cravat, and two hours in giving the hair on his silly, in-
significant head the proper direction. One half of his
time is spent in scrubbing his teeth and arching his eye-
brows. And when he grasps his little cane, and hops
into the street, with every plait in proper order, and
the indispensable grimace on his countenance, one
w r ould suppose that he had broken loose from imprison-
ment in a bandbox.
Fan him gently ye zephyrs! Ye northern blasts, dis-
compose not the folds of his garment ! Ye sylphs, watch
over his white pantaloons, when he skips over the gut-
ters! But may his guardian angel protect him, should
he encounter a dray!
Vapid is not proud: he sets no value on the intrinsic
excellence of any quality he possesses: his happiness
depends on the breath of mortals as contemptible as
himself.
THE HILL OF LIFE.
Armine became acquainted with his own existence in
the valley of Childhood. His couch was composed of
roses, and canopied over by the boughs of the orange
and the myrtle. Bubbling springs were seen among the
flowers, and the melody of birds was heard amid the
branches. The Hill of Life appeared before him, and
he set his face toward the summit of the mountain. The
ascent is known by the name of Youth : it was easy and
delightful. A female form of the most angelic appear-
THE SAVAGE.
mice was his constant companion: her name was Hope.
She strewed his path with flowers: and her presence
shed abroad the sunshine of cheerfulness and joy. —
She led him forward by the hand: and distant- objects,
when pointed out by her finger, assumed a supernatural
and celestial brilliancy. When he lay down to repose,
poppies were strewed on his pillow 5 and when he awoke,
his heavenly companion entranced his eyes with her
magical mirror of ravishing delights. Sometimes he
turned aside into the gardens of pleasure, and bathed
in the rivers of sensual delight; but when he heard at a
distance the loud but mellow voice of the trumpet of
Fame, which sounded on the top of the mountain, he
broke loose from the allurements of pleasure, determined
to acquire more substantial bliss, by heroic exertions.
When he had gained the last stages of the ascent, he
was met by a restless being, of a dark and forbidding
countenance; her name was Care. She pressed him
into her company, and attempted to engross his atten-
tion. But her familiar approaches were forbidden by
Hope; and she contented herself with fliting about in
his view at a distance.
The summit of the mountain is an elevated plain,
known by the name of Manhood. It commands an ex-
tensive prospect on every side; but these views are not
all equally delightful. When you sfand on the moun-
tain and cast your eyes backward to the valley of Child-
hood, the mind is overpowered by conflicting emotions.
You review with delight the wanderings of infancy in
the valley of roses; but this enjoyment is mixed with
an inexpressible sentiment of sorrow and regret: the
thought of joys never to be repeated, and of pleasures
forever gone!
The ascent of Youth is viewed still with less com-
placency. The aberrations, in this part of the journey,
give to the prospect a bitterness and gloom that cloud
the enjoyment. "Sweet humble vale!" said Armine,
looking through the long vista of Youth, to the com-
mencement of his journey, "Sweet humble vale! your
C2
30 THE SAVAGE.
delights are forever vanished ! jour pleasures can never
return !
Having thus said, he turned himself around to take a
view of *ihe elevated plain on which he stood. The
face of the country was various: some parts were covered
with thistles and thorns; and others were crowned with
proud forests of oak, and groves of towering poplars.
In some parts were to be seen "cloud-capt towers and
gorgeous palaces;" and in others, the sordid and misera-
ble "huts of cheerless poverty.' 1 Some of the inhabitants
build houses of marble, as though their residence in the
place were never to have an end; while multitudes are
crowded in cottages of clay. Dark clouds hang con-
tinually over the mountain: some contemplate their ap-
pearance with calmness, but others view them with hor-
ror and dismay.
A philosopher, who sat, with the utmost composure,
on the point of a rock, and viewed the shifting of the
clouds through a perspective, beckoned Armine to ap-
proach. He obeyed. "1 perceive," said the philoso-
pher, "by your countenance, that you have lately gained
the summit of the mountain." Armine assented. "Well,"
continued the sage, "you will remain here awhile: I
have, for my part, been many years a resident on this
plain; and must speedily descend on the other side of
the hill. 1 obserVed you, just now, looking back on the
valley of Childhood; have you. any objection to take a
view of the opposite descent?" Armine was silent. —
The philosopher took him by the hand and led him to
the brow of the hill. "The declivity," said he, "as
you may perceive, is much greater on this side than on
the other: it is called the Decline of Life.. It has but
a dreary appearance. The descent is rapid into the
valley of Old Age: .and in that valley, rolls the black,
sluggish, and bottomless River of Death." Having thus
spoken, he sighed, and immediately began to descend.
Armine called after him with a loud voice, saying, "is
the river without a shore ? Are there no green fields on
the other side, where a weary traveller may find lasting
THE SAVAGE. 31
repose?'' The philosopher turned round, and looked
upon Armine. There was an expression of sadness up-
on his countenance. "No traveller has returned," said
he, "to give us any intelligence. There is, without
doubt, a country on the other side of the water: I have
had a glimpse of it myself; but those who are swallowed
up by the River of Death, are, in all probability, carried
by the rapidity of the current into the Dead Sea of
eternal oblivion." Having thus said, he pursued his
way down the mountain. Armine observed him, for
some time, in his descent; and took notice that, having
proceeded a little way, he found a green place on the
side of the hill where there was a spring of water. —
Having refreshed himself, he sat down to rest; and im-
mediately began to examine the nature of the grass,
which was the production of so sterile a soil. He con-
tinued this employment for some time, and then took out
his pocket perspective, and observed the movement of
the clouds, with as much composure as he had formerly
done on the summit of the mountain. "Wonderful
elasticity of the human mind!" exclaimed Armine, as
he turned round from the contemplation of the Decline
of Life, "wonderful elasticity of the human mind, which
causes it to yield to the pressure of circumstances! —
which enables it to support with tranquillity the greatest
possible misfortunes!"
Care now became the constant companion of Ar-
mine, though he was still accompanied by Hope. Hope
had lost a great part of her magical power, but still was
able to soften the influence of Care, and calm the occa-
sional perturbations of his mind. He adopted various
schemes for passing the time of his continuance on the
mount; but the issue of every one was the same — dis-
appointment. Sometimes he joined the votaries of
pleasure; and sometimes, the lovers of wisdom. Plea-
sure ended in smoke; and knowledge w r asthe parent of
despair. Sometimes he employed himself in gathering
together the glittering stones that may be found on the
summit of the mountain: but the exertion, necessary in
32 THE SAVAGE.
this contemptible pursuit, was painful in the extreme.
He then endeavored to derive amusement from dispers-
ing abroad what he had collected together: and the
issue of the whole was "vanity and vexation of spirit."*
The Temple of Fame stood on a rugged promontory
of the mountain, which was suspended over the black
and putrid waters of Infamy. The building was mag-
nificent beyond description; its summit was hid in the
clouds. The voice of the goddess was heard from the
temple, inviting the approaches of all; but the attempt
to obey the invitation was attended with danger. Every
one was desirous to enter, in order to leave some memo-
rial of having performed the journey of life; but few,
very few, were found able to surmount the obstacles
which impeded the entrance. The daring adventurer,
whose heart beat high with the love of glory, pressed
forward through dangers of every description. Fright-
ful rocks and yawning caverns, giants of tremendous
dimensions, and spectres of terrific forms, opposed his
progress. Envy, Malice, Hatred, Anger, Slander, Re-
venge, and a thousand others, armed with "fire-brands,
arrows, and death," stood in array against him. The
hero who broke through their ranks and entered the
temple covered with blood was received with shouts of
joy and the sound of the trumpet.
Armine essayed to enter: but Poverty, a gaunt and
hagard monster, effectually baffled every attempt, and
drove him away from the precincts of the building. — •
Here he was seized by Disease, who hurried him away
to the descent of the mountain.
As he passed down the Decline of Life, every thing
wore a gloom of despondence. Dark clouds hung
over his head; and nothing was heard but the screaming
of the raven from the "lightning-blasted oak," and the
hooting of the owl from the mouldering turret. He
entered the valley of Old Age. The air became dark.
The funeral cypress overshadowed his path.
Weary and dejected, he tottered along, until, ere he
was aware, he stood on the banks of the River. A thick
THE SAVAGE. 33
fog, an everlasting cloud, rested on the face of the wa-
ters. Nothing was to be seen. Nothing was to be
heard. It was the reign of Darkness, Silence, Inanity,
Death. While he yet lingered, he received a last visit
from the companion of his youth. Hope appeared,
arrayed in a robe of resplendent whiteness. She di-
rected her hand toward the opposite side of the river.
The clouds broke away for a moment. He had, or
fancied he had, a glimpse of a brighter region. Time
hurried him into the stream; and he was heard of no
more.
REMONSTRANCE OF THE LETTER II.
The letter h begs leave to represent to Piomingo that
he labors under many heavy and intolerable grievances,
He has suffered injustice both from the ancients and
moderns, the learned and unlearned.
Grammarians have long contended that he is no let-
ter; that he is merely a "hard breathing before a word
or syllable." They never explain themselves fully on
this subject; and it is hard to find out what they mean
by the assertion. One of their leaders.has, indeed, ob-
served that h requires no conformation of the organs of
speech ; and therefore cannot be a letter. This is involv-
ing the matter in "clouds of thick darkness." What
are the organs of speech? Is the windpipe included in
the number? But, without entering into any niceties on
the subject, it is simply demanded, Can they give this
"hard breathing before a word or syllable," without
making any use of the organs of speech? When the
organs of speech are at rest, the mouth must be neces-
sarily closed. Now, let them pronounce any word, in
which h is sounded, without opening the mouth until
they have made this "hard breathing:" and the point
will be conceded.
But h is not disposed to contend for a name. Let him
be possessed of the substance, and he will never declare
34 THE SAVAGE.
war for the shadow. Let him enjoy every right, power
and emolument, belonging to a letter; and they are
welcome to call him a "hard breathing" as long as they
please.
At present, he humbly solicits that he may be relieved,
by the interposition of Piomingo, from the galling op-
pression and intolerable injustice he suffers from the
"organs of speech" of the polished inhabitants of the
city of Philadelphia. No people are more ready to
complain, of any real or imaginary grievance, than the
citizens above mentioned; yet they forget the golden
rule, of doing to others, as they would that others should
do unto them, when they deprive your remonstrant of
his undoubted right and inheritance.
It has long been known to all the world, that, many
years ago, w usurped the station of A, in such words as,
when, where, what, &c. which ought to be written hwen,
hwere, hwat, &c. H, at first, felt indignant at this treat-
ment; but, as a long continued usurpation is said to con-
fer a legitimate right, he was, at last, induced to yield
the precedency in these words, as he was assured that he
would lose none of the power by his acquiescence. It
was represented to him, that the king of Great Britain
had long used the title of king of France without claim-
ing the least right to interfere in the affairs of that king-
dom; that the emperor of China was styled "sole go-
vernor of the earth," without other princes supposing
that their sovereignty was affected by this arrogant as-
sumption. These, and various other things, were men-
tioned to prove that the condescension of h, in this
particular, was nothing remarkable.
But h observes, with infinite dissatisfaction, that his
peaceable disposition has led mankind to suppose that
he will submit to every species of injustice that may be
inflicted by the world. While he only thought that he
was yielding precedence to another letter, he finds that
his undoubted and unalienable rights, privileges, and
powers, have been suppressed and destroyed. Who now
can hear any thing of the sound of h in a numerous
THE SAVAGE. 35
class of words when pronounced by a Philadelphian?
The words what, when, where, wheel, which, wharf, and a
hundred others, are pronounced by the unlearned, and
alas! by the learned, exactly thus, wat, wen, were, weel,
witch, warf, &c.
The letter h begs leave further to represent that, in-
dependent of any personal considerations, this practice
introduces unheard of corruption and confusion into the
language, as may be seen by the following view of the
subject: What and wot, wheel and weal, zuhen and wen,
where and were, whet and wet, whetstone and wet stone,
whether and weather, whetter and wetter, whey and way,
which and witch, whig and wig, while and wile, whin and
win, whine and wine; whist and wist, whit and wit, white
and wight,whither and wither, &c. are words in the Eng-
lish language, expressive of distinct and independent
ideas; yet every one in the above list is pronounced, in
opposition to the united voice of the orthoepists, exactly
in the same manner as its yokefellow. Let this and
other grievances be redressed, and your remonstrant
will demean himself as a peaceable member of the al-
phabet, and as a liege subject of the republic of letters;
otherwise, you will be troubled with some "hard breath-
ing" occasionally.
PRUDENCE,
Of all the qualities of the mind, prudence is the most
useful. It is the virtue of civilized nations. What is
prudence? It is
"A sly slow thing with circumspective eyes."
It takes a full view of the ground, and advances with
caution. It subdues all violent emotions, of whatever
nature they may be. It forms no friendships but profi-
table ones; and these are preserved no longer than they
continue so. It studies the character of its neighbor: it
marks his dispositions, propensities, and passions; and
avails itself of every advantage that may be drawn
36 THE SAVAGE.
from knowledge thus acquired. It hurries its friend
into a paroxysm of rage, and deliberately notes down
every extravagance of the moment. It then soothes
the irritated passions of its open-hearted dupe, and reaps
the full harvest of his returning kindness. It worms
itself into the confidence of the unsuspecting, and waits
the proper moment to betray it. In fine, its constant
business is to mark out the defects of others, and coolly
take advantage of every weakness. It digs a pit for the
stranger, and lays a stumbling block before the blind.
O for "a hundred tongues, and a voice of iron," that we
might curse thee Prudence!
THE SAVAGE— NO. TV.
RECOLLECTIONS OF YOUTH.
Whence arises the happiness of youth? Is it owing
to the novelty of the scenes which surround us, and to
the superficial view we take of persons and things?
Nature clothes her face in smiles; and we enquire no
farther, but resign ourselves with enthusiasm to appear-
ances. We are susceptible of the impressions of every
species of beauty; but repel with impatience the ap-
proaches of deformity.
We rejoice: whether the sun rise in glory, and the
leaves of the forest are spangled with the dew of the
morning; or whether, setting in the western ocean, he
dye, with streaming gold, the summits of the eastern
mountains. We rejoice : whether the rushing of the
north wind be heard among the hills, or the eastern
breeze sigh amid the tops of the pines. We rejoice :
whether the south wind breathe on spicy groves, or the
gales of the evening curl the glassy bosom of the lake.
We rejoice: and we wish to communicate to others the
happiness which we feel.
Nature has been bountiful to us: and our hearts swell
with emotions of benevolence too mighty for utterance.
THE SAVAGE. 37
We would dispense blessings with a hand of unlimit-
ed profusion, and pour into every heart the enthusi-
asm of our joy. We think that all mankind are pos-
sessed of the same innocence, simplicity, and benevo-
lence, of which we ourselves are conscious; the young
tendrils of our affections lay hold of every object they
can reach; and we resign ourselves to the raptures of
friendship and of love. Must the dream have an end?
Can no charm make the delusion coeval with our ex-
istence? Shall the frosts of adversity nip the young
shoots of our affections? Shall the mildew of vice blast
the fair hopes of a harvest of happiness? or shall the en-
emy, in the night, sow the tares of dissension and dis-
trust?
Happy are they, whose life terminates ere the blind
confidence of youth is destroyed! Happy are they, who
live not to discover the error under which they have
labored !
Still may we remember the moments when we re-
nounced, with anguish of heart and bitterness of soul,
the confidence we had reposed in the world. The fair
face of nature was deformed; the cup of delight was dash-
ed from our lips; and we grew sick of our existence.
The impression made on our minds by the treachery of
one friend is, in part, effaced by the pleasure we find
in confiding in another. But disappointment follows dis-
appointment; and perfidy succeeds perfidy. Still we
are not easily discouraged. Man cannot be happy
alone. The enjoyments of life would be insipid, could
we not share them with others. To minds who have
exchanged the sentiments of friendship, there is no such
thing as solitary pleasure.
Well then, let another smiling deception approach —
we embrace it. Interest or caprice dissolves the en-
chantment — we are miserable. But even our uneasi-
ness hurries us on to make choice of a new friend. The
blind confidence of youth is destroyed; but the social
principle remains, and forces us, contrary to the plainest
dictates of cool calculating reason, into new intimacies.
D
38 THE SAVAGE.
It is, nevertheless, observable that early friendships
possess a charm which is unknown to those formed in
maturer years. After having been often disappointed, a
portion of fearful distrust mixes itself with our enjoy-
ments. We wish to seize the golden fruit; but we re-
member the apples of Sodom. We regale ourselves
with "honey from the rock;" but it is mingled with gall.
In a moment of confidence we give away our souls:
and the succeeding instant is imbittered with suspicious
forebodings.
"He that hath ears to hear let him hear." We ad-
dress those to whom nature has imparted a portion of
ethereal fire: whose lips she has touched with a live
coal from her heavenly altar. We address those whose
ruling passion in youth, was to reciprocate the delights
of friendship; and who have experienced the mental
agony and mortification that result from the idea of hav-
ing misplaced their early affections. We address not
those who have always sailed on a smooth sea, with rea-
son at the helm, and whose bark has never been tossed
by a storm of tempestuous passions. Their tranquillity
is rather owing to constitutional insensibility than to
any thing else: they would not understand us.
An elegant author puts the following words into the
mouth of Aristippus, the philosopher: "Friendship is
the most sublime and most dangerous of the gifts of
Heaven: its enjoyments are delicious, its vicissitudes
tremendous; and ought a wise man to expose himself to
losses, the bitterness of which would impoison the re-
mainder of his life?" A wise man ! No: The mise man
of Aristippus, or of Rochefoucault, is as incapable of
partaking of the "delicious enjoyments," as he is of ex-
periencing the "tremendous vicissitudes" above men-
tioned. Such friendships as that of Aristippus are not
indeed, uncommon: he would "admit of convenient in-
timacies, but banish that friendship, which renders us
susceptible of the sufferings of others." "I was in
iEgina," says he, "when I learned that my dear master
Socrates was condemned; that he was in prison; that
THE SAVAGE. 39
the execution was delayed for a month; and that his
disciples were permitted to visit him. If it had been in
my power to have freed him from his chains, I would
have flown to his assistance; but I could do nothing for
him, so I remained in zEgina." Such may be the friend-
ship of a wise man; such may be the dictates of pru-
dence; but such are not the sentiments of virtuous and
ingenuous youth. Such are not the sentiments of the
man who can partake, with us, of the entertainment
that is derived from these melancholy retrospections.
THE DEVIL.
Posthabui tamen illorum mea eeria ludo.
Books have been written on the rights of man; and
we have heard much of the wrongs which he has sus-
tained. In one treatise the rights of woman are explain-
ed ; and in another her wrongs are exemplified.
As we were revolving this subject in our mind, it oc-
curred to us that much might be said concerning the
wrongs of the devil. As to rights, we will suppose that
he has none; but does that justify the children of men
in imputing to him crimes of which he is not guilty? If
men act right, they arrogate the merit to themselves;
but if they act wrong, why then,*forsooth, it was at the
instigation of the devil.
Men in all ages have certainly joined to attribute
every thing wicked to the agency of this being: does
not this universal consent of mankind speak much
against him? True: but it is also to be considered that
this is the report of his enemies.
While these thoughts were chasing each other through
our mind, in the de^id hour of the night, we all at once
felt a strong inclination to interrogate the devil on the
subject, and see whether he had any thing to offer in his
own defence. It appeared to us to be but justice to
"hear also the other party."
40 THE SAVAGE.
And whether it were owing to a periodical fit of in-
sanity to which we are subject, or whether what we arc
about to relatedid actually take place, we will not un-
dertake to determine. Let the public judge. If we were
mad, there was "method in our madness," as you will
perceive when we relate our story.
And why should it be thought strange that we should
see the devil? It is only what thousands of old women
have done; and our optics are as good as those of any
old woman in the universe. We would not, indeed, wish
to have it supposed that we are very intimate with th<>
old gentleman, as he bears but an indifferent character:
and we are very desirous of supporting the dignity of
our character. We should not, we suppose, incur any
risk of being burned, at the present day, for holding a
short conversation with his infernal majesty; but still.
as we could produce no witnesses to testify the nature
of the intercourse which might subsist between us, we
would rather not have it thought that his visits to us
were very frequent, especially about midnight. But the
alarm we should experience, even in that case, appears
to be without foundation. Has not Satan appeared to
prophets, apostles, and holy men in all ages? Did not
Michael the archangel treat him with the greatest po-
liteness? Indeed, if we remember right, it is written,
that Michael "durst not bring a railing accusation"
against him. How fhen could it be expected that we
should have the heroism to wage war with the devil when
he takes it into his head to pay us a visit? No, no: we
thought it best to treat him civilly, as Michael did, and