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machinery is acted on—and brings down on the proper string one of the four bows, (which are constantly moving on grooves,) and .at the same time passes on the string a finger, thus forming a perfect note, in every respect, to the note of the piano. We heard a variety of music, andantes and allegros, admirably executed by Mrs. Watson, and we came to the conclusion that it was a re markable compound. Some of the Scotch airs in imitation of the bagpipes, in particu lar, exhibited the power of the instrument.” — N. Y. Mirror. ®UQaO M A L □ Written for the “ Southern Miscellany.” ZANONI. Having proceeded thus far in our pro gress, with the author, we shall go yet a little further; and endeavor to dissect, as well as we may be able, some of’ the philo sophical notions with which the balance of the book is thickly sprinkled. We have be fore us now some of the leading doctrines of that creed, which teaches us to believe, that the whole universe is instinct with life; that the visible space around us, is filled with in visible material beings; that it is possible for man to pierce the cloud, that throws its dark skirt across the vestibule, and become the companion of those beings who belong to the world invisible; that access to this high and exclusive slate, is to be obtained only through a course of the most rigid study, and in the observance of a mo3t inflexible purpose; not by the possession of the knowledge of things without, but in the per fection of the soul within. For this study Nature supplies the materials—in the herbs —in the elements—in the wide bosom of the air—in the black abysses of the earth —every where are given to mortals the resources of immortal lore. The student is to withdraw all thought of feeling and sympathy from others, and concentrate all llie powers of mind upon the study of self, and self alone —this is the elementary stage of knowledge: And happiness, if it exist at all, must he centered in a self to which all passion is unknown. These are some of the truths this Philoso phy teaches—and this is the character of one of these Philosophers: “Mejnour seemed wholly indifferent to all the actual world. If he committed no evil, he seemed equally apathetic to good. His deeds relieved no want, his words pitied no distress. What we call the heart appeared to have merged into the intellect. He mov ed, thought, and lived like some regular and calm abstraction, rather than one who yet retained, with the form tho feelings and sympathies of his kind.” Here are presented for the contemplation of the curious some strange philosophical notions, and if true, are opposed to many of the former maxims of moral philosophy. Be this as it may, we have yet other objec tions, some of which are insuperable. In the outset it proposes to the daring adven turer the possession of a knowledge upon earth which is incompatible with his happi ness as a social being—and teaches that hap piness exists alone in that state where every power is concentiatcd upon self, and to which state, all passion is a stranger. Now I take it that this is philosophically and practically false. Happiness does not consist at all with such a state, provided such a state could exist, any where else, but in the imagination of the author. Happiness consists alone in a conscious ness of having discharged the duties which a man owes to himself, to others, and to his maker; and to do this, some of the passions of the human heart are kept in constant ex ercise. For instance, none will discharge the duties which are intimately connected with social life, unless actuated by motives which spring from Love; and no one can render an acceptable homage to the God of Love, unless love be the moving passion of the Soul. Anu yet We ate taught by this philosophy, that happiness dwells alone in the breast, where passion is unknown. But who can look on the picture which the au thor himself has drawn, and believe the truth of the doctrine advanced above ? “ JVJejnour seemed wholly indifferent to all the actual world.” No interest in common with his kind. He had outlived human affection—he stood alone, with all the fire and ennobling features of the Soul effaced —with the heart, the seat of the affections, as it were transferred to the head—merged in the intellect—all swallowed up of the mind, the grasping, voracious mind—equal ly insensible to evil or good—relieving no want, pitying no distress, moving, thinking, and living like a breathing problem, or a sentient maxim—or as the author lias it, “like some regular and calm abstraction, rather than one who yet retained, with the form, the feelings and sympathies of his kind.” And this state Mr. Bulwer would call a state of happiness. Faugh! Another maxim taught in this philosophy which I condemn is this: “Nature is the source of all inspiration.” This is a strange assertion, and conflicts with all our ideas of the inspiration of a higher power. I wonder how long it would have required the student of nature to have acquired the knowledge of a God, bis char acter, and attributes? How long to hove mastered the science and mystery of the human heart—the affections and will, all of which is so clearly revealed in that Book which derives its inspiration, not from na ture, but the God of nature; and yet “Na ture is the source of all inspiration.” Were this true, the untutored Indian, in all the glory of his forest education, silting beneath the towering oak, or vine-clad bower, or be side the purling brook, being of all others the most thorough adept in nature’s mys teries, would be ranked as the most inspired philosopher of the age. Were tlii3 doctrine true, and men could be gotten to act upon it, what a terrible smash it would mako in the book business—away with all books— let us go to Nature for our knowledge. Go student in your search after knowledge, and climb the tugged mountain, or descend the deepest vale—go sit, and read the waterfall, or scan the whirlwind, or spell the light ning, or converse with the humble flower— hold communion with nature in all her phases arid changes—talk with all her heteroge neous and motly progeny —dive deeply into all her hidden springs—unlock all her va rious stores of inspiration —if yo would be wise—if you would be happy —if you would climb the giddy height of Fame’s fair Tem ple, and hold communion with the sons of Light. Another strange notion advanced is con tained in the following brief extract: “In Dicams commences all human knowl edge; in dreams hovers over measureless space the first faint bridge between spirit and spirit—this world and the worlds be yond !” This is as true, as that nature is the source of all inspiration, which is perfectly incom patible with that best of all human gifts, a good sound common sense. Hear the instruction given by Mejnour to his pupil Glyudon: “Go to thy room and sleep; fast austerely; read no books; medi tate, imagine, dream, bewilder thyself if thou wilt.” This is the point designated at which the ignorant is to start out in the pur suit of knowledge, and from this chaos of fastings, and imaginings, and dreamings, is to spring up the fair and beautiful propor tions of a knowledge, dug out from the hid den abysses of nature; and all this is grave ly taught us, as the path to wisdom. Another notion in this book of most strange and incomprehensible notions is this: “Man’s common existence is as one year to the vegetable world—be has his spring, his summer, bis autumn and winter —but only once.” Now to apply the knowledge gained from the inspiration of nature, is to be enabled, by the application of an elixir distilled from nature’s own alembic, to renew life, as by the wear and tear of ages it grows en feebled—thus as nature reinvigorates tho trees of the forest, clothes them annually in their green robes, passing them through the changes of spring, summer, autumn and winter, to be renewed again and again with each returning year, so nature supplies the means to mankind, of keeping up the con tinued round of the human seasons—and the possessor of this knowledge, gathcied from nature, possesses the means of pro longing his own life, at will. Thus holding at will, in his own grasp, the issues of life and death—a power belonging to God alone —and is enabled to get from under the blighting curse—as in the Providence of God it falls indiscrimately upon all men— “ Dust thou art and unto dust shalt thou re turn ” —and this is taught us in the wild va garies of the learned author of Zanoni. It is true, that amidst a great deal of wild and ill-directed speculation, with which these two volumes is filled, there are to be found many, very many most beautiful pas sages, in which the stylo is most pure and classical, and the sentiment most chaste and rational. Take for instance, the following, in which Love is considered under its bi form character: “ What a twofold shape there is in Love! If vve examine it coarsely—if we look but on its fleshy ties, its engagements of a mo ment —its turbulent Fever, and its dull reac tion, how strange it seems that this passion should be the supreme mover of the world; that it is this which has dictated the greatest sacrifices, and influences all societies and all times; that to this the loftiest and loveliest genius lias ever consecrated its devotion; that but for love there were no civilization, no music, no poetry, no beauty, no life be yond the brute’s. “But examine it in its lieavenlier shape— ■in its utter abrogation of self—in its intimate connexion with all that is most delicate and subtle in spirit; its power above all that is sordid in existence; its mastery over the idols of the baser worship; its ability to cre ate a palace of the cottage, an Oasis in the desert, a summer in the Iceland, where it breathes, and fertilizes, and glows, and the wonder rather becomes how so few regard it in its holiest nature. What the sensual call its enjoyments are the least of its joys.” The acting upon such sentiments as these elevates the soul and rrives dignity to human character. Permit me hero to quote another passage, in which the doctrine of man’s immortality is most beautifully expressed. “ In a moment there oftcyi dwells the sense of Eternity; for when profoundly happy, we know that it is impossible to die. When ever the soul feels itself it feels everlasting life.” I take this as true in all its parts. How often does it occur in the history of man’s life, that there are moments when it seems that the joys or the eorrows of an Eternity are present and palpable, when an involun tary impression, of age upon age —of Eter nity itself fastens unbidden upon the mind. And-how true is it, “that when profoundly happy,” and I would add profoundly miser able, we then feel that it is impossible to die. That tho soul when alive to its ■ interests, and when instinct with its powers, feels its own immortality—whether laboring under the weight of woe, and profoundly misera ble—or elate with supernal joy, and pro foundly happy, is a truth, which has often startled the infidel from his dark entrench ments —a truth which has often shed its light along the dark and thorny pathway of the sceptic. I like the expression “The soul feels itself.” Kept down often by the scenes of time, the soul of many a delver in earth’s soil, seems hid away beneath the heaps of trash, that gather along his track, and tho man is presented to the mind of a watchful observer, a sordid, soulless wretch —living for himself alone—a pitiable selfish churl, pampering the lusts and appetites of the body, the brute jwrtion of human nature, without a wish or desire reaching farther than self—without one redeeming trait of character, or without the possession of one ennobling sentiment—and yet tho man is a sentient being—and yet he has a soul—and that soul, ever and anon rising in the majes ty of its own immortal powers, lifts its voice high above the din of human passion, “it feels itself,” and causes itself to be felt, and leads the mind of the man, whether he will or not, to pause, and to look—and gathering its light from the kindled fires of Eternity —throws its beams upon the dark pathway of the future, and points emphatically to the realms of immortal joys above, and the re gions of immortal woe beneath. When the soul feels itself, it feels its own immor tality. SvDirQMinBIBSJ Gd U9<BIBILIb AH 7 o A little farther on we have another new and most startling assertion—it is this: “Everynhoughtis a soul.” Now it requires a greet deal of credulity upon the part of the most credulous to be lieve this literally, and yet it may be true in the sense in which the author uses it. He is speaking of the indestructibility of man’s memory—of the impossibility of crumbling into matter the immaterial thoughts, which spring up within a man’s breast. He says: “ Thou mayst change the thought into new forms, thou mayst rarify and sublimate it into a finer spirit—but thou canst not anni hilate that which has no home but in the memory, no substance but the idea. Every thought is a soul.” That is to say, that as the soul of man is tlie immortal and indestructible portion of Ids system —so the thought is the indestructi ble portion of the mind—or rather that mem ory which holds every thought is indestruc tible, and each thought existing alone in the idea, is necessarily indestructible, and is in itself a soul—the soul of the mind—living on, and forever. If this be true, what a wide field for contemplation is spread out before us! Is man immortal? sbp.ll he ex ist forever? Is this world then, but the ves tibule to another? and in that other shall we retain the same traits of character, which mark our history in this; and will memory retain its powers in that other world; and from its bidden stores, shall it bring out all the thoughts which sprung up, either bidden or unbidden, upon the journey of life; and shall each thought possess a distinct charac ter—an imperishable life of its own? Aye, shall each thought, whether it breathed a curse or blessing—whether just or unjust— whether kind or unkind—whether pure or impure—whether chaste or lascivious—shall each thought, possessing a life and charac ter of its own, assuming shape and form and identity, link itself on to the man, and shew him up, in his true and naked character, to the eyes of a gazing woild? Oh, what a sight! what an attempt to conceal; what burning blushes, will mark the conduct, or mantle the faces of the many at that time! Yes, every thought is a soul; endowed with the powers of an indestructible life, either for weal or for woe, either to bless or to curse. How careful we should boos our thoughts. For every thought is marked, marked above in the archives of Eternity, and marked be low upon the imperishable records of mem ory. One more extract shall suffice for this por tion of the Book. It is spoken in reference to the powers of the mind. “So is it ever with thy works and won den, O G enius—seeker of the stars! Words themselves are the common property of all men; yet from words themselves, Thou, Architect of immortalities, pilest up temples that shall outlive the Pyramids, and the very leaf of the Papyrus becomes a Shinar, state ly with Towers, round which the Deluge of Ages shall roar in vain.” How emphatically true is it, that by the power of language, by the use of words, Genius builds her towers, more enduring than the pillars of Earth, and sculptures her statues in a more enduring substance than the Parian Marble. Book seventh closes these volumes, and is the most powerfully written of the whole. The scene is laid in France, and the time the “ Reign of Terror.” Many of the char acters of that time are most graphically sketched, and the whole is .completed by the hand of a master. Take as an illustration the description of Robespieire, the master spirit of the Revolution : “ He was alone, yet he sat erect, formal, slid’, precise, as if in his very home lie was not at ease. His dress was in harmony with his posture and his chamber ; it affected a neatness of its own, foreign both to the sump tuous fashions of the deposed nobles, and the filthy ruggedness of the sans-culottcs. Friz zled and coifl'e, not a hair was out of order, not a speck lodged on the sleek surface of the blue coat, not a wrinkle crumpled the snowy vest, with its under relief of delicate pink. At the first glance, you might have seen in that face nothing but the ill-favored features of a sickly countenance. At a se cond glance, you would have perceived that it had a power, a character df its own. The forehead, though low and compressed, was not without that appearance of thought arid intelligence which, it may be observed, that breadth between the eyebrows almost inva riably gives ; the lips were firm and tightly drawn together, yet ever and anon they trem bled, and writhed r&tflessly. The eyes, sul len and gloomy, were yet piercing, and full of a concentrated vigor, that did not seem supported by the thin, feeble frame, or the green lividnessof the hues which told of anx iety and disease. “SuchivasMaximilienßobespierre; such the chamber over the menuisicr's shop, whence issued the edicts that launched ar mies on their career of glory, and ordained an artificial conduit to carry off the blood that deluged the metropolis of the most mar tial people in the globe! Such was the man who had resigned a judicial appointment (the early object of Lis ambition,) rather than violate his philanthropical principles by sub scribing to thodcath'of a single fellow-crea ture ! such was the vigin enemy to capital punishments, and such, Butcher-Dictator now, was the man whose pure and rigid manners, whose incorruptible honesty, whose lia .ed of the excesses that tempt to love and wine, would, had he died five years earlier, have left him the model for prudent fathers and careful citizens to place before their sons. Such was the man who seemed to have no vice, till circumstance, that hot-bed, brought forth two which, in ordinary times, lie ever the deepest and most latent in aman’s heart—Cowardice and Envy. To one of these sources is to be traced every murder that master-fiend committed. His coward ice was of a peculiar and strange sort ; for it was accompanied witli the most unscrupu lous and determined will —a will that Napo leon reverenced, n will of iron, and yet nerves of aspen. Mentally, he was a hero ; physically, a dastard. When tho veriest shadow of danger threatened his person, the frame cowered, but the will swept the dan ger to tho slaughter-house. So there he sat, bolt upright, his small, lean fingers clinched convulsively, his sullen eyes straining into space, their whites yellowed with streaks of corrupt blood, his ears literally moving to and fro like the ignobler animal’s, to catch every sound—a Dionysius in his cave—but his posture decorous and collected, and eve ry formal hair in its frizzled place.” I wish it were prudent in the present numher to give u more particular attention to much which is written in this concluding Book, but I have already extended this Re view beyond my original purpose. Upon the whole it is extremely difficult to make up an opinion as to the merit of the work as a whole. There is much to praise, perhaps more to condemu. It requires often a second or third reading to master the idea intended to be conveyed; and after the idea lias been grasped it amounts to little. Much of the philosophy attempted is far fetched and incredible. It is a bold adven ture into tlie wilder regions of Fiction; and the principal characters delineated, are wholly unnatural. There is very little of nature in the whole of it from beginning to end. There may be more in it than meets the eye of the common reader; a great many of the expressions are enigmatical, and require explanation. The style of the work I conceive to be Mr. Bulwer’s best. He has manifestly be stowed much time and reflection upon the work. ’Tis a great pity the same labor had not been bestowed on something more use ful, and better calculated to subserve the wants (rational wants I mean) of the world. But, yet it will not do to condemn by whole sale, for in the midst of so much ore, there is ever and again presented to the eye, a deposite of pure and virgin gold; and this last book contains some of the finest speci mens. Take this, descriptive of the impris onment of Viola, and her consciousness of the power of a living faith, in prayer: “She fell upon her knees and prayed. The despoilers of all that hallows and beau tifies life had desecrated the Altar, and de nied the God! They’ had removed from the last hour of their victims the Priest, the Scripture, and the Cross! But Faith builds in the dungeon and the lazar-liouse its sublimest shrines; and up through roofs of stone, that shut out the eye of Heaven, as cends the ladder where the Angels glide to and fro—Prayer.” How true, and how ex pressive of the power of faith. Takc one more and the last, referring to the power of Hope to rob Death of its sting, and bestrew the pathway to the tomb with brightest flowers: “ When science falls as a firework from the sky it would invade, when Genius with ers as a flower in the breath of the icy char nel, the Hope of a childlike soul wraps the air in light, and the innocence of unques tionable belief covers the grave with blos soms.” I would bunt many a weary hour through volumes much less interesting than these, to gather such choice and previous flowers. But I close with the remark, that the miiitkunbridled and tho fancy unrestrain ed, can commit as many wild extravagancies as can well be conceived of; this work, I think, as a whole, the result of a mind thus unbridled anu a fancy unrestrained. E . Madison, June, ISI2. ©©mea r a © a For the Southern Miscellany. TO THE PEOPLE OF MORGAN COUNTY.—NO. 2. Through the “ Southern Miscellany,” of the lltli instant, I addressed to you a com munication, animadverting upon a recent or der of the Justices of the Inferior Court.— That order prohibited “ the use of the court room for any public meeting whatever, ex cept for the purpose of holding Courts there in.” In the “ Miscellany,” of the ISth instant, there is a communication from “ One of the Court,” addressed to you, which purports to be a reply to the communication of “ One of the People.” In this number, I propose to subject this production of “One of the Court” to a rig id analysis. In doing this, I request the people to keep their eyes steadily fixed up on the Court’s order; for, to justify the Court in the passage of their order, should have been, and doubtless was, the purpose of “ One of the Court.” If, then, that order be not justified in this production, the rea sonable conclusion is, that ‘One of the Court* cannot do it. I notice, first, this remark of “ One of the Court.” He says, “My recollections just remind me that ‘ One of the People’ was a Justice of the Inferior Court. His conscious ness was so acute, that he feared to do right for fear he would do wrong. A poor old revolutionary soldier, who fought for our lib erties, applied to the court for such certifi cates as, by law, were necessary for him to accomplish his object. It was also necessa ry that the court should certify that the sjgn er of his certificate was an ordained minister of the Gospel. This the court did. The cer tifying minister had been preaching for years in our County, and was of irreproachable standing. This Justice of the Inferior Court suddenly conceived he had awfully erred ! How did he know this minister was ordain ed I ‘I must have my name off that certi ficate.’ ” As this purports to be a history of one of my official acts, reference to it is un questionably justifiable. There is one little circumstance, however, connected with it which, to some extent, at least, weakens the force which “ One of the Court” intended it to have. It happens to be a small mistake: the case never occurred ; that’s all! But suppose it had, then I beg the people to mark the force of the argument which “ One of the Court” employs, in vindication of the order. It is this : Because 1, when a Justice of tho Inferior Court, did an official act, which I afterwards regretted, therefore, the Court had a right, and were bound to prohibit the uso of the court room for public meetings. 1 pass by the personal allusions of “ One of the Court.” To bandy personal epithets accords not with my taste, and I apprehend would bo sickening to the public. I must be excused, then, for not replying to “ One of the Court” in this respect; but if I can make the arguments of “One of the Court” appear alwurd and ridiculous, I-shall unques tionably do it. I’ll not spare them. The next thing to which 1 invite your at % tention, in this reply, is the admission made by “ One of the Court,” that the Court did pass this order. I drive a nail here! No man now, can deny it; and I want the peo ple to maik it, so that, in all discussions of this matter, the people may be able to con front any one who may have the boldness yet to deny the length and breadth of the Court’s order, with this admission by “ One of the Court.” It was passed, and is still unrevoked—so far as I know. But, notwithstanding this admission, in this very same communication, “ One of the Court” says, “ if it is necessary that they (the citizens of the several districts) should meet in case of emergency, the Sheriff will soon open to them the doors of the court house.” I confess that, at the first glance, this looks a little like “ One of the Court” was softening down the rigidity and univer sality of the Court’s order; but, upon an ex amination of this peculiarly ambiguous phraseology, it will be perceived that the or der remains in full force. Let ys sec : the people may “ meet in case of emergency .” Os course, when the assemblage of the peo ple is not “a case of emergency,” the Sher iff will not “ open to them the doors of the court house.” This being fixed, I ask what is a “ case of emergency ?” Unquestiona bly it is one which, when it occurs, is so ur gent in its necessities as to set all rules and orders, and law itself, (if need be) aside. It must be one which happens suddenly, and unexpectedly, and which no forethought or prudence could provide against. As, for in stance, if a house is on fire in Madison, the people may pull down the adjoining build ings to keep the fire from burning up the whole town ; or, if an insurrection were to take place in the County, and the people were to flee to the town for safety, and the court house should be supposed a place of more security than private dwellings, then the “ emergency of the case” would justify the Sheriff to open the court house doors.— In such a case, I guess, the people would scarcely make application to the’ Sheriff, or the Court either ; and this is the case, then, and this alone, which will justify the Sheriff in unbarring the door of the court room to the people ? If the Whig party, or the Dem ocratic party, or a respectable portion of eith er party, should desire to meet there to make their political arrangements; if the whole people, or any respectable “ fraction” of them, should think it “necessary” to meet there to consider any political question, (as the Tariff, or Bank, or Distribution, or Nullification, or Union, or any other of the great questions of politics ;) if all the Far mers of Morgan, or any respectable “frac tion” of them, should desire to meet there to discuss the subject of Agriculture, and the propriety of forming an Agricultural Socie ty for the County ; if the people, or a res pectable “ fraction” of them, desire to meet there to consider the subject of Temperance, or any other important matter whatever— in such cases, the order of the Court spreads itself across the door of tlie people’s bouse, and cries emphatically in their hearing, you shall not enter here! these are not “ eases of emergency.” If this be not a fair con struction of a “ case of emergency,” and the consequences which result from it, so far as the rights and privileges of the people are concerned, then I should like to know what it does mean. Can it be intended to mean, that in any of the cases I have supposed,the She riff’ would open the doors of the court house? If that is wliat is intended, then the order is rescinded, provided “ One of the Court” is authorized to speak for his associates. If it be rescinded, I ask “One of the Court” to say so, and let the people know when and where it was done ? If it be not’rescinded, and yet the Sheriff, in any of the cases sup posed, would open the doors ot the comt house, 1 ask, how dare the Sheriff do that, which, by an order of the Court, he is for bidden to do ? Or, is it intended to be meant, by a “ case of emergency,” that the order of the Court did not intend to prohibit all meetings of the citizens, but only the meet ings of the Temperance Society—other pub lic meetings of the people are to be allowed ? I answer emphatically, no—no; and “One of the Court” will not say so. If lie were to say so, he would involve himself in a di lemma from which he could not extricate himself. This he knows full well. But I have no idea he will say so; none at all.— The meaning of this phrase, “ a case of emergency,” I have fairly given: it can nev er occur, in our history as a community, ex cept an insurrection or an invasion should take place ; and, of course, is only a decoy flung out to mislead men with “half an eye” from the true issue. That issue is the order of the Court, passed on the7th instant, which prohibits the use of the court room for pub lic meetings of the people, and not what the Sheriff will do in a “ case of emergency.” But again, “ One of the Court” says, “a short history of the facts, forming the bone of contention between the Court and ‘ One of the People’ will enable tlio community to judge fairly between tlie parties ;” and then he proceeds to recite that application was made to the Court for the use of tlie court room to hold the meetings of the Temper ance Society in—that the use of the room was granted, a minority dissenting, with the reason for that dissent—that the old court house was abused because of the peculiarity of its construction, and notwithstanding the strict orders of former Justices to the Clerks to “permit no intrusion on the courthouse” —that anew court house was built in such manner that “ none of the insurmountable difficulties” connected with the old building, and which prevented it from being a suita ble and comfortable place for the administra tion of justice,might attach to the nqw—and that a “ spacious passage, intersecting the building at right angles,” is “ so construct ed that Sheriff’s Sales, town meetings, meet ings of the citizens of the County, on any oc casion, might bo held with the utmost com fort.” . I beg “ One of the Court’s” pardon; this little history is not the “bone of conten tion.” I appeal to every man who lias rend my former communication, if this “ history ” is the “ bone” about which I am contend ing. No— no : the “ bone of contention” (and it is a much harder and tougher one than this fragment of history) is, that order of the Court, passed on the 7th instant. It may possibly suit the purpose of “ One of the Court” to get up ayother “bone of con tention” than the true one—to divest the mind of the community to the contemplation of collateral issues, and not keep it steadily fixed in its gaze upon the main issue—but it> don’t suit mine. The thing I have to do with is the order. It is that I have condemn ed, and still condemn. It is for the passage of that, I have arraigned the Court before the bar of the People. I have maintained and still maintain, that the enactment of that order was without authority of law; or, that if tho law would tolerate it, still its exerci& 0 was discretionary, and a cruel deprivation of the accustomed rights and privileges of the people—and, that the people have a right to assemble in their own house to con sider any grave question whatever. The Court, by the passage of that order, main tain these propositions: The law authorizes us to prohibit the use of the court room for pub lic meetings of the citizens —that the law not only authorizes us to do this, but it is our duty to do it, and in doing it we do not in terfere with tlie l ights and privileges of the people—that, in fact, the people have no* right to use the court room for public meet ings, and therefore, we will lock them out! These are the issues, made upon the order of the Court, which, and which alone, is the’ “ bone of contention,” and to these issues 1 intend to hold “ One of the Court.” There is one small statement, in the above history, which 1 wish the people to note. It is this—the passages are so constructed that “ meetings of the citizens of the coun ty, on any occasion, might be held with the utmost comfort.” Here then is the avowal that the passages are intended for “ public meetings of the citizens.” And is itto these passages that in a “ case of emergency” the sheriff will unlock the Court House doors and let the people in ? Is that it ? But the people can meet in the passages ? And they are so constructed that they may meet there with comfort. Mark that. Well, where are the benches ? “ The Court have not yet felt themselves able to fit up these commo dious passages,in the manncrcontemplated.” Well, that is a very good answer. A man is not to be blamed for bis poverty, and, cer tainly, the county should not be. But it so happens that the Court have felt able to fit up a very large and commodious Court room, and provided it with a Judge’s seat, Clerks’ tables, tables and benches for Attor neys, Jury boxes, lobby benches, and every thing else to make Court meetings comforta ble; and all this too at the expense of the people. But then, when the people want to meet, and are locked out of tlie Court room, and the doors of the Court house are thrown open to these very spacious and com modious passages for their meeting; lo! these spacious passages have no benches, because “the Court have not yet felt themselves able to fit” them up ! Where must tlie people meet during this disability of the Court? Why, in the passages, and stand up, if they please, or sit down on the floor, if they please—or lean against the wall, if they can. But as to the matter of putting the soles of their feet beyond the threshold of the Court room, that’s a thing the Court can’t tolerate. Not they. The passages must be taken as they are,’or —or —the people may walk off, and do the best they can. But suppose the benches there, I ask is it a suitable place ? Who ever heard before of public meetings being held in the passages of a public build ing ? I want to know, in all candor, why, if the passages are suitable and comfortable for public meetings of the people, they would not be suitable and comfortable for holding Courts therein ? And has it come to this, that the old Court bouse must be tom down—that the people must be taxed year after year to build anew and convenient one, to answer more effectually tlieir pur poses, and accomplish more comfortably all the objects they had been in the habit of ac complishing, previously, in the old one— that now, when it is built with these taxes, the Court may say to them, and it be sub mitted to, after it is said, go into the passages and hold your public meetings? Verily, as one of the people, I would vastly prefer the abused room of the old Court house, to the “ commodious passages” of the new, “ cut ting each other at right angles,” for such purpose. As it is the evident object of “ One of the Court” to that there is no ground of complaint against the order of the Court, inasmuch ns the Court has pro vided these commodious passages for public meetings of the citizens, I propose the same argument, which I did in my fonuer com munication. May the people meet in the passages, of right, or by the grace and favor of the Court ? If, of right, why may they not, of right, assemble in the more commo dious and spacious Court room ? Will “One of the Court” be good enough to answer this argument, if he can ? “ One of the Court” proceeds to assign the reason for the passage of the order. He says, “at the last meeting of the Tem perance Society, so much carelessness was manifested by them, that the Court room was materially injured. The windows and blinds were left open, without fastening. In consequence, the panes of one window were nearly all broken—the blind nearly knocked to pieces,its fragments scattered in the Court yard—candles and tallow were strewed on the Clerk’s desk in dirty confu sion—the sheriff had to mend the benches for the people to sit upon—taxing tho people for repairs at a time when our taxes are high enough.” Here then is the reason of the Court’s action; avowed by “One of the Court.” As an advocate of the rights of the people in this question, I ask them if it is sufficient to justify the Court? This is tlie argument: Because.at the last meeting of the Temperance Soeiety, all these conse quences ensued to the Court room, there fore the Court must shut the whole of the people out, and turn them into the passages! Docs not every one perceive that the order is much broader than the offense ? If the Court had turned the Temperance Society out of the Court room, for the above reason, there would have been some plausibility in the reason, justificatory of the act. But to turn the whole people out, for the misdeeds of the Temperance Society, is taking rather too lofty a step. What? visit the punish ment due to tlie Temperance Society, for its sins, upon the head of tho whole com munity ? Cut down tho long enjoyed rights and privileges of the people, because the Temperance Society abused theirs ? Make the whole people the scape goat, on which