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(Samuel Lorenzo), 1783-1838, 1818. A public-domain text about Boston, accessioned whole so the archive can quote it.","text_extract":"mrr.':, \"^S^ARCH LIBRARIES \n\n\n3 3433 08190309 2 \n\n\nlaH \n\n(&Otton) \n\n\nEXTRACTS \n\nFROM A \n\n\nfOURNAL OF TRAVELS \n\nIN \n\nNORTH AMERICA, \n\nGONSISTING OF AN ACCOUNT OF \n\nBOSTON AND ITS VICINITY. \n\nBy ALI bey, &c. \n\ntranslated from the original manuscript. \n\n\nThe fifth part of the spoil that you shall jjnin from your enen»ies, ap^er- \ntaineth to God, the Prophet, his parents, orphans, the poor, and to pilfrriins \nthat are in want ; — obsfrve what is above oniained if ye bel^ve iii Gt;(l,i» \nwhat we have inspired into our servant, and in the day wIk reui tlie distine- \ntien of good and bad was known. EL IvOUR-AN. \n\n\nBOSTON : \n\nPRINTED BY THOMAS BADGER, JUN. \n\n1818. \n\n\n1 5ol \n\n\nTli^DEN V'w^'NOATl 'tis \n\n\nDistrict of Massachusetts^ to wit : \n\n\nDistrict Clerk's Office. \n\n\nBi \n\n\n>E IT BEMEMBERED, that on the twenty-seventh day of February, \nA. D. 1818, in the forty-second year of the Independence of the United \nStates of America, Thomas Badger, jun, of the said District, has deposited \nin this Office the Title of a Book, the Right whereof he claims as Proprietor, \nin the words following:, to wit :— \" Extracts from a Journal of Travels in \nNorth America, consisting of an Account of Boston and its Vicinity. By \nAlt Bey, &c. Translated from the Original Manuscript.\" \n\nThe fifth part of the spoil that you shall gain from your enemies, apper- \nfalnefh to God, the Prophet, his parentSy orphans, the poor, and to pilgrims \nthat are in ivant ;— observe tvhat is above ordained if ye believe in God, in \nTvhat we have inspired info our servant, and in the day wherein the distinc' \ntion of good and bad was known. EL KOUR'AN. \n\nIn conformity to the Act of the Congress of the United States, entitled, \n«'An Act for the Encouragement of Learning, by securing the copies of \nMaps, Charts and Books, to the Authors and Proprietors of such Copies, \nduring the times therein mentioned :\" and also to an Act entitled. \"An Act \nsupplementary to an Act, entitled. An Act for theEncouragement of Learning, \nby securing the Copies of Maps, Charts and Books, to the Authors and Pro- \nprietors of such Copies during the times therein mentioned ; and extending \nthe benefits thereof to the Arts «f Designing, Engraving and Etching His- \ntorical and other Prints.\" \n\nJNO. W. DAVIS, \nClerk of the Distritt of Massachutetts. \n\n\n« \n\n\nTltANSLATOll'S \n\nAD VER riSEMENl \\ \n\n\nTHE Translator congratulates the public upon \nthe arrival among us of the distinguished traveller \nwhose Journal he here presents, done into Enghsh, \nThe portrait of our coun,try has never yet been \ncorrectly taken by any of the crowd of foreigners that \nhave attempted it. The contemptible caricatures \ndrawn by British tourists served the purpose for \nwhich thev were desii^ned — of deceivinsr the Enclish \npeople. They have served another purpose which \nwas not intended. They have gone far toward des- \ntroying the authority of British writers in general, and \nof British travellers in particular. They have be- \ntrayed a deep rooted national grudge, which although \nan indirect tribute to our country, has been met, it \nmust be confessed, by somewhat fiercer feelings oti \nthis side of the Atlantic. \n\n\nFrench travellers have drawn more flattering, but \nscarcely better, likenesses. In short a faithful view \nof our country and ourselves by an impartial hand has \nlong been a desideratum. Such an one we have \nreason to expect from the author before us— coming \nfrom a country not pohtically connected with ours — \nliaving no rival interests to serve — no nationa' antipathy \nto gratify — we might (one would suppose) receive his \nrepresentations with considerable confidence. A work \nof this description must be an invaluable bequest to a \nnation, incapable as it always is of seeing itself except \nby reflected light. \n\nNational vanity is more respected than that of indi- \nviduals because of its affinity to sentiments of patriot- \nism. It is also of more universal growth. The Dey \nof Algiers excites his soldiers to battle by the recol- \nlections of their ancestors and the glory of their nation \nand name. And the Spaniard finds in the character of \nhis country topics of proud complacency. But if this \nvanity is the parent of great exploits, it is also the \nsource of national peculiarities. To present these \npeculiarities in true colours, in the perspective of the \nmanners and character of a people— with a view to \nfjualify rather than extinguish that national feeling— is \nthe office of the traveller. \n\nIn making the following extracts, the Translator hat \nbeen guided as much by the practical nature of the \nirrtormation they contain as by their comparative value. \nHe deems it proper to observe that he has nothing to \ndo with the statements or speculations of the author. \nAlthough he places the mirror before the town, he \n\n\n0 \n\ndoes not hold himself responsible for the correctness \nof its reflection. \n\nIt remains to say a word as to the authenticity of this \nwork. Upon this point the Translator will barely state, \nthat the manner in which the manuscript came to his \nhands leaves no doubt on his mind respecting its au- \nthenticity. \n\nBut after he was convinced that the Journal was \nauthentic, he was not without scruples touching the \npropriety of making it public. He considered it unfair \nto snatch from a man the fruit of much labor, time and \nhazard. Besides the work appeared, from internal \nmarks, not to have been intended for a Christian public. \nThese scruples were only overcome by the considera- \ntion of the manner — not very creditable — in which our \ntraveller came to this country, and his covert project \nthus happily detected. \n\nStill, however, the Translator disclaims all pecu- \nniary motive : — and he hereby advertizes Signior Ali \nBey or Mons. Desaleurs, or by whatever other name \nhe may now be pleased to be known, that all the \nprofits of this publication, after the necessary charges \nire defrayed, shall be cTuly paid over to his order. \n\nJamuirv^ 1818. \n\n\nJOURNAL \n\n\nOP \n\n\nALI BEY, §-€, \n\n\nCHAP. I. \n\nThe Authors Introduction — His arrival — The Exchange \nCoffee-House — Boston. \n\nS March, I8I7. Praise be to God most \ngreat, the Lord of the worlds, the most mer- \nciful, the most gracious. King of the day of \njudgment! Welfare and peace be to thee, \nO Mouhhammed, Prophet of God ! — here \nam I, Ali Bey ibn Othman Bey el Abassi, \n©n the shores of this occidental hemisphere. \nHaving visited the principal cities of Africa, \nAsia and Europe, having performed my pil- \ngrimage to the holy city, I resolved, in pur- \nsuit of the great project of my heart, to ex- \nplore this New World. \n\n\n8 \n\nI arrived here yesterday morning, after a \nshort but boisterous passage. We got into \nthe outer harbor the evening before, but our \ncaptain thought it prudent not to come up^ \nto the town till the next day. Yesterday \nmorning the sun rising clear presented the \ncity in full view before us, with its glittering \ndomes and spires and vanes and windows. \nWe got early under weigh, and the wind \nbeing fair we found ourselves at once along- \nside of the wharf; passing in our way a \nmultitude of little islands on some of vt^hich \nare forts and military works, and a ph?«ros, \nof which 1 shall give a more minute account \nhereafter. \n\nThis continent presents nothing remark- \nable to the view of the approaching navi- \ngator. The country as we drew near ap- \npeared barren and inhospitable, on account, \nprobably, of the season ; for the reign of \nwinter on these cold shores is not yet miti- \ngated. I noticed with my glass, patches of \nbuildings skirting the coast on either side \nof the city. \n\nBy the advice of a fellow passenger, \nnative of this city, I have taken lodgings in \nthe Exchange Coifee-House, apparently the \nprincipal hotel of the city — as far at least \n\n\nas relates to bulk. It is a huge ill oou- \nstructed edifice six stories in height and a \nbasement. Its numerous apartments with \ntheir various business, give it the appearance \nof a small city. In the centre of this build- \ning is an octagonal area, over which is \nthrown a dome, whose glass pannels serve \nas a sky -light. Around this area, are cor- \nridors at each story supported hy twenty \npillars. The eastern front is adorned with \nsix Ionic pilasters of marble. This huild- \ning was evidently designed as a public \nornament ; and yet it is placed at a distance \nfrom any principal street and embosomed \nin other buildings. Its ill planned, dark, \nand inconvenient rooms make one regret \nthat so great expense and labor had not been \nbetter directed. \n\nHaving devoted the early part of to-day to \ndomestic arrangements, I sallied out about \nnoon to take a view of the town. As it i« \nmy maxim to assimilate myself as much as \npossible to the people among whom I travel, \nto escape notice, I had assumed the Euro- \npean costume before sailing from Cadiz ; \nAnd intending to pass as a native of France \non this side of the Atlantic, I bespoke pas- \nsage for Mous. Desaleurs, by which name \n\n\n10 \n\n\nmy servants are directed to address me! \nNotwithstanding these precautions, I ob- \nserved that I attracted notice as I passed \nup the street, and the hurried paced citizens \nturned about upon me, as they brushed \nalong, to take a second view. It is impos- \nsible I believe for strangers in any city to \nconceal their character from the practised \nglance of the cit, let him assume never so \nmuch nonchalance or pass never so rapidly* \nThis city is irregularly built. The build- \nings are mostly of brick, and three or four \nstories high. The streets are generally ir- \nregular, and many of them narrow and dirty. \nI observed some however sufficiently wide \nand cleanly, and lined with spacious walks \nfor foot people. This city seems to consist \nof nothing but shops, at whose windows \ninnumerable sorts of wares are exhibited \nwith a good deal of effect. On the west side \nof the town is an extensive opening or \nsquare, enclosed on three sides by buildings \n\nand on the fourth by water. This must be \nvery beautiful when the season is mild and \n\nthe trees and ground covered with verdure. \n\nI shall take occasion to mention this again. \nBoston is built on a tongue of land almost \n\n•surrounded by Wv^ter. It is estimated to \n\n\ncontain about 40,000 inhabitants. Its streets \nof course do not show that bustle and stir \nwhich is to be seen in European cities of \nthe first or second magnitude. It appears \nto be in a very flourishing condition — at \nleast so I infer from the extensive improve- \nments now in progress or recently finished. \nThis however may be a fallacious appear- \nauce. Commerce is the life of this place; \nbut commerce here as elsewhere is still lin- \ngering with the wounds received in the late \nw^rs. \n\n\n12 \n\n\nCHAP. II. \n\n\nExchange Coffee House Reading Room — Ali Bey makes \nan acquaintance — his account of the religious disputes \nin this country. \n\nOne qf the rooms in my hotel is devoted \nentirely to ^news,' and is called by a slight \nmetaphor, ' the reading room,^ This room \nis filled with high tables and desks on which \nare laid the newspapers and public journals \nof this country and Europe as they are pub- \nlished and received. \n\nIt was in this room that I first met a gen- \ntleman whose humanity and intelligence I \nshall often have occasion to mention and \nwill never be forgotten by me. As I was \nreading a Paris paper near the file on which \nhe was looking, he addressed me in French \nwith some every day observation. I replied \nin the same language. E::ch being com- \nmunicative we gradually brought on a con- \nversation of considerable length. I invited \nhim to my rooms and to dine with me. \n\nHow delightful a thing it is to a stranger \nto find a person thus accessible and habitu- \n\n\nIS \n\nally exercising the offices of humanity to- \nward all of his species^ without waiting for \nthe cold formality of an introduction. He \nthat never sojourned in a strange place \ncannot know this pleasure. This gentle- \nman took lodgings, I found, in this hotel, \nand though not a native of this city is per- \nfectly acquainted with its inhabitants, their \nmanners and customs. He has been a tra- \nveller too as well as myself, having visited \nthe principal nations of Europe. His polite- \nness has in a measure supplied the want of \nletters of introduction, a vehicle of acquaint- \nance adopted here in imitation of Europe. \nOf this I was deprived by my faith ; for \nwhat communion has Islamism with Chris, \ntianity ? Letters here are almost indispen- \nsable. I could not in this city as in Mo- \nrocco draw around me the pachas, fakirs \nand cadis by the splendor of my equipage \nor the length of my retinue ; nor is it con- \nformable to the customs of the place to send \npresents to the chief men as a prelude to \nacquaintance. My friend, (for such 1 have \nfound him,) besides introducing me into the \nsoi-disant fashionable circles of the town, \nhas been of infinite service in unravelling \nthe secret folds and reduplications of the \n\n•2 \n\n\n1^ \n\nsociety and manners of the city — a species \nof knowledge which a stranger is late in \nacquiring. \n\nThe subject which is most directly con- \nnected with my great project,* and to which \nI shall therefore pay great attention, is the \nreligious opinions and prejudices of this \npeople. There appears to be a great divi- \nsion among the followers of the cross. \nAnother prophet has arisen, who dividet \nthe suffrages of Christendom with JesiH \nChrist. At least so I conjecture from a \npamphlet a bookseller put into my hands \nthe other day, with this superscription, \n^^ Are you a Calvinist or \\ you a Chris- \ntian ?'' that 13, are you a disciple of Calvin \n(the new Prophet,) or of Jesus Christ? \n\nI took an early opportunity to converse \nwith my new acquaintance upon this sub- \nject. He informs me that the Calvinists \nare not, as I imagined, a sect in opposi- \ntion to Jesus Christ ; but that they are \ncalled by that name in contradistinction from \nanother class of Christians called liberals, \n\n* Our author frequently alludes to ' his great pro- \nject' both in this and his other travels. What can this \nproject be? — the conversion (as conjectured by some) \n•f Christendom to the MoMhhammedan faith ? \n\n[Note by TV.] \n\n\nid \n\n[liberales,'] The main point in dispute \nbetween them, if I understood him correctly^ \nis whel^er according to their book there \nare three Gods or one God, or what amounts \nto the same thing, whether God is three \npersons or one. The Calvinists maintain \nthe former, the Liberals the latter opinion. \nThese parties are also called in allusion \nto their creed, Trinitarians and Unitari- \nans. They each bring arguments which \nconvince themselves, from the same book \nand almost the same words. \n\nBut said I does not this question belong \nto metaphysicks rather than religion? \n\nYes, certainly, Li^swered my friend. Be- \nsides it is so remote from any practical result, \nthat the more rational look upon the deci- \nsion of it as unimportant, and can hardly \nconceire that men should dispute about it \nin earnest. The Unitarians compare the \ndoctrine of the trinity to that of transub- \nstantiation and other absurdities of the \nschools, and they confidently a.nticipate tlie \ntime when this surviving relick of the dark \nages shall share the fate of its fellows, \nand be consigned to the tomb of oblivion. \n\nThe Trinitarians, on the other hand, re- \ngard it as the pivot of their religion, upon \n\n\nwhich the doctrine of atonement, satisfac- \ntion^ and divers otlier dogmas equally im- \nportant depend. \n\nBut these sects, he continued, have various \nother points of divergence. The creed of \nthe one is generally esteemed either absurd, \npuerile or pernicious by the other. VVhat, \nsay the liberal party, can be more unnatu- \nral, more abhorrent to our feelings than \nthe belief that mankind are created vicious \nand depraved, and that infants consequently \nare morally guilty ? What can be a greater \nimputation upon God ! And what can be \nmore pernicious in practice than the belief \nin miraculous regeneration, election, perse- \nverance, &c. as technically explained by \nthe followers of Calvin? \n\nThe Calvinists in their turn charge their \nopponents with want of zeal in the cause \nof religion, with looseness and skepticism, \nand of what thev term latiUidlnarianism. \n\nBetween these parties, as between most \ncontending parties, the truth is probably \ndivided. They take diiferent views of the \nsubject they paint, and. the picture of each \nis partially incorrect. \n\nTheCalvinists are led by their peculiar tern- \npefaMient to draw mankind in dark colours. \n\n\n17 \n\nThey would make us believe that we are a \nvery wicked and worthless race of beings^ \ndeserving of all manner of punishment-which \nit should seem we are now undergoing ; for \nthey insist upon it that there is nothing in \nthis world but sorrow, misery and sin. \n\nThe other party are less saturnine — they \nlook upon man to be a pretty clever sort of \na being naturally, with many good and some \nbad principles in his nature, either of which \nhe is at liberty to cultivate, and which \nhe does cultivate according to the force of \ntemptations and the predominance of a good \nor a bad education. As to the world, al- \nthough disfigured with much misery and \nvice, they still think that the balance is in \nfavor of happiness and virtue. And th«y \ndo not see the advantage or propriety in \npainting the world or its inhabitants m \ndarker colours than truth requires. Much \nless allowable do they deem it to draw the \ncharacter of the Almighty according to the \ngloomy imaginations of men, without regard \nto revelation. \n\nAlthough I am a mere spectator of thi& \njiious warfare, not being arrayed with eithtir \nbelligerent, yet it may be proper to cautioa \nyou against relyins; on my judgment without \n\n\n18 \n\nmaking allowance for the lee-way of preju- \ndice. \n\nThe most weighty objection to the Cal- \nvinij^tic system is, as I have ever conceivetl, \nthe abridgement of free inquiry which it \nbrings with it. If it is competent to one \nman, or any number of men, to decide upon \ndoubtful points, not only for themselves but \nfor others, and to require a belief in their \ndecision, — where is freedom of inquiry? If \nthev have a risiht to construe one book for \nus, they may extend that right to all books 5 \nand if they are infallible in religion, they \nmay ere long claim universal infallibility. \nBesides, by the adoption of this system \nreligious knowledge would become station- \nary, and we in the nineteenth century, in- \nstead of following the lights struck out by \nclassical research and biblical criticism, \nmist bend our necks implicitly to the yoke \nof Calvin and Athanasius. \n\nThe system of education adopted by this \nsect is in my opinion radically wrong — to \ntrain up youth to a particular tlieory, to in- \nculcate certain dogmas, and to put no book« \ninto their hands but such as support those \ndogmas ; what is this but to turn tiie key of \nknowledge on inquirers for truth ? This \n\n\n19 \n\nmotliod may make zealous partizans and \nbigoted polemicks, but it is little calculated \nto make enlightened and pious Christians. \n\nBut these are not the only objections to \nCalvinism. Its teachers instead of taking the \nlead of the age, actually fall in the rear ; — \nin all that relates to taste, manners, feelings \nand information, they are at least a century \nbehind the rest of the world. 1 hey come \nto us in the temper of another age, when \nmetaphysicks were in vogue. And their \ntheology has never yet been cured of that \nepidemick. They still ring the changes on \nthose obsolete and abstruse subjects to au- \ndiences little able to comprehend them^ — \nwhile the rest of tne world has grown prac- \ntical, and is returning to common sense^ \nboth in religion and philosophy. \n\nThis error of the Calvinists is not how- \never peculiar to them. Ali Bey, the cele- \nbrated traveller, mentions a similar propen- \nsity in Mussulmen to intermingle metaphy- \nsical subtilty with theology, and to substi- \ntute refinements and jargon for the weightier \nmatters of practical religion and morality. \n\nHave you read the travels of Ali Bey, \nsir? I of course answered in the affirmative \na little disconcerted, which however I be* \n\n\nso \n\nlieve he did not notice. He then went oit \nto pass a high encomium on my former jour- \nnal, expressing astonishment at the variety \nof learning which he was pleased to say I \ndisplayed, not however without some affec- \ntation of knowledge, &c. &c. This charge \nwas new to me ; hut I was obliged to assent \nto all. He even discussed the reality of \nthe character in which I travelled ! I soon \ntook an opportunity to divert him from a \nsubject so unpleasant, and to recal him tn \nour former topic. \n\nBut have tlie liberals avoided the shoaU \n«n which their adversaries run aground ? \n\nYes, sir, they have escaped those shoals. \nBut alas ! common sense has much to wres- \ntle with before it can settle the vibrating \nscales of truth and error ! Thoi liberal party \n^ive the utmost liberty to private judgment \nand free inquiry. They inculcate Chris- \ntianity as a practical religion— a system of \nmorality and piety. I'heir teachers en- \ndeavor to keep pace with the rest of the \nworld, to adapt their instruction to the \npresent state of society, and the taste and \nfeelings of their audience — avoiding meta- \nphysical jargon on the one hand and melan- \n-oholic bigotry on the other. They think, \n\n\nSi \n\nsihce Christianity has become respectable \nand the condition of its professors comfort- \nable, that they are warranted in assuming \na corresponding cheerful countenance and \nvoice ; and in laying aside the quaint lan- \nguage of Puritanism, and the lugubrious \ntone of primitive Christians. \n\nAll this is very well. — But every revolu- \ntion tends to extremes. And the sun of \ntruth has always had and always will have \nto struggle with the fog of human passions. \nYou will not be surprised then when I tell \nyou that the liberal party have not steered \nentirely clear of the quicksands. They \nhave not used their liberty as not abusing \nit, with care not to make it a stumbling \nblock for their bretlu'en. Nor can it be \nconcealed that they have given some colour \nto the charge of levity and skepticism in \nholy things. ^Vanity of vanities all is van- \nity;'— \" this is not true !'\" saitli oit?' preach- \ner, not judging from consciousness probably. \nSo the sentiment is correct no doubt ' that \nthere is nothing true but Heaven ;' but \ncould it not be inculcated in a better way than \nby reciting a popular song from the desk ? \nAnd it may be very entertaining and even \ninstructive to hear a judicious critique upon \n\n\nthe writings of an eminent author ; but could \nnot a teacher of religion take a more suit- \nable time than the Sabbath for such a com- \nmunication? If this is not the conduct of \na sincere and conscientious Christian who \nhas a tender regard for the feelings of his \nfellow meu; neither is it the part of a pru- \ndent man or substantial partizan. The \nfolly of shocking unnecessarily any general \nprejudice, much more of loosening the rev- \nerence for holy things, is so obvious one \nwould suppose as not to escape the coh- \nsideration of the most infatuated. \n\nBut fortunately no religion is answerable \nfor the passions and follies of its adherents. \nVanity and ambition are not peculiar to \nany sect, and furnish evideuct: against tilt \npersons in whom they appear, not against \ntheir opinions. There will always be in \nevery party bold and aspiring geniuses, who \nto be conspicuous will step forward of their \ncontemporaries, without regarding personal \nobloquy or the interest of their sect. \n\nUpon the whole, it is impossible to view \neither of these contending parties with entire \nsatisfaction. If the austerity of one offends \nus, we cannot shut our eyes to the want of \nsolemnity in the other. In avoiding the \n\n\n;S8 \n\n\nf uaint and fanatical language immted t \nwhich are all printed and collected in vol- \numes— -how much better than to be left like \nthose of Musselman countries \\ \n\n\n45 \n\nWhat struck me as most remarkable, \nwas the enormous and confused mass of \nlaws that has accumulated already, and tha \ngovernment is not forty years old yet!— - \nAlmost every subject has at one time or \nanother come under the purview of these \nlawgivers. Among other things, matrimony \nhas not escaped notice. The manner of \ntransacting this business is very minutely \nprescribed. And a man is prohibited from \nprocuring more than one wife at once ! And \nthis prohibition is scarcely thought a hard- \nship by this free people ! so powerful is \nhabit. \n\nThis legislative cacoethes appears to be \nepidemic \\_maladie dii pciys'\\, and iu 1804} \nit arrived to a prodigious height. Not sat- \nisfied with the previous restraints and limi- \ntations imposed upon marriage, the law- \ngivers, undertook to control over the pre- \nliminary attachments between the sexes, \nand to subject the most distant indications \nof aflfeetions to their inspection. With this \nview they made a law that all ^hearts \nand CHEEKS^ shc'Ud be inspected' by aa \n\n* This is a grcs or wilful blunder. If Sicfnor Ali \nBey had looked further than the marginal index^ he \n\n\n46 \n\n©fficer of the government. By an another \nlaw, the use of ^ majf^r^' is forbidden. — \nThis is probably the reason that this coun- \ntry has produced no better poets. \n\nAnother law prohibits Dancing.^ This \naccounts for the people's dancing so ill, \nwhich I have already noticed in another \nplace. \n\nIn another place the lawgivers betray \ntheir sentiments as to the relative impor- \ntance of religion and learning, by the fol- \nlowing classification : \" An act for the en- \ncouragement of literature, piety and morali- \nty and the useful arts and sciences.'^ Pie- \nty it seems is only second to literature, and \nmorality quite in the back ground ! This is \nnot so in the Mussulman code. \n\nThe observations of my friend respecting \nthe ladies, appear to have caused him a \ngood deal of compunction. He has taken \nseveral occasions to recur to the subject, and \nto mollify his former anim dversions. He \ncautions me not to be prejudiced before I \n\nwould have avoided s'jch an„ unaccountable mistate- \nment. — Tr. \n\n* This is also a mistake. We have no law forbid- \nding' dancing-, but we have one that makes it penal iii \nan innholder to allow dancinar in his tavern. — Jr. \n\n\n47 \n\nam able to judge from personal acquaia. \n^^ance. Yesterday he introauced tiie sub- \nject again. \n\nI fear I libelled the fair sex in our late \nconversation. But you must make due al- \nlowance for exaggeration. We are apt to \nbe unreasonable in expecting from girls of \nfifteen or sixteen, a maturity of mind and \nripened reflection much above their years \nand above what we expect from our own \nsex at that age. And when we are disap- \npointed because we expect too much, we \ngive them credit for less than is theii- due^ \nand impute the effects of youth to a bad \neducation. \n\nTo appreciate correctly the female cha- \nracter, we should take into view the pecu- \nliar situation in which civilized socie(y has \nplaced that sex. Without the inducements \nto exertion that take the strongest hold of \nmen— wealth and fame-^looking forward \nto matrimony as at once their ecoal and asy- \nlum—it is neither strange nor unnatural \nthat th^'ir minds should he moulded to their \n('e^ination. It is neitlier stran-c nor un- \nii'tnral that tliey should bend tlieir j^tfen- \ntioa to thos- minnte and to us tr'vi a at f) In- \ndents that are found, by experience, most \n\n\n48 \n\nto advance them in the only field open t© \nthem. And so long as men are pleased \n•with toys ind play- things, they cannot \nblame females for giving to their minds the \nmost current, stamp. Let refin^mation begin \nat home. Let gentlemen learn to value and \nrespect females of sense and information — \nlet them look upon a caUivated mind as a \nsine qua non to that connexion which is \ndearer than life ; and as supplying the want \nof mere personal attractions— and they may \nrely upon it their opinions and example \nwill not be lost upon their fair correlatives. \nBut, said I, is it true that women have \nnot some of the inducements to exertion \nthat we have? What prevents them from \ntilling the fiold of le rning — and from reap- \ning its harvest, fame, like 'vlesdames Oe \nStael, Montague, Genlis, and divers others \nour contemporaries ? It is true that most of \nthese have trod the roseate paths of imagi- \nnation ; but what debars tliem from dis- \ntinction in history, philosophy and the sci- \nences ? \n\nThat there is no physical impediment, I \nadmit, replied my friend, allowing (vvhat I \nam disposed to allow) the equality of the \nmental powers of the sexes. And a maa^ \n\n\nmore sanguine than myself might anticipate \na time when the fair sex, if they do not \nmonopolize, shall possess their due share \nof learning, and ot its offspring celebrity. \nBut I am far from thinking fame desirable, \neven for a man, much less for a woman. \nIt is not with a view to that, that I desire \nto see a better system of education adopts \ned — one that shall fit females, not for pub- \nlic, bat private life, and give them resour^ \nces for happiness within themselves, pure \nand perennial, which the world can neither \ngive nor take away. An education of that \nkind would furnish useful and liberal em- \nployment to minds that are now a prey to \nidleness and ennui, or ignobly busied in \ngossiping, scand J and cabal. \n\nBut tiiere are many obstacles to such an \neducation, and no where more than in this \ntown. The frivolity and fastidiousness of \nfashion, ever at w^ar with common sense, \nhave here rendered the condition of females \nmore helpless and compassionable than it \nis naturally. Those vvJio have beauty, \nyouth, and above all, wealth, have a reti- \nnue of admiters to render th^m vain by \nflattery — those who want these essential \naccessaries are given up to neglect, without \n\n\n50 \n\na«j regard to their mental qualities cr ac- \nquirements. Such is the justice of our sex ; \nand yet we expect females to cultivate their \nmindsj to be neglected, ^ to blush unseen/ \nJn this town all these agencies operate with \na most powerful purchase. Females hardly \narrive to puberty before they are called oli \nmaids, or in the cockney language which \njou heard on one occasion are placed on \nthe ^ old list. ^ If the poetical division is \napplicable to that sex, it may be truly said, \nthat in this town they pass three of their \nseven ages from fifteen to twenty-five. From \nfifteen to seventeen, it is the timid and art- \nless miss; from that time to twenty-one, the \nconscious, all -conquering belle ; from that \nage to twenty-five, ' a beauty waning and \ndistressed' young lady. After twenty-five \n^hey are regarded as confirmed old maids \nand placed by common consent in the van \nof the forlorn hope. \n\nIn consequence of this injurious arrange- \nment, girls, as soon as tliey get into their \nteens, are haunted Vvith a fearful looking for \nof compulsive celibacy and ideal miseries. \nIt may be doubted whether the horror of \n \ntivated mind and well directed feelings, to? \nprotect them from their last enemy, them- \n\n\nart \n\n^Ives — ^to preserve them from the knawitigs \nof disappointment^ and the gloomy workings \nof misanthropy, \n\nA few evenings ago 1 was persuaded by \nJEny friend to attend the theatre. The house \nwas thin and the performance quite indiffer \nent. This I did not regret^ — for I have al- \nways been of opinion that theatrical repre- \nsentations and their inseparalde concomitants \nhave a most pernicious influence on the \nmorals of society. It was therefore with \nsecret pleasure that I heard my friend anim- \nadvert on what be called the mismanage- \nment of the theatre^ and on the Bostonian \ntaste for horse shows and still- vaulting in \npreference to the refined entertainments of \nthe stage. My opinion of the tendency of \ntheatres was not altered by what I saw this \nnight. The play (the Belle's Stratagem,) \nwas by no means one of the most licentious^ \nIt is even less exceptionable than most of \nthe plays of the great and justly admired \nShakspeare, whose faults are forgiven in \nfavour of his exquisite beauties, his pathos \nand knowledge of the heart. But the greater \npart of his writings are but tolerated in the \ncloset — they would (at least they ought to) \ndisgust in representation, ^nd iii| the closet \n\n\nH appears to me that they are to be tolerated^ \nonly by our sex and married females, fot \nwho would open Othello to virgin eyes, un- \nless with design to enlarge their ideas and \npollute their imagination B \n\nThe play which I saw performed is cer- \ntainly less offensive on the score of indeli- \nea,cy than those older writings. Yet even \nthis is calculated to do a good deal of mis- \nchief. It has enough of libertinism in its \ncharacters, and of licentiousness in its allu- \nsrions, to soil a pure and inexperienced mind. \nAlthough to the pure all things are pure, \nwho would wish to expose their daughters \nor sisters at the ripening age of twelve or \nfourteen to the loose conversation of rakes \nand coxcombs, to hear them talk of their \nmistresses and boast of their amours ? They \nmight about as well be sent to a broiheL \nYet such was the main scope of the play^, \nand its predominant impression oii the mind^ \nand such were a considerable part of the au- \ndience that I .^aw in the boxes that night. \nAnd while I contemplated their tender age \nand as yet untarnished minds, I sighed — 1. \nreprobated theic parents' rashness, and curs- \ned the institution that spreads such a snare. \nIt is an institution, praised be God ! peculiar \n\n\n5^ \n\nto Christian countries, which the pure doc \ntrine of the Prophet (as soon as it prevails) \nwill sweep from the face of the earth ! \n\nI have said nothing of the transactions of \ngalleries and green room — nor need I say \nany thing. Enough is heard and seen before \ni^^e curtain to doom the stage and all its ap- \npendao;cs. \n\n\nCHAP. X * \n\nAccount of the Atheneum — King's Chapel — Mall — \n' State-House. \n\nJune. I went with my friend a few days \nsince to view the public institutions of the \ncity. Among others, the Atheneum is pe- \nculiarly deserving of notice. It consists of \none of the most extensive libraries in the \ncountry. The books are not allowed to be \ncarried out of the apartments of the library ; \nin which, however, they may be consulted \nwith every convenience, and in whose al- \ncoves readers may be seen at almost all \nhours of the day. Besides many rare and \nvaluable books, I was shewn a collection of \nprints of the chef d'oeuvres of European \nartists, some of which are scarcely inferior \nto the originals. On the tables of this in- \nstitution are to be found most of the period- \nical journals of this country and Eui^ope. \nThis is certainly an admirable institution } \n\n* See the contents of the intervening Chapters al \nthe end ©f the Yolume. Tr. \n\n\nd6 \n\nandHts influence is said to be very beneficial \nin diffusing knowledge and promoting a^ \ntaste for reading. \n\nAfter leaving this interesting seat of learn- \ning, we passed, on our way to the Mall, a \nvenerable antique looking church, with a \nportico supported by twelve huge plastered \ncylinders, or Ionic pillars. This is now \ncalled ' King^s ChafeV — my friend told me \n— its name having been lately changed from \nStone Chapel. The former (said he) was \nits original name ; but it was thought to \nsavor too strongly of Monarchy in the |>a- \ntriotic times of the revolution. It was ac- \ncordingly christened 'Stone Chapel.^ Itis- \ndoubtful whether the first change or the late \nrestoration indicates the greater wisdom. \n\nThe finest part of the city beyond com- \nparison, is the Mall and the Common. The \nMall is a colonnade of venerable trees, \nwhose branches interlock and form a rich \narcade ; through which is a spacious gravel \nwalk. This is a favorite promenade, where \none may enjoy the beauties of nature and \nsnuff the air while he is screened from the \n\nsun. \n\nThe Common as 1 have already observed \nen a former occasion, is an extensive square;, \n\n\n57 \n\nhaving the town on three sides and an arm \nof the sea on the fouith. This^ tout ensem- \nble, is a most charming view — the solemn \nrange of trees with their dark foliage — the \ngreen field of grass swelling before the eye \n— the distinct water prospect opening a view \nof the surrounding country, and rolling the \nmellow western breeze, and reflecting the \nsetting sun — all these natural beauties with \nthe architectural simplicity of the buildings \nthat rise like parapets around, combine to \nrender this one of the finest scenes in the \nworld — at least I have seen nothing sur- \npassing it in all my travels. Will it be \nbelieved that this enchanting common takes \nits name from its being a common cow-pas- \nture^ and is actually given up to that ani- \nmal ! \n\nOn the north side of the Common stands \nan edifice on an elevated site, and lifts its \nhead above the city, ^proudly pre-eminent.' \nThis is called the States House, It is an \nenormous pile of brick surmounted by a \ndome aud cupola It was this smoke-col- \noured dome that I first distinguished of \nthe town before entering the harbour. Ap- \npended to the front of this edifice, is a bal- \ncony supported by seven prodigious square \n\n\npillars or battlements, of brick, whfcb my \nfriend humourously observed belonged to \nthe Fankee^ order. The interior is divid- \ned into apartments for the officers of the \ngovernment. In the second story are iw(y \nchambers for the two branches of the legis- \nlature. In the centre of the building is a \nwinding stair- cas€, by which we ascend to \nthe cupola. Here opened before us an im- \njposing prospect — on the one side the land \n«preading around us, and rising in the dis- \ntance like an amphitheatre, chequered with \nyillages and country »eats, and fields ' dress- \ned in living green' — on the other side the \ndark ocean mingling with the sky, studded \nwith white sails and rolling vessels. Under \nour feet lay tke town with its hilly slate \ncoloured roofs and tapering gothic spires, \nand hemmed around by water on all sides \nexcept a narrow isthmus by which it hangs \non the nighbouring continent. Upon the \nwhole, I never enjoyed a finer scene. But \nwhy is this superior to the view^ from Seme- \n\n* Yankee is a cognomen farailiarlj given to the in- \nhabitants of the eastern states, hence (my friend tells \nme) Boston is often caHed Yankee toum in other parts \no£ the country, being the capital of those slates. \n\n{AH Bey.) \n\n\n5iS \n\n\nlalia or the mountains of Nicosia ? if any on* \nask-because (I answer) moral health, indus- \ntry, LIBERTY, happiness reign here and give \npathos to the beauties of nature ! \n\n1 counted from this height nearly twenty \nspires or cupolas rising from as many chur- \nches but alas not one minaret, not one \n\nmosque — nor a single monument of the true \nfaith ! This reflection made me melan- \nJ^ioly. \n\n\n6e \n\n\nCHAP. XI, \n\nJin Excursion into the Country — Ls Appearance — ArctA\" \ntecture — Cambridge — The University. \n\n12 June. Yesterday the weather being \nfine, we mounted horses for an excursion \nwhich we had been contemplating for some \ntime. We passed over the neck as it is \ncalled, and proceeded through Roxbury^ \nDorchester, Brookline, Brighton and Cam- \nbridge. The country appeared extremely \npleasant, being highly cultivated and inter- \nspersed with gardens, meadows, orchards \nand country seats. The land, however, is \nnot naturally fertile. The gardens are small \nbut well cultivated, being designed more for \nuse than ornament. Some have a small green \nhouse by which they neutralize the influence \nof the seasons. The houses are mostly for \nthe summer residence of people from the \ntown. They are situated pleasantly enough^, \nin general, and the adjacent grounds some- \ntimes exhibit marks of considera])le taste. \n\n\nM \n\nBut it is to be regretted that the architectuic \nof their buildings is not such as to add to \nthe effect of their picturesque situations. In- \nstead of simplicity and terseness^ these boxes \nbetray a preposterous emuhition of the stately \nmagnificence and ornaments of a palace. Tiiis \nvicious taste in architecture prevails, my \nfriend informs, throughout the country. \nBuildings, he says, which for magnitude \nand design would be set down for cottages, \nare seen tricked out in all the profusion of \narchitectural finery — with piazzas, balconies, \npilasters, atticks and domes— windovrs and \ndoors crowned with pediments, ty mpjinums \ncharged with arabesques, cornices lined vv ith \nmodillions, and double rows of dentules, &c. \n&c. — and all this to private houses whose \ninterior cannot open a room tv/enty feet \nsquare. The grandeur of simplicity is no \nwhere understood or lelished in this country. \nIf, as is commonly said, tlie architecture of a \ncountry is indicative of the character of the \npeople, this account would go to prove that \nthe Americans are fmicpvl and ostentatious \nabove all other peo])le. This conchiyion is \nin some measure obviated by the explanation \nthat my friend gives. Me says, that those \nwho deface the country with such archilec- \n\n6 \n\n\ntural foppery, are generally men who have \nacquired property by their own exertions \nand are destitute of taste and education. But \nthis does not seem entirely satisfactory ; for \nwhere is the taste of their architects ; or are \nthey overruled and compelled to indulge the \ndepraved fancy of their employers ? \n\nOn our return through Cambridge we \nvisited the University, the first literary insti- \ntution in this country, and said to be little \ninferior to th?* seminaries of Europe. Its \nbuildings are seven in number, all of brick \nexcept the Chapel, which is of granite. This \nis an oblong ])uilding, with a piazza in front, \nsupported by nine Doric pillars. The ar- \nchitecture of this edifice has been criticised, \nand it must be confessed not wholly without \nreason. The piazzas and halved pilasters \nbreak the unity and diminish the grandeur \nof proportion. \n\nA member of the Universitv with whom \nmy friend was acquainted, showed us the \nobjects most worthy of attention. What \nmost attracted my observation was a fine \nphilosophical apparatus — the astronomical \ninstruments, however, I thought not equal \nto mine. The chymical department has a \nconvenient and well constructed laboratory. \n\n\n63 \n\n[n the anatomical room are seen a number \nof wax work preparations. Thej are the \nwork of an ingenious Italian, and are said \nto be superior to human subjects for pupils, \non account of their distinctness of repre- \nsentation. This is particularly observable \nin the ear, which is exhibited on so large a \nscale as to be rendered very intelligible. \n\nThe library yields to none in tbis coun- \ntry for value and extent — that of tbe Athe- \nnaeum is the only one that approaches it. It \nhas been chiefly formed by private donations. \n\nThe botanical department has a garden \nand a green house, which however are too \nsmall for such an institution. And it appear- \ned to me to be but indifferently husbanded. \nThe garden is tastefully laid out in serpen- \ntine walks encircling an artificial basin of \nwater^ which makes a very pretty appear- \nance. I noticed several plants here that I \nhad found in Asia or Africa, and many \nothers which are indigenous ; for a more \nminute account of which the reader is referred \nto my Botanical Journal. \n\nThe mineralogical cabinet is too inconsid- \nable to deserve the name. This branch of \nscience does not seem to be in favour at tbis \n\n\n64 \n\nseminary. It is indeed hardly credible^ but \nI have heard it stated, that the superintend- \nants of the university rejected a present of a \nvery extensive collection of minerals some \nyears since ! \n\nThe member of the university already \nmentioned gave ug an account of the internal \neconomy of the seminary. \n\nThe students, said he, are divided into \nfour classes according to the years of their \nresidence, four years being the term required \nfar the first degree. They are governed by \na code of laws peculiar to the university, \nwhich are administered in a summary man- \nner by the instructors. They are required \nto recite lessons to their tutors or professors \ndaily, for neglecting which they incur pecu- \nniary penalties and other severe punishments \naccording to the degree of delinquency. They \nare also rewarded for dilisrence by certain \nhonorary notices, which are called parts, that \ni i, characters which individuals are appoint- \ned to sustain in the public exhibitions. These \nparts have diiierent degrees of honour attach- \ned to them chiefly by opinion, (being in \nthemselves upon an equality) and are in- \ntended to be dealt out with reference to the \ndiifering merits of the pupils. \n\n\n65 \n\nThis arrangement, I observed, appears \nvery excellent, well calculated to insure jus- \ntice and temperate emulation. \n\n' Justice and temperate emulation P re- \ntorted the young man ; alas ! sir, a short \nresidence here would convince you of the \nfiillacy of reasoning a priori on this subject. \nI'hat the system of reward and punishment \nadopted here is on the whole beneficial 1 am \nnot prepared to controvert. And if it could \nbe administered with impartiality and intel- \nligence, many evils would doubtless be avoid- \ned, that are often thought inherent. But \nalUnving that all the gentlemen instructors \nar:' intelligent and conscientious, and dispos- \ned to be impartial, there are still so many \ncircumstances that will always jostle the \nscale of justice, that merit has rarely credit \nfor its true w eight. In the first place a young \nman's character is not always known^ And \nil it is known to his comrades it may not be \nto his instructors. The fjiet however unfor- \ntunate !y is, that our instructors are not en- \nthely exempt from hunian infirmities. There \nis no sign on their lintels that imperfection \nshould pass them over. Prejudice, that \neasily besettinii; sin, insinuates itself in every \nshape, and knocks with equal hand at i\\w \n\n* 6 \n\n\n66 ' \n\ndoor of tutors and students. Its wor\\ings \neven on staid and sober judgments deserve \nto be reckoned among the remarka-ble phe- \nnomena of the mind. Favoritism is odious \nand unjust every where, but in a literary in- \nstitution, there is no phrase of reprobation \nadequate to it. llie man that introduces or \ncountenances it there is guilty of treason to- \nVv ard the republic of letters. \n\nAs to emulation, it strikes root among us \nsuiUciently deep, and bears fruit both good \nand bad. \n\nThere are however some evils which I \nfear are inseparalde from our system of edu- \ncation. Among these I reckon, on the one \nhand, the vanity and light-headedness which \ndistinguished (and often undeserved) honours \nproduce in young men thus prematurely \ngiven up to ilattery ; on the other hand, the \nchagrin and disappointment of those wiio \ndeserve or think they deserve higher honours \nthan they obtain. These causes, although of \nan opposite nature, produce similar effects : \neach injures the disposition of the young \nmen and relaxes their exertions. \n\nAnother evil of more serious import, al- \nthough less ol>vious to notice, is the incidental \nluiluence of our system of education on free- \n\n\n67 \n\ndom of inquiry. Our instructors it is true \ndo not incur the reproach of attempting to \nforestall our opinions ; much less do tiiey \nhedge in the field of knowledge by con- \nfining us to books of a particular per- \nsuasion. Yet it cannot be denied that \nthe authority of their known sentiments \nunavoidably biases cur inquiries. The bare \nknowledge of a system or theory formed \nand adopted by men who stand on the high \nground of instructors, must have an influence \non the most independent minded pupil. It \nat least fixes a point of attraction, around \nwhich all w411 revolve, who are too indolent \nor ignorant to make up their own opinion. \nThus truth has not and cannot have fair play. \n\nYou are fortunate, sir, in your President ; \nat least he sustains a high reputation, 1 ob- \nserved. \n\nYes sir, and very deservedly ; — ^he is pe- \nculiarly calculated to manage the wayward \ndispositions of young men. Since his presi- \ndency very material improvement has been \nmade in the police of the seminary, and if \nthe item of imjpartiality forms an insulated \nexception, it v. ould be going too far perhaps \n\nto say that in this the movement has been \nretrograde. \n\n\n6S \n\nSome of our instructors are not unknown \nin the literary world. Our President is es- \nteemed an elegant belles-lettres scholar. The \nprofessor of metaphysics has written a trea- \ntise upon logic, which if it is not on enlarged \nand philosophical principles, has certainly \nrendered the subject more simplified and in- \ntelligible than it was left by his predecessors. \n\nThe professor of rhetorick too is not with- \nout literary claims. He entered upon his \noffice under some disadvantages ; but his \nfailure has not been so signal as was antici- \npated. Indeed it may be questianed Avhether \nthe narcotic effects of his lectures are not \nattributable as much to the contrast between \nhim and his predecessor as to intrinsic defect. \n\nBut this gentleman was not contented to \nenact Rigdumfunidos in the college dormi- \ntory; the silent applause bestowed on his \nhebdomadal lullaby did not satisfy his high \nreaching mind : — a few years ago the poor \nman, like my lady Go-nimble, had a 'histor- \nical fit.' He undertook to write a history \nof the late war between this country and \nGreat Britain. A subject of this delicate \nnature was, you may well suppose, little \nsuite! to the wire edge of his feelings. With \nvery little reflection he might have seen a \n\n\nI \n\n\nC9 \n\n• transparent probability^ of failing. To \nwrite such a history, as it ought to be written, \nwould require not only a candid and cautious \nmind^ but chastened feelings and tamed pas- \nsions ; — instead of which our professor went \nto work witii as much lieadlong nonchalance \nas he would dogmatize on a theme. He has, \nhowever, ^ accoutred as he was,' succeeded \nin one respect where most historians fail,-^ \nhe has fairly rivalled an applauded excel- \nlence of an ancient historian, — for his history \nnot only betrays no partiality in favour of \nhis native country, but actually leans against \nit. In this respect I fancy his history is sui \ngeneris. But at all events our professor is \nnot alone in his miscarriage. Attempts at \nthe history of the same period by Mr. Brack- \nenridge and Mr. Hunt, have been followed \nby failure equally notable — if indeed the \nmawkish stuff of the latter deserve the name \nof history, to which it certainly bears no re- \nsemblance. \n\nTo the friend of the American character \nit must be a consolatory reflection that tiiis \nbook of our professor's ' that roars so loud \nand tlumders in the index' under the name \nof ' History,' is not likely to be a lasting blot \non our national literature. Its utter want of \n\n\n76 \n\nmerit as an autlientic statement of facts will \nluckily avert such a misfortune. \n\nMy idea of this flourishing seminary was \ngreatly exalted by what I saw and heard. \nIts literary aspect charmed me. And I could \nnot help remarking to our young acejuaint- \nance the happiness he must enjoy. \n\nAlas ! sir^ I am sorry to tell you that your \nconclusions are again erroneous. If the hap- \npiness of mankind is fairly measured by that \nwithin these walls^ this world may well be \nthought^ (as by some it is,) to be the scrip- \ntural hell^ and men in a state of punishment. \nIf to be in a state of constant turmoil and \nagitation — anxious to deserve the reward \nbut doubtful of obtaining it if deserved — is \nto be happy, then are the students of this \nuniversity happy. \n\nBut emulation is not the only cause of un- \nhappiness here. The course of study pre- \nscribed for us, if the best, is not always the \nmost pleasant, — nor is a person always in a \nhumour to apply himself; especially to per- \nform the labour meted out by a literary \ntask- master. \n\nWe left this classical retreat highly grati- \nfied. We returned to the city over one of \n\n\n71 \n\nthe long bridges (of which there are a num- \nber) that connects it with the adjacent coun- \ntry. It was evening ; and the lights of this \nand the neighbouring bridges had a very \npleasing effect. \n\n\n7^ \n\n\nGHAP. XI. \n\nPresident'' s Vis't Fourth of July Oration Boston \n\nHospitality. \n\n5 July. A few days ago I witnessed one \nof the mo«t moving scenes that I have seen \nsince 1 w as at Morocco : — the President ba- \nshaw of these states made his public entre \ninto this city. And it was a lieart touching \nscene to observe with what affection his sub- \njects gathered around him — to see the cliief \ncitizens holding his stirrup or bridle, kissing \nhis hands J &c. &c. Their loyalty fcrcibiy \nreminded me of the i,mper.>r's reception \nwhen he graciously vouchsafed to visit his \nsubjects. The procession for the President \nwas, however, much the most splencnd — old \nmen and boys^ young men and maidtMis pre- \nceded an€l followed him. A deputation met \nbim many miles from the city. A strong \nmilitary detachment served as an escort and \na life-guard. During his' residence here the \ncity has put on a new face — all is movementj \nhilarity and parade. \n\n\n73 \n\nYesterday was the grand holyday of the \ncountry, being the anniversary of the inde- \npendence of tiie nation. An oration in com- \nmemoration of the event was delivered. The \norator drew his topics from the history of \nthe country. His delivery was plain and \nunaffected, and the scope of thought quite \ncreditable to his talents and reflection. Thig \nseems to militate with what my friend has \nfrequently said of the habits of the young \nmen of the town being inconsistent with study \nand methodical thinking — or perhaps it is \nonly an exception. \n\nThe President was at this solemnity of \ncourse, for nothing is now done or thought \nof withi/ut him. The public prints give \ndaily bulletins of his movements — where he \nhas been and where he is going to be, &c. \n\nMy friend informs me that the President's \nadvent has been attended with some remark- \nable phenomena. It is said to have fairly \nturned the brain of one editor, whose types, \n,as by instinct, spell nothing but President, \nrefusing every combination but such as per- \ntains to him, or his horse, or his leather \nbreeches. Some pretend to say, however, \ntliat the President is not the original cause \nof his mental malady, of which they cite \n\n\n74^ \n\nseveral previous indications^ such as the \nanile fondness which he betrayed for the \nwedding garments of a Mr. Russell and \nw ife, and the out-landish words that he be- \ngan to use, as ' Newspaperials/ &c. — and \nseveral other symptoms of his distemper do \nthey enumerate. \n\nAmong the physical phenomena of tha \nPresident's approach, continued my friend, \nthe most wonderful is the attraction of several \nlarge bodies out of their orbits to the dis- \ntance of thirty or forty miles. Some attribute \nthis astonishing phenomenon in part to lunar \ninfluence, under the idea that the presidential \nattraction alone was inadequate to such an \neffect. Legal measures are in contemplation \nto ascertain the correctness of this conjec- \nture* \n\nThe President is said to be well pleased \nwith the loyalty and hospitality of this city. \nIts hospitality was knoAvn and has been \napplauded before ; and if I have not hitherto \nborne testimony to it, it is not because I do \nnot entertain a dile sense of it. \n\n* Query — What does my friend mean by legal \nmeasures in this connexion ? — A. B. \n\n\\ writ de lunatico inquirenelo is probably intended in \nfhe text. — 2V. \n\n\n75 \n\nMy friend 1ms frequently discussed this \nsubject with me when he has heard me ex- \ntolling the hospitality of this people. You \nfall into the same mistake that most stran- \ngers do upon this point, said he — and it is \na very natural mistake. But a closer in- \nspection demonstrates it to be such. When \na stranger comes into town whose character \nor connexions give him authority or eclat^ \nBostonians are all attention — no people can \nbe more officiously polite — the forms of eti- \nquette are dispensed w itli, and no one thinks \na party complete unless the stranger is \nthere. He of course finds his residence of a \nfew weeks very pleasant^ and conceives a \nhigh idea of the hospitality of the people, \nwhich he gratefully publishes on his return \nto his home. This accounts for the nam* \nthis town has unduly acquired for hospital- \nity^ especially at a distance. But at the \ntime that they go so far out of the way for \nhim, they will pass others unnoticed whose \ncharacter is equally respectable and who \nhave equal claims on their politeness ; but \nwho unluckily are not buoyed up by such \npowerful auxiliary aid. And the very peo- \nple who thus throw open their doors to a \ndistinguished stranger, will receive a ^ coun- \n\n\n76 \n\nh-y cousin' or acquaintance, with a look that \nwould chill the heart, and with civility meas- \nured according to the prohahle duration of \nhis stay, ^ay, sir, at the very time that \nthey are paying such extravagant court to a \nstranger, they have acquaintances who are \nevery way respectable and with whom they \nhave been in habits of intimacy from their \nyouth up, both at school and the university, \nbut toward whom their hospitality has never \nextended farther than a passing nod, or the \ninterchange of unmeaning civilities. If this \nis hospitality, then do Bostonians deservQ \ncredit for it. The fact is, that the hospita- \nble people of this town live in a constant \ndread of being burthened by their acquaint- \nance ; and this liberal feeling is but partially \nsmothered by the honour of entertaining a \ndistinguished stranger. If you receive this \naccount with distrust, it is creditable to your \nheart, but a better knowledge of the town \nwill undeceive you. \n\nUpon this statement of my friend I shall \ntake occasion to make some remarks here- \nafter. \n\n\nri \n\n\nCHAP. XII. \n\n$t(xU of Religion in Boston — Its Charitable Instiin^ \n\ntions^ <^c, \n\nI HAVE been at considerable pains to catch \nthe religious feeling of this people, to as- \ncertain the strength and bearing of tlieir \nprejudices. With this view, I have attend- \ned their worship at the various churches of \nthe city ; which on their Sabbath are in \ngeneral very fully attended. The audience \nappeared to consist mostly of the middle \nand upper classes. Where, thought I, do \nthe poorer people worship ? — or do Chris, \ntians think them of too little importance to- \nrn ake provision for them ? For a solution^ \nI went as usual to my friend. He informs \nme that the common people are generally \ntoo poor to siiiendiliQ established worship — \nor rather, if I rightly understood him, the \nChristians have established a sort of reli» \ngious aristocracy, of which wealth is tha^ \n\n* 7 \n\n\n?6 \n\nprincipal ingredient. For tins purpose, the \ninterior of their churches is parceled out \ninto a great number of small apartments \nwhich are bodght up by people of wealth, \nwho alone are able to buy them. By this \ningenious and truly Christian expedient, \nall who are not able to buy one of these \napartments, are crowded out of the church. \nThe number of these has been computed tq \nbe rather more than two thirds of the popu- \nlation of the city. How much more hu- \nmane are the ordinances of the Prophet ! \n\nThe religious services of the Christians \nare not so solemn and appropriate as the \nrikats ordained by the Prophet ; but from \nthe best observations I could make, I am \ninclined to think that they are performed \nwith nearly as much devotion. Their min- \nisters, I must admit, go through the solem- \nnities with more propriety and judgment, \nthan our Imauns and are in general more \nrespectable and better informed. Their \nmanners of preaching are very dissimilar. \nSome enforce their doctrines with a sincere \nand natural eloquence, worthy of a better \nfaith. Others appeared rather enthusiastic \nand dogmatical — and others again, seemed \n!k> preach, (to use my friend's expression,) \n\n\n79 \n\nto be heard of men. He has frequently told \nme that these gentlemen are not fond of \nstudy, and generally, in this city especially, \ncontract habits unpropitious both to reflec- \ntion and application. Thi» however I have \nheard contradicted by others, and am in- \nclined to think that there are at least some \nexceptions to my friend's statement. \n\nThe laity are extremely attached to their \npreachers. But this attachment is not very \nenlightened, and is most commonly emulous \nand exclusive, extending only to the preach- \ner of their own parish or church. This \nspirit sometimes leads them into the grossest \nill manners and even injustice. For if their \nown preacher goes abroad to preach at some \nother church, his parishioners do not conceal \ntheir dissatisfaction, and treat his substitute \nwith very little ceremony. If they are in \nchurch before they are apprized of the in- \nsupportable change they sometimes leave it, \nbut more frequently they take care to obtain \nprevious intelligence and of course leave \ntheir pev/s vacant. Thus the poor pastor, \nunable to gather his flock, preaches to the \nwalls. In some instances this fastidious \naffectation has carried this piou« people to \nalmost incredible lengths. It is said thej \n\n\n80 \n\nliave actually requested some preacliers uer- \ner to officiate again in their church ! Indeed \nall seem resolved to go to heaven in their \nown way^ and under captains of their own \nchoosing. \n\nThe truth is, said my friend conversing \nupon this subject — the truth is they go to \nchurch just as they go to the theatre, partly \nfrom habit and partly to pass an idle hour, \nor to escape from the fiend ennui ; and if \nthey can hear a tune or two well sung, and \na good voice from the desk accompanied with \na handsome countenance, they return satis- \nfied, and with rapture acknowledge that they \nhave heard ' the most superb prayer that was \never addressed to an audience!^ Indeed \ntheir religion is essentially theatrical. In \nno catholic country perhaps is the power of \nsjjectacle so great as it is here. This is \nevident from the theatrical treatment which \ntheir preachers receive, which for fickleness \nand caprice, is worthy of the \" gods and god- \ndesses' that preside over the stage. In \npreaching, all the town assume to be con- \nnoisseurs; and where this is the case, ^liard \nis the fate of the preacher f for their ca- \nprice equals their infatuation. If he hap- \npens t(x iakep he is extolled ad coelura, their \n\n\n81 \n\nadmiration knows no bounds. But if it un- \nluckily happens otherwise, the wight must \nexpect to preach (as was before observed) \nto empty pews. But even he that succeeds \nstands on slippery rocks. As he gained \ntheir favor by his pretty looks, he must ex- \npect to lose it when those looks lose their \ncharms. This soon comes to pass — the \nwheel soon turns and rolls him down and \nsinoUier up. Instantly, in Uhe twinkling \nof an eye/ every gunner disappears, and \nthe poor spoiled young man is at last struck \noff as much below as he once went above, his \ntrue worth. Another youth comes into fash- \nion, with face as shinint,, and voice as sweet \nas his predecessor's. It is now his turu to \nlead the town captive ; and now the morn- \ning stars of ^MQvy sing his praises together. \nIt is needless to add that, in fulness of time^ \nhe also goes the way of his predecessor. \n\nA speculation of this sort involved the \ngood people of one parish in a laughable \npredicament. A young man of talents too \ngreat to be coquetted with came along. \nThe people of the parish aforesaid, admired \nhim of course, rather before they heard him \npre eh. 1 hey had heard him for some time \nwith wonderful constancy of affection, wheut \n\n\n82 \n\nhe, either doubting their stability or wishing \nto avenge the fate of his brethren, took an \nopportunity to mete back to them their own \nmeasure. He accordingly jilted them, and \nthat too with circumstances of unheard of \ncruelty, and cold bloodedness ! His parish- \nioners w ere inconsolable ; their wounded \npride knew no balm. ^^ To be treated so by \na boy ! who ought to have been grateful for \nthe Jionor we conferred upon him V^ \n\nThe epilogue to this comico-tragical exlii* \nbition is said to be in a state of forwardness, \nand is expected to be still more facetious, \ninasmuch as experience disregarded, ren- \nders even distress ridiculous. \n\nBut, said I, if religion is really at so low \nan ebb in this city, how comes it that the \npeople are at so great expense in building \nchurches and supporting teachers, &c. ? \n\nThis may be accounted for, he replied, in \ntwo ways. In the first place public opinion \nand the laws require it. In the next place \nthey make the most of necessity by turning \nit into an occasion to display their wealth \nand generosity. How far all the charitablft \ninstitutions of the town might be accounted \nfor on the latter principle it would be invid- \nious to enquire. We ought rather to rejoic* \n\n\n83 \n\nin the good effects of even a wrong motive, \nand even admire the wisdom that makes even \nbad materials work together for good. Suf- \nfice it tlien to state that the inhabitants of \nthis town are remarkably liberal and public \nspirited ; and that scarcely any charitable \npurpose is allowed to languish for want of \nthe fostering aid of the wealthy. And when \nthey subscribe for the erection of Hospitals \nfor the insane and similar laudable purposes, \nIhe merit of the act surely ought not to be \ndrawn in question by any supposed rever- \nsionary or contingent interest. \n\n\ns^ \n\n\nCHAP. XIII. \n\nfnflueiict of xvealth — Its tendency to destroy the moral \nfaculties — Corruption of Innguage — Wild lands. \n\nThe marabout of Tangier was right when \nhe said that the mass of mankinrl are made \nfor the amusement and behoof of men of tal- \nents— at least such seems to be tlieir fate all \nover the world. That this is pre-eminently \ntrue in this town I am more convinced the \nmore I become acquainted with its citizens \nand the instruments of opinion in applica- \ntion among them. Whatever may be thought \nby the learned respecting Archimedes' alle- \ngory, it is quite certain that the only lever \nthat can move this city is (without a meta- \nphor) money. And never did this lever act \nwith greater purchase than here. He, that \nholds this, needs nothing else — he is listened \nto with the utmost docility, and his dicta are \ntreasured up and repeated with the most un- \ndoubting submission. Ife has admirers \nwherever he appears who are ambitious of \n\n\n85 \n\npuffing him without hope of reward^ save the \nhonour of it. A general pre-disposition to \npraise^ approve or admire more surely indi- \ncates this mine and its owner than all tlie \narts of rabdomancy. Whatever he thinks \nor does is riglit^ and every appendage of his \nis excellent — his manners are the most per- \nfect^ his equipage the most elegant^ and his \ndaughters the fairest and altogether lovely. \n\nWoe to the wdght without money who \ncomes in competition with hiiriy with only \nequal merits — his superiority must be over- \npowering or his case is desperate. \n\nThis money worship has not only vitiated \nthe moral sense of this people^ but has ac- \ntually corrupted their language. Of this the \nw ord good is a remarkable instance. This^ \nby a characteristic metaphor, no longer ex- \npresses moral but pecuni^^ry qualities, and is \napplied not to the heart but the purse. Thus \nw^hen they say that this or that man is good^ \nthey mean that he has property or is able to \npay a debt ! \n\nMy friend often descants upon the ^ Bos- \nton god/ as he calls money ; which he says \nconstitutes both their lares and peaates. It \nis astonishing and melancholy, he w^ould say, \nto see the adoration of this mighty deity : \n\n\nA A \n\n\n85 \n\nIjefore which Bel boweth^ Nebo stoopeth — \nto see even strong miads broken down by \nits influence^ and lose all sense of right \nand wrongj of merit and demerit. I am not \nwondering that the bulk of the people are \nbut partially informed and willing to take \nopinions at retail as they do their gin and \ntobacco. But to see the moral sense erased \nfrom the mind, and a general prostration of \nprinciple before the shrine of wealth — and \nthat too among the better informed — is in- \ndeed intolerable. It ought to be reprobated \nand held up to public scorn. But this dis- \nposition, odious and contemptible as it is, \nmii^ht be pardoned, or at least pitied and \ndisregarded, if its consequences were only \nof a private and personal nature — they \nmight bend the knee to wealth, pervert their \nlanguage, sell their daughters in wedlock to \nthe highest bidder whether fool or knave, \nand, — but for the jiiihlic effects of the con- \nduct, its influence on our national character \nand political institutions — I certainly would \nnot trouble myself nor disgust you with the \nmention of it. But when I consider that \nthis omnipotence of wealth is as subversive \nof the spirit of republicanism as it is of \n\n\n87 \n\nmorality and justice^ I think it ought to be \nmarked with public censure and contempt. \nIt may be thought strange that such a \npernicious weed should take root in this \ntown^ emphatically styled the nursery of \nlibertij. But we must remember that it ac- \nquired and deserved that appellation in the \ndays of simplicity and integrity, before the \napotheosis of wealth — before the contagion \nof servility had been scattered by the blasts \nof patronage. In those patriarchal days \nfavouritism had not become systematized \nand so incorporated with the ideas and feel- \nings of the people as at present. Then \nmen laid their account to rise not by patron- \nage but by merit. And it is now worth tha \nconsideration of those whose conduct and \nexample stamp the character of a people to \ninquire^ whether this course of conduct is \nconsonant with the genius of our institutions \nand government ; or whether it does not \ntend to break down that spirit of indepen- \ndence which is the s tarn hi a of our free gov- \nernment. Tliey ought to reflect too^ whether \nit would not be a more generous policy to \npatronize merit only, instead of drawing \naround them parasites and flatterers who \nexpect to live by borrowed consequence — \n\n\n88 \n\nwhether their tables and drawing rooms \nwould not be as much honored, antl them- \nselves and families as much edified by the \nintercourse of independent and cultivated \nminds who exact a respectful co-equality, \nas by the presence of a servile jiecus who \nwatch the nod and re-echo the sentiments of \ntheir host. \n\nI am persuaded that if the town ever re- \ncovers from this distemper, the cure must \ncome from this source. To talk of peoples^ \ncaring themselves, of their returning ex \nmero motu to the erect course of indepen- \ndence, and throwing oif their mental vas- \nsalage by their own strength is altogether \nidle. Thev are not even conscious of their \ndisease. On the contrary, they think them- \nselves the most independent and impartial \nof mortals, w ithout a single sordid or servile \nparticle in their composition. And they are \neven more sensitive than most people under \nthe imputation of being sycophantic or time \nserving, and swallowing the opinions of \nthose whom money or fashion has deified. \nA people sitting in such palpable daikness \nwill never come to the light of themselves : \nfor there is reason to fear that their organ \nof perception is decayed. \n\n\n89 \n\nBesides^ it is riglit that the cure shouUl \ncome from the same source with the malady. \nIf men of station and talents (who ought \nbetter to have regarded what they owed to \nthemselves and to their country,) have been \ninstrumental in introducing a system of fa- \nvoritism and its concomitants, fawning ser- \nvility and meanness ; they surely are the \nmen to begin the work of reformation, ol \nbringing back their townsmen to their prim- \nitive integrity. By so doing they may make \nsome slight amends for the mischief they \ni^ave occasioned. \n\nBut if the people of this town, continued \nmy friend, attach so much importance to \nwealth, it is but fair to allow that they shovr \nsome judgment in the use of it. After the \nclaims of vanity and display are satisfied^ \nthey commonly cast about tliem for monii- \nments to whicli to affix their names, thus \nattempting to acquire hj the purse the sem- \nblance of the meed due only to talents and \nvirtue. Those who cannot afford to build \nhalls or market houses, purchase immense \ntracts of wild land, contented to lose the \nfirst cost and accruing charges, provided \nthey are allowed to christen a township of \nbears and sables by their own name y whi' h \n\n\n90 \n\niliey hope by this means to send down to \nfuture ages. It may be said, perhaps, that \nconvicts and debtors have theij- names per- \npetuated and transmitted to posterity on \ngaol books and judicial records ; but that \n-is a very different sort of celebrity. \n\n\n91 \n\n\nCHAP. XIV. \n\nDomestic Economy of Bostonians — Their Esprit da \nCorps — Its Consequences. \n\nI DO not agree with my friend that this pe- \ncuniary propensity deserves censure chiefly \non account of its tendency to subvert the \ngovernment of the country. It appears to \nme that its private and domestic effects are \nequally pernicious and lamentable. Among \nthese may be reckoned the expensive habits, \nthe preposterous i telling for style and pa- \nrade so common in this city, and so preju- \ndicial to the comfort and happiness of fami- \nlies. Nothing is more frequent than to see \nmen, ^ with means too humble for their \nhaughty minds/ in moderate circumstances \nwith a young and numerous family de- \npendant on their exertions, anticipate their \nincome, involve themselves in debt, and at \ntheir death bequeath to their families penury \nand dependence. In no other country, I \nbelieve, is the style of living so dispropor- \ntioned to the ability or property as here. \n\n\n9^ \n\nIn Europe if people live in splendor^ tliej \nare generally able to bear the expence^ with- \nout breaking in upon their capital. Here it is \nquite otherwise. Men with no property but \na stated salary swallow up that by aifecta- \ntion and extravagance^ and losing all fore- \ncast, bring up a family with a certain pros- \npect of poverty. \n\nThese habits of extravagance are not con- \nfined to the men. The ladies have their \nfull share ; and in fondness for finery and \ndress exceed even the ladies of Botany Bay.^ \nIt is said that London milliners receive their \nlargest orders from this country, and inquire \nwith surprise who there is here able to sup- \nport such style ? \n\nThe inhabitants of tliis town, (said my \nfriend,) have one trail, I must allow, that is \naltogether honorable to them. The esprit \ndii corps for which they are distinguished \ncertainly does honor to their feelings, [t is \ntrue that it gives them the air of novices when \nthey are caught abroad, and strangers even \naccuse them of iiliberality, when they* per- \nceive their ideas all centre around their, own \nnative town ; but Bostonians are wise enough \n\n. * Vide Brewster's Enc}xIopcclia-^arf. Colony. \n\n\n/ \n\nto disregard the ill-natured pleasantry of \nsouthern wags^ and go on their way rejoic- \ning that they are not as other men. \n\nThis amiable attachment to the things of \nthis town is productive of a variety of inter- \nesting effects. In young men and misses it \nproduces a suitable ignorance of all out-of- \ntown or ^ country^ matters — under which \nterm ^ country' they intend certain terra in- \ncognita, about which their ideas are as flat^ \ntering and nearly as accurate as they are of \nSiberia or El Bahhah Soudan. Now al- \nthough this ignorance ostentatiously avowed \nto ^ country cousins' exposes them very un- \nreasonably to the charge of affectation, yet it \ncertainly presents them in a meek and unas- \nsuming point of view. In those who have \narrived to maturity its effects are equally \nhappy. Meet them on 'Change or in their \ndrawing rooms, you find them always uni- \nform— always exhibiting the same enviable \ncomplacency and self-importance — their ideas \nalways bounded by the same circumference, \nto wit, tkeir town ; and always revolving \naround the same centre, to wit, themselves. \n\nThis excellent characteristic gives this \npeople many enjoyments which the world \nknows not of. By the help of this they keep \n\n\na constant procession of great and celebrated \npersonages passing before them ; whose \ngreatness is only visible to Boston eyes^ and \nwhose celebrity Bostoniaas entirely monopo- \nlize. It makes them in short a little world \nof their own^ whose vast concerns engross \ntheir whole attention and outweigh in their \nminds the rest of the universe. \n\nA Bostonian abroad can never remain long \nincog. : if you find him in New- York, Balti- \nmore or elsewhere, you soon perceive by his \ndip what quarry he comes from. His empty \nconsequential air, his real and pretended ig- \nnorance, are marks which soon betray him. \nIn conversation he displays with exquisite \nnaivete his predilection for his own dear \ntown. Its paramount importance is the lemma \nof every proposition and the bout of every \nobservation. And if any thing is in dispute \nhe appeals to the example of his aforesaid \ntown with the most conclusive confidence, \nthese enlarged and liberal views exhibit him \nto strangers in a very pleasant and patriotic \nlight. ♦ \n\nThere is one case in which the tendency \nof this esprit du corps is thought to be of a \nquestionable nature, that is, in its effects on \nstatesmen and legislators. Some liav« con- \n\n\n95 \n\ntended that this Bostonian feeiing^ by coii- \nh-acting the views of statesmen whom the \ntow n has sent forth^ renders them less fitted \nto make laws for a great nation. But this \nobjection is founded on an assumption alto- \ngether inadmissable, viz. the subordinate im- \nportance of this town compared with the rest \nof the nation. \n\nTo give you a thorough understanding of \nthis subject it is necessary to observe that \nnot every one that lives in Boston is subject \nto this esprit du corps in its full extent. \nThere are too classes of citizens widely dif- \nfering in their own estimation from each \nother. The first class comprehends those \nwho were born in town^ and whose parents \nbefore them made it their domicil. I'he \nsecond class includes such as have migrated \nhither to sojourn for a season^ to buy and \nsell or pursue a profession, llie former \ndraw a deep line of circumvallation around \ntheir body to preserve its integrity from all \nplebean commixion. They look upon the \nsecond ckss as interlopers and intruders^ \nwho are encroaching upon their patrimony, \ncorrupting the city manners^ by standing \n< between the wind and their nobility.^ \n\n* Vide the life of R. T. Paine prefixed to his works. \n\n\n96 \n\nThe other class are a peaceable well dis. \nposed^ and harmless sort of people^ not so \nhigh minded as their brethren^ and occasion- \nally exhibiting a gleam of independence, \nThe first class assume a loftier gait, and \nclaim an exclusive patent-right to the immu- \nnities of gentility and fashion ; but the secon< \npossess full as many qualities of gentlemen. \nBoth are alike slaves of fashion and opinion^ \nbut the second class retains still a few sparks \nof moral sense not yet extinguished by the \npower of money. \n\n\nsr \n\n\nCHAP. XV. \n\nCommencement at Camhr dge — The Exercises — Ameri- \ncan Literature — Causes of its Inferiority — Puffing. \n\nS8 August. Yesterday I went with the \nmultitude to see the grand Comaieneement \nexhibition at the University. The exercises \nwere performed by those students who, hav- \ning finished their term are about leaving the \ninstitution and receiving its degrees. The \nrecitations were delivered from a temporary \nstage erected in a church, the pulpit of which \nserved for the President's throne. They \nwere composed in various languages, such \nas English, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, &c. — \nnone in Arabic ! Their Latin and Greek \nsavoured strongly of English, both in pro- \nnunciation and style. The former in par- \nticular struck me oddly, owing I believe \nchiefly to the long flat sound which they uni- \nformly give to the letter a, and the American \nsound of the letter i, and also to occasional \nd \n\n\nwrong accent. I am inclined io think how- \never that the genuine English pronunciation \nof the classical languages is more sonorous and \nperhaps nearer that of the ancients than the \npronunciation of the l^'rencli or of any other \nEuropean nation except the Italians^ and the \ndescendants of tlie ancient Greeks. \n\nThe oratory of the young men was natural \nand unimpassioned ; addressed mostly to the \nunderstanding. But they nearly all failed \nin the first great requisite of good speaking, \nby not making tiiemselves heard — or if heard \nthey did not fill the house and force them- \nselves on their audience. Their gestures \nwere frequently incorrect and their manners \ngenerally awkward. And their articulation \nand emphases might in some instances have \nbeen improved. There were also faults of a \nhigher order that might he pointed out, if \none were disposed to criticism — such as the \nchoice of trite subjects, and the tame common \nplace ideas announced as novelties ^ &c. &c. \nBut due allowance ought to be made for the \nyouth of the performers. Upon the whole \nthe exhibition was gratifying and creditable \nto individuals and the institution. \n\nThe audience was numerous and brilliant, \n«o;nposed of the literati and fashionables of \n\n\nI \n\n\n99 \n\nthe city and neigliboHiig couutrj. The ladies \nespecially, in tlieir ambitious costumes, made \nan imposing show. The President of the \nUniversity seated on his throne presided \nover the solemnities. His rotund figure and \nluminous countenance, braced in his official \nrobe^ and surmounted with a square black \ncap, made rather a grotesque spectacle. \n\nThe day was closed with festivity, as is \nthe custom in this country. A public dinner \nis given by the University. Of this I par- \ntook by the invitation of my friend, who hav- \ning taken the degrees of the institution, had \na right to invite me. Here I found myself \namong the Proceres of the land — civil, mili- \ntary, ecclesiastical and literary characters. \nAfter dining they sung a hymn, in which I \njoined with great devotion. When I saw \nseveral venerably appearing divines joining \nin the festive and devout scene, I could not \nrepress a sigh that they Vv ould probably be \nleft to die as they have lived in error and \nmisbelief ! \n\nWhen we were returning to the city our \nconversation turned on the literary character \nof the country. W^e both agreed in allowing \nthe Americans, talents equal to the inhabit- \nants of the Eastern world. And yet, said I, \n\n\n100 \n\nJtiow comes it that among *o many engaged \nill tlie literary race, so few have gained any \nconsiderable prize? so few have arrived at \nexcellence in literature or made discoveries \nin science ? To this my friend replied, that \nthis is a problem which many on both sides \nof the Atlantic had tried to solve. But no \nsolution that I have yet seen appears entire- \nly satisfactory. It has always appeared to \nme that the operative cause of our literary \ninferiority is to be found in the propensity to \nimitation which is an endemick in this coun- \ntry. The truth is, we have always been in \na state of pupilage — our literati (if indeed \nthere is such a body in the country,) looking \nnp to Europe for instruction, and our soi \ndisant gentry for fashion, and all receiving \ntheir lesson v/ith implicit docility. We found \nit more easy to throw off the political than \nthe literary government of foreigners. Tliis \nanimetic disposition so destructive of inven- \ntion and originality, is not connned to litera- \nture— it is the predominant characteristic of \nthe people. Nor is it peculiar to citie*^, it \nextends the whole lensrth of tiie sea-coast, \nand pervades the entire depth of the interior. \nOne village imitates another village thought \nto be more refined m wealthy; and one indi- \n\n\n101 \n\nvidual apes a neighbour whom he considers \nhis superior. Without doubt the popular \nform of our government — by taking out of \nthe market a large proportion of the best \ntalents — has had its effect in prolonging our \nliterary minority. But this alone does not \nseem adequate to such an effect, ^ or rather \ndpfecti^ But whatever may be the cause, \nthe fact is undeniable — the taste of our \ncountry is essentially crude and unformed. \nAlthough our colleges and universities are \nnumerous and flourishing, and knowledge \nprobably more generally diffused here than \namong any other people, yet (and it is aston- \nishing to see it) few even of those who re- \nceive what is termed a liberal education ever \nmature a literary taste or pursue any brancli \nof learning, except what is necessary to the \npractice of a profession. From this circum- \nstance the field of literature is abandoned to \nempiricks and pretenders, whose jejune pro- \nductions gain some notoriety because our \nnational vanity has nothing better to feed \nupon. \n\nIt is but too true T fear (continued m^ \nfriend) that the obstacles to literary excel- \nlence in this country are indigenous. The \n\n\ni02 \n\nhabits of the people are not studious. We \nhave very few among us who study for the \nlove of study. Our scholars are impatient \nfor profit before they have acquired capital. \nIn accordance with the trafficking spirit of \nthe country, they manufacture their flimsy \nwares for immediate sale. \n\nBut although our literature is thus>«mate- \nrially unripe, and our writers exhibit few \nmarks of erudition or matured reflection, our \nliterary annals can boast of some specimens \nof vvonderful precocity and still more won- \nderful modesty. In a late magazine pub- \nlished in a neighboring city, and edited by \na youth fully out of his teens, I lately found \na precious proof of this : — the unassuming \nreviewer, after using a number of celebrated \nnames with very little ceremony, knocks Du- \ngald Stuart quite down. He concludes a \nnotable piece of garrulity after this sort — \n^^ We wish our readers to know that Stuart \nhas very little originality, has made very \nfew discoveries in the philosophy of the hu- \nman mind ; is indebted to Dr. Ileid for a \nsystem that is generally sound !'^ &c. &c. — \nAnalect. Mag. Aug. I8I7. All this is nice \nno doubt : but this magazine can furnish \nother specimens not a whit behind it. The \n\n\n103 \n\nname journal affords an example of the aping \ndisposition of our writers wliich I have just \nmentioned. Its awkward and mawiiish imi- \ntation extends even to the style and turn of \nexpression. Whoever is acquainted with \nthe Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews will \nfind the style of this journal as much like \nthat of those as the gait and dress of a cham- \nbermaid are like those of lier mistress. \n\nIt may be thought strange that the same \npeople should be habitually under the influ- \nence of imitation, and yet betray such an \nitch for innovation — as we Americans cer- \ntainly do, as appears by the strange words \nand bombastic style which we meet with in \nAmerican made books. I will not under- \ntake to explain this apparent paradox ; nor \ndecide which disposition is most prejudicial \nto literary taste and national character. \n\nIn the public papers this morning I ob- \nserved the literary exercises at the univer- \nsity, some of which were designated as being \npeculiarly excellent. These encomiums were \nas I thought generally misplaced. I so far \ndistrusted however the correctness of my \njudgment as to ask the opinion of my friend, \nreading to him at the same time the laudatory- \ncritique in the paper. He burst into a hearty \n\n\n104^ \n\nlaugh. Is it possible, said he, that you \nhave lived so long in this town and do not un- \nderstand the puffing system in fashion here ? \nIt is more than probable that the writer of \nthis critique was not even present at the ex- \nhibition ; or if he was, had first written his \nremarks. These puifs are generally man- \naged in a very ingenious way, and are found \nto be ^ the sovereignest thing on earth,' when \nskilfully applied ; especially in a town \ni?\\4iere opinions are an article of retail. In \nthis town the earliest puff is commonly the \nmost successful, as it is sure to find the en- \nlightened cits completely opinionl^ss, find \nready to be carried about by every wind of \npuffing. When these collegiate exercises \nare the subject, some officious friend or sa- \npient editor is generally the puffor. And \nthe technical introduction of this class of \npuffs is in the words following, to wit, \n^^ Where all performed so well, it would be \ninvidious to discriminate, we cam ot forbear \nhowewev Just to observe that the chaste style \nand impressive eloquence of Mr. A. B. gave \ndistinguished gratification.^' This is usually \ntranslated thus, ^ as to the merits of the per- \nformances I did not pay sufficient attention \nto be able to decide, yet as I, the puffor, am \n\n\n105 \n\nthe especial friend of Mr. A. B. (the puffee,) \nI cannot forbear just to take this method to \ninduce the public to believe that he is a sur- \nprising youth^ and did in very deed surpass \nall his class-mates^' &c. &c. \n\n\n105 \n\n\nCHAP. XVI. \n\nAH Bey prepares to leave tom^n — Tribute of gratitude t \nthe hospitality of Bostonians — Their character — Com \npared with the Inhabitants of Algiers^ <^c. \n\nSOtb Sept. My friend* has at length \nconcluded to a.ccompany me in my tour \nthrough the southern and western part of \nthe conntry. We have made onr arrange- \nments to set out to-morrow in a chaise and \npair. For a few days past I have been oc- \ncupied in taking leave of my numerous \nfriends — for such I will ever esteem them. \nOur parting is very cordial and affects me to \nthe heart. \n\nI must here once for all state my unquali- \nfied dissent from my friend's opinion re- \nspecting the hospitality of the citizens of the, \ntown. Surely if any thing can be called \nhospitality their humanity and politeness to \n\n* It appears from a subsequent part of the MS. \nthat this ' friend' of our traveller who makes so \nconspicuous a fig-ure in the preceding- pages is a \naative of Virg'inia. — T?\\ \n\n\n107 \n\nme deserve the name and the praise of it — \net hoc meminisse semper juvabit ! \n\n[The residue of the chapter consists of general \nreflections upon the state of society in Boston, as to \nrelinement, morahty and religion. The author then \ndraws a parallel between the Bostonians and the in- \nhabitants of Algiers, Morocco and Constantinople. In \nall that relates to the learning and the arts of civil- \nized life he gives a decided preference to the former; \nbut he claims precedence for his Mussulmen brethren \nnot only in religion, but in moral principle and that \nrectitude of feeling which prompts one instinctively \nto discriminate between right and v^rong, merit and \ndemerit. He also thinks that the people of the last \nmentioned cities are most discerning, thoughtful and \nindependent, more in the habit of thinking for them- \nselves, and consequently less exposed to dupery, &c. \nThese opinions, the result of our author's intercourse \nin this town, and so flattering to our vanity, may \nstartle us a little at first, but he fortifies them with \na variety of curious speculations and allusions, which \n4he Translator regrets he cannot give in extenso.] \n\n\nCHAP. XTII. \n\n\nAH Bey leaves Boston — takes the route through Worcester^ \nHartford^ ^c. to Actw York. His observations on the \ncountry— its minerals — Geolos:y — Botany—Speculations \nupon the formation and antiquity of this continent. \n\n\n^^ \n\n\nf \n\n\n109 \n\n\nAPPENDIX. \n\nMemorial of All Bey^ <^c. Src. concerning the introduction \nof hlamism into America.* \n\nThe conversion of this new world to the \ntrue faith, was the sublime project conceiv- \ned by Iinaum Ibrahim Mukabedladzi. It \nhas long been wished more than expected \nby the faithful and the good. If this glori- \nous purpose can in any degree be advanced \nby my feeble efforts, I sliall be happy and \nblessed — then shall I gather the fruit of all \nmy toils and travels altogether — of the thirst \nand heat of Africa and Asia, and the perils \nof the Mediterranean and Atliiniic ! \n\nIf to any this project seems chimerical, \nlet him hear and judge. And may the \nProphet of prophets give him wisdom to \njudge. \n\n* Sic in MS. — This memorial from some internal \n\nmarks it seems the author intends to dedicate to the \n\nGrande Sij^nior What is here published is evidently \n\nonly a rough drsft, without form or connexion: — 'ir. \n\n10 \n\n\n110 \n\nOf the continent of America, that part \ncalled the United States is the most inter- \nesting and enlightened. Here consequently \nought our exertions to begin. But what \npart of these Htates is most f^^vorable for the \nattempt? An important question, and diffi- \ncult to answer. I can speak from personal \nknowledge only of this city [Boston] and \nits immediate neighborhood — from which \nwe must judge for the present of the rest of \nthe country, as we measure a circle by a \nsesrment. \n\nIt cannot be said that this city is pre-dis- \nposed to a revolution of the nature and ex- \ntent of the one in contemplation. It lies \ncontented and inert in its present darkness. \nSuch a mighty innovation, if prematurely \nor improvidently attempted, would doubt- \nless alarm and shock the people. But there \nare many circumst:inces in the presant state \nof this city, in its character, manners, and \nopinions, which taken together convince me \nthat this is the point to begin at ; that here \na breach may be made, and a tenable lodge- \nment effected, which in due time shall com- \npel error and misbelief to capitulie. \n\nThe people of this city are sufficiently \nenlightened to appreciate our religion. Of \n\n\nIll \n\nthis there can be little (lou!)t. Their schools \nfor education are numerous, and the state of \nlearning equal at least to that of Fez, Al- \ngiers, or even perhaps to Mecca itself. \nThere is too, I );hink, a good disposition \namong the citizens and liberal feelings. \nThey have, it is true, an established faith \nand established preachers of it. This to \nsome may seem an insuperable barrier. But \nthis idea from the interior view which I hav« \nendeavored to take, seems to ])e a mistake. \nThis garrison in appearance so formidable, \nis Aveak, divided and mutinous. The teach- \ners of misbelief disagree about the manner \nof misbelieving. And their quarrels havd \nbeen so virulent as to create mutual enmity \nand distrust. One party charges the other \nwith infidelity, want ijf zeal, treachery. This \nin its turn accuses its adversary of making \na book for itself instead of the Book of their \nreligion, of tyranny, bigotry, &c. Whether \nthese accusations are true or false, they ar« \nthe cause and consequence of a mighty \nschism, that is spreading wider and wider \nand opening a door to the healthful breeze \nof truth. \n\nNor is this controversy confined to th« \nteachers — the common people engage in it \n\n\n11^ \n\nwith as much heat as their leaders. The \npoints about whicli they dispute are of no \nimportance either to Islamism or Christian- \nity.* And if we thought proper to join either \nparty we might indulge them with their fa- \nvorite dogmas without compromising the \ndoctrines of the Prophet. \n\nBut this warfare is not engaged in by the \nwhole population. There is a small but re- \n:flecting number who either disappi'ove of the \ndoctrines of the great rival parties, or of the \nmeasures adopted to support those doctrines. \nThese are mere spectators of the pious con- \ntention. And from these we have probably \n\n* It will be remarked that I have said nothing of \nthe advantage of the contemplated conversion on the \nscore of doctrine — to the faithful this would be su- \nperfluous. I would only observe here, that our creed \nis as pre-eminent over that of the Christians in simplicity \nand intelligibility as it is in truth. If any doubt this, \nlet him compare the creed established by the con- \ncentrated wisdom of Christendom at the council of \nNice, with that of the Prophet. The former begins \nthus, '' Vv'e believe in one God, Father Almighty, \nCreator of heaven and earth and of ail things visible \nand invisible: and in one Lord Jesus the only begottea \nSon of God, begotten of the father, before all ages, \nGod of God, light of light, true God of the true God, \nbegotten, not made, consiibslantial with the father,\" &c. \n&c. Now hear ours, sublime and true — \n\nLa illaha iia Allah ! — There is no god but God ! \n\nJi. B. \n\n\n118 \n\nmore to apprehend than from both of the liti- \ngating factions. \n\nIn selecting one of these sects for an ally \nin our project of conversion, regard must he \nhad to their character, prejudices and con- \nnexions. In this city the liberal party is the \nmost numerous and respectable. It compre- \nhends all the wealth and fasliion of the town. \nThe Liberales profess to be more enlightened \nand freer from prejudice than their oppo- \nnents. Although the amount of this is soon \ncomputed, to wit — that they have laid aside \ntheir old prejudices for new ones that are \nmore fashionable — yet tbis circumstance is of \nimportance to our purpose. If they have \nbeen detached from one set of prejudices, \nthey may be probably from another — and \nthen witii due exertion the scion of truth and \nIslamism may be engrafted. \n\nIt would be worth while, perhaps, to as- \ncertain the truth of the charge alleged against \nthis sect of skepticism and disregard to their \nBook. The interpretation of this may be, \nthat their good disposition and research are \nunclenching the hold of error and preparing \ntheir minds for the true faith. \n\nIt will be important to study the character \nand opinions of the leaders of the two parties \n\n\n1141 \n\nbefore we make choice of either. Men of \na bold aspiring temperament^ addicted to \nsingularity, bustle and affectation, put in \nmotion more by vanity and an itch for dis- \ntinction than by the merits of a cause ; \nwho preach even in the cause of error as if \nthey hardly believe it — with a wavering \npurpose and misgiving heart — men of this \nmould will be useful instruments in our \nhands ; and can be easily attached to our \ncause if we flatter them with the idea of be- \ning the ostensible leaders. \n\nUpon the whole if we begin in this city, \nthe Liberales are the party with whom we \nmust seek alliance. For though their oppo- \nnents might be as easily duped, their influ- \nence is too inconsiderable and their name \ntoo unpopular to be of much use to us. \n\nTo ensure success it will be necessary to \ngive our cause brilliancy and eclat in the \noutset. All the auxiliaries of wealth, tal- \nents and fashion should be brought to our \naid. Nothing in this city will supply the \nabsence of these. The Imaums and Fakirs \nselected for the high trust of sowing the \nseeds of truth in this benighted land, must \nl>e men of talents, education and address. \nThey should be invested with all the splen- \n\n\n115 \n\ndor that money can command. Their \nmosques should be magnificent and richly \nendowed. With these pre-requisites a few \nable Imaums would find no difficulty in at- \ntracling, first to their drawing rooms and \nthen to their mosques, all the fashionables \nand literati of the city. TJie example of \nthese, always contagious, would soon influ- \nence the middle and lower classes. With \na good voice aad commanding manners, with \nfunds sufficient to appear men of the world, \nto give dinners and routs, frequent the the- \natre, &c. our teachers would be certain of \nsuccess. The fashionables would court their \nsociety and ape their manners, the literati \nwould be convinced by their arguments, and \nthe vulgar dazzled with the novelty and \nsplendor. 'J'hus ail classes would swallow \nthe new doctrines and taste the savins: \ndraught of truth. \n\nThe celerity of this movement will not \nappear incredible, when we consider the in- \nfluence of fashion and the manner in which \nopinions are handed through the city. If a \nyouthful preacher without the aid of wealth \nor the attractions of novelty in doctrine, \ncan emptv the churches of the oldest pastors \nand draw the town after him, would it be \n\n\n116 \n\nwonderful if the eclat of a new faith, and \nthe power of a true one, gilded with wealth, \nmagnificence and fashion, should arrest the \nattention of such a volatile and fantastic \npeople in a much greater degree? \n\nI \\vould not be understood to say, that all \nwho attend the preaching of our apostles \nor app.ear at their levees would become sin- \ncere converts off-a-hand. But I do not \nhesitate to assert that Islamism, by the aid \nof the accompaniments already mentioned, \nwould immediately become the fasliionable \nreligion of the city, which all who wished \nto be thought genteel would adopt and be- \nlieve, or affect to believe. It would soon \nbecome the criterion of good company, edu- \ncation and liber lity. \n\nHow long it would require to convert the \nChristian teaciiers themselves, when they \nfound every avenue to distinction, except \nby the new faith, closed upon them, and \nwhen fashion and interest conspired to con- \nvince them, it is not easy to determine. \nAllowing them to be candid and intelligent \nmen — a ciiaracter which they in general sus- \ntain— we might expect to number them with \nns speedily. \n\n\nJ \n\n\n117 \n\nBut to effect this healing change, our \nmissionaries must possess an intimate ac- \nquaintance with the human heart. They \nmust exercise caution and judgment in \nbroaching their doctrines, not to alarm prej- \nudice or provoke controversy. They must \nbring every species of moral artillery to bear. \nWith a people proverbial for vanity little \nsagacity will point out what string to pull- — \nwhen argument lails, bring up flattery to \nsupport it. In short they should be able to \nmould even tiie weaknesses and vices of \nmankind to their purpose. When all class- \nes of people take their opinions chiefly upon \ntrust and pass them on, like empty buckets, \nit must be an object with our teachers to se- \ncure the source whence their opinions are \ndrawn — or rather to be that source. \n\nTo a people so passionately fond of titular \ndistinction, oiir establishment would be very \ndefective if it did not hold out that species \nof attraction, 1 would therefore recommend \nthat a masseliiian College be established in \nthe first iiislaace, with power to confer de- \ngrees of D.D. J^.T.D. L.L. D. &c. &c. \nPerhaps an order of Mouhhammed would be \nbeneficial, its members to be distinguished \nby meddlsj, ribbands, stars, &c, Publi« \n\n\n118 \n\nprocessions would also be found to be of ad- \nvantage, and public days, upon which a \nhopeful convert might be appointed to deliv- \ner a discourse. This distinction would not \nbe thrown away on him, and would besideg \ntend to produce good dispositions in others. \n\nHaving secured the city, the next object \nwould be the university. U'his is of pri- \nmary importance, and would not hold out \nlong after the former had joined us. \n\nSo far, I think, we may calculate upon \nsuccess with confidence. But whether it \nwould attend us into the neighbouring coun- \ntry I am not prepared to say. We should \nthere encounter quite different materials — a \nsturdy, sincere and thoughtful people — \nmore attached to their prejudices and relig- \nion, with less taste for the blandisments of \nw^ealth, and less liberal, than their brethren \nof the metropolis. It is doubtful whether \nwe should be able to make any considerable \nimpression upon them until we are strong \nenough to bring interest to our aid. With \nthis we might expect th it our creed would \nwork at least as great wonders as do their \npolitical creeds when seconded by tho sam« \npowerful ally. \n\n\nI \n\n\n11» \n\nThe next inquiry is, when is the most fav- \norable tiuie to carry our plans into execution? \nTo this 1 answ er corifidentiy now is the time. \nThe present is perhaps the most fav^orable \ntime for our purpose that has occured for \nthese fifty years. The divisions among the \nChristians have been already mentioned. \n\nTheir tlissentions are not coniined to this \ncity. They extend through the country. \nScarcely a week passes but the belligerent \nparties assail each other from the press or \npulpit, at one time in the shape of a Triangle, \nat another in the form of reviews or seals for \ncontroversies. The state of irritation pro- \nduced by this warfare can be easly imagined. \nAnd a change that will restore harmony \nis doubtless considered a desideratum by all \nsober and reHecting spectators. Such a \nchansre we should offer them. To those who \nare offended with the fanaticism of one party \nor the levity and affectation of the other, we \nshould offer simplicity, sincerity, solemnity, \ntruth ! \n\nAgain, another idea — the present moment \nmust be seized if we wish to avail ourselves \nof the religious interregnum produced by \nthe clashing of opinions among the Chris- \ntians. If their altercations or innovations \n\n\n120 \n\nhave loosened their faith or shaken their \nreverence for their Book, we should surely \nbe unwise not to step in and take advantage \nof this state of things. If we delay, their \npresent unfixedness of opinion will subside \ninto old prejudices, or give way to new ones \n— and thus the door be closed upon us for \never, for ever ! \n\nAs to the advantages to be derived from \nturning this flourishing part of the workl to \nthe Faith little need be said. They would \nbe immeasurable. In this city, especially, \nthe minds of men would be cleansed and \nrenovated. Instead of their present vitiated \nand decayed moral powers that are incapable \nof discerning right from wrong, except by the \ngross and sordid tact of profit or disprofit, \nthe people would acquire a clearness and \nrectitude of judgment Avorthy of human na- \nture and the true religion. \n\nThe blessed influences would not be con- \nfined to the higher classes, the lower orders \nwould come in for a large share. The com- \nmon people instead of being excluded from \nour mosques as they are from the churches \nby Christian devices, should have especial \nattention paid to them, with pressing invita- \ntion to attend our worship. This policy^ \n\n\nbesides ^ttacliing to us «. large and vakitiblfe \nportion of the population^ ^vonld evince to \n^e world the superiority of Islaraism over \nChristianity, in sincerity, truth, and a tender \nregard for the human species. ? '^ \n\nBut the gi'eat and unspeakaMe blessing \nof our faith would be reserved for the \nfemale sex. Their condition would undergo \nan entire revolution. No longer the victims \nof fashion and opinion — no longer would a. \nlarge pro[)ortion of the sex be doomed ta \nlanguish iu celibacy and held up to ridicule \nfor imputed characteristicks. Under the \nliberal and truly paternal religion of the \nPropiiet, they would all be matrimonially \nprovided for. And thus the introduction of \nthe true faith would tend to improve the \nmorals of the city and add largely to the \ncomfort and happiness of society. These \neffects would be most conspicuous in the \nsondition of females of the lower classes,. \nThese, at least such as are unmarried^ are \nhere mostly employed in menial occupations^, \nand consequently exposed to every species, \nof temptation. Hence the wide spread pros- \ntitution that defiles this city and this land,. \n0ur purer faith, by bettering the educatiom \nIX, \n\n\n±22 \n\nof that sex, would put away the foul disgrace \nfrom the laud. \n\nAnd now that our purpose may prosper \nand succeed, pi'^y to God most mighty, king \nof the world, giver of all good things. Oil • \nthat a new world may be given to the \nProphet of prophets, and learn to praise God^ \n\n\n122 \n\n\naOJVTEJ\\TS OF CHAPTERS OMITTED. \nCHAP. V. \n\nJlli Bey visits Castle Idand^ and others in \n\nBoston harbour Description of forts \n\nIndependence^ Warren and Strong \n\nCharlestown — -iurnt by the British in \ni775—^Breed'S hill — Account of the battle \nupon it — Bi avery of the Americans on that \noccasion — Query if their descendants have \ninherited that trait? —•JSi avy Yard — Amer- \nican JSi'avy — State Prison, \n\nCHAP. VI. \n\nState oflear>iing in America — In Boston — \nOf the talents of Bostonians — J\\'ot cor- \nrectly appreciated, owing to the exagger- \nation of friendship — Their education — \n^ot tending to liberalize the mind — Their \npropensity to folloiv a dictator — Causes of \n\nthis propensity Early associations \n\nHabits of deference — Jlental inferiority \n— Their fondness for titles — Cause of this \nfondness, \n\nCHAP. VII. \n\nThe author attends the Courts of Judicature \nMode of trying causes — Preferable to that \nof Morocco — T'he Judges — Lawyers — ^* \n\n\nTheir couvtcrfeited zeal — Their homely | \naddress and bald eloquence — Thei\\talentSiM \n— -11 directed—Their learning — On fheM \ndeclin-^-*- Tiieir studies — Con tract the mind \nand LHtiate the reasoning powei*s — Theju^i \nry — Its functions — jyothing like it in mus- L \nsulman countries — Q^nery could it not be \nintroduced? — Much valued by •i.merieans. \n\nCHAP. VI It. \n\nQeology of Boston an^ its neighborhood — \nBotany — - ind minerals — Latitude of Bos- \nton ascertained— Longitude from the oh- \nserv ataxy qf Fari'\\ \n\nCHAP. IX. \n\nRecount of the Government o^ Massachusetts \n\n— Its officers Chosen annually The \n\nGovernor — His character — Held in high \nestimation — Has been distinguished; as a \nsoldier— ^The author is introduced to him \n' — Opinion of him raised by the interview \n—'The legislature — Its enormous number \nm-^Its debates — Theory of representation \n^-^Fanciful — Folice of Boston, \n\n\nEI^JD. \n\n\n-^ \n\n\nMAR 1 - 1951 \n\n\n","title":"Extracts from a journal of travels in North America, consisting of an account of Boston and its vicinity","updated_at":"2026-09-05T09:56:29.613352Z","urn":"urn:lemay:boston:document:extracts-from-a-journal-of-travels-in-north-america-consisting-of-an-account-of-boston-and-its","version":1,"withdrawn_reason":null},"urn":"urn:lemay:boston:document:extracts-from-a-journal-of-travels-in-north-america-consisting-of-an-account-of-boston-and-its","version_history":[{"change_note":"accessioned from the Internet Archive, item extractsfromjourt00knap","changed_by":"archive-ingest 0.1.0","recorded_at":"2026-09-05T09:56:29.997106Z","version":1}]}