much has been accomplished; great advancement has been made against the wind and tide; and at this time the aspects and prospects of our affairs are auspicious of scarcely any thing more than of the successful cultivation of National Literature and National Art. ELOQUENCE OF JONATHAN EDWARDS. No assertion in regard to Edwards has been more common than the one that he was not eloquent. The mountebank declamation of these latter days has so perverted men's judgments that they cannot understand how a preacher who rested one arm upon a high pulpit, with its diminutive and delicately-moulded hand holding a small manuscript volume all the while close to his eyes, and with the other made slowly his few and only gestures, could be an orator. But he could keep a congregation that had assembled to hear a morning sermon ignorant of the approach of noon until through the uncurtained windows of the church the setting sun's red rays were shining upon its ceiling. One time, when he was discoursing of death and the Judgment, people rose up from their seats, with pallor on their faces, to see Christ descend through the parting heavens. Being requested to preach at Enfield, where he was a stranger, and the assembly were so indifferent to religion as to be neglectful of the decency of silence while he prayed, he had not half finished his sermon before the startled sinners, having "already passed through the valley of silence," began to wail and weep so bitterly that he could not go on for their distress. These are triumphs of eloquence not dreamed of by such as deem themselves masters of the art from reading the foolish recipe ascribed to Demosthenes. PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE, 1816-1850. PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE was born in Martinsburg, Virginia, on the 26th of October, 1816. At the age of fifteen he entered Princeton College, and on graduating pursued the study of law at Winchester, where his father was then residing. Before he was twenty-one he was married, admitted to the bar, and had very fair prospects in his profession. But he did not allow the law to engross all his time, a portion of which he devoted to writing various pieces, both of criticism and poetry, for the "Southern Literary Messenger" and other gift to him, to be used in subjection only to the law of God, who mocks at the petty ranks which men establish, by setting the seal of His nobility and conferring His riches upon whom He will." magazines. In 1847, he published Froissart Ballards' and other Poems, and was engaged in projecting other literary works, when he was suddenly arrested by death on the 20th of January, 1850, at the age of thirty-three. Most of what Mr. Cooke wrote and published is beautiful in itself, but is more interesting from the promise it gave of greater achievement; for had he lived he would doubtless have risen to much higher literary distinction. One of his pieces, however, must be rescued and preserved,-the delicate and beautiful love-song of 1 These are versified transcripts of old Sir John Froissart's Chronicles, and are admirably done. He says in his preface, "The reader may be disposed to undervalue poems professing to be versifications of old stories, on the ground of a want of originality. I ask only, in anticipation of this, that he will recollect the fact that, from Chaucer to Dryden, such appropriations of old story were customary with the noblest poets of our language." 2 "One of the daintiest lyrics in the language."-WILLIS. In the "Southern Literary Messenger" for June, 1858, is an excellent article on Mr. Cooke. The lilies of the valley By young graves weep, May their bloom, in beauty vying, Where thine earthly part is lying, LUCY HOOPER, 1816-1841. "And thou art gone! sweet daughter of the lyre, Whose dearest hopes, with thee, have sadly perish'd, Prayer to be like thee, in so meekly bearing Both joy and sorrow from thy Maker's hand; And join thy anthem in the better land."-H. T. TUCKERMAN. LUCY HOOPER, the daughter of Mr. Joseph Hooper, a highly respectable merchant of Newburyport, Massachusetts, was born in that city on the 4th of February, 1816. She very early gave indications of that sweetness of character, that purity of taste, and that brightness of intellect, which were afterwards so beautifully developed and harmoniously blended; and her father took every pains that her native powers should have the benefit of the best training, and her progress in her studies was astonishing. At the age of fourteen, the family removed to Brooklyn, New York; and here, very soon after, she became an occasional contributor to the "Long Island Star." Though anonymous, her pieces were greatly admired and widely copied; and if they had not the merit of her later productions, every one must be struck with the melody of her versification, as well as the precocious strength and nervousness of her expression. Besides her compositions in verse, upon which Miss Hooper's fame chiefly rests, she was the author of many prose articles of a high order of merit. These were collected in a volume, and published in 1840, under the title of Scenes from Real Life: among them was the prize essay on "Domestic Happiness." But, like the Davidsons, Henry Kirke White, and others, her early brilliant career of usefulness was soon to close. Her health from her childhood had been delicate; but the loss of her devoted father, and other domestic afflictions, affected her very deeply, and accelerated the progress of her fatal malady,-consumption; and on the morning of the 1st of August, 1841, she gently fell asleep in Jesus. Seldom has the death of any one so young called forth so many testimonies of admiration. What she was, all can read and see; what she would probably have One of these was a touching piece by J. G. Whittier, and another the few sweet lines, by H. T. Tuckerman, placed at the head of this article. become had she lived to a greater maturity of life and thought, we can imagine from the high promise of her early performance.1 OSCEOLA.2 [Written upon seeing a picture of the Indian chief Osceola, drawn by Captain Vinton, of the United States Army, representing him as he appeared in the American camp.] Not on the battle-field, As when thy thousand warriors joy'd to meet thee, Leading them forth to die, Not thus, not thus we greet thee. But in a hostile camp, Lonely amidst thy foes, Thine arrows spent, Thy brow unbent, Yet wearing record of thy people's woes. Chief! for thy memories now, While the tall palm against this quiet sky And the soft river laves The green and flower-crown'd banks it wanders by, The burnish'd rifle gleameth with strange light, Rest harmless here, Yet flash with startling radiance on the sight; Wake they thy glance of scorn, Thou of the folded arms and aspect stern, 1 In 1842 appeared her Poetical Remains, 12mo, with a beautifully-written memoir by John Keese; and, in 1848, her Complete Poetical Works, in 8vo. 2 This was the noble Seminole chief who, in the "Second Seminole War," in 1837, being found invincible in open battle, was decoyed, by orders of General Jessup, into a conference, under the white flag of truce held sacred by all nations, and then surrounded by our troops, disarmed, and made a captive,-a transaction which should cover that officer's name with lasting infamy. To this, the following verse from Pierpont's bold, nervous, and truthful poem, "The Tocsin,” alludes:- "At Slavery's beck, the very hands Ye lift to Heaven, to swear ye're free, Yes,-tear a flag that Tartar hordes Respect, and shield it with their swords."* For a true account of the Florida War, read "The Exiles of Florida, or the Crimes committed by our Government against the Maroons, who fled from South Carolina and other Slave States, seeking Protection under Spanish Law," by Joshua R. Giddings,-a painfully-interesting narrative. Too many histories of the United States seem to have been written rather to conceal, than to tell the truth relative to certain transactions and subjects. * "Bear witness, ghost of the great-hearted, broken-hearted Osceola!" Thou of the deep low tone,1 Kindred and friends alike may vainly yearn? Woe for the trusting hour! Oh, kingly stag! no hand hath brought thee down; Twas with a patriot's heart, Where fear usurp'd no part, Thou camest, a noble offering, and alone! For vain yon army's might, While for thy band the wide plain own'd a tree, On the gnarl'd oak's mossy roots Their trysting-place might be! Woe for thy hapless fate! Woe for thine evil times and lot, brave chief! Thy short and mournful glory, Thy high but hopeless struggle, brave and brief! Woe for the bitter stain That from our country's banner may not part! For burning pains, and slow, Are his who dieth of the fever'd heart. Oh! in that spirit-land, Where never yet the oppressor's foot hath past, Whose beauty mocks our dreams, EVENING THOUGHTS. Thou quiet moon, above the hill-tops shining, How does my heart, cured of its vain repining, The student o'er his lonely volume bending, The pale enthusiast, joying in thy ray, And ever and anon his dim thoughts sending Nor these alone,-the pure and radiant eyes The glories pictured in Life's morning stream, 1 Osceola was remarkable for a soft and flute-like voice. |