Alexandria gazette. [volume], August 27, 1834, Image 2

About Alexandria gazette. [volume] (Alexandria, D.C.) 1834-1974

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LITERARY.
Philip van Artereldi; a Dramatic Romance, in
two parts. By Henry Taylor, Esq. Lon
don, 1831.
This is an historical romance, in consecutive
dramatic scenes: a species of composition not
uncommon amdhg the Germans, which has, as
adopting the language of poetry, some great
and obvious advantages over the prose narra
tive form recently adorned among us by the
highest genius of the age. Its inherent disad
vantages, as respects the chances of immediate
popularity, must be nearly as obvious. We
shall not, at present, enter upon the relative
merits of the two methods: we have here before
us something too attractive to admit of a preli
minary dissertation on a cold question of criti
cism. On such now rare occasions as the pre
sent, we experience a gratification which none
but those who have been teased and wearied
with the incessant appeals of clamorous medio
crity and impatient affectation can fully under
stand. We know not that there is any better
description of srenius than that of Mr. Crabbo
* I recognise that,' says the old bard, ‘ w her-1
ever there is power to stimulate the thoughts of
men, and command their feelings.* If this be
true, the author of 4 Philip van Artevelde* may
take his place at the bar with the sure hope of
a triumphant verdict.
The groundwork of his design is the idealized
* portraiture of a revolutionary age: and his mot
to, from the Leviathan, sufficiently points out
the leading characteristics of every age in
which the revolutionary spirit is the prime mov
er of things—4 No arts, no letters, no society,—
and, which is worst of all. continual fear and
danger of violent death, and the life of man so
litary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short!’ The
scene is laid in Flanders, at the close of the
fourteenth century; and those who desire to
study the new poet with the care which he de
serves, may find the real personages and events
of which he makes use recorded, tn an tne na
ked force of their vitality, by* the prince of
chroniclers, and father as well of all historical
romancers, Froissart. No reader of that most
captivating conteur can have forgotten the two
Van Arteveldes, father and son, citizens of re
volted Ghent, each of whom swayed for a sea
son almost the whole power of Flanders against
their legitimate prince—and each of whom paid
the penalty of ambition by an untimely and
violent death. The younger of these, Philip,
has been adopted for the centre figure in our
author’s elaborate and deeply tragic panorama
of the existence of a revolutionary period; and
there is much to be admired in tne whole con
ception and delineation of this character.
Froissart tells us, that to angle in the Scheldt
had been his chief pleasure and occupation, up
to the day w hen he w as abruptly called to a
predominant political station. Notwithstanding
the advantageous introduction to public life
which his birth might have insured to him, he
had been entirely content to continue in priva
cy, till the difficulties of the times almost com
pelled him forth oi' it. During this leisure of his
earlier life, his mind seems to have been more
cultivated than was at all usual in that age: in
the words of the chronicler, he was ‘ moult bein
en-langage et bien lui adrenoitand the career
and fate of his father must have supplied ample
food for meditation to a naturally thoughtful
mind.
The immediate cause of Arte\’elde’s elevation
is the depressed condition of Ghent, after the
defeat and death of one of her captains, Lau
noy; and the necessity with which the White
hoods then perceive of either yielding to the
peace-party within the city, and submitting to
the earl, or summoning to the post of power
some one of high name, whose interference (he
being, as yet, personally uncompromised in the
rebellion) should overaw’e the populace by the
impression that it must needs be purely patrio
tic. The fate of Launoy is told, closely after
Froissart, in these energetic lines:
‘ Second Dean. Beside Nivelle the earl and
Launoy met.
Six thousand voices shouted with the last
“ Ghent the good town; Ghent and the Chape
rons Blancs!”
But from that force thrice-told there came the
cry
Of “ Flanders, with the Lion of the Bastard!”
So then the battle joined, und they of Ghent
Gave back ami opened after three hours’ fight;
And hardly flying had they gained Nivelle,
When the earl’s vanguard came upon their rear
Ere they could close the gate, and entered with
them.
Then all were slain save Launoy and his guard,
Who, barricaded in the minster tower,
Made desperate resistance; whereupon
The earl waxed wrothful, and bade fire the j
church.
First Burgher. Say’st thou? Oh sacrilege
accursed! Was’t done?
Second Dean. ’Twas done,—and presently
was heard a yell,
And a’ter that the rushing of the flames!
Then Launoy from the steeple cried aloud
“ A ransom!” and held up his coat to sight
With florins filled, but they without but laughed
And mocked him, saying, “ Come amongst us,
John,
And we will give thee welcome;—make a leap—
Come out at window, John.”—With that the
flames
Rose up and reached him, and he drew his
sword,
Cast his rich coat behind him in the fire,
And shouting, “ Ghent, ye slaves!” leapt freely
forth,
When they below received him on their spears.
And so died John of Launoy.
First Burgher. A brave end.
’Tis certain >ve must now make peace by times,
The city will be starved else. Will be, said 1?
Starvation is upon.’—vol, i. pp. 27-29.
The reflective spirit of Philip van Artevelde
is first indicated in his conversation on this in
cident with his aged preceptor:—
« Van Artevelde. I never looked that he
should live so long.
He was a man of that unsleeping spirit,
Heseemed to live by miracle; his food
Was glory, which was poison to his mind,
And peril to his body. He wa.s one
Of awmy thousand such that d e betimes,
Whose story is a fragment, known to few.
Then comes the man who has the luck to live,
And he’s a p rodigy. Compute the chances,
And deem there’s ne’er a one 4n dangerous
times.
——-—^-... ^
A thousand men more gloriously endowed
Have fallen upon the course; a thousand others
Have had their fortunes foundered by a chance,
Whilst lighter barks pushed past them; to whom
add
A smaller tally, of the singular few.
What gifted with predominating powers,
Bear yet a temperate will, and keep the peace.
The world knows nothing of its greatest men.
Father John. Had Launoy lived, he might
have passed for great.
But not by conquests in the Franc of Bruges.
The sphere—the scale of circumstance is all
Which makes the wonder of the many. Still
An ardent soul was Launoy’s and his deeds
Were such as dazzled many a Flemish dame.
There’ll some bright eyes in Ghent be dimned
for him. ,..
Van Artevelde. They will be dim, and then
be bright again.
All is in busy, stirring, stormy motion;
And many a cloud drifts by, and none sojourns, j
Lightly is life laid down amongst us now,
And lightly i» death mourned: a dusk star
blinks
As fleets the rack, but look again, and lo.
In a wide solitude of wintry sky
Twinkles the re-illuminated star,
And all is out of sight that smirched the ray.
We have no time to mourn.
Father John. fhe worse for us.
He that Jacks time to mourn, lacks time to
mend.
Eternity mourns that. ’Tis an ill cure
For life’s worst ills, to hare no time tojerl them.
Where sorrow’s held intrusive and turned out,
There w isdom will not enter, nor true power,
Nor aught that dignifies humanity.
Yet such the barrenness of busy life!
From shelf to shelf Ambition clumbers up,
To reach the naked’st pinnacle of all;
Whilst Magnanimity, absolved from toil,
Reposes self-included at the base.
But this thou know’st.’
When the notion of calling on Artevelde to
assume the dictatorship of the city is first start
ed, the sequestered habits of his life, and the
apparent coldness of his temperament are o )•
jected; but one who had more narrowly obsei v
ed him, replies,—
‘ There is no game so desperate which wise men
Will not take freely up for love of power,
Or love of fame, or merely love of play,
These men are wise, and then reputed wi>e,
And so their great repute of wisdom grows,
’Till for great wisdom a great price is bid,
And then their wisdom they do part withal.
Such men must still be tempted with high stakes:
Philip van Artevelde is such a man.’
The youth, with allhis philosophy, appears to
be considerably wrought upon by the sugges
tion, that, in the place of power, he might a
vengethe slaughter ol his father:
‘Is it vain glory that thus whispers me,
That’tis ignoble to have led my life,
In idle meditations—that the times
Demand me, that they call my father’s name/
Oh! what a fiery heart was his! such souls
Whose sudden visitations daze the world,
Vanish like lightning, but they leave behind
A voice that in the distance faraway
Wakens the slumbering ages. Oh! my father!
Thy life is eloquent, and more persuades
Unto dominion Ilian thy death deters;
For that reminds me of a debt of blood
Descended with my patrimony tome.
Whose paying off would clear my soul s estate.
And again he says,—
1 Here on the doorstead of my fathei s house,
The blood of his they spilt is seen no more.
But when I w’us a child 1 sow it there.
For so long as my widow mother lived.
Water came never near the sanguine stain.
She loved to show it me, and then with awe,
But hoarding still the purpose of revenge,
I heard the tale-which, like a daily prayer
Repeated, to a rooted feeling grew—
How long he fought—how falsely came like
friends
The villians Guisebert, Grutt and Simon Bette
All the base murder of the one by many.’
His as yet silent passion for a noble damsel of
the same city, Adriana van Merestyn, interpo
ses some scruples. The twilight soliloquy at
the gate of her garden-terrace, appears to us
masterly. It must remind every reader of the
Wallenstein, and yet there is no copying.
From the exquisite love scone which follows
this, w’e extract a fragment. We hope it will be
intelligible:
‘Ahtevelde. If hitherto we have not said we
lovt?di
Yet hath the heart of each declared its love
By all the tokens wherein love delights.
We heretofore have tru.-u d :n each other;
Too holy have wetrust* o have need
Of words or vov.s, p’er or protestations.
Let not such trust he h / dissolved.
Adriana. I trusi »t. 1 hoped that I was
loved,
Hoped, flespnir' 1 and hoped again,
Till this day. w; meathed ireelier,
Daring to trust >■! *' w—Oh God, my heart.
It was not mace to • <■: this agony
Tell me volove m > you love me not.
Artevllde. I love the, dearest, with as huge i
u Hivr
As e’er was compassed in the breast of man.
Hide then those tears, beloved, where thou wilt;
And find a resting place for that so wild
And troubled heart of thine; sustain it here,
And be its flood of passion wept away.
Adriana. What was it that you said then? If
you love.
Why have you thus tormented me?
Artevel.de. Be calm,
And let me warn thee, ere thy choice be fixed,
What fate thou may’st be wedded to with me.
Thou hast beheld me living heretofore
As one retired in staid tranquillity.
The dweller in the mountains, on whose ear
The accustomed cataract thunders unobserved;
The seaman, who sleeps sound upon the deck,
Nor hears the loUd lamenting of the blast,
Nor heeds the weltering of the plangent wave;
These have not lived more undisturbed than l.
But build not upon this; the swollen stream
May shake the cottage of the mountaineer,
And drive him forth; the seaman, roused at
Leaps from’his slumber on the wave-washed
And now the time comes fast, when here in
Ghent, .
He who would live exempt from injuries
Of armed men, must be himself in arms.
This time is near for all,—nearer for me.
I will not wait upon necessity,
And leave .myself no Choice of vantage ground,
But rather meet the times where best I may,
And would and fashion them as best 1 can.
Reflect then that I soon may be embarked
In all the hazards of these troublous times,
And in your own free choice take or resign me.
Adriana. Oh, Artevelde, my choice is free
no more:
Be mine, all mine; let good or ill betide.
These passages must have sufficiently illustrat
ed our author’s manner. We have not room to
Mo^^^roujhth^jijhl^pulte^cUojioI
his first drama. Adriana is carried off tn
course of it by a rival lover, a knight of Br b
faithful to the party of the Earl; and thus is sup
plied a strong additional motive to Artevelde in
the resolution which he at length adopts, of leac.
ing a chosen band of the men of Ghent from trie
gates of their now straitened and exhausted ci
ty, to the sudden assault of the Earl s own capi
tal. The battle—the seizure of Bruges—the de
liverance of Adriana—and the narrow escape
of the Earl of Flanders, are powerfully drama
rized.
A beautiful Italian lady has of late been do
miciled’ with the Duke of Bourbon, father-in
law to the exiled Earl of Flanders, and uncle o
the boy King of France. She has fallen into
the hands of Artevelde, and conceived for him
a passion far stronger than the reader of her
‘lay’ could have dreamt she would still be ca
pable of; she loves the regent for himself and
he loves her also; but the now nopelessly dis
turbed temper of his mind is with bold and hap
pv art made to break out even at the moment
when she has first told him her love.
The lady has accompanied the regent s camp
to the frontier; his application to the court of
England has just been rejected; the Duke of
Bourbon has induced his nephew of France
to muster the strength of his kingdom in the
cause of the Earl of Flanders:—(the whole por
traiture, by the w ay, of this stripling monarch,
is worthy of Scott himself—it has even a Shaks
pearian airiness of touch about it;)—a French
envoy has arrived with a secret message from
Bourbon, intimating that, if Artevelde will re
store Elena, he may yet induce the giddy king
to suspend his march, and acknowledge the re
gent as a lawful sovereign. Philip has allow’ed
the envoy, Sir Fleureant de Heurlee, freedom
to deliver letters to the lady herself and referred
the decision of her fate wholly to her own choice.
Elena refuses to depart. In going the rounds
of his camp at midnight, Artevelde perceives
light in her pavillion—he enters, and every one
foresees the issue. This is the close of the dia
logue. We need not invite special attention to
what we quote: here all real lovers of poetry will
be os one.
‘Artevelde. The tomb received her charms
In their perfection, with no trace of time
Nor stain of sin upon them; only death
Had turned them pale. I would that you had
seen ner
Alive or dead.
Elena. I wish 1 had, my lord;
1 should have loved to look upon her much;
For I can gaze on beauty all day long.
And think the all-day-long is but too short.
Aktevelde. She was so fair, that in the an
gelic choir
She will not need put on another shape
Than that she bore on earth. Well, well,—she’s
gone,
And I have tamed my sorrow. Pain and grief
Are transitory things no less than joy,
And though they leave us not the men we were,
Yet they do leave us. You behold me here
A man bereaved, with something of a blight
Upon the early blossoms of his life
And its first veidure, having not the less
A* living root, and drawing from the earth
Its vital juices, from the air its powers;
And surely as man’s health and strength are
whole
His appetites reger rain ate, his heart
Re-opens, and his objects and desires
Shoot up renewed. What blank I found before
me
From what is said you partly may surmise;
How I have hoped to fill it may I tell?
Elena. I fear,*my lord, that cannot be.
Artevelde. In.deed!
Then am I doubly hopeless. What is gone,
Nor plaints, nor prayers, nor yearnings of the
soul,
Nor memory’* tricks, nor fancy’s invocations,—
Though tears went with them frequent as the
rain
In dusk November, sighs more sadly breathed
Than winter’s o’er the vegetable dead,—
Can bring again: and should this living hope,
That like a violet from the other’s grave
Grew sweetly, in the tear-besprinkled soil
Finding moist nourishment—this seedling
sprung
Where recent grief had like a ploughshare pass
ed
Through the soft soul, and loosened its affec
tions^
Should this ncw'-blossomed hope be coldly nip
ped.
Then were I desolate indeed! a man
Whom heaven would wean from earth, and no
thing leaves
But cares and quarrels, trouble and distraction,
The heavy buthens and the broils of life.
Is such iny doom? Nay, speak it, if it be.
Elena. I said I feared another could not fill
The place of her you lost, being so fair
And perfect as you give her out.
Artevflde. - ’Tis true,
A perfect woman is not a coin,
Which being gone, its very duplicate
Is counted in its place. Yet wa3te so great
Might you repair, such wealth you have of
charms
Luxuriant, albeit of what was her’s
Rather the contrast than the counterpart.
Colour, to wit—complexion;—her’s was light
And {.Maddening; a r ‘senate tincture shone
Transparent in its place, her skin elsewhere
White as the foam from w hich in happy hour
Sprang the Thalassian Venus: yours is clear
But bloodless, and though beautiful as night
In cloudless ether clad, not frank as day;
Such is the tinct of your diversity;
Serenely radiant she, you darkly fair.
Elena. Dark .still lias been the colour of my
fortunes,
And having not security of soul,
How should 1 w ear the aspect?
Artevelde. Wear it not;
Wear only that oflove.
Elena. Of love? alas!
That is its opposite. You counsel me
To scatter this so melancholy mist
By calling up the hurricane. Time was
I had been prone to counsel such as your’s;
Adventurous I have been it is true,
And this foolhardy heart would brave—nay
court,
In other days, an enterprise of passion;
Yea, like a witch, would whistle for a whirlwind.
But I have been admonished: painful years
Have tamed and taught me: I have suflered
much.
Kind Heaven but grant tranquility! I seek
No further boon.
Artevelde. And may not love be tranquil?
Elena. It may in some: but not as I have
known it.
Artevelde. Love, like an insect frequent in
the woods, . .
Will take the colour of the tree it feeds on;
As saturnine or sanguine is the soul,
Such is the passion. Brightly upon me,
Like the red sunset of a stormy day,
Love breaks anew beneath the gathering clouds
That roll around me! Tell me, sweet Elena,
May I not hope, or rather can I hope,
That for such brief and bounded space of time
As are a on earth, you’ll yield yourself
To love me living—and to mourn me dead?
Elena. Oh, not, my lord, to mourn you—why
—oh God!
Why will you say so? You distress me—no—
You will pursue your triumphs many a year,
And victory shall wait upon your steps
As heretofore, and death be distant fur.
Take back those words; I cannot bear them; no,
They hang upon my heart too heavily.
Tell me you’re sure to conquer, as you are.
Artevelde. So, loveliest, let us hope. It may
be so.
I’ll swear it shall be, so you’ll swear in turn
To give me up your heart.
Elena. I cannot-no—
I cannot give you what you’ve had so long;
Nor need I tell you what you know so well.
I must be gone. , . . -
Artevelde. Nay, sweetest,why these tears?
Elena. No, let me go-I cannot tell— no—no—
I want to be alone—let me retire
Dear Artevelde, for God’s love let me go!
[Elena retires; and Artevelde, after a pause,
thus soliloquizes:]
* The night is far advanced upon the morrow,
And but for that conglomerated mass
Of cloud with ragged edges, like a mound
Or black pine-forest on a mountain’s top,
Wherein the light lies ambushed, dawn were
near—
Yes, 1 have wasted half a summer’s night.
Was it well spent? Successfully it was.
How little flattery is a woman’s love!—
The few hours left are precious~who is there?
Ho! Nieuverkerchen!—when we think upon it,
How little flattery is a woman’s love!
Given commonly to whosoe’er is nearest
And propped with most advantage; outward
grace
Nor inward light is needful; day by day,
Men wanting both are mated with the best
And loftiest of God’s feminine creation.
Whose love takes no distinction but of gender,
And ridicules the very name of choice.
Ho! Nieuverkerchen!—what, then, do we sleep?
Are none of you awake?—and as for me,
The world says Philip is a famous man—
What is there women will not love, so taught?
Ho! Ellert! by your leave though.you must wake.
New Line to Norfolk.—A new steamer, called
the Chesapeake, will, in a few days, make her
first trip from this city to Norfolk, between
which places she is thereafter to ply regularly
twice a week. The Chesapeake was built by
Mr. Lambell, of this city, the builder of the
Sydney, the IPatchman, and other boats, re-!
markable for the beauty of their model, and
I amongst the swiftest steamers on the Ameri
can waters. The Chesapeake Is an elegant
vessel, constructed with the requisite strength
: for sea navigation, and is furnished in the hand
somest style. She is supplied with one of the
j excellent engines of Messrs. IPatchman & Bratt,
of Baltimore, from whence she arrived on Sa
' turday, in nineteen hours, the quickest time,
perhaps, in which the voyage from Baltimore
round to this city was ever before made.
Nat. Lit.
IL ■
The Coalheater and his “ Pieter."—In the
Court of Requests, on Monday a small made
man, with a carefully cultivated pair of carroty
mustachios, whose seedy “ toggery” presented
a tolerable good imitation of a Polish “ militaire,”
came before the Commissioners to make good
his claim of fifteen pence, the price charged for
a whole-length portrait of Mister Robert White,
a member of the worshipful fraternity of Coal
heavers.
The complainant called himself Signor Bene
sontagi, but from all the genuine characteristics
ofCockaigne which he carried about him, it was !
evident he had Germanized his patronymic ol j
Benson to suit the present judicious taste of the
pensive public.”
Signor Benesontagi, it appeared, was a peri-j
patetic professor of the “ Fine Arts.” and ac- ,
customed to visit public-houses for the purpose
of caricaturing the countenances of the compa-1
ny, at prices varying from sixpence to half a
crown per head. In pursuit of his vocation he ,
stepped into the tap-room of the Vulcan’s Head
on Friday evening last, where a conclave of
“operatives,” interested in the coal trade, usu
ally assembled to pay their devoirs to the genius
of Patclay and Perkins; he announced the na
ture of his profession, and was beckoned into
the box where the .i.-fendant was sitting, who
offered him a shill.: ' - "be his likeness; this
sum he consented to vi anv.t to fifteen pence,
provided he would draw ban in his blue velvet
Sunday “kicksies,” which, he said, he only
wore on grand occasions. The bargain was
struck, and the “portrait” was finished, but the
defendant was so ill-satisfied with the perform
ance that he swore he would not have it, nor
pay a “ farden piece” for the “Artist’s” trouble.
The defendant was called on bv the Court to
state his reasons for refusing to pay.
Vy my Lords (said Mister White,) my reason
is this here:—That ’ere covey come into the
crib vere I vos a sitting, nnd ax’d me if as how
I’d have my picter draw’d. Veil, my Lord, be
ing a little (t lumpy,” and thinking it ’ud please
my Sal, I told him I’d give him a “ bob,” and be
my pot to liis’n, if he’d shove in a pair of vel
vet breeches as I’d got at home. Veil, my
Lord, he said he vould, and that he’d make a
“ out and out” job on it, for he’d larn’ phisogo
mony under Sir Peter Laurie.
It’s false (said the complainant); the name as
I mentioned wa« Sir Thomas Lawrence.
Vere’s the difference (said the coalheaver)?—
Veil, my Lords, he goes to vork like a Briton,
and claps this here thing in my fist, vich arn’t a
bit like me, but is more likener the head of a
bull with the bellyache.
The defendant pulled out a card, and handed
it to the court. On inspection, though certainly
it was an ugly likeness, yet there could be no
doubt that it was for the defendant.
The Commissioners were of the opinion that
the portrait was a good fifteen-penny copy of
the defendant’s countenance.
T’ant a bit like me, said the defendant. Vy,
lookee here, he’s draw’d me with a bunch of
inghans sticking out of my pocket.
A bunch of onions, said the incensed artist, I’ll
submit it to any gentleman as is a judge of the
Fine Arts,” whether it can be any thing else
than his watch seals.
Votch seals, vy, I never vore no seals, cause I
never had none, and how can this here be like
me? said the coalheaver.
The Commissioners admitted the premises,
but denied the conclusion; and being of opinion
that the fifteen-pence was justly due to Signor
Benesontagi, awarded that sum and the costs to
him. „ , . .,
Mister White drew out s"x shillings, and laid
them down one by one, with the expression of
countenance of a man submitting to have so
many teeth drawn.—1,'jvdui paper. __ I
PAPER HANGINGS AND BORDERS.
AFRESH supply of the above article, new
patterns; among which are two handsome
Gothic Entry*; just received by
aug23—cost E. KENNEDY.
ALEXANDRIA:
WEDNESDAY MORNING, AUG. 27, 1834
The Pbe33.—In all free countries there will be
political parties, and the press, also being free
must range itself at the head of these parties
Affairs of state, confined in the sterner govern
ments of Europe to the selected few, become th<
constant theme and daily study of the great mu
ny) under happier and less severe forms ol civi
polity. We have practical evidence that the
measures of an Administration may here reach
the business and bosom of every man in the
community; and hence it is evident that every
man must feel more or less interested in what
may so seriously affect his interests, to say no
thing of his feelings or his prejudices. The press
perform ; us legitimate office when it ministers
to the rational and sober gratification and in
j struct5on of *he people, in all that concerns the
polices if the country.
Bound, as it is, in some measure, to pursue
this course, the press yet owes much to itself—to
the morals of society—to the good of the coun
try—the happiness of the citizens—that should
restrain it in its discussion of political matters
within just and temperate lindts. This is requi
red, to preserve its influence and standing-to
prevent the standard of public virtue from de
clining—to uphold the efforts of the good, and
repress the designs of the vicious—and to ac
complish the great ends of constitutional liberty.
A warm political contest has commenced,
and as the period for its decision approaches, if
will increase in strength and intensity. All tie
passions will be enlisted—all the feelings arous
ed—and all the prejudices excited. Fuel \v,i;
be added to the flame from every quarter
The press will be called upon, nay compelled,
to be first among the foremost in the ntelet—to
join the thickest of the fight—to contend to the
last—and never cease “till the hurly-burly’
done, till the battle’s lost and won.”
In this state of the case, it would be asking too
much to expect entire moderation and culmnes.
But may we not appeal to those who have tin*
difficult task to perform, for the exercise, as far
as may be, of discretion and prudence; to be
seech them, so to temper their ardor with inch;
ment, that the evils of the contest may be a.
light as possible to themselves and the country
and that, on whichever standard victory may
perch, there may be, at least, as few regrets a
possible. Personalities, abuse, and all the cor,
dtimned weapons of political warfare, ought to
be laid aside. The armory of truth and reaso:.
contains enough for every hand—polished and
sharp—without resorting to what would soil and
disgrace the combatant.
We offer these suggestions to “ both sides of
the question.” If they are adopted and acted
upon, good will be effected. If they are not at
tended to, we shall not reproach ourselves here
after, with not having, at an early period,
to uphold the character of the American Prex
Printehs.—No little excitement, we perceiv*,
has been created amongst the Printers in ^
ington, in consequence of the projected estai
lishmcnt of a large Apprentice Institute, by to
proprietor and editor ot the United States’ TV
legraph. The proposed establishment we loci
upon as one of the wildest schemes that evo
entered into the head of any man, entirely un
feasible and impracticable, and we are certai
that it will utterly fail, to the great injury of ■
projector—an event for which we shall be ver>
sorry, as far as he is personally concent•
Could it, however, be carried into operatin'
successfully, it would be manifestly most unje
and oppressive, and ruinous, ultimately, to t /
unfortunate boys who had served faitlibi.i’ t.
seven years apprenticeship in the Institu:- •
A respectable Printing Office is, in it--*• •
excellent school for boys, where, with cu
common attention on their part, know ledge
be daily imbibed—knowledge which wi'1' na
them, with their lubor afterwards, to ‘-"PI’
themselves and families, and live respcctalM ••
the world. This, too, effected with advanw?
to themselves, and without injury to ot ^
What nonsense, then, to talk about * ""fC" •
hundreds of boys, of all characters, together
forcing them to work part of the time, un J 'J
part of the time—placing them in snlilary
finement when disobedient--turning them «
when sick or disabled, to support themse^
sending them out into.the world in debitor
former master, and a hundred other • (
things! We have not time nor space, hove -
to enumerate the absurdities of such a Pr°-'^ I
they must readily present themselves to e |
practical mind that reflects on the subjn* |
it is very evident that the journeymen P ‘ ■
ers will and ought to set their faces aga«» |
scheme, and we are g*ad that they h<*| |
so, as appears by their published I
These men, are bound to protec .fifl
against any such lalli < I
profession and calling- They ■
! show forth the evils of the contempM
i tal, or Asylum, or Institute, or wh te |
is attached to it-and even to vontnWet^ ■
vent persons from being inveigle i fn H
which will burst like a bubble. |
the sake of those who in their o * ,■
fitting themselves for useful a ■
members of society, under the care ■
intendence of faithful and respectable J m
men, and for whose future welf-ar ^ ^ ■
naturally feel solicitous, should at.■
faces against it- for what "',l * * I
ness finally come to, on the parI f II
labor at it, when It to overrun*/ . „ II
prentices, and when proprietors ^ t, II
ploy journeymen at all? And s ,hirt*H
| and design of this hopeful echem > M
have been speaking. A srhem Sg