tive lectures I have heard. He has a clear voice, and reads As for the juvenile criticism elicited by his lectures, it reminds one of a giant running the gauntlet between rows of Liliputians. Shoot away, ye grass-hoppers, armed with popguns. Don't be afraid, the grand jury will never indict you for murder, for you cannot kill, and if you could you are not accountable. Every person in the Melodeon fell in love with Steele, when the speaker, in his own peculiar manner, said he was 66 a black-eyed, soft-hearted, Irish boy," and their affection for him did not wane the least when he continued, "he was a lazy, good-natured, generous, good for nothing, talented boy, fond of lolly-pop, had an early taste for sack, and the gift to borrow money of his school-mates" (I do not quote verbatim). The speaker here introduced a brief history of his own experience at school. Said he had seen many great men, but none so great as the head boy at school; and when he had met such in after years, he was astonished to find them not more than six feet tall, and was surprised they had, not become prime ministers. He said, Addison was head boy at the school Steele attended. Mr. Thackeray was exceedingly happy in his description of Steele as a soldier, "when he became deep in debt and deep in drink." Steele was not a teetotaller, for after he had become a Minister, and after he had written the "Christian Hero," he would put on his wig, cap, and laced coat, kiss his wife and children, tell a lie to them about his pressing engagements, and heeler over to the "Rose," and have a jollification with his bottle companions. Addison was willing to assist him, but found it impossible to keep the tipsy man upon his legs. Steele deserved the admiration and affection of woman, for he was the first of that age to appreciate her worth. Swift and Addison were ungallant, but Steele set a proper estimate upon woman. He dedicated one of his books to his wife, and in the four hundred letters written to her, manifested the traits of true love. He was married twice and outlived his wife, his fortune, and his health. The above is a very imperfect sketch of the lecture, dashed off in a crowd, with my hat for a writing desk. Thackeray seems blest with an intuitive perception for distinguishing the difference between what things are and what they ought to be. "The world is a stage" and men are players, but he has a box to himself, and an opera glass with clear lens. There he sits, weeping at the tragedy and laughing at the comedy of life. He has a profound insight into human nature, and knows exactly how far to go and precisely the place to stop at, when he vibrates between the sublime and the ridiculous. His wit is refined and effectual, because it is based on the detection of unlooked-for resemblance or dissimilarity of ideas, rather than words. He is not like Falstaff, who in a double sense made a butt of himself, first by swallowing so much sack, secondly by his frequent allusions to himself. There is good sense, and practical wisdom, elevation, and enthusiasm in the wit of Thackeray, and however sharp may be the sting, there certainly is no spleen in his satire. His forte lies in describing the characters of men, their modes of dress, their peculiar gestures, their different humors, their singular manners, their style of speaking and writing. He amuses by his coincidences and contradictions, he surprises by his comparisons and combinations. His lectures are not darned and patched with epigrams, quips, quirks, and conundrums. There is no leaving of the high way of his discourse for the purpose of lugging in a metaphor to enliven it. All the figures rise up naturally out of the subject, as blossoms break out under the genial sunshine of Spring. Mr. Thackeray's visit to this city will brush the dust from the old classic authors who have been shamefully slighted for several years past in this country, while the masses have been satisfied with the lollypop literature of the present age. No offence to the bookmakers, for my enemies can say, that I too have written a book. JOHN PIERPONT. And girded for thy constant strife with wrong, Like Nehemiah, fighting while he wrought The broken walls of Zion, even thy song Hath a rude martial tone, a blow in every thought. WHITTIER TO PIERPONT. THE purchased puff-the hurrah of the mob-the presentation of medals-the multitude at one's heels-are not fame. Fame is the spirit of man's genius, which lives in the minds of others, while he lives and after he is dead; for fame is immortal. Popularity is ephemeral, and bears the same relationship to fame that shadow bears to substance. The gross Esau would sell his birthright for a mess of pottage. He would mortgage the blessing of his father for personal gratification; while the man of true genius waits hopefully for the homage which will surely be paid to the everlasting forms of truth and beauty he has left on record, as the reflections of his own mind. Like Jacob, he sees a ladder of light reaching to heaven. He thinks little of himself and much of his subject. He aims at perfection and not popularity. He turns his back on the past, and his face towards the future. He is willing to abide the decision of posterity—hence he speaks the truth. Men of true genius are men of progress; they are reformers. Whoever saw a verse of genuine poetry in defence of oppres sion? What tyrant ever wrote a stanza of pure poetry? Genius never glows in the heart of a tyrant, and Fame will never build her temple over his ashes. John Pierpont, the preacher and poet, is a man on whose shoulders the mantle of true genius has fallen. His pen is never elegantly feeble. He never gives you the glitter of fine words for the gold of pure thought. He does not cringe and creep and bow and lisp like a literary fop; but like a brave, honest, earnest man, as he is, speaks the sentiments that are born in his soul. He is an artist, who thinks the picture of more consequence than the frame. He will not spoil a good thought for the purpose of saying a good thing. He loves Nature more than he fears the Critic, and never commits infanticide on his ideas, at their birth, for fear they should hereafter be murdered by some hypocritical reviewer. The themes selected by him are congenial to his heart. Is there a temple to be dedicated to the service of God? his muse, with harp in hand, stands between the porch and the altar. Is there a monument to be erected over the dust of departed heroes? he there builds a pyramid of verse that will stand when the stones shall have fallen in decay. Is there a crisis in the cause of reform, when the great heart of humanity must speak or break? his words are its throbs, his song its sentiments. No reform poet in America is so great a favorite among the élite and literati as Mr. Pierpont. Perhaps no man in this country receives as many invitations to read poetry before lyceums and colleges as he. At Harvard and New Haven, and every other place where genius is appreciated, he is 1 |