and, in 1852, a volume of Essays on Life, Sleep, Pain, &c., embracing many important questions of philosophy and hygiene handled in an ingenious and popular manner; amply illustrated from copious stores of reading and extensive personal experience. This book is written in an ingenious and candid spirit; his Manual of Pathology and Therapeutics has gone through six or seven editions. A small volume of verses from his pen, printed but not published, has been noticed in the Southern Literary Messenger,* to which magazine he has sent several papers. In most of the Southern literary journals, the Rose-Bud, Magnolia, Literary Gazette, &c., will be found articles by him. To the Southern Quarterly Review he has been from its origin a frequent contributor. One of his recent articles was a review of Forsyth's Life of Sir Hudson Lowe. He has published a pamphlet on Slavery, originally printed in a Boston periodical, in which he maintains the essential inferiority of the negro, and the futility of the projects suggested for changing his condition at the South.

LINES.

I seek the quiet of the tomb,
There would I sleep;

I love its silence and its gloom
So dark and deep.

I would forget the anxious cares
That rend my breast;

Life's joys and sorrows, hopes and fears,
Here let me rest.

Weep not for me, Lor breathe one sigh

Above my bier

Depart and leave me tranquilly,
Repose is here.

Mock me not with the lofty mound

Of sculptured stone;

Lay me unmarked beneath the ground All-all alone.

OLD AGE AND DEATH-FROM THE ESSAYS ON LIFE, SLEEP, PAIN, &c. Death may be considered physiologically, pathologically, and psychologically. We are obliged to regard it and speak of it as the uniform correlative, and indeed the necessary consequence, or final result of life; the act of dying as the rounding off, or termination of the act of living. But it ought to be remarked that this conclusion is derived, not from any understanding or comprehension of the relevancy of the asserted connexion, nor from any à priori reasoning applicable to the inquiry, but merely à posteriori as the result of universal experience. All that has lived has died; and, therefore, all that lives must die.

The solid rock upon which we tread, and with which we rear our palaces and temples, what is it often, when microscopically examined, but a congeries of the fossil remains of innumerable animal tribes! The soil from which, by tillage, we derive our vegetable food, is scarcely anything more than a mere mixture of the decayed and decaying fragments of former organic being the shells and exuviæ, the skeletons, and fibres, and exsiccated juices of extinct life.

of extremes varying prodigiously, the vegetable and animal organisms not only sustain themselves, but expand and develop themselves, grow and increase, enjoying a better and better life, advancing and progressive. Wherefore is it that at this period all progress is completely arrested; that thenceforward they waste, deteriorate, and fail? Why should they thus decline and decay with unerring uniformity upon their attaining their highest perfection, their most intense activity? This ultimate law is equally mysterious and inexorable. It is true the Sacred Writings tell us of Enoch," whom God took, and he was not;" and of Elijah, who was transported through the upper air in a chariot of fire; and of Melchisedek, the most extraordinary personage whose name is recorded," without father, without mother, without descent: having neither beginning of days, nor end of life." We read the history without conceiving the faintest hope from these exceptions to the universal rule. Yet our fancy has always exulted in visionary evasions of it, by forging for ourselves creations of immortal maturity, youth, and beauty, residing in Elysian fields of unfading spring, amidst the fruition of perpetual vigor. We would drink, in imagination, of the sparkling fountain of rejuvenescence; nay, boldly dare the terror of Medea's caldron. We echo, in every despairing heart, the ejaculation of the expiring Wolcott, "Bring back my youth !"

Reflection, however, cannot fail to reconcile us to our ruthless destiny. There is another law of our being, not less unrelenting, whose yoke is even harsher and more intolerable, from whose pressure Death alone can relieve us, and in comparison with which the absolute certainty of dying becomes a glorious blessing. Of whatever else we may remain ignorant, each of us, for himself, comes to feel, realize, and know unequivocally that all his capacities, both of action and enjoyment, are transient, and tend to pass away; and when our thirst is satiated, we turn disgusted from the bitter lees of the once fragrant and sparkling cup. I am aware of Parnell's offered analogy

The tree of deepest root is found
Unwilling still to leave the ground;

and of Rush's notion, who imputes to the aged such an augmenting love of life that he is at a loss to account for it, and suggests, quaintly enough, that it may depend upon custom, the great moulder of our desires and propensities; and that the infirm and decrepit "love to live on, because they have acquir ed a habit of living." His assumption is wrong in point of fact. He loses sight of the important principle that Old Age is a relative term, and that one man may be more superannuated, farther advanced in natural decay at sixty, than another at one hundred years. Parr might well rejoice at being alive, and exult in the prospect of continuing to live, at one hundred and thirty, being capable, as is affirmed, even of the enjoyment of sexual life at that age; but he who has had his "three sufficient warnings," who is deaf, lame, and blind; who, like the monk of the Escurial, has lost all his cotemporaries, and is condemned to hopeless solitude, and oppressed with the consciousness of dependence and imbecility, must look on Death not as a curse, but a refuge.

bove one hundred. Bald, toothless, nearly blind, bent almost horizontally, and scarcely capable of locomotion, he was absolutely alone in the world, living by permission upon a place, from which the generation to which his master and fellow-servants belonged had long since disappeared. He expressed many an earnest wish for death, and declared, emphatically, that he "was afraid God Almighty had forgotten him."

Birds and fishes are said to be the longest lived of animals. For the longevity of the latter, ascertained in fish-ponds, Bacon gives the whimsical reason that, in the moist element which surrounds them, they are protected from exsiccation of the vital juices, and thus preserved. This idea corresponds very well with the stories told of the uncalculated ages of some of the inhabitants of the bayous of Louisiana, and of the happy ignorance of that region, where a traveller once found a withered and antique corpse-so goes the tale-sitting propped in an arm-chair among his posterity, who could not comprehend why he slept so long and so soundly.

But the Hollanders and Burmese do not live especially long; and the Arab, always lean and wiry, leads a protracted life amidst his arid sands. Nor can we thus account for the lengthened age of the crow, the raven, and the eagle, which are affirined to hold out for two or three centuries.

There is the same difference among shrubs and trees, of which some are annual, some of still more brief existence, and some almost eternal. The venerable oak bis defiance to the storms of a thousand winters; and the Indian baobab is set down as a cotemporary at least of the Tower of Babel, having probably braved, like the more transient though long-enduring olive, the very waters of the great deluge.

It will be delightful to know-will Science ever discover for us?-what constitutes the difference thus impressed upon the long and short-lived races of the organized creation. Why must the fragrant shrub or gorgeous flower-plant die immediately after performing its functions of continuing the species, and the pretty ephemeron languish into non-existence just as it flutters through its genial hour of love and grace and enjoyment: while the bayan and the chestnut, the tortoise, the vulture, and the carp, formed of the same primary material elements, and subsisting upon the very same sources of nutrition and supply, outlast them so indefinitely?

Death from old age, from natural decay-usually spoken of as death without disease-is most improperly termed by writers an euthanasia. Alas! how far otherwise is the truth! Old age itself is, with the rarest exceptions, exceptions which I have never had the good fortune to meet with anywhere-old age itself is a protracted and terrible disease.

M'DONALD CLARKE,

THE MAD POET, as he was called in New York, where he figured as the author of numerous volumes, and as a well known eccentric in Broadway some twenty years since, was born in one of the New England states, we believe Connecticut. An inscription to the portrait of one of his books supplies the date of his birth, June 18, 1798. An allusion in the preface to another speaks of a scene with his mother at New London, when he was in his ninth year; and the same introduction records his first appearance, August 13, 1819, in Broadway, New York, thenceforward the main haunt and region of his erratic song.

M'Donald Clarke.

He was a poet of the order of Nat Lee, one of those wits in whose heads, according to Dryden, genius is divided from madness by a thin partition. He was amiable in his weaknesses, having no vices, always preserving a gentility of deportment, while he entertained his imagination with a constant glow of poetic reverie, investing the occasional topics of the town and the day with a gorgeous Byronic enthusiasm. He was constantly to be seen in Broadway, and was a regular attendant at the then, as now, fashionable Graco church. His blue cloak, cloth cap, and erect military air, enhanced by his marked profile, rendered him one of the lions of the pavement. With much purity and delicacy in his verses, it was his hobby to fall in love with, and celebrate in his rhymes, the belles of the city. This was sometimes annoying, however well meant on the part of the poet. Then, from the irregularity of his genius, his muse was constantly stooping from the highest heaven of invention to the lowest regions of the bathetic. The simple, honest nature of the man, however, prevailed; and though witlings occasionally made a butt of him, and entertained themselves with his brilliant flights and his frequent sharp wit, he was upon the whole regarded, by those who had any feeling for the matter, with a certain tenderness and respect.* His poems helped to support him. Judging from the number of editions and their present scarcity he probably succeeded, in some way or other, by subscription or the charity of publishers, in getting from them a revenue adequate to his humble

wants.

We are not certain that the following are the titles of all his volumes. In 1820 appeared a slight brochure, a Review of the Eve of Eternity and other Poems; and in 1822, The Elixir of Moonshine; being a collection of Prose and Po

On one occasion Col. Stone of the Commercial, and John Lang of the Gazette, were engaged in a newspaper altercation, in the course of which Lang remarked that Stone's brains were like the poet's, a little zig-zag. McDonald stepped into the office of the Commercial, and seeing the Gazette, wrote this impromptu.

I'll tell Johnny Lang in the way of a laugh,

Since he has dragged my name in his petulant brawl, That most people think it is better by half

To have brains that are zig-zag than no brains at all.

etry by the Mad Poet, a neat volume of one hundred and forty-eight small pages, published at the "Sentimental Epicure's Ordinary," and bearing the not very savory motto

Tis vain for present fame to wish,
Our persons first must be forgotten,
For poets are like stinking fish,

That never shine until they're rotten.

In 1825 Clarke published The Gossip; or, a Laugh with the Ladies, a Grin with the Gentlemen, and Burlesque on Byron, a Sentimental Satire, with other Poems; which gave Clason the opportunity of showing his cleverness by burlesquing burlesque. The next year he sent forth a mischievous volume of poetic Sketches, with some complaints of the "Dutch dignity" of the wealthy young belles who were insensible to his gallantries. Then there were two series of Afara or the Belles of Broadway, and a grand collection of the Poems in 1836. The last effusion of which we have met with the title is A Cross and Coronet, published in 1841. Disdaining to extract amusement from the wildest of these verses, we may cite a few of the others which do credit to the writer's feelings.

These are at the commencement of some stanzas on the death of the poet Brainard, who appears to have been his playfellow in their boyhood at New London.

So early to the grave, alas!-alas!
Life is indeed a rushing dream:
His did on wings of lightning pass,
Brightening a Nation with its ben.

Its happy dawn was spent with mine,
And we were wont, in those young days,
Many a joyous hour to join

In kindred tasks, and kindred plays.
Where now his shrouded form is laid,
Our boyish footsteps used to go:
How oft, unthinkingly, we strayed

In that sad place, long years ago! Life was flushed with phantoms then,

That tinged each object with their bloom; We knew not years were coming, when They'd fade in the future's gloom:

We had not seen the frown of Hope

Knew not her eye had ever frownedThat soon our hearts would have to grope For feelings-manhood never found. Saddened as stormy moonlight, looks

The memory of those half bright days,
When we have stolen away from books,
And wasted hours in idle plays.

On Handy's Point-on Groton Height,
We struck the ball, or threw the quoit,
Or calmly, in the cool twilight,

From Hurlbut's wharf have flung the bait. The following is in one of Clarke's frequent moods.

ON SEEING A YOUNG GIRL LOOK VERY WISHFULLY INTO THE STREET, FROM A WINDOW OF MISS'S BOARDING SCHOOL, IN BROADWAY.

Sequestered girl-and dost thou deem

Thy lot is hard, because thou'rt hidden
From public life's bewildered stream,
And public pleasure's fruit forbidden?
Thou little knowest how many cares

Are scattered o'er the surge of fashion,

How soon its guilty scene impairs

Each virtuous hope-each modest passion.
The world assumes a winning shape,
That soils whate'er may dare to eye it,
And those young hearts alone escape,
That have the fortitude to fly it.
It takes the mask of coaxing eyes,

Of languid words, and bashful wooing,
Of tutored prayers, and treacherous sighs,
To tempt the innocent to ruin.

Its look is warm-its heart is cold,

Its accent sweet-its nature savage;
Its arms embrace with feeling's fold,
Till they shall have the power to-ravage.
Those who have mingled in its clash,
And outwardly would seem to prize it,
Its sweetest cup would gladly dash,
And while they feel its smile-despise it.
The broken form-the ruffled cheek-
The icy voice-the cheerless manner-
Disgusted hope and feeling speak,

Worn out beneath a bandit's banner.
Maiden! in some yet shapeless years,

Thou'lt find too true what I have spoken, And read these lines perhaps with tears,

That steal out from a heart that's broken. There is the spirit of his New England home in these lines:

SUNDAY IN SUMMER.

When the tumult and toil of the week have ceased,
How still is the morning that smiles in the east,
The sweet Sabbath morning that comes to refresh
Every soul that is faint in its prison of flesh.
The rich clouds are fringed with yellow and blue-
The lips of the flowers are silvered with dew-
The winds are reposed upon pillows of balm-
Enjoyment is throned on the clear azure calm.
The orchard trees bend their full arms to the earth,
In blessing the breast, where their beauty has birth,
And while bending in crimson luxuriance there,
Seem to have joined in the Sabbath's first prayer.
The little birds sing their gay hymns in the boughs-
The delicate winds from their cradles arouse—
The Sun gently lifts his broad forehead on high,
As Serenity presses her cheek to the sky.
And shall man, who might be an Angel in tears,
Would he weep out the stains of his sensual years,
While Nature is brim'd with affection and praise,
Be a stranger to God, on this dearest of days?
O no-the deep voice of the steeple is loud,
And City and Village in worship are bowed,
While the blue eyes of Summer look tenderly down,
And nothing but Sin has a fear or a frown.

M'Donald's mixture of crudities and sublimities attracted the public, we fear, more than his correcter pieces. He was the mad poet of the town, something like the fool in old plays, venting homilies in most melancholy jest, perhaps with a broken note of music, or a half caught felicity of genius grasped at in one of his quick random flights. Of his humorous efforts a single specimen may suffice, which he appears to have written on the completion of the

ASTOR HOUSE.

The winds of 1784,

Beat on a young Dutchman's head, Who on his brawny shoulders bore Beaver skins, he said

He'd sell, extremely cheap

He sold a heap.

To the shaggy burden bent

Firmly, for many a year,

From the copper seeds of a cent,

Has reaped a golden harvest, here,

Till his name is sinothered in bank stock,
And notched on the eternal rock.

His funeral monument is done-
Crowned with its granite wreath-
Poverty, load the loudest gun,

When he shall bequeath
His example- -as Industry stares—
How to gild grey hairs.

A jovial tomb-stone,-whew!

Such as but few on earth afford-
Many a Fellow will get blue,

Many a mock-dirge be roared

From those gay corners, when New York
Hears other Centuries laugh, and talk.
Its front, to the flashing East,

Let the broadside of the heaviest storm,
With wild, white lightnings creased,

Thunder for Ages on its form,
"Twill stand through thick and thin,
Showers of-whiskey punch, within.
Benevolence, bid him build,

A twin-tomb to that Alpine pile,
Have it with homeless orphans filled,
Whose fond and grateful smile,
Shall memory's sweetest moonlight shed,
For ever, o'er his mouldering head.

Scorn and sentiment were the best winged arrows in Clarke's quiver. His indignation at fortune for her treatment of genius and beauty, and at the fopperies and impertinences of fashion, was unbounded; he would rant in these fits of indignation beyond the powers of the language; but he would always be brought back to human sensibility by the sight of a pretty face or an innocent look.

His verses are incongruous enough, grotesque and absurd to the full measure of those qualities, but a kind eye may be attracted by their very irregularity, and find some soul of goodness in them; and a lover of oddity-who would have subscribed for a copy when the poet was living-may innocently enough laugh at the crudities.

At any

rate we have thought some notice of the man worth presenting, if only as a curious reminiscence of city life in New York, and a gratification to the inquiring visitor at Greenwood Cemetery, who asks the meaning of the simple monument at "the Poet's Mound, Sylvan Water," upon which the death of M'Donald Clarke is recorded March 5,

1812.

ISAAC STARR CLASON,

A WRITER of fine talent but of a dissipated life, was born in New York in 1798. His father was a wealthy merchant of the city. The son had a good education and inherited a fortune. He wasted the latter in a course of prodigal living, and was driven to exhibit his literary accomplish ments as a writer of poems, generally more remarkable for spirit than sobriety, as a teacher of elocution, and as an actor. He appeared on the boards of the Bowery and Park theatres in leading Shakespearian parts, but without much suc

cess. In 1825 he published Don Juan, Cantos xvII., XVIII., supplementary to the poem of Lord Byron, and in a kindred vein, not merely of the grossness but of the wit. It made a reputation for the author, and still remains probably the best of the numerous imitations of its brilliant original which have appeared. The scandal of the author's life faithfully reflected in it, added not a little to its piquancy.

This was followed, in 1826, by a collection of poems entitled Horace in New York. In this the author celebrates Malibran, then in the ascendant in opera, Dr. Mitchill, Halleck, and the Croakers, and other gossip of the town. In addition to these playful effusions, his capacity for serious verse is shown in some feeling lines to the memory of the orator and patriot Emmett.

In 1833 he wrote a poem founded on the "Beauchampe tragedy" of Kentucky; but the manuscript was never seen by any of his family, though he was heard to repeat passages from it. The poem is probably irrecoverably lost.

In 1834 Clason closed his life by a miserable tragedy in London, whither he had gone as a theatrical adventurer. Reduced to poverty, this man of naturally brilliant powers threw away the opportunities of life by suicide. In company with his mistress he carefully sealed the room in which they lodged in London against the admission of air, and lighted a fire of charcoal, from the fumes of which both were found suffocated.

NAPOLEON-FROM THE DON JUAN.

I love no land so well as that of France-
Land of Napoleon and Charlemagne;
Renowned for valor, women, wit, and dance,
For racy Burgundy, and bright Champagne-
Whose only word in battle was "advance,"

While that "Grand Genius" who seemed born to

reign

Greater than Ammon's son, who boasted birth
From heaven, and spurned all sons of earth.
Greater than he, who wore his buskins high,
A Venus armed, impressed upon his Seal—
Who smiled at poor Calphurnia's prophecy,
Nor feared the stroke he soon was doomed to feel;
Who on the Ides of March breathed his last sigh,
As Brutus plucked away his "cursed steel,"
Exclaiming as he expire 1, "Et tu Brute!"
But Brutus thought he only did his duty.
Greater than he who at nine years of age,

On Carthage' altar swore eternal hate,
Who with a rancor, time could ne'er assuage-
With Feelings, no reverse could moderate-
With Talents, such as few would dare engage-
With Hopes, that no misfortune could abate-
Died, like his rival, both with broken hearts:
Such was their fate, and such was Bonaparte's.

Napoleon Bonaparte! thy name shall live,

Till Time's last echo shall have ceased to sound, And if Eternity's confines can give

To Space reverberation-round and round The Spheres of Heaven, the long, deep cry of " Vive Napoleon!" in Thunders shall reboundThe Lightning's flash shall blaze thy name on high, Monarch of Earth, now Meteor of the Sky!

What! though on St. Helena's rocky shore,

Thy head be pillowed, and thy form entombed,Perhaps that Son, the child thou didst adore, Fired with a father's fame, may yet be doomed

To crush the bigot Bourbon, and restore

Thy mould'ring ashes, ere they be consumed;-
Perhaps, may run the course thyself didst run-
And light the World, as Comets light the sun;

"Tis better thou art gone; 'twere sad to see
Beneath an "imbecile's" impotent reign,
Thy own unvanquished legions, doomed to be
Čursed instruments of vengeance on poor Spain,—
That land so glorious once in chivalry,

Now sunk in Slav'ry and in Shame again;
To see th' Imperial Guard, thy dauntless band,
Made tools for such a wretch as Ferdinand.
Farewell Napoleon! thine hour is past;

No more earth trembles at thy dreaded name, But France, unhappy France, shall long contrast Thy deeds with those of worthless D'Angoulême. Ye Gods! how long shall slavery's thraldom last? Will France alone remain for ever tame? Say! will no Wallace, will no Washington, Scourge from thy soil the infamous Bourbon? Is Freedom dead? Is Nero's reign restored? Frenchmen! remember Jena, Austerlitz! The first, which made thy Emperor the Lord Of Prussia, and which almost threw in fits Great Fred'rick William-he who at the board Took all the Prussian uniform to bits; Fred'rick, the king of regimental tailors, As Hudson Lowe the very prince of jailers. Farewell Napoleon! hadst thou have died

The coward scorpion's death-afraid, ashamed, To meet Adversity's advancing tide,

The weak had praised thee, but the wise had blamed:

But no! though torn from country, child, and bride,
With Spirit unsubdued, with Soul untamed,
Great in Misfortune, as in Glory high,
Thou daredst to live through life's worst agony.
Pity, for thee, shall weep her fountains dry!
Mercy, for thee, shall bankrupt all her store!
Valor shall pluck a garland from on high!

And Honor twine the wreath thy temples o'er! Beauty shall beckon to thee from the Sky!

And smiling Seraphs open wide Heaven's door! Around thy head the brightest Stars shall meet, And rolling Suns play sportive at thy feet!

Farewell Napoleon! a long farewell!

A stranger's tongue, alas! must hymn thy worth; No craven Gaul dare wake his Harp to tell

Or sound in song the spot that gave thee birth. No more thy Name, that with its magie spell Aroused the slumb'ring nations of the earth, Echoes around thy land! 'tis past; at length, France sinks beneath the sway of Charles the Tenth.

THOMAS ADDIS EMMET.

Son of a land, where Nature spreads her green,
But Tyranny secures the blossomed boughs;
Son of a race, long fed with Freedom's flame,
Yet trampled on when blazing in her cause:-
With reverence I greet thee, gifted man-
Youth's saucy blood subsides at thy grey hairs.
Oh, what was the true working of thy soul-
What griefs-what thoughts played in thy pliant
mind,

When, in the pride of manhood's steady glow,
Thy back was turned upon the fav'rite trees,
Which, to thy childhood, had bestowed a shade?
When every step, which bore thee to the shore,
Went from old paths, and hospitable roofs ?-
Did not the heart's-tear tremble in thine eye,
A prayer for Erin quiver on thy lip,

As the ship proudly held her prow aloft,
And left the green isle in her creaming wake?

And if a grief pressed on thy manly heart,
A prayer arose upon the ocean breeze,
At leaving each beloved face and scene:-
Did not the tear appear, and praise arise,
When stranger forms held out the friendly hand,
When shores, as strange, with smiles adopted thee?
Yes! yes! there was a tear:-a tear of joy ;-
There was a prayer:-a prayer of gratitude.

And well thou hast returned each kindness done, A birth-right purchased by thy valued deeds; And those who tendered thee a brother's grasp, Bow, with respect, at thy intelligence, And glory in the warmth their friendship showed.

I love to see thee in the crowded court, Filling the warm air with sonorous voice, Which use hath polished, time left unimpairedBold, from the knowledge of thy powers of mind; Flowing in speech, from Nature's liberal giftsWhile thy strong figure and commanding arm, Want but the toga's full and graceful fold, To form a model worthy of old Rome.

I smile to see thy still unbending form

Dare winter's cold and summer's parching heat,
And buffet the wild crowd with gallant strength-
The slight bamboo poised graceful in thy hand,
And wielded with the air of Washington-
While thy light foot comes bravely from the earth,
As if the mind were working in the trunk.

And yet, though I enjoy thy frosty strength,
There's something tells me in thy furrowed face,
A virtuous age cannot o'erstep the tomb!
A solemn something whispers to my soul,
The court will feel the silence at thy death,
More than it did thy bursts of eloquence.

While thy chair standing in thy now warm home,
Will have an awful void when thou art gone.
What is't to thee if thy long life should wane!
The immortal soul will unsubdued arise,
And glow upon the steps of God's own throne:
Like incense kindled on an altar's top.

Cold as thy monument thy frame must be-
Warm as thy heart will be thy epitaph.
For thus the aching mind of valued friend,
Shall pay the last meed to the man he loved:
"Green as the grass around this quiet spot;
Pure as the Heavens above this cenotaph;
Warm as the sun that sinks o'er yonder hills;
And active as the rich, careering clouds;
Was he who lies in earth a thing of nought?
A thing of nought!-For what is man, great God?
A very worm; an insect of a day-

His body but the chrys'lis to his mind!
For, even here-here where the good man's laid,
And proud Columbia's genius grieves

We can but murmur: Here an Emmet lies."

JOHN HUGHES.

THIS distinguished divine and controversialist was born in the north of Ireland, 1798. He came to America in his nineteenth year, and Emmetsburg, Maryland. Soon after his ordinastudied theology at the college of Mount St. Mary, tion in 1825, he became the rector of a Roman Catholic church in Philadelphia, where he entered, in 1830, upon a newspaper discussion with the Rev. Dr. John Breckenridge, a leading divine of the Presbyterian church. The articles thus published were collected in & volume. An oral discussion between the same parties took place in