elevation being the elevation of nature, he is not perched on a dizzy peak of thought, but is established on a table-land of character, and partly because there plays round the object he seeks a ligat and radiance of such strange, unearthly lustre, that his heart, smitten with love for its awful beauty, is drawn toward it by an irresistible fascination. Disappointment, discouragement, obstacles, drudgery, only sting his energies by opposition or are glorified to his imagination as steps; for beyond them and through them is the Celestial City of his hopes, shining clear to the inner eye of his mind, tempting, enticing, urging him on through all impediments, by the sweet, attractive force of its visionary charm! The eyes of such men, by the testimony of painters, always have the expression of looking into distant space. As a result of this unwearied spiritual energy and this ecstatic spiritual vision is the courage of the hero. He has no fear of death, because the idea of death is lost in his intense consciousness of life, -full, rich, exulting, joyous, lyrical life, which ever asserts the immortality of mind, because it feels itself immortal, and is scornfully indifferent to that drowsy twilight of intellect into which atheism sends its unsubstantial spectres, and in which the whole flock of fears, terrors, despairs, weaknesses, and doubts scatter their enfeebling maxims of misanthropy, and insinuate their ghastly temptations to suicide. One ray from a sunlike soul drives them gibbering back to their parent darkness; for “Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Hath ever truly wished for death. ""T is life of which our nerves are scant, O life, not death, for which we pant, More life, and fuller, that we want!" - at This life of the soul, which is both light and heat, intelligence and power, - this swift-ascending instinct of the spirit to spiritual ideas and laws, -this bold committal of self to something it values more than all the interests of self, tests the presence of the heroic element by in1icating an ideal standard of conduct. Let us now contemplate it in the scale of moral precedence, according as it fastens its upward glance on the idea of glory, or country, or humanity, or heaven. This will lead to a short consideration of the hero as a soldier, as a patriot, as a reformer, and as a saint. YOUNG MEN IN HISTORY FROM SUCCESS AND ITS . CONDITIONS. In passing from the sphere of politics to the serener region of literature, art, science, and philosophy, there is an increasing difficulty in estimating youth by years and an increasing necessity to estimate it by qualities. One thing, however, is certain, that the invention of new methods. the discovery of new truth, and the creation of new beauty, intellectual acts which are among the most important of historical events, all belong to that thoroughly live condition of mind which we have called young. In this sense of youth, it may be said that Raphael, the greatest painter of moral beauty, and Titian, the greatest painter of sensuous beauty, were both almost equally young, though Raphael died at thirtyseven, while Titian was prematurely cut off by the plague when he was only a hundred. These, of course, are the extreme cases. But, it may be asked, were not the greatest poems of the world, the Iliad" of Homer, the "Divina Commedia" of Dante, the "Paradise Lost" of Milton, the creations of comparative old age? The answer to this question is, that each was probably organized round a youthful conception, and all were coextensive with the whole growth and development of their creators. Thus, we do not call Milton old when he produced Paradise Lost," but when this mental growth was arrested; and accordingly "Paradise Regained" and "Samson Agonistes," works produced after his prime, are comparatively bleak and bare products of a withering imagination and a shrunken personality. 66 But, confining the matter to the mere question of years, it may be said, that, allowing for some individual exceptions, the whole history of the human intellect will bear out the general assertion, that the power in which great natures culminate, and which fixes fatal limits to their loftiest aspirations, namely, that flashing conceptive and combining genius which fuses force and insight in one executive intelligence, which seizes salient points and central ideas, which darts in an instant along the whole line of analogies and relations, which leaps with joyous daring the vast mental spaces that separate huddled facts from harmonizing laws, that this power, to say the least, rarely grows after thirty-five or forty. The mental stature is then reached, though it may not dwindle and be dwarfed until long afterwards. Thus, Shakespeare completed Hamlet" when he was about thirty-six. Mozart, the Shakespeare of composers, died at thirty-six. But why enumerate? Amid the scores of instances which must crowd into every mind, let us select five men, of especial historic significance, and who are commonly imaged to our minds with heads silvered over with age, let us take Goethe in poetry, Newton in science, Bacon in philosophy, Columbus in discovery, Watt in mechanics. Now, how stand the. facts? The greatest works of Goethe were conceived and partly executed when he was a young man; and if age found him more widely and worldly wise, it found him weak in creative passion, and, as a poet, living on the interest of his youthful conceptions. Newton, in whose fertile and capacious intellect the dim, nebulous elements of truth were. condensed by patient thinking into the completed star, discovered the most universal of all natural laws, the law of gravitation, before he was twenty-five, though an error of observation, not his own, prevented him from demonstrating it until he was forty. Bacon had "vast contemplative ends," and had taken "all knowledge for his province," had deeply meditated new methods and audaciously doubted old ones, before the incipient beard had begun timidly to peep from his youthful chin. The great conception of Columbus sprang from the thoughts and studies of his youth; and it was the radiance shed from this conception which gave him fortitude to bear the slow martyrdom of poverty, contempt, and sickness of heart, which embittered the toiling years preceding its late realization. The steam-engine was invented by James Watt before he was thirty; but then Watt was a thinker from his cradle. Everybody will recollect his grandmother's reproof of what she called his idleness, at the time his boyish brain was busy with meditations destined to ripen in the most marvellous and revolutionizing of all industrial inventions,- an invention which, of itself alone, has given Great Britain an additional productive power equal to ten millions of workmen, at the cost of only a halfpenny a day, -an invention which supplies the motive power by which a single county in England is enabled to produce fabrics representing the labor of twenty-one millions of men, - an invention which, combined with others, annually, in England, weaves into cloth a length of cotton thread equal to fifty-one times the distance between the earth and the sun, five thousand millions of miles, - an invention which created the wealth by which England was enabled to fight or subsidize the whole continent of Europe from 1793 to 1815, and which made that long war really a contest between the despotic power of Napoleon Bonaparte and the productive genius of James Watt. All this vast and teeming future was hidden from the good grandmother, as she saw the boy idling over the teakettle. "James," she said, "I never saw such an idle young fellow as you are. Do take a book and employ yourself usefully. For the last halfhour you have not spoken a single word. Do you know what you have been doing all this time? Why, you have taken off, and replaced, and taken off again, the teapot lid, and you have held alternately in the steam, first a saucer and then a spoon; and you have busied yourself in examining and collecting together the little drops formed by the condensation of the steam on the surface of the china and the silver. Now are you not ashamed to waste your time in this disgraceful manner?" Was ever idleness so productive before? CHARLES WILKINS WEBBER His Was born on the 29th May, 1819, at Russelville, Kentucky. His mother, Agnes Maria Webber, was the daughter of General John Tannehill, and niece of the Hon. William Wilkins, both of Pittsburg. General Tannehill had served with distinction as an officer of the Revolution. eldest son, Wilkins Tannehill, is known as the author of a book entitled Sketches of the History of Literature from the Earliest Period to the Revival of Letters in the Fifteenth Century,* remarkable for its various reading and the spirit which animates it, and the singularity of its production at an early date west of the Alleghanies. The Preface modestly states the author's design, Prepared during intervals of occasional leisure from the duties of an employment little congenial with literary pursuits, and without any opportunity for consulting extensive libraries, it a pires only to the character of sketches, without pretending to be a complete history. It is an attempt by a backwoodsman,' to condense and comprise within a narrow compass, the most prominent and interesting events, connected with the progress of literary and scientific improvement, from the earliest period through a long succession of ages, and amidst a great variety of circumstances. As such it is an exceedingly creditable production. Its author was also for many years editor of the Nashville Herald, the first Clay-Whig paper ever published in Tennessee. This learned, modest, and useful man, having spent the greater portion of his life in close and * Sketches of the History of Literature from the Earliest Period to the Revival of Letters in the Fifteenth Century. Indocti discant, ament meminisse periti. By Wilkins Tannehill. 8vo. pp. 344. Nashville: John S. Simpson, 1827. unremitting literary labors, became blind late in life, and died in 1858. It is understood that his most valuable researches have been in the field of American antiquities. The grandfather, General Tannehill, having met with heavy reverses of fortune, died leaving his family comparatively helpless. In this strait they found a home in the house of a brother of his wife, Charles Wilkins of Lexington, a wealthy: and generous gentleman, whose memory is warmly cherished by the older families of that portion of Kentucky. The children were educated with great care, and the daughters grew up to After the death of be accomplished women. their uncle they removed with their mother to Nashville, to reside with her eldest son, Wilkins Tannehill. Here the eldest daughter married, and on her removing to the new town of Hopkinsville, Ky., was accompanied by her young sister Agnes, who became the wife of a physician from North Kentucky, Doctor Augustine Web Der. Of this marriage C. W. Webber was the second child, and first son. For forty years past Dr. Webber has stood prominent in his profession in. South Kentucky, and has been noted as an intelligent, liberal, and devoted churchman and Whig. It is, however, to his mother, a lady of great beauty of character, that C. W. Webber is most indebted for his early tastes. The education which her son received as the companion of her artistic excursions, for she possessed a natural genius for art, into the natural world, determined in a great measure the character of his future pursuits. His early life, to his nineteenth year, was spent in miscellaneous study and the sports of the field, when, after the death of his mother, we find him wandering upon the troubled frontier of Texas. He soon became associated with the celebrated Colonel Jack Hays, Major Chevalier, Fitzgerald, &c., whose names are noted as forming the nucleus. around which the famous Ranger Örganization was constituted. After several years spent here, in singular adventures-many of which have been given to the world in his earlier books, Old Hicks the Guide, Shot in the Eye, and Gold Mines of the Gila-he returned to his family in Kentucky. He now further prosecuted his study of medicine, upon which he had originally entered with the design of making it his profession. Becoming, however, deeply interested in controversial matters during a period of strong religious excitement which prevailed throughout the whole country, he entered the Princeton Theological Seminary as a candidate for the ministry. He, however, remained there but a short time. From this time, his pen was to be his sole dependence. He had already tried its point in an article which appeared in the Nassau Monthly, which was edited by a committee of students. This paper was called "Imagination, and the Soul," and had attracted considerable attention both in the College and in the Semi Finding himself at New York utterly without acquaintances who could aid him, he resolved upon introducing himself, and a manuscript which he had prepared, to Mr. Bryant the poet, for whom he had conceived from his writings a high personal admiration, which was fully confirmed by his interview. He found Mr. Bryant at the office of the Evening Post; the poet smiled upon his eager enthusiasm, a self-confidence which had in it a touch of despair, and kept his manuscript for perusal. The result, the next day, was a letter of introduction to Winchester the publisher, who immediately engaged from the young writer a series of papers on Texan Adventure" to be published in his flourishing newspaper, the New World. Ilis connexion with the Whig Review as associate editor and joint proprietor, continued for over two years, in which time the magazine ran up to an unprecedented circulation for one of its class. The Shot in the Eye, Charles Winterfield Papers, Adventures upon the Frontiers of Texas and Mexico, with a long paper on Hawthorne, are the principal articles by him which will be remembered by the earlier readers of the Review, although a great amount of critical and other miscellaneous matter was comprised within the sum of his editorial labors. About this time, Mr. Webber was a contributor to the early numbers of the Literary World of papers on Western Life and Natural History. He contracted also with the Sunday Despatch, which was just then commencing, for the story of Old Hicks the Guide, which for more than three months occupied the columns of that paper. The copyright of this story was finally sold to the Harpers for two hundred dollars. Mr. Webber's next enterprise was one on a mammoth scale, projected by him in connexion with the two sons of John J. Audubon, the orni、 thologist. The design was to issue a magnificent monthly of large size, to be illustrated in each number by a splendid copperplate colored engraving, taken from a series of unpublished pictures by the elder Audubon, and to be edited by Mr. Webber. Only the first number was ever completed, and it was never published, owing to the many discouragements growing out of the protracted illness of John Woodhouse Audubon, and his immediate departure, while convalescing, with a view to the permanent restoration of his health, by overland travel to California. The immense expense which it was found would attend the prosecution of the work had also its effect in deterring its issue. Among the contributors to this first number were Hawthorne, Whipple, Headley, Street, Constable, Wallace, &c. leading paper, Eagles and Art, was by Mr. Webber. The In the meantime he continued to write occasionally for the Democratic Review, Graham's Magazine, &c. In March, 1849, simultaneously with the discovery of gold in California, appeared the Gold Mines of the Gila, all but a few concluding chapters of which he had written several years previously. This work was considered by the author rather as a voluminous prospectus of an enterprise of exploration to the gold region, once attempted during his Texan experiences, and now again projected in the Centralia Ex On the failure of Winchester in his bold but rash conflict with the Harpers, Mr. Webber was again thrown out of employment, but was soon engaged in writing a number of sketches and other papers for the Democratic Review. The most important of these was called Instinct, Rea-ploring Expedition, than as a formal book. To son, and Imagination, and published under the sobriquet of C. Wilkens Eimi. About this time, the story of the Shot in the Eye, one of the best known of his productions, was written. The manuscript was delivered to Mr. O'Sullivan, and after being in his possession for several months, was misplaced and lost sight of by him, and, after a long search, supposed to be irrecoverably lost. The story was then re-written for the Whig Review, and appeared in its second num the chivalrous appeal, dedicated to the ladies of America, and addressed to its young men for their cooperation in the dangerous effort to resolve by examination the mystery of the unknown region lying between the river Gila and the Colorado of the West, there was a ready response. The required number of young men from all parts of the country had expressed their readiness to participate in the enterprise, nnder the leadership of Mr. Webber. Preparations were very far ad vanced, and the journey to New Orleans commenced, when, on arriving at Washington, he was met by the news of the loss of all the horses of the expedition, which had been collected at Corpus Christi to await their arrival. The Camanches carried off every animal, and, as they had been collected from the mountains at great trouble and as peculiarly adapted for this service, the loss proved irretrievable. The news of the ravages of the cholera along the whole line of the South-western border completed the defeat of the projected rendezvous. Mr. Webber instantly commenced a new movement, by which he hoped to effect this purpose. The experiences of this year of the utter in-ufficiency of the means of transportation across the great desert to the gold regions, as limited to the horse, ox, and mule, of the country, offered an opening for urging upon the government the project of employing the African and Asiatic camel for such purposes. The vast endurance, capacity for burden, and speed, together with the singular frugality of this animal, seemed to him to indicate its introduction as the great desideratum of service in the South-west. This object has been assiduously pursued by Mr. Webber since 1849, and it may be mentioned as an instance of his perseverance, that he succeeded in obtaining from the legislature of New York in 1854 a charter for the organization of a camel company, and that the Secretary of War warmly recommended the project to Congress in an official report. In the meantime, the literary labors of Mr. Webber have by no means been suspended. His marriage, which occurred in Boston in 1849, had furnished him with an artistic collaborator in his wife. With her assistance, as the artist of many of its abundant illustrations, the first volume of The Hunter Naturalist was completed, and published in the fall of 1851. In spite of a serious illness, he published three volumes within the next two years: Spiritual Vampirism, and Tales of the Southern Border, in 1852; Wild Scenes and Song Birds, the second volume of The Hunter Naturalist, in 1853. Mr. Webber's style is full, rapid, and impulsive, combining a healthy sense of animal life and outof-door sensation, with inner poetical reflection. His narrative is borne along no less by his mental enthusiasm than by the lively action of its stirring Western themes. As a critic, many of his papers have shown a subtle perception with a glowing reproduction of the genius of his author. In the winter of 1855-6, Mr. Webber left New York to join the forces of Captain William Walker, then endeavoring to maintain himself as a military adventurer in Central America. He took part with the forces of Walker in the battle of Rivas, and fell in some chance rencontre or ambuscade incidental to that engagement. He was in his thirty-seventh year. His descriptions of wild border-life, and his enthusiasm for natural history, exhibited in various volumes, we have already fully set forth. A NIGHT HUNT IN KENTUCKY-FROM WILD SCENES AND WILD HUNTERS. Now the scene has burst upon us through an opening of the trees!-There they are! Negroes of all degrees, size, and age, and of dogs | Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim, Hound or spaniel, brack or lym, Or bobtail tike, or trundle tail. All are there, in one conglomerate of active, noisy confusion. When indications of the hurried approach of our company are perceived, a great accession to the hubbub is consequential. Old Sambo sounds a shriller note upon his horn, the dogs rise from independent howls to a si nultaneous yell, and along with all the young half-naked darkies rush to meet us. The women come to the doors with their blazing lamps lifted above their heads, that they may get a look at the "young masters," and we, shouting with excitement, and blinded by the light, plunge stumbling through the meeting current of dogs and young negroes, into the midst of the gathering party. Here we are suddenly arrested by a sort of awe as we find ourselves in the presence of old Sambo. The young dogs leap upon us with their dirty fore-paws, but we merely push aside their caresses, for old Sambo and his old dog Bose are the two centres of our almiration and interest. Old Sambo is the "Mighty Hunter before"-the moon! of all that region. He is seamed and scarred with the pitiless siege of sixty winters! Upon all matters appertaining to such hunts, his word is" law," while the "tongue" of his favorite and ancient friend Bose is recognised as "gospel." In our young imaginations, the two are respectfully identified. Old Sambo, with his blanket "roundabout"-his cow's-horn trumpet slung about his shoulders by a tow string his bare head, with its greyish fleece of wool-the broad grin of complacency, showing his yet sound white teeth-and rolling the whites of his eyes benignantly over the turmoil of the scenewas to us the higher prototype of Bose. He, with the proper slowness of dignity, accepts the greet of our patting caresses, with a formal wagging of the tail, which seems to say-" O, I am used to this!" streperous fawnings, he will correct them into prowhile, when the young dogs leap upon him with obpriety with stately snarling. They knew him for their leader!-they should be more respectful! Now old Sambo becomes patronizing to us, as is necessary and proper in our new relations! From his official position of commander-in-chief, he soon reduces the chaos around us into something like subjection, and then in a little time comes forth the form of our night's march. A few stout young men who have obeyed his summons have gathered around him from the different huts of the Quarter-some with axes, and others with torches of pine and bark. The dogs become more restless, and we more excited, as these indices of immediate action appear. Now, with a long blast from the cow's horn of low-from men, women, children, and dogs, we take Sambo, and a deafening clamor of all sizes, high and up the line of march for the woods. Sambo leads, of course. We are soon trailing after him in single file, led by the glimmer of the torches far ahead. Now the open ground of the plantation has been passed, and as we approach the deep gloom of the bordering forest Those perplexed woods, The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passengereven the yelpings of the excited dogs cease to be heard, and they dash on into the darkness as if they were going to work-while we with our joyous chattering subsided into silence, enter these "longdrawn aisles" with a sort of shiver; the torches showing, as we pass in a dim light, the trees-their huge trunks vaulting over head into the night, with here and there a star shining like a gem set into their tall branching capitals-while on either side we look into depths of blackness as unutterably dreary to us as thoughts of death and nothingness. Oh, it was in half trembling wonder then, we crowded, trampling on the heels of those before, and, when after awhile the rude young negroes would begin to laugh aloud, we felt that in some sort it was profane. But such impressions never lasted long in those days. Every other mood and thought gives way to the novelty and contagious excitement of adventure. We are soon using our lungs as merrily as the rest. The older dogs seem to know perfectly, from the direction taken, what was the game to be pursued for the night. Had we gone up by the old Field where the Persimmon trees grow, they would have understood that "possums" were to be had; but as old Sambo led off through the deep. woods towards the swamps, it said "coons" to them as plain as if they had been Whigs of 1840. The flush of blood begins to subside as we penetrate deeper into the wood, and as we hear old Sambo shout to his staff officers and immediate rear guard, "Hush dat 'ar jawing, you niggers, dar," we take it for granted that it is a hint, meant not to be disrespected by us, that silence is necessary, lest we should startle the game too soon and confuse the dogs. All is silence now, except the rustle of our tramp over the dried autumn leaves, and occasional patter of the feet of a dog who ranges near to our path. Occasionally a white dog comes suddenly out of the darkness into view and disappears as soon, leaving our imagination startled as if some curious sprite had come "momently" from out its silent haunts to peep Then we will hear the rustling of some rapid thing behind us, and looking round, see nothing; then spring aside with a nervous bound and fluttering pulse, as some black object brushes by our legs "Nothin' but dat dog, Nigger Trimbush," chuckles a darkie, who observed us-but the couplet, at us. And the kelpie must flit from the black bog pit, flashes across our memory from the romance of su perstition, with the half shudder that is the accompaniment of such dreamy images. Hark, a dog opens-another, then another! We are still in a moment, listening-all eyes are turned upon old Sambo, the oracle. He only pauses for a minute. "Dem's de pups-ole dogs aint dar!" A pause. "Pshaw, nothin but a ole har!"—and a long, loud blast of the horn sounds the recall. We move on-and now the frosty night air has become chilly, and we begin to feel that we have something to do before us. Our legs are plied too lustily on the go-ahead principle for us to have time to talk. The young dogs have ceased to give tongue; for like unruly children they have dashed off in chase of what came first, and as the American hare ("Lepus Americanus") is found nearly everywhere, it was the earliest object. Just when the darkness is most deep, and the sounds about our way most hushed, up wheels the silver moor, and with a mellowed glory overcomes the night. The weight of darkness has been lifted from us, and we trudge along more cheerily! The dogs are making wider ranges, and we hear nothing of them. The silence weighis upon us, and old Sambo gives an occasional whoop of encouragement. We would like, too, to relieve our lungs, but he says, "nobody mus holler now but dem dat de dog knows: make 'em bother!" We must perforce be quiet; for "de dog" means Bose, and we must be deferential to his humors! Tramp, tramp, tramp, it has been for miles, and not a note from the dogs. We are beginning to be fatigued; our spirits sink, and we have visions of the warm room and bed we have deserted at home. The torches are burning down, and the cold, pale moon-light is stronger than that they give. One after another the young dogs come panting back to us, and fall lazily into our wake. Haig coon hunts in ge-. neral!—this is no joke; all cry and no wool!” Hark! a deep-mouthed, distant bay! The sound is electrical; our impatience and fatigue are gone! All ears and eyes, we crowd around old Sambo. The oracle attitudinizes. He leans forward with one ear turned towards the earth in the direction of the sound. Breathlessly we gaze upon him. Hark! another bay; another; then several join in. The old man has been unconsciously soliloquizing from the first sound. "Golly, dat's nigger Trim!" in an under tone; "he know de coon!" Next sound. "Dat's a pup; shaw!" Pause. "Dat's a pup, agin! Ch, niggers, no coon dar!" Lifting his outspread hand, which he brings down with a loud slap upon his thigh; "Yah! yali! dat's ole Music; look out, niggers!" Then, as a hoarse, low bay comes booming to us through a pause, he bounds into the air with the caperish agility of a colt, and breaks out in ecstasy, Whoop! whoop! dat's do ole dog; go my Bose!" Then striking hurriedly through the brush in the direction of the sounds, we only hear from him again, 66 "Yah! yah! yah! dat's a coon, niggers! Bose dar!" And away we rush as fast as we can scramble through the underbrush of the thick wood. The loud burst of the whole pack opening together, drowns even the noise of our progress. The cry of a full pack is maddening music to the hunter. Fatigue is forgotten, and obstacles are nothing. On we go; yelling in chorus with the dogs. Our direction is towards the swamp, and they are fast hurrying to its fastnesses. But what do we care! Briars and logs; the brush of dead trees; plunges half leg deep into the watery mire of boggy places are alike disregarded. The game is up! Hurrah! hurrah! we must be in at the death! So we scurry, led by the maddening chorus— Old -while the babbling echo mocks the hounds. Suddenly the reverberations die away. Sambo halts. When we get into ear-shot the only word we hear is "Tree'd!" This from the oracle is sufficient. We have another long scramble, in which we are led by the monotonous baying of a single dog. We have reached the place at last all breathless. Our torches have been nearly extinguished. One of the young dogs is seated at the foot of a tree, and looking up, it bays incessantly. Old Sambo pauses for awhile to survey the scene. The old dogs are circling round and round, jumping up against the side of every tree, smelling as high as they can reach. They are not satisfied, and Sambo waits for his tried oracles to solve the mystery. He regards them steadily and patiently for awhile; then steps forward quickly, and beats off the young dog who had "lied" at the "tree." The veterans now have a quiet field to themselves, and after some further delay in jumping up the sides of the surrounding trees, to find the scent, they finally open in full burst upon the trail. Old Sambo exclaims curtly, as we set off in the new chase, Dat looks like coon! but cats is about !" Now the whole pack opens again, and we are off after it. We all understand the allusion to the cats, for we know that, like the raccoon, this animal endeavors to baffle the dogs by running some distance up a tree, and then springing off upon another, and so on until it can safely descend. The young dogs take it for granted that he is in the first tree, while |