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dices give way, error hides its head, and the cherished traditions of superstition are ridiculed or forgotten.
And now, gentlemen, that we may form such a catholic and scientifically-correct estimate of the whole animal creation as will enable us to look upon the pig with an enlightened and unprejudiced eye, let me read you an extract from the celebrated geologist, Mr. Sedgwick, as quoted in the Review I hold in my hand — the London Quarterly for October, 1851:
“The elevation of the Fauna of successive periods was not made by transmutation, but by creative additions; and it is by watching these additions that we get some insight into Nature's true historical progress. Judging by our evidence, (and by what else have we any right to judge?) there was a time when Cephalopoda were the highest types of animal life. They were then the Primates of this world, and, corresponding to their office and position, some of them were of noble structure and gigantic size. But these creatures were degraded from their rank at the head of Nature, and Fishes next took the lead: and they did not rise up in Nature in some degenerate form, as if they were but the transmuted progeny of the Cephalopoda, but they started into life in the very highest ichthyic type ever created. Following our history chronologically, Reptiles next took the lead; and (with some almost evanescent exceptions) they fourished during the countless ages of the secondary period as the lords and despots of the world; and they had an organic perfection corresponding to their exalted rank in Nature's kingdom; for their highest orders were not merely great in strength and stature, but were anatomically raised far above any forms of the Reptile class now living in the world. This class was, however, in its turn to lose its rank; what is more, it underwent (when considered collectively) a positive organic degradation before the end of the secondary period — and this took place countless ages before terrestrial mammals of any living type had been called into being. Mammals were added next, (near the commencement of the tertiary period,) and seem to have been added suddenly. Some of the early extinct forms of this class, which we now know only by ransacking the ancient catacombs of Nature, were powerful and gigantic, and we believe they were collectively well-fitted for the place they filled. But they, in their turn, were to be degraded from their place at the head of Nature, and she became what she now is, by the addition of Man. By this last addition she is more exalted than she was before. Man stands by himself, the despotic lord of the living world; not so great in organic strength as many of the despots that went before him in Nature's chronicle, but raised far above them all by a higher development of the brain; by a framework'--etc. etc. 'Such is the history of creation.' --
- SEDGWICK: p. 216. · Yes, gen-tle-men, such is the history of creation ; not handed down to us by vain tradition, but written before language had existence, and traced by royal hands in the solid rock.
"Such are the sermons that science extorts from stones! Man, the present primate and lord of the creation, has taken the throne successively occupied by the cephalopoda, fishes, reptiles, and mammals; and, as Cuvier
, I remember, holds, is in his turn to yield the sceptre to some yet uncreated class. There are a thousand curious questions that present themselves upon the reception of these great truths. Perhaps the most serious and affecting are: What kind of creatures shall succeed us in our reign? At about what period will they make their appearance? Will they look upon their fallen predecessors with compassion, and treat them with kindness? Will they understand our spoken language and read our books, or will our words be to them as brutish sounds, our alphabet but hieroglyphics? Will they be carnivorous; and if so, will the creatures they immediately succeed be pleasant to their taste ?
. But without turning aside to pursue these and other interesting inquiries, let us apply the light that science thus lets in upon us to the subject of our recent investigation; and what a halo does it shed upon the name of Brown - martyr to compassion for a royal though degraded order!
How does it illuminate his motives; how begild even his empty purse ! We remember his admiration of high birth, his partiality for noble blood. Probably, gentlemen, very probably, among the creatures who reigned before our lordships, and who were then all potentates, the Pig ranked high; perhaps he was the greatest mammal of them all — the
mighty Paramount. If size gave importance, as it undoubtedly did, how noble must he have been! Even in these, his degenerate days, his capacity of growth is almost illimitable : conceive of his greatness in the prime and preëminence of his powers! If blood was then a test among peers, how readily must the supremacy have been yielded to him! Even in this, his era of serfdom, the stream that courses through his veins tints his flesh like jewels, and gives it an ambrosial tang!
*Gentlemen! while the rest of the world admire and applaud the man who — laudably indeed — spends his time in protecting and pampering the strongest and handsomest individuals, descendants of a class or an order of whilom monarchs, be it for us to honor him who has nobly devoted himself to the most miserable of their progeny: I refer to Brown. I desire Smith, as a payment of the fine I have this night imposed on him, to prepare some account of our absent friend's self-denials for the public eye; to which, if he chooses, he may add these brief remarks of my own.
*And now, gentlemen, one more duty. It is not ours, perhaps, to harbor and sustain, on so large a scale as Brown has done, the scions of an unfortunate race. It was not ours, in the least particular, to aid our friend in his benevolent projects. Let us, at any rate, show our sympathy with his efforts, and our respect for their object. I propose, gentlemen — to be drunk in silence – The memory of Brown's Pigs!!
Come, stand in this temple fair,
Oh, come where Nature holds
A hymn to the Beautiful: llow it trembles, and creeps along
Yes, come to the gray old woods,
And hear the warm breath of summer
Sigh through the silvery leaves !
THE SPEECH OF LOVE,
Dim grows the sky, and dusk the air,
And shadows settle every where, You ask me, love, to sing of you,
Save where the embers streak the wall Dear heart! but what, and why?
With flames that soon in darkness fall.
Pensive I sit, relapsing fast
Into the dead and silent Past.
The Past returns - the dead are here; Words cannot show my burning love, Was that a whisper in my ear?
My spirit's secret fire ;
No, dear one, no! I did not sigh,
Nor does a tear bedim mine eye;
'T was the officious lights you brought,
And something alien to my thought: There is more eloquence in looks,
But even if my tears do flow,
I weep for pleasure, not for woe :
I weep because I love thee so !
Though lit at ladies' eyes.
The day is cold and dreary,
The house is full of gloom;
But out of doors, in the blessed air,
The sun is warm, the sky is fair,
And the flowers are still in bloom.
A moment ago, in the garden,
I scattered the shining dew;
The wind was soft in the swaying trees, I SEE thee, sweet, in the world of thought; The morning-glories were full of bees,
I meet thee, dear, in the world of dreams, So bold, that they never flew!
Yet I left them unmolested,
Draining their honey-wine,
Nor in heaven above, that I love like thee; To sit, as now, by a bed of pain,
That thou lovest better than me. Yet art thou sure of my thoughts and dreams, A Few frail summers had touched thee,
And sure of my love, whatever thou art ; For the least little glance of thy sorrowful eyes Not so bright as thy hair the sun-shine,
As they touch the fruit ; Is a spell on my brain and my heart!
Not so sweet as thy voice, the lute.
Hushed the voice, shorn the hair; all is over : NIGHT BEFORE TEE BRIDAL.
An urn of white ashes remains :
Nothing else, save the tears in our eyes, The bridal-flower you gave me,
And our bitterest, bitterest pains !
We garland the urn with white roses,
Burn incense and gums on the shrine,
Play old tunes with the saddest of closes, Its odor is so heavy,
Dear tunes that were thine!
But in vain, all in vain ;
Thou art gone -- we remain!
WRECKS of clouds of a sombre gray,
Like the ribbed remains of a mastodon, Thy whiter hand, my darling,
Were piled in masses along the west,
And a streak of red stretched over the sun. *Then this may fade and wither,
I stood on the deck of the ferry-boat,
As the summer evening deepened to night, For these, my burning kisses,
Where the tides of the river ran.darkly past, Will then be showered on thee!
Through lengthening pillars of crinkled light. The wind blew over the briny waves,
With its salt sea-breath, and a country balm,
And lend my spirit its gusty calm.
The twinkling lights, and the sea of men,
And I knew their inner meaning then! For while the beautiful moon arose,
And drifted the boat in her yellow beams, My soul went down the river of thought
That flows in the mystic land of dreams.
In some old wood my nest I'd build,
From other birds apart:
So pure, no human heart!
The leaves themselves a-stir-
The moon doth drag with her, -
The rarest ever heard,
Were I a happy bird !
Above this ledger's page;
TO BE A BIED.
As oft I wish to be,
To lands beyond the sea.
TIE B A R D 0 F O'CONNOR.
Partix O'CONNOR was defeated and slain at Atkupree, by WINITAN DE IORGE), on the 10th of August, :3:5. EDWARD the Second then reigned in England
He stood before young EDWARD's throne,
The chief of Erin's minstrel-band,
A captive in the stranger's land;
And weaved full oft a scornful verse,
And heedless of the foeman's curse.
When hosts went forth in martial pride,
On which his King and kindred died:
In many a proud and bannered hall,
He mused but on his country's fall.
Or marvel that his soul abhorred
Apostles of the torch and sword;
Where bonds were forged and blood was spilt ;
Long, joyless years of strise and guilt?
A strain of ages passed away,
Nor feared DE BURGHO's iron sway;
Her mightiest sons, ihe chained, the dead,
That minstrel's lofty spirit fled.
Nor at one heart's quenched hopes repine:
The blight which lies on all that's thine!
Have ever been, and yet must be,
LITER A RY NOTICES.
ISAAC T. HOPPER: A TRUE LIFE. With a Portrait. By L. MARIA CHILD. In one rol
ume: pp. 493. Boston: Joux P. JEWETT AND COMPANY. New-York : LEWIS COLBY AND COMPANY.
Who is there, for the last twenty years a resident in New York, that does not remember the compact, shortish, stout-built, active Quaker, whose portrait-an excellent one, by Page— fronts the title-page of the well-printed book before us? In our mind's eye we see him now, as we have seen him a thousand times, with his cocked hat, his dead-drab coat, his spotless linen, his sturdy calves, encased in a pair of close-fitting fine stockings, into which his legs seemed to have been run, as into a mould; with that imperturbable countenance, lips compressed with a kind of circumventice expression, and eye ever looking straight forward. That was Isaac T. HOPPER, with whom we never exchanged a word in the world, but whom, now that he is dead, we cannot help thinking we knew as well, from his appearance, and the public reports of his character, as if we had been on intimate terms with him for years. JOSEPI BONAPARTE once remarked to a friend, on board a steamboat bound up the Delaware to his residence at Bordentown, that he bore an extremely strong resemblance to his brother the Emperor NAPOLEON. (He did n't look so much like Louis, probably.) Mrs. Child's admiration for her subject has caused her to make a big work for so simple a biography; but it is largely made up of the narratives and anecdotes of fugitive slaves which were originally written by himself, and published in a weekly journal, under the title of Tales of Oppression.' Several of these we remember having read at the time of their first appearance, and many of them are doubtless familiar to the public. Mrs. Child has re-modelled them all; partly, she says, because she wished to present them in a more concise form, and partly because the principal actor could be spoken of more freely by a third person than he could speak of himself;' added to which, her subject had a much more dramatic way of telling a story, than of writing it; and this unwritten style she has endeavored to embody, as nearly as she could remember it.
'Friend IIOPPER,' as he was called, was a sort of Old HAYES ' among fugitive slave-claimers; and in this regard was as well known as the townpump,' both in Philadelphia and New-York. Ilis sympathies were so strong,