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as seamen and Englishmen. He says: "Some of the former (the men) had belonged to the Iphigenia, others to the Guerriere; and 40 or 50 were recognised as English."-p. 193. Now, we humbly submit, that we had just as good a right to the service of the "Americans and other foreigners," as King George III., even allowing that we had impressed them, as was probably the fact with the servants of that monarch; and a much better right, on the supposition that they entered into our marine voluntarily, and for ample pay. As for the two men who had been "pressed on their way to America," Irish emigrants-haymakers at home, quite likely we cannot think that the Java owed her defeat to their succor.

In speaking of the Chesapeake, Mr. James says, that she was pierced "for the same number of broadside ports as the President; this may account for the Chesapeake's having formerly rated of 44 guns."-p. 246. The Chesapeake, so far from ever having been a 44, was much the smallest vessel of her rate in the American navy, and much the weakest. It is true she was miscalled a 44, for some time, but the error arose from her having been originally intended for a ship of that class; a size she never attained, in consequence of some mistake in her moulds.

Another rare specimen of Mr. James's reasoning is to be found in connexion with his account of the proceedings on Lake Erie. After giving the table of the force and crews of the British vessels on that lake in May, in which all the people are set down either as Canadians" or "soldiers," he goes on to add-" Not a seaman among them; and, if we except the soldiers and provin cial officers, (the latter included among the Canadians) not one on board that could speak English !"—pp. 284, 285. Here is the explanation of this passage. The English had a provincial navy on the lakes, previously to the arrival of the officers of the royal navy; just as they once had provincial vessels in this country, in the old wars. The sailors of these vessels are the men called 'Canadians," and many of them were far better than the ordinary run of seamen on the ocean, being free from the enervating vices engendered in large seaports. Some, doubtless, were native Canadians; but many, we know from personal observation, were European seamen, who had found their way up to these waters. Mr. James, it will be seen, enumerates every "Canadian" as a 'landsman," '—a "peasant ;" and not satisfied with this, he assumes that not one of them could speak English. Nay, he goes further not an officer, even, was a seaman, Here then was the novel spectacle of a force, consisting of a ship, a brig, three schooners, and a sloop, armed with 45 guns, and manned with

268 souls, without a sailor among them! Who rigged and sailed these vessels, he does not condescend to tell us. As if this were not enough, he adds, that except the provincial officers (who could speak English, though no sailors) and the soldiers, not a man could speak the English language. Now, on board these six vessels there must have been, at the very least, 24 officers. Add this number to the 160 soldiers, and it gives an exception, according to Mr. James's own showing, of 184 who could speak English, out of a total of 268; making, in this instance, an exemplification of a dogma laid down by a celebrated critic of our own, that "exceptions sometimes form a general rule."

But it is time to conclude with Mr. James. No ordinary motive could have induced us to notice his book at all. We hold it to be indecent in tone and language, audacious in assertion, erroneous in spirit as well as in facts, puerile in reasoning, and contradictory and illogical in its inductions. Nevertheless, it is the sheet-anchor of the Edinburgh; without it, the article of that Review would be all adrift. In what we have here said, then, we have aimed principally at showing the utter worthlessness of Mr. James as authority; and this, too, less by adducing evidence drawn from other sources, than by evidence drawn from himself. We hold, with Capt. Brenton, that a horse-doctor must, in the nature of things, make but an indifferent nautical critic; a fact of which we have met with a hundred proofs while running through the "Occurrences," though they have not been laid before the reader, inasmuch as his own want of technical knowledge might exact from us explanations and references that would fill the limits of an ordinary article for the Democratic Review. An instance of what we mean is to be found in this sentence, viz.: "But, in consequence of there being only a ridge-rope, or rail, round either the poop or the top-gallant forecastle, the guns there stationed were disabled after the first discharge."-p. 414. Now the man who fancies that a gun could have a breeching fastened to a ridge-rope, must take a very veterinary view of gunnery; and if Mr. James did not mean to infer this, what did he mean? If the guns were otherwise secured, what signifies the "ridge-rope, or rail?" and if he intends his readers to understand that they were thus secured, what signifies his seamanship?

Here we dismiss Mr. James, though we may have one or two occasions to refer to him again, when we come to deal with our contemporary of Edinburgh. Our limits are now reached, and we must refer the reader to the next number for the conclusion of the subject.


"That cheerful one, who knoweth all
The songs of all the winged choristers,
And in one sequence of melodious sound,

Pours all their music."-Southey's Madoc in Aztlan.

A FEW years ago there arrived at the hotel, erected near the Niagara Falls, an odd-looking man, whose appearance and deportment were quite in contrast with the crowds of well-dressed and polished figures which adorned that celebrated resort. He seemed just to have sprung from the woods. His dress, which was made of leather, stood dreadfully in need of repair, apparently not having felt the touch of either laundress or needlewoman for many a long month. A worn-out blanket, that might have served for a bed, was buckled to his shoulders; a large knife hung on one side, balanced by a long rusty tin box on the other; and his beard, uncropped, tangled, and coarse, fell down upon his bosom, as if to counterpoise the weight of black thick hair-locks, that supported themselves upon his back and shoulders. This strange being, to the spectators seemingly half-civilized, half-savage, had a quick glancing eye, an elastic firm movement, and a sharp face, that would no doubt cut its way through the cane-brakes, both of the wilderness and of society.

He pushed his steps into the sitting-room, unstrapped his little burden, quietly looked round for the landlord, and then modestly asked for breakfast. The host at first drew back with evident repugnance at the apparition which thus proposed to intrude its uncouth form among the genteel visiters, but a word whispered in his ear speedily satisfied his doubts. The stranger took his place among the company; some staring, some shrugging, and some even laughing outright. Yet, reader, there was more in that single man than in all the rest of the throng; he was an American Woodsman, as he called himself; he was a true genuine son of nature, yet who had been entertained with distinction at the tables of princes; learned societies, to which the like of Cuvier belonged, had bowed down to welcome his entrance; kings had been complimented when he spoke to them; in short, he was one whose fame will be growing brighter, when the fashionables who laughed at him, and many much greater even than they, shall have utterly perished. From every hill-top, and every deep shady grove, the birds, those "living blossoms of the air," will sing his name. The little wren will pipe it with her matin hymn about our houses; the oriole carol it from the slender grasses of the meadows; the turtle-dove roll it through the secret forests;

the many-voiced mocking-bird pour it along the evening air; and the imperial eagle, the bird of Washington, as he sits in his craggy home, far up the blue mountains, will scream it to the tempests and the stars. He was John James Audubon, the Ornithologist.

Mr. Carlyle, in his book about Heroes, has given us that interesting manifestation of human nature-we mean the heroic-in a variety of aspects. He has told us of the Hero as divinity; the Hero as prophet; the Hero as poet; the Hero as priest; the Hero as man of letters; and the Hero as king. But did it never occur to him, that one species he has entirely omitted? Did he not recognise the Hero in the man of science; and did he not know that, at the time he was writing, there travelled alone, somewhere in the vast primeval forests of America, a naturalist of native original insight, of manhood and heroic nobleness; possessed of every quality of energy and endurance to be found in the most illustrious of his Great Men? If he did not know it, let us inform him. Let us show him-not after any manner of our own, but from those indubitable evidences, the works of the man-that there are heroes of the best sort, even in these dull days. "Heroism," says Mr. Carlyle's fast friend, Mr. Emerson, "in its rudest form, is contempt for safety and ease," "it is a self-trust which slights the restraints of prudence in the plenitude of its energy and power,"-" a mind of such a balance that no disturbance that can shake its will, but pleasantly, and as it were, merrily advances to its own music,"-"the extreme of individual nature,"—" obedience to the secret impulses of an individual character," "is of an undaunted boldness, and of a fortitude not to be wearied out." If this be a good definition, then our hero is one of the truest of the world's heroes, worthy to be ranked and recorded on the same page with the greatest.

But we do not propose to write the biography of Mr. Audubon. There will be plenty of time for that when his work here shall have been finished. We wish only to present some phases of his singular and estimable character, as nearly as we can in his own words. Fortunately, he is of a communicative disposition, and we shall not be compelled to wander far for our materials. Those delightful interludes of description and adventure, woven into the woof of his equally delightful sketches of birds, are full of suggestions for us. Be that as it may, we are certain that a great deal of what we shall say and extract will be new to the multitude of ordinary readers. Would that our space were equal to the abundance of our means of interest! Would that the dimen

• He has prepared an autobiography, which will be published after his death. What a treat for the readers of that day-that distant day, we hope it may be!

sions of our publication were consistent with a full display of the simplicity, single-heartedness, enthusiasm, and perseverance of the subject of our brief talk; of that genius, as Wilson has it, "selfnursed, self-refined, and self-tutored, among the inexhaustible treasures of the forest, on which, in one soul-engrossing pursuit, it had lavished its dearest and divinest passion.'

Mr. Audubon was born about 1782, in the State of Louisiana, not Pennsylvania, as has been many times stated. His parents, who were French, were of that happy nature which disposed them to encourage the early indications of talent in the minds of their children. They early perceived in the subject of these remarks that love of the woods and fields, which has since made him so conspicuous as a naturalist among men. "When I had hardly learned to walk," says he, in the preface to the first volume of his Ornithology, "and to articulate those first words always so endearing to parents, the productions of nature that lay spread all around, were constantly pointed out to me. They soon became my playmates; and before my ideas were sufficiently formed to enable me to estimate the difference between the azure tints of the sky and the emerald hue of the bright foliage, I felt that an intimacy with them, not consisting of friendship merely, but bordering on phrensy, must accompany my steps through life; and now, more than ever, am I persuaded of the power of those early impressions. They laid such a hold of me, that when removed from the woods, the prairies, and the brooks, or shut up from the view of the wide Atlantic, I experienced none of those pleasures most congenial to my mind. None but aërial companions suited my fancy. No roof seemed so secure to me as that formed of the dense foliage under which the feathered tribe were seen to resort, or the caves and fissures of the massy rocks to which the dark-winged cormorant and the curlew retired to rest, or to protect themselves from the fury of the tempest. My father generally accompanied my steps; procured birds and flowers for me with great eagerness; pointed out the elegant movements of the former-the beauty and softness of their plumagethe manifestations of their pleasure or their sense of dangerand the always perfect forms and splendid attire of the latter. My valued preceptor would then speak of the departure and return of birds with the seasons; would describe their haunts, and, more wonderful than all, their change of livery; thus exciting

It is proper to say, that the narrative parts of our essay are mostly given in Mr. Audubon's own language, with such changes of tense and phraseology as the nature of the case demanded. His descriptions are so simple and pleasing, that to have altered them in any essential respect would have been to spoil them.

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