*

spring, till the poor thing is quite emaciated, he not being more bulky at present than two ordinary men. Bu expect to see him swell to his former dimensions in a short time: for I must tell you that he has appeased the anger of the little tyranness at last, got out of purgatory, and is to be blest above the lot of mortals, in waiting on the lady to ***, to-morrow, with some other company going to attend Mr. P**** and his new-married wife out of town. I hope, in pity to the wedded couple, that the severity of the weather will abate; for it will be hard indeed to have winter both without and within doors. I say winter within, because it is said that a cold season comes about a month after marriage, when all the springs of affection are commonly exhausted or frozen up, even in those who just before were sweltering in the sultry dog-days of love.

"Well, I have been rambling, I know not where. It is time to return home, and conclude, lest I should have occasion to make a long apology for being tedious. I hope your next will be in doggrel; not but I like your prose as well as any man's living-but yet, methinks a little jingle of yours would make my soul all ear and all harmony. Your honest friend, "J MAYHEW."

EPITAPHS, ANAGRAMS, ELEGIES, &c., OF THE

PURITANS.

NOTHING more admirably illustrates the character of the founders of New England than their epitaphs, elegies, anagrams, and other portraitures of each other. Grave doctors of divinity-men more learned in classical literature and scholastic theology than any since their time-prided themselves upon the excellence of their puns and epigrams, and the cleverness shown by a few celebrated persons in this species of fashionable trifling constituted their principal claim to immortality. In the Magnalia Christi Americana, Thomas Shepard, a minister of Charlestown, is described as " the greatest anagrammatizer since the days of Lycophron," and the pastoral care of the renowned Cotton Mather himself is characteristically described as distinguished for -Care to guide his flock and feed his lambs

By words, works, prayers, psalms, alms and—anagrams ! One of the anagrams upon the name of Mather makes out of Cottonus Matherus, Tu tantum Conors es, another Tuos tecum ornasti, etc.; and on the death of the Rev. Thomas Wilson, Shepard wrote,

JOHN WILSON, anagr. JoHN WILSON.

O change it not! no sweeter name or thing Throughout the world within our ears shall ring! We have collected a few specimens of the epitaphs of our first century, which, from their ingenuity or quaintness, cannot fail to amuse the reader. The first is on Samuel Danforth, a minister of Roxbury, who died in 1674, a few days after the completion of a new meeting-house, and was written by Thomas Welde, a poet :f considerable reputation in his day

Our new-built church now suffers by thisLarger its Windows, but its Lights one less. Thomas Dudley, who came to Massachusetts in 1630 as deputy-governor, was subsequently chief magistrate of the colony for several years. He died on the last day of July, 1653, in the seventy-third year of his age, and was buried in Roxbury, where, in the records of the Congregational church, is preserved an anagram

said to have been sent to him by some anɔujalous Wir ter, in 1645.

THOMAS DUDLEY, anagr. Ah, old must dye ! A death's head on your hand you need no: weare-A dying head you on your shoulders beare You need not one to mynd you you must dyeYou in your name may spel! mortalitye. Young men may dye, but old men, they lye must, "Twill not be long before you turn to dust. Before you turn to dust! Ah! must old dye?— What shall young doe, when old in dust doe lye? When old in dust lye, what New Englande doe? When old in dust doe lye, it's best dye too. The following was found in his pocket, after his death:

ON HIMSELF-BY THOMAS DUDLEY.

Farewell, dear wife, children and friends!
Hate heresy, make blessed ends,
Bear povertye, live with good men,
So shall we live with joy agen.

Let men of God in courts and churches watch
O'er such as doe a Toleration hatch,
Lest that ill egg bring forth a cockatrice
To poison all with heresy and vice.
If men be left and otherwise combine,
My epitaph's-I dyed no Libertyne!
This is characteristic of the Puritans.
should, however, understand that the old meaning of
the word libertine was tolerant or liberal, so that the

The reader

governor merely designed to enjoin conformity to his doctrines. Dudley was a narrow-minded man, as much distinguished for his miserly propensities as for his bigotry. Among the epitaphs proposed for his monu

ment was one by Governor Belcher

Here lies Thomas Dudley, that trusty old stud— A bargain's a bargain, and must be made good! Donne nor Cowley ever produced any thing more full of quaint conceits, antithesis, and puns, than the elegy written by Benjamin Woodbridge, in 1654, on John Cotton

Here lies magnanimous humility,

Majesty, meekness, Christian apathy,
On soft affections: liberty, in thrall—
A simple serpent, or serpentine dove.-
Neatness embroider'd with itself alone,
And devils canonized in a gown,-
A living, breathing Bible; table where
Both covenants at large engraven are;
Gospel and law, in 's heart, had each its column;
His head an index to the sacred volume;
His very name 's a title-page, and next
His life a commentary on the text.
Oh, what a monument of glorious worth,
When in a new edition he comes forth,
Without errata, may we think he'll be
In leaves and covers of eternity.

The celebrated epitaph of Dr. Franklin is supposed to have been suggested by this; but the lines of Joseph Capen, a minister of Topsfield, on Mr. John Foster, an ingenious mathematician and printer, bear to it a still closer resemblance

Thy body which no activeness did lack,
Now's laid aside, like an old almanack;
But for the present only 's out of date;
'T will have at length a far more active state;
Yea, though with dust thy body soiled be,
Yet at the resurrection we shall see
A fair edition, and of matchless worth,
Free from errata, new in heaven set forth;

"Tis but a word from God, the great Creator, It shall be done when He saith Imprimatur. One of the most poetical of the epitaphs of this period is that by Cotton Mather on the Rev. Thomas Shepard, before mentioned, who died in 1649.

Heare lies intomb'd a heavenly orator,
From the great King of kings Ambassador-
Mirrour of virtues, magazine of artes,

Crown to our heads, and loadstone to our heartes. The following lines are from the monument of the Rev. Richard Mather, who died in Dorchester, in 1669, aged 73:

Richardus hic dormit Matherus,

Sed nec totus nec mora diu tuma,
Lætatus genuisse pares.

In certum est utrum doctior an melior
Anima et gloria non queunt humani.

Divinely rich and learned Richard Mather,
Sons like him, prophets great, rejoiced his father.
Short time his sleeping dust here's cover'd down;
Not his ascended spirit or renown.

The Rev. Edward Thompson, a preacher of considerable reputation in his day, died at Marshfield, Massachusetts, in 1705. His epitaph is preserved by Alden

Here, in a tyrant's hand, doth captive lye
A rare synopsis of divinetye.

Old patriarchs, prophets, gospel bishops meet Under deep silence in their winding sheet. All rest awhile, in hopes and full intent, When their King calls, to sit in Parliament. Governor Theophilus Eaton, of New Haven, died st an advanced age, on the 7th of January, 1657. His son-in-law, Deputy-Governor William Jones, and his daughter, are buried near him, and are alluded to in the lines upon the monument erected to his memory.

Eaton, so famed, so wise, so meek, so just-
The phoenix of our world-here lies in dust.
His name forget New England never must.
Tattend you, syr, undr these framed stones
Are come yr honrd son and daughter Jones,
On each hand to repose yr weary bones.

The next is from an old monument in Dorchester.
Heare lyes our captaine, who major

In the same cemetery lies the body of James Humfrey, one of the ruling elders of Dorchester, who departed this life the 12 May, 1686, in the 78 year of his age." His epitaph, like many of that period is in the form of an acrostic

I nclosed within this shrine is precious dust,
And only waits the rising of the just;
Most useful while he lived, adorn'd his station,
E ven to old age he served his generation;
8 ince his decease, thought of with veneration.
How great a blessing this ruling elder, he
Unto this church and town, and pastors three;

Mather the first did by him help receive, Flint he did next his burden much relieve. Renowned Danforth did he assist with skill; E steemed high by all, bearing fruit until Y ielding to death, his glorious seat did fill. The most ingenious of the Puritan poets was the Rev. Michael Wigglesworth, whose "Day of Doom" is the most remarkable curiosity in American litera"He was as skilled," says one of his biographers, "in physic and surgery as in diviner things," and when he could neither preach nor prescribe for the physical sufferings of his neighbours,

ture.

"In costly verse, and most laborious rhymes, He dish'd up truths right worthy our regard." He was buried in Malden. near Boston, and his epitaph was written by Mather

THE EXCELLENT MICHAEL WIGGLESWORTH,
Remembered by some good tokens.

His pen did once meat from the eater fetch;
And now he's gone beyond the cater's reach.
His body, once so thin, was next to none;
From hence he's to unbodied spirits flown.
Once his rare skill did all diseases heal;
And he does nothing now uneasy feel.
He to his Paradise is joyful come,

And waits with joy to see his Day of Doom.
The last epitaph we shall give is from the monument
of Dr. Clark, a grandson of the celebrated Dr. John
Clark, who came to New England in 1630.

He who among physicians shone so late,
And by his wise prescriptions conquer'd Fate,
Now lies extended in the silent grave,
Nor him alive would his vast merit save.
But still his fame shall last, his virtues live,
And all sepulchral monuments survive.
Still flourish shall his name: nor shall this stone
Long as his piety and love be known.

Many of the elegies preserved in the Magnalia, Morton's New England Memorial, and other works of the time, are not less curious than the briefer tributes engraven upon the tomb-stones of the Pilgrims The following lines on the death of the Rev. Thomas Hooker, of Hartford, were written by John Cotton, the first minister of Boston, and one of the most distinguished men of the colonies, whose elegy by Wood bridge we have already quoted

To see three things was holy Austin's wish,
Rome in her Flower, Christ Jesus in the Flesh,
And Paul in Pulpit; lately, men might see,
Two first and more in Hooker's ministry.

Zion, in Beauty, is a fairer sight,

Than Rome in Flower, with all her glory dight,
Yet Zion's Beauty did most clearly shine
In Hooker's Rule and Doctrine; both divine.
Christ i' the Spirit's more than Christ in Flesh,
Our souls to quicken, and our states to bless!
Yet Christ in spirit, broke forth mightily,
In faithful Hooker's searching ministry.
Paul, in the pulpit, Hooker could not reach ;
Yet did he Christ in spirit, so lively preach,
That living hearers thought he did inherit
A double portion of Paul's lively spirit.
Prudent in rule, in argument quick,
Fervent in prayer, in preaching powerful;
That well did learned Ames record bear,
The like to him he never wont to hear.
'Twas of Geneva's worthies said, with wonder,
(Those worthies three) Ferell was wont to thunder;

Viret, like rain, on tender grass to shower;

But Calvin, lively oracles to pour.

All these in Hooker's spirit did remain,

A son of thunder, and a shower of rain; A pourer forth of lively oracles,

In saving souls, the sum of miracles.

4

Now blessed Hooker, thou'rt set on high,
Above the thankless world, and cloudy sky;
Do thou of all thy labour reap the crown,
Whilst we, here, reap the seed which thou hast sown!

The following lines are by Peter Bulkeley, of Concord, who was thought to be a fine Latin and English poet, by the critics of his time:

A lamentation for the death of that precious and worthy minister of Jesus Christ, Mr. John Hooker, Anno Domini, 1647.

Come sighs, come sorrows, let's lament this rod,
Which hath bereaved us of this man of God;
A man of God, which came from God to men,
And now from them, is gone to God agen.
Bid joy depart: bid merriment begone;
Bid friends stand by; sit mournful and alone.
But oh! what sorrow can be to suffice,

Though heaven and earth were filled with our cries.
Let Hartford sigh, and say, "I've lost a treasure;"
Let all New England mourn at God's displeasure,
In taking from us one more gracious
Than is the gold of Ophir precious.

Sweet was the savour which his grace did give,
It seasoned all the place where he did live.
His name did, as an ointment, give it's smell,
And all bare witness that it savour'd well.

A few years after writing the eulogy of his friend, Mr. Cotton also died, and was thus praised by John Norton, who wrote his history:

And after Winthrop's, Hooker's, Sheppard's hearse,
Doth Cotton's death call for a mourning verse!
Thy will be done! yet, Lord, who deal'st thus,
Make this great death expedient for us.

Luther pulled down the pope, Calvin, the prelate slew:
Of Calvin's lapse, chief cures to Cotton due.
Cotton, whose learning, temper, godliness,
The German Phenix, lively did express.
Melancthon's all-may Luther's word but pass-
Melancthon's all in our great Cotton was;
Than him in flesh, scarce dwelt a better one,
So great's our loss, when such a spirit 's gone.
Whilst he was here, life was more life to me;
Now he is not, death hence, less death shall be.
That comets great men's death do oft forego,
This present comet doth too sadly shew;
This prophet dead, yet must in 's doctrine speak,
This comet saith, else must New England break.
Whate'er it be, may heaven avert it far,
That meteors should succeed our greatest star.
In Boston's orb, Winthrop and Cotton were;
These lights extinct, dark is our hemisphere.
In Boston, once, how much shined of our glory,
We now lament, posterity will story.

Let Boston live, who had and saw their worth,
And did them honour, both in life and death.
To him New England trust in this distress,
Who will not leave his exiles comfortless.

The following lines are from Cotton Mather's "Remarks on the Bright and the Dark Side of that American Pillar, the Reverend Mr. William Thomson:"

Apollyon owing him a cursed spleen
Who an Apollos in the church had been,
Dreading his traffic here would be undone
By num'rous proselytes he daily won,

Accused him of imaginary faults,

And push'd him down so into dismal vaults:
Vaults, where he kept long ember-weeks of grief,
Till Heaven alarmèd sent him a relief.
Then was a Daniel in the lion's den,

A man, oh, how beloved of God and men!
By his bedside an Hebrew sword there lay,
With which at last he drove the devil away.
Quakers, too, durst not bear his keen replies,
But fearing it half-drawn the trembler flies.
Like Lazarus, new-raised from death, appears
The saint that had been dead for many years.
Our Nehemiah said, “Shall such as I
Desert my flock, and like a coward fly?"
Long had the churches begg'd the saint's release;
Released at last, he dies in glorious peace.
The night is not so long, but Phosphor's ray
Approaching glories doth on high display.
Faith's eye in him discern'd the morning star,
His heart leap'd; sure the sun cannot be far.
In ecstasies of joy, he ravish'd cries,

"Love, love the Lamb, the Lamb!" in whom he dies. The excellent President, Urian Oakes, styled by Ma. ther the "Lactantius of New England," was one of the most distinguished poets of his time, and contri. buted very largely to its churchyard literature. The following verses are from his Elegy on the death of Thomas Shepard, minister of Charlestown:

Art, nature, grace, in him were all combined
To show the world a matchless paragon;
In whom of radiant virtues no less shined,
Than a whole constellation; but hee's gone!
Hee's gone, alas! down in the dust must ly
As much of this rare person, as could die.
To be descended well, doth that commend?
Can sons their fathers' glory call their own?
Our Shepard justly might to this pretend,
(His blessed father was of high renown,

Both Englands speak him great, admire his name,)
But his own personal worth's a better claim.
His look commanded reverence and awe,
Though mild and amiable, not austere;
Well humour'd was he, as I ever saw,
And ruled by love and wisdom more than fear.
The muses and the graces too, conspired
To set forth this rare piece to be admired.
He breathed love, and pursued peace in his day,
As if his soul were made of harmony;
Scarce ever more of goodness crowded lay
In such a piece of frail mortality.

Sure Father Wilson's genuine son was he,
New-England's Paul had such a Timothy.
My dearest, inmost, bosome friend is gone!
Gone is my sweet companion, soul's delight!
Now in a huddling crowd, I'm all alone,
And almost could bid all the world good night.
Blest be my rock! God lives: O! let him be
As he is all, so all in all to me.

CONTROVERSIAL MENDACITY.

ONE of the most common failings of religious writers, of the hunters up of incident, illustrative or confirmative of peculiar principles, is an utter recklessness of veracity in the narration of circumstances. The excellent tendencies of fabricated histories, and the truth of the ideas they inculcate, are the pleas most frequently offered in extenuation of their manufacture; but the ruin of the sacred reputations of the dead can not thus be justified, if even the presentation of false testimony, where it is so little needed, deserves no reproach. Every body has read the history of the

fearful agonies pretended to have been witnessed by those who saw the last hours of Voltaire; and but few, owing to the general disinclination to expose errors that may be productive of a benefit, while they can scarcely have an injurious tendency, have seen the evidences of the perfect falsity of that popular tale. We should like it well if there were any proof that the philosopher had been convinced of the errors of his life; but no such proof exists, and the story industriously reported, in tracts and in religious journals, that in his last moments a recollection of his efforts to overthrow Christianity, "with terror froze his cowering blood," is known to its intelligent propagators to be without foundation. Voltaire's death-scene, for aught that was ever shown to the contrary, was as quiet and as peaceful as were those of Jonathan Edwards or John Eliot. The well-known statement that Volney, when in imminent peril of shipwreck, besought the mercy of the power he had all his life derided, is equally false. The commentator on the ruin of empires was never in any such peril. Similar stories about Thomas Paine, though so frequently repeated that their inventors may now possibly credit them, have been proved time after time to be untrue. The whole life and character of the man have been misrepresented, in opposition to the clearest testimony. Gibbon, whose manner of life was as commendable as his religious belief was false, has been the hero of many a pathetic history; but the purity of his morality and the quiet of his last hours have been so demonstrated that the slanders of unscrupulous religionists have sunk into oblivion. We have been led to these remarks by seeing in the journals an old story revived, of which Ethan Allen is made the hero. Allen was a man of dauntless bravery, and of the most rare intelligence; but unfortunately he was a sceptic in religion, and he vaunted of the discernment which he imagined had enabled him to detect the falsity of the Bible. A great proportion of the anecdotes told to illustrate his character and belief are probably inventions; but it is beyond controversy that he was an infidel, and vain of his opposition to Christianity. In the story to which we have alluded, it is stated that—

"His wife was a pious woman, and taught her children in the way of piety, while he told them it was a delusion; and that there was an hour coming when Colonel Allen's confidence in his own sentiments would be closely tried. A beloved daughter was taken sick; he received a message that she was dying; he hastened to her bedside, anxious to hear her last words. Father,' said she, 'I am about to die; shall I believe in the principles which you have taught me, or shall I believe what my mother has directed?" This was an affecting scene. The intrepid Colonel became extremely agitated, his lips quivered, his whole frame shook; and, after waiting a few moments, he replied, Believe as your mother has learned you.'"

Truth is the best policy; especially with polemics and among politicians even it has been found tha "corruption wins not more than honesty." The pious frauds of monkish times answered a very good purpose, until they were detected; but when the people found that the assenting nods of marble statues were caused by well devised machinery, they laughed at the imposture, or sacrificed its authors to their passions. The witless falsehoods echoed in more modern pulpits frequently send the less simple of the congregation away, breathing contempt for every holy senti. ment, while an honest presentation of the unanswerable evidences of inspiration, would have made them stout defenders of the faith. At Tammany Hall the mountebank's attacks on the life and intellect of Thomas Paine are read with a mock gravity, and then by incontestible evidence proved false, and the degraded creatures who congregate at that polluting fountain, with some show of reason call in question the truth of a religion that is supposed to need such juggling to maintain it.

The dawn of the day of death is not always welcome to the pure in heart, nor is it invariably cheerless to the infidel. There is no reason to doubt that Hume was as happy in his last hours as his friend Robertson; and if Adam Smith is to be credited, none ever bade adieu to life with more serenity than that free-thinking philosopher exhibited. La Place, Gibbon, and Cooper, strong in their disbelief of truth, had no fears of danger in the after life. Nor had the worshipper of Isis in old time, nor has the Moslem, now, more frequently than the Christian; albeit the hope of the last is better and his light more clear. These things are as much dependent on national or individual character and temperament as upon religious teaching; and the last hour of a man's mortality furnishes no better index of his future life than the last day of a month does of its succeeding period of time. Forgetful of this, and anxious to make a strong array in behalf of the right, well enough disposed persons have coined counterfeit histories, which, having been almost invariably proved false, have done much more injury than good. "Honesty" in politics, morals, religion, and law, is always "the best policy."

ROBERT TREAT PAINE.

ALTHOUGH this writer is now rarely mentioned by the organs of public opinion in New England, he was once ranked among the great masters of English verse; and it was believed that his reputation would endure as long as the language in which he wrote. The absurd estimate of his abilities shows the wretched condition of taste and criticism in his time, and perhaps caused the faults in his later works which have won for them their early oblivion.