Reform has struck its axe, at length, into the tap root of our social evils. How comes it that science, and invention and skill, stimulated in every nerve, have ended in a pauperism, which opening ever wider, threatens to ingulph society in a vortex of civil convulsion? Strange sight, when, under the shadow of cathedrals, a hungry farmer burns the granary, where is stored the food he worked to produce and now pines for; when mobs in rags break the machinery that multiplies, even beneath their hands, with indefinite rapidity, the very garments which they need to cover their nakedness. Wonderful commentary on Christian mercy, when miserable wretches commit crimes, so called, that they may be fed and housed, and learn trades in penitentiaries; and when condemned felons have what honest laborers beg for in vain, the poor privilege of earning, by daily toil, their daily bread. Surprizing result of Christian civilization, when grave legislators deliberate on laws to check the dwarfing, distortion, and premature decline of children, to whom parents are compelled to give the awful alternative of dying by work or dying by starvation. Reform demands now not charity, but justice. Charity! what efforts has it not made, what millions of treasure, what tears and prayers, what deeds of disinte restedness, what ingenuity and patience, what consecrated lives has it not thrown into this black gulf of poverty, while it yawned only more deep. The charity we need is justice-justice in production, justice in distribution. The evil of evils, socially, is disunited interests. Mankind are one; and, until we admit this principle, as the living germ of communities, we must reap the penalty of folly in prisons and batteries, in armies and polices, in rapine and murder, private and public. The rallying cry today is, SOCIAL REORGANIZATION, by peaceful, not revolutionary means, by natural outgrowth from tendencies now at work in society, which shall make our long-professed Christianity possible and practicable in life. Any observer of the times must see that aspiration, thought, endeavor, on every side are concentrating into this demand for social unions, where all will labor for the good of each, and each for the good of all. Our destiny, our duty is plain before us. We must solve this problem of Unity of Interests. Providence permits no longer postponement of that riddle. By force or by love, by folly or wisdom, by fierce explosion or peaceful concert, must this age answer the question, "how can we have community with individuality, and individuality with community, and so love our neighbors as ourselves." There is no avoiding, any longer, the clear, strong commands of Christian brotherhood. There is no taking back the step forward that democracy has made. The accidental nobility of earth may well shake on their gilded stools, acting the part of greatness in the tragi-comedy of the world, before the stern whisper, "Equal Rights," of those who are not in play, but in earnest; while they who honor the true nobility of worth, in character, mind, and energy, must rejoice. Men are more and more, henceforth, to be tested by what they are, not by what they have; by their ability to bestow, not by the chance of their posses sions. The error of the modern doctrine of liberty, has been its tone of selfish independence; its idol has been individualism; its sin, lawlessness; its tendencies, to anarchy. This isolation, however, is an inconsistency; for all liberty rests on the law of love. The very meaning of the assumed right of majorities is, that the race is a unity, that one life flows through it, that the Infinite Spirit needs various minds combined, conspiring, to give full utterance to his commandments, full execution to his will. The madness of a destructive radicalism, of a licentious individualism has, indeed, already past. It was but a momentary reaction against the usurpations of mock kings and nobles. The wise of our day see clearly, that freedom is possible only in communion. Freedom, in the Ideal, is the concerted action of many men seeking the Right. We are approaching an era of a deeper loyalty, of a more chivalrous devotedness to the race, of a more hearty reverence for the truly great, than decayed and fading monarchies and oligarchies have ever witnessed. Give free room for men to prove what they are, to gain full development, to fling their gifts, be they mites or ingots, into the common treasury, and instantly it will appear, that we instinctively rejoice to honor the genuinely worthy. Our petty system of caste and rank rests on such straw and sand foundations; our actual palaces of distinctions are such card-house structures, that one strong breath of protest levels all to the dust. Hence, our body-guard of hypocritical etiquettes and make-believe courtesies. We are conscious that we are all sliding on a thin crust of civilities, fast melting away, and hold by each other lest we fall and break through. But we may as well look facts in the face. The day has dawned upon modern society, which will judge all men, not by pretences but by realities; and the spirit of Reform says this very hour, to every one, prince or prelate, gentle or simple, alike, "prove what you can do of good for your earth, for your kind, for your God, and take your place, accordingly, among your brothers. Let the strong give, let the weak receive; let all exchange their mutual wealth with mutual honors." Social Reorganization, again we say, upon the principle of United Interests, is now the watchword of Humanity. TO MY COMPANIONS. BY WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING. Ye heavy-hearted mariners Ye patient, ye who labor, Sitting at the sweeping oar, From out among your dreariness, I speak, for I am yours On these gray shores. Nay, nay, I know not, mariners, What cliffs these are, That high uplift their dark, smooth fronts, And round us sadly bar. I do imagine that the free clouds play Above these eminent heights; that, somewhere, day Rides his triumphant way Upon our stern oblivion, And hath his pure dominion; Yet see no path thereout, To wind from doubt. PRINCE'S POEM S.* BY PARKE GODWIN. Two years have elapsed, since this man Prince made his appearance above the chaos of London, and yet no American publisher has thought of putting his poems to press-nay, worse than that, no American Review has thought it worth while to tell us of his existence. We admit that American publishers are not bound to reprint everything that makes its appearance in London, indeed, that American reviews are not bound to notice everything of that sort; but, at the same time, we must say, that many things escape the eye of both that it would have been well for them to seize. Here, for instance, is an unpretending volume of poems which deserve some attention. Apart from the extraordinary history of the author, (to which we shall refer,) apart from the singular circumstances of suffering under which they may be said to have been squeezed out, they have merit enough in themselves to pay one for their perusal. In truth, when we come to think of it, we consider the fact, that we have not before heard of this man here, pretty strong evidence that our literature is not properly watched over or cared for; but, unfortunately, evidence is not needed on that point. Why has not some sagacious publisher, some quarterly reviewer, or some able editor let us know of the claims and whereabouts of this John Critchley Prince? We take it hard that they. have allowed us to remain in ignorance so long. As no other, then, has come forward to introduce the stranger to American readers, we shall volunteer the duty ourselves, glad in having the opportunity of so agreeable a chaperonship. Let us, then, say in the outset, that we look upon him as altogether one of the most surprising phenomenon that has recently crossed our literary horizon. He is one of the rarest instances of "the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties." No better exemplification than he could be found, of the miserable unfitness, of the discordancy and despotism, of the radical viciousness of our modern modes of social organization. His life has been one continued and perilous struggle for bread. Society, when he only asked it for fish, has given him a scorpion. Able to work and willing to work, with strong muscles and a heart full of all good sensibilities, he has yet wandered over the earth like an outcast. There is scarcely a brute horse, in his native land, who has had a harder time of it, in his pinched and precarious existence, than this full-grown, noble-souled man. This is abundantly shown by a brief "sketch of the author's life," prefixed to his volume, and which we intend to avail ourselves of, in what we are now about to say. Prince was born at Wigan, a small town of Lancashire, England, on the 21st of June, in the year 1808. He is therefore, now, thirty-five years of age. His father made reeds for weavers, out of the scanty pittance received for which, he endeavored to rear a family of several children. We say, he endeavored; for it does not appear that he succeeded in that laudable purpose, that he did accomplish, at all times, the getting them victuals and clothes for the body, and much less spiritual food for the mind. * Hours with the Muses, by John Critchley Prince. Second edition. London, 1842. They grew up, accordingly, so far as he was concerned, without education, save that which is derived from hunger and hard work. Yet the mother, good soul, "an intelligent and industrious woman," contrived, in the midst of her destitution, to instil good principles into their minds, and to provide them occasionally with a seat in the Baptist Sabbath-school. One of them, John, the subject of our present writing, seemed to have a natural appetite for books. He learned his letters almost by intuition, and was soon able to devour every printed thing that came in his way. Every leisure moment, that the rigorous exactions of an apprenticeship to the trade of his father allowed him, was devoted to the pursuit of learning. Nor was he always suffered to indulge himself, even during these snatches of time; since he often experienced harsh treatment at the hands of the same parent, for what was supposed to be his incorrigible and pernicious idleness. In the solitary hours of the night, when all the rest of his family were in bed, he would steal from under his coverlid, creep stealthily down stairs, and, by the dim twilight of a "slacked" fire, give himself up to the enjoy ment of the mysterious romances of Mrs. Radcliffe and the wonderful adventures of Robinson Crusoe. In 1821, wheu he was thirteen years of age, his father was compelled, by his increasing embarrassments, to remove from Wigan to Manchester. At that place he procured a brief employment, but was speedily forced to go to Stockport, whence distress again drove them to look for work at Manchester. Two incidents only, worthy of note, befel young Prince during his residence in the latter town. His first was, that he met with a copy of the works of Lord Byron, which he perused with an indescribable intensity of excitement. But what was of more use to him, at this time, was an accidental acquaintance formed with an old German soldier, whose head and heart were filled with the beautiful and touching romances and legends of his fatherland. These he was accustomed to recite with the enthusiasm of a poet, and they awoke in the bosom of Prince, now become his inseparable companion in nightly wanderings over the hills, all those indefinite yearnings and aspirations which are the source of poetry. The old man, too, had seen much of the world; he had been in different armies; he had conversed with philosophers; he had stored his mind from books; and he was able to temper the enthusiasm of his youthful disciple with lessons of wisdom and virtue. But while his inward life was thus ministered to, his condition, externally, was one of increasing poverty and toil. Once more, his father, tormented by pecuniary difficulties, made an ef fort to escape them by removing to Hyde, a village eight miles distant from Manchester. It was a vain attempt, for the existence of the family dragged on as before, amid accumulating causes of disappointment and anguish. The times, to use a commercial phrase, were bad; there was little or no employment to be had for the poor; the mouths to be fed and the backs to be clothed were multiplying; and, altogether, the world had a most forbidding and disastrous look for that humble household. Add to this, a piece of imprudence of which John was guilty, and the sum of their misery is complete. In 1826. when under nineteen years of age, by no means a proficient in his trade, and still an apprentice to his father, e contracted an attachment for a woman, even poorer than himself, and married. Poor fellow, he was induced to do so, in the hope of making a happy home for himself; his own having become intolerable! He appears to have chosen a wife of excellent qualities, but alas! where were they to lodge, and how to be fed? These were questions which neither of them could readily answer; yet they managed to "share the curse" until a year or two brought them children, and with them, again, the want of bread. What to do now, Prince did not know. Work, which so many fly from, would have been to him a rare privilege. It was said in the newspapers-this was about 1830-that recent events had opened a way for artizans in France, and thither would Prince go. Leaving his wife and three children to provide for themselves-how, God only knew he sat off for St. Quentin in Picardy. He walked to London, and thence to Dover. After a detention of five days, on account of the political troubles of those times, he finally made his way to the town to which he wished to go. We can imagine how many anxious wishes must have filled his breast during that solitary journey-wishes cruelly destined to disappointment. In the interval since his departure from Hyde, the French revolution had broken out, scattering terror over all France; Charles X had been dethroned; Louis Philip elected king of the French; consternation prevailing on all sides; and, of course, business of every kind, for the time, suspended. Prince could get no employment among manufactures disturbed by the agitations of civil war. All his trouble and time, spent on the long journey from his home, had been worse than wasted. He was now among strangers, without a penny in his pocket, without a friend to console him, without a house to shelter his naked head. Whither should he fly? Must he sink down to the earth in despair, or make one more desperate effort for his starving wife and children? His noble spirit did not desert him in this extremity. All was not yet gone: for, there were his strong arms and his resolute will. He pushed forward to Mulhausen, on the Upper Rhine, which was mentioned to him as a considerable seat of manufactures. Arriving there, he found that trade was little better than it had been in Picardy. The manufactures were standing idle, and an unparalleled distress pervaded all classes of the working people. Alone, and among strangers whose language even he did not understand, his prospects grew gloomier than they were before; and being totally destitute of means to return home, for five protracted months he continued with starvation daily staring him in the face. Now and then, the snatches of work, yielded to him in charity, were all that kept him this side of the grave. Often, for two whole days together, did he wander about without a mouthful of food. A winter of unusual severity was fast coming on, when he resolved, if he must die, to die among his kindred and friends. In January of 1831, he quitted Milhausen for the purpose of walking to his home. What an undertaking was that? To walk through strange lands, in the depth of winter, many hundred miles, without a guide and without money, surely, required the soul of a hero! Prince was such a hero. In the midst of his privations and sufferings, his cheerfulness and his poetry did not desert him. Nay, he could even stop, at times, to admire the wonders of art and nature which are so thickly scattered along the regions of the Rhine. His imagination fed on the glories of those rich old countries; his piety warmed in their cathedrals and churches. He journeyed through Strasbourg, Rheims, Verdun, Chalons, begging his way as he went, and sleeping at night in hospitals and under sheds, until his feet, weary and sore, once more pressed the beach of Calais. There he was furnished with means, by the British consul, to carry him to Dover.. |