_fir things, with bits of bunting at their mast heads_. They were sure to gain no reputation in the contest; and, if they failed, what was their lot? The worst of it is, they themselves did, in some measure, contribute to their own ill fate: for, of all men living, none spoke of poor Jonathan with so much contempt. There are some people, who are for taking the American commodores at their word, and ascribing their victories to the immediate intervention of Providence. Both Perry and McDonough begin their despatches by saying--"_Almighty God has given us a victory_." This is keen political satire; and it is well, that it should come to neighbor Bull's ears, from the mouth of an Englishman. It is more gracefully administered thus. That it was entirely deserved, no one will doubt, who has any recollection of Bull's unmeasured and unmitigated impudence, during the war of 1812, in its earlier stages. May God of his infinite mercy grant, that Peace Societies may have these matters, hereafter, very much their own way; though I have a little misgiving, I confess, as to the expediency of any sudden, or very general conversion of swords into ploughshares, or spears into pruning hooks. No. CV. _Modus in rebus_--an admirable proverb, upon all common occasions--is inapplicable, of course, to musical matters. No doubt of it. The luxury of sweet sounds cannot be too dearly bought; and, for its procurement, mankind may go stark mad, without any diminution of their respectability. Such I infer to be the popular philosophy of today--_while it is called today_. The moderns have been greatly perplexed, by the legends, which have come down to us, respecting the melody of swans. The _carmina cycnorum_ of Ovid, and the _Cantantes sublime ferent ad sidera cycni_, of Virgil, are perfectly incomprehensible by us. Cicero also, in his Tusculan Questions, i. 74, says, they die, _cum cantu et voluptate_. Martial, xiii. 77, asserts the matter, very positively-- _Dulcia defecta modulatur carmina lingua Cantator cycnus funeris ipse sui._ I no more believe in the power of a living or a dying swan to make melody of any kind, than I believe in the antiquated hum-bug of immediate emancipation. Pliny had no confidence in the story, and expresses himself to that effect, x. 23, _Olorum morte narratur flebilis cantus (falso, ut arbitror) aliquot experimentis_. No mortal has done more than Shakspeare, among the moderns, to perpetuate this pleasant fancy--no bard, when weary of Pegasus, and preferring a drive to a ride, has harnessed his cygnets more frequently--or compelled them to sing more sweetly, in a dying hour. A single example may suffice. When prince Henry is told, that his father, King John, sang, during his dying frenzy, he says-- "Tis strange, that death should sing-- I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan, Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death: And, from the organ pipe of frailty, sings His soul and body to their lasting rest."