to lie, after a few short months, in the same wilderness grave with her husband; was it grief alone for that flower so early withered on this inhospitable shore, which darkened the melancholy countenance, and bent the slender form, of the youthful magistrate who sat at Winthrop's left hand? Or was a dim consciousness of his own impending fate, mingled with his grief for the departed? Did Azrael's wing, hurtling so near him, already overshadow his soul? Gazing with an air of abstraction, Isaac Johnson sat at the board with his brother magistrates, but his thoughts seemed to be far away. His pale face and retiring figure mingled with the sterner and ruder heads of Sir Richard Saltonstall and the other assistants, and presented a pathetic contrast to them all."— Vol. II. pp. 176, 177.

The company has now crossed over to the opposite peninsula on which is to rise the future metropolis of New England, and we have the following luxuriant description of the brilliancy of an American forest in autumn.

"It was the middle of October. An autumnal day, such as exists only in the western hemisphere, was shining upon Shawmut, or, as it must now be designated, Boston.

"The stately groves, which adorned without encumbering the picturesque peninsula, the scattered trees of colossal size which decorated its triple hills, wore the gorgeous drapery of an Amer ican fall. Unlike the forests of the older world, which, thinly clad in their beggar-weeds of brown and russet, stand shivering and sighing in the dark and misty atmosphere, the monarchs of the western soil had arrayed themselves in robes of Tyrian purple and crimson, scarlet and gold, and like reckless revellers in some plague-struck city, attired in all their carnival bravery, and beneath a vault of crystal radiance, were awaiting the destroyer's stroke. The recent pilgrims from the older world wandered through these glowing and glittering woods with admiring eyes. The forests seemed like the subterranean groves with which the African enchanter charmed Aladdin, where rods of blossoming rubies, and boughs overladen with topaz, emerald, sapphire, and diamonds, dazzled the eye with their luxuriant and intertangled magnificence, and where every footstep fell upon countless heaps of crushed but sparkling jewelry. Or, as the eye rested upon some hill, covered from base to summit with its radiant foliage, where every prismatic color seemed flung at random in one confused and gaudy mass, a vagrant fancy might have deemed it nature's mighty palette, with all the blent and glaring colors wherewith she paints the rainbows, myriads of which seemed struggling and wreathing themselves through the forest branches to float into the cloudless heavens.

1849.]

Character of the Massachusetts Settlement.

105

"There is no power in language to represent, certainly not to exaggerate, the brilliancy of an American forest in autumn. The precise reason for the peculiarity which the foliage exhibits has never been satisfactorily ascertained, but every species of tree and shrub seems to have a tint peculiar to itself. Upon that memorable morning, which may be called the birth-day of the Massachusetts metropolis, the woods which decorated the promontory, or covered the chain of hills which encircled it, were still virgin from the axe, and were robed in all their natural glory. The oak still retained his foliage undiminished, but every leaf, though green in the centre, was edged with scarlet, and spotted with purple; the sumac, bare and leafless, lifted its crimson crest; the grape-vines hung around every cliff festoons of clustering coral; the red maple, first to be transfixed with the frost-arrow, stood with every leaf crimsoned in its blood; the hickory looked like a golden tree transplanted from some. vegetable mine, as it displayed its long leaves of pale metallic yellow; the birch looked like a flaming torch, fit for the hand of autumn's goddess, when seeking through the world her ravished Proserpine; while, mingled with and contrasting solemnly with all, the dark pines held on high their plumes of fadeless green." Vol. 11. pp. 188, 189.

The following language is strong, but the statement in its general spirit is undoubtedly correct.

"If this early chapter of New England annals has any meaning in it, it certainly illustrates the peculiar character of the Massachusetts settlement. Colonies of every other variety had been sent to that inhospitable region, but not an impression had been made upon its iron bosom. It was reserved for exalted, unflinching, self-sacrificing, iron-handed, despotic, stern, truculent, bigoted, religious enthusiasts, men who were inspired by one idea, but that a great idea, and who were willing to go through fire and water, and to hew down with axes all material, animal, or human obstacles, in the path which led to the development of their idea, it was reserved for such men to accomplish what neither trading companies, nor fishing companies, nor land companies, nor schemers of satrapies, nor dreamers of palatinates, were able to effect. It was a great movement, - not a military, nor a philanthropic, nor a democratic movement, but a religious, perhaps a fanatical movement; but the movers were in earnest, and the result was an empire. The iron character of these early founders left an impression upon their wilderness-world, which has not yet been effaced; and the character of their institutions, containing much that is admirable, mingled with many objection

able features, has diffused an influence, upon the whole, healthy and conservative, throughout the length and breadth of the continent." ·Vol. 11. pp. 235, 236.

But a work of this kind is not to be judged of by a few extracts consisting of such passages as admit of being most readily detached from the main work. The tale has now nearly reached its conclusion, the nature of which, as well as various incidents of the narrative on which we have not touched, we must leave the reader to gather from the book itself. We give a single passage, describing the last days of the hermit of Shawmut, who found the infant Boston too populous a place for his residence.

"As for the hermit Blaxton, he soon found it impossible to exist among what seemed to him the uproarious multitude, which now thronged his sylvan peninsula. He lingered irresolutely for a year or two, as loath to leave the scenes endeared to him by his long and solitary residence, but at last he made up his mind that there was no room left for him in his much loved Shawmut, and so, taking his pilgrim's staff in hand, he wandered forth into the wilderness again.

"Upon the east bank of the river which still perpetuates his name, a pyramidal mound of alluvial earth rises to the height of seventy feet. Near that mound, then covered with majestic forest trees, the exile again pitched his tent. His cottage he called Study Hall; the mound, which became his favorite haunt, he called Study Hill. Thither he brought his library and all his worldly goods, there he planted his orchard again, and there he lived to a good old age, and died, with singular good fortune, a few weeks previously to the commencement of the bloodly war of Philip, in which his house was laid in ashes, his collection of books and manuscripts destroyed, and nothing spared but his grave." Vol. 11. pp. 248, 249.

We have said enough to indicate our opinion of the general merits of "Merry-Mount." [If it has any fault of style, it is its too great luxuriance. There is occasionally, we think, an unnecessary accumulation of epithets, at least greater than suits our taste. The narrative or description appears a little encumbered, if we may so express it, overlaid with riches. We should prefer at times a little more simplicity. But this is a fault, if it be such, which time and practice will readily correct. We close with the single remark, in which we fear no contradiction, that, whatever defects a rigid and unsparing

1849.]

Rev. Hiram Withington.

*

107

criticism may detect either in the plan or the execution, the author has evinced powers of a high order, and he has only need to persevere in order to secure for himself a distinguished reputation, and write his name permanently on the literature of his country. Why not try his hand at history? His wide and generous culture for such the work before us clearly shows that he possesses must enable him to enter on his task under peculiar advantages, and, with due labor and patience of revision, his success cannot be doubted.

ART. IX.-REV. HIRAM WITHINGTON.

A. L.

Ir it be true, as the poet tells

4. Gill. us, that

"he most lives

Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best,"

the lamented brother whose name we have placed at the head of this article deserves respectful and tender notice. Although he died young, his life was long; for it was crowded to its close with noble aims and lofty endeavours; although he achieved no wide reputation in the brief period of his ministry, he was already eminent in the fidelity with which uncommon gifts were employed, and in the promise of distinction which, if he had been spared, he would, we believe, have reached. We hardly dare to say how much we hoped of him, how we honored, nor with what sincerity we loved him. Enjoying no close personal intimacy with him, we yet perceive that he has left in our mind the image of a finely attempered genius, of an harmoniously developed and beautiful spirit, which, if we are so fortunate as to be able to transfer it through these pages to other minds, will be contemplated with interest and be gratefully cherished.

Mr. Withington was born in Dorchester, Mass., July 29, 1818, and from the beginning exhibited those peculiar traits which marked him for the service of the Church. In any other profession than that of the preacher he would have

Some slight anachronisms undoubtedly occur in the volumes, which the author probably was not solicitous to avoid, and which are permitted, we believe, in compositions of this kind.

been out of place. Our memorials of his childhood are scanty, but we are sure he was a thoughtful, observing boy, of strong affections and quick sensibility, a dreamer of dreams, yet a lover of fun and frolic,- so conscientious and firm for the right, and yet so gentle, that he won the confidence and love of his whole neighbourhood. Reared in a quiet and secluded home, we have no doubt that his first and most intimate friends were the mute objects of nature, - that he loved the green fields, and knew where to cull the earliest and fairest flowers, that he would often stand and gaze on the summer cloud, enraptured with the airy castles and thrones of gold, and full of glee at the grotesque shapes, which an affluent imagination detected there; and yet would be touched with pity when he saw the daisy uprooted by the storm, or the "timorous beastie " turned out of its wintry home. In one of his earliest letters which we have read, he describes the wonderful beauty of a conflagration in his neighbourhood, seen at night in the midst of a shower, lighting up the darkness and making the raindrops "like spangles of silver," and yet allowing himself to enjoy the spectacle only because no poor cattle were perishing in the burning barn and no poor man's property was consumed.

He was educated in the schools of his native village, and at the early age of seventeen became an instructor in the grammar and Sunday schools which he had attended. This fact alone is a sufficient proof of the confidence and respect which he already inspired, so young, and yet so trusted by those who knew him best. In the day-school his youth was against him; but he was altogether a favorite amidst the more quiet duties of the Sabbath instructor. There was a maturity of thought and feeling beyond his years, and a beauty of expression and illustration, a refinement and spirituality, as if the language of poetry and religion were his native dialect. We are told by one who was his associate in those days, that he awakened uncommon interest in the minds of the old and young. He bore his full share in the deeper discussions at the teachers' meetings, and when in his turn he came to give the general lesson to the children in the school, so attractive was his little sermon, so simple and beautiful, delivered in a tone so impressive and sweet, that they would cluster around him and hang upon his words, enjoying at once the charm of his stories and the music of his voice.

Mr. Withington seems early to have had intimations of