But here they come, the genuine benefactors of their race. Some have wandered about the earth, with pictures of bliss in their imagination, and with hearts that shrank sensitively from the idea of pain and woe, yet have studied all varieties of misery that human nature can endure. The prison, the insane asylum, the squalid chambers of the alms-house, the manufactory where the demon of machinery annihilates the human soul, and the cotton-field where God's image becomes a beast of burthen; to these, and every other scene where man wrongs or neglects his brother, the apostles of humanity have penetrated. This missionary, black with India's burning sunshine, shall give his arm to a pale-faced brother who has made himself familiar with the infected alleys and loathsome haunts of vice, in one of our own cities. The generous founder of a college shall be the partner of a maiden lady, of narrow substance, one of whose good deeds it has been, to gather a little school of orphan children. If the mighty merchant whose benefactions are reckoned by thousands of dollars, deem himself worthy, let him join the procession with her whose love has proved itself by watchings at the sick-bed, and all those lowly offices which bring her into actual contact with disease and wretchedness. And with those whose impulses have guided them to benevolent actions, we will rank others, to whom Providence has assigned a different tendency and different powers. Men who have spent their lives in generous and holy contemplation for the human race; those who, by a certain heavenliness of spirit, have purified the atmosphere around them, and thus supplied a medium in which good and high things may be projected and performed,-give to these a lofty place among the benefactors of mankind, although no deed, such as the world calls deeds, may be recorded of them. There are some individuals, of whom we cannot conceive it proper that they should apply their hands to any earthly instrument, or work out any definite act; and others, perhaps not less high, to whom it is an essential attribute to labor, in body as well as spirit, for the welfare of their brethren. Thus, if we find a spiritual sage, whose unseen, inestimable influence has ex alted the moral standard of mankind, we will choose for his companion some poor laborer, who has wrought for love in the potatoe-field of a neighbor poorer than himself. We have summoned this various multitude-and, to the credit of our nature, it is a large one-on the principle of Love. It is singular, nevertheless, to remark the shyness that exists among many members of the present class, all of whom we might expect to recognize one another by the free-masonry of mutual goodness, and to embrace like brethren, giving God thanks for such various specimens of human excellence. But it is far otherwise. Each sect surrounds its own righteousness with a hedge of thorns. It is difficult for the good Christian to acknowledge the good Pagan; almost impossible for the good Orthodox to grasp the hand of the good Unitarian, leaving to their Creator to settle the matters in dispute, and giving their mutual efforts strongly and trustingly to whatever right thing is too evident to be mistaken. Then again, though the heart be large, yet the mind is often of such moderate dimensions as to be exclusively filled up with one idea. When a good man has long devoted himself to a particular kind of beneficence-to one species of reform-he is apt to become narrowed into the limits of the path wherein he treads, and to fancy that there is no other good to be done on earth but that self-same good to which he has put his hand, and in the very mode that best suits his own conceptions. All else is worthless; his scheme must be wrought out by the united strength of the whole world's stock of love, or the world is no longer worthy of a position in the universe. Moreover, powerful Truth, being the rich grape-juice expressed from the vineyard of the ages, has an intoxicating quality, when imbibed by any save a powerful intellect, and often, as it were, impels the quaffer to quarrel in his cups. For such reasons, strange to say, it is harder to contrive a friendly arrangement of these brethren of love and righteousness, in the procession of life, than to unite even the wicked, who, indeed, are chained together by their crimes. The fact is too preposterous for tears, too lugubrious for laughter. But, let good men push and elbow one another as they may, during their earthly march, all will be peace among them when the honorable array of their procession shall tread on heavenly ground. There they will doubtless find, that they have been working each for the other's cause, and that every well-delivered stroke, which, with an honest purpose, any mortal struck, even for a narrow object, was indeed stricken for the universal cause of good. Their own view may be bounded by country, creed, profession, the diversities of individual character-but above them all is the breadth of Providence. How many, who have deemed themselves antago nists, will smile hereafter, when they look back upon the world's wide har vest field, and perceive that, in unconscious brotherhood, they were helping to bind the self-same sheaf! Perchance the two species of unfortunates may comfort one another. Here are Quakers with the instinct of battle in them; and men of war who should have worn the broad-brim. Authors shall be ranked here, whom some freak of Nature, making game of her poor children, has imbued with the confidence of genius, and strong desire of fame, but has favored with no corresponding power; and others, whose lofty gifts were unaccompanied with the faculty of expression, or any of that earthly machinery, by which ethereal endowments must be manifested to mankind. All these, therefore, are melancholy laughing-stocks. Next, here are honest and well-intentioned persons, who, by a want of tact- by inaccurate perceptions-by a distorting imagination--have been kept continually at cross-purposes with the world, and bewildered upon the path of life. Let us see, if they can confine themselves within the line of our procession. In this class, likewise, we must assign places to those who have encountered that worst of ill-success, a higher fortune than their abilities could vindicate; writers, actors, painters, the pets of a day, but whose laurels wither unrenewed amid their hoary hair; politicians, whom some malicious contingency of affairs has thrust into conspicuous station, where, while the world stands gazing at them, the dreary con curse their birth-hour. To such men, we give for a companion him whose rare talents, which perhaps require a revolution for their exercise, are buried in the tomb of sluggish circumstances. But, come! The sun is hastening westward, while the march of human life, that never paused before, is delayed by our attempt to re-arrange its order. It is desirable to find some comprehensive principle, that shall render our task easier by bringing thousands into the ranks, where hitherto we have brought one. Therefore let the trumpet, if possible, split its brazen throat with a louder note than ever, and the herald summon all mortals who, from whatever cause, have lost, or never found, their proper places in the world. Obedient to this call, a great multi-sciousness of imbecility makes them tude come together, most of them with a listless gait, betokening weariness of soul, yet with a gleam of satisfaction in their faces, at the prospect of at length reaching those suitable positions which, hitherto, they have vainly sought. But here will be another disappointment; for we can attempt no more than merely to associate, in one fraternity, all who are afflicted with the same vague trouble. Some great mistake in life is the chief condition of admittance into this class. Here are members of the learned professions, whom Providence endowed with special gifts for the plough, the forge, and the wheel-barrow, or for the routine of unintellectual business. We will assign them, as partners in the march, those lowly laborers and handicraftsmen, who have pined, as with a dying thirst, after the unattainable fountains of knowledge. The latter have lost less than their companions; yet much, because they deem it infinite. Not far from these, we must find room for one whose success has been of the wrong kind; the man who should have lingered in the cloisters of a university, digging new treasures out of the Herculaneum of antique lore, diffusing depth and accuracy of literature throughout his country, and thus making for himself a great and quiet fame. But the outward tendencies around him have proved too powerful for his inward nature, and have drawn him into the arena of political tumult, there to contend at disadvantage, whether front to front, or side by side, with the brawny giants of actual life. He becomes, it may be, a name for brawling parties to bandy to and fro, a legislator of the Union; a governor of his native state; an ambassador in the courts of kings or queens; and the world may deem him a man of happy stars. But not so the wise; and not so himself, when he looks through his experience, and sighs to miss that fitness, the one invaluable touch, which makes all things true and real. So much achieved, yet how abortive is his life! Whom shall we choose for his companion? Some weakframed blacksmith, perhaps, whose delicacy of muscle might have suited a tailor's shop-board better than the anvil. Shall we bid the trumpet sound again? It is hardly worth the while. There remain a few idle men of fortune, tavern and grog-shop loungers, lazzaroni, old bachelors, decaying maidens, and people of crooked intellect or temper, all of whom may find their like, or some tolerable approach to it, in the plentiful diversity of our latter class. There, too, as his ultimate destiny, must we rank the dreamer, who, all his life long, has cherished the idea that he was peculiarly apt for something, but never could determine what it was; and there the most unfortunate of men, whose purpose it has been to enjoy life's pleasures, but to avoid a manful struggle with its toil and sorrow. The remainder, if any, may connect themselves with whatever rank of the procession they shall find best adapted to their tastes and consciences. The worst possible fate would be, to remain behind, shivering in the solitude of time, while all the world is on the move toward eternity. Our attempt to classify society is now complete. The result may be anything but perfect; yet better-to give it the very lowest praise than the antique rule of the herald's office, or the modern one of the tax-gatherer, whereby the accidents and superficial attributes, with which the real nature of individuals has least to do, are acted upon as the deepest characteristics of mankind. Our task is done. Now let the grand procession move! Yet pause awhile! We had forgotten the Chief-Marshal. Hark! That world-wide swell of solemn music, with the clang of a mighty bell breaking forth through its regulated uproar, announces his approach. He comes; a severe, sedate, imunovable, dark rider, waving his truncheon of universal sway, as he passes along the lengthened line, on the Pale Horse of the Revelations. It is Death! Who else could assume the guidance of a procession that comprehends all humanity? And if some, among these many millions, should deem themselves classed amiss, yet let them take to their hearts the comfortable truth, that Death levels us all into one great brotherhood, and that another state of being will surely rectify the wrong of this. Then breathe thy wail upon the earth's wailing wind, thou band of melancholy music, made up of every sigh that the human heart, unsatisfied, has uttered! There is yet triumph in thy tones. And now we move! Beggars in their rags, and Kings trailing the regal purple in the dust; the Warrior's gleaming helmet; the Priest in his sable robe; the hoary Grandsire, who has run life's circle and come back to childhood; the ruddy School-boy with his golden curls, frisking along the march; the Artisan's stuff-jacket; the Noble's star-decorated coat;-the whole presenting a motley spectacle, yet with a dusky grandeur brooding over it. Onward, onward, into that dimness where the lights of Time, which have blazed along the procession, are flickering in their sockets! And whither? We know not; and Death, hitherto our leader, deserts us by the wayside, as the tramp of our innumerable footsteps passes beyond his sphere. He knows not, more than we, our destined goal. But God, who made us, knows, and will not leave us on our toilsome and doubtful march, either to wander in infinite uncertainty, or perish by the way! THE WHITE STEED OF THE PRAIRIES. Mr. Kendall, of the New Orleans Picayune, in giving some account of what he saw and suffered in his late expedition toward Santa Fe, which resulted in imprisonment at Mexico, after noticing flocks of small white horses in the Prairies, adds the following: Many stories are told of a large white horse that has been seen often in the vicinity of the Cross Timbers and near the Red River. He has never been known to gallop, but paces even faster than any horse that has been sent out after him can run; and so game and untiring is the White Steed of the Prairies,' for he is well known to trappers and traders by that name, that he has tired down no less than three race-nags sent out expressly to catch him with a Mexican rider. The latter had nothing but a lasso or lariat with him, a long rope made either of horse hair or hemp, and which the Mexicans throw with great dexterity; but although he took a fresh horse after tiring one down, he was never near enough the noble animal to throw a slip-noose over his head, or even to drive him into a canter. He has been known to pace a mile in less than two minutes, and can keep up this rate hour after hour, or until he has tired down whatever may be in chace. Large sums have been offered to any one who would catch him, and the attempt has frequently been made; but he still roams the prairies in freedom, solitary and alone. One of the hunters even went so far as to tell me that he was too proud to be seen in company with the other mustangs, being a beautiful animal of far better action than those of his race; but this part of the story I could not make it convenient to believe." MOUNT, mount for the chase! let your lassos be strong, Fleet barb of the Prairie, in vain they prepare For thy neck, arched in beauty, the treacherous snare; Thou wilt toss thy proud head, and with nostril stretched wide, Trained nags of the course, urged by rowel and rein, Not the team of the Sun, as in fable portrayed, Much gold for his guerdon, promotion and fame, And ye think on his head your base halters to fling! J. BARBER. SIR ASTLEY COOPER.* THE publication of this work we deem to have been as much an ordinary affair of trade, without any regard to the higher purposes of literature, as any every-day business transaction in "the city." The life of Sir Astley Cooper, a prominent man in the eye of the world, the first surgeon of his day, was of course to be written; it was certain a demand would exist for the work, whatever might be the value or interest of the facts it should possess, or the skill with which they might be presented. And little do we question that the extent of that demand was anticipated in the "Row," to the copy. The fact of its publication is no earnest of its being a work of peculiar interest. It will be sought for as the life of a prominent character, not as the biography of Sir Astley Cooper. He was known to the public as the great surgeon of London; surgeon to kings and princes, prime ministers and peers. He was surrounded by no individual interest independent of his position. He had none of the eccentricities of an Abernethy to render his name a byeword to the lovers of humor, no accomplishments beyond the limits of his professional acquirements to gain for him a general interest. He was purely and exclusively the surgeon. Biography has a two-fold interest,that which regards the personal of the individual, and that which belongs to the circumstances and characters by which he may be surrounded. It is in reference to this latter only that the life of Sir Astley Cooper will recommend itself to the general reader; for public sentiment, if we mistake not, views the surgeon very much in the light of the public hangman, as associated with deeds of blood, and shrinks from all sympathy with him. To the professional reader, endowed with the ordinary esprit de corps, this work will be acceptable as the life of the heroic operator, the skilful anatomist, the indefatigable teacher, and the contributor of highly valued surgical and physiological information, the result of experience, observation, and experiment. We propose, with the purpose of interesting our readers-not forgetting their non-professional characterto extract from the book before us what we esteem of sufficient general interest to come within the scope of this magazine. These volumes are not as rich in contemporary history as might have been anticipated. It is natural, in the biography of a celebrated surgeon, to seek for full details of the life and character of the men of "mark and likelihood" with whom he is necessarily in habits of association. The very nature of the office of a medical man supposes the closest intimacy with his patient, the fullest knowledge of his character and disposition. Sickness is your great leveller. The surgeon is brought into relation with man as he is ; "proud majesty is to him a subject;" and the wily statesman, a Machiavelli to the world, is but a sick man to his physician. The surgeon is the least likely to be diverted by the glitter of the star and the imposing dignity of the baton, from a consideration of the real character. Sir Astley Cooper's career was one smooth ascent to fame and fortune. He had none of the obstacles to overcome, nor difficulties to struggle with, which mark ordinarily the course of the metropolitan surgeon. He early evinced a natural bias for his art, having saved the life of a servant by skilfully stopping a bleeding by compressing an artery with all the skill that science could prompt. In the amusements of his boyhood, he surpassed his fellows in daring; and some of his early pranks evinced not only an intrepidity beyond his age, but a want of feeling unusual for the innocence of childhood. He passed through the usual course of study in London under the eye of his master, the celebrated surneon, Mr. Cline, at whose table he met frequently Horne Tooke, and others of a republican bias, from whom he imbibed a liberality of political sen The Life of Sir Astley Cooper, Bart., interspersed with sketches from his notebooks of distinguished contemporary characters. By Bransby Blake Cooper, Esq., F.R.S.; 2 vols., 8vo., London: John W. Parker, 1843. |