SYLVESTER JUDD, JR. 1813-. He was Mr. Judd is a native of Westhampton, Massachusetts. graduated at Yale College, and immediately on completing his theological course at the University at Cambridge, he was settled as pastor of a church in Augusta, Maine, where he resides at the present time. Besides a number of Sermons which have been made public by request, he has published Margaret, a Tale of the Real and the Ideal, and Philo, an Evangeliad; the former in prose, the latter in blank verse, and dramatic in form. Of "Margaret," that "remarkable" book, as almost all its reviewers term it, it may be said, that it is highly national in its character; but the elements which enter into its composition, and the various objects at which it aims, are too many to be enumerated here. In the author's own words, "Philo' is a treatment of elevated Christian topics, designed to be full of hope to mankind. It looks on the brighter side of nature, man, death; it is reformatory and improving in its spirit; it is believed to be pervaded with love and good will." [From the Introduction of " Margaret."] PHANTASMAGORICAL. WE behold a child eight or ten months old; it has brown, curly hair, dark eyes, fair-conditioned features, a health-glowing cheek, and well-shaped limbs. Who is it? Whose is it? What is it? Where is it? It is in the centre of fantastic light, and only a dimly revealed form appears. It may be Queen Victoria's, or Sally Twig's. It is God's own child, as all children are. The blood of Adam and Eve, through how many channels soever diverging, runs in its veins, and the spirit of the Eternal, that blows everywhere, has animated its soul. It opens its eyes upon us, stretches out its hands to us, as all children do. Can you love it? It may be the heir of a throne; does it interest you? or of a milking-stool; do not despise it. It is a miracle of the All-working; it is endowed by the All-gifted. Smile upon it, and it will smile you back again; prick it, and it will cry. Where does it belong? in what zone or climate? on what hill? in what plain? It may have been born on the Thames or the Amazon, the Hoang Ho or the Mississippi. The vision deepens. Green grass appears beneath the child. It may, after all, be Queen Victoria's, in Windsor Park, or Sally Twig's, on Little Pucker Island. The sun now shines upon it, a blue sky breaks over, and the wind rustles its hair. Sun, sky and wind are common to Arctic and Antarctic regions, and belong to each of the three hundred and sixty terrestrial divisions. A black-cap is seen to fly over it; and this bird is said, by naturalists, to be found in every part of the globe. A dog, or the whelp of a dog, or young pup, crouches near it, makes a caracol backwards, frisks away, and returns again. The child is pleased, throws out his arms, and laughs right merrily. As we now look at the child, we can hardly tell to which of the five races it belongs; whether it be a Caucasian, Mongolian, American, Ethiopian or Malay. Each child on this terraqueous ball, whether its nose be aquiline, its eyes black and small, its cheek-bones prominent, its lips large, or its head narrow, whether its hue be white, olive or jet,- is of God's creating, and is delighted with the bright summer light, a bed of grass, the wind, birds and puppies; and smiles in the eyes of all beholders. It is God's child still, and its mother's. It is curiously and wonderfully made; the inspiration of the Almighty hath given it understanding. It will look after God, its Maker, by how many soever names he may be called; it will aspire to the Infinite, whether that Infinite be expressed in Bengalee or Arabic, English or Chinese; it will seek to know truth; it will long to be loved; it will sin and be miserable, if it has none to care for it; it will die. Let us give it to Queen Victoria. "No," says Sally Twig, "it is mine."-"No," says the Empress Isabella, "it is destined to the crown of Castile." "Not so sure of that, me hearty; it is Teddy O'Rourke's own Phelim."-"Nay," says a Tahitian, "I left it playing under the palm-trees."-"What presumption !" exclaims Mrs. Morris; "it is our Frances Maria, whom the servant has taken to the common." "I just bore it in my own arms through the cypresses," says Osceola. * * * The scene advances. Two hands are seen thrust down towards it, and now it smiles again. Near by, discovers itself a peach-tree. Where does that belong? Not, like the black-cap, everywhere. In the grass shows the yellow disk of a dandelion; the skin of the child settles into a Caucasian whiteness, and its fat fingers are making for the flower. Be not disap pointed, my friends! your children still live and smile; let this one live and smile, too. Go, Mongolian, Ethiopian, American or Malay, and take your child in your arms, and it will remind you of this, since all are so much alike! Now the child crawls towards the peach-tree. Those two hands, that may belong to its brother, set the child on its feet by the side of the tree, as it were measuring their heights, which are found to be the same. Yellow and brown chickens appear on the grass, and run under the low mallows and smartweed. A sheet of water is seen in the distance, spotted with green islands. Forest trees burst forth in the rim of the picture -butter-nuts, beeches, maples, pines. A sober-faced boy, seven or eight years old, to whom the two hands are seen to belong, sits down, and, with a fife, pipes to the child, who manifests strong joy at the sound. A man in a three-cornered hat and wig, with nankeen small-clothes, and paste buckles, takes the child in his arms. Where is the child? A log cabin appears; a woman in a blue-striped longshort, and yellow skirt, comes to the door. An Anglo-Saxon voice is heard. If you were to look into the cabin or house, you would discover a loom and spinning-wheels, and, behind it, a large boy making shingles, and, somewhere about, a jolly-faced man, drinking rum. The woman, addressing the first boy as Chilion, tells him to bring the child into the house. This child, we will inform you, is Margaret, of whom we have many things to say, and hope to reveal more perfectly to you. She is in the town of Livingston, in that section of the United States of America known as New England. And yet, so far as this book is concerned, she is for you all as much as if she were your own child; and if you cared anything about her when you did not know her, we desire that your regards may not abate when you do know her, even if she be not your own child; and we dedicate this memoir to ALL who are interested in her, and care to read about her. In the mean time, if you are willing, we will lose sight of her for seven or eight years, and present her in a more tangible form, as she appeared at the end of that period. [From "Philo."] WOMAN'S MISSION. Annie. What shall I do? Expound me, what is woman's mission? Philo. To be herself, to grow her natural size, Nor take a thought to add a cubit more. * Man does his mission; woman is herself A hammer. Need she push, when through all crowds Woman in pureness still 's in Paradise. When she the apple plucked, she kept the juice, If men were what they should be, woman then Would be consorted; now she reigns alone. If woman feels the sacred fire of genius, [From the same.] RESURRECTION HYMN. RESURRECTION's morn has come; Souls emerge from night profound, Ages burst their silent tomb, Years of God begin their round. Prophecy fulfils its moons, Earth in Christ transfigured lies, Nature all her winds attunes, Human modes accordant rise. Heroes come from battles won, Shades of martyrs o'er us bend, Zion gleameth as the sun, Empires Virtue's heights ascend. Crowd the chorus, swell the lay, Lift the shout of jubilee ! Hail, exultant hail the day! |