bors of his fellow men. On this system he would benefactor, not because of the magnitude of the be debarred from the use of any moral, or political benefits conferred by him, but mainly on account truth, of any invention, or improvement in art, or of the benevolence of his motives. None is due science, in short, of every production of genius, to him whose aid is prompted, not by kindness, but which he could not claim as his own by actual by selfish and mercenary views. I am indebted purchase, or by the right of original discovery; to the butcher and the tailor for food and raiment, for I defy the most subtle and ingenious advocate but when I purchase those necessary commodities, of Copyright to distinguish, on the principles of it will hardly be pretended that I am bound by any natural justice, between property in thoughts pro- ties of gratitude to those useful craftsmen. In mulgated in books and thoughts orally communi- like manner, when the principal incentive of an cated. Had Newton, or Leibnitz, claimed perpetual author is pecuniary emolument, whatever may be and exclusive ownership in the differential calcu- the ability, or usefulness of his writings, the sellus, and converted that invention into an instru- fishness of the motive cancels the claim, which ment of gain, the miracles wrought by the agency he might otherwise prefer to the gratitude of manof that splendid conception would, instead of em- kind. The great luminaries of science and literabellishing the history of the past age, have been ture have not been actuated in the production of postponed to some distant epoch in the depths of their immortal works by such narrow and grovelfuturity. But, to present a still more striking illus-ling considerations. Though not insensible to the tration, let us imagine for a moment, that the use movements of personal interest, those illustrious of the Novum Organon, or the Principia had been trammelled by the fetters of a perpetual Copyright, is it not probable, that modern philosophy, deprived of free access to these great works, would have been still groping in the obscure unprofitable subtleties of scholastic disputation? men were governed by nobler impulses. Ambition, that "last infirmity of noble minds," the love of fame, the general good were their ruling principles of action, and to suppose them so covetous of gain as to prefer their own profit to the improvement of their species, is to disparage the purity of their motives and to pluck from them the brightest chaplet that adorns their brows. At the most, gratitude between man and man constitutes what, by the definition of ethical writers, is called an imperfect obligation, a mere voluntary and spontaneous tribute enforced by no system of jurisprudence; and if such claims are in their nature so vague and indeterminate, that no legislator has deemed them the proper subject of judicial interference in the relations of private life, their force is infinitely weakened in reference to governments, charged with the happiness and well-being of multitudes, and which, from the very objects of their institution, are bound to act in subserviency to the interests of the governed. Perhaps, to elude the force of this reasoning, it will be said that the friends of copyright, admitting that the argument of inconvenience is conclusive against its unlimited extension, are content to give such a brief and transitory existence to that franchise as may promote the advancement of literature without compromising the great interests of society. The ground of justice, of its having the same root in natural right with property in general, must then be abandoned. Expediency can never enter into the discussion of a just claim except with those who make utility the basis of all moral obligation. The moral duty of governments to provide a recompense for literary labor is sometimes referred to a different sentiment. It is said, that we owe a debt of gratitude to the great men, whose invaluSome things, such as air and light, are essenable works have contributed to our amusement and tially incapable of permanent appropriation, and instruction, and that the most appropriate mode of have, therefore, never been considered the proper evincing our sense of their services, of ensuring subject of ownership. In some of their characthem an ample remuneration, is to give them a teristics the operations of mind resemble these legal property in their writings. It is obvious indispensible supports of physical life. They are that this view of the subject assigns to Copyright too subtile, too diffusive, too easily transmitted to a very different origin from other property; for our be fixed in one spot, to be imprisoned within defiduty to acknowledge the claims of a benefactor is nite boundaries; and as they furnish aliment to the of a complexion altogether distinct from our obli- moral and spiritual world, the wise Creator of the gation to reimburse the services of a common la- universe seems to have designed them as the comborer. If we refuse to comply with the one, we mon heritage of our race. The air and light, violate the plainest dictates of honesty; if we which enter our dwellings dispensing warmth, vifail in the other, we may be called ungrateful, but tality and comfort to the inhabitants, are ours so are scarcely chargeable with injustice, or breach long as they remain within those peculiar limits, of faith. Gratitude is a refined and elevated sen- and no one can disturb us in their possession and timent, and it is repugnant to the delicacy, as well enjoyment without an infraction of our rights; but as degrading to the dignity of that virtue to con- when they are restored to the general circulation fine its exercise to a sordid traffic of pecuniary of those elements, the whole human family are advantages. It is a tribute which we owe to a entitled to an equal participation in their benefits. In like manner every man may claim the exclusive use and enjoyment of his private thoughts and speculations, so long as they are confined to his own bosom and are subject to his control; but when, by his own voluntary communication, they mingle with the great mass of knowledge, they are no longer susceptible of individual appropriation. He may refuse to impart them without a pecuniary equivalent; but the veil of secrecy once withdrawn on whatever motive, his hold on them is forever relinquished, and they become the universal property of all mankind. It may, indeed, be deemed expedient, in the artificial arrangements of society, to carve out of these common blessings a temporary ownership for individuals; but to make that ownership perpetual would be treason against the laws of nature and a tyranny which no community could tolerate. Campbell County, Va. [To be continued.] ISABELLE. BY HENRY B. HIRST. (Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1844, by Henry B. Hirst, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.) A lustrous maid was Isabelle, And quiet as a brooding bird; She never thought of passion's spell- But in her lonely chamber sat, Sighing the weary hours away, From morn 'till flitting of the bat Around the turrets grey; And trembling with a strange unrest, Was heavy with its lot. And so she spent her maiden days, Nor hope from earthly thing; Beaming from heavenly eyes. At last she passed to womanhood, Beneath a breast of stone. And then a blue-eyed page there came And wild as bird in May. Her lustrous eyes grew large with love, Her cheeks with passion flushed and bright; Her lips, whereon no bee might rove Undrunken with delight, Were ever apart and jewelled o'er With diamonds of nectarian dew; Her fair and faultless features wore A spiritual hue; Her step grew certain with the firm, Full knowledge she had past the night Of woman's life, and reached the term, Where, henceforth, all was light. She felt she had not lived in vain, She saw the Eden of her dreams The seed of love God's hand had sown Grown to a tall and stately tree, Whose shadows fell (as sun-beams fall) Upon her life, and she was free From sorrow's solemn thrall. She sighed no more at even-tide, She sighed no more at night or morn, And ever she sung her lightest lays, Her father watched her as she passed, The servants followed her with their eyes, And prayed the virgin, that her hours Might ever pass under azure skies, And o'er parterres of flowers. But shadows fall from angel wings, And happiest moments welcome woe; No joy is born but brings its stings, And nought is bliss below. Her father, wrapped in study's spell, At last awoke, and saw the change That time had wrought in Isabelle, And thought it passing strange. And instant out he called his train, And forth, with hawk and hound, at noon He rode, and when he came again There came Prince Ethelrune "And I will give him house and land, And shape his rank to favor thine, And then, together ye shall stand Before the sacred shrine." The lady raised her azure eyes, Like violets, gleaming with the dew Of glistening tears, and said, with sighs, “I yield my fate to you.” "Then bring the page, for I would see The lover, who hath won so well Despite her haught and high degree, The Lady Isabelle !" The merry-hearted maid is gone; The noble knight in sorrow stands; For well he loves the dove-like one He yields to other hands. But little time he had for woe The sound of gentle footsteps fell Upon his ears, and smiling, lo! The page and Isabelle ! And now he stands in mute amaze, On what before him lies. Up spake the page, "it is no dream; Then quoth the Prince in merry glee, "Sure Fortune never smiled so well On maiden as she has on thee, Sweet sister Isabelle !" Philadelphia, August, 1843. SONNET FROM PETRARCH. "GLI OCCHI DI CH'IO PARLAI SI CALDAMENTE." The lovely eyes that once I praised with pride, A seperate one from others of my race; The wavy curls of pure and shining gold, The lightning of the sweet and seraph smile Which made this heart a Paradise of old, Are senseless dust; and yet I live the while; Yes! I still live, from which I grieve, and scorn To stay without the light I loved so long In prosperous days, or when my bark was torn ;— My amorous strains I can no more prolong; The fount whence flowed my genius dry appears; My harp is turned to wailing and to tears. Philadelphia, December, 1844. never heard the name; never heard of our Saviour; never THE DOOM OF THE CHILDREN. says any prayers; does not know one." BY WM. OLAND BOURNE. MEMBER OF THE AMERICAN INSTITUTE, Corresponding Member of the National Institute for the promotion of Science, Washington, D. C.; Cor. Mem. Natural History Society of Montreal, Montreal, Canada East; of the Literary and Historical Society of Quebec, C. E., &c., &c. "The practice of employing children only six and seven years of age to work in mines is almost universal, and there are no short hours for them. The children go down with the men usually at four o'clock in the morning, and remain in the pit between eleven and twelve hours." "I could not conceive of circumstances more prejudicial to animal existence than shutting up a little child throughout the day in subterraneous confinement at the very period when light and air are as necessary to its growth as to a young and tender plant." "The use of a child of six years of age is to open and shut one of the doors or traps in the galleries which are used to prevent the ingress or egress of inflammable air. The child is trained to sit in a dark gallery, and is literally in the dark during the whole of its confinement. It is impossible to imagine a more monotonous and dismal occupation for a child; yet I was told the child was not unhappy, although they did fret a good deal at first.' The truth is, that by blunting the sensibilities and deadening the faculties, the mind may be rendered callous to a lot which would otherwise be too bitter for human endurance."—" Notes and Observations," &c., by W. E. Hicksun, Esq. "I found assembled around a fire a group of men, boys, and girls, some of whom were of the age of puberty, the girls as well as the boys stark naked down to the waist, their hair bound up with a tight cap, and trousers supported by the hips. Their sex was recognisable only by their breasts, and some little difficulty occasionally arose in pointing out to me which were girls and which were boys. In the Flocton and Thornhill pits it is even more indecent; at least three-fourths of the men for whom they hurry are entirely unclothed, or with a flannel waistcoat only."-J. C. Symons, Esq., Report, §iii, et seq.: App. pt. i, pp. 181-2. "When the nature of this horrible labor is taken into consideration, its extreme severity, its regular duration of twelve to fourteen hours daily, the unwholesome atmosphere of a coal mine, and the tender age and sex of the workers, a picture is presented of deadly physical oppression and systematic slavery, of which I conscientiously believe no one unacquainted with the facts, would credit the existence in the British dominions."-S. S. Scriven, Evidence, 68. p. 383. "The children are called up at all hours of the night when the lace machines are at work; they are generally at work twenty hours per day; when they give over at eight o'clock on Saturday night, they lose of course four hours that day, then that is made up by their being worked the whole of the night on the Friday night."-Evidence before the Select Committee on the Mills and Factories. Testimony of Mr. Bury, Question 3321-23. Mrs. Houghton, Walker Street, New Trenton, is a lace drawer and has four children-Harriet, eight years; Anne, six; Mary, four, and Eliza, two years old; of these, the three older are lace-drawers. Harriet was not quite three when she began to work, Anne was about the same, and Mary was not quite two years old."-W. Grainger's Report; quoted by Charlotte Elizabeth. Eliza Baff, aged fifteen :-"Never heard of Jesus Christ; VOL. X-26 Henry Ward, near seventeen:-"Does not know how many disciples there were; does not know who Jesus Christ was; thinks he was an apostle; they don't learn the Catechism here; else he could tell about him, but thinks he was a King of some kind of London, a long time ago." It is said that St. Gregory was passing through the Slave markets of Rome, one day, when he saw some children of great beauty who were set up for sale: he inquired who they were, and finding them to be English Pagans, he is said to have cried out, NON ANGLI, SED ANGELI FORENT, SI ESSENT CHRISTIANI!" They would not be English but Angels if they were Christians!” Mr. Horne says-" Many of the children told me they always said their prayers at night, and the prayer they said was 'Our Father.' I naturally thought they meant that they repeated the Lord's Prayer, but I soon found that few of them knew it. They repeated only the two first words they knew no more than Our Father.'" There is an island in the sea Where loveliest things the eye allure, And like to Dreamland seems to be, Where joy inhales the ether pure; The flowing stream or gentle rill Glides smooth or murmurs on its way, Whose peaceful bosom fair and still Receives the light of every ray. There beauty in her rich attire 'Mid sparkling gems awakes her tone, Or sweeps with gentle touch the lyre To make Euterpe's gift her own, And scenes of pleasure cast around The dulcet strains of rapt'rous joy; Where not one sorrow can be found The sweet illusion to destroy: The flashing eye delights to beam In answer to a thousand smiles, And sweetest oft becomes the dream That woos the spirit with its wiles, While Art expends her richest power To grace the scene with lavish skill, And 'mid the witchery of the hour The cup of flowing nectar fill. There Science takes her lofty flight, And catches truth from earth and heaven, Which seems exhaustless to be given; To bring to earth celestial fire, The sweetest incense man can bring, And heartfelt tributes that they bring; Which Error ever welcomes nigh; She warbles forth angelic strains, And sheds a splendor on the hour When man her sweetest gift obtains; There Love enkindled from on high Pours forth her harmony of heaven, And hymns perpetual melody From Spirit-tongues to mortals given; And Faith, and Love, and holy Truth Look up with eyes of pure Desire, And joying in perennial youth, String Hope's own silvery, chosen lyre. But hark! I hear a shriek of pain! Whence comes the sound? and can it be This happy island in the Sea Sends forth this echo to its strain? Aye! turn thy feet from glittering halls, To see where sorrow ever fallsWhere one long, deep, unbroken wail, Which sends its piercing to the gale, Reveals the vast, remorseless wrong That withers both the weak and strong. Did ye not see an abject thing That shuddered as ye passed it by, And scarcely seemed to life to cling, Scarce spoke its misery with a sigh? Did ye not see the hollow eye That spoke through tears of bitter pain A mute appeal, addressed in vain For aid and pity ere he die? There is an island in the Sea Whose glory fills the world with song, Whose most commanding pageantry Is gained by deep and speechless wrong; And while the nation's heart is stirred With swelling songs, there may be heard A mournful, bitter undertone Of millions in a fearful moan, Which bears along the swelling sigh And long-drawn curse of agony! Whence is its greatness? Ask the grave, In which entombed their glories lie; Give Truth its tongue to speak amid This scene of fearful irony! Whence is its greatness? Ask the child That drags along its tearful way— And is in being's dawn defiled With sin's companionship each day; "Greatness! What is it? I don't know! The great lord owns the pits belowThe children work the livelong day And ne'er behold the sunny rayThe great sun shines, but not on meThe great God speaks, but not to me→→ The bright stars shine, but not for meThe happy spring does not cheer meThe great lord only is so grand, He drives his coach about the land: There's a great book, I've heard 'em say, That good folk read in every day, And tells a story about one They calls the Saviour's Lord's own son*- In the dark coal-pits where we be, As the great lords' of which they tell; Oh! could ye witness under ground That pale, dejected, withered thing, And hear that mockery of a sound Whene'er it tries to laugh or sing, The cheerless cabin of the poor! Is smiling 'neath the blooming flowers,- Of life's young joy within the soul, * John Wood, nearly eighteen-"Never heard of St. John the Baptist; never heard of King Herod; has heard of Jesus Christ, the Saviour's Lord's Son." +William Southern, aged seventeen-"Knows who Jesus Christ was, he died on the cross to shed his blood to save our Saviour. Never heard of St. Peter or St. Paul." Walter Brindly, aged seventeen-"Has heard of the Apostles; does not know if St. Peter was one, or if St. John was one, unless it was St. John Wesley; does not know any thing about Job; never heard of Samson; knows about Jack Sheppard." · Samuel R. Horton, near twelve-"Cannot read, only in the six penny book. Is not afraid of any man or boy either. Thinks he is of the devil, but not particularly." |