so to combine. All which, without dwelling longer on so disagreeable a subject, we can, by no means, with our present information, consider as a "defensible" proceeding. The various circumstances suggested as palliations, may be gladly so received, and made the most of; especially the fearful example of the then recent Virginian massacre, and the general excitement of the times; but of course they only palliate, they do not excuse.

We shall leave this strain of comment with more pleasure than we commenced it, after adding our dissent to a proposition in the Appendix to this volume, where, speaking of Alexander, the son and successor of Massasoit, the historian, we think, has inadvertently fallen into a common opinion, that this unfortunate young man was "devoid of his father's good qualities." Yet it is admitted, that all which is known of him is derived from one transaction. That affair is detailed here in two forms, - Mr. Mather's and Mr. Cotton's. The latter is founded on a statement of Major Bradford, who was one of the actors in the scene; and it wholly exculpates Alexander from any misconduct, to say the least. Under these circumstances, it seems to us a hard case enough, that the life of this unfortunate personage should have been so disastrously cut short as it was, without adding the ignominy of such a character as historians, both here and elsewhere, have ventured to ascribe to him. We confess, our own inferences have been decidedly in favor of the Indian, even from the evidently hasty and prejudiced account furnished by Mather. Every one, however, can judge for himself; and we must do our author the justice to say, that, whether he is right or wrong in his reasoning, he has followed in this instance his invariable practice of furnishing the data which led him to adopt it. One or two such inaccuracies, if such they are, in a volume like this, are no great marvel. The typographical blunders, which, we suppose the author is not chargeable for, might afford us better scope for critical scrutiny; the unceremonious change, by two months, in the date of the Pilgrim's landing, among others; but these errata, on account of their palpable gaucherie, are mostly of a character to require little notice, and we have left ourselves no time to bestow it.

In fine, as we began with waving a discussion of the character of the Pilgrim enterprise, and its consequences, or even of the character of the men who devised and sustained it, we may as safely end with repeating the intimation, that the

best compliment, the most generous justice, the worthiest monument, which can now be given them, is the strictest, plainest, and fullest statement, as far as possible, of what they did, and who they were. The task of mere eulogy, compared with this, if it be true, or founded on truth, is but a vain effort to construe actions which speak better for themselves. If it be more than true; if it labor to conceal the real errors of systems, or the real weaknesses of men; - it fails of its own purposes as much, at least, as if it were less, by suppressing the very obstacles which most of all, perhaps, more than the elements, more than their enemies themselves, were the trials the Pilgrims were called on to encounter, and to surmount. It was not only what they were, but what they did despite of what they were and what the age was with them, which gives them a title to our admiration. This we magnify in proportion as we magnify their faults and their misfortunes.

At all events we wish to know them as they were, and to appreciate, as it merits, the claim, which has been advanced for them, to the remembrance and the reverence of men. An extraordinary race they were, at least; such as the world never had known before, and never will know again. Extraordinary circumstances, which never can be revived, surrounded, nourished, educated, and impelled them. Consequences, most extraordinary of all, have resulted already from the lives, which their character and their circumstances together induced them, and enabled them, to lead; consequences developed, enough, long since, to prove them the founders of a new dynasty in the destinies of the race. We know not all as yet, indeed. We cannot know. We may not speculate even, with a tolerable plausibility, into the vast mysteries which veil the coming fortunes of the descendants of the Puritans. The existing spectacle, as Mr. Everett remarked at Plymouth, does not suggest even an idea of what must be. And yet, we see enough to feel, more and more, that the past, at least, must be secured; that the beginning, if nothing else, should be disclosed; that it is history, which must give us not only the sole clue we can have to prophecy, but the best interpretation of what we are ourselves, and what we owe, and have to do. And knowing and doing this, the rest may be left to those who may follow us. Time alone can tell the sequel of the story. Posterity must live it out.

B. B. T.

ART. V.. Sartor Resartus. In Three Books. Boston: James Munroe, & Co. 1836. 12mo. pp. 299.

In giving our readers some account of this singular production, we will begin by reversing the usual method of our vocation, and instead of a review utter a prophecy. Indeed the book is so very odd, that some departure from the common course seems the most appropriate to any notice of it. We predict, then, that it will not be read through by a great many persons, nor be liked by all its readers. Some will pronounce it unintelligible, or boldly deny that it has any good sound meaning. Some will be deterred by its Latin porch and German decorations from having any thing to do with what seems not intended for their accommodation; while perhaps their neighbour, attracted by the quaintness of the title, "Sartor Resartus," The Tailor Sewed Over,—and thinking only of being amused in a passive way, will soon find his mistake, and declare himself imposed upon. The taste of some will be offended by what they will call its affectation and mannerism, and you shall not easily dispossess them of the notion, that the style is a jargon and the philosophy stark nought.

These are they that will rise up to defame and vilipend the elaborate and mystic book of The Philosophy of Clothes, by Dr. Diogenes Teufelsdröckh (Asafoetida), Professor of Things in General at the University of Weissnichtwo (Know-notwhere), and living in the attic floor of the highest house in its Wahngasse (Whimsey Street). Even his choice phrases and profoundest speculations shall be as unsavoury to them as the drug, from which he has rather unaccountably, to say the least of it, taken his name. * But then we plainly foresee

* An ingenious friend has just surmised, that there might be a secret design in the composition of this most un-euphonious proper name; as the Grecian part of it means heaven-born, and the German one the vilest of earthly or even infernal productions. This conjecture may seem to be confirmed by the character of our Professor, who is a great radical, and seems to be made up of violently opposite elements. "And yet, thou brave Teufelsdröckh, who could tell what lurked in thee? In thy eyes, deep under their shaggy brows, and looking out so still and dreamy, have we not noticed gleams of an ethereal or else a diabolic fire, and half fancied that their stillness was but the rest of infinite motion, the sleep of a spinning-top?"-p. 14. And again, p. 65. Through all the vapor and tarnish of what is often so perverse, so

that there will be others, who will make very different account of our Professor's lucubrations. They will admire his wildest extravagances, and discover in his most playful disportings a hidden wisdom; even as the worshippers of Goethe found, and find still, a perfect system of philosophy and a whole canon of Scripture in the wondrous diablerie of the Faust. They will admit nothing in him to be obscure, nothing tedious. They will talk rather mystically about him at times, and as if they would form round him a special school of the initiated. Every novelty of the least pretension being now-a-days " a new revelation of man to himself," they will adjudge this "philosophy of clothes" to be among the leading phenomena of modern thought. Its style will be copied by young aspirants for literary fame. It will be quoted from the pulpit. It will be read aloud to enthusiastic circles of most intelligent persons.

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For our own part, we shall not be much surprised either at the neglect and aversion that it will experience in some quarters, or the unqualified admiration that it will excite in others. We think that they may both be explained equally well, without impeaching the critical acuteness of either of the parties; though we by no means profess ourselves to stand indifferent, or as a middle term, between them. We retain the lease of small tenement in the Wahngasse ourselves, and frankly own that this book has great charms for us. It is written with an earnest and full spirit, though under a freakish form. It is the work of a contemplative, fervent, accomplished mind. It abounds with just and original thoughts, mixed up with the most diverting fancies, and expressed in a style which, though rather grotesque, is of extraordinary copiousness, beauty, and power. The peculiarity, indeed, of the style is just that which will be most objected to and most relished, according to the tastes of different readers. We see nothing to forgive in it, though it is one of the last to be proposed for imitation. It certainly could not be changed without destroying the whole harmony of the performance. It is not only the appropriate dress, but a part of the very substance, of the work. If any will persist in calling it affected, we can only say that it seems

mean in his exterior and environment, we seem at times to look into a whole inward sea of light and love; though, alas, the grim, coppery clouds soon roll together again, and hide it from view." "One knows not whether to hate or to love him."p. 64.

to fall very naturally from the pen that employs it, and that such affectations are not often to be met with. If any should wonder how it came to be adopted by the author of "The Life of Schiller," we think that, if they will but turn to the same author's masterly translation of John Paul's (Richter's) "Life of Quintus Fixlein," the mystery will be found solved at once. It seems to have been caught from familiarity with that strange genius, and suits perfectly the assumed character which he here undertakes to sustain.

Mr. Carlyle, who is well understood to be the only Professor Teufelsdröckh we are to think of, has published nothing as yet under his own name. His translations from the German novelists did not tell the English public to whom it was indebted for them. "The Life of Schiller was anonymous. His chief reputation, both here and at home, arose from several remarkable articles in the British Reviews, of which the parentage would never have been known, if they had not excited the general curiosity. "Sartor Resartus" first appeared in several successive numbers of Fraser's Magazine. He collected it into a volume for the gratification of his friends; and of that volume this is an exact reprint, with the exception of a preface by the American editors, which is short and neat and just what it should be. The last literary announcement of his is a work on the French Revolution. We are looking for it among the pleasant things that are to come, and should have been favored with it perhaps before now, but for one of those disasters which Sir Isaac Newton has been famed for enduring so patiently. One of the volumes was confided in manuscript to a friend, and was burnt up,- by what ravenous chance we never learned. The contents had to be reproduced. It remains to be seen what the result will be of that most heartsinking of all toil. We are happy, however, to have his own assurance that "the burnt ashes have again grown leaves, after a sort"; though almost two volumes were still to be gone through with, at mid-summer of the past year. The last rumor we heard of his more personal projects was, that he was thinking of making a voyage before the next winter to the United States.

"Sartor Resartus," according to its form, is a dissertation on clothes, or rather, selections from such a dissertation, composed by the German sage whose name we do not desire again to repeat, and interspersed with extracts from his autobiogra