"One day he heard Ogden and some young men of the army conversing, in an apartment adjoining that in which he was lying, on the subject of an expedition. He called Ogden to his bed-side, and inquired what was the nature of the expedi tion of which they were speaking. Ogden informed him that Colonel Arnold, with a detachment of ten or twelve hundred men, was about to proceed through the wilderness for the purpose of attacking Quebec. Burr instantly raised himself up in the bed, and declared that he would accompany them; and so pertinacious was he on that point, that he immediately, although much enfeebled, commenced dressing himself. Ogden expostulated, and spoke of his debilitated state -referred to the hardships and privations that he must necessarily endure on such a march, &c. But all was unavailing. Young Burr was determined, and was immoveable. He forthwith selected four or five hale, hearty fellows, to whom he proposed that they should form a mess, and unite their destiny on the expedition through the wilderness. To this arrangement they cheerfully acceded. His friend Ogden, and others of his acquaintance, were conveyed in carriages from Cambridge to Newburyport, distant about sixty miles; but Burr, with his new associates in arms, on the 14th of September, 1775, shouldered their muskets, took their knapsacks upon their backs, and marched to the place of their embarkation." "A day or two after Burr's arrival at Newburyport, he was called upon by a messenger from his guardian, Timothy Edwards, with instructions to bring the young fugitive back. A letter from his uncle (T. Edwards,) was delivered to him at the same time. Having read the letter, and heard the messenger's communication, he coolly addressed him, and asked "How do you expect to take me back if I should refuse to go? If you were to make any forcible attempt upon me, I would have you hung up in ten minutes." After a short pause the messenger presented a second letter from his guardian, and with it a small remittance in gold. It was couched in the most affectionate and tender language, importuning him to return; and depicting, in the darkest colours, the sufferings he must endure if he survived the attempt to reach Quebec. It affected young Burr very sensibly, insomuch that he shed tears. But his destiny was fixed. He wrote, however, a respectful letter, explanatory of his reasons for accompanying the army, and expressive of his gratitude for the kindness he had experienced." The toils encountered by the party to which Burr was attached on this expedi tion have seldom been surpassed in the annals of military warfare. Arriving before Quebec, he volunteered, soon after joining the main body of the force under Montgomery, to lead the forlorn hope in the projected storm of that town. Forty men were allotted to him, and after preparing ladders, he kept these men in constant drill until they could ascend them (standing almost perpendicular) with their muskets and accoutrements, with nearly the same facility that they could mount an ordinary staircase. Burr, after reconnoitering the point of assault night after night, learnt with chagrin that the mode of attack was changed. Upon its failure with the death of Montgomery, Arnold resolved on demanding a surrender of Quebec; and that Burr, who, upon his taking the command, became brigade major, should be the bearer of a sealed message. Major Burr refused without reading the contents, and after reading the letter, considered it unbecoming an American officer, and declined delivering it. Another officer took charge of the despatch. It was received with the contumely which Burr had predicted; and upon his return from the ill-fated expedition, the talents and conduct of the young officer were not less warmly complimented by the country than his coolness and decision. Such was the auspicious commencement of a life which, yielding the fruits of action at a period when one might only have looked for the buds of promise, was protracted far beyond the ordinary mortal term with scarcely a blossom to adorn its prime, and not a leaf to grace its close. We subjoin a few more anecdotes which speak for themselves, postponing our comments to a future article. QUELLING A MUTINY. "Within eight or ten miles of Valley Forge, there was a narrow and important pass, known as the Gulf. A strong body of militia were stationed to defend it. They were in the habit of exciting in the camp false alarms; and the main body, in consequence, was frequently put in motion. When not put in motion, they were greatly disturbed, especially at night. These alarms generally resulted from the want of rigid discipline. General M'Dougall was at Valley Forge, and exceedingly annoyed. Of Burr, as a disciplinarian and a soldier, he entertained a high opinion; and recommended to Washington that he withdraw from this detachment Burr's seniors, as officers, and give him the command of the post, which was accordingly done. Colonel Burr immediately commenced a rigid system of police, visiting every night, and at all hours of the night, the sentinels; changing their position, &c. During the day he kept the troops under a constant drill. The rigour of this service was not adapted to the habits of militia, who had been accustomed to pass, in camp, a life of idleness, and to act as suited their individual whims and caprices. A portion of the most worthless became restless, and were determined to rid themselves of such a commander. "Colonel Burr was notified of the contemplated mutiny, in which he would probably fall a victim. He ordered the detachment to be formed that night (it being a cold, bright moonlight), and secretly directed that all their cartridges should be drawn, so that there should not be a loaded musket on the ground. He provided himself with a good and well-sharpened sabre. He knew all the principal mutineers. He marched along the line, eyeing the men closely. When he came opposite to one of the most daring of the ringleaders, the soldier advanced a step, and levelled his musket at Colonel Burr, calling out - 'Now is your time, my boys.' Burr, being well prepared and in readiness, anticipating an assault, with a celerity for which he was remarkable smote the arm of the mutineer above the elbow, and nearly severed it from his body, ordering him, at the same time, to take and keep his place in the line. In a few minutes the men were dismissed, and the arm of the mutineer was next day amputated. No more was heard of the mutiny; nor were there afterwards, during Colonel Burr's command, any false alarms. This soldier belonged to Wayne's brigade; and some of the officers talked of having Colonel Burr arrested, and tried by a court-martial, for the act; but the threat was never carried into execution." JEU D'ESPRIT. "After his return from Europe, in 1812, he met a maiden lady in Broadway, somewhat advanced in life. He had not seen her for many years. As she passed him, she exclaimed to a gentleman on whose arm she was resting, 'Colonel Burr! Hearing his name mentioned, he suddenly stopped and looked her in the face. Colonel,' said she, you do not recollect me.' "I do not, madam,' was the reply. "It is Miss K., sir.' "What!' said he, 'Miss K. yet!' "The lady, somewhat piqued, reiterated, 'Yes, sir, Miss K. yet!'" The following playful letter from Colonel Burr to his wife, exhibits him in a light which will be new to most of our readers. "TO MRS. BURR. Albany, August 7th, 1788. 'Oh Theo.! there is the most delightful grove-so darkened with weeping willows, that at noonday a susceptible fancy like yours would mistake it for a bewitching moonlight evening. These sympathizing willows, too, exclude even the prying eye of curiosity. Here no rude noise interrupts the softest whisper. Here no harsher sound is heard than the wild cooings of the gentle dove, the gay thresher's animated warbles, and the soft murmurs of the passing brook. Really, Theo., it is charming. 'I should have told you that I am speaking of Fort Johnson, where I have spent a day. From this amiable bower you ascend a gentle declivity, by a winding path, to a cluster of lofty oaks and locusts. Here nature assumes a more august appearance. The gentle brook, which murmured soft below, here bursts Here you behold the stately Mohawk roll his majestic wave along a cataract. the lofty Apalachians. Here the mind assumes a nobler tone, and is occupied by sublimer objects. What there was tenderness, here swells to rapture. It is truly charming. The windings of this enchanting brook form a lovely island, variegated by the most sportive hand of nature. This shall be yours. We will plant it with jessamines and woodbine, and call it Cyprus. It seems formed for the residence of the loves and the graces, and is therefore yours by the best of titles. It is indeed most charming. But I could fill sheets in description of the beauties of this romantic place. We will reserve it for the subject of many an amusing hour. And besides being little in the habit of the sublime or poetical, I grow already out of breath, and begin to falter, as you perceive. I cannot, however, omit the most interesting and important circumstance; one which I had rather communicate to you in this way than face to face. I know that you was opposed to this journey to Fort Johnson. It is therefore with the greater regret that I communicate the event; and you are not unacquainted with my inducements to it. In many things I am indeed unhappy in possessing a singularity of taste; particularly unhappy when that taste differs in any thing from yours. But we cannot controul necessity, though we often persuade ourselves that certain things are our choice, when in truth we have been unavoidably impelled to them. In the instance I am going to relate, I shall not examine whether I have been governed by mere fancy, or by motives of expediency, or by caprice; you will probably say the latter. 'My dear Theo., arm yourself with all your fortitude. I know you have much of it, and I hope that upon this occasion you will not fail to exercise it. I abhor preface and preamble, and don't know why I have now used it so freely. But I am well aware that what I am going to relate needs much apology from me, and will need much to you. If I am the unwilling, the unfortunate instrument of depriving you of any part of your promised gayety or pleasure, I hope you are too generous to aggravate the misfortune by upbraiding me with it. Be assured (I hope the assurance is needless) that whatever diminishes your happiness equally impairs mine. In short, then, for I grow tedious both to you and myself, and to procrastinate the relation of disagreeable events only gives them poignancy; in short, then, my dear Theo., the beauty of this same Fort Johnson, the fertility of the soil, the commodiousness and elegance of the buildings, the great value of the mills, and the very inconsiderable price which was asked for the whole, have not induced me to purchase it, and probably never will: in the confidence, however, of meeting your forgiveness, Affectionately yours, 'A. BURR.'" The New-York Book. 1 volume, 8vo. George Dearborn. HERE is a work, whose name at least will appeal to the bosom of every son of St. Nicholas throughout the state from which it takes its name; of St. Nicholas, we say, for as he was the earliest patron of the quondam Dutch Commonwealth, we presume his name is still cherished in the hearts of its people. The NewYork Book is a collection of fugitive poetry, selected from the annuals and periodicals, and other sources, intermingled with extracts from the poems of Drake, Sands, Paulding, Leggett, Nack, and others, whose poetical writings have been heretofore published in other forms; all the writers being native New-Yorkers. It is a remarkable thing, that in the compilations heretofore made in various parts of the country, Drake is almost the only native of New-York whose name appears, and of his verses, "The American Flag" is the only one selected; and it will doubtless surprise many to see an array of upwards of forty names in the volume before us. Even these, we are persuaded, form by no means a fair representation of the poetical resources of the state: but we trust that the appearance of this volume will arouse those who have collections of occasional verses, to fur nish the publisher with the means of soon following it up with another. Such anthological collections are always interesting in themselves, and frequently exhibit a vigour and variety which are wanting in the works of any one higher poet. In our nascent literature, too, it is the only way of finding out what has been done in its most elegant department, and we hope that "The Boston Book," "The Philadelphia Book," and "The New-York Book," will be followed up by one from every state in the Union. The adage, “those whom the gods love die young," is strikingly exemplified in this collection; as a great number, and those the most excellent of the pieces that appear, were written by those who had ceased to live before their prime. Drake, who must rank the first in the list, did not see five-and-twenty. Miss Davidson, and Miss Clinch were hardly 17. Sands, indeed, died at the age of 33; but as the best years of his short life were consumed in improving his natural resources, what might not have been expected from faculties so varied as his in their maturity? Young Lawrence, so versed in mental accomplishments and rich in professional promise, with an ambition to prompt the highest aim, and an energy to surmount every obstacle in reaching it, closed his eyes upon the bright scenes he has painted so exquisitely before he had attained the age of five-and-twenty, Vining, who, if we mistake not, was compelled to leave the army from failing health, became the victim of consumption before he reached his prime. Hamilton Bogart, of Albany, another name now for the first time affixed to the only fragment of his numerous verses that it was in the power of a friend to contribute, betrayed the most varied promise and buried the proud hopes of those who knew him in the tomb before he was two-and-twenty. Barker died at sea while seeking health in a distant land; and poetry was with him so much a pursuit, that we hope his writings will yet be collected by some member of his family. Sutermeister, whose "Faded Hopes" are so mournfully characteristic of his fate, died a few months after the prophetic lines were written; and we doubt not that if the collection were more full, as we trust it will yet be made, (either by an additional volume or by an enlarged edition,) that the proportion would be greater than it is at present. "Death loves a shining mark," and the susceptibilities which enter so largely into the poetical temperament seem strongly allied to disease. With the majority of those we have mentioned we were intimately acquainted, and the enumeration of their names brings indeed a bright array of spirits before us, while many a scene of festive wit and wilding youth—those "noctes cœnæque" which the eloquent Roman touches upon so beautifully-spring fresh to memory. To many of its readers the most interesting parts of the volume will be those where specimens of the writers of the past century are given. The old-fashioned verses of Mrs. Bleecker, which dwell with such unaffected piety upon the domestic horrors which followed in the train of frontier warfare, and to which many of the best educated females of her day were subjected, are, from the attending circumstances, extremely interesting; and the masculine verses extracted from the vigorous satire of Gulian Verplanck, whose mantle has fallen upon one better known of that name, are superior to any thing in the same vein that has since been produced in the country. Though written more than sixty years ago, they are as applicable to our day as to the times when they appeared; and as we imagine that they are very little known, we prefer quoting them to any thing that the collection offers. PORTRAITURE. From "Vice, a Satire," 1774. "Go, learn thou this: From regulated Sense How much, Oh Temperance! to thee we owe, Read virtue's lesson, and in time be wise. Whoe'er observes, will find in human race No," Philo cried, "be glorious praise my care, Yet wits, and wise, when some small shocks awake, Urged by the action of the busy air, Breaks its thick scum, and shows the bottom clear. Who knows not Florio? sweet, enraptured elf! Him folly owned the instant of his birth, With the mean malice of a coward's heart. So milky soft, so pretty, and so neat, With air so gentle, and with voice so sweet; What dog-star's rage, what maggot of the brain, To throw all modesty aside, and sit The mighty censor of the works of wit? Say, wretch! what pride could prompt thee to bestow Abuse on power, the greatest power below; The Muse's power? That power thyself shall know i That holds the name of every brother fool. Of various passions that divide the breast, |