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TIMiIM PEI!, ANNUM IN ADVANCE. SECOND YEAH,NO. 18.,...WH0LE NO. #*.
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For lUchardj’ Weekly Gazette.
SONG.
We walk'd beneath the shadow
Os pines that moan’d around—
The cold grass rustled to our tread,
And frost was on the ground.
The moon rose dim above us,
And sombre clouds conceal’d
Each star that should have witnessed
The love, that night, reveal'd.
Hut in our trance we heard not
The whispers of the pine,
That mingled with my words and inarr’d
The melody of thine.
Thy passion was too fervent,
Thy heart too true to fear
The incoming in that darken’d sky,
The waning on the air.
And still, in hope deceptive,
We wander’d through the gloom,
Nor thought, one passing moment,
Upon the waiting doom.
And still, with deep’ning pleasure,
1 listened to the vow
Which pledg’d that faith forever
Thou hast forgotten now.
Long years explain’d the prophecy
Which sounded on that breeie —
Alas! what love could prosper
Beneath such auspices.
A darken’d moon above us,
And every star conceal’d—
The only light in Heaven,
Through sombre clouds reveal’d.
1 do not blame thee, dear one,
Because no longer mine ;
If that sweet dream is ended,
The falsehood was not thine :
An influence beyond thee —
A power above control—
My own sad destiny—has dimm’d
The love within thy soul.
AGL.YUS.
[Lil £&&&¥
I HAVE A
MEMORABLE BIRTHDAY.
From Dickons’ David Copperfield.^
I pass over all that happened at school,
until the anniversary of my birthday came
round in March. Except that Steerforth
was more to be admiied than ever, I re
member nothing. He was going away at
the end of the half-year, if not sooner, and
wasTnore spirited and independant than be
fore: but beyond this I remember nothing.
The great remembrance by which that time
is marked in my mind, seems to have swal
lowed up all lesser recollections, and to ex
ist alone.
It is even difficult forme to believe that
there was a’ gap of full two months be
tween my return to Salem House and the
arrival of that birthday. I can only un
derstand that the fact was so, because I
know it must have been so; otherwise I
should feel convinced that there was no in
terval, and that the one occasion trod upon
the other’s heels.
How well I recollect the kind of day it
was! 1 smell the fog that hung about the
place ; I seethe hoar frost, ghostly, through
it; I feel my rimy hair fall clammy on my
cheek : I look along the dim perspective of
the schoolroom, with a sputtering candle
here and there to light up the foggy morn
ing, and the breath of the boys wreathing
and smoking in the raw cold as they blow
upon their fingers, and tap their feet upon
the floor.
It was after breakfast, and we had been
summoned in from Ihe play-ground, when
Mr. Sharp entered and said :
“ David Copperfield is to go into the par
lor.”
1 expected a hamper from l’eggotty, and
brightened at the order. Some of the boys
about me put in their cl.Vm not to be for
gotten in the distribution of the good things,
as I got out of my seat with great alac
rity.
’Don't hurry, David,” said Mr. Sharp.
—“There’s time enough, my boy, don’t i
hurry.”
I might have been surprised by the feel- 1
ing tone in which he spoke, if I had given l
it a thought; but T gave it none until after
wards. 1 hurried away to the parlor ; and i
there I found Mr. Creakle silling at his :
breakfast with the cane and a newspaper
before him, and Mrs. Creakle with an I
opened letter in her hand. But no ham
per.
“ David Copperfield,” said Mrs. Creakle,
leading me to a sofa, and silting down be
side me. “ I want to speak to you very
particularly. 1 have something to tell you
my child.”
Mr. Creakle, at whom of course I look
ed, shook his head without looking at me,
and stopped up a sigh with a very large
piece of buttered toast.
“ You are too young to know how the
world changes every day,” said Mrs. Crea
kle, “ ami how the people in it pass away.
But we all have to learn it, David ; some of
us at all times of our lives.”
I looked at her earnestly.
“When you came away from home at
the end of the vacation,” eaid Mrs. Crea
kle, after a pause, “ were they all well ?”
And after another pause, “ Was your ma
ma well ?”
I trembled without distinctly knowing
why and still looked at her earnestly, ma
king no attempt to answer.
“Because,” said she, “I grieve to tell
you that I hear this morning your mama is
very ill.”
A mist arose between Mrs. Creakle and
me, and her figure seemed to move in it for
an instant. Then I felt the burning tears
run down my face, and it was steady a
gain. J
“ She is very dangerously ill,” she ad
ded.
I knew all now.
“ She is dead.”
There was no need of telling me so. I
had already broken out into adesolate cry
and felt an orphan in the wide world.
She was very kind to me. She kept me
there all day, and left me alone sometimes;
and I cried and wore myself to sleep, and
awoke and cried again. When I could cry
no more, I began to think ; and then the
oppression on my breast was heaviest, and
my grief a dull pain that there was no ease
for.
And yet my thoughts were idle; not in
tent on the calamity that weighed upon my
heart, but idly loitering near it. I thought
of our house shut up and hushed. I thought
of the little baby, who Mrs. Creakle said
had been pining away for some time, and
I who they believed, would die too. I
I thought of my father’s grave in the church
| yard, by our house, and of my mother ly
ing there beneath the tree I knew so well.
I stood upon a chair when I was left alone,
and looked into the glass to see how red
my eyes were, and how sorrowful my
face. 1 considered, after some hours were
gone, if my tears were really hard to flow
now, as they seemed to be, what, in con
nexion with my loss, it would affect me
most to think of when I drew near home
—for I was going home to the funeral. I
am sensible of having felt that a dignity
attached to me among the rest of
the boys, and that I was important in my
affliction.
If ever child was stricken with sincere
grief, I was. But I remember that this im
portance was a kind of satisfaction to me,
when 1 walked in the playground that af
ternoon, while the boys were in school.
When I saw them glancing at me out of
the windows, as they went up to their
classes, I felt distinguished, and looked
more melancholy, and walked slower.
When school was over, and they came out
and spoke to me, I felt it rather good in my
self not to he proud to any of them, and to
take exactly the same notice of them all,
as before.
I was to go home next night; not by the
mail, hut by the heavy night coach, which
was called the (•’aimer, and was principal-,
ly used by country people travelling short :
intermediate distances upon the road. We
had no story telling that evening, and Trad- (
dies insisted on lending me his pillow. 1 j
don’t know what good he thought it would .
do me, for I had one of my own ; but it,
was all he had to lend, poor fellow excepl ;
a sheet of letter paper full of skeletons ; and
that he gave me at parting, as a soother of j
my sorrows and a contribution to my peace
of mind.
I left Salem House upon the morrow as- j
| ternoon. I little thought then that I left it J
j never to return. We travelled very slow
ly all night, and did not get into Yarmouth
j before nine or ten o'clock in the morning, j
j 1 looked out for Mr. Barkis, but he was
j not there; and instead of him a fat, short
; winded, merry-looking, little old man in^
black, with rusty little bunches of ribbons
at the knees of his breeches, black stock
: ings, and a broad brimmed hat, came puf
j sing up to the coach window, and said :
“ Master Copperfield ?”
j “ Yes sir.”
| “ Will you come with me, young sir, if
| you please,” he said, opening the door,
; “and I shall have the pleasure of taking
; you home.”
I put my hand in his. wondering who he
| was, and we walked away to a shop in a
narrow street, on which was written Omer,
j Draper, Tailor, Haberdasher, Funeral Fur
j nisher, &c. It was a close and stifling lit
| tie shop ; full of all sorts of clothing, made
! and unmade, including one window full of
| beaver-hats and bonnets. We went into a
| little back-parlor behind the shop, where
i we found three young women at work on
; a quantity of black materials, which were
j heaped upon the table, and little bits and
j cuttings of which were littered all over the
floor. There was a good fire in the room,
j and a breathless smell of warm black crape
i—l did not know what the smell was then,
I! but I know now.
■ | The three young women, who appear
j ed to be very industrious and comfortable,
raised their heads to look at me, and then
went on with their work.
Stitch, stitch, stitch. At the same time
| there caine from a workshop across a lit
tle yard outside the window, a regular
; sound of hammering that kept a kind of
I tune: Rat—tat-tat, rat—tat-tat, without
any variation.
“ Well,” said my conductor to one of the
three young women. “ How do you get
on, Minnie?”
“We shall be ready by the trying-on
! time,” she replied gaily, without looking
| up. “ Don’t you be afraid, father.”
Mi. Omer took ofifliis broad brimmed hat,
and sat down and panted. He was so fat
that he was obliged to pant some time be
’ fore he could say :
“ That’s right.”
“Father!” said Minnie playfully. “What
] a porpoise you do grow! ’
“ Well, I don’t know how it is, my dear,”
!he replied, considering about it. “Inm
! rather so.”
“You are such a comfortable man, you
‘see,” said Minnie. “You take things so
■ easy.”
“No use taking’em otherwise, my dear,”
said Mr. Omer.
“ No, indeed,” returned his daughter.—
“ We are all pretty gay here, thank Heaven!
| Ain’t we, father ?”
I “ I hope so, my dear,” said Mr. Omer.—
I “As I have got my breath now, 1 think I’ll
: measure this young scholar. Would you
| walk into the shop, Master Copperfield!”
I preceded Mr. Omer, in compliance with
j his request; and after showing me a roll
j of cloth which he said was extra super, and
I too good mourning for anything short of
parents, he took my various dimensions,
and put them down in a hook. While he
j was recording them he called my attention
I to his stock in trade, and to certain fasli
| ions which he said had “just come up,”
I and to certain other fashions which he said
| had “just gone out.”
“And by that sort of thing we very oft-
I en lose a little mint of money,” said Mr.
j Omer. “But fashions are like human be
-1 ings. They come in, nobody knows when,
why, or how. Everything is like life, in
! my opinion, if you look at it in that point
of view.”
I was too sorrowful to discuss the ques
tion, which would possibly have been be-
I yond me under any circumstances; and
Mr. Omer took me back into the parlor,
J breathing with some difficulty on the way.
He then called down a little break-neck
range of steps behind a door: “Bring up
! that tea and bread-and-butter !” which, af
i ter some time, during which I sat looking
about me and thinking, and listening tothf*
I stitching in the room, and the tune that was
being hammered across the yard, appeared
on a tray, and turned out to be for me.
“ I have been acquainted with you,”
j said Mr. Omer, after watching me forsonie
minutes, during which I had not made
j much impression on the breakfast, for the
, black things destroyed my appetite, “ I have
. been acquainted with you a long time, my
young friend.”
“ Have you sir ?”
“ All your life.” said Mr. Omer. “ 1
may say before it. I knew your father bc-
I fore you. He was five foot nine and a|
| half, and he lays in five and twenty foot of |
ground.”
“ Rat—tat-tat, rat—tat-tat, rat—tat-tat,” ;
j across the yard.
“He lays in five and twenty foot of,
i ground, if he lays in a fraction,” said Mr. j
Omer pleasantly. “It was either his re-!
1 quest or her direction, I forgot which-” |
“ Do you know how my little brother is,
sir?” I inquired.
Mr. Omer shook his head.
“Rat—tat-tat, rat—tat-tat, rat—tat-tat.” j
“ He is in his mother’s arms,” said he.
“ Oh, poor little fellow! Is he dead ?” j
“ Don’t mind it more than you can |
help,” said Mr Omer, “Yes. The baby’s;
dead.”
My wounds broke out afresh at this in
telligence. I left the scarcely-tasted break
fast, and went and rested my head on anoth
er table in the corner of the little room,
which Minnie hastily cleared, lest 1 should j
spot the mourning that was lying there ‘
with my tears. She was a preliy good-na
tured girl, and put my hair away from my j
eyes with a soft kind touch ; hut she was j
very cheerful at having neatly finished her |
work and being in good time, and was so j
different from me.
Presently the tune left off, and a good
lookjng young fellow came across the yard ;
into the room. He had a hammer, in his
hand, and his mouth was full of little nails,
which he was obliged to takeout before he
could speak.
“ Well, Joram!” said Alt. Omer. “How
do you get on ?”
“All light,” said Joram. “ Done sir.”
Minnie colored a little, and the other two
girls smiled at one another.
“ What! you were at it by candle-light
last night, when I was at the club, then ?
Were you ?” said Mr. Omer, shutting up
one eye.
“Yes,” said Joram. “As you said we
could make a little trip of it, and go over
together, if it was done, Minnie and me —
and you.”
“Oh ! I thought you were going to leave
me out altogether,” said Mr. Oincr, laugh
ing till he coughed.
“ —As you was so good as to say that,”
resumed the young man, “why 1 turned to
it with a will, you see. Will you give me
your opinion of it ?”
“ I will,” said Mr. Omer, rising. “My
dear;” and he stopped and turned to me ;
“ would you like to see your ”
“No, father,” Minnie interposed.
“I thought it might be agreeable, my
dear,” said Mr. Omer. “ But perhaps you’re
right.”
I can’t say how I knew that it was my
dear mother’s coffin that they went to look
at. 1 had never heard one making; I had
never seen one that I know of; but it came
into my mind what the noise was, while it
was going on ; and when the young man
entered, I am sure I knew what he had
been doing.
The work being now finished, the two
girls, whose names I had not heard, brush
ed the shreds and threads from their dres
ses, and went into the shop to put that to
rights, and wait for customers. Minnie
stayed behind to fold up what they had
made, and pack it into baskets. This she
did upon her knees, humming a lively lit
tle tune the while.—Jorant, who I had no
doubt was her lover, came in and stole a
kiss from her whileshe was busy (hedidn’t
appear to mind me, at all,) and said her
father was gone for the chaise, and he must
make haste and get himself ready. Then
he went out again : and she put her thim
ble and scissors in her pocket, and stuck a
needle threaded with black thread neatly in
the bosom of her gown, and put on her
outer clothing smartly, at a little glass be
hind the door, in which I saw the reflec
tion of her pleased face.
All this I obseived, sitting at the table in
the corner with my head leaning on my
hand, and my thoughts running on verj
different things. The chaise soon came
round to the front of the shop, and the bas
kets being put in first, I was put in next,
and those three followed. I remember it
as a kind of half chaise cart, halt piano
forte van, painted of a sombre color, and
drawn by a black horse with a long tail.
There was plenty of room for us all.
I do not think I have ever experienced
so strange a feeling in my life, (I am wiser
now, perhaps,) as that of being with them,
remembering how they had been employed,
and seeing them enjoy the ride. I was not
angry with them; I was more afraid of
them, as if I were cast away among crea
tures with whom l had no community of i
nature. They were very cheerful. The ■
old man sat in front to drive, and the two
young people sat behind him, and when-1
ever he spoke to them, leaned forward, the i
one on one side of his chubby face, and the ;
other on the other, and made a great deal
of him. They would have talked to me
too, but I held back, and moped in my cor-!
ner; scared by their love-making and hi
larity, though it was far from boisterous,
and almost wondering that no judgment j
came upon them for their hardness of J
heart.
So, when they stopped to bait the horse.
and ate and drank and enjoyed themselves. !
I could touch nothing that they touched,
hut kept my fast unbroken. So, when we
reached home, 1 dropped out of the chaise
behind, as quickly as possible, that I n.ight !
not he in their company before these sol
emn windows, looking blindly on me like |
closed eyes once bright. And oh, how lit- !
tie need I had had to think what would j
move me to tears when I came back —see-
ing the window of my mother’s room, and •
next it. that which, in the better lime, was
mine!
I was in Peggotty’s arms before 1 got to
the door, and bhe took me into the house.
Her grief burst out when she first saw me;
; but she controlled it soon, and spoke in
whispers, and walked softly, as if the
j dead could be disturbed. She liad not been j
in bed, 1 found, for a long time. She sat.
lup at night still, and watched. As long as
her poor dear pretty was above ground,
j she said she would never desert her.
Mr. Murdstone took no heed of me when
i I went into the parlor where he was, but
sat by the fire-side, weeping silently, and
1 pondering, in his elbow chair. Miss Murd-
I stone, who was busy at her writing-desk,
| which was covered with letters and papers,
; gave me her cold finger-nails, and asked
; ir.e, in an iron whisper, if 1 had been meas
i ured for my mourning.
I said, “Yes.”
“And your shirts,” said Miss Murdstone,
[ “ have you brought ’em home ?”
“Yes, ma’am. I have brought home all
mj’ clothes.”
This was all the consolation that her
firmness administered to me. I do not
doubt that she had a choice pleasure in
exhibiting what she called her self-com
mand, and her firmness, and her strength
of mind, and her common sense, and the
whole diabolical catalogue of her unamia
ble qualities, on such an occasion. She
was particularly proud of her turn for bu
siness: and she showed it now, in reducing
everything to pen and ink, and being mov
ed by nothing. All the rest of the day,
and from morning to night afterwards, she
sat at that desk: scratching composedly
| with a hard pen, speaking in the same im
purturbable whisper to everybody ; never
relaxing a muscle of her face, or softening
a tone of her voice, or appearing with an
1 atom of her dress astray.
Her brother took a book sometimes, hut
never read it, that I saw. He would open
it and look at it as if he were reading, but
would remain for a whole hour without
turning the leaf, and then put it down and
walk to and fro in the room. I used to
sit with folded hands watching him, and
counting his footsteps, hour after hour.—
He very seldom spoke to her, and never to
me. He seemed to be the only restless
thing, except rite clocks, in the whole mo
tionless house.
In these days before the funeral, I saw
but little of Peggotty, except that, in pass
j ing up or down stairs, I always found her
i close to the room where my mother and her
] baby lay, and except that she came to me
I every night, and sat by my bed’s head while
l went to sleep. A day or two before the
; burial—l think it was a day or two before,
| but I am conscious of confusion in my
| mind about that heavy time, with nothing
; to mark its progress —she took me into the
room. I only recollect, that underneath
some white covering on the bed, with a
beautiful cleanliness and freshness around
it, there seemed to me to lie embodied the
solemn stillness that was in the house; and
that when she would have turned the cov
er gently back, I cried, “Oh, no! oh, no!”
and held her hand.
If the funeral had been yesterday, I could
not recollect it better. The very air of the
best parlor, when 1 went in at the door, the
bright condition of the fire, the shining of
j the wine in the decanters, the patterns of
j the glasses and plates, the faint, sweet
! smell of the cake, Ihe odor of Miss Murd
; stone's dress, and our black clothes. Mr.
; Chillip is in the room, and comes to speak
| to me.
“ And how is Master David ?” he says |
; kindly.
I cannot tell him very well. ( give him 1
my hand, which he holds in his.
“Dear me!” says Mr. Chillip, meekly j
| smiling, with something shining in his ,
! eye. “Our little friends grow up around :
! us. They grow out of our knowledge. ’
i ma’am!”
This is to Miss Murdstone, who makes
no reply.
“ There is a great improvement here. 1
| ma’am!” says Mr. Chillip.
Miss Murdstone merely answers with a
frown and a formal bend: Mr. Chillip, dis
comfitted, goes to a corner, keeping me
with him, and opens his mouth no more.
I remark this, because I remark every
thing that happens, not because 1 rare
about myself, or have done since 1 came ,
home. And now the hell begins to sound, j
and Mr. Omer and another come to make |
us ready. As Peggotty was wont to tell ;
tnc, long ago, the followers of my father j
to the same grave were made ready in the j
same room.
There are Mr. Murdstone, our neighbor i
Mr. Grayper, Mr. Chillip, and t. When j
we get out to the door, the bearers and :
their load are in the garden; and they I
move before us down the path, and past j
the elms, and through the gate, and into ;
the church-yard where I have so often j
heard the birds sing on a summer morning, j
We stand around the grave. The day |
seems different to me “from every other day.
and the light not of the same color. Now
there is a solemn hush, which we have \
brought with us from home with what is
in the mould; and while we stand bare
headed, I hear the voice of the clergyman,
sounding remote in the open air, and yet
distinct and plain, saying: “ I am the Re
i surrection and the Life, saith the Lord !”
Then I hear sobs; and, standing apart from
j the lookers-on, I see the good and faithful
! servant, whom of all people on earth 1
love best, and unto whom my childish
1 heart is certain the Lord will one day say,
“ Well done.”
There are many faces that 1 know among
the little crowd; faces that 1 knew in church
when mine was always wanting there i
faces that first saw my mother when she
first came to the village in her youthful
bloom. Ido not mind them—l mind noth
ing but my grief—and yet I see and know
them all: and even in the back-ground, far
j away, see Minne looking on, and her eye
! glancing on her sweet-heart, who is near
I me.
It is over, and the earth is filled in, and
we lurn to come away. Before us stands
our house, so pretty and unchanged, so
linked in my mind with the young idea of
what is gone, that all my sorrow has been
nothing to the sorrow it calls forth. But
they take me on ; and Mr. Chillip talks to
me ; and when we get home, puts some wa
ter to my lips; and when I ask leave to go
to my room, dismisses me with the gentle
ness of a woman.
All this, I say, is yesterday’s event. E-
I vents of later date have floated from me to
the shore where all forgotten things will re
appear, but this stands like a high rock in
the ocean.
I knew that Peggoly would come to me
in my room. The Sabbath stillncs of the
time (the day was so like Sunday ! 1 have
forgotten that) was suited to us both. She
rat down by my side upon my little bed ;
and holding my hand, and sometimes put
ting it to her lips, and sometimes smoothing
it with hers, as she might have comforted
my little, brother, told me, in her way, that
she had to tell me concerning what had
happened.
“She was never well,” said Peggoty.
“for a long time. She was uncertain in
her mind, and not happy. When her ba
by was horn, I thought at first she would
get better, hut she was more delicate, and
sank a little every day. She used to like
to sit alone before her baby came, and then
she cried; hut afterwards she used to sing
to it—so soft, that I once thought, when I
heard her, it was a voice up in the air, that
was rising away.
“ I think she got to be more timid, and
more frightened-like, of late ; and that a
hard word was like a blow to her. But
she was always the same to me. She nev
er changed to her foolish Peggoty, dhln’t
my sweet girl ”
Here Peggoty stopped, and softly beat
upon my hand a little while.
“The last time that I saw her like her
own old self, was the night when you came
home, my dear. The day you went away
she said to me, ‘I never shall see my pret
ty darling again. Something tells me so
that tells the truth, I know.’
“ She tried to hold up after that; and
many a time, when they told her she was
thoughtless and light-hearted, made believe
to be so ; but it was all bygone then. She
never told her husband what she had told
me—she was afraid of saying it to any
body else—till one night, a little more than
a week before it happened, when she said
to him : ‘My dear 1 think I am dying.’
“ * It’s ofT my mind now, Peggoty,’ she
told me, when I laid her down i.i her bed
that night. 1 lie will believe it more and
more, poor fellow, every day for a few
days to come ; and then it will be past. I
am very tired. If this is sleep, sit by me
while 1 sleep: don’t leave me. God bless
both my children ! God protect and keep
my fatherless boy!’
“ I never left her afterward,” said Peg
goty. “ She often talked to them twodown
stairs—for she loved them; she couldn’t
hear not to love any one who was about
her—but when they went away from her
bedside, she always turned to me, asif there
was rest where Peggoty was, and never fell
asleep in any other way.
“On the last night, in the evening, she
kissed me, and said: ‘lf my baby should
die too, Peggoty, please let them lay him
in my arms, and bury us together.’ (It was
done; for the poor lamb lived but a day be
yond her.) ‘ Let my dearest boy go with us
to our resting-place,’ she said, ‘and tell him
that his mother blessed him not once, but
a thousand times.’
Another silence followed this, and anoth
er gentle beating on my hand.
“It was pretty far in the night,” said
Peggoty, “ when she asked me for some
drink ; and when she had taken it, gave
!me such a patient smile, the dear!—so
■ beautiful!-
“ Daybreak had come, and the sun was
; rising, when she said, how kind and con-
siderate Dir. Coppertield had always been
‘ to her, and how he had borne with her, and
told her, when she doubted herself, that a
’ loving heart was better and stronger than
wisdom, and that he was a happy man in
hers. ‘Peggoty, my dear u she said then,
put me nearer to you,’ for she was very
; weak. ‘Lay your good arm underneath
[ my head,’ she said, ‘and turn me to you.
■ for your face is going far off, and I want it
|to be near.’ I put it as she asked and oh
Davy! the time had come when my first
parting words to you were true—where she
was glad to lay her poor head on her stu
pid cross old l’eggotty's arm—and she died
like a child that had gone to sleep !”
Thus ended Peggolty’s narration. From
1 the moment of my knowing of the death of
my mother, the idefti of her as she had been
Jof late had vanished from me. I remem
■ be red her, from that instant, only as the
! young mother of my earliest impressions,
who had been used to wind her bright curls
round and round her finger, and to dance
with me at twilight ill the parlor. What
Peggotty had told me now, was so far from
bringing me back to the latter period, that
it rooted the earliest image in my mind. It
may be curious, but it is true. In her death
she winged her way back to her calm un
troubled youth, and cancelled all the rest.
The mother who lay in the grave, was
the mother of my infancy ; the little crea
ture in her arms, was myself, as I had once
i been, hushed forever on her bosom.
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
A VINDICATION
OF
THE PROFESSION OF LAWYERS.
BY HON. B. F. IOUTER.
When the House of Commons took the
! affair in their own hands, and voted that
such actions were contempts, and breaches
of privilege, that resolute defender of the
privileges of freeman sustained the right of
! these parties to discharge under habeas cor
pus-declaring that this imprisonment was
not such as the freemen of England ought
to submit to. When summoned in person
by the Speaker, to answer for this declara
tion, he ordered the Speaker away, saying,
I sit here as the interpreter of the laws,
| and as a distributor of justice.”
Pitt has been lauded justly as a great
friend of the United States, in their strug
gle. But he was not exclusively so. The
name of Lord Camden deserves to be re
membered by Americans, and by every
friend of constitutional liberty, with pecu
liar veneration. He begun his caieer at
the Bar at a time when the administration,
no longer permitted to use the axe, protect
! ed itself, under corrupt agents, by attacks
(upon the liberty of speech—by prosecu
tions for libel, on the occasion of every
’ publication of a sentiment reflecting upon
the action of government. Lord Camden
I then originated and maintained the- doc
i trine, thought to be of such value to the
rights of the people, to be incorporated in
to constitutions, that on trials of cases of
libel against government, the jury were
judges of law and of fact. Raised by’ his
great talents to the post of Attorney Gene
ral, and given a seat m Parliament, his
very first act there was one of opposition
to the prerogative of the Crown. The
Court of King’s Bench decided that the
statute of Habeas Corpus, of Charles 11,
I did not embrace a case of a party impressed
for the King's service. Against that deci
sion, Camden, then Piatt, prepared and ad
vocated a bill to explain the statute, and
correct the decision. “He declaied him*
self,” says Walpole, “ for the utmost lati.
tude of the Habeas Corpus; and it reflected
no small honor on him, that the first advo
cate of the Crown should apffear as the
firmest champion against prerogative.”
