THIS "daughter of the murky Senegal," as she is styled by an admiring contemporary critic, we suppose may be considered as an Americar, since she was but six years of age when brought to Boston and sold in the slavemarket of that city, in 1761. If not so great a poet as the abbé Grégoire contended, she was certainly a remarkable phenomenon, and her name is entitled to a place in the histories of her race, of her sex, and of our liter

ature.

She was purchased by the wife of Mr. John Wheatley, a respectable merchant of Boston, who was anxious to superintend the education of a domestic to attend upon her person in the approaching period of old age. This amiable woman on visiting the market was attracted by the modest demeanor of a little child, in a sort of "fillibeg," who had just arrived, and taking her home, confided her instruction in part to a daughter, who, pleased with her good behavior and quick apprehension, determined to teach her to read and write. The readiness with which she acquired knowledge surprised as much as it pleased her mistress, and it is probable that but few of the white children of Boston were brought up under circumstances better calculated for the full development of their natural abilities. Her ambition was stimulated: she became acquainted with grammar, history, ancient and modern geography, and astronomy, and studied Latin so as to read Horace with such ease and enjoyment that her French biographer supposes the great Roman had considerable influence upon her literary tastes and the choice of her subjects of composition. A general interest was felt in the sooty prodigy; the best libraries were open to her; and she had opportunities for conversation with the most accomplished and distinguished persons in the city.

She appears to have had but an indifferent physical constitution, and when a son of Mr. Wheatley visited England, in 1772, it was decided by the advice of the family physician that Phillis should accompany him for the benefit of the sea-voyage. In London she

was treated with nearly as much consideration as more recently has been awarded to Mr. Frederick Douglass. She was introduced to many of the nobility and gentry, and would have been received at court but for the absence of the royal family from the metropolis. Her poems were published under the patronage of the Countess of Huntingdon, with a letter from her master, and the following curious attestation of their genuineness:

"TO THE PUBLIC.-As it has been repeatedly sug gested to the publisher, by persons who have seen the manuscript, that numbers would be ready to sus pect they were not really the writings of Phillis, he has procured the following attestation from the most respectable characters in Boston, that none might have the least ground for disputing their original : We, whose names are underwritten, do assure the world that the poems specified in the following page* were (as we verily believe) written by Phillis, a young negro-girl, who was, but a few years since, brought an uncultivated barbarian from Africa, and has ever since been, and now is, under the disadvantage of serving as a slave in a family in this town. She has been examined by some of the best judges, and is thought qualified to write them.

His Excellency THOMAS HUTCHISON, Governor.
The Hon. ANDREW OLIVER, Lieut. Governor.
The Rev. Chas. Chauncey, D. D.,
The Rev. Mather Byles, D. D.,
The Rev. Edw'd Pemberton, D. D.,
The Rev. Andrew Elliot, D. D.,
The Rev. Samuel Cooper, D. D.,
The Rev. Mr. Samuel Mather,
The Rev. Mr. John Moorhead,
Mr. John Wheaticy (her master)."

The Hon. Thomas Hubbard,
The Hon. John Erving,
The Hon. James Pitts,
The Hon. Harrison Gray,
The Hon. James Bowdoin,
John Hancock, Esq.,
Joseph Green, Esq.,
Richard Carey, Esq.,

lis to Boston-her mistress died; she soon In 1774-the year after the return of Phillost her master, and her younger mistress, his daughter; and the son having married and settled in England, she was left without a protector or a home. The events which immediately preceded the Revolution now engrossed the attention of those acquaintances who in more peaceful and prosperous times would have been her friends; and though she took an apartment and attempted in some way to support herself, she saw with fears the approach of poverty, and at last, in despair, resorted to marriage as the only alternative of destitution.

Grégoire, who derived his information from M. Giraud, the French consul at Boston in 1805, states that her husband, in the

* The words "following page" allude to the contents of the manuscript copy, which are wrote at the back of the

above attestation.

superiority of his understanding to that of other negroes, was also a kind of phenomenon; that he "became a lawyer, under the name of Doctor Peters, and plead before the tribunals the cause of the blacks ;" and that "the reputation he enjoyed procured him a fortune.' But a later biographer† of Phillis declares that Peters "kept a grocery, in Court street, and was a man of handsome person and manners, wearing a wig, carrying a cane, and quite acting the gentleman;" that "he proved utterly unworthy of the distinguished woman who honored him with her alliance;" that he was unsuccessful in business, failing soon after their marriage, and "was too proud and too indolent to apply himself to any occupation below his fancied dignity." Whether Peters practised physic and law or not, it appears pretty certain that he did not make a fortune, and that the match was a very unhappy one, though we think the author last quoted, who is one of the family, shows an undue partiality for his maternal ancestor. Peters in his adversity was not very unreasonable in demanding that his wife should attend to domestic affairs-that she should cook his breakfast and darn his stockings; but she too had certain notions of "dignity," and regarded as altogether beneath her such unpoetical occupations. During the war they lived at Wilmington, in the interior of Massachusetts, and in this period Phillis became the mother of three children. After the peace, they returned to Boston, and continued to live there, most of the time in wretched poverty, till the death of Phillis, on the 5th of December, 1794.

Besides the poems included in the editions of 1773 and 1835, she wrote numerous pieces which have not been printed, one of which is referred to in the following letter from Washington:

"CAMBRIDGE, February 28, 1776. "MISS PHILLIS: Your favor of the 26th of October did not reach my hands till the middle of December. Time enough, you will say, to have given an answer ere this. Granted. But a variety of important occurrences, continually interposing to distract the mind

An Inquiry concerning the Intellectual and Moral Faculties and Literature of Negroes, followed with an Account of the Lives and Works of Fifteen Negroes and Mulattoes, distinguished in Science, Literature, and the Arts: By H. Grégoire, formerly Bishop of Blois, Member of the Conservative Senate, of the Institute of France, &c., &c. Translated by D.B. Warden, Secretary of Legation, &c. Brooklyn, 1810.

† See memoir prefixed to the edition of her poems published by Light & Horton, Boston, 1835.

and withdraw the attention, I hope will apologise for the delay, and plead my excuse for the seeming but not real neglect. thank you most sincerely for your polite notice of me, in the elegant lines you enclosed; and however undeserving I may be of such encomium and panegyric, the style and manner exhibit a striking proof of your poetical talents; in honor of which, and as a tribute justly due to you, I would have published the poem, had I not been apprehensive that, while I only meant to give the world this new instance of your genius, I might have incurred the imputation of vanity. This, and nothing else, determined me not to give it place in the public prints. If you should ever come to Cambridge, or near headquarters, I shall be happy to see a person so favored by the muses, and to whom Nature has been so liberal and beneficent in her dispensation I am, with great respect, your obedient, humble servant, "GEORGE WASHINGTON."

In a note to the memoir of Phillis published by one of her descendants, it is stated that after her death, her papers, which had been confided to an acquaintance, were demanded by Peters, and yielded to his impor tunity; and that Peters subsequently went to the south, carrying with him these papers, which were never afterward heard of. The MSS., however, are still in existence: they are owned by an accomplished citizen of Philadelphia, whose mother was one of the patrons of the author. I learn from this gentleman that Phillis wrote with singular fluency, and that she excelled particularly in acrostics and in other equally difficult tricks of literary dexterity.

The intellectual character of Phillis Wheat

ley Peters has been much discussed, but chiefly by partisans. On one hand, Mr. Jefferson declares that "the pieces published under her name are below the dignity of criticism," and that "the heroes of the Dunciad are to her as Hercules to the author of that poem ;" and on the other hand, the abbé Grégoire, Mr. Clarkson, and many more, see in her works the signs of a genuine poetical inspiration. They seem to me to be quite equal to much of the contemporary verse that is admitted to be poetry by Phillis's severest judges; though her odes, elegies, and other compositions, are but harmonious commonplace, it would be difficult to find in the productions of American women, for the hundred and fifty years that had elapsed since the death of Mrs. Bradstreet, anything superior in sentiment, fancy, or diction.

- In a portrait of Phillis, prefixed to her poems and declared to be an extraordinary likeness, she is represented as of a rather pretty and intelligent appearance. It is from a picture painted while she was in London.

ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. MR.
GEORGE WHITEFIELD.-1770.

HAIL, happy saint! on thine immortal throne,
Possessed of glory, life, and bliss unknown:
We hear no more the music of thy tongue;
Thy wonted auditories cease to throng.
Thy sermons in unequalled accents flowed,
And every bosom with devotion glowed;
Thou didst, in strains of eloquence refined,
Inflame the heart, and captivate the mind.
Unhappy, we the setting sun deplore,
So glorious once, but ah! it shines no more.

Behold the prophet in his towering flight!
He leaves the earth for heaven's unmeasured height,
And worlds unknown receive him from our sight.
There Whitefield wings with rapid course his way,
And sails to Zion through vast seas of day.
Thy prayers, great saint, and thine incessant cries,
Have pierced the bosom of thy native skies.
Thou, moon, hast seen, and all the stars of light,
How he has wrestled with his God by night.
He prayed that grace in every heart might dwell;
He longed to see America excel;

He charged its youth that every grace divine
Should with full lustre in their conduct shine.
That Savior, which his soul did first receive,
The greatest gift that even a God can give,
He freely offered to the numerous throng
That on his lips with list'ning pleasure hung.
"Take him, ye wretched, for your only good,
Take him, ye starving sinners, for your food;
Ye thirsty, come to this life-giving stream,
Ye preachers, take him for your joyful theme;
Take him, my dear Americans," he said,
"Be your complaints on his kind bosom laid:
Take him, ye Africans, he longs for you;
Impartial Savior, is his title due:

Washed in the fountain of redeeming blood,
You shall be sons, and kings, and priests to God."
But though arrested by the hand of death,
Whitefield no more exerts his lab'ring breath,
Yet let us view him in the eternal skies,
Let every heart to this bright vision rise;
While the tomb safe retains its sacred trust,
Till life divine reanimates his dust.

FANCY.

FROM A POEM ON THE IMAGINATION.

THOUGH Winter frowns, to Fancy's raptured The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise; [eyes The frozen deeps may burst their iron bands, And bid their waters murmur o'er the sands. Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign, And with her flowery riches deck the plain; Showers may descend, and dews their gems disclose, And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose....

Fancy might now her silken pinions try To rise from earth, and sweep the expanse on high; From Tithon's bed now might Aurora rise, Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dyes, While a pure stream of light o'erflows the skies. The monarch of the day I might behold, And all the mountains tipped with radiant gold,

But I reluctant leave the pleasing views,
Which Fancy dresses to delight the muse;
Winter austere forbids me to aspire,
And northern tempests damp the rising fire;
They chill the tides of Fancy's flowing sea-
Cease, then, my song, cease then the unequal lay

A FAREWELL TO AMERICA.
TO MRS. S. W.

ADIEU, New England's smiling meads,
Adieu, the flowery plain;

I leave thine opening charms, O Spring!
And tempt the roaring main.

In vain for me the flow'rets rise,

And boast their gaudy pride,
While here beneath the northern skies
I mourn for health denied.
Celestial maid of rosy hue,

Oh let me feel thy reign!

I languish till thy face I view,
Thy vanished joys regain.
Susannah mourns, nor can I bear

To see the crystal shower,
Or mark the tender falling tear,
At sad departure's hour;
Nor unregarding can I see

Her soul with grief opprest;
But let no sighs, no groans for me,

Steal from its pensive breast.
In vain the feathered warblers sing,
In vain the garden blooms,
And on the bosom of the spring

Breathes out her sweet perfumes,
While for Britannia's distant shore
We sweep the liquid plain,
And with astonished eyes explore

The wide-extended main.

Lo! Health appears, celestial dame!
Complacent and serene,

With Hebe's mantle o'er her frame,

With soul-delighting mien.

To mark the vale where London lies,
With misty vapors crowned,
Which cloud Aurora's thousand dyes,
And veil her charms around.
Why, Phoebus, moves thy car so slow?
So slow thy rising ray?
Give us the famous town to view,
Thou glorious king of day!
For thee, Britannia, I resign

New England's smiling fields;.
To view again her charms divine,
What joy the prospect yields!
But thou, Temptation, hence away,
With all thy fatal train,

Nor once seduce my soul away,

By thine enchanting strain. Thrice happy they, whose heavenly shield Secures their soul from harms, And fell Temptation on the field

Of all its power disarms!

SUSANNAH HASWELL, a daughter of Lieutenant William Haswell of the British navy, was about seven years of age when her father, then a widower, was sent to the New England station, in 1769. After being wrecked on Lovell's island, the family, consisting of the lieutenant, his daughter, and her nurse, were settled at Nantasket, where Haswell married a native of the colony, and resided at the beginning of the Revolution, when, being a half-pay officer, he was considered a prisoner of war, and sent into the interior, and subsequently, by cartel, to Halifax, whence he proceeded to London. His other children were two sons, who became officers in the American navy, in which they were honorably distinguished.

Miss Haswell, while a child, in Massachusetts, was often in the company of James Otis, and his sister, Mrs. Warren, who were pleased with her precocity, and careful education, and she won then many encomiums from the great orator, which were remembered in after years with more delight than all the plaudits of the dress circle or the praises of the critics. She arrived in London about the year 1784, and in 1786 was married there to William Rowson, who was probably in some way connected with the theatre. In the same year she published her first novel, Victoria, which was dedicated to Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, who became her patroness and introduced her to the Prince of Wales, through whom she obtained a pension for her father. She next edited Mary or the Test of Honor, a novel, published in 1785, and wrote, in quick succession, A Trip to Parnassus, A Critique of Authors and Perform ers, The Fille de Chambre, The Inquisitor, Mentoria, and Charlotte Temple, the tale by which she is now chiefly known, of which more than twenty-five thousand copies were sold in a few years.

In 1793 Mrs. Rowson returned to the United States, and was for three years engaged as an actress, in the Philadelphia theatre. She was pretty and graceful, and was a favorite in genteel comedy, but while attentive

to her professional duties, she was still industrious as an author, and wrote The Trials of the Heart, a novel; Slaves in Algiers, an opera; The Female Patriot, a comedy; and The Volunteers, a farce relating to the whiskey insurrection in Pennsylvania. In 1795, while temporarily in Baltimore, she wrote The Standard of Liberty, a poetical address to the armies of the United States, which was recited from the stage by Mrs. Whitlock, one of the most accomplished actresses of the day, before all the uniformed companies of the city, in full dress. In 1796 she was engaged at the Federal-street theatre in Boston, where, at the end of a season, she closed her histrionic career, by appearing at her benefit, in her own comedy of The Americans in England.

She now opened a school for young women, which soon became very popular, so that it was thronged from the West Indies, the British provinces, and all the states of the Union. It was continued at Medford, Newton, and Boston, many years, with uniform success. But the business of instruction did not engross her attention, since she found time to compile a Dictionary and several other school books, and to write Reuben and Rachel, an American novel; Biblical Dialogues, a work evincing considerable research and reflection, and a volume of poems, and for two years to sustain a weekly gazette chiefly by her own contributions. She died in Boston, on the second of March, 1824, in the sixty-second year of her age.

Mrs. Rowson translated several of the odes of Horace and the tenth Eclogue of Virgil, and she wrote many original songs and other short pieces, of which the most ambitious was an irregular poem On the Birth of Genius, which was once much admired. Only a few of her songs are now remembered, and these less for any poetical qualities than for a certain social and patriotic spirit. Her "America, Commerce, and Freedom," is one of our few national songs. It would not dishonor a Dibdin, but it bears no marks of a feminine genius.

AMERICA, COMMERCE, AND FREEDOM.

How blest a life a sailor leads,

From clime to clime still ranging;
For as the calm the storm succeeds,
The scene delights by changing!
When tempests howl along the main,
Some object will remind us,

And cheer with hopes to meet again

Those friends we've left behind us. Then, under snug sail, we laugh at the gale,

And though landsmen look pale, never heed'em;
But toss off a glass to a favorite lass,
To America, commerce, and freedom!

And when arrived in sight of land,
Or safe in port rejoicing,
Our ship we moor, our sails we hand,

Whilst out the boat is hoisting.
With eager haste the shore we reach,

Our friends delighted greet us;
And, tripping lightly o'er the beach,
The pretty lasses meet us.

When the full-flowing bowl has enlivened the soul,
To foot it we merrily lead 'em,

And each bonny lass will drink off a glass
To America, commerce, and freedom!

Our cargo sold, the chink we share,
And gladly we receive it;
And if we meet a brother tar

Who wants, we freely give it.
No freeborn sailor yet had store,
But cheerfully would lend it;

And when 't is gone, to sea for more-
We earn it but to spend it.

Then drink round, my boys, 't is the first of our joys
To relieve the distressed, clothe and feed 'em:
"Tis a task which we share with the brave and the fair
In this land of commerce and freedom!

KISS THE BRIM, AND BID IT PASS.

WHEN Columbia's shores, receding,
Lessen to the gazing eye,
Cape nor island intervening

Break th' expanse of sea and sky;
When the evening shades, descending,
Shed a softness o'er the mind,
When the yearning heart will wander
To the circle left behind-

Ah, then to Friendship fill the glass,
Kiss the brim, and bid it pass.

When, the social board surrounding,
At the evening's slight repast,
Often will our bosoms tremble
As we listen to the blast;
Gazing on the moon's pale lustre,
Fervent shall our prayers arise
For thy peace, thy health, thy safety,
Unto Him who formed the skies:
To Friendship oft we'll fill the glass,
Kiss the brim, and bid it pass.

When in India's sultry climate,
Mid the burning torrid zone,
Will not oft thy fancy wander

From her bowers to thine own? When, her richest fruits partaking,

Thy unvitiated taste

Oft shall sigh for dear Columbia,
And her frugal, neat repast:
Ah, then to Friendship fill the glass,
Kiss the brim, and bid it pass!

When the gentle eastern breezes
Fill the homebound vessel's sails,
Undulating soft the ocean,

Oh, propitious be the gales!
Then, when every danger's over,

Rapture shall each heart expand;
Tears of unmixed joy shall bid thee
Welcome to thy native land:

To Friendship, then, we'll fill the glass,
Kiss the brim, and bid it pass.

THANKSGIVING.

AUTUMN, receding, throws aside
Her robe of many a varied dye,
And Winter in majestic pride

Advances in the lowering sky.
The laborer in his granary stores

The golden sheaves all safe from spoil,
While from her horn gay Plenty pours
Her treasures to reward his toil.
To solemn temples let us now repair,
And bow in grateful adoration there;
Bid the full strain in hallelujahs rise,
To waft the sacred incense to the skies.

Now the hospitable board

Groans beneath the rich repast-
All that luxury can afford

Grateful to the eye or taste;
While the orchard's sparkling juice
And the vintage join their powers;
All that nature can produce,

Bounteous Heaven bids be ours.

Let us give thanks: Yes, yes, be sure,
Send for the widow and the orphan poor;
Give them wherewith to purchase clothes and food:
This the best way to prove our gratitude.

On the hearth high flames the fire,
Sparkling tapers lend their light,
Wit and Genius now aspire

On Fancy's gay and rapid flight;
Now the viol's sprightly lay,

As the moments light advance,
Bids us revel, sport, and play,

Raise the song, or lead the dance.
Come, sportive Love, and sacred Friendship come,
Help us to celebrate our harvest home;

In vain the year its annual tribute pours, [hours. Unless you grace the scene, and lead the laughing