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THE WRITINGS OF EDMUND BURKE.

BY

PROF. PORTER, OF YALE COLLEGE.

Ir is very much out of fashion, we know, to commend such as the writings of BURKE―clarem et venerabile nomen-to the attention and study of young readers; and we fear that it is quite as much so for mothers, even Christian mothers, to charge upon their sons to read the Proverbs of Solomon, the king of Israel. Indeed, it would seem to be considered a matter of hopeless attainment, to expect that what is generous and amiable in the feelings of the young, can in any way be called out into those permanent habits, which constitute practical and dignified wisdom of character. Even their religion savors too little of simple and manly piety, shedding abroad the light of its unconscious dignity. We would hope, that the writings of Mr. Burke will tend to the removal of some of these now existing defects. These works are of permanent value, especially to the youth of our country; inasmuch as they will be likely to beget and cherish in them plain sense, frank and manly feelings, and a reverence for true dignity and worth of character. These are objects which deserve the ardent and determined pursuit of all; and we would commend to every one who would aim at such attainments, the writings of a man who was enthusiastic in his estimation of these high qualities. It cannot be too often repeated, that it is not sufficient that the principles of a young man, or of any man, should be correct. His mental and moral habits, the disposition of his mind and feelings, his modes of thinking and acting-all these influence beyond calculation his personal happiness and his usefulness to mankind at large. The grace of God dwells in the heart of man, as does the vital principle in the oak and the cedar, which sustains and gives growth to the trunk, the flower, and the leaf. It is not that the current of life is different, but that the channels differ in which it flows, that the one of these excels another in pleasantness to the eye, and its adaptedness to answer a more useful end to man. Such, too, are the habits of mind, so widely different in their claims to our estimation, both for their own sake, and for their fitness to diffuse happiness and virtue abroad; while the principles which animate

them are alike acceptable before God. We do not wish that "self-education" should be prosecuted in a spirit of vanity, which dotes on the purity and delicacy of its sentiments, and the grace and perfection of its intellectual accomplishments. We desire that it may be pursued in the light of truth, so that it may lead to humility, self-distrust, and faith. It is interesting to notice in all the records which we have of Socrates, how lightly he esteemed curious inquiries into things without, when compared with the study of our own moral character; and with how much fervor he turns from perplexing and unsatisfying discussions into the grounds of knowledge, to the yvw deaurov written in gold over the door of the temple at Delphi. "I concern not myself with such inquiries as these," he says in reference to certain curious questions, as to the true explanation of particular stories of the Greek mythology; "but rather inquire, whether I am not myself a wild beast more savage and raging than Typhon, or the other monsters in regard to which you ask me?" It is a somewhat quaint prayer of John Norris: "May God grant us light, and when we have found that, humility." The words of Mr. Burke are quite as much to our purpose. "True humility, the basis of the Christian system, is the low but deep and firm foundation of every real virture."

Aside, however, from the spirit which breathes throughout the writings of Burke, and the general impression which they will be likely to leave on the mind of him who studies them, they possess another value, which is perhaps more obvious, and can be more readily appreciated. They are a rich treasure-house of principles in moral and political science. Even if we lay entirely out of view all considerations of their merit, in reference to the particular subjects which were their immediate occasion, their full value, as here claimed, still remains. The subject discussed may excite little interest in the mind of the general student; he may even pass it by, as one into which he cannot enter; and yet he cannot but be startled, as he meets on every page with such astonishing exhibitions of reasoning and philosophic

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THE WRITINGS OF EDMUND BURKE.

thought. Whenever an opportunity presented itself, it was, as it were, a part of Mr. Burke's nature to give a correct and philosophic statement of the principle in man's constitution which it involved, and of the fundamental question it presented. These he often states at length, with the reasons which have led to and confirmed his own opinions. He who will search out these views as they lie scattered throughout his writings, will be able to settle his own mind on many important questions; and it will always be done, if he follows Mr. Burke, on principles of correct thought and manly sentiment. These digressions, incidental perhaps, and esteemed at the time superfluous, have embalmed his writings in the minds of thinking men, and will continue to do so for many generations to come. Some of his works are directly and avowedly discussions of principles; such as lie at the foundation of our personal and social relations and duties. It is not to be expected that in this country, with our republican feelings and habits, we shall duly appreciate, or be prepared in every instance to assent to, all the views which he advances as fundamental truths. It will be found, however, that whatever may be the form in whieh they are stated, they are substantially the same which the wise and good have always felt to be true. Even if those by whom they have been held have not always been able to defend them as distinct propositions, against the scoffing and specious infidelity of their adversaries, they have still been

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sure of the truth, when they were not sure of the argument."

From men of all ages and professions, the writings of Mr. Burke are deserving of attention, as a valuable auxiliary to such as would form for themselves correct opinions on the most important subjects. We say this, deeply feeling that the necessity of the times demands an increased attention to inquiries of this sort, and with the firm conviction, that with all the advance of the age in light and knowledge, there is a deplorable inattention to everything which comes before us in the shape of principles. We do not make that which we look upon with all the ardor of religious feeling sufficiently a matter of distinct contemplation as truth; and until we do so, we shall want steadiness in the government of ourselves, and cannot expect to attain a permanent influence over our fellow-men. We need thinking men; not merely men who can assist us to settle with correctness our principles in metaphysics and theology; but men who will act only so far themselves, and will suffer others to act only so far as they can state with distinctness their grounds for so doing, and can bring these to the

test of another's judgment in a cool and honest hour. Said the severe and serious Richard Cecil, "The religious world has a great momentum. Money and power in almost any quanity are brought forth into action, when any fair object is set before it. It is a pendulum, that swings with prodigious force. But it wants a regulator. If there is no regulating force on it of sufficient power, its motion will be so violent and eccentric, that it will tear the machine to pieces. And therefore, when I have any influence in its designs and schemes, I cannot help watching them with extreme jealousy, to throw in every directing and regulating power, which can be obtained from any quarter." The man who makes himself familiar with one writer like Mr. Burke, and who accustoms himself to look upon him with interest and respect, will prepare himself in the most efficient manner to act his part well with reference to the deficiency we have mentioned. If, then, in addition to his philosophic and serious habits of mind, the opinions and principles of an author are, too, of direct and positive value, we have a double advantage to hold out, in reference to Mr. Burke's writings, to those who will examine the opinions there expressed, and yield themselves to the genial influence of his spirit who uttered them.

The contest in which Mr. Burke was called to engage during the latter part of his life was a struggle with infidelity, organized in the most systematic form in which it has ever arrayed its forces. This also is the form in which the enemies of God are now assailing his servants, and which they are assuming more distinctly and avowedly from day to day. On this ground they must be met, not so much with the evidences of Christianity from without, as with its appeals to the heart of man. We have never, in the course of our reading, found a writer who has traced the origin of infidelity with greater distinctness to the pride of man, or analyzed its elements with a more thorough dissection. He met the monster as he appeared in the chemist, the logician, and the accomplished philosopher of Paris, and developed the heart which may be united to the most highly cultivated intellect. He seized Rousseau in the very witching time of his incantations; and while the nations were rapt by his siren song, he wrung out from the magician the very inmost secrets of his mystery. He showed them, too, what a pitiful passion had inspired all that they so much wondered at. Alas, from that time, for "the great professor and founder of the philoso phy of vanity!" The friends of infidelity know Mr. Burke, and fear him, and rail at him, as their sorest enemy. Frances Wright speaks of him in

HOPE.

her energetic English, as "that statesman" who "had sold himself for place and pension, to the throne he had once so boldly defied." And again she says, "The fallen, sold, the misguiding and misguided Burke, was thus confounding names and dates, blaspheming glorious names, and more glorious eras, perverting words, and perplexing principles." The patrons of infidelity understand who is their enemy; and shall not we greet him as our ally?

Of the style and execution of all his works, much has been said. Each new reader will, however, form his own judgment. His power of language was wonderful; on this instrument of thought and feeling, he could sound every note, from the lowest " to the very top of its compass." Such an ease and freedom of expression, such an unnoticeable and graceful strength as he exhibits, but few men attain; and none can attain it who do not make language and expression subjects of close and patient study. There is in the structure of his sentences, an amplitude and fullness which is truly Platonic. We love the rich and varied music of such full and harmonious periods, as they come in upon us like the surgings of the ocean, and fall on the ear with a lengthened cadence. They betoken a mind which is conscious of its own power, and takes pleasure in displaying it to others, by methods which fully and adequately set it forth. Let it not be supposed, however, that Mr. Burke always aimed at effect, or summoned up himself at all times to striking expressions and powerful appeals. If he said anything that was not unusual, he said it in a plain way, without feeling himself called on by any necessity to show to others his greatness. His manner on such occasions was thoroughly natural, and characterized by ease and a becoming grace. We like this trait, both in personal manners, and also as a characteristic of style. In both cases, we feel that we are in the presence of one who does not deem it necessary to let us know, on every occasion, that in all points he is an uncommon man.

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In this respect, and in all respects, Mr. Burke was thoroughly and truly a great man. His mind originally possessed great symmetry and native excellence, which, by a discipline constant and never-ceasing, was fully developed and placed within his own command. This discipline, in his case, was never given over; for it is one of its effects, that when carried to a certain extent, it awakens in the mind a self-activity which renders intellectual effort, and that of the severest and intensest kind, but the refreshing and natural exercise of the mental powers. Besides this, it makes the mind an eficient and finelywrought instrument, which may be wielded at its owner's will for the good of mankind. To a mind thus prepared, information of all kinds attached itself naturally, and as though drawn by a hidden and attracting influence. He reasoned as though his mind had never needed training; and as though there had been within a new law of association, according to which every fact, as it came in, took its place under some principle of sciHarmonious and varied language flowed from his lips, as though it were his native dialect. An imagination, rich, glowing, and ever active, was continually clothing every object with the brightest hues. All this was attended by a love of intellectual effort for its own sake, and a reverence for greatness and goodness so heart-felt as to be a controlling spring of action. These powers and springs of action were arranged with a symmetry so perfect, that the man, any one of whose features when examined by itself appeared disproportioned in their combination, did not strikingly surpass the ordinary size. Over all this greatness was thrown the sober and modest garment of humility, which set forth this symmetry with becoming gracefulness, and lent to it a manly and dignified beauty.

ence.

Such was Mr. Burke, who, if we consider him with reference to his feelings, thoughts, or deeds, must be pronounced one of England's best patriots, most splendid writers, ablest statesmen, and one of nature's noblest men.

'Tis hope that animates the breast, And cheers the drooping soulPoints forward to the better times, And strains for glory's goal.

HOPE.

Should hope, best charmer, cease her song,

Or fly from earth below,

Life then would be a bootless theme,

And bliss itself were woe.

HENRY IV. KING OF FRANCE.

MASSACRE OF ST. BARTHOLOMEW.

BY REV. JOHN

8. C. ABBOTT.

CATHERINE DE MEDICIS and her son Charles IX. sought no sleep on the night of the 28th of August, 1572. In one of the apartments of the palace of the Louvre, they awaited impatiently the lingering flight of the hours, till the tocsin should toll forth the death-warrant of their Protestant subjects. Catherine, inured to crime and hardened in vice, was apprehensive that her son, less obdurate in purpose, might relent. Though impotent in character, he was, at times, petulant and self-willed, and, in paroxysms of stubbornness, spurned his mother's counsels and exerted his own despotic power. Charles was in a state of feverish excitement. The companions of his childhood, the guests, who, for many weeks, had been his associates in gay festivities, and in the interchange of all kindly acts, were, at his command, before the morning should dawn, to fall before the bullet and the poniard of the midnight murderer. His mother witnessed with intense anxiety the wavering of his mind, and urged her son no longer to delay, but immediately to send a messenger to sound the alarm. The young king, unable to endure any longer the horrible suspense, gave the order, and a messenger was sent to sound the tocsin from an adjoining tower, which was nearer than that of the Palace of Justice.

The solemn dirge rang out upon the night air, calling forth an instantaneous response in various other quarters of the city. The king, hearing the report of a musket in his very court-yard, as the first Protestant was shot down, trembling in every nerve, hastened to the window. The sound at first seemed to freeze the blood in his veins, and he passionately called for the massacre to be stopped. It was too late. The train was fired, and could not be extinguished. The signal passed with the rapidity of sound from steeple to steeple, throughout the entire kingdom of France. Flambeaux and illuminations blazed from the windows of the Catholics to guide the arm, nerved by the most relentless hatred, in its work of blood.

Guns, pistols, daggers were everywhere busy. Old men, terrified maidens, helpless infants, venerable matrons were alike smitten, and mercy had no appeal which could touch the heart of the destroyer.

The wounded Admiral Coligni was lying helpless upon his bed, surrounded by a few personal friends, as the sound of the rising storm of human violence swelled upon his ear. Almost at the same moment he heard the uproar of a crowd rushing up the stairs and the barred door falling before the heavy blows of the invading assassins. Mingled with this din there fell upon his ears the noise of the frequent report of musketry, as the defenders fell before their assailants. A crowd of murderers rushed into the chamber of Coligni, as he was entreating his friends to escape if possible, and leave him to his fate. Three of his companions, in the darkness and confusion, succeeded in leaping from the windows, but the rest were shot down.

"Art thou the Admiral?" inquired a wretch, as he held a drawn sword suspended above his breast.

"I am," replied the Admiral, "and thou shoulest respect my gray hairs. Nevertheless, thou canst abridge my life but little." As the assassin plunged his sword into the bosom of his victim, Coligni exclaimed, “It would be some comfort if I could die by the hands of a gentleman, instead of by the hands of such a knave as this." The rest then fell upon him, and with many wounds he was speedily dispatched.

The Duke of Guise, brother of the king, ashamed to appear with the assassins whom he guided, before his ancient enemy whom he had so often met upon the field of battle, waited, in the court below, and, looking up to the window, eagerly inquired if the work was done. On receiving an affirmative reply, he requested them to throw the body out of the window to him. The pale and lifeless form was cast into the court below, and the Duke wiped the blood from the features

HENRY IV. KING OF FRANCE.

with his handkerchief, that he might be sure that it was the victim he sought. Recognizing the marked countenance of the Admiral, he contemptuously spurned the body with his foot, and with his blood-stained accomplices, hurried away to other scenes of slaughter. The tiger having once lapped his tongue in blood, seems to be imbued with a new spirit of ferocity. There is in man a similar spirit which is roused and stimulated by carnage. The Parisian multitude was becoming each moment more and more clamorous for blood. They broke open the houses of the Protestants, and rushing into their chambers, murdered, indiscriminately, both sexes and every age. The streets resounded with the shouts of the assassins and with the shrieks of their victims. Cries of "Kill! kill! more blood," rent the air. The bodies of the slain were thrown out of the windows into the streets, and the pavements of the city were drenched with blood.

Charles, who was overwhelmed with such compunctions of conscience when he heard the first shot, and beheld, from his window, the butchery everywhere in progress around him, soon recovered from his momentary wavering, and conscious that it was too late to draw back, with fiendlike eagerness engaged himself in the work of death. The monarch, when a boy, had been noted for his sanguinary spirit, delighting with his own hand to perform the revolting acts of the slaughterhouse. Perfect fury seemed now to take possession of him. His cheeks were flushed, his lips compressed, his eyes glared with frenzy. Bending eagerly from his window, he shouted words of encouragement to the assassins. Grasping a gun, in the handling of which he had become very skillful from long practice in the chase, he watched, like a sportsman, for his prey; and when he saw an unfortunate Huguenot wounded and bleeding, fleeing from his pursuers, he would take deliberate aim and shout with exultation as he beheld him fall pierced by his bullet. A crowd of fugitives rushed into the court-yard of the Louvre to throw themselves upon the protection of their king. Charles sent his own bodyguard into the yard, with guns and daggers, to butcher them all, and the pavements of the pal

ace were washed with their blood.

Just before the carnage commenced, Marguerite, weary with excitement and the agitating conversation to which she had so long been listening, retired to her private apartment, and threw herself upon a couch. She had but just closed her eyes, when the fearful outcries of the pursuers and the pursued filled the palace. She sprang to her feet and heard some one struggling at the door, and shrieking “Navarre! Navarre !" In a

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paroxysm of terror she ordered an attendant to open the door. One of her husband's retinue instantly rushed in, covered with wounds and blood, pursued by four soldiers of her brother's guard. The captain of the guard entered at the same moment, and at the earnest entreaty of the princess, spared her the anguish of seeing the poor man butchered before her eyes. Marguerite, half delirious with bewilderment and terror, fled to the apartment of her sister, but as she was fleeing through the hall she met another Huguenot gentleman chased by the assassins, and he was struck down dead at her feet.

When the morning dawned a spectacle was witnessed such as even the streets of blood-renowned Paris have seldom presented. It was the Sabbath appropriated in the Romish Church to the feast of St. Bartholomew. The streets resounded with shrieks and clamor. The pavements were covered with gory corpses. Men, women, and children were flying in every direction, wounded and bleeding, pursued by an infuriate mob, riotous with laughter and drunk with blood. The report of guns and pistols was heard in every direction, sometimes in continuous volleys as if platoons of soldiers were firing upon their victims, and the scattered shots incessantly repeated in every section of the city, proved the universality of the massacre. Drunken wretches, besmeared with blood, were swaggering along the streets with ribald jests and demoniac howlings, hunting for the Huguenots. Headless trunks were hanging from the windows, and dissevered heads were spurned like footballs along the pavements. Priests were seen in their sacerdotal robes with elevated crucifixes, mingling with the murderers and urging them, and with most fantastical exclamations encouraging them not to grow weary in their holy work of the extermination of God's enemies. The most distinguished nobles and generals of the court and the camp of Charles, mounted on horseback, with gorgeous retinue rode through the streets, encouraging by voice and arm the indiscriminate massacre. "Let not," exclaimed the king, "one single Huguenot be spared to reproach me hereafter with this deed." For a whole week the massacre continued, and it was computed that from sixty to one hundred thousand Protestants in France were slain. Among these there were above seven hundred of high rank and distinction.

Among the remarkable escapes we will record that of a lad whose name afterwards attained much celebrity. The Baron de Rosny accompanied his son Maximilian, a boy eleven years of age, to Paris, to attend the nuptials of the King of Navarre. Young Maximilian was immedi

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