation by faith in the Redeemer. The subject being the same, it can be only the different manner of presenting it, which constitutes the difference of effect; yet that difference we see is vast; and so it will ever continue, while human nature remains the same and the Protestant clergy refuse to be instructed by experience.

are

JEFFERSON AT MONTICELLO-FROM THE EULOGIUM OF ADAMS AND JEFFERSON.

The Mansion House at Monticello was built and

furnished in the days of his prosperity. In its dimensions, its architecture, its arrangements and ornaments, it is such a one as became the character and fortune of the man. It stands upon an elliptic plain, formed by cutting down the apex of a mountain; and, on the west, stretching away to the north and the south, it commands a view of the Blue Ridge for a hundred and fifty miles, and brings under the eye one of the boldest and most beautiful horizons in the world: while, on the east, it presents an extent of prospect bounded only by the spherical form of the earth, in which nature seems to sleep in eternal repose, as if to form one of her finest contrasts with the rude and rolling grandeur on the west. In the wide prospect, and scattered to the north and south, are several detached mountains, which contribute to animate and diversify this enchanting landscape; and among them, to the south, Willis's Mountain, which is so interestingly depicted in his Notes. From this summit, the Philosopher was wont to enjoy that spectacle, among the sublimest of Nature's operations, the looming of the distant mountains; and to watch the motions of the planets, and the greater revolution of the celestial sphere. From this summit, too, the patriot could look down, with uninterrupted vision, upon the wide expanse of the world around, for which he considered himself born; and upward, to the open and vaulted heavens which he seemed to approach as if to keep him continually in mind of his high responsibility. It is indeed a prospect in which you see and feel, at once, that nothing mean or little

could live. It is a scene fit to nourish those great and high-souled principles which formed the elements of his character, and was a most noble and appropriate post for such a sentinel over the rights and liberties of man.

Approaching the house on the east, the visiter instinctively paused, to cast around one thrilling glance at this magnificent panorama; and then passed to the vestibule, where, if he had not been previously informed, he would immediately perceive that he was entering the house of no common man. In the spacious and lofty hall which opens before him, he marks no tawdry and unmeaning ornaments: but before, on the right, on the left, all around, the eye is struck and gratified with objects of science and taste, so classed and arranged as to produce their finest effect. On one side, specimens of sculpture set out in such order as to exhibit at a coup d'œil, the historical progress of that art; from the first rude attempts of the aborigines of our country, up to that exquisite and finished bust of the great patriot himself, from the master hand of Caracci. On the other side, the visiter sees displayed a vast collection of specimens of Indian art, their paintings, weapons, ornaments, and manufactures; on another, an array of the fossil productions of our country, mineral and animal; the polished remains of those colossal monsters that once trod our forests, and are no more; and a variegated display of the branching honours of those "monarchs of the waste," that still people the wilds of the American Continent.

From this hall he was ushered into a noble saloon, from which the glorious landscape of the west again bursts upon his view; and which within is hung thick around with the finest productions of the pencil-historical paintings of the most striking subjects from all countries, and all ages; the portraits of distinguished men and patriots, both of Europe and America, and medallions and engravings in endless profusion.

While the visiter was yet lost in the contemplation of these treasures of the arts and sciences, he was startled by the approach of a strong and sprightly step, and turning with instinctive reverence to the door of entrance, he was met by the tall, and animated, and stately figure of the patriot himselfhis countenance beaming with intelligence and benignity, and his outstretched hand, with its strong and cordial pressure, confirming the courteous welcome of his lips. And then came that charm of manner and conversation that passes all description -so cheerful-so unassuming-so free, and easy, and frank, and kind, and gay-that even the young, and overawed, and embarrassed visiter at once forgot his fears, and felt himself by the side of an old and familiar friend.

PATRICK HENRY-FROM THE SKETCHES.

The following is the fullest description which the author has been able to procure of Mr. Henry's person. He was nearly six feet high; spare, and what may be called raw-boned, with a slight stoop of the shoulders-his complexion was dark, sunburnt, and sallow, without any appearance of blood in his cheeks-his countenance grave, thoughtful, penetrating, and strongly marked with the lineaments of deep reflection-the earnestness of his manner, united with an habitual contraction or knitting of his brows, and those lines of thought with which his face was profusely furrowed, gave to his countenance, at some times, the appearance of severity-yet such was the power which he had over its expression, that he could shake off from it in an instant all the sternness of winter, and robe it in the brightest smiles of spring. His forehead was

high and straight, yet forming a sufficient angle with the lower part of his face-his nose somewhat of the Roman stamp, though like that which we see in the bust of Cicero, it was rather long, than remarkable for its Cæsarean form-of the colour of his eyes, the accounts are almost as various as those which we have of the colour of the chamelion-they are said to have been blue, grey, what Lavater calls green, hazel, brown, and black-the fact seems to have been, that they were of a bluish grey, not large; and being deeply fixed in his head, overhung by dark, long, and full eye-brows, and farther shaded by lashes that were both long and black, their apparent colour was as variable as the lights in which they were seen-but all concur in saying that they were, unquestionably, the finest feature in his face-brilliant-full of spirit, and capable of the most rapidly shifting and powerful expression-at one time piercing and terrible as those of Mars, and then again soft and tender as those of pity herself— his cheeks were hollow-his chin long, but well formed, and rounded at the end, so as to form a proper counterpart to the upper part of his face. "I find it difficult," says the correspondent from whom I have borrowed this portrait, "to describe his mouth; in which there was nothing remarkable, except when about to express a modest dissent from some opinion on which he was commenting-he then had a sort of half smile, in which the want of conviction was perhaps more strongly expressed, than the satirical emotion, which probably prompted it. His manner and address to the court and jury might be deemed the excess of humility, diffidence, and modesty. If, as rarely happened, he had occasion to answer any remark from the bench, it was impossible for meekness herself to assume a manner less presumptuous-but in the smile of which I have been speaking, you might anticipate the want of conviction, expressed in his answer, at the moment that he submitted to the superior wisdom of the court, with a grace that would have done honour to Westminster Hall. In his reply to counsel, his remarks on the evidence, and on the conduct of the parties, he preserved the same distinguished deference and politeness, still accompanied, however, by the never failing index of this sceptical smile, where the occasion prompted." In short, his features were manly, bold, and well proportioned, full of intelligence, and adapting themselves intuitively to every sentiment of his mind, and every feeling of his heart. His voice was not remarkable for its sweetness; but it was firm, full of volume, and rather melodious than otherwise. Its charms consisted in the mellowness and fulness of its note, the ease and variety of its inflections, the distinctness of its articulation, the fine effect of its emphasis, the felicity with which it attuned itself to every emotion, and the vast compass which enabled it to range through the whole empire of human passion, from the deep and tragic half whisper of horror, to the wildest exclamation of overwhelming rage. In mild persuasion it was as soft and gentle as the zephyr of spring; while in rousing his countrymen to arms, the winter storm that roars along the troubled Baltic, was not more awfully sublime. It was at all times perfectly under his command; or rather, indeed, it seemed to command itself, and to modulate its notes, most happily, to the sentiment he was uttering. It never exceeded, or fell short of the occasion. There was none of that long continued and deafening vociferation, which always takes place when an ardent speaker has lost possession of himself-no monotonous clangour, no discordant shriek. Without being strained, it had that body and enunciation which filled the most distant

ear, without distressing those which were nearest him: hence it never became cracked or hoarse, even in his longest speeches, but retained to the last all its clearness and fulness of intonation, all the delicacy of its inflection, all the charms of its emphasis, and enchanting variety of its cadence.

His delivery was perfectly natural and well timed. It has indeed been said, that, on his first rising, there was a species of sub-cantus very observable by a stranger, and rather disagreeable to him; but that in a very few moments even this itself became agreeable, and seemed, indeed, indispensable to the full effect of his peculiar diction and conceptions. In point of time, he was very happy: there was no slow and heavy dragging, no quaint and measured drawling, with equidistant pace, no stumbling and floundering among the fractured members of deranged and broken periods, no undignified hurry and trepidation, no recalling and recasting of sentences as he went along, no retraction of one word and substitution of another not better, and none of those affected bursts of almost inarticulate impetuosity, which betray the rhetorician rather than display the orator. On the contrary, ever self-colfected, deliberate, and dignified, he seemed to have looked through the whole period before he commenced its delivery; and hence his delivery was smooth, and firm, and well accented; slow enough to take along with him the dullest hearer, and yet so commanding that the quick had neither the power nor the disposition to get the start of him. Thus he gave to every thought its full and appropriate force; and to every image all its radiance and beauty.

No speaker ever understood better than Mr. Henry, the true use and power of the pause; and no one ever practised it with happier effect. His pauses were never resorted to, for the purpose of investing an insignificant thought with false importance; much less were they ever resorted to as a finesse, to gain time for thinking. The hearer was never disposed to ask, "why that pause?" nor to measure its duration by a reference to his watch. On the contrary, it always came at the very moment when he would himself have wished it, in order to weigh the striking and important thought which had just been uttered; and the interval was always filled by the speaker with a matchless energy of look, which drove the thought home through the mind and through the heart.

His gesture, and this varying play of his features and voice, were so excellent, so exquisite, that many have referred his power as an orator principally to that cause; yet this was all his own, and his ges ture, particularly, of so peculiar a cast, that it is said it would have become no other man. I do not learn that it was very abundant; for there was no trash about it; none of those false motions to which undisciplined speakers are so generally addicted; no chopping nor sawing of the air; no thumping of the bar to express an earnestness, which was much more powerfully, as well as more elegantly, expressed by his eye and his countenance. Whenever he moved his arm, or his hand, or even his finger, or changed the position of his body, it was always to some purpose; nothing was inefficient; every thing told; every gesture, every attitude, every look, was emphatic; all was animation, energy, and dignity. Its great advantage consisted in this-that various, bold, and original as it was, it never appeared to be studied, affected, or theatrical, or "to overstep,” in the smallest degree," the modesty of nature;" for he never made a gesture or assumed an attitude, which did not seem imperiously demanded by the occasion. Every look, every motion, every pause,

He

every start, was completely filled and dilated by the thought which he was uttering, and seemed indeed to form a part of the thought itself. His action, however strong, was never vehement. was never seen rushing forward, shoulder foremost, fury in his countenance, and frenzy in his voice, as if to overturn the bar, and charge his audience sword in hand. His judgment was too manly and too solid, and his taste too true, to permit him to indulge in any such extravagance. His good sense and his self-possession never deserted him. In the loudest storm of declamation, in the fiercest blaze of passion, there was a dignity and temperance which gave it seeming. He had the rare faculty of imparting to his hearers all the excess of his own feelings, and all the violence and tumult of his emotions, all the dauntless spirit of his resolution, and all the energy of his soul, without any sacrifice of his own personal dignity, and without treating his hearers otherwise than as rational beings. He was not the orator of a day; and therefore sought not to build his fame on the sandy basis of a false taste, fostered, if not created, by himself. He spoke for immortality; and therefore raised the pillars of his glory on the only solid foundation-the rock of nature.

JOHN PICKERING,

THE distinguished jurist and philologist, was the son of Col. Timothy Pickering, the early Whig leader of Salem, his native place, the fellow-soldier of Washington, and his Secretary of State from 1795 until his removal in the administration of Adams in 1800; subsequently a member of Congress, a member of the board of war in 1812, as he had discharged numerous similar duties in the Revolution, again member of Congress from 1814 to 1817, when he retired at that period to private life, employing himself in agriculture. After the war of the Revolution, he lived in Pennsylvania, and was delegated by that state to visit the Western settlements, and adjust a controversy which had been excited by the claims of Connecticut emigrants. While residing near Wilkesbarre, in the discharge of this duty, he was seized in his bed at night by a band of ruffians, carried off to the forest, and exposed to various outrages and privations, with the design of intimidation. After twenty days of this abduction, he reappeared before his family. "So much," it is said, 66 was he altered by the sufferings and hardships he had endured, that his children fled from his presence affrighted by his haggard, unshaven appearance, and his wife looked upon him with consternation as upon an apparition."*

He died Jan. 29, 1829, in his eighty-fourth year. He was always active in public life. His writings were numerous, and consist of political pamphlets, on questions of national policy, or of a controversial character growing out of his vigorous partisanship on the Federal side, occasional addresses and orations, agricultural and other papers. His biting Review of the Correspondence between the Hon. John Adams and the late William Cunningham, Esq., beginning in 1803 and ending in 1812, one of the most celebrated of his compositions, was published in 1824.t

National Portrait Gallery, ed. 1884, vol. i.

It is in this production he parries the personal attack of John Adams, who had charged him in one of the Letters with ambitious views, in these terms:-"Under the simple appearVOL. I.-40

John Pickering was born at Salem, Feb. 7, 1772. He was educated at Harvard, and was then for some time abroad as Secretary to the

Jer Pickering

United States Minister W. L. Smith at Portugal, and afterwards from 1799 to 1801 as Secretary to Rufus King in London. At that date he returned to America, and was admitted to the bar at Salem. In 182 he removed to Boston, and in 1829 was made City Solicitor, continuing to hold the office till within a short time of his death, May 5, 1846. His intellectual life was divided between his legal profession and his pursuits as a scholar. His philological inquiries took a wide range, including the extremes of Greek literature, and of our native Indian languages. Of the extent of his attainments in these studies, his eulogist, Charles Sumner, has given this animated sketch:-"Unless," he says, 66 some memorandum should be found among his papers, as was the case with Sir William Jones, specifying the languages to which he had been devoted, it may be difficult to frame a list with entire accuracy. It is certain that he was familiar with at least nine, the English, French, Portuguese, Italian, Spanish, German, Romaic, Greek, and Latin; of these he spoke the first fice. He was less familiar, though well acquainted, with the Dutch, Swedish, Danish, and Hebrew; and had explored, with various degrees of care, the Arabic, Turkish, Syriac, Persian, Coptic, Sanscrit, Chinese, CochinChinese, Russian, Egyptian hieroglyphics, the Malay in several dialects, and particularly the Indian languages of America and of the Polynesian islands. His labors span immeasurable spaces in the world's history,-embracing the distant, primeval Sanscrit; the hieroglyphics of Egypt, now awakening from their mute sleep of centuries; the polite and learned tongues of ancient and modern Europe; the languages of Mohammedanisin; the various dialects of the forests of North America, and of the sandalgroves of the Pacific; only closing with a lingua franca, from an unlettered tribe on the coast of Africa, to which his attention had been called even after the illness which ended in his death."*

In 1816 he published A Vocabulary, or Collection of Words and Phrases which have been supposed to be peculiar to the United States of America. His Greek and English Lexicon on the basis of Schrevelius appeared in 1826. For an enumeration of his other writings, we are indebted to an article in the Encyclopædia Americana.t

ance of a bald head and straight hair, and under professions of profound republicanism, he conceals an ardent ambition, envious of every superior, and impatient of obscurity." This was Pickering's reply:-"My bald head and straight hair are what nature has given me; and I have been content with her arrangements; they are not a fit subject for reproach. Mr. Adams's friend Cunningham reminds him, that it was rather unfortunate for him to attempt to degrade Hamilton, by calling him the little man; seeing, though with less flesh, he surpassed in stature both him and his son."

Sumner's Phi Beta Kappa Address, 1846. + Supplementary vol. xiv. Art. Pickering.