with the Spirit of God, and therefore merits dominion as the guide to virtue: it shines in every man's breast, and therefore joins the whole human race in the unity of equal rights. Intellectual freedom, the supremacy of mind, universal enfranchisement-these three points include the whole of Quakerism, as far as it belongs to civil history.

CHIVALRY AND PURITANISM.

Historians have loved to eulogize the manners and virtues, the glory and the benefits, of chivalry. Puritanism accomplished for mankind far more. If it had the sectarian crime of intolerance, chivalry had the vices of dissoluteness. The knights were brave from gallantry of spirit; the Puritans from the fear of God. The knights were proud of loyalty; the Puritans of liberty. The knights did homage to monarchs, in whose smile they beheld honor, whose rebuke was the wound of disgrace; the Puritans, disdaining ceremony, would not bow at the name of Jesus, nor bend the knee to the King of kings. Chivalry delighted in outward show, favored pleasure, multiplied amusement, and degraded the human race by an exclusive respect for the privileged classes; Puritanism bridled the passions, commanded the virtues of self-denial, and rescued the name of man from dishonor. The former valued courtesy; the latter, justice. The former adorned society by graceful refinements; the latter founded national grandeur on universal education. The institutions of chivalry were subverted by the gradually increasing weight, and knowledge, and opulence of the industrious classes; the Puritans, rallying upon those classes, planted in their hearts the undying principles of democratic liberty.

THE POSITION OF THE PURITANS.

To the colonists the maintenance of their religious unity seemed essential to their cordial resistance to English attempts at oppression. And why, said they, should we not insist upon this union? We have come to the outside of the world for the privilege of living by ourselves; why should we open our asylum to those in whom we can repose no confidence? The world cannot call this persecution. We have been banished to the wilderness; is it an injustice to exclude our oppressors,

and those whom we dread as their allies, from the place which is to shelter us from their intolerance? Is it a great cruelty to expel from our abode the enemies of our peace, or even the doubtful friend? Will any man complain at being driven from among banished men, with whom he has no fellowship; of being refused admittance to a gloomy place of exile? The wide continent of America invited colonization; they claimed their own narrow domains for "the brethren." Their religion was their life they welcomed none but its adherents; they could not tolerate the scoffer, the infidel, or the dissenter; and the presence of the whole people was required in their congregation. Such was the system inflexibly established and regarded as the only adequate guarantee of the rising liberties of Massachusetts.

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

GEORGE P. MORRIS, "to whom the common voice of the country has given the title of THE SONG-WRITER OF AMERICA," was born in the city of New York, in 1802. He early commenced his literary career, and in 1822 became the editor of "The New York Mirror," which remained under his control till 1843, when pecuniary difficulties, occasioned by the storm of financial embarrassment which had but shortly before passed over the country, compelled him to relinquish its publication. During this long period, this periodical was very ably conducted, and became the vehicle of introduction to the public of some of the best writers in the country. In 1844, he established "The New Mirror,” in conjunction with his friend N. P. Willis, which was soon after changed into "The Evening Mirror." This, after being continued a year as a daily paper, with great spirit and taste, was sold out, and in November, 1846, these two gifted authors started a weekly paper, called "The Home Journal," which has been continued from year to year with increasing popularity—a popularity richly deserved from the taste, elegance, and enterprise with which it is conducted.

General Morris (for so he is generally called, as holding the rank of brigadier-general) has published the following works: "The Deserted Bride, and other Poems," 1843; "The Whip-poor-will, a Poem;" "American Melodies;" two or three Dramas; and in conjunction with his friend Willis, an admirable book entitled "The Prose and Poetry

of Europe and America." But it is as a writer of Songs, which exert so wide an influence upon national character and manners, and of a few short pieces which, by their elevated moral sentiment and touching pathos, go right to the heart, that Mr. Morris (for we love better the plain citizen's title) will hold an enduring place in American literature.'

LIFE IN THE WEST.

Ho! brothers-come hither and list to my story-
Merry and brief will the narrative be:
Here, like a monarch, reign in my glory—
Master am I, boys, of all that I see.

Where once frown'd a forest a garden is smiling-
The meadow and moorland are marshes no more;
And there curls the smoke of my cottage, beguiling
The children who cluster like grapes at the door.
Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest,
The land of the heart is the land of the west.
Oho, boys!-oho, boys!—oho!

Talk not of the town, boys-give me the broad prairie,
Where man like the wind roams impulsive and free;
Behold how its beautiful colors all vary,

Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea.

A life in the woods, boys, is even as changing;
With proud independence we season our cheer,
And those who the world are for happiness ranging
Won't find it at all, if they don't find it here.

"General Morris's fame as The Song-writer of America' belongs to two hemispheres, and is greater now than it has ever been before. 'You ask me.' says a recent letter from an English gentleman, now representing in the House of Commons one of the most ancient of the English boroughs, whether I have seen Gen. Morris's last song, Jenny Marsh of Cherry Valley.' You can hardly know, when you put such a question, the place he has built himself in the hearts of all classes here. His many songs and ballads are housebold words in every home in England, and have a dear old chair by every circle in which kindly friends are gathered; and parents smile with pleasure to see brothers and sisters join their voices in the evening song, and twine closer those loving chords-the tenderest of the human heart. It is no mean reward to feel that the child of one's brain has a chair in such circles, and that the love for the child passes in hundreds of hearts into love for its unseen parent. After all, what are all the throat-warblings in the world to one such heart-song as My Mother's Bible?' It possesses the true test of genius, touching with sympathy the human heart, equally in the palace and the cottage."

For a most beautifully written critical essay upon Mr. Morris's genius and poems, read " Literary Criticisms and other Papers, by the late Horace Binney Wallace, Esq., of Philadelphia"-a volume which does the highest credit to the author as himself a man of true taste, correct judgment, and finished scholarship.

Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest;
I'll show you the life, boys, we live in the west.
Oho, boys!-oho, boys!-oho!

Here, brothers, secure from all turmoil and danger,
We reap what we sow, for the soil is our vn;
We spread hospitality's board for the stran

And care not a fig for the king on his throne.
We never know want, for we live by our labor,
And in it contentment and happiness find;
We do what we can for a friend or a neighbor,
And die, boys, in peace and good-will to mankind.
Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest;
You know how we live, boys, and die in the west!
Oho, boys!-oho, boys!-oho!

I LOVE THE NIGHT.

I love the night when the moon streams bright
On flowers that drink the dew,

When cascades shout as the stars peep out,
From boundless fields of blue;

But dearer far than moon or star,

Or flowers of gaudy hue,

Or murmuring trills of mountain rills,

I love, I love, love-you!

I love to stray at the close of day,
Through groves of linden trees,

When gushing notes from song-birds' throats,
Are vocal in the breeze.

I love the night-the glorious night!

When hearts beat warm and true;

But far above the night I love,

I love, I love, love-you!

UP WITH THE SIGNAL.

Up, up with the signal! The land is in sight!
We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!
The cold, cheerless ocean in safety we've passed,
And the warm genial earth glads our vision at last.
In the land of the stranger true hearts we shall find,
To soothe us in absence of those left behind.
Land-land-ho! All hearts glow with joy at the sight!
We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!

The signal is waving! Till morn we'll remain,
Then part in the hope to meet one day again

Round the hearth-stone of home in the land of our birth,
The holiest spot on the face of the earth!

Dear country! our thoughts are as constant to thee
As the steel to the star, or the stream to the sea.
Ho!-land-ho! We near it-we bound at the sight.
Then Le happy, if never again, boys, to-night!

2

Theyal is answer'd! The foam-sparkles rise
Like tears from the fountain of joy to the eyes!
May rain-drops that fall from the storm-clouds of care
Melt away in the sun-beaming smiles of the fair!
One health, as chime gayly the nautical bells,

To woman-God bless her!-wherever she dwells!
THE PILOT'S ON BOARD!-and, thank Heaven, all's right!
So be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!

1 44

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.1

Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough
In youth it shelter'd me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,

And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke !

Cut not its earth-bound ties;

Oh spare that aged oak,

Now towering to the skies!
When but an idle boy,

I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy,

Here too my sisters pla.
My mother kiss'd me here;
My father press'd my hand-
Forgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand!

After I had sung the noble ballad of Woodman, spare that tree, at Boulogne," says Mr. Henry Russell, the vocalist, "an old gentleman, among the audience, who was greatly moved by the simple and touching beauty of the words, rose and said, 'I beg your pardon, Mr. Russell; but was the tree really spared?' 'It was,' said I. I am very glad to hear it,' said he, as he took his seat amidst the unanimous applause of the whole assembly. I never saw such excitement in a concert-room."