WILLIAM CARLETON. at Prillisk, in the parish of Clogher, County of Tyrone, Ireland, 1798, died 1869. Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry, Dubl., 1830, 2 vols. 8vo (anon.), Second Series, 1832, 2 vols. Svo, both, 1836, 5 vols. small 8vo, and also Lond., 1853, 5 vols. 16mo; Father Butler, Phila., 1835, 18mo; Fardarough the Miser, 1839, new edit., Dubl., 1846, 16mo; The Fawn of Spring Vale, The Clarionet, and other Tales, Dubl., 1841, 3 vols. p. 8vo; Art Maguire, Dubl., 1841, 16mo; Denis O'Shaughnessy Going to Maynooth, Lond., 1845, 16mo; Valentine McClutchy, Dubl., 1848, 8vo, new edit., 1845, 3 vols. p. 8vo; The Black Prophet, Dubl., 1847, 12mo; The Squanders of Castle Squander, Lond., 1852, 2 vols. 12mo ; Willie Reilly, 1855, 3 vols. p. 8vo. See (London) Quart. Review, Oct. 1841. "Never was that wild, imaginative people better described; and amongst all the fun, frolic, and folly, there is no want of poetry, pathos, and passion."-PROFESSOR JOHN WILSON. AN IRISH VILLAGE AND SCHOOL-HOUSE. The village of Findamore was situated at the foot of a long green hill, the outline of which formed a low arch, as it rose to the eye against the horizon. This hill was studded with clumps of beeches, and sometimes enclosed as a meadow. In the month of July, when the grass on it was long, many an hour have I spent in solitary enjoyment, watching the wavy motion produced on its pliant surface by the sunny winds, or the flight of the cloud shadows, like gigantic phantoms, as they swept rapidly over it, whilst the murmur of the rocking trees, and the glaring of their bright leaves in the sun, produced a heartfelt pleasure, the very memory of which rises in my imagination like some fading recollection of a brighter world. At the foot of this hill ran a clear deepbanked river, bounded on one side by a slip of rich level meadow, and on the other by a kind of common for the village geese, whose white feathers during the summer season lay scattered over its green surface. It was also the play-ground for the boys of the village school; for there ran that part of the river which, with very correct judgment, the urchins had selected as their bathing place. A little slope or watering ground in the bank brought them to the edge of the stream, where the bottom fell away into the fearful depths of the whirlpool under the hanging oak on the other bank. Well do I remember the first time I ventured to swim across it, and even yet do I see in imagination the two bunches of water-flags on which the inexperienced swimmers trusted themselves in the water. 435 About two hundred yards above this, the boreen [little road], which led from the vil lage to the main road, crossed the river by one of those old narrow bridges whose arches rise like round ditches across the road,-an almost impassable barrier to horse and car. On passing the bridge in a northern direction, you found a range of low-thatched houses on each side of the road; and if one o'clock, the hour of dinner, drew near, you might observe columns of blue smoke curling up from a row of chimnies, some made of wicker creels plastered over with a rich coat of mud, some of old bottomless tubs, and others, with a greater appearance of taste, ornamented with thick circular robes of straw, sewed together like bees' skeps with the peel of a brier; and many having nothing but the open vent above. But the smoke by no means escaped by its legitimate aperture, for you might observe little clouds of it bursting out of the doors and windows. The panes of the latter being mostly stopped at other times with old hats and rags, were now left entirely open for the purpose of giving it a free escape. Before the doors, on right and left, was a series of dunghills, each with its concomitant sink of green rotten water; and if it happened that a stout-looking woman, with watery eyes, and a yellow cap hung loosely upon her matted locks, came with a chubby urchin on one hand, and a pot of dirty water in her hand, its unceremonious ejection in the aforesaid sink would be apt to send you up the village with your forefinger and thumb (for what purpose you would yourself perfectly understand) closely, but not knowingly, applied to your nostrils. But, independently of this, you would be apt to have other reasons for giving your horse, whose heels are by this time surrounded by a dozen of barking curs and the same number of shouting urchins, a pretty sharp touch of the spurs, as well as for complaining bit terly of the odour of the atmosphere. no landscape without figures: and you might notice-if you are, as I suppose you to be, a man of observation-in every sink as you pass along, "a slip of a pig" stretched in the middle of the mud, the very beau-ideal of luxury, giving occasionally a long luxuriant grunt, highly expressive of his enjoyment; or, perhaps an old farrower, lying in indolent repose, with half a dozen young ones jostling each other for their draught, and punching her belly with their little snouts, reckless of the fumes they are creating; whilst the loud crow of the cock, as he confidently flaps his wings on his own dunghill, gives the warning note for the hour of dinner. It is As you advance, you will also perceive several faces thrust out of the doors, and rather than miss a sight of you, a grotesque of respectable mountains, peering directly visage peeping by a short cut through the into the sky; and in a line that forms an paneless windows, or a tattered female fly- acute angle from the point of the road where ing to snatch up her urchin, that has been you ride, is a delightful valley, in the bottumbling itself heels up in the dirt of the tem of which shines a pretty lake; and a road, lest "the gintleman's horse might ride little beyond, on the slope of a green hill, over it; and if you happen to look behind, rises a splendid house, surrounded by a park you may observe a shaggy-headed youth in well-wooded and stocked with deer. You tattered frieze, with one hand thrust indo- have now topped the little hill above the lently in his breast standing at the door in village, and a straight line of level road, a conversation with the inmates, a broad grin mile long, goes forward to a country town of sarcastic ridicule on his face, in the act which lies immediately behind that white of breaking a joke or two on yourself or your church, with its spire cutting into the sky horse; or perhaps your jaw may be saluted before you. You descend on the other side, with a lump of clay, just hard enough not to and, having advanced a few perches, look fall asunder as it flies, cast by some ragged to the left, where you see a long thatched gossoon from behind a hedge, who squats chapel, only distinguished from a dwellhimself in a ridge of corn to avoid detection. ing-house by its want of chimneys, and a Seated upon a hob at the door, you may small stone cross that stands on the top of observe a toil-worn man, without coat or the eastern gable; behind it is a grave-yard, waistcoat, his red, muscular, sun-burnt and beside it a snug public-house, well shoulder peeping through the remnant of white washed; then, to the right, you ob a shirt, mending his shoes with a piece of serve a door, apparently in the side of a twisted flax, called a lingel, or perhaps sew-clay bank, which rises considerably above ing two footless stockings, or martyeens to his coat, as a substitute for sleeves. In the gardens, which are usually fringed with nettles, you will see a solitary labourer, working with that carelessness and apathy that characterize an Irishman when he labours for himself, leaning upon his spade to look after you, and glad of any excuse to be idle. The houses, however, are not all such as I have described,-far from it. You see here and there, between the more humble cabins, a stout comfortable-looking farmhouse, with ornamental thatching and wellglazed windows; adjoining to which is a hay-yard, with five or six large stacks of corn, well trimmed and roped, and a fine, yellow weather-beaten old hay-rick, half-cut, -not taking into account twelve or thirteen circular strata of stones that mark out the foundations on which others had been raised. Neither is the rich smell of oaten or wheaten bread, which the good wife is baking on the griddle, unpleasant to your nostrils; nor would the bubbling of a large pot, in which you might see, should you chance to enter, a prodigious square of fat, yellow, and almost transparent bacon tumbling about, be an unpleasant object: truly, as it hangs over a large fire, with well-swept hearthstone, it is in good keeping with the white settle and chairs, and the dresser with noggins, wooden trenchers, and pewter dishes, perfectly clean, and as well polished as a French courtier. As you leave the village, you have to the left, a view of the hill which I have already described; and to the right, a level expanse of fertile country, bounded by a good view the pavement of the road. What! you ask yourself, can this be a human habitation? But ere you have time to answer the question, a confused buzz of voices from within reaches your ear, and the appearance of a little gossoon, with a red close-cropped head and Milesian face, having in his hand a short white stick, or the thigh-bone of a horse, which you at once recognize as "the pass" of a village school, gives you the full information. He has an ink-horn, covered with leather, dangling at the button-hole (for he has long since played away the buttons) of his frieze jacket,-his mouth is circumscribed with a streak of ink,-his pen is stuck knowingly behind his ear,-his shins are dotted over with fire-blisters, black, red, and blue,-on each heel a kibe, his "leather crackers," videlicet, breeches, shrunk up upon him, and only reaching as far down as the caps of his knees. IIaving spied you, he places his hand over his brows, to throw back the dazzling light of the sun, and peers at you from under it, till he breaks out into a laugh, exclaiming, half to himself, half to you,— "You a gintleman !-no, nor one of your breed never was, you procthorin' thief, you!" You are now immediately opposite the door of the seminary, when half a dozen of those seated next it notice you. "Oh, sir, here's a gintleman on a horse! masther, sir, here's a gintleman on a horse, wid boots and spurs on him, that's looking in at us." "Silence!" exclaims the master; "back from the door,-boys, rehearse, every one of you rehearse, I say, you Boetians, till the gintleman goes past!" GEORGE BANCROFT. "I want to go out, if you plase, sir." "What is it afther contradicthin' me you'd be? Don't you see the 'porter's' out, and you can't go.' "Well, 'tis Mat Meehan has it, sir; and he's out this half-hour, sir; I can't stay in, sir." "You want to be idling your time looking at the gintleman, Phelim." "No, indeed, sir." "Phelim, I know you of ould,-go to your sate. I tell you, Phelim, you were born for the encouragement of the hemp manufacture, and you'll die promoting it." In the meantime the master puts his head out of the door, his body stooped to a "half bend,"- -a phrase, and the exact curve which it forms, I leave for the present to your own sagacity, and surveys you until you pass. That is an Irish hedge-school, and the personage who follows you with his eye a hedgeschoolmaster. Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry, 1830. 437 eloquence, but frequently picturesque, and always free from imitation and from pedantry: it is, in fact, what it professes to be,-a national work,and is worthy of its great theme."-Knight's Eng. Cyc. notice of vols. i.-v.? WASHINGTON APPOINTED COMMANDER-IN CHIEF. Washington was then [June 15, 1775] forty-three years of age. In stature he a little exceeded six feet; his limbs were sinewy and well proportioned; his chest broad; his figure stately, blending dignity of presence with ease. Ilis robust constitution had been tried and invigorated by his early life in the wilderness, his habit of occupation out of doors, and his rigid temperance; so that few equalled him in strength of arm or power of endurance. His complexion was florid; his hair dark brown; his head in its shape perfectly round. His broad nostrils seemed formed to give expression to scornful anger. His dark blue eyes, which were deeply set, had an expression of resignation, and an earnestness that was almost sadness. At eleven years old, left an orphan to the care of an excellent but unlettered mother, GEORGE BANCROFT, LL.D., he grew up without learning. Of arithmetic and geometry he acquired just knowledge born at Worcester, Massachusetts, 1800, enough to be able to practise measuring land; graduated at Harvard College, 1817, and in but all his instruction at school taught him 1818 prosecuted his studies in Germany, not so much as the orthography or rules of under Heeren and Schlosser; was subse-grammar of his own tongue. His culture quently a Unitarian preacher, and for a was altogether his own work, and he was in short time Greek Tutor in Harvard College; the strictest sense a self-made man ; yet from became associate principal with Joseph G. his early life he never seemed uneducated. Cogswell, LL.D., of the Round Hill School At sixteen he went into the wilderness as a at Northampton, and published translations surveyor, and for three years continued the of Heeren's Reflections on the Politics of pursuit, where the forest trained him, in Ancient Greece, and Heeren's Histories of meditative solitude, to freedom and largethe States of Antiquity and of the Political ness of mind; and nature revealed to him System of Europe and its Colonies from the her obedience to serene and silent laws. In Discovery of America to the Successful Ter- his intervals from toil, he seemed always to mination of the Struggle for Freedom of the be attracted to the best men, and to be cherBritish Colonies; Collector of the Port of ished by them. Fairfax, his employer, an Boston, 1838-1841, Secretary of the Navy, Oxford scholar, already aged, became his 1845, Minister Plenipotentiary to Great fast friend. He read little, but with close Britain, 1846-1849, and to Berlin, 1867- attention. Whatever he took in hand, he 1877. He is the author of a volume of applied himself to with care; and his papers, Poems, 1823, of orations, pamphlets, articles which have been prepared, show how he in North American Review, Boston Quar- almost imperceptibly gained the power of terly Review, etc., a volume of Literary and writing correctly; always expressing him Historical Miscellanies, N. York, 1855, 8vo, self with clearness and directness, often with and of the History of the United States, felicity of language and grace. from the Discovery of the American Colonies to the Establishment of its Independence, Boston, 1834-1874, 10 vols. 8vo. "The History of the United States is a work of great research, and, while the author states bis own opinions decidedly and strongly, it is pervaded by a fair and just spirit. The style is vigorous, clear, and frank, not often rising into When the frontiers on the west became disturbed, he at nineteen was commissioned an adjutant-general with the rank of major. At twenty-one he went as the envoy of Virginia to the council of Indian chiefs on the Ohio and to the French officers near Lake Erie. Fame waited upon him from his youth; and no one of his colony was so much spoken of. He conducted the first military expedition from Virginia that crossed the Alleghanies. Braddock selected him as an aide, and he was the only man who came out of the disastrous defeat near the Monongahela with increased reputation, which extended to England. The next year, when he was but four and twenty, "the great esteem" in which he was held in Virginia, and his "real merit," led the lieutenantgovernor of Maryland to request that he might be "commissioned and appointed second in command" of the army designed to march to the Ohio; and Shirley, the commander-in-chief, heard the proposal "with great satisfaction and pleasure," for "he knew no provincial officer upon the continent to whom he would so readily give it as to Washington." In 1758 he acted under Forbes as a brigadier, and but for him that general would never have been able to cross the mountains. Courage was so natural to him that it was hardly spoken of to his praise: no one ever at any moment of his life discovered in him the least shrinking in danger; and he had a hardihood of daring which escaped notice, because it was so enveloped by superior calmness and wisdom. He was as cheerful as he was spirited, frank and communicative in the society of friends, fond of the fox-chase and the dance, often sportive in his letters, and liked a hearty laugh. This joyousness of disposition remained to the last, though the vastness of his responsibilities was soon to take from him the right of displaying the impulsive qualities of his nature, and the weight which he was to bear up was to overlay and repress his gayety and openness. His hand was liberal; giving quietly and without observation, as though he was ashamed of nothing but being discovered in doing good. He was kindly and compassionate, and of lively sensibility to the sorrows of others; so that if his country had only needed a victim for its relief, he would have willingly offered himself as a sacrifice. But while he was prodigal of himself, he was considerate for others; ever parsimonious of the blood of his countrymen. He was prudent in the management of his private affairs, purchased rich lands from the Mohawk Valley to the flats of the Kanawha, and improved his fortune by the correctness of his judgment; but as a public man he knew no other aim than the good of his country, and in the hour of his country's poverty he refused personal emolument for his service. His faculties were so well balanced and combined, that his constitution, free from excess, was tempered evenly, with all the elements of activity, and his mind resembled a well-ordered commonwealth: his passions, which had all the intensest vigour, owed allegiance to reason; and, with all the fiery quickness of his spirit, his impetuous and massive will was held in check by consummate judgment. He had in his composition a calm, which gave him in moments of highest excitement the power of self-control, and enabled him to excel in patience even when he had most cause for disgust. Washington was offered a command when there was little to bring out the unorganized resources of the continent but his own influence, and authority was connected with the people by the most frail, most attenuated, scarcely discernible threads; yet vehement as was his nature, impassioned as was his courage, he so restrained his ardour that he never failed continuously to exert the attracting power of that influence, and never exerted it so sharply as to break its force. In secrecy he was unsurpassed; but his secrecy had the character of prudent reserve, not of cunning or concealment. His understanding was lucid, and his judgment accurate; so that his conduct never betrayed hurry or confusion. No detail was too minute for his personal inquiry and continued supervision; and at the same time he comprehended events in their widest aspects and relations. He never seemed above the object that engaged his attention, and he was always equal, without an effort, to the solution of the highest questions, even when there existed no precedents to guide his decision. In this way he never drew to himself admiration for the possession of any one quality to excess, never made in council any one suggestion that was sublime but imprac ticable, never in action took to himself the praise or the blame of undertakings astonishing in conception, but beyond his means of execution. It was the most wonderful accomplishment of this man that placed upon the largest theatre of events, at the head of the greatest revolution in human affairs, he never failed to observe all that was possible, and at the same time to bound his aspirations by that which was possible. A slight tinge in his character, perceptible only to the close observer, revealed the region from which he sprung, and he might be described as the best specimen of manhood as developed in the south; but his qualities were so faultlessly proportioned that his whole country rather claimed him as its choicest representative, the most complete expression of all its attainments and aspirations. Ile studied his country and conformed to it. His countrymen felt that he GEORGE BANCROFT. was the best type of America, and rejoiced in it, and were proud of it. They lived in his life, and made his success and his praise their own. Profoundly impressed with confidence in God's Providence, and exemplary in his respect for the forms of public worship, no philosopher of the eighteenth century was more firm in the support of freedom of religious opinion; none more tolerant or more remote from bigotry; but belief in God and trust in His overruling power formed the essence of his character. Divine wisdom not only illumines the spirit, it inspires the will. Washington was a man of action, and not of theory or words; his creed appears in his life, not in his professions, which burst from him very rarely, and only at those great moments of crisis in the fortunes of his country when earth and heaven seemed actually to meet, and his emotions became too strong for suppression; but his whole being was one continued act of faith in the eternal, intelligent, moral order of the universe. Integrity was so completely the law of his nature that a planet would sooner have shot from its sphere than he have departed from his uprightness, which was so constant that it often seemed to be almost impersonal. They say of Giotto that he introduced goodness into the art of painting; Washington carried it with him to the camp and the cabinet, and established a new criterion of human greatness. The purity of his will confirmed his fortitude; and as he never faltered in his faith in virtue, he stood fast by that which he knew to be just; free from illusions; never dejected by the apprehension of the difficulties and perils that went before him, and drawing the promise of success from the justice of his cause. Hence he was persevering, leaving nothing unfinished; free from all taint of obstinacy in his firmness; seeking and gladly receiving advice, but immovable in his devotedness to right. 439 moral sentiment which exists in every human breast, and goes forth only to the welcome of virtue. There have been soldiers who have achieved mightier victories in the field, and made conquests more nearly corresponding to the boundlessness of selfish ambition; statesmen who have been connected with more startling upheavals of society; but it is the greatness of Washington, that in pub-. lic trusts he used power solely for the public good; that he was the life and moderator, and stay, of the most momentous revolution in human affairs, its moving impulse and its restraining power. Combining the centripetal and the centrifugal forces in their utmost strength and in perfect relations, with creative grandeur of instinct he held ruin in check, and renewed and perfected the institutions of his country. Finding the colonies disconnected and dependent, he left them such a united and well-ordered commonwealth as no visionary had believed to be possible. So that it has been truly said, "he was as fortunate as great and good." ["Of all great men, he was the most virtuous and the most fortunate."-M. GUIZOT: Essay on Washington, Hillard's translation.] This also is the praise of Washington: that never in the tide of time has any man lived who had in so great a degree the almost divine faculty to command the confidence of his fellow-men and rule the will ing. Wherever he became known, in his family, his neighborhood, his county, his native State, the continent, the camp, civil life, the United States, among the common people, in foreign courts, throughout the civilized world of the human race, and even among the savages, he, beyond all other men, had the confidence of his kind. Washington knew that he must depend for success on a steady continuance of purpose in an imperfectly united continent, and on his personal influence over separate and half-formed governments, with most of whom Of a "retiring modesty and habitual re- he was wholly unacquainted; he foresaw a serve," his ambition was no more than the long and arduous struggle; but a secret consciousness of his power, and was subor-consciousness of his power bade him not to dinate to his sense of duty; he took the foremost place, for he knew from inborn magnanimity that it belonged to him, and he dared not withhold the service required of him so that, with all his humility, he was by necessity the first, though never for himself or for private ends. He loved fame, the approval of coming generations, the good opinion of his fellow-men of his own time, and he desired to make his conduct coincide with their wishes; but not fear of censure, nor the prospect of applause, could tempt him to swerve from rectitude, and the praise which he coveted was the sympathy of that fear; and whatever might be the backwardness of others, he never admitted for a moment the thought of sheathing his sword or resigning his command, till his work of vindicating American liberty should be done. To his wife he unbosomed his inmost mind: "I hope my undertaking this service is designed to answer some good purpose. I rely confidently on that Providence which has heretofore preserved and been bountiful to me." His acceptance at once changed the aspect of affairs. John Adams, looking with com placency upon "the modest and virtuous, |