JOSEPH STORY was a son of Elisha Story, a respectable physician, who had been a surgeon in the revolutionary army. He was born in Marblehead, Massachusetts, on the eighteenth of September, 1779, and at the age of sixteen entered Harvard College, in the class with William Ellery Channing. Immediately after graduating he commenced with Chief Justice Sewall, of his native town, the study of the law, which he afterward pursued with Mr. Justice Putnam, of Salem, where he was admitted to the bar, and began the practice of his profession, in 1801.

In early life he was a democrat, and of course, living in Essex county, in a minority; but such was his reputation for ability and integrity, that in his twenty-fifth year he was chosen a member of the state house of representatives, to which he was several times reelected, and in which he was twice made speaker. He became at once the acknowledged leader of his party in the legislature, where he used his power with great magnanimity, on many occasions rising above partisan prejudice and dictation, and so serving the people as to win their nearly unanimous applause.

In 1809 he was elected a member of Congress, to fill a vacancy occasioned by the death of Mr. Crowninshield, but declined a further service than for the remainder of the term, deeming the excitement of political life incompatible with that devotion to his profession which was necessary to the highest suc

cess.

The place made vacant on the bench of the Supreme Court of the United States by the death of Judge Cushing, in 1811, was tendered by President Madison to Mr. John Quincy Adams, at that time in Russia, and being declined by him was conferred upon Mr. Story, who was then but thirty-two years of age. So young a man had never before, in England or America, been elevated to so high a judicial position, and much dissatisfaction was occasioned by this appointment; but every regret and apprehension was soon dis

sipated by the displays of his extensive and accurate professional learning, excellent judg ment, perfect candor, and decided business habits. He remained on the bench until the close of his life, and held no other civil office, except in 1820, when he sat with John Adams, Josiah Quincy, Daniel Webster, and other leading men of Massachusetts, in the convention which revised the constitution of that state.

His judgments in the supreme court of the United States are contained in the Reports of Cranch, Wheaton, Peters and Howard, of which they constitute much more than a just proportion; and those which he delivered in the courts of the first circuit, embracing the states of Maine, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and Rhode Island, fill two volumes of Reports by Gallison, five by Mason, three by Sumner, and two by William Story. It is generally admitted that these learned and elaborate performances, on a vast variety of diffcult and complicated questions, some of which were entirely new, are not inferior in comprehensiveness, clearness and soundness, to any in the English language.

In 1829 Mr. Nathan Dane, one of the wis est and purest men who have lived in this nation, founded a professorship of law in Harvard College; and by a condition of the endowment Judge Story became the first occupant of the chair. He had already made acceptable presents to the profession in his Selection of Pleadings, and in his editions of Chitty on Bills of Exchange and Promissory Notes, and Lord Tenterden on the Law of Shipping, to both of which he added many valuable notes. The delivery of courses of lectures, in Dane Hall, upon the law of nature, the laws of nations, maritime and commericial law, equity law, and the constitutional law of the United States, led to the preparation of that series of great works upoz which his reputation chiefly rests, and whet have made his name familiar in all the hi parliaments, judicatures and universities of the world. The first of these was Commentaries

on the Law of Bailments, which appeared in 1832. This was followed in 1833 by Commentaries on the Constitution of the United States, prefaced by a constitutional history of the colonies, and of the states under the confederation. This work, which is of great interest to the student in history as well as to the lawyer, he subsequently abridged, that it might be used as a class book in the schools. In 1834 appeared in three volumes his Commentaries on the Conflict of Laws, in which the opposing laws of different nations are treated with especial reference to marriages, divorces, wills, successions and judgments. It is regarded as the most original and profound of his works, and was the first upon the subject in the English language. In 1836 were published his Commentaries on Equity Jurisprudence, in two volumes, and in 1838 his Commentaries on Equity Pleadings, two works which were equal to his reputation and which were received by the profession with unhesitating approval. He subsequently published Commentaries upon the Laws of Ageney, Partnership, Bills of Exchange, and Promissory Notes, but they were composed with less care, and though valuable, might have been written quite as well by a much inferior man.

Although Judge Story must be regarded as a lawyer of the first class, it cannot be said that in this class he was preeminent. Marshall, Hamilton, Parsons, Kent and some others had in various respects merit of precedence, though perhaps not one of these celebrated men could be justly compared with him for extent of acquisitions. Circumstances which will occur to the considerate lawyer gave him an extraordinary reputation abroad, and that enhanced the weight of his authority at home, but it is highly probable that both Marshall and Kent, reasoning from first principles, grounding their judgments upon the nature of things, will have a more solid and permanent renown.

Story was perhaps too sedulous a student of the tone and tendencies of the day, and his want of decidedness and precision often leaves it extremely doubtful what were his own opinions. His industry was very great. Doubtless his memory was so retentive that a single and hasty reading was quite sufficient to make him familiar with almost any author. Yet when we remember the extent of the literature of his profession, which is probably

twice as great as when Marshall came to the bench, we are struck with the amount of labour necessary to form the most general acquaintance with it. Add to this the number of his works, which are more voluminous* than those of any other lawyer of great eminence, and we cannot understand how he had any leisure for the pursuit of literature or the enjoyment of society. But he was a man of taste, of warm affections, with a wide circle of friends, and of a deep and abiding interest in all the great movements of the people.

During his student life, and soon after he entered upon the practice of the law in Salem, Mr. Story was an occasional writer of verses, and in 1802 he published a didactic poem entitled The Power of Solitude, which was reprinted with several miscellaneous pieces in a duodecimo volume of two hundred and fifty pages in 1804. They have very little merit, of any kind, but their composition may have enabled him to acquire something of that copiousness and harmony for which his prose diction is distinguished.

His principal literary writings are contained in a collection of his discourses, reviews and miscellanies, published in 1835. In this volume are twenty-nine papers, among which are sketches of Samuel Dexter, William Pinkney, Thomas Addis Emmet, John Hooker Ashmun, and Justices Marshall, Trimble, Washington, and Parker; addresses before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard College, and the Essex Historical Society; his contributions to the North American Review; and various juridical arguments, and political reports, memorials and speeches.

Judge Story's career was undoubtedly the one in which he was fitted to shine most brightly. With vast learning, strong sense, reasoning powers of a high order, and generally correct taste, he would have been eminently respectable in any field of intellectual exertion; but he had too little both of metaphysical power and imagination to make a deep and lasting impression.

He died, after a short illness, at Cambridge, near Boston, on the tenth of September, 1845, having nearly completed the sixty-ninth year

of his age.

*His written judgments on his own circuit and his various commentaries occupy twenty-seven volumes, and his judgments in the Supreme Court of the United States form an important part of thirty-four volumes.

INDIAN SUMMER IN NEW ENGLAND.

FROM CENTENNIAL DISCOURSE AT SALEM.

Ir is now the early advance of autumn. What can be more beautiful or more attractive than this season in New England? The sultry heat of summer has passed away; and a delicious coolness at evening succeeds the genial warmth of the day. The labours of the husbandınan approach their natural termination: and he gladdens with the near prospect of his promised reward. The earth swells with the increase of vegetation. The fields wave with their yellow and luxuriant harvests. The trees put forth the darkest foliage, half shading and half revealing their ripened fruits, to tempt the appetite of man, and proclaim the goodness of his Creator. Even in scenes of another sort, where nature reigns alone in her own majesty, there is much to awaken religious enthusiasm. As yet, the forests stand clothed in their dress of undecayed magnificence. The winds, that rustle through their tops, scarcely disturb the silence of the shades below. The mountains and the valleys glow in warm green, of lively russet. The rivulets flow on with a noiseless current, reflecting back the images of many a glossy insect, that dips his wings in their cooling waters. The mornings and evenings are still vocal with the notes of a thousand warblers, which plume their wings for a later flight. Above all, the clear blue sky, the long and sunny calms, the scarcely whispering breezes, the brilliant sunsets, lit up with all the wondrous magnificence of light, and shade, and colour, and slowly settling down into a pure and transparent twilight. These, these are days and scenes, which even the cold cannot behold without emotion; but on which the meditative and pious gaze with profound admiration; for they breathe of holier and happier regions beyond the grave.

PERSECUTION.

FROM THE SAME.

I STAND not up here the apologist for persecution, whether it be by Catholic or Protestant, by Puritan or Prelate, by Congregationalist or Covenanter, by Church or State, the monarch or the people. Wherever, and by whomsoever, it is promulgated or supported, under whatever disguises, for whatever purposes, at all times, and under all circumstances, it is a gross violation of the rights of conscience, and utterly inconsistent with the spirit of Christianity. I care not, whether it goes to life, or property, or office, or reputation, or mere private comfort, it is equally an outrage upon religion and the inalienable rights of man. If there is any right, sacred beyond all others, because it imports everlasting consequences, it is the right to worship God according to the dictates of our own consciences. Whoever attempts to narrow it down in any degree, to limit it by the creed of any sect, to bound the exercises of private judgment, or free inquiry, by the standard of his own faith, be he priest or layman, ruler or subject, dishonours, so

far, the profession of Christianity, and wounds it in its vital virtues. The doctrine on which such attempts are founded, goes to the destruction of all free institutions of government. There is not a truth to be gathered from history, more certain, or more momentous, than this, that civil liberty cannot long be separated from religious liberty without danger, and ultimately without destruction to both. Wherever religious liberty exists, it will, first or last, bring in and establish political liberty. Wherever it is suppressed, the Church establishment will, first or last, become the engine of despotism; and overthrow, unless it be itself overthrown, every vestige of political right. How it is possible to imagine, that a religion breathing the spirit of mercy and benevolence, teaching the forgivness of injuries, the exercise of charity, and the return of good for evil; how it is possible, I say, for such a religion to be so perverted as to breathe the spirit of slaughter and persecution, of discord and vengeance, for differences of opinion, is a most unaccountable and extraordinary moral phenomenon. Still more extraordinary, that it should be the doctrine, not of base and wicked men merely, seeking to cover up their own misdeeds; but of good men, seeking the way of salvation with uprightness of heart and purpose. It affords a melancholy proof of the infirmity of human judg ment; and teaches a lesson of humility, from which spiritual pride may learn meekness, and spiritual zeal a moderating wisdom.

THE INDIANS.

FROM THE SAME.

THERE is, in the fate of these unfortunate be ings, much to awaken our sympathy, and mucă to disturb the sobriety of our judgment; much which may be urged to excuse their own atrocities; much in their characters, which betrays us into an involuntary admiration. What can be more melancholy than their history? By a law of their nature, they seem destined to a slow, but sure extinction. Everywhere, at the approach of the white man, they fade away. We hear the rustling of their footsteps, like that of the withered leaves of autumn, and they are gone forever. Tay pass mournfully by us, and they return no more. Two centuries ago, the smoke of their wigwa278 and the fires of their councils rose in every val ley, from Hudson's Bay to the farthest Fla from the ocean to the Mississippi and the lakes The shouts of victory and the war-dance r through the mountains and the glades. The thick arrows and the deadly tomahawk whi% L through the forests; and the hunter's trace and dark encampment startled the wild beasts in ther lairs. The warriors stood forth in their gl.. The young listened to the songs of other days The mothers played with their infants, and gaand on the scene with warm hopes of the future. The aged sat down; but they wept not. They should soon be at rest in fairer regions, where the Great Spirit dwelt, in a home prepared for the brave,

yond the western skies. Braver men never lived; truer men never drew the bow. They had courage, and fortitude, and sagacity, and perseverance, beyond most of the human race. They shrank from no dangers, and they feared no hardships. If they had the vices of savage life, they had the virtues also. They were true to their country, their friends, and their homes. If they forgave not injury, neither did they forget kindness. If their vengeance was terrible, their fidelity and generosity were unconquerable also. Their love, like their hate, stopped not on this side of the grave.

Al

But where are they? Where are the villagers, and warriors, and youth; the sachems and the tribes; the hunters and their families? They have perished. They are consumed. The wasting pestilence has not alone done the mighty work. No, nor famine, nor war. There has been a mightier power, a moral canker, which has caten into their heart-cores-a plague, which the touch of the white man communicated-a poison, which betrayed them into a lingering ruin. The winds of the Atlantic fan not a single region, which they may now call their own. ready the last feeble remnants of the race are preparing for their journey beyond the Mississippi. I see them leave their miserable homes, the aged, the helpless, the women, and the warriors, "few and faint, yet fearless still." The ashes are cold on their native hearths. The smoke no longer curls round their lowly cabins. They move on with a slow, unsteady step. The white man is upon their heels, for terror or despatch; but they heed him not. They turn to take a last look of their deserted villages. They cast a last glance upon the graves of their fathers. They shed no tears; they utter no cries; they heave no groans. There is something in their hearts which passes speech. There is something in their looks, not of vengeance or submission; but of hard necessity, which stifles both; which chokes all utterance; which has no aim or method. It is courage absorbed in despair. They linger but for a moment. Their look is onward. They have passed the fatal stream. It shall never be repassed by them,-no, never. Yet there lies not between

us and them an impassable gulf. They know and feel that there is for them still one remove farther, not distant, nor unseen. It is to the general burial-ground of their race.

Reason as we may, it is impossible not to read in such a fate much that we know not how to interpret; much of provocation to cruel deeds and deep resentments; much of apology for wrong and perfidy; much of pity mingling with indignation; much of doubt and misgiving as to the past; much of painful recollections; much of dark forebodings.

DESTINY OF THE REPUBLIC.

FROM THE SAME.

WHAT is to be the destiny of this Republic? In proposing this question, I drop all thought of New

England. She has bound herself to the fate of the Union. May she be true to it, now, and for ever; true to it, because true to herself, true to her own principles, true to the cause of religion and liberty throughout the world. I speak, then, of our common country, of that blessed mother, that has nursed us in her lap, and led us up to manhood, What is her destiny? Whither does the finger of fate point? Is the career, on which we have entered, to be bright with ages of onward and upward glory? Or is our doom already recorded in the past history of the earth, in the past lessons of the decline and fall of other republics? If we are to flourish with a vigorous growth, it must be, I think, by cherishing principles, institutions, pursuits, and morals, such as planted, and have hitherto supported New England. If we are to fall, may she still possess the melancholy consolation of the Trojan patriot:

"Sat patriæ Priamoque, datum; si Pergama dextrâ Defendi possent, etiam hac defensa fuissent."

I would not willingly cloud the pleasures of such a day, even with a transient shade. I would not, that a single care should flit across the polished brow of hope, if considerations of the highest moment did not demand our thoughts, and give us counsel of our duties. Who, indeed, can look around him upon the attractions of the scene, upon the faces of the happy and the free, the smiles of youthful beauty, the graces of matron virtue, the strong intellect of manhood, and the dignity of age, and hail these as the accompaniments of peace and independence ;-who can look around him, and not at the same time feel, that change is written on all the works of man; that the breath of a tyrant, or the fury of a corrupt populace, may destroy, in one hour, what centuries have slowly consolidated? It is the privilege of great minds, that to them "coming events cast their shadows before." We may not possess this privilege; but it is true wisdom, not to blind ourselves to dangers which are in full view; and true prudence, to guard against those, of which experience has already admonished us.

When we reflect on what has been, and is, how is it possible not to feel a profound sense of the responsibleness of this Republic to all future ages? What vast motives press upon us for lofty efforts! What brilliant prospects invite our enthusiasm! What solemn warnings at once demand our vigilance, and moderate our confidence!

THE FIELD OF PEACE.

FROM AN ADDRESS AT THE CEMETERY OF MOUNT AUBURN,

AND what spot can be more appropriate than this, for such a purpose? Nature seems to point it out, with significant energy, as the favourite retirement for the dead. There are around us all the varied features of her beauty and grandeur;— the forest-crowned height; the abrupt acclivity; the sheltered valley; the deep glen; the grassy glade; and the silent grove. Here are the lofty

of Monaldi, doubtless "he differed from his contemporaries no less in kind than degree. If he held any thing, in common with others, it was with those of ages past, with the mighty dead of the fifteenth century, from whom he had learned the language of his art; but his thoughts and their turn of expression were his own." I may say with confidence that it is the judgment of the best critics of this age that he left no equal, in his department of art, in the world.

While in London, in 1813, Allston published a small volume entitled The Sylphs of the Seasons and other Poems, and when Mr. Dana projected The Idle Man, in 1820, he wrote for that work his romance of Monaldi. But The Idle Man, for some reason, was discontinued, and Allston's manuscript was laid aside for more than twenty years. It was finally published, in a single volume, in

1841.

The fame of Allston's writings has been so eclipsed by that of his paintings that they are comparatively unknown.* All the specimens that I have seen of his prose indicate a remarkable command of language, great descriptive powers, and rare philosophical as well as imaginative talent. Monaldi is his principal and indeed only acknowledged performance of any length. It is a tale of Italian life written with the vigour and method of a practised romancist. The mind of the true artist appears in several discussions, which are very naturally introduced, on the merits of the old masters; and it is no less evident in the character of the hero, who is a painter, as well as in many very graphic descriptions of scenery. Some of the lights and shades of the landscape are given as they could have been only by one familiar with the practice of art. The style of Monaldi is remarkably concise and unaffected, frequently rising into eloquence and never becoming tame. Its particular merits as a story consist in the masterly analysis of human passion, the lovely unfolding of female character, and the dramatic management of events. There is great metaphysical

•Any elaborate criticism upon them will soon be superseded by the publication of his life, which is now in course of preparation by his brother in law, Dana. The long and intimate association of the poet with the artist, and his fine insight as a critic, will enable him to analyse Allston's qualifications as an author with skill and authority.

truth in the development of love and jeal ousy, which is its chief purpose. Indeed if Allston had never painted Prophets, these written pictures would have established his fame as an author. The work shows how capable he was of achieving a wide and permanent literary reputation, and forms a most interesting and valuable addition to our romantic fiction.

His other prose writings are chiefly on subjects connected with the arts, and are finished with the same care as his paintings.

Mr. Allston lived in retirement at Cambridgeport, occasionally going into the city, but not often. His health was feeble, for many years, but he was never idle. He spoke to me once of Dunlap's declaration, in his History of the Arts of Design, that he was indolent. "I am famous among my acquaintances," he said, "for industry: I paint every day and never pass an hour without accomplishing something." At sixty he had as many pictures in contemplation as the most ambitious artist of thirty. An ordinary lifetime would not have sufficed to finish those he had sketched upon canvas. He read much, and delighted all who saw him with his eloquent conversation. Not long before his death I dined with him, and was astonished when a companion intimated that it was after midnight. We had listened six or seven hours | without a thought of the lapse of time. His manners were gentle and dignified. His dress was simple and old fashioned: a blue coat with plain bright buttons, a buff vest, and drab pantaloons. His face was thin, and serious, with remarkably expressive eyes; his hair, fine, long and silvery white, fell gracefully upon his shoulders; and his voice was soft, earnest and musical.

The evening of the ninth of June, 1843, be passed cheerfully with his friends. At about eleven o'clock he laid his hands uporr the head of a young relative, begged her to live as near perfection as she could, and blessed her fervently. He then retired into his painting room, where he was found a little while afterward, seated before one of his pictures, dead. He was buried by torchlight, in the beautifu. cemetery of Mount Auburn, in the presence of a large concourse who had gathered to pay their last tribute to the great genius whose works had added so much to the national glory.