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The Atlantic monthly. / Volume 19, Note on Digital Production 0019 000
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The Atlantic monthly. / Volume 19, Issue 111 Galaxy, Atlantic Atlantic Monthly Co. Boston January 1867 0019 111
The Atlantic monthly. / Volume 19, Issue 111, miscellaneous front pages i-iv

THE ATLANTI{~M\ONTHLY. A MAGAZINE OF Literalure, Scie,zce, Art, auci Politics. VOLUME XIX. I BOSTON: TICKNOT~ AND FIELDS, 124 TREMONT STREET. 1867. d4 3~ A ~ CORN ELL~~ UN WERSITY \\, LIBRARY Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by TICKNOR AND FIELDS, in the Clerks Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. UNIThRSITY Paass: WELCE, BIGELOW, & Co., CAMBRIDGE. CONTENTS. 4- Page Among the Comedians L. Clarke Davis 750 Appeal to Congress for Impartial Suffrage, An Frederick Douglass 222 Capillary Freaks Charles Dawson Skanly 615 Causes for which a President can be Impeached, The C. N. Ellis 88 Characteristics of the Elizabethan Literature . E. P. Wk::tz51e 144 Chicago lames Par/on 325 Claudian Emissary, The Theodore Bacon 465 Comic Journalism Charles D wso Skanly. . . 167 Custom of Burial with the Head towards the East N. L. Fro/kingkam 622 Dickens, The Genius of F. P. Whittle 546 Drift-Wood Fire, A T. W. Higginson Forza Maggiore W. D. Howells 220 George Bedillion, Knight. I., II Mrs. F. B. Davis . . . 55, ~t9 Germany in New York Charles Dawson Shady. . . . Golden Chains /ane C. A as/in 708 Glacial Phenomena in Maine. I., II L. Agassis 222, 285 Glimpse of Genoa, A . W. D. Hosuells 359 Guardian Angel, The. I., II., III., IV., V., VI. Oliver Wendell Holmes i, 229, 257, 355, 523, 641 Harding, Chester 484 Haunted Window, The T. W. Higginsov 429 Henry Ward Beechers Church lames Par/on 38 Heroes of Central Africa W. Winwood Beode . . . 6z5 How Mr. Frye would have preached it . . Edsvard Evere// Hale. . . 298 John Vanderlyn, the Artist, Recollections of . Bisho,e5 KzA 228 Katharine Morne. III., IV., V., VI., VII. . An/hor of Hermarz 75, 274, 3o6, 438, 564 Kingdom of Infancy, The Wailer Mi/chell 220 Man who stole a Meeting-House, The . . Y. T. Trowbridge zoo Montreal, The Founders of Francis Parkman 723 Mr. Hardhack on the Derivation of Man from the Monkey 300 My Friend Biugham Henry ~l9smes, ~r 346 Negro Spirituals T. W. Higginson 68~ Oldport in Winter . W. Higginson 612 Out on Picket T. W. Hig-ginson 272 Pioneering Mrs. C. H. Doll 403 Plaintiff Nonsuited, The I. 0. Culver 583 Plea for Culture, A T. W. Hzgginso. . . . . 29 Poor Richard Henry lames, rr. . . . 694 Rags Yane C. A us/i 364 Republican Alliance, The . . . . . Yoseglk Mazzini 235 Ristori, Adelaide Kate Field 493 Russian America :le H, A. Bone 73 Sewing-Machine, History of the . . . lames Par/o . . . . . 527 Shakespeare, The Man and the Dramatist. . B. P. WhzA~5le 715 Some Unappreciated Characters . . . C. C. Hazesuell 593 Stand-point of the Boarding-House, The . . ~. Dana Howard 246 St. Louis, The City of lames Par/on Strange Friend, The Boyard Taylor 54 Travel in the United States oyard Taylor 477 1X Trite Problem, The United States Sanitary Commission University Reform, Considerations on Venetian Experience, A Winter Adventure on the Prairie, A Contents. . Ca lSckurz Edward Roerelt Hale . 7oka Fiske AZ. Ed. Brazen . . . 370 406 . . . 43 674 500 POETRY. All Here Oliver Wendell Holmes Contention between Achilles and Agamemnon, The William Cullen Bryant Elizabeths Chamber . A. West Familiar Epistle to a Friend, A 7ames Russell Lowell Fitz Adams Story 7ames Russell Lowell 7olon G. Wldttier 13. 13. A ldrick 13. lucka is Read G. L. S Guerdon, The Heart and Hearth Labor Marble Quarries Mona On a Marble by Dubois Palatine, The Pan in XVall Street . Real Estate Red School-House, The Restless, The River, The Sorrow Terminus Timons Soliloquy . A. West H. B. Sargent Alice Cary. . H. B. Sargent . 7okn C. Wkittier B. C. Stedman . 7. T. Trawl-ridge . Lacy L resin Hiram Rick Mrs. Harriet Prescott SjSofford Mrs. Celia Tkaxter . Roll/i Waldo Emerson. 13. Rue/anon Read REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES. Adventures of Daniel Ellis Algers Solitudes of Nature and of Man Battle Pieces and Aspects of the War, Melvilles . ~. Biglow Papers, The. Second Series . . . Book of the Sonnet, The Famous Americans of Recent Times, Partons Greece, Ancient and Modern, Feltons Harpers Hand-Book for Travellers in Europe and the East Harvard Memorials . - Henry Hudson, Reads Historical Inquiry concerning - Lectures and Reports on Education, Horace Manns Lessing, Life and Works of Manomin, Coloneys Moshy and his Men Open Polar Sea, Hayess Percival, Wards Life and Letters of Philip of Spain, Gayarr~s Picture of St. John, I3ayard Taylors President Reed of Pennsylvania. A Reply to Mr. Bancroft . Red Jacket, Stones Life and Times of Shenandoah, The Superstition and Force, Leas Twin Records of Creation Winthrop, John, Life and Letters of 760 640 252 023 510 636 639 310 025 764 371 027 760 5 027 t~6 762 383 761 253 63$ 54 323 92 73 488 7 707 227 545, 345 609 43 358 5 itS 096 672 400 582 450

Oliver Wendell Holmes Holmes, Oliver Wendell The Guardian Angel. I 1-17

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY. A Magaziize of Literature, Sciezce, au/ Po7z~ics. VOL. XIX. JANUARY, 1867. NO. CXI. THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. CHAPTER I. AN ADVERTISEMENT. ON Saturday, the i8th day of June, 1859, the State Banner and Delphian Oracle, published weekly at Oxbow Village, one of the settlements in a thriving river-town of New Eng- land, contained an advertisement which involved the story of a young life, and startled the emotions of a small com- munity. Such faces of dismay, such shaking of heads, such gatherings at corners, such halts of complaining, rheumatic wagons, and dried-up, chir- ruping chaises, for colloquy of their still- faced tenants, had not been known since the rainy November Friday, when old Malachi Withers was found hanging in his garret up there at the lonely house behind the poplars. The number of the Banner and Oracle which contained this adver- tisement was a fair specimen enough of the kind of newspaper to which it belonged. Some extracts from a stray copy of the issue of the date re- ferred to will show the reader what kind of entertainment the paper was accustomed to furnish its patrons, and also serve some incidental purposes of the writer in bringing into notice a few personages who are to figure in this narrative. The copy in question was addressed to one of its regular subscribers, B. Gridley, Esq. The sarcastic annota- tions at various points, enclosed in brackets and itabcised that they may be distinguished from any other com- ments, were taken from the pencilled remarks of that gentleman, intended for the improvement of a member of the family in which he resided, and are by no means to be attributed to the harmless pen which reproduces them. Byles Gridley, A. M., as he would have been styled by persons acquaint- ed with scholarly dignities, was a bach- elor, who had been a schoolmaster, a college tutor, and afterwards for many years professor, a man of learning, of habits, of whims and crotchets, such as are hardly to be found, except in old, unmarried students, the double flow- ers of college culture, their stamina all turned to petals, their stock in the life of the race all funded in the individual. Being a man of letters, Byles Gridley Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year s866, by TICKNOR AND FIELDS, in the Clerks Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. VOL. XIx.No. III. Art, 2 The Guardian Angel. [January, naturally rather undervalued the liter- ary acquirements of the good people of the rural district where he resided, and, having known much of college and something of city life, was apt to smile at the importance they attached to their little local concerns. He was, of course, quite as much an object of rough satire to the natural observers and humorists, who are never wanting in a New Eng- land village,perhaps not in any village where a score or two of families are brought together, enough of them, at any rate, to furnish the ordinary char- acters of a real-life stock company. The old Master of Arts was a per- manent boarder in the house of a very worthy woman, relict of the late Ammi Hopkins, by courtesy Esquire, whose handsome monument in a finished and carefully colored lithograph, repre- senting a finely shaped urn under a very nicely groomed willow hung in her small, well-darkened, and, as it were, monumental parlor. Her household consisted of herself, her son, nineteen years of age, of whom more hereafter, and of two small children, twins, left up- on her door-step when little more than mere marsupial possibilities, taken in for the night, kept for a Week, and always thereafter cherished by the good soul as her own; also of Miss Susan Po- sey, aged eighteen, at school at the Academy in another part of the same town, a distant relative, boarding with her. What the old scholar took the vil- lage paper for it would be hard to guess, unless for a reason like that which carried him very regularly to hear the preaching of the Rev. Joseph Bellamy Stoker, colleague of the old minister of the village parish; namely, because he did not believe a word of his favorite doctrines, and liked to go there so as to growl to himself through the sermon, and go home scolding all the way about it. The leading article of the Ban- ner and Oracle for June ~8th must have been of superior excellence, for, as Mr. Gridley remarked, several of the metropolitan journals of the date of June 15th and thereabout had evidently conversed with the writer and borrowed some of his ideas before he gave them to the public. The Foreign News by the Europa at Halifax, 15th, was spread out in the amplest dimen- sions the type of the office could supply. More battles! The Allies victorious! The King and General Cialdini beat the Austrians at Palestro! 400 Austri- ans drowned in a canal! Anti-French feeling in Germany! Allgermine Zei- turg talks of conquest of Allsatia and Loraine and the occupation of Paris! [Vicious digs with a pencil through the above proper names.] Race for the Derby won by Sir Joseph Hawleys Musjid! [Thats what England cares for! Hooray for the Darby! Italy be deedeed!] Visit of Prince Alfred to the Holy Land. Letter from our own Correspondent. [Oh! Oh / At West Minhville!] Cotton advanced. Bread- stuffs declining. Deacon Rumrills barn burned down on Saturday night. A pig missing; supposed to have fallen a prey to the devouring ele- ment. [Got roasted.] A yellow min- eral had been discovered on the Doo- little Farm, which, by the report of those who had seen it, bore a strong resemblance to California gold ore. Much excitement in the neighborhood in consequence. [Idiots! Iron tyr- ites!] A hen at Four Corners had just laid an egg measuring 7 by 8 inches. Fetch on your biddies ! [Editorial wit!] A man had shot an eagle meas- uring six feet and a half from tip to tip of his wings. Crops suffering for want of rain. [Always lust so. Dry times, Father Noah!] The editors had received a liberal portion of cake from the happy couple whose matrimo- nial union was recorded in the column dedicated to Hymen. Also a superior article of [article of! bah!] steel pen from the enterprising merchant [shq5- he~5er] whose advertisement was to be found on the third page of this paper. An interesting Surprise Party [cheat theatricals] had transpired [bah!] on Thursday evening last at the house of the Rev. Mr. Stoker. The parishioners 1867.1 had donated [donated! GIVE is a good word enough for the Lords Prayer. DONATE our daily bread!] a bag of meal, a bushel of beans, a keg of pickles, and a quintal of salt-fish. The worthy pastor was much affected, etc., etc. [Of course. Call em SENSATION ~artles and done with it /] The Rev. Dr. Pember- ton and the venerable Dr. Hurlbut hon- ored the occasion with their presence. \Ve learn that the Rev. Ambrose Eveleth, rector of St. Bartholomews Chapel, has returned from his journey, and will officiate to-morrow. Then came strings of advertisements, with a luxuriant vegetation of capitals and notes of admiration. More of those PRIME GOODS! Full Assortments of every Article in our line! [Exc~y5t the one tking you want /] Auction Sale. Old furniture, feather-beds, bed-spreads [s5 reads / ugh ~1, setts [setts /] crockery- ware, odd vols., ullage bbls. of this and that, with other household goods, etc., etc., etc., the etceteras meaning all sorts of insane movables, such as come out of their bedlam-holes when an an- tiquated domestic establishment disin- tegrates itself at a country vandoo. Several announcements of Feed, whatever that may he, not restaurant dinners, anyhow, also of Shorts, terms mysterious to city ears as Jute and cudbear and gunnybags to such as drive oxen in the remote interior dis- tricts. Then the marriage column above alluded to, by the fortunate re- cipients of the cake. Right opposite, as if for matrimonial ground-bait, a No- tice that Whereas my wife, Lucretia Babb, has left my bed and board, I will not be responsible, etc., etc., from this date. Jacob Penhallow (of the late firm Wibird and Penhallow) had taken Mr. William Murray Bradshaw into partnership, and the business of the office would be carried on as usual under the title Penhallow and Brad- shaw, Attorneys at Law. Then came the standing professional card of Dr. Lemuel Hurlbut and Dr. Fordyce Hurl- but, the medical patriarch of the town and his son. Following this, hideous quack advertisements, some of them 3 with the certificates of Honorables, Es- quires, and Clergymen. Then a cow, strayed or stolen from the subscriber. Then the advertisement referred to in our first paragraph Thu YRTLE HAZARD has been missing IVI from her home in this place since Thursday morning, June 16th. She is fifteen years old tall and womanly for her age, has dark hair and eyes, fresh complexion, regular features, pleasant smile and voice, but shy with strangers. Her common dress was a black and white gingham check, straw hat, trimmed with green rihhon. It is feared she may have come to harm in some way, or he wandering at large in a state of lemporary mental alienation. Any information relating to the missing child will be gratefully re- ceived and properly rewarded by her afflicted aunt, MISS SILENCE WIThERS, Residing at the Withers Homestead, otherwise known as The Poplars, in this village. Jo 18 is lt CHAPTER II. GREAT EXCITEMENT. THE publication of the advertisement in the paper brought the village fever of the last two days to its height. Myr- tle Hazards disappearance had been pretty well talked round through the immediate neighborhood, hut now that forty-eight hours of search and inquiry had not found her, and the alarm was so great that the young girls friends were willing to advertise her in a public journal, it was clear that the gravest apprehensions were felt and justified. The paper carried the tidings to many who had not heard it. Some of the farmers, who had been busy all the week with their fields, came into the village in their wagons on Saturday, and there first learned the news, and saw the paper, and the placards which were posted up, and listened, open- mouthed, to the whole story. Saturday was therefore a day of much agitation in Oxbow Village, and some stir in the neighboring settle- ments. Of course there was a great variety of comment, its character de- pending very much on the sense, knowledge, and disposition of the cit- izens, gossips, and young people who talked over the painful and mysterious occurrence. The Withers Homestead was nat- urally the chief centre of interest. Nurse Byloe, an ancient and volumi The Guardian Angel. Tue Guardian AngeL [January, 4 nous woman, who had known the girl when she was a little bright-eyed child, handed over the baby she was hold- ing to another attendant, and got on her things to go straight up to The Poplars. She had been holding the baby these forty years and more, but somehow it never got to be more than a month or six weeks old. She reached The Poplars after much toil and trav- ail. Mistress Fagan, Irish, house-ser- vant, opened the door, at which Nurse Byloe knocked softly, as she was in the habit of doing at the doors of those who sent for her. Have you heerd anything yet, Kitty Fagan? asked Nurse Byloe. Niver a bussed word, said she. Miss Withers is up stairs with Miss Bathsheby, a cryin and a lam-entin. Miss Badlam s in the parlor. The men has been draggin the pond. They have nt found not one thing, but only jest two, and that was the old coffee- pot and the gray cat, it s them nig- ger boys hanged her with a string they tied round her neck and then drownded her. [P. Fagan, Jr., /Et. 14, had a snarl of similar string in his pocket.] Mistress Fagan opened the door of the best parlor. A woman was sitting there alone, rocking back and forward, and fanning herself with the blackest of black fans. Nuss Byloe, is that you? Well, to be sure, I m glad to see you, though we re all in trouble. Set right down, Nuss, do. 0, its dreadful times! A handkerchief which was in readi- ness for any emotional overflow was here called on for its function. Nurse Byloe let herself drop into a flaccid squab chair with one of those soft cushions, filled with slippery feath- ers, which feel so fearfully like a very young infant, or a nest of little kittens, as they flatten under the subsiding per- son. The woman in the rocking-chair was Miss Cynthia Badlam, second - cousin of Miss Silence Withers, with whom she had been living as a companion at intervals for some years. She ap- peared to be thirty-five years old, more or less, and looked not badly for that stage of youth, though of course she might have been handsomer at twenty, as is often the case with women. She wore a not unbecoming cap; frequent headaches had thinned her locks some- what of late years. Features a little too sharp, a keen, gray eye, a quick and restless glance, which rather avoid- ed being met, gave the impression that she was a wide-awake, cautious, sus- picious, and, very possibly, crafty per- son. I could nt help comm, said Nurse Byloe, we do so love our ba- bies, how can we help it, Miss Bad- lam ? The spinster colored up at the nurses odd way of using the posses- sive pronoun, and dropped her eyes, as was natural on hearing such a speech. I never tended children as you have, Nuss, she said. But I ye known Myrtle Hazard ever since she was three years old, and to think she should have come to such an end, The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked, and she wept. Why, Cynthy Badlam, what do y mean? said Nurse Byloe. Y dont think anything dreadful has come o that childs wild nater, do ye ? Child! said Cynthia Badlam, child enough to wear this very gown I have got on and not find it too big for her neither. [It would have pinched Myrtle here and there pretty shrewdly.] The two women looked each other in the eyes with subtle interchange of intelligence, such as belongs to their sex in virtue of its specialty. Talk without words is half their conversa- tion, just as it is all the conversation of the lower animals. Only the dull senses of men are dead to it as to the music of the spheres. Their minds travelled along, as if they had been yoked together, through whole fields of suggestive speculation, until the dumb growths of thought ripened in both their souls into artic- ulate speech, consentingly, as the The Guardian Angel. 5 1867.] movement comes after the long still- ness of a Quaker meeting. Their lips opened at the same mo- ment. You dont mean began Nurse Byloe, but stopped as she heard Miss Badlam also speaking. They need nt drag the pond, she said. They need nt go beating the woods as if they were hunting a pat- ridge, though for that matter Myr- tle Hazard was always more like a patridge than she was like a pullet. Nothing ever took hold of that girl, not catechising, nor advising, nor pun- ishing. Its that dreadful will of hers never was broke. I ye always been afraid that she would turn out a child of wrath. Did y ever watch her at meetin playin~ with posies and looking round all the time of the long prayer? That s what I ye seen her do many and many a time. I m afraid 0 dear! Miss Byloe, Im afraid to say what I m afraid of. Men are so wick- ed, and young girls are full of deceit and so ready to listen to all sorts of artful creturs that take advantage of their ignorance and tender years. She wept once more, this time with sobs that seemed irrepressible. Dear suz! said the nurse, I wont believe no sech thing as wicked- ness about Myrtle Hazard. You mean she s gone an run off with some good- for-nothin man or other? If that aint what y mean, what do y mean? It cant be so, Miss Badlam: she s one o my babies. At any rate, I handled her when she fust come to this village, and none o my babies never did sech a thing. Fifteen year old, and be bringin a whole family into disgrace! If she was thirty year old, or five-an- thirty or more, and never d had a chance to be married, and if one o them artful creturs you was talkin of got hold of her, then, to be sure, why, dear me ! law! I never thought, Miss Badlam! but then of course you could have had your pickin and choosin in the time of it; and I dont mean to say it s too late now if you felt called that way, for you re better lookin now than some that s younger, and there s no accountin for tastes. A sort of hysteric twitching that went through the frame of Cynthia Badlam dimly suggested to the old nurse that she was not making her slightly indis- creet personality much better by her explanations. She stopped short, and surveyed the not uncomely person of the maiden lady sitting before her with her handkerchief pressed to her eyes, and one hand clenching the arm of the rocking-chair, as if some spasm had clamped it there. The nurse looked at her with a certain growing interest she had never felt before. It was the first time for some years that she had had such a chance, partly because Miss Cynthia had often been away for long periods, partly because she herself had been busy professionally. There was no occasion for her services, of course, in the family at The Poplars; and she was always following round from place to place after that ever- lasting migratory six-weeks or less old baby. There was not a more knowing pair of eyes, in their way, in a circle of fifty miles, than those kindly tranquil orbs that Nurse Byloe fixed on Cynthia Bad- lam. The silver threads in the side fold of hair, the delicate lines at the corner of the eye, the slight drawing down at the angle of the mouth, almost im- perceptible, but the nurse dwelt upon it, a certain moulding of the features as of an artists clay model worked by delicate touches with the fingers, show- ing that time or pain or grief had had a hand in shaping them, the contours, the adjustment of every fold of the dress, the attitude, the very way of breathing, were all passed through the searching inspection of the ancient ex- pert, trained to know all the changes wrought by time and circumstance. It took not so long as it takes to de- scribe it, but it was an analysis of im- ponderables, equal to any of Bunsens with the spectroscope. Miss Badlam removed her handker- chief and looked in a furtive, question- ing way, in her turn, upon the nurse. 6 The Guardian Angel. [January, It s dreadful close here, I m most smothered, Nurse Byloe said; and, putting her hand to her throat, un- clasped the catch of the necklace of gold beads she had worn since she was a baby, a bead having been added from time to time as she thickened. It lay in a deep groove of her large neck, and had not troubled her in breathing before, since the day when her husband was run over by an ox-team. At this moment Miss Silence With- ers entered, followed by Bathsheba Stoker, daughter of Rev. Joseph Bel- lamy Stoker. She was the friend of Myrtle, and had come to comfort Miss Silence, and consult with her as to what further search they should institute. The two, Myrtles aunt and her friend, were as unlike as they could well be. Silence Withers was something more than forty years old, a shadowy, pinched, sallow, dispirited, bloodless woman, with the habitual look of the people in the funeral carriage which follows next to the hearse, and the tone in speaking that may be noticed in a household where one of its mem- bers is lying white and still in a cool, darkened chamber overhead. Bath- sheba Stoker was not called hand- some; but she had her mothers youth- ful smile, which was so fresh and full of sweetness that she seemed like a beauty while she was speaking or lis- tening; and she could never be plain so long as any expression gave life to her features. In perfect repose, her face, a little prematurely touched by sad experiences, for she was but seventeen years old, had the char- acter and decision stamped in its out- lines which any young man who wanted a companion to warn, to comfort, and command him, might have depended on as warranting the courage, the sym- pathy, and the sense demanded for such a responsibility. She had been trying her powers of consolation on Miss Silence. It was a sudden freak of Myrtles. She had gone off on some foolish but innocent excursion. Besides, she was a girl that would take care of herself; for she was afraid of nothing, and nimbler than any boy of her age, and almost as strong as any. As for thinking any bad thoughts about her, that was a shame ; she cared for none of the young fellows that were round her. Cyprian Eveleth was the one she thought most of; but Cyprian was as true as his sister Olive, and who else was there? To all this Miss Silence answered only by sighing and moaning. For two whole days she had been kept in constant fear and worry, afraid every minute of some tragical message, per- plexed by the conflicting advice of all manner of officious friends, sleepless of course through the two nights, and now utterly broken down and collapsed. Bathsheba had said all she could in the way of consolation, and hastened back to her mothers bedside, which she hardly left, except for the briefest of visits. It s a great trial, Miss Withers, that s laid on you, said Nurse Byloe. If I only knew that she was dead, and had died in the Lord, Miss Si- lence answered, if I only knew that; but if she is living in sin, or dead in wrong-doing, what is to become of me? 0, what is to become of me when He maketh inquisition for blood? Cousin Silence, said Miss Cynthia, it is nt your fault, if that young girl has taken to evil ways. If going to meeting three times every Sabbath day, and knowing the catechism by heart, and reading of good books, and the best of daily advice, and all need- ful discipline, could have corrected her sinful nature, she would never have run away from a home where she en- joyed all these privileges. Its that Indian blood, Cousin Silence. It s a great mercy you and I have nt got any of it in our veins! What can you ex- pect of children that come from hea- thens and savages? You cant lay it to yourself, Cousin Silence, if Myrtle Hazard goes wrong The Lord will lay it to me, the Lord will lay it to me, she moaned. 1867.] Tue Guardian Angel. Did nt he say to Cain, Where is Abel, thy brother? Nurse Byloe was getting very red in the face. She had had about enough of this talk between the two women. I hope the Lord 11 take care of Myr- tle Hazard fust, if she s in trouble, n wants help, she said; n then look out for them that comes next. Y re too suspicious, Miss Badlam; y re too easy to believe stories. Myrtle Hazard was as pretty a child and as good a child as ever I see, if you did nt rile her; n dd y ever see one o them hearty, lively children, that had nt a sperrit of its own? For my part, I d rather handle one of em than a dozen o them little waxy, weak-eyed, slim- necked creturs that always do what they tell em to, and die afore they re a dozen year old; and never was the time when I ye seen Myrtle Hazard, sence she was my baby, but what it s always been, Good mornin, Miss Byloe, and, How do you do, Miss I3yloe? I m so glad to see you. The handsomest young woman, too, as all the old folks will agree in tellin you, sence the time o Judith Pride that was, the Pride of the County they used to call her, for her beauty. Her great-grandma, y know, Miss Cyn- thy, married old King David Withers. What I want to know is, whether any- thing has been heerd, and jest what s been done about findin the poor thing. How d ye know she has nt fell into the river? Have they fired cannon? They say that busts the gall of drownded folks, and makes the corpse rise. Have they looked in the woods everywhere? Dont believe no wrong of nobody, not till y must, least of all of them that come o the same folks, partly, and has lived with ye all their days. I tell y, Myrtle Hazard s jest as innocent of all what y ye been think- in about, bless the poor child; she s got a soul that s as clean and sweet well, as a pond-lily when it fust opens of a mornin, without a speck on it no more than on the fust pond-lily God Almighty ever made! That gave a turn to the two womens thoughts, and their handkerchiefs went up to their faces. Nurse Byloe turned her eyes quickly on Cynthia Badlam, and repeated her close inspection of ev- ery outline and every light and shadow in her figure. She did not announce any opinion as to the age or good looks or general aspect or special points of Miss Cynthia; but she made a sound which the books write humi5k! but which real folks make with closed lips, thus: m / a sort of half-suppressed labio- palato - nasal utterance, implying that there is a good deal which might be said, and all the vocal organs want to have a chance at it, if there is to be any talking. Friends and neighbors were coming in and out; and the next person that came was the old minister, of whom, and of his colleague, the Rev. Joseph Bellamy Stoker, some account may here be introduced. The Rev. Eliphalet Pemberton Father Pemberton as brother minis- ters called him, Priest Pemberton as he was commonly styled by the country people would have seemed very old, if the medical patriarch of the village had not been so much older. A man over ninety is a great comfort to all his elderly neighbors: he is a picket- guard at the extreme outpost; and the young folks of sixty and seventy feel that the enemy must get by him be- fore he can come near their camp. Dr. Hurlbut, at ninety-two, made Priest Pemberton seem comparatively little advanced ; but the college catalogue showed that he must be seventy-five years old, if, as we may suppose, he was twenty at the time of his gradua- tion. He was a man of noble presence al- ways, and now, in the grandeur of his flowing silver hair and with the gray shaggy brows overhanging his serene and solemn eyes, with the slow gravity of motion and the measured dignity of speech which gave him the air of an old pontiff, he was an imposing personage to look upon, and could be awful, if the occasion demanded it. His creed was of the sternest: he was 7 8 looked up to as a bulwark against all the laxities which threatened New Eng- land theology. But it was a creed rather of the study and of the pulpit than of every-day application among his neighbors. He dealt too much in the lofty abstractions which had always such fascinations for the higher class of New England divines, to busy him- self as much as he might have done with the spiritual condition of indi- viduals. He had also a good deal in him of what he used to call the Old Man, which, as he confessed, he had never succeeded in putting off, mean- ing thereby certain qualities belonging to humanity, as much as the natural gifts of the dumb creatures belong to them, and tending to make a man be- loved by his weak and erring fellow- mortals. In the olden time he would have lived and died king of his parish, mon- arch, by Divine right, as the noblest, grandest, wisest of all that made up the little nation within hearing of his meeting-house bell. But Young Cal- vinism has less reverence and more love of novelty than its forefathers. It wants change, and it loves young blood. Polyandry is getting to be the normal condition of the Church; and about the time a man is becoming a little over-ripe for the livelier human sentiments, he may be pretty sure the women are looking round to find him a colleague. In this way it was that the Rev. Joseph Bellamy Stoker be- came the colleague of the Rev. Elipha- let Pemberton. If one could have dived deep below all the Christian graces the charity, the sweetness of disposition, the humil- ityof Father Pemberton, he would have found a small remnant of the Old Man, as the good clergyman would have called it, which was never in harmony with the Rev. Mr. Stoker. The younger divine felt his importance, and made his venerable colleague feel that he felt it. Father Pemberton had a fair chance at rainy Sundays and hot summer - afternoon services; but the junior pushed him aside without cere [January, mony whenever he thought there was a chance for him to have a good show in the pews. As for those courtesies which the old need, to soften the sense of declining faculties and failing at- tractions, the younger pastor bestowed them in public, but was negligent of them, to say the least, when not_on ex- hibition. Good old Father Pemberton could not love this man; but he would not hate him, and he never complained to him or of him. It would have been of no use if he had: the women of the parish had taken up the Rev. Mr. Stoker; and when the women run af- ter a minister or a doctor, what do the men signify? Why the women ran after him, some thought it was not hard to guess. He was not ill-looking, according to the village standard, parted his hair smooth- ly, tied his white cravat carefully, was fluent, plausible, had a gift in prayer, was considered eloquent, was fond of listening to their spiritual experiences, and had a sickly wife. This is what Byles Gridley said; but he was apt to be caustic at times. Father Pemberton visited his people but rarely. Like Jonathan Edwards, like David Osgood, he felt his call to be to study-work, and was impatient of the ego tisms and spiritual megrims, in listening to which, especially from the younger females of his flock, his colleague had won the hearts of so many of his parishioners. His pres- ence had a wonderful effect in restor- ing the despondent Miss Silence to her equanimity; for not all the hard divinity he had preached for half a century had spoiled his kindly nature; and not the gentle Melanchthon him- self ready to welcome death as a ref- uge from the rage and bitterness of theologians, was more in contrast with the disputants with whom he mingled, than the old minister in the hour of trial with the stern dogmatist in his study, forging thunderbolts to smite down sinners. It was well that there were no tith- ingmen about on that next day, Sun- The Guardian Angel. 1867.] The Guardian Angel. 9 day; for it shone no Sabbath day for the young men within half a dozen miles of the village. They were out on Bear Hill the whole day, beating up the bushes as if for game, scaring old crows out of their ragged nests, and in one dark glen startling a fierce- eyed, growling, bob-tailed catamount, who sat spitting and looking all ready to spring at them, on the tall tree where he clung xvith his claws all un- sheathed, until a young fellow came up with a gun and shot him dead. They went through and through the swamp at Musquash Hollow; but found nothing better than a wicked old snap- ping-turtle, evil to behold, with his snaky head and alligator tail, but worse to meddle with, if his horny jaws were near enough to spring their man-trap on the curious experimenter. At Wood-End there were some Indians, ill-conditioned savages in a dirty tent, making baskets, the miracle of which was that they were so clean. They had seen a young lady answering the description, about a week ago. She had bought a basket. Asked them if they had a canoe they wanted to sell. Eyes like hers (pointing to a squaw with a mans hat on). At Pocasset the young men explored all the thick woods, some who ought to have known better taking their guns, which made a talk, as one might well suppose. Hunting on a Sabbath day! They did nt meant to shoot Myrtle Hazard, did they? it was keenly asked. A good many said it was all nonsense, and a mere excuse to get away from meeting and have a sort of frolic on pretence that it was a work of necessi- ty and mercy, one or both. While they were scattering them- selves about in this way, some in ear- nest, some rejoicing in the unwonted li- cense, lifting off for a little while that enormous Sabbath-day pressure which weighs like forty atmospheres on every true-born Puritan, two young men had been since Friday in search of the lost girl, each following a clew of his own, and determined to find her if she was among the living. Cyprian Eveleth made for the village of Mapleton, where his sister Olive was staying, trusting that, with her aid, he might get a clew to the mystery of Myrtles disappearance. William Murray Bradshaw struck for a railroad train going to the great seaport, at a station where it stops for wood and water. In the mean time, a third young man, Gifted Hopkins by name, son of the good woman already mentioned, sat down, with tears in his eyes, and wrote those touching stanzas, The Lost Myrtle, which were printed in the next Banner and Oracle, and much admired by many who read them. CHAPTER III. ANTxCEDENTS. THE Withers Homestead was the oldest mansion in town. It was built on the east bank of the river, a little above the curve which gave the name to Oxbow Village. It stood on an ele- vation, its west gable close to the riv- er s edge, an old orchard and a small pond at the foot of the slope behind it, woods at the east, open to the south, with a great row of Lombardy poplars standing guard in front of the house. The Hon. Selah Withers, Esq., a de- scendant of one of the first colonists, built it for his own residence, in the early part of the last century. Deeply impressed with his importance in the order of things, he had chosen to place it a little removed from the cluster of smaller dwellings about the Oxbow; and with some vague fancy in his mind of the castles that overlook the Rhine and the Danube, he had selected this eminence on which to place his sub- stantial gambrel-roofed dwelling-house. Long afterwards a bay-window, almost a little room of itself, had been thrown out of the second story on the west side, so that it looked directly down on the river running beneath it. The chamber, thus half suspended in the air, had been for years the special apartment of Myr- tle Hazard; and as the boys paddling I0 about on the river would often catch glimpses, through the window, of the little girl dressed in the scarlet jacket she fancied in those days, one of them, Cyprian Eveleth, had given it a name which became current among the young people, and indeed furnished the subject of one of his earliest poems to Gifted Hopkins, to wit, The Fire hang-birds Nest. If we would know anything about the persons now living at the Withers Homestead, or The Poplars, as it was more commonly called of late years, we must take a brief inventory of some of their vital antecedents. It is hy no means certain that our individual per- sonality is the single inhahitant of these our corporeal frames. Nay, there is recorded an experience of one of the living persons mentioned in this narra- tive, to he given in full in its proper place, which, so far as it is received in evidence, tends to show that some, at least, who have long been dead, may enjoy a kind of secondary and imper- fect, yet self-conscious life, in these bodily tenements which we are in the habit of considering exclusively our own. There are many circumstances, familiar to common observers, which favor this belief to a certain extent. Thus, at one moment we detect the look, at another the tone of voice, at another some characteristic movement of this or that ancestor, in our relations or others. There are times when our friends do not act like themselves, but apparently in obedience to some other law than that of their own proper na- ture. We all do things both awake and asleep which surprise us. Per- haps we have cotenants in this house we live in. No less than eight distinct personalities are said to have coexisted in a single female mentioned by an an- cient physician of unimpeachable au- thority. In this light we may perhaps see the meaning of a sentence, from a work which will be repeatedly referred to in this narrative, viz.: This body in which we journey across the isth;nus between the two oceans is not a private carriage, but an omnibus. The Guardian Angel. [January, The ancestry of the Withers family had counted a martyr to their faith before they were known as Puritans. The record was obscure in some points; but the portrait, marked Ann Holyoake, burned by ye bloudy Papists, aflo i~ . . (figures illegible), was still hanging against the panel over the fire- place in the west parlor at The Poplars. The following words were yet legible on the canvas : Thor hast made a couenant 0 Lord with mee and my children forever. The story had come down, that Ann Holyoake spoke these words in a pray- er she offered up at the stake, after the fagots were kindled. There had al- ways been a secret feeling in the fami- ly, that none of her descendants could finally fall from grace, in virtue of this solemn covenant. There had been also a legend in the family, that the martyred womans spirit exercised a kind of supervision over her descendants; that she either mani- fested herself to them, or in some way impressed them, from time to time; as in the case of the first pilgrim before he cast his lot with the emigrants, of one Mrs. Winslowe, a descendant in the third generation, when the Indians were about to attack the settlement where she lived, and of another, just before he was killed at Quebec. There was a remarkable resemblance between the features of Ann Holyoake, as shown in the portrait, and the min- iature likeness of Myrtles mother. Myrtle adopted the nearly obsolete su- perstition more readily on this account, and loved to cherish the fancy that the guardian spirit which had watched over her ancestors was often near her, and would be with her in her time of need. The wife of Selab Withers was ac- cused of sorcery in the evil days of 1718. A careless expression in one of her letters, that ye Parson was as lyke to bee in league with ye Divell as anie of em, had got abroad, and given great offence to godly people. There was no doubt that some odd manifes- tations, as they would be called now- a-days, had taken place in the house- The Guardian Angel. hold when she was a girl, and that she presented many of the conditions be- longing to what are at the present day called mediums. Major Gideon Withers, her son, was of the very common type of hearty, loud, portly men, who like to show themselves at militia trainings, and to hear themselves shout orders at mus- ters, or declaim patriotic sentiments at town - meetings and in the General Court. He loved to wear a crimson sash and a military cap with a large red feather, in which the village folk used to say he looked as hahnsome ~ls a piny, meaning a favorite flower of his, which is hetter spelt peony, and to which it was not unnatural that his ad- mirers should compare him. If he had married a wife like him- self, there might probably enough have sprung from the alliance a family of moon-faced children, who would have dropped into their places like posts in- to their holes, asking no questions of life, contented, like so many other hon- est folks, with the part of supernumera- ries in the drama of being, their ward- rohe of flesh and bones being furnished them gratis, and nothing to do but to walk across the stage wearing it. But Major Gideon Withers, for some reason or other, married a slender, sensitive, nervous, romantic woman, which ac- counted for the fact that his son Da- vid, Kino David, as he was called in his time, had a very different set of tastes from his father, showing a turn for literature and sentiment in his youth, reading Youngs Night Thoughts, and Thomsons Seasons, and some- times in those early days writing verses himself to Celia or to Chloe, which sounded just as fine to him as Effie and Minnie sound to young people now, as Musidora, as Saccharissa, as Lesbia, as Helena, as Adah and Zillah, have all sounded to young people in their time, ashes of roses as they are to us now, and as our endearing Scotch diminutives will be to others by and by. King David Withers, who got his royal prefix partly because he was rich, and partly because he wrote hymns oc casionally, when he grew too old to write love-poems, married the famous beauty before mentioned, Miss Judith Pride, and the race came up again in vigor. Their son, Jeremy, took for his first wife a delicate, melancholic girl, who matured into a sad-eyed woman, and bore him two children, Malachi and Silence, both of whom inherited her temperament. When she died, he mourned for her bitterly almost a year, and then put on a ruffled shirt and went across the river to tell his grief to Miss Virginia Wild, there residing. This lady was said to have a few drops of genuine aboriginal blood in her veins; and it is certain that her cheek had a little of the russet tinge which a Seckel pear shows on its warmest cheek when it blushes. Love shuts itself up in sympathy like a knife-blade in its handle, and opens as easily. All the rest followed in due order ac- cording to Natures kindly programme. Captain Charles Hazard, of the ship Orient Pearl, fell desperately in love with their daughter Candace, married her, and carried her with him to India, where their first and only child was born, and received the name of Myrtle, as fitting her cradle in the tropics. So her earliest impressions, it would not be exact to call them recollections, besides the smiles of her father and mother, were of dusky faces, of loose white raiment, of waving fans, of breezes perfumed with the sweet exhalations of sandal-wood, of gorgeous flowers and glowing fruit, of shady verandas, of gliding palanquins, and all the languid luxury of the South, The pestilence which has its natural home in India, but has journeyed so far from its birth- place in these later years, took her father and mother away, suddenly, in the very freshness of their early ma- turity. A relation of Myrtles father, wife of another captain, was returning to America on a visit, and the child was sent back, under her care, while still a mere infant, to her relatives at the old homestead. During the long voyage, the strange mystery of the ocean was wrought into her conscious- 1867.] II 12 ness so deeply, that it seemed to belong to her being. The waves rocked her, as if the sea had been her mother; and, looking over the vessels side from the arms that held her with tender care, she used to watch the play of the wa- ters, until the rhythm of their move- ment became a part of her, almost as much as her own pulse and breath. The instincts and qualities belonging to the ancestral traits which predomi- nated in the conflict of mingled lives lay in this child in embryo, waiting to come to maturity. It was as when sev- eral grafts, bearing fruit that ripens at different times, are growing upon the same stock. Her earlier impulses may have been derived directly from her father and mother, but all the ancestors who have been mentioned, and more or less obscurely many others, came up- permost in their time, before the abso- lute and total result of their several forces had found its equilibrium in the character by which she was to be known as an individual. These inherited im- pulses were therefore many, conflict- ing, some of them dangerous. The World, the Flesh, and the Devil held mortgages on her life before its deed was put in her hands; but sweet and gracious influences were also born with her; and the battle of life was to be fought between them, God helping her in her need, and her own free choice siding with one or the other. The formal statement of this succession of ripening characteristics need not be repeated, but the fact must be borne in mind. This was the child who was delivered into the hands of Miss Silence With- ers, her aunt on the fathers side, keep- ing house with her brother Malachi, a bachelor, already called Old Malachi, though hardly entitled by his years to such a venerable prefix. Both these persons had inherited the predominant traits of their sad-eyed mother. Mala- chi, the chief heir of the family prop- erty, was rich, but felt very poor. He owned this fine old estate of some hundreds of acres. He had moneys in the bank, shares in various companies, The Guardian Angel. [January, wood-lots in the town, and a large tract of Western land, the subject of a law- suit which seemed as if it would never be settled, and kept him always un- easy. Some said he hoarded gold somewhere about the old house, but nobody knew this for a certainty. In spite of his abundant means, he talked much of poverty, and kept the house- hold on the narrowest footing of econ- omy. One Irishwoman, with a little aid from her husband now and then, did all their work; and the only com- pany they saw was Miss Cynthia Bad- lam, who, as a relative, claimed a home with them whenever she was so disposed. The little Indian, as Malachi called her, was an awkward accession to the family. Silence Withers knew no more about children and their ways and wants than if she had been a female ostrich. Thus it was that she found it necessary to send for a woman well known in the place as the first friend whose acquaintance many of the little people of the town had made in this vale of tears. Forty years of practice had taught Nurse Byloe the art of handling the young of her species with the soft firmness which one may notice in cats with their kittens, more grandly in a tawny lioness mouthing her cubs. Myrtle did not know she was held; she only felt she was lifted, and borne up, as a cherub may feel upon a white-woolly cloud, and smiled accordingly at the nurse, as if quite at home in her arms. As fine a child as ever breathed the breath of life. But where did them black eyes come from? Born in Injy, that s it, aint it? No, its her poor mothers eyes to be sure. Does nt it seem as if there was a kind of Injin look to em? She 11 be a lively one to manage, if I know anything about childun. See her clinchin them little fists ! This was when Miss Silence came near her and brought her rather severe countenance close to the child for in- spection of its features. The ungra- cious aspect of the woman and the de The Guardian Angel. flant attitude of the child prefigured in one brief instant the history of many long coming years. It was not a great while before the two parties in that wearing conflict of alien lives, which is often called educa- tion, began to measure their strength against each other. The child was bright, observing, of restless activity, inquisitively curious, very hard to frighten, and with a will which seemed made for mastery, not submission. The stern spinster to whose care this vigorous life was committed was dis- posed to discharge her duty to the girl faithfully and conscientiously; but there were two points in her character and belief which had a most important bearing on the manner in which she carried out her laudable intentions. First, she was one of that class of hu- man beings whose one single engross- ing thought is their own welfare, in the next world, it is true, but still their own personal welfare. The Roman Church recognizes this class, and pro- vides every form of specific to meet their spiritual condition. But in so far as Protestantism has thrown out works as a means of insuring future safety, these unfortunates are as badly off as nervous patients who have no drops, pills, potions, no doctors rules, to follow. Only tell a poor creature what to do, and he or she will do it, and be made easy, were it a pilgrimage of a thousand miles, with shoes full of split peas instead of boiled ones; but if once assured that doing does no good, the drooping Littlefaiths are left at leisure to worry about their souls, as the other class of weaklings worry about their bodies. The effect on character does not seem to be very different in the two classes. Metaphysi- cians may discuss the nature of selfish- ness at their leisure; if to have all her thoughts centring on the one point of her own well-being by and by was selfishness, then Silence Withers was supremely selfish; and if we are offend- ed with that form of egotism, it is no more than ten of the twelve Apostles were, as the reader may see by turning to the Gospel of St. Matthew, the twen- tieth chapter and the twenty-fourth verse. The next practical difficulty was, that she attempted to carry out a theory which, whatever might be its success in other cases, did not work kindly in the case of Myrtle Hazard, but, on the contrary, developed a mighty spirit of antagonism in her nature, which threat- ened to end in utter lawlessness. Miss Silence started from the approved doc- trine, that all children are radically and utterly wrong in all their motives, feel- ings, thoughts, and deeds, so long as they remain subject to their natural in- stincts. It was by the eradication, and not the education, of these instincts, that the character of the human being she was moulding was to be deter- mined. The first great preliminary process, so soon as the child manifest- ed any evidence of intelligent and per- sistent self-determination, was to break her will. There is no doubt that this was a legitimate conclusion from the teaching of Priest Pemberton, but it required a colder and harder nature than his own to carry out many of his dogmas to their practical application. He wrought in the pure mathematics, so to speak, of theology, and left the working rules to the good sense and good feeling of his people. Miss Silence had been waiting for her opportunity to apply the great doc- trine, and it came at last in a very trivial way. Myrtle does nt want brown bread. Myrtle wont have brown bread. Myr- tle will have white bread. Myrtle is a wicked child. She will have what Aunt Silence says she shall have. She wont have anything but brown bread. Thereupon the bright red lip pro- truded, the hot blood mounted to her face, the child untied her little tire, got down from the table, took up her one forlorn, featureless doll, and went to bed without her supper. The next morning the worthy woman thought that hunger and reflection would have subdued the rebellious spirit. So there stood yester 1867.] 3 4 The Cucirdian Angel. [January, days untouched supper waiting for her breakfast. She would not taste it, and it became necessary to enforce that ex- treme penalty of the law which had been threatened, but never yet put in execution. Miss Silence, in obedience to what she felt to be a painful duty, without any passion, but filled with high, inexorable purpose, carried the child up to the garret, and, fastening her so that she could not wander about and hurt herself, left her to her repentant thoughts, awaiting the moment when a plaintive entreaty for liberty and food should announce that the evil nature had yielded and the obdurate will was broken. The garret was an awful place. All the skeleton-like ribs of the roof showed in the dim light, naked overhead, and the only floor to be trusted consisted of the few boards which bridged the lath and plaster. A great, mysterious brick tower climbed up through it, it was the chimney, but it looked like a horrible cell to put criminals into. The whole place was festooned with cobwebs, not light films, such as the housewifes broom sweeps away before they have become a permanent residence, but vast gray draperies, loaded with dust, sprinkled with yellow powder from the beams where the worms were gnawing day and night, the home of old, hairy spiders who had lived there since they ~vere eggs and would leave it for unborn spiders who would grow old and huge like themselves in it, long after the hu- man tenants had left the mansion for a narrower home. Here this little crimi- nal was imprisoned, six, twelve, tell it not to mothers, eighteen dreadful hours, hungry until she was ready to gnaw her hands, a prey to all childish imaginations; and here at her stern guardians last visit she sat, pallid, chilled, almost fainting, but sullen and unsubdued. The Irishwoman, poor stupid Kitty Fagan, who had no theory of human nature, saw her over the lean shoulders of the spinster, and, forget- ting all differences of condition and questions of authority, rushed to her with a cry of maternal tenderness, and, with a tempest of passionate tears and kisses bore her off to her own humble realm, where the little victorious mar- tyr was fed from her best stores, until there was as much danger from reple- tion as there had been from famine. How the experiment might have ended but for this empirical and most unphilo- sophical interference, there is no say- ing; but it settled the point that the rebellious nature was not to be subju- gated in a brief conflict. The untamed disposition manifested itself in greater enormities as she grew older. At the age of four years she was detected in making a cats-cradle at meeting, during sermon-time, and, on being reprimanded for so doing, laughed out loud, so as to be heard by Father Pemberton, who thereupon bent his threatening, shaggy brows upon the child, and, to his shame be it spoken, had such a sudden uprising of weak, foolish, grandfatherly feelings, that a mist came over his eyes, and he left out his ninthly altogether, thereby spoil- ing the logical sequence of propositions which had kept his large forehead knot- ty for a week. At eight years old she fell in love with the high-colored picture of Major Gideon Withers in the red sash and the red feather of his exalted military office. It was then for the first time that her Aunt Silence remarked a shade of resemblance between the child and the portrait. She had always, up to this time, been dressed in sad colors, as was fitting, doubtless, for a forlorn or- phan; but happening one day to see a small negro girl peacocking round in a flaming scarlet petticoat, she struck for bright colors in her own apparel, and carried her point at last. It was as if a ground-sparrow had changed her gray feathers for the burning plumage of some tropical wanderer; and it was natural enough that Cyprian Eveleth should have called her the fire-hang- bird, and her little chamber the fire- hang- birds-nest, using the country boys synonyme for the Baltimore ori- ole. At ten years old she had one of those 1867.] The Guardian Angel. great experiences which give new mean- ing to the life of a child. Her Uncle Malachi had seemed to have a strong liking for her at one time, but of late years his delusions had gained upon him, and under their in- fluence he seemed to regard her as an encumbrance and an extravagance. He was growing more and more solitary in his habits, more and more negligent of his appearance. He was up late at night, wandering about the house from the cellar to the garret, so that, his light being seen flitting from window to win- dow, the story got about that the old house was haunted. One dreary, rainy Friday in Novem- ber, Myrtle was left alone in the house. Her uncle had been gone since the day before. The two women were both away at the village. At such times the child took a strange delight in explor- ing all the hiding-places of the old man- sion. She had the mysterious dwell- ing-place of so many of the dead and the living all to herself. What a fear- ful kind of pleasure in its silence and loneliness The old clock that Mar- maduke Storr made in London more than a hundred years ago was clicking the steady pulse-beats of its second century. The featured moon on its dial had lifted one eye, as if to watch the child, as it had watched so many gen- erations of children, while the swinging pendulum ticked them along into youth, maturity, gray hairs, death - beds, ticking through the prayer at the fu- neral, ticking without grief through all the still or noisy woe of mourning, ticking without joy when the smiles and gayety of comforted heirs had come back again. She looked at herself in the tall, bevelled mirror in the best cham- ber. She pulled aside the curtains of the stately bedstead whereon the heads of the house had slept until they died and were stretched out upon it, and the sheet shaped itself to them in vague, awful breadth of outline, like a block of monumental marble the sculptor leaves just hinted by the chisel. She groped her way up to the dim garret, the scene of her memorable punishment. A rusty hook projected from one of the joists a little higher than a mans head. Something was hanging from it, an old garment, was it? She went bravely up and touched a cold hand. She did what most children of that age would do, uttered a cry, and ran down stairs with all her might. She rushed out of the door and called to the man Patrick, who was doing some work about the place. What could be done was done, but it ~vas too late. Uncle Malachi had made away with himself. That was plain on the face of things. In due time the coroner s ver- dict settled it. It was not so strange as it seemed; but it made a great talk in the village and all the country round about. Everybody knew he had mon- ey enough, and yet he had hanged him- self for fear of starving to death. For all that, he was found to have left a will, dated some years before, leaving his property to his sister Si- lence, with the exception of a certain moderate legacy to be paid in money to Myrtle Hazard when she should arrive at the age of twenty years. The household seemed more chilly than ever after this tragical event. Its depressing influence followed the child to school, where she learned the coin- mon branches of knowledge. It fol- lowed her to the Sabbath-day catechis- ings, where she repeated the answers about the federal headship of Adam, and her consequent personal respon- sibilities, and other technicalities which are hardly milk for babes, perhaps as well as other children, but without any very profound remorse for what she could not help, so far as she understood the matter, any more than her sex or stature, and with no very clear compre- hension of the phrases which the New England followers of the Westminster divines made a part of the elementary instruction of young people. At twelve years old she had grown tall and womanly enough to attract the eyes of the youth and older boys, sev- eral of whom made advances towards her acquaintance. But the dreary dis- cipline of the household had sunk into 5 The Guardian Angel. [January, her soul, and she had heen shaping an internal life for herself which it was hard for friendship to penetrate. Bath- sheba Stoker was chained to the bedside of an invalid mother. Olive Eveleth, a kind, true-hearted girl, belonged to an- other religious communion; and this tended to render their meetings less fre- quent, though Olive was still her nearest friend. Cyprian was himself a little shy, and rather held to Myrtle through his sister than by any true intimacy directly with herself. Of the other young men of the village Gifted Hopkins was per- haps the most fervent of her admirers, as he had repeatedly shown by effusions in verse, of which, under the thinnest of disguises, she was the object. Murray Bradshaw, ten years older than herself, a young man of strik- ing aspect and claims to exceptional ability, had kept his eye on her of late; but it was generally supposed that he would find a wife in the city, where he was in the habit of going to visit a fashionable relative, Mrs. Clymer Ketchum, of 24 Carat Place. Ske, at any rate, understood very well that he meant, to use his own phrase, to go in for a corner lot, understanding thereby a young lady with possessions and without encumbrances. If the old man had only given his money to Myr- tle, Murray Bradshaw would have made sure of her; but she was not likely ever to get much of it. Miss Silence With- ers, it was understood, would proba- bly leave her money as the Rev. Mr. Stoker, her spiritual director, should indicate, and it seemed likely that most of it would go to a rising edu- cational institution where certain given doctrines were to be taught through all time, whether disproved or not, and whether those who taught them believed them or not, provided only they would say they believed them. Nobody had promised to say masses for her soul if she made this disposi- tion of her property, or pledged the word of the Church that she should have plenary absolution. But she felt that she would be making friends in Influential Quarters by thus laying up her treasure, and that she would be safe if she had the good-will of the ministers of her sect. Myrtle Hazard had nearly reached the age of fourteen, and, though not like to inherit much of the family prop- erty, was fast growing into a large dow- er of hereditary beauty. Always hand- some, her features shaped themselves in a finer symmetry, her color grew richer, her figure promised a perfect womanly development, and her move- ments had the grace which high-breed- ing gives the daughter of a queen, and which Nature now and then teaches the humblest of village maidens. She could not long escape the notice of the lovers and flatterers of beauty, and the time of danger was drawing near. At this period of her life she made two discoveries which changed the whole course of her thoughts, and opened for her a new world of ideas and possibilities. Ever since the dreadful event of November, i 854, the garret had been a fearful place to think of, and still more to visit. The stories that the house was haunted gained in frequency of repetition and detail of circumstance. But Myrtle was bold and inquisitive, and explored its recesses at such times as she could creep among them undis- turbed. Hid away close under the eaves she found an old trunk covered with dust and cobwebs. The mice had gnawed through its leather hinges, and, as it had been hastily stuffed full, the cover had risen, and two or three volumes had fallen to the floor. This trunk held the papers and books which her great- grandmother, the famous beauty, had left behind her, records of the roman- tic days when she was the belle of the county, story-books, memoirs, nov- els, and poems, and not a few love- letters, a strange collection, which, as so often happens with such deposits in old families, nobody bad cared to med- dle with, and nobody had been willing to destroy, until at last they had passed out of mind, and waited for a new gen- eration to bring them into light again. The other discovery was of a small 1867.] Fitz Adams Story. 7 hoard of coin. Under one of the boards as much as any others; the gold and which formed the imperfect flooring silver were only a part of that small of the garret was hidden an old leather provision which would be hers by and mitten. Instead of a hand, it had a fat by, and if she borrowed it, it was bor- fist of silver dollars, and a thumb of rowing of herself. The tree of the gold half-eagles. knowledge of good and evil had shaken Thus knowledge and power found its fruit into her lap, and, without any their way to the simple and secluded serpent to tempt her, she took thereof maiden. The books were hers to read and did eat. FITZ ADAMS STORY.* THE next whose fortune t was a tale to tell Was one whom men, before they thought, loved well, And after thinking wondered why they did, For half he seemed to let them, half forbid, And wrapped him so in humors, sheath on sheath, T was hard to guess the mellow soul beneath; But, once divined, you took him to your heart, While he appeared to bear with you as part Of lifes impertinence, and once a year Betrayed his true self by a smile or tear, Or rather something sweetly-shy and loath, Withdrawn ere fully shown, and mixed of both. A cynic? Not precisely: one who thrust Against a heart too prone to love and trust, Who so despised false sentiment he knew Scarce in himself to part the false and true, And strove to hide, by roughening-oer the skin, Those cobweb nerves he could not dull within. Gentle by birth, but of a stem decayed, lie shunned lifes rivalries and hated trade; On a small patrimony and larger pride, He lived uneaseful on the Other Side (So he called Europe), only coming West To give his old-world appetite new zest. A radical in thought, he puffed away With shrewd contempt the dust of usage gray, Yet loathed democracy as one who saw, In what he longed to love, some vulgar flaw, And, shocked through all his delicate reserves, Remained a Tory by his taste and nerves. His fancys thrall, he drew all ergos thence, And thought himself the type of common sense, Misliking women, not from cross or whim, But that his mother shared too much in him, * The greater part of this poem was written many years ago, to f~rm part of a larger one to be called The Nooning, made up of tales in verse, some of theni grave, some comic. VOL. XIx.NO. Ill. 2

James Russell Lowell Lowell, James Russell Fitz Adam's Story 17-29

1867.] Fitz Adams Story. 7 hoard of coin. Under one of the boards as much as any others; the gold and which formed the imperfect flooring silver were only a part of that small of the garret was hidden an old leather provision which would be hers by and mitten. Instead of a hand, it had a fat by, and if she borrowed it, it was bor- fist of silver dollars, and a thumb of rowing of herself. The tree of the gold half-eagles. knowledge of good and evil had shaken Thus knowledge and power found its fruit into her lap, and, without any their way to the simple and secluded serpent to tempt her, she took thereof maiden. The books were hers to read and did eat. FITZ ADAMS STORY.* THE next whose fortune t was a tale to tell Was one whom men, before they thought, loved well, And after thinking wondered why they did, For half he seemed to let them, half forbid, And wrapped him so in humors, sheath on sheath, T was hard to guess the mellow soul beneath; But, once divined, you took him to your heart, While he appeared to bear with you as part Of lifes impertinence, and once a year Betrayed his true self by a smile or tear, Or rather something sweetly-shy and loath, Withdrawn ere fully shown, and mixed of both. A cynic? Not precisely: one who thrust Against a heart too prone to love and trust, Who so despised false sentiment he knew Scarce in himself to part the false and true, And strove to hide, by roughening-oer the skin, Those cobweb nerves he could not dull within. Gentle by birth, but of a stem decayed, lie shunned lifes rivalries and hated trade; On a small patrimony and larger pride, He lived uneaseful on the Other Side (So he called Europe), only coming West To give his old-world appetite new zest. A radical in thought, he puffed away With shrewd contempt the dust of usage gray, Yet loathed democracy as one who saw, In what he longed to love, some vulgar flaw, And, shocked through all his delicate reserves, Remained a Tory by his taste and nerves. His fancys thrall, he drew all ergos thence, And thought himself the type of common sense, Misliking women, not from cross or whim, But that his mother shared too much in him, * The greater part of this poem was written many years ago, to f~rm part of a larger one to be called The Nooning, made up of tales in verse, some of theni grave, some comic. VOL. XIx.NO. Ill. 2 Fit2 Addrns Story. [January~ And he half felt that what in them was grace Made the unlucky weakness of his race. What powers he had he hardly cared to know, But sauntered through the world as through a show A critic line in his haphazard way, A sort of mild La Bruy~re on half-pay. For comic weaknesses he had an eye Keen as an acid for an alkali, Yet you could feel, through his sardonic tone, He loved them all, unless they were his own. You might have called him, with his humorous twist, A kind of human entomologist: As these bring home, from every walk they take, Their hat-crowns stuck with hugs of curious make, So he filled all the lining of his head With characters impaled and ticketed, And had a cabinet behind his eyes For all they caught of mortal oddities. He might have been a poet, many worse, But that he had, or feigned, contempt of verse, Called it tattooing language, and held rhymes The young worlds lullaby of ruder times. Bitter in words, too indolent for gall, He satirized himself the first of all, In men and their affairs could find no law, And was the ill logic that he thought he saw. Scratching a match to light his pipe anew, With eves half shut some musing whiffs ~he drew, And thus began : I give you all my word, I think this mock-Decameron absurd; Boccaccios garden! how bring that to pass In our bleak clime save under double glass? The moral east-wind of New-England life Would snip its gay luxuriance like a knife; These foreign plants are but half-hardy still, Die on a south, and on a north wall chill; Had we stayed Puritans ! They had some heat, (Though whence derived, I have my own conceit,) But you have long ago raked up their fires Where they had faith, you ye ten sham-Gothic spires. Why more exotics? Try your native vines, And in some thousand years you may have wines; Your present grapes are harsh, all pulps and skins, And want traditions of ancestral bins That saved for evenings round the polished board Old lava-fires, the sun-steeped hillsides hoard Without a Past, you lack that southern wall Oer which the vines of Poesy should crawl; Still they re your only hope; no midnight oil Makes up for virtue wanting in the soil; Manure them well and prune them; t wont be France, Nor Spain, nor Italy, hut there s your chance. i8 1867.] Fi/v Adams Sto;y. You have one story-teller worth a score Of dead Boccaccios, nay, add twenty more, A hawthorn asking springs most southern breath, And him you re freezing pretty well to death. However, since you say so, I will tease My memory to a story by degrees, Though you will cry, Enough! I m weilnigh sure, Ere I have dreamed through half my overture. Stories were good for men who had no hooks, (Fortunate race !) and built their nests like rooks In lonely towers, to which the Jongleur brought His pedlers-box of cheap and tawdry thought, With here and there a fancy fit to see Wrought to quaint grace in golden filagree; The morning newspaper has spoilt his trade, (For better or for worse, I leave unsaid,) And stories now, to suit a public nice, Must be half epigram, half pleasant vice. All tourists know Shebagog County; there The summer idlers take their yearly stare, Dress to see Nature in a well-bred way, As t were Italian opera, or play, Encore the sunrise (if they re out of bed), And pat the Mighty Mother on the head: These have I seen, all things are good to see, And wondered much at theii complacency; This worlds great show, that took in getting up Millions of years, they finish ere they sup Sights that God gleams through with soul-tingling force They glance approvingly as things of course, Say, That s a grand rock, This a pretty fisil, Not thinking, Are we worthy? XVhat if all The scornful landscape should turn round and say, This is a fool, and that a popinjay? I often wonder what the Mountain thinks Of French boots creaking oer his breathless brinks, Or how the Sun would scare the chattering crowd, If some fine day he chanced to think aloud. I, who love Nature much as sinners can, Love her where she most grandeur shows, in man; Here find I mountain, forest, cloud, and sun, River and sea, and glows when day is done; Nay, where she makes grotesques, and moulds in jest The clowns cheap clay, I find unfading zest. The natural instincts year by year retire, As deer shrink northward from the settlers fire, And he who loves the wild game-flavor more Than city-feasts, where every man s a bore To every other man, must seek it where The steamers throb and railways iron blare Have not yet startled with their punctual stir 20 Fits Adams Story. [January, The shy, wood-wandering brood of Character. There is a village, once the county town, Through which the weekly mail rolled dustily down, Where the courts sat, it may be, twice a year, And the one tavern reeked with rustic cheer; Cheeshogquesumscot erst, now Jethro hight, Red-man and pale-face bore it equal spite. The railway ruined it, the natives say, That passed unwisely fifteen miles away, And made a drain to which, with steady ooze, Filtered away law, stage-coach, trade, and news. The railway saved it, so at least think those Who love old ways, old houses, old repose. Of course the Tavern stayed: its genial host Thought not of flitting more than did the post On which high-hung the fading signboard creaks, Inscribed, The Eagle Inn, by Ezra XVeeks. If in lifes journey you should ever find An inn medicinal for body and mind, T is sure to be some drowsy-looking house Whose easy landlord has a hustling spouse: He, if he like you, will not long forego Some bottle deep in cobwebbed dust laid low, That, since the War ~ve used to call the Last, Has dozed and held its lang-sync memories fast; From him exhales that Indian-summer air Of hazy, lazy welcome everywhere, While with her toil the napery is white, The china dustless, the keen knife-blades bright, Salt dry as sand, and bread that seems as though were rather sea-foam baked than vulgar dough. In our swift country, houses trim and white Are pitched like tents, the lodging of a night Each on its bank of baked turf mounted high Perches impatient oer the roadside dry, While the wronged landscape coldly stands aloof, Refusinb friendship with the upstart roof. Not so the Eagle; on a grass-green swell That toward the south with sweet concessions fell, It dwelt retired, and half had grown to be As aboriginal as rock or tree. It nestled close to earth, and seemed to brood Oer homely thoughts in a half-conscious mood, As by the peat that rather fades, than burns The smoublering grandam nods and knits by turns, Happy, although her newest news were old Ere the first hostile drum at Concord rolled; If paint it eer had known, it knew no more Than yellow lichens spattered thickly oer That soft lead-gray, less dark beneath the eaves, Which the slow brush of wind and weather leaves. 1867.] Fit; Ad~rns S/o;y. 21 The ample roof sloped backward to the ground, And vassal lean-tos gathered thickly round, Patched on, as sire or son had felt the need, Like chance growths sprouting from the old roofs seed, Just as about a yellow-pine-tree spring Its rough-harked darlings in a filial ring. But the great chimney was the central thought Whose gravitation through the cluster wrought, For t is not styles far-fetched from Greece or Rome, But just the Fireside, that can make a home; None of your spindling things of modern style, Like pins stuck through to stay the card-built pile, It rose broad-shouldered, kindly, debonair, Its warm breath whitening in the October air, While on its front a heart in outline showed The place it filled in that serene abode. When first I chanced the Eagle to explore, Ezra sat listless by the open door; One chair careened him at an angle meet, Another nursed his hugely-slippered feet Upon a third reposed a shirt-sleeved arm, And the whole man diffused tobaccos charm. Are you the landlord ? WahI, I guess Ibe, Watching the smoke, he answered leisurely. He was a stoutish man, and through the breast Of his loose shirt there showed a brambly chest; Streaked redly as a wind-foreboding morn, His tanned cheeks curved to temples closely shorn; Clean-shaved he was, save where a hedge of gray Upon his brawny throat leaned every way About an Adams-apple that beneath Bulged like a bowlder from a furzy heath. Can I have lodging hcre? once more I said. He blew a whifi and, leaning back his head, You come a piece through Baileys- woods, I spose, Acrost a bridge where a big swamp-oak grows? It dont grow neither; it s ben dead ten year, Nor th aint a livin creetur, fur nor near, Can tell wut killed it; but I some misdoubt T was borers, there s sech heaps on em about; You did n chance to run aginst my son, A long, slab-sided youngster with a gun? He d oughto ben back more n an hour ago An brought some birds to dress for supper Sho! There he comes now. Say, Obed, wut ye got? (He 11. hey some upland plover like as not.) Wal, them s real nice uns an 11 eat A r, Ef I can stop their hem over-done; Nothin riles me, (I pledge my fastin word,) Like cookin out the natur of a bird; (Obed, you pick em out o sight an sound, Your maam dont love no feathers cluttrin round;) 22 Fitz Adams Story. [January, Jes scare em with the coals; thet s i~zy idee. Then, turning suddenly about on me, Wal, Square, I guess so. Callilate to stay? Ill ask Miss Weeks; bout thet it s hera to say. Well, there I lingered all October through, In that sweet atmosphere of hazy blue, So leisurely, so soothing, so forgiving, That sometimes makes New England fit for living; I watched the landscape, erst so granite glum, Bloom like the south side of a ripening plum, And each rock-maple on the hillside make His ten days sunset doubled in the lake; lihe very stone walls draggling up the hills Seemed touched, and wavered in their roundhead wills. Ah! there s a deal of sugar in the sun! Tap me in Indian-summer, I should run A juice to make rock-candy of, but then We get such weather scarce one year in ten. There was a parlor in the house, a room To make you shudder with its prudish gloom. The furniture stood round with such an air, There seemed an old maids ghost in every chair; Each looked as it had scuttled to its place And pulled extempore a Sunday face, Too smugly proper for a world of sin, Like boys on whom the minister comes in. The table, fronting you with icy stare, Strove to look witless that its legs were bare, XVhile the black sofa with its horse-hair pall Gloomed like the bier for Comforts funeral. Two portraits grac& d the wall in grimmest truth,, Mister and Mistress W. in their youth, New England youth, that seems a sort of pill, Half wish-I-dared, half Edwards on the XVill, Bitter to swallow, and which leaves a trace Of Calvinistic cholic on the face. Between them, oer the mantel, hung in state Solomons temple, done in copperplate; Invention pure, but meant, we may presume, To give some Scripture sanction to the room. Facing this last, two samplers you might see, Each, with its urn and stiffly-weeping tree, Devoted to some memory long ago More faded than their lines of worsted woe; Cut paper decked the frames against the flies, Though none eer dared an entrance who were wise, And bushed asparagus in fading green Added its shiver to the franklin clean. When first arrived, I chilled a half-hour there, Nor dared deflower with use a single chair; 1867.] FI/z Adams Sto;y. 23 I caught no cold, yet flying pains could find For weeks in me, a rheumatism of mind. One thing alone imprisoned there had power To hold me in the place that one half-hour, A scutcheon this, a helm-surmounted shield, Three griffins argent on a sable field; A relic of the shipwrecked past was here, And Ezra held some old-world lumber dear; Nay, do not smile, I love this kind of thing, These cooped traditions with a broken wing, This real estate in Fancys pipe-blown ball, This less than nothing that is more than all! Have I not seen sweet natures kept alive Amid the humdrum of your business hive, Undowered spinsters shielded from all harms, By force imagined of a coat of arms U He paused a moment, and his features took The flitting sweetness of that inward look I hinted at before; but, scarcely seen, It shrank for shelter neath his harder mien, And, rapping his black pipe of ashes clear, He xvent on with a self-derisive sneer No doubt we make a part of Gods design, And break the forest-path for feet divine To furnish foothold for this grand prevision Is good,and yet to be the mere transition, That, you will say, is also good, though I Scarce like to feed the ogre By-and-by; My skull has somehow never closed the suture That seems to bind yours firmly with the future, So you 11 excuse me if I m sometimes fain To tie the pasts warm nightcap oer my brain; I m quite aware t is not in fashion here, But then your northeast xvinds are so severe! But to my story though t is truly naught But a few hints in Memorys sketchbook caught, And which may claim a value on the score Of calling back some scenery now no more. Shall I confess? The taverns only Lar Seemed (be not shocked!) its homely-featured bar. Here snapped a fire of beechen logs, that bred Strange fancies in its embers golden-red, And nursed the loggerhead whose hissing dip, Timed by nice instinct, creamed the mug of flip Which made from mouth to mouth its genial round, Nor left one nature wholly winter-bound; Hence dropt the tinkling coal all mellow-ripe For Uncle Reubens talk-extinguished pipe; Hence rayed the heat, as from an in-door sun, That wooed forth many a shoot of rustic fun. Here Ezra ruled as king by right divine; Fits Adams Story. No other face had such a xvholesome shine, No laugh like his so full of honest cheer; Above the rest it crowed like Chanticleer; No eye like his to value horae or cow, Or gauge the contents of a stack or mow. He could foretell the weather at a word, He knew the haunt of every beast and bird, Or where a two-pound trout was sure to lie Waiting the flutter of his home-made fly; Nay, once in autumns five, he had the luck To drop at fair-play range a ten-tined buck. Of sportsmen true he favored every whim, But never cockney found a guide in him. A natural man, with all his instincts fresh, Not buzzing helpless in Reflections mesh, Firm on its feet stood his broad-shouldered mind, As bluffly honest as a northwest wind; Hard-headed and soft-hearted, you d scarce meet A kinder mixture of the shrewd and sweet; Generous by birth, and ill at saying No, Yet in a bargain he was all mens foe, Would yield no inch of vantage in a trade; And give away ere nightfall all he made. In this one room his dame you never saw, Where reigned by custom old a salic law; Here coatless lolled he on his throne of oak, And every tongue was muffled if he spoke; Due mirth he loved, yet was his sway severe; No blear-eyed driveller got his stagger here Measure was happiness; who wanted more, Must buy his ruin at the Deacons store; None but his lodgdrs after ten could stay, Nor after nine on eves of Sabbath-day. He had his favorites and his pensioners, The same that gypsy Nature owns for hers, Loose-ended souls, whose skills bring scanty gold, And whom the poor-house catches when they re old; Rude country-minstrels, men who doctor kine, Or graft, and, out of scions ten, save nine; Creatures of genius they, but never meant To keep step with the civic regiment. These Ezra welcomed, feeling in his mind Perhaps some motions of the vagrant kind; These paid no money, yet for them he drew Special Jamaica from a tap they knew, And, for their feelings, chalked behind the door With solemn face a visionary score. This warmed the one-eyed fiddler to his task, Perched in the corner on an empty cask, By whose shrill art rapt suddenly, some boor Rattled a double-shuffle on the floor; This thawed to life in Uncle Reubens throat 24 U anuary, 1867.] Fitz Adams S/oy. 25 A torpid shoal of jest and anecdote, Like those queer fish that doze the droughts away, And wait for moisture, wrapt in sun-baked clay. T was there I caught from Uncle Reubens lips, In dribbling monologue twixt whiffs and sips, The story I so long have tried to tell; The humor coarse, the persons common, well, From Nature only do I love to paint, Whether she send a satyr or a saint; To me Sincerity s the one thing good, Soiled though she he and lost to maidenhood. Quompegan is a town some ten miles south From jethro, at Nagumscot river-mouth, A seaport town, and makes its title good With lumber and dried fish and eastern wood. Here Deacon Bitters dwelt and kept the Store, The richest man for many a mile of shore; In little less than everything dealt he, From meeting-houses to a chest of tea, So dextrous therewithal a flint to skin, He could make profit on a single pin; In business strict, to hring the balance true, He had been known to cut a fig in two And change a hoard-nail for a shingle-nail. All that he had he ready held for sale, His house, his tomb, whateer the law allows, And he had gladly parted with his spouse. His one ambition still to get and get, He would arrest your very ghost for debt. His store looked righteous, should the Parson come, But in a dark hack-room he peddled rum, And eased Maam Conscience, if she eer would scold, By christening it with water ere he sold. A small, dry man he was, who wore a queue, And one white neckcloth -all the week-days through, On Monday white, hy Saturday as dun As that worn homeward by the prodigal son; His earlocks gray, striped with a foxy brown, Were braided up to hide a desert crown; His coat was brownish, black perhaps of yore; In summer-time a banyan loose he wore; His trousers short, through many a season true, Made no pretence to hide his stockin as blue; A waistcoat buff his chief adornment was, Its porcelain buttons rimmed with dusky brass. A deacon he, you saw it in each limb, And well he knew to deacon-off a hymn, Or lead the choir through all its wandering woes With voice that gathered unction in his nose, Wherein a constant snuffle you might hear, As if with him t were winter all the year. At his pew-head he sat with decorous pains, 26 Fitz Adams Story. [January, In sermon-time could foot his weekly gains, Or, with closed eyes and heaven-abstracted air, Could plan a new investment in long-prayer; A pious man and thrifty too, he made The psalms and prophets partners in his trade, And in his orthodoxy straitened more As it enlarged the business at his store; He honored Moses, but, when gain he planned, Had his own notion of the Promised Land. Soon as the winter made the sledding good, From far around the farmers hauled him wood, For all the trade had gathered neath his thumb; He paid in groceries and New England rum, Making two profits with a conscience clear, Cheap all he bought, and all he paid with dear; With his own mete-wand measuring every load, Each somehow had diminished on the road; An honest cord in Jethro still would fail By a good foot upon the Deacons scale, And, more to abate the price, his gimlet eye Would pierce to catsticks that none else could spy; Yet none dared grumble, for no farmer yet But New Year found him in the Deacons debt. While the first snow was mealy under feet A team drawled creaking down Quompegan street; Two cords of oak weighed down the grinding sled, And cornstalk fodder rustled overhead; The oxens muzzles, as they shouldered through, Were silver-fringed; the drivers own was blue As the coarse frock that swung below his knee- Behind his load for shelter waded he; His mittened hands now on his chest he beat, Now stamped the stiffened cowhides of his feet Hushed as a ghosts; his armpit scarce could hold The walnut whipstock slippery-bright with cold. What wonder if, the tavern as he past, He looked and longed and stayed his beasts at last, Who patient stood and veiled themselves in steam While he explored the bar-rooms ruddy gleam? Before the fire, in want of thought profound, There sat a brother-townsman weather-bound; A sturdy churl, crisp-headed, bristly-eared, Red as a pepper; ~twixt coarse brows and beard, His eyes lay ambushed on the watch for fools, Clear, gray, and glittering like two bay-edged pools; A shifty creature, with a turn for fun, Could swap a poor horse for a better one, He d a high-stepper always in his stall; Liked far and near, and dreaded therewithal. To him the in-coiner, Perez, how d ye do? 867.] Fits Adams Story. 27 Jest as I m mind to, Obed; how do you? Then, his eyes twinkling such swift gleams as run Along the levelled barrel of a gun Brought to his shoulder by a man you know Will bring his game down, he continued, So, I spose you re hauling wood? But you re too late; The Deacon s off; Old Splitfoot could nt wait; He made a bee-line last night in the storm To where he wont need wood to keep him warm. Fore this he s treasurer of a fund to train Young imps as missionaries ; hopes to gain That way a contract that he has in view For fireproof pitchforks of a pattern new. It must have tickled him, all drawbacks weighed, To think he stuck the Old One in a trade; His soul, to start with, was nt worth a carrot, And all he d left would hardly serve to swear at. By this time Obed had his wits thawed out, And, looking at the other half in doubt, Took off his fox-skin cap to scratch his head, Donned it again, and drawled forth, Mean he s dead? Jes so; he s dead and tother d that follers With folks that never love a thing but dollars He pulled up stakes last evening, fair and square, And ever since there s been a row Down There The minute the old chap arrived, you see, Comes the Boss-devil to him, and says he, What are you good at? Little enough, I fear; We calculate to make folks useful here. Well, says old Bitters, I expect I can Scale a fair load of wood with eer a man. Wood we dont deal in; but perhaps youll suit, Because we buy our brimstone by the foot: Here, take this measuring-rod as smooth as sin, And keep a reckoning of what loads come in; You 11 not want business, for we need a lot To keep the Yankees that you send us hot; At firing up they re barely half as spry As Spaniards or Italians, though they re dry; At first we have to let the draught on stronger, But, heat em through, they seem to hold it longer. Bitters he took the rod, and pretty soon A teamster comes, whistling an ex-psalm tune. A likelier chap you would nt ask to see, No different, but his limp, fi-om you or me No different, Perez! Dont your memory fail? Why where in thunder were his horns and tail? They re only worn by some old-fashioned pokes; They mostly aim at looking just like folks. Such things are scarce as queues and topboots here; T would spoil their usefulness to look too queer. 28 F112 Adams Story. [January, If you could always know em when they come, They d get no purchase on you: now he mum. On came the teamster, smart as Davy Crockett, Jingling the red-hot coppers in his l)ocket, And close behind, (t was gold-dust, you d ha sworn,) A load of sulphur yellower than seed-corn, To see it wasted as it is Down There, Would make a Friction Match Co. tear its hair Hold on! says Bitters, stop right where you be; You cant go in ~vi thout a pass from me. All right, .says t other, only step round smart, I must be home by noon-time with the cart. Bitters goes round it sharp-eyed as a rat, Then with a scrap of paper on his hat Pretends to cipher. By the public staff That load scarce rises twelve foot and a half. There s fourteen foot and over, says the driver, Worth twenty dollars, if it s worth a stiver, Good fourth-proof brimstone, that 11 make em squirm, I leave it to the Headman of the Firm; After we measure it, we always lay Some on to allow for settling on the way; Imp and full-grown, I ye carted sulphur here, And given fair satisfaction, thirty year. With that they fell to quarrellin~ so loud That in five minutes they had drawn a crowd, And before long the Boss, who heard the row, Comes elbowing in with What s to pay here now? Both parties heard, the measuring-rod he takes, And of the load a careful survey makes. Since I have bossed the business here, says he, No fairer load was ever seen by me; Then, turning to the Deacon, You mean cus, None of your old Quompegan tricks with us! They wont do here: we re plain old-fashioned folks, And dont quite understand that kind of jokes. I know this teamster, and his pa before him, And the hard-working Mrs. D. that bore him; He would not soil his conscience with a lie, Though he might get the custom-house thereby. Here, constable, take Bitters by the queue And clap him into furnace ninety-two, And try this brimstone on him; if he s bright, He 11 find the measure honest before night. He is nt worth his fuel, and I 11 bet The parish poor-house has to take him yet! This is my tale, heard twenty years ago From Uncle Reuben, as the logs burned low, Touching the walls and ceiling with that bloom That makes a roses calyx of a room. I could not give his language, wherethrough ran The gamy flavor of the bookless man 1867.] A Plea for Gultiirc. 29 Who shapes a word before the fancy cools, As lonely Crusoe had to forge his tools. I liked the tale, t was like so many told By Rutebeuf and his brother Trouv~res hold; Nor were the hearers much unlike to theirs, Men unsophisticate, rude-nerved as bears. Ezra is gone and his large-hearted kind, The landlords of the hospitable mind; Good Warriner of Springfield was the last. An inn is now a vision of the past; One yet-surviving host my mind recalls, You 11 find him if you go to Trenton Falls. A. PLEA FOR CULTURE. THEODORE PARKER some- where says that in America every one gets a mouthful of education, but scarcely any one a full meal. It seems the defect of some of our recent debates on this subject, that, instead of remedy- ing the starvation, the reformers pro- pose to deduct from the dinner. The disputants appear to agree in assum- ing that an average Senior Sophister is a plethoric monster of learning, and that something must be done to take him down. For this end, some plan to remove his Greek and Latin, others his German, others again his mathe- matics, all assuming it as a thing not to be tolerated, that one small head should carry all he knows. Yet surely it needs but little actual observation of our college boys, in their more unguarded moments, at the an- nual regatta, for instance, or among the young ladies on Class Day, to miti(rate the intensity of these fears. The Class Orator does not always im- press us with any bewildering accumu- lation of mental attainments; nor does the head of the Lazy Club appear to possess more of any branch of letters than he can hope, by reasonable non- industry, to forget within a single year. Because the standard of acquirement has been raised within a quarter of a century, it does not follow that it is now very high, for our so-called univer- sities were once but high-schools, and it was no uncommon thing for boys to graduate with honor at seventeen. I can easily recall three successive Har- vard classes in which this happened. In one class, the first and second schol- ars were of this unripe age; in another class, the second scholar; while in the intermediate class a student obtained very respectable rank, though graduat- ing at sixteen. Honors thus obtained were the honors of school-boys, and showed a boyish standard of attain- ment; they gave no guaranty of real merit ; they implied nothing which it was not a disgrace to our culture to call scholarship. Yet academic laurels like these, with a year or two of professional study superadded, were all that Ameri- ca had then to give. He who wished for more must exile himself to find it, or must supply, as he best could, by solitary effort and with little encourage- ment, what should have been urged and pressed upon him by the full force of some great institution. To say that later years have amended these things a little, is to say something; but the mass of our colleges are now where the highest then were. The advance in the means of education thus afforded in America bears no comparison with the advance in material wealth.

T. W. Higginson Higginson, T. W. A Plea for Culture 29-38

1867.] A Plea for Gultiirc. 29 Who shapes a word before the fancy cools, As lonely Crusoe had to forge his tools. I liked the tale, t was like so many told By Rutebeuf and his brother Trouv~res hold; Nor were the hearers much unlike to theirs, Men unsophisticate, rude-nerved as bears. Ezra is gone and his large-hearted kind, The landlords of the hospitable mind; Good Warriner of Springfield was the last. An inn is now a vision of the past; One yet-surviving host my mind recalls, You 11 find him if you go to Trenton Falls. A. PLEA FOR CULTURE. THEODORE PARKER some- where says that in America every one gets a mouthful of education, but scarcely any one a full meal. It seems the defect of some of our recent debates on this subject, that, instead of remedy- ing the starvation, the reformers pro- pose to deduct from the dinner. The disputants appear to agree in assum- ing that an average Senior Sophister is a plethoric monster of learning, and that something must be done to take him down. For this end, some plan to remove his Greek and Latin, others his German, others again his mathe- matics, all assuming it as a thing not to be tolerated, that one small head should carry all he knows. Yet surely it needs but little actual observation of our college boys, in their more unguarded moments, at the an- nual regatta, for instance, or among the young ladies on Class Day, to miti(rate the intensity of these fears. The Class Orator does not always im- press us with any bewildering accumu- lation of mental attainments; nor does the head of the Lazy Club appear to possess more of any branch of letters than he can hope, by reasonable non- industry, to forget within a single year. Because the standard of acquirement has been raised within a quarter of a century, it does not follow that it is now very high, for our so-called univer- sities were once but high-schools, and it was no uncommon thing for boys to graduate with honor at seventeen. I can easily recall three successive Har- vard classes in which this happened. In one class, the first and second schol- ars were of this unripe age; in another class, the second scholar; while in the intermediate class a student obtained very respectable rank, though graduat- ing at sixteen. Honors thus obtained were the honors of school-boys, and showed a boyish standard of attain- ment; they gave no guaranty of real merit ; they implied nothing which it was not a disgrace to our culture to call scholarship. Yet academic laurels like these, with a year or two of professional study superadded, were all that Ameri- ca had then to give. He who wished for more must exile himself to find it, or must supply, as he best could, by solitary effort and with little encourage- ment, what should have been urged and pressed upon him by the full force of some great institution. To say that later years have amended these things a little, is to say something; but the mass of our colleges are now where the highest then were. The advance in the means of education thus afforded in America bears no comparison with the advance in material wealth. A Plcc~ for Czibzzrc. [January, 30 And how has it heen with the other instrumentalities of American culture, during the last twenty-five years? Schools have been improved, periodi- cal publications multiplied, libraries quadrupled, music and pictures made more accessible, at least in our larger cities. These are gains, to be bal- anced by a few losses. For instance, an institution which was once more potent tban all of these for the intel- lectual training of the adult Ameri- can has almost ceased to exist in its original form. The engrossing excite- ment of public affairs has nearly abol- ished the old Lyceum, and put a politicil orator in the lecturers place. Science and art have almost ceased to be subjects available for a popular lec- ture. Agassiz and Bayard Taylor, by dint of exceedingly rapid and continu- ous travelling, can still find a few re- gions which Americans will consent to hear described, outside of America and a few wandering lecturers on ge- ology still haunt the field, their dis- courses being almost coeval with their specimens. Emerson still makes his stately tour, through wondering West- ern towns, where an enterprising public spirit sometimes, it is said, plans a dance for the same evening in the same hall, Tickets to lecture and ball one dollar. Yet the fact remains, that nine addresses out of ten in every pop- ular course are simply stump-speeches, more or less eloquent; and though an enlightened moral sentiment is doubt- less the result of this change of diet, yet to science and art it is almost a total loss. Take away the Lowell and the Cooper Institutes, and all our pro- gress in wealth has secured for the public no increased means of intellect- ual culture through lectures. Now there are two aspects to all material successes. They are sublime or base only as they prepare the way for higher triumphs, or displace them. Horace Mann lamented that in Eu- ropean exhibitions the fine arts were always assigned a more conspicuous place than the useful arts. Theo- dore Parker complained that in Rome the studios were better than the car- penters shops. Both exulted in the thought that in America these things were better ordered; and both therein approached the verge of concessions which would sacrifice the noblest aims of man. For carpentry and upholstery, good as a beginning, are despicable as an ending. What cultivated person would not prefer poorer lodgings and better galleries? I remember that, many years since, in a crowded coun- try-house, I slept one night on the floor beneath Retzschs copy of the Sistine Madonna, then perhaps the loveliest work of art on this continent. As I lay and watched the silent moonbeams en- ter and rest upon the canvas, I felt that my share of the hospitality was after all the best. The couch might be comfort- less, but the dreams were divine. It is such a hospitality that one wishes, af- ter all, from the age in which he lives. Culture is the training and finishing of the whole man, until he sees physical demands to be merely secondary, and pursues science and art as objects of intrinsic worth. It undoubtedly places the fine arts above the useful arts, in a certain sense, and is willingly impov- erished in material comforts, if it can thereby obtain nobler living. When this impulse takes the form of a reac- tionary distrust of the whole spirit of the age, it is unhealthy and morbid. In its healthy form, it simply keeps alive the conviction that the life is more than meat; and so supplies that counterpoise to mere wealth which Europe vainly seeks to secure by aris- tocracies of birth. So far as our colleges go, what is needed seems tolerably plain. Our educational system requires a process of addition, not of subtraction; not to save our children from the painful ne- cessity of studying this or that, but to gain for them the opportunity of study- ing that and more, in their own way. The demand for high culture outruns the supply. This is proved by the palpable fact, that more and more pu- pils are sent to Europe for instruction, every year; and more from the West- A P/ca for Culture. 3 em States than from the Eastern. There are more and more young men of fortune whose parents will not stint them in education, at least; more and more poor young men, who will live on bread and water, if need be, to gain knowledge. What we need is the op- portunity of high culture somewhere, that there should be some place in America where a young man may go and study anything that kindles his enthusiasm, and find there instrumen- talities to help the flame. As it is now, the maximum range of study in most of our colleges leaves a young man simply with a good preparation for Germany, while the minimum leaves him very ill prepared for America. What we need is a university. Wheth- er this is to be a new creation, or some- thing reared on the foundations now laid at Cambridge, or New Haven, or Ann Arbor, is unimportant. Until we have it somewhere, our means of cul- ture are still provincial. Grant this one assumption, that we need a university, and then almost all the recent discussions on the sub- ject seem to be merely questions of de- tail. There is small difficulty about discipline or selection of studies, when an institution undertakes to deal with men, not children, and assumes that they have come to learn, and not to be feruled. Give young men the oppor- tunity to study anything which any- body in the land knows, and then the varIous departments will rest upon their own merits, and students will direct their course as parents direct, example influences, or genius guides. But com- pel them to give their time to some- thing which neither they nor their parents desire, and the result will be ignorance, broken windows, and the torturing of Freshmen. A more difficult point of detail, per- haps, will be to determine how much account should be made, in organizing such a university, of our present under- graduate system. My own impression is, that the true basis of the future uni- versity must be the professional schools, and that what is now called distinctive- ly the College must shrink into a pre- paratory department, instead of being accepted, as now, for the full sum of a liberal education. Even the pro- fessional schools are not yet liberal enough, and their very name indicates that they are founded with a view to certain avocations, and not with a view to culture. It was a misfortune, in this respect, when the Scientific School at Cambridge abandoned its projected de- partments of Latin and Greek; for these might have led the way (as at New Haven) to Philology, History, and Met- aphysics, and would have helped to save science from being confounded with mere technological training. On the other hand, the recent organiza- tion of an Academical Senate at Cam- bridge for the general government of all departments, and the introduction of University Lectures, are a great step to- wards giving us the larger system which the nation needs. The error committed in our colleges of making Latin and Greek compulsory, and therefore unattractive, should not make us forget that this is, after all, an error in the direction of high culture, and one more pardonable in America than anywhere else. These languages are a perpetual protest against the strong tendency to make all American education hasty and superficial. They stand for a learning which makes no money, but helps to make men. As- tronomy, metaphysics, the higher math- ematics, and the critical or literary study of the modern languages, have the same advantage; but the Latin and Greek tongues represent this culture best. For they remain still synony- mous with accurate linguistic training, and with the study of form in literature. Compared with these, all modern lan- guages are undeniably loose in struc- ture, deficient in models, and destitute of the apparatus of critical study. It is certainly unfortunate that it is so, but there is the fact. To suppose the mod- ern languages used in education as we now use the ancient, would imply the complete transformation of the former, their structure, their literary models, 1867.] 32 A Plea for Culture. [January, their text-books, and their teachers. I know of no institution in America where this change is even attempted, of none where they are taught except as accomplishments. Nor is it appar- ent how they could be so taught with any existing instrumentalities. A man may speak a dozen dialects as fluently as a European courier, and yet know as little as the courier knows of the principles, of language. Whereas it is impossible for any hoy to have faith- fully learned the simplest manual of Latin or Greek gram1y~ar without hav- ing laid some foundation for systematic philology. And as for the literary value of these languages, I will go still further, and with especial reference to that which there is most disposition to banish from use, the Greek. It certainly is not a hasty or boyish judgment on my part, nor yet one in which pedantry or servility can have much to do, when I deliberately avow the belief that the Greek literature is still so entirely un- equalled among the accumulated me- morials of the world, that it seems to differ from all others in kind rather than in degree, and that even a very superficial knowledge of it is worth much. In writing this, I am thinking less of Plato than of Homer, and not more of Homer than of the dramatic and lyric poets. So far from the knowledge of other literatures tending to depreciate the Greek, it seems to me that no one can adequately value this who has not come back to it after long study of the others. Amp~re, that master of French prose, has hardly overstated the truth when he says that the man best versed in all other books must say, after all, in returning to a volume of Homer or Sophocles, Here is beauty, true and sovereign; its like was never written among men, Voibl lii beazit6 rufritable et souve- ralue; aI9UZIS it ize sest icrit ricit de pared c/%ez les iwuttues. I do not see how there could possibly be a list of the dozen masterpieces of the worlds literature, of which at least one half should not be Greek. And, indeed, when one considers the mere vehicle, the language itself one must rememher that there is no more possi- bility of arbitrary choice in languages than in stones; and Greek, the native tongue of sculptors, is the only tongue that has the texture of marble. Perhaps every man of studious hab- its, growing occasionally impatient of the healthful practical duties which American life involves, has his own whim as to his imaginary employments in case illness or other interference should deny him even the action of the pen, and throw him entirely upon books. I can remember a time, for one, when the State prison would have looked rather alluring to me, if it had guaranteed a copy of the Akcanique Ceieste, ~vith full leisure to read it. But foremost among such fantastic attrac- tions are those which obtained actual control over that English clergyman, described in Hoggs Life of Shelley, who had for his one sole aim in exist- ence the reiterated perusal of a three years course of Greek books. He had no family, scarcely any professional duties, a moderate income, and perfect health. He took his three meals a day and his two short walks; and all the rest of his waking hours, for thirty years, he gave to Greek. No; he read a neWspaper once a week, and two or three times a year he read a few pages of Virgil and Cicero, just to satisfy himself that it was a waste of time for a man who could read Greek to read their writings. On Sunday he read the Septuagint and the New Testa- ment. From his three years course of authors he never deviated; when they were ended, he began again. The only exception was Homer, whose works were read every year during a summer vacation of a month at the sea-shore, the proper place to read Homer, he said. I read a book of the Iliad every day before dinner, and a book of the Odyssey daily after dinner. In a month there are twenty-four week-days; there being twenty-four books ut each poem, it just does it I throw in the Hymns, there are commonly two or A Plea for Od/ure. * 33 three rainy days in the four weeks when I cannot take a walk. It is hard to imagine a life which would seem to most Americans more utterly misspent than this. Misspent it was, but how harmlessly and how happily What pure delight, what freedom from perturbation and care, when a dictionary and a dozen books furnished luxury for a lifetime XVhat were wealth and fame, peerages and palaces, to him who bad all iEschylus for a winter residence, and Homer for the seaside And a culture which seems remotest from practical ends may not only thus furnish exhaustless intellectual enjoyment, but may educate ones ~sthetic perceptions to the very highest point. But I repeat, that all preference as to department of study is a secondary and incidental matter, and the special stu- dent of any pursuit will have sym- pathies with the devotees of all others. The essential thing is, that we should recognize, as a nation, the value of all culture, and resolutely organize it into our institutions. As a stimulus to this we must constantly bear in mind, and cheerfully acknowledge, that American literature is not yet copious, American scholarship not profound, American society not highly intellectual, and the American style of execution, in all high arts, yet hasty and superficial. It is not true, as our plain-speaking friend Von Humboldt said, that the United States are a dead level of mediocri- ties; but it is undoubtedly true that our brains as yet lie chiefly in our ma- chine-shops. Make what apology we please for the defect, it still remains while what the world asks of us is not excuses for failure, but facts of success. When Europe comes to America for culture, instead of Americas thronging to Europe, the fact will publish itself; and the discussion cease. There is no debate about our reapers and sewing- machines. No candid person can compare the trade-lists of American publishers with those received from England, France, and Germany, without admitting that VOL. XIX.~W. III. 3 we are hardly yet to be ranked among the productive nations in literature. There are single works, and there are individual authors ; but the readiness with which their names suggest them- selves shoxvs how exceptional they are. They represent no considerable literary class, scarcely even a cultivated class. Till Emerson came, we were essentially provincial in the tone of our thought ; provincial in attainments we still are. One rarely sees in America, outside the professions, a man who gives any large portion of his life to study; and the professions themselves ~re with us mainly branches of practical activity, not intellectnal pursuits. This is true even of the clergy, and of law- yers and physicians still more. They are absorbed, perhaps inevitably, in the practical side of their professions. I was a member, for some time, of a flourishing local Natural History So- ciety, which counted among its active members but one of the numerous phy- sicians of the city where it was formed. A college president, who had been long officially connected with the leading lawyers of Boston, once stated it to me as an axiom, No eminent lawyer ever reads a book. The chief discouragement of Ameri- can literature does not seem to me to lie in the want of an international copy- right law, as some think, nor in the fact that other pursuits bid higher prices. These are sul~rdinate things, for there will always be men like Pali~sy, who will starve self and wife and children, if need be, for the sake of their dream. Nor is it from the want of libraries and collections ; for these are beginning to exist, and nature exists always. The true, great want is of an atmosphere of sympathy in intellectual aims. An ar- tist can afford to be poor, but not to be companionless. It is not well that he suould feel pressing on him, in addi- tion to his own doubt whether he can achieve a certain work, the weight of the public doubt whether it be worth achiev- ing. No one can live entirely or~ his own ideal. The man who is compelled by his constitution to view literature as i867.] A Plea for Cultz~rc. [January, an art is more lonely in America than even the painter or the sculptor; and he has no Italy for a refuge. His prac- tical life may he developed by the ac- tivity around him; his aims may he ennobled by the great ideas of his na- tion ; and so far all is well. It is only his artistic inspiration that lies dor- mant, and his power of execution that misses its full training. A man of healthy nature can, indeed, find a cer- tain tonic in this cool atmosphere; it is only a question whether more perfect works of art may not one day be pro- duced, amid more genial surroundings. Firm must be the will, patient the heart, passionate the aspiration, to secure the fulfilment of some high and lonely pur- pose, when revery spreads always its beds of roses on the one side, and practical work summons to its tread- mill on the other. Whatever may have been the case in De Tocquevilles day, and his re- port of us, thirty-five years old, seems to be almost the latest intelligence that has reached Europe, there is certain- ly now no danger that public life will not have sufficient attractions for culti- vated Americans. There is more dan- ger that it will absorb them too much. Why should we insist, like Nick Bottom the weaver, on playing all the parts? The proper paths of the statesman and the artist may often touch, but will rarely coincide. It is not that politics are so unworthy, but that no one man can do everything. There are a thou- sand rough-hewn brains which can well perform the plain work which American statesmanship now demands, without calling on the artist to cut blocks with his razor. His shrinking is not coward- ice; this relief from glaring publicity is the natural condition under which works of art mature. The crystal forms by its own laws, and the granite by its own. Yet moments constantly occur to the American student, when he has to bind himself to the mast, like Farra- gut, to resist the dazzling temptations of p~ths alien to his own. What is art, what is beauty, (he is tempted to say,) beside the magnificent utilities of Amer ican life, the work of distributing over a continent the varied treasures already gained? Why hold against the current, when even ones prospects of imme- diate usefulness lie with the current, and even conscience joins, half shrink- ing, to lure him from his plighted faith? In Europe art is a career, the greatest and most permanent career. History lies around us, a perpetual incentive, since art has everywhere survived all else, and proved itself alone immortal. But here art is still an alien, tolerated, protected, respected even, but without a vote. What we thus miss in literary culture may be best explained by showing the result of the universal political cultur~ which we possess. It is often noticed that, while the leaders of public affairs in America are usually what are called self-made men, this is not the case with our literary leaders. Among first-class American writers, culture is usually in the second generation; they have usually tumbled about in a library, as Holmes says, in childhood; at all events, they are usually college-bred men. It has been remarked, for instance, that our eight foremost historians assuming that this list comprises Prescott, Mot- ley, Bancroft, Hildreth, Sparks, Tick- nor, Palfrey, Parkman were all col- lege graduates, and indeed graduated at a single college. The choice of names may be open to question, but the gen- eral fact is undoubted. Now if it be true that there are fewer amon~ us who rise from the ranks in literature than in politics, it seems not merely to indicate that literature, as being a finer product than statesman- ship, implies more elaborate training; but also that our jnstitutions guarantee such training in the one case, and not in the other. Every American boy imbibes political knowledge through the pores of his skin; every news- paper, every caucus, contributes to his instruction; and he is expected to have mature convictions before he is four- teen. In the height of the last Pres- idential contest, a little boy was hung out of a school window by his heels, 34 1867.] A Pica for Czdturc. 35 within my knowledge, because his small comrades disapproved his political sen- timents. For higher intellectual pur- suits there are not only no such pen- alties among us, but there are no such opportunities. Yet in Athens with its twenty thousand statues, with the tragedies of iEschylus enacted for civic prizes, and the histories of Herodotus read at the public games a boy could no more grow up ignorant of art than he could here remain untrained in pol- itics. When we are once convinced that this result is desirable, we shall begin to feel the worth of our accumulated wealth. That is true of wealth which Talleyrand said of wisdom, everybody is richer than anybody. The richest man in the world cannot afford the parks, the edifices, the galleries, the libraries, which this community can have for itself, whenever it chooses to create them. The Central Park in New York, the Public Library at Boston, the Museum of Comparative Zodlogy at Cambridge, these are steps to- wards a more than Athenian culture. These institutions open their vast privi- leo-es, free from that sting of selfishness which the private monopolizer feels. Public enthusiasm is roused to sustain them , gifts flow in upon them, and they ennoble the common life around. It was claimed for Athens, that wealth could buy few facilities for culture which poverty did not also share. I take it, we aim at least to secure for the poor- est American opportunities such as no wealth could buy in Europe. It may take centuries to accomplish it, but it can be done. And it will not take so long as one might imagine. Although the great intellectual institutions of Europe are often nominally ancient, yet their effec- tive life has been chiefly in the last few centuries. A hundred years ago, the British Museum and the Bodleian Li- brary had each but about ten thousand volumes. The Imperial Library at Paris had then but fifty thousand, and the present century has added the most valuable half of its seven hundred thou- sand books. At the time of our Revo- lution, there were but three public gal- leries of art in Europe; and the Louvre, the chief attraction of the most at- tractive city of the world, is of later origin. One half of the leading German universities are younger than Harvard College. With the immense wealth accumulating in America, and the im- pulse inherent in democracies to iden- tify ones own name and successes with the common weal, such institutions will rise among us like Aladdins palace, when public spirit is once thoroughly turned that way. For we muss carefully distinguish between a want of cultivated sympathy with the higher intellectual pursuits, and a want of popular respect for them. It is this distinction which relieves the American people from the imputation of materialism. I solemnly believe that no race of practical laborers since the world began was ever so ready to feel respect for those higher pursuits to which it could as yet give no time. The test of a people is not in its occu- pations, but in its heroes. Whose pho- tographs are for sale in the shop-win- dows? I remember to have observed with delight, in a trade-list of photo- graphic likenesses which reached me while in camp, that even in the very height of the war the civilians outnum- bered the soldiers. XVho are these ci- vilians ? There is not a millionnaire among them; scarcely a man eminent in mere business pursuits; scarcely a man whose fame is based on his in- come. They are statesmen, preachers, lecturers, poets, men who stand low on the income-lists, and .high only on the scale of intangible services, he- roes whose popularity is often exag- gerated in quantity, no doubt, but in its quality always honorable. The com- munity seeks wealth, but it knows how to respect its public men who are poor through hone sty, or its scholars who are poor for the sake of knowledge. Agassiz never said anything which more endeared him to the mass of his adopted fellow-countrymen, than when he declined a profitable lecturing en- A Rica for Culture. gagement on the ground that he had no time to make money. Such a community is at least build- ing the nursery whence artists may be born. All that institutions can do is to saturate the mass with culture, and give a career to genius when it comes. Great men are rarely isolated moun- tain peaks ; they are the summits of ranges. The thought of a century seema to posterity to have been in- trusted to very few minds, hut those minds have always been fed hy a myriad minds unseen. Why ask whether there was one Homer or a hundred? The hundred contributed their lives, their hopes, their passions, their despairs, to enrich the one. Ge- nius is lonely without the surrounding presence of a people to inspire it. How sad seems the intellectual isolation of Voltaire with his Le peuple nest rien. To have loved America is a liberal education. Let the student think with reverence of the value of this great race to him, and of his pos- sible worth to it, though his very name he forgotten. Every act of his may be a solid contribution towards a nations training. But as the value of a nation to the human race does not depend upon its wealth or numbers, so it does not de- pend even upon the distribution of ele- mentary knowledge, but upon the high water mark of its highest mind. Before the permanent tribunal, copyists and popularizers count for nothing, and even the statistics of common schools are of secondary value. So long as the sources of art and science are still Transatlantic, we are still a province, not a nation. For these are the highest pursuits of man, higher than trades or professions, higher than statesman- ship, far higher than war. Jean Paul said: Schiller and Herder were both destined for physicians, but Providence said, No, there are deeper wounds than those of the body, and so they both became authors. After all, said Rufus Choate, at the zenith of his pro- fessional success, a book is the only immortality. It is observable that in English books and magazines everything seems writ- ten for some limited circle, tales for those who can speak French, essays for those who can understand a Latin quotation. But every American writer must address himself to a vast audi- ence, possessing the greatest quick- ness and common-sense, with but little culture ; and he must command their attention as he may. This has some admirable results : one must put some life into what he writes, or his thirty million auditors will go to sleep; he must write clearly, or they will cease to follow him; must keep clear of pedan- try and unknown tongues, or they will turn to some one who can address them in English. On the other hand, these same conditions tempt one to accept a low standard of execution, to substitute artifice for art, and to dis- regard the more permanent verdict of more select tribunals. The richest thought and the finest literary hand- ling which America has yet produced as of Emerson, Hawthorne, and Thoreau reached at first but a small audience, and are but very gradually attaining a wider hold. R6nan has said that every mans work is super- ficial, until he has learned to content himself with the approbation of a few. This is only one half the truth; but it is the half which Americans find hard- est to remember. But American literature, though its full harvest be postponed for another hundred years, is sure to come to ripe- ness at last. Our national develop- ment in this direction, though slow, is perfectly healthy. There are many in- fluences to retard, but none to distort. Even if the more ideal aims of the art- ist are treated with indifference, it is a frank indifference; there is no con- tempt, no jealousy, no call for petty ma- neuvres. No man is asked to flatter this vast audience; no man can suc- ceed by flattering; it simply reserves its attention, and lets one obtain its ear if he can. XVhen won, it is worth the winning, generous in its confidence, noble in its rewards. There is abun 36 [January, 1867.] dant cause for strenuous effort among those who give their lives to the Intel- lectual service of America, but there is no cause for fear. If we can only avoid incorporating superficiality into our in- stitutions, literature will come when all is re~dv, and when it comes will be of the best. It is not enough to make England or France our standard. There is something in the present atmosphere of England which seems fatal to genius its fruits do not ma- ture and mellow, but grow more and more acid until they drop. Give Rus- kin space enough, and he grows frantic and beats the air like Carlyle; and Brownings last volume is scarcely better. Thackeray was tinged with the same bitterness, but he was the last Englishman who could be said, in any artistic sense, to have a style; as Heine was the last German. The French seems the only prose literature of the present day in which the element of form has any prominent place; and literature in France is after all but a favored slave. This surely leaves a clear field for America. - But it is peculiarly important for us to remember that we can make no pro- gress through affectation or spasm, only by accepting the essential laws of art, which are the same for the whole hu- man race. Any misconceived patron- age to call anything art merely be- cause it interests us as American must react against us in the end. A certain point of culture once reached, we become citizens of the world. Art is higher than nations, older than many centuries; its code includes no local or partial provisions. No Paris Expo- sition is truly universal, compared with that vast gallery of Time to which na- tions and ages are but contributors. So far as circumstances excuse Amer- ica from being yet amenable before this high tribunal, she is safe; but if she enters its jurisdiction, she must own its laws. Neither man nor nation can develop by defying traditions, but by first mastering and then remoulding them. That genius is feeble which 37 cannot hold its own before the master- pieces of the world. Above all other races and all other times, we should be full of hearty faith. It is but a few years since we heard it ~aid that the age was dull and mean, and inspiration gone. A sinole oun- shot turned meanness to self-sacrifice, mercenary toil to the vigils of the camp and the transports of battle. It linked boyish and girlish life to new oppor- tunities, sweeter self-devotions, more heroic endings ; tied and loosed the threads of existence in profounder coni- plications. That is all past now; but its results can never pass. The nation has found its true grandeur by ~var, but must retain it in peace. Peace too has its infinite resources, after a nation has once become con- scious of itself. It is impossible that human life should ever be utterly im- poverished, and all the currents of American civilization now tend to its enrichment. This vast development of rudimentary intellect, this mingling of nationalities, these opportunities of books and travel, educate in this new race a thousand new susceptibilities. Then comes Passion, a hand straying freely through all the chords, and thrill- ing all with magic. We cannot ex- clude it, a-forbidden guest. It re-cre- ates itself in each generation, and bids art live. Rouge gague. If the ro- mance of life does not assert itself in safe and innocent ways, it finds its out- let with fatal certainty in guilt ; as we see colorless Puritanism touched with scarlet glory through the glass of I-law- thorne. Every form of human life is romantic; every age may become classic. Lamentations, doubts, discouragements, all are wasted things. Everything is here, between these Atlantic and Pa- cific shores, save only the perfected utterance that comes with years. Be- tween Shakespeare in his cradle and Shakespeare in Hamlet there was need- ccl but an interval of time, and the same sublime condition is all that lies between the America of toil and the America of art. A Pica for Culturo. Hcury Ward IJeecliers Cku re/i. [January, HENRY WARD BEECHERS CHURCH. S there anything in Amerca more I peculiar to America, or more curi- ous in itseW than one of our fash- ionable Protestant churches, such as we see in New York, on the Fifth Avenue and in the adjacent streets? The lion and the lamb in the Millen- nium will not lie down together more lovingly than the Church and the World have blended in these singu- lar establishments. We are far from objecting to the coalition, but note it only as something curious, new, and interesting. We enter an edifice, upon the interior of which the upholsterer and the cabi- net-maker have exhausted the resources of their trades. The word subdued describes the effect at which those art- ists have aimed. The woods employed are costly and rich, but usually of a sombre hue, and, though elaborately carved, are frequently unpolished. The light which comes through the stained windows, or through the small diamond panes, is of that description which Mr. Verplanch, in an unfortunate moment, styled dim, religious. Every part qf the floor is thickly carpeted. The pews differ little from sofas, except in being more comfortable, and the cushions for the feet or the knees are as soft as hair and cloth can make them. It is a fash- ion, at present, to put the organ out of sight, and to have a clock so unobtru- sive as not to be observed. Galleries are now viewed with an unfriendly eye by the projectors of churches, and they are going out of use. Everything in the way of conspicuous lighting appa- ratus, such as the gorgeous and daz- zling chandeliers of fifteen years ago, and the translucent globes of later date, is discarded, and an attempt is some- times made to hide the vulgar fact that the church is ever open in the evening. In a word, the design of the fashionable church-builder of the present moment is to produce a richly furnished, qui- etly adorned, dimly illuminated, eccle siastical parlor, in which a few hundred ladies and gentlemen, attired in kin- dred taste, may sit perfectly at their ease, and see no object not in harmony with the scene around them. To say that the object of these costly and elegant arrangements is to repel poor people would be a calumny. On the contrary, persons who show by their dress and air that they exercise the less remunerative vocations are as politely shown to seats as those who roll up to the door in carriages, and the presence of such persons is desired, and, in many instances, systematically sought. Nevertheless, the poor are repelled. They know they cannot pay their proportion of the expense of main- taining such establishments, and they do not wish to enjoy what others pay for. Everything in and around the church seems to proclaim it a kind of exclusive ecclesiastical club, designed for the accommodation of persons of ten thousand dollars a year, and upward. Or it is as though the carriages on the Road to Heaven were divided into first- class, second-class, and third-class, and a man either takes the one that accords with his means, or denies himself the advantage of travelling that road, or prefers to trudge along on foot, an independent wayfarer. It is Sunday morning, and the doors of this beautiful drawing - room are thrown open. Ladies dressed with subdued magnificence glide in, along with some who have not been able to leave at home the showier articles of their wardrobe. Black silk, black vel- vet, black lace, relieved by intimations of brighter colors, and by gleams from half-hidden jewelry, are the materials most employed. Gentlemen in uniform of black cloth and white linen announce their coming by the creaking of their boots, quenched in the padded carpet- ing. It cannot be said of these church- es, as Mr. Carlyle remarked of certain London ones, that a pistol could be 38

James Parton Parton, James Henry Ward Beecher's Church 38-51

Hcury Ward IJeecliers Cku re/i. [January, HENRY WARD BEECHERS CHURCH. S there anything in Amerca more I peculiar to America, or more curi- ous in itseW than one of our fash- ionable Protestant churches, such as we see in New York, on the Fifth Avenue and in the adjacent streets? The lion and the lamb in the Millen- nium will not lie down together more lovingly than the Church and the World have blended in these singu- lar establishments. We are far from objecting to the coalition, but note it only as something curious, new, and interesting. We enter an edifice, upon the interior of which the upholsterer and the cabi- net-maker have exhausted the resources of their trades. The word subdued describes the effect at which those art- ists have aimed. The woods employed are costly and rich, but usually of a sombre hue, and, though elaborately carved, are frequently unpolished. The light which comes through the stained windows, or through the small diamond panes, is of that description which Mr. Verplanch, in an unfortunate moment, styled dim, religious. Every part qf the floor is thickly carpeted. The pews differ little from sofas, except in being more comfortable, and the cushions for the feet or the knees are as soft as hair and cloth can make them. It is a fash- ion, at present, to put the organ out of sight, and to have a clock so unobtru- sive as not to be observed. Galleries are now viewed with an unfriendly eye by the projectors of churches, and they are going out of use. Everything in the way of conspicuous lighting appa- ratus, such as the gorgeous and daz- zling chandeliers of fifteen years ago, and the translucent globes of later date, is discarded, and an attempt is some- times made to hide the vulgar fact that the church is ever open in the evening. In a word, the design of the fashionable church-builder of the present moment is to produce a richly furnished, qui- etly adorned, dimly illuminated, eccle siastical parlor, in which a few hundred ladies and gentlemen, attired in kin- dred taste, may sit perfectly at their ease, and see no object not in harmony with the scene around them. To say that the object of these costly and elegant arrangements is to repel poor people would be a calumny. On the contrary, persons who show by their dress and air that they exercise the less remunerative vocations are as politely shown to seats as those who roll up to the door in carriages, and the presence of such persons is desired, and, in many instances, systematically sought. Nevertheless, the poor are repelled. They know they cannot pay their proportion of the expense of main- taining such establishments, and they do not wish to enjoy what others pay for. Everything in and around the church seems to proclaim it a kind of exclusive ecclesiastical club, designed for the accommodation of persons of ten thousand dollars a year, and upward. Or it is as though the carriages on the Road to Heaven were divided into first- class, second-class, and third-class, and a man either takes the one that accords with his means, or denies himself the advantage of travelling that road, or prefers to trudge along on foot, an independent wayfarer. It is Sunday morning, and the doors of this beautiful drawing - room are thrown open. Ladies dressed with subdued magnificence glide in, along with some who have not been able to leave at home the showier articles of their wardrobe. Black silk, black vel- vet, black lace, relieved by intimations of brighter colors, and by gleams from half-hidden jewelry, are the materials most employed. Gentlemen in uniform of black cloth and white linen announce their coming by the creaking of their boots, quenched in the padded carpet- ing. It cannot be said of these church- es, as Mr. Carlyle remarked of certain London ones, that a pistol could be 38 Heiwy Ward Ecec/icis Gizurcit. fired into a window across the church without much danger of hitting a Chris- tian. The attendance is not generally very large; hut as the audience is even- ly distributed over the whole surface, it looks larger than it is. In a com- mercial city everything is apt to he measured by the commercial standard, and accordingly a church numerically weak, hut financially strong, ranks, in the estimation of the town, not accord- ing to its numher of souls, hut its num- ber of dollars. We heard a fine young fellow, last summer, full of zeal for ev- erything high and good, conclude a glowing account of a sermon by say- ing that it was the direct means of add- ing to the church a capital of one hun- dred and seventy-five thousand dollars. He meant nothing low or mercenary: be honestly exulted in the fact that the power and influence attached to the possession of one hundred and seventy- five thousand dollars were thencefor- ward to he exerted on behalf of objects which he esteemed the highest. If therefore the church before our view cannot hoast of a numerous attendance, it more than consoles itself by the re- flection, that there are a dozen names of talismanic power in Wall Street on its list of members. But suppose the Doctor should leave you? objected a friend of ours to a trustee, who had heen urging him to huy a pew in a fashionable church. Well, my dear sir, was the busi- ness-like reply; suppose he should. We should immediately engage the very first talent which money can command. We can hardly help taking this sim- ple view of things in rich commercial cities. Our worthy trustee merely put the thing on the correct hasis. He frankly said what every church does, ought to do, and must do. He stated a universal fact in the plain and sensi- ble language to which he was accus- tomed. In the same way, these busi- ness-like Christians have horrowed the language of the Church, and speak of men who are good for a million. The congregation is assembled. The low mumble of the organ ceases. A female voice rises melodiously above the rustle of dry-goods and the whis- pers of those who wear them. So sweet and powerful is it, that a stranger might almost suppose it borrowed from the choir of heaven; but the inhabitants of the town recognize it as one they have often heard at concerts or at the opera; and they listen critically, as to a professional performance, which it is. It is well that highly artificial singing prevents the hearer from catching the words of the song; for it wozdd have rather an odd effect to hear rendered, in the modern Italian style, such plain, straightforward words as these: Can sinners hope for heaven Who love this world so well? Or dreans of futore happiness While on the road to hell? The performance, however, is so ex- quisite that we do not think of these things, but listen in rapture to the voice alone. When the lady has finished her stanza, a noble barytone, also recognized as professional, takes up the strain, and performs a stanza, solo ; at the conclu- sion of which, four voices, in enchant- ing accord, breathe out a third. It is evident that the first talent that money can command has been en~a~ed bb for the entertainment of the congrega- tion and we are not surprised when the information is proudly communi- cated that the music costs a hundred and twenty dollars per Sunday. XVhat is very surprising and well worthy of consideration is, that this beautiful music does not draw. In our rovings about among the noted churches of New York, of the kind which engage the first talent that money can comma~d,we could nev- er see that the audience was much in- creased by expensive professional mu- sic. On the contrary, we can lay it down as a general rule, that the costlier the music, the smaller is the average attendance. The afternoon service at Trinity Church, for example, i~ little more than a delightful gratuitous con- cert of boys, men, and organ; and the 1867.1 39 Henry Ward Beecluis Cluireli. [January, spectacle of the altar brilliantly lighted by candles is novel and highly pictu- resque. The sermon also is of the faThion able length, twenty minutes and yet the usual afternoon congrega- tion is about two hundred per~ons. Those celestial strains of music, well, they enchant the ear, if the ear hap- be within hearino of th pens to ~ em; but 5omOhow they do not furnish a continuous attraction. When this fine prelude is ended, the ministers part begins; and, unless he is a man of extraordinary bearing and talents, every one present is conscious of a kind of lapse in the tone of the occasion. Genius composed the mu- sic ; the first talent executed it ; the performance has thrilled the soul, and exalted expectation; but thd voice now beard may be ordinary, and the words uttered may he homely, or even com- mon. No one unaccustomed to the place can help feeling a certain incon- gruity hetween the language heard and the scene witnessed. Everything we see is modern; the words we hear are ancient. The preacher speaks of hum-, ble believers, and we look around and ask, Where are they? Are these cost- ly and elegant persons humble believ- ers? Far be it from us to intimate that they are not; we are speaking only of their appearance, and its effect upon a casual beholder. The clergy- man reads, Come, let us join in sweet accord, and straiglitw~y four hired performers execute a piece of difficult music, to an audience sitting passive. He dis- courses upon the pleasures of the v:oridi, as heingat war with the inter- ests of the soul ; and, while a severe sentence to this effect is cotising from his Ups, down the aisle marches the sexton, showing sotise stranger to a seat, who is a professional ntastcr of the revels. 1-le expresses, perchance, a fervent desire that the heathen may be converted to Christianity, a nfl we catch ourselves saying, Does he mean IA/s sort of thing ? \Vh eti we pronounce the werd Christianity, it calls up recol lections and associations that do not ex- actly harmonize with the scene around us. XVe think rather of the fishermen of Palestine, on the lonely sea-shore; of the hunted fugitives of Italy and Scotland; we think of it as some- thing lowly, and suited to the lowly, a refuge for the forsaken and the de- feated, not the luxury of the rich and the ornament of the strong. It may be an infirmity of our mind; but we ex- perience a certain difficulty in realizing that the sumptuous and costly appara- tus around us has anything in common with what we have been accustomed to think of as Christianity. Sometimes, the incongruity reaches the point of the ludicrous. We recent- ly heard a very able and well-inten- tioned preacher, near the Fifth Avenue, ask the ladies before him whether they were in the habit of speakin~ to their female attendants about their souls sal- vation, particularly those who dressed their hair. He especially mentioned the hair-dressers; because, as lie truly remarked, ladies are accustomed to converse with those utistes, during the operation of hair-dressing, on a variety of topics; and the opportu- nity was excellent to say a word on the one most important. This inci- dent perfectly illustrates what we mean by the seeming incongruity between the ancient cast of doctrine and the modernized people to whom it is preached. We have heard sermons in fashionable churches in New York, laboriously prepared and earnestly read, which had nothing in them of the modern spirit, contained not the most distant allusion to modern modes of living and sinning, had no suitable- ness whatever to the people or the time and from which everything that could rouse or interest a human soul livino On Manhattan Island in the year 6 1867 seemed to have been purposely pruned away. And perhaps, if a clergy- man really has no message to delivery his best course is to utter a jargon of nothings. Upon the whole, the impression left upon the mind of the visitor to the 40 1367.] Hc;zry Ward Beecliers Church. 4 fashionable church is, that he has been looking, not upon a living body, buta decorated image. It may be, however, that the old con- ception of a Christian church, as the one place where all sorts and conditions of men came together to dwell upon considerations interesting to all equal- ly, is not adapted to modern society, wherein one man differs from another in knowledge even more than a king once differed from a peasant in rank. When all were ignorant, a mass chant- cd in an unknown tongue, and a short address warning against the only vices known to ignorant people, sufficed for the whole community. But what form of service can be even imagi ned, that could satisfy Bridget, who cannot read, and her mistress, who comes to church cloyed with the dainties of half a dozen literatures ? Who could preach a sermon that would hold attentive the man saturated with Buckle, Mill, Spen- cer, Thackeray, Emerson, Humboldt, and Agassiz, and the man whose only literary recreation is the dime novel? In the good old times, when terror was latent in every soul, and the preacher had only to deliver a very simple mes- sage, pointing out the one way to escape endless torture, a very ordi- nary mortal could arrest and retain attention. But this resource is gone forever, and the modern preacher is thrown upon the resources of his own mind and talent. There is great dif- ficulty here, and it does not seem likely to diminish. It may be, that never agmo, as long as time shall endure, will ignorant and learned, masters and servants, poor and rich, feel themselves at home in the same church. At present we are impressed, and often oppressed, with the too evident fact, that neither the intelligent nor the uninstructed souls are so well min- istered to, in things spiritual, as we could imagine they might be. The fashionable world of New York goes to church every Sunday morning with tolerable punctuality, and yet it seems to drift rapidly toward Paris. What it usually hears at church does not ap pear to exercise controlling influence over its conduct or its character. Among the churches about New York to which nothing we have said ap- plies, the one that presents the strong- est contrast to the fashionable church is Henry Ward Beechers. Some of the difficulties resultincr from the altered state of opinion in recent times have been overcome there, and an institution has been created which appears to be adapted to the needs, as well as to the tastes, of the people frequenting it. We can at least say of it, that it is a living body, and izot a decorated mage. For many years, this church upon Brooklyn Heights has been, to the best of the visitors to the metropolis, the most interesting object in or near it. Of Brooklyn itseW a great assemblage of residences, without much business or stir, it seems the animating soul. We have a fan~cy, that we can tell by the manner and bearing of an inhab- itant of the place whether he attends this church or not; for there is a cer- tain joyousness, candor, and democratic simplicity about the members of that congregation, which might be styled Beecherian, if there were not a better word. This church is simply the most characteristic thing of America. If we had a foreigner in charge to whom we wished to reveal this country, we should like to push him in, hand him over to one of the brethren xvho perform the arduous duty of providing seats for visitors, and say to him: There, stranger, you have arrived; this is the United States, the New Testament, Plymouth Rock, and the Fourth of July, this is what they have brought us to. What the next issue will be, no one can tell; but this is about what we are at present. We cannot imagine what the breth- ren could have been thinking about when they ordered the new bell that hangs in the tower of Plymouth Church. It is the itiost superfluous article in the known world. The New-Yorker who steps on board the Fulton ferry-boat about ten oclock on Sunday morning 42 Henry Ward Beecizers Church. [January, finds himself accompanied by a large crowd of people who bear the visible stamp of strangers, who are going to Henry YVard Beechers church. You can pick them out with perfect certain- ty. You see the fact in their counte- nances, in their dress, in their demean- or, as well as hear it in words of eager expectation. They are the kind of peo- ple who regard xveari ng-apparel some- what in the light of its utility, and are not crushed by their clothes. They are the sort of people who take the Tribune, and get up courses of lec- tures in the country towns. From ev- ery quarter of Brooklyn, in street cars and on foot, streams of people are con- verging toward the same place. Every Sunday morning and evening, rain or shine, there is the same concourse, the same crowd at the gates before they are open, and the same long, laborious effort to get thirty-five hundred people into a building that will seat but twen- ty-seven hundred. Besides the ten or twelve members of the church who vol- unteer to assist in tl?is labor, there is employed a force of six policemen at the doors, to prevent the multitude from choking all ingress. Seats are retained for their proprietors until ten minutes before the time of beginning; after that the strangers are admitted. Mr. Buckle, if he were with us still, would be pleased to know that his doctrine of averages holds good in this instance; since every Sunday about a churchful of persons come to this church, so that not many who come fail to get in. There is nothing of the ecclesiastical drawing-room in the arrangements of this edifice. It is a very plain brick building, in a narrow street of small, pleasant houses, and the interior is only strikino- from its extent and convenience. The simple, old-fashioned design of the builder was to provide seats for as many people as the space would hold; and in executing this design, he con- structed one of the finest interiors in the country, since the most pleasing and inspiriting spectacle that human eyes ever behold in this world is such an assembly as fills this church. The audience is grandly displayed in those wide, rounded galleries, surging up high against the white walls, and scooped out deep in the slanting floor, leaving the carpeted platform the vortex of an arrested whirlpool. Often it happens that two or three little children get lodged upon the edge of the platform, and sit there on the carpet among the flowers during the service, giving to the picture a singularly pleasing relief, as though they and the bouquets had been arranged by the same skilful hand, and for the same purpose. And it seems quite natural and proper that children should form part of so bright and joy- ous an occasion. Behind the platform rises to the ceiling the huge organ, of dark wood and silvered pipes, with fans of trumpets pointing heavenward from the top. This enormous toy oc- cupies much space that could be better filled, and is only less superfluous than the bell; but we must pardon and in- dulge a foible. We could never see that Mr. Forrest walked any better for having such thick legs; yet they have their admirers. Blind old Handel played on an instrument very different from this, but the sexton had to eat a cold Sunday dinner ; for not a Christian would stir as long as the old man touched the keys after service. But not old Handel nor older Gabriel could make such music as swells and roars from three thousand human voices, the regular choir of Plymouth Church. It is a decisive proof of the excellence and heartiness of this choir, that the great organ has not lessened its effec- tiveness. It is not clear to the distant specta- tor by what aperture Mr. Beecher en- ters the church. He is suddenly dis- covered to be present, seated in his place on the platform, an under-sized gentleman in a black stock. His hair combed behind his ears, and worn a lit- tle longer than usual, imparts to his ap- pearance something of the Puritan, and calls to mind his father, the champion of orthodoxy in heretical Boston. In con- ducting the opening exercises, and, in- deed, on all occasions of ceremony, Mr. 1867.1 Beecher shows himself an artist, both his language and his demeanor being marked by the most refined decorum. An elegant, finished simplicity charac- terizes all he does and says: not a word too much, nor a word misused, nor a word waited for, nor an unharmonious movement, mars the satisfaction of the auditoi. The habit of living for thirty years in the view of a multitude, togeth- er with a natural sense of the becom- ing, and a quick sympathy with men and circumstances, has wrought up his pub- lic demeanor to a point near perfection. A candidate for public honors could not study a better model. This is the more remarkable, because it is a purely spiritual triumph. Mr. Beechers per- son is not imposing, nor his natural manner graceful. It is his complete ex- tirpation of the desire of producing an illegitimate effect; it is his sincerity and genuineness as a human being; it is the dignity of his character, and his command of his powers, which give him this easy mastery over every situ- ation in which he finds himself. Extempore prayers are not, perhaps, a proper subject for comment. The grand feature of the preliminary ser- vices of this church is the singing, which is not executed by the first talent that money can command. When the prelude upon the organ is finished, the whole congregation, almost every in- dividual in it, as if by a spontaneous and irresistible impulse, stands up and sings. We are not aware that anything has ever been done or said to bring about this result ; nor does the minis- ter of the church set the example, for he usually remains sitting and silent. It seems as if every one in the congre- gation was so full of something that he felt impelled to get up and sing it out. In other churches where congregational singing is attempted, there are usually a number of languid Christians who re- main seated, and a large number of others who remain silent; but here there is a strange unanimity about the performance. A sailor might as well try not to join in the chorus of a fore- castle song as a member of this joyous 43 host not to sing. When the last pre- liminary singing is concluded, the audi- ence is in an excellent condition to sit and listen, their whole corporeal sys- tem having been pleasantly exercised. The sermon which follows is new wine in an old bottle. Up to the mo- ment when the text has been announced and briefly explained, the service has all been conducted upon the ancient model, and chiefly in the ancient phrase- ology; but from the moment when Mr. Beecher swings free from the moorings of his text and gets fairly under way, his sermon is modern. No matter how fervently he may have been praying su- pernaturalism, he preaches pure cause and effect. His text may savor of old Palestine, but his sermon is inspired by New York and Brooklyn; and nearly all that he says, when he is most him- seW finds an approving response in the mind of every well - disposed person, whether orthodox or heterodox in his creed. What is religion? That, of course, is the great question. Mr. Beecher says : Religion is the slow, laborious, self-conducted EDUCATION of the whole man, from grossness to refinement, from sickliness to health, from igno- rance to knowledge, from selfishness to justice, from justice to nobleness, from cowardice to valor. In treating this topic, whatever he may pray or read or assent to, he ~reac1ies cause and effect, and nothing else. Regen- eration he does not represent to be some mysterious, miraculous influence exerted upon a man from ithout, but the mans own act, wholly and always, and in every stage of its progress. His general way of discoursing upon this subject would satisfy the most rational- ized mind; and yet it does not appear to offend the most orthodox. This ap1 arent contradiction between the spirit of his preaching and the facts of his position is a severe puzzle to some of our thorough-going friends. They ask, How can a man demon- strate that the fall of rain is so gov- erned by unchanging laws that the shower of yesterday dates back in its Henry Ward Beecliers Church. 44 Henry Ward Bcecke~s Church. [January, causes to the origin of things, and, having proved this to the comprehen- sion of every soul present, finish by praying for an immediate outpouring upon the thirsty fields? We confess that, to our modern way of thinking, there is a contradiction here, but there is none at all to an heir of the Puritans. XVe reply to our impatient young friends, that Henry Ward Beecher at once rep- resents and assists the American Chris- tian of the present time, just because of this seeming contradiction. He is a bridge over which we are passing from the creed-enslaved pa~t to the perfect freedom of the future. Mr. Lecky, in his History of the Spirit of Rational- ism, has shown the process by which truth is advanced. Old errors, he says, do not die because they are refuted, butfade out hecause they are neglected. One hundred and fifty years ago, our ancestors were perplexed, and even dis- tressed, by something they called the doctrine of Original Sin. No one now concerns himself either to refute or as- sert the doctrine ; few people know what it is ; we all simply let it alone, and it fades out. John Wesley not merely believed in witchcraft, but maintained that a belief in witchcraft was essential to salvation. All the world, except here and there an enlightened and fearless person, believed in witchcraft as late as the year 1750. That belief has not perished because its folly was demon- strated, but because the average human mind grew past it, and let it alone until it faded out in the distance. Or we might compare the great body of beliefs to a banquet, in which every on takes what he likes best; and the master of the feast, observing what is most in demand, keeps an abundant supply of such viands, but gradually withdraws those which are neglected. Mr. Beech- er has helped himself to such beliefs as are congenial to him, and shows an ex- quisite tact in passing by those which interest him not, and which have lost regenerating power. There are minds which cannot be content with anything like vagueness or inconsistency in their opinions. They must know to a cer tainty whether the sun and moon stood still or not. His is not a mind of that cast; he can hover on the confines of truth, and leave the less inviting parts of the landscape veiled in mist unexplored. Indeed, the great aim of his preaching is to show the insignifi- cance of opinion compared with right feeling and noble living, and he pie- pares the way for the time when every conceivable latitude of mere opinion shall be allowed and encouraged. One remarkable thing about his l~reaching is, that he has not, like so many men of liberal tendencies, fallen into milk-anci-waterism. He often gives a foretaste of the terrific power which preachers will wield when they draw inspiration from science and life. With- out ever frightening people with hor- rid pictures of the future, he has a sense of the perils which beset human life here, upon this bank and shoal of time. How needless to draw upon the imagination, in depicting the conse- quences of violating natural law! Sup- pose a preacher should give a plain, cold, scientific exhibition of the penalty which Nature exacts for the crime, so common among church-going ladies and others, of murdering their unborn offspring! It would appall the Devil. Scarcely less terrible are the conse- quences of the most common vices and meannesses when they get the mastery. Mr. l3eecher has frequently shown, by powerful delineations of this kind, how large a part legitimate ter- ror must ever play in the services of a true church, when the terrors of super- stition have wholly faded out. It can- not be said of his preaching, that he preaches Christianity with the bones taken out. He does not give twenty minutes of tepid exhortation, nor amuse his auditors with elegant and melodious essays upon virtue. We need not say that his power as a public teacher is due, in a great degree, to his fertility in illustrative similes. Three or four volumes, chiefly filled with these, as they have been caught from his lips, are before the public, ~nd are admired on both continents. Many Henry Ward Beccker?s Church. of them are most strikingly happy, and flood his subject with light. The smiles that break out upon the sea of upturned faces, and the laughter that whispers round the assembly, are often due as much to the aptness as to the humor of the illustration: the mind re- ceives an agreeable shock of surprise at finding a resemblance where only the widest dissimilarity had before been perceived. Of late years, Mr. Beecher never sends an audience away half satisfied; for he has constantly grown with the growth of his splendid opportunity. How attentive the great assembly, and bow quickly responsive to the points he makes! That occasional ripple of laughter, it is not fl-nm any want of seriousness in the speaker, in the sub- ject, or in the congregation, nor is it a Rowland Hill eccentricity. It is sim- ply that it has pleased Heaven to en- ~ow this genial soul with a quick per- ception of the likeness there is between things unlike ; and, in the heat and tor- rent of his speech, the suddenly dis- covered similarity amuses while it in- structs. Philosophers and purists may cavil at parts of these sermons, and, of course, they are not perfect; but who can deny that their general effect is civilizing, humanizing, elevating, and regenerating, and that this master of preaching is the true brother of all those high and bright spirits, on both sides of the ocean, who are striving to make the soul of this age fit to inhabit and nobly impel its new body The sermon over, a livelier song brings the service to a happy conclu- sion ; and slowly, to the thunder of the new organ, the great assembly dis- solves and oozes axvay. The Sunday services are not the whole of this remarkable church. It has not yet adopted Mrs. Stowes sug- gestion of providing billiard-rooms, bowling-alleys, and gymnastic appara- tus for the development of Christian muscle, though these may come. in time. The building at present con- tains eleven apartments, among which are two large parlors, wherein, twice a month, there is a social gathering of the church and congregation, for con- versation with the pastor and with one another. Perhaps, by and by, these will be always open, so as to furnish club conveniences to young men who have no home. Doubtless; this fine social organization is destined to de- velopment in many directions not yet contemplated. Among the ancient customs of New England and its colonies (of which Brooklyn is one) is the Friday-evening prayer-meeting. Some of our readers, perhaps, have dismal recollections of their early compelled attendance on those occasions, when, with their hands firmly held in the maternal grasp, lest at the last moment they should bolt under cover of the darkness, they glided round into the back parts of the church, lighted by one smoky lantern hung over the door of the lecture-room, itself dimly lighted, and as silent as the adjacent chambers of the dead. Female figures, demure in dress and eyes cast down, flitted noiselessly in, and the awful stillness was only broken by the heavy boots of the few elders and deacons who constituted the male portion of the exceedingly slender audi- ence. With difficulty, and sometimes only after two or three failures, a hymn was raised, which, when in fullest tide, was only a dreary wail, how un- melodious to the ears of unreverential youth , gifted with a sense of the ludi- crous! How long, how sad, how point- less the prayers ! How easy to be- lieve, down in that dreary cellar, that this world was but a wilderness, and man a feeble piece! Deacon Jones could speak up briskly enough when he was selling two yards of shilling calico to a farmers wife sharp at a bargain; but in that apartment,. contiguous to the tombs, it seemed natural that he should utter dismal views of life in bad grammar through his nose. Mrs. Jones was cheerful when she gave her little tea-party the evening before; but now she appeared to assent, without sur- prise, to the statement that she was a pilgrim travelling through a vale of 1867.1 45 46 Henry Ward Beecliers church. [January, tears. Veritable pilgrims, who do actu- ally meet in an oasis of the desert, have a merry time of it, travellers tell us. It was not so with these good souls, in- habitants of a pleasant place, and an- ticipating an eternal abode in an in- conceivably delightful paradise. But then there was the awful chance of missing it! And the reluctant youth, dragged to this melancholy scene, who avenged themselves by giving select imitations of deaconian eloquence for the amusement of young friends, what was to become of diem? It was such thoughts, doubtless, that gave to those excellent people their gloomy habit of mind ; and if their creed ex- pressed the literal truth respecting mans destiny, character, and duty, ter- ror alone was rational, and laughter was hideous and defiant mockery. What room in a benevolent heart for joy, when a point of time, a moments space, removed us to that heavenly place, or shut us up in hell? From the time when we were accus- tomed to attend such meetings, long ago, we never saw a Friday-evening meeting till the other night, when we found ourselves in the lecture-room of Plymouth Church. The room is large, very lofty, bril- liantly lighted by reflectors affixed to the ceiling, and, except the scarlet cushions on tbe settees, void of uphol- stery. It was filled full with a cheerful company, not one of whom seemed to have on more or richer clothes than she had the moral strength to wear. Content and pleasant expectation sat on every countenance, as when people have come to a festival, and await the summons to the banquet. No pulpit, or anything like a pulpit, cast a shadow over the scene; but in its stead there was a rather large platform, raised two steps, covered with dark green canvas, and having upon it a very small table and one chair. The red-cushioned settees were so arranged as to enclose the green platform all about, except on one side; so that he who should sit upon it would appear to be in the midst of the people, raised above them that all might see him, yet still among them and one of them. At one side of the platform, but on the floor of the room, among the settee s, there was a piano open. Mr. Beecher sat near by, read- ing what appeared to be a letter of three or four sheets. The whole scene was so little like what we commonly understand by the word meetino the people there were so little in a meetinr state of mind, and the sub- sequent proceedings were so informal, unstudied, and social, that, in attempt- ing to give this account of them, we dlmost feel as if we were reporting for print the conversation of a private even- ing party. Anything more unlike an old-fashioned prayer-meeting it is not possible to conceive. Mr. Beecher took his seat upon the platform, and, after a short pause, be- gan the exercises by saying, in a low tone, these words Six twenty-two. A rustling of the leaves of hymn- books interpreted the meaning of this mystical utterance, which otherwise might have been taken as announcing a discourse upon the prophetic numbers. The piano confirmed the interpretation; and then the company burst into one of those joyous and unanimous singings which are so enchanting a feature of the services of this church. Loud rose the beautiful harmony of voices, constrain- ing every one to join in the song, even those most unused to sing. When it was ended, the pastor, in the same low tone, pronounced a name; upon which one of the brethren rose to his feet, and the rest of the assembly slightly inclined their heads. It would not, as we have remarked, be beconiin5 in us to say anything upon this portion of the pro- ceedings, except to note that the pray- ers were all brief perfectly quiet and simple, and free from the routine or regulation expressions. There were but two or three of them, alternating with singing; and when that part of the exercises was concluded, Mr. Beecher had scarcely spoken. The meeting ran alone, in the most spon- taneous and pleasant manner; and, with all its heartiness and simplicity, 1867.1 there was a certain refined decorum pervading all that was done and said. There was a pause after the last hymn died away, and then Mr. Beecher, still seated, began, in the tone of conver- sation, to speak, somewhat after this manner. When, said he, I first began to walk as a Christian, in my youthful zeal I made many resolutions that were well meant, but indiscreet. Among others, I remember I resolved to pray, at least once, in some way, every hour that I was awake. I tried faithfully to keep this resolution, but never having succeeded a single day, I suffered the pangs of self-reproach, until reflection satisfied me that the only wisdom pos- sible, with regard to such a resolve, was to break it. I remember, too, that I made a resolution to speak upon re- ligion to every person with whom I conversed, on steamboats, in the streets, anywhere. In this, also, I failed, as I ought; and I soon learned that, in the sowing of such seed, as in other sowings, times and seasons and methods must be considered and se- lected, or a man may defeat his own object, and make religi6n loathsome. In language like this he introduced the topic of the evenings conversation, which was, How far, and on what oc- casions, and in what manner, one per- son may invade, so to speak, the per- sonality of another, and speak to him upon his moral condition. The pastor expressed his own opinion, always in the conversational tone, in a talk of ten minutes duration; in the course of which he applauded,.not censured, the delicacy which causes most people to shrink from doing it. He said that a mans personality was not a macadam- ized road for every vehicle, to drive upon at will; but rather a s.acred en- closure, to be entered, if at all, with the consent of the owner, and with defer- ence to his feelings and tastes. He maintained, however, that there were times and modes in which this might properly be done, and that every one had a duty to perform of this nature. When be had finished his observations, Henry Ward Beechers church. 47 he said the subject was open to the re- marks of others; whereupon a brother instantly rose and made a very honest confession. He said that he had never attempted to perform the duty in question without having a palpitation of the heart, and a complete turning over of his inner man. He had often reflected upon this curious fact, but was not able to account for it. He had not allowed this repug- nance to prevent his doing the duty; but he always had to rush at it and per- form it by a sort of cozq5 de main; for if he allowed himself to think ahout the matter, he could not do it at all. He concluded by saying that he should he very much obliged to any one if he could explain this mystery. The pastor said: May it not be the natural delicacy we feel, and ought to feel, in approaching the interior con- sciousness of another person? Another brother rose. There was no hanging back at this meeting; there were no awkward pauses; every one seemed full of matter. The new speak- er was not inclined to admit the expla- nation suggested by the pastor. Sup- pose, said he, we were to see a man in imminent danger of immediate de- struction, and there was one way of escape, and but one, which we saw and he did not, should we feel any delicacy in running up to him and urging him to fly for his life ? Is it not a want of faith on our part that causes the reluc- tance and hesitation we all feel in urging others to avoid a peril so much more momentous? Mr. Beecher said the cases were not parallel. Irreligious persons, he re- marked, were not in imminent danger of immediate death ; they might die to-morrow; but in all probability they would not, and an ill-timed or injudi- cious admonition might forever repel them. We must accept the doctrine of probabilities, and act in accordance with it in this particular, as in all others. Another brother had a puzzle to pre- sent for solution. He said that be too had experienced the repugnance to Hcnry Ward Pccc7ze~s Church. which allusion had been made; but what surprised him most was, that the more he loved a person, and the nearer he was related to him, the more difficult he found it to converse with him upon his spiritual state. XVhy is this ? I should like to have this question an- swered, said he, if there is an an- swer to it. Mr. Beecher observed that this was the universal experience, and he was conscious himself of ~ peculiar reluc- tance and embarrassment in approach- ing one of his own household on the subject in question. He thought it was due to the fact that we respect more the personal rights of those near to us than we do those of others, and it was more difficult to break in upon the routine of our ordinary familiarity with them. We are accustomed to a certain tone, which it is highly embarrassing to jar upon. Captain Duncan related two amus- ing anecdotes to illustrate the right way and the wrong way of introducing religious conversation. In his office there was sitting one day a sort of lay preacher, who was noted for lugging in his favorite topic in the most forbidding and abrupt manner. A sea - captain came in, who was introduced to this individual. Captain Porter, said he, with aw- ful solemnity, are you a captain in Is- rael ? The honest sailor was so abashed and confounded at this novel salutation, that he could only stammer out an incohe- rent reply; and he was evidently much disposed to give the tactless zealot a piece of his mind expressed in the lan- guage of the quarter-deck. When the solemn man took his leave, the dis- gusted captain said, If ever I should be coming to your office again, and that man should be here, I wish you would send me word, and I 11 stay away.~~ A few days after, another clergyman chanced to be in the office, no other than Mr. I3eecher himself; and another captain came in, a roystering, swearing, good-hearted fellow. The conversation fell upon sea-sickness, a malady to which Mr. Beecher is peculiarly liable. This captain also was one of the few sailors who are always sea-sick in go- ing to sea, and gave a moving account of his sufferings from that cause. Mr. Beecher, after listening attentively to his tale, said, Captain Duncan, if I was a preacher to such sailors as your friend here, I should represent hell as an eternal voyage, with every man on board in the agonies of sea-sickness, the crisis always imminent, but never coming. This ludicrous and most unprofes- sional picture amused the old salt ex- ceedingly, and won his entire good-will toward the author of it; so that, after Mr. I3eecher left, he said, That s a good fellow, Captain Duncan. I like Iii;,;, and I d like to bear him talk more. Captain Duncan contended that this free-and-easy way of address was just the thing for such characters. Mr. Beecher had shown him, to his great surprise, that a man could be a decent and comfortable human being, although he was a minister, and had so gained his confidence and good-will that he could say anyt/dng to him at their next interview. Captain Duncan finished his remarks by a decided expression of his disapproval of the canting regu- lation phrases so frequently employed by religious people, which are perfectly nauseous to men of the world. This interesting conversation lasted about three quarters of an hour, and ended, not because the theme seemed exhausted, but be~use the time was up. We have only given enough of it to convey some little idea of its spirit. The company again broke into one of their cheerful hymns, and the meeting. ~vas dismissed in the usual manner. During the whole evening not a cant- ing word nor a false tone had been uttered. Some words were used, it is true, and some forms practised, which are not congenial to men of the world, and some doctrines were assumed to be true which have become incredible to many of us. These, however, were not 48 [January, 1867j consmcuous nor much dwelt upon. The subject, too, of the conversation was less suitable to our purpose than most of the topics discussed at these meet- ings, which usually have a more direct bearing upon the conduct of life. Nev- ertheless, is it not apparent that such meetings as this, conducted by a man of tact, good sense, and experiende, must be an aid to good liviwr? Here were a number of people, parents, business- men, and others, most of them heavi- ly burdened with responsibility, having notes and rents to pay, customers to get and keep, children to rear, busy people, anxious people, of extremely diverse characters, but united by a com- mon desire to live nobly. The diffi- culties of noble living are very great, never so great, perhaps, as now and here, and these people assemble every week to converse upon them. What more rational thing could they do ? If they came together to snivel and cant, and to support one another in a miserable conceit of being the eiecL of the human species, we might object. But no description can show how far from that, how opposite to that, is the tone, the spirit, the object, of the Friday-evening meeting at Ply- mouth Church. 1-lave we Liberals as we pre- susie to call ourselves ever devised anything so well adapted as this to the needs of average mortals, struggling with the ordinary troubles of life? We know of nothing. Philosophical trea- tises, and arithmetical comoutations re- specting the number of PCO~ie who inhabited Palestine, may have their use, but they cannot fill the achino- void in the heart of a lone widow, or teach an anxious father how to manage a trouble- same boy. There was an old lady near us at this meeting, a good soul in a bonnet four fashions old, who sat and cried for joy, as the brethren car- ri ad on their talk. She had come in alone from her solitary room, and en- jawed all the evaning long a blended moral and literary rapture. It was a banc1u et of deik~h t to her, the recol- lection of which would brighten all her VOL. XIX. No. III. 4 Heizry Ward Bew/icis (luirck. 49 week, and it cost her no more than air and sunlight. To the happy, the strong, the victorious, Shakespeare and the Musical Glasses may appear to suffice; but the world is full of the weak, the wretched, and the vanquished. There was an infuriate heretic in Boston once, whose antipathy to what he called superstition was some- thing that bordered upon lunacy. But the time caine when he had a child, his only child, and the sole joy of his life, dead in the house. It had to be bur- ied. The broken-hearted father could not endure the thought of his childs being carried out and placed in its grave without some outward mark of respect, some ceremonial which should recognize the difference between a dead child and a dead kitten; and he was fain, at last, to go out and bring to his house a poor lame cobbler, who was a kind of Methodist preacher, to say and read a few words that should break the fall of the darling object into the tomb. The occurrence made no change in his opinions, but it revolutionized his feel- ings. He is as untheological as ever; but he would subscribe money to build a church, and he esteems no man more than an honest clergyman. If anything can be predicated of the future with certainty, it is, that the American people will never give up that portion of their heritage from the l)ast xvhich we call Sunday, but will always devote its hours to resting the body and improving the soul. All our theologies will pass away, but this will remain. Nor less certain is it, that there will always be a class of men who will do, professionally and as their set- tled vocation, the work now done by the clergy. That work can never be dispensed with, either in civilized or in barbarous communities. The great problem of civilization is, how to bring the higher intelligence of the commu- nity, and its better moral feeling, to bear upon the mass of people, so that the lowest grade of intelligence and morals shall be always approaching the higher, and the higher still rising. A church purified of superstition solves part of Henry Ward Bcccke~s Chnrck. [January, 50 this problem, and a good school system does the rest. All things improve in this world very much in the same way. The improve- ment originates in one man s mind, and, being carried into effect with evi- dent good results, it is copied by oth- ers. We are all apt lazily to run in the groove in which we find ourselves; we are creatures of habit, and slaves of tradition. Now and then, however, in every profession and sphere, if they are untrammelled by law, an individ- ual appears who is discontented with the ancient methods, or sceptical of the old traditions, or both, and he in- vents better ways, or arrives at more rational opinions. Other men look on and approve the improved process, or listen and imbibe the advanced be- lief. Now, there appears to be a man upon Brooklyn Heights who has found out a more excellent way of conducting a church than has been previously known. He does not waste the best hours of every day in writing sermons, but employs those hours in absorbing the knowledge and experience which should he the matter of sermons. He does not fritter away the time of a public in- structor in pastoral visits, and other useless visitations. His mode of con- ducting a public ceremonial reaches the finish of high art, which it resem- bles also in its sincerity and simplicity. He has known how to banish from his church everything that savors of cant and sanctimoniousness, so loath- some to honest minds. Without for- mally rejecting time-honored forms and usages, he has infused into his teach- ings more and more of the modern spirit, drawn more and more from sci- ence and life, less and less from tradi- tion, until he has acquired the power of preaching sermons which Edwards and Voltaire, Whitefield and Tom Paine, would heartily and equally enjoy. Sure- ly, there is something in all this which could be imitated. The great talents with which he is endowed cannot be imparted, but we do not believe that his power is wholly derived from his talent. A man of only respectable abil- ities, who should catch his spirit, prac- tise some of his methods, and spend his strength in getting knowledge, and not in coining sentences, would be able anywhere to gather round him a con- course of hearers. The great secret is, to let orthodoxy slide, as somethinb which is neither to be maintained nor refuted, insisting only on the spirit of Christianity, and applying it to the life of the present day in this land. There are some reasons for thinking that the men and the organizations that have had in charge the moral interests of the people of the United States for the last fifty years have not been quite equal to their trust. What are we to think of such results of New England culture as Douglas, Cass, Webster, and many other men of great ability, hut strangely wanting in moral power? What are we to think of the great numbers of Southern Yankees who were, and are, the bitterest foes of all that New England represents ? What are we to think of the Rings that seem now-a-days to form themselves, as it were, spontaneously in every great corporation ? What of the club-houses that spring up at every corner, for the accommodation of husbands and fa- thers who find more attractions in wine, supper, and equivocal stories than in the society of their wives and children? What are we to think of the fact, that among the people who can afford to advertise at the rate of a dollar and a half a line are those who provide women with th~ means of kill- ing their unborn children, a double crime, murder and suicide? What are we to think of the moral impotence of almost all women to resist the tyranny of fashion, and the necessity that ap- pears to rest upon them to copy every disfiguration invented by the harlots of Paris ? What are we to think of the want both of masculine and moral force in men, which makes them helpless against the extravagance of their house- holds, to support which they do fifty years work in twenty, and then die? What are we to think of the fact, that 1867.] The Pa/aijize. all the creatures living in the United States enjoy good health, except the human beings, who are nearly all ill? When we consider such things as these, we cannot help calling in ques- tion a kind of public teaching which leaves the people in ignorance of so much that they most need to know. Henry Ward Beecher is the only cler- gyman we ever heard who habitually promulgates the truth, that to be ill is generally a sin, and always a shame. We never heard him utter the demoral- izing falsehood, that this present life is short and of small account, and that nothing is worthy of much considera- tion except the life to come. He dwells much on the enormous length of this life, and the prodigious revenue of hap- piness it may yield to those who com- ply with the conditions of happiness. It is his habit, also, to preach the duty which devolves upon every person, to labor for the increase of his knowledge and the general improvement of his mind. We have heard him say on the platform of his church, that it was disgraceful to any mechanic or clerk to let such a picture as the Heart of the Andes be 5 exhibited for twenty-five cents, and not go and see it. Probably there is not one honest clergyman in the country who does not fairly earn his livelihood hy the good he does, or by the evil he prevents. But not enough good is done, and not enough evil prevented. The sudden wealth that has come upon the world since the improvement of the steam-engine adds a new diffi- culty to the life of millions. So far, the world does not appear to have made the best use of its too rapidly increased surplus. V/e cannot sell a twelve-dollar book in this country, said a bookseller to us the other day. But how easy to sell two-hundred-dol- lar garments! There seems great need of something that shall have power to spiritualize mankind, and make head against the reinforced influence of ma- terial things. It may he that the true method of dealing with the souls of modern men has been, in part, dis- covered by Mr. Beecher, and that it would be well for persons aspiring to the same vocation to iegix their prep- aration by makin~ a pilgrimage to Brooklyn Heights. THE PALATINE. EAGUES north, as fly the gull and auk, .Ld Point Judith watches with eye of hawk; Leagues south, thy beacon flames, Montauk! Lonely and wind-shorn, wood-forsaken, With never a tree for Spring to waken, For tryst of lovers or farewells taken, Circled by waters that never freeze, Beaten by billow and swept by breeze, Lieth the island of Manisees, Set at the mouth of the Sound to hold The coast lights up on its turret old, Yellow with moss and sea-fog mould.

John G. Whittier Whittier, John G. The Palatine 51-54

1867.] The Pa/aijize. all the creatures living in the United States enjoy good health, except the human beings, who are nearly all ill? When we consider such things as these, we cannot help calling in ques- tion a kind of public teaching which leaves the people in ignorance of so much that they most need to know. Henry Ward Beecher is the only cler- gyman we ever heard who habitually promulgates the truth, that to be ill is generally a sin, and always a shame. We never heard him utter the demoral- izing falsehood, that this present life is short and of small account, and that nothing is worthy of much considera- tion except the life to come. He dwells much on the enormous length of this life, and the prodigious revenue of hap- piness it may yield to those who com- ply with the conditions of happiness. It is his habit, also, to preach the duty which devolves upon every person, to labor for the increase of his knowledge and the general improvement of his mind. We have heard him say on the platform of his church, that it was disgraceful to any mechanic or clerk to let such a picture as the Heart of the Andes be 5 exhibited for twenty-five cents, and not go and see it. Probably there is not one honest clergyman in the country who does not fairly earn his livelihood hy the good he does, or by the evil he prevents. But not enough good is done, and not enough evil prevented. The sudden wealth that has come upon the world since the improvement of the steam-engine adds a new diffi- culty to the life of millions. So far, the world does not appear to have made the best use of its too rapidly increased surplus. V/e cannot sell a twelve-dollar book in this country, said a bookseller to us the other day. But how easy to sell two-hundred-dol- lar garments! There seems great need of something that shall have power to spiritualize mankind, and make head against the reinforced influence of ma- terial things. It may he that the true method of dealing with the souls of modern men has been, in part, dis- covered by Mr. Beecher, and that it would be well for persons aspiring to the same vocation to iegix their prep- aration by makin~ a pilgrimage to Brooklyn Heights. THE PALATINE. EAGUES north, as fly the gull and auk, .Ld Point Judith watches with eye of hawk; Leagues south, thy beacon flames, Montauk! Lonely and wind-shorn, wood-forsaken, With never a tree for Spring to waken, For tryst of lovers or farewells taken, Circled by waters that never freeze, Beaten by billow and swept by breeze, Lieth the island of Manisees, Set at the mouth of the Sound to hold The coast lights up on its turret old, Yellow with moss and sea-fog mould. 52 [January, Dreary the land when gust and sleet At its doors and windows howl and beat, And Winter laughs at its fires of peat! But in summer time, when pool and pond, Held in the laps of valleys fond, Are blue as the glimpses of sea beyond When the hills are sweet with the brier-rose, And, hid in the warm, soft dells, unclose Flowers the mainland rarely knows; When boats to their morning fishing go, And, held to the wind and slanting low, Whitening and darkening the small sails show, Then is that lonely island fair; And the pale health-seeker findeth there The wine of life in its pleasant air. No greener valleys the sun invite, On smoother beaches no sea-birds light, No blue waves shatter to foam more white! There, circling ever their narrow range, Ouaint tradition and legend strange Live on unchallenged, and know no change. Old wives spinning their webs of tow Or rocking weirdly to and fro In and out of the peats dull glow, And old men mending their nets of twine, Talk tocrether of dream and sign, Talk of the lost ship Palatine, The ship that, a hundred years before, Freighted deep with its goodly store, In the gales of the equinox went ashore. The eager islanders one by one Counted the shots of her signal gun, And heard the crash when she drove right on Into the teeth of death she sped: (May God forgive the hands that fed The false lights over the rocky Head!) O men and brothers ! what sights were there! White up-turned faces, hands stretched in prayer! Where waves had pity, could ye not spare? Down swooped the wreckers, like birds of prey Tearing the heart of the ship away, And the dead had never a word to say. The Pala/lize. 53 And then, with ghastly shimmer and shine Over the rocks and the seething brine, They burned the wreck of the Palatine. In their cruel hearts, as they homeward sped, The sea and the rocks are dumb, they said: There 11 be no reckoning with the dead. But the year went round, and when once more Along their foam-white curves of shore They heard the line-storm rave and roar, Behold! again, with shimmer and shine, Over the rocks and the seething brine, The flaming wreck of the Palatine! So, haply in fitter words than these, Mending their nets on their patient knees They tell the legend of Manisees. Nor looks nor tones a doubt betray; It is known to us all, they quietly say; We too have seen it in our day. Is there, then, no death for a word once spoken? Was never a deed but left its token Written on tables never broken? Do the elements subtle reflections give? Do pictures of all the ages live On Natures infinite negative, Whence, half in sport, in malice half She shows at times, with shudder or laugh, Phantom and shadow in photograph? For still, on many a moonless night, From Kingston Head and from Montauk light The spectre kindles and burns in sight. Now low and dim, now clear and higher, Leaps up the terrible Ghost of Fire, Then, slowly sinking, the flames expire. And the wise Sound skippers, though skies be fine, Reef their sails when they see the sign Of the blazing Ghost of the Palatine! 1867.] The Strange Friend. THE STRANGE FRIEND. JT would have required an intimate I familiarity with the habitual de- meanor of the people of Londongrove to detect in them an access of inter- est, (we dare not say excitement,) of whatever kind. Expression, with them, was pitched to so low a key, that its changes might be compared to the slight variations in the drabs and grays in which they were clothed. Yet that there was a moderate, decorously sub- dued curiosity present in the minds of many of them on one of the First-days of the Ninth-month, in the year 1815, was as clearly apparent to a resident of the neighborhood as are the indica- tions of a lire or a riot to the member of a city mob. The agitations of the war which had so recently come to an end had hardly touched this quiet and peaceful com- munity. They had stoutly borne their testimony, and faced the ques- tion where it could not be evaded; and although the dashing Philadelphia mili- tia had been stationed at Camp Bloom- field, within four miles of them, the previous year, these good people sim- ply ignored the fact. If their sons ever listened to the trumpets at a distance, or stole nearer to have a peep at the uniforms, no report of what they had seen or heard was likely to be made at home. Peace brought to them a relief; like the awakening from an uncomfort- able dream: their lives at once reverted to the calm which they had breathed for thirty years preceding the national disturbance. In their ways they had not materially changed for a hundred years. The surplus produce of their farms more than sufficed for the very few needs which those farms did not supply, and they seldom touched the world outside of their sect except in matters of business. They were satis- fied with themselves and with their lot; they lived to a ripe and beautiful age, rarely borrowed trouble, and were patient to endure that which came in the fixed course of things. If the spirit of curiosity, the yearning for an active, joyous grasp of life, sometimes pierced through this placid temper, and stirred the blood of the adolescent members, they were persuaded by grave voices, of almost prophetic au- thority, to turn their hearts towards the Stillness and the Quietness. It was the pleasant custom of the community to arrive at the meeting- house some fifteen or twenty minutes before the usual time of meeting, and exchange quiet and kindly greetings before taking their places on the plain benches inside. As most of the fami- lies had lived during the week on the solitude of their farms, they liked to see their neighbors faces, and resolve, as it were, their sense of isolation into the common atmosphere, before yield- ing to the assumed abstraction of their worship. In this preliminary meeting, also, the sexes were divided, but rather from habit than any prescribed rule. They were already in the vestibule of the sanctuary; their voices were sub- dued and their manner touched with a kind of reverence. If the Londongrove Friends gathered together a few minutes earlier on that September First-day; if the younger members looked more frequently to- wards one of the gates leading into the meeting-house yard than towards the other; and if Abraham Bradbury was the centre of a larger circle of neigh- hors than Simon Pennock (although both sat side by side on the highest seat of the gallery), the cause of these slight deviations from the ordinary be- havior of the gathering was generally known. Abrahams son had died the previous Sixth-i~onth, leaving a widow incapable of taking charge of his farm on the Street Road, which was there- fore offered for rent. It was not al- ways easy to obtain a satisfactory ten- ant in those days, and Abraham was not more relieved than surprised on 54 [January,

Bayard Taylor Taylor, Bayard The Strange Friend 54-66

The Strange Friend. THE STRANGE FRIEND. JT would have required an intimate I familiarity with the habitual de- meanor of the people of Londongrove to detect in them an access of inter- est, (we dare not say excitement,) of whatever kind. Expression, with them, was pitched to so low a key, that its changes might be compared to the slight variations in the drabs and grays in which they were clothed. Yet that there was a moderate, decorously sub- dued curiosity present in the minds of many of them on one of the First-days of the Ninth-month, in the year 1815, was as clearly apparent to a resident of the neighborhood as are the indica- tions of a lire or a riot to the member of a city mob. The agitations of the war which had so recently come to an end had hardly touched this quiet and peaceful com- munity. They had stoutly borne their testimony, and faced the ques- tion where it could not be evaded; and although the dashing Philadelphia mili- tia had been stationed at Camp Bloom- field, within four miles of them, the previous year, these good people sim- ply ignored the fact. If their sons ever listened to the trumpets at a distance, or stole nearer to have a peep at the uniforms, no report of what they had seen or heard was likely to be made at home. Peace brought to them a relief; like the awakening from an uncomfort- able dream: their lives at once reverted to the calm which they had breathed for thirty years preceding the national disturbance. In their ways they had not materially changed for a hundred years. The surplus produce of their farms more than sufficed for the very few needs which those farms did not supply, and they seldom touched the world outside of their sect except in matters of business. They were satis- fied with themselves and with their lot; they lived to a ripe and beautiful age, rarely borrowed trouble, and were patient to endure that which came in the fixed course of things. If the spirit of curiosity, the yearning for an active, joyous grasp of life, sometimes pierced through this placid temper, and stirred the blood of the adolescent members, they were persuaded by grave voices, of almost prophetic au- thority, to turn their hearts towards the Stillness and the Quietness. It was the pleasant custom of the community to arrive at the meeting- house some fifteen or twenty minutes before the usual time of meeting, and exchange quiet and kindly greetings before taking their places on the plain benches inside. As most of the fami- lies had lived during the week on the solitude of their farms, they liked to see their neighbors faces, and resolve, as it were, their sense of isolation into the common atmosphere, before yield- ing to the assumed abstraction of their worship. In this preliminary meeting, also, the sexes were divided, but rather from habit than any prescribed rule. They were already in the vestibule of the sanctuary; their voices were sub- dued and their manner touched with a kind of reverence. If the Londongrove Friends gathered together a few minutes earlier on that September First-day; if the younger members looked more frequently to- wards one of the gates leading into the meeting-house yard than towards the other; and if Abraham Bradbury was the centre of a larger circle of neigh- hors than Simon Pennock (although both sat side by side on the highest seat of the gallery), the cause of these slight deviations from the ordinary be- havior of the gathering was generally known. Abrahams son had died the previous Sixth-i~onth, leaving a widow incapable of taking charge of his farm on the Street Road, which was there- fore offered for rent. It was not al- ways easy to obtain a satisfactory ten- ant in those days, and Abraham was not more relieved than surprised on 54 [January, The Strange Friend. receiving an application from an un- expected quarter. A strange Friend, of stately appearance, called upon him, bearing a letter from William Warner, in Adams County, together with a cer- tificate from a Monthly Meeting on Long Island. After inspecting the farm and making close inquiries in regard to the people of the neighbor- hood, he accepted the terms of rent, and had now, with his family, been three or four days in possession. In this circumstance, it is true, there was nothing strange, and the interest of the people sprang from some other particulars which had transpired. The new-coiner, Henry Donnelly by name, had offered, in place of the usual se- curity, to pay the rent annually in ad- vance ; his speech and manner were not, in all respects, those of Friends, and he acknowledged that he was of Irish birth; and moreover, some who had passed the wagons bearing his household goods had been struck by the peculiar patterns of the furniture piled upon them. Abraham Bradbury had of course been present at the arrival, and the Friends upon the ad- joining farms had kindly given their assistance, although it was a busy time of the year. While, therefore, no one suspected that the former could possi- bly accept a tenant of doubtful char- acter, a general sentiment of curious expectancy went forth to meet the Donnelly family. Even the venerable Simon Pennock, who lived in the opposite part of the township, was not wholly free from the prevalent feeling. Abraham, he said, approaching his colleague, I suppose thee has satisfied thyself that the strange Friend is of good repute. Abraham vias assuredly satisfie4 of one thing, that the three hdndred sil- ver dollars in his antiquated secretary at home were good and lawful coin. We will not say that this fact disposed him to charity, but will only testify that he answered thus: I dont think we have any right to question the certificate from Islip, Simon; and William Warners word (whom thee knows by hearsay) is that of a good and honest man. Henry himself will stand ready to satisfy thee, if it is needful. Here he turned to greet a tall, fresh- faced youth, who had quietly joined the group at the mens end of the meeting- house. He was nineteen, blue-eyed, and rosy, and a little embarrassed by the grave, scrutinizing, yet not un- friendly eyes fixed upon him. Simon, this is Henrys oldest son, De Courcy, said Abraham. Simon took the youths hand, say- ing, Where did thee get thy out- landish name? The young man colored, hesitated, and then said, in a low, firm voice, It was my grandfathers name. One of the heavy carriages of the place and period, new and shiny, in spite of its sober colors, rolled into the yard. Abraham Bradbury and De Courcy Donnelly set forth, side by side, to meet it. Out of it descended a tall, broad-shouldered figure, a man in the prime of life, whose ripe, ag- gressive vitality gave his rigid Quaker garb the air of a military undress. His blue eyes seemed to laugh above the measured accents of his plain speech, and the close crop of his hair could not hide its tendency to curl. A bearing expressive of energy and the habit of command was not unusual in the sect, strengthening, but not changing, its habitual mask; yet in Henry Don- nelly this bearing suggested one could scarcely explain why a differ- ent experience. Dress and speech, in him, expressed condescension rather than fiaternal equality. He carefully assisted his wife to alight, and De Courcy led the horse to the hitching-shed. Susan Donnelly was a still blooming woman of forty; her dress, of the plainest color, was yet of the richest texture; and her round, gentle, almost timid face looked forth like a girls from the shadow of her scoop bonnet. While she was greet- ing Abraham Bradbury, the two daugh- ters, Sylvia and Alice, who had been standing shyly by themselves on the 1867.] 55 Tue Stra;zgc Friciwi. [January, edge of the group of women, came for- ward. The latter was a model of the demure Quaker maiden; but Abraham experienced as much surprise as was possible to his nature on observing Sylvias costume. A light-blue dress, a dark-blue cloak, a hat with ribbons, and hair in curls, what Friend of good standing ever allowed his daugh- ter thus to array herself in the fashion of the world? Henry read the question in Abra- hams face, and preferred not to an- swer it at that moment. Saying, Thee must make me acouaintecl with the rest of our brethren, he led the way back to the mens end. When he bad been presented to the older members, it was time for them to assemble in meeting. The people were again quietly star- tied when Henry Donnelly deliberately mounted to the third and highest bench facing th em, and sat down beside Abra- ham and Simon. These two retained, possibly with some little inward exer- tion, the composure of their faces, and the stranee Friend became like unto them. His hands were clasped firmly in his lap ; his full, decided lips were set together, and his eyes gazed into vacancy from under the broad brim. Ce Courcy had removed his hat on entering the house, but, meeting his fathers eyes, replaced it suddenly, with a sliTht blush. Wl~en Simon Pennock and Ruth T ~U U had spoken the thoughts ad come to them in the still- 1 ~-~s toe strange Friend arose. Slow- I x to frequent pauses, as if waiting uidance of the Spirit, and with iV zzwardvoice which falls so natu ~ ~n o the measure of a chant, he e~ upon his hearers the necessity of the Light and walking there- lie did not always employ the ens- to-yr phrases, but neither did he s~er to speak the lower language of ~ouc ~iid reason ; while his tones were co ~il ad mellow that they gave, with e\ e slowly modulated sentence, a Isfaction to the ear. Even his o U c s and the strong roll of his rs, x ended the rumor of his foreign birth, did not detract from the author- ity of his words. The doubts which had preceded him somehow melted away in his presence, and he came forth, after the meeting had been dis- solved by the shaking of hands, an ac- cepted tenant of the high seat. That evening, the family were alone in their new home. The plain rush- bottomed chairs and sober carpet, in contrast with the dark, solid mahogany table, and the silver branched candle- stick which stood upon it, hinted of former wealth and present loss; and something of the same contrast was reflected in the habits of the inmates. While the father, seated in a stately arm-chair, read aloud to his wife and children, Sylvias eyes rested on a uitar-case In the corner, and her fin- gers absently adjusted themselves to the imaginary frets. De Courcy twist- ed his neck as if the straight collar of his coat were a bad fit; and Henry, the youngest boy, nodded drowsily from time to time. There, my lads and lasses ! said Henry Donnelly, as he closed the book, now we re plain farmers at last, and the plainer the better, since it must be. There s only one thing wanting He paused; and Sylvia, looking up with a bright, arch determination an- swered: Its too late now, father, they have seen me as one of the worlds people, as I meant they should. When it is once settled as something not to be helped, it will give us no trouble. Faith, Sylvia! exclaimed Ce Courcv, I almost wish I had kent you company. Dont be impatient, my boy, said the mother, gently. Think of the vexations we have had, and what a rest this life will be I Think, also, the father adlded, that I have the heaviest work to do, and that thou It reap the most of what may come of it. Dont carry the oldl life to a land where it a out of place. We muat be what we seem to be, every one of us So we will ! said Sylvia, rising from her seat, I, as \vell as the rest. Tiw Sir zige Friend. It was what I said in the beginning, you no, thee knows, father. Some- body must be interpreter when the time comes; somebody must remem- ber while the rest of you are forgetting. 0, I shall be talked about, find set upon, and called hard names; it wont be so casy. Stay where you are, De Courcy; that coat will fit sooner than you think. Her brother lifted his shoulders and made a grimace. I ye an unlucky name, it seems, said he. The old fellow I mean Friend Simon pro- nounced it outlandish. Could nt I change it to Ezra or Adonijah? Boy, boy Dont be alarmed, father. It will soon be as Sylvia says ; thee s right, and mother is right. I 11 let Sylvia keep my memory, and start fresh from here. We must into the field to-mor- row, 1-lal and I. There s no need of a collar at the plough-tail. They went to rest, and on the mor- row not only the boys, but their father, were in the field. Shrewd, quick, and strong, they made available what they knew of farming operations, and dis- ~ruised much of their ignorance while they learned. Henry Donnellys first public appearance had made a strong impression in his favor, which the voice of the older Friends soon stamped as a setted opinion. His sons did their shai e L~ 1he ~miable, yielding temper the exhibited in accom mociating them selxe~ to the manners and ways of the peon Tee graces which came from a bettei edu Jion, find, possibly, more refined as~oc1aiions, gave them an at- traction xxnich was none the less felt because it w~ not understood, to the simple-minded young men who worked with the hired hands in their fathers fields. If the Donnelly family had not been accustomed, in former days, to sit at the same table with laborers in shirt- sleeves, and be addressed by the lat- ter in fraternal phrase, no little awk- v~arc:iiesses or hesitations betrayed the fict. They were anxious to make their naturalization complete, and it soon be conic so. The strange Friend was now known in Londongrove by the fa- miliar name of Henry. He was a constant attendant at meeting, not only on First-days, but also on Fourth-days, and whenever he spoke his words were listened to with the reverence due to one who was truly led towards the Light. This respect kept at bay the curiosity that might still have lingered in some minds concerning his antece- dent life. It was known that he an- swered Simon Pennock, who had ven- tured to approach him with a direct question, in these words: Thee knows, Friend Simon, that sometimes a seal is put upon our mouths for a wise purpose. I have learned not to value the outer life ex- cept in so far as it is made the mani- festation of the inner life, and I only date my own from the time when I was brought to a knowledge of the truth. It is not pleasant to me to look upon what went before; but a season may come when it shall be lawful for me to declare all things, nay, when it shall be put upon me as a duty. Thee must suffer me to wait the call. After this there was nothing more to be said. The family was on terms of quiet intimacy with the neighbors; and even Sylvia, in spite of her defiant eyes and worldly ways, became popular among the young men and maidens. She touched her beloved guitar with a skill which seemed marvellous to the latter and when it was known that her refusal to enter the sect arose from her fond- ness for the prohibited instrument, she found many apologists among them. She was not set upon, and called hard names, as she had anticipated. It is true that her father, when appealed to by the elders, shook his head, and s-id, It is a cross to us ! but he had been known to remain in the room while she sang Full high in Killbride, and the keen light which arose in his eyes was neither that of sorrow nor anger. At the end of their first year of resi- dence the farm presented evidences of much more orderly and intelligent man- agement than at first, although the ad- 1867.j 57 58 Tue S/range Friend. [January, joining neighbors were of the opinion that the Donnellys had hardly made their living out of it. Friend Henry, nevertheless, was ready with the ad- vance rent, and his bills were promptly paid. He was close at a bargain, which was considered rather a merit than otherwise, and almost painfully exact in observinb the strict letter of it, when made. As time passed by, and the family became a permanent part and parcel of the remote community, wearing its peaceful color and breathing its un- troubled atmosphere, nothing occurred to disturb the esteem and respect which its members enjoyed. From time to time the postmaster at the corner de- livered to Henry Donnelly a letter from New York, always addressed in. the same hand. The first which arrived had an Esq. added to the name, but this compliment (as the Friends termed it) soon ceased. Perhaps the official may have vaguely wondered whether there was any connection be- tween the occasional absence of Friend Henry not at Yearly-Meeting time and these letters. If he had been a vis- itor at the farm-house he might have noticed variations in the moods of its inmates, which must have arisen from some other cause than the price of stock or the condition of the crops. Outside of the family circle, however, they were serenely reticent. In five or six years, when De Courcy had grown to he a hale, handsome man of twenty-four, and as capable of con- ducting a farm as any to the township horn, certain aberrations from the strict line of discipline be~,an to be rumored. He rode a gallant horse, dressed a little more elegantly than his membership prescribed, and his unusually high, straight collar took a knack of falling over. Moreover, he was frequently seen to ride up the. Street Road, in the direc- tion of Faggs Manor, towards those valleys where the brick Presbyterian church displaces the whitewashed Qua- ker meeting-house. H ad Henry Don- nelly not occupied so high a seat, and exercised such an acknowleged author- ity in the sect, he might sooner have received counsel, or proffers of sympa- thy, as the case might he; but he heard nothing until the rumors of De Courcys excursions took a more definite form. But one day Abraham Bradhury, af- ter discussing some Monthly-Meeting matters, suddenly asked: Is this true that I hear, Henry, that thy son De Courcy keeps company with one of the Alison girls? Who says that? Henry asked, in a sharp voice. Why, it s the common talk! Sure- ly, thee s heard of it before? No! Henry set his lips together in a man- ner which Abraham understood. Con- sidering that he had fully performedhis duty, he said no more. That evening, Sylvia, who had been gently thrumming to herself at the win- dow, began smngmn~ Bonnie Peggy Al- ison. Her father looked at De Cour- cy, who caught his glance, then lowered his eyes and turned to leave the room. Stop, De Courcy, said the former; Ive heard a piece of news about thee to-day, which I want thee to make clear. Shall I go, father? asked Sylvia. No ; thee may stay to give De Courcy his memory. I think he is be- ginning to need it. Ive learned which way he rides, on Seventh - day even- ings. Father, I am old enough to choose my way, said De Courcy. But no such ways izow, boy! Has thee clean forgotten? This was among the things upon which we agreed, and you all promised to keep watch and guard over yourselves. I had my mis- givings then, but for five years I ye trusted you, and now, when the time of probation is so nearly over He hesitated, and De Courcy, pluck- ing up courage, spoke again. With a strong effort the young man threw off the yoke of a self-taught restraint, and asserted his true nature. Has ONeil written? he asked. Not yet. Then, father, he continued, I The Strange Friend. prefer the certainty of my present life to the uncertainty of the old. I will not dissolve my connection with the Friends by a shock which might give thee trou- ble; but I will slowly work away from them. Notice will be taken of my ways; there will be family visitations, warn- ings, and the usual routine of discipline, so that when I marry Margaret Alison, nobody will be surprised at my being read out of meeting. I shall soon be twenty-five, father, and this thing has gone on about as long as I can bear it. I must decide to be either a man or a milksop. The color rose to Henry Donnellys cheeks, and his eyes flashed, but he showed no signs of anger. He moved to De Courcys side and laid his hand upon his shoulder. Patience, my boy! he said. It s the old blood, and I might have known it would proclaim itself. Suppose I were to shut my eyes to thy ridings, and thy merry-makings, and thy worldly company. So far I might go; but the girl is no mate for thee. If ONeil is alive, we are sure to hear from him soon; and in three years, at the utmost, if the Lord favors us, the end will come. How far has it gone with thy courting Surely, surely, not too far to withdraw, at least under the plea of my prohibi- tion? De Courcy blushed, but firmly met his fathers eyes. I have spoken to her, be replied, and it is not the custom of our family to break plighted faith. Thou art our cross, not Sylvia. Go thy ways now. I will endeavor to seek for guidance. Sylvia, said the father, when De Courcy had left the room, what is to be the end of this? Unless we hear from ONeil, father, I am afraid it cannot be prevented. De Courcy has been changin~ for a year past; I am only surprised that you did not sooner notice it. What I said in jest has become serious truth he has already half forgotten. We might have expected, in the beginning, that one of two things would happen: either he would become a plodding Quaker farmer or take to his present courses. Which would be worse, when this life is over, if that time ever comes? Sylvia sighed, and there was a weari- ness in her voice which did not escape her fathers ear. He walked up and down the room with a troubled air. She sat down, took the guitar upon her lap, and began to sing the verse, com- mencing, En n, my country, though sad and forsaken, whenperhaps op- portunely Susan Donnelly entered the room. Eh, lass! said Henry, slipping his arm around his wifes waist, art thou tired yet? Have I been trying thy pa- tience, as I have that of the children? Have there been longings kept from me, little rebellions crushed, battles fought that I supposed were over? Not by me, Henry, was her cheer- ful answer. I have never been hap- pier than in these quiet ways with thee. I ye been thinking, what if something has happened, and the letters cease to come? And it has seemed to me now that the boys are as good farm- ers as any, and Alice is such a tidy housekeeper that we could manage very well without help. Only for thy sake, Henry: I fear it would be a ter- rible disappointment to thee. Or is thee as accustomed to the high seat as I to my place on the womens side? No! he answered, emphatically. The talk with De Courcy has set my quiet Quaker blood in motion. The boy is more than half right; I am sure Sylvia thinks so too. What could I expect ? He has no birthright, and did nt begin his task, as I did, after the bravery of youth was over. It took six generations to establish the serenity and content of our brethren here, and the dress we wear dont give us the na- ture. De Courcy is tired of the mas- querade, and Sylvia is tired of seeing it. Thou, my little Susan, who wert so timid at first, puttest us all to shame now! I think I was meant for it, Alice, and Henry, and I, said she. No outward change in Henry Don- 1867.1 59 The St~-a;zgc Friezid. nellys demeanor betrayed this or any other disturbance at home. There were repeated consultations between the fa- ther and son, but they led to no satis- factory conclusion. De Courcy was sincerely attached to the pretty Presby- terian maiden, and found livelier society in her brothers and cousins than among the grave, awkward Quaker youths of Londongrove. With the occasional freedom from restraint there awoke in him a desire for independence,a thirst for the suppressed license of youth. His new acquaintances were accustomed to a rigid domestic r4gime, but of a differ- ent character, and they met on a com- mon ground of rebellion. Their aber- rations, it is true, were not of a very formidable character, and need not have been guarded but for the severe conven- tionalities of both sects. An occasional fox-chase, horse-race, or a stag party at some outlying tavern, formed the sum of their dissipation ; they sang, danced reels, and sometimes ran into little ex- cesses through the stimulating sense of the trespass they were committing. By and by reports of certain of these performances were brought to the no- tice of the Londongrove Friends, and, with the consent of Henry Donnelly himself. De Courcy received a visit of warning and remonstrance. He had foreseen the probability of such a visit and was prepared. He denied none of the charges brought against him, and accepted the (ri-ave counsel offered, sim- ply stating that his nature was not yet ourifiecl and chastened; he was aware he was not walking in the Light ; he be- lieved it to be a troubled season through which he must needs l)ass. 1us frank- ness, as be was shrewrl enough to guess, was a source of perplexity to the elders; it prevcnted them from excommunicat- ing him without further probation, while it left him free to indulge in further rec- reations. Some months passed away, and the absence from which Henry Donnelly always returned with a good supply of ready money did not take place. The kne vledge of farming which his sons had acoui:-ed now came into play. It was necessary to exercise both skill and thrift in order to keep up the lib- eral footing upon which the family had lived; for each member of it was too proud to allow the community to sus- pect the change in their circumstances. De Courcy, retained more than ever at home, and bound to steady labor, was man enough to subdue his impatient spirit for the time ; but he secretly de- termined that with the first change for the better he would follow the fate Ire had chosen for himself. Late in the fail came the opportunity for which he had loneed. One evening he brought home a letter, in the well- known handwriting. His fath eropened and read it in silence. Well, father ? he said. A former letter was lost, it seems. This should have come in the spring it is only the missing sum. Does ONeil fix any time? No; but be hopes to make a better report next year. Then, father, said De Courcy, it is useless for me to wait longer; Jam satisfied as it is. I should not have given up Margaret in any case; but now, since thee can live with Henrys help, I shall claim her. Alust it be, De Courcy? It must. But it was not to be. A day or two af- terwards the young man, on his mettled horse, set off up the Street Road, feel- ing at last that the fortune and the free- dom of his life were approachintr. 1le had become, in habits and in feelings, one of the people, and the relinouish- ment of the hope in which his dither still indulged brought him a firmer courage, a more settled content. His sweethearts family was in good cir- cumstances ; but, had she been pOd;r, be felt confident of his power to m and secure for her a farmer To the pastwhatever it mioV h-iv~ been he said farewell, audi wee t c~ oiling some cheerful ditty, to looi~ upon the face of his future. That night, a country wagon Io~Ay drove up to 1-lenry Donnellys dl~~O1 be three men who accompanied it I-er r4nrI 6o [January, i86~.] T/ie Strange Friend. 6i before they knocked, and, when the door was opened, lookod at each other with palo, sad faces, before either spoke. No cries followed the few words that were said, but silently, swiftly, a room was made ready, while the men lifted from the straw and carried up stairs an unconscious figure, the arms of which hung down with a horrible significance as they moved. He was not dead, for the heart heat feebly and slowly; but all efforts to restore his consciousness were in vain. There was concussion of the brain, the physician said. He had been thrown from his horse, probably alighting upon his head, as there were neither fractures nor external wounds. All that night and next clay, the tender- est, the most unwearied care was exert- ed, to call back the flickering gleam of life. The shock had been too great; his deadly torpor deepened into death. In their time of trial and sorrow the family received the fullest sympathy, the kindliest help, from the whole neigh- borhood. They had never before so fully appreciated the fraternal character of the society whereof they were mem- bers. The plain, plodding people living on the adjoining farms became virtual- ly their relatives and fellow - mourners. All the external offices demanded by the sad occasion were performed for them, and other eyes than their own shed tears of honest grief over De Cour- cys coffin. All came to the funeral, and even Simon Pennock, in the plain, yet touching words which he spoke be- side the grave, forgot the young many s wandering from the Light, in the recol- lection of his frank, generous, truthful nature. I che Donnellys had sometimes found ~e ractical equality of life in London- e a little repellent, they were now ci ~tcfully moved by the delicate and ed ways in which the sympathy of t~e ucople sought to express itself. The Vt~ cr qualities of human nature always dcx lop a temporary good - breeding. XX nerever any of the family went, they saw the reflection of their own sorrow; and a new sp:rit informed to their eyes the quiet pastoral landscapes. In their life at home there was little change. Abraham Iiradbury had in- sisted on sending his favorite grandson, Joel, a youth of twenty-two, to take De Courcys place for a few months. He was a shy, quiet creature, with large brown eyes like a fawns, and young Henry Donnelly and he became friends at once. It was believed that he would inherit the farm at his grandfathers death; but he was as subservient to Friend Donnellys wishes in regard to the farming operations, as if the lat- ter held the fee of the property. His coming did not fill the terrible gap which De Courcys death had made, but seemed to make it less constantly and painfully evident. Susan Donnelly soon remarked a change, which she could neither clearly define nor explain to herself, both in her husband and in their daughter Syl- via. The former, although in public he preserved the same grave, stately face, its lines, perhaps, a little more deeply marked, seemed to be devoured by an internal unrest. His dreams were of the old times: words and names long unused came from his lips as he slept by her side. Although he bore his grief with more strength than she had hoped, he grew nervous and excita- ble, sometimes unreasonably petu- lant, sometimes gay to a pitch which impressed her with pain. When the spring came around and the mysterious correspondence a5ain failed, as in the previous year, his uneasiness increased. He took his place on the high seat on First - days, as usual, but spoke no more. Sylvia, on the other hand, seemed to have wholly lost her proud, impatient character. She went to meeting much more frequently than formerly, busied herself more actively about household matters, and ceased to speak of the un- certain contingency which had been so constantly presei~t to her thoughts. In fact, she and her father had changed places. She was now the one who preached patience, who held before them all the bright side of their lot, who brought Margaret Alison to the 62 The S/range Friend. [January, house and justified her dead brothers heart to his fathers, and who repeated to the latter, in his restless moods, De Courcy foresaw the truth, and we must all, in the end, decide as he did. Can Ihee do it, Sylvia? her father would ask. I believe I have done it already, she said. If it seems difficult, pray consider how much later I begin my work. I have had all your memories in charge, and now I must not only forget for myself; but for you as well. Indeed, as the spring and summer months came and went, Sylvia evident- ly grew stronger in her determination. The fret of her idle force was allayed, and her content increased as she saw and performed the possible duties of her life. Perhaps her father mi~ht have caught something of her spirit, but for his anxiety in regard to the suspended correspondence. He wea- ried himself in guesses, which all end- ed in the simple fact, that, to escape embarrassment, the rent must again be saved from the earnings of the farm. The harvests that year were boun- tiful: wheat, barley, and oats stood thick and heavy in the fields. No one showed more careful thrift or more cheerful industry than young Joel Brad- bury, and the family felt that much of the fortune of their harvest was owing to him. On the first day after the crops had been securely housed, all went to meet- ing, except Sylvia. In the walled graveyard the sod was already green over De Courcys unmarked mound, but Alice had planted a little rose-tree at the head, and she and her mother always visited the spot before taking their seats on the womens side. The meeting-house was very full that day, as the busy season of the summer was over, and the horses of those who lived at a distance had no longer such need of rest. It was a sultry forenoon, and the windows and doors of the building were open. The humming of insects was heard in the silence, and broken lights and shadows of the poplar-leaves were sprinkled upon the steps and sills. Outside, there were glimpses of quiet groves and orchards, and blue frag- ments of sky, no more semblance of life in the external landscape than there was in the silent meeting within. Some quarter of an hour before the shaking of hands took place, the hoofs of a horse were heard in the meeting- house yard, the noise of a smart trot on the turf, suddenly arrested. The boys pricked up their ears at this unusual sound, and stole glances at each other when they imagined themselves unseen by the awful faces in the gallery. Presently those nearest the door saw a broader shadow fall over those flickering upon the stone. A red face appeared for a moment, and was then drawn back out of sight. The shadow advanced and receded, in a state of curious restlessness. Some- times the end of a riding-whip was visi- ble, sometimes the cornet of a coarse gray coat. The boys who noticed these apparitions were burning with impa- tience, but they dared not leave their seats until Abraham Bradbury had reached his hand to Henry Donnelly. Then they rushed out. The mys- terious personage was still beside the door, leaning against the wall. He was a short, thick-set man of fifty, with red hair, round gray eyes, a broad pug nose, and projecting mouth. He wore a heavy gray coat, despite the heat, and a waistcoat with many brass but- tons; also corduroy breeches and rid- ing boots. When they appeared, he started forward with open mouth and eyes, and stared wildly in their faces. They gathered around the poplar-trunks, and waited with some uneasiness to see what would follow. Slowly and gravely, with the half- broken ban of silence still hanging over them, the people issued from the house. The strange man stood, leaning for- ward, and seemed to devour each, in turn, with his eager eyes. After the young men came the fathers of fam- ilies, and lastly the old men from the gallery seats. Last of these came Henry Donnelly. In the mean time, 1867.] The Strange Friend. 63 all had seen and wondered at the wait- ing figure: its attitude was too intense and self-forgetting to be misinterpret- ed. The greetings and remarks were suspended until the people had seen for whom the man waited, and why. Henry Donnelly had no sooner set his foot upon the door-step than, with something hetween a shout and a howl, the stranger darted forward, seized his hand, and fell upon one knee, crying: 0 my lord! my lord! Glory be to God that I ye found ye at last! If these words hurst like a bomb on the ears of the people, what was their consternation when Henry Donnelly exclaimed, The Divel! Jack 0Neil, can that be you? It s me, meself, my lord! When we heard the letters went wrong last year, I said, I 11 trust no such good news to their blasted mail-posts : I 11 go meself and carry it to his lordship, if it is t other side o the say. Him and my lady and all the children went, and sure I can go too. And as I was the one that went with you from Dun- leigh Castle, Ill go back with you to that same, for it stands awaitin, and blessed be the day that sees you back in your ould place ! All clear, Jack? All mine again? You may believe it, my lord! And money in the chest beside. But where s my lady, bless her sweet face! Among yon women, belike, and you 11 help me to find her, for it s herself must have the news next, and then the young master With that word Henry Donnelly awoke to a sense of time and place. He found himself within a ring of staring, wondering, scandalized eyes. He met them boldly, with a proud, though rather grim smile, took hold of 0Neils ~irm and led him towards the womens end of the house, where the sight of Susan in her scoop bonnet so moved the servants heart that he melted into tears. Both husband and wife were eager to get home and hear 0Neils news in private; so they set out at once in their plain carriage, fol- lowed by the latter on horseback. As for the Friends, they went home in a state of bewilderment. Alice Donnelly, with her brother Henry and Joel Bradbury, returned on foot. The two former remembered 0Neil, and, although they had not witnessed his first interview with their father, they knew enough of the family history to surmise his errand. Joel was silent and troubled. Alice, I hope it does nt mean that ~e are going back, dont you? said Lienry. Yes, she answered, and said no more. They took a foot-path across the fields, and reached the farm-house at the same time with the first party. As they opened the door Sylvia descended the staircase dressed in a rich shim- mering brocade, with a necklace of ametbysts around her throat. To their eyes, so long accustomed to the ab- sence of positive color, she was com- pletely dazzling. There was a new color on her cheeks, and her eyes seemed larger and brighter. She made a stately courtesy and held open the parlor door. Welcome, Lord Henry Dunleigh, of Dunleigh Castle ! she cried; wel- come, Lady Dunleigh! Her father kissed her on the fore- head. Now give us back our mem- ories, Sylvia! he said, exultingly. Susan Donnelly sank into a chair, overcome by the mixed emotions of the moment. Come in, my faithful Jack! Un- pack thy portmanteau of news, for I see thou art bursting to show it ; let us have everything from the beginning. Wife, it s a little too much for thee, coming so unexpectedly. Set out the ~vine, Alice ! The decanter was placed upon the table. 0Neil filled a tumbler to the brim, lifted it high, made two or three hoarse efforts to speak, and then walked away to the window, where he drank in silence. This little incident touched the family more than the announce- ment of their good fortune. Henry Donnellys feverish exultation subsided: 64 Thc S/rcvzge Frie;zd. [January, he sat down with a grave, thoughtful face, while his wife wept quietly be- side him. Sylvia stood waiting with an abstracted air; Alice removed her mothers bonnet and shawl; and 1-lenry and Joel, seated together at the far- ther end of the room, looked on in si- lent anticipation. ONeils story was long, and fre- quently interrupted. He had been Lord Dunleighs steward in better days, as his father had been to the old lord, and was bound to the family by the closest ties of interest and affection. When the estates became so encum- bered that either an immediate change or a catastrophe was inevitable, he had been taken into his masters confidence concerning the plan which had first been proposed in jest, and afterwards adopted in earnest. The family must leave Dunleigh Castle for a period of probably eight or ten years, and seek some part of the world where their ex- penses could be reduced to the lowest possible figure. In Germany or Italy there would be the annoyance of a foreign race and language, of meeting with tourists belonging to the circle in which they had moved, a dangerous idleness for their sons, and embarrass- ing restrictions for their daughters. On the other hand, the suggestion to emigrate to America and become Qua- kers during their exile offered more ad- vantages the more they considered it. It was original in character; it offered them economy, seclusion, entire lib- erty of action inside the limits of the sect, the best moral atmosphere for their children, and an occupation which would not deteriorate what was best in their blood and breeding. How Lord Dunleigh obtained ad- mission into the sect as plain Henry Donnelly is a matter of conjecture with the Londongrove Friends. The deceptioa which had been practised upon them although it was perhaps less complete than they imagined left a soreness of feeling behind it. The matter was hushed up after the departure of the family, and one might now live for years in the neighbor- hood without hearing the story. I-low the shrewd plan was carried out by Lord Dunleigh and his family, we have already learned. ONeil, left on the estate, in the north of Ireland, did his part with equal fidelity. He not only filled up the gaps made by his masters early profuseness, but found means to move the sympathies of a cousin of the latter, a rich, eccentric old bachelor, who had long been estranged b yafam- ily quarrel. To this cousin he finally confided the character of the exile, and at a lucky time ; for the cousins will ~vas altered in Lord Dunleighs favor, and he died before his mood of reconcilia- tion passed away. Now, the estate was not only unencumbered, but there was a handsome surplus in the hands of the Dublin bankers. The family might return whenever they chose, and there would be a festival to welcome them, ONeil said, such as Dunleigh Castle had never known since its foun- dations were laid. Let us go at once! said Sylvia, when he had concluded his tale. No more masquerading: I never knew, until to-day, how much I have hated it ! I will not say that your plan was not a sensible one, father; but I wish it might have been carried out with more honor to ourselves. Since De Courcys death I have begun to appre- ciate our neighbors: I was resigned to become one of these people, had our luck gone the other way. Will they give us any credit for goodness and truth, I wonder? Yes, in mothers case, and Alices; and I believe both of them would give up Dunleigh Castle for this little farm. Then, her father exclaimed, it is time that we should return, and with- out delay. But thee wrongs us some- what, Sylvia: it has not all been mas- querading. We have become the ser- vants, rather than the masters, of our own parts, and shall live a painful and divided life until we get back in our old place. I fear me it will always be divided for thee, wife, andl Alice and Henry. If I am subdued by the ele- ment which I only meant to assume, 1867.] Tue S/rcwgc Frie;zd. 65 how much more deeply must it have wrought in your natures! Yes, Sylvia is rio~ht, we must get away at once. To-morrow we must leave London- grove forever! He had scarcely spoken, when a new surprise fell upon the family. Joel Bradbury arose and walked forward, as if thrust by an emotion so powerful that it transformed his whole being. He seemed to forget everything hut Alice Donnellys presence. His soft brown eyes were fixed on her face with an expression of unutterable tenderness and longing. He caught her by the hands. Alice, 0 Alice! burst from his lips; you are not going to leave me The flush in the girls sweet face faded into a deadly paleness. A moan came from her lips; her head dropped, and she would have fallen, swooning, from the chair, had not Joel knelt at her feet and caught her upon his breast. For a moment there was silence in the room. Presently, Sylvia, all her haughtiness gone, knelt beside the young man, and took her sister from his arms. Joel, my poor, dear friend, she said, I am sorry that the last, worst mischief we have done must fall upon you. Joel covered his face with his hands, and convulsively uttered the words, Aizist she go? Then Henry Donnellyor, rather, Lord Dunleigh, as we must now call him took the young mans hand. He was profoundly moved; his strong voice trembled, and his words came slowly. I will not appeal to thy heart, Joel, he said, for it would not hear me now. But thou hast heard all our story, and knowest that we must leave these parts, never to return. We be- long to another station and another mode of life than yours, and it must come to us as a good fortune that our time of probation is at an end. Be- think thee, could we leave our darling Alice behind us, parted as if by the grave? Nay, could we rob her of the life to which she is born, of her share in our lives? On the other hand, could we take thee with us, into relations VOL. XIX. NO. III. 5 where thee would always be a stranger, and in which a nature like thine has no place? This is a case where duty speaks clearly, though so hard, so very hard, to follow. He spoke tenderly, but inflexibly, and Joel felt that his fate was pronounced. When Alice had somewhat revived, and was taken to another room, he stumbled blindly out of the house, made his way to the barn, and there flung himself upon the harvest-sheaves which, three days before, he had bound xvith such a timid, delicious hope work- ing in his arm. The day which brought such great fortune had thus a sad and troubled termination. It was proposed that the family should start for Philadelphia on the morrow, leaving ONei 1 to pack up and remove such furniture as they wished to retain; but Susan, Lady Dunleigh, could not forsake the neighborhood without a parting visit to the good friends who had mourned with her over her first-born ; and Sylvia was with her in this wish. So two more days elapsed, and then the Dunleighs passed down the Street Road, and the plain farm- house was gone from their eyes forever. Two grieved over the loss of their hap- py home; one was almost broken-heart- ed; and the remaining two felt that the trouble of the present clouded all their happiness in the return to rank and for- tune. They went, and they never came again. An account of the great festi- val at Dunleigh Castle reached Lon- dongrove two years later, through an Irish laborer, who brought to Joel Bradbury a letter of recommendation signed Dunl eigh. Joel kept the man upon his farm, and the two preserved the memory of the family long after the neighborhood had ceased to speak of it. Joel never married; he still lives in the house where the great sorrow of his life befell. His head is gray, and his face deeply wrinkled; butwhen he lifts the shy lids of his soft brown eyes, I fancy I can see in their tremulous depths the lin~rerin,~ memo rv of his love for Alice Dunleigh. Capillary Freaks. CAPILLARY FREAKS. JT would be a serious undertaking to I glean from the pages of history and mythology all the narrations that are associated with that beautiful, but per- ishable material, human hair. Tresses were to blame when the young man Absalom was hoisted aloft by the skele- ton hand of the tree, and the welkin rang to the vax topuli when Delilah took down the strong man of his time by shearing off the locks in which it was supposed that his strength lay. Delirium treee;zs must have been epi- demic in the days when the Gorgonian female, whose curls were the curling of snakes, made stone sculptures of men by revealing herself to their gaze. From all time death and fury, as well as love and glory, have leaped out with the sparks that flash from a lock of wo- mans hair. It is well to say that the story of Jason, and how he sailed the good ship Argos, with a princely crew, in search of a golden fleece, is nothing but a romance and a myth. Some girl with golden hair was at the bottom of that fiction, you may depend. It might have been Medea, and it might not; but as I conjure up a vis- ion of a tree with a golden fleece handr- ing upon it, and a dragon at the foot of it keeping guard over the treasure, the scene changes like a dissolving view, and I see nothing but a lovely woman tressed in golden glory, watched by an elderly person who might pass for a very good dragon cx mac/ii;uz indeed. Look at home, now, and see the legions of Broxvns and Smiths who have pricked each other with rapiers, or riddled each other with lead, on account of a ringlet accorded to one or the other of them by some damsel false as fair. But the romance of hair is too prolific a subject to be lightly handled, and I pass on to its history. The caprices of fashion xvith regard to womans hair furnish a good deal of material for satire at the present day; but the most extravagant of them now are tame compared with the capillary freaks of women in the olden times. Among the Roman women, at one period, there was a morbid ambition to gr ow beards, and they used to shave their faces and smear them with un- guent s to produce those inappropriate appendages. Cicero tells us that there was a law passed against this practice, which is a proof that it must have been carried to a great extent. Among the Greeks, too, a similar fancy appears at one time to have existed ; for they rep- resented their Cyprian Venus with a beard, and Suidas asserts that false beards were more than once in vogue xvith the Athenian women. The Loin- bard lasses, also, bad the same notion, but with more ptir1ose in it ; for we learn from old v;ritei~ that the amazons of that nation, when levvino war up- on their neighbors tLCO to improvise beards by arrangino then hair upon their cheeks, so th ~L thcy might look, at a little distance like xairiors of the rougher sex, and so strike the more terror to their mal foes It appears from xarious records, that the ])resent passion for thc dii9~rent shades of red haii rolnen auburn, and brooze-rednas raoed very fierce- .ly in different periods ann irom very early times. The (rielt Italian l)aint ers, Titian, Paul \ eronese Giorgione, and others, had gold-red hair on the brain. Their beauties were nearly all crowned with a glory of the fascinating tint. In beautiful Venice, about the days of Titian, a elorious sight to see must have been the house-tops, from a birds-eye view, when the belles of noble rank sat Out UpOO them, catch ing the ~olden flashes of the sun with their damp tresses. Vecelli states that they used to procure the desired tint by the following process. They would soak their hair thoroughly with a wash made up of black sulphur, alum, and honey. Then they would repair to the flat house-tops, and, hanging the wet 66 [January,

Charles Dawson Shanly Shanly, Charles Dawson Capillary Freaks 66-75

Capillary Freaks. CAPILLARY FREAKS. JT would be a serious undertaking to I glean from the pages of history and mythology all the narrations that are associated with that beautiful, but per- ishable material, human hair. Tresses were to blame when the young man Absalom was hoisted aloft by the skele- ton hand of the tree, and the welkin rang to the vax topuli when Delilah took down the strong man of his time by shearing off the locks in which it was supposed that his strength lay. Delirium treee;zs must have been epi- demic in the days when the Gorgonian female, whose curls were the curling of snakes, made stone sculptures of men by revealing herself to their gaze. From all time death and fury, as well as love and glory, have leaped out with the sparks that flash from a lock of wo- mans hair. It is well to say that the story of Jason, and how he sailed the good ship Argos, with a princely crew, in search of a golden fleece, is nothing but a romance and a myth. Some girl with golden hair was at the bottom of that fiction, you may depend. It might have been Medea, and it might not; but as I conjure up a vis- ion of a tree with a golden fleece handr- ing upon it, and a dragon at the foot of it keeping guard over the treasure, the scene changes like a dissolving view, and I see nothing but a lovely woman tressed in golden glory, watched by an elderly person who might pass for a very good dragon cx mac/ii;uz indeed. Look at home, now, and see the legions of Broxvns and Smiths who have pricked each other with rapiers, or riddled each other with lead, on account of a ringlet accorded to one or the other of them by some damsel false as fair. But the romance of hair is too prolific a subject to be lightly handled, and I pass on to its history. The caprices of fashion xvith regard to womans hair furnish a good deal of material for satire at the present day; but the most extravagant of them now are tame compared with the capillary freaks of women in the olden times. Among the Roman women, at one period, there was a morbid ambition to gr ow beards, and they used to shave their faces and smear them with un- guent s to produce those inappropriate appendages. Cicero tells us that there was a law passed against this practice, which is a proof that it must have been carried to a great extent. Among the Greeks, too, a similar fancy appears at one time to have existed ; for they rep- resented their Cyprian Venus with a beard, and Suidas asserts that false beards were more than once in vogue xvith the Athenian women. The Loin- bard lasses, also, bad the same notion, but with more ptir1ose in it ; for we learn from old v;ritei~ that the amazons of that nation, when levvino war up- on their neighbors tLCO to improvise beards by arrangino then hair upon their cheeks, so th ~L thcy might look, at a little distance like xairiors of the rougher sex, and so strike the more terror to their mal foes It appears from xarious records, that the ])resent passion for thc dii9~rent shades of red haii rolnen auburn, and brooze-rednas raoed very fierce- .ly in different periods ann irom very early times. The (rielt Italian l)aint ers, Titian, Paul \ eronese Giorgione, and others, had gold-red hair on the brain. Their beauties were nearly all crowned with a glory of the fascinating tint. In beautiful Venice, about the days of Titian, a elorious sight to see must have been the house-tops, from a birds-eye view, when the belles of noble rank sat Out UpOO them, catch ing the ~olden flashes of the sun with their damp tresses. Vecelli states that they used to procure the desired tint by the following process. They would soak their hair thoroughly with a wash made up of black sulphur, alum, and honey. Then they would repair to the flat house-tops, and, hanging the wet 66 [January, 1867.] masses of their hair over the wide brims of crownless straw hats, would sit there for hours, until even the darkest-eyed brunette of them all would have her raven tresses alchemized into burning gold. That must have been a wondrous and beautiful si~ht, out there on the fiat roofs of Venice, the morning bef& re some great Carnival ball. Will observers who dwell much in attics inform us whether our Ameri- can belles redine out upon the house- tops, aiid lay traps with their tresses to catch thd audacious radiance of the sun? I look out from. my window now, a back window commanding an ex- tensive view of house-tops, fiat, some of them, and others of sufficiently gen- tle slope. I strain my eyes to behold some such beatific vision as might hive dazzled Titian when he emerged from the roof-scuttle ~f his house, and singled o~it for a Madonna some fair and ful- vous one of the bleachers that were spreading their tresses on the~ leads below. l3ut, alas! I see no such gor- geous sight. I sde nothipg more love- ly, in ~fact, than tom-cats and cbinuiey- pots, the sooty tops of the latter of which certainly do not absorb any glory from gilding rays of the warm Oc- tober sun. But the rage for golden hair was nothin~ of a new one in the days of olden Venice. The Greek women had a touch of it, though it was consid- ered meretricious, ifwe are to b& lieve Menander, who in one of his come- dies makes a man ~undle his wife out of doors because she came home one day with her hairstained yellow. And the fashion prevailed among the Ro- man ladies too; by whom it was adopt- ed soon after the conquests of Gaul and Germany, when the tawny hair of the natives of those countries be- came quite the thing in the capital of the Empire. To imitate this the dark- haired belles of Rome had recourse to a pomade, the sj5u;ncz caus/iccz, with which, as Martial tells us, they used to render their locks Teutonic. It seems, too, that yellow hair wheth- er natural or otherwise~. was notable Capillary Freaks. in the time of Horace, since he inquires, tauntingly, of the fascinating Pyrrha, Gui flavain religas comain Simplex munditija? Again, so l~tely as the time of the first Empire, golden or flaxen hair was a folly. of the day, and prevailed much in France. ,A late wiiter mentions a very old lady ~of his acquaintance who told him that ~A hen in Paris many years ago, she wis ~cquamnted with a lady of breat a~e wno uned laughingly to say, Only imanine that I used to be ~illy enough, when I xvas a girl, to wear a li~ht flaxen win The lady who told this about herself was a brie- net/c of the darkest shade; and she fur- ther stated, that in her young days it was a comftrnn fashion for b!ondes to hide their fair locks under d. rh-colored wigs.. Envy was cleariy at work then, and nature at a discoutit. Red hair, rather than flaxen, seems to have touched the fancy - t many periods, both long ag6 and of later years. In Ireland locks of the most fiery hue have long been regarded by the peas- antry as a lovely attribute of beauty. She s an ilinant lady, good luck to her soi e ragged loiterer neam~ a par- riage - window will say. She s a mighty fine woman intirely..; only it s a pity but she. had red hair. And then there is an QId ditty that I re- member often to have heard tr9lied by grooms and ploughinen of the Celtic race, a stave of which runs thus Heighfor the apple, and ho for the pear; But give inc the pretty girl with the red hair. Truly the hair of woman, is a myu- terious and wonderful thing, and one about which hardly anything has been left unwritten, unsaid, or unsung. It seems impossible that any fashi9n~of wearing it can be new. In pi~tures painted centuries ago we see women with their hair made up ~n nets, pre- cisely in a fashion that is very general at the present day. From the peat- bogs of Ireland coils of female hair have been dug, roIled upon great wood- en pins, not unlike the gilt dumb-bella passed sometimes through the chignon.~ Capillary Freaks. worn by women of our period. Hair has been padded, in many ages of the world, just as it is padded now. The Roman women had rats; and the Grecian curls now so often worn by the loveliest of their age and sex were sported in ancient Greece, not only by the women, but by the men. And in this fashion, too, did other na- tions of olden times dress their hair. Old French writers record that Theo- doric le Jeune, king of the Goths, wore his in long, heavy tresses, tozi~els ci la Grecque. It was crimped in front, and combed back, and it is easy to guess that the cozj/feur royal had no easy time of it while he was making a guy of that young Goth. The Loin- bards also wore tresses falling over their ears and down upon their shoul- ders behind; and, atropos of this, here is a legend recorded by some German writer. Once there was a king of the Loin- bards, whose name I have forgotten; but, as I remember the story, he was a man of noble stature, and took much pride in the heavy side-locks of his luxu- riant hair. His immediate body-guard consisted of fifty noblemen, each of them selected for his resemblance to the king in stature and general appear- ance, and they too wore their hair in tresses like those of their royal master. The queens apartments were at a little distance from the palace, and when, af- ter the fatigues of the chase, the king would resort there at even, he usually wore a white mantle wrapped so as partially to conceal his features, and gave a particular countersign to the sentry at the queens gate. Now one of the tall body-guard was an enter- prising young noble, and he bethought himself of a stratagem by which he might oh tam an interview with the queen, who lived in great seclusion, bnt was reputed as being very beauti- ful in person, though in intellect rather the reverse of bright. Ascertaining that the king would return at least an hour later than usual from the chase, on a particular day, the young guardsman, who bore a remarkable personal re semblance to his master, wrapped him- self at evening in a white mantle, and, having possessed himself in some way of the countersign, passed the sentry at the queens gate, and entered the royal apartments. A favoring twilight prevailed there. The air was languid with the odor of essences and mellow fruits, and the audacious guardsman could see that the queen xvas very beautiful indeed, as she reclined among velvet cushions and sipped the bever- age most in fashion among the Lom- bard ladies of the day, whatever that might have been. On a table before her there was a toothsome spread, supper for two, and of this the am- bitious young warrior partook. Then he made himself quite at home for an hour or so, till he thought that it might not be safe for him to remain there any longer; so he kissed her most gracious Majesty the queen, only think of that / and, quietly withdrawing from the premises, returned to his own quarters. He had not been gone five minutes when the king, ~vrapped in his white mantle, strode past the astonished sen- try and entered the queens apartments. Your Majesty does me great honor this evening- sai cI the partner of his royal bosom. It is not often that you return so quickly after having kissed me good-night. Ha! ha! exclaimed the quick-wit- ted monarch, carrying his hand to his dagger ; have we rats here ? I think I smell one, and so here goes to ferret him out of his retreat Hastening to the dormitory in which his fifty guardsmen slept, the king en- tered softly, armed with his dagger and a dark lantern. There, on fifty camp- beds, all in a row, lay his fifty doubles, wrapped, apparently, in deep slumber, and looking as like each other as a roxv of peas upon the half-shell. The kinb threw the light of his lantern upon the first bed, and, approaching it, laid his hand lightly over the sleepers heart. He sleeps well, thought he ; the culprits heart will scarce beat so light- ly as that. And on he went, along the 68 [January, 1867.] Capillary Freaks. 69 row of beds, trying each sleepers heart as he went, but finding no flutter until he came to the last. The sleep of that stalwart young nobleman was so calm and deep, apparently, that it might have been taken for death, had it not been accompanied by a sonorous and healthy snore; but when the king came to lay his hand over the snorers heart, he found it beating like a drum. This is my man, muttered he, be- tween his teeth. His lifes blood is up in evidence against him, and I will have it. Then, raising his dagger, he was about to plunge it into the noble young snorers heart, when another idea ar- rested him. I will not kill him now, thought he. Justice before all; and he shall have a fair trial on the morrow. But meantime, here goes to mark him; for I can hardly tell one of these fellows of mine from the other, nor from my- self, for the matter of that. And with these words he gathered together the flowing tresses on the left side of the warriors head, and, having cut them off with the sharp edge of his dagger, walked out from the dormitory as soft- ly as he had come. Morning had hardly dawned when the king, fuming with rage, and bent on vengeance, ordered his fifty pet guardsmen to be paraded before him, while he chuckled inwardly at his own sagacity in det~cting and putting a mark on the delinquent the night be- fore. But lo and behold! when the parade was formed, not a man of the whole fifty had locks on the left side of his head; for the gay young guards- man, who was wide awake when the king came to his bedside, had arisen quietly in the night and docked them of their tresses all round. And so the king of the Lombards was balked of his vengeance; for his fifty noble ~var riqrs all looked so like each other, and so innocent, there in the gray light of morning, that he could neither point out the man who had the palpitant heart, nor find it in his own to order his body-guard for execution in the bulk. In the sixteenth century a curious circumstance threw tresses out of fash ion in France, amongst men, at least. Francis I., who wore his hair in that style, met with an accident while en- ga~ed in a sham fight with snowballs. He was attacking a position which the Count de St. Pol was defending, each accompanied by his band of followers, when a firebrand, thrown by mistake, (a rather queer mistake that, by the by, not to know a firebrand from a snowball!) caught the king upon the head and burnt off his hair; and so the barbers had plenty to do in clipping away the tresses of the courtiers and young men about town, who of course could not think of wearing their hair differently from the king. A few artists affect the Greek tresses in our time; but for men the style is considered decidedly eccentric, and it must be rather inconvenient to the wearer, under many circumstances to which men are liable in active life. Cork-screw curls have always wriggled themselves into fashion with men, as xvell as with women, from time to time. At present they are wholly provincial, and, even in the rural districts, are looked upon as a sign hung out by des- perate maiden ladies of uncertain years, alone; but we shall see them in the market again, by and by, when the waterfall shall have dried up, and the rats deserted the tottering cas- tle that now beetles upon the summit of my ladys brow. Only a few years ago it was a common fashion for ladies to train a small curl on each temple, to which it was affixed with bandoline or gum. These appendages were called accroclze-cwurs by the French; and heart-hooks indeed they were, sug- gesting the idea of the barbed steel belonging to the salmon-fly of the an- gler; while the rest of the lady might have been compared, not unaptly, to the gay combination of silk and feathers with which that deceptive and artificial insect is usually made up. And to think that red hair should he a coveted distinction, now, and of the obloquy that used to be heaped upon the red-head a few short years ago I Aunty, says the enfant /errille of Capillary Freaks. [January, 70 some caricature, addressing a lady of rufose temperament, is it true that you dress your hair \Vith tomato ketch- up? Few of us but have reminis- cences of sonic hanless schoolfellow who led a does life on account of his red hair. Well I remember one such, whose young Gays were embittered by the odium ~ r0, n upon the volcanic summit eture had marked him for ilology ran riot in the schoot ~or cretnets wherewith to assail tim I!,, m11~nate youth. We would tell lvm to he must be the ~vork of are. Did his mother additional policy of insura u ,n the pre~ses when he went o~ ~ n vcat~ons Used they to ~UL etnoer in his pap when he was a Lao or I iickbats or red peppers, 01 \vh t ~ One day the leading 1 ~o o ~t o~ the scl co came rushing o s t c. play ground with a pail o. \m~L.. c a Fiie fire with all by un and befoie the boys conY coi1ec~ themselves to ask Where Ge e e oguishecl the un- lucky Ru~uius oy Gashing the contents of the pm ovci ns devoted head. It seems that cven when red heads were least in ~ oi the color was not consider 4 ob ~ehonable as applying to the beuc In modern times, gener- ally, a mm, v ~h -~ beard like a brick might go tiroTh life unchaffed. Old Butler dees no~ seem to he absolutely disparagin~ his hero when he describes him as a man Wit~ be~d so like a tile, A mdde cxt it might begujic. But it b~i.s not ben so in all times and countries dwardss Remi niscence~ ~ en 1 Civilian, it is re- lated bow Delhi came to be sacked by Nadir Shah. Some time urevious to that event, it seems. an Affelian officer employed in the Deccan came to Delhi to pay his re~pects to the Emperor. 1-le happened to have a long red beard, and the courtiers, on his entering the hail of audience, jeered him, saying, What next? here we have now a red-haired baboon come to court! To this the officer retorted, I will tell you what next, that before a year is over I will fill Delhi itself, as well as the palaces, with red-bearded baboons like me. Then he ~vent away in a great rage, and sent off a messenger to Nadir Shah with a letter, saying, You are wanted here, for all are old women now in Delhi. Nadir answered the summons; and, on his arrival, plun- dered the city and put its inhabitants to the sword. But there was a time when, in France at least, red beards were much in vogue. This was toward the close of the sixteenth century, when dyes and various other preparations were used for procurin~ the desired tint, and the height of the mode then was to have the head black and the beard red. There must have been a /iu-ore about the thing, in fact, for Pierre le Guillard, a bard of the time. pub- lished a poem called Eloge des ]Jdrbes Rousses. Few things, ad opted with intention to deceive, are less decentive than wigs. Many a man has worn a wi(~ for years, quite satisfled in his own mimi that thie secret rests between himseh and his artist in hair ; bu~ toat is all a delu- sion. The blanched ha ~lill crop out at the nane of the neck 01 the unnat- ural iuxur~ance 01 be tie id oear in jux tanosiloon with crows feet and pendu- lous cheeks will tell the tale. I can re- call but two instances \vithin m~ own ooservation in which there was an entire absence on the part of wig- wearers of any attempt to deceive. One was the case of a young man of very dark com iDle ion, who, having had his head shaved after an attack of illness, burrowed the flaxen w~g of a friend who had left off wearing it, audi a very funny contrast it macic with the raven wilisicers of that honest young man. The other case which recurs to me was of a still more praiseworthy and honorable kind. Years ~go I was acquainted with a gentleman very much of the old school, an elderly gentle- man, who wore a thick cravat, and whose starched shirt-collars threatened continually to saw off his ears. In the morning this old gentleman would usu Capillary Freaks. 1867.] ally make his appearance in a glossy erally. Frequent changes took place brown wig, having a stiff roll, or tube, in the form of the beard, sometimes to it, extending across the nape of the mustaches only being worn, and some- neck from ear to ear. Observe him in times clean shaiving being the order of his afternoon trim, and his wig would the day; while, anon, conceits the most be a white one instead of a brown, . a fantastic were devised with all the hair sort of sunny white peruke, that accord- that could be grown upon the cheeks ed much better with his years than the and chin. Perhaps it will be interest- gay and juvenile one of his morning ing to the ladies to know that, eight style. There was something typical in centuries ago, the waterfall was ab- this,each day being, with that fine solutely a masculine append4ge, and old gentleman, an epitome of the morn- quite the thing among men of fashion in~ and evening of life. Among the in France. T.he mode was known as ancient Roi~ans, the yellow hair of the le visage en cascade, and the hair, Germans was in much request for wigs; mustache, and beard were combined and the Loyptians of old wore wigs to produce the effect. To represent very ~enerai,~, though more on the the upper fall, the hair was cut evenly princ o~ cleanliness than from any all round the head. The mustaches, foppiTh corn~eit By far the greatest worn very heavy and drooping, formed absuidity nowever, that has ever been the second fail,,and the third was ably perpetr Lied in the way of a wig, is the simulated by the long, pointed beard. pert little (~rizzlv horse-hair one worn It was in this wonderful guise that Hu- by the ILritisi~ barrister while in court. gues, Count of Chalons, appeared when It sits upon the top of the head like a conquered by Richard of Normandy, cat upon a town-pump, and the con-, before whom he went on all-fours with trast frequently. made by it with whis- a saddle on his back, in token of sub- kers that are very red or very black is mission. Even the grave old chron- often ludicrous in the extreme. In the icler who relates this appears to have last century, and until toward the close been touched by the ludicrous points of it, I believe, a curious fashion pre- of the scene, for he dryly remarks that vailcd among the Irish peasantry of Hugues, in spite of the saddle, might wearing a small red scratch wig over better have passed for a goat than for the natural hair. These were called a horse ~:~bearded en cascade as he was. bay wigs, a term which was fastened About this time too,, the beard was so as a nickname on the wearers; and it highly honored that epithets were taken was a common thing then for an Irish~ from,it. There was Geoffroi le Barbu, peasant to whip off his wig when a dis- for instance, and Baudoin ~ la belle tinguished visitor entered his cabin, Barbe. Likewise the atrocious Gilles and, having dusted a chair with it for de Laval, Mar& hal de Retz, who was the arrivai, to replace it upon his head. called Barbe-Bleu, and was undoubted- I remember, when a boy, how we had ly the orioinal Bluebeard of the old a tradition among us of a c~rtain parrot nursery tale. The history of this dia- then long, passed ~way, who, had been bolical wretch and his crimes has been taught to pronounce the word bay- written in compendious form by Paul wi~in a very lo~id and distinct voice, Lacroix (Bibliophile 7acob). 1-us beard and whose delight it was to vociferate is described as having been of a light it from his cage iiear some high,, window, color, shot with tinges of blue when to the great discoi~fi,ture and scandal seen in certain lights. Whether ,this of the honest farmers as the passed be true or otherwise, there is no doubt to and fro on their business in the old attaching to the records of his horrible market-town. crimes, which he expiated by being Throughout the past centuries, France hanged on a gallows, after which his appears to have set the fashion in body was burnt to ashes, and the ashes beards for the neighboring nations, gen- scattered to the four winds. 72 Capillary Frcaks. [January, Toward the close of the fourteenth century, a very remarkable beard made its appearance in France. It was worn by an impostor calling himself the Patriarch of Constantinople, who came to Paris in 1392. There was much ex- citement about it at the time, and some of the chroniclers hint that it might have been an artificial beard; for these appendages had then been lately in- vented by a Spaniard, whose name has not survived him, and it is said that they came into very general fash- ion in Spain, so much so, indeed, that nearly every person who had any beard used to shave it off and replace it with a false one. These sham beards were as various in form and color as are the ckz~ozons and coils now worn by women; and it was customary to change the beard two or three times a day, just as the old gentleman already introduced to the reader used to change his wig. So ahsurd was the excess to which this whim was pushed, that Don Pedro, king of Arago n, issued an edict in the year 1351 against wearinb false beards. It seems to have been easy, in the old times, to get up a fashion for beards in France. We read that, in 1599, as the Mar6chal de Beaumanoir was hunt- ing in the forests of Maine, some of his cizasseurs brought to him.a man whom they had found sleeping in a thicket. This singular being had two horns like those of a ram growing upon his fore- head. His head was quite destitute of hair, but he had a large red beard, which grew in tufts or flakes, like that of a satyr; and the Parisians, who were much excited by the accounts that came in about him, immediately took to dressing their beards enfocons, a mode which prevailed for some time. At various periods beards were regu- lated by law. In 1533, Francis I. issued an edict ordaining that Bohemians, Egyptians, and other persons of that sort should be arrested, shaved, and committed to the galleys. It is said that the Parliament of Toulouse forbade the wearing of beards, and that, when a certain gentleman, furnished with a very long one, brought some claims be- fore that body, he was told that they could not be entertained until he had shaven his face clean. Indeed, so much controversy took place at this time re- garding the beard, that the learned doc- tor Gentien 1-lervet wrote a discourse upon the subject, which was printed at Orleans in 1536. He divided his dis- course into three. sections. The first maintained that all men ought to allow their beards to grow; the second, that all men ought to shave their beards off; and the third, that every man should do just as he pleases about his beard. Twenty years later, beards were again much in vogue. Th eywere worn in the swallow-tail cut now-, and there were fan-tail beards to be seen also, as well as many other strange and grotesque devices in the arrangement of the facial hair. A great variety of unguents for the beard were also brought into use at this time, all of different colors and perfumes. The beard, at this period, was generally made up at night, and placed in a bag to prevent it from getting out of form. It became the proper thing now, in France, to carry a small brush for the purpose of arranging fhe mustache, an office which ladies would sometimes perform for their beaux, and great value was at- tached to a mustache that had been put in form for the wearer by some fair hand. In those periods in which the mus- tache alone was worn, it varied in form at least as much as it does at the present day. Charlemagne, who was opposed to full beards, restored mus- taches to favor ; and the style then was to wear them very long, twisted to a point at either end, and drooping down to the chest. Charles le Chauve is rep- resented with mustaches of this cut, and his reign has sometimes been called the reign of Mozistachzesci ha Gki- noise. Later still, the inconvenience of the long mustache gave rise to the fashion of cutting it short and trimming it to a square form; and in the reign of Louis le Jeune, about the year 149, it began to be worn short and bristly, Capillary Freaks. somewhat like a brush. Thus it was that the Normans, at the beginning of the tenth century, used to dress their upper lips, the stubbly, brush-like mus- tache being considered by them a sym- bol of courage, as it also seems to be by the roughs of modern times. At last, as the centuries rolled on, beards went out of fashion altob ether in France. The extreme youth of Louis XI II., when he came to the throne, was a staggering blow to them; and even when his beard did begin to grow, he always had it shaved clean off. When Sully, who wore a flowing beard, came to the court of Louis, he was an object for the sneers and derision of the young courtiers, nettled at which, the old man said to the king, When your father did me the honor to consult me upon important affairs of state, he always used to dismiss the merry-andrews and jack-puddings from the chamber. But, to make amends for the loss of beards in this reign, fashion ordained that wonderful structures should be erected upon the human head. Hair-powder came into use now, and numerous top- dressings arose in the way of periwigs and perukes of extravabant size. Thack- Cray, in his Paris Sketch-Book, I think, had a caricature showing the make-up of little Louis in one of these awful hair towers, which he wore to give him height. By and by, when Louis XIV. mounted the throne, beards fell into disrepute, the introduction of snuff tending to hasten their decline; and so, when the eighteenth century dawned, very few persons were to be seen with beards, the last to wear them being the Capuchin friars. Then a new era beamed out for the fashions in human hair. All through this century, and well on into the pres- ent one, hair-powder continued to be used by both sexes, its origin being traceable, probably, to the desire for concealing gray hair. Queues became the fashion among men. Sometimes these were made up in the form called clubs, which bore some resemblance to the ckzgno;zs of to-day. There was a vast deal of time and trouble wasted upon these absurd appendages. Sob diers, in particular, had a hard time of it with their queues, which they were obliged to arrange with the greatest accuracy for every parade; and there still exists a reminiscence of the barba- rism in one of the English fusileer regi- ments, the officers of which, when in full uniform, wear between their shoul- ders the broad black ribbon on which the queue of bygone days was wont to rest. Early in the present century ali these fashions went gradually out of vogue. Women began to wear their hair in a simple coil behind, confining it with a high tortoise-shell comb, such as the Yankee female of the stage wears at the present day. Corkscrew ringlets were also in favor now. Men took to wearing their hair closely cropped, except on the top of the fore- head, from which it was brushed up into a high peak called a topping, a style which would be rather incon- venient with the low hats now so gen- erally worn. The beard was tolerated on the cheeks only. In England, es- pecially, the whiskers were trimmed to a form not unaptly likened to that of a mutton-chop; and there was a military regulation in force within a few years past, that the soldier, in shav- ing, was to draw his razor on an imagi- nary line running from the corner of the mouth to the but of the ear, and so downwards over the maxillary tracts to the chin and throat. In some of the armies of Continental Europe, at this period, cavalry soldiers wore heavy mustaches; but it was not until after the close of the Peninsular war that the style was adopted by English bus- sars. Among the peasantry, mus- taches were then looked upon with an awe that almost verged on superstition. It is related of the eldest son of Sir Walter Scott, then a gallant dragoon officer quartered with his regiment in Ireland, that the mail- coach, on the top of which he once happened to be travelling, was beset, in some small town, by a ragged host of beggars. One old harridan was so importunate for alms that Major Scott at last threw her 1867.] 73 Capillary Freaks. a half-crown, a donation so unusually liberal for those parts that the beggar- woman exclaimed with effusion, Ya, thn, may Heaven bless yer honer, for it s betther to us ye are nor the Chris- tians! The Major xvore a tremen- dous mustache, twisted up at the ends nearly to the cheek-bones, and the wo- man probably took him for a Turk, or some other heretical monster from foreign parts. Thirty or forty years a~o, beards again began to be revived in France. For some time they were of revolution- ary import, and, when associated with closely cropped heads, were apt to sub- ject the wearer to the delicate attentions of the police. In England, at this time, civilians but seldom ventured on the mustache. It is wonderful how strong was the prejudice maintained against this accessory among the staid elderly gentlemen of the period. A man wear- ing a mustache was regarded by them as an adventurer at best, and possibly a swindler. Representative gentlemen of the Regency school, with high. black stocksover xvhich their cheeks hung in jowls and no shirt-collars, would tap their foreheads significantly when some young innovator with mustaches hove in sight, and s av, with a wink, Lodgings to let yonder, meaning that hair on the upper lip is a sign of unfurnished anartm nts in the head. To the young ladies, however, there has. ever been something sweetly wicked in the twirl of a mustache, and that it was thus even in Tom Moores time is shown by that letter in the Twopenny Post-Bao wherein a yot~ng lady tells her bosom friend about a certain fas- cinating gentleman in Paris, With mustachios that give what we read of so oft, The dear corsair expression. half savage, half soft. During many years of the past, and for some fifty of the present century, it seems to have been customary for Americans to shave off all the beard. Even the men of the mountains and plains bunters, trappers, and guides wore no beards, as a general thing, until within a few years past. A de- parture from this fashion began t oap pear soon after the discovery of gold in California, and there is little doubt that the picturesque appearance presented by miners returning from the dig- gings had much to do with the gen- eral introduction of mustaches and beards. In England these did not be- come general until after the Crimean war, during which struggle the razor was abandoned by the army, infantry as well as cavalry adopting the full beard, which, with certain modifica- tions, is still worn by them. Then civilians slowly, however, and with sheepish reservebegan to let their mustaches grow. Innovation is a hard card to play in England. Bankers, in many instances, actually threatened their clerks with dismissal if they showed the sliohtest appearance of an incipient mustache, and this was hardly ten years ago ! Much was writ- ten upon the subject at this time, and at last the metlical f-culty entered the lists, in defence of beards. Instances were adduced by them, showin~ the value of the appenda~e in a sanitary point of view. The stone-masons of Edinburgh and Glasgow had long been subject to pulmonary diseases induced by the fine dust inhaled by them during their work ; but the doctors advised them to let their beards grow, and there were fewer complaints thereafter about their lungs. At last the fogies who objected to the beard began to think that there must be something in it, and some among them would pluck up sufficient moral courage to drop the razor for a day or two. These daring snirits kept well in the dark, however. They would retire to remote corners of the country for a week or a month, to conceal the awzzvaise /zo;rte experienced by them under the stigma of growing a mustache. If they chanced to be stumhled on bx- an acquaintance, then they would pretend to blow their noses, so that the pocket-handkerchief might screen their folly from his inquiring gaze. It was very slow work, to be sure, getting people to separate the idea of folly, or of criminality, from the fact of wearing hair upon the lip. Says one 74 [January, i86~.] Katharine Monte. 75 fogy to another, in my hearing, once, course is fully ripe to-day, and every Only think of an attorney with a man aoes exactly as he pleases with mustache! To which says the other, regard to his beard, We have it Qf all You did nt employ him, I hope! sorts and sizes now. ,,Here we see a Rut they all came to it, at last. I re- swell barbedafter ~Jie drooping f4sh- member, not many years ago, ajawyer, ion known here as ,~ ~nglish whis- of the priggish stamp, pointing to his kers, hut cherished by~ the London mouth; and sayin~ to an acquaint. nce 6ocl~neys as Piccadilly, weepers. whom he had not ~een for some time There goes a busfoe~s person with previously, and who had grown a tnus- beard as forked, as ~the lightning, and tache in the interyal, 0, I see you almot as fiery; and by, him, there. have been weak,~ enough ! About shoulders, a pmfessional bully, wi~li two years afterwards the I wyer, then short, blue-bl~tch mustaches, nestling wearing a yerv full mustache, and a,~ closely under his puggy nose. And very red one too, met the saii~e ~c- lo! to ,crowr~ all, here, 9omes some- quaintance, ,wl~o gave him the retort, bodys grandfather, looking like an arc-, justifiable with, 0, I see you have tic owl in the wYiiteness of his thick~ been weak enough! and a signi~ican~ puffy beard, a,, worthy. old gentle- jerk of ,jiis thumb. man, who, twenty-five years ago, would Now-a-days no man is martyred for have di~inheriteda son for letting twelve his heresy on the s4ject of ~ razor. hairs have their wi~ked way upon his The fruit of old Gentien Hervets dis- upper lipi KKTHARINE MORNE. PART III. CHAPTER VIII. and only put her little hand out back wards to welcome n~e. It felt almost IN the afternoon of the day following as muchilike snow as it lool ed I made it a point to look after why, NeUy; darling ! ~ said ~ up Nelly; for the Doctor always said it here, all ~lpne a~d cold, in the dark~, was very important to keep her out of Yes. doors as much as was nossibie without It was all, I~ st~spected, that the poor over fatiouin~ her ~nd to make tI e ittle voice could steady itself enough,, most of the ~~ne we1t~~r while t kst to answer; and there was ~a gasping ed,; and since I saw ncr ia~t hei little sirtli that seemed to come with it out pale, piteous, non. ~css face n2d 1 aunted of her heart.:, me so that I con I not rcs ~il I h d ~oe.~ your head ache? Has any- tried to do ~ometmn~r to ma ~ it b~~~ht thing happened to trouble you? er. She was not bctow. Mrs. Gum- Not lately. berhnd caine to the d~or, and insisted What Is the matter, Nelly? upon taking me, up stairs. Nellys I dont spppose .~ ought to say any- small chamber was darkened. She sat thing is, when I have so many corn- in one corner of it, in the old-fashioned forts, and yoni to come and see me. easy-chair, pressing her forehead, I Aunt Cumberland says a great, many could see, hard against the side. She people are as happy as the day is long, kept her face turned away as I entered, who have nt~~ half so much as I to

The author of 'Herman' The author of 'Herman' Katharine Morne. III 75-88

i86~.] Katharine Monte. 75 fogy to another, in my hearing, once, course is fully ripe to-day, and every Only think of an attorney with a man aoes exactly as he pleases with mustache! To which says the other, regard to his beard, We have it Qf all You did nt employ him, I hope! sorts and sizes now. ,,Here we see a Rut they all came to it, at last. I re- swell barbedafter ~Jie drooping f4sh- member, not many years ago, ajawyer, ion known here as ,~ ~nglish whis- of the priggish stamp, pointing to his kers, hut cherished by~ the London mouth; and sayin~ to an acquaint. nce 6ocl~neys as Piccadilly, weepers. whom he had not ~een for some time There goes a busfoe~s person with previously, and who had grown a tnus- beard as forked, as ~the lightning, and tache in the interyal, 0, I see you almot as fiery; and by, him, there. have been weak,~ enough ! About shoulders, a pmfessional bully, wi~li two years afterwards the I wyer, then short, blue-bl~tch mustaches, nestling wearing a yerv full mustache, and a,~ closely under his puggy nose. And very red one too, met the saii~e ~c- lo! to ,crowr~ all, here, 9omes some- quaintance, ,wl~o gave him the retort, bodys grandfather, looking like an arc-, justifiable with, 0, I see you have tic owl in the wYiiteness of his thick~ been weak enough! and a signi~ican~ puffy beard, a,, worthy. old gentle- jerk of ,jiis thumb. man, who, twenty-five years ago, would Now-a-days no man is martyred for have di~inheriteda son for letting twelve his heresy on the s4ject of ~ razor. hairs have their wi~ked way upon his The fruit of old Gentien Hervets dis- upper lipi KKTHARINE MORNE. PART III. CHAPTER VIII. and only put her little hand out back wards to welcome n~e. It felt almost IN the afternoon of the day following as muchilike snow as it lool ed I made it a point to look after why, NeUy; darling ! ~ said ~ up Nelly; for the Doctor always said it here, all ~lpne a~d cold, in the dark~, was very important to keep her out of Yes. doors as much as was nossibie without It was all, I~ st~spected, that the poor over fatiouin~ her ~nd to make tI e ittle voice could steady itself enough,, most of the ~~ne we1t~~r while t kst to answer; and there was ~a gasping ed,; and since I saw ncr ia~t hei little sirtli that seemed to come with it out pale, piteous, non. ~css face n2d 1 aunted of her heart.:, me so that I con I not rcs ~il I h d ~oe.~ your head ache? Has any- tried to do ~ometmn~r to ma ~ it b~~~ht thing happened to trouble you? er. She was not bctow. Mrs. Gum- Not lately. berhnd caine to the d~or, and insisted What Is the matter, Nelly? upon taking me, up stairs. Nellys I dont spppose .~ ought to say any- small chamber was darkened. She sat thing is, when I have so many corn- in one corner of it, in the old-fashioned forts, and yoni to come and see me. easy-chair, pressing her forehead, I Aunt Cumberland says a great, many could see, hard against the side. She people are as happy as the day is long, kept her face turned away as I entered, who have nt~~ half so much as I to 76 Katkari;zc Morne. [January, make them. It can only be because I am so all wrong, and feel so wrong. If I were only good and grateful and re- signed, I might be very hap blessed. Perhaps you are more blessed than you think, already, you dear little pet, and more grateful than some of the well and happy people. But we must try to get you ~vell and happy too. What would you like best now, if you could have just what you wanted to make you happy? Think, and tell me. It would nt do any good. 0, yes, perhaps it would. Let me hear; and see if we cant get it. She turned her weary, wistful eyes suddenly round to mine. I should like I should like 0, I cant say what I should like; but I think the best thing that could happen to me would be to be very good now, and then, by and by, in Gods own time, to die. But that, darling, must be just what God wishes for you. If you wish it, and God wishes it too, what can pre- vent it? Nothino~ I dont wish it half the time, said she, hastily ; I m impatient and wicked! She could not go on, but kissed my hand, and pressed it to her lips with a tremulous earnestness that seemed to beg me to say more. It is a beautiful and holy wish, dar- ling, and sure to be fulfilled, that is, if you do your part towards its fulfil- ment; for God will most surely do His. Still she kissed and pressed my hand, and could not speak. XVhatever other things our Heaven- ly Father withholds from you and me, Nelly, I do believe He stands ready to bestow on us these three, content- ment, gratitude, and the guidance of His Holy Spirit; and whoever has these need not envy the blessed angels, and will soon be among them. I wish you could always talk to me, and other people be still! Come out to walk with me then, and we will talk some more. I was afraid I had not given her much com- fort; but I changed the subject, be- cause I saw it was as she had said: she could not tell me what she would like best, or, if she did, it would not do any good. But what I had said to her still rested in my own heart and com- forted me. It seemed easier to be xvise for Nelly, than to be wise for myself. I could not have said it, even to her, a few months before. I had but just entered my nineteenth year; and my faith was still in its elements. When things went well with me in my girl- hood, the Gospel and the spirit as I re- ceived them at home from my mothers life and teachings were wont to come uppermost in my mind; when things went ill, I was apt to fall back upon the law and the letter as expounded by Miss Mehitable and her peers. (By the way, I cannot but wonder at the guile- less confidence that ever turns poor in- nocents adrift into a Sunday school, without any previous knowledge of what their teachers are or are to teach. Imagine the quantities and qualities of spiritual wild-oats that may he sown there in their little souls !) But as I was about to say, within the last few months the same change ha dbeen going on in me that I was carrying out in Fannys Bible, where, leaving every gentle tracing of her pencil be- side the texts that helped to make her what she was, I was little by little rub- bing out the black, jagged, tizunderboizy lines of Miss Mehitable, that seemed to point every threat, and drive each denunciation in, with something of the vengeful wrath of human judgments. When I brought Nelly back again from our walk, she said to me, It has done me good to be with you. It gives me strength and calm. A coincidence ! exclaimed I. Do you know ? I was just thinking al- most the very same thing about my being with you. She looked surprised, but really very much pleased, as she turned to creep up stairs. Mrs. Cumberland followed me stealth- ily out of the house, and, with many nods, becks, and wreathed winks, allured me into the yard. She took 1867.1 Katharine Morne. the pump by the handle, and said in a stage-whisper, Has Nelly told you yet what s the matter of her ? No. La, it s nothin in the world but jest gittin her head turned after that nasty little Sam Blight. When I fust put it to her, she made me promise not to pass a hint of it to nobody, or I blieve she d have gone right off into a brain-fever; an it wa nt a very pooty thing to tell the Doctor; hut I dont call you nobody. But what made you think it was that? asked I, hardly knowing wheth- er to laugh or to cry. Cause he was here, forever, a talkin an readin poitry with her; an the day he xvent to Ne York, she be- gun cryin, an she s cried ever since. Poor little dear! But what an escape for her! Yes, so I always keep a tellin of her; an now I want you jest to give her some sensible advice. You ye got edication; an she thinks everything of you. She d think twice as much of anything you d say. I ye amost talked niy tongue off; but la! I might jest as well talk to the winds. Please not to tell her that I know anything about it, then, Mrs. Cumber- land; and I will think what I can do. I walked homewards, full indeed of thought. Sam Blight! Here was a revelation! Mrs. Cumberland was not euphemistic ; but her characterization of hiln lay open in my judgment to no other criticism. I knew him a little, which was more than enough, before I went to Greenville, and knew in him a promising sample of that most unpleas- ant class of small mortals, the little bad men who strive to form themselves upon the model of the great bad men, and succeed only in making themselves up of every creatures worst. Slender legs, ti~0O my word He was a pretty fellow 1-le turned down his collar from his very baa throat, because Lord Byron had his from his very fat one, and professed to pore day and night over 77 what he was in the habit of pronoun- cing po-ums by Gaiter. He was obliged to read them in English, to be sure ; ( Pardon, monsieur, je nen vois pas la n6cessit6! as the great French minister said to the poor French jour- nalist, who said to him, 11 faut que je vive ;) but he apparently managed to extract quite as much mischief from them as if he could have had the bene- fit of the original. Altogether, the idea of anybodys being affected in the least otherwise, at least, than agreeably by his absence, was to me so comical that my risibles could not have stood it, if it had not been for the thought of my helpless little friends peace and welfare being in any degree in the power of so selfish and unscrupulous a person. Her distress and despair made the matter tragic enough. I should not now regret my own ex- perience so much, mysterious as it seemed, and hard as I often found it still to bear, if it only helped me to discover some way to help her. What had aided me? First, change of scene; secondly, finding myself beloved and valued by some whose love and esteem were honorable and dear to me ; third- ly, having others to think and care about than myself, and one who did not especially care for me, and whom it was desirable for me to think and care less about. Now for Nelly. First, the scene was already changed to the poor little soul, more than enough, no doubt, in her opinion, by the departure of the too captivating Sam; and I would try to vary it further by taking her about with me, as often as I could, to one or other of the grandest and most beautiful spots in the neighborhood. Secondly, I would endeavor to love her more and more, it was becoming easier and easier, and to show her that I did so. Third- ly, I would beg for her a little frisking, fondling Maltese kitten, possessed of white mittens, a white neckerchief, white nose, white point in the very middle of the forehead, and all the fin- est points that a kitten can have. Such a one was a supernumerary in our es Katktv-ine Morne. tablishment, and was soon to be sent out into a too often heartless world to seek its fortune. I would enjoin upon Nelly to name it for me, to make it a crimson velvet collar, and to cherish it for my sake. This would be but a childish resource; but Nelly was not much better than a child. I had got no further with my devices, when I saw Dr. Physick coming to meet me. I did think he might pave been allowed a hint of the state of the case; but it was no business of mine to give it; and perhaps I should hardly have had the heart, when I came to ask myself how I should like to have him or even a more honorable and kind- hearted man, if one could be found know what came so near making me ill myself in the hay-field, not a year before. At any rate, I stood on my guard as well as I could. I saw you walking with Nelly Fa- der. Have you been able to make out yet whether she has anything on her mind? Why, I am afraid that like most other people, I suppose she has some causes of regret; but I should think that she exaggerated them very much. Of course. People always do when they get brooding, with their attention concentrated on themselves and their troubles. The heart metaphorical, as well as the heart literal, caA be put or kept out of order in that way. But can these causes you speak of be re- moved? So far as I see, only by making her cease to regret them. And there her physical feebleness is very much against her. It is as hard for Nelly, no doubt, just now to throw off any burden that rests on her mind, as it would be for her to get rid of a hundred-pound weight if it fell on her body. Is that so ? Certainly. It is not easy for a sound, sensible, industrious uirl like you, to conceive of such a condition as hers, I suppose, and I know it is not for a robust, hard-working, matter-of- fact fellow like me; but I have met with it often enough to believe in it and pity it, or at least to try to. To say that I admire it, might be going a little too far. And so, Katy, the moral of Miss Nellys story for you is, If you want always to come off victorious in encounters with the vapors, indulge in beeves and mut- tons, bread and milk, bread and Lutter, ripe fruit and vegetables, as you do, and in air and exercise, as you dont. Why, Doctor, when have I stayed in the house all day? Pretty much all last week, did nt you ? But it rained so! Do you mean that I am to go out in all weathers? Why no, my dear, I should nt like to say that you were to go out in all weath- ers, tornadoes, now, and simooms, or such weather as they had in Sodom and Gomorrah, even, I should nt advise you to expose yourself to that. Some of my patients, too, who are less imprudent in going out than they are in staying in, give me accounts sometimes of its raining cats and dogs. You need not go out when it rains cats and dogs; at least, without a good strong umbrella and impervious draperies and boots, you need nt. But you can get up and put away your books and work and healthful play, that Julia sings to little Phil about, and put on your wrap- pings, and go down to the door, and put out your nose ; and if that is taken oW you can take the rest of yourself in again. Barbarous! exclaimed I, making talk to keep him from getting back up- on the subject of Nelly. Nothino~ shall ever induce me to put myself into your professional hands, unless it is some very extremity of pain or danger; and in that case I shall make it a point to writhe and scream every moment, to make and keep you aware that I am not about to jump up and dance. I give you leave, what is more, I defy you ! Your sort wont writhe or scream if they die for it, and do die sometimes just because they wont. Teach Nelly to give up poetry and pastry, and she 11 grow more like you, perhaps. 78 [January, Katharine illorne. 79 Indeed, Doctor, in order to that, I fear I should be oblibed to give some lessons to a much more impracticable person than Nelly. I hope I am not doing wrong to tell tales out of school; but the day that Mrs; Cumberland in- sisted on friy staying to dine with her, ~she had nothinb on the table but veal pie and sausages... Nelly cOuld not eat much of either, to be sui~e, because Mrs. Cumberland had made her a lem- on custard for luncheon. Mid she had eaten it? She could not well help it. How long before~ . An hour or two, I should think. Well, there are some excuses for a niece of her aunts, I admit. 0, these frightful females ~n whom the slander- ously so-called feminine element pre- dominates! How I wish that all who romance about them had them to deal with! The lectures that I. have wasted on that un~worthy woman! What are you to do? She is nt a child, and you cant shake her; and she is nt a ra- tional adult, and you cant reason with her. If, instead of passing her life as she does, in baiting dyspepsia-traps for herself and her neighbors, she would only, I wont say inform her mind; for I never could find that she had any, but merely, like any intelligent animal, learn to do as she is bid! I tell her Nelly needs sunshine. She will keep that child stewing herself over the cooking- stove, cooking up things that it s a sin to cook up at all, till she s too much exhausted to stir out of doors, and then tells me, The fire s as warm as the sun. She gives Nelly any quack medicine, too, that comes in her way. I literally caught her once in the act of administering something that I knew to be chemically incompatible with wh~at the poor girl was taking by my orders ; and Mrs. Cumberland tells me she keeps on with mine just the s~ime, and so it gives her two chances for one. I wish Mrs. Cumberland could go down in town every day and keep the apothecarys shop, and Mr. Wardour stay at home and keep Nelly. You w~uld rather have all my pa- tients poisoned than one, hey? Here we both became speechless; and I slippdd by him into the, house and up to my chamber, which was just over the office. I had not been there long when, throu~h the open window, I heard a voice below ask for the Doctor. I thought I had heard it before. It sound- ed to me like little Paul Dudleys, but more sharp and less steady. Walk in, saidtl~e Doctor. How doyoudo? General health perfect, owing to a globule of: ~ ft iu~is, administered to me in the cradle by a hom~opathic andestres~. Particular ailment, I ye broken my boties. Will ~ou have the o odness to metid some of them for me? With thegreatest pleasure. Humphl To which of us, I won- der? In, the first place,to me in affording relief; secondly, to you in having it over. May I ask wimat part, or whether the whole of your skeleton requires my attention? You can begin with this left fore- arm, and examine the rest at your lei- sure. I should think so! What have you been doing with these pulverized bones? Putting them under the wheels of a hay-cart. I took it for the car of jugger- naut, and prostrated myself. A most injudicious step! It was nt a step at all, t was a somersault. Ugh! ugh! How you can find it in you to nip a mangled fellow-creature in that manner is more than I can see. It will be if you look in some other direction. There s a pretty lithograph, there on the wall, of a flayed man. Marsy s, is it? I dont take any interest in him.. I m absorbed in rep- resenting myself, a tableau vivdn/ Qf St. Sebastian; but all the darts have struck in, and got inside of my arm, that s the reason you dont see them. Q-o-oh! ejaculated the poor child, Kcz/kari;ie Morize. with a great volume of voice. Come, now, Doctor, if you do that again, I shall howl, you know. Shall you? I dont believe I shall notice the difference. There, my boy, get your breath now. Your arm can be set, if you 11 only keep still; and I rather think I have some light, little, easy splints, that will just fit it. 1 11 call in my man Martin to steady it for you. Why, Doctor, I m surprised you dont perceive I m fortitude itself. My contractions and extensions are purely physical, nervous and muscular. So are his. Similia sivzilibzis Cu- ra;ztur, according to the theory of your homceopathic ancestress. Martin! 0 Doctor, two to one is nt fair much less four such great hands to one arm I 11 call down Miss Morne, then. Well, sir, that will he an appeal to my chivalry. I caught a bottle of aromatic vinegar, and, running down, poured some on some linen, and laid it near the nose of the poor little patient, and clasped my fingers as softly as I could around his round white arm, that trembled through and through. He looked up very pleasantly, and managed a little bow; but at last, fairly vanquished by pain, held his wonderful tongue for full five minutes. Even after he recovered it, he did not regain his color, but looked as pale as the roguish little ghost of himself. Stay here on the sofa, and drink tea with me, said the Doctor; and afterwards I will drive you home in my chaise. No, thank you; they 11 hear of my overthrow and he terrified. I must go straight home and be wept over. Be- sides, we are going to have waffles. You had better come, too, and par- take. If I do, I shall not let you have any. How omnivorous! Then I shall hope for the pleasure of your com- pany some other time. That makes no difference. I shall come over to see you early to-morrow mornin5,; and if I hear that you have eaten a mouthful of solid food beyond two or three thin slices of dry toast, I shall give you an emetic. Then you will take three bad things yourself. I hope not. What might they be? First, a most unmanly advantage of my disabled condition. Secondly, two emetics, as soon as my fractures are well enough to hold your nose. Between them? Your enunciation is so very imper- fect that I cant distinguish what you say, returned Paul through his own nose, with what I afterwards found was a most perfect imitation of his elocution- ary schoolmaster, Mr. Bellows ; and the discussion was ended by the Doc- tors taking him up bodily, scolding him into temporary quiescence, lifting him into the chaise, and driving him off. There never was such a pickle as that, never! said Dr. Physick, when he came back again. He was driving the cart himself, one of the laborers has just told me, got the four horses so wild that he could nt stop them, and jumped from the top of the load, while they were at the top of their speed, to pick up an Irish baby that toddled be- fore them. But the baby? Not hurt in the least,went be- tween the wheels while he was going under them. But a very lucky fellow he was, too, not to lose his arm. CHAPTER IX. IF Paul was a pickle, a charge which, I am sorry to say, I have not the testimony at hand to confute, I found in Miss Dudleys elegant little parlor a 151c/dc-Iar, on my next visit to Barberry Beach. Paul and his Pettitoes, having consented to a compromise, and aban- doned their favorite haunt, the hay-loft, on condition of enjoying each others society in the house, lay stretched side by side upon the sofa. The twins were 8o [January, 1367.] Katluirlite Morne. present also. They had been allowed to stay at home from school, to minis- ter to their brothers wants and hu- mors, the latter much the more nu- merous of the two. Accordingly, as I entered, Rose was in the act of insinu- ating, timidly, with the sugar-tongs, her dolls own pillow under Pets grim head, Tam carl capitis, as Paul un- grammatically quoted for her encour- agement, or, as he somewhat freely translated for her instruction, such a dear cat-it-is! Lily, meanwhile, fol- lowed up the attention by more prompt- ly, if less tenderly, spreading her dolls table-cloth under his chin, and feeding him with some morsels of pound-cake, which she had been forhidden to eat, expressing to him, without disguise, as she did so, her ardent hope that it would make him a dyspeptic for life, and spoil his appetite forever for such simple food as robins. Paul greeted me with a Wellerism, Miss Morne, All hail! as the farmer said after the drought, when the storm broke his wheat down. In the midst of their laughter and chattering and fun, Miss Dudley was looking as if she could hardly sit up. Her maid, I found, a person whose nerves were never of the strongest, had been frightened beyond all self- control by a frightfully exaggerated ac- count of Pauls accident, and had com- municated it to her in a very imprudent manner. She was able to repress her agitation at the moment, but had been feeling very languid ever since. Seeing me divided, as I was, between concern for her and diversion at the doings and sayings of the children, she made the proposal ~vhich I was myself longing to make, that we should give up any at- tempt at ~oin~ on with the illustrations and that I should mount guard over patient and nurses while she went away to her chamber to lie down. When the Doctor paid his visit, therefore, she begged for a prolongation of my leave of absence ; and it was settled that I should spend the whole day at the cottage, dine with her and Paul, and be sent home in the evening. VOL. XIX.NO. Ill. 6 After she was gone, how ever, I almost repented of my enterprise. Paul had a large hand-bell, which he had made his sisters brin0 him, for fear he should be too sick to speak loud, a state of things which seemed the last and least likely to take place, judging from the present powers of his voice. If the twins left the room for an instant, he rang it most violently, because his sisters neglected him, until they came back at a gallop, when he informed them that they had been so long about it, that he could nt recollect what he wanted, and they might go; after which the same performances were repeated ad iuft~vitum, niuch to their delight, but not equally to mine. Miss Dudleys chamber was, fortunately, almost out of hearing, or he would not have done so; but the library was not; and I was in continual fear lest Mr. Dudley, whom I had never yet seen, should make his appearance in wrath at my want of management. I merely instance this as one specimen of many pranks. To put a stop to it, by keeping the lit- tle girls on the spot, I was obliged to turn cabinet-maker, and put forth all my practised powers in the way of cut- ting out paper pianos and tables that would stand, and rocking-chairs that would rock. The twins were interest- ed, and so was Paul. The moment that they had a drawing-room arranged, he enacted a I3oreas, and blew the fur- niture sky-high. Then they called him, in retribution, Pretty Poll ! and he screeched like a parrot. 0 Miss Morne, cried Rose, do you know? Once, when we were little, we called Paul Pretty Poll, and he was so vexed to be so pretty Tor a boy, that he took auntys scissors and cut off all his eyelashes and some of his hair; and he had an inflammation in his eyes; but that s what made his eyelashes so very long; and now that he s found out that cutting them will only make them prettier, we can call him so as much as we please. Miss Dudley came down again, at twelve, looking refreshed, and sent the little girls into the garden. Paul, tired [January, 82 Katharine Morne. out, went to sleep; and we had some painting after all. When my lesson was over, Miss Dudley said: Now I think the pupil has become independent of the mis- tress; and you have copied all the specimens too delicate to be moved. I will send the rest to you to-morrow; and I believe you told me you had not these colors you had better put these cakes in your pocket, so that your illustrations may be in uniform. I doubt whether you could buy any so good in this town ; and she wrapped them in a paper for me. I thanked her, and promised to keep them strictly for the work I did for her. 0, replied she, that is not in the bond at alL My brother has been in the habit of furnishing me with them by wholesale; I thought she stifled a sigh as she said it; and you know, added she with a promising smile, that it is for our interest to help you to be- come an experienced and accomplished draughtswoman. The twins came in to lunch when we had our dinner; but they were in a state of such exhilaration that they could scarcely eat. They were later to assist their father in receiving a party, who had been invited, before Pauls mishap, to dine at Barberry Beach. As Miss Dudley was not well enough to appear, they had drawn lots for the head of the table. Lily had won it; and the distinguished statesman, Mr. Deemus, a classmate of her fathers, and a great lion in her eyes, was to lead her in. As soon as she and Rose could obtain a release from refresh- ment, they scampered off to the cham- ber-maid and to Bonner, who was to oversee their toilet. When they were gone, and we had taken our seats in the bamboo chairs on the piazza, to bask in the afternoon sun, Miss Dudley said: This is the first time that it has fallen to either of them to preside; they are always present, though, when we give a din- ner-party, and modestly join a little in the conversation of their elders. Many people would say that my broth- er made a mistake in bringing them forward so early; but he considers it very important to give in some degree to young people to girls especially a sense of dignity and responsibility from the first. It seems to him, too, that they are less likely to be over-ex- cited and led astray in society in after- life, if they are accustomed to it, and the best of it, from their childhood up. They are so simple-minded and open- hearted that, if it were doing them any harm, we should very soon find it out; and unless it were doing them harm it would really be a pity to deprive them of so much enjoyment, just at the age, too, when enjoyment is most keenly relished. It is always a ~reat point with their father, that he and his chil- dren should have their pleasures as far as possible in common, in order to keep up mutual acquaintance and con- fidence and sympathy. 0 for such a father! thought I. Happy little dears! I hope I am not croing to envy anybody; but I do be- lieve you are the most enviable people I ever met with, except Emma Hol- ly! There! I did nt mean to hunk that, to take a leaf out of Nellys book. We heard them come dancing back into the parlor. Lily perched in the long window, crying, ~ 0 Aunt Lizzy, see ! Are we right? Can we go to papa? 0 Lily, cried Rose, in consterna- tion, pulling her back, come in! The wind will tumble your curls; and then I ought to tumble mine; for it would nt do for the one at the head of the table not to look as nice as the one at the side. 0, dear Aunty! could you look here? Are you too tired? Would it be too much trouble? Aunty did not seem to think her- self too tired. She invited me to ac- company her; and I did not think it too much trouble. The two pets con- fronted us hand in hand, between two bright pillars of native wood, looking like a lovely picture painted on a panel. They ~vore simple robes of sprigged 1867.] India muslin, very clear, white, and full, with baby waists, short sleeves and moderately low necks, broad, blue sashes, open-work thread stockings, and black slippers with large rosettes on the toes. Their round, white throats and wrists were encircled by close coils of turquoises. They looked very happy and eager, but not at all vain, per- haps because they had always been used to looking pretty. Very nice, indeed, pronounced Aunt Lizzy, turning them round criti- cally. Go and show yourselves to Paul, and then run to papa; but be very careful to eat not1~in~that will make you sick, or Dr. Physick will be sure to say, Poor little things! They have a silly aunt. Late dinners are not fit for little girls. They laughed their acquiescence, and marched up to Pauls sofa. Very well, said he; your clothes are whole and clean; and I have no doubt you will be warm, after the chandelier is lighted, and the soup is swallowed, and Tiger-Lily has been contradicted and counteracted appropriately by Mr. Demosthenes. But to go up and put yourselves in Oriental splendors, and then to go down and roll together in Oriental luxuries, and leave me here writhing and gnaw ingthe sofa-cushions in my lonely anguish, and partaking of wine only the biscuit, and of oysters nothing but the crackers, unnatural misses, I could never have believed it, even of you! Poor Polly! exclaimed Rose, much affected, and throwing herself on her knees beside him, in utter for- getfulness of her frock ; I will stay with you. Could I do you any good? 0 Polly! cried Lily in equal alarm. Only dont tease her 710Wj and I wont tell her perhaps the next time you quiz her; and the very first chance I can get after the dessert comes, I 11 send Butler to you with a grand, great bunch of grapes. And Miss Morne will sing; wo;zt you, Miss Morne? I heard somebody singing beautifully, one evening when we drove by Dr. Physicks ; and when I asked 83 him who it was, he said it must be you.~~ Well, answered Paul, condescend- ing to relent a little, we will see what can be done. You may send the grapes at any rate, Lily; and, if I can get along without Brier-Rose, I wont send for hertill ice-cream time. Then Miss Dudley told me that I had been shut up in the house almost all day, and begged me to put on my bonnet and one of her heavy plaids, and go out to enjoy the sunset in the grounds. Here is a protector for you, as our champion Paul is disabled, added she, taking an odd-lookinb musi- cal instrument from a drawer of her French desk; my brother had some of these made for us to take on our rambles. At this end, you see, is a whistle, which you blow if you want a servant only to do you some little service. This other end is a horn, which blows a tremendous blast, to signify that something serious is the matter, and that all the laborers, and everybody else within hearing, must run without loss of time to the spot from which the sound comes. It has been heard, I am thankful to say, but once. Miss Rose, in one of her kid- like performances, frisked into the sea one day; and Lily found breath I could never guess how to blow her trumpet in one almost incessant shriek. Mr. Dudley heard it in the library; and so did my great St. Bernard that you saw, in the hall, and he seemed to understand. They ran nearly abreast to th~ shore, with a train of followers after them, some nearer, some far- ther; but the dog got the better of all the men, when it came to bounding over the sand and stones, and scouring up the rock where Lily was. I could see the little thing from my window, she was but eight years old, dan- cing up and down in a perfect frenzy, and plucking at her poor little curls with the hand that was not holding the horn. She hugged Bernard, point- ed, and pushed him. He dashed into the water, and brought Rose round to the beach, where he landed her quite Kat/urri;zc Mor;zc. Katharine Monte. safe, though with her clothes torn, and soaked, of course, like a sponge. That is the reason we spoil him so. Lily had to be carried home as well as Rose, and in fact suffered much more seri- ously from the fright. She had quite lost the use of her limbs for the time; and we were obliged to keep her from school, and take the greatest care of her nerves, for the rest of that sum- mer. Bernard came walking in, and all round to us, one after another, to be patted. The saint s as proud as a peacock, said Paul, blowing in his ear and then kissing him. He knows in a minute when anybody tells that story. When we show any visitors about, he always leads the way to the rock, and then wants to jump up and lick our hands and faces just as he did that day; and when I go to bathe, I have to have him tied up, or else he jumps right in after me, to bring me out, and nips me with his great sharp teeth all over. I went through the garden alone. Bernard wagged his tail, but declined to escort me farther than the door, Because, explained Paul, he knows you are not one of us. The path up the hill looked tempting; and I followed it and took a seat in the little observa- tory on the top, to look down alone on the fading horizon and the twilight sea. I think that there are few things in this life more saddening, than to re- visit scen~es in the midst of which you have been used to be perfectly happy, and find that they have the power to make you so no more. It is as if you knew that an enchanted treasury, once open to you, still lay before you, but you had lost the magic key. The sea-shore had always been to me in my childhood so few years ago! a scene of perfect witchery. When I went to it, my sister was al- most always by my side. My mother, looking out for us, was waiting for us at home with an eager welcom e,and would come to the door before our little feet could cross the threshold, and be glad to see us safe back again, and say that it had made her anxious, if we stayed too long. Now, I asked myself, if I should fall, as little Rose had done, and were not rescued, who would grieve for me. Emma and Jim would talk to each other about my fate, if they read it in the newspapers, and say, perhaps, that I was a nice girl, and that they were sorry, and then change the subject to wondering when they should be married. My guardian and his wife would shed some honest tears, but turn to one an- other and their little Phil for comfort, and soon find it. Nelly? 0, poor lit- tle Nelly might cry too, because she was much in the habit of crying, and I was the only one much in the habit of drying her eyes ; but that would be for her own sake, not for mine. Miss Dudley would be shocked, and the children concerned and compassion- ate, as they were when the cat killed the robin, and be consoled as soon. Their very dog could see that I was not one of them. They were kind to me, as he wagged his tail, from general good-will. But of what real impor- tance should I ever be to them, or to anybody that I cared for? Thus, by degrees, I fell more and more to comparing myself a poor and orphaned woman, lonely and dark, sitting in faded black without, chilled by the gale, with night and age and winter coming on with those radiant children, decked, admired, caressed, the present all bright around them, and the future before them, sitting at their fa- thers table, in light, warmth, an4 glee, in the room whose four large windows shone so down in the cottage. When I had reached this point, how- ever, in these not precisely profitable or disinterested meditations, I natu- rally and luckily had occasion for my pocket-handkerchief. In feeling for it, my forefinger came upon the horn with which my kind new friend had provided me. It seemed to send like an electric shock through my frame (of mind) a sense of my ingratitude and folly. People always exagger- ate, said my guardian, when they 84 [January, 1867.] Katharine .JIor;ze. get brooding, & c., & c., & c. Whose attention was concentrated on her- self and her troubles, just now? I did not sound the horn, though of the two the salt sea and the Slough of Despond I think the former much the cleanest and wholesomest place to fall into ; but I sprang from my seat, and ran down the hill at the speed of a goat, no had way sometimes, if one is hut young and sure-footed enough, to escape from thoughts that are too much to sit still with and hear. In a fine glow, I re-entered the parlor, where Miss Dudley rose to meet me, passed her fingers lightly over my hair, to feel if it was damp, and made me sit beside her, before the hearth, to dry it, before I xvent to the piano. How little do people know sometimes, when they are making us happy, how much they are doing to help us to be good! Poor Pauls arm aches, said she. It is dull for him without his sisters and we have been longing for our song. Then I will begin here, said I, again a little pricked in my conscience, if you will excuse the accompani- ment. So I sang a song there; and Paul cheered up, and sat up on his sofa, looking as if he wished for more; and then I went to the piano and sang a good many songs there. The instru- ment was one of Chickerings most de- licious ones ; and Miss Dudley laid be- fore me a fine collection of English ballads. She had all kinds of music for the voice and piano, in well-hound volumes; but those were the only sort that I was much accustomed to. We are none of us performers, said she ; but, as we are all fond of music, we let Ditson supply us; be- cause our visitors are so apt to say, I would play or sing to you with pleas- ufe; but I cannot without my notes. The clock struck half past eight, in a pause while I was turning over some pages new to me. There, said Paul, now they 11 all have to go to take the cars The noise of wheels at the door, and of leave-takings in the hall, was heard; and soon in came the twi ns, looking sleepy and satisfied. Immediately af- ter them entered a tall gentleman, with hair so perfectly white that Lilys looked yellow beside him, finely cut, regular features, such as one may ~ee in the portraits en be zi of the Duke of Wellin~ton, a very expressive mouth, expressive of spirit, jud~ment, and benignity, I thought, but one cannot be sure about mouths of which one does not know the owners, a fresh and healthful complexion, and rather deep-set, very dark blue eyes, that lighted up his whole countenance when he smiled with the sunny sweetness peculiar to fine blue eyes, and that could flash, as I soon saw, when he became animated in conversation. Ah, Charles! said Miss Dudley, I m glad to see you. Miss Morne, my brother. He turned from her and stood before me for an instant with graceful and cordial courtesy, saying that he under- stood he had me to thank, not only for some very correct and spirited contri- butions to his book, but for timely and highly acceptable kindness to his son on the afternoon of his accident; and then he did just what I was most glad to have him do, xvent hack, sat down on the sofa between his sister and Paul, and, putting his arm round the boy and drawing him to lean comfort- ably against his shoulder, told them about his dinner-party, just as if I did not hear. It went off as well as it could with- out you, Elizabeth. Your namesake did you credit; so did Rose. Then Clara Arden is in herself a success ! Dear Clara! I am more sorry to have lost her than any or all of the others. How was she? The same as ever, only, as Mas- ter Paul would say, more so, speech of silver, wits of quicksilver, and senti- ments of gold. She is turning into a woman as fascinating as she was en- gagin,, when a child; and one of the things for which I should wish to live to be eighty, is to see what a splendid old woman she will make. 86 Katharine .lUiorne. [January, 0, that is looking a long way into the future! Can you tell me anything she said? Hardly. She was so far off that I could not listen much, only look. It is a pleasure in these slovenly days to see a gentlewoman sit as a gentle- woman ought. Lily, what was that she was telling Mr. Deemus, that he was laughing at? some saying of a Ger- man theologian. 0, it was a Mr. Nebelmann, a traveller that she saw at a party in Boston, he said, in general, the deep- er you look into one subject, the more you dont see through it. She asked Mr. Deemus if that was not a maxim as often found true in politics as in metaphysics.~~ Miss Clara had rather a heavy time of it, I am afraid, with Mr. Bold- er. I really dont see how I can invite him again, unless to a s/anding-u~ par- ty, where people can get away from him when they are tired. They always wish to see him; but they cannot like to hear him. His topics are too pon- derous by far for a dining-room, or in fact any room but a lecture-room. Who could rise refreshed who, in- deed, could rise at all from a meal at which the very lightest en/re-me/s were legs of mutton? Who led you in, Rose? Mr. Madder. I never saw him be- fore; but he was kind and funny, and kept telling me stories. To make you laugh and see your dimples, I suspect, thought I. He is a very ugly man, said Lily. He s a beautiful artist, said Paul. The only trouble is, that he wears his head wrong side out; all the beauty is on the inside. He wishes to paint Rose and Lily, said Mr. Dudley. It may be our last chance. He is about to retire upon his fortune. He will consent to include Paul, I hope, said his aunt. What do you say to that, Mercu- ry? asked her brother. Do you think you could ever sit still ? I dont know but I might, if I had a thermometer-bulb to sit in, returned Master Paul. Mr. Deemus talked very well and entertainingly, I suppose, said Miss Dudley. Very entertainingly, answered her brother. Yes, on the whole, very well. He s a pretty hot partisan, cant see any good out of his own party, or much evil in it; but even party-spirit, in a thoroughly honest fellow like him, is one step higher in the moral scale than the apathy and Epicureanism of some who affect to despise it; in fact, it wants only letting out, as a tailor would say, to include all the virtues. Let it out once; it becomes patriot- ism. Let it out again; it becomes phi- lanthropy. Let it out but a third time, and it is fellowship with the angels and fealty to their King. Papa, were nt you ponderous once yourself, said Lily, archly, when you were talking to that dismal gentle- man, who sat near the foot of the table, about Miss Nightingale? I was afraid you were displeased, you spoke so much slower than usual; and I could hear your voice a good deal, under the oth- ers ; but I could nt understand. I certainly was not pleased, Lily, answered he, good-humoredly; and I desired to be as ponderous as I could, without forgetting what was due to a guest. It was Mr. X. Tyng Wisher, said he, turning to his sister, the weep- ing philosopher of the Boston Reced- er. That mans crocodile lamentations over everything that is good are worse, because more crafty, than the hyena laughter and sneers of his colleagues. They have been my trial in the reading- room, and I certainly never expected to hear them in my dining-room. Dee- mus gave him a letter of introduction to me, however; and I thought it would be an appropriate act of retribution to ask Wisher here to meet him. What should he do but fall to groaning over Florence Nightingales misfortune in the possession of abnormal powers, which tempted her, out of her proper womanly sphere, to go to Scutari! I only wish that his spectacles had nt 1867.1 been too near-sighted to see Miss Ar- den look at him! Well, Lily, said Miss Dudley, and what did papa say? Why I cant remember, because I did not know what it meant, some- thing about mathematics, I believe, and a balloon And a flying - fish, and scissors, added Rose. Really, said their aunt, with one of her merry and musical laughs, I be- gin to have a very distinct idea of your discourse, Charles; and I can perceive it must have been very bad. Then, to clear myself, said he, echoing the laugh, I must see if I cannot make out my speech from the heads furnished by these skilful re- porters. Is not this something like what I said, little swan and shadow? Given for a centre a good and xvise womanly heart. A sphere with a short radius, and a sphere with a long radius, starting from that centre, are equally its spheres. The larger space a good and wise woman can fill in this needy, hu- man life, with her own innocent and be~ neficent life, the greater she is as a wo- man, the greater as a benefactress to us. Our chivalry can surely afford her at least so much countenance as to stand off, let the safety-valve alone, and allow her to swell her balloon according to her liking and ability. If it bursts, the loss is her own; if it does not, she will carry us all up with her. Further : between you condolers with women, and the so-called Rights- of-Women people, I venture to place myself in the critical position of Mr. Pick~vick, with the carpet - bag before and the poker behind him. I differ from the latter, in holding that almost all women are essentially auxiliary verbs in the grammar of humanity, and that of these the larger portion are best fitted for domestic auxiliaries; but I differ from you, in holding that some women also are extremely well fitted to be auxiliaries abroad. Further yet: Nature and Provi- dence have in general denied ~vings to fishes; therefore we may say truly 87 enough, in a generalizing way, that Na- ture and Providence have ordained that the fish shall not fly; but if we chance to meet with a flying-fish, we must not cut off its wings for the sake of conform- ity, and then call the blades of our own shears Nature and Providence. Cousin Clara seemed to under- stand, said Rose; she clapped her hands softly. Yes; and she asked me if that was not good, added Lily. . And what did you answer? Did I receive any more compliments ? I did the best I could for you,papa, considering that I bad not the least idea what you were talking about. I said, Why, Cousin Clara, I must own I dont know whether it is good or not; but so much I know, it ought to be, if papa says it and you praise it. And that won a compliment for Aunt Lizzy, I think; only I cannot tell it without telling another that I had myself. Never mind that, Lily, said Miss Dudley; I 11 overlook your vanity for the sake of my own. Well, then, Cousin Clara said, Bra- va. candid little courtier! It is easy to see in what mistresss school you learned to speak the truth ! Then she turned to Mr. Bolder, and asked him if it was not good; and be said, Very, 0, yes; and, as I was sayin~, the tertiary formation and then I dont know what else he said. Nor she either, I 11 be bound, said Mr. Dudley. The carriage has come back, sir, murmured Butler, at his elbow. It is to take Miss Morne home, said Miss. Dudley; but you need be in no hurry, need you, my dear? Pray, do not, said Mr. Dudley, again turning towards me: the horses can wait perfectly well. Tell Raynor to put their blankets on and let them stand, he began to say to Butler; but, though it was said with an air of frank hospitality, I did not resume my seat; for I knew that the dinner-party bad broken up early on account of the in- valids, and thought that all the family might already have had enough of me, Kczt/zarznc Manic. 88 The Causes for which a President can be impeached. [January, though I should much have liked a lit- tle more of them. My hostess did not seem to think she had had too much, however; for, as she muffled me up carefully from the frosty air, she said, My child, every time I have seen you, I have found you a pleasure, I have found you a treas- ure to-day. Thank you, maam, for a very pleas- ant day, stammered I in return. I had forgotten all about the half-hour on the cliff. Mr. Dudley put me into the barouche, ~vith polite hopes that his sister and daughters would soon have the pleasure of seeing me again; and such were my meditations as the gray ponies, whisk- ing their long thick tails, bowled me smoothly along through the shadows and the moonbeams: Now, if I were Mr. Madder, I would paint a picture of the Archangel Michael saying to Adam, Not too much and it would be a good likeness, too, if Mr. Dudley would sit for the head. He looks, as the gym- nasts say, though in rather a different sense, like a perfectly trained man, as if he had always had enough to eat and enough to wear, enough to do wi/it and enough to do, enough to enjoy and enough to learn, enough of conflict and enough of victory, enough, but not too much. THE CAUSES FOR WHICH A PRESIDENT CAN BE IMPEACHED. THE Constitution provides, in ex- press terms, that the President, as well as the Vice-I~resident and all civil officers, may be impeached for trea- son, brihery, or othcr high crimes and misdemeanors. It was framed by men who had learned to their sorrow the falsity of the English maxim, that the king can do no wrong, and estab- lished by the people, who meant to hold all their public servants, the hi5h- est and the loxvest, to the strictest ac- countability. All were jealous @f any squinting towards monarchy, and determined to allow to the chief magis- trate no sort of regal immunity, but to secure his faithfulness and their own rights by holding him personally an- swerable for h5 misconduct, and to protect the government by making ade- quate provision for his removal. More- over, they did not mean that the door should not be locked till after the horse had been stolen. By the Constitution, the House of Representatives has the sole power of impeachment, and the Senate the sole power to try all impeachments. When the President of the United States is tried on impeachment, the Chief Justice is to preside. The con- currence of two thirds of the mem- bers present is necessary to convict. The President, Vice-President, and all civil officers of the United States, shall be removed from office on im- peachment for, and conviction of trea- son, bribery, or other high crimes and misdemeanors. But judgment cannot extend further than to removal and disqualification to hold and enjoy-any office of honor, trust, or profit under the United States. Thus it is obvious that the founders of the government meant to secure it effectually against all official corruption and wrong, by providing for process to be initiated at the will of the popular branch, and fur- nishing an easy, safe, and sure method for the removal of all unworthy and un- faithful servants. By defining treason exactly, by pre- scribing the precise proofs, and limiting the punishment of it, they guarded the

C. M. Ellis Ellis, C. M. The Causes for which a President can be Impeached 88-92

88 The Causes for which a President can be impeached. [January, though I should much have liked a lit- tle more of them. My hostess did not seem to think she had had too much, however; for, as she muffled me up carefully from the frosty air, she said, My child, every time I have seen you, I have found you a pleasure, I have found you a treas- ure to-day. Thank you, maam, for a very pleas- ant day, stammered I in return. I had forgotten all about the half-hour on the cliff. Mr. Dudley put me into the barouche, ~vith polite hopes that his sister and daughters would soon have the pleasure of seeing me again; and such were my meditations as the gray ponies, whisk- ing their long thick tails, bowled me smoothly along through the shadows and the moonbeams: Now, if I were Mr. Madder, I would paint a picture of the Archangel Michael saying to Adam, Not too much and it would be a good likeness, too, if Mr. Dudley would sit for the head. He looks, as the gym- nasts say, though in rather a different sense, like a perfectly trained man, as if he had always had enough to eat and enough to wear, enough to do wi/it and enough to do, enough to enjoy and enough to learn, enough of conflict and enough of victory, enough, but not too much. THE CAUSES FOR WHICH A PRESIDENT CAN BE IMPEACHED. THE Constitution provides, in ex- press terms, that the President, as well as the Vice-I~resident and all civil officers, may be impeached for trea- son, brihery, or othcr high crimes and misdemeanors. It was framed by men who had learned to their sorrow the falsity of the English maxim, that the king can do no wrong, and estab- lished by the people, who meant to hold all their public servants, the hi5h- est and the loxvest, to the strictest ac- countability. All were jealous @f any squinting towards monarchy, and determined to allow to the chief magis- trate no sort of regal immunity, but to secure his faithfulness and their own rights by holding him personally an- swerable for h5 misconduct, and to protect the government by making ade- quate provision for his removal. More- over, they did not mean that the door should not be locked till after the horse had been stolen. By the Constitution, the House of Representatives has the sole power of impeachment, and the Senate the sole power to try all impeachments. When the President of the United States is tried on impeachment, the Chief Justice is to preside. The con- currence of two thirds of the mem- bers present is necessary to convict. The President, Vice-President, and all civil officers of the United States, shall be removed from office on im- peachment for, and conviction of trea- son, bribery, or other high crimes and misdemeanors. But judgment cannot extend further than to removal and disqualification to hold and enjoy-any office of honor, trust, or profit under the United States. Thus it is obvious that the founders of the government meant to secure it effectually against all official corruption and wrong, by providing for process to be initiated at the will of the popular branch, and fur- nishing an easy, safe, and sure method for the removal of all unworthy and un- faithful servants. By defining treason exactly, by pre- scribing the precise proofs, and limiting the punishment of it, they guarded the 1867.1 The Causes for which a President can be impeached. people against one form of tyrannical abuse of power; and they intended to secure them effectually against all in- jury from abuses of another sort, by hold- ing the President responsible for his misdemeanors, using the broadest term. They guarded carefully against all danger of popular excesses, and any injustice to the accused, by withholding the general power of punishment. This term misdemeanor, therefore, should be liberally construed, for the same rea- son that treason should not be extended by construction. It is not better for the state that traitors should remain in office than that innocent men should be expelled. Besides, it is true in rela- tion to this procedure, that the higher the post the higher the crime. What, then, is the meaning of high crimes and misdemeanors, for which a President may be removed? Nei- ther the Constitution nor the statutes have determined. It follows, therefore, that the House must judge for what offences it will present articles, and the Senate decide for what it will convict. And from the very nature of the wrongs for which impeachment is the sole ade- quate remedy, as well as from the fact that the office of President and all its duties and relations are new, it is es- sential that they should be undefined; otherwise there could be no security for the state. But it does not by any means follow that therefore either the House or the Senate zan act arbitrarily, or that there are not rules for the guidance of their conduct. The terms high crimes and misdemeanors, like many other terms and phrases used in the Constitution, as, for instance, pardon, habeas cor- pus, ex post facto, and the term im- peachment itself, had a settled mean- ing at the time of the establishment of the Constitution. There was no need of definition, for it was left to the House as exhibitors, and the Chief Justice and the Senate as judges of the articles, to apply well-understood terms, iuzutatis mzit~vidis, to new circumstances, as the exigei~cies of state, and the ends for which the Constitution was established, should require. The subject - matter was new; the President was a new officer of state ; his duties, his rela- tions to the various branches of govern- ment and to the people, his powers, his oath, functions, duties, responsibil- ities, were all new. In some respects, old customs and laws were a guide. In others, there was neither precedent nor analogy. But the common -law principle was to be applied to the new matters according to their exigency, as the common law of contracts and of carriers is applied to carriage by steam- boats and railroads, to corporations and expresses, which have come into existence centuries since the law was established. Impeachment, the presentment of the most solemn grand inquest of the whole kingdom, had been in use from the earliest days of the English Consti- tution and government. The terms high crimes and misde- meanors, in their natural sense, em- brace a very large field of actions. They are broad enough to cover all criminal misconduct of the President, all acts of commission or omission forbidden by the Constitution and the laws. To the word misdemeanor, in- deed, is naturally attached a yet broader signification, which would embrace per- sonal character and behavior as well as the proprieties of official conduct. Nor was, nor is, there any just reason why it should be restricted in this direction for, in establishing a permanent na- tional government, to insure purity and dignity, to secure the confidence of its own people and command the respect of foreign powers, it is not unfi.t that civil officers, and most especially the high- est of all, the head of the people, should be answerable for personal demeanor. The term misdemeanor was like xvise used to designate all legal offences lower than felonies, all the minor transgressions, all public wrongs,. not felonious in character. The common law punished whatever acts were pro- ductive of disturbance to the public peace, or tended to incite to the com- mission of crime, or to injure the health 89 90 The (anses for which a President can be impeached. [January, or morals of the people, such as profanity, drunkenness, challenging to ~b ht, solicitino to the commission of crime, carrying infection through the streets, an endless variety, of offen- ces. These terms, when used to describe political offences, have a signification coextensive with, or rather analo- gous to, but yet more extensive than their legal acceptation; for, as John Quincy Adams said, the Legislature was vested with power of impeaching and removing for trivial transgressions beneath the cognizance of the law. The sense in which they are used in the Constitution is rendered clearer and more precise by the long line of precedents of decided cases to he found in the State Trials and historical collections. Selden, in his Judica- ture of Parliament, and Coke, in his Institutes, refer to many of these, and Comyns names more than fifty impeachable offences. Amongst these are, subverting the fundamental laws and introducing arbitra rypower; for an ambassador to give false information to the king; to make a treaty between two foreign powers without the knowl- edge of the king; to deliver up towns without consent of his colleagues; to incite the king to act against the ad- vice of Parliament; to give the king evil counsel ; for the Speaker of the House of Commons to refuse to pro- ceed; for the Lord Chancellor to threaten the other judges to make them subscribe to his opinions. Wooddeson, who began to lecture in 1777, and whose works express ~he sense in which the terms were under- stood by the contemporaries of the founders of the Constitution, says that such kinds of misdeeds as peculiarly injure the commonwealth by the abuses of high offices of trust are the most proper, and have been the most usual ~rounds for this kind of prosecution; b as, for example, for the Lord Chan- cellor to act grossly contrary to the duty of his office; for the judges to mislead the sovereign by unconstitu- tional opinions; for any other magis trates to attempt to subvert the fun- damental laws, or introduce arbitrary power, as for a Privy-Councillor to pro- pose or support pernicious or dishon- orable practices. These text-writers seem to have been referred to and followed by our later ones. But to the offences enumerated by these authorities we must add others taken from cases in the State Trials. The High Court of Impeachment had included amongst political high crimes and misdemeanors the following, viz.: for a Secretary of State to abuse the pardoning power; for the Lord Chan- cellor and Chief Justice of Ireland to attempt to subvert the laws and gov- ernment and the rights of Parliament; for the Attorney-General to prefer charges of treason falsely; for a Privy- Councillor to try to alienate the affec- tions of the people; for the Lord Chan- cellor to assume to dispense with the statutes, and to control them. It had been held to be a misdemeanor to incite the king to ill-manners ; to put away from the king good officers, and put about him wicked ones of their own party; to maintain robbers and murderers, causing the king to pardon them; to get ascen dency over the king, and turn his heart from the peers of the realm; to prevent the great men of the realm from advising with the king, save in presence of the accused; and to cause the king to appoint sheriffs named by them, so as to get such men returned to Parliament as they desired, to the undoing of the loyal lords and the good laws and customs; to taunt the kings councillors, and call them unworthy to sit in council when they advised the king to reform the gov- ernment; or to write letters declaring them traitors. The nature of the charges may be illustrated by one of the allegations against an evil judge. We give Article VIII.: The said William Scroggs, be- ing advanced to be Lord Chief Justice of the Court of Kings Bench, ought,by a sober, grave, and virtuous conversa- tion, to have given a. good example to 1367.] The (auses for w/dc/i a President can be impeached. 9 the kings liege people, and to demean himself answerable to the dignity of so eminent.a station; yet on the contrary thereof, he doth, by his frequent and notorious excesses and debaucheries, and his profane and atheistical dis- courses, affront Almighty God, dishon- or his Majesty, give countenance and encouragement to all manner of vice and wickedness, and bring the highest scandal on the public justice of the kingdom. Such was the nature of political of- fences, as known to the framers of the Constitution. It answered to the natu- ral sense of the terms of the Constitu- tion, as understood by the people in establishing it. And it is plain that the founders of the government meant to establish, what in such a government is vital to the safety and stability of the state, a jurisdiction coextensive with the influence of the officers subjected to it, and with their official duties, their functions, and their public relations. The Federalist, in treating of this jurisdiction of the Senate, regarded it as extending over those offences which proceed from the misconduct of public men and termed political, as they relate chiefly to injuries done immedi- ately to society itself. The people of America meant to rest their government on executive respon- sibility, and to apply to the President the principles which had been estab- lished as applicable only to the minis- ters, servants, and advisers of the king. But to show what they regarded as the range of royal duty, they had put on record a list of charges against their own king himself, commencing thus: He has refused his assent to laws the most wholesome and necessary for the public good, on which they justified revolution. The Declaration of Inde- pendence will aid in determining what they would regard as offences of the Executive. No President has been impeached. But the charges exhibited against sev- eral other public officers throw light upon this subject. In 1797, articles of impeachment were found against Wil ham Blount, a Senator. The misde- meanors were not charged as being done in the execution of any office under the United States. He was not charged with misconduct in offide, but with an attempt to influence a United States Indian interpreter, and to alien- ate the affection and confidence of the Indians. After the impeachment was known, but before it was presented to the Senate, the Senate expelled him, resolving that he was guilty of a high misdemeanor entirely inconsistent with his public trust and duty as a Senator. In 1804, John Pickering, Judge of the District Court of New Hampshire, was removed for, i. Misbehavior as a judge; and amongst other causes, 4. For appearing drunk, and frequently, in a profane and indecent manner, invoking the name of the Supreme Being. In 1804, Judge Chase was impeached and tried for arbitrary, oppressive, and unjust conduct, in delivering his opin- ion on the. law beforehand, and debar- ring counsel from arguing the law; and for unjust, impartial, and intemperate conduct in obliging counsel to reduce their statements to writing, the use of rude and contemptuQus language, and intemperate and vexatious conduct. These are cases of contemporaneous exposition. There have been other cases in the various States, and some more recent ones in Congress; but they are not necessary to illustrate the subject. Just on the eve of the war, the Senate expelled Bright for writing a letter to Jefferson Davis, introducing a man with an improvement in fire- arms as a reliable person. As Judge Story remarked, Political offences are of so various and complex a character, so utterly incapable of be- ing defined or classified, that the task of positive legislation would be imprac- ticable, if it were not almost absurd to attempt it. Referrin to the text- writers we have named, and the causes of impeachment enumerated by them, he seems to justify the extremest cases by saying that, though they now seem harsh and severe, perhaps they were rendered necessary by existing corrup. 92 The con/en/ion between Achilles and Agarnemnon. [January, tions and the importance of suppress- ing a spirit of favoritism and court in- trigue. But others again, he adds, were founded in the most salutary public justice, such as impeachments for malversations and neglects in office, for official oppression, extortion, and deceit, and especially for putting good magistrates out of office and advancing bad. He puts a case, on which he expresses no opinion, in such form that there can scarcely be any doubt of his opinion, or any possibility of two opin- ions concerning it. Suppose a judge should countenance or aid insurgents in a meditated conspiracy or insurrection against the government. This is not a judicial act; and yet it ought certainly to he impeachable. Thus it appears that the political offences of the Constitution for which civil officers are removable embrace, besides the high crimes and misde- meanors of the criminal law, a range as wide as the circle of official duties and the influences of official position; they include, not only breaches of duty, but also misconduct during the tenure of office; they extend to acts for which there is no criminal responsibility what- soever; they reach even personal con- duct; they include, not merely acts of usurpation, hut all such acts as tend to subvert the just influence of official position, to degrade the office, to con- taminate society, to impair the govern- ment, to destroy the proper relations of civil officers to the people and to the ~overnment, and to the other branches of the bovernment. In fine, it may almost be said, that for a President to have done anything which he ought not to have done, or to have left undone anything which he ought to have done, is just cause for his im- peachment, if the House by a majority vote feels called on to make it the groundofcharges,andtheSenatebya two-thirds vote determines it to he suf- ficient; for the safety of the state is the supreme law, and these bodies are the final judges thereof. THE CONTENTION BETWEEN ACHILLES AND AGAMEMNON. FROM THE FIRST BOOK OF THE ILIAD OF HOMER. TRANSLATED. O GODDESS! sing the wrath of Peleus son, Achilles sing the deadly wrath that brought Woes numberless upon the Greeks, and swept To Hades many a valiant soul, and gave Their limbs a prey to dogs and birds of air, ~or so had Jove appointed, from the time When the two chiefs, Atrides, king of men, And great Achilles, parted first as foes. Which of the gods put strife between the chiefs, That they should thus contend? Latonas son And Joves. Incensed against the king he bade A deadly pestilence appear among The army, and the men were perishinLr. For Atreus son with insult had received Chryses the priest, who to the Grecian fleet Came to redeem his daughter, offering Uncounted ransom. In his hand he bore The fillets of Apollo, archer-god, Upon the golden sceptre, and he sued

William Cullen Bryant Bryant, William Cullen The Contention between Achilles and Agamemnon 92-100

92 The con/en/ion between Achilles and Agarnemnon. [January, tions and the importance of suppress- ing a spirit of favoritism and court in- trigue. But others again, he adds, were founded in the most salutary public justice, such as impeachments for malversations and neglects in office, for official oppression, extortion, and deceit, and especially for putting good magistrates out of office and advancing bad. He puts a case, on which he expresses no opinion, in such form that there can scarcely be any doubt of his opinion, or any possibility of two opin- ions concerning it. Suppose a judge should countenance or aid insurgents in a meditated conspiracy or insurrection against the government. This is not a judicial act; and yet it ought certainly to he impeachable. Thus it appears that the political offences of the Constitution for which civil officers are removable embrace, besides the high crimes and misde- meanors of the criminal law, a range as wide as the circle of official duties and the influences of official position; they include, not only breaches of duty, but also misconduct during the tenure of office; they extend to acts for which there is no criminal responsibility what- soever; they reach even personal con- duct; they include, not merely acts of usurpation, hut all such acts as tend to subvert the just influence of official position, to degrade the office, to con- taminate society, to impair the govern- ment, to destroy the proper relations of civil officers to the people and to the ~overnment, and to the other branches of the bovernment. In fine, it may almost be said, that for a President to have done anything which he ought not to have done, or to have left undone anything which he ought to have done, is just cause for his im- peachment, if the House by a majority vote feels called on to make it the groundofcharges,andtheSenatebya two-thirds vote determines it to he suf- ficient; for the safety of the state is the supreme law, and these bodies are the final judges thereof. THE CONTENTION BETWEEN ACHILLES AND AGAMEMNON. FROM THE FIRST BOOK OF THE ILIAD OF HOMER. TRANSLATED. O GODDESS! sing the wrath of Peleus son, Achilles sing the deadly wrath that brought Woes numberless upon the Greeks, and swept To Hades many a valiant soul, and gave Their limbs a prey to dogs and birds of air, ~or so had Jove appointed, from the time When the two chiefs, Atrides, king of men, And great Achilles, parted first as foes. Which of the gods put strife between the chiefs, That they should thus contend? Latonas son And Joves. Incensed against the king he bade A deadly pestilence appear among The army, and the men were perishinLr. For Atreus son with insult had received Chryses the priest, who to the Grecian fleet Came to redeem his daughter, offering Uncounted ransom. In his hand he bore The fillets of Apollo, archer-god, Upon the golden sceptre, and he sued i86~.] The (onteizijoit bctwee;i Achilles and Agarnemnon. 93 To all the Greeks, but chiefly to the Sons Of Atreus, the two leaders of the host: Ye sons of Atreus, and ye other chiefs, Well-greaved Achaians, may the gods who dwell Upon Olympus give you to oerthrow The city of Priam, and in safety reach Your homes; but give me my beloved child, And take her ransom, honoring him who sends His arroxv~ far, Apollo, son of Jove. Then all the other Greeks, applauding, bade Revere the priest and take the liberal gifts He offered, but the counsel did not please Atrides Agamemnon; he dismissed The priest with scorn, and added threatening words Old man, let me not find thee loitering here, Beside the roomy ships, or coming back Hereafter, lest the fillet thou dost bear And sceptre of thy gods protect thee not. This maiden I release not till old age Shall overtake her in my Argive home, Far from her native country, where her hand Shall throw the shuttle and shall dress my couch. Go, chafe me not, if thou wouldst safely go. He spake; the aged man in fear obeyed The mandate, and in silence walked apart, Along the many-sounding ocean-side, And fervently he prayed the monarch-god, Apollo, golden-haired Latona s son . Hear me, thou bearer of the silver bow, Who guardest Chrysa, and the holy isle Of Cilla, and art lord in Tenedos, O Smintheus! if I ever helped to deck Thy glorious temple, if I ever burned Upon thy altar the fat thighs of goats And bullocks, grant my prayer, and let thy shafts Avenge upon the Greeks the tears I shed. So spake he supplicating, and to him Phebus Apollo hearkened. Down he came, Down from the summits of the Olympian mount, Wrathful in heart; his shoulders bore the bow And hollow quiver; there the arrows rang Upon the shoulders of the angry god, As on he moved. He came as comes the night, And, seated from the ships aloof, sent forth An arrow; terrible was heard the clang Of that resplendent bow. At first he mote The mules and the swift dogs, and then on man He turned the deadly arrow. All around Glared ever more the frequent funeral piles. Nine days already had his shafts been showercd Amono the host, and now, upon the tenth, Achilles called the people of the camp The Contention between Achilles and A ~-ame;nnon. [January, To council. Juno, of the snow-white arms, Had moved his mind to this, for she beheld With sorrow that the men were perishing. And when the assembly met and now was full, Stood swift Achilles in the midst and said To me it seems, Atrides, that t were well, Since now our aim is baffled; to return Homeward, if death oertake us not; for war And pestilence at once destroy the Greeks. But let us first consult some seer or priest, Or dream-interpreter, for even dreams Are sent by Jove, and ask him by what cause Phcebus Apollo has been angered thus; If by neglected vows or hecatombs, And whether savor of fat bulls and goats May move the god to stay the pestilence. He spoke, and took again his seat; and next Rose Calchas, son of Thestor, and the chief Of augurs, one to whom were known things past And present and to come. He, through the art Of divination, which Apollo gave, Had guided Ilionward the ships of Greece. With words well ordered warily he spoke: Achilles, loved of Jove, thou bjddest me Explain the wrath of Ph~bus, monarch-god, Who sends afar his arrows. Willingly Will I make known the cause; but covenant thou, And swear to stand prepared, by word and hand, To bring me succor. For my mind missives That he who rules the Argives, and to whom The Achaian race are subject, will be wroth. A sovereign is too strong for humbler men, And though he keep his cholcr down awhile, It rankles, till he sate it, in his heart. And now consider; wilt thou hold me safe ? Achilles, the swift-footed, answered thus: Fear nothing, but speak boldly out whateer Thou knowest, and declare the will of Heaven. For by Apollo, dear to Jove, whom thou, Calchas, dost pray to, when thou givest forth The sacred oracles to men of Greece, No man, while yet I live, and see the light Of day, shall lay a violent hand on thee Among our roomy ships; no man of all The Grecian armies, though thou name the name Of Again emnon, whose high boast it is To stand in power and rank above them all. Encouraged thus, the blameless seer ~vent on: T is not neglected vows or hecatombs That move him, but the insult shown his priest7 Whom Agamemnon spurned, when he refused To set his daughter free, and to receive 1867.] The Con/en/ion between Achilles and Agameinnon. 95 Her ransom. Therefore sends the archer-goct These woes upon us, and will send them still, Nor ever will withdraw his heavy hand From our destruction, till the dark-eyed maid Freely, and without ransom, be restored To her beloved father, and with her A sacred hecatomb to Chrysa sent. So may we haply pacify the god. Thus having said, the augur took his seat. And then the hero-son of Atreus rose, Wide-ruling Agamemnon, greatly chafed. His gloomy heart was full of wrath, his eyes Sparkled like fire; he fixed a menacing look Full on the augur Calchas, and began: Prophet of evil! never hadst thou yet A cheerful word for me. To mark the signs Of coming mischief is thy great delight. Good dost thou neer foretell nor bring to pass. And now thou pratest, in thine auguries, Before the Greeks, how that the archer-god Afflicts us thus, because I would not take The costly ransom offered to redeem The virgin child of Chryses. T was my choice To keep her with me, for I prize her more Than Clytemnestra, bride of my young years, And deem her not less nobly graced than she, In form and feature, mind and pleasing arts. Yet will I give her back, if that be best. For gladly would I see my people saved From this destruction. Let meet recompense, Meantime, be ready, that I be not left, Alone of all the Greeks, without my prize. That were not seemly. All of you perceive That now my share of spoil has passed from me. To him the great Achilles, swift of foot, Replied: Renowned Atrides, greediest Of men, where wilt thou that our noble Greeks Find other spoil for thee, since none is set Apart, a common store? The trophies brought From towns which we have sacked have all been shared Among us, and we could not without shame Bid every warrior bring his portion back. Yield then the maiden to the god, and we, The Achaians, freely will appoint for thee Threefold and fourfold recompense, when Jove Gives up to sack this well-defended Troy. Then the king Agamemnon answered thus: Nay, use no craft, all valiant as thou art, Godlike Achilles; thou hast not the power To circumvent or to persuade me thus. Thinkst thou that, while thou keepest safe thy prize, I shall sit idly down deprived of mine? 96 The Co;ztciz/io;z between Achilles and Agarnemnon. [January, Thou bidst me give the maiden back. T is well If to my hands the noble Greeks shall bring The worth of what I lose, and in a shape That pleases me. Else will I come myself; And seize and hear away thy prize, or that Of Ajax or Ulysses, leaving him From whom I take his share to rage at will. Another time we will confer of this. Now come, and forth into the great salt sea Launch a black ship, and muster on the deck Men skilled to row, and put a hecatomb On board, and let the fair-cheeked maid embark, Chryseis. Send a prince to bear command, Ajax, Idomeneus, or the divine Ulysses ; or thyself; Pelides, thou Most terrible of men, that with due rites Thou soothe the anger of the archer-god. Achilles the swift-footed, with stern look, Thus answered: Ha, thou mailed in impudence And bent on lucre! Who of all the Greeks Can willingly obey thee, on the march, Or bravely battling with the enemy? I came not to this war because of wrong Done to me by the valiant sons of Troy. No feud had I with them; they never took My beeves or horses ; nor, in Phthias realm, Deep-soiled and populous, spoiled my harvest fields. For many a shadowy mount between us lies, And waters of the wide-resounding sea. Man unabashed! we follow thee that thou Mayst glory in avenging upon Troy The grudge of Menelaus and thy own, Thou shameless one ! and yet thou hast for this Nor thanks nor care. Thou threatenest now to take From me the prize for which I bore long toils In battle; and the Greeks decreed it mine. I never take an equal share with thee Of booty when the Grecian host has sacked Some populous Trojan town. My hands perform The harder labors of the field in all The tumult of the fight; but when the spoil Is shared, the largest part is ever thine, While I, content with little, seek my ships, Weary with combat. I shall now go home To Phthia; better were it to be there With my beaked ships ; and here where I am held In little honor thou wilt fail, I think, To gather, in large measure, spoil and wealth. Him answered Aga memnon, king of men: Desert, then, if thou wilt; I ask thee not To stay for me; there will be others left To do me honor yet, and best of all, 1867.] The (~onten/io;z betwee;i Achilles and Agamemiwn. 97 The all-providing Jove is with me still. Thee I detest the most of all the men Ordained by him to govern; thy delight Is in contention, war, and bloody frays. If thou art brave, some deity, no doubt, Hath thus endowed thee. Hence, then, to thy home, With all thy ships and men; there domineer Over thy Myrmidons; I heed thee not, Nor care I for thy fury. Thus, in turn, I threaten thee, since Phcebus takes away Chryseis. I will send her in my ship, And with my friends, and coming to thy tent Will bear away the fair-cheeked maid, thy prize, Briseis, that thou learn how far I stand Above thee, and that other chiefs may fear To measure strength with me and brave my power. The rage of P eleus son, as thus he spoke, Grew fiercer; in that shaggy breast his heart Took counsel, whether from his thigh to draw The trenchant sword, and, thrusting back the rest, Smite down Atrides, or subdue his wrath And master his own spirit. While he thus Debated with himself, and half unsheathed The ponderous blade, Pallas Athene came, Sent from on high by Juno, the white-armed, Who loved both warriors and watched over both. Behind Pelides, where he stood, she came, And plucked his yellow hair. The hero turned In wonder, and at once he knew the look Of Pallas and the awful-gleaming eye, And thus accosted her with winged words Why comst thou hither, daughter of the god Who bears the aegis? Art thou here to see The insolence of Agamemno n,son Of Atreus ? Let me tell thee what I deem Will be the event. That man may lose his life, And quickly too, for arrogance like this. Then thus the goddess, blue-eyed Pallas, spoke I came from heaven to pacify thy wrath, If thou wilt heed my counsel. I am sent By Juno the white-armed, to whom ye both Are dear, who ever watches oer you both. Refrain from violence; let not thy hand Unsheathe the sword, but utter with thy tongue Reproaches, as occasion may arise, For I declare what time shall bring to pass; Threefold amends shall yet be offered thee, In gifts of princely cost, for this days wrong. Now calm thy angry spirit, and obey. Achilles, the swift-footed, answered thus 0 goddess, be the word thou bringst obeyed, VOL. XIX. NO. III. 7 98 The C~ontention between Achilles and Agamemnon. [January, However just my anger, for to him Who hearkens to the gods, the gods give ear. So speaking, on the silver hilt he stayed His strong right hand, and hack into its sheath Thrust his good sword, obeying. She, meantime, Returned to heaven, where ~egi s-hearing Jove Dwells with the other gods. And now again Pelides, with opprobrious words, bespoke The son of Atreus, venting thus his wrath Wine-bibber, with the forehead of a dog And a deers heart! Thou never yet hast dared To arm thyself for battle with the rest, Nor join the other chiefs prepared to lie In ambush, such thy craven fear of death. Better it suits thee, midst the mighty host Of Greeks, to rob some warrior of his prize, Who dares withstand thee. King thou art ,and yet Devourer of thy people. Thou dost rule A spiritless race, else this days insolence, Atrides, were thy last. And now I say, And bind my sayin~ with a mighty oath: By this my sceptre, which can never bear A leaf or twig, since first it left its stem Among the mountains, for the steel had pared Its boughs and bark away, to sprout no more, And now the Achaian judges bear it, they Who guard the laws received from Jupiter, Such is my oath, the time shall come when all The Greeks shall lon to see Achilles back, While multitudes are perishing by the hand Of Hector, the man-queller; thou, meanwhile, Though thou lament, shalt have no power to help, And thou shalt rage against thyself to think That thou hast scorned the bravest of the Greeks. As thus he spoke, Pelides to the ground Flung the gold-studded wand, and took his seat. Fiercely Atrides raged; but now uprose Nestor, the master of persuasive speech, The clear-toned Pylian orator, whose tongue Dropped words more sweet than honey. He had seen Two generations that grew up and lived With him on sacred Pylos pass away, And now he ruled the third. With prudent words He thus addressed the assembly of the chiefs : Ye gods! what new misfortunes threaten Greece! How Priam would exult and Priam s sons, And how would all the Trojan race rejoice, Were they to know how furiously -ye strive, Ye who in council and in fight surpass The other Greeks. Now hearken to my words: Ye both are younger than myself, for I Have lived with braver men than you, and yet 1867.] Tue Co;zte;ztio;z between Achilles and Agarnemnon. They held me not in light esteem. Such men I never saw, nor shall I see again, Men like Pirithoils and like Druas, lord Of nations, C~eneus and Exadius, And the great Polypheme, and Theseus, son Of iEgeus, likest to the immortal gods. Strongest of all the earth-horn race were they, And with the strongest of their time they fought, With Centaurs, the wild dwellers of the hills, And fearfully destroyed them. With these men Did I hold converse, coming to their camp From Pylos in a distant land. They sent To hid me join the war, and by their side I fought my best, hut no man living now On the wide earth would dare to fight with them. Great as they were, they listened to my words And took my counsel. Hearken also ye, And let my words persuade you for the best. Thou, powerful as thou art, take not from him The maiden; suffer him to keep the prize Decreed him by the sons of Greece; and thou, Pelides, strive no longer with the kind, Since never yet did Jove to sceptred prince Grant eminence and honor like to his. Atrides, calm thine anger. It is I Who now implore thee to lay by thy wrath Against Achilles, who, in this fierce war, Is the great bulwark of the Grecian host. To him the sovereign Again emnon said: The things which thou hast uttered, aged chief, Are fitly spoken; but this man would stand Above all others; he aspires to he The master, over all to domineer, And to direct in all things; yet, I think, There may be one who will not suffer this. For if by favor of the immortal gods He was made brave, have they for such a cause Given him the liberty of insolent speech? Hereat the great Achilles, breaking in, Answered : Yea, well might I deserve the name Of coward and of wretch, should I submit In all things to thy bidding. Such commands Lay thou on others, not on me, nor think I shall obey thee longer. This I say, And hear it well in mind: I shall not lift My hand to keep the maiden whom ye gave And now take from me; but whatever else May be on board that swift black. ship of mine, Beware thou carry not away the least Without my leave. Come, make the trial now, That these may see thy black blood bathe my spear. Then, rising from that strife of words, the twain Dissolved the assembly at the Grecian fleet. 99 100 The Man who stole a Meeting-House. [Janu ary, THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. ON a recent journey to the Pennsyl- vania oil regions, I stopped one evening with a fellow-traveller at a vil- lage xv hich had just been thrown into a turmoil of excitement by the exploits of a horse-thief. As we sat around the tavcrn hearth, after supper, we heard the particulars of the rogues capture and escape fully discussed ; then fol- lowed many another tale of theft and robbery, told amid curling puffs of tobacco-smoke; until, at the close of an exciting story, one of the natives turned to my travelling acquaintance, and, with a broad laugh, said, Kin ye beat that, stranger? Well, I dont know, may be I could if I should try. I never hap- pened to fall in with any such tall horse- stealing as you tell of; but I knew a man who stole a meeting-house once. Stole a meetin-house ! That goes a little beyant anything yit, remarked another of the honest villagers. Ye dont mean he stole it and carried it away? Stole it and carried it away, re- peated my travelling companion, seri- ously, crossing his legs, and resting his arm on the back of his chair. And, more than all that, I helped him. How happened that ? for you dont look much like a thief, yourself. All eyes were now turned upon my friend, a plain New England farmer, whose honest homespun appearance and candid speech commanded re- spect. I was his hired man, and I acted under orders. His name was Jedwort, Old Jedwort, the boys called him, although he xvas nt above fifty when the crooked little circumstance hap- pened which I 11 make as straight a story of as I can, if the company would like to hear it. Sartin, stranger! sartin! about stealin the meetin-house! chimed in two or three voices. My friend cleared his throat, put his hair behind his ears, and with a grave, smooth face, but with a merry twinkle in his shrewd, gray eye, began as follows Jedwort, I said his name was; and I shall never forget how he looked one particular morning. He stood leaninb on the front gate, or rather on the post, for the gate itself was such a shackling concern a child could nt have leaned on t without breaking it down. And Jedwort was no child. Think of a stoutish, stooping, duck- legged man, with a mountainous back, strongly suggestive of a bag of grist under his shirt, and you have him. That imaginary grist had been growing heavier and heavier, and he more and more bent under it, for the last fifteen years and more, until his head and neck just came forward out from be- tween his shoulders, like a turtles from its shell. His arms hung, as he walked, almost to the ground. Being curved with the elbows outward, he looked for all the world, in a front view, like a waddling interrogation-point enclosed in a parenthesis. If man was ever a quadruped, as I ye heard some folks tell, and rose gradually from four legs to two, there must have been a time, very early in his history, when he went about like Old Jedwort. The gate had been a very good gate in its day. It had even been a genteel gate when Jedwort came into possession of the place, by marrying his wife, who inherited it from her uncle. That was some twenty years before, and everything had been going to rack and ruin ever since. Jedwort himself had been going to rack and ruin, morally speaking. He was a middling decent sort of man when I first knew him; and I judge there must have been something about him more than common, or he nev- er could have got such a wife. But then women do marry, sometimes, un- accountably. I ye known downright

J. T. Trowbridge Trowbridge, J. T. The Man who stole a Meeting-House 100-111

100 The Man who stole a Meeting-House. [Janu ary, THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. ON a recent journey to the Pennsyl- vania oil regions, I stopped one evening with a fellow-traveller at a vil- lage xv hich had just been thrown into a turmoil of excitement by the exploits of a horse-thief. As we sat around the tavcrn hearth, after supper, we heard the particulars of the rogues capture and escape fully discussed ; then fol- lowed many another tale of theft and robbery, told amid curling puffs of tobacco-smoke; until, at the close of an exciting story, one of the natives turned to my travelling acquaintance, and, with a broad laugh, said, Kin ye beat that, stranger? Well, I dont know, may be I could if I should try. I never hap- pened to fall in with any such tall horse- stealing as you tell of; but I knew a man who stole a meeting-house once. Stole a meetin-house ! That goes a little beyant anything yit, remarked another of the honest villagers. Ye dont mean he stole it and carried it away? Stole it and carried it away, re- peated my travelling companion, seri- ously, crossing his legs, and resting his arm on the back of his chair. And, more than all that, I helped him. How happened that ? for you dont look much like a thief, yourself. All eyes were now turned upon my friend, a plain New England farmer, whose honest homespun appearance and candid speech commanded re- spect. I was his hired man, and I acted under orders. His name was Jedwort, Old Jedwort, the boys called him, although he xvas nt above fifty when the crooked little circumstance hap- pened which I 11 make as straight a story of as I can, if the company would like to hear it. Sartin, stranger! sartin! about stealin the meetin-house! chimed in two or three voices. My friend cleared his throat, put his hair behind his ears, and with a grave, smooth face, but with a merry twinkle in his shrewd, gray eye, began as follows Jedwort, I said his name was; and I shall never forget how he looked one particular morning. He stood leaninb on the front gate, or rather on the post, for the gate itself was such a shackling concern a child could nt have leaned on t without breaking it down. And Jedwort was no child. Think of a stoutish, stooping, duck- legged man, with a mountainous back, strongly suggestive of a bag of grist under his shirt, and you have him. That imaginary grist had been growing heavier and heavier, and he more and more bent under it, for the last fifteen years and more, until his head and neck just came forward out from be- tween his shoulders, like a turtles from its shell. His arms hung, as he walked, almost to the ground. Being curved with the elbows outward, he looked for all the world, in a front view, like a waddling interrogation-point enclosed in a parenthesis. If man was ever a quadruped, as I ye heard some folks tell, and rose gradually from four legs to two, there must have been a time, very early in his history, when he went about like Old Jedwort. The gate had been a very good gate in its day. It had even been a genteel gate when Jedwort came into possession of the place, by marrying his wife, who inherited it from her uncle. That was some twenty years before, and everything had been going to rack and ruin ever since. Jedwort himself had been going to rack and ruin, morally speaking. He was a middling decent sort of man when I first knew him; and I judge there must have been something about him more than common, or he nev- er could have got such a wife. But then women do marry, sometimes, un- accountably. I ye known downright 1867.] Tue Ma;z wizo stoic a Mee/izzg-Hbuse. I0I ugly and disagreeable fellows to work around, till by and by they would get a pretty girl fascinated by something in them which nobody else could see, and then marry her in spite of everything; just as you may have seen a magnet- izer on the stage make his subjects do just what he pleased, or a black snake charm a bird. Talk about women mar- rying with their eyes open, under such circumstances! They dont marry with their eyes open: they are put to sleep, in one sense, and aint more than half responsible for what they do, if they are that. Then rises the question that has puzzled wiser heads than any of ours here, and will puzzle more yet, till society is different from what it is now, boxy much a refined and sen- sitive woman is bound to suffer from a coarse and disgusting master, legally called her husband, before she is en- titled to break off a bad bargain she scarce had a hand in making. I ye sat here, to-night, and heard about men getting goods under false pretences; you ye told some astonishing big sto- ries, gentlemen~ a bout rogues stealing horses and sleighs ; and I ni going to tell you about the man who stole a meeting-house ; but, when all is said, I guess it will be found that more extraor- dinary thieving than all that often goes on under our own eyes, and nobody takes any notice of it. There s such a thing, rrentlemen, as getting hearts under false pretences. There s such a thing as a man s stealing a wife. ~ speak with feeling on this subject, for I had an opportunity of seeing what Mrs. Jedwort had to put up with from a man no woman of her stamp could do anything but detest. She was just the prettiest, patientest creature you ever saw. She was even too patient. If I had been tied to such a cub, I think I should have cultivated the beau- tiful and benignant qualities of a wild- cat; there would have been one good fight, and one of us would have been living, and the other would have been dead, and that would have been the end of it. But Mrs. Jedwort bore and bore untold miseries, and a large num ber of children. She had had nine of these, and three were under the sod and six above it when Jedwort ran off with the meeting-house in the way I am going on to tell you. There was Maria, the oldest girl, a perfect picture of what her mother had been at nine- teen. Then there were the two boys, Dave and Dan, fine young fellows, spite of their father. Then came Lottie, and Susie, and then Willie, a little four-year- old. It was amazing to see what the mother would do to keep her family looking decent with the little means she had. For Jedwort was the tightest screw ever you saw. It was avarice that had spoilt him, and came so near turning him into a beast. The boys used to say he grew so bent, looking in the dirt for pennies. That was true of his mind, if not of his body. He was a poor man, and a pretty respect- able man, when he married his wife but he had no sooner come into pos- session of a little property, than he grew crazy for more. There are a good many men in the world, that nobody looks upon as monomaniacs, who are crazy in just that sort of way. They are all for laying up money, depriving themselves of comforts, and their fam- ilies of the advantages of society and education, just to add a few dollars to their hoard every year; and so they keep on till they die and leave it to their children, who would be much bet- ter off if a little more had been invest- ed in the cultivation of their minds and manners, and less in stocks and bonds. Jedwort was just one of that class of men, although perhaps he carried the fault I speak of a little to excess. A dollar looked so big to him, and he held it so close, that at last he could nt see much o~ anything else. By degrees he lost all regard for decency and his neighbors opinions. 1-us children went barefoot, even after they got to be great boys and girls, because he was too mean to buy them shoes. It was piti- ful to see a nice, interesting girl, like Maria, go about looking as she did, while her father was piling his money 102 T/~e Mazz who stoic a lllcctizig-House. [January, into the bank. She wanted to go to school, and learn music, and he some- body; hut he would nt keep a hired girl, and so she was obliged to stay at home and do housework; and she could no more have got a dollar out of him to pay for clothes and tuition, than you could squeeze sap out of a hoe-handle. The only way his wife could ever get anything new for the family was by stealing hutter from her own dairy, and selling it hehind his back. You need nt say anything to Mr. Jedwort about this batch of butter, she would hint to the storekeeper; but you may band the money to me, or I will take my pay in goods. In this way a new gown, or a piece of cloth f6r the boys coats, or something else the family needed, would be smuggled into the house, with fear and trembling lest old J edwort should make a row and find where the money came from. The house inside was kept neat as a pin; but everything around it looked terribly shiftless. It was built origi- nally in an amhitious style, and painted white. It had four tall front pillars, supporting the portion of the roof that came over the porch, lifting up the eyebrows of the house, if I may so ex- press myself; and making it look as if it was going to sneeze. Half the blinds were off their hinges, and the rest flapped in the wind. The front door-step had rotted away. The porch had once a good floor, but for years Jedwort had been in the habit of going to it when- ever he wanted a board for the pig-pen, until not a hit of floor was left. But I began to tell about Jedwort leaning on the gate that morning. We had all noticed him; and as Dave and I brought in the milk, his mother asked, What is your father planning now? Half the time he stands there, looking up the road; or else he s walking up that way in a brown study. He s got his eye on the old meet- ing-house, says Dave, setting down his pail. He has been watching it and walking round it, off and on, for a week. That was the first intimation I had of what the old fellow was up to. But after hreakfast he followed me out of the house, as if he had something on his mind to say to me. Stark, says he, at last, you ye al- ways insisted on t that I was nt an en- terprisin man. I insist on t still, says I ; for I was in the habit of talking mighty plain to him, and joking him pretty hard sometimes. If I had this farm, Id show you enterprise. You would nt see the hogs in the garden half the time, just for want of a good fence to keep em out. You would nt see the very best strip of land lying waste, just for want of a ditch. You would ntsee that stone wall by the road tumbling down year after year, till by and by you wont be able to see it for the weeds and thistles. Yes, says he, sarcastically, ye d lay out ten times as much money on the place as ye d ever git back agin, I ye no doubt. But I believe in economy. That provoked me a little, and I said, Economy! you re one of the kind of men that 11 skin a flint for six- pence and spoil a jack-knife worth a shilling; and that is nt economy any more than a corn-cob is a fiddlestick. You waste fodder and grain enough every three years to pay for a bigger barn, to say nothing of the incon- venience. Wal, Stark, says he, grinning and scratching his head, I ye made up my mind to have a bigger barn, if I have to steal one. That wont he the first thing you ye stole, neither, says I. He flared up at that. Stole? says he. What did I ever steal? Well, for one thing, the rails the freshet last spring drifted off from Talcotts land on to yours, and you grabbed: what was that but stealing? That was luck. He could nt swear to his rails. By the way, they 11 jest come in play now. They ye come in play already, says I. They ye gone on to the old fences all over the farm, and I could use a thousand more without making much show. 1867.] like AIa;z who stole a iIfeetI;zg-House. 103 That s cause you re so dumbed extravagant with rails, as you are with everything else. A few loads can be spared from the fences here and there, as well as not. Harness up the team, boys, and git together enough to make about ten rods o zi~zag, two rails high. Two rails? says Dave, who had a healthy contempt for the old mans narrow, contracted way of doing things. What s the good of such a fence as that? It 11 be, says I, like the single bar in music. When our old singing- master asked his class once what a single bar was, Bill Wilkins spoke up and said, It s a bar that horses and cattle jump over, and pigs and sheep run under. What do you expect to keep out with two rails ? The law, boys, the law, says J edwort. I know what I m about. I 11 make a fence the law cant run under nor jump over; and I dont care a cuss for the cattle and pigs. You git the rails, and I 11 rip some boards off m the pig-pen to make stakes. Boards aint good for nothin for stakes, says Dave. Besides, none cant be spared from the pig-pen. I 11 have boards enough in a day or two for forty pig-pens, says Jed- xvort. Brino~ along the rails and dump em out in the road for the present, and say nothin to nobody. We got the rails, and he made his stakes; and right away after dinner he called us out. Come, boys, says he, now we 11 astonish the natives. The wagon stood in the road, with the last jag of rails still on it. Jedwort piled on his stakes, and threw on the crow-bar and axe, while we were hitch- ing up the team. Now, drive on, Stark, says he. Yes; but where shall I drive to? To the old meetin-house, says Jedwort, trudging on ahead. The old meeting-house stood on an open common, at the northeast corner of his farm. A couple of cross-roads bounded it on two sides; and it was bounded on the other two by Jedworts overgrown stone wall. It was a square, old-fashioned building, with a low stee- ple, that had a belfry, but no hell in it, and with a high, square pulpit and high, straight-backed pews inside. It was now some time since meetings had been held there; the old society that used to meet there having separated, one division of it building a fashionable chapel in the North Village, and the other a fine new church at the Centre. Now, the peculiarity about the old church property was, that nobody had any legal title to it. A log meeting- house had been built there when the country was first settled and land was of no account. In the course of time that was torn down, and a good framed house put up in its place. As it be- longed to the whole community, no title, either to the house or land, was ever recorded; and it was nt until after the society dissolved that the question came up as to how the property was to be disposed of. While the old dea- cons were carefully thinking it over, Jedwort was on hand, to settle it by putting in his claim. Now, boys, says he, ye see what I m up to. Yes, says I, provoked as I could be at the mean trick, and I knew it was some such mischief all along. You never show any enterprise, as you call it, unless it is to get the start of a neighbor. Then you are wide awake; then you are busy as the Devil in a gale of wind. But what are you up to, pa? says Dan, who did nt see the trick yet. The old man says, I m goin to fence in the rest part of my farm. What rest part? This part that never was fenced; the old meetin-house common. But, pa, says Dave, disgusted as I was, you ye no claim on that. Wal, if I haint, I 11 make a claim. Give me the crow-bar. Now, here s the corner, nigh as I can squint; and he stuck the bar into the ground. Make a fence to here from the wall, both sides. 104 e Ma;z zo/zo stole a Meeti;zg-House. [January, Sho, pa! says Dan, looking be- wildered; ye aint goin to fence in the old meetin-house, be ye ? That s jest what I in goin to do. Go and git some big stuns from the wail, the biggest ye can find, to rest the corners of the fence on. String the rails along by the road, Stark, and go for another load. Dont stand gawp- in there Gazqi5in ? says I ; it s enough to make any~dy garu~. You do beat all the critters I ever had to deal with. Have nt ye disgraced your family enough already, without stealing a meeting- house ? How have I disgraced my family? says he. Then I put it to him. Look at your children; it s all your wife can (10 to prevent em from growing up in rags and dirt and ignorance, because you are too close-fisted to clothe em decently or send em to school. Look at your house and yard. To see an Irishmans shanty in such a condition seems appropriate enough, but a gen- teel place, a house with pillars, run down and gone to seed like that, is an eyesore to the community. Then look at your wife. You never would have had any property to mismanage, if it had nt heen for her; and see the way ye show your gratitude for it. You wont let her go into company, nor have company at home; you wont allow a hired girl in the house, but she and Maria have to do all the drudgery. You make perfect slaves of em. I swear, if t wa nt for your wife, I would nt work for you an hour longer; but she s the best woman in the world, after all you ye done to break her spirit, and I hate to leave her. The old fellow squirmed, and wrenched the crow-bar in the ground, then snarled back: Yes ! you re waitin for me to die; then you mean to step into my shoes. I hope you 11 leave a decenter pair than them you ye got on, if I m to step into em, says I. One thing about it, says he, ~she v:ont have ye.~ I should think, says I, a woman that would marry you would have most anybody. So we had it hack and forth, till by and by he left me to throw off the rails, and went to show the boys how to build the fence. Look here, says he; jest put a thunderin big stun to each corner; then lay your rail on; then drive your pair of stakes, like a letter N. He drove a pair. Now put on your rider. There s your letter X, ridin one length of rails and carryin another. That s what I call puttin yer alphabet to a practical use ; and I say there aint no sense in havin any more edication than ye can put to a practical use. I ye larnin enough to git along in the world; and if my boys have as much as I ye got, they 11 git along. Now work spry, for there comes Dea- con Talcott. Wal, wal! says the Deacon, com- ing up, puffing with excitement; what ye doin to the old meetin-house? Wal, says Jedwort, driving away at his stakes, and never looking up, I ye been considerin some time what I should do with t, and I ye concluded to make a barn on t. Make a barn! make a ham ! cries the Deacon. Who give ye liberty to make a barn of the house of God? Nobody; I take the liberty. Why should nt I do what I please with my own propty? Your own property, what do ye mean ? T aint your meetin-house. Whose is t, if t aint mine ? says J edwort, lifting his turtles head from between his horizontal sh oulclers, and grinning in the Deacons face. It belongs to the society, says thc Deacon. But the sciety s pulled up stakes and gone off. It belon~,s to individooals of the society, to individooals. Wal, I m an individooal, says J edwort. You! you never ~vent to meetin here a dozen times in your life I never did have my share of the 1867.] The Man who stole a Meeting-House. 105 old meetin-house, that s a fact, says Jedwort; but I 11 make it up now. But what are ye fencin up the common for? says the Deacon. Itll make a good caif-pastur. I ye never had my share o the vally o that, either. I ye let my neighbors pigs and critters run on t long enough; and now I m jest goin to take posses- sion o my own. Your own! says the Deacon, in perfect consternation. You ye no deed on t. Wal, have you? No hut the society The sciety, I tell ye, says Jed- wort, holding his head up longer than I ever knew him to hold it up at a time, and grinning all the while in Talcotts face, the sciety is split to pieces. There aint no sciety now, any more n a pig s a pig arter you ye hutchered and et it. You ye et the pig amongst ye, and left me the pen. The sciety never had a deed o this ere propty and no man ever had a deed o this ere propty. My wifes grandaddy, when he took up the land here, was a good-natered sort of man, and he al- lowed a corner on t for his neighbors to put up a temprary meetin - house. That was finally used up, the kind o preachin they had them days was enough to use up in a little time any house that wa nt fire-proof; and when that was preached to pieces, they put up another shelter in its place. This is it. And now t the land aint used no more for the puppose t was lent for, it goes hack natrally to the estate t was took from, and the buildins along with it. That s all a sheer fabrication, says the Deacon. This land was never a part of what s now your farm, any more than it was a part of mine. Wal, says Jedwort, I look at it in my way, and you ye a perfect right to look at it in your way. But I m gointo make sure o my way, by put- tin a fence round the hull concern. And you re usin some of my rails fer to do it with! says the Dea- con. Can you swear f they re your rails? Yes, I can; they re rails the fresh- et carried off from my farm last spring, and landed onto yourn. So I ye heard ye say. But can you swear to the particlar rails ? Can you swear, for instance, t this ere is your rail? or this ere one ? No; I cant swear to precisely them two, but Can you swear to these two? or to any one or two? says Jedwort. No, ye cant. Ye can swear to the lot in general, but you cant swear to any par- ticlar rail, and that kind o swearin wont stand law, Deacon Talcott. I dont boast of bein an edicated man, but I know suthin o what law is, and when I know it, I dror a line there, and I toe that line, and I make my neigh- bors toe that line, Deacon Talcott. Nine pints of the law is possession, and I 11 have possession o this ere house and land by fencin on t in; and though every man t comes along should say these ere rails belong to them, I 11 fence it in with these ere very rails. Jedwort said this, wagging his ob- stinate old head, and grinning with his face turned up pugnaciously at the Dea- con; then went to work again as if he had settled the question, and did nt wish to discuss it any further. As for Talcott, he was too full of wrath and boiling indignation to answer such a speech. He knew that Jedwort had managed to get the start of him with regard to the rails, by mixing a few of his own with those he had stolen, so that nobody could tell em apart; and he saw at once that the meeting- house was in danger of going the same way, just for want of an owner to swear out a clear title to the property. He did just the wisest thing, when he swal- lowed his vexation, and hurried off to alarm the leading men of the two soci- eties and to consult a lawyer. He 11 stir up the old town like a bumble-bees nest, says Jedwort. Hur- ry up, boys, or there 11 be a buzzin round our ears fore we git through! io6 The Man who stole a Meeting-House. [January, I wish ye would nt, pa! says Dave. Why dont we tend to our own business, and be decent, like other folks ? Im sick of this kind of life. Quit it, then, says Jedwort. Do you tell me to quit it? says Dave, dropping the end of a rail he was handling. Yes, I do; and dolt dumbed quick, if ye cant show a proper respect to your father! Dave turned white as a sheet, and he trembled as he answered back, I should be glad to sho xv you respect, if you was a man I could feel any respect for. At that, Jedwort caught hold of the iron bar that was sticking in the ground, where he had been making a hole for a stake, and pulled away at it. Ill make a stake-hole in you! says he. Its enough to have a sassy hired man round, without bein jawed by ones own children ! Dave was out of reach by the time the bar came out of the ground. Come here, you villain! says the old man. I d rather be excused, says Dave, backing off. I dont want any stake- holes made in me to-day. You told me to quit, and I in going to. You may steal your own meeting-houses in fu- ture; I wont help. There was a short race. Daves young legs proved altogether too smart for the old waddlers, and he got off. Then Jedwort, coming back, wheezing and sweating, with his iron bar, turned savagely on me. I ye a good notion to tell you to go too! Very well, why dont ye? says I. I in ready. There s no livin with ye, ye re gittin so dumbed sassy! What I keep ye for is a mystery to me.~ No, it aint: you keep me because you can t get another man to fill my place. You put up with my sass for the money I bring ye in. Hold your yawp, says he, and go and git another load of rails. If ye see Dave, tell him to come back to work. I did see Dave, but, instead of tell- ing him to go back, I advised him to put out from the old home and get his living somewhere else. His mother and Maria agreed with me; and when the old man came home that night, Dave was gone. When I got back with my second load, I found the neighbors assembling to witness the stealing of the old meet- ing-house; and Jedwort was answering their remonstrances. A meetin-house is a respectable kind o propty to have round, says he. The steeple 11 make a good show be- hind my house. When folks ride by, they 11 stop and look, and say, There s a man keeps a private meetin-house of his own. I can have preachin in t, too, if I want. I in able to hire a preacher of my own; or I can preach myself and save the expense.~ Of course, neither sarcasm nor ar- gument could have any effect on such a man. As the neighbors were going away, Jedwort shouted after em: Call agin. Glad to see ye. There 11 be more sport in a few days, when I take the dumbed thing away. (The dumbed thing was the meeting-house.) I invite ye all to see the show. Free gratis. Itll he good as a circus, and a tarnal sight cheaper. The women can bring their knittin, and the gals their everlastin tattin. As it 11 be a pious kind o show. hem it s a meetin- house ,guess I 11 have notices gin out from the pulpits the Sunday afore. The common xvas fenced in by sundown; and the next day Jedwort had over a house-mover from the North Village to look and see what could be done with the building. Can ye snake it over, and drop it back of my house? says he. Itll be a hard job, says old Bob, without you tear down the steeple fust. But Jedxvort said, What s a meet- in-house thout a steeple? I ye got my heart kind o set on that steeple; and I m bound to go the hull hog on this ere concern, now I ye begun. I vow, says Bob, examining the 1867.] TAc luau who stoic a llfeeting-Hozuse. 107 timbers, I wont warrant but what the old thing 11 all tumble down. I 11 resk it. Yes; but who 11 resk the lives of me and my men? 0, you 11 see if it s rely goin to tumble, and look out. I 11 engage t me and my boys 11 do the most danger- ous part of the work. Dumbed if I would nt agree to ride in the steeple and ring the bell, if there was one. I ye never heard that the promised notices were read from the pulpits; hut it was nt many days before Bob came over again, bringing with him this time his screws and ropes and rollers, his men and timbers, horse and capstan; and at last the old house might have been seen on its travels. It was an exciting time all around. The societies found that Jedworts fence gave him the first claim to house and land, unless a regular siege of the law was gone through to beat him off, and then it might turn out that he would beat them. Some said fight him; some said let him be, the thing aint worth going to law for; and so, as the leading men could nt agree as to what should be done, nothing was done. That was just what Jedwort had expected, and he laughed in his sleeve while Bob and his boys screwed up the old meeting-house, and got their beams under it, and set it on rollers, and slued it around, and slid it on the timbers laid for it across into Jedworts field, steeple foremost, like a locomotive on a track. It was a trying time for the women- folks at home. Maria had declared that, if her father did persist in stealing the meeting-house, she would not stay a sin- gle day after it, but would follow Dave. That touched me pretty close, for, to tell the truth, it was rather more Maria than her mother that kept me at work for the old man. If you go, says I, then there is no object for me to stay; I shall go too. Thats what I supposed, says she; for there s no reason in the world why you should stay. But then Dan will go ; and who 11 be left to take sides with mother? That s what troubles me. 0, if she could only go too! But she wont; and she could nt if she would, with the other children depend- ing on her. Dear, dear! what shall we do? The poor girl put her head on niy shoulder, and cried; and if I should own up to the truth, I suppose I cried a little too. For where s the man that can hold a sweet womans head on his shoulder, while she sobs out her trouble, and he has nt any power to help her, who, I say, can do any less, under such circumstances, than drop a tear or two for company? Never mind; dont hurry, says Mrs. Jedwort. Be patient, and wait awhile, and it 11 all turn out right, Im sure- Yes, you always say, Be patient, and wait! says Maria, brushing back her hair. But, for my part, I m tired of waiting, and my patience has given out long ago. We cant always live in this way, and we may as well make a change now as ever. But I cant bear the thought of going and leaving you. Here the two younger girls came in; and, seeing that crying was the or- der of the day, they began to cry; and when they heard Maria talk of going, they declared they would go; and even little Willie, the four-year-old, began to howl. There, there! Maria! Lottie! Su- sie! said Mrs. Jedwort, in her calm way; Willie, hush up! I dont know what we are to do; but I feel that some- thing is going to happen that will show us the right way, and we are to wait. Now go and wash the dishes, and set the cheese. That was just after breakfast, the second day of the moving; and sure enough, something like what she proph- esied did happen before another sun. The old frame held together pret- ty well till along toward night, when the steeple showed signs of seceding. There she goes! Shes falling now! sung out the boys, who had been hanging around all day in hopes of seeing the thing tumble. The house was then within a few The Mcz;~ who s/ole ~ lIIee/i;zg-House. rods of where Jedwort wanted it; but Bob stopped right there, and said it was nt safe to haul it another inch. That steeple s bound to come down, if we do, says he. Not by a dumbed sight, it aint, says Jedwort. Them cracks aint nothin ; the jints is all firm yit. He wanted Bob to go up and examine; but Bob shook his head, the concern looked too shaky. Then be told me to go up; but I said I bad nt lived quite long enough, and had a little rather be smoking my pipe on terra Jir;;uz. Then the boys began to hoot. Dumbed if ye aint all a set of cowards, says he. Ill go up myself. vVe waited outside while he climbed up inside. The boys jumped on~ the ground to jar the steeple, and make it fall. One of them blew a horn, as be said, to bring down the old Jeri- cho, and another thought he d help things along by starting up the horse, and giving the building a little wrench. But Bob put a stop to that; and finally out came a head from the belfry win- dow. It was Jedwort, who shouted down to us: There aint a jint or brace gin out. Start the boss, and I 11 ride. Pass me up that ere horn, and Just then there came a cracking and loosening of timbers; and we that stood nearest had only time to jump out of the way, when down came the steeple crashing to the ground, with Jedwort in it. I hope it killed the cuss, said one of the village story-tellers. Worse than tj~at, replied my friend; it just cracked his skull, not enough to put an end to his miserable life, but only to take away what little sense he had. We got the doctors to him, and they patched up his broken head; and, by George, it made me mad to see the fuss the women-folks made over him. It would have been my way to let him die; but they were as anxious and at- tentive to him as if he had been the kindest husband and most indulgent father that ever lived; for that s wo- mens style: they re unreasoning crea- tures. Along towards morning, we persuad- ed Mrs. Jedwort, who had been up all night, to lie down a spell and catch a little rest, while Maria and I sat up and watched with the old man. All was still except our whispers and his heavy breathing; there was a lamp burning in the next room; when all of a sud- den a light shone into the windows, and about the same time we heard a roaring and crackling sound. We looked out, and saw the night all lighted up, as if by some great fire. As it appeared to be on the other side of the house, we ran to the door, and there what did we see but the old meeting-house all in flames. Some felloxvs had set fire to it to spite J edwort. It must have been burning some time inside; for when we looked out, the flames had burst through the roof. As the night was perfectly still, ex- cept a light wind blowing away from the other buildings on the place, we raised no alarm, but just stood in the door and saw it burn. And a glad sight it was to us, you may be sure. I just held Maria close to my side, and told her that all was well, it was the best thing that could happen. 0 yes, says she, it seems to me as though a kind Providence was burning up his sin and shame out of our sight. I had never yet said anything to her about marriage,for the time to come at that had never hardly seemed to arrive ; but there s nothing like a little excitement to bring things to a focus. You ye seen water in a tumbler just at the freezing point, but not exact- ly able to make up its mind to freeze, when a little jar will set the crystals forming, and in a minute what was liq- uid is ice. It was the shock of events that night that touched my life into crystals, not of ice, gentlemen, by any manner of means. After the fire had got along so far that the meeting-house was a gone case, an alarm was given, probably by the very fellows that set it, and a hundred people were on the spot before the thing had done burning. Of course these circumstances put i o8 [January, Tue Mazi w/io stoic a ./li/cclizzg-Housc. an end to the breaking up of the family. Dave was sent for, and came home. Then, as soon as we saw that the old mans brain was injured so that he was nt likely to recover his mind, the boys and I went to work and put that farm through a course of improvement it would have done your eyes good to see. The children were sent to school, and Mrs. Jedwort had all the money she wanted n~w to clothe them, and to pro- vide the house with comforts, without stealing her own butter. Jedwort was a burden; but, in spite of him, that was just about the happiest family, for the next four years, that ever lived on this planet. Jedwort soon got his bodily health, but I dont think he knew one of us again after his hurt. As near as I could get at his state of mind, he thought he bad been changed into some sort of ani- mal. He seemed inclined to take me for a master, and for four years he fol- lowed me around like a dog. During that time he never spoke, but only whined and growled. When I said, Lie down, he d lie down; and when I whistled, he d come. I used sometimes to make him work; and certain simple things he would do very well, as long as I was by. One day I had a jag of hay to get in; and, as the boys were away, I thought Id have him load it. I pitched it on to the wagon about where it ought to lie, and looked to him only to pack it down. There turned out to be a higger load than I had expected, and the higher it got, the worse the shape of it, till finally, as I was starting it towards the barn, off it rolled, and the old man with it, head foremost. He struck a stone heap, and for a moment I thought he was killed. But he jumped up and spoke for the first time. I ii blow It, says he, finishing the sentence he had begun four years before, when he called for the horn to be passed up to him. I could nt have been much more astonished if one of the horses had spoken. But I saw at once that there was an expression in Jedworts face that had nt been there since his tumble in the belfry; and I knew that, as his wits had been knocked out of him by one blow on the head, so another blow had knocked em in again. Where s Bob? says he, looking all around. Bob? says I, not thinking at first who he meant. 0, Bob is dead, he has been dead these three years. Without noticing my reply, he ex- claimed: Where did all that hay come from? Where s the old meetin- house Dont you know? says I. Some rogues set fire to it the night after you got hurt, and burnt it up. He seemed then just beginning to realize that something extraordinary had happened. Stark, says he, what s the matter with ye? You re changed. Yes, says I, I wear my beard now, and J ye grown older! Dumbed if t aint odd! says he. Stark, what in thunder s the matter with me? You ye had meeting-house on the brain for the past four years, says I; that s what s the matter. It was some time before I could make him understand that he had been out of his head, and that so long a time had been a blank to him. Then he said, Is this my farm? Dont you know it? says I. It looks more slicked up than ever it used to, says he. Yes, says I; and you 11 find ev- erything else on the place slicked up in about the same way. Where s Dave? says he. Dave has gone to town to see about selling the wool. Where s Dan? Dan s in college. Hetakesagreat notion to medicine; and we re going to make a doctor of him. Whose house is that? says he, as I was taking him home. No wonder you dont know it, says I. It has been painted, and shingled, and had new blinds put on; the gates and fences are all in prime 1867.1 109 I JO The Ma;i who stoic a Meotizig-Hozise. [January, condition; and that s a new barn we put up a couple of years ago. Where does the money come from, to make all these improve- inents? It comes off the place, says I. We have nt run in debt the first cent for anything, but we ye made the farm more profitable than it ever was before. That my house? he repeated wonderingly, as we approached it. What sound is that? That s Lottie practising her les- son on the piano. A pianer in my house! he mut- tered. I cant stand that ! He lis- tened. It sounds pooty, though ! Yes, it does sound pretty, and I guess you 11 like it. How does the place suit you ? It looks pooty. He started. What young lady is that? It was Lottie, who had left her mu- sic, and stood by the window. My dabter! ye dont say! Dumbed if she aint a mighty nice gal. Yes, says I ; she takes after her mother. Just tl2en Susie, who heard talking, ran to the door. Who s that agin? says Jedwort. I told him. Wal, ske s a mighty nice-lookin gal! Yes, says I, ske takes after her mother. Little Willie, now eight years old, came out of the wood-shed with a bow- and-arrow in his hand, and stared like an owl, hearing his father talk. What boy is that? says Jedwort. And when I told him, he muttered, He s an ugly-lookin brat! He s more like his father, says I. The truth is, Willie was such a fine boy the old man was afraid to praise him, for fear I d say of him, as Id said of the girls, that he favored his mother. Susie ran back and gave the alarm; and then out came mother, and Maria with her baby in her arms, for I for- got to tell you that we had been married now nigh on to two years. Well, the women-folks were as much astonished as I had been when J edwort first spoke, and a good deal more deliotted~ They drew him into b the house; and I am bound to say he behaved remarkably well~ He kept looking at his wife, and his children, and his grandchild, and the new paper on the walls, and the new ftirniture, and now and then asking a question or making a remark. It all comes back to me now, says he at last. I thought I was living in the moon, with a superior race of hu- man hems; and this is the place, and you are the people. It was nt more than a couple of days before he began to pry around; and find fault, and grumble at the ex- pense; and I saw there was danger of things relapsing into something like their former condition. So I took him one side, and talked to him. Jedwort, says I, you re like a man raised from the grave. You was the same as buried to your neighbors, and now they come and look at you as they would at a dead man come to life. To you, it s like coming into a new world; and Ill leave it to you now, if you dont rather like the change from the old state of things to what you see around you to-day. You ye seen how the family affairs go on, how pleas- ant everything is, and how we all enjoy ourselves. You hear the piano, and like it; ~ ou see your children sought after and respected, your wife in finer health and spirits than you ye ever known her since the day she was mar- ned; you see industry and neatness everywhere on the premises; and you re a beast if you dont like all that. In short, you see that our management is a great deal better than yours ; and that we beat you, even in the matter of economy. Now, what I want to know is this: whether you think you d like to fall into our way of living, or return like a hog to your wallow. I dont say but what I like your way of livin very well, he grumbled. Then, says I, you must just let us go ahead, as we have been going ahead. Now s the time for you to 1867.] Terminus. III turn about and be a respectable man, like your neighbors. Just own up, and say you ye not only b~n out of your head the past four years, but that you ye been more or less out of your head the last four-and-twenty years. But say you re in your right mind now, and prove it by acting like a man in his right mind. Do that, and I m with you; we re all with you. But go back to your old dirty ways, and you go alone. Now I sha nt let you off, till you tell me what you mean to do. He hesitated some time, then said, May be you re about right, Stark; you and Dave and the old woman seem to be doin pooty well, and I guess Ill let you goon.~~ 1-lere my friend paused, as if his story was done; when one of the vil- lagers asked, About the land where the old meetin-house stood, what ever was done with that? That was appropriated for a new school-house; and there my little shav- ers go to school.~ And old Jedwort, is he alive yet? Both Jedwort and his wife have gone to that country where meanness and dishonesty have a mighty poor chance, where the only investments worth much are those recorded. in the Book of Life. Mrs. Jedwort was rich in that kind of stock; and Jedworts account, I guess, will compare favor- ably with that of some respectable peo- ple, such as we all know. I tell ye, my friends, continued my fellow-traveller, there s many a man, both in the higher and lower ranks of life, that t would do a deal of good, say nothing of the mer- cy t would be to their families, just to knock em on the head, and make Neb- uchadnezzars of em, then, after they d been turned out to grass a few years, let em come back again, and see how happy folks have been, and how well they have got along without em. I carry on the old place now, he added. The younger girls are mar- ried off; Dan s a doctor in the North Village; and as for Dave, he and I have struck ile. Im going out to look at our property now.~~ TERMINUS. IT is time to be old, To take in sail The god of bounds, Who sets to seas a shore, Came to me in his fatal rounds, And said, No more! No further spread Thy broad ambitious branches, and thy root; Fancy departs: no more invent, Contract thy firmament To compass of a tent. There s not enough for this and that, Make thy option which of two; Economize the failing river, Not the less adore the Giver, Leave the many and hold the few. Timely wise accept the terms, Soften the fall with wary foot;

Ralph Waldo Emerson Emerson, Ralph Waldo Terminus 111-112

1867.] Terminus. III turn about and be a respectable man, like your neighbors. Just own up, and say you ye not only b~n out of your head the past four years, but that you ye been more or less out of your head the last four-and-twenty years. But say you re in your right mind now, and prove it by acting like a man in his right mind. Do that, and I m with you; we re all with you. But go back to your old dirty ways, and you go alone. Now I sha nt let you off, till you tell me what you mean to do. He hesitated some time, then said, May be you re about right, Stark; you and Dave and the old woman seem to be doin pooty well, and I guess Ill let you goon.~~ 1-lere my friend paused, as if his story was done; when one of the vil- lagers asked, About the land where the old meetin-house stood, what ever was done with that? That was appropriated for a new school-house; and there my little shav- ers go to school.~ And old Jedwort, is he alive yet? Both Jedwort and his wife have gone to that country where meanness and dishonesty have a mighty poor chance, where the only investments worth much are those recorded. in the Book of Life. Mrs. Jedwort was rich in that kind of stock; and Jedworts account, I guess, will compare favor- ably with that of some respectable peo- ple, such as we all know. I tell ye, my friends, continued my fellow-traveller, there s many a man, both in the higher and lower ranks of life, that t would do a deal of good, say nothing of the mer- cy t would be to their families, just to knock em on the head, and make Neb- uchadnezzars of em, then, after they d been turned out to grass a few years, let em come back again, and see how happy folks have been, and how well they have got along without em. I carry on the old place now, he added. The younger girls are mar- ried off; Dan s a doctor in the North Village; and as for Dave, he and I have struck ile. Im going out to look at our property now.~~ TERMINUS. IT is time to be old, To take in sail The god of bounds, Who sets to seas a shore, Came to me in his fatal rounds, And said, No more! No further spread Thy broad ambitious branches, and thy root; Fancy departs: no more invent, Contract thy firmament To compass of a tent. There s not enough for this and that, Make thy option which of two; Economize the failing river, Not the less adore the Giver, Leave the many and hold the few. Timely wise accept the terms, Soften the fall with wary foot; 112 An Appeal to Congress [January, A little while Still plan and smile, And, fault of novel germs, Mature the unfallen fruit. Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires, Bad husbands of their fires, Who, when they gave thee breath, Failed to bequeath The needful sinew stark as once, The Baresark marrow to thy bones, But left a legacy of ebbing veins, Inconstant heat and nerveless reins, Amid the Muses, left thee deaf and dumb, Amid the gladiators, halt and numb. As the bird trims her to the gale, I trim myself to the storm of time, I man the rudder, reef the sail, Obey the voice at eve, obeyed at prime: Lowly faithful, banish fear, Right onward drive unharmed; The port, well worth the cruise, is near, And every wave is charmed. AN APPEAL TO CONGRESS FOR IMPARTIAL SUFFRAGE. AVERY limited statement of the argument for impartial suffrage, and for including the negro in the body politic, would require more space than can be reasonably asked here. It is supported by reasons as broad as the nature of man, and as numerous as the wants of society. Man is the only gov- ernment-making animal in the world. His right to a participation in the pro- duction and operation of government is an inference from his nature, as direct and self-evident as is his right to acquire property or education. It is no less a crime against the manhood of a man, to declare that he shall not share in the making and directing of the govern- ment under which he lives, than to say that he shall not acquire property and education. The fundamental and un- answerable argument in favor of the enfranchisement of the negro is found in the undisputed fact of his manhood. He is a man, and by every fact and ar- gument by which any man can sustain his right to vote, the negro can sustain his right equally. It is plain that, if the right belongs to any, it belongs to all. The doctrine that some men have no rights that others are bound to respect, is a doctrine which we must banish, as we have banished slavery, from which it emanated. If black men have no rights in the eyes of white men, of course the whites can have none in the eyes of the blacks. The result is a war of races, and the annihilation of all proper hu- man relations. But suffrage for the negro, while ea- silv sustained upon abstract principles, demands consideration upon what are recognized as the urgent necessities of

Frederick Douglass Douglass, Frederick An Appeal to Congress for Impartial Suffrage 112-118

112 An Appeal to Congress [January, A little while Still plan and smile, And, fault of novel germs, Mature the unfallen fruit. Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires, Bad husbands of their fires, Who, when they gave thee breath, Failed to bequeath The needful sinew stark as once, The Baresark marrow to thy bones, But left a legacy of ebbing veins, Inconstant heat and nerveless reins, Amid the Muses, left thee deaf and dumb, Amid the gladiators, halt and numb. As the bird trims her to the gale, I trim myself to the storm of time, I man the rudder, reef the sail, Obey the voice at eve, obeyed at prime: Lowly faithful, banish fear, Right onward drive unharmed; The port, well worth the cruise, is near, And every wave is charmed. AN APPEAL TO CONGRESS FOR IMPARTIAL SUFFRAGE. AVERY limited statement of the argument for impartial suffrage, and for including the negro in the body politic, would require more space than can be reasonably asked here. It is supported by reasons as broad as the nature of man, and as numerous as the wants of society. Man is the only gov- ernment-making animal in the world. His right to a participation in the pro- duction and operation of government is an inference from his nature, as direct and self-evident as is his right to acquire property or education. It is no less a crime against the manhood of a man, to declare that he shall not share in the making and directing of the govern- ment under which he lives, than to say that he shall not acquire property and education. The fundamental and un- answerable argument in favor of the enfranchisement of the negro is found in the undisputed fact of his manhood. He is a man, and by every fact and ar- gument by which any man can sustain his right to vote, the negro can sustain his right equally. It is plain that, if the right belongs to any, it belongs to all. The doctrine that some men have no rights that others are bound to respect, is a doctrine which we must banish, as we have banished slavery, from which it emanated. If black men have no rights in the eyes of white men, of course the whites can have none in the eyes of the blacks. The result is a war of races, and the annihilation of all proper hu- man relations. But suffrage for the negro, while ea- silv sustained upon abstract principles, demands consideration upon what are recognized as the urgent necessities of 1867.] for Imparlia? Suffrage~ 113 the case. It is a measure of relief, a shield to break the force of a blow al- ready descending with violence, and ren- der it harmless. The work of destruc- tion has already been set in motion all over the South. Peace to the country has literally meant war to the loyal men of the South, white and black; and negro suffrage is the measure to arrest and put an end to that dreadful strife. Something then, not by way of argu- ment, (for that has been done by Charles Sumner, Thaddeus Stevens, Wendell Phillips, Gerrit Smith, and other able men,) but rather of statement and ap- peal. For better or for worse, (as in some of the old marriage ceremonies,) the ne- groes are evidently a permanent part of the American population. They are too numerous and useful to be colonized, and too enduring and self-perpetuating to disappear by natural causes. Here they are, four millions of them, and, for weal or for woe, here they must remain. Their history is parallel to that of the country; but while the history of the latter has been cheerful and bright with blessings, theirs has been heavy and dark with agonies and curses. What OConnell said of the history of Ireland may with greater truth be said of the ne- gros. It may be traced like a wound- ed man through a crowd, by the blood. Yet the negroes have marvellously sur- vived all the exterminating forces of slavery, and have emerged at the end of two hundred and fifty years of bond- age, not morose, misanthropic, and re- vengeful, but cheerful, hopeful, and for- giving. They now stand before Con- gress and the country, not complain- ing of the past, but simply asking for a better future. The spectacle of these dusky millions thus imploring, not de- manding, is touching; and if Ameri- can statesmen could be moved by a simple appeal to the nobler elements of human nature, if they had not fall- en, seemingly, into the incurable habit of weighing and measuring every prop- osition of reform by some standard of profit and loss, doing wrong from choice, and right only from necessity or VOL. XIX.NO. III. 8 some urgent demand of human selfish- ness, it would be enough to plead for the negroes on the score of past ser- vices and sufferings. But no such ap- peal shall be relied on here. Hard- ships, services, sufferings, and sacrifices are all waived. It is true that they came to the relief of the country at the hour of its extremest need. It is true that, in many of the rebellious States, they were almost the only reliable friends the nation had throughout the whole tremendous war. It is true that, notwithstanding their alleged ignorance, they were wiser than their masters, and knew enough to be loyal, while those masters only knew enough to be rebels and traitors. It is true that they fought side by side In the loyal cause with our gallant and patriotic white soldiers, and that, but for their help, divided as the loyal States were, the Rebels might have succeeded in breaking up the Union, thereby entailing border wars and troubles of unknown duration and incalculable calamity. All this and more is true of these loyal negroes. Many daring exploits will be told to their credit. Impartial history will paint them as men who deserved well of their country. It will tell how they forded and swam riv- ers, with what consummate address they evaded the sharp-eyed Rebel pickets, how they toiled in the darkness of night through the tangled marshes of briers and thorns, barefooted and weary, run- ning the risk of losing their lives, to warn our generals of Rebel schemes to surprise and destroy our loyal army. It will tell how these poor people, whose rights we still despised, behaved to our wounded soldiers, when found cold, hun- gry, and bleeding on the deserted bat- tle-field; how they assisted our escap- ing prisoners from Andersonville, Belle Isle, Castle Thunder, and elsewhere, sharing with them their wretched crusts, and otherwise affording them aid and comfort; how they promptly responded to the trumpet call for their services, fighting against a foe that denied them the rights of civilized warfare, and for a government which was without the cour- age to assert those rights and avenge 4 An ApJeal to Congress [January, their violation in their behalf; with what gallantry they flung themselves upon Rebel fortifications, meeting death as fearlessly as any other troops in the service. But upon none of these things is reliance placed. These facts speak to the better dispositions of the human heart; but they seem of little weight with the opponents of impartial suffrage. It is true that a strong plea for equal suffrage might be ad dressed to the na- tional sense of honor. Something, too, might be said of national gratitude. A nation might well hesitate before the temptation to betray its allies. There is something immeasurably mean, to say nothing of the cruelty, in placing the loyal negroes of the South under the political power of their Rebel mas- ters. To make peace with our ene- mies is all ~vell enouo~h. but to prefer our enemies and sacrifice our friends, to exalt our enemies and cast down our friends, to clothe our enemies, who sought the destruction of the govern- ment, with all political power, and leave our friends powerless in their hands, is an act which need not be charac- terized here. \Ve asked the negroes to espouse our cause, to be our friends, to fight for us and against their mas- ters; and now, after they have done all that we asked them to do, helped us to conquer their masters, and thereby directed toward themselves the furi- ous hate of the vanquished, it is pro- posed in some quarters to turn them over to the political control of the com- mon enemy of the government and of the negro. But of this let nothing be said in this place. Waivin ~ humanity, national honor, the claims of gratitude, the precious satisfaction nrising from deeds of charity and justice to the weak and defenceless, the appeal for impartial suffrage addresses itself with great pertinency to the darkest, coldest, and flintiest sid& of the human heart, and would wring righteousness from the unfeeling calculations of human selfish- ness. For in respect to this grand measure it is the good fortune of the negro that enlightened selfishness, not less than justice, fights on his side. National in- terest and national duty, if elsewhere separated, are firmly united here. The American people can, perhaps, afford to brave the censure of surrounding nations for the manifest injustice and meanness of excluding its faithful black soldiers from the ballot-box, but it can- not afford to allow the moral and men- tal energies of rapidly increasing mil- lions to be consigned to hopeless deg- radation. Strong as we are, we need the energy that slumbers in the black mans arni to make us stronger. We want no longer any heavy - footed, melancholy service from the negro. We want the cheerful activity of the quickened man- hood of these sable millions. Nor can we aftbrd to endure the moral blight which the existence of a degraded and hated class must necessarily inflict upon any people among whom such a class may exist. Exclude the negroes as a class from political rights, teach them that the high and manly privilege of suffrage is to be enjoyed by white citi- zens only, that they may bear the bur- dens of the state, but that they are to have no part in its direction or its hon- ors, and you at once deprive them of one of the main incentives to manly character and patriotic devotion to the interests of the government; in a word, you stamp them as a degraded caste, you teach them to despise themselves, and all others to despise them. Men are so constituted that they largely de- rive their ideas of their abilities and their possibilities from the settled judg- ments of their fellow-men, and especial- ly from such as they read in the institu- tions under ~vhich they live. If these bless them, they are blest indeed; but if these blast them, they are blasted in- deed. Give the negro the elective fran- chise, and you give him at once a pow- erful motive for all noble exertion, and make him a man among men. A char- acter is demanded of him, and here as elsewhere demand favors supply. It is nothing a~ ainst this reasoning that all men who vote are not good men or good citizens. It is enough that the 1867.] for In~par/ial Suffrage~ 5 possession and exercise of the elective franchise is in itself an appeal to the nobler elements of manhood, and im- poses education as essential to the safe- ty of society. To appreciate the full force of this argument, it must be observed, that disfranchisement in a republican gov- ernment based upon the idea of hu- man equality and universal suffrage, is a very different thing from disfranchise- ment in ~overnments based upon the b idea of the divine right of kings, or the entire subjugation of the masses. Masses of men can take care of them- selves. Besides, the disabilities im- posed upon all are necessarily without that bitter and stinging & ement of in- vidiousness which attaches to disfran- chisement in a republic. What is common to all works no special sense of degradation to any. But in a coun- try like ours, where men of all na- tions, kindred, and tongues are freely enfranchised, and allowed to vote, to say to the negro, You shall not vote, is to deal his manhood a staggering blow, and to burn into his soul a hitter and goading sense of wrong, or else work in him a stupid indifference to all the ele- ments of a manly character. As a na- tion, we cannot afford to have amongst us either this indifference and stupidity, or that burning sense of wrong. These sable millions are too powerful to be al- lowed to remain either indifferent or discontented. Enfranchise them, and they become self-respecting and coun- try-loving citizens. Disfranchise them, and the mark of Cain is set upon them less mercifully than upon the first mur- derer, for no man was to hurt him. But this mark of inferiority all the more palpable because of a difference of colornot only dooms the negro to be a vagabond, but makes him the prey of insult and outrage everywhere. While nothing may be urged here as to th~ past services of the negro, it is quite within the line of this appeal to remind the nation of the possibility that a time m.ay come when the ser- vices of the negro may be a second time required. History is said to re peat itself, and, if so, having wanted the negro once, we may want him again. Can that statesmanship be wise which would leave the negro good ground to hesitate, when the exigen- cies of the country required his prompt assistance? Can that be sound states- manship which leaves millions of men in gloomy discontent, and possibly in a state of alienation in the day of na- tional trouble? Was not the nation stronger when two hundred thousand sable soldiers were hurled against the Rebel fortifications, than it would have been without them? Arming the ne- gro was an urgent military necessity three years ago, are we sure that another quite as pressing may not await us ? Casting aside all thought of justice and magnanimity, is it wise to impose upon the negro all the bur- dens involved in sustaining government against foes within and foes without, to make him equal sharer in all sacri- fices for the public good, to tax him in peace and conscript him in war, and then coldly exclude him from the bal- lot-box? Look across the sea. Is Ireland, in her present condition, fretful, discon- tented, compelled to support an estab- lishment in which she does not be- lieve, and ~vhich the vast majority of her people abhor, a source of power or of weakness to Great Britain? Is not Austria wise in removing all ground of complaint against her on the part of Hungary? And does not the Emperor of Russia act wisely, as well as gener- ously, when he not only breaks up the bondage of the serf, but extends him all the advantages of Russian citizen- ship? Is the present movement in England in favor of manhood suffrage for the purpose of bringing four inil- lions of British subjects into full sym- pathy and co-operation with the Brit- ish government a xvise and humane movement, or otherwise? Is the exist- ence of a rebellious element in our bor- ders which New Orleans, Memphis, and Texas show to be only disarmed, but at heart as malignant as ever, only waiting for an opportunity to reassert An Appeal lo Congress [January, itself with fire and sword a reason for leaving four millions of the nations truest friends with just cause of com- plaint against the Federal government? If the doctrine that taxation should go hand in hand with representation can be appealed to in behalf of recent trai- tors and rebels, may it not properly be asserted in behalf of a people who have ever been loyal and faithful to the gov- ernment? The answers to these ques- tions are too obvious to require state- ment. Disguise it as we may, we are still a divided nation. The Rebel States have still an anti-national policy. Mas- sachusetts and South Carolina may draw tears from the eyes of our tender-hearted President by walking arm in arm into his Philadelphia Convention, but a citizen of Massachusetts is still an alien in the Palmetto State. There is that, all over the South, which frightens Yankee in- dustry, capital, and skill from its bor- ders. We have crushed the Rebellion, but not its hopes or its malign pur- poses. The South fought for perfect and permanent control over the South- ern laborer. It was a war of the rich against the poor. They who waged it had no objection to the government, while they could use it as a means of confirming their power over the labor- er. They fought the government, not because they hated the government as such, but because they found it, as they thought, in the way between them and their one grand purpose of rendering permanent and indestructible their au- thority and power over the Southern laborer. Though the battle is for the present lost, the hope of gaining this ob- ject still exists, and pervades the whole South with a feverish excitement. We have thus far only gained a Union with- out unity, marriage without love, victory without peace. The hope of gaining by politics what they lost by the sword, is the secret of all this Southern un- rest; and that hope must be extin- guished before national ideas and ob- jects can take full possession of the Southern mind. There is but one safe and constitutional way to banish that mischievous hope from the South, and that is by lifting the laborer beyond the unfriendly political designs of his for- mer master. Give the negro the elec- tive franchise, and you at. once destroy the purely sectional policy, and wheel the Southern States into line with na- tional interests and national objects. The last and shrewdest turn of South- ern politics is a recognition of the necessity of getting into Congress im- mediately, and at any price. The South will comply with any conditions but suf- frage for the negro. It will swallow all the unconstitutional test oaths, repeal all the ordinances of Secession, repudi- ate the Rebel debt, promise to pay the debt incurred in conquering its people, pass all the constitutional amendments, if only it can have the negro left under its political control. The proposition is as modest as that made on the moun- tain: All these things will I give unto thee if thou wilt fall down and worship me. But why are the Southerners so will- ing to make these sacrifices? The an- swer plainly is, they see in this policy the only hope of saving something of their old sectional peculiarities and pow- er. Once firmly seated in Congress, their alliance with Northern Democrats re-established, their States restored to their former position inside the Union, they can easily find means of keeping the Federal government entirely too busy with other important matters to pay much attention to the local affairs of the Southern States. Under the potent shield of State Rights, th egame would be in their own hands. Does any sane man doubt for a moment that the men who followed Jefferson Davis through the late terrible Rebellion, often marching barefooted and hungry, naked and penniless, and who now only profess an enforced loyalty, would plunge this country into a foreign war to-day, if they could thereby gain their coveted independence, and their still more coveted mastery over the ne- groes? Plainly enough, the peace not less than the prosperity of this country is involved in the great measure of im- partial suffrage. King Cotton is de 1867.] posed, but only deposed, and is ready to-day to reassert all his ancient pre- tensions upon the first favorable oppor- tunity. Foreign countries abound with his agents. They are able, vigilant, devoted. The young men of the South burn with the desire to regain what they call the lost cause; the women are noisily malignant towards the Federal government. In fact, all the elements of treason and rebellion are there un- der the thinnest disguise which neces- sity can impose. What, then, is the work before Con- gress ? It is to save the people of the South from themselves, and the nation from detriment on their account. Con- gress must supplant the evident sec- tional tendencies of the South by na- tional dispositions and tendencies. It must cause national ideas and objects to take the lead and control the poli- tics of those States. It must cease to recognize the old slave-masters as the only competent persons to rule the South. In a word, it must enfran- chise the negro, and by means of the loyal negroes and the loyal white men of the South build up a national party there, and in time bridge the chasm between North and South, so that our country may have a common liberty and a common civilization. The new wine must be put into new bottles. The lamb may not be trusted with the wolf. Loyalty is hardly safe with trai- tors. Statesmen of America! beware what you do. The ploughshare of rebellion has gone through the land beam-deep. The soil is in readiness, and the seed- time has come. Nations, not less than individuals, reap as they sow. The dreadful calamities of the past few years came not by accident, nor unbid- den, from the ground. You shudder 7 to-day at the harvest of blood sown in the spring-time of the Republic by your patriot fathers. The principle of slav- ery, ~vhich they tolerated under the erroneous impression that it would soon die out, became at last the dom- inant principle and power at the South. It early mastered the Constitution, be- came superior to the Union, and en- throned itself above the law. Freedom of speech and of the press it slowly but successfully banished from the South, dictated its own code of honor and manners to the nation, bran- dished the bludgeon and the bowie- knife over Congressional debate, sap- ped the foundations of loyalty, dried up the springs of patriotism, blotted out the testimonies of the fathers against oppression, padlocked the pul- pit, expelled liberty from its literature, invented nonsensical theories about master-races and slave-races of men, and in due season produced a Rebel- lion fierce, foul, and bloody. This evil principle again seeks admis- sion into our body politic. It comes now in shape of a denial of political rights to four million loyal colored peo- ple. The South does not now ask for slavery. It only asks for a large de- graded caste, which shall have no political rights. This ends the case. Statesmen, beware what you do. The destiny of unborn and unnumbered generations is in your hands. Will you repeat the mistake of your fathers, who sinned ignorantly? or will you profit by the blood-bought wisdom all round you, and forever expel every vestige of the old abomination from our national borders? As you mem- bers of the Thirty-ninth Congress de- cide, will the country be peaceful, united, and happy, or troubled, divid- ed, and miserable. for Impartial Suffrage. Pan in Wall Sired. PAN IN WALL STREET. A. D. 1867. JUST where the Treasurys marble front Looks over Wall Streets mingled nations, ~There Jews and Gentiles most are wont To throng for trade and last quotations, Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold Outrival, in the ears of people, The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled From Trinitys undaunted steeple, Even there I heard a strange, wild strain Sound high above the modern clamor, Above the cries of greed and gain, The curbstone war, the auctions hammer, And swift, on Musics misty ways, It led, from all this strife for millions, To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. And as it stilled the multitude, And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, I saw the minstrel, where he stood At ease against a Done pillar: One hand a droning organ played, The other held a Pans-pipe (fashioned Like those of old) to lips that made The reeds give out that strain impassioned. was Pan himself had wandered here A-strolling through this sordid city, And piping to the civic ear The prelude of some pastoral ditty! The demigod had crossed the seas, From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr, And Syracusan times, to these Far shores and twenty centuries later. A ragged cap was on his head: Buthidden thusthere was no doubting That, all with crispy locks oerspread, His gnarl~d horns were somewhere sprouting; His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes, Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them, And trousers, patched of divers hues, Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them. He filled the quivering reeds with sound, And oer his mouth their changes shifted, ii8 U anuary,

E. C. Stedman Stedman, E. C. Pan in Wall Street 118-120

Pan in Wall Sired. PAN IN WALL STREET. A. D. 1867. JUST where the Treasurys marble front Looks over Wall Streets mingled nations, ~There Jews and Gentiles most are wont To throng for trade and last quotations, Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold Outrival, in the ears of people, The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled From Trinitys undaunted steeple, Even there I heard a strange, wild strain Sound high above the modern clamor, Above the cries of greed and gain, The curbstone war, the auctions hammer, And swift, on Musics misty ways, It led, from all this strife for millions, To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. And as it stilled the multitude, And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, I saw the minstrel, where he stood At ease against a Done pillar: One hand a droning organ played, The other held a Pans-pipe (fashioned Like those of old) to lips that made The reeds give out that strain impassioned. was Pan himself had wandered here A-strolling through this sordid city, And piping to the civic ear The prelude of some pastoral ditty! The demigod had crossed the seas, From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr, And Syracusan times, to these Far shores and twenty centuries later. A ragged cap was on his head: Buthidden thusthere was no doubting That, all with crispy locks oerspread, His gnarl~d horns were somewhere sprouting; His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes, Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them, And trousers, patched of divers hues, Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them. He filled the quivering reeds with sound, And oer his mouth their changes shifted, ii8 U anuary, 1867.] Pan in Wall Street. ~ i 9 And with his goats-eyes looked around XVhereer the passing current drifted; And soon, as on Trinacrian hills The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him, Even now the tradesmen from their tills, With clerks and porters, crowded near him. The bulls and hears together drew From Jauncey Court and New-Street Alley, As erst, if pastorals be true, Came beasts from every wooded valley; The random passers stayed to list, A boxer iEgon, rough and merry, A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry. And one-eyed Cyclops halted long In tattered cloak of army pattern, And Galatea joined the throng, A blowsy, apple-vending slattern; While old Silenus staggered out From some new-fangled lunch-house handy, And bade the piper, with a shout, To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy! A newsboy and a peanut-girl Like little Fauns began to caper: His hair was all in tangled curl, Her tawny legs were bare and taper; And still the gathering larger grew, And gave its pence and crowded nigher, While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew His pipe, and struck the gamut higher. O heart of Nature, beating still With throbs her vernal passion taught her, Even here, as on the vine-clad hill, Or by the Arethusan water New forms may fold the speech, new lands Arise within these ocean-portals, But Music waves eternal wands, Enchantress of the souls of mortals I So thought 1,hut among us trod A man in blue, with legal baton, And scoffed the vagrant demigod, And pushed him from the step I sat on. Doubting I mused upon the cry, Great Pan is dead I and all the people Went on their ways and clear and high The quarter sounded from the steeple. 120 The Ki,~rdom of Infancy. [January, THE KINGDOM OF INFANCY. W H EN the present writer was a small boy, he firmly believed Fairyland to be in the asparagus-bed, and envied the house-cat her ability to traverse that weird and waving forest into which, through thick stems, he could only peer. And then, too, being allowed to sit up one night an hour later than usual, and listen to the read- ing of Irvings Tour on the Prairies~~ (just out), the next day he, with a com- rade (in time a gallant captain of Mas- sachusetts Volunteers), procured sticks that imagination shaped to rifles, and started due west from the streets of the seaside village. They went gloriously on, deep and deeper into the forest, in the full conviction that it opened first upon the borders of the land of deer and buffalo, when they came to a stone fence, and then a road, a travelled and dusty highway. Right across their pioneer path it ran, and the sight of it struck a chill conviction to their hearts that civilization had gone ahead of them, and that they should never see buffalo. The writer never has seen buffalo to this day, except one herd of hideous brutes, that stared at him out of the Pontine Marshes, as he rode by on the banquette of the Rome and Naples dil- igence. These two dreams of boyhood came back to us with the late fine autumnal weather, and set us to thinking upon the marvellousness of childhood. It is a world of life apart. It has its own laws, mysteries, illusions or realities, which- ever you please. And nothing is more surprising than the way in ~vhich grown- up men and women not only pass out of it, but of all memory of it, and be- come altogether different beings. If Wordsworths saying hold, The child is father to the man, we can but retort the proverb, It is a ~vise child that knows its own father. Who shall read for us the riddle of boyhood? It is not mimicry of manhood. Men and women are not children of a larger growth, they are men and women. We suppose the children of the Rollo Series might indeed be blown up into ordi- nary men and women, being such on a small scale; but they are not at all like real boys and girls. What passes over childhood is a change, such as comes upon puppies and kittens and colts and lambs and cubs and whelps of every kind. Boys imitate men, and little girls likewise play at housekeeping; but in the manner of the imitation there is the same ludicrous disproportion and whimsicality which one sees in children dressed up in the clothes of their elders. There is unto them a law of their own. When the imitation is really well done, as in the mimic Senate of the pages of Congress, it is nothing but clever act- ing, and the most wearisome of sights. There is a story of a comedy performed by monkeys with wonderful spirit and gravity, till a mischievous spectator threw a handful of nuts on the stage, when kings, lovers, and heroes sudden- ly fell into a four-footed scramble, in ut- ter oblivion of their parts. So the first question of personal interest thrown among these boy debaters would prob- ably produce a scene compared to which the liveliest rows of the grown-up houses would be tame. The Kingdom of Infancy is the di- rect heir of that of the Medes and Per- sians, whose laws alter not. Look at boys games. Do they change ? Men change. When we were a boy, we made our first journey to Boston in a stage -coach, and were treated to a ride in the first railway cars which had be- gun to unite the metropolis to the coun- try towns. A wooden line-of-battle ship was a marvel in our eyes, great, massive, invincible. Bunker Hill Mon- ument rose then about seventy feet, and every one said would probably never be finished. A telegraph was a thing with wooden arms, which made strange signs in the air, like a lunatic windmill. The Atlantic Monthly of that day was

Walter Mitchell Mitchell, Walter The Kingdom of Infancy 120-123

120 The Ki,~rdom of Infancy. [January, THE KINGDOM OF INFANCY. W H EN the present writer was a small boy, he firmly believed Fairyland to be in the asparagus-bed, and envied the house-cat her ability to traverse that weird and waving forest into which, through thick stems, he could only peer. And then, too, being allowed to sit up one night an hour later than usual, and listen to the read- ing of Irvings Tour on the Prairies~~ (just out), the next day he, with a com- rade (in time a gallant captain of Mas- sachusetts Volunteers), procured sticks that imagination shaped to rifles, and started due west from the streets of the seaside village. They went gloriously on, deep and deeper into the forest, in the full conviction that it opened first upon the borders of the land of deer and buffalo, when they came to a stone fence, and then a road, a travelled and dusty highway. Right across their pioneer path it ran, and the sight of it struck a chill conviction to their hearts that civilization had gone ahead of them, and that they should never see buffalo. The writer never has seen buffalo to this day, except one herd of hideous brutes, that stared at him out of the Pontine Marshes, as he rode by on the banquette of the Rome and Naples dil- igence. These two dreams of boyhood came back to us with the late fine autumnal weather, and set us to thinking upon the marvellousness of childhood. It is a world of life apart. It has its own laws, mysteries, illusions or realities, which- ever you please. And nothing is more surprising than the way in ~vhich grown- up men and women not only pass out of it, but of all memory of it, and be- come altogether different beings. If Wordsworths saying hold, The child is father to the man, we can but retort the proverb, It is a ~vise child that knows its own father. Who shall read for us the riddle of boyhood? It is not mimicry of manhood. Men and women are not children of a larger growth, they are men and women. We suppose the children of the Rollo Series might indeed be blown up into ordi- nary men and women, being such on a small scale; but they are not at all like real boys and girls. What passes over childhood is a change, such as comes upon puppies and kittens and colts and lambs and cubs and whelps of every kind. Boys imitate men, and little girls likewise play at housekeeping; but in the manner of the imitation there is the same ludicrous disproportion and whimsicality which one sees in children dressed up in the clothes of their elders. There is unto them a law of their own. When the imitation is really well done, as in the mimic Senate of the pages of Congress, it is nothing but clever act- ing, and the most wearisome of sights. There is a story of a comedy performed by monkeys with wonderful spirit and gravity, till a mischievous spectator threw a handful of nuts on the stage, when kings, lovers, and heroes sudden- ly fell into a four-footed scramble, in ut- ter oblivion of their parts. So the first question of personal interest thrown among these boy debaters would prob- ably produce a scene compared to which the liveliest rows of the grown-up houses would be tame. The Kingdom of Infancy is the di- rect heir of that of the Medes and Per- sians, whose laws alter not. Look at boys games. Do they change ? Men change. When we were a boy, we made our first journey to Boston in a stage -coach, and were treated to a ride in the first railway cars which had be- gun to unite the metropolis to the coun- try towns. A wooden line-of-battle ship was a marvel in our eyes, great, massive, invincible. Bunker Hill Mon- ument rose then about seventy feet, and every one said would probably never be finished. A telegraph was a thing with wooden arms, which made strange signs in the air, like a lunatic windmill. The Atlantic Monthly of that day was 1867.] The Kingdom of Infancy. 121 called d~ The United States Literary Gazette, and a young man who signed himself L. had just written for it a piece called Woods in Winter; while B., another, contributed a piece enti- tled The Murdered Traveller. Now, if we were to journey Bostonward, we should take a car in which we could go to bed and slumber composedly; we should visit the navy-yard to see a monitor; we should click a wire home- ward to say that we were to stay an- other night in the city; we should purchase the Flower-de-Luce, and Thirty Poems, as also a couple of sun-likenesses of B. and L. Two or three years ago, we should have beheld a regiment of negro soldiers marching down Tremont Row, in full sight of a bland, bald-headed gentle- man, whom (on our first visit to the three-hilled city) we once narrowly missed seeing hurried through Boston streets by a crowd benevolently bent on running him up to a lamp-post. We should have learned that these same troops were bound to New York (where it was once eloquently proved in the Tabernacle that they were not men, but only a secondary form of Simia); thence to Philadelphia (where we saw the yet smouldering ruins of Pennsyl- vania Hall); and thence to Baltimore and Washington (when we were last there a similar consignment arrived for the Southern market), not to be sold, but to be paid, armed, and marched to the battle-field. There was some change in all this. So lives the soul of man. It is the thirst of his immortal nature, as a young gentleman not long since said in a pretty Commencement poem. Beavers and boys, however, build the same now as of old. Only this very morning we stepped above a hop- scotch diagram, drawn after the pre- cise pattern of those we used to scuff through in the days above described. There hangs a kite upon our neighbors barn gable, made after the ~ame archaic pattern as our boyhood kites. The peg- tops, the marbles, are as familiar to us no~v as in the time before the streaks of silver had begun to diversify our back hair, and ingenuous youth persists in manipulating them after the pattern of old. School-books change; instead of Malte-Brun, goodness-knows-who ge- ographies the rising mind, and young America turns up its nose at the dogs- eared arithmetic which was our boy- hoods sorrow. But when we come to prisoners base, and high-spy, we think we might give the young gen- tlemen of the present day a point or two, without much risk. The Kingdom of Infancy is like the rule of the Bourbons, nothing forgotten, nothing learned. Men in their games improve upon the past; Morphy could have given Phili- dor pawn and move, and Tieman and Kavanagh are the Raphael and Buona- rotti of billiards; but your child this morning made its mud-pies in the pre- cise way in which you constructed your first terraqueous pastry, and you may safely bet the nations collective in- come-tax against a five-cent note, that your grandchildren will do the same. Who makes the laws of the Kingdom of Infancy? Who determines when kite-time, top-time, marble-time, ball- time, shall come? Not the fitness of things, certainly. Boys in England will be perversely playing at the same sports as boys in America, in utter de- fiance of meteorological laws. Raging football in the hot summer, sedentary marbles in the cold, wet spring, are de- termined by some law which childhood is conscious of, yet cannot define, but which the man can never fathom. Whence come the superstitions of childhood? For what cause is it that the school-girl walks to school intent upon never setting foot across a crack in the pavement, and would rather be tar- dy than lose her game? Her mother did it before her; and what was the re- proach, 0 staid matronly friend of my youth, which visited failure, you know not; but when even now you come to that well-remembered stone, so nar- row that it was an awkward marvel of skill to hit it, you can hardly help trying the feat once more. There is a creed established in our 122 The Kingdom of Infancy. [January, Kingdom, with unvarying traditions. You do not believe that Tompkins Pond is bottomless in some places, but you did in the days when you fished there for perch; and you would not be in the least surprised to hear your Willy say at tea to-night, Father, is nt there a place in Tomp- kins Pond where there is no bottom? Jim Morse (a horrid Voltairean, whom we would gladly consign to the secular arm for an auto da fe~ says there is nt, but I know there is. Boys have their worship, too. There is always one fellow in a school who can do ev- erything ; or else is not in the school, but works for somebody in the neigh- borhood, and comes at recess and leans over the fence, and criticises, and some- times takes a marvellous stroke with a ball-club, or a kick at a football, or is seen at the top of the big elm, where no one else has ever climbed. Him they revere. We said the laws of the Kingdom never change; but its fashions do. Can you not remember how it was the height of felicity to possess some article which was neither a toy, nor eatable, nor pret- ty, nor useful, but simply the rage? Of course you can. Dickens says slate- pencil was a great treasure at his school. We have a faint recollection that horse-chestnuts paved the Califor- nia of our young dreams. Then it was cat-tails. Then every boy was zealous- ly cutting out letters in wood. Then it was the fashion to edit newspapers. We did our first journalizing in con- junction with another eight-yearling, who is at it yet. For auld lang syne, if this manuscript ever sees the light of type, we crave a kindly notice in the spirited journal whose columns he now touches but to adorn. Then every boy wrote for composition a voyage to Europe, and was mainly interested in meeting his schoolmates in Westmin- ster Abbey, hurrying over the inevita- ble icebergs and whales of the voyage to reach that astounding climax. Unfathomable are the prejudices of childhood, its likes and dislikes. Some teachers can never get the good-will of a school. They will go elsewhere and succeed d merveilie. Even in college, a professor will be the idol of one class and the ridicule of the next, why, only he who wrote the profound apothegm concerning Dr. Fell can say. For a sea- son boys will be happy and harmonious in their games, and the next will do nothing at recess but hang about the play-ground and tease and quarrel. We remember how, for a whole summer, our school forsook its large and comfortable play-ground, and went at every recess almost a quarter of a mile to play foot- ball in a lot not nearly so convenient, whereby we lost five minutes off each end of our game. Teasing games will sometimes have a wonderful run. The little fellows hate them, yet will always be constrained by some occult magic to join in, though morally certain to come to grief before long. Then there are the feuds which prevail between differ- ent localities. We well remember when no raid into Rebeldom could have sur- passed in thrilling excitement of adven- ture a simple errand into a street only a few rods off the one where we daily played in safety. Boston and Charles- town, we are told, used to make for each other the passes leading to and fro bridges of Lodi and Arcole. And we re- member when North End and South End burned with an enmity like Clan Chattan and Clan Quhele in the meads of Perth. We called the boys of our neighbor- ing village Coskies. It has since come to us that we meant Corsicans, as being democrats, and therefore fol- lowers of the bloody-minded usurper Bonaparte (who was quietly sleeping beneath the willow of St. Helena before we were born); and no vendetta was ever more religiously transmitted than our hate of them. Where do the smart boys go? In the books we edit and approve for Sun- day-school reading they come to wealth and honor; but we do not remember that we can trace like careers in the pages of our own experience. There will be a king of the school, studi- ous, first in the play-ground, and pos- sessor of marvellous secrets of art, i867.] Reviews and Literary Notices. 123 who can draw like a sucking Turner, and paint all the pictures in the geog- raphy, who makes watch-spring saws, and builds clipper schooners which al- ways ~vin the mill-pond regattas, and who by virtue of his gifts will be all in all among his companions. Infinite luck, resource, and will are his. But now where is the cricketer of the academy? A quiet citizen, not over well to do, respectable and humdrum, standing be- hind his counter, and never even taking a hand at the great game of politics at which so many win marvellous stakes. Wise men say, Find out a boys ca- pacity and develop it; but who shall teach us even to suspect the many s in- capacity and overcome it? It is a strange world, the Kingdom of Childhood. Its moral laws are not the laws of after life. The summer fruit, all melting into honeyed sweetness, is indeed harsh in its green spring-time. And the moral of our closing is this. Wherein it is safe to educate, educate for after-life ; wherein it is not safe, let alone. Into the sports, the child-life of youth, you cannot infuse mens cul- ture. You can teach gymnastics, if you will, profitably, but as you teach arith- metic or any other study; yet you cannot make your boy play at them. He will leave the best-appointed set of horses and bars and ropes and ladders, to play tag, and climb fences, and hang by his feet from the crooked limbs of the old apple-tree. If you mix instruc- tion with amusement, he will hate the one and not love the other. Check wrong ways by parental and pedagogic authority, but do not try to teach other ways save with great care. Did you ever seek to show children a better mode of playing a game? It was prob- ably a mortifying failure. We have seen boys taught to drill in admirable style; yet when the drill was learned, they did not play soldiers any more, but recreated themselves with base-ball or making balloons. And do not ask to know too much about their ways and ideas. A boys will is the winds will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. The Jesuits will take a child, and through the confessional mould him just as they please; but all they ever succeed in doing is to make little Jesuits into big ones. Plenty of affection, and a pure, high example at home, careful training in what is neces- sary for after-life to know, and then wholesome neglect Some things must be learned, but cannot be taught. Dr. Arnold was a wise teacher; but the wis- est thing we ever heard of him was that recorded by his admiring pupil, who wrote in School - Days at Rugby, that he knew when not to see. REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES. The Bz~low Papers. Second Series. Tick- nor and Fields. You kin spall an punctooate thet as you please, says Mr. Biglow in sending to the editor of the Atlantic the last of the Biglow Papers; I allus do, it kind of puts a noo soot of close onto a word, this crc funattick spellin doos, an takes em out of the prissen dress they wair in the Dixionary. Ef I squeeze the cents out of em, it s the main thing, and wut they wuz made for; wut s left s jest pummis. Whereby, we fear, Mr. Biglow may give the impression that it is not a dialect in which he writes his poems, but a language which he misspells and perverts by caprice or through ignorance, and thus discredit something of Mr. Lowells exquisite intro- ductory discourse. The feeble critic-folk who have gravely made our great humorist responsible for the clownish tricks in or- thography of Artemus Ward, Josh Billings, and the like, scarcely needed to have such a doubt added to the confusion born in them.

The Biglow Papers. Second Series Reviews and Literary Notices 123-125

i867.] Reviews and Literary Notices. 123 who can draw like a sucking Turner, and paint all the pictures in the geog- raphy, who makes watch-spring saws, and builds clipper schooners which al- ways ~vin the mill-pond regattas, and who by virtue of his gifts will be all in all among his companions. Infinite luck, resource, and will are his. But now where is the cricketer of the academy? A quiet citizen, not over well to do, respectable and humdrum, standing be- hind his counter, and never even taking a hand at the great game of politics at which so many win marvellous stakes. Wise men say, Find out a boys ca- pacity and develop it; but who shall teach us even to suspect the many s in- capacity and overcome it? It is a strange world, the Kingdom of Childhood. Its moral laws are not the laws of after life. The summer fruit, all melting into honeyed sweetness, is indeed harsh in its green spring-time. And the moral of our closing is this. Wherein it is safe to educate, educate for after-life ; wherein it is not safe, let alone. Into the sports, the child-life of youth, you cannot infuse mens cul- ture. You can teach gymnastics, if you will, profitably, but as you teach arith- metic or any other study; yet you cannot make your boy play at them. He will leave the best-appointed set of horses and bars and ropes and ladders, to play tag, and climb fences, and hang by his feet from the crooked limbs of the old apple-tree. If you mix instruc- tion with amusement, he will hate the one and not love the other. Check wrong ways by parental and pedagogic authority, but do not try to teach other ways save with great care. Did you ever seek to show children a better mode of playing a game? It was prob- ably a mortifying failure. We have seen boys taught to drill in admirable style; yet when the drill was learned, they did not play soldiers any more, but recreated themselves with base-ball or making balloons. And do not ask to know too much about their ways and ideas. A boys will is the winds will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. The Jesuits will take a child, and through the confessional mould him just as they please; but all they ever succeed in doing is to make little Jesuits into big ones. Plenty of affection, and a pure, high example at home, careful training in what is neces- sary for after-life to know, and then wholesome neglect Some things must be learned, but cannot be taught. Dr. Arnold was a wise teacher; but the wis- est thing we ever heard of him was that recorded by his admiring pupil, who wrote in School - Days at Rugby, that he knew when not to see. REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES. The Bz~low Papers. Second Series. Tick- nor and Fields. You kin spall an punctooate thet as you please, says Mr. Biglow in sending to the editor of the Atlantic the last of the Biglow Papers; I allus do, it kind of puts a noo soot of close onto a word, this crc funattick spellin doos, an takes em out of the prissen dress they wair in the Dixionary. Ef I squeeze the cents out of em, it s the main thing, and wut they wuz made for; wut s left s jest pummis. Whereby, we fear, Mr. Biglow may give the impression that it is not a dialect in which he writes his poems, but a language which he misspells and perverts by caprice or through ignorance, and thus discredit something of Mr. Lowells exquisite intro- ductory discourse. The feeble critic-folk who have gravely made our great humorist responsible for the clownish tricks in or- thography of Artemus Ward, Josh Billings, and the like, scarcely needed to have such a doubt added to the confusion born in them. Reviews and fl/ercvy No/ices. After all, however, Mr. Biglows care- lessness and their dulness cannot greatly trouble the larger number of Mr. Lowells admirers, who perceive the perfect art and lawful nature of his quaintest and most daring drollery. At the door of Mr. Thack- eray must lie the charge of bastardy in question, for he was the first to create the merry monsters now so common in litera- ture. In Charles Yellowplush, he cari- catured the man of a certain calling, and by the rule of unreason gifted him with a la- boriously fantastic orthography; and Ar- temus Ward and Nasby are merely local variations of the same idea. The showman and the confederate gospeller make us laugh by their typographical pleasantry; they are neither of them without wit; and for the present they have a sort of reality; but they are of a stuff wholly different from that of Hosea Biglow, who is the type of a civilization, and who expresses, in a genu- ine vernacular, the true feeling, the racy humor, and the mother-wit of Yankee-land. His characteristic excellences are likely to survive for a long time the dialect which gives them utterance, though this is by no means evanescent; for Hosea Biglow is al- most as much at home now in the rural speech of Northern Ohio, Indiana, and Il- linois, as in that of New England. Yet his dialect must one day cease to be spoken; and when posterity read him, as English- men do Burns, for the imperishable qual- ity of his humor and sentiment, we fear that they will be somewhat puzzled to re- call the immortal name of Petroleum V. Nasby, to whom he resigns the office of political satire. Alas has the king really abdicated Then let us have a republic of humor, and make each one his own jokes hereafter. As for Nasby, he is not of the blood. He is wit- tier and better-hearted than Artemus Ward, and he has generosity of purpose and ele- vation of aim, but he is only a moralized merry-andrew; whereas one may lift his glance from the smiling lips of the Yankee minstrel,and behold his honest eyes full of self-respectful thought, and that comple- ment of humor, pathos, without which your jester is but a sorry antic. He him- self hardly knows whether his next word is to be in shower or shine. But how sov- ereignly he passes from one mood to the other, or then gives us a strain mixed of both, an interfusion of delight and pain, such as we feel in reading that perfect poem explaining to the public his long silence! It is his great art to lift us above the parties and persons he satirizes, and confront us with their errors ; and if his wit seems to play with any theme too long, there is some surprise awaiting us like that which, in the Speech in March Meetin, turns us from the droll aspects of Mr. Johnsons defection to the thrilling and appealing spectacle of a nations life, love, and hope possibly lost in the neglect of a Heaven- given occasion I seem to hear a whisperin in the air, A sighin like of unconsoled despair, Ihat comes from nowhere an from everywhere, An seems to say, Why died we I svarnt it, then, To settle, once for all, that men wuz men? 0, airtha sweet cup snetched from us barely tasted, The graves real chill is feelin life wue wasted 1 0, you we lef, long-lingerin et the door, Lovin you best, coz we loved Her the more, That Death, not we, had conquered, we should feel Ef she upon our memory turned her heel, Au unregretful throwed us all away To flaunt it in a Blind Mans Holiday. There never was political satire so thor- oughly humane as Hosea Biglows; there never was satire so noble before. The pur- pose is never once degraded; and where the feeling deepens, as in the passage we have quoted, the dialect fades to an accent, and the verse of the supposed rustic is, as his prayer would be, in speech natural, pure, solemn, and strong. It is always strong. It would be hard to find a weak line, or a line of wandering significance, in the whole book; and the reader who threw a word away would find himself a thought the poor- er. We shall not repeat here thecheapened phrase of compliment, which seems more flimsy and unreal than ever in its appli- cation to the robust life of such poetry. If we do not find fault, it is because we see everything to admire, and nothing to blame. Quick, sharp wit, pervading hu- mor, trenchant logic, sustained feeling, well, we come to the poverty of critical good-nature in spite of ourselves, and it is a satisfaction to know that the reviewed can suffer nothing from it, but will remain as honestly fresh, original, and great as if we had not sought to label his fine qualities. It is not as mere satire, however, that the Biglow Papers are to be valued. The First and Second Series form a creative fiction of unique excellence. The love for nature, so conspicuous in these later poems, is of the simplest and manliest expressed in literature. The four seasons are not patronized, nor the reader bored; but we 124 [January, Reviews and Litercwy Notices. enjoy the very woods and fields in Hosea ]3iglows quaintly and subtly faithful feeling for them. They are justly subordinate to him, however, and we are not suffered to forget Mr. Lowells creed, that human nature is the nature best worth celebrating. The landscape is but the setting for Jaalam, shrewd, honest, moral, angular, Hosea Biglow municipalized. The place should be on the maps, for it has as absolute existence as any in New England, and its people by slight but unerring touches are made as real. For ourselves, we in- tend to spend part of our next vacation at Jaalam, and shall visit the grave of the Reverend Homer Wilbur, for whose char- acter we have conceived the highest regard, and ~vhose death we regret not less keenly than Hosea Biglows resolution to write no more. It would have been a pleasure which we shall now never enjoy to enter the study of the good minister, and tell him how thoroughly we had learned to know him through his letters introducing Mr. Biglows effusions, and how we had thus even come to take an interest in Jaalams shadowy antiquities. We should have esteemed it a privilege to have his views of the political situation; and if we had turned to talk of literature, we should have been glad to hear an admirer of the classic Pope give his notion of the classic Swinburne. Somewhere in the South, Birdofredum Sawin must be lingering, the most high- toned and low-principled of the reconstruct- ed. In his character Mr. Lowell has present- ed us with so faultless an image of what Pure Cussedness works in the shrewd and hu- morous Yankee nature, that we hope not even the public favor shall prevent his ap- pearance as an original Union man. The completion of the ballad of The Court- in~~ is a benefaction very stimulating to desire for whatever the author has not absolutely refused to give us. As for the Introduction to this series of the Biglow Papers, the wonder is how any- thing so curiously learned and instructive could be made so delicious. Most of us will never appreciate fully the cost of what is so lightly and gracefully offered of the fruit of philological research; but few readers will fail to estimate aright the spirit which pervades the whole prologue. Mr. Lowell pauses just before the point where those not sharing the original enthu- siasm might be fatigued with the study of words and phrases, and yet possesses his reader of more portable, trustworthy knowledge of Americanisms than is else- where to be found. The instances of na- tional and local humor given are perfect; and Mr. Lowells reserve in attempting to define American humor which must re- main, like all humor, an affair of percep- tion rather than expression might teach something to our Transatlantic friends, who suppose it to be merely a quality of exag- geration. We enjoy, quite as well as even the discreet learning of this Introduction, such glimpses as the author chooses to give us of his purpose in writing the J3iglow Papers, and in adopting the Yankee dialect for his expression, as well as of his methods of studying this dialect. Some slight de- fence he makes of points assailed in his work; but for the most part it is effortless, familiar talk with his readers, always sig- nificant, but persistent in nothing, and in tone as full and rich as the best talk of Montaigne or Cervantes. Harvard Memorial:. Cambridge: Sever and Francis. To those bound by kindred and pcrsonal friendship to the heroic young men whose histories are recounted in these volumes, the work has of course a value which oth- ers cannot duly estimate; but every one must perceive that it has merits very rare in necrologic literature. The memorials are written with constant good taste, and there is little of the detraction of over-praise in them, though they have that warmth and fulness of appreciation which might be ex- pected from writers selected for their inti- mate relations with the dead. Where no friend or kinsman could be found to con- tribute a biography, the task was performed by the editor, with the sympathy which united him to the subject of his sketch whoever he might be as a soldier and scholar. Indeed, Mr. Higginson has per- formed all his work in the preparation of these memorials with excellent effect. We have here, not only the narratives of cer- tain Harvard graduates who died in the service of their country during the late war, but a tribute to the highest and best feel- ing which has ever animated men to war. There is sufficient interest of event and adventure in the biographies to attract the general reader, but their worthiest claim is in their representative character. None of these brilliant and generous young men 1867.] 125

Harvard Memorials Reviews and Literary Notices 125-126

Reviews and Litercwy Notices. enjoy the very woods and fields in Hosea ]3iglows quaintly and subtly faithful feeling for them. They are justly subordinate to him, however, and we are not suffered to forget Mr. Lowells creed, that human nature is the nature best worth celebrating. The landscape is but the setting for Jaalam, shrewd, honest, moral, angular, Hosea Biglow municipalized. The place should be on the maps, for it has as absolute existence as any in New England, and its people by slight but unerring touches are made as real. For ourselves, we in- tend to spend part of our next vacation at Jaalam, and shall visit the grave of the Reverend Homer Wilbur, for whose char- acter we have conceived the highest regard, and ~vhose death we regret not less keenly than Hosea Biglows resolution to write no more. It would have been a pleasure which we shall now never enjoy to enter the study of the good minister, and tell him how thoroughly we had learned to know him through his letters introducing Mr. Biglows effusions, and how we had thus even come to take an interest in Jaalams shadowy antiquities. We should have esteemed it a privilege to have his views of the political situation; and if we had turned to talk of literature, we should have been glad to hear an admirer of the classic Pope give his notion of the classic Swinburne. Somewhere in the South, Birdofredum Sawin must be lingering, the most high- toned and low-principled of the reconstruct- ed. In his character Mr. Lowell has present- ed us with so faultless an image of what Pure Cussedness works in the shrewd and hu- morous Yankee nature, that we hope not even the public favor shall prevent his ap- pearance as an original Union man. The completion of the ballad of The Court- in~~ is a benefaction very stimulating to desire for whatever the author has not absolutely refused to give us. As for the Introduction to this series of the Biglow Papers, the wonder is how any- thing so curiously learned and instructive could be made so delicious. Most of us will never appreciate fully the cost of what is so lightly and gracefully offered of the fruit of philological research; but few readers will fail to estimate aright the spirit which pervades the whole prologue. Mr. Lowell pauses just before the point where those not sharing the original enthu- siasm might be fatigued with the study of words and phrases, and yet possesses his reader of more portable, trustworthy knowledge of Americanisms than is else- where to be found. The instances of na- tional and local humor given are perfect; and Mr. Lowells reserve in attempting to define American humor which must re- main, like all humor, an affair of percep- tion rather than expression might teach something to our Transatlantic friends, who suppose it to be merely a quality of exag- geration. We enjoy, quite as well as even the discreet learning of this Introduction, such glimpses as the author chooses to give us of his purpose in writing the J3iglow Papers, and in adopting the Yankee dialect for his expression, as well as of his methods of studying this dialect. Some slight de- fence he makes of points assailed in his work; but for the most part it is effortless, familiar talk with his readers, always sig- nificant, but persistent in nothing, and in tone as full and rich as the best talk of Montaigne or Cervantes. Harvard Memorial:. Cambridge: Sever and Francis. To those bound by kindred and pcrsonal friendship to the heroic young men whose histories are recounted in these volumes, the work has of course a value which oth- ers cannot duly estimate; but every one must perceive that it has merits very rare in necrologic literature. The memorials are written with constant good taste, and there is little of the detraction of over-praise in them, though they have that warmth and fulness of appreciation which might be ex- pected from writers selected for their inti- mate relations with the dead. Where no friend or kinsman could be found to con- tribute a biography, the task was performed by the editor, with the sympathy which united him to the subject of his sketch whoever he might be as a soldier and scholar. Indeed, Mr. Higginson has per- formed all his work in the preparation of these memorials with excellent effect. We have here, not only the narratives of cer- tain Harvard graduates who died in the service of their country during the late war, but a tribute to the highest and best feel- ing which has ever animated men to war. There is sufficient interest of event and adventure in the biographies to attract the general reader, but their worthiest claim is in their representative character. None of these brilliant and generous young men 1867.] 125 126 Reviews and Literary Notices. [January, gave more than the simplest and obseurest soldier whom a patriot impulse dre~v from the shop or the furrow; but their lives are more vocal, and they more eloquently pre- sent the image of a martyrdom that crowned the silent tens of thousands. The book only repeats, with whatever of variation in the story, a sole theme, ungrudging sacrifice to the common good of lives which letters and affection and the world claimed with those appeals and promises so hard for the gifted, the young, and the happy to resist. And except that the sublimity of the nations passion and triumj)h seems to enter and fill these as no lives of egotism can be filled, it would not be possible to regard without inconsolable regret the sum of so much loss. What should comfort us for the fact that a man rich in youth and culture, and instinct with high feelings and purposes, fell before the rifle of some Arkansas savage, or Geor- gian peasant, or Carolinian vassal, but that the cause of mankind had crowned and ac- cepted the sacrifice, and that his death had helped to disenthrall his murderer ? Not to heap the measure of the leading traitors crimes did such another scholar quit his books and languish in hospitals: he died for Gods poor everywhere forever; and from the agony of yet another who hungered and thirsted to death in prison, a whole race was clothed with freedom. With what consciousness of perfection life passes from the man ~vho dies for others, none of the heroic and good can turn back upon their ended careers to assure us. We who spend ourselves in the futile effort to fill existence with selfish schemes of toil or pleasure, and close each empty day with a sense of (lisappointment and hopelessness, can only guess the satisfaction of self-de- votion from that keener sentiment of our own fatnity and unworthiness with which we read an heroic history. As nothing we do in the circle of our low-creeping, narrow wills establishes us in our own esteem, we must believe that those equal to a great vocation and a great ordeal do at last have the delight of conscious merit and success. Never labor of pen or brush or chisel but brought its author more secret anguish of failure than joy of triumph ; the sublimest song is harsh with jarring discords to the singer, because of that extreme beauty which would not be uttered. But without doubt the hero feels the grandeur of his work, and knows its completeness. There is no touch lacking in his picture; spheral music is not sweeter nor perfecter than his poem. The years of Titian or of 1-lomer could only have deferred his triumph and reward. The Picture of St. 7olzn. By BAYARD TAY- LOR. Boston: Ticknor and Fields. Tins poem has the prime virtue of nar- rative fiction, coherence and easy move- ment. The poet has endowed his work with that charm which makes the reader lenient to its errors, and which is so often wanting in blameless works, probably because they have no need to appeal to clemency, it is very interesting, and it classes itself with the far briefer poems which can be read at a sitting; for it is hard to rise and leave it unfinished. It must please even in an age shy of long poems, for it has the fascination of a novel; and if the reader at the end finds himself merely pleased, and does not feel so profoundly instructed as the Application would have him be- lieve, that is no doubt his own fault. For this reader, however, we confess we have some sympathy, and we are willing to join him in forgetting everything but the beauti- ful and pathetic tale. To tell the truth, we cared rather to learn how, in the course of certain adventures, the picture of St. John happened to be painted, than how, by cer- tain psychological experiences, the artist fitted himself to paint it ; and if that work of art had never been produced at all, we should still have been charmed by the story of the lovers and their flight from Florence; of that wild, lonely life in Bavaria; of the poor ladys death; of the mournful return of the bereaved father with his son to Italy; of the boys cruel fate at the hand of his grand- sire, and of the pitiless desolation of the two men that clung to one another above his clay, two fathers fatally avenged, each upon the other, for the loss of his only child. All this is told, not merely with an art that holds the readers interest, but with a sensibility that imparts itself to his feeling, with strength and beauty of dic- tion, and with an ever-varying harmony of smoothest rhyme. Mr. Taylors invention of an irregularly rhymed stanza of eight lines so far answers its purpose as to be (but for his Introduction) a matter of uncon- sciousness with his reader, and is no doubt, therefore, successful. But even in the reg- ular ottava nina we should scarcely have found his poem monotonous. Throughout the tale there is a true and

Bayard Taylor's Picture of St. John Reviews and Literary Notices 126-127

126 Reviews and Literary Notices. [January, gave more than the simplest and obseurest soldier whom a patriot impulse dre~v from the shop or the furrow; but their lives are more vocal, and they more eloquently pre- sent the image of a martyrdom that crowned the silent tens of thousands. The book only repeats, with whatever of variation in the story, a sole theme, ungrudging sacrifice to the common good of lives which letters and affection and the world claimed with those appeals and promises so hard for the gifted, the young, and the happy to resist. And except that the sublimity of the nations passion and triumj)h seems to enter and fill these as no lives of egotism can be filled, it would not be possible to regard without inconsolable regret the sum of so much loss. What should comfort us for the fact that a man rich in youth and culture, and instinct with high feelings and purposes, fell before the rifle of some Arkansas savage, or Geor- gian peasant, or Carolinian vassal, but that the cause of mankind had crowned and ac- cepted the sacrifice, and that his death had helped to disenthrall his murderer ? Not to heap the measure of the leading traitors crimes did such another scholar quit his books and languish in hospitals: he died for Gods poor everywhere forever; and from the agony of yet another who hungered and thirsted to death in prison, a whole race was clothed with freedom. With what consciousness of perfection life passes from the man ~vho dies for others, none of the heroic and good can turn back upon their ended careers to assure us. We who spend ourselves in the futile effort to fill existence with selfish schemes of toil or pleasure, and close each empty day with a sense of (lisappointment and hopelessness, can only guess the satisfaction of self-de- votion from that keener sentiment of our own fatnity and unworthiness with which we read an heroic history. As nothing we do in the circle of our low-creeping, narrow wills establishes us in our own esteem, we must believe that those equal to a great vocation and a great ordeal do at last have the delight of conscious merit and success. Never labor of pen or brush or chisel but brought its author more secret anguish of failure than joy of triumph ; the sublimest song is harsh with jarring discords to the singer, because of that extreme beauty which would not be uttered. But without doubt the hero feels the grandeur of his work, and knows its completeness. There is no touch lacking in his picture; spheral music is not sweeter nor perfecter than his poem. The years of Titian or of 1-lomer could only have deferred his triumph and reward. The Picture of St. 7olzn. By BAYARD TAY- LOR. Boston: Ticknor and Fields. Tins poem has the prime virtue of nar- rative fiction, coherence and easy move- ment. The poet has endowed his work with that charm which makes the reader lenient to its errors, and which is so often wanting in blameless works, probably because they have no need to appeal to clemency, it is very interesting, and it classes itself with the far briefer poems which can be read at a sitting; for it is hard to rise and leave it unfinished. It must please even in an age shy of long poems, for it has the fascination of a novel; and if the reader at the end finds himself merely pleased, and does not feel so profoundly instructed as the Application would have him be- lieve, that is no doubt his own fault. For this reader, however, we confess we have some sympathy, and we are willing to join him in forgetting everything but the beauti- ful and pathetic tale. To tell the truth, we cared rather to learn how, in the course of certain adventures, the picture of St. John happened to be painted, than how, by cer- tain psychological experiences, the artist fitted himself to paint it ; and if that work of art had never been produced at all, we should still have been charmed by the story of the lovers and their flight from Florence; of that wild, lonely life in Bavaria; of the poor ladys death; of the mournful return of the bereaved father with his son to Italy; of the boys cruel fate at the hand of his grand- sire, and of the pitiless desolation of the two men that clung to one another above his clay, two fathers fatally avenged, each upon the other, for the loss of his only child. All this is told, not merely with an art that holds the readers interest, but with a sensibility that imparts itself to his feeling, with strength and beauty of dic- tion, and with an ever-varying harmony of smoothest rhyme. Mr. Taylors invention of an irregularly rhymed stanza of eight lines so far answers its purpose as to be (but for his Introduction) a matter of uncon- sciousness with his reader, and is no doubt, therefore, successful. But even in the reg- ular ottava nina we should scarcely have found his poem monotonous. Throughout the tale there is a true and 1867.] Reviews and Literary Notices. 127 fine feeling for Italy; and the poet is so happy in his expression of that beautiful life which belongs to the fragrant land of summer, that one is loath to let the scene take him beyond Alps, and longs for his return to Tuscany. Sometimes, indeed, in the warmth of his fancy, he seems to forget the subtle difference between a sen- suous and a sensual picture, as well as the fact that sentiment is better than ei- ther sensuousness or sensuality, as in his opulence of diction he forgets that lav- ish coloring is not rich or vivid color- ing. Yet the character and the passion of Clelia are most delicately and tender- ly painted. She is a true woman and true Italian; and from the glow of the love-making at Florence to the home-sick, uncomplaining days in a strange land, and into the shadow of death, the imagination is led with a strong and real pathos which leaves little to be desired. Some of the finest lines of the poem occur in the de- scription of the events here hinted, though there are passages of great nobility in the opening stanzas of the first book; while in the third recounting the incidents of the artists return to Italy and life by Lago di Garda, and the catastrophe of the boys death there is a certain sorrowful and fantastic grace and lightness of touch which will remind the reader very gratefully of the best of Mr. Taylors minor poems. Mano;nin: a Rhythmical Romance of Min- nesota, the Great Rebellion, and the Aim- nesota Massacres. By MyRoN COLONEY. St. Louis: Published by the Author. IT is scarcely a good sign, we fear, in a new author, if his purpose and himself inter- est you more than his work. There is no literary excellence but in effect : being and willing are merely elemental; they enlist sympathy and expectation, not praise. Looking over Mr. Coloneys book we feel how dangerously near he comes to expe- rience of this misfortune. One is moved by the fact that the commercial editor of a daily newspaper in St. Louis has, in spite of every external discouragement, attempted to make a poem representative of modern American life and feeling; and one recognizes the courage and wisdom involved in the attempt. The purpose is not that of a commonplace man; for such a one, instead of telling us, ~vith the trust- ful simplicity and courage of an old ballad- maker, about the fortunes of a family that moved from Syracuse, New York State, to Minnesota, would far rather have preferred to acquaint us with his sufferings from the coldness of Mary Jane. Mr. Coloney con- ceived that, if it was his office to sing at all, he must sing of things he had actually known and felt; and he has done so, some- times with a clear and powerful note, and sometimes in a strain cracked and false enough. With a visible wish on his part to portray every person faithfully, there is often a visible failure to do so; and while we own to the poet that we actually look upon Min- nesota woods and settlements in his book, we have also to confess that we. find them peopled to a melancholy extent out of the melodrama and the second-rate romance. He deals more successfully with sentiment and manner than with character. His per- sons become unreal in action; when they speak or are spoken for, we perceive at once their verity; they are men and women who have read the Tribune and Inde- pendent, and who, in very great number, believe in spiritual manifestations. Of poetry there is really a good deal in Mr. Coloneys volume. The love-scenes are for the most part naturally and winning- ly done, and we owe our author a debt of gratitude for several fine pictures of pio- neer and sylvan life. Yet we think that as a whole the work is wisely named romance rather than poem, though we are not ready to say that it had been better written in prose. Indeed, we are glad to see verse make so bold with the matter-of-fact phases of life ; for, unless it does try to assimilate and naturalize itself to actual conditions in America, it must become as obsolete as sculpture or the drama. The Lfi and Letters of 7/ames Gates Perci- val. By JULIUS H. WARD. Boston: Ticknor and Fields. WE have found few books so depressing. as this. The spectacle of any sort of help- lessness is melancholy ; but a life-long helplessness of the kind which does not admit of relief from benevolence and friend- ship, is intolerable to dwell upon. It para- lyzes even pity; the gods are against it. Percivals seems to have been a life spoiled by excessive indulgence in unripe opportunities. His impatience destroyed in every way his chances of prosperity and greatness. He was born richly gifted, but

Coloney's Manomin Reviews and Literary Notices 127

1867.] Reviews and Literary Notices. 127 fine feeling for Italy; and the poet is so happy in his expression of that beautiful life which belongs to the fragrant land of summer, that one is loath to let the scene take him beyond Alps, and longs for his return to Tuscany. Sometimes, indeed, in the warmth of his fancy, he seems to forget the subtle difference between a sen- suous and a sensual picture, as well as the fact that sentiment is better than ei- ther sensuousness or sensuality, as in his opulence of diction he forgets that lav- ish coloring is not rich or vivid color- ing. Yet the character and the passion of Clelia are most delicately and tender- ly painted. She is a true woman and true Italian; and from the glow of the love-making at Florence to the home-sick, uncomplaining days in a strange land, and into the shadow of death, the imagination is led with a strong and real pathos which leaves little to be desired. Some of the finest lines of the poem occur in the de- scription of the events here hinted, though there are passages of great nobility in the opening stanzas of the first book; while in the third recounting the incidents of the artists return to Italy and life by Lago di Garda, and the catastrophe of the boys death there is a certain sorrowful and fantastic grace and lightness of touch which will remind the reader very gratefully of the best of Mr. Taylors minor poems. Mano;nin: a Rhythmical Romance of Min- nesota, the Great Rebellion, and the Aim- nesota Massacres. By MyRoN COLONEY. St. Louis: Published by the Author. IT is scarcely a good sign, we fear, in a new author, if his purpose and himself inter- est you more than his work. There is no literary excellence but in effect : being and willing are merely elemental; they enlist sympathy and expectation, not praise. Looking over Mr. Coloneys book we feel how dangerously near he comes to expe- rience of this misfortune. One is moved by the fact that the commercial editor of a daily newspaper in St. Louis has, in spite of every external discouragement, attempted to make a poem representative of modern American life and feeling; and one recognizes the courage and wisdom involved in the attempt. The purpose is not that of a commonplace man; for such a one, instead of telling us, ~vith the trust- ful simplicity and courage of an old ballad- maker, about the fortunes of a family that moved from Syracuse, New York State, to Minnesota, would far rather have preferred to acquaint us with his sufferings from the coldness of Mary Jane. Mr. Coloney con- ceived that, if it was his office to sing at all, he must sing of things he had actually known and felt; and he has done so, some- times with a clear and powerful note, and sometimes in a strain cracked and false enough. With a visible wish on his part to portray every person faithfully, there is often a visible failure to do so; and while we own to the poet that we actually look upon Min- nesota woods and settlements in his book, we have also to confess that we. find them peopled to a melancholy extent out of the melodrama and the second-rate romance. He deals more successfully with sentiment and manner than with character. His per- sons become unreal in action; when they speak or are spoken for, we perceive at once their verity; they are men and women who have read the Tribune and Inde- pendent, and who, in very great number, believe in spiritual manifestations. Of poetry there is really a good deal in Mr. Coloneys volume. The love-scenes are for the most part naturally and winning- ly done, and we owe our author a debt of gratitude for several fine pictures of pio- neer and sylvan life. Yet we think that as a whole the work is wisely named romance rather than poem, though we are not ready to say that it had been better written in prose. Indeed, we are glad to see verse make so bold with the matter-of-fact phases of life ; for, unless it does try to assimilate and naturalize itself to actual conditions in America, it must become as obsolete as sculpture or the drama. The Lfi and Letters of 7/ames Gates Perci- val. By JULIUS H. WARD. Boston: Ticknor and Fields. WE have found few books so depressing. as this. The spectacle of any sort of help- lessness is melancholy ; but a life-long helplessness of the kind which does not admit of relief from benevolence and friend- ship, is intolerable to dwell upon. It para- lyzes even pity; the gods are against it. Percivals seems to have been a life spoiled by excessive indulgence in unripe opportunities. His impatience destroyed in every way his chances of prosperity and greatness. He was born richly gifted, but

Ward's Life and Letters of Percival Reviews and Literary Notices 127-128

1867.] Reviews and Literary Notices. 127 fine feeling for Italy; and the poet is so happy in his expression of that beautiful life which belongs to the fragrant land of summer, that one is loath to let the scene take him beyond Alps, and longs for his return to Tuscany. Sometimes, indeed, in the warmth of his fancy, he seems to forget the subtle difference between a sen- suous and a sensual picture, as well as the fact that sentiment is better than ei- ther sensuousness or sensuality, as in his opulence of diction he forgets that lav- ish coloring is not rich or vivid color- ing. Yet the character and the passion of Clelia are most delicately and tender- ly painted. She is a true woman and true Italian; and from the glow of the love-making at Florence to the home-sick, uncomplaining days in a strange land, and into the shadow of death, the imagination is led with a strong and real pathos which leaves little to be desired. Some of the finest lines of the poem occur in the de- scription of the events here hinted, though there are passages of great nobility in the opening stanzas of the first book; while in the third recounting the incidents of the artists return to Italy and life by Lago di Garda, and the catastrophe of the boys death there is a certain sorrowful and fantastic grace and lightness of touch which will remind the reader very gratefully of the best of Mr. Taylors minor poems. Mano;nin: a Rhythmical Romance of Min- nesota, the Great Rebellion, and the Aim- nesota Massacres. By MyRoN COLONEY. St. Louis: Published by the Author. IT is scarcely a good sign, we fear, in a new author, if his purpose and himself inter- est you more than his work. There is no literary excellence but in effect : being and willing are merely elemental; they enlist sympathy and expectation, not praise. Looking over Mr. Coloneys book we feel how dangerously near he comes to expe- rience of this misfortune. One is moved by the fact that the commercial editor of a daily newspaper in St. Louis has, in spite of every external discouragement, attempted to make a poem representative of modern American life and feeling; and one recognizes the courage and wisdom involved in the attempt. The purpose is not that of a commonplace man; for such a one, instead of telling us, ~vith the trust- ful simplicity and courage of an old ballad- maker, about the fortunes of a family that moved from Syracuse, New York State, to Minnesota, would far rather have preferred to acquaint us with his sufferings from the coldness of Mary Jane. Mr. Coloney con- ceived that, if it was his office to sing at all, he must sing of things he had actually known and felt; and he has done so, some- times with a clear and powerful note, and sometimes in a strain cracked and false enough. With a visible wish on his part to portray every person faithfully, there is often a visible failure to do so; and while we own to the poet that we actually look upon Min- nesota woods and settlements in his book, we have also to confess that we. find them peopled to a melancholy extent out of the melodrama and the second-rate romance. He deals more successfully with sentiment and manner than with character. His per- sons become unreal in action; when they speak or are spoken for, we perceive at once their verity; they are men and women who have read the Tribune and Inde- pendent, and who, in very great number, believe in spiritual manifestations. Of poetry there is really a good deal in Mr. Coloneys volume. The love-scenes are for the most part naturally and winning- ly done, and we owe our author a debt of gratitude for several fine pictures of pio- neer and sylvan life. Yet we think that as a whole the work is wisely named romance rather than poem, though we are not ready to say that it had been better written in prose. Indeed, we are glad to see verse make so bold with the matter-of-fact phases of life ; for, unless it does try to assimilate and naturalize itself to actual conditions in America, it must become as obsolete as sculpture or the drama. The Lfi and Letters of 7/ames Gates Perci- val. By JULIUS H. WARD. Boston: Ticknor and Fields. WE have found few books so depressing. as this. The spectacle of any sort of help- lessness is melancholy ; but a life-long helplessness of the kind which does not admit of relief from benevolence and friend- ship, is intolerable to dwell upon. It para- lyzes even pity; the gods are against it. Percivals seems to have been a life spoiled by excessive indulgence in unripe opportunities. His impatience destroyed in every way his chances of prosperity and greatness. He was born richly gifted, but Reviews and Literary Notices. nothing came to maturity in him. The critic must see that his poetry, however deeply imbued with genius, is wanting in the finest quality, and lacking, not only in the ultimate, but the antepenultimate touch- es of art. It was often published prema- turely for itself and for its author, who would have forced his fame, and even his era. Perhaps no man of ~sthetic purposes in all the world does the work he wants to; and almost certainly no such man in America does. The painter paints portraits and landscapes, the sculptor makes busts, the architect builds French-roofed country- houses, and marble-fronted, brick-backed palaces for retailing merchandise, the poet writes prose for the magazines and news- papers, and we suspect that several mute, inglorious Miltons are now contributing to the metropolitan press, of which the style is unquestionably inarticulate and obscure. Yet more than thirty years ago Perci- val sought to live by literature proper in a small town in a country still quite pro- vincial. His execution of this plan was as remarkable as its conception. His sensi- tiveness was, if we may so speak, aggres- sive to such a degree that it wounded as often as it received hurt. He suspected all who had business transactions with him, and tried to break nearly every contract favorable to himself, while he clung with fatal fidelity to his bad bargains. The efforts of friends to help him were of scarcely better effect than his own; indeed, his pride, his obstinacy and fickleness, must have made it very hard to befriend him, and very thankless. Something of his early insanity, doubtless, always lurked in him, perverting a sweet and grateful nature. He shunned society, and thought himself neglected; he ran away from the presence of women, and expected the astonished fair he fell in love with to marry him without a hint of courtship preceding his offer. From his own purposes and his own conduct, noth- ing could flow but disappointment, mortifica- tion, and failure. He must live as he did live, in poverty and solitude; and, dying, he must leave, as he has left, his fame to perish with his contemporaries; for what young man reads Percival? Beds of roses, once so much in use in this world, seem to have gone out with the Sybarites; but there are still honest husk-mattresses, and if we lie upon burrs and thistles, we fear that it is either from our choice or our ab- erration. In things that did not concern himself immediately, Percival was wise enough; and there is great value in some of his fierce, pungent criticisms of writers appar- ently great in his day, but known in this to have been stuffed out with straw. He was, indeed, a man of singular honesty in all things, and a natural hater of shams. If he had had humor, he could have been more useful to himself and to literature; f~r a due perception of the absurd would have saved him from many errors of his own, and would probably have led him to some connected criticism of others. But he had no humor, and his attempts at fun were very melancholy: he never made any joke above the Wordsworthian standard. His life was as pure and blameless as a childs; and if our sympathy cannot follow all his eccentricities, our respect is due to his self- devotion and high aspirations. The character of the man is suffered to appear in perfect relief by Mr. Ward, to whom we owe one of the most interesting of American biographies. The story tells itself in great part in Percivals own letters and correspondence, and is further devel- oped in the reminiscences of his acquaint- ance. These Mr. Ward has presented in the language of the writers, and the effect is that of great freshness and variety. Wher- ever the biographer takes up the narrative himself, he handles it with spirit and good sense, and as discreetly as his merely edi- torial work. There is nowhere an effort to force Percival upon either compassion or admiration. The facts of his life are simply, fully, and impartially rehearsed, and we behold him as we believe he was, a man of whom the world took some advan- tages, but whom it also intended good that he could not receive. 128 [January.

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The Atlantic monthly. / Volume 19, Issue 112 Galaxy, Atlantic Atlantic Monthly Co. Boston February 1867 0019 112
Oliver Wendell Holmes Holmes, Oliver Wendell The Guardian Angel. II 129-143

TIlE ATLANTIC MONTHLY. A Magaziw of Literature, Scie9zce, Art, aid Politics. VOL. XIX. FEBRUARY, 1867. NO. CXII. THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. CHAPTER IV. BYLES GRIDLEY, A. M. THE old Master of Arts was as not- able a man in his outside present. ment as one will find among five hun- dred college alumni as they file in pro- cession. His strong, squared features, his formidable scowl, his solid-looking head, his iron-gray hair, his positive and as it were categorical stride, his slow, precise way of putting a state- ment, the strange union of trampling radicalism in some directions and high- stepping conservatism in others, which made it impossible to calculate on his unexpressed opinions, his testy ways and his generous impulses, his hard judgments and kindly actions, were characteristics that gave him a very de- cided individuality. He had all the aspects of a man of books. His study, which was the best room in Mrs. Hopkinss house, was filled with a miscellaneous-looking col- lection of volumes, which his curious literary taste had got together from the shelves of all the libraries that had been broken up during his long life as a scholar. Classics, theology, es pecially of the controversial sort, sta- tistics, politics, law, medicine, science, occult and overt, general literature, almost every branch of knowledge was represented. His learning was very va- rious, and of course mixed up, useful and useless, new and ancient, dogmatic and rational, like his library, in short; for a library gathered like his is a look- ing-glass in which the owners mind is reflected. The common people about the village did not know what to make of such a phenomenon. He did not preach, mar- ry, christen, or bury, like the ministers, nor jog round with medicines for sick folks, nor carry cases into court for quarrelsome neighbors. What was he good for? Not a great deal, some of the wiseacres thought, had all sorts of sense but common sense, smart mahn, but not prahctical. There were others who read him more shrewdly. He knowed more, they said, than all the ministers put together, and if he d stan for Ripresentative they d like to vote for him, they hed nt bed a smart mahn in the Gineral Court sence Squire Wibird was thar. They may have Gverdone the matter in comparing his knowledge with that Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year s866, by TlcieNolt AND FIELDS, in the Clerks Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusttts. vOL. XIX.NO. 112. 9 130 The Guardian Angel. [February~ of all the ministers together, for Priest Pemberton was a real scholar in his special line of study, as all D.D.s are supposed to be, or they would not have been honored with that distinguished title. But Mr. Byles Gridley not only had more learning than the deep-sea line of the bucolic intelligence could fathom; he had more wisdom also than they gave him credit for, even those among them who thought most of his abilities. In his capacity of schoolmaster he had sharpened his wits against those of the lively city boys he had in charge, and made such a reputation as Mas- ter Gridley, that he kept that title even after he had become a college tutor and professor. As a tutor he bad to deal with many of these same boys, and others like them, in thd still mere vivacious period of their early college life. He got rid of his police duties when he became a professor, but he still studied the pupils as carefully as he used once to watch them, and learned to read character with a skill which might have fitted him for govern- ing men instead of adolescents. But he loved quiet and he dreaded min- gling with the brawlers of the market- place, whose stock in trade is a voice and a vocabulary. So it was that he had passed his life in the patient me- chanical labor of instruction, leaving too many of his instincts and faculties in abeyance. The alluvium of all this experience bore a nearer resemblance to worldly wisdom than might have been conjec- tured; much nearer, indeed, than it does in many old instructors, whose eyes get fish-like as their blood grows cold, and who are not fit to be trusted with anything more practical than a gerund or a cosine. Master Gridley not only knew a good deal of human nature, but he knew how to keep his knowledge to himself upon occasion. He understood singularly well the ways and tendencies of young people. He was shrewd in the detection of trickery, and very confident in those who had once passed the ordeal of his well- schooled observing powers. He had no particular tendency to meddle with the personal relations of those about him;. but if they were forced upon him in any way, he was like to see into them at least as quickly as any of his neighbors who thought themselves most endowed with practical skill. In leaving the duties of his office he considered himself, as he said a little bitterly, like an old horse unharnessed and turned out to pasture. He felt that he had separated himself from human interests, and was henceforth to live in his books with the dead, until he should be numbered with them himself. He had chosen this quiet village as a plac~ where he might pass his days undis- turbed, and find a peaceful resting-place in its churchyard, where the gravel was dry, and the sun lay warm, and the glowing woods of autumn would spread their many-colored counterpane over the bed where he would be taking his rest. It sometimes came over bin~ sadly that he was never more to be of any importance to his fellow-creatures. There was nobody living to whom he was connected by any very near ties. He felt kindly enough to the good woman in whose house he lived; he sometimes gave a few words of counsel to her son; he was not unamiable with the few people he met; he bowed with great consideration to the Rev. Dr. Pemberton; and he studied with no small interest the physiognomy of the Rev. Joseph Bellamy Stoker, to whose sermons he listened, with a black scowl now and then, and a nostril dilating with ominous intensity of meaning. But he said sadly to himself, that his life had been a failure, that he had noth- ing to show for it, and his one talent was ready in its napkin to give back to his Lord. He owed something of this sadness, perhaps, to a cause which many would hold of small significance. Though he had mourned for no lost love, at least so far as was known, though hehad never suffered the pang of parting with a child, though he seemed isolated from those joys and griefs which come with 1867.] The Guardic~n Angel. 3 the ties of family, he too had his pri- vate urn filled with the ashes of extin- guished hopes. He was the father of a dead book. Why Thoughts on the Universe, by Byles Gridley, A. M., had not met with an eager welcome and a permanent de- mand from the discriminating public, it would take us too long to inquire in de- tail. Indeed, he himself was never able to account satisfactorily for the state of things which his booksellers account made evident to him. He had re.ad and re-read his work; and the more familiar he became with it, the less was he able to understand the singular want of popular appreciation of what he could not fail to recognize as its excellences. He had a special copy of his work, printed on large paper and sumptuous- ly bound. He loved to read in this, as people read over the letters of friends who have long been dead; and it might have awakened a feeling of something far removed from the ludicrous, if his comments on his own production could have been heard. Thats a thought, now, for you See Mr. Thomas Ba- hington Macaulays Essay printed six years after this book. A felicitous image and so everybody would have said if only Mr. Thomas Carlyle had hit upon it. If this is not genuine pa- thos, where will you find it, I should like to know? And nobody to open the book where it stands written but one poor old man in this generation, at least in this generation! It may be doubted whether he would ever have loved his book with such jeal- ous fondness if it had gone through a dozen editions, and everybody was quoting it to his face. But now it lived only for him; and to him it was wife and child, parent, friend, all in one, as Hector was all in all to his spouse. He never tired of it, and in his more sanguine moods he looked forward to the time when the world would acknowledge its merits, and his genius would find full recognition. Per- haps he was right: more than one book which seemed dead and was dead for contemporary readers has had a resurrection when the rivals who tri- umphed over it lived only in the tomb- stone memory of antiquaries. Comfort for some of us, dear fellow-writer! It followed from the way in which he lived that he must have some means of support upon which he could depend. He was economical, if not over frugal in some of his habits; but he bought books, and took newspapers and re- views, and had money when money was needed; the fact being, though it was not generally known, that a distant rela- tive had not long before died, leaving him a very comfortable property. His money matters had led him to have occasional dealings with the late legal firm of Wibird and Penhallow, which had naturally passed into the hands of the new partnership, Penhal- low and Bradshaw. He had entire con- fidence in the senior partner, but not so much in the young man who had been recently associated in the business. Mr. William Murray Bradshaw, com- monly called by his last two names, was the son of a lawyer of some note for his acuteness, who marked out his calling for him in having him named after the great Lord Mansfield. Murray Brad- shaw was about twenty-five years old, by common consent good-looking, with a finely formed head, a searching eye, and a sharp-cut mouth, which smiled at his bidding without the slightest refer- ence to the real condition of his feeling at the moment. This was a great con- venience; for it gave him an appearance of good-nature at the small expense of a slight muscular movement which was as easy as winking, and deceived every- body but those who had studied him long and carefully enough to find that this play of his features was what a watch- maker would call a detached movement. He had been a good scholar in col- lege, not so much by hard study as by skilful veneering, and had taken great pains to stand well with the Faculty, at least one of whom, Byles Gridley, A.M., had watched him with no little interest as a man with a promising future, pro- vided he were not so astute as to out- wit and overreach himself in his excess 132 The Guardian Angel. [February, of contrivance. His classmates could not help liking him; as to loving him, none of them would have thought of that. He was so shrewd, so keen, so full of practical sense, and so good- humored as long as things went on to his liking, that few could resist his fas- cination. He had a way of talking with people about what they were in- terested in, as if it were the one mat- ter in the world nearest to his heart. But he was commonly trying to find out something, or to produce some im- pression, as a juggler is working at his miracle while he keeps peoples attention by his voluble discourse and make-believe movements. In his light- est talk he was almost always edging towards a practical object, and it was an interesting and instructive amuse- ment to watch for the moment at which he would ship the belt of his colloquial machinery on to the tight pulley. It was done so easily and naturally that there was hardly a sign of it. Master Gridley could usually detect the shifting action, but the young mans features and voice never betrayed him. He was a favorite with the other sex, who love poetry and romance, as he well knew, for which reason he often used the phrases of both, and in such a way as to answer his purpose with most of those whom he wished to please. He had one great advantage in the sweepstakes of life he was not handicapped with any burdensome ide- als. He took everything at its market- value. He accepted the standard of the street as a final fact for to-day, like the brokers list of prices. His whole plan of life was laid out. i-fe knew that law was the best in- troduction to political life, and he meant to use it for this end. He chose to begin his career in the coun- try, so as to feel his way more surely and gradually to its ultimate aim; but he had no intention of burying his shining talents in a grazing district, however tall its grass might grow. His business was not with these stiff- jointed, slow-witted bucolics, but with the supple, dangerous, far-seeing men who sit scheming by the gas-light in the great cities, after all the lamps and can- dles are out from the Merrimac to the Housatonic. Every strong and every weak point of those who might proba- bly be his rivals were laid down on his charts, as winds and currents and rocks are marked on those of a navi- gator. All the young girls in the country, and not a few in the city, with which, as mentioned, he had fre- quent relations, were on his list of possible availabilities in the matrimo- nial line of speculation, provided al- ways that their position and prospects were such as would make them proper matches for so considerable a person as the future Hon. William Murray Bradshaw. Master Gridley had made a care- ful study of his old pupil since they had resided in the same village. The old professor could not help admiring him, notwithstanding certain suspicious elements in his character; for after muddy village talk, a clear stream of intelligent conversation was a great luxury to the hard-headed scholar. The more he saw of him, the more he learned to watch his movements, and to be on his guard in talking with him. The old man could be crafty, with all his simplicity, and he had found out that under his good-natured manner there often lurked some design more or less worth noting, and which might involve other interests deserving pro- tection. For some reason or other the old Master of Arts had of late experienced a certain degree of relenting with re- gard to himself, probably brought abdut by the expressions of gratitude from worthy Mrs. Hopkins for acts of kind- ness to which he himself attached no great value. He had been kind to her son Gifted; he had been fatherly with Susan Posey, her relative and boarder; and he had shown himself singularly and unexpectedly amiable with the lit- tle twins who had been adopted by the good woman into her household. In fact, ever since these little creatures had begun to toddle about and explode 1867.] their first consonants, he had looked through his great round spectacles upon them with a decided interest; and from that time it seemed as if some of the human and social sentiments which had never leafed or flowered in him, for want of their natural sunshine, had begun growing up from roots which had never lost their life. His liking for the twins may have been an illustration of that singular law which old Dr. Hurlbut used to lay down, namely, that, at a certain period of life, say from fifty to sixty and upward, the grand-paternal instinct awakens in bachelors, the rhythms of Nature reaching them in spite of her defeated intentions; so that when men marry late they love their autumn child with a twofold affection, fathers and grandfathers both in one. However this may be, there is no doubt that Mr. Byles Gridley was be- ginning to take a part in his neighbors welfare and misfortunes, such as could hardly have been expected of a man so long lost in his books and his scholastic duties. And among others, Myrtle Hazard had come in for a share of his interest. He had met her now and then in her walks to and from school and meeting, and had been taken with her beauty and her appar- ent unconsciousness of it, which he attributed to the forlorn kind of house- hold in which she had grown up. He had got so far as to talk with her now and then, and found himself puzzled, as well he might be, in talking with a girl who had been growing into her early maturity in antagonism with every in- fluence that surrounded her. Love will reach her by and by, he said, in spite of the dragons up at the den yonder. Centum fronte oculos, centum cervice gerebat Argus, et hos unus s~pe fefellit amor. But there was something about Myr- tle he hardly knew whether to call it dignity, or pride, or reserve, or the mere habit of holding back brought about by the system of repression under which she had been educated which kept even the old Master of Arts at his distance. Yet he was 8trongly drawn 133 to her, and had a sort of presentiment that he might be able to help her some day, and that very probably she would want his help; for she was alone in the world, except for the dragons, and sure to be assailed by foes from without and from within. He noticed that her name was apt to come up in his conversations with Mur- ray Bradshaw; and, as he himself never introduced it, of course the young man must have forced it, as conjurers force a card, and with some special object. This set him thinking hard; and, as a result of it, he determined the next time Mr. Bradshaw brought her name up to set him talking. So he talked, not suspecting how carefully the old man listened. It was a demonish hard case, he said, that old Malachi had left his money as he did. Myrtle Hazard was going to be the handsomest girl about, when she came to her beauty, and she was coming to it mighty fast. If they could only break that will, but it was no use trying. The doctors said he was of sound mind for at least two years after making it. If Silence With- ers got the land claim, there d be a pile, sure enough. Myrtle Hazard ought to have it. If the girl had only inherited that property whew! She d have been a match for any fel- low. That old Silence Withers would do just as her minister told her, even chance whether she gives it to the Parson-factory, or marries Bellamy Stoker, and gives it to him after his wife s dead. He d take it if he had to take her with it. Earn his money, hey, Master Gridley? Why, you dont seem to think very well of the Rev. Joseph Bellamy Sto- ker? said Mr. Gridley, smiling. Think well of him? Too fond of using the Devils pitchfork for my fancy! Forks over pretty much all the world but himself and his lot into the bad place, you know; and toasts his own cheese with it with very much the same kind of comfort that other folks seem to take in that business. Besides, he has a weak- Tue Guardian Angel. The Guardian Angel. [February, ness for pretty saints and sinners. That s an odd name he has. More beiZe arnie than ros~z5k about him, I rather guess! The old professor smiled again. So you dont think he believes all the medi~val doctrines he is in the habit of preaching, Mr. Bradshaw? No, sir; I think he belongs to the class I have seen described some- where. There are those who hold the opinion that truth is only safe when diluted, about one fifth to four fifths lies, as the oxygen of the air is with its nitrogen. Else it would burn us all up.~ Byles Gridley colored and started a little. This was one of his own say- ings in Thoughts on the Universe. But the young man quoted it without seeming to suspect its authorship. Where did you pick up that saying, Mr. Bradshaw? I dont remember. Some paper, I rather think. It s one of those good things that get about without anybodys knowing who says em. Sounds like Coleridge. Thats what I call a compliment worth havino~ said B~Tles Gridley to himself, when he got home. Let me look at that passage. He took down Thoughts on the Universe, and got so much interested, reading on page after page, that he did not hear the little tea-bell, and Susan Posey volunteered to run up to his study and call him down to tea. CHAPTER V. THE TWINs. Miss SUSAN P05Ev knocked timidly at his door, and informed him that tea was waiting. He rather liked Susan Posey. She was a pretty creature, slight, blonde, a little too light, a vil- lage beauty of the second or third grade, effective at picnics and by moonlight, the kind of girl that very young men are apt to remember as their first love. She had a taste for poetry, and an admiration of poets; but, what was better, she was modest and simple, and a perfect sister and mother and grandmother to the two lit- tle forlorn twins who bad been stranded on the Widow Hopkinss door-step. These little twins, a boy and girl, were now between two and three years old. A few words will make us ac- quainted with them. Nothing had ever been known of their origin. The sharp eyes of all the spinsters had been through every household in the village and neighborhood, and not a suspicion fixed itself on any one. It was a dark night when they were left; and it was probable that they had been brought from another town, as the sound of wheels had been heard close to the door where they were found, had stopped for a moment, then been heard again, and lost in the distance. How the good woman of the house took them in and kept them has been briefly mentioned. At first nobody thought they would live a day, such little absurd attempts at humanity did they seem. But the young doctor came, and the old doctor came, and the in- fants were laid in cotton-wool, and the room heated up to keep them warm, and baby-teaspoonfuls of milk given them, and after being kept alive in this way, like the young of opossums and kangaroos, they came to a conclusion about which they did not seem to have made up their thinking-pulps for some weeks, namely, to go on trying to cross the sea of life by tugging at the four- and-twenty oars which must be pulled day and night until the unknown shore is reached, and the oars lie at rest un- der the folded hands. As it was not very likely that the par- ents who left their offspring round on door-steps were of saintly life, they were not presented for baptism like the chil- dren of church - members. Still, they must have names to be known by, and Mrs. Hopkins was much exercised in the matter. Like many New England parents, she had a decided taste for names that were significant and sono- rous. That which she had chosen for her oldest child, the young poet, was 34 i867.] The Guardian AngeL 35 either a remarkable prophecy, or it h~d brouo~ht with it the endowments it promised. She had lost, or,, in her own more pictorial lan5 uage,she had buried, a daughter to whom she had given the names, at once of cheerful omen and melodious effect, Wealthy Amadora. As for them poor little creturs, she said, she believed they was rained down out o the skies, jest as they say toads and tadpoles come. She meant to be a mother to em for all that, and give em jest as good names as if they was the governors children, or the ministers. If Mr. Gridley would be so good as to find her some kind of a real handsome Chrisn name for em, she d provide em with the other one. Hopkinses they shall be bred and taught, and Hopkinses they shall be called. Ef their father and mother was ashamed to own em, she was nt. Could nt Mr. Gridley pick out some pooty-sounding names from some of them great books of his. Its jest as well to have em pooty as long as they dont cost any more than if they was Tom and Sally. A grim smile passed over the rugged features of Byles Gridley. Nothing is easier than that, Mrs. Hopkins, he said. I will give yo.u two very pretty names that I think will please you and other folks. They re new names, too. If they should nt like to keep them, they can change them before they re christened, if they ever are. Isoscefes will be just the name for the boy, and I m sure you wont find a prettier name for the girl in a hurry than Hdrninthia. Mrs. Hopkins was delighted with the dignity and novelty of these two names, which were forthwith adopted. As they were rather long for common use in the family, they were shortened into the easier forms of Sossy and Minthy, under which designation the babes be- gan very soon to thrive mightily, turn- ing bread and milk into the substance of little sinners at a great rate, and growing as if they were put out at com- pound isterest. This short episode shows us the fami ly conditions surrounding Byles Gridley, who, as we were sayin5, had just been called down to tea by Miss Susan Posey. I am coming, my dear, he said, which expression quite touched Miss Susan, who did not know that it was a kind of transferred caress from the de- licious page he was reading. It was not the living child that was kissed, but the dead one lying under the snow, if we may make a trivial use of a very sweet and tender thought we all remember. Not long after this, happening to call in at the lawyers office, his eye was caught by the corner of a book lying covered up by a pile of papers. Some- how or other it seemed to look very natural to him. Could that be a copy of Thoughts on the Universe? He watched his opportunity, and got a hur- ried sight of the volume. His own treatise, sure enough! Leaves uncut. Opened of itself to the one hundred and twentieth page~ The axiom Mur- ray Bradshaw had quoted he did not remember from what, sounded like Coleridge was staring him in the face from that very page. When he remembered how he had pleased him- self with that compliment the other day, he blushed like a school-girl; and then, thinking out the whole trick, to hunt up his forgotten book, pick out a phrase or two from it, and play on his weakness with it, to win his good opinion, for what purpose he did not know, but doubtless to use hin~ in some way, he grinned with a con- tempt about equally divided between himself and the young schemer. Ah ha! he muttered scornfully. Sounds like Coleridge, hey? Niccolo Macchiavelli Bradshaw! From this day forward he looked on all the young lawyers doings with even more suspicion than before. Yet he would not forego his company and con- versation; for he was very agreeable and amusing to study; and this trick he had played him was, after all, only a diplomatists way of flattering his plenipotentiary. Who could say? Some time or other he might cajole England or France or Russia into a 136 treaty with just such a trick. Shallow- er men than he had gone out as minis- ters of the great Republic. At any rate the fellow was worth watching. CHAPTER VI. THE USE OF SPECTACLES. THE old Master of Arts had a great reputation in the house where he lived for knowing everything that was going on. He rather enjoyed it; and some- times amused himself with surprising his simple-hearted landlady and her boarders with the unaccountable re- sults of his sagacity. One thing was quite beyond her comprehension. She was perfectly sure that Mr. Gridley could see out of the back of his head just as other people see with their natu- ral organs. Time and again he had told her what she was doing when his back was turned to her, just as if he had been sitting squarely in front of her. Some laughed at this foolish notion; but others, who knew more of the nebulous sciences, told her it was like s not jes so. Folks had read letters laid agin~ the pits o their stomachs, n why should nt they see out o the backs o their heads? Now there was a certain fact at the bottom of this belief of Mrs Hopkins; and as it would be a very small thing to make a mystery of so simple a mat- ter, the reader shall have the whole benefit of knowing all there is in it, not quite yet, however, of know- ing all that came of it. It was not the mirror trick, of course, which Mrs. Felix Lorraine and other dan- gerous historical personages have so long made use of. It was nothing but this. Mr. Byles Gridley wore a pair of formidable spectacles with large round glasses. He had often noticed the reflection of objects behind him when they caught their images at certain angles, and had got the habit of very often looking at the reflecting surface of one or the other of the glasses, when he seemed to be looking through them. It put a singular power into his [February, possession, which might possibly here- after lead to something more significant than the mystification of the Widow Hopkins. A short time before Myrtle Hazards disappearance, Mr. Byles Gridley had occasion to call again at the office of Penhallow and Bradshaw on some small matter of business of his own. There were papers to look over, and he put on his great round-glassed specta- cles. He and Mr. Penhallow sat down at the table, and Mr. Bradshaw was at a desk behind them. After sitting for a while, Mr. Penhallow seemed to re- member something he had meant to attend to, for he said all at once: Ex- cuse me, Mr. Gridley. Mr. Bradshaw, if you are not busy, I wish you would look over this bundle of papers. They look like old receipted bills and memo- randa of no particular use; but they came from the garret of the Withers place, and might possibly have some- thing that would be of value. Look them over, will you, and see whether there is anything there worth savino~ The young man took the papers, and Mr. Penhallow sat down again at the table with Mr. Byles Gridley. This last-named gentleman felt just then a strong impulse to observe the operations of Murray Bradshaw. He could not have given any very good reason for it, any more than any of us can for half of what we do. I should like to examine that con- veyance we were speaking of once more, said he. Please to look at this one in the mean time, will you, Mr. Penhallow? Master Gridley held the document up before him. He did not seem to find it quite legible, and adjusted his specta- cles carefully, until they were just as he wanted them. When he had got them to suit himself sitting there with his back to Murray Bradshaw, he could see him and all his movements, the desk at which he was standing, and the books in the shelves before him, all this time appearing as if he were intent upon his own reading. The young man began in a rather in- The Guardian Angel. The Guardian A;zgd. different way to look over the papers. He loosened the band round them, and took them up one by one, gave a care- less glance at them, and laid them to- gether to tie up again when he had gone through them. Master Gridley saw all this process, thinking what a fool he was all the time to be watching such a simple proceeding. Presently he noticed a more sudden movement: the young man had found something which arrested his attention, and turned his head to see if he was observed. The senior partner and his client were both apparently deep in their own af- fairs. In his hand Mr. Bradshaw held a paper folded like the others, the hack of which he read, holding it in such a way that Master Gridley saw very dis- tinctly three large spots of ink upon it, and noticed their position. Murray Bradshaw took another hurried glance at the two gentlemen, and then quickly opened the paper. He ran it over with a flash of his eye, folded it again, and laid it by itself. With another quick turn of his head, as if to see whether he were observed or like to be, he reached his hand out and took a vol- ume down from the shelves. In this volume he shut the document, what- ever it was, which he had just taken out of the bundle, and placed the book in a very silent and as it were stealthy way back in its place. He then gave a look at each of the other papers, and said to his partner: Old bills, old leases, and insurance policies that have run out. Malachi seems to have kept every scrap of paper that had a signa- ture to it. Thats the way with the old misers, always, said Mr. Penhallow. Byles Gridley had got through read- ing the document he held, or pre- tending to read it. He took off his spectacles. We all grow timid and cautious as we get old, Mr. Penhallow. Then turning round to the young man, he slowly repeated the lines, Mu/ta senern circumvenhent incommoda, vd quod Qua~rit 4 jnzgnii miser ~ls/ipwI, a-c i/met uji; Vet quod res omnes tim/dc, gelideque minis- intl , You remember the passage, Mr. Brad- shaw? While he was reciting these words from Horace, which he spoke slowly as if he relished every syllable, he kept his eyes on the young man steadily, but without betraying any suspicion. His old habits as a teacher made that easy. Murray Bradshawsface was calm as usual, but there was a flush on his cheek, and Master Gridley saw the slight but unequivocal signs of excite- ment. Something is going on inside there, the old man said to himself. He waited patiently, on the pretext of business, until Mr. Bradshaw got up and left the office. As soon as he and the senior partner were alone, Master Gridley took a lazy look at some of the books in his library. There stood in the book-shelves a copy of the Corpus 7uris Civi/is, the fine Elzevir edition of 1664. It was bound in parchment, and thus readily distinguishable at a glance from all the books round it. Now Mr. Penhallow was not much of a Latin scholar, and knew and cared very little about the civil law. He had picked up this book at an auction, and bought it to place in his shelves with the other properties of the office, be- cause it would look respectable. Any- thing shut up in one of those two oc- tavos might stay there a lifetime with- out Mr. Penhallows disturbing it; that Master Gridley knew, and of course the young man knew it too. We often move to the objects of su- preme curiosity or desire, not in the lines of castle or bishop on the chess-board, but with the knights zigzag, at first in the wrong direction, making believe to ourselves we are not after the thing coveted. Put a lump of sugar in a canary-birds cage, and the small crea- ture will illustrate the instinct for the benefit of inquirers or sceptics. Byles Gridley went to the other side of the room and took a volume of Reports from the shelves. He put it back and 1867.1 37 138 The Guardian Angel. [February, took a copy of Fearne on Contingent Remainders,~~ and looked at that for a moment in an idling way, as if from a sense of having notl~ing to do. Then he drew the back of his forefinger along the books on the shelf, as if noth- ing interested him in them, and strolled to the shelf in front of the desk at which Murray Bradshaw had stood. lie took down the second volume of the Corj5us 7uris Civilis, turned the leaves over mdchanically, as if in search of some title, and replaced it. He looked round for a moment. Mr. Penhallow was writing hard at his ta- ble, not thinking of him, it was plain enough. He laid his hand on the FIRST volume of the Corpus 7uris Civilis. There was a document shut up in it. His hand was on the book, whether taking it out or putting it back was not evident, when the door opened and Mr. William Murray Bradshaw entered. Ah, Mr. Gridley, he said, you are not studying the civil law, are you? He strode towards him as he spoke, his face white, his eyes fixed fiercely on him. It always interests me, Mr. Brad- shaw, he answered, and this is a fine edition of it. One may find a great many valuable things in the Corpus 7uris Civilis. He looked impenetrable, and wheth- er or not he had seen more than Mr. Bradshaw wished him to see, that gen- tleman could not tell. But there stood the two books in their place, and when, after Master Gridley had gone, he looked in the first volume, there was the document he had shut up in it. CHAPTER VII. MYRTLES LETTER. THE YOUNG MENS PURSUIT. You know all about it, Olive ? Cyprian Eveleth said to his sister, af- ter a brief word of greeting. Know of what, Cypiian? Why, sister, dont you know that Myrtle Hazard is missing, gone! gone nobody knows where, and that we. are looking in all directions to find her? Olive turned very pale and was silent for a moment. At the end of that mo- ment the story seemed almost old to her. It was a natural ending of the prison-life which had been round Myrtle since her earliest years. When she got large and strong enough, she broke out of jail, that was all. The nursery-bar is always climbed sooner or later, wheth- er it is a wooden or an iron one. Olive felt as if she had dimly foreseen just such a finishing to the tragedy of the poor girls home bringing - up. Why could not she have done something to prevent it? Well, what shall we do now, and as it is ? that is the ques- tion. Has she left no letter, no expla- nation of her leaving in this way? Not a xvord, so far as anybody in the village knows. Come over to the post-office with me; perhaps we may find a letter. I think we shall. Olives sagacity and knowledge of her friends character had not misled her. She found a letter from Myrtle to herself, which she opened and read as here follows: Mv DEAREST OLIVE: Think no evil of me for what I have done. The fire-hang-birds nest, as Cyprian called it, is empty, and the poor bird is flown. I can live as I have lived no longer. This place is chilling all the life out of me, and I must find another home. It is far, far away, and you will not hear from me again until I am there. Then I will write to you. You know where I was born, under a hot sun and in the midst of strange, lovely scenes that I seem still to remem- ber. I must visit them again: my heart always yearns for them. And I must cross the sea to get there, the beauti- ful great sea that I have always longed for and that my river has been whisper- ing about to me ever so many years. My life is pinched and starved here. I feel as old as Aunt Silence, and I am The Guardia;z Angel. only fifteen, a child she has called me within a few days. If this is to be a child, what is it to be a woman? I love you dearly, and your broth- er is almost to me as if he were mine. I love our sweet, patient Bathsheba, yes, and the old man that has spoken so kindly with me, good Master Grid- ley; I hate to give you pain, to leave you all, but my way of life is killing me, and I am too young to die. I cannot take the comfort with you, my dear friends, that I would ; for it seems as if I carried a lump of ice in my heart, and all the warmth I find in you cannot thaw it out. I have had a strange warning to leave this place, Olive. Do you re- member how the angel of the Lord ap- peared to Joseph and told him to flee into Egypt? I have had a dream like that, Olive. There is an old belief in our family that the spirit of one who died many generations ago watches over some of her descendants. They say it led our first ancestor to come over here when it was a wilderness. I believe it has appeared to others of the family in times of trouble. I have had a strange dream at any rate, and the one I saw, or thought I saw, told me to leave this place. Perhaps I should have stayed if it had not been for that, but it seemed like an angels warning. Nobody will know how I have gone, or which way I have taken. On Mon- day, you may show this letter to my friends, not before. I do not think they will be in danger of breaking their hearts for me at our house. Aunt Si- lence cares for nothing but her own soul, and the other woman hates me, I always thought. Kitty Fagan will cry hard. Tell her perhaps I shall come back by and by. There is a little box in my room, with some keepsakes marked, one is for poor Kitty. You can give them to the right ones.. Yours is with them. Good by, dearest. Keep my secret, as I told you, till Monday. And if you never see me again, remember how much I loved you. Never think hardly of me, for you have grown up in a hap- py home, and do not know how much misery can be crowded into fifteen years of a young girls life. God be with you! MYRTLE HAZARD. Olive could not restrain her tears, as she handed the letter to Cyprian. Her secret is as safe with you as with me, she said. But this is madness, Cyprian, and we must keep her from doing herself a wrong. What she means to do, is to get to Boston, in some way or other, and sail for India. It is strange that they have not tracked her. There is no time to be lost. She shall not go out into the world in this way, child that she is. No; she shall come back, and make her borne with us, if she cannot be happy with these people. Ours is a happy and a cheerful home, and she shall be to me as a younger sister, and your sister too, Cyprian. But you must see her; you must leave this very hour; and you may find her. Go to your cousin Ed- ward, in Boston, at once; tell him your errand, and get him to help you find our poor dear sister. Then give her the note I will write, and say I know your heart, Cyprian, and I can trust that to tell you what to say. In a very short time Cyprian Eveleth was on his way to Boston. But an- other, keener even in pursuit than he, was there before him. Ever since the day when Master Gridley had made that over-curious ob- servation of the young lawyers pro- ceedings at the office, Murray Brad- shaw had shown a far livelier interest than before in the conditions and feel- ings of Myrtle Hazard. He had called frequently at The Poplars to talk over business matters, which seemed of late to require a deal of talking. He had been very deferential to Miss Silence, and had wound himself into the con- fidence of Miss Badlam. He found it harder to establish any very near rela- tions with Myrtle, who had never seemed to care much for any young man but Cyprian Eveleth, and to care for him quite as much as Olives broth-~ er as for any personal reason. But he 1867.1 39 140 The Guardian Angel. [February, found out Myrtles tastes and ways of thinking and of life, so that, by and by, when she should look upon herself as a young woman, and not as a girl, he would have a great advantage in mak- ing her more intimate acquaintance. Thus, she corresponded with a friend of her mothers in India. She talked at times as if it were her ideal home, and showed many tastes which might well be vestiges of early Oriental im- pressions. She made herself a rude hammock, such as are often used in hot climates, and swung it between two elms. Here she would lie in the hot summer days, and fan herself with the sandal-wood fan her friend in India had sent her, the perfume of which, the women said, seemed to throw her into day - dreams, which were almost like trances. These circumstances gave a general direction to his ideas, which were pres- ently fixed more exactly by two circum- stances which he learned for himself and kept to himself; for he had no idea of making a hue and cry, and yet he did not mean that Myrtle Hazard should get away if he could help it. The first fact was this. He found among the copies of the city news- paper they took at The Poplars a recent number from which a square had been cut out. He procured an- other copy of this paper of the same date, and found that the piece cut out was an advertisement to the effect that the A Ship Swordfish, captain Haw- kins, was to sail from Boston for Cal- cutta, on the 20th of June. The second fact was the following. On the window-sill of her little hanging chamber, which the women allowed him to inspect, he found some threads of long black glossy hair caught by a splinter in the wood. They were Myr- tles of course. A simpleton might have constructed a tragedy out of this triv- ial circumstance, how she had cast herself from the window into the waters heneath it, how she had been thrust out after a struggle, of which this shred from her tresses was the dreadful wit- ness, and so on. Murray Bradshaw did not stop to guess and wonder. He said nothing about it, but wound the shining threads on his finger, and, as soon as he got home, examined them with a magnifier. They had been cut off smoothly, as with a pair of scissors. This was part of a mass of hair, then, which had been shorn and thrown from the window. Nobody would do that but she herself. What would she do it for? To disguise her sex of course. The other inferences were plain enough. The wily young man put all these facts and hints together, and concluded that he would let the rustics drag the ponds and the river, and scour the woods and swamps, while he himself went to the seaport town from which she would without doubt sail if she had formed the project he thought on the whole most probable. Thus it was that we found him hur- rying to the nearest station to catch the train to Boston, while they were all looking for traces of the missing girl nearer home. In the cars he made the most suggestive inquiries he could frame, to stir up the gentlemanly con- ductors memory. Had any young fel- low been on the train within a day or two, who had attracted his notice? Smooth, handsome face, black eyes, short black hair, new clothes, not fit- ting very well, looked away when he paid his fare, had a soft voice like a womans, had he seen anybody an- swering to some such description as this? The gentlemanly conductor had not noticed, was always taking up and setting down way-pahsengers, might have had such a young man aboard, there was two or three stu- dents one day in the car singing col- lege songs, he did nt care how folks looked if they had their tickets ready, and minded their own business, and, so saying, he poked a young man upon whose shoulder a ringleted head was reclining with that delightful aban- don which the railroad train seems to provoke in lovely woman, Fare ! It is a fine thing to be set down in a great, over-crowded hotel, where they do not know you, looking dusty, and 1867.] Z/ic Guardlait AngeL 141 for the moment shabby, with nothing but a carpet-hag in your hand, feeling tired, and anything but clean, and hun- gry, and worried, and every way mis- erable and mean, and to undergo the appraising process of the gentleman in the office, who, while he shoves the book round to you for your name, is making a hasty calculation as to how high up he can venture to doom you. But Murray Bradshaws plain dress and carpet-bag were more than made up for by the air and tone which imply the habit of being attended to. The clerk saw that in a glance, and, as he looked at the name and address in the book, spoke sharply in the explosive dialect of his tribe, Jun tathagenlmn~scarpetbagn- showhimuptthirtyone I When Cyprian Eveleth reached the same hotel late at night, he appeared in his best clothes and with a new valise; but his amiable countenance and gentle voice and modest manner sent him up two stories higher, where he found him- self in a room not much better than a garret, feeling lonely enough, for he did not know he had an acquaintance in the same house. The two young men were in and out so irregularly that it was not very strange that they did not happen to meet each other. The young lawyer was far more like- ly to find Myrtle if she were in the city than the other, even with the help of his cousin Edward. He was not only older, but sharper, better acquainted with the city and its ways, and, what- ever might be the strength of Cyprians motives, his own were of such intensity that he thought of nothing else by day, and dreamed of nothing else by night. He went to work, therefore, in the most systematic manner. He first visited the ship Swordfish, lying at her wharf, saw her captain, and satisfied himself that as yet nobody at all corresponding to the description of Myrtle Hazard had been seen by any person on board. He visited all the wharves, inquiring on every vessel where it seemed pos- sible she might have been looking about. Hotels, thoroughfares, every place where he might hear of her or meet her, were all searched. He took some of the police into his confidence, and had half a dozen pairs of eyes be- sides his own opened pretty widely to discover the lost girl. On Sunday, the 19th, he got the first hint which encouraged him to think he was on the trail of his fugitive. He had gone down again to the wharf where the Swordfish, advertised to sail the next day, was lying. The captain was not on board, but one of the mates was there, and he addressed his questions to him, not with any great hope of hear- ing anything important, but determined to lose no chance, however smalL He was startled with a piece of information which gave him such an exquisite pang of delight that he could hardly keep the usual quiet of his demeanor. A youth corresponding to his description of Myrtle Hazard in her probable disguise had been that morning on board the Swordfish, making many inquiries as to the hour at which she was to sail, and who were to be the passengers, and remained some time on board, go- ing all over the vessel, examining her cabin accommodations, and saying he should return to - morrow before she sailed, doubtless intending to take passage in her, as there was plenty of room on board. There could be little question, from the description, who this young person was. It was a rather deli- cate-looking, dark-haired youth, smooth- faced, somewhat shy and bashful in his ways, and evidently excited and ner- vous. He had apparently been to look about him, and would come back at the last moment, just as the vessel was ready to sail, and in an hour or two be beyond the reach of inquiry. Murray Bradshaw returned to his hotel, and, going to his chamber, sum- moned all his faculties in state council to determine what course he should follow, now that he had the object of his search certainly within reaching dis- tance. There was no danger now of her eluding him; but the grave ques- tion arose, what was he to do when he stood face to face with her. She must 142 The Guardian Angel. [February, not go, that was fixed. If she once ~ot off in that ship, she might be safe enough; but what would become of cer- tain projects in which he was interest- ed, that was the question. But again, she was no child, to be turned away from her adventure by cajolery or by any such threats as common truants would find sufficient to scare them back to their duty. He could tell the facts of her disguise and the manner of her leaving home to the captain of the ves- sel, and induce him to send her ashore as a stray girl, to be returned to her relatives. But this would only make her furious with him; and he must not alienate her from himself at any rate. He might plead with her in the name of duty, for the sake of her friends, for the good name of the family. She had thought all these things over before she ran away. What if he should address her as a lover, throw himself at her feet, implore her to pity him and give up her rash scheme, and, if things came to the very worst, offer to follow her wherever she went, if she would accept him in the only relation that would ren- der it possible. Fifteen years old, he nearly ten years older, but such things had happened before, and this was no time to stand on trifles. He worked out the hypothesis of the matrimonial offer as he would have rea- soned out the probabilities in a law case he was undertaking. i. There was not the least question on his part. The girl was handsome enough for his ambitious future, wher- ever it might carry him. She came of an honorable family, and had the great advantage of being free from a tribe of disagreeable relatives, which is such a drawback on many otherwise eligible parties. To these considerations were to be joined other circumstances which we need not here mention, of a nature to add greatly to their force, and which were sufficient of themselves to deter- mine his action. 2. How was it likely she would look on such an extraordinary proposition? At first, no doubt, as Lady Anne looked upon the advances of Richard. She would he startled, perhaps shocked. What then? She could not help feel- ing flattered at such an offer from him, him, XVilliam Murray Bradshaw, the rising young man of his county, at her feet, his eyes melting with the love he would throw into them, his tones sub- dued to their most sympathetic quality, and all those phrases on his lips which every day beguile women older and more discreet than this romantic, long imprisoned girl, whose rash and adven- turous enterprise was an assertion of her womanhood and her right to dis- pose of herself as she chose. He had not lived to be twenty-five years old without knowing his power with wo- men. He believed in himself so thor- oughly, that his very confidence was a strong promise of success. 3. In case all his entreaties, argu- ments, and offers made no impression, should he make use of that supreme resource, not to be employed save in extreme need, but which was of a na- ture, in his opinion, to shake a resolu- tion stronger than this young girl was like to oppose to it? That would be like Christians coming to his weapon called All-prayer, he said to himself with a smile that his early readings of Bunyan should have furnished him an image for so different an occasion. The question was one he could not settle till the time came, he must leave it to the instinct of the moment. The next morning found him early waking after a night of feverish dreams. He dressed himself with more than usual care, and walked down to the wharf where the Swordfish was moored. The ship had left the wharf, and was lying out in the stream. A small boat had just reached her, and a slender youth, as he appeared at that distance, climbed, not over-adroitly, up the ves- sels side. Murray Bradshaw called to a boat- man near by and ordered the man to row him over as fast as he could to the vessel lying in the stream. He had no sooner reached the deck of the Sword- fish than he asked for the young per- son who had just been put on board. 1867.] Moncz. 43 He is in the cabin, sir, just gone son was talking earnestly with the cap- down with the captain, was the reply. tam, and, on his turning round, Mr. His heart beat, in spite of his cool William Murray Bradshaw had the temperament, as he went down the steps pleasure of recognizing his young friend, leading to the cabin. The young per- Mr. Cyprian Eveleth. MONA. AY and night, and night and day, pray, and cannot choose but pray, With lowly bended brows: God, let the glory come to pass Of Easter-daisies in the grass, And green leaves on the boughs! All sick and pale my Mona lies, All pale and sick, with longing eyes, A flower that dies for rain; And day and night my hearts wild beats Cry for a thousand sweetest sweets To charm away her pain. O waters bound with curdling rime! Come dancing on before your time, Through mists of silver spray; And, picking out your tenderest trills, Come yellow bills, come mellow bills, And sing your lives away! O little golden-bodied bees, Hum tunes her heavy heart to ease! And butterflies, so fair, Upon your wings of red and brown, Balance before her up and down, And brighten all the air! All buds with unfulfill~d hours Have birth at once in perfect flowers~ I charge you, in loves name; For when the unsanctioned is allied So nearly to the sanctified, Not heaven itself can blame! Then shall the lily leave the shade, And tend her like a waiting-maid, Making her pillow sweet;

Alice Cary Cary, Alice Mona 143-144

1867.] Moncz. 43 He is in the cabin, sir, just gone son was talking earnestly with the cap- down with the captain, was the reply. tam, and, on his turning round, Mr. His heart beat, in spite of his cool William Murray Bradshaw had the temperament, as he went down the steps pleasure of recognizing his young friend, leading to the cabin. The young per- Mr. Cyprian Eveleth. MONA. AY and night, and night and day, pray, and cannot choose but pray, With lowly bended brows: God, let the glory come to pass Of Easter-daisies in the grass, And green leaves on the boughs! All sick and pale my Mona lies, All pale and sick, with longing eyes, A flower that dies for rain; And day and night my hearts wild beats Cry for a thousand sweetest sweets To charm away her pain. O waters bound with curdling rime! Come dancing on before your time, Through mists of silver spray; And, picking out your tenderest trills, Come yellow bills, come mellow bills, And sing your lives away! O little golden-bodied bees, Hum tunes her heavy heart to ease! And butterflies, so fair, Upon your wings of red and brown, Balance before her up and down, And brighten all the air! All buds with unfulfill~d hours Have birth at once in perfect flowers~ I charge you, in loves name; For when the unsanctioned is allied So nearly to the sanctified, Not heaven itself can blame! Then shall the lily leave the shade, And tend her like a waiting-maid, Making her pillow sweet; 144 CYiceracteristics of the Eli2abethan Literature~ [February, The rose shall to her window climb, And tell her that the low-leaved thyme Is waiting for her feet. o drowsy-lidded violets! Constellate flower that never sets And blush-bells, low and small, And pinks, and pansies, plain and pied, And sovereign marigolds beside, My Mona needs you all! o star-flower, pushing from your breast The dead leaves, shine out with the rest! And from the garden beds, Ye daffodillies, made of light, To please her with a pretty sight, Toss high your lovely heads! Low lying in her pallid pain, A flower that thirsts and dies for rain, I see her night and day; And every heart-heat is a cry, And every breath I breathe a sigh, 0 for the May! the May! CHARACTERISTICS OF THE ELIZABETHAN LITERATURE. THE term literature of the age of Elizabeth is not confined to the literature produced in the reign of Eliz- abeth, but is a general name for an era in literature, commencing about the middle of her reign, in 15 8o, reaching its. maturity in the reign of James I., between 1603 and 1626, and perceptibly declinincr durino the reign of his son. It is called by the name of Elizabeth, because it was produced in connec- tion with influences which originated or culminated in her time, and which did not altogether cease to act after her death; and these influences give to its great works, whether published in her reign or the reign of James, cer- tain mental and moral characteristics in common. The most glorious of all the expressions of the English mind, it is, like every other outburst of national genius, essentially inexplica- ble in itself. It occurred, but why it occurred we can answer but loosely. We can state the influences which op- erated on Spenser, Shakespeare, Bacon, Hooker,Raleigh, but the genesis of their genius is beyond our criticism. There was abundant reason, in the cir- cumstances around them, why they should exercise creative power; but the possession of the power is an ultimate fact, and defies explanation. Still, the appearance of so many eminent minds in one period indicates something in the circumstances of the period which aided and stimulated, if it did not cause, the marvel; and a consideration of these circumstances, though itmaynot enable us to penetrate the mystery of

E. P. Whipple Whipple, E. P. Characteristics of the Elizabethan Literature 144-155

144 CYiceracteristics of the Eli2abethan Literature~ [February, The rose shall to her window climb, And tell her that the low-leaved thyme Is waiting for her feet. o drowsy-lidded violets! Constellate flower that never sets And blush-bells, low and small, And pinks, and pansies, plain and pied, And sovereign marigolds beside, My Mona needs you all! o star-flower, pushing from your breast The dead leaves, shine out with the rest! And from the garden beds, Ye daffodillies, made of light, To please her with a pretty sight, Toss high your lovely heads! Low lying in her pallid pain, A flower that thirsts and dies for rain, I see her night and day; And every heart-heat is a cry, And every breath I breathe a sigh, 0 for the May! the May! CHARACTERISTICS OF THE ELIZABETHAN LITERATURE. THE term literature of the age of Elizabeth is not confined to the literature produced in the reign of Eliz- abeth, but is a general name for an era in literature, commencing about the middle of her reign, in 15 8o, reaching its. maturity in the reign of James I., between 1603 and 1626, and perceptibly declinincr durino the reign of his son. It is called by the name of Elizabeth, because it was produced in connec- tion with influences which originated or culminated in her time, and which did not altogether cease to act after her death; and these influences give to its great works, whether published in her reign or the reign of James, cer- tain mental and moral characteristics in common. The most glorious of all the expressions of the English mind, it is, like every other outburst of national genius, essentially inexplica- ble in itself. It occurred, but why it occurred we can answer but loosely. We can state the influences which op- erated on Spenser, Shakespeare, Bacon, Hooker,Raleigh, but the genesis of their genius is beyond our criticism. There was abundant reason, in the cir- cumstances around them, why they should exercise creative power; but the possession of the power is an ultimate fact, and defies explanation. Still, the appearance of so many eminent minds in one period indicates something in the circumstances of the period which aided and stimulated, if it did not cause, the marvel; and a consideration of these circumstances, though itmaynot enable us to penetrate the mystery of i867.1 Characteristics of the Elizabethan Literature. 45 genius, may still shed some light on its character and direction. The impulse given to the English mind in the age of Elizabeth was but one effect of that great movement of the European mind whose steps were marked by the revival of letters, the invention of printing, the study of the ancient classics, the rise of the mid- dle class, the discovery of America, the Reformation, the formation of na- tional literatures, and the general clash and conflict of the old with the new, the old existing in decaying insti- tutions, the new in the ardent hopes and organizing genius by which institu- tions are created. If the mind was not always emancipated from error during the stir and tumult of this movement, it was still stung into activity, and com- pelled to think; for if authority, wheth- er secular or sacerdotal, is questioned, authority no less than innovation in- stinctively frames reasons for its exist- ence. If power was thus driven to use the weapons of the brain, thought, in its attempt to become fact, was no less driven to use the weapons of force. Ideas and opinions were thus all the more directly perceived and tenacious- ly held, from the fact that they kindled strong passions, and frequently demand- ed, not merely the assent of the intel- lect, but the hazard of fortune and life. At the time Elizabeth ascended the English throne, in 1558, the religious element of this movement had nearly spent its first force. There was a coin- paratively small ban4 of intensely ear- nest Romanists, and perhaps a larger band of even more intensely earnest Puritans; but the breat majority of the people were probably willing to acqui- esce in the form given to the Protestant church by the Protestant state. Eliza- beth won the proud distinction of being the head of the Protestant interest in Europe; but the very word interest in- dicates a distinction between Protes- tantism as a policy and Protestantism as a faith; and she did not hesitate to put down with a strong hand those of her subjects whose Protestantism most nearly agreed with the Protestantism VOL. XIX.NO. 112. 10 she aided in France and Holland. The Puritan Reformers, though they rep- resented most thoroughly the doctrines and spirit of Luther and Calvin, were thus opposed by the English state, and were a minority of the English people. Had they succeeded in reforming the na- tional Church, the national amusements, and the national taste, according to their ideas of reform, the history and the lit- erature of the age of Elizabeth would have been essentially different; but they would have broken the continuity of the national life: English nature, with its ba- sis of strong sense and strong sensuality, was hostile to their ascetic morality and their practical belief in the all-excluding importance of religious concerns. Had they triumphed then, their very earnest- ness might have made them greater, though nobler, tyran.ts than the Tudors or the Stuarts; for they would have used the arm of power to force evangelical faith and austere morality on a reluc- tant and resisting people. Sir Toby Belch would have had to fight hard for his cakes and ale; and the nose of Bar- dolph would have been deprived of the fuel that fed its fire. The Puritans were great forces in politics, as they afterwards proved in the Parliaments of Charles and the Commonwealth; but in the time of Elizabeth they were politically but a faction, and a faction having at one time for its head the greatest scoundrel in England, the Earl of Leicester. They were great forces in literature, as they aftcrwards proved by Milton and Bunyan; but their posi- tion towards what is properly called the literature of the age of Elizabeth was strictly antagonistical. The spirit of that literature, in its poetry, its drama, its philosophy, its divinity, was a spirit which they disliked in some of its forms, and abhorred in others. Their ener- gies, though mighty, are therefore to be deducted from the mass of energies by which that literature was produced. And this brings u~ to the first and most marked characteristic of this liter- ature, namely, that it is intensely hu- man. Human nature in its appetites, passions, imperfections, vices, virtues, 146 Characteristics of the Elizabethan Literature. [February, in its thoughts, aspirations, imagina- tions, in all the forms of concrete char- acter in which it finds expression, in all the heights of ecstasy to which it soars, in all the depths of depravity to which it sinks, this is what it represents or idealizes ; and the total effect of this exhibition of human life and exposition of human capacities, whether it he in the romance of Sidney, the poetry of Spenser, the drama of Shakespeare, the philosophy of Bacon, or the divinity of Hooker, is the wholesome and inspir- ing effect of beauty and cheer. This belief in human nature, and tacit as- sumption of its right to expression, could only have risen in an age which stimulated human energies by affording fresh fields for their development, and in an age whose activity was impelled by a romantic and heroic, rather than a theological spirit. And the peculiar po- sition of Elizabeth compelled her, abso- lute as was her temper, to act in har- mony with her people, and to allow in- dividual enterprise its largest scope. Her revenue was altogether inadequate to carry on a war with Spain and a war with Ireland, to assist the Protestants of France and Holland, to inaugurate great schemes of American coloniza- tion, to fit out expeditions to harass the colonies and plunder the commerce, of Spain, inadequate, in short, to make England a power of the first class. But the patriotism of her people, coinciding with their interests and love of adven- ture, urged them to undertake public objects as commercial speculations. They made war on her enemies for the spoils to be obtained from her enemies. Perhaps the most comprehensive type of the period, representing most vividly the stimulants it presented to ambition and avarice, to chivalrous sentiment and greed of gain, to action and to thought, was Sir Walter Raleigh. Poet, histo- rian, courtier, statesman, military com- mander, naval commander, colonizer, filibuster, he had no talent and no ac- complishment, no virtue and no vice, which the time did not tempt into ex- ercise. He participated in the widely varying ambitions of Spenser and Jon- son, of Essex and Leicester, of Bur- leigh, Walsingham, and Sir Nicholas Bacon, of Norris and Howard of Effing- ham, of Drake, Hawkins, and Cumber- land; and in all these he was thoroughly human. The next characteristic of the higher literature of the period is its breadth and preponderance of thought, a qual- ity which seemed native to the time, and which was shared by the men of affairs. Indeed, no one could serve Elizabeth well whose loyalty of heart was unaccompanied by largeness of brain. She was so surrounded by for- eign enemies and domestic factions, that the sagacity which makes the fewest mistakes was her only safety from dethronement or assassination. Her statesmen, however fixed might be their convictions and energetic their wills, were, by the necessities of their posi- tion, compelled to he wary, vigilant, politic, crafty, comprehensive in their views, compromising in their measures. The time required minds that could ob- serve, analyze, infer, combine, foresee, vigorous in the grasp of principles, ex- act in the scrutiny of facts. Such were the complications of political affairs, that the difficulty, in all but the most capa- cious intellects, was to decide at all; and even they sometimes found it wise to follow the drift of events which it was almost impossible to shape or to guide. It might be supposed, that if, in any person of the period, impetuosity of purpose or caprice of will would over- bear all the restraints of prudence, that person was Elizabeth herself; but she really was as indecisive in conduct as she was furious in passion. Proud, fierce, vain, haughty, vindictive; a vi- rago and a coquette; ready enough to box the ears of one of her courtiers, and threaten with an oath to unfrock one of her bishops ; despotic in her relations with all over whom she had complete control ; cursed, indeed, with every in- ternal impulse which leads to reckless action, she was still a thinker; and thought revealed insecurities in her po- sition, in considering which even her imperious will was puzzled into irreso 1867.] Characteristics of the Elizabethan Literature. 47 lution, and shrank from the plain road of force to feel its way through the crooked paths of hypocrisy and craft. This comprehensiveness of thought did not, in the men of letters, interfere with loftiness of thought, but it con- nected thought with life, gave it body and form, and made it fertile in those weighty maxims which, while they bear directly on practical conduct, and har- monize with the experience of men, are also characterized by that easy eleva- tion of view and of tone which distin- guishes philosophic wisdom from pru- dential moralizing. The Elizabethan thinkers instinctively recognized the truth that real thinking implies the ac- tion of the whole nature, and not of a single isolated faculty. They were men of large understandings; but their un- derstandings rarely acted apart from observation, the sight of what ap- pears, from imagination, the sight of what is, - from sentiment, passion, and character. They not only reasoned, but they had reason. They looked at things, and round things, and into things, and through things. Though they were masters of the processes of logic, their eminent merit was their broad grasp of the premises of logic, their ready anticipation of the results of logic. They could argue; butthey preferred to flash the conclusions of ar- gument rather than to recite its details, and their minds darted to results to which slower intelligences creep. From the fact that they had reason in abun- dance, they were somewhat chary of reasons. Their thinking, indeed, gives us the solid, nutritious, enriching sub- stance of thought. While it compre- hends the outward facts of life, it con- nects them with those great mental facts beheld by the inner eye of the mind. It thus combines the most massive good sense with a Platonic elevation of spir- itual perception, and especially avoids the thinness and juicelessness which are apt to characterize the greatest ef- forts of the understanding, when under- standing is divorced from human na- ture. This equipoise and interpenetr-tion of the faculties of the mind and the feel- ings of the heart, which give to these writers their largeness, dignity, sweet- ness, and power, are to be referred in a great degree to the imaginative element of their natures. They lived, indeed, in an imaginative age, an a~e in which thought, feeling, aspiration, character, whether low or exalted, aimed to em- body themselves in appropriate external forms, and be made visible to the eye. In the great poets and philosophers this imagination existed both as ecstatic insight of spiritual facts and as shaping power, both as the vision and the faculty divine; but all over the Eliza- bethan society, in dress, in manners, in speech, in the badges of professions, in amusements, in pageants and specta- cles, character, class, and condition, in all their varieties, were directly imaged. Lamb calls all this a visible poetry; and much which we now read as poetry was simply the transfcrence into lan- guage of the common facts of the time. This imaginative tendency of the na- tional mind appeared in a still higher form in that chivalrous cast of feeling and of thought which we observe in all the nobler men of the time. High- erected thoughts seated in a heart of courtesy, is Sir Philip Sidneys defini- tion of the gentl ernan; and this was the standard to which many aspired, if few reached. This chivalry was a poetic reflection of the feudal age, which was departing in its rougher and baser real- ities, but lingering in its b~autiful ideas and ideals, especially in the knightly love of adventure and the knightly rev- erence for woman. It gave an air of romance to acts, enterprises, and amuse- ments which sometimes had their vul- gar side. Raleigh tilted in silver ar- mor before the Queen, though the sil- ver from which the armor was made had been stolen from Spanish mer- chantmen. Sidney was eager to fight in single combat with the anonymous defamer of his uncle Leicester, though his uncle richly deserved the gibbet. Cumberland was a knight-errant of the seas, strangely blending the love of glory with the love of gold, the spirit 148 ckaracteristics of the E/izabetiza;z Literature. [February, of wild adventure with the spirit of commercial thrift. Something imagi- native, something which partook of the sentiment of the old time, was mingled with the hustling practicalities of the present. If we look at a man like Sir Francis Drake from the mere under- standing, we find it difficult to decide whether his enterprises were private or national, whether the patriot predomi- nated over the pirate, or the pirate over the patriot; hut if we look at him from the Elizabethan point of view, it is not difficult to discern an enthusiastic, chiv- alric, loyal, Protestant spirit as the presiding element of his being and the source of his pecuniary success. He did many things which, if done now, would very properly send a sailor to the gallows; yet, as a man, he was very much superior to many a modern statesman and judge who would con- scientiously order his execution. Vi- tally right, hut formally wrong, he in the Elizabethan age was immensely honored. This slight reference to a few of these eminent men of action shows that lit- erature was hut one out of many ex- pressions of the roused energies of the national heart and brain, and that those who performed actions which poetry celebrates were as numerous as the poets. As the external inducements to adopt literature as a profession were not so great as in our day, as there was no reading public in our sense of the tern~ we are at first surprised that so much genius was diverted into this path. But Elizabeth and James were both learned sovereigns. Both were writ- ers; and in the courts of both, litera- ture and learning were in the fashion, and often the avenues to distinction in Church and State. It was found that literary ability was but one phase of general ability. Buckhurst was an em- inent statesman. Sidney and Spenser were men of affairs. Raleigh could do anything. Bacon was a lawyer and ju- rist. Hooker, Hall, Giles and Phine- as Fletcher, and Donne were in the Church. The patronage of educated and accomplished nobles was extended to numerous writers like Daniel and Drayton, who could not have subsisted by the sale of their works. None of these can be styled authors by profes- sion: that sad distinction was confined to the dramatists. In the time of Eliz- abeth and James the theatre was almost the only medium of communication be- tween writers and the people, and at- tracted to it all those who aimed to gain a livelihood out of the products of their hearts and imaginations. Its literature was the popular literature of the age. It was newspaper, magazine, novel, all in one. It was the Elizabethan Times, the Elizabethan Blackwood, the Eliz- abethan Temple Bar: it tempted in- to its arena equally the Elizabethan Thackerays and the Elizabethan Brad- dons; but the remuneration it afforded to the most distinguished of the swarm of playwrights who depended on it for bread was small. All experienced the full bitterness of poverty, if we except Shakespeare, Jonson, and Fletcher. Shakespeare was an excellent man of business, a part-proprietor of a theatre, and made his fortune. Jonson was pat- ronized by James, and was as much a court poet as a popular poet. Fletcher, though the most fertile of the three in the number of his plays, and the great- est master of theatrical effect, did not, it is supposed, altogether depend on the stage for his support. But Chapman, Dekker, Field, Rowley, Massinger, and all the other professional playwrights, were wretchedly poor. And it must be said, that, though we are in the custom of affirming that the circumstances of the age of Elizabeth were pre-eminent- ly favorable to literature, most of the writers, including such names as Spen- ser and Jonson, were in the habit of moaning or grumbling at its deoen- eracy, and wishing that they had been born in happier times. There were, then, three centres for the literature of the period, the Court, the Church, and the Theatre. Let us consider the drama first, as it was near- er the popular heart, was the medium through which thc grandest as well as meanest minds fot~.nd expression, and 1867.] Cluzrac/eris/ics of i/ic Eli~abet1iaiz Literature. 49 was thoroughly national, or at least thoroughly nationalized. England had a drama as early as the twelfth century, a drama used by the priests as a mode of amusing the peo- ple into a knowledge of religion. Its products were called Miracle Plays. They were written, and often acted, by ecclesiastics they represented the per- sons and events of the Scriptures, of the apocryphal Gospels, and of the legends of saints and martyrs, and were per- formed sometimes in the open air, on temporary stages and scaffolds, some- times in churches and chapels. The earliest play of this sort of which we have any record was performed, be- tween the years iioo and Iiio. The general characteristic of these plays, if we should speak after the ideas of our time, was blasphemy, and blasphemy of the worst kind; for the irreverent utterance of sacred names is venial compared with the irreverent represen- tation of sacred persons. The object of the writers was to hring Christian- ity within popular apprehension; and in the process they burlesqued it. They belonged to a class of writers and speakers, as common now as then, who vulgarize the highest subjects in the at- tempt to popularize them, who de- grade religion in the attempt to make it efficient. The writers of the Mira- cle Plays only appear worse than their Protestant successors, from the greater rudeness in the minds and manners to which they appealed. They did not aim to lift the people up, hut to bring the Divinity down; and not being in any sense poets, they could not make what was sacred familiarly apprehend- ed, and at the same time preserve that ideal remoteness from ordinary life which is the condition of its being rev- erently apprehended. Their religious dramas, accordingly, were mostly mon- strous farces, full of buffoonery and in- decency, though not without a certain coarse humor and power of character- ization. Thus, in the play of the Del- uge, Noah and his wife are close copies of contemporary character and man- ners, projected on the Bible narrative. Mrs. Noah is a shrew and a vixen; refuses to leave her gossips and go into the ark; scolds Noah, and is soundly whipped by him; then wishes herself a widow, and thinks she but echoes the feeling of all the wives in the audi- ence, in hoping for them the same good luck. Noah then takes occasion to inform all the husbands present that their proper course is to break in their wives after his fashion. By this time the water is nearly up to his wifes neck, and she is partly coaxed and partly forced into the ark by one of her sons. Again, in a play on the Adora- tion of the Shepherds, the shepherds are three English boors, who meet with a variety of the most coarsely comical adventures in their journey to Bethle- hem; who, just before the star in the east appears, get into a quarrel and fight, after having feasted on Lan- cashire jammocks and Halton ale; and who, when they arrive at their destina- tion, present three gifts to the infant Saviour, namely, a bird, a tennis-ball, and a bob of cherries. The Miracle Plays were very popular, and did not altogether die out before the reign of James. In some of them personified abstractions came to be blended with the persons of the drama; and in the fifteenth century a new class of dramatic performances arose, called Moral Plays, in which these personi- fied abstractions pushed persons out of the piece, and ethics supplanted theology. There is, in some of these Moral Plays, a great deal of ingenuity displayed in the impersonation of qual- ities, and in their allegorical represen- tation. They took strong hold of the English mind. Pride, gluttony, sen- suality, worldliness, meekness, temper- ance, faith, in their single and in their blended action, were often happily char- acterized; and, though they were event- ually banished from the drama, they re- appeared in the pageants of Elizabeth and in the poetry of Spenser. But their popularity was doubtless owing more to their fun than their ethics; and the two characters of the Devil and Vice, the laughable monster and the 150 Ciuzractcristics of //ic Eii2abctiuzn Literature. [February, laughable buffoon, were the darlings of the multitude. In Ben Jonson s Staple of News, Gossip Tattle ex- claims: My husband, Timothy Tattle, God rest his soul! was wont to say that there was no play without a fool and a Devil in t: he was for the Devil still, God bless him! The Devil for his money, he would say; I would fain see the Devil. Nearer to the modern Play than either the Miracle or the Moral, was the Interlude, so called from its being acted in the intervals of a banquet. It was a farce in one act, and devoted to the humorous and satirical representa- tion of contemporary manners and char- acter, especially of professional char- acter. John Heywood, the jester of Henry VIII., was the best maker of these Interludes. At the time that all of these three forms of the drama were more or less in esteem, Nicholas Udall, a classical scholar, produced, about the year 1540, the first English comedy, Ralph Rois- ter Doister, very much superior, in incident and characterization, to Gain- mer Gurtons Needle, written twenty years afterwards, though neither rises above the mere prosaic delineation, the first of civic, the last of country life. The poetic element, which was after- wards so conspicuous in the Elizabethan drama, did not even appear in the first English tragedy, Gorboduc, though it was written by Thomas Sackville, the author of the Induction to the Mir- ror of Magistrates, and the only great poet that rose between Chaucer and Spenser. Gorboduc was acted be- fore Queen Elizabeth, at Whitehall, by the Gentlemen of the Inner Temple, in January, 1562. It was received with great applause; but it appears, as read now, singularly frigid and unimpas- sioned, with not even, as Campbell says, the unities of space and time to cir- cumscribe its dulness. It has all the authors justness, weight, and fertility of thought, but little of his imagina- tion; and, though celebrated as the first English play written in blank verse, the measure, in Sackvilles hands, is wearisomely monotonous, and conveys no notion of the elasticity and variety of which it was afterwards found capa- ble, when used by Marlowe and Shake- speare. The tragedy is not deficient in terrible events, but even its murders make us yawn. It is probable that the fifty-two plays performed at court between 1568 and 1580, and of which nothing is preserved but the names, contained little to make us regret their loss. Neither at the Royal Palace, nor the Inns of Court, nor the Universities, at all of which plays were performed, could a free and original national drama be built wp. This required a public theatre, and an audience composed of all classes of the people. Accordingly, the most im- portant incident in the history of the English stage was the patent granted by the crown, in 1574, to James Bur- bage and his associates, players under the protection of the Earl of Leicester, to perform in the City and Liberties of London, and in all other parts of the kingdom; as well, the phraseology runs, for the recreation of our loving subjects, as for our own solace and pleasure, when we shall think fit to see them. But the Corporation of London, thorough Puritans, were determined, as far as their power extended, to pre- vent the Queens subjects from having any such recreation, and her Majesty herself from enjoying any such solace and pleasure. Forasmuch as the playing of interludes, and the resort to the same, are very dangerous for the infection of the plague, whereby infinite burdens and losses to the city may in- crease; and are very hurtful in corrup- tion of youth with incontinence and lewdness; and also great wasting both of the time and thrift of many poor people; and great provoking of the wrath of God, the ground of all plagues; great withdrawing of the people from public prayer, and from the service of God; and daily cried out against by all preachers of the word of God ; therefore, the Corporation ordered, all such interludes in public places, 1867.] Cluzracteristics of the E/izabetluvz Literature. 151 and the resort to the same, shall wholly be prohibited as ungodly, and humble suit made to the Lords, that like pro- hibitation be in places near the city. The players, thus expelled the city, withdrew to the nearest point out- side the Lord Mayors jurisdiction, and, in 1576, erected their theatre in Blackfriars. Two others, The Cur- tain and The Theatre, were erect- ed by other companies in Shoreditch. Before the end of the century there were at least eleven. To these round wooden buildings, open to the sky, with only a thatched roof over the stage, the people flocked daily for mental excite- ment. There was no movable scen- ery; the female characters were played by boys; and the lowest theatres of our day are richer in appointments than were the finest of the age of Eliza- beth. Such, says Malone, was the poverty of the old stage, that the same person played two or three parts; and battles on which the fate of an em- pire was supposed to depend were de- cided by three combatants on a side. It is difficult for us to conceive of the popularity of the stage in those days. One of the spies of Secretary Walsing- ham, writing to his employer in 1586, thus groans over the taste of the peo- ple: The daily abuse of stage plays is such an offence to the godly, and so great a hindrance to the Gospel, as the Papists do exceedingly rejoice at the blemish thereof, and not without cause; for every day in the week the players bills are set up in sundry places of the city; . . . . so that, when the bells toll to the lecturer, the trumpets souad to the stages. Whereat the wicked fac- tion of Rome laugheth for joy, while the godly weep for sorrow It is a woful sight to see two hundred proud players jet in their silks, while five hundred poor people starve in the streets Woe is me! the play-houses are pestered when the churches are naked. At the one, it is not possible to get a place; at the other, void seats are plenty. It may here be said, that the mutual hostility of the players and the Puritans continued un til the suppression of theatres under the Commonwealth; and for fifty or sixty years the Puritans were only mentioned by the dramatists to be mer- cilessly satirized. Even Shakespeares catholic mind was not broad enough to include them in the range of its sympa- thies. That this opposition to the stage by the staid and sober citizens was not without cause, soon became manifest. The characteristic of the drama, before Shakespeare, was intellectual and moral lawlessness; and most of the dramatists were men as destitute of eminent ge- nius as of common principle. Stephen Gosson, a Puritan, in a tract published in r~8r, attacks them on grounds equal- ly of taste and morals; and fiye years afterwards Sir Philip Sidney speaks of the popular plays as against all rules of honest civility and skilful poetry. But Gosson indicates also the sources of their plots. Painters Palace of Pleasure, a series of not over - modest tales from the Italian; The Golden Ass ; The Ethiopian History; Amadis of France; The Round Table ; all the licentious com- edies in Latin, French, Italian, and Spanish were thoroughly ransacked, he tells us, to furnish the play-houses of London.. The result, of course, was a chaos; but a chaos whose materials were wide and various, indicating that the English mind was in contact with, and attempting roughly to reproduce, the genius of Greece and Rome, of France, Spain, and Italy, the chron- icles and romances of the Middle Ages, and was hospitable to intellectual in- fluences from all quarters. What was needed was the powerful personality and shaping imagination of genius, to fuse these seemingly heterogeneous materials into new and original forms. The Faerie Queene of Spenser, and the drama of Shakespeare, evince an assimilation of the same incongru- ous elements which Gosson derides and denounces, as they appeared in the shapeless works of mediocrity. There was not merely to be a new drama, but a new art, and new principles of I 52 C/uvactcris/ics of the Elkabetha;z Literature. [February. criticism to legitimate its creative au- dacities. The materials were rich and various. The difficulty was, that to combine them into original forms re- quired genius, and genius higher, broad- er, more energetic, more imaginative, and more humane than had ever be- fore been directed to dramatic compo- sition. The immediate predecessors of Shakespeare Greene, Lodge, Kyd, Peele, Marlowe were all educated at the Universities, and were naturally prejudiced in favor of the classics. But they were, at the same time, wild Bohemian youths, thrown upon the world of London to turn their talents and accomplishments into the means of livelihood or the means of debauch. They depended principally on the pop- ular theatres, and of course addressed the popular mind. Why, indeed, should they write according to the rules of the classic drama? The classic drama was a growth from the life of tbe times in which it appeared. Its rules were simply generalizations from the prac- tice of classic dramatists. A drama suited to the tastes and wants of the people of Greece or Rome was evi- dently not suited to the tastes and wants of the people of England. The whole framework of society, customs, manners, feelings, aspirations, tradi- tions, superstitions, character, religion, had changed; and, as the drama is a reflection of life, either as actually ex- isting or ideally existing, it is evident that both the experience and the senti- ments of the English audiences de- manded that it should be the reflection of a new life. These dramatists, how- ever, in emancipating themselves from the literary jurisprudence of Greece and Rome, put little but individual caprice in its place. Released from formal rules, they did not rise into the artistic region of principles, but fell into the pit of anarchy and mere law- lessness. Lacking the higher imagina- tion which conceives living ideas and organizes living works, their dramas evince no coherence, no subordination of parts, no grasp of the subject as a whole. There is a German play in which Adam is represented as passing across the stage, U to be created. The drama of the age of Elizabeth, in the persons of Greene, Peele, Kyd, and others, indicates, in some such rude way, that it is going to be cre- ated. That this dramatic shapelessness was not inconsistent with single poetic con- ceptions of the greatest force and fine- ness, might be proved by abundant quotations. Lodge,forexample,wasa poor dramatist; but what living poet would not be proud to own this exquisite description, in his lyric of Rosaline, of the person and influence of beauty? Like to the clear in highest sphere, Where all imperial glory shines, Of selfsame color is her hair, Whether unfolded or in twines. Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, Refining heaven hy every wink; The gods do fear whenas they glow, And I do tremhle when I think. Her cheeks are like the hlushing cloud That heautifies Auroras face; Or like the silver-crimson shroud, That Phcehus smiling looks doth grace. Her lips are like two hudded roses, Whom ranks of lilies neighhor nigh, Within which hounds she halm encloses, Apt to entice a deity. Her neck like to a stately tow5r, Where Love himself imprisoned lies, To watch for glances every hour From her divine and sacred eyes. With orient pearl, with ruhy red, With marhle white, with sapphire hiuc, Her hody everyway is fed, Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view. Nature herself her shape admires; The gods are wounded in her sight; And Love forsakes his heavenly fires, And at her eyes his hrand doth light. But a more potent spirit than any we have mentioned, and the greatest of Shakespeares predecessors, was Chris- topher Marlowe, a man of humble par- entage, but with Norman blood in his brains, if not in his veins. He was, in- deed, the proudest and fiercest of intel- lectual aristocrats. The son of a shoe- maker, and born in I 564, his unmistak- able genius seems to have gained him 1867.] Characteristics of Ike Elizabethan Literature. 53 friends, who looked after his early ed- ucation, and sent him, at the age of seventeen, to the University of Cam- bridge. He was intended for the Church, but the Church was evidently not intended for him. The study of theology appears to have resulted in making him an enemy of religion. There was, indeed, hardly a Christian element in his untamable nature; and, though he was called a sceptic, infidel- ity in him was more likely to take the form of blasphemy than denial. He was made up of vehement passions, vivid imagination, and lawless self-will; and what Hazlitt calls a hunger and thirst after unrighteousness took the place of conscience in his haughty and fiery spirit. Before the age of twenty- three we find him in London, an actor and a writer for the stage, and the au- thor of the great sensation work of his time, the tragedy of Tamburlaine. This portentous melodrama, a strange compound of inspiration and despera- tion, has the mark of power equally on its absurdities and its sublimities. The first play written in blank verse for the popular stage, its verse has an elastici- ty, freedom, and variety of movement which makes it as much the product of Marlowes mind as the thoughts and passions it conveys. It had no prece- dent in the verse of preceding writers, and is constructed, not on mechanical rules, but on vital principles. It is the effort of a glowing mind, disdaining to creep along paths previously made, and opening a new path for itself. This scornful intellectual daring, the source of Marlowes originality, is also the source of his defects. In the tragedy of Tamburlaine he selects for his hero a character through whom he can ex- press his own extravagant impatience of physical obstacles and moral re- straints. No regard is paid to reality, even in the dramatic sense of the word: a shaggy and savage force dominates over everything. The writer seems to say, with his truculent hero, This is my mind, and I will have it so. This self-asserting intellectual insolence is always accompanied by an unwearied energy, which half redeems the bombast into which it runs, or rather rushes; and strange gleams of the purest splen- dors of poetry are continually transfig- uring the bully into the hard. Thus, in the celebrated scene in which Tamburlaine is represented in a chariot drawn by captive kings, and berating them for their slowness in words which so captivated Ancient Pistol, there is a glorious stroke of impassioned imagi- nation, which makes us almost forgive the swaggering fustian which precedes and follows it: Hahn ye pampered jades of Asia! What, can ye draw but twenty miles a day? The horse that guide the golden eye of heaven, And hlow the morning from their nostrils, Making their fiery gait ahove the clouds, Are not so honored in their governor As you, ye slaves, in mighty ~ Faustus, The Jew of Malta, Edward the Second, The Massa- cre of Paris, Dido, Queen of Car- thage, are the names of Marlowes re- maining plays. They all, more or less, exhibit the eager creativeness of his mind, and the furious arrogance of his disposition. They abound, says Hunt, in wilful and self-worshipping speeches, and every one of them turns upon some kind of ascendency at the ex- pense of other people. His Edward the Second is the best historical play written before Shakespeares, and exhib- its more discrimination in delineating character than any of Marlowes other efforts. His Jew of Malta is a po~ver- ful conception spoilt in the process of embodiment. His Faustus, perhaps best reflects his whole genius and ex- perience. The subject must have taken strong hold of his nature, for, like Faustus, he had doubtless held intimate business relations with the great en- emy of mankind himself, and was per- sonally conscious of the struggle in the soul between the diabolical and the di- vine. Faustus and Mephistopheles are both conceived with gre at depth and strength of imagination; and the last scene of the play, exhibiting the agony of supernatural terror in which Faus- tus awaits the coming of the fiend who 154 Characteristics of the Elizabethan Literature. [February, has bought and paid for his soul, is not without touches of high sublimity. There is one line, especially, which is loaded with imaginative meaning and suggestiveness, that in which, har- boring for a moment the possibility of salvation amid the gathering horrors of his doom, he exclaims, See where Christs blood streams in the firma- ment Marlowes life, though short and reck- less, was fertile in works. Besides the plays we have mentioned, he proba- bly wrote many which have been lost; and his translations from Ovid, and his incompleted poem of Hero and Leander, would alone give him a po- sition among the poets of his period. He was killed in a tavern brawl, in the year 1593, at the early age of twenty- nine.* Though Marlowes poetical con- temporaries and followers could say lit- tle or nothing in defence of his life, when it was mercilessly assailed by Puritan pamphleteers, there was no lack of tes- timonials to his genius. Ben Jonson celebrated his mighty line; Drayton described his raptures as all fire and air, and testified to his possession of * Beard, in his Theatre of Gods Judgements ~ makes his death the occasion to point a fero- cious moral. He speaks of him as by practice a play-maker and a poet of scurrilitie, who, by gluing too large a swing to his owne wit, and snifering his lust to bane the full reines, at last denied God and his sonne Christ, and not onely in word blasphemed the Trinitie bnt also (as it is credibly reported) wrote bookes against it, affirming our Saniour to be bnt a deceiner, and Moses to be but a coniurer and sedu- cer of the people, and the Holy Bible to bee bnt vaine and idle stories, and all religion bnt a denice of pol- ide. But see what a hooke the Lord pnt in the nos- trils of this barking dogge! So it fell ont, that, as he purposed to stab one whom he ought a grudge vnto, those brave, sublunary things that the first poets had; and Chapman, with a yet closer perception of his unwithhold- ing self-committal to the Muse, said that He stood Up to the chin in the Pierian flood. A still higher tribute to his eminence comes from Shakespeare himself, who, in his As You Like It, quotes with approval a line from Marlowes little poem of The Passionate Shepherd to his Love, the only case in which Shakespeare has recognized the genius of an Elizabethan writer. But this stormy, irregular genius, corn. pound of Alsatian ruffian and Arcadian singer, whose sudden death, in the height of his glory and his pride, seemed to threaten the early English drama with irreparable loss, was to be succeeded in his own walk by the greatest English- man, by the greatest man, that ever made the theatre or literature his me- dium of communication with the world. To some thoughts on this man need we say it is Shakespeare ? we shall invite the attention of the reader in a succeeding number. with his dagger, the other party perteining so anoyd- ed the stroke, that withall catching bold of his wrist, bee stabbed his owne dagger into his owne bead, in such sort that, notwiths~nding all the meanes of sur- gene that could bee wrought, bee shortly after died thereof; the manner of his death being so terrible (for he euen cursed and blasphemed to his last gape, and together with his breath an oath flew out of his mouth), that it was not only a manifeste signe of Gods judgement, but also an horrible and fearefull terror to all that beheld him. But herein did the jus- tice of God most noteably appeare, in that bee cofn- pelled his owne hand, which had written these blas- phemies, to bee the instrument to punish him, and that in his braine which bad deulsed the sam~. George Bedillions Knz~ht. GEORGE BEDILLIONS KNIGHT. A STORY IN TWO PARTS. PART I. CHAPTER I. TARRYTOWN is a market village n XVestern Pennsylvania. It rained in Tarrytown. All the world was wet. The September day, when the farm-horns blew for dinner, had been pulseless with heat; the air, if you walked through it in the stubble-fields and orchards sloping down the hills, seemed to be full of sunshine, like motes of gold-dust; and the sweet, muggy smell oft he corn, and the clean, fruity smell from the vats near the vine- yards, followed you as if you had stirred them out of the heat. As evening came on, however, the sky paled. The winds stood still and waited. So did the two low, humpbacked wooded hills between which the little village cuddled down like a blackbird in a huge ospreys nest; the Sloan Creek, in the gap below, sliding and shining over its blue stone bottom. So did the indistinct, melan- choly shadow which marked the far Alleghany range, and the sweep of open country which made up the space out to it, flat and bright green arable land, dotted here and there by clumps of underbrush or dusky orchards. At sundown there was a sure sign of rain: clouds of opaque, dark purple, with a gap between them and the yel- low sky, ramparting themselves around the horizon in towering peaks, and then closing down and in, until village and open country and mountain range grew near and distinct, each part to part, as in a photograph. Quickly a damp wind struck out from the cloud, the royal purple faded into muddy brown, creeping over the sky, and downwards, until the rain began to fall, slow and persistently. Nobody, at first, seemed much the worse for it. The sun gave a sudden, red , good-humored wink as he went out; the birds chirped comfortably at home, under the dry side of the forest leaves; and people who were coming up the darkening village street could catch the scent of suppers cooking, or of the full-uddered cows in the barn- yards, shivering in the rapidly clogging air. But after these protests, farms and village and hills gave themselves up to a rainy night. Tarrytown and the world were not only wet: in an hour or two they were soaked, pulpy; the stars went out miserably; barn-yards reeked; the clay road gaped into slimy chasms; a belated Conestoga wagon, coming through the forest, sunk into a rut below Kearnss place and remained there until morning; (it was the gro- cer Aikenss load in it; he was re- ported to have lost a matter of twenty dollars in sugars alone;) in all the farms, from Squire Daniel Barkers to the Dunkards, under the mountains, they slaked down the kitchen fires, and went to bed by seven oclock. Tarrytown rebelled against the gen- eral depression. People just now had too much to talk of, in the approaching crisis about Kearnss will, to go to bed because of a murky night. Besides, Judge Atwater, the executor, from Philadelphia, was expected to arrive that night. Leonard Bedillion had gone to U , with Barkers bucroy, to meet and bring him over. Every- body was on the qui vive, as Sharpley, the innkeeper, remarked, to catch the first look at him. Sharpley had lit the candles behind the yellow and green papered panes of the front window, which had been arranged for last Fourth of July. It would have been a sharp eye, indeed, which could have told them from stained glass. There was quite a crowd in at Sharp- leys that night, discussing the affair, four young men, at least, besides 1867.1 55

Mrs. R. B. Davis Davis, R. B., Mrs. George Bedillion, Knight. I 155-167

George Bedillions Knz~ht. GEORGE BEDILLIONS KNIGHT. A STORY IN TWO PARTS. PART I. CHAPTER I. TARRYTOWN is a market village n XVestern Pennsylvania. It rained in Tarrytown. All the world was wet. The September day, when the farm-horns blew for dinner, had been pulseless with heat; the air, if you walked through it in the stubble-fields and orchards sloping down the hills, seemed to be full of sunshine, like motes of gold-dust; and the sweet, muggy smell oft he corn, and the clean, fruity smell from the vats near the vine- yards, followed you as if you had stirred them out of the heat. As evening came on, however, the sky paled. The winds stood still and waited. So did the two low, humpbacked wooded hills between which the little village cuddled down like a blackbird in a huge ospreys nest; the Sloan Creek, in the gap below, sliding and shining over its blue stone bottom. So did the indistinct, melan- choly shadow which marked the far Alleghany range, and the sweep of open country which made up the space out to it, flat and bright green arable land, dotted here and there by clumps of underbrush or dusky orchards. At sundown there was a sure sign of rain: clouds of opaque, dark purple, with a gap between them and the yel- low sky, ramparting themselves around the horizon in towering peaks, and then closing down and in, until village and open country and mountain range grew near and distinct, each part to part, as in a photograph. Quickly a damp wind struck out from the cloud, the royal purple faded into muddy brown, creeping over the sky, and downwards, until the rain began to fall, slow and persistently. Nobody, at first, seemed much the worse for it. The sun gave a sudden, red , good-humored wink as he went out; the birds chirped comfortably at home, under the dry side of the forest leaves; and people who were coming up the darkening village street could catch the scent of suppers cooking, or of the full-uddered cows in the barn- yards, shivering in the rapidly clogging air. But after these protests, farms and village and hills gave themselves up to a rainy night. Tarrytown and the world were not only wet: in an hour or two they were soaked, pulpy; the stars went out miserably; barn-yards reeked; the clay road gaped into slimy chasms; a belated Conestoga wagon, coming through the forest, sunk into a rut below Kearnss place and remained there until morning; (it was the gro- cer Aikenss load in it; he was re- ported to have lost a matter of twenty dollars in sugars alone;) in all the farms, from Squire Daniel Barkers to the Dunkards, under the mountains, they slaked down the kitchen fires, and went to bed by seven oclock. Tarrytown rebelled against the gen- eral depression. People just now had too much to talk of, in the approaching crisis about Kearnss will, to go to bed because of a murky night. Besides, Judge Atwater, the executor, from Philadelphia, was expected to arrive that night. Leonard Bedillion had gone to U , with Barkers bucroy, to meet and bring him over. Every- body was on the qui vive, as Sharpley, the innkeeper, remarked, to catch the first look at him. Sharpley had lit the candles behind the yellow and green papered panes of the front window, which had been arranged for last Fourth of July. It would have been a sharp eye, indeed, which could have told them from stained glass. There was quite a crowd in at Sharp- leys that night, discussing the affair, four young men, at least, besides 1867.1 55 156 George Bedillions Knz~gii/. [February, Barnes the storekeeper and old Pol- lard. Squire Barker and Mr. Watson, the clergyman, were at the drug-store. The inn meeting had a disreputable flavor about it, which they shunned, although, to he just, Sharpleys was a temperance tavern. However, the current of talk ran pretty much in the same channel in hoth places; and in both it lingered over the rain, and foreboded all the evil it would bring. It was a hard night at sea, they said; and Pollard, whose nephew, Joe, was part owner of the vineyard, suggested that it would injure the flavor of the late grapes. Then there 11 he a double quantity of your sherries and the rest of them foreign wines run in, chewing tobacco, spitefully. It s cursed hard to get ahead of these old countries of Europe, sir. We re a young people, young. It did not occur to any of them that outside of the half-moon made by the mountains yonder the ground might be dry. When it rained at Tarrytown the world was wet. When Sim Wicks, the watchmaker, dropped in at both places of rendez- vous, eager and hustling as ever, people looked at him with new interest; for by this time it was no longer a secret that Judge Atwater was to occupy one of the spare rooms which Wicks rented out over his shop. As the night wore on towards nine oclock, the hour when all law-ahiding citizens usually closed their houses, it was proposed, and the proposition was received with acclaim, that, as the buggy might be looked for in an hour, no one should retire until it came. Sharpley trimmed the kerosene - oil lamps freshly; the young fellows fur- tively unbuttoned their coats to show the sprigged terry-velvet waistcoats beneath, rushed tumultuously to the door, and stood poking each other in the ribs, and joking about Jenny Ai- kens, who had just gone up stairs; the two older men gravely filled and lighted their pipes. But all were conscious of indulging in a certain reckless dissi- pation, which it would not be wise to carry too far. Presently, at Sim Wickss suggestion, Sharpley took them out to see the supper that Be- dillion had ordered for the Judge and himself on their return. Patridges, and briled turkey devil, and spiced oysters, said Sharpley. Nothing niggardly there, gentlemen! shutting up the Dutch oven with a tri- umphant nod. The young fellows nod- ded back significantly. There s nothing mean about Leon- ard Bedleon, said Phil Barker. Len always was a free-handed one, said another. So the word went round, to Sharp- leys delight; for none of them was as loyal to Len as the old fellow himself. Wicks had stolen out from them, and went back to his shop, as usual, not join- ing in the laudation of Leonard, which the boys noticed. The village was jeal- ous of any slight put upon its hero. However, it could not have been dislike of that young gentleman that kept Sims tongue quiet; for his first job of work, on going home, was to rebuild Lens fire, and sweep up his hearth again. Bedillion occupied the room next to that reserved for the stranger, over the shop. Sim came down the stairs again, whistling Wind your horn, shrill and clear, as he went about his night- ly work of tidying up his shop and the little cubby closet of a chamber inside. It was already specklessly neat, for Sim was as orderly as any old maid. He was a little stout fellow, with a bald spot on the top of his head and a fringe of reddish hair and whisker about his round, good-humored face. When all was done, his night-shirt laid out, and shoes blacked for morning, he pulled on his green knit - yarn sack, and, putting one hand on each knee, sat down before the fire, still whistling, but taking the alto now, so as to be able to catch the sound of the buggy wheels through the noise of the pelt- ing rain. For the rain drove heavier than before against the shutters of the shop, and shook the door on its hinges. The Cannel coal burned and flashed George Bedi/lio;zs Kizight. more fiercely in the open grate, shoot- ing out jets of clear yellow flame. It was pleasant to see it brighten the queer little triangular shop, with its whitewashed walls, its bit of counter covered with green leather and brass nails, the shining case of tools, the shining cheap rings and brooches, the half-dozen turnip-shaped watches that hung on thewall, brought in for repair, their cases shining red and round, and Sims face in the midst, hot from the fire and brighter than any. A brown earthen pitcher, in front of the grate, sweated out some spicy fragrance. Two glasses beside him, on a little tray, waited for it; for nobody had so many guests as the little silversmith, from morning till night. Somebody was sure to drop in, after a while, and drink a good-night cup with him. Apparently there was some one whom Wicks especially looked for: the toddy had an extra dash of Ja- maica rum in it, and the roasted apples, brown and juicy, bobbed up and down in the pitcher, as the rich, spicy liquid bubbled and frothed with the heat. Sim Wickss apple-toddy was famous in Tarrytown. He stopped whistling now and then to listen, polishing the tumblers and stirring the toddy. But so sharp was the plash of the rain against the windows that the buggy dashed up unheard through the mud to Sharpleys door, and two muffled figures hurried in, out of the dark and wet, to the cheerful little bar-room and its zealous-mouthed spectators ; and the first thing that roused him was the abrupt opening of the shop door, and Len Bedillions face thrust over the counter with a loud Hillo Hillo Back aready, Mr. Bedle- on? Sim turned, spoon in hand, to- wards the frank, handsome face, framed by brown curly hair and beard, and wet with the rain. Yes. You re up late, Sim. The Judge has gone up to his room, to change his wet clothes, and I ran over to tell you we were home safely. And he hesitated and all right, Mr. Bedleon,el~? Surely, surely! But Leonards face clouded with the words. He knew well enough that every man and boy in the village knew that the next day or two would be a crisis in his life, and that they all felt a sort of tender sym- pathy for him, he being, in a manner, a demigod amongst them. It annoyed him. He would have put his shoulder to the wheel to help Black Joe, the hostler, or Sim here, through the mire; but that Sim or Joe should want a helping finger in his trouble was a dif- ferent affair. Probably Sim caught his look; for he asked no further questions about the ride, but stooped, whistling, over the jug until his face was in a blaze. Yer room s well het, Mr. Bedleon; and I took up a pail of hot water, in case you d like to soak yer feet. Noth- in like a soak for keepin off a cold, except grog, pouring out a mugful of toddy, and holding it out over the counter. If there had ever been anything racy in Sim Wickss queer little figure and gossip for Len, his afternoons talk to the town-bred stranger had dulled his taste for it. He listened with a forced smile. Many thanks, Wicks, many thanks, with a somewhat lordly wave of the hand. But Ill only take time to run a comb through my hair, and then back again. Sharpley has a neat little supper gotten up for us. And I ye asked a half dozen of fellows I found there to join us. Atwater ex- pressed a wish to meet some of the people, taking them just as he found them. Its a new section of country to him ; so I asked them to join us. He stopped short, coloring. Wicks was a good, handy fellow, friend to everybody in Tarrytown, invaluable at ~veddings or funerals. Leonard had done like the rest, made a half com- panion, half servant of him. But sure- ly nobody would look for this! How could he ask Atwater to sit down with an ex-barber and cow-doctor ? for out of all of these depths had Wicks arisen. But if Sim was hurt, no hint of it ap 1867.1 57 158 George Bedillions Knzg-Izt~ [February, peared in the red, round face smiling across the counter. So Id best be ofl said Len, pull- ing down his shirt-cuffs nervously. Its a cursed bore. Though Atwater is a man who has seen the world. Great information, immense resour- ces. But he wants a central poise. He is a man without a theory of life, without a theory. Then, remember- ing that Sim Wicks was his sole audi- tor, he coughed and stopped abruptly. I 11 go now. Dont sit up for me, Simeon. No. I 11 leave the dead-latch down. Bedillion wondered as he crossed the muddy street, the rain driving down his umbrella, why Wicks had not offered him the toddy again. Was it because he felt for his confusion, and would not add to it by forcing his own kindness upon him? Pish! Women might have fancies so delicate; but hard- ly cow-doctors, in Tarrytown. Sim, barring the shutters, saw the jovial little party assembled in Sharp- leys dining-room, through the window, Len as host, at the head of the table, the black-coated stranger (whose clothes, even at this distance, revealed a new and marvellous cut to his eyes) at his right. Sim had nursed most of those fellows in their fall agues, off and on; he knew every crook and by-path in their sheepish love-affairs or shrewd bargains; it was no wonder if he should feel a bit solitary here, alone, his eyes fixed blankly vacant on Lens face. However, there were differences. Wicks understood them. He began to whistle Wind your horn again, and, remembering that Peck would call for his watch in the morning, put it up in a paper box, the tune growing lively as a ~ as he neat- ly tied the last knot of red tape, with his mouth pursed complacently. But after he had drawn off his green wa 2Us, and shoes and socks, he sat a long time toasting his bare feet, and looking ii~to the fire with serious gray eyes, while the glasses of untasted toddy grew cold behind him. CHAPTER II. JUDGE ATWATER, going to bed that night in Wickss snug little chamber, smiled to himself quietly more than once. He had thoroughly enjoyed his journey out in the stage-coach across the mountains, and this odd primitive little hamlet in which it had terminated. His artists eye had been gratified by novel and fine combinations in the hill- scenery; yet even more than that he relished the new effects in human nature which he already saw among these people. The whole affair had the zest of a~n escapade from the somewhat stately routine of home; it brought up the free, racy flavor of the sketching tours which he and one or two Bohemians used to make on foot, before he was married. After all, there was a boyish relish in leaving wife and children quite out of the days programme. And the Judge looked quizzically at his shrewd, kindly face in the glass, before he laid aside the iron-gray scratch with which he covered the bald top of his head. He meant to make the best of his holiday. He only was sorry that the nature of his business would throw him so much in contact with the young college whelp who had driven him over. The Judge was a little sore under the infliction of a whole afternoon of Lens company. Poor Leonard, like most ungenerous boys fresh from college, was drunken with his new knowledge, and the glimpses which hi~ youth gave him of a broader religion and politics than that taught in the schools. So, as they all are, he was ready to dribble out his opinions to the first comer with a van- ity and gasconade disgusting enough. Raw wine! raw and muddy! the Judge muttered, as some of Lens orac- ular sentences came back while he un- dressed and turned into the neat little bed. The fire-light flickering over the red calico counterpane brought to his mind just such a quilt, which used to be his boyish admiration. It was in the house of Lens grandfather, down on 1867.] George Bedillions Knight. the head-waters of Sloan Creek. For the Judge had heen horn in the back- woods, here; Leonards father, Knapp Bedillion, and he had been school-boys and young men together. He remem- bered seeing Knapp once after his mar- riage, and his wife and son. But the hoys name was not Leonard, how was that? There were two children then. Surely, when Knapp and his wife died, a few years later, he had heard that there were two children left or- phans and penniless? Why was Len the only claimant under this will then? He must inquire into it in the morning; and with that the pattern of the red calico began to tangle itself into the matter, and he soon was asleep. XVhen the cold mountain air crept through the cracks of the window in the morning, the quiet about him sur- prised him wide awake. He got up and threw open the shutter. Instead of rumbling milk-carts, screaming fish- women, and muddy pink clouds in gaps of sky ahove solid blocks of brick houses, here was a great colorless space between him and heaven, in which there was nothing but the cold winds, and a tinge here and there of clean, pearly gray; off to the east, a nebulous white light behind the black mountain line ; down the long valley to the mountains, a wavering sheet of mist, dyed violet, where it rose in rag- ged hits of vapor up the hillsides; far off coming through the mist, the lowing of cows going off to pasture; the cheery sound of a farm-horn breaking the si- lence and dying out of it, frightened; close at hand the half-dozen village houses, sleepily wakening, cocks crow- ing, smoke creeping shivering away from the warm kitchen hearths off into the frosty air; hut the dew still spark- ling untouched on the cornfields ahout each house, and the dahlias and orange tiger-lilies in the gardens with their flowers still closed and hanging limp. The Jud~e loitered near the window until the day was clear. He had not seen a sunrise (except in some of Hamiltons marine views) for years. It recalled some of the boyish days 59 in his life, which had begun for him with dawn, when he and Knapp Be- dillion had risen with the first hreak of night to finish their days work, and so have time for the ride with the girls to the apple-paring or quilting in the afternoon. It brought up Knapp more vividly to his mind than all the annoyance of this business had done, and made him determine that justice should be done to his sons, if it was in his power to obtain it. It was little enough, he felt, for him to resolve. The truth was, the Judge and Bedillion had sworn friendship at the age which, in Len, he now called crude and frothy; but when they separated, one man was shrewd and practical, the other visionary and a dyspeptic; as usual, the clock of the world was set back or forward apparently to suit the purposes of the one; it hurried the other through his useless, miserable hours, and made haste to ring his death-bell before he had reached the noon of his life. Atwater, when he heard that the children of his old crony were left beggars, had determined to help them; but they were out in the backwoods; every day and hour was crowded with work for him; the matter had easily escaped him. There was an old Scotch pedler, Kearns by name, Beeswax Jim by nickname, who had gone up and down the country since the memory of man began with his wagon and horse; him- self dirtier, yellower, and older than any part of the concern, a silent, miser- ly old boor, with neither kinsfolk nor friends, putting out a claim to hu- manity, however, when he died, in an odd morbid gratitude which he had cherished to the memory of Knapp Be- dillion. What he done for me, he told Squire Barker, concerns nohody. But I was a man, and he treated me as such. I dont forget. More than money stuck to Beeswax; every good or ill word I got, I held on to. His children shall not be keepit on charity long, it s my resolve. The pedler had invested his savings i 6o George Bedil/iozs Kllz~kt. [February in a little farm on the outskirts of the village. It grew in value. Now when Leonard was of age, and ready to en- ter into possession, it was of sufficient value to give him a place among the heaviest landholders in the county. Atwater, who had been made executor, had made the matter a pretext for his first visit to his old home. Bedillion yesterday had hinted at some obstacle in the way to his obtaining possession of the property, which he would explain to the Judge to-morrow. While the old gentleman was yet busied with nail-brush and towels, there was a tap at the door, and Len came in, with his smiling morning face and outstretched hand. He had his salutation ready to cover his uneasi- ness; it would not do to suffer the Judge to suspect him of loutish diffi- dence. Shakespeare himself could not wish you fairer good-morrow, seating himself easily on a trunk near the open window. I thought I would call in and have a few words on busi- ness while the morning air cleared our brains. Unmannerly cub! thought the Judge, thrusting his spectacles on his nose. Go on, Leonard. I am will- ing to serve your fathers son as far as I can. Len, whose breeding had furnished him with no reasons to suspect that any man should court privacy while only dressed in trousers and shirt, crossed his legs with careless grace, and curled the end of his mustache. We have a beautiful Nature here, sir? Did you get up at this hour in the morning to talk to me about Nature, eb? said the old man, viciously tug- ging at his shirt-collar. Has that town cant come out here? Young people read Byron and Tennyson, and prate about Nature, when they cant tell a hemlock from a horse-chestnut, and dont care a curse whether a spi- der runs or flies, which does it, eh? I dont know, said Bedillion with a mild look of amazement. Let Nature alone. Never boast of the friendship of people whom you dont know by sight. Listen, Bedil- lion. I 11 start fair with you. I 11 give you advice when you need it. You re your fathers son, or I would not take the trouble. Turn your hack on poetry. There is not a sign of the poet in an angle of your face or head; you are only poetical. There s not an atom of the hero in your nature, yet you can just understand when a man has made a ten-strike in the world. You have not a minute to lose; you 11 have to fight yourselg till your death, to make a useful, practical man of your- self or you will spend your days pining and whimpering for what you never will be. Now, to business, buckling his suspenders tighter. Len did not reply. He bit his lower lip until the blood came. He had not time to find the old man rude or coarse, first came the fear that his words were true. They put some old suspi- cions of his own into shape. There is no college boy who does not hope to be a something in the world. Perhaps you are right, he said, getting up irresolutely and trying to laubh. You were my fathers friend, and have a ribht to speak plainly. If a man is a shallow-brained fool, the sooner he knows it the better. Not so bad as that. Not so bad, half shutting his protruding eyes to see better. There s better stuff in you than I thought, or you would not have answered in that fashion. Better stuff. We 11 know each other better by and by, prancing from trunk to looking-glass uneasily in his bald head and shirt-sleeves, pushing the specta- cles up and down. He began to think that, if he had had his wig on his head and breakfast in his stomach, he would not have been so sharp with the boy. But to business, brushing the scratch as he held it up on his left fist. What do you mean to make of your- self? Id like to give you a push if I could. And I ye got influence, in- fluence. But first, how does it come that you are the only claimant for old Kearnss property. You had a brother. George Bedilliozis K;zi~-/zt. 161 At the word a curious change came over the young fellow, and Atwater, on whom nothing was lost, saw how the conceit suddenly dropped off, and how keen and eager his face grew with some fine emotion in it which he could not understand. I have a hrother. Older than I am. George. How? eh? Why dont he enter a claim, then? It is a long story, his face grow- ing hot and cold with excitement. Have you time to hear it now? Yes. I 11 hear it now. Think- ing that when it was told he would know all that was in this fellow. He had touched the pith, somehow, now. When my father died, we were lit- erally beggars, you know? The Judge growled assent. I was raised by cVrity. Old Joe Blenkers, God bless him, gave me my bite and sup until I was ten years old. I learned to plough and fodder stock with his own hoys. George had bet- ter luck. He was a clear-eyed, curly- haired little fellow. A Spanish mer-~ chant from New Orleans happened to see him and adopted him. I have never seen him since. Leonards eyes grew higger and fuller of meaning. The boy might he weak-brained, hut the words hrother, friend, enemy, would import much to him, Atxvater saxv. Adopted child, nobodys child. XVhat did the Spaniard make of him? A gentleman, raising his head and looking out of the window. I think my brother George must be different from any man I have known or read of. More of a man. How s that? sharply looking up from the boot he was drawing on. That is a girls fancy. You have never seen him, you say. No; nor do I want to see him yet. I must make something of myself first. I tell you, sir, vehemently, getting up and coming towards the old man, I have had nothing to look forward to in life but the meeting with George, nothing to hope for or to give me a VOL. XIX.NO. 112. II motive for struggling to be other than the boors about me. I kave struggled, I ye studied hard. But since I was a boy I never learned a lesson, or tried to catch a hint about manners or dress, that it was not with the hope of making myself a man of whom he would not he ashamed when we met. God knows how it will be when he sees me, look- ing down, resting his hands on his knees. Tut! tnt! Well, barring a little conceit Judicious advice would help you most. I m willing to do my share. But how had you the chance for study and college, eh? Blenkerss boys are farmers, you told me. Bedillions face glowed. I thought I had told you. Through George. When I was ten years old Squire Barker be- gan to receive sums of money for my use from my brother; trifling at first, but enough eveu then to buy me books. I studied at night. Afterwards they in- creased in amount. They have been enough for five years to clothe and board me, and enable me to go down to Jefferson College in the winter sessions. If I ever am a man, I shall owe it to him.~~ The Judges curiosity was roused. Where is your brother now? When are you to go to him ? Leonards face clouded. I dont complain. He does not know how I have thought of him all my life, or per- haps I would know more. The letters have always been postmarked at New Orleans; they contain very few words, written in a constrained manner and hand, as if by a person unfamiliar with the language. He has deferred coming to see me fi-om year to year. But he has his reasons, doubtless, with a half-defiant air. Yes, with a puzzled look. That is all you know? I know, with some heat, that George is a man of curious refinement and tenderness. I see it in every word or act of his. There have been other gifts than money, books, new music, little articles of ncr/u, engravings, such things as never find their way 1867.] 162 George Fedillions Knzg-ht. [February, here, and would be of little purpose if they did. But the selection betrays a critical taste skilled and delicate. I know, too, his voice falling, I am nearer to George than any other living man. His few words tell me that. Well, well ! said the Judge, put- tiog a finishing stroke to the bow of his cravat. I am glad you have a brother of whom you can be so justly proud, Leonard. Bedillion colored high with pleasure. I am glad. It has saved me the trouble of making an ideal model of a man, as other young fellows do. Mine was civen to me. But Kearnss property? Leonard stood up, a sort of triumph dilating his figure. You will under- stand what George is, when I tell you that on last Christmas he sent me a release, properly signed and witnessed, of his share of the estate. I understand, coolly, that he either has no need of money, or is a fool to part with it until he knows into whose hands it will fall. Men define folly differently, haugh- tily. My brother is a pure man, in a pure social atmosphere, I ft ney. He has judged me on his own level. Judge Atwater stared, and then laughed, clapping Len on the shoul- der. Save me from the silly inno- cence of youth, he said ; to which Bedillion made no reply. To breakfast now. This mountain air has set my very teeth on edge. How do these people bring in a steak? Fried, I 11 warrant. I ought to have told you, stam- mered Leonard, that Barker fears some want of legal technicality in the transfer, which will render it void. That was the point I spoke of yes- terday. Oho! stopping short. Now the Judge, in his secret soul, believed this brother who flung fortunes into Christ- mas boxes, and for whom Bedillion cherished a reverence like that of a Catholic woman for the Virgin, was no hetr nor worse than a Nexv Orleans leg, who was about to play some sharp game on poor Len. But he will scarcely blind Phil Atwaters eyes,~ he mumbled. Where is the transfer? In the safe below, belonging to the silversmith. I have it there for safety. Very right. I 11 look at it, after breakfast. They turned again to go, when the old man, passing the window, glanced down into the yard, and stopped with a quick Eh ? of surprise. Who s that? Belong to the village? Lens face grew scarlet. He put his band up to his mustache uneasily. Oho! said the Judge again, with a different tone. She belongs to the village, said Bedillion with needless gravity. She is the orphan daughter of old Barr the carpenter. She lives in the little house next to this, and supports herself and her brother by dyeing faded stuffs, women s wear. That is her brother with her. There s nothing classical in her face, I think, hesitating, with a look of alarm at the Judges admira- tion. Classic! Pshaw! But it s a face a man would like to see at his break- fast-table every day, jogging Bedillion in the ribs. Classic! What a prig the fellow is ! said the old man, as he went care- ft~lly down the shaking wooden stairs. The girl is too good for him. Such quiet and comfort in her face Len had left him to go over to break- fast alone ; something in the last few words had discomposed him; he had turned into his own room, and shut himself up. The Judge stumbled by mistake into Sim Wickss trian0 ular little shop; and when he was once in, he shut the door behind him, and took off his hat, with his old-fashioned bow, smiling queerly. The morning sunshine came in all over the white, cheery little room, and the tray on the counter of tools and silver wire where Sim had been at work; there was a red fire in the grate, George Bedilliouzs Kizz~g-ht. the jolliest for its size ever made; the frosty October wind blew the smell of the garden herbs, sage and sweet-mar- joram, in at the window, and shook the purple and crimson morning-glories vining all about the sill. There was a little table near the fire, with a white cloth and dark blue delft cups and plates on it. Hetty Barr was placing a coffee- pot and rasher on it, and Sim Wicks stood by, looking on. Upon my soul, said the Judge, I ye not seen so heartsome a place since I was a boy. My landlord, hah? Mr. Wicks ? For Atwater was a ward politician, and never forgot a name. While he shook hands with Sim, his protruding eyes took in all the room, especially Hetty, with her blue gingham dress, and soft brown hair tucked up under a black ribbon. My landlord, eh? and then the eyes made a focus of Sims face with an odd, startled look. Wicks? Mrs. Wicks ? I am only a neighbor, said little Ret, seeing how strangely Sim stood staring at the carpet, and boorishly silent. I helo Sim xvith his cookin a a bit, blushing, and putting down a plate as if it burned her. r~oat tempt me nearer the cof- fee by telling me that you made it, little girl. The smell alone is too much for a breakfastless man. The Judges face lost its smile as it turned from Hetty to Sim, and gathered again an obvious bewilderment. Yonder lies my way to the tavern? Onless you will come nearer and try Hesters cookery? You dont look rugged for as sized a man as you are; mebbe it ud be as will not to face the bill fogs so early in the mornin. The little ex-barber was himself again. He came up to the Judge with the ugly friendly face and uneasy finical manner that made him the butt as well as the favorite of Tarrytown. He stood hold- ing by one hand on the back of a chair, while he balanced himseW heel and toe, sopping the top of his bald head with a red ban 1anna handkerchief as he spoke, an honest, sincere smile brightening the mawkish insignificant features. Atwater acted oddly for a man in- vited to share anothers meal. He put on his spectacles, and looked fixedly at him. The truth was, he thought he had a clew to this mans former life, and that he was a cursed humbug. It might suit the fellows purposes to pass himself off simply as an honest me- chanic in this out-of-the-xvay corner of the world; but he knew him otherwise. He was determined that justice should be done. He would grapple with him at once. Wicks, he said, did you ever chance to know a man named Billy Furness? You bear a strong resein- blance to him, a curious resem- blance. The color went out of the little mans face, leaving the sandy eyebrows more strongly marked, and the upturned nose pinched at the nostrils. He put up his hand, began to speak once or twice, but the words choked in his throat. The Judges lips moved, uttering some word, and Sims eyes fell. The whole man seemed to wilt and shrink. If ever conscious guilt stamped itself on every line of a figure and face, it did upon the figure and face of the lit- tle silversmith. He muttered, Give me time, without lifting his eyes from the floor; and the Judge nodded. All of this by-play had occupied but a minute. Yes, I will eat with you, said, the old man, after a moments pause, affect- ing a sudden heartiness of manner. Hetty, who had seen none of the by- play, flushed. Judge Atwater was the lion of Tarrytown; this little matter would confer distinction on her friend Sim. So much distinction, that Leonard Bedillion stood aghast when he entered the door five minutes later and saw the Judge and Wicks sitting opposite each other, drinking the hot coffee apparently at ease, while Hetty Barr bustled in from the spring-house to the table, in a 1867.1 163 164 Geo7ge Bedillio;zs Kzz~gkt. [February, pretty motberly way she bad, bring- ing crisper biscuit or additional pats of yellow butter. Somebow one never tbougbt of little Het as a girl, but al- ways as a young motber witb a baby in ber arms. Len sat down by tbe fire, a little cowed, remembering last nigbt. Yet be thougbt Sim, under all bis attempted carelessness, looked ill and pale. A new-laid egg now is sometbin you kent buy for money in town, be said, and forthwith was off to tbe stable, and in a minute a couple of milk-wbite balls were put in tbe hot water, with the color faintly showing through tbem. So tbe breakfast went on. Once, when the door made a noise, slamming in the wind, Len thought he overheard the Judge say sternly, swearing a great oath. By , you bear it off well. What can I do? muttered Wicks, his lips colorless. After that he sat crumbling his bread, laughing shrilly at the Judges jokes to Leonard and Hetty. But they might have seen a pitiful eagerness in his watchful eyes, and a curious fine pain under all his ludi- crous fantastic grimaces, when he looked at them as if he feared some gulf which the next hour might open between him- self and them. They might have seen it, if they had cared to watch him. But Leonard and the girl, as the old man noted, were miserably conscious of each others presence, growing cold when the air stirred between them, as if it had brought their flesh in contact. It hindervd them from remarking the close scrutiny which, through all the joking and eating, the Judge never lifted from the little man opposite to him, sipping his coffee with shaking fingers. He scanned the squat, solid figure, from the ragged edgin6 of red hair and whisker, to the suit of fresh- looking, snuff-colored clothes. The fan- tastic liftings of the eyebrow and ges- tures which Sim made when speaking, the drawling country accent, the old- fashioned earnest honesty in his round glassy eyes, moved Atwaters wonder as an exquisite bit of acting might do. He could restrain it no longer. How long have you lived in Tarry- town, Mr. Wicks ? he said at last, with an amused smile. Ten years come next sheep-shear- ing. I travelled round considerable before that, cow-doctoring. Outside of this watch business, what occupation can you find here? with the same significant twinkle. Len laughed patronizingly. Our friend Sim is the most useful person- age in Tarrytown, Judge. He orders all weddings, funerals, or picnics ; he is adviser-general; he hears all bye- affairs and disputes about pig - tres- passes ; and he keeps a register of the births and deaths in the village since the time of Jacob Beeabout, eighty years ago, to Polly Aikenss boy, who was born last week. It s tolerble accurate, I guess, that register, said Sim, gravely. Only it was Jacob Beebout was the first set- tler, Leonard. Droppin the a. Wicks is a precise antiquarian in names, replied Len, with an annoyed laugh. He docks my name of a syl- lable. The Judge turned sharply to Sim, who reddened with a surly frown. I ye a prejdice in favor of Bed- leon. It s the old way, yer fathers. You kin alter it ef you cboose, Mr. Leonard. There s none called by it but you.~~ Except the head of the family, George. That poor fellow has a bead full of hobbies, he said, as Sim hur- ried out into the garden to close the gate after Hetty, who had gone out. Yes, hobbies. An ignorant fellow, but well mean- ing. The people here are strangely at- tached to him, intending to humor this whim of Atwaters about the sii- versmith. Sim coming in at the moment, he asked him for his safe-key. I put a paper there lately, Wicks. While Leonard turned to open the safe, Sim, keeping a troubled eye on him, sidled up close to the Judgc. I 1867.1 George Bedilliozis K;zz~kt. 165 must see you alone, he said, in a pip- ing whisper. I have not been safe these twenty years to bear findin out noxv quietly. I Your secret is safe for to-day. But it is my business to see that justice is done. They had time for nothing more. Len turned with the paper, and he and the Judge bustled out. What with their shiny black clothes, and the old mans portentous chain and seals, and Lens easy swagger and cheap perfume, they seemed quite to absorb the air when they were in the room, and to leave it vacant when they went out, with only Sim gath- ered up into the corner by the fireplace, looking as limp and imbecile as a childs rag-doll. Leonard, glancing back at him, nodded kindly. It flashed on him how paltry and meagre the little sil- versmiths aims and life were, compared with his own, rounded and impelled as he felt them to be by education and heroic impulses. Then, as he walked with the Judge down the village street in the brilliant early sunshine, he forgot poor Sim in thinking how, when this money and firm footing were assured to him, he would show to these poor villagers what a truly noble life was, how fixed in purpose and generous in extent. The soft, straightforward, brown eyes of little Hetty Barr rose before him then, and made his blood tingle hot ly. They walked out into a quiet field where there was nothing to disturbthem, except a few red and brown sleepy cows wading through a pool below, or stand- ing knee-deep in the uncut grass; and then Atwater suddenly jerked out the paper. Leonard watched him eagerly. Well, sir ? It is illegal, owing to the igno- rance of the conveyancer who drew it with our State forms. It has been done in Louisiana. Your brother must at- test it, and put his name here, pointing to a place in the paper. It will involve a long delay? said Leonard, vexed. Perhaps. He makes over the whole property? No reservation? glancing over it, hastily. None. Well, well. Leave the paper with me. I 11 look it over again, and see if nothing can be done. I will take a saunter down the Race now. I remem- ber it when I xvas a boy, and I d like to stretch my legs a bit. Bedillion, understanding himself dis- missed, bowed, coloring a little. The boy had not meant to he intrusive, and resented the snubbing, hoy-like. And, Bedleon, Bedillion, how do you call yourself? send that fellow, Wicks, down here to me, when you go back. I want a word or two with him. The old man, after Lens retreat, im- provised a line and hook, dug for worms, and fished for minnows quietly, until he heard the queer, jerking step of the little silversmith coming up behind him. Then he thrust the hook and line in his trousers - pocket, washed his fingers clear of bait, and, turning, bowed to him gravely. The little brown-coated man, stand- in~ on the edge of the creek, with his hands clasped behind him, balancing himself in his usual fashion on his heels and toes, roused the look of curious wonder on the Judges face again. He drew out the deed which Leonard had just given to him, and unfolded it, still peering at Wicks from under his glasses as he did so. You ye played out this farce as a good actor, Mr. Bedleon, he said. I never knew a cleverer stroke of work, unless it was the finding of it out, with a chuckle. Sim was in no mood for chuckling; the gray, glassy eyes flashed. You ye found out my secret. What are ye goin to do with it. Ill tell you, I 11 tell you. Pa- tience. You never saw your uncle, old Billy Furness ? That was my first clew. Billy and I ran together as boys, and a stirring team we were! When I saw you, there s Furnesss ghost or his bastard, thinks I. Then it come on me like a flash! Here was young Bedleons Spanish hero under his nose, blacking his boots for him. I never turned up such a joke in my life. Never. I ye a George Bedil/ioizs K;ugkt. rod in pickle for the young cub that xviii make his back smart. You mean by that, that you will tell him that I am his brother ? Something in the tone made Atwater lower the paper and turn his round, big eyes on Sim. It was that of a hurt an- imal or woman. Neither spoke for a moment. The old mans face dropped its grin, and grew grave and earnest. Sim put out his big, freckled hand deprecatingly. It s allays been bitter to me to think that the worst news I could tell Leonard was that I xvas his kin, most of all, the brother he sets such store by. He s got sech a picter made out of George, and he s struv fur years to be like it. Now, to find it s nothin but old Sim! I ye done all I could to bet- ter myself, for fear it ud be found out. I quit barberin and cow-doctorin. But there s some things as aint in me. Only I m fond of Leonard, and and one or two more. Is it possible that you do not see the difference between yourself and that boy yonder, Mr. Bedleon? Yes. I allays seen it. It was that started me on keepin hid. What could have induced you to keep up such a deception ? It was part by accident. I did nt mean to do it ; lies is like a hornets nest, when you let one slip, there s no knowin how many 11 foller it. It was this way it begun. You see, Mr. Leroux kerried me as fur as the Mon - gahela xvi th his plan of adoptin me ; but by that time, I spose my temper showed itself, or someat, for he got rid of me at a toll-house-keepers, named Streed. I growd up there into a big lout of a boy, farmin and the like, and then I made my way to Tarrytown to hunt out Len; for he d been in my mind all the time. He was all I bed to keer for, you see. I had tight papers of it at Streeds. Well, I took a different name, 50 s to surprise the boy, an then I found out how his heart was set on this rich brother down in Orleens. There was a fellow I knew, Joe Jordan, on the Mongahela, who d gone down to Or- leens as raftsman, moe; a to stay; so it occurred to me to se:l some money I d saved, and hey it sent back to Len from ther. When it delighted the boy so, I hed nt the heart to say differently at fust; so it went on from one thing to another, till it s got to be what it has. The books and hits of marble, you un- derstand, Joe got a friend of his to choose down ther. Some of them Len never showed me, an them he did seemed triflin things to me. But they pleased him. You have sent him a great deal of money? Puttinb one time with another, yes. But I in tough, and work does me good. And this? tappin~ the deed with his fin ~ er, and coming a step nearer to hear better. This is a fortune, ac- cording to the way things go out here. The silversmith grew uneasy, pulled nervously at his ragged red beard. It does seem a lot. But I give it to Len with good will, God knows. Ef Kearns, who was a miserly old pedler, left it to us for a good turn my father did him, why should nt I give it tomy brother ? The old man looked meaningly at the younger one. But have you no plans for yourself? Most men at your time of life look forward to a house of their own, a wife, children. You give up the chance of much solid comfort, if these things should ever be yours, with this money. I know that. He stood with his hands clasped be- hind him, looking down into the edge of the water lapping the shore. The unshapely hands trembled, hold them tightly as he would and the small, in- significant features grew stern and set with pain. Looking up at last, and for- cing a smile, he said Let that pass. I 11 never have wife or child of my own. Len will have them with the rest. If that had been different, if I had been able to marry,it would hey been the same about this money. He s got wants and tastes I dont keer for; I ye been responsible for that in a measure. i66 [February, 1867.] Comic 3~ournalism. T67 His brinjn up suits money; mine dtont. But there s another reason now why I II give it. Ef he had it, he d asic the girl he loves to marry him, and they would be happy together. I d like them to owe that to me, unbe- knownst. That can hardly be, turning his eves from Sims face to the paper. fhe wording of Kearnss will will force von to attest this instrument in Penn- syivania, this State. If you insist upon your gift, it will be impossible to make the transfer and keep your secret. I want you to take to-day to consider the matter. That is not needed, in his slow, mo- notonous way. The money must go to Leonard, cost what it will. Mebbe the boy 11 not resent it on me; though he d rather keep the brother he s fancied than hey ten times the money I kin give. But he must marry. Le;z must hey wife and children of his oxyn. I intended, said the Judge, folding up the paper and returning it to his pocket, to tell the fellow the truth this evening. Barker, your squire, has asked us there to supper; and there will be your leading men there too, as I suppose you call them. I mean to clear up the matter there. Stop! it s my business, Bedleon, to see justice done to both of your fathers sons, and jus- tice dont lie altogether in the dividing of money. But I want you to consider the matter over, as I said ; and if you persist in it, let me know your decision before dark. S ye please, Judge. There s a chore to be done in the matter yet. But, day or nightfall, my mind s made ~ I 11 stop before I go to Barkers with the deed. Take your time. I I wish you saw Bedillion xvith my eyes.~~ But Sim had turned hastily away. COMIC JOURNALISM. I TAKE it to be a matter generally admitted by all xvho have tried on the mask of comic journalism, that it is no velvet one, but rather suggestive than otherwise of that iron visor behind which a certain mysterious character in history xvas compelled, for so many years. to put the best face he could upon circumstances. Great assiduity is a thing almost incompatible with humor- ous writing. The strain of aiways try- Ing to be witty and epigrammatic on the surface, without losing grasp for a moment of the weightier considerations involved, is one against which few minds could contend successfully for lon~, con- tinuous periods ; and hence the desulto- ry mode of working so generally char- acteristic of writers who make a spe- cialty of this kind of literature. Con- tributors to comic papers may be divid ed into two classes, the brilliant ones, and the reliable ones; and it is very rare to find in one person a combina- tion of the characteristics belonging to these respectively. Of all the writers with xvhoni I have travelled, from time to time, along the highways and by-ways of comic literature, I have known but two or three really sparkling ones whose aid could be relied upon, to a certainty, for any given day or week. The elec- tric sparks thrown out by some of them, when in full glow, seemed to fall back upon them in ashes, and smother their too sudden fires. A thorough Bohemi- an, for the most part, is the very bril- liant contributor, a bird difficult to catch and not always available xvhen caught, seeing that, in nine cases out of ten, his habits are no more under his control than his moods. And herein

Charles Dawson Shanly Shanly, Charles Dawson Comic Journalism 167-173

1867.] Comic 3~ournalism. T67 His brinjn up suits money; mine dtont. But there s another reason now why I II give it. Ef he had it, he d asic the girl he loves to marry him, and they would be happy together. I d like them to owe that to me, unbe- knownst. That can hardly be, turning his eves from Sims face to the paper. fhe wording of Kearnss will will force von to attest this instrument in Penn- syivania, this State. If you insist upon your gift, it will be impossible to make the transfer and keep your secret. I want you to take to-day to consider the matter. That is not needed, in his slow, mo- notonous way. The money must go to Leonard, cost what it will. Mebbe the boy 11 not resent it on me; though he d rather keep the brother he s fancied than hey ten times the money I kin give. But he must marry. Le;z must hey wife and children of his oxyn. I intended, said the Judge, folding up the paper and returning it to his pocket, to tell the fellow the truth this evening. Barker, your squire, has asked us there to supper; and there will be your leading men there too, as I suppose you call them. I mean to clear up the matter there. Stop! it s my business, Bedleon, to see justice done to both of your fathers sons, and jus- tice dont lie altogether in the dividing of money. But I want you to consider the matter over, as I said ; and if you persist in it, let me know your decision before dark. S ye please, Judge. There s a chore to be done in the matter yet. But, day or nightfall, my mind s made ~ I 11 stop before I go to Barkers with the deed. Take your time. I I wish you saw Bedillion xvith my eyes.~~ But Sim had turned hastily away. COMIC JOURNALISM. I TAKE it to be a matter generally admitted by all xvho have tried on the mask of comic journalism, that it is no velvet one, but rather suggestive than otherwise of that iron visor behind which a certain mysterious character in history xvas compelled, for so many years. to put the best face he could upon circumstances. Great assiduity is a thing almost incompatible with humor- ous writing. The strain of aiways try- Ing to be witty and epigrammatic on the surface, without losing grasp for a moment of the weightier considerations involved, is one against which few minds could contend successfully for lon~, con- tinuous periods ; and hence the desulto- ry mode of working so generally char- acteristic of writers who make a spe- cialty of this kind of literature. Con- tributors to comic papers may be divid ed into two classes, the brilliant ones, and the reliable ones; and it is very rare to find in one person a combina- tion of the characteristics belonging to these respectively. Of all the writers with xvhoni I have travelled, from time to time, along the highways and by-ways of comic literature, I have known but two or three really sparkling ones whose aid could be relied upon, to a certainty, for any given day or week. The elec- tric sparks thrown out by some of them, when in full glow, seemed to fall back upon them in ashes, and smother their too sudden fires. A thorough Bohemi- an, for the most part, is the very bril- liant contributor, a bird difficult to catch and not always available xvhen caught, seeing that, in nine cases out of ten, his habits are no more under his control than his moods. And herein i68 Comic .~ozir;iaizsvz. [February, lies one of the chief impediments to making a real success of a comic pen- oclical. The reliable contributor, whose principal value lies in his punctuality, is usually what may be termed an even writer, seldom rising to the pitch of brilliancy, nor often sinking below the level of respectable burlesque; so that, however valuable he may be as a stand- by, be is unequal, at his very best, to es:ablishing an unmistakable preslige for the paper that takes him for better or for worse, whichever of the two it may be.. Were it only possible to treat these two types of contributors as the juggler does a couple of rabbits,roll them both into one, and then divide them by dozens, the thing would be complete. Then might the editor of the comic paper not always remind one of the famous down-town~ merchant described in the advertising columns of the serious journals as the hero of many sleepless nights, and the ex- pectant watcher of the times might rea- sonably hope for the coming of a suc- cessful American Punch, a thing so long im petto that it ought to be very good when it comes at last. It has been frequently suggested, that the most feasible plan for the perma- nent establishment of a comic paper would be to engage all the world as leading contributor to it, and, if possi- ble, all the worlds wife and interesting family as well. There is a certain fas- cinating massiveness in this idea, it must be admitted ; but, as the writer of one of a bushel of old letters now before me says, in reference to a prolix con undrum offered by him, Will it ~ To this I reply, without hes- ia ion that it will not. There is no a iut t ~at useful suggestions are some- tm~s forwarded to editors of comic s from the outside world, but cx- ~ compels me to state that the ~ 4~r squibs, caricatures, and arti- c ~aerally, whether political or so- c 1 in tucir bearing, thus tendered, are, eat majority of cases, utterly vo ~ i~ and impracticable. I have some~ 1 e e read or heard of a story told li) the late John Leech, who used to be occasionally favored with such hints from anonymous sources, and who once had a communication from a person de- sirous to map out his idea for a scorch- ing political cartoon. The leading ob- ject in the picture was to be a railway train com1ng along at a smashing pace, freighted with certain political charac- ters, and the artist was to draw another train rushing from the opposite direc- tion, but (now mark you this well) not yet in sight! I will venture to assert that every person who has essayed the task of editing a comic paper has been pelted, from all quarters of the country, with scores, nay, hundreds, of sugges- tions equally impracticable with the above. Among the curiosities of this branch of literature which I received in other times and retained for future reference, many are of a strictly esoteric and personal character. A Border- er particular selvage of civilization to which he belongs not decipherable on postmark writes to say that it would he a good thing to extinguish the post- master of his place, and, to further the abolition of that unhappy provincial, he encloses ten cents, with a copy of verses in which impeachment for hav- ing robbed a trunk is felicitously set to music by means of rhyme with the disagreeable epithet skunk. Another person, apparently writing from a place of detention for adults of weak intel- lects, forwards a number of anagrams, one upon the name of Florence Nightingale, and another upon that of General Lafayette. The same writer suggests a host of distinguish eel per- sons upon whose names the editor would do well to immolate himself an- agram matically. Kossuth figures among these, as likewise does a local citizen whose name is given as Pericles XV. Beazley, and who, according to the sug- gester, is a personage so filling to the eyes of the world that a favorable twist upon his name would at least double the circulation of the paper in which it might appear. A poetical contributor favors the editor with a parody upon Hoods Song of the Shirt, feelingly wrought out with a view of influencinb 1867.] Comic %ur;zaiism. 169 the market-value of a particular sewing- machine, the name of the patentee of which is ingeniously stitched into the wonderful stuff. This troubadour mod- estly states that he does not look for any pecuniary recompense for his con- tribution, but he requests that it may be printed with his name to it, in full, and that twenty-four copies of the pa- per containing it may be forwarded to his address. Another bard sends in a little poem not devoid of merit, although by no means adapted for the require- ments of a comic paper. It has an old, familiar air about it, and consultation with sage pundits reveals the fact that it originally appeared in a volume of poems published by a lady about sev- enty years ago. To secure copyright upon it, as well as to display his ac- quirements as a linguist, the sender has put the refrain of the song Eng- lish in the original into the French tongue. Wholesale piracy of this kind is very commonly resorted to by per- sons aspiring to be contributors. Ideas for social caricatures come in, copied, almost literally, from pictures to be found in old volumes of Punch~ and other humorous periodicals, so that it is necessary for the editor to be pretty thoroughly acquainted with what has been done in that branch of literature during past years. I can point out, in volumes that now lie upon my table, sundry scraps sometimes of prose, but oftener of verse which were frauds upon the editor, being slight variations of productions that had long previously appeared elsexvhere as the work of writers more or less known to fame. One of our correspondents is apparently a well-brought-up young man, who disdains the idea of saying the thing that is not. He sends a packet containing fifteen poems in manuscript, all of which, he virtuously avows, have already appeared in the columns of the Granite Playmate, or a paper exulting in some such name. He has rewritten them, he says, and thinks they would make a great hit if published with illustrative wood-cuts by the artist who does the grotesque head- pieces with such charming fancy. Then there is the lady correspondent from the fashionable watering-places, who begins her letter coaxingly with Dear Sir,You who are supposed to know everything, & c., & c., and en- closes a diagram for an elaborate cari- cature of a flirtation going on between the married Major A and the Miss- es B and C , who are scanda- lizing the chaste bathers on the beach with their goings-on. To secure at- tention, her ladyship also sends carte- de-visile likenesses of the obnoxious parties, with a request that the artist will be very true to them. A common and very terrible type of the aspiring contributor is the one who forwards by express a great roll of manuscript written upon law paper, which, on be- ing opened, conveys the impression of a five-act tragedy, but proves to be nothing worse than a serial tale of vil- lage life, couched in the kind o~ dis- rupted English usually attributed to Pennsylvanian Dutchmen. Collateral to this person is the lady who sends in a batch of anecdotes about the negroes on her husbands plantation, all the fun- ny bits of which have circulated for a quarter of a century among the artists in burnt cork. But it would occupy more space than I may appropriate for this article, to dilate upon the variety of distant correspondents who seem to fan- cy that the fate of the comic paper ad- dressed is absolutely dependent upon the acceptance of their contributions. More difficult to deal with than these are the aspirants who call in person to see the editor, and bring their fire- works with them. Enter to that ar- biter, for instance, an awful swell, who has written a satire in seven can- tos, and wants to read it now, at a sit- ting. He does not require compensa- tion for his work, which he originally intended to publish in pamphlet form, but would rather see it set in the cor- onet of your brilliant and admirable paper. The editor politely shirks the reading, but begs that the manuscript may be left for his perusal. On dip- pino- into it in the still watches of the 170 Corn ic jY-~our;uiiisuz. [February, ensuing night, and discovering its utter worthlessness, he returns it next morn- ing, by mail, to the writer, with thanks. In a week or so, enter once more the slashing satirist, irate, yet triumphant, for he has called to crush the editor by informing him how the rejected manuscript had since been re- ceived with roars of laughter and ap- plause at the club, before whhh august corporation it had been duly read and acted by the author of its be- ing. The crushed editor subsides, of course; but, before he has half recov- ered his usual serenity of mind, a sail appears upon the threshold, a splendid three-decker in silk and guzfure, fol- lowed in her fluted wake by a bark of lighter tonnage, tender, in fact, ifs, to sustain the nautical metaphor, I may so term her. The stately craft intro- duces herself xvith a little speech, thick- ly studded with handsome compliments to the paper, a subscriber to which, she says, she has been from the first, would not be without it for the world, and a good deal more bland- ishment of the same electrotyped stamp. Now she presents the younger lady, who is her niece, and has developed a spe- cialty for inventing funny things, ex- amples of which she has brought with her in an enamelled portfolio. The fair young humorist is really pretty. Sweet as nitro-glycerine is she, but fraught with danger, like that agent, and ready to make havoc of the stony editorial heart. Has she designs ? inquires the editor, with a desperate attempt to be witty in the face of dan- ger. Sb e has brought a few with her, fancies of the comic Valentine sort, consisting of groups of flowers very nicely painted on Bristol-board, with the petals converted by dots and dashes into grotesque human faces. But the point of each joke is depend- ent upon the color of the particular flower, the lines under one of vivid ul- tramarine hue, for instance, running thus Why lookest thou so blue, to-day? 0, I slept, last night, i the dew, And the wind hiew all soy hair asvay, And therefore I look blew Herein the editor discerns a famous opening for escape, of which he is not slow to avail himself. He goes through the whole collection~ thoughtfully, pass- ing lavish encomiums upon the wit, the fancy, the eccentricity, the ingenu- ity, and the many other subtle elements discerned by him in each conceit. But they can be of no use to us, you know. We dont print our paper in colors, and more s the pity, since it debars us from making use of such charming original ideas as these. Chromo-lithography, my dear young lady, if you will allow me to say so much, is yet in its infancy; but there s a good time coming, and iv may be happy yet. And, having thus disposed of the matter, the editor rec- ommends his fair viSitant to try her luck with an eminent manufacturer of toy- books, to whom he gives her a line of introduction written upon the perfumed official note-paper. The fact is, that at no one time, nor in any country, do there ever exist more than a very few writers and art- ists capable of stamping a comic paper with wit and humor of the sharpest, and yet most refined quality. Thack- eray, Gilbert k Beckett, Douglas Jer- rold, and others whom it would he needless to name here, have not been equalled by later members of the Punch staft neither has John Leechs place been yet acceptably filled. Of artists, more especially, the remark made is true. I have at hand a letter received years ago from a humorous litterateur, then of much mark in the London circles, and of yet more prom- ise, hut who has since passed away. Speaking of the difficulty of establish- ing a good comic paper, even in J~on- don, he said Comic power is the thing wanted. Of artists considered as artists xve have a terrible surplus; but humor is a much rarer commodity. What was true in this respect a dozen years ago is no less so now. There are not, at the present time, in England, six artists gifted with humor in the highest degree; nor does France appear to be a whit more productive of the genuine 1867.1 Comic ~ozirncdism. 7 a terial. Social caricatures, or, rather, v;e ;vs of real life and character seen through the medium of an eccentric fan- cv, are the very spinal column of a hu- morous paper, which in these days, it may be assumed, would be nothing if not illustrated. But something more than humorous fancy is necessary to ansolute success. In the texture of a first-rate comic artist, dramatic power is not to he dispensed with. His facul- tv of observation must be acute and untiring, and he must be able to seize upon incidents and situations as they pass hefore him, and out of these to construct, without undue exaggeration, scenes of the sparkling comedy sort, with epigrammatic legends attached to them to give the point of the story. Then, in addition to this, he must nave a falcon eye for the subtilties of individual character, and the power of exor essing this upon the boxwood block with the same freedom and dash with which he would throw off a pen-and- ink sketch upon paper. Execution has been a great snare to most artists en- gaged upon the best comic papers that have run their brief and checkered ca- reers in thiS country, mere prettiness of drawing being too often looked upon as compensation for poverty of idea in the design. The kind of humor gen- eAv characterized as American, and a va n Arteoius Ward must be co sn1ered a~ the most successful ex- pole It at tile piesent time, is not of a ci n~y pra~t~cable for the pencil ; nei tn~r s it whatover its originality and t-r~ao~ ~ titt d in any sense, to be v~ of a comic journal. A spice 0 i~ s a caoital thing to have, though, a it see~m. is tile OpilliOn to-day Il aus that inspire the London ~lii alto ether, the pictorial de- 0 0 0 lt m a comic paller is tile most at on~ xvith wilich tile. editor las +o ( 1 cartoon, or large ii tJGfl eillbodyiilg soIlle leading too~ oi te oa~ is a feature now con- sinered indispensable to a publication of tile kind. Tllose who Ilave not tried can llardly imagine the difficulty of hitting on, at certain times, a smart idea for tilis hebdomadal clincher of cur- rent events. A congress of heads is the only means by which the~ thing can be managed with certainty and suc- cess. It is at the weekly dinner of Punch that tlle important matter of the cartoon is discussed and decided upon; and few will be so uncandid as to deny tllat good cileer is an efficient prompter of xvit. But comic papers have, ere now, been driven over stony roads, without ever a chance of pulling up to seek for inspiration at tIle festive board. Midsummer is usually a dreary time for tIle few brains that are left to invent the mirthful cartoon. Nobody, who can help it, remains in town dur- ing the dog-days. The suggestive con- tributor and an invaluable function- ary is he is fishing for trout and blaspheming black-flies by the margin of some highland stream. The bril- liant paragrapllist is usually too much straitened, financially, to fly to the rural districts, but his town engagements with Bacchus, Silenus, and Company are of a pressing and imperative kind, and he cannot be relied upon in the ilour of need. Under these circumstances feebler spirits have to be conferred with ; but the bruilt of tile situation has generally to be borne by tile edi- tor, at last. The effects of comic journalism upon the editorial milld offer a ilice little ~uhject for analysis nd dissection. I was acquainted with one wIlo Ilad lIad experiellces in the conduct of such vellicles for pleasantry as tllose under notice, and lIe used to relate harrowing things about tile visions that disturbed Ilis slumbers Oil tIle iligIlts preceding tile clays for making up. Box-wood had become a deadly upas for him. Wilat tile red-cedar is to the motll, what tile black-ash is said to be to the rattlesnake, such was the yellow- box to Ilim. Flis dreams were Ilorrible illustrations of demon life and cilarac- ter, drawn upon box. His pilantasm would loom up as a stupendous fu- nereal pile, colllposed of layers of box- wood blocks, of all sizes, from tile large 172 Comic ~ozurna7ism. [February, ones used for cartoons to the small- est, upon which initial fancies are usual- ly cut. These were pencilled all over with grotesque figures of things hide- ous beyond human conception; and the originals of the portraits were there, too, moping and mowing about the pyre, upon which they were preparing to immolate the supine dreamer of the dream. Few things are more acceptable to persons anxious to bring, or to keep, themselves before the public, than to have notice little matter how un- flattering taken of them by squib or caricature in the pages of a comic journal. A note will come to the ed- itor, for example, a naughty-looking little billet-dozi with frilled edges and with it a carte-de-visite of the cor- respondent, haply some provincial ac- tress of the muscular school, who wants to make a metropolitan sensation, and is anxious to have a broad caricature of herself in an early number of the paper. Should no notice be taken of this, the next thing, in all probability, is a call from the managing agent of the lady, who hints that money can be realized by the transaction, and, in some cases, even goes so far as to prompt the editor to name his price. I have known instances in xvhich good round sums were offered to secure the desired notice. Sometimes a paragraph bearing reference to an individual who believes in advertising himself or his enterprises tickles the vanity of that person so greatly, that he will write to the editor, saying that a box of cigars, or a complete outfit of nexv clothes, is at the service of the writer of the grati- fying pasquinade, if he will only send to or call at such and such a place for it; and I once heard a sagacious public character say that a certain satirical ar- ticle in which he figured prominently was worth at least a thousand dollars to him. Were people at large only half as liberal in subscribing to comic papers as they are in tendering advice with regard to the best course to be taken by the directors of them, success in that branch of journalism would be secure. Among the comic- editorial experiences, the receipt of letters of advice forms a very prominent item. It is no unusual circumstance for several letters to ar- rive at the same time from different quarters, all of them giving the views of the writers as to how the paper should he conducted to satisfy the public and insure success, and each one of them taking up a position diametrically op- posite to some of the others. Could the writers but hear the roars of in- extinguishable laughter with which their productions are greeted, while being compared and criticised by the editorial staff, they would doubtless be surprised to find how funny they had become, unknown to themselves. One writer tells you, that you must let a certain well-known political character alone, or else your paper will expire the vital spark within a month. In the next letter opened you find a rec- ommendation to devote at least a page a week, your leading satirical poet, and your most personal comic artist, to the chronic irritation of the individual in question, who is described as having a skin as thin as his heart is black and his moral character revolting. In time the judicious editor does not trouble himself with reading letters of advice, but consigns them to their proper limbo, on discovering their drift in the first lines. The threatening correspondent is an- other scribbler, who sometimes wastes his feeble ire upon the management of a comic paper. Of course he writes anonymously, or under a ziom de b~Iozi, and in a style and handwriting elabo- rately tortured into disguise. He tells you, in English adopted by him for the nonce, that you are geting to per- sonal in your remarks and picturs about A and B, who will be. remem- bered long after you are forgoten.~ Then he hints at violence, and adds that you may consider this a idle thret, but may. find yourself mistaken by a crowd walking into your office sum day if you continue in the same track. It is needless to say that no E1iz~zbet/is Ckamber. harm ever comes from these silly fire- crackers. No satisfactory conclusion has yet heen arrived at as to the reason why a really first-class comic paper has never yet been successfully established in this country. I will not attempt to sift the question here, though I have an idea that the excess to which party spirit is carried may have something to do with the matter. As with other journals, so with that of the humorous character, the political ingredient is one that cannot be left out. Next, it would be impossible for a paper to take a middle bearing; and if it becomes partisan, it has, of course, battalions of foes to contend against. The neces- sary wit and humor for comic journal- ism must exist somewhere amid the large and mixed communities of the country, but they have not yet been developed by encouragement and cul- ture; though, like the recreant mete- ors that failed to come to time in November last, they may yet make their appearance in the literary firma- ment. ELIZABETHS C H AMBER. ~ ENTERED her half-opened door, lAp resence, voiceful as of seas When overland their mellow roar Comes homeward on the summer breeze, Gave greeting to my listening heart. In vain I crossed the echoing room; The voice was still a voice apart, Though memories ripened into bloom, Touched by the sacred presence there, Pervading perishable things; A grace that filled the common air With sense of overshadowing wings. The pendent blossoms fading breathed Into new life to speak of her, The gathered autumn boughs hung wreathed To welcome their lost worshipper. But still she came not: silence dwelt And solitude where she abode; Their dumb lips told the truth I felt; Though lonely be the place she trod, Earth is her radiant chamber now; Her spirit gilds the morning cloud And the bright sun, until his brow Sinks in the seas circumfiuent shroud. But in the heart of love a bed Is laid, whereon her sleep is sweet: There lives she whom the world calls dead- There we may kiss her gracious feet. 1367.1 73

A. West West, A. Elizabeth's Chamber 173-174

E1iz~zbet/is Ckamber. harm ever comes from these silly fire- crackers. No satisfactory conclusion has yet heen arrived at as to the reason why a really first-class comic paper has never yet been successfully established in this country. I will not attempt to sift the question here, though I have an idea that the excess to which party spirit is carried may have something to do with the matter. As with other journals, so with that of the humorous character, the political ingredient is one that cannot be left out. Next, it would be impossible for a paper to take a middle bearing; and if it becomes partisan, it has, of course, battalions of foes to contend against. The neces- sary wit and humor for comic journal- ism must exist somewhere amid the large and mixed communities of the country, but they have not yet been developed by encouragement and cul- ture; though, like the recreant mete- ors that failed to come to time in November last, they may yet make their appearance in the literary firma- ment. ELIZABETHS C H AMBER. ~ ENTERED her half-opened door, lAp resence, voiceful as of seas When overland their mellow roar Comes homeward on the summer breeze, Gave greeting to my listening heart. In vain I crossed the echoing room; The voice was still a voice apart, Though memories ripened into bloom, Touched by the sacred presence there, Pervading perishable things; A grace that filled the common air With sense of overshadowing wings. The pendent blossoms fading breathed Into new life to speak of her, The gathered autumn boughs hung wreathed To welcome their lost worshipper. But still she came not: silence dwelt And solitude where she abode; Their dumb lips told the truth I felt; Though lonely be the place she trod, Earth is her radiant chamber now; Her spirit gilds the morning cloud And the bright sun, until his brow Sinks in the seas circumfiuent shroud. But in the heart of love a bed Is laid, whereon her sleep is sweet: There lives she whom the world calls dead- There we may kiss her gracious feet. 1367.1 73 174 Ka duzrbze ziloriw. [February, 7ATHARINE MORNE. PART IV. CHAPTER X. THE gray ponies plied to and fro with me repeatedly that autumn, between our old house and Barberry Beach. Dr. and Mrs. Physick said to me, I thought very lo~ically, If Miss Dudley likes to have you, and you like to go, then why should nt you go? Miss Dudley professed to like to have me with her; and not only was there no reason why she should make any false professions to me, but I soon saw how unlikely she was to make false profes- sions to any one. She spoke the truth, not only in love, hut in love- liness. She had so much presence of mind and resource that she could usu- ally avoid unwelcome answers to incon- venient questions. But not even by a mother who asked her whether an ugly child was not pretty, nor by an author who inquired of her what she thought of his failure of a book, was she to be surprised or entrapped into a false- hood. Who should speak the truth, if not I ? said she, on one occasion when her truth had been tried before me, and not found wanting. It is one of the solemn privileges of my state to live as if in the very anteroom of Gods pres- ence-chamber. I pressed her hand and looked her in the face. She appeared, indeed, like one meet to stand and wait there. Dear child, said she, I see you feel for me and with me; but you can never fully know, till you are in a situa~ tion like mine, what a comfort it is to have some one who understands your situation, with whom you can talk of it, when your heart might otherwise he overfuil. My brother is too dis- interested and too firm to check me with a word, when I would speak of it with him ; and the recollection of his tenderness and encouragement, when I have done so, make ~e long to do so often ; but his lips brow so white that I cannot bear to see the pain that I am giving him, and the same sharp, drawn look comes over his features that they had when his wife died, when his hair, from being a perfect golden crown like Roses, turned in a single night as snowy as you see it now, as white as her shroud. Ah my dear girl, that is the bitterest bitterness of death, is it not ? to leave such grief to those you leave behind you. Then I thought again of my musings on the cliff; but I ventured to say only, Are they the blessed dead not all ministerin~ spirits to us Sometimes I think it, has been easier to me to try to do right since I lost sight of Fanny and mamma. In their world, that lasts so much longer than this, perhaps they care more to see us good than happy here. With tears in her eyes, but a smile shining through them, she took my face between her hands and kissed me on the fore- head. 0 Miss Dudley! cried I, she looked so seraphic, if you should go first, you will be a minister- mo 5 pint to me, will you not If I may, answered she, with the same unearthly smile ; and you will be one to my little orphans. It was strange in what different lights I seemed to appear to her and to my poor Nelly. Miss Dudley, though she would, as I have just described, turn to me occasionally for sympathy under the pressure of her own trial, seemed in spite of my naturally good animal spirits, and of the effort which I made to comport myself as usual, when they chanced to fail me to see in me, thoukh not a mourner making a noise, one who had suffered, and whom she would gladly cheer and soothe to the utmost of her gre at power. Nelly, on the other hand, treated me as a strong, not to say a rather insensible support- em Yet each did me good in her dif

The author of 'Herman' The author of 'Herman' Katharine Morne. IV 174-189

174 Ka duzrbze ziloriw. [February, 7ATHARINE MORNE. PART IV. CHAPTER X. THE gray ponies plied to and fro with me repeatedly that autumn, between our old house and Barberry Beach. Dr. and Mrs. Physick said to me, I thought very lo~ically, If Miss Dudley likes to have you, and you like to go, then why should nt you go? Miss Dudley professed to like to have me with her; and not only was there no reason why she should make any false professions to me, but I soon saw how unlikely she was to make false profes- sions to any one. She spoke the truth, not only in love, hut in love- liness. She had so much presence of mind and resource that she could usu- ally avoid unwelcome answers to incon- venient questions. But not even by a mother who asked her whether an ugly child was not pretty, nor by an author who inquired of her what she thought of his failure of a book, was she to be surprised or entrapped into a false- hood. Who should speak the truth, if not I ? said she, on one occasion when her truth had been tried before me, and not found wanting. It is one of the solemn privileges of my state to live as if in the very anteroom of Gods pres- ence-chamber. I pressed her hand and looked her in the face. She appeared, indeed, like one meet to stand and wait there. Dear child, said she, I see you feel for me and with me; but you can never fully know, till you are in a situa~ tion like mine, what a comfort it is to have some one who understands your situation, with whom you can talk of it, when your heart might otherwise he overfuil. My brother is too dis- interested and too firm to check me with a word, when I would speak of it with him ; and the recollection of his tenderness and encouragement, when I have done so, make ~e long to do so often ; but his lips brow so white that I cannot bear to see the pain that I am giving him, and the same sharp, drawn look comes over his features that they had when his wife died, when his hair, from being a perfect golden crown like Roses, turned in a single night as snowy as you see it now, as white as her shroud. Ah my dear girl, that is the bitterest bitterness of death, is it not ? to leave such grief to those you leave behind you. Then I thought again of my musings on the cliff; but I ventured to say only, Are they the blessed dead not all ministerin~ spirits to us Sometimes I think it, has been easier to me to try to do right since I lost sight of Fanny and mamma. In their world, that lasts so much longer than this, perhaps they care more to see us good than happy here. With tears in her eyes, but a smile shining through them, she took my face between her hands and kissed me on the fore- head. 0 Miss Dudley! cried I, she looked so seraphic, if you should go first, you will be a minister- mo 5 pint to me, will you not If I may, answered she, with the same unearthly smile ; and you will be one to my little orphans. It was strange in what different lights I seemed to appear to her and to my poor Nelly. Miss Dudley, though she would, as I have just described, turn to me occasionally for sympathy under the pressure of her own trial, seemed in spite of my naturally good animal spirits, and of the effort which I made to comport myself as usual, when they chanced to fail me to see in me, thoukh not a mourner making a noise, one who had suffered, and whom she would gladly cheer and soothe to the utmost of her gre at power. Nelly, on the other hand, treated me as a strong, not to say a rather insensible support- em Yet each did me good in her dif Katilarille Morne. ferent way, it might have been hard to say which, the most. Nelly served me noxv as an outward counter-irritant for my inward trouble, now as a mirror in which to see some of the attitudes and hues of my own soul. Our own weaknesses when we see them in others look so doubly weak, and it is so much easier to be ~vise for our neighbors than sor ourselves! I was often fain to take notes of my lectures to her for my pri- vate benefit. But I hardly know that I should have found courage and spirit to bear the pain that the one friend sometimes gave me, had it not been for the pleasure I received from the other. One dismal day in November, I ran in to see Nelly. She had a cold, she said, and had not been out. Miss Dud- ley had lately given me a volume of Longfellows poems. I had been read- ing in it some of the Voices of the Night, over and over, until I knew them by heart, that I might repeat them to myself; in my walks or at my work, as charms against despair, as, I im- agin e, many a struggling mortal has done, and many a one after another will do, perhaps as long as the English language lives. The book I had with some difficulty made up my mind to part with to Nelly for a few days, that she might copy into her copious album A Psalm of Life and The Light of Stars. She had written instead, on the pages lying open before her, the lines beginning with What roost I prize in woman, is the affections, and Do I not know The lot of woman is full of woe? & c. and below them still the following (she told me they were anonymous; but I never could find them in any other collection of poems, and I sus- pect they were her own): Once on the sands heside the sounding sea, I wrote, I love my love, My love loves me. Up ran the fickle waves. In croel play They washed the dear My love loves ~ away, But left the reach of tides and times ahove To stiffen into stone, I love my love. She was now sitting like a statue of Despondency, with my little furry name- sake asleep in her lap. That s the way, commented Mrs. Cumberland, she keeps a settin and a settin, and a holdin that creatur; an I tell her she 11 give it fits, if she dont git em herself. 0, that wont do ! said I. Kitty Moines require a great deal of exer- cise. Put her down, Nelly, and get me a newspaper, cork, and a string; and I will make her a toy. Nelly obeyed listlessly; and I pro- ceeded to combine the materials in the manner which my experience had con- vinced me to be that best adapted for extracting the maximum of innocent amusement from, and imparting it to, a worthy kitten. I tied a bunch about the size of my hand of strips of paper to one end of the string, and the cork to the other. The middle of the string I tied to the back of an old chair, with several bars between the legs, at such a height that the pendants swung gently within easy reach of the kittens paws. Her attention was at once cauTht. She o~aze d, crouched, 6 5 - shook her hips, gave up her spring in some alarm as the cork made a pass at her, went into ambush behind a bed- post where the toy could not see her, rushed forth again, and, by a masterly surprise, captured and scratched and bit the paper. The cork, swinging round to the rescue, gave her a box on the ear. She hissed like a teapot boiling over on a bob, and, leaving the paper, flew at the cork for reprisals. The paper then brushed her over the back. The upshot of all xvhich was, that, in sixty seconds or rather less, cork, kitten, and paper were fully en- gaged and pursuing one another in a series of hot, incessant, and most ir- regular skirmishes to and fro, up and down, over and under the bars of the chair ; until the kitten, quite beside herself; freed herself for an instant from her other antagonists, and, like a con- quered hero falling upon his own spear, fastened in a paroxysm of self-dissat- isfaction upon her own tail. The toy swung defiantly, however; and in an instant she was up and at it again. Mrs. Cumberland set her arms akim 1867.1 75 176 K~zt1zariize Morize. [February, bo, and laughed till she cried; I laughed till I had to sit down to get over it; and Nelly was forced to laugh too; until, as her aunt left the room to see after the cake in the oven, and shut the door, she hurst into a passion of tears, and exclaimed, 0 Katy, Katy! how can people be always expecting me to be amused as a child, after I have suffered and sinned as a woman? I was so shocked and confounded, that my first impulse was to rush from the room and the house, never to en- ter them again. But the next instant brought me other thoughts. Was it thus that our Saviour dealt with sin- ners? If she was a sinner, what real harm could this poor weak child do to me? But was she in any peculiar sense a sinner at all; and was not this merely one of her frequent morbid exaggera- tions? With an inward prayer for help, I nerved myself to draw her hands from her face, and to speak to her, though I trust still with gentleness, xvith a firm- ness woich I never put forth towards her before. Nelly, you call yourself a woman; I shall speak to you as a wo- man; and you must now behave like a woman. Such words as you have used are not to be used lightly. You must explain them! What have I said? asked she, quieted in a moment at finding herself taken at her word, but bewildered. I repeated her speech. She evidently winced at hearing it, and said: XVell, I did nt mean that exactly, not sinned, perhaps, but oh! I did such a dreadful thing! How can I ever be happy again? If people have done dreadful things, they must own them, and do their best to make amends for them, before they can expect to find peace. If they have not done anything really dreadful, but merely suppose that they have, because they are out of health and fanciful, only think of the relief they might find by simply taking cour- age to own frankly what the matter is, and being told that it is nothing. I cant! 0 Katy, dont ask me! I cant ! repeated she, wringing her hands and staring at the floor, as if seeking some crack to squeeze through. But for very pity I was pitiless. If you will not, from my heart I feel for you; but I am afraid I cannot do you any good, while you will keep this burden on your mind. It is just as if you had swallowed poison, and would not take an emetic because it was disagreeable, and I were to keep trying to cure you with herb-tea and nursing, while xv e were only wasting time and throwing your life away. If you will but follow adv e, I mean, by Gods help, to do the very best I can for you; but, if you will not, I dont see any use in my coming here, and I dont see how I can come any more. 0 Katy, will you give me up, too? I never mean to, if you will not give yourself up; but till you are ready to help me to help you, my trying to help you is only like trying to swim to shore with a drowning person who keeps diving under. I dont ask you to tell me, and I d rather you would nt tell me, if there is any one else whom you could better tell; but you must promise me to tell somebody without any more loss of time, and have it over. Fearing a thing is almost al- ways worse than bearing it. 0 dear Katy, dont talk so! I could nt tell anybody ! I-low could I ? cried she, trembling all over. Perhaps you could tell me the rest more easily, if you knew that I know something already. I knoxv, con- tinued I, looking away from her and speaking as soothingly as I could, that Mr. Sam Blight was attentive to you, and that you liked him. Upon that, choking with a great outbreak of sobs, she gasped forth, When he came to bid me good by, I burst out crying right before him! o Katy, Katy! Let me die! Drawing her head to rest on my bosom, I said encouragingly, There, that is right! You see you can tell me. Now what more What more ? repeated she va- cantly between her sobs, as if trying in vain to take in the meaning of the xvords. Kal/uzrbze Zilorize. Was llzcd all ? cried I. That all? She started bolt up- right as she sat, and faced me full, xvith eyes that grew round with astonishment and indignation. That all Was nt it enough? 0 Katy, Katy! I thought if I & d tell you, you would feel for rue! How would you feel if it had been you instead of me How indeed ? thought I. 0, what can he think of me! How he must despise me ! she hurried on incoherently. Where can I go ? What shall I do ? Mv dear little Nelly, said I, put- ting my arm round her again, and lay- ing my hand on her forehead, for there was no use as yet in my wiping her eyes, I do feel for you with all my heart ; hut dont he angry with me if I feel more relief and thankfulness at first than anything else, to find that you have not done anything dreadful at all, anything that you cant live down, in a short time, I hope, so as to be a happy, useful woman, re- spected and loved. You have sat tip here day after day, alone, with your attention all concentrated upon this trouble of yours, till you cant judge of it in the least for yourself. You know what happens when we fix our eyes too long upon any small object; its outlines grow blurred till we cant see them, nor see anything else either distinctly. What you tell me was un- fortunate certainly, and I know it must make you unhappy whenever you think of it ; but that is only an excel- lent reason that you should think of it no more. It was weak, but not wicked. If you had been a good, strong, hearty girl, you would have had more self control. Take pains to become a good, strong, hearty girl, and you will have more self-control. But do you think he will ever forget it? Do you think he can ever rot over it ? Do you think he will ever like me again? He has nevcr written me a single line. What did he say ? returned I. It scemed to me that I might as well possess myself fully of the case once for VOL. XIX.NO. 112. 12 all, at the outset, as my guardian would have said, and treat it afterwards. 0, he was kind and consoling, of course; hut I was afiaid I could see contempt through it all. Conceit, no doubt, you could have seen through it all, if you had only had your poor little eyes open, was my in- ward commentary. It seemed as if he had had enough of me, and meant to have no more. He said he hoped that I should soon find some one else capable of filling his place in my heart; or, if I could not, that it was a womans true life to sit at home and feel and remember, but a mans to dart forth into the world, and pursue and achieve his he- roic selfhood in a free, untrammelled course. If I should hear in after years of his success and fame, he was sure I should feel it to be a glorious reward for all I might have suffered, to have been permitted to contribute anything, at any sacrifice of my own peace, to- wards a great and noble mans devel- opment. Pretty well for sanguine Sammy I should certainly have said, if I had been Paul. As I was not, and could think of nothing more appropriate to say, I said nothing; and Nelly went on. Only his language was always so beautiful! I cannot make it sound as he did. But it only made me love him more, sighed she, bowing her head into her pale hands and blushing between the fingers. Since you know so much, you may as well know all. I must love him, even if he cannot love me. Is not that horrid, horrid ? Nelly, said I, stroking her fair hair, I may speak to you, quite frank- ly, as to a woman, and not as if I had a child to vza;uzre? Yes, please! answered she eagerly. I think, then, that we grown people are sometimes a good deal like little Phil, the other night, when you heard him scream so, because he could not be allowed to take the flame of the lamp between his finger and thumb. We cry because we cannot have things which might make us cry much longer 1867.1 77 178 if we had them. I think there is one thing that would he more horrid than to be the jilted friend of Mr. Sam Blight; and that is, to be his wife. Why, do you know him? And do you not love him? Not much, said I, scarcely able to suppress a smile. A scene at a childrens picnic flew up before my minds eye, in which an attempt to subject me to scientific analysis had been made by Mr. Sam; and in which Katharine, aged fifteen, had evinced about as much comg5laisaizce as might be expected of a catamount in the lec- ture-room of Magendie. Well, I cant make you out, or get at you at all, had the would-be demon- strator of spiritual anatomy, after sev- eral unsuccessful experiments, at length said to the subject, perhaps in order to put her off her guard. So much the better for me! was the rejoinder of Katharine (ought I to add, the Shrew ?). What should I let you for? I turn into a shut oyster for very self-preservations sake ; and I always mean to, to philosophers like you, if unfortunately there are any more of the kind. Both sides of my nature, that you talk about, join to present a sharp edge to you, and you cant get it open without a knife or a hot gridiron. I dont want to be dis- sected, thank you; and even if, upon a full view of what is within me, you were to be ready to eat me up, it would be for your own sake, not for mine. Katharine must have stood in much need of a good deal of time to mel- low ; but her early acerbity had stood her in better stead against a wasp than all poor Nellys sweetness. 0, bow could you know him, she pursued, and not love him? Why, I thought him not good and Are you choking? No, I ye got over it, said I out of the depths of my pocket-handker- chief. Nelly, dont you think, if you had been even as old as you are now when you first knew him, you would hav~ thought him rath ersilly? Ka/karine Morne. [February~ Silly ! Sam silly? No indeed, I dont! Im sure its the last thins I ever should have thought of him, or that anybody could, who knew him as I do. I did not know him very well, to be sure; but I thought him silly, because he seemed to think his fol eccen- tricities better than other mens good sense, and his demerits better than their merits. But let that pass. Nelly, if he had been good, do you think he could ever have treated you as he did? I was not worthy of him. Then, pray, why did he not let you alone? Why well you cannot think how much he had to alienate him and keep him from coming~ to the point. He complained, long before he went away, that we none of us showed any confidence in him, and he never could get any chance to pour forth his soul. The idea of Mr. Blights pouring forth his soul tickled my fancy again to such a degree that I had the utmost diffi- culty to keep myself from joinin~ Nelly, and performing a laughing accompani- ment to her crying, in a partnership fit of hysterics. Uncle Wardour never allowed me to walk out x~ith him, or to talk with him with any security against interruption. We could nt see each oth- er in the best parlor even, without the door wide open, for everybody else who called to walk right in and see him too. Kind Uncle Wardour! Do you think he w s good, then, Nelly? He was everything else, at any rate; and you know, as he said, all great men have been wild in their youth. I cant say that I do know it an- swered I ; or that he was great either, reflected I. Well, he may grow good; I am certain he must. 0 Katy, how little you know about love! It makes you see what is good in the object of your affections, and forget, or fancy, or fore- see all the rest. If he were only good, no man on earth, proceeded the ex- perienced Nelly, could be half so fas- cinating, or make a woman half so happy. 1367.] Katharine Morne. If and ~i my dearest child !young woman, I mean, rejoined I, playfully; for now that the ice was once broken between us, Nelly, soothed by talking on her favorite subject again with one who, as she believed, could under- stand her, was fast hecoming more composed, we are not children any more; and so we must look on things not as they might be, hut as they are. We. must have done with ~ or own that ~f any one insuperable obstacle lies, in one direction, in the way of our welfare, we must seek our welfare in some other direction. A man may really be the very most fascinating person in all the world, and you may be sure that he will make the very most delightful husband; hut if, for instance, he were your hrother, you would give yourself little trouble about his ahstract pre-eminence. You would accept the fact of his unfitness for you as a matter of course, and peacefully take the next best or none. Now a want of conscientiousness and disin- terestedness in a husband is almost certain to be as great an obstacle to any steady happiness in marriage, as too near relationship to marriage itself; and you will see it to be so, I hope, now that you have somebody who loves you as I do to look at the realities of your case with you, and help you to wake out of your dreams. Many of our worst mental burdens, I rather think, are like nightmares ; we need only to open our eyes with a resolute effort, and turn over to the other side, and they will be gone. Katy, I do wonder how much you would require in anybody, before you could get your own leave to love him! I should require a good deal, I hope, said I evasively. These were not favorite topics of conversation with me. You would want him to be great? If it was convenient to him. What more? Congenial to me. Of course. What more? Such that, if I were with him in the company of high-minded, true- hearted men and women, I should not be ashamed of him; that, if I heard him talked of by them, I might expect to hear things to his honor; and that, if any parts of his past history acci- dentally came to my knowledge, they should only make me love, admire, and trust him more and more. Well! said she a little impatiently, anything more? And in love with me, of course. Heart for heart, I would accept n~ less. Ah, yes, if you could but get that; but if you could not? I would leave try to leave off loving him. But suppose you could not. I would try I trusttill I could. I heard a funny little woman say once, like Master Barnabas, that noth- ing would ever make her submit to be hanged. Sbe wouldnt! She would fig/It! I would fight. Man or wo- man, there is nothing that I would not do sooner than consent to waste my life sitting, even in thought, at any human beings feet, and suing for the love that was not given to me. It is the lot of woman. Of which woman? and who made it her lot? It must be the lot of good wives of bad men, and may be the lot of any woman who chooses it, no doubt, Nelly; but we will have a better, or if I do not, at any rate, it shall not be for want of trying. You are so proud, Katy! I heard somebody say, the other day, that yoti walked like a queen, and he could see bow proud you were just by a way you had of setting down your feet, as if you would tread down the world at every step. I only wish I could, said I, laughing. But surely everybody knows, and you must own, that men are worth much more than women. I doubt about unworthy mens be- ing worth much more than worthy wo- men, said I, still laughing; and then I went on, more gravely, I will and must own, that men are worth much more than women for many things; 79 Kailzarize Mor;ze~ but the earthly fathers whom I know seem geneinlly to cere quite as much about their daum~rs as they do about their sons md ~o therefore, I sup- pose our Fkavecie Father does. But ne ~ 1 itself always sets mea abo o ~en Sam said it did. Dont you th~nk so ? ~ Now we are getting beyond our depth, I am afraid. I do not know enough about the Bible to talk about it much. But I do not think the Apos- tles set Simon Magus, for example, at all above Anna the prophetess, or Phebe, deaconess of the church in Cen- chrea. They said that women should not go \Vith their heads uncovered, nor speak in the churches ; but I have heard a Quaker minister declare that the churches then were very different from the church~s now, and all the customs there from the customs here; and at any rate I do not want to take off my bonnet and speak loud in our meeting-houses even, nor, I rather think, do you. They said that wives should obey their husbands ; but they said also that husbands should cherish their wives even as they did their own bodies. XVhen they do cherish them after that fashion, I think that obedi- ence to their commands will in most cases partake of the nature of self- indulgence quite as much as of self- denial. They said, too, that children must obey their parents. Does not that mean that sons must obey their mothers, as well as daughters their fathers? St. Peter even xvent so far as to say, Yea, all of you be subject one to aaother, as if a religious obe- dience and wise humility were too good things for any of Gods children to forego. But when we come to the words of our Saviou r, (which were meant, I suppose, not so much for one time, like the epistles, as for all times,) I have thought it was really wonderful to look and see how he bore women in his mind, how often he drew his illustrations even from their work, and, not contented with including them in his general discourses, how par- ticularly and frequently he used to speak of them in prophecies and par- ables. Out of the four friends that he loved, two were women ; and even the virtues which he urged on all man- kind were in large part those which mankind are apt to enforce peculiarly on womankind, and to call the womanly virtues. At any rate, Mr. Blight may read the Bible through and through, his best friend could wish him no bet- ter employment, if he would hut make a good use of it and give up some of his other reading for it, he will no- where there find it enjoined on Chris- tian women to suffer themselves to be trifled with for his development, nor to languish and pine themselves to death, like flowers thrown away, for his triumph. His triumph! cried Nelly, starting and turning pale. 0 Katy! could he be so cruel as to triumph over me? I do not know him quite well enough to be sure what he could not do, if h~ had a chance. He ca;zzot very long, I think, if he hears of you out again among the other young peo- ple, looking pretty, well, and merry. However, his opinion, good or bad, is not the most important thing, you know, darling; so we will say no more about it, and try not to care too much. He is not your master, thank God! and you are in no way accountable to him. See here ; your little Bible gives us other and far nobler things to care about. I took it from her bureau, turned over the leaves, and read, The unmarried woman careth for the things of the Lord, how she may be holy both in body and in spirit. Mark it will you please, dear Katy? with the date. Holy in spirit, repeated Nelly, very thought- fully, that must mean a great deal. Full of faith, hope, and charity, at the very least ; and when we have the right faith in God, and in His love for us, I suppose the simple fact of His de- nying us a thing will satisfy us of its being a thing which we are better with- out. Charity ! said she, wi a glim- mer of archness in her smde, that i 8o [February, 1867] Katharine Morn 181 looked as if she had already come by a he would not think me cold and un- little hope at least Does not that grateful in leaving Emmas letters so involve good works? I m afraid I long unanswered. They always con- dont like doing good, do you? tamed kind, honest messages from 01 m afraid not so well as having him, which brought the kind, honest done it fellow up before me, and, in spite of me, I rose to go. I was tired for once, renewed feelings which it would be before nine oclock at night wrong to cherish; and therefore I was You have done it now! exclaimed surethat it was right to let the corre- she, springing up. God bless you,. spondence languish and drop. It had good, kind Katy! He will and must never on my part been constant or and does bless you, I am sure, for your very frequent Emma hew that I had own sake, if not for mine I But you littie time or taste for writing. He will come again? for ~I have told. would not be made unhappy by my And you really think it is not so very silence; and in the other world he dreadful, and I cats live it down? would understand and approve of it, whispered she, clinging round me, and . even if he misunderstood and disap- going with me to the door. proved of it in this. But because I I am sure you can. If God is for was still very young, that other world us, who shall be against us? said I, did seem then very fur oL kissing her. Prayfor yourself and Milton says that anger and laughter me! are the two most rational passions of I took the longest way home, to cool tht human mind. Now I cannot say my cheeks. Well, I soliloquized, that I am always most rational when I at this rate I am in a fair way to be am angry, nor have I been able to per- cured for life of every predisposition ceive that my neighbors are; but I to sentiment, homosopathically, ex- really believe that I often am when I cept that it must be owned that I am laugh. Accordingly, on reaching home treated with it in anything but inini- and putting away my bonnet and shawl, tesimal doses. Nelly would hardly be I made an attempt at ~omething like so ready to treat a topic which I, her an audible smile, as, summing up the senior, never discussed with any one lessons of the day, I said to myself before, and desire that I never may that, after all that could be urged on again, if she had not had the benefit of the side of Gloom, Vapors, and Coin- those lessons from Mr. Sam. pany, Miss Katy Morne was of all hv- Next, I thought that, even if I should man beings the one whose continued still be for some time subject to re- regard and respect were the most im- lapses, it was still a very bright side portant to me; that by the help of a that my object was not Mr. Sam, and good. Providence there was good hope was moreover quite unaware of my fol- of my being able to manage myself ly. Next, I saw that even my ob- and my afihirs in such a manner as to jects being as bad as Mr. Sam would secure her regard and respect; and, be a less insurmountable barrier be- finally, that matters were therefore by tureen him and me than his being the no means so bad as they might be. betrothed of another. The latter dis- Then I tried Sydney Smiths spe- qualification, indeed, put him much clflcs against feminine despondency, more upon the footing of a brother put a new ribbon into my hair, and than could the former. Next, I con- a ripe. pear by instalments into sidered that he was as I had told my mouth, read over again a kind little Kelly of her object not my master, note I had a few hours before received and that I was not accountable to him; from Miss Dudley, containing direc- in which consideration also I fond a tions about some illustrations and corn- balsam; for I had lately sometimes mendations of others, and then fond been troubled with wondering whether mjrqelf after all the trials of the morn- Ka/kari;~e MOK;!e. ing, in a very fair condition to take out my paint-box and refresh myself fur- ther with a little hard work. CHAPTER XI. ONE morning, some time after, I was sitting, finishing the last of the illus- trations ordered, in the warm south- parlor. Mrs. Physick was out with her husband, for an airing. Little Pill in the pill - box slept obligingly at my side, with no further attentions from me than an occasional mechanical strophe of the commercial cradle-song, Buy, buy, baby! Thus I was at full liberty to drown my abstracted soul in cobalt and carmine. Thus a~ am it must have been that I did not hear when the door-bell rang, nor notice the tones of a remarkably gentleman -like voice, when the never very fleet-footed Rosanna opened the front door, and that, when I did at last hear a knock at the parlor door, I only emitted an indifferent Come in, and never thought to turn my head, till the door was opened, and the voice came in by itself, saying doubtfully, I beg your pardon; did you say come in? Then, indeed, I looked round and started up, rejoicing that my fingers were no ~aI;itfi~r; for the voice was Mr. Dudleys, and so was the fine, tall, athletic person that stood, hat in hand, waiting at the threshold where he had been left without a guide by the unskilful po~tress. I welcomed him, set him a chair, and dipped my fingers in the old-fashioned finger-bowl, and wiped them on the nap- kin, which I always kept by me when I painted. He took it all very quietly, and looked so unembarrassed and ab- stracted that I hoped he did not see the sli6ht confusion into which my oxvn absence of mind had thrown me. I called, he began, when he saw me ready to give him my attention, partly on my own business, and partly on my sisters. She wishes for the pleasure of your company for a good long day en Saturday; and as I had not time to wait for a note, she intrust- ed me with a verbal message. You will be able to gratify her, I hope ? Thank you, Mr. Dudley; I shall be very much pleased to come. Then she will call, or send for you, soon after ten. Will that be too early? Not for me. She never thinks it too early for you to come, nor too late for you to go; and that brings me to the other part of my business. Dr. Physick tells me that you are thinking of returning to the school-room. Yes; I am waiting only to find one open to me in this town. If I cannot before many more months, I shall prob- ably go elsewhere. Have you a preference for the occu- pation of a teacher? I could hardly suppress a smile as I answered that I had not. Then I need have no hesitation in proposing to you, with your guardians consent, another? None, certainly. Then I will propose, though cer- tainly not urge upon you, another, which I heartily hope you will not think too arduous at least for a trial. My sister, in the state of health in which she is now, needs a friend constantly at hand. Bon- ner, her maid, is worse . than nobody in any emergency; and she does not like the idea of having a professional nurse. Then my children need daily compan- ionship and assistance in their lessons. I have been in the habit of giving them this myself, since my sister has been so unwell; but she is often too feeble to hear it going on now, I am sure, without too much fatigue, and if I take them to a room apart, I leave her alone just at the time when she is most in want of me. Then I need for myself a compe- tent draughtsman and secretary. My plan is, so far as I can be said to have a definite plan, and supposing that you incline to it, that you shall em- ploy yourself for my sister, in reading, walking, and driving with her, and so forth, or foP me under her oversight in writing or painting, from about nine till about one every mornin~, and 182 [February, 1867.] Katlzdrinc Morne. 183 that you should devote to my children or when I am with them, to her one hour before tea, and one after, through the week. The remainder of each week-day, and the whole of Sun- day, I should wish to leave at your own disposal. But I trust you understand, that what I am seekin now to obtain for my family is by no means either a nurse or a governess, but a spirited and lady- like f-ic;zd, he repeated with emphasis, and a rather Protean supernumerary, added he, with a smile, who can fill my sisters place when she is too unwell, or my daughters when they are too young, or my own when I am too busy. Live xvith Miss Dudley! Live at Barberry Beach! Go there and not have to come away! Leave my guar- dian, and Julia, and the baby! Leave our dear old house! Go away and have to stay ! I bad not breath, even if I had had decision enough to say wheth- er I would or not; and little Phil woke up and protested loudly, and had to be taken up and given to Rosanna. I must not hurry you by surprise into an answer, resumed Mr. Dudley, mildly, after a pause that had already lasted too long and was growing awk- ward. Does Miss Dudley desire it! re- turned I, still mpre awkwardly. The speech was an involuntary ex- clamation, rather than a question; but he naturally took it literally. Desire the arrangement? Yes. Dream of it? No! said he. That is to say, she supposes you, as I did when I left her this morning, a fixture here; but I have often heard her envy Mrs. Physick the possession of you, and wish that she could find your dupli- cate; and I will be her surety for her thorough delight, if I can secure you for her. She is an almost unchangea- ble person in her likings. lie was rising to go. 1 may take time to consider? Certainly, certainly, and to con- sult your friends in confidence. I should not wish the negotiation, while pending, to coin e by any chance to my sisters ears. I wish to spare her dis appointment if it falls through; and, even if it succeeds, any suspense is bad for the sleep of an invalid. I may take a week or two ? I re- joined. He was moving towards the door; and I was afraid that I might be appearing very pertinacious; but I was indeed taken by surprise, and still quite bewildered. A week? Certainly. Two? Why, a fortnight from to-day will be my sisters birthday, said he, with an almost boyish expression of eagerness and animation, which contrasted strik- ingly enough with his snowy hair. I must have something read yfor her then that she will like. Miss Morne, it would be very pleasant if I could tell her in the morning, on that day, that she might have you 0, then I will surely decide and let you know before that, Mr. Dudley, said I, feeling as if he had used a strong argument in favor of my consent; and so we parted. When my guardian came in, he found me sitting with my hands folded for once on a week-day. Well, Katy, said he, have you had a call from Mr. Dudley? Indeed I have! What did you say to his terms ? Why, now I think of it, he did not mention any! He did to me, hundred dollars a year! Why, exclaimed I, springing up and feeling as if I were springing up into a nabob, I cant be worth nearly so much am I? By Julias appraisal and mine you are, and more, said he, affectionately, if we were only in circumstances to afford ourselves the monopoly of such luxuries. According to prices current, you are not, I believe; but Mr. Dudleys conscience does not appear to be exact- ly regulated by prices current. He said that that was no more than he should be obliged to give to the young man who would accept the place, if you re- fused it; that he believed you might soon become nearly as useful to him as the young man would be, and that he 84 Katharine Mont (February, knew you could be much more useful to Miss Dudley and the children. Of course, it was not for me to dispute the point with him. Julia, after a hasty look at the baby in the kitchen, came in and caught me by the hand with a swimming smile. C Well, Katy, cried she, shall you go? I dont know. I so astonished. Hadlbetter? We cant advise: we are interested parties, said she, turning her face away and hurrying out of the room again. You see how it is, said her hus- band, sitting don in front of me, as if for an examination and prescription. J.;a hates the thought of partingwith you;and,forthatmatter,sodoL But It is my duty to look to your interests. At present~ if I should die, there is al- most no provision for you. You are strongenough to work for yourself now; but no mortal strength is to be recka oned upon further than we can see it There is really no chance of your get- ting either of Ak schools here, I find; and a school wouldnt pay. You want to cleat off the mortgage? Why,yes. Solcould,couldnotl, soon, with such a salary as that? Yes. It is a better one than you would be at all likely to get anywhere as a teacher; and you would be dose by, where yor could s~e us whenever you liked, and where I could see to you, if anything was the matter. Then, keeping school did not appear to agree with you, and being with Miss Dudley always does. So it does; but going away from all of you, at a minutes notice, does not quite so wet I was afraid he was not quite sorry enough, and meant to make him soi He held his tongue, and served me right It seems almost like a caprice in them to take such a sudden fancy to me, said I, quarrelling with my bread and butter, as a kitten growls at and shakes her meat for the very reason that she is so delighted with it They are so very little acquainted wit me! Dont trust to thatto play any of your tricks with them, pussy. I heard Master Paul say, the last time I paid my respects to hisarm: You know this was quite a wild place when we first colonized it? Well, one day when Aunt Lizzy wsi)ked out~ she met wit a lynx and changed eyes with him. What can they really know about me? persisted I perversely. Set your heart at rest They know quite enough about you, said he, set- ting up his eyebrows with a tjueer look. Before Miss Dudley ever saw you, I told her the worst she had to expect Itwaspainful;butlthoughtit my duty; and I did not shrink from it. Ah, now, Doctor, what did you tell her? Ah, what did I? repeated he with a meditative air of self-examination. If you ask her, perhapa she will tel you. No matter; youll tell Julia; and, I can get it all out of her just as well. No; I sha nt tell Julia, said he, getting up and walidug ofiand I never could find out that he did. He had counselled me against his. pleasure, I believe, against his.inter- est, I am sure. Real estate was rising every day in Beverly; and he would have been glad, on every account but mine, to ownour house. George was veryangry when he heard how cheap it had been sold, and came down to Beverly, and talked of prose- cuting Dr. Physick for a fraud. But the lawyer whom he consulted an honest man, and well affected towards my mother and all her childrentold him that he was well known to have himself forced the property into the market against advice and entreaty; that everything had been done fairly and openly; and that nothing but mor- tification and further loss could come of his carrying his cause, into court. My guardian reminded George of the letter my mother had sent him. He treated the whole story as a fabrication of ours, and denied that any such document had ever been sigued by her, seen by him, or sent by me. The 1867.] Katharine Mo6M 185 attested copy was then produced. He looked confounded, blushed very deep- ly, and said no more. The Doctor thought he had received the letter. I suspected that, owing to the distress of mind in which I was when I thought I sent it, I might have forgotten to put it into the envelope with my own, though Iwas not apt to be so careless. At any rate, there the matter dropped. Fanny, warned by our early experience, had taken care in the outset of her ill- ness to make her will in form, leaving George my mothers Bible, and me residuary legatee of everything else except some trifling keepsakes. Thus he had no further legal claim upon me; and, though I thought it my duty to write to him from time to time, I seldom saw or heard from him for yen CHAPTER XIL. Tn next day I called for Kelly to take a long walk with me. She had usually seemed much more cheerful since the last conversation between us which I have repeated; and I had often been able to draw her out to talk with me about books she had read, and other topids of general interest, which I thought fur better for her, as well as pleasanter for me, than a constant harp- ing upon herself and her ruling idea. She had much more cleverness than she was wont to show to strangers; and when her mind could be diverted, her bright little sayings often made both of us merry. On this afternoon, however, the ground was snowy and the sky cloudy; and she seemed to be tender the uwatlaer and glided at my side mute as a winter robin. I indulged her mood. I was myself full of dumb thoughts and feelings. Emma had written me another letter, urging me to be present at her wed.. ding,which was to take place, as it happened, upon Miss Dudleys birth- day,and inviting me to be herbrides- maid. I had been obliged to answer her this time, of course, without delay, and to send such an answer as it was painful to metosend,andwouldbeto her, I feared, to receive. I assured her of my interest in the occasion, and begged her to believe, as I did,that, from the morning to the night of the day, it would scarcely be out of my mind, and that I did and should pray that it might be a most happy day, and followed by many hap- py anniversaries to her and her hus- band; but that there were difficulties in the way of my accepting her invitation which it would be useless to state, as it was impossible to remove them. 0, it wasahardlettertowritel But it was written now and gone, gone, I said to myselt as much as it would be a thousand years hence; and so was the white cath-ag which I had trimmed with bridal satin ribbon; and painted with orange-blossoms andgreen leaves for Emma. And the rush of days that was now hurrying me on so fast to her weddiug-day would soon be hurry- ing me on as fast any from it; and then the worst would be over, and my living dread would be converted into only a dead certainty. In the mean time, it was a bright side not to be forgotten, that now again a change was offered me, and in many re- spects such an inviting change! There- fore I turned my mind with all my strength to the proposal of Mr. Dudley. My mother used to say to me, When you desire strongly to do anything, first consider strongly whether there is any good reason why you should not do it; and then, if there is none, thank God anddo it. I have often thought, as I have gone on in life, how much more innocent society might be, on the one hand, and, on the other, how much more spontaneous, various, and joyous, if more persons followed her simple and obvious rule. How many congenial and harmless, not to say praiseworthy things, do many of us sooner or later refrain from doing, because our neigh- bors either do not do them, or say they do not see how we can want to do them, or else might say that it was strange that we should do them. None of these stumbling-blocks came i86 Katharine Morne. [February, much in my way this time. Notwith- standing, I hope I was not proud, and I am sure I did not mean to be; hut I will not say whether I think I was or not, because I have never found that peoples statement of their own opin- ion with regard to their own qualities threw much light upon them, I had some doubts about the effect which my entering the service of Miss Dudleys family might have on the nature of that intercourse with them, and especially with her, which had lately been the chief entertainment and joy of my life. It was so long since I had felt myself under orders, that I could scarcely re- member how I had felt under orders. My mother settled with me so far back in the dark ages the point, that when she said I must, I must, that she scarce- ly ever within my recollection had any occasion to say it at all; and a guardian of thirty-four or thirty-five found little opportunity or temptation to exert his authority over a ward of seventeen or eighteen. In the pay and service of this family, should I be able to behave myself agreeably to them? and would they continue to behave themselves agreeably to me? I hoped so. I believed so. The original little shrew seemed at present to have been pretty nearly chastened and disciplined out of the Katharine; and if Len in her ashes lived their wonted fires, I could hardly conceive of anybodys ever being pettish or saucy to any one of the denizens of Barberry Beach, except, perhaps, to Master Paul, whom Nature had admirably qualified for self- defence, There s soch divinity doth hedge a Dudley! as I once heard Dr. Edward Arden say. On the other hand, their own courtesy to all their dependents according to the degree of each, was so perfect, that their orders sounded not unlike orders of dig- nity conferred. I should probably im- prove and enjoy myself in many ways among them, if I went, and have many a chance to be of use and give pleasure to the dear lady of my heart. Perhaps I should have one of those lovely little chambers that looked out on the water! If Miss Dudley likes to have you, and you like to go, then why should nt you go ? I couk? find no good reason why I should not. I would thank God and do it. What are you stopping for, Nelly? You 11 take cold if you dont walk, dear. Come! I want to ride, cried she, gazing wistfully back up the pale road. What? said I, thinking I had per- haps heard wronb out of my brown study. There s nothing for us to ride in. Dont you see ? That s a hearse! I want to ride! she repeated, star- ing miserably up into my.face. 0, I wan/to ride! Without another word or thought but of appeasing her, I beckoned to the old driver. He drew up and stopped, look- ing surprised. Can you take us a little way with you? My companion seems tired of walking. Wal, yes, answered he in a piping, whistling voice; I callate I ken, ef you hey nt no objections to the kind o the kerridge. Most folks hez. I hey nt; nor I dont know why nobody should. We ye all on us got to take a cast in it some time or nother, from them that takes their rides in the barouge now, to them that rides in the jail-cart ; an I expect to some it s the most easin kind of a ride ever they gits. Jest you clamber over, young miss, an set on the coffin, and you too in; there aint no more room here n I hey to hey. What you feard on? Its strong enough to hold ye. You 11 hey a better place in there nor I hey here; The curtains keeps out the sharp wind, an the glare o the snow to the eyes. My passen- ger wont say nothin to ye, nor mind ye none nother. He ~ a workus chap, an never xv~ s in such pleasant com- pany afore in his life. Nelly was in, in a moment. I did not know how to resist. I was under a nightmare. It was as if I had been hur- ried out of one dream into another, an awful other, that yet was not all a 1367.] Ka/karine Morne. dream. The coffin received us. The black curtains flapped around us like the wings of a brooding bat. We went on almost noiselessly with the silent dead t& xvards the graveyard. It was dark and cold. I thought of those I loved, who had ately travelled that road already, not to return, of those who might be doomed soon to follow. I could not speak; but the low mur- muring tones of Nelly, talking in her dreamiest way with the driver, fell on my ear like the voice of my own soul. You bury many people, I suppose, every year? 0 course we doos, all we ken. People of all ages ? (She would sometimes, when she was in one of these moods, ask questions which a child eight years old might answer. For this she was charged by some persons with affectation; but I thought it came rather from an instinctive ef- fort made by her groping mind to catch hold of some tangible assurance of realities from without the world of shadows amidst which she lived.) 0 course we doos. It dont make no difference to us. The heft o none on em aint gin rally sech as to break down our team, by the time they comes to take their passage in it. They dies, an the friends pays ; an we buries em, an there s a end on t. Which do you bury the most of; young people or old? Youngsters, natrally. They is nt so many old uns left to bury. Did you ever bury anybody about my age? I guess I never buried nobody that asked me sech a lot o silly questions. Nelly shrank into herself, as she always did at a rebuff We glided on like a party of mutes. The stillness was more harrowing than the speech had been. Hoping that she was satis- fied, or that at least a sufficient change had been given to the current of her thoughts, I was feeling for my purse to fee the driver and escape from the situation, when he, relenting, as if soothed by the accustomed silence, spoke again Come to think on it, now, I buried a miss, that did nt look no great older n you be, somewhere about the beginnin o the fall, from Dr. Physicks ; an that ar looks like her very pictur come to life agin a settin by ye. Nelly turned sharp round upon me as if struck by a sudden thought. Katy, Katy, what makes you look so? Are you dying? You look as if you were dead 0, let us get out! 0, let us get out! gasped I after her. Want to know, now! said he in a tone of condolence, reining in his slow horse, and stiffly climbing down himself to help me. I never thought nothin. Pay him, Nelly, said I, thrusting my purse back to her, as I tottered up the snow-bank to lean on the stone wall at the side of the road. Bless ye ! cried he, climbing in again to drive off,Ill let yeofffroni payin, if ye 11 excuse me for speakin without thinkin. I sat down for a ncroment on a frosty stone, that had rolled from its place. The fresh air was doing me good; but I was dazzled and dizzy. Nelly fell on her knees upon the snow before me, and threw her arms around my waist. Katy, Katy, cried she, what have I done to you! After all that you have done for me! Never to think of you! 0, what a selfish wretch I was! I hope this will be a lesson to me for life ! And to me, too ! said I, as well as I could. The world began to stand still, and I stood up. You are too sick to stand! 0 Katy, forgive me I will lean on you for a few steps; you 11 take cold if we stay here. 0 Nelly, how little we shall care for what lies behind us, how much will lie before us, the next time we ride in a hearse! God is merciful, said she, turning paler. Yes, He is merciful; but in His mercy He offers us holiness so much beyond what most people reach, so awfully far above what we have won! 187 [February, i88 Kaikarine Morne. It would be such a miserably different thing, just barely to be dragged into heaven as penitent sinners, from what it would be to be borne in, in triumph, as glorified saints. Saints Could I be a saint? I never thought I could be anything after I found I could not be a happy Katy, flow you looked when you said that! as if your face caught the re- flection of a ready glory that hung over your head ! Dont die ! Forgive me. I thank you, answered I, rallying more and more; thanks to you, we have, each of us, had a lesson vie can never forget. Certainly every hearse ou(~ht to have written upon it, for a motto, the words This I say unto you, The time henceforth is short, in order that those who weep may be as though they wept not, and those that rejoice as those that rejoice not; and the using this world as not abusing it ; for the fashion of this world pass- eth away. You know what the un- dertaker said ? I continued, smiling th~ough a few tears that would come; he expected a ride with him was to some the most easin kind of a ride that ever they had. I eakc/ it has been so to me. I shall think of it henceforward as an antidote, whenever passing things make me unhappy. You unhappy, Katy! 0, how sorry I am ! I was too selfish to imagine anybody could be unhappy bnt I. Are you unhappy Sometimes ; everybody is. And I have made you more so. You will make me less so another time ; an ci then it will be even. I ought. You have made me less so a great deal, for these last few wees, and, on the whole, ever since I knew you. You must not think you have failed altogether because I have behaved so to-day. I cant guess what got into me. I never mean to do so again. I ha m been better; and I will be better. If the disorder has assumed the intermittent form, said I, profession- ally, mimicking my guardian, it ought to go off upon a course of bark. What do you say to trying a little hard, real work by way of bitters ? I do not care. After what I have done, you cannot ask of me anything but what I will do. Then let us keep a sewing-school once a week for some of the poor little waifs and strays about the streets. We can read them a story, and give them a cake, and make it a little treat to them. I will, and begin with the dirtiest and the naughtiest. Thus prosaically our grim adven- ture ended. I had been revolving the plan of the sewing-school in my o~n mind for some time before, especially for Nellys benefit; but she was gener- ally indisposed to active exertion, and averse to practical matters. Therefore I had been obliged to watch for a fa- vorable o~e;zbzg, which her penitence afforded me. As I did not wish to put it to too hard a test, and for other reasons also, I discouraged, however, the idea of givin~ the precedence to the naughtiest and dirtiest children. We decided that I should ask Miss Trimmer of the town school, a worthy young woman with whom I was ac- quainted, to choose out the best six of the motherless poor little girls among her pupils to form the nucleus of our class, that we might train them for tame elephants to help us to break in the wild ones. In th~ mean time, I thought that, if we succeeded in making them enjoy themselves, their reports would make their mates eager to be admitted likewise, as they might be afterwards by instalments, bearing tickets of recommendation from their mistress as rewards for good conduct in the public school. I hoped also to be able, through Miss Trimmer, to get leave to teach them through the cold xveather in the school-house, before the fires went out on Wednesday after- noon ; and Julia cheerfully promised us the use of her arbor and garden in the summ r. 1867.] A Drift-wood Fire. 189 A DRIFT-WOOD FIRE. This ae nighte, this ae nighte, Every nighte and alle, Fire and salt and candle-lighte, ~d Christe receive thy ~ A Lyke- Wake Dirge. ~THE October days grow rapidly I- shorter, and brighten with more concentrated light. It is but half past five, vet the sun dips redly behind Conanicut, the sunset-gun booms from our neighbors yacht, the flag glides down from his mainmast, and the slen- der pennant, running airily up the oppo- site halyards, dances and flickers like a flame, and at last perches, with dainty hesitation, at the mast-head. A tint of salmon-color, burnished into long un- dulations of lustre, overspreads the shallower waves; but a sober gray seems to steal in beneath the sunset rays, and will soon claim even the bril- liant foreground for its own. Pile a few more fragments of drift-wood upon the fire in the great chimney, little maiden, and then couch yourself before it, that I may have your glowing child- hood as a foreground for those heaped relics of shipwreck and despair. You seem, in your scarlet boating-dress, Annie, like some bright tropic bird, alit for a moment beside that other bird of the tropics, flame. Thoreau thought that his genius dated from an earlier period than the agricultural, because he preferred wood- craft to gardening; and I am content to fancy that mine appertains to the pe- riod when men had invented neither saws nor axes, but simply picked up their fuel in forests or on ocean-shores. Fire is a thing that comes so near us, and combines itself so closely with our life, that xve enjoy it best when we work for it in some way, so that our fuel shall warm us twice, as the country people say, once in the obtaining, and again in the burning. Yet no work seems to have more of the flavor of play in it than that of collecting drift-wood on some convenient beach, or than this boat-service of ours, Annie, when we go wandering from island on to island in the harbor, and glide over sea-weed groves and the habitations of crabs, or to the flowery and ruined bastions of Rose Island,or to those caves at Coasters Harbor where we played Vic- tor Hugo, and were eaten up in fancy by a cuttle-fish. Then we voyaged, you remember, to that further cave, in the solid rock, just above low-water-mark, a cell unapproachable by land, and high enough for you to stand erect. There you wished to play Constance in Mar- mion, and to be walled up alive, if con- venient; but as it proved inconvenient on that day, you helped me to secure some hits of drift-wood instead. Long- er voyages brought waifs from remoter islands, whose very names tell per- chance the changing story of mariners long since wrecked, isles baptized Patience and Prudence, Hope and De- spair. And other relics bear witness of more distant beaches, and of those wrecks which still lie, sentinels of ruin, along l3rentons Point and Castle Hill. To collect drift-wood is like botaniz- ing, and one soon learns to recognize the prevailing species, and look with pleased eagern ss for new. It is a tragic botany indeed, where, as in en- chanted gardens, each specimen has a voice, and, as you take each from the ground, you expect from it a cry like the mandrakes. And from what a gar- den it comes! As one walks round Brentons Point after an autumnal storm, it seems as if the passionate heaving of the waves had brought wholly new tints to the surface, hues unseen even in dreams before,greens and purples impossible in serener days.

T. W. Higginson Higginson, T. W. A Drift-Wood Fire 189-196

1867.] A Drift-wood Fire. 189 A DRIFT-WOOD FIRE. This ae nighte, this ae nighte, Every nighte and alle, Fire and salt and candle-lighte, ~d Christe receive thy ~ A Lyke- Wake Dirge. ~THE October days grow rapidly I- shorter, and brighten with more concentrated light. It is but half past five, vet the sun dips redly behind Conanicut, the sunset-gun booms from our neighbors yacht, the flag glides down from his mainmast, and the slen- der pennant, running airily up the oppo- site halyards, dances and flickers like a flame, and at last perches, with dainty hesitation, at the mast-head. A tint of salmon-color, burnished into long un- dulations of lustre, overspreads the shallower waves; but a sober gray seems to steal in beneath the sunset rays, and will soon claim even the bril- liant foreground for its own. Pile a few more fragments of drift-wood upon the fire in the great chimney, little maiden, and then couch yourself before it, that I may have your glowing child- hood as a foreground for those heaped relics of shipwreck and despair. You seem, in your scarlet boating-dress, Annie, like some bright tropic bird, alit for a moment beside that other bird of the tropics, flame. Thoreau thought that his genius dated from an earlier period than the agricultural, because he preferred wood- craft to gardening; and I am content to fancy that mine appertains to the pe- riod when men had invented neither saws nor axes, but simply picked up their fuel in forests or on ocean-shores. Fire is a thing that comes so near us, and combines itself so closely with our life, that xve enjoy it best when we work for it in some way, so that our fuel shall warm us twice, as the country people say, once in the obtaining, and again in the burning. Yet no work seems to have more of the flavor of play in it than that of collecting drift-wood on some convenient beach, or than this boat-service of ours, Annie, when we go wandering from island on to island in the harbor, and glide over sea-weed groves and the habitations of crabs, or to the flowery and ruined bastions of Rose Island,or to those caves at Coasters Harbor where we played Vic- tor Hugo, and were eaten up in fancy by a cuttle-fish. Then we voyaged, you remember, to that further cave, in the solid rock, just above low-water-mark, a cell unapproachable by land, and high enough for you to stand erect. There you wished to play Constance in Mar- mion, and to be walled up alive, if con- venient; but as it proved inconvenient on that day, you helped me to secure some hits of drift-wood instead. Long- er voyages brought waifs from remoter islands, whose very names tell per- chance the changing story of mariners long since wrecked, isles baptized Patience and Prudence, Hope and De- spair. And other relics bear witness of more distant beaches, and of those wrecks which still lie, sentinels of ruin, along l3rentons Point and Castle Hill. To collect drift-wood is like botaniz- ing, and one soon learns to recognize the prevailing species, and look with pleased eagern ss for new. It is a tragic botany indeed, where, as in en- chanted gardens, each specimen has a voice, and, as you take each from the ground, you expect from it a cry like the mandrakes. And from what a gar- den it comes! As one walks round Brentons Point after an autumnal storm, it seems as if the passionate heaving of the waves had brought wholly new tints to the surface, hues unseen even in dreams before,greens and purples impossible in serener days. 190 A Drzft-wood Fire. [February, These match the prevailing green and purple of the slate-cliffs; and Nature in truth carries such fine fitnesses yet further. For, as we tread the delicate sea-side turf, which makes the farthest point seem merely the lands last be- quest of emerald to the ocean, we sud- denly come upon curved lines of lus- trous purple amid the grass, rows on rows of bright muscle-shells, regularly traced as if a child had played there, the graceful high-water-mark of the ter- rible storm. It is the crowning fas- cination of the sea, the consummation of such might in such infantine deli- cacy. One feels it again in the sum- mer, when our bay is thron~ed for miles on miles with inch-long jelly-fishes, lovely creatures, in shape like disem- bodied gooseberries, and shot through and through in the sunlight with all manner of blue and golden glistenings, and with tiny rows of fringing oars that tremble like a babys eyelids. There is less of gross substance in them than in any created thing, mere water and outline, destined to perish at a touch, but seemingly never touching, for they float secure, finding no conceivable cradle so soft as this awful sea. They are like melodies amid Beethovens Symphonies, or like the songs that wander through Shakespeare, and that seem thinbs too fl-agile to risk near Cleopatras passion and Hamlets woe. Thus tender is the touch of ocean; and look, how around this piece of oaken timber, twisted and torn and furrowed, its iron bolts snapped across as if bitten, there is yet twined a gay gar- land of ribbon-weed, bearing on its trailing stem a cluster of bright shells, like a mermaids chezielcilne. Thus adorned, we place it on the blaze. As night gathers without, the gale rises. It is a season of uneasy winds, and of strange, rainless storms, which perplex the fishermen, and indi- cate rough weather out at sea. As the house trembles and the windows rattle, we turn towards the fire with a feeling of safety. Representing the fiercest of all dangers, it yet indicates security and comfort. Should a gale tear the roof from over our heads and show the black sky alone above us, we should not feel utterly homeless while this fire burned ; such a feeling of protection at least I can recall, when once left suddenly roofless by night in one of the wild gorges of Mount Katahdin. There is a positive demonstrative force in an open fire, which makes it a fit ally in a storm. Settled and obdurate cold may well be encountered by the quiet heat of an invisible furnace. But this bowling wind might deipress one s spirits, were it not met by a force as palpable, the blast within answering to the blast without. The chimney then becomes the scene of contest,~ wind meets wind, sparks encounter rain- drops, they fight in the air like the vis- ioned soldiers of Attila; sometimes a daring drop penetrates and dies hiss- ing on the hearth; and sometimes a troop of sparks make a sortie from the chimney-top. I know not how else we can meet the elements by a defiance so magnificent as that of an open hearth; and in burning drift-wood, es- pecially, we turn against the enemy his own ammunition. For on these fragments three elements have already done their work. Water racked and strained the hapless ships, air hunted them, and they were thrown at last upon earth, the sternest of all. Then fire took the shattered remnants, and made them into an adequate defence for us against all three. It has been pointed out by bota- nists, as one of Natures most graceful retributions, that, in the building of the ship, the apparent balance of vegeta- ble forces is reversed, and the herb be- comes master of the tree; when the del- icate blue-eyed flax, takinb the stately pine under its protection, spreads over it in cordage, or expands in sails. But more ~ raceful still is this further con- test between the great natural ele- ments, when this most fantastic and vanishing thing, this delicate and dan- cing flame, subdues all these huge vassals to its will, and, after earth and air and water have done their utmost, comes in to complete the task, and 1867.] A Drift-wood Fire. 9 be crowned as monarch. The sea drinks the air, said Anacreon, and the sun the sea. My fire is the child of the sun. I come hack from every evening stroll to this gleaming blaze; it is a domestic lamp, and shines for me everywhere. It seems to burn visibly through the dark houses, lighting up the whole of this little fishing hamlet, which forms the outer edge of the fash- ionable watering-place. I fancy that others too perceive it, and that certain visitors are attracted, even when the storm keeps neighbors and friends at home. For the slightest presage of foul weather is sure to bring to the opposite anchorage a dozen silent ves- sels, that glide up the harbor for ref- uge, and are heard but once, when the chain-cable rattles as it runs out, and the iron hand of the anchor grasps the rock. It always seems to me that these unwieldy visitors are gathered not about the neighboring lighthouse only, but around our ingle-side. Wel- come, ye great winged strangers, whose very names are unknown. This hearth is comprehensive in its hospitalities; it will accept from you either its fuel or its guests; your mariners may warm themselves beside it, or your scattered timbers may warm me. Strange in- stincts might be supposed to thrill and shudder in the ribs of ships that sail toward the beacon of a drift-wood fire. Aforituri salulcuzi. A single shock, and all that magnificent fabric is per- haps mere fuel to prolong the flame. Here, beside the roaring ocean, this blaze represents the only receptacle more vast than ocean. We say, un- stable as water. But there is noth- ing unstable about this flickering flame: it is persistent and desperate, relentless in following its ends. It is the most tremendous physical force that man can use. If drugs fail, said Hippocrates, use the knife; should the knife fail, use fire. Con- quered countries were anciently given over to fire and sword; the latter could only kill, but the other could annihi- late. See how thoroughly it does its work, even when domesticated: it takes up everything upon the hearth and leaves all clean. The Greek proverb says, that the sea drinks up all the sins of the world. It is the m6st ca- pacious of all things, save fire only. But its task is left incomplete : it only hides its records, while fire destroys them. In the Norse Edda, when the gods try their ames, they find them- selves able to out-drink the ocean, but not to eat like the flame. Logi, or fire, licks up food and trencher and all. This chimney is more voracious than the sea. Give time enough, and all which yonder depths contain shall pass throu~h this insatiable throat, leaving only a few ashes and the memory of a flickering shade, tuivis et umbra. We recognize this when we have any- thing to conceal. Deep crimes are buried in earth, deeper are sunk in water, hut the deepest of all are con- fided by trembling men to the pro- founder secrecy of flame. If every old chimney could narrate the fearful deeds whose last records it has cancelled, what sighs of undying passion would breathe from its dark summit, what groans of built! Those lurid sparks that whirl over yonder house-top, tossed aloft as if fire itself could not contain them, may be tl~e last embers of some written scroll, one rescued word of which might suffice for the ruin of a household, and the crushing of many hearts. Behold, shrieks the blast, it is the last opportunity. Withhold thy secrets, fearful witness, and treasure not wrath against the day of wrath. But this domestic hearth of ours holds only, beside its drift-wood, the peaceful records of the day, its shreds and fragments and fallen leaves. As the ancients poured wine upon their flames, so I pour rose-leaves in liba- tion; and each day contributes the faded petals of yesterdays wreaths. All our roses of this season have passed up this chimney in the blaze. Their delicate veins were filled with all the summers fire, and they returned to fire once more, ashes to ashes, flame [February, 192 A Drifz-wood Firc. to flame. For holding, with Bettina, that every flower which is broken be- comes immortal in the sacrifice, I deem it more fitting that their earthly part should die by a concentration of that burning element which would at any rate be in some form their ending; so they have their altar on this bright hearth. Let us pile up the fire anew with drift-wood, Annie. We can choose at random for our logs came from no single forest. It is considered an im- portant branch of skill in the country to know the varieties of fire-wood, and to choose among them well. But to- night we have the whole Atlantic shore for our wood-pile, and the Gulf Stream for a teamster. Every foreign tree of rarest name may, for aught we know, send its treasures to our hearth. Log- wood and satinwood may mingle with cedar and maple; the old cellar-floors of this once princely town are of ma- hogany, and why not our fire? I have a very indistinct impression what teak is ; but if it means something black and impenetrable and nearly indestructible, then there is a piece of it, Annie, on the hearth at this moment. It must be owned, indeed, that tim- hers soaked long enough in salt-water seem almost to lose their capacity of being burnt. Perhaps it was for this reason, that, in the ancient lyke- wakes of the North of England, a pinch of salt was placed upon the dead hody, as a safeguard against purga- tonal flames. Yet salt melts ice, and so tends to warmth, one would think; and one can fancy that these fragments should be doubly inflammable, by their saline quality, and by the unmerciful rubbing which the waves have given them. For see what warmth this churning process communicates to the clotted foam xvhich lies in tremulous masses among the rocks, holding all the blue of ocean in its bubbles. After one~ s hands are chilled with the xvater, one can warm them in the foam. These drift-wood fragments are but the larger foam of shipwrecks. What strange comrades this flame brings together. As foreign sailors from remotest seas may sit and chat side by side, before some boarding- house fire in this seaport town, so these shapeless sticks, perhaps gath- ered from far wider wanderings, now nestle together against the back-log, and converse in strange dialects as they burn. It is written in the Heeto- pades of Veeshnoo Sarma, that, as two planks, floating on the surface of the mighty receptacle of the waters, meet, and having met are separated forever, so do beings in this life come together and presently are parted. Perchance this chimney reunites the planks, at the last moment, as dea~th must reunite friends. And with what wondrous voices these strayed wanderers talk to each other on the hearth They bewitch us by the mere fascination of their language. Such a delicacy of intonation, yet such a volume of sound. The murmur of the surf is not so soft or so solemn. There are the merest hints and tracer- ies of tones, phantom voices, more re- mote from noise than anything which is noise; and yet there is an undertone of roar, as of a thousand cities, the cit- ies whence these wild voyagers came. Watch the decreasing sounds of a fire as it dies, for it seems cruel to leave it, as we do, to die alone. I watched beside this hearth last night. As the fire sank down, the little voices grew stiller and more still, and at last there came only irregular beats, at varying intervals, as if from a heart that acted spasmodically, or as if it were measur- ing off by ticks the little remnant of time. Then it said, Hnsh two or three times, and there came something so like a sob that it seemed human; and then all was still. If these dying voices are so sweet and subtile, what legends must be held untold by yonder fragments that lie unconsumed Photography has famil- iarized us with the thought that every visible act, since the beginning of the world, has stamped itself upon sur- rounding surfaces, even if we have not yet skill to discern and hold the image. i867.] A Drift-wood Fire. 93 And especially, in looking on a liquid mirror, such as the ocean in calm, one is haunted with these fancies. I gaze into its depths, and wonder if no stray vestige has been imprisoned there, still accessible to human eyes, of some scene of passion or despair it has witnessed; as a maiden visitor at Holyrood Palace, looking in the ancient metallic mirror, starts at the thought that perchance some lineament of Mary Stuart may suddenly look out, in desolate and for- gotten beauty, mingled with her own. And if the mere waters of the ocean, satiate and wearied with tragedy as they must be, still keep for our fancy such records, how much more might we attribute a human consciousness to these shattered fragments, each seared by its own special grief. In their silence, I like to trace back for these component parts of my fire such brief histories as I share. This block, for instance, came from the large schooner which now lies at the end of Castle Hill Beach, bearing still aloft its broken masts and shattered rigging, and with its keel yet stanch, except that the stern-post is gone, so that each tide sweeps in its green harvest of glossy kelp, and then tosses it in the hold like hay, desolately tenanting the place which once sheltered men. The floating weed, so graceful in its liberty, seems a pathetic symbol there. On that fearfully cold Monday of last win- ter (January 8, i866), with the mer- cury at io~, even in this mildest cor- ner of New England, this vessel was caught helplessly amid the ice that drift- ed out of the ~vest passage of Narra- gansett Bay, before the fierce north- wind. They tried to beat into the east- ern entrance, but the schooner seemed in sinking condition, the sails and helm were clogged with ice, and every rope, as an eyewitness told me, was as large as a mans body with frozen sleet. Twice they tacked across, making no progress; and then, to save their lives, ran the ves- sel on the rocks and got ashore. After they had left her, a higher wave swept her ofl and drifted her into a little cove, where she has lain ever since. VOL. XIX.NO. 112. 13 There were twelve wrecks along this shore last winter, more than during any season for a quarter of a century. I remember when the first of these lay in great fragments on Graves Point, a schooner having been stranded on Cor- morant Rocks outside, and there bro- ken in pieces by the surf. She had been split lengthwise, and one great side was leaning up against the sloping rock, bows on, like some wild sea creature never before beheld of men, and come there but to die. The wreck appeared so alive, that when I afterwards saw men at work upon it, tearing out the iron bolts and chains, it seemed like torturing the last moments of a living thing. At my next visit there was no person in sight; another companion fragment had floated ashore, and the two lay peacefully beside the sailors graves, (which give the name to the point,) as if they found comfort there. A little farther on, there was a brig ashore and deserted. A fog came in from the sea; and, as I sat by the graves, some unseen passing vessel struck eight bells for noon. It seem- ed as if it came from the empty brig, a ghostly call, to summon phantom sailors. Yonder burning brand, which seems to bear witness in its smouldering lus- tre of the strange wreck from which it came, I brought from Prices Neck last winter, when the Brentons Reef Light- ship went ashore. Yonder the oddly shaped vessel rides at anchor now, two miles from land, bearing her lanterns aloft at fore and main top. She part- ed her moorings by night, in the fearful storm of October i~, 1865; and I well remember, that, as I walked through the streets that wild evening, it seemed dangerous to be out of doors, and I tried to imagine what was going on at sea, while at that very moment the light-ship was driving on toward me in the darkness. Let me tell the story. There had been a heavy gale from the southeast, which, after a few hours of lull, suddenly changed in the after- noon to the southwest, which is, on this coast, the prevailing direction. Begin- ning about three, this new wind had A Dr~-wood Fire. [February, 94 risen almost to a hurricane by six, and held with equal fury till midnight, af- ter which it greatly diminished, though, when I visited the wreck next morning, it was hard to walk against the blast. The light-ship went adrift at eight in the evening ; the men let go another anchor, with forty fathoms of cable; this parted also, but the cable dragged, keeping the vessels head to the wind, as she drifted in, which was greatly to her advantage. The great waves took her over five lines of reef, on each of which her keel grazed or held for a time. She came ashore on Prices Neck at last, about eleven. It was utterly dark; the sea broke high over the ship, even over her lan- terns, and the crew could only guess that they were near the land by the sound of the surf. The captain was not on board, and the mate was in com- mand, though his leg had been broken while holding the tiller. They could not hear each others voices, and could scarcely cling to the deck. There seemed every chance that the ship would go to pieces before daylight. At last one of the crew, named William Martin, a Scotchman, thinking, as he afterwards told me, of his wife and three children, and of the others on board who had families, and that something must be done, and he might as well do it as anybody, got a rope bound around his waist, and sprang overboard. I asked the mate next day whether he ordered Martin to do this, and he said, No, he volunteered it. I would not have ordered him, for I would not have done it myself. What made the thing most remarkable was, that the man actually could not swim, and did not know how far off the shore was, but trusted to the waves to take him thither, perhaps two hundred yards. His trust was repaid. Strug- gling in the mighty surf, he sometimes felt the rocks beneath his feet, some- times bruised his hands against them. At any rate he got on shore alive, and, securing his rope, made his way over the moors to the town, and summoned his captain, who was asleep in his own house. They returned at once to the spot, found the line still fast, and the rest of the crew, four in number, low- ered the whaleboat, and were pulled on shore by the rope, landing safely before daybreak. When I saw the vessel next morn- ing, she lay in a little cove, stern-on, not wholly out of water, steady and upright as in a dry-dock, with no sign of serious injury, except that the rud- der was gone. She did not seem like a wreck; the men were the wrecks. As they lay among the rocks, bare or tat- tered, scarcely able to move, waiting for low tide to go on board the vessel, it seemed like a scene after a battle. They appeared too inert, poor fellows, to do anything but yearn toward the sun. When they changed position for shelter, from time to time, they seemed instinctively to crawl along the rocks, rather than walk. They were like the little floating sprays of sea-weed, when you take them from the water and they become a mere mass of pulp in your hand. Martin seemed to share in the general exhaustion, and no wonder; but he told his story very simply, and showed me where he had landed, though the feat seemed to me then, and has always seemed, almo~t incredible, even for an expert swimmer. He thus summed up the motives for his action: I thought that God was first, and I was next, and if I did the best I could, no man could do more than that; so I jumped overboard. It is pleasant to add, that, though a poor man, he utter- ly declined one of those small donations of money by which we Anglo-Saxons rather incline to express our personal enthusiasms; and I think I appreciated his whole action the more for its com- ing just at the close of a war, during which so many had readily accepted their award of praise or pay for acts of less intrinsic daring than his. Stir the fire, Annie, with yonder broken fragment of a flag-staff; its truck is still remaining, though the flag is gone, and every nation might claim it. As you stir, the burning brands evince a remembrance of their i867.] A Drift-wood Fire. sea-tost life, the sparks drift away like foam-flakes, the flames wave and flap like sails, and the wail of the chimney seems a second shipwreck. As the tiny scintillations gleam and scatter and vanish in the soot of the chimney-wall, instead of There goes the parson, and there goes the clerk, it must be the captain and the crew we watch. A drift-wood fire should always have chil- dren to tend it; for there is something childlike about it, unlike the steadier glow of walnut logs. It has a coaxing, infantile way of playing with the oddly shaped bits of wood we give it, and of deserting one to caress with flickering impulse another; and at night, when it needs to be extinguished, it is as hard to put to rest as a nursery of children, for some bright little head is constant- ly springing up anew, from its pillow of ashes. And, in turn, what endless de- light children find in the manipulation of a fire! What a variety of playthings, too, in this fuel of ours; such inexplicable pieces, treenails and tholepins, trucks and sheaves, the lid of a locker, and a broken capstan-bar. These larger frag- ments are from spars and planks and knees. Some were dropped overboard in this quiet harbor; others may have floated from Fayal or Hispaniola, Mo- zambique or Zanzibar. This eagle fig- ure-head, chipped and battered, but still possessing highly aquiline features and a single eye, may have tangled its curved beak in the vast weed-beds of the Sar- gasso Sea ere now, or dipped it in the Sea of Milk. Tell us your story, 0 he- roic but dilapidated bird, and perhaps song or legend may find in it themes that shall be immortal. The eagle is silent, and I suspect, Annie, that he is but a plain, home-bred fowl after all. But what shall we say to this piece of plank, hung with bar- nacles that look large enough for the fabled barnacle-goose to emerge from? Observe this fra~ ment a little. An- other piece is secured to it, not neatly, as with proper tools, but clumsily, with many nails of different sizes, driven un- evenly and with their heads battered 95 awry. Wedged clumsily in between these pieces, and secured by a supple- mentary nail, is a bit of broken rope. Let us touch that rope tenderly; for who knows what despairing hands may last have clutched it, when this rude raft was made. It may, indeed, have been the handiwork of children, on the Penob- scot or the St. Marys River. But its condition betokens long voyages, and it may as well have come from the strand- ed Golden Rule on Roncador Reef, that picturesque shipwreck where (as a rescued woman told me) the eyes of the people in their despair seemed full of sublime resignation, there was no confusion or outcry, and even the professional gamblers on board, with their female companions, looked death in the face as nobly, for all that could be seen, as the saintly and the pure. Or who knows but it floated round Cape Horn, from that other wreck, on the Pacific shore, of the Central America, where the rough miners found that there was room in the boats only for their wives and their gold, and, pushing them off, with a few men to row them, the doomed husbands gave a cheer of courage as the ship went down. Here again is a piece of pine wood, cut in notches as for a tally, and with every seventh notch the longest; these notches having been cut. deeply at the beginning, and feebly afterwards, stopping abruptly before the end was reached. Who could have carved it? Not a school-boy awaiting vacation, or a soldier expecting his discharge; for then each tally would have been cut off, instead of added. Nor could it be the squad of two soldiers who garrison Rose Island; for their tour of duty lasts but a week. There are small barnacles and sea-weed too, which give the mys- terious stick a sort of brevet antiquity. It has been long adrift, and these little barnacles, opening and closing daily their minute valves, have kept per- chance their own register, and with their busy fringed fingers have gath- ered from the whole Atlantic that small share of its edible treasures which suf 196 Real Estate. [February, ficed for them. Plainly this waif has had its experiences. It was Robinson Crusoes, Annie, depend upon it. We will save it from the flames, and when we establish our marine museum, noth- ing save a veritable piece of the North Pole shall be held so valuable as this undoubted relic from Juan Fernandez. But the night deepens, and its rev- eries must end. With the winter will pass away the winter-storms, and sum- mer will bring its own more insidious perils. Then the drowsy old seaport will blaze into splendor, through saloon and avenue, amidst which many a bright career will end suddenly and leave no sign. The ocean tries feebly to emu- late the profounder tragedies of the shore. In the crowded halls of gay hotels, I see wrecks drifting hopelessly, dismasted and rudderless, to be strand- ed on hearts harder and more cruel than Brentons Reef; yet hid in smiles falser than the fleecy foam. What is a mere forsaken ship, compared with stately houses from which those whom I first knew in their youth and beauty have since fled into midnight and despair? But one last gleam upon our hearth lights up your innocent eyes, little An- nie, and dispels the gathering shade. The flame dies down again, and you draw closer to my side. The pure moon looks in at the southern window, replacing the ruddier glow; while the fading embers lisp and prattle to each other, like drowsy children, more and more faintly, till they fall asleep. REAL ESTATE. grounds are greenly turfed and graded; p HE pleasant turdy porter waiteth at the gate; The graceful avenues, serenely shaded, And curving paths, are interlaced and braided In many a maze around my fair estate. Here blooms the early hyacinth, and clover And amaranth and myrtle wreathe the ground; The pensive lily leans her pale cheek over; And hither comes the bee, light-hearted rover, Wooing the sweet-breathed flowers with soothing sound. Intwining, in their manifold digressions, Lands of my neighbors, wind these peaceful ways. The masters, coming to their calm possessions, Followed in solemn state by long processions, Make quiet journeys, these still summer days. This is my freehold Elms and fringy larches, Maples and pines, and stately firs of Norway, Build round me their green pyramids and arches; Sweetly the robin sings, while slowly marches The owners escort to his open doorway.

J. T. Trowbridge Trowbridge, J. T. Real Estate 196-198

196 Real Estate. [February, ficed for them. Plainly this waif has had its experiences. It was Robinson Crusoes, Annie, depend upon it. We will save it from the flames, and when we establish our marine museum, noth- ing save a veritable piece of the North Pole shall be held so valuable as this undoubted relic from Juan Fernandez. But the night deepens, and its rev- eries must end. With the winter will pass away the winter-storms, and sum- mer will bring its own more insidious perils. Then the drowsy old seaport will blaze into splendor, through saloon and avenue, amidst which many a bright career will end suddenly and leave no sign. The ocean tries feebly to emu- late the profounder tragedies of the shore. In the crowded halls of gay hotels, I see wrecks drifting hopelessly, dismasted and rudderless, to be strand- ed on hearts harder and more cruel than Brentons Reef; yet hid in smiles falser than the fleecy foam. What is a mere forsaken ship, compared with stately houses from which those whom I first knew in their youth and beauty have since fled into midnight and despair? But one last gleam upon our hearth lights up your innocent eyes, little An- nie, and dispels the gathering shade. The flame dies down again, and you draw closer to my side. The pure moon looks in at the southern window, replacing the ruddier glow; while the fading embers lisp and prattle to each other, like drowsy children, more and more faintly, till they fall asleep. REAL ESTATE. grounds are greenly turfed and graded; p HE pleasant turdy porter waiteth at the gate; The graceful avenues, serenely shaded, And curving paths, are interlaced and braided In many a maze around my fair estate. Here blooms the early hyacinth, and clover And amaranth and myrtle wreathe the ground; The pensive lily leans her pale cheek over; And hither comes the bee, light-hearted rover, Wooing the sweet-breathed flowers with soothing sound. Intwining, in their manifold digressions, Lands of my neighbors, wind these peaceful ways. The masters, coming to their calm possessions, Followed in solemn state by long processions, Make quiet journeys, these still summer days. This is my freehold Elms and fringy larches, Maples and pines, and stately firs of Norway, Build round me their green pyramids and arches; Sweetly the robin sings, while slowly marches The owners escort to his open doorway. 1867.] Real Estate. 97 0, sweetly sing the robin and the sparrow! But the pale tenant very silent rides. A low green roof receiveth him, so narrow His hollowed tenement, a school-boys arrow Might span the space betwixt its grassy sides. The flowers around him ring their wind-swung chalices, A great bell tolls the pageants slow advance. The poor alike, and lords of parks and palaces, From all their busy schemes, their fears and fallacies, Find here their rest and sure inheritance. No more hath & esar or Sardanapalus! Of all our wide dominions, soon or late, Only a fathoms space can aught avail us; This is the heritage that shall not fail us: Here man at last comes to his Real Estate. Secure to him and to his heirs forever! Nor wealth nor want shall vex his spirit more. Treasures of hope and love and high endeavor Follow their blest proprietor; but never Could pomp or riches pass this little door. Flatterers attend him, but alone he enters, Shakes off the dust of earth, no more to roam. His trial ended, sealed his souls indentures, The wanderer, weary from his long adventures, Beholds the peace of his eternal home. Lo, more than life Mans great Estate comprises! While for the earthly corner of his mansion A little nook in shady Time suffices, The rainbow-pillared heavenly roof arises Ethereal in limitless expansion! 198 How Mr. Frye would have preached i~ [February, HOW MR. FRYE WOULD HAVE PREACHED IT. MR. FRYE and his little wife live at our house. They took a room for themselves and their little girls, with full board, last December, when the Sloanmakers ~vent to Illinois. This is how it happened that one Sunday, after dinner, in quite an assembly of the full boarders and of the break- fast boarders also, all of whom, except Mr. Jeifries, dine with us on Sunday, Mr. Frye told how he would have preached it. What made this more remarkable was, that the Fryes are not apt to talk about themselves, or of their past life. I think they have always been favorites at the table; and Mrs. Frye has been rather a favorite among the lady boarders. But none of us knew much where they had been, excepting that, like most other men, he had been in the army. He brought out his uniform coat for some charades the night of the birthday party. But till Sunday I did not know, for one, anything about the things he told us, and I do not think any one else did. tvery one had been to church that Sunday in the morning. Mrs. Whitte- more gives us breakfast on Sunday only half an hour late, and almost all of us do go to church. I believe the Wingates xvent out to Jamaica Plains to their mothers, but I am almost sure every one else went to church. So at dinner, naturally enough, we talked over the sermons and the services. The Webbers had found Hollis Street shut, and had gone on to Mr. Clarkes, where they had a sort of opening ser- vice, and a beautiful show of fall flow- ers, that some of their orphan boys had sent. Mr. Ray is rather musical. He told about a new 7/ic Dezim at St. Pe- ters. The Jerdans always go to Ash- burton Place. They had heard Dr. Kirk. But it so happened that more of us than usual had been to the new church below Clinton Street. We had not found Dr. Warren there, however, but a strange minister. Some said it was Mr. Broad- good, one of the English delegates. But I knew it was not he. For be said, If you give an inch they take an ell, and this is a sentence the English delegates cannot speak. The sexton thought it was Mr. Hapgood, from South Norridgewock. I asked Mr. Eels, one of the standing committee, and he did not know. No matter who it was. He had preached what I thought was rath- er above the average sermon, on The way of transgressors is hard. Well, we got talking about the ser- mon. My wife liked it better than I did. George Fifield liked it particular- ly, and quoted, or tried to quote, the close to the Webbers; only, as he said, he could not remember the precise lan- guage, and it depended a good deal on the manner of the delivery. Mrs. Wat- son confessed to being sleepy. Harry said he had sat under the gallery, and had not heard much, which is a less gallant way of making Mrs. Watsons confession. The Fryes were both at church. They sat with me in Mrs. Austins pew. They were the only ones who said nothing about the ser- mon. Mrs. Frye never does say much at table. But at last the matter became quite the topic of after-dinner discus- sion; and I said to Frye that we had not had his opinion. O,~ said he, it was well enough. But if I had had that text, I should not have preached it so. How would you have preached it? said Harry lau~hing. Oddly enough, Fryes face evidently flushed a little; but he only said, Well, not so, I should not have preached it that way. I did not know why the talk should make him uncomfortable, but I saw it did, and so I tried to change the sub- ject. I asked John Webber if he had seen the Evening Gazette. But Harry

Edward Everett Hale Hale, Edward Everett How Mr. Frye would have preached it 198-211

198 How Mr. Frye would have preached i~ [February, HOW MR. FRYE WOULD HAVE PREACHED IT. MR. FRYE and his little wife live at our house. They took a room for themselves and their little girls, with full board, last December, when the Sloanmakers ~vent to Illinois. This is how it happened that one Sunday, after dinner, in quite an assembly of the full boarders and of the break- fast boarders also, all of whom, except Mr. Jeifries, dine with us on Sunday, Mr. Frye told how he would have preached it. What made this more remarkable was, that the Fryes are not apt to talk about themselves, or of their past life. I think they have always been favorites at the table; and Mrs. Frye has been rather a favorite among the lady boarders. But none of us knew much where they had been, excepting that, like most other men, he had been in the army. He brought out his uniform coat for some charades the night of the birthday party. But till Sunday I did not know, for one, anything about the things he told us, and I do not think any one else did. tvery one had been to church that Sunday in the morning. Mrs. Whitte- more gives us breakfast on Sunday only half an hour late, and almost all of us do go to church. I believe the Wingates xvent out to Jamaica Plains to their mothers, but I am almost sure every one else went to church. So at dinner, naturally enough, we talked over the sermons and the services. The Webbers had found Hollis Street shut, and had gone on to Mr. Clarkes, where they had a sort of opening ser- vice, and a beautiful show of fall flow- ers, that some of their orphan boys had sent. Mr. Ray is rather musical. He told about a new 7/ic Dezim at St. Pe- ters. The Jerdans always go to Ash- burton Place. They had heard Dr. Kirk. But it so happened that more of us than usual had been to the new church below Clinton Street. We had not found Dr. Warren there, however, but a strange minister. Some said it was Mr. Broad- good, one of the English delegates. But I knew it was not he. For be said, If you give an inch they take an ell, and this is a sentence the English delegates cannot speak. The sexton thought it was Mr. Hapgood, from South Norridgewock. I asked Mr. Eels, one of the standing committee, and he did not know. No matter who it was. He had preached what I thought was rath- er above the average sermon, on The way of transgressors is hard. Well, we got talking about the ser- mon. My wife liked it better than I did. George Fifield liked it particular- ly, and quoted, or tried to quote, the close to the Webbers; only, as he said, he could not remember the precise lan- guage, and it depended a good deal on the manner of the delivery. Mrs. Wat- son confessed to being sleepy. Harry said he had sat under the gallery, and had not heard much, which is a less gallant way of making Mrs. Watsons confession. The Fryes were both at church. They sat with me in Mrs. Austins pew. They were the only ones who said nothing about the ser- mon. Mrs. Frye never does say much at table. But at last the matter became quite the topic of after-dinner discus- sion; and I said to Frye that we had not had his opinion. O,~ said he, it was well enough. But if I had had that text, I should not have preached it so. How would you have preached it? said Harry lau~hing. Oddly enough, Fryes face evidently flushed a little; but he only said, Well, not so, I should not have preached it that way. I did not know why the talk should make him uncomfortable, but I saw it did, and so I tried to change the sub- ject. I asked John Webber if he had seen the Evening Gazette. But Harry 1867.] How Mr. Frye would have preached it. 99 has no tact; and after a little more banter, in which the rest of them at that end of the table joined, he said: Now, Mr. Frye, tell us how you would have preached it. Mr. Frye turned pale this time. He just glanced at his wife, and then I saw she was pale too. But whatever else Frye is, he is a brave man, and he has very little back-down about him. So he took up the glove, and said, if we had a mind to sit there half an hour, he would tell how he would have preached it. But he did not believe he could in less time. Harry was delight- ed with anything out of the common run, and screamed, A sermon from Mr. Frye a sermon from Mr. Frye! reported expressly for this journal. No other paper has. the news. Poor Mrs. Frye said she must go up and see to her baby, and she slipped away. A gentleman whom I have not named said, in rebuke of us all, that we might he better employed, and he left also. He is preparing for a Sunday paper a series of sketches of popular preach- ers, and it is my opinion that he spent that afternoon in writing his account of the Rev. Dr. Smith I do not know, but I used to think he was a corre- spondent of the New York Observer, for I noticed once that he spoke of Jac- queline Pascal as if Jacqueline were a man s name, and as if she wrote the Pensies. \Vhen they were gone, Mr. Frye told us How HE SHOULD HAVE PREACHED IT. I SHOULD have said, said Mr. Frye, that when Jenny and I were married, fourteen years ago, at Milfold, there was not so good a blacksmith as I in that part of Worcester County. To be a good blacksmith in a country town requires not only strength of arm, and a reasonably correct eye, but a good deal of nerve. And when I first worked at the trade, and afterwards here, once when 1 worked in Hawley Street for good Deacon Safford, I got the reputation of being afraid of noth ing. And I think I deserved it, as far as any man does. Certainly I was not easily frightened. So it happened that I was at work for the Semple Brothers, in Milfold, at the highest journeymans wages, and with lots of perquisites for shoeing the ugly horses. For a circle of fifteen miles round, there was not a kicking brute of the Cruiser fam- ily who, in the end, was not brought to our shop for Heber Frye to shoe. I have shod horses from Worcester, who came down with all four of their shoes off because nobody dared touch them. Now in the trade all such work is well paid for. As I say, I had the highest journeymans wages. And in any such hard case I was paid extra; and as likely as not, if they had had trouble, I got a present beside. The Semples liked the reputation their shop was getting; and so, though I was a little fast, and would be off work at working hours sometimes, they kept me; and if I had chosen to lay up money, I could have made myselfwhat I never did make myself a forehanded man. Well, I fell in with Jenny there. And while we were engaged, she took care of me, and made me stick to work, and kept me near her. I did not want any other excitement, and I did not want any other companion. She would not go where I could drink, and I would not go anywhere where she did not go. And for the six months of our engage- ment, I was amazed to find how rich I was growing. When we were married, I was able to furnish the house prettily, as nicely as any man in Milfold, though it was on a baby-house scale, of course. But, as Tom Hoods story says, we had six hair-cloth chairs, a dozen silver spoons, carpet on every room in the house, and everything to make us comfortable. But here Mr. Frye stopped and said: This is going to be a longer sermon than I supposed, and those of you who are going to meeting had better go, for I hear the Old-South bell. But no- body started. Even Mrs. Whittemore held firm, only moving her chair so that Isabel might take the dirty plates. The 200 How Mr. Frye would have preached it. [February, rest of us moved up a little way, and Mr. Frye went on. We were married, and we lived as happily as could be, a great deal more happily than I deserved, and almost as happily as my wife deserves, even. But, I tell you, there is nothing truer than the saying, Easy earned, easy spent; and I believe that perquisites and. fees, unexpected and uncertain remu- nerations, are apt to be rather bad for a man. At least they make a sort of ex- cuse for a man. I never could be made half as careful as Jenny is, or as I had better be. I spent pretty freely. I liked to spend money on her. And then I would get short; and then I would find myself hoping some half- broken, kicking beast would be brought in, which nobody could manage but me. And if one came, and I managed him, and shod him, instead of feeling proud of the victory, as I fairly might, I would feel cross if the owner did not hand me a dollar-bill extra as he went away. Then I knew this was mean; and then I would be mad with myself; and then, as I went home, I would stop at Wil- hamss or Richardss, and get something to drink; and then, when I got home, I would scold Jenny; and after the baby came, I would swear at the baby if she cried; and then Jenny would cry, and then I would swear again; and I would go out again, and meet some of the fellows at Edwardss, and would not know when I came home at night, and would be down at the shop late the next morning, and, what was worse, had not the nerve and grit which had given me the reputation I had there. Dutch courage, for practical purposes, ranks with Dutch gold-leaf or German silver. Well, said Frye, rather pale again, but trying to laugh a little, perhaps, my beloved hearers, you dont know what this sort of thing is. If you dont, lucky for you. When they asked that Brahmin, Gangooly, if he believed in hell, he said he believed there were a good many little hells, as he walked through Washington Street to come to the church that evening. If he had come into my house, almost any even- ing, he would have found one. Poor Jenny did her best. But a woman cant do much. It is not coaxing you want. You know it s hell a great deal better than anybody can tell you. It is will you want. You can make good enough resolutions about it: the thing is to keep them. All this time the Semples were getting cross. At last they got trusteed for my wages. And old Semple told me he would discharge me if it ever happened again. Then one day, Tourtellots black mare got away from me, knocked me down, and played the old Harry generally in tjj~e shop ; and the other hands said it was because I did not know what I was doing, which, by the way, was a lie. It was because my hand was not steady, nor my eye. What is it we used to speak at school, about failing brand and feeble hand? It was not that night, but it was some other night, when I was blue as Peter and cross as a hand-saw, that I stopped to take something on my way home. I re- member now that Harry Patrick, who was always my true friend, tried to get me by the shops. He did get me by the hotel, for a strong man can do almost anything with a broken one but after I had promised him I would go home, he was fool enough to leave me, and then I stopped somewhere else, no matter where, you do not know Milfold, and when I got home, it might as well have been anybody else. I dont remember a thing. If the Prince Camaralzaman had gone there, I should now know as little what he did from my own memory. But what I did, or rather what this hand and arm and leg and the rest of the machine did, was, to kick the babys cradle over into the corner; to knock poor Jane down with a chair, on top of it; to put the chair through one window, .and throw it out of the other; then to scream, Murder! fire! mur- der! fire! and then to tumble on the hair-cloth sofa, which was to make us so comfortable, and go into a drunken sleep. How Mr. Frye would Laze preached it. This was what I learned I did, the next morning, when I found myself in a justices court ; and for this the judge sent me up to Worcester to the House of Correction for three months. It was a first offence, or it would have been longer. As for poor Jenny and the baby, neither of them could come and see me. By this time, Frye was done with pretending to smile. He stopped a minute, drank a little water from his tumbler, and said: Now you would think that would cure a man. Or you would think, as the law does, that three months in the House of Correction would correct him. That is because you do not know. At the last day of the three months I thought so. There is not a man here who dreads liquor as I did that day. Harry Patrick, who, as I said, was my best friend, came to meet me when I went out. Richard- son, the sheriff, as kind a man as lives, took pains to come down and see me, and said something encouraging to me. Harry had a buggy, that I need not be seen in the cars. And as we went home, I talked as well to him as any man ever talked. Jenny kissed me, and soothed me, and comforted me. The baby was afraid of me, but came to me before night; and so, before a month was over, xve had just such an- other scene again, and went through much the same after-scene, but that this time I xvent to Worcester for six months. For now it was not a first offence, you see. Well, not to disgust you more than I can help, and the poor fellow choked for the only time in the sermon, not to disgust you more than I can help, this happened three times. I believe things always do in stories. This did in fact. The third time you go for twelve months. And one Sun- day Harry had been over to see me, and had brought me a dear kind letter from poor Jenny, who was starving, with two children now, in an attic, on what washing she could get, and vest- making, and all such humbugs, one Sunday, I say, we were marched out to chapel, they have a very good chapel in Worcester, and a man preached; and he preached from this very text you talk about, The way of transgressors is hard. What the man said, I know no more than you do. I dont think I did then. Indeed, I do not think I cared much when he began. Bu titisagreat luxury to hear the human voice, when you have been at work on shoes for a week in a prison on our Massachusetts system, which they call the Silent Sys- tem, where you have heard no word except the overseers directions. So I sat there, well pleased en0ugh, even glad to hear a sort of yang-yang they had for music, and very glad to have some good souls who had come in sing. I remember they sang De- vizes, which my father used to sing. So I got into a mood of revery as this preacher went on, and was thinking of Harry, and old Deacon Safford, and father, and Jenny, and what we would call the baby, when to my surprise the minister was finished. And he ended with the text, as some men do, you know. And he said, The way of transgressors is lard. And I caught Wessons eye, he was my turnkey, and Wesson half laughed; and, in vio- lation of all order, I said across the passage to Wesson, Damned hard! Wesson. Mrs. Whittemore, I beg your pardon, but I did say so. Wesson nodded, and looked sad. If he had informed on me, I dont know where I should be now. But he looked sorry, and I have not touched liquor again. I was discharged the next Wednes- day. Harry came for me again, as he always did. I told him I did not want to go on in Milfold. And the good fel- low agreed. He brought me and Jen- ny and the babies down here to Bos- ton. I 11 tell you where we lived. We took two rooms in the third story in Genessee Street, and we began life again. Now any of you who are tired can go away. But this is only one head of the sermon. 1867.1 201 202 How Mr. Frye would have preached it. [February, Nobody went, only Mrs. Whitte- more made us leave the table, and we moved up to the windows. Isabel took off the cloth, and put on the tea- cloth, and went off, I suppose, to the half-Sunday which was one of her priv- ileges. Mr. Frye went on. People always have an excuse. Per- haps if we had hot used the cars more or less, I should not have had this head in my discourse; I know it all began with these Metropolitan tickets. I would not work at shoeing any more. I got a place in that shop where your firm are now, Mr. Webber, the Beals were there then, as a machinist. I had no difficulty ever with tools and iron. Pay was good enough. XVork was steady, though rules were much stricter than at Milfold. But I had not got away, I have not till this hour, from that passion for extras. It is so much easier to earn an extra than to economize; and it is a great deal easier still to plan how you will earn one, and to think that is the same thing. I was tearing a strip of Neck car- tickets in two, one day, to give Jenny half; when it occurred to me that there was a great moth of money. We spent twenty or thirty dollars a year on these tickets, and should be glad to spend twice as much. I think the fun of the thing at first, and then curiosity about it, set me on the business. I know I did not tell her. And before I had got my little hand-press started, and had succeeded in my electro- types to my mind, and had spoiled a dozen blocks of wood in cutting my pattern, I had spent as much money five times over as all the car-tickets I ever printed would have cost me. You printed car-tickets ? said Mrs. Webber. I dont understand. 0, said poor Mr. Frye, blush- ing. I forgot that all people do not look on things as a machinist does, to see how they were made. Yes, Mrs. Webber, for two or three years, I printed all the Metropolitan tickets my wife and I used in riding. And eventually we rode a good deal. I satisfied such conscience as I had, by never selling any. And, as I said, I never told my wife. I tried to per- suade myself it would be an economy after the plant was paid for. But it never was an economy. What was the worst part of it was, that I had the plant. I had this little handy printing- press. You did not think why I got it, Mrs. Whittemore, when I printed your cards for you. That is rather a tempting thing to have in the house. And that little Groves battery, that I gilded your silver thimble with, Mrs. Stearns, is more of a temptation. Both together, I can tell you all, they start a man on more enterprises than are good for him. There is no danger, he added, rather meditatively, of the kind peo- ple call danger, if a man will only be reasonable, and be satisfied with what is good for him. It is the haste to be rich which is dangerous in that way, to people who would never have been detected, as they call it, if they were willing to be reasonable and comfort- able. But it is not the detection and punishment which play the dogs with a man. It is the meanness and lying, after the first excitement of the enter- prise is over. As I said, I never sold any car-tickets or stage-tickets. I just made enough for my own use and Jennys. I did give away a lot of concert-tickets one week at the shop; and I told the men that I had them for printing them. It was the off-part of the season, and the Music Hall was not half full, as it stood. I have sometimes thought the Steffanonis, or whoever it was, may have thanked me in their hearts for the audience. No. The trouble is, you see, you have to do things on the sly. I thought it would be a satisfaction to me to have five or six books out of the library at once; and I got up my own library cards, easy enough to fill them out with the names of dead people. But I never took any comfort in thbse books. George Fiske went into the gift-concert business. He knew I had this battery up stairs, and I u~ed to gild his watch-backs for him. Well, 1867.] How Mr. Frye would have preached it. 203 George always paid me fairly, and I never told the lies at the counter and office and in the newspapers; but I never saw a man take out his watch in the street, but I felt I was lying. I should not have stood it long, I sup- pose, any way; but I got tripped up at last pretty suddenly. You were arrested? said little Lucas. Arrested, my dear fellow? No! Whose business was it to arrest me. You do not keep your police to arrest people, do you? No. The first break- down was all along of the war. Look at that quarter-dollar. And Mr. Frye handed us a well- worn American quarter. I carry that for a warning to trans- gressors. But I never tdld its story before. Now see here. And he lighted the gas at his side, balanced the quarter on his knife-blade, held it over the jet a minute, and the two silver sides fell on the table, while a little puddle of melted solder burned the Living Age, which he held in his hand beneath. There, said he, did you ever see a worse quarter than that? Yet five minutes ago you would all have said it was worth thirty-seven cents in cur- rency. Now, do you think, I had deposited with that battery, night after night, at last, eleven hundred and fifty-two silver eagles like that, and eleven hundred and fifty-two reverses like that, twenty-four to a frame; and I set the frames forty-eight times. I had just adjusted my lathe for polishing the backs, if this thing was not so hot, I could show you, when the banks suspended in i86i. And before I could get the backing in, and the soldering done, and the mill- ing, and the tarnish well on, you have to tarnish them, Mrs. Whittemore, in a mixture of lapis-lazuli and aqua- regia, why, silver coin was at a pre- mium of ten per cent. Not a quarter was offered by anybody in the shops; and if anybody got one, it was sent somewhere where it was weighed with- in twenty-four hours. So all that spec- ulation of mine flatted out. I kept two or three as a warning, like this one. But for the rest, I had to melt down my silver to pay my little bills for turn- ing-lathes and acids and lapis-lazuli, Mrs. Whittemore. And this time he laughed rather more good-naturedly. I laugh,~~ said he, because this is the beginning of the end. We were living in Tyler Street when this hap- pened; and I had just enough per- sistency in me to say that if I could not have one quarter, I would another. But currency is a great deal harder. No! Mrs. Webber, you cant print bank-bills on a hand-press like that I have up stairs. It is not very easy to print them at all. But I was just so mad at my failure about the silver, that I went into my largest enterprise of all. I moved away my lathe to the shop ; I fitted up the closet in the attic for my chemicals; I bought that pretty Voigtlander camera I showed you the other day, Mr. Barnes ; I sent out to Paris for the last edition of Barreswils book on Photography; and that was where my skill in portraits began. I had to give up i~yplacein the machine-shop. You can mill silver quarters at midnight; but you need sunshine to photograph currency. And then I had to open a photo~raphic es- tablishment, to satisfy the butcher and baker, and Jennys friends, and the mild police of the neighborhood gener- ally, that I had somethin~ to do, and was entitled to have black fingers. I bought a show-case full of pictures of a man in Manchester, New Hampshire, and horrid things they were. I hung that out at the door. Sometimes, to my rage and dismay, a sitter would come. I took care to be cross as a bear, to charge high, and to send them off with wretched pictures. They nev- er came a second time. But I had to have some come, because of the mild police as I said; and I had to take Jennys friends for nothing. A photo- graph man has a good many dead- heads, as well as one or two lay-figures. All this set me back. Then the gov 204 How Mr. Frye would have preached if. [February, eminent kept changing the pattern of its quarters. Worst of all, I had to let Jenny know this time, because it changed my life so entirely. I was, you see, roped into it hy accident, I did not really know how. I promised her that, as soon as I was well out of debt, and the things all paid for, I would give it all up. But we were pretty badly in debt, and I should have to get more than two thousand dol- lars to make things square. And I had my pride up, and went on, till I did have, though it isapoor thing to boast of, as handsome a set of sheets of that second issue, and of their reverses, (they were printed for secu- rity on thin paper to be pasted to- gether,) as Mr. Chase himself ever looked upon. Now, you need not look so frightened, my dear Mrs. Webber, for that was the end! How was it the end? said she. XVhy, my dear Mrs. Webber, as the minister said this morning, The wick- ed flee when no man ~ursueth. That comes into my sermon as it did into his. I had these lovely sheets, they were lovely, though I say it, three thousand sheets, twelve bills on a sheet, and the reverses too. I had just got up the gold sizing for the blotch round the face, when the door- bell rang. It was eight in the evening. Now we often had evening visitors; but it was arranged between Jenny and me, that, when they were all safe, Jenny should just touch a private bell that came up into the attic to my work-room. I heard the door-bell, but after the en- try, no /i;zg on my own. Who in thunder was it? I slipped down one flight, and could see and hear nothing. I bolted the double doors. I put those precious negatives into my coal-stove, and opened the lower draft. I took those precious sheets and laid them in the two full bath - tubs that stood ready. That saint, Jenny, still kept the officers down stairs. They must be searching the cellar. If I only could get three minutes more! The glass of the negatives ran out in a pud- dle in the ash-heap. So far so good. The different piles of paper softened; and, pile by pile, I rolled them and rammed them into the open waste-pipe which for months had been prepared to take them in such an exigency to the sewer. I have not, no, Mrs. Web- ber,not one of those bills to show you. In seven minutes from that hap- py door-bell ring, the last shred of them was floating, in the condition of double refined j5aj5ier mach6, under ground, in Tyler Street, to the sea; and I walked down stairs to see where Jenny was, and the officers. Officers ! there were no officers. Only her nice old uncle and his wife had missed the train to Melrose, and had come to take tent with us. Jenny saw that I was nervous. But what could I say? 0 dear! we talked about early squashes, and Old Colony corn, and the best flavor for farina blanc-mange; and then he and I talked politics, Governor Andrew, and the fall of Fort 1-lenry, and what would happen to General Floyd. Till at last, after ten eternities, bed occurred to them as among the possibilities, and the dear old souls bade good night. His wife made him go. He had just got round to Jeff Davis; and his last words to me were, The way of transgressors is hard. Hard, indeed,~ said I, as I turned round to Jenny. I was too wild with rage to scold. She did not know what was the matter. I spoke as gently as if I were asking her to marry me. And she all amazement declared she had struck my bell! She had tried to. But as we tried it again, it ~vas clear something had hap- pened. It had been a piece of my own bell-hanging, and a kink in the wire had given way. Jenny had sent her signal, but the signal had not come. And I had sent my currency down to the sea for the sculpins to buy bait from the flounders with Jenny, said I, as I took down the candle from the ceiling, you and I will go to bed. The way of the transgres- sor is hard, beyond a peradventure. And as I looked at Jenny, I saw she 1867.] How Mr. Frye would have preached it. 205 was still too much frightened to begin to be glad. For me, I was not mad any longer. Do none of you fellows know what it is to feel that a game is played through, wholly through, and that you are glad it is done with? Well, I can tell you what you do not know, that if that game has required one con- stant lie, or, what is the same thing, a steady concealment of real purpose, and if it has forced you to lead in some little saint like my poor wife into the lie, the relief of feeling that it is through is infinite. Jenny, darling, said I, dont be afraid to be glad, dont be afraid of me. I was never so much pleased with anything in my life. And she looked up so happily! Heber, said she, the way of the trans- gressor is hard ; and we went to bed. That is the end, brethren and sis- ters, of the second head of this dis- course. Let us go into the parlor. So we went into the parlor. Nobody said much in the parlor. But I noticed that all of them came in, which was unusual. Some of us light- ed our cigars ; I did. But Frye said nothing ; and I, for one, did not like to ask him to go on. But George Fi- field, who, with a good deal of tender- ness, has no tact, and always says the wrong thing, if there is any wrongthing to be said, blurted out, Go ahead, Mr. Parson, we are all ready. Does any one want to hear the rest of such madness ? said poor Mr. Frye. Not if it pains you to tell us, said good Mrs. Webber. But really, real- ly, you were very good to tell us what you did. And Mr. Frye went on. If I had been preaching the sermon in my way, said he, I should have told you, what you could have guessed, that, having played that act through, I did not care to stay in Boston more than I liked to stay in Milfold. I had been married ten years, and I had learned two things: first, that a man can t live, unless he keeps his body under; next, that he cant live and lie at the same time, that he cant live unless he keeps his ingenuity un- der, and his cunning and snakiness in general. To learn the first lesson had cleaned me out completely, and I hated Milfold, where I learned it. To learn the second had cleaned me out again, and left me two thousand dollars and more in debt, so much worse than nothing. And, very naturally, I hated Boston, where I learned that too. What did I do? I did what I always had done in trouble. I went to Harry Patrick, who happened to be here on business at the time. Harry had fought for me at school. He had coaxed my. father for me when I was in scrapes. He took care of me when I was an apprentice. I have told you what he did for me in Milfold. He established me here. He sent his friends to see my wife. He had me chosen into his Lodge. He lent me money to buy my tools with. He in- troduced me at the Beals. When I wanted my cameras and things he helped me to my credit. So of course I went to him. Well, I thought I was done with lying; so I told him just the whole story. There was a quar- ters rent due the next Monday. All the quarters bills at the shops were due, and some of them had ar- rears behind the beginning of the quar- ter. My winters over-coat, my best clothes, indeed, of every name, were at the Pawners Bank, where they keep your woollen clothes from the moths as well as those people on Washington Street do, but where they charge you quite as much for the preservation. Then I had borrowed, in money, twenty-five dollars here, five there, a hundred of one man, and so on, old fellow-workmen at the machine-shop, saying and thinking that I should be able to pay them in a few days. This was the reason, in- deed, why I had hurried up the nega- tives, and printed off the impressions as steadily as I had, because the Ist of October was at hand. No. I was glad I did not have to write to him. I told him straight through, much as I have been telling 206 How Mr. Frye would have preached i/~ [February, you. If it has seemed to you that I was talking out of a book, it has been because once though of course never but once I have been all over this wretched business in words before. I told Harry the whole. They say a man never tells all his debt. I suppose that is true. I did not tell him of some of the meanest of mine, and some that were most completely debts of honor. I said to myself that I could manage those myself some day. But then I told no lies. I said to him that this was about all. And he, he did, as he always does, the completest and noblest thing that can be done. He gave me three coupon bonds which he had bought only the day before, mean- ing them for a birthday present for his mother. He gave me three hundred and twenty dollars in cash, and he went with me to the office of the photo- graphic findings people, with a note of introduction Mr. Rice gave to him, and gave a note, jointly with me, for the chemicals and the cameras. So I was clear of debt that night, exceptthe little things I had not told; and I had near fifty dollars in my pocket. And what now?~ said he, when I went to thank him again the next morn- ing, and he spoke to me as cheer- ily as if I had never caused him a mo- ments care. Well, he wanted me to go on with the photograph room. But I hated it. I hated Boston. I hated the old shop. I hated the Tyler Street house. I hated the very color on my hands. I begged him to let me go with him to XVashington. Perhaps I thought I should do better under his wing. I am ashamed to say that I had not then any special wish to serve the country, God bless her though I knew he was serving her so nobly. Nor did I know the whole meaning of the way of transgressors. Simply I hated Boston. So he told me to leave the forty- three dollars with Jenny, and to come with him the next day to Washington. I had never been even to New York before. And at Washington not once did he fail me. For two or three weeks that I was hanging round, living at his charges, and hopelessly unable to do a thing for him, seeming like a fool, I suppose, because I know I felt like one, not once did he forget himself, nor speak an impatient word to me. And when he came unexpectedly back to our lodgings one day, an hour after he had gone out, to say that the head of the Department had that morn- ing given him an appointment for me, or the promise of one, in the Bureau of Special Supplies, he was more glad than I was, you would have said. Not really; but he was gentle about it, and took no credit to himselg and would have been glad if I could have believed that The Chief had heard of me from my own fame, and had sent to him to find out where such a rare bird could be caught. So pleasant days began again. Jen- ny and the children came on. Washing- ton is, to my notion, the pleasantest city in America, if you have only the where- withal. Always, you see, the great drama is going on before your eyes, and you are one of the chorus. You see it all and hear it all, before the scenes and behind, and yet are even paid for standing and hearing the very first per- formers in the world. Tragedy some- times, comedy sometimes, farce how often! melodrama every day. If you only obey Micawber, and insure the result happiness. But I could not do thaty you know. Jenny could, and would, if I had let her. But I would buy books, and I would take her on excursions, I dont know, Harry went off and I got in debt again. But I worked like a. dog at the bureau. I brought home copying for Jenny. Ab ways these odd jobs were my ruin. I was always hoping to help myself through. But I was early at work, and at night I screwed out the gas in the office ; and so I got promoted. That helped, but it ruined too. Pro- motion, too, was an odd job. I ran behind again, and I got promotion again. But when I ran behind a third time, no promotion came, and I 1867.] 0, no! dear Mrs. Webber. I did not do as Floyd or those people do. I did what was a great deal worse, as much worse as the sin of a being with a heart can be than the sin of a being with only a brain. In my new post I had the oversight of all the accounts from the Artificers Department in the field. By one of the intricacies, which I need not explain, they were in the habit of sending over for us to use, from the Quartermaster- Generals, the originals of all the re- ports they received, for us to see what we wanted by way of confirming our vouchers; and we then sent them all back to them. This was because we were ahead of them. They were some weeks behindhand, and we were fly, as our jargon called it. So it happened that I used to see Harrys own official reports to their office, even before they read them themselves. They opened them, you know, and sent them to us, we copied what we wanted, and sent them back again. Of course I was interested in what he was doing. I need not say that he was doing it thoroughly xvell. He loved work. He loved the country. He be- lieved in the cause. And off there, at that strange little post, curiously sep- arated from the grand armies, and in many matters reporting direct to Wash- ington, he was cadi, viceroy, commis- sary, chief-engineer, schoolmaster, min- ister, major - general, and everything, under his modest majors maple-leaves. It was a queer post, just the place one dreams of when he fancies himself fit for everything, just the place for an honest man, yes, just the place for him. Strictly speaking, I had no right to read his reports. But then I did read them. I liked to know what he was doing. At last, one infernal day, I hap- pened to notice that he had misunder- stood one of the service regulations about returns, which had made us infi- nite trouble when I was in the large room with Blenker. I knew all about it. But it had confused Harry. I was glad I observed it before they did, and How Mr. Frye would have preached it. 207 I wrote to him at once about it. I knew it might save him money to no- tice it; for they would stop his pay while they notified him. I wrote. But he never got the letter. The next week and the next this same variation in his accounts-keeping came in. Nothing wrong, you know; but look here if I had a blank I could show you. Well, no matter, but just one of those things which you worlds people call red tape. Really, one part of it sprang from his not understanding where the apostro- phes belonged in Commissaries wa- goners assistants rations. I wrote to him again and again and again. Four letters I wrote; but Sherman and Har- dee and Benham and Hayes, and I do not know who, were raising Ned with the communications, and he never got one of my letters. And when the sixth of these accounts of his came, well, I was in debt, I wanted a change, well, your Doctor to-day would have said the Devil came. I wish I thought it was anybodys fault but mine. What did I do, but send over to the Quar- termasters for the whole series, which we had sent back; and then I went up to the chief, I sent in my card, and I said to him that my attention had been called to this obliquity in accounts, that I had warned Mr. Patrick, because I had formerly known him, that he was not construing the act correctly,that he persisted in drawing as he did, and making the returns as he did, and that, in short, though strictly it was not my business, yet, as it would be some months before the papers would be reached in order, (this was a lie, they had really come to the first of them,) I thought it my duty to the government to call attention to the matter. As we both knew, I said, it was an isolated post, and an officer did not pass under the same observation as in most stations. Yes, I said all that. It was awful. I cant tell you wholly how or why I said it. I did not guess it would turn out as it did. I did hope I should be sent out on special service to inspect. But I did not think of anything more. But a man cannot, have just what he 208 How Mr. Frye woz/Zd have preached ii. [February, chooses. The chief not his old chief, you know, who appointed me, hut a new Pharaoh, a real Shepherd King who did not know him or me the chief was one of those chiefs who makes up for utter incompetency in general hy immense fiddling over a detail, the chief, I say, had his cigar, and was comfortable, and knew no more about this post than you do, and asked me, in a patronizing way, about it, not confessing ignorance, but as a great man will. That temptation I could not resist. Who can? You know a mans business better than he knows it himself; and he asks you to tell it to him, and sits and enjoys. I say; not Abdiel nor Uriel in the host of heaven would have been pure enough to have resisted that temptation, if the Devil had feigned ignorance, and asked advice about keeping the peace in Pan- demonium. At all events, I could not resist. I stood, I sat at last, when he asked me,and told him the whole story, adorned as I chose. The next day he sent for me again; and I found more than my boldest hopes had fancied, that he was think- ing of displacing poor Harry, and putting me there as his substitute. Of course I blocked his wheels, you say, and explained. No such thing. I snapped at the promotion! Was not promotion what I must have? I played modest, to be sure. I had not expected but if the government wished there were reasons our bureau my own early training, this, that, and the other. Dont make me tell the whole it was too nasty. The end was, that I was ordered to leave Washington with a colonels commis- sion, outranking Harry two grades, the right to name my staff when I got up- on the ground, and a separate commis- sion making me military governor of the district of Wiliston, Alabama, to report in duplicate to Washington and to the district head - quarters. Poor Harry was to report in person to the Department, in disgrace. Here was a prize vastly higher than I had sought for. I was not very hap- py with it. But I had the grace to say to myself that I could pay my debts now, and would never go in debt again. I would even pay poor Harry, I thought; but then I had another qualm, as I remembered that there were near three thousand dollars due him, and that even a colonels pay and allowances would not stand that, in the first quar- ter. I did not go back to my own office then. I went home and told Jenny. I did not tell her where I was going. I only told her it was promo- tion, and high promotion. I bade her take comfort; and that very afternoon I turned over my papers and keys and hurried away. I went on to Willston. I wish I were telling you how; but that is not a part of the sermon. I got there. I found Harry. He was amazed to see me. He was delighted. He took me right into his own little den, asked if there was bad news, asked what brought me, and well, my friends, the worst thing of the whole, the worst thing in my life, was my telling him I had su- perseded him! And now, do you believe I had the face to say to him, that it was the sad- dest moment of my life ? That was true enough, God knows! But I said more. I dared tell him that I had had no dream of what was in the wind. That I did not receive my orders till I had left Washington, and that I had not a thought or suspicion who could have been caballing against him at the Department! I told him this, when I knew I had done the whole Good fellow! He cried. I be- lieve I did. He said, I cant talk about it; and he hurried away. I did not see him again till the war was done. I went out and found the gen- tlemen of his staff. Of course they hated me. By and by I had my own staff. They did not love me. The people hated me. Did you hear that man read to-day, The citizens hated him, and said, We will not have this man to reign over us? But I am ahead of my story. It was Saturday night that I arrived. Sunday I dressed ~867.] Ilow Mr. Frye would /zcvc ;~c~c/zcd it. 209 up and attended reli6ious worship with the garrison. Do you helieve, the chaplain, a little wiry Sandernanian preacher, chose to tell those men, The way of transgressors is hard. And I had to stand and take it, without the consolation I am giving myself t8- day. It was not he that told me, what I found out the night before, when I quailed under I-larrys eye, that it is the way that is hard. I had always tried to think that it was a hard sta- tion that you got to, a lock-up or a bankruptcy. But as I lied to Harry, and then as I met the stafi; and now again behind this chaplain, I knew that what was hard was the way. And from that moment till I had to resign my commis- sions, I knew every second of life that the way was hard. I had good things happen, some, and lots of bad ones; but I never got that feeling about the way out of my heart. I said just now my own gentlemen did not love me. I dont know why I say so, but that I thought so. For I thou~ht nobody liked me or believed in me,just because I hated myself after I stood there with Harry, and did not believe in myself. I tell you it was very hard for me to go through the routine of life there. As for success, why, if Vesuvius had started up next door to us and overwhelmed us, I should not have cared. I suppose you know what did hap- pen. If you do, the sermon is ended. There never should have been any post at Willston. We were there to make Union sentiment. In fact, the Rebels lived on us, laughed at us, and hated us. Harry did conciliate some people, I think, and frightened more. I concili- ated nobody, and frightened nobody. I had begun wrong. Sinful heart makes feeble hand,and it makes feeble head too, Mr. Marmion; and, worse than that, a man cant make any friends of himself or anybody else with it. I tried a great diplomatic dodge. There was a lot of rice on a plantation, and I started a private negotiation with one Haraden who owned it, not for my VOL. XIX.NO. 112. 14 self; really, but for government. We wanted the rice. Then my chief woke up one day from a long sleep, and sent us a perfectly impossible string of instructions. Then I heard that Dick Wagstaff one of the enemys light- horse, was threatening my outpost at Walker. I did not know what to do. How should I? But I put on a bold face, and marched out the garrison, and went part way to Walker; and then I thought I had better go down to Ham- dens; and then, I tell you, it was just like a horrid dream, then I remem- bered that the gunboats might have been sent up to help us, and I sent an ex- press for them, and marched that way; but then news came that we had been wrong about Walker, and I thought we had better cross back there. But while we were crossing, there came an awful rain. We could not get the guns on, and had to stop over night, not only in the wettest place you ever saw, but in the only place we ought not to have been in at all. And there, at the gray of mornin~, before my men could or would start a cannon, down came Dick Wagstaffs flying squadron. \Vh~ t is worst is, that we found out, afterwards, there were but forty of them, and yet, in one horrid muddle of confusion, we left the guns, left \vhat rice we had got, left ever so many men who had not time to tumble up, and, indeed, we hardly got back alive to \Viilston. If Dick Wagstaff had known his busi- ness half as well as he was thought to, not one of us would have seen the place again. But the queer thing of all this shame and disgrace to me was, that it almost comforted me. I remember my mother used to flog me when I was sulky, and say she would give me some- thing to cry for. As we trailed back through the mud, it fairly pleased me to think that now, if I looked like a cursed hang- dog, people would not wonder. My outside was as bad at last as my in. I remember, as we came to the last bridge over the Coosa River, I, who was riding after the rear of the column, overtook McMurdy, this chaplain I told you of. lie was walk- 210 How Mr. Frye would have preached 1t. [February; ing, leading his own horse, on which sat or crouched a man faint as death so he could hardly hold on. I made McMurdy take my horse and trudged b~side him for the rest of the way. This is pretty hard, Doctor, said I. Hard for us, said the grim little man, but not so hard for us as for ~ie Graybacks. I dont see that, said I. But in a minute I saw that the little man was clear grit, and true to his cloth. He set his teeth, and said: Not so hard for us, because we are right, and they are wrong. Every dog has his day, Colonel. They are bound to come to grief when the clock strikes for them. Poor little Doctor. He preached at me harder, when he said that, than the first day I s~w him, when he was sec- ondlying it, and in conclusioning it, to the men. I made my mouth up to say, The way of transgressors is hard, Doc- tor. But the cant stuck in my throat. That would have been too steep. Who was I, to say it? I said nothing. He said nothing. But I trailed after him, up to my knees in that Alabama mud; and I said to myseW It is the way that s hard, by Jove. It is not the con- sequence that is hard, nor the punish- ment. That is rather easy in compari- son. And I spoke aloud: It s the way. Just then a contrabands mule pitched into me, almost knocked me down, and the little nigger said to me: Beg pardon, massa; Jordan mighty hard road to trabbel to-night. I did not swear at him. I stood by and let him pass. And I said to my- self: Mighty hard. It is the way that s hard, and not the bed you lie on at the end of it. Indeed, at that very moment of misery, utter failure, beastly defeat, I felt the first reaction from the misery that had galled me ever since I lied to Harrys face. This was the end at last. All that was the way. As soon as they heard of all this, of course I was relieved, in disgrace. I was bidden to report at Washington, just as Patrick had done. I swear to you I was a happier man than I had been since the day he left me there. Mr. Frye stopped. And then he walked up and down the room. It was long since he had smiled. or pretended to. But he rested on a chair-back now, and said: That is all the sermon. I shall feel better now I have told you. I shall never tell any one again. But one revelation of such a thins a man had better make, where it costs him some- thing. So I am glad to have told you. Mrs. Webber had her eyes full of tears. You dont tell us all, said she, you dont tell bow you came here. That hardly belongs to the ser- mon, said he. Yes, it does. XVhen I met Jenny, I told her the whole thing right through. Poor boy, said she; it is hard, meaning to comfort me. Jenny, said I, it is bard. Drink- ing is hard; cheating is hard. You and I found that out before. And this infer- nal intriguing politics, I believe they call itis the hardest of all. Its a hard way, Jenny. Body, mind, and soul, said poor Jenny: it is hard any way ; and she cried. So did I. And then I went across, and sent in my name to Harry. He was all right again, and brevetted brig- adier. And I said, Harry, ten times you have lifted me out of the gutter; ten times I have gone in deeper than before. This time I help myself. This time I have found out, what till now I have never believed, that I carried fail- ure with me, that I was therefore bound to fail, and had to fail. Harry, said I, the very God in heaven does not choose to have a broken wire carry lightning, nor a lying life succeed. That s why I ye failed. Now see me help myself. Harry gave me both his hands, shook mine heartily, and we said good by. I came on here, because here I had been in the mud. I started this little patent about the clothes-brushes. I let the results look out for themselves. For me, all I care for now is the way. 1867.] Glacial Plzenomena zn Maine. 211 I pay as I go; and I take care that Jordan shall he an easy road to travel. Harry came on last fall, and we ate our Thanksgiving together at Jennys fa- thers. That is all my sermon.~~ And now Frye lighted his cigar. We agreed among the boarders that we would not mention this. But last Sunday, at a church I was at in Boothia Felix, the man led us through three quarters of an hour of what my grand- fathers spelling-book would have called trisyllables on ality, elity, and ility, and polysyllables in ation, ition, etion, and otion. It was three dreary quar- ters of abstract expression. When the fourth quarter began, he said, History is full of illustrations of our doctrine, but I will not weary you by their repe- tition. Old Cove, said I, I wish you would. If you would just take that lesson from Mr. Frye ! Or I should have said so, had the ritual and eti- quette of that congregation permitted. GLACIAL PHENOMENA IN MAINE. I. THREE or four years ago I began a series of papers in the Atlantic Monthly, which, though they appeared as separate geological sketches, had, nevertheless, a certain sequence. These contributions have been unavoidably interrupted for more than two years; and, in taking up the thread again, my readers will excuse me if I recall to them the point at which we parted, by a rapid review of the subject then under discussion. There were two sets of facts which first awakened the attention of geologists to the ancient extension or glaciers, though at first no investi- gator connected them with the agency of ice. The first was the presence of boulders in Central Europe and Eng- land, which had their birthplace far to the north of their actual position; the second was the presence of similar de- tached boulders scattered over the plain of Switzerland, and on the slopes of the J ura, which, on the contrary, had trav- elled from the south northward, and had their origin in the Alps. Before they attracted the attention of scientific men, these dislodged masses were so generally recognized as strangers to the soil, that in Germany, among the com mon people, they went by the name of Eli ;zdllnge, homeless children. They are indeed the wandering Bohemians, among rocks. The first interpretation of these phe- nomena, which very naturally suggested itself, when they began to be systemati- cally studied, was that of their trans- portation by water. It was supposed that irruptions of the northern oceans had swept the loose masses of Scandi- navian rock over adjoining countries, and that large lakes within the Alps had broken their natural barriers, and poured down into the plains, carrying with them debris of all sorts, and scat- tering them over the lowlands. But soon it was foond that this theory did not agree with the facts; that the val- leys of the Alps, for instance, had sent out boulders, not only northward, but southward and westward also, and that their distribution was often so regular, and their position so isolated, on high elevations, as to preclude the idea that immense tidal waves, fresbets, or floods had so arranged them. Nature is so good a teacher that, the moment we touch one set of facts, we are instinc- tively, and almost unconsciously, led to

L. Agassiz Agassiz, L. Glacial Phenomena in Maine. I 211-220

1867.] Glacial Plzenomena zn Maine. 211 I pay as I go; and I take care that Jordan shall he an easy road to travel. Harry came on last fall, and we ate our Thanksgiving together at Jennys fa- thers. That is all my sermon.~~ And now Frye lighted his cigar. We agreed among the boarders that we would not mention this. But last Sunday, at a church I was at in Boothia Felix, the man led us through three quarters of an hour of what my grand- fathers spelling-book would have called trisyllables on ality, elity, and ility, and polysyllables in ation, ition, etion, and otion. It was three dreary quar- ters of abstract expression. When the fourth quarter began, he said, History is full of illustrations of our doctrine, but I will not weary you by their repe- tition. Old Cove, said I, I wish you would. If you would just take that lesson from Mr. Frye ! Or I should have said so, had the ritual and eti- quette of that congregation permitted. GLACIAL PHENOMENA IN MAINE. I. THREE or four years ago I began a series of papers in the Atlantic Monthly, which, though they appeared as separate geological sketches, had, nevertheless, a certain sequence. These contributions have been unavoidably interrupted for more than two years; and, in taking up the thread again, my readers will excuse me if I recall to them the point at which we parted, by a rapid review of the subject then under discussion. There were two sets of facts which first awakened the attention of geologists to the ancient extension or glaciers, though at first no investi- gator connected them with the agency of ice. The first was the presence of boulders in Central Europe and Eng- land, which had their birthplace far to the north of their actual position; the second was the presence of similar de- tached boulders scattered over the plain of Switzerland, and on the slopes of the J ura, which, on the contrary, had trav- elled from the south northward, and had their origin in the Alps. Before they attracted the attention of scientific men, these dislodged masses were so generally recognized as strangers to the soil, that in Germany, among the com mon people, they went by the name of Eli ;zdllnge, homeless children. They are indeed the wandering Bohemians, among rocks. The first interpretation of these phe- nomena, which very naturally suggested itself, when they began to be systemati- cally studied, was that of their trans- portation by water. It was supposed that irruptions of the northern oceans had swept the loose masses of Scandi- navian rock over adjoining countries, and that large lakes within the Alps had broken their natural barriers, and poured down into the plains, carrying with them debris of all sorts, and scat- tering them over the lowlands. But soon it was foond that this theory did not agree with the facts; that the val- leys of the Alps, for instance, had sent out boulders, not only northward, but southward and westward also, and that their distribution was often so regular, and their position so isolated, on high elevations, as to preclude the idea that immense tidal waves, fresbets, or floods had so arranged them. Nature is so good a teacher that, the moment we touch one set of facts, we are instinc- tively, and almost unconsciously, led to 212 Gbzc;cd RIzc;wrne;zc~ iii Alczinc. [February, connect them with other phenomena. and so to find their true relations. The boulders of the plains soon began to be compared with the boulders of the higher valleys ; ice itself was found to be a moving agent; and it was pres- ently ascertained that the transporta- tion of loose materials by existing gla- ciers, and their mode of distributing them, corresponded exactly with the so- called erratic phenomena of Central Europe and England. With these re- sults were soon associated a great num- ber of correlative facts ; the accurnu- lation of loose materials under the gla- cier, and upon its sides, as well as upon its surface, the trituration of the former until they were ground to a homogene- ous paste, and the regular arrangement of the latter as they successively fell upon the glacier, and were borne along upon its back, retaining all the sharp- ness of their angles, because they were subjected to no pressure ; the charac- teristic markings, furrowing, grooving, scratching, and polishing of the surfaces over which the glacier passed, as well as of the pebbles and stones held fast in its mass, and coming into sharp contact with the rocks beneath; the accumula- tion of loose materials pushed along by the advancing ice, or carried on its edges, and forming ridges or walls at its terminus and on its sides. The study of these combined results of glacial ac- tion now became part of the subject, and. were sought for by geologists wherever the err~ tic phenomena were investigated. Out of these compari- sons has gradually grown a belief that, as the Alpine glaciers were formerly more extensive, so did the northern ice-fields, now confined to the Arctic regions, once stretch farther south. I suppose there are few geologists now who would not readily give their assent to the glacial theory, expressed in this general form. But while the wider distribution of glacial phenomena from mountainous centres in ancient tin~es is now gener- ally admitted, the theory in its more universal application, involving, that is, the existence of an ice-sheet many thousands of feet in thickness moving across whole continents, over open, level plains as well as along enclosed valleys, still meets with many opponents, the stanchest of whom stand high as geo- logical authorities. If not openly said, it is whispered, that, after all, this great ice-period is a mere fancy, worthy at best of a place among the tales of the Arabian Nights; that no moraines have ever been noticed in North Amer-. ica; and that what has been ascribed to the a~ency of terrestrial, glaciers, upon this continent, is simply the work of ice- bergs stranding against a coast which has subsequently been raised, so that the boulders first deposited by the float- ing ice along the shores~ now lie inland at a great distance from the sea. Ac- cording to this suggestion all the erratic phenomena in North America, the ex- tensive sheets of drift, the continuous and prominent ridges of drift materi- als, the larger scattered boulders, the scratched, polished, and grooved sur- faces, are the work of floating ice, poured forth, then as now, from the Arctic regions. If this be so, we should expect to find all these so-called traces of glacial action running from the coast inward. Let us see now how this agrees with the facts. I will not recapitulate the substance of my last article on this sub- ject, The Ice-Period in America. It gave a general summary of the glacial phenomena on this continent, as com- pared with those of Europe, stating at the same time my reasons for believ- ing that immense masse of ice would move over an open plain nearly as rapidly as in a slanting valley, and from the same causes as those which de- termine the advance of the Swiss gla- ciers down the Alpine valleys. This article appeared in June, 1864. I had intended to follow it with one upon the appearances of the drift in this country; and in September I went to Maine in order to examine the drift phenomena on the islands and coast of that State, and compare them with those of the Massachusetts shore. It was my pur- poe to go directly to Mount Desert, Glacial Phenomezza in Mai;zc. but the loss of a carpet-Jag detained me at Bangor. What seemed at first a vexatious annoyance proved in the end to be a fortunate chance ; for, xvhile waiting at Bangor, I fell in with a friend, who, when he heard the object of my journey, proposed to me to pass the intervening day or two in a drive with him northward along the horse- backs, in the direction of Mount Ka- tahdin. I desired nothinb better; for a previous glimpse of one horseback, in the neighborhood of Aurora, had al- ready shown me their morainic charac- ter, and they therefore were immediate- ly connected with my present investi- gation. It would give me, be sides, an opportunity of carrying out my survey on a much larger plan. As I had al- ready satisfied myself; in this and pre- vious journeys from Portland to Ban- gor, that the traces of glacial action oc- curred over all that region, this excur- sion would enable me to follow them northward to a considerable distance, while on my return I could track them down to the coast in continuous con- nection. I dwell upon the character of this investigation, because, numerous as have been the local observations of this kind, I am not aware that extensive tracts of land have been systematically surveyed, compass in hand, with the view of ascertaining the continuity of these marks in definite directions. I gladly accepted my friends offer; and to this incident I owe some of the pleas- antest days I have ever spent in travel- ling, and the knowledge of some impor- tant, and I believe novel, facts in gla- cial phenomena, an account of which will he found in the present article. It was late in September, just at the turn of the leaf; the woods were in all their golden and crimson glory, with here and there a purple beech, or a back- ground of dark-green pines. Familiar ~s we all are with the brilliancy of the autumnal foliage in the neighborhood of our towns, one must see it in the un- broken forest, covering the country with rainbow hues as far as the eve can reach, in order to appreciate fully its wonderful beauty. A few words on this change of color, which is as constant as any other botanical character, (each kind of tree having its special tints peculiar to itself; and not reproduced by other kinds,) may not be amiss. In- deed, not only does every species have its appointed range of color, but each individual tree has its history told more or less distinctly in the ripening of the foliage. A xv eaker or a younger limb may have put on its autumn garb, and be almost ready to drop its leaves, while the rest of the tree is untouched. A single scarlet maple or red oak often gives us the most beautiful arrange- ment of tints, from the green of mid- summer, throunh every shade of orange and red; in the same way one leaf may ripen unequally, its green surface be- ing barred or spotted with crimson or gold for days before the whole leaf turns. These differences give ample opportunity for studying the ripening process. In attempting to determine the cause of these changes, it ought not to be forgotten that they occur locally, and also make their appearance on par- ticular trees much earlier than upon others; so early, ii~deed, as to show clearly the fallacy of the prevalent idea that they are caused by frost. The temperature remains ten or fifteen de- grees above the freezing-point for a month and more after a good many of our trees have assumed their bright au- tumnal hues. The process is no doubt akin to that of ripening in fruits; es- pecially in such fleshy fruits as turn from green to yelloxv, purple, or red, like apples, peaches, plums, cherries, and others. The change in color coincides with changes in the constitutive chem- ical elements of the plant; and this comparison between the ripening of foliage and fruit seems the more nat- ural, when we remember that fruits are but a modifleation of leaves, assuming higher functions and special adapta- tions in the flower, so as to produce what xve call a fruit. The ripening process by which t e leaves t~ ke on their final colors is as consh nt and special as in the fruits. The cherries do not assume their various shades of red, 1867.1 213 Glacial Phenomena in Maine. [February, 214 deepening sometimes into black, or the plums their purples, or the peaches their velvety-rose tints, or the apples their gre ens, russets, browns, and reds, with more unvarying accuracy than the different kinds of maples and oaks, or the beeches, birches, and ashes, take on their characteristic tints. The in- equality in the ripening of the foliage. alluded to above has also its counter- part in the fruits. 1-lere and there a single apple or peach or pear ripens prematurely, while all the rest of the fruit remains green, or a separate branch brings its harvest to maturity in ad- vance of all the surrounding branches. No doubt the brilliancy of the change in the United States, as compared with other countries, is partly due to the dryness of the climate; and indeed it has been observed that certain Euro- pean flowers take on deeper hues when transplanted to America. But I be- lieve the cause lies rather in the spe- cial character of certain American plants and trees. The Virginia creeper, for instance, which is much cultivated now in France and Germany, turns to as brilliant a scarlet in a European gar- den as in its native woods. But let us return to our horsebacks. At the very beginning of our journey, we followed one of them for a consid- erable distance after leaving Bangor, on our way to Oldtown, besides which we saw a number of similar ridges running parallel with it.* The name is some- what descriptive, for they are shaped not unlike saddles with sloping sides and flattened summits. They consist of loose materials of various sizes, usually without marked evidence of a regular internal arrangement, though occasionally traces of imperfect strat- ification are perceptible. Sometimes they follow horizontally, though not with an absolutely even level, the trend of a rocky ledge; again, they them- selves seem to have built the founda- tion of their own superstructure, being * Those who wish to foilosv the localities indicated in this article should consult H. F. Wallings map of the State of Maine, pubiished by J. Chace, Jr., Pcrticnd. composed of the same homogeneous el- ements which cover the extensive flats over which they run with as great reg- ularity as upon a more solid basis. The longest of these horsebacks and they sometimes stretch, as I have said, for many miles trend mainly from north to south, though their course is somewhat winding, seldom following a perfectly straight line. They are un- questionably of a morainic nature, and yet they are not moraines in the ordi- nary sense of the term, but rather ridges of glacial drift heaped up in this singular form, as if they had been crowded together by some lateral pres- sure. Had they been accumulated and carried along upon the edge of a gla- cier, they could not be found in their present position. They differ also from moraines proper in their rounded ma- terials, containing many scratched and polished pebbles, while moraines are built chiefly of angular fragments of rocks. Neither can they have been accumulated by currents of water; for they occur in positions where any flood passing over the country, far from pro- ducing such an arrangement, must have swept them away, or at least have scat- tered them and ~destroyed their ridge- like character. They are, indeed, iden- tical with the hottom glacial drift, that is, with the materials collected beneath the present glaciers, and ground to a homogeneous paste by their pres- sure and onward movement. I would call such accumulations ground ;no- ralizes, that is, moraines formed com- pletely under the glacier, and resting immediately upon the rock or soil beneath. Of course, masses of drift below a great sheet of ice, moving steadily in the same direction over un- even, rocky surfaces, cannot preserve the same thickness throughout. Here and there the incumbent weight will press more heavily in one direction than in another, thus crowdinb the loose materials together, rolling them into ridges following mainly the direc- tion of. the movement. Occasionally such uneven pressure may drive these materials up, from either side, along 1867.] Glacial Phenomena in Maine. 215 the summit of a rocky ledge, or heap them at any height upon its slope. We have seen that the horsebacks, though uneven and winding, usually run from north to south ; but occa- sionally also they trend from east to west. This is the case where a morain- ic accumulation of loose materials may have been pushed forward, along the margin, in front of an extensive sheet of ice moving southward, and then left unchanged by the subsequent retreat northward of the whole mass. I con- ceive that such horsebacks, running east and west, may be compared to terminal moraines, which, as is well known, owe their origin to oscillations of the front end of a glacier, pushing forward a mass of loose materials, thus throw- ing it up into a transverse ridge, and then melting away to some point far- ther back. I have already shown, in previous articles, how such walls are constructed, often forming concentric ridges one within another, each of which marks a retreating step of the glacier. Sometimes the summit of the horsebacks is so broad and even that the country people consider them as natural roads, and build their high- ways along them. They are indeed oc- casionally so symmetrical that they have been taken for artificial Indian mounds. The most perfect one I have seen stretches through Lagrange town- ship, between Bangor and Mount Ka- tahdin, its direction being mainly from north to south. Leaving the horsebacks and the open country on the second day of our drive, we entered upon a more wooded re- gion, which brought us through the townships of Lagrange and Brownville, to the Ebeeme Mountains, at the foot of which the Katahdin Iron Works are situated. This is not only a very picturesque spot, but a most interest- ing locality with reference to glacial phenomena. To the north of the Iron Works there are two ranges of hills, one to the east, the more prominent masses of which are respectively known by the names of Horseback and Spruceback, ~vhile to the west corresponding sum- mits have heen christened the Iron Mountain and Chairback. These two ranges are separated by a depression called the Gulf at the foot of which, be- tween Horseback and Iron Mountain, there lies a little lake. Here a practised eye will at once detect the unmistakable action of a glacier in two successive periods of its history. In the directioa of Iron Mountain and the Chairback, one hundred feet and more above the level of the lake, may be seen old lateral moraines, more or less disintegrated, marking an ancient glacial level. At a much less height, indeed but little above the bottom of the valley, a mag- nificent crescent-shaped terminal mo- raine is thrown across the southern end of the lake. By this wall the waters drained from the whole val- ley are held back to form a lake, although the barrier is not perfectly impassable, for a little stream oozes through it, just in front. Evidently this moraine is an accumulation of loose materials, pressed forward by the great local glacier once filling the Gulf, at the time when the ice was circum- scribed within the limits of the valley itself. To the east and west of it there are, however, lateral moraines, resting on a much higher level, and showing the extraordinary thickness of the gla- cier at a still older period. This struc- ture is almost identical with that of the morainic accumulations in the trough holding the present glacier of the Upper Aar in Switzerland. At its extremity stands a large, crescent-shaped mo- raine, corresponding in size and form al- most exactly to that of the Katahdin Iron Works. The loose materials thrown on either side of the valley, to the right and left, extending in advance of the front moraine, and resting far above the present surface of the ice, may he compared to the higher lateral moraines of this ancient Maine glacier. In short, were the ice suddenly to disappear from the Alpine valley in which the Aar gla- cier lies, the rocky frame-work of loose fragments it has built around itself would be almost identical with that of the so- called Gulf at the Katahdin Iron Works. 216 Glacial Pkc;zomc;za iii Maine. [February, In both instances, the lateral moraines on a higher level indicate an earlier phase in the history of the glacier, when the ice was thicker; while the termi- nal moraine records the wasting of the glacier, until it occupied a much smaller area. As the Gulf is an interesting locality for the study of ancient glacial phenomena in Maine, I must point out its bearings with more precision, for the benefit of those who may care to ver- ify my statements by personal observa- tion. To the east of the hotel there is a knoll, on which stand the smelting works. This knoll itself forms a part of the moraine; but its character may be more distinctly appreciated from the shore of the lake, looking toward the smelting-works. In this position, the abrupt inner side of the crescent-shaped ~vail faces the observer. The traces of this local glacier in two successive phases of its existence are not more distinct than are those of the great ice-sheet in which all lesser gla- ciers were once merged, over the whole region. And not here alone. I have tracked its footsteps on its southern march from the Katahdin Iron Works to Bangor, and thence to the sea-shore. Every natural surface of rock is scored by its writing, and even the tops of the mountains attest, by their rounded and polished summits, that they formed no obstacle to its advance. It has been assumed by some geologists, and espe- cially by Sir Charles Lyell, that the ice- period was initiated by the spread of local glaciers from special centres. The particular character of the more exten- sive glacial phenomena satisfies me, on the contrary, that they must have pre- ceded in course of time all mere local glaciers, and that the latter are but the remnants of the great ice-sheet linger- ing longer in higher and more protect- ed valleys. From the evidence we have of its thickness and extent, such a mass of ice advancin~ over the country would have swept away all evidences of local glaciers. all morainic accumu- lations previously formed. I therefore infer that the local phenomena were the latest in time, and consequent upon the shrinking of the larger continuous ice-sheet. It is my belief that the ice- period set in, as our winters now do, only upon a gi~antic scale, by snow- falls, and that it faded as do our win- ters, leaving focal patches of ice wher- ever the temperature was favorable to their preservation. I may say, without exaggeration, that glacial phenomena extend over the whole length and breadth of the State of Maine, wherever there is no obvious cause for their disappearance. One word of explanation, that this asser- tion of their omnipresence may not seem overdrawn to those who follow me over the same ground, expecting, perhaps, to find the glacial writing at every step along the roadside, and to see the polished surfaces as shin- ing and slippery as a metallic plate or a marble slab. In the first place, all kinds of rock do not admit the same de- gree of polish. Coarse and friable sand- stone cannot be polished under any cir- cumstances. Only the finer granitic rocks retain the strke and the polished surfaces very distinctly, in this region; and even upon these they are frequently hidden by the accumulation of soil, or occasionally obliterated by decay, where the rock is not hard enough to resist the atmospheric influences. The loose ma- terials themselves,which have served as emery to grind down, polish, and groove the surface of the soil, may eventually become a screen to cover it from obser- vation. The skill of the geologist con- sists in tracing these marks from spot to spot over surfaces where they were. once continuous. When I say that I followed the ~ lacial marks, compass in hand, from north to south, over a line a hundred miles in length, I do not mean that I never lost sight of thei for that distance; but simply that one set of lines, which always ran due north and south, unless deflected, as we shall see, by some local cause, usually ex- plicable on the spot, might be traced at intervals over all the rocky urfaces. If they disappeared under a stream on its northern shore, they reapoearccl on the southern side; if hidden for a time 1867.] by some mass of vegetation, they were found again farther on; and thus al- lowing for natural and inevitable in- terruptions it may be correctly said that they are continuous over the whole country. The glaciated surfaces to express in one word the combined ac- tion of glaciers on the rocks over which they move present the most varied outlines, sometimes flat, sometimes bulging, with inclined slopes. But whether more or less prominent, they are always rounded, dome-shaped, and the larger furrows, like the smaller stri~ and grooves, are invariably straight. Never do we find winding, branching furrows determined by the inequalities in the hardness of the rock, or by pre- existing fissures, as is the case wher- ever rocks are worn by water, or rather by sand and pebbles set in motion by water. While upon the subject of glacial phenomena in general, and in order not to interrupt too frequently the ac- count of my own journey, I may here enumerate some of the localities in the State of Maine where glacial marks are most distinct. They are so numer- ous, that I must limit myself to those where the traces are most remarkable. To the east of Portland there are a num- her of ledges where they are well pre- served, and they exist also upon some rocky surfaces in the islands of the bay. Rocky ledges occur frequently between Yarmouth and Lewiston, the surface of which is polished and scratched from north to south. These ledges are partly covered by morainic accumula- tions. West of Lewiston, along the Little Androscoggin, there is a coarse clay slate distinctly scratched in the same way. To the east of Lewiston, along Lake Winthrop, there are sur- faces of clay slate intersected by green- stone dikes exhibiting also the char- acteristic markings ; and an immense median moraine in the same locality cannot escape notice. A few miles to the west of West Waterville a terminal or front moraine is thrown across the neck of the lake, forming a barrier to which this sheet of water owes its 217 existence. Half-way between Water- yule and West Waterville are fine polished and striated surfaces. At Clinton, as also between Etna and Newport, the marks are very distinct. In all these localities the lines run due north and south. To the west of Bangor the country is rolling and rather flat. Here the -rockes mouton- ;ues are numerous, with polished sur- faces, upon which the scratches and grooves are very distinct, but bearing generally north-northwest, over beds of slaty rock striking northeast. These rocks are partially covered by drift, in which scratched pebbles are not rare, though it contains but few large boul- ders. In the immediate neighborhood of Bangor, and especially near Pushaw Lake, the rocizes moutounfes are very extensive, and, from their character, particularly instructive. These roll- ing hills are formed by thin upturned clay-slate beds, standing edgewise, in a vertical position, and striking east- northeast. Scratches, grooves, and fur- rows of every dimension, sometimes very distinct, sometimes fainter, but always rectilinear and always running due north, traverse the edges of these beds at right angles with the surfaces of stratification and the trend of the beds. It is evident that here there can be no confounding of the glacial marks with structural lines, or cracks in the strata, for these would not run at right angles with the structure of the rock itself; or with furrows made by water, for these would have followed the strata instead of crossing them; or with any displacement of the beds moving upon one another, a sugges- tion which has sometimes been made to explain the appearance of these marks upon horizontal surfaces. Nor is there any trace of the angular ledges which must have resulted from the tilting of these stratified rocks. The whole region is levelled and smoothed down to an undulating plain. While investigating the facts in this lo- cality, I could not but recall the criticism of the greatest geologist of the age * Leopold von Buch. Glacial Pl~euzorncna i~z M~ liw. 218 Glacial Phenomena in Maine. [February, upon the glacial theory, then in its in- fancy; and the ridicule thrown upon the idea that the polished and scratched rocks of the valley of Hash had been fashioned by ice. He considered these appearances as the natural effects of the shrinking of melted masses under the process of cooling, which might pro- duce some displacement or movement of successive layers one upon another, leading to marks of different kinds be- longing to the structure of the rock it- self; and not due to any external action. Had the strata in this instance been vertical in their position, like those of which the roclies moutoizuies on Pu- shaw Lake consist, instead of slanting but slightly, like those of the valley of Hash, such an interpretation could not have been admitted for a moment, and the doctrine of a former greater exten- sion of glaciers would perhaps have been recognized twenty-five years ear- her by scientific men. From Bangor eastward to Eastport, I have made but a hasty survey, not in the present journey, which included only the country between the Katah- din Iron Works and Mount Desert, hut on a former occasion. I then noticed, that, at intervals, between Bangor and Calais and over the whole track from Calais to Eastport, numerous polished surfaces are visible, with distinct scratches and furrows pointing due north. I may say, therefore, from my own personal observation, that the State of Maine, for nearly its whole width, that is, over four degrees of lon- gitude, and between latitude 44~ and 45~, bears all the characteristic indica- tions of glacial action on its surface. But while many of these phenomena are perfectly simple and clear to one intimately acquainted with the effects produced by moving masses of ice, I have noticed near Bangor, and more especially in the neighborhood of Wa- terville, facts not so readily explained, though I believe I have found their true solution. Ordinarily all the glacial marks in a given locality run in one direction, and have certainly been pro- duced simultaneously by one and the same agent, l~owever opinions may differ as to the nature of that agent. But on Ledge Hill, five and a half miles from Bangor, faint strire maybe seen pointing due north, while upon the same slab are other lines pointing northwest, forming an angle of forty-five degrees with the first. I believe that here we have two successive sets of lines, the later ones having partially obliterated the first. The height of the ridge may have determined a change in the course of the ice, when it had di- minished in thickness, and no longer acted with the same undeviating force. At Waterville the facts are still more perplexing. On the road to Benton, neax~ the house of G. W. Drummond, are slaty rocks striking northeast, upon the surface of which are again two sets of marks, one consisting of large, distinct scratches and furrows trending due north, while the others are finer, less distinct, and point east-northeast. On the road to Winslow, near the house of Henry Gichell, the same two systems of scratches may be seen on fiat slabs of rock along the roadside. From the formation of the land in this region, I am inclined to believe the second agent namely, that to which the scratches bearing east should be ascribed to have been icebergs. There is high land two or three miles beyond these rocky surfaces, in Benton township; and the fiat over which the Sebasticook River flows extends to these heights. The ice is likely to have remained longer upon the high- er ground, and when the lower tracts were inundated by the melting of the general sheet of ice, the water, as it rose, may have floated off the remain- ing bergs, and drifted them across the normal primary scratches bearing due north. On our return from the Katahdin Iron Works our road lay through Brownville, Orneville, Bradford, Hud- son, and then along the shore of Pu- shaw Lake, to Bangor. Throughout this whole tract scratched and polished surfaces and roches mouton;z6es are fre- quent. But the most instructive lo 1867.] Glacial Phenomena in .Afaine. 219 calities of all, in reference to glacial phenomena, are to be found near the slate quarries of Brownville. Here again, as in the roches rnouto;zn~es at Pushaw Lake, the marks run at right angles with the trend and dip of the beds. To explain fully the signifi- cance of the facts in this region, I must say something of its general formation. Pleasant River runs through a wide, open valley, the direction of which is very nearly from north to south. The finely laminated clay beds in which the slate quarries are excavated are lifted to an angle of seventy degrees and more, that is, standing almost vertically; and their trend is across the valley from east to west, at right angles with it. More favorable circumstances for the study of glacial erosion could hardly be found. On comparing the marks and polished surfaces which pass at right angles over the edges of these up- turned slate beds in the bottom of the valley as well as upon its sides, they are found to have exactly the same direction due north as the valley itselg so that evidently the agent which pro- duced them must have been instru- mental in shaping this trough, as it moved down the valley, before it could follow its path unimpeded by any in- equalities of surface. Had it been a fluid mass, it would have fitted itself to the lay of the land: it would have followed the vertical edges of the strata, working its way in between them, instead of cutting them all to one evenly rounded surface, as it has done. And indeed it would seem as if this place were meant to facilitate the task of the investigator. It presents the data for an immediate comparison be- tween the action of water and that of ice, the limit of the former being dis- tinctly visible in the narrow furrow at the bottom of the ~alley in which the river has cut its bed. This furrow is sunk somewhat below the general undulating level of the slate beds, and upon its surface there is no trace of rectilinear lines and grooves, but simply the usual irregular, winding marks arising from the action of running water, and follow- ing all the structural inequalities. The valley as a whole is a rather shallow depression, sinking a little more sharply toward the centre, and rising gradually east and west of the river-banks. The whole rock surface, with the exception of the river-bed, is glaciated, and it is impossible to overlook the fact that the same agent which has fashioned the bot- tom of the valley up to the adjoining hills has also grooved and scratched, at right angles with their structure, the up- turned beds trending across it. The absence of angular ledges in a region exclusively composed of uplifted slaty rocks is x~ry remarkable. Facts like these show that a careful survey may furnish the means of actually meas- uring the extent of denudation or abra- sion resulting from the grinding power of glaciers. They may even settle the question as to the origin of lake-basins now under discussion among geolo- gists. The extensive excavations made by the quarrying operations in these rocks give the most admirable chan- ces for investigation. These slates are themselves of admirable quality, and very extensively used as roofing-slates. About a mile to the west of the quar- ries, near Merrill, there are large mo- rainic accumulations of loose materials of the kind I have called bottom or ground moraines, though here they are not exactly in the form of horsebacks. Immediately above the quarries at Brownville, where the drift has been recently removed to facilitate the quar- rying, there are good sections where these bottom moraines, trending in the direction of the hills to the east of the valley, may be easily studied. They rest immediately upon the edges of the upturned beds, the whole mass being a mixture of the most heterogeneous rocky materials uniformly mixed. No- where in this neighborhood have I seen anything like a distinct lateral moraine; but near the church, an un- mistakable terminal moraine, across which the river has cut its bed, spans the valley. The exhibition of glacial phenomena is so complete here, that it seems superfluous to follow similar facts 220 Forza Maggzore~ [February, through localities where, owing to the character of the rocks and the lay of the land, they are less distinct. As, how- ever, the extent over which the same set of phenomena may be traced forms an important part of the inquiry, I may indicate a few other points at which similar appearances occur. On the summit of the hill half-way between Brownville and Milo, near the Sebec River, the scratches and furrows are distinctly seen trending due north and south. They recur, after crossing the ferry, on the brow of another hill farther to the south. Between Orneville and North Bradford there are extensive flats, on which the rocks, wherever they are not decomposed, exhibit even and polished surfaces traversed by recti- linear grooves and furrows, trendin~ mainly from north to south, though here and there diver~ing to the west, and even forming occasionally an angle of from twenty to twenty-five degrees with the main set of lines. Farther south, as the land begins to rise again, all the marks point once more uniform- ly northward. To the north and south of the town of Hudson, and especially near the post-office, the scratches are very distinct, bearing due north across slaty rocks, which trend east - north- east. The views from the high lands over all this region are very beautiful. OLammon, the Peaked Mountains, and the Union River Mountains limit the horizon in the east; Dixs Mountain rises in the distance on the west; while the Katahdin Mountains are still visible far to the north. FORZA MAGGIO RE. I IMAGINE that Grossetto is not a town much known to travel, for it is absent from all the guide-books I have looked at. However, it is chief in the Maremma, where sweet Pia de Tolom- mei languished and perished of the poi- sonous air and her loves cruelty, and where, so ~many mute centuries since, the Etrurian cities flourished and fell. Further, one may say that Grossetto is on the diligence road from Civita Vecchia to Leghorn, and that in the very heart of the place there is a lovely palm-tree, rare, if not sole, in that lati- tude. This palm stands in a well- sheltered, dull little court, out of every- things way, and turns tenderly toward the wall that shields it on the north. It has no other company but a beauti- ful young girl, who leans out of a win- dow high over its head, and I have no doubt talks with it. At the moment we discovered the friends ,the maiden was looking pathetically to the north- ward, while the palm softly stirred and opened its plumes, as a bird does when his song is finished; and there is very little question but it had just been sing- ing to her that song of which the palms are so fond, Em Fichtenbaum steht einsam Im Norden auf kahier hCh. Grossetto does her utmost to hide the secr~t of this trees existence, as if a hard, matter-of-fact place ought to be ashamed of a sentimentality of the kind. It pretended to be a very worldly town, and tried to keep us in the neigh- borhood of its cathedral, where the cafis and shops are, and where, in the even- ing, four or five officers of the garrison clinked their sabres on the stones, and promenaded up and down, and .s many ladies shopped for gloves, and as many citizens sat at the principal ccifi and drank black coffee. This was lively enough; and we knew that the citizens were talking of the last weeks news and the Roman question; that the ladies were really looking for loves, not gloves ; that such of the officei-s as had no local intrigue to kee p their

W. D. Howells Howells, W. D. Forza Maggiore 220-227

220 Forza Maggzore~ [February, through localities where, owing to the character of the rocks and the lay of the land, they are less distinct. As, how- ever, the extent over which the same set of phenomena may be traced forms an important part of the inquiry, I may indicate a few other points at which similar appearances occur. On the summit of the hill half-way between Brownville and Milo, near the Sebec River, the scratches and furrows are distinctly seen trending due north and south. They recur, after crossing the ferry, on the brow of another hill farther to the south. Between Orneville and North Bradford there are extensive flats, on which the rocks, wherever they are not decomposed, exhibit even and polished surfaces traversed by recti- linear grooves and furrows, trendin~ mainly from north to south, though here and there diver~ing to the west, and even forming occasionally an angle of from twenty to twenty-five degrees with the main set of lines. Farther south, as the land begins to rise again, all the marks point once more uniform- ly northward. To the north and south of the town of Hudson, and especially near the post-office, the scratches are very distinct, bearing due north across slaty rocks, which trend east - north- east. The views from the high lands over all this region are very beautiful. OLammon, the Peaked Mountains, and the Union River Mountains limit the horizon in the east; Dixs Mountain rises in the distance on the west; while the Katahdin Mountains are still visible far to the north. FORZA MAGGIO RE. I IMAGINE that Grossetto is not a town much known to travel, for it is absent from all the guide-books I have looked at. However, it is chief in the Maremma, where sweet Pia de Tolom- mei languished and perished of the poi- sonous air and her loves cruelty, and where, so ~many mute centuries since, the Etrurian cities flourished and fell. Further, one may say that Grossetto is on the diligence road from Civita Vecchia to Leghorn, and that in the very heart of the place there is a lovely palm-tree, rare, if not sole, in that lati- tude. This palm stands in a well- sheltered, dull little court, out of every- things way, and turns tenderly toward the wall that shields it on the north. It has no other company but a beauti- ful young girl, who leans out of a win- dow high over its head, and I have no doubt talks with it. At the moment we discovered the friends ,the maiden was looking pathetically to the north- ward, while the palm softly stirred and opened its plumes, as a bird does when his song is finished; and there is very little question but it had just been sing- ing to her that song of which the palms are so fond, Em Fichtenbaum steht einsam Im Norden auf kahier hCh. Grossetto does her utmost to hide the secr~t of this trees existence, as if a hard, matter-of-fact place ought to be ashamed of a sentimentality of the kind. It pretended to be a very worldly town, and tried to keep us in the neigh- borhood of its cathedral, where the cafis and shops are, and where, in the even- ing, four or five officers of the garrison clinked their sabres on the stones, and promenaded up and down, and .s many ladies shopped for gloves, and as many citizens sat at the principal ccifi and drank black coffee. This was lively enough; and we knew that the citizens were talking of the last weeks news and the Roman question; that the ladies were really looking for loves, not gloves ; that such of the officei-s as had no local intrigue to kee p their 1867.] Forz .Zllaggiore. 221 bearts at rest were terribly bored, and longed for Florence or Milan or Turin. Besides the social charms of her piazza, Grossetto put forth others of an artistic nature. The cathedral was very old and very beautiful, built of alternate lines of red and white marble, and lately restored in the best spirit of fidelity and reverence. But it was not open, and we were obliged to turn from it to the group of statuary in the middle of the piazza, representative of the Maremma and Family returning thanks to the Grand-Duke Leopold III. of Tuscany, for his goodness in causing her swamps to be drained. The Ma- remma and her children are arrayed in the scant draperies of Allegory, but the Grand-Duke is fully dressed, and is shown looking down with some sur- prise at their figures, and with a visi- ble doubt of the propriety of their pub- lic appearance in that state. There was also a Museum at Gros- setto, and I wonder what was in it? The wall of the town was perfect yet, though the moat at its feet had been so long dry that it was only to be known from the adjacent fields by the richness of its soil. The top of the wall had been levelled, and planted with shade, and turned into a peace- ful promenade, like most of such me- di~val defences in Italy; though I am not sure that a little military life did not still linger about a bastion here and there. From somexvhere, when we strolled out early in the morning, to walk upon the wall, there came to us a throb of drums ; but I believe that the only armed men we saw, beside the of- ficers in the piazza, were the numerous sportsmen resorting at that season to Grossetto for the excellent shooting in the marshes. All the way to Florence we continued to meet them and their dogs; and our inn at Grossetto over- flowed with abundance of game. On the kitchen floor and in the court were heaps of larks, pheasants, quails, and beccafichi, at which a troop of scul- lion-boys constantly plucked, and from which the great, noble, beautiful, white aproned cook forever fried, stewed, broiled, and roasted. We lived chiefly upon these generous birds during our sojourn, and found, when we attempted to vary our bill of fare, that the very genteel waiter attending us had few distinct ideas beyond them. He was part of the repairs and improvements which that hostelry had recently under- gone, and had evidently come in with the four-pronged forks, the chromo- lithographs of Victor Emmanuel, Gari- baldi, Solferino, and Magenta in the large dining-room, and the iron stove in the small one. He had nothing, evidently, in common with the brick floors of the bedchambers, and the an- cient rooms with great fireplaces. He strove to give a Florentine blandish- ment to the rusticity of life in the Ma- remma; and we felt sure that he must know what beefsteak was. When we ordered it, he assumed to be perfectly conversant with it, started to bring it, paused, turned, and, with a great sac- rifice of personal dignity, demanded, B fsleca di mcinzo, o bfstecez di mo- /one ? Beefsteak of beef, or beef- steak of mutton? Of Grossetto proper, this is all I re- member, if I except a boy whom I heard singing after dark in the streets, Camicia%ossa, 0 Garibaldi The cause of our sojourn there was an instance of forzc~ maggiore, as the agent of the diligence company defiant- ly expressed it,in refusing us damages for our overturn into the river. It was in the early part of that winter when the railways in every part of the Penin- ~ula had been more or less interrupted by the storms and floods predicted of Matthieu de la Dr6me, the only re- liable prophet France has produced since Voltaire ; and if the accident was caused by an overruling Provi- dence, the company, according to the very law of its existence, was not re- sponsible. To be sure, we did not see how an overruling Providence was to blame for loading upon our dili- gence the baggage of two, or for the clumsiness of our driver; but, on the other hand, it is certain that the com- pany did not make it rain or cause the 222 Forza Maggiore. [February, inundation. And, in fine, we were mas- ters to have taken the steamer instead of the diligence at Civita Veechia. The choice of either of these means of travel had presented itself in vivid hues of disadvantage all the way from Rome to the Papal port, where the French steamer for Leghorn lay dan- cing a hornpipe upon the short, chop- ping waves, while we approached by railway. We had leisure enough to make the decision, if that was all we wanted. Our engine-driver had derived his ideas of progress from an Encyc- lical Letter, and the train gave every promise of arriving at Civita Veccbia five hundred years behind time. But such was the desolating and depress- ing influence of the weather and the landscape, that we reached Civita Vec- chia as undecided as we bad left Rome. On the one hand, there had been the land, soaked and sodden, wild, shag- ged with scrubby growths of timber and brooded over by sullen clouds, and visibly inhabited only by shepherds, leaning upon their staves at an angle of forty-five degrees, and looking, in their immovable dejection, with their legs wrapped in long-haired goat-skins, like satyrs that had been converted, and were trying to do right: turning dim faces to us, they warned us with every mute appeal against the land, as a waste of mud from one end of Italy to the other. On the other hand, there was the sea-wind raving about our train and threatening to blow it over, and, whenever we drew near the coast, heaping the waves upon the beach in thundering menace. We weakly and fearfully remembered our former journeys by diligence over broken railway routes ; we recalled our cruel voyage from Genoa to Naples by sea; and in a state of pitiable dismay we ate five francs worth of indigestion at the restaurant of the Civita Vecchia station before we knew it, and long be- fore we had made up our minds. Still we might have lingered and hesitated, and perhaps returned to Rome at last, but for the dramatic resolution of the old man who solicited passengers for the diligence, and carried their pass- ports for a final Papal visct at the po- lice-office. By the account he gave of himself, he was one of the best men in the world, and unique in those parts for honesty and truthfulness; and he besought us, out of that affectionate interest with which our very aspect had inspired him, not to go by steamer, but to go by diligence, which in nine- teen hours would land us safe, and ab- solutely refreshed by the journey, at the railway station in Follonica. And now, once, would we go by diligence? twice, would we go? three times, would we go? Signore, said our benefactor, an- grily, I lose my time with you; and ran away, to be called back in the course of destiny, as he knew well enough, and besoub ht to take us as a special favor. From the passports he learned that there was official dignity among us, and addressed the unworthy bearer of pub- lic honors as Eccellenza, and, at parting, bequeathed his advantage to the con- ductor, commending us all in set terms to his courtesy. He hovered caress- ingly about us as lon~ as we remained, straining politeness to do us some last little service ; and when the diligence rolled away, he did all that one man could to give us a round of applause. We laughed together at this silly old man, when out of sight; but we con- fessed that, if travel in our own country ever came, with advancing corruption, to be treated with the small deceits practised upon it in Italy, it was not likely to be treated with the small civilities also there attendant on it, and so tried to console ourselves. At the moment of departure, we were surprised to have enter the diligence a fellow-countryman, whom we had first seen on the road from Naples to Rome. He had since crossed our path with that iteration of travel which brings you again and again in view of the same trunks and the same tourists in the round of Europe, and finally at Civita Vecchia he had turned up a silent spec- tator of our scene with the agent of the diligence, and had apparently gone off a confirmed passenger by steamer. Per- 1867.] Forzcz Mciggiore. haps a nearer view of the sailors horn- pipe, as danced by that vessel in the harbor, shook his resolution. At any rate, here he was again, and with his ticket for Follonica, a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked man, and we will say a citizen of Portland, though he was not. For the first time in our long acquaint- ance with one anothers faces, we en- tered into conversation, and wondered whether we should find brigands or anything to eat on the road, without much expectation of finding either. In respect of robbers, we were not dis- appointed; but shortly after nightfall we stopped at a lonely post-house to change horses, and found that the land- lord had so far counted on our appear- ance as to have, just roasted and fra- grantly fuming, a leg of lamb, with cer- tain small fried fish, and a sufficiency of bread. It was a very lonely place, as I say; the sky was gloomy over- head; and the wildness of the land- scape aH about us gave our provision quite a gamy flavor; and brigands could have added nothing to our sense of solitude. The road creeps along the coast for some distance from Civita Vecchia within hearing of the sea, and nowhere widely forsakes it, I believe, all the way to Follonica. The country is hilly, and we stopped every two hours to change horses; at which times we looked out, and, seeing that it was a gray and windy night, though not rainy, exulted that we had not taken the steamer. With very little change, the wisdom of our decision in favor of the diligence formed the burden of our talk during the whole night; and to think of eluded sea-sick- ness requited us in the agon yofour break-neck efforts to catch a little sleep, as, mounted upon our nightmares, we rode steeple-chases up and down the highways and by-ways of horror. Any- thing that absolutely awakened us was accounted a blessing; and I remember few things in life with so keen a pleas- ure as the summons that came to us to descend from our places and cross a river in one boat, while the two dili- gences of our train followed in another. 223 Here we had time to see our fellow-pas- sengers, as the pulsating light of their cigars illumined their faces, and to dis- cover among them that Italian, common to all large companies, who speaks Eng- lish, and is very eager to practise it with you, who is such a benefactor if you do not know his own language, and such a bore if you do. After this, being landed, it was rapture to stroll up and down the good road, and feel it hard and real under our feet, and not an abysmal impalpability, while all the grim shapes of our dreams fled to the spectral line of small boats sus- taining the ferry-barge, and swaying slowly from it as the drowned men at their keels tugged them against the tide. S accommodino, Szgnori/ cries the cheerful voice of the conductor, and we ascend to our places in the diligence. The nightmares are brought out again we mount, and renew the steeple-chase as before. Suddenly, it all comes to an end, and we sit wide awake in the diligence, amid a silence only broken by the hiss of rain against the windows, and the sweep of gusts upon the roof. The dili- gence stands still; there is no rattle of harness, nor other sound to prove that we have arrived at the spot by other means than dropping from the clouds. The idea that we are passengers in the last diligence destroyed before the Del- uge, and are now waiting our fate on the highest ground accessible to wheels, fades away as the day dimly breaks, and we find ourselves planted, as the Italians say, on the banks of another river. There is no longer any visible conductor, the horses have been spir- ited away, the driver has vanished. The rain beats and beats upon the roof, and begins to drop through upon us in great, wrathful tears, while the river before us rushes away with a mo- p~ently swelling flood. Enter now from the depths of the storm a number of rainy peasants, with our conductor and driver perfectly waterlogged, and group themselves on the low, muddy shore, near a fiat ferry-barge, evidently want- 224 ing but a hint of forzo ma~gg ore to go down with anything put into it. A moment they dispute in pantomime, sending now and then a windy tone of protest and expostulation to our ears, and then they drop into a motionless silence, and stand there in the tempest, not braving it, but en during it with the pathetic resignation of their race, as if it were some form of hopeless political oppression. At last comes the conduc- tor to us, and says, It is impossible for our diligences to cross in the boat, and he has sent for others to meet us on the opposite shore. He expected them long before this, but we see! They are not come. Patience and malediction! Remaining planted in these unfriend- lv circumstances from four oclock till ten, we have still the effrontery to be glad that we did not take the steamer. What a storm that must be at sea! When at last our connecting diligences appear on the other shore, we are al- most light-hearted, and make a jest of the Ombrone, as we perilously pass it in the ferry-boat too weak for our dili- gences. Between the landing and the vehicles there is a space of heavy mud to cross, and when we reach them we find the couj5J appointed us occupied by three young Englishmen, who insist that they shall be driven to the boat. With that graceful superiority which endears their nation to the world, and makes the travelling Englishman a uni- versal favorite, they keep the seats to which they have no longer any right, while the tempest drenches the ladies to whom the places belong; and it is only by the forza maggiore of our con- ductor that they can be dislodged. In the mean time the Portland man ex- changes with them the assurances of personal and national esteem, which that mighty bond of friendship, the lan- guage ,of Shakespeare and Milton, ena- bles us to offer so idiomatically to our Transatlantic cousins. What Grossetto was like, as we first rode through it, we scarcely looked to see. In four or five hours we should strike the railroad at Follonica; and we merely asked of intermediate places Forza Miaggiore. [February, that they should not detain us. We dined in Grossetto at an inn of the Larthian period, a cold inn and a damp, which seemed never to have been swept since the broom dropped from the grasp of the last Etrurian chambermaid, and we ate with the two-pronged iron forks of an extinct civilization. All the while we dined, a boy tried to kindle a fire to warm us, and beguiled his incessant failures with stories of inundation on the road ahead of us. But we believed him so little, that, when he said a certain stream near Grossetto was impassable, our company all but hissed him. When we left the town and hurried into the open country, we perceived that he had only too great reason to be an alarmist. Every little rill was risen, and boiling over with the pride of harm, and the broad fields lay hid under the yellow waters that here and there washed over the road. Yet the freshet only presented itself to us as a pleasant excitement; and even when we came to a place where the road itself was covered for a quarter of a mile, we scarcely looked outside the diligence to see how deep the water was. We were surprised when our horses were brou~ht to a stand on a rising ground, and the conductor, cap in hand, appeared at the door. He xvas a fat, well-natured man, full of a smiling good-will; and he stood before us in a radiant desperation. Would Eccellenza descend, look at the water in front, and decide whether to go on? The conductor desired to content; it displeased him to delay, ma, iii ~omma / the rest was con- fided to the conductors eloquent shoul- ders and eyebrows. Eccelleoza, descending, beheld but a disheartening prospect. On every hand the country was under water. The two diligences stood on a stone bridge spanning the stream, that, now swollen to an angry torrent, brawled over a hundred yards of the road before us. Beyond, the ground rose, and on its slope stood a farm-house up to its sec- ond story in water. Without the slight- est hope in his purpose, and merely ac 1867.] Forza Maggiore. 225 an experiment, Eccellenza suggested that a man should he sent in on horse- hack; which heing done, man and horse in a moment floundered into swimming depths. The conductor, vigilantly regarding Eccellenza, gave a great shrug of deso- lation. Eccellenza replied with a foreigners broken shrug, a shrug of sufficiently correct construction, hut wanting the tonic accent, as one may say, though ex- pressing, however imperfectly, an equal desolation. It appeared to he the part of wisdom not to go ahead, hut to go hack if we could; and we re-entered the water we had just crossed. It had risen a lit- tle, meanwhile, and the road could now he traced only by the telegraph-poles. The diligence hefore us went safely through; hut our driver, trusting rather to inspiration than precedent, did not follow it carefully, and directly drove us over the side of a small viaduct. All the baggage of the train having been lodged upon the roof of our diligence, the unwieldy vehicle now lurched heav- ily, hesitated, as if preparing, like C~- sar, to fall decently, and went over on its side, with a stately deliberation that gave us ample time to arrange our plans for getting out. The torrent was only some three feet deep, but it was swift and muddy, and it was with a fine sense of ship- wreck that Eccellenza felt his boots fill- ing with water, while a conviction that it would have been better, after all, to have taken the steamer, struck, coldly home to him. We opened the window in the top side of the diligence, and lift- ed the ladies through it, and the con- ductor, in the character of life - boat, bore them ashore ; while the driver cursed his horses in a sullen whisper, and could with difficulty be diverted from that employment to cut the lines and save one of them from drowning. Here our comoatriot, whose conver- sation with the Englishman at the Om- brone we had lately admired, showed traits of strict and severe method which afterwards came into bolder relief. The vOL. XIX.NO. 112. 15 ladies being rescued, he applied him- self to the rescue of their hats, cloaks, rubbers, muffs, books, and bags, and handed them up through the window with tireless perseverance, making an effort to wring or dry each article in turn. The other gentleman on top re- ceived them all rather grimly, and had not perhaps been amused by the situa- tion but for the exploit of his hat. It was of the sort called in Italian as in English slang a stove-pipe (canna), and, having been made in Italy, it was of course too large for its wearer. It had never been anything but a horror and reproach to him, and he was now inexpressibly delighted to see it steal out of the diligence in company with one of the red-leather cushions, and glide darkly down the flood. It nodded and nodded to the cushion with a su- perhuman tenderness and elegance, and had a preposterous air of whispering, as it drifted out of sight, It may be we shall reach the Happy Isles, It may he that the gulfe shall wash us down. The romantic interest of this episode had hardly died away, when our adven- ture acquired an idyllic flavor from the appearance on the scene of four peas- ants in an ox-cart. These the conduc- tor tried to engage to bring out the bag- gage and right the fallen diligence; and they, after making him a little speech upon the value of their health, which might be injured, asked him, tentative- ly, two hundred francs for the service. The simple incident taught us, that, if Italians sometimes take advantage of strangers, they are equally willing to prey upon each other; but I doubt if anything could have taught a loreigner the sweetness with which our conduc- tor bore the enormity, and turned qui- etly from those brigands to carry the Portland man from the wreck, on which he lingered, to the shore. Here in the gathering twilirht the passengers of both diligences grouped themselves, and made merry over the common disaster. As the conductor and the drivers brought off the lug- gage our spirits rose with the arrival of each trunk, and we were pleased 226 Forza Maggiore. [February, or not as we found it soaked or dry. We applauded and admired the great- er sufferers among us: a lady who opened a dripping box was felt to have perpetrated a pleasantry; and a Brazil- ian gentleman, whose luggage dropped to pieces and was scattered in the flood about the diligence, was looked upon as a very subtle humorist. Our own contribution to these witty pas- sages was the epigrammatic display of a reeking trunk full of the pretty rub- bish people bring away from Rome and Naples, copies of Pompeian frescos more ruinous than the originals; pho- tographs floating loose from their cards; little earthen busts reduced to the lump- ishness of common clay; Roman scarfs stained and blotted out of all memory of their recent hues ; Roman pearls clinging together in jelly-like, clammy masses. We were a band of brotbers and sis- ters, as we all crowded into one dili- gence and returned to Grossetto. Ar- rived there, our party, knowing that a public conveyance in Italy and every- where else always stops at the worst inn in a place, made bold to seek an- other, and found it without ado, though the person who undertook to show it spoke of it mysteriously and as of dif- ficult access, and tried to make the sim- ple affair as like a scene of grand opera as he could. We took one of the ancient rooms in which there was a vast fireplace, as already mentioned, and we there kin- dled such, a fire as could not have been known in that fuel-sparing land for ages. The drying of the clothes was an affair that drew out all the energy and method of our compatriot, and at a late hour we left him mov- ing about among the garments that dangled and dripped from pegs and hooks and lines, dealing with them as a physician with his sick, and tender- ly nursing his dress - coat, which he wrung and shook and smoothed and pulled this way and that with a never- satisfied anxiety. At midnight, he hired a watcher to keep up the fire and turn the steaming raiment, and, returning at four oclock, found his watcher dead asleep before the empty fireplace. But I rather applaud than blame the watch- er for this. He must have been a man of iron nerve to fall asleep amid all that phantasmal show of masks and disguis- es. What if those reekinb silks had forsaken their nails, and, decking them- selves with the blotted Roman scarfs and the slimy Roman pearls, had in- vited the dress-coats to look over the dripping photographs? Or if all those drowned garments had assumed the characters of the people whom they had grown to resemble, and had sat down to hear the ghost of Pia de Tolommel rehearse the story of her sad fate in the Maremma? I say, if a watcher could sleep in such company, he was right to do so. On the third day after our return to Grossetto, we gathered together our damaged effects, and packed them into refractory trunks. Then we held the customary discussion with the landlord concerning the effrontery of his ac- count, and drove off once more to- wards Follonica. We could scarcely recognize the route for the one we had recently passed over; and it was not until we came to the scene of our wreck, and found the diligence strand- ed high and dry upon the roadside, that we could believe the whole land- scape about us had been flooded three days before. The offendincr stream had shrunk back to its channel, and now seemed to feign an unconsciousness of its late excess, and had a virtuous air of not knowing how in the world to ac- count for that upturned diligence. The waters, we learned, had begun to sub- side the night after our disaster; and the vehicle might have been righted and drawn offfor it was not in the least injuredforty-eight hours pre- viously; but I suppose it was not en r?gle to touch it without orders from Rome. I picture it to myself still lying there, in the heart of the marshes, and thrilling sympathetic travel with the spectacle of its ultimate ruin: Disfecemi Maremma. 1867.] The Guerdon. 227 We reached Follonica at last, and then the cars hurried us to Leghorn. We were thoroughly humbled in spirit, and had no longer any doubt that we did ill to take the diligence at Civita Vecchia instead of the steamer; for we had been, not nineteen hours, but four days on the road, and we had suf- fered as afore mentioned. But we were destined to be par- tially restored to our self-esteem, if not entirely comforted for our losses, when we sat down to dinner in the Hotel Washington, and the urbane head-waiter, catching the drift of our English discourse, asked us, Have the signori heard that the French steamer, which left Civita Vec- chia the same day with their dili- gence, had to put back and lie in port forty - eight hours on account of the storm ? She is but now come into Leghorn, after a very dangerous pas- sage. THE GUERDON. A LAIN, the poet, fell asleep one day In the lords chamber, when it chanced the Queen With her twelve maids of honor passed that way, She like a slim white lily set between Twelve glossy leaves, for they were robed in green. A forest of gold pillars propped the roof, And from the heavy corbels of carved stone Yawned drowsy dwarfs, with satyrs face and hoof: Like one of those bright pillars overthrown, The slanted sunlight through the casement shone, Gleaming across the body of Alain, As if the airy column in its fall Had caught and crushed him. So the laughing train Came on him suddenly, and one and all Drew back, aifrighted, mid way in the hall. Like some huge beetle curled up in the sun Was this man lying in the noontide glare, Deformed, and hideous to look upon, With sunken eyes and masses of coarse hair, And sallow cheeks deep seamed with time and care. Forth from her maidens stood Queen Margaret: The royal blood up to her temples crept Like a wild vine with faint red roses set, As she across the pillared chamber swept, And, kneeling, kissed the poet while he slept.

T. B. Aldrich Aldrich, T. B. The Guerdon 227-228

1867.] The Guerdon. 227 We reached Follonica at last, and then the cars hurried us to Leghorn. We were thoroughly humbled in spirit, and had no longer any doubt that we did ill to take the diligence at Civita Vecchia instead of the steamer; for we had been, not nineteen hours, but four days on the road, and we had suf- fered as afore mentioned. But we were destined to be par- tially restored to our self-esteem, if not entirely comforted for our losses, when we sat down to dinner in the Hotel Washington, and the urbane head-waiter, catching the drift of our English discourse, asked us, Have the signori heard that the French steamer, which left Civita Vec- chia the same day with their dili- gence, had to put back and lie in port forty - eight hours on account of the storm ? She is but now come into Leghorn, after a very dangerous pas- sage. THE GUERDON. A LAIN, the poet, fell asleep one day In the lords chamber, when it chanced the Queen With her twelve maids of honor passed that way, She like a slim white lily set between Twelve glossy leaves, for they were robed in green. A forest of gold pillars propped the roof, And from the heavy corbels of carved stone Yawned drowsy dwarfs, with satyrs face and hoof: Like one of those bright pillars overthrown, The slanted sunlight through the casement shone, Gleaming across the body of Alain, As if the airy column in its fall Had caught and crushed him. So the laughing train Came on him suddenly, and one and all Drew back, aifrighted, mid way in the hall. Like some huge beetle curled up in the sun Was this man lying in the noontide glare, Deformed, and hideous to look upon, With sunken eyes and masses of coarse hair, And sallow cheeks deep seamed with time and care. Forth from her maidens stood Queen Margaret: The royal blood up to her temples crept Like a wild vine with faint red roses set, As she across the pillared chamber swept, And, kneeling, kissed the poet while he slept. 228 Recollections of 7okn Vanderlyn, the Artist. [Februar~ Then from her knees uprose the stately Queen, And, seeing her ladies titter, gan to frown With those great eyes wherein methinks were seen Lights that outfiashed the lustres in her crown, Great eyes that looked the shallow women down. Nay, not for love, t was like a sudden bliss, The full sweet measured music of her tongue, Nay, not for loves sake did I give the kiss, Not for his beauty who s nor fair nor young, But for the songs which those mute lips have sung! RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN VANDERLYN, THE ARTIST. THE visitor to the Rotunda, in the Capitol at Washington, sees, among the large historical pictures placed there by government, The Landing of Columbus, by Vander- lyn. In the Hall of Representatives is the full-length portrait of Washing- ton, by the same artist. These, with one in the City Hall in New York (I think, the full-length portrait of Presi- dent Monroe), are the only public works left to preserve alive the memory of one who, had he been careful of him- self and attentive to his profession, would have been without a superior among American artists. Vanderlyn was a ~rofe~ of Aaron Burr. He belonged to a Dutch fam- ily at Kingston, Ulster County, New York, where his father was a farmer. Near this place my father had a coun- try residence, at which I spent all my early summers; and it was to this cir- cumstance that I owed my acquaint- ance with Vanderlyn, who had returned thither after the ruin of his patron. When quite young, he was appren- ticed to a wagon-painter, and in his em- ployment remained until nearly twen- ty-one. Colonel Burr, in the day of his political and social elevation, when stopping at the tavern at Kingston, was shown some drawings by this country boy, in which he discovered the marks of genius. He sent for him, learned his condition and employment, and part- ed from him with the remark, When you wish to change your situation, put a clean shirt in your pocket, come to New York, and ask for Colonel Burr. The manner in which Vanderlyn availed himself of this invitation show- ed the eccentricity of genius. A few months afterwards, while Burr was at breakfast, a rough country boy present- ed himself at the door and asked to see him. The servant made some dif- ficulty about his admission, when he fairly forced his way into the breakfast- room. Instead of standing just inside the door, shuffling and bowing, as most boys in his situation would have done, he walked straight up to the table where Burr was breakfasting, pulled a coarse clean shirt from his pocket, and silent- ly laid it down before him. The action at once recalled to Burr his speech, and, taken perhaps in some measure by its oddity, he immediately adopted Van- derlyn as his ~rot4g~ Mr. Parton, in his Life of Burr, has given a modified account of this inci- dent. I give it as received from Van- derlyn himself. Every advantage was afforded the young artist in his profession, and he soon justified the good opinion of his patron. He was sent to Europe to

Bishop Kip Kip, Bishop Recollections of John Vanderlyn, the Artist 228-235

228 Recollections of 7okn Vanderlyn, the Artist. [Februar~ Then from her knees uprose the stately Queen, And, seeing her ladies titter, gan to frown With those great eyes wherein methinks were seen Lights that outfiashed the lustres in her crown, Great eyes that looked the shallow women down. Nay, not for love, t was like a sudden bliss, The full sweet measured music of her tongue, Nay, not for loves sake did I give the kiss, Not for his beauty who s nor fair nor young, But for the songs which those mute lips have sung! RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN VANDERLYN, THE ARTIST. THE visitor to the Rotunda, in the Capitol at Washington, sees, among the large historical pictures placed there by government, The Landing of Columbus, by Vander- lyn. In the Hall of Representatives is the full-length portrait of Washing- ton, by the same artist. These, with one in the City Hall in New York (I think, the full-length portrait of Presi- dent Monroe), are the only public works left to preserve alive the memory of one who, had he been careful of him- self and attentive to his profession, would have been without a superior among American artists. Vanderlyn was a ~rofe~ of Aaron Burr. He belonged to a Dutch fam- ily at Kingston, Ulster County, New York, where his father was a farmer. Near this place my father had a coun- try residence, at which I spent all my early summers; and it was to this cir- cumstance that I owed my acquaint- ance with Vanderlyn, who had returned thither after the ruin of his patron. When quite young, he was appren- ticed to a wagon-painter, and in his em- ployment remained until nearly twen- ty-one. Colonel Burr, in the day of his political and social elevation, when stopping at the tavern at Kingston, was shown some drawings by this country boy, in which he discovered the marks of genius. He sent for him, learned his condition and employment, and part- ed from him with the remark, When you wish to change your situation, put a clean shirt in your pocket, come to New York, and ask for Colonel Burr. The manner in which Vanderlyn availed himself of this invitation show- ed the eccentricity of genius. A few months afterwards, while Burr was at breakfast, a rough country boy present- ed himself at the door and asked to see him. The servant made some dif- ficulty about his admission, when he fairly forced his way into the breakfast- room. Instead of standing just inside the door, shuffling and bowing, as most boys in his situation would have done, he walked straight up to the table where Burr was breakfasting, pulled a coarse clean shirt from his pocket, and silent- ly laid it down before him. The action at once recalled to Burr his speech, and, taken perhaps in some measure by its oddity, he immediately adopted Van- derlyn as his ~rot4g~ Mr. Parton, in his Life of Burr, has given a modified account of this inci- dent. I give it as received from Van- derlyn himself. Every advantage was afforded the young artist in his profession, and he soon justified the good opinion of his patron. He was sent to Europe to RecoiZections of Yohn Vanderlyn, the Artist. remain for several years, and returned in i8oi, at which time Burr thus men- tions him in a letter to Thomas Mor- ris: Mr. Vanderlyn, the young paint- er from Esopus, who went about six years ago to Paris, has recently re- turned, having improved his time and talents in a manner that does very great honor to himself; his friends, and his country. From some samples which he has left here, he is pro- nounced to be the first painter that now is or ever has been in America.~~ It was at this time that he painted the portraits of Colonel Burr and his daughter (both profile likenesses) from which are copied the engravings pre- fixed to Daviss Life of Burr. Van- derlyn, writes Burr to his daughter, December zt, 1802, has finished your picture in the most beautiful style im- aginable. - When his patron was compelled to flee to Europe, in iSo8, Vanderlyn was there, and remained faithful when all the rest of the world seemed to have abandoned the fallen statesman. He shared his poverty, and was the only in- dividual who fully knew the secret his- tory of those days. When Burr was in humble lodgings in London, at eight shillings a week, and when, we are told by his biographer, one American friend only was admitted to the secret, Vanderlyn was undoubtedly the one. He was always exceedingly chary of speaking of those times, particularly when the information was wanted for the press. Just after Burrs death, a writer in New York got up a popular- ized biography of him (long since for- gotten), and called on Vanderlyn for materials, but could extract no infor- mation from him. But, said the writer, tell me some- thing about Burrs private life. You had better let Burrs private life alone, was Vanderlyns significant reply. He once told me that Burr, while they were in Paris, got him to draw a picture of a rock in the ocean, with the waves wildly dashing about it, sur- rounded by the motto, Nothing moves me. He wished to have it engraved for a seal, and Vanderlyn says it was perfectly illustrative of Burrs charac- ter. I have heard, indeed, from one of Burrs friends, that it was a favorite saying of Burr, Accept the inevita- ble without repining. It condensed into a short sentence the philosophy of his life. Another little story which Vanderlyn once told me, has often occurred to me during life, when wondering how peo- ple could have the conscience to do different things. While with Vander- lyn in France, Burr one day wanted him to do something from which he rather shrank, when the following con- versation took place. V. The fact is, Colonel, I cant do it; my conscience wont let me. B. Pooh! pooh! have nt other people consciences, too? V. Yes,Colonel, but not all of the same kind. When Burr returned to America, in 1812, after his exile, he suddenly ap- peared in New York, and this gener- ation cannot imagine how the city was electrified one morning by the brief notice in the paper: Aaron Burr has returned to the city, and resumed the practice of the law at Nassau Street. At that time the community could not imagine how he reached New York. Vanderlyn once told me the story of this return,of Burrs struggles in Europe, of his departure from France, and of his voyage home under the name of Arnot. He and Vanderlyn were in Paris together, and were both, as usual, entirely out of funds, (Burr writes in his journal, presque sans sous,) when Vander- lyn negotiated with three gentlemen to furnish Burr with the passage-money, and painted their portraits in payment. Mr. Parton gives an account of Burrs borrowing money in Paris for this pur- pose. In i8o7, the Emperor Napoleon of- fered a gold medal for the best origi- nal picture at the Exhibition of the Louvre, for the following year. Van- derlyn was then in Rome, where he 1867.1 229 230 Recollections of ~7~ohn Veinderlyn, the Artist. [February, painted his great picture of Marius on the Ruins of Carthage, and sub- mitted it for the prize. There were twelve hundred pictures exhibited by European artists, but the Marius took the medal. Napoleon himself is said to have been exceedingly struck with the gran- deur of its design. He was anxious indeed to become the purchaser of the picture, and to have it placed perma- nently in the Louvre; but Vanderlyn declined, as he wished to carry it to his own country. It is stated that the Emperor passed through the gallery, accompanied by the Baron Denon and his artistic staff, and inspected all the pictures. Then he walked quickly back to the Marius, and bringing down his forefinger, as he pointed to it, said, in his usual rapid way, Give the medal to that! After the peace of i8i~, Vanderlyn brought the picture to America, and when it had been exhibited for some time in our Atlantic cities, the painter, failing in his hopes of founding a great public ~,allery, (for at that time there was little taste for art in our country,) sold it to the late Leonard Kip, Esq., of New York. In the correspondence on this subject, Mr. Kip said, in one of his let- ters: The principal reason which in- duces me to make this offer for it is, that it is not only the work of an American artist, but of one who is a descendant, like myself, of a Dutchman, and one of the old settlers of the country. In his reply, Vanderlyn writes: I prefer that the picture should belong to a public gallery. If I fail, I am not aware that I can place it in better hands, with ref- erence to individuals, than your own, or where the same flattering considera- tions in behalf of the author would be entertained, considerations which have their full value with an artist of f/ic Dutck school. The work is intended to represent Marius, when, after his defeat by Sylla, and the desertion of his friends, he had taken refuge in Africa. He had just landed, when an officer came and thus addressed him: Marius, I come from the Pr~tor Sextilius, to tell you that he forbids you to set foot in Africa. If you obey not, he will support the Sen- ates decree, and treat you as the public enemy. Marius, struck dumb with indignation on hearing this, uttered not a word for some time, but regarded the officer with a menacing aspect. At length, being asked what answer should be carried to the governor, Go and tell him, said he, that thou hast seen Marius sitting on the ruins of Car- thage. Thus, in the happiest manner, he held up the fate of that city and his own as a warning to the Pra~tor. He sits, after having delivered this answer, with his toga just falling off his shoulders, and leaning on his short Roman sword. His helmet is at his feet; the ruins of Romes old rival are around him; and at a distance, through the arches of the aqueduct, are seen the blue wafers of the Medi- terranean. Under his left hand is the opening of one of those mighty sewers which now form the only remains of ancient Carthage, and at his right el- bow is an overthrown Phcenician altar, on which we can trace the sculptured ram s head and garlands. In the dis- tance is a temple, with one of its pillars fallen, while a fox is seen among the ruins in front of its portico. The figure of Marius was copied by Vanderlyn, in Rome, from one of the Popes guards, remarkable for his Herculean proportions, and the head was taken from a bust of Marius, bearing his name, which had been dug up in Italy. Any one familiar with the ruins in the South of Eu- rope ~vill at once recognize the com- position of the different parts of the picture. The temple in the background is similar to the Parthenon at Athens; the massive remains which tower over the head of Marius are like those of the villa of Hadrian, near Rome; while the ruined aqueduct in the dis- tance is copied from the Claudian aque- duct, which, with its broken arches, sweeps over the desolate Campagna, from the city to the distant Alban Hills. 1867.] Recollections of 7ohn Vanderlyn, the Artist. 231 The picture itself is one with regard to which the judgment of all acquainted with such subjects has, for the last sixty years, confirmed the decision of the French Academy. It is something utterly unlike most modern paintings, devoid of their light, glaring, chalky appearance, and characterized by the deep-toned coloring and severe sim- plicity of the old masters. The tension of the muscles of Mariuss right arm, compared with the relaxed languor of the left, the fine disposition of light and shade, the reflection of the crimson toga on the body, the anatomical skill in the drawing of the figure, and the stern expression of the countenance, are points on which artists have always dwelt. Tuckerman, in his Artist Life, has thus summed up his description: The picture of Marius embodies the Roman character in its grandest phase, that of endurance; and suggests its noblest association, that of patriotism. It is a type of manhood in its serious, resisting energy and indomitable cour- age, triumphant over thwarted ambi- tion, a stern, heroic figure, self-sus- tained and calm, seated in meditation amid prostrate columns, which symbol- ize his fallen fortunes, and an outward solitude, which reflects the desolation of his exile. I have dwelt at some length upon this picture, because it is Vanderlyns great work, and certainly one of the most cele- brated historical pictures in the coun- try; and because, having belonged to a private family for two generations, it is now known to the public only by reputation, or through the medium of an indifferent engraving published by the New York Art Union in 1842. The t~vo grand traits of the painting its massiveness and deep-toned col- oringcould not be represented in any way by an engraving. Some interest- ing facts with regard to it are con- tained in a letter addressed to the writer by Vanderlyn, and here printed verbatim. The picture was painted in Rome, during the second year of my stay there, 1807. Rome was well adapt- ed for the painting of such a subject, abounding in classical ruins, of which I endeavored to avail myself, and I think it also furnishes better models and specimens of the human form and char- acter than our own country, or even France or England. And it is much more free from the fashion and frivoli- ties of life than most all other places. The reception Marius met in Rome, when exhibited, from the artists there from various parts of Europe, was full as flattering to me as the axvard of the Napoleon gold medal which it received the next year in Paris. It gave me reputation there, and from an impartial source, mostly strangers to me. I had the pleasure of having Washington All- ston for a neighbor in Rome, an ex- cellent friend and companion, whose encouraging counsels I found useful to me, as in all my embarrassments he readily sympathized with me. We were the only American students of art in Rome at that time, and regretted not to have had a few more, as was the case with those from most other coun- tries. In a stroll on the Campagna, between Rome, Albano, and Frascati, in the month of May, in company with a couple of other students, one a Rus- sian, we came upon the old ruins of Roma Vecchia, where a fox was started from its hiding-place; and this was the cause of my introducing one in the dis- tance of my picture, too trifling a fact, perhaps, to mention. I left Rome in December, and arrived in Paris in the beginning of i8o8, and exhibited my picture there in the spring, at the public exhibition of the Louvre, where it received the medal through the hands of Baron Denon. He had first seen it in my studio, and expressed himself thus in favor of the picture: Cela porte un grand caract~re, which was precisely what I had aimed at. Denon was an excellent judge of pictures, and well qualified to be at the head of the direction of the Mus6e Royale, & c. I never made any effort there to procure a sale for it, as my wish was to take it home, to form the origin of a gallery for our city, which 232 Recollections of 71!ohn Vctnderlyn, the Artist. [February, was always my desire. But when I became embarrassed through the cost of my Rotunda, I would have been glad to have found a purchaser, and was willing to cede the picture to your esteemed father. It would probably have been better for Vanderlyn had he remained in Europe. There, he was in an atmos- phere of art; his triumph over the Eu- ropean artists had given him a high reputation; he was on the road to fame and fortune; and he had every incentive to labor. As it was, he re- turned to settle down into indolence. He first built in New York, for the ex- hibition of panoramas, the Rotunda which for many years stood behind the City Hall. But the enterprise did not succeed; he was unable to pay the builder, and the edifice passed out of his hands. This seemed to dispirit and sour him; he found there was no taste for art in that new community; and for the remainder of his long life he seemed to be embittered against the country for not properly appreciating his works. He returned to Kingston, his birth- place, and there, as I have before men- tioned, I often saw him during my boy- hood. For nearly twenty years there seems to have been an entire blank in his life. During all that time he painted scarcely any portraits, and no other works of which I am aware ex- cept his exquisite picture of Ariadne (a full - length female figure, perfectly nude), which I have lost sight of for many years, and his full-length por- traits of Monroe and Washington, to which I have before alluded. For the latter, he was to have been paid one thousand dollars, but when it was placed in the Hall of Representatives, the mem- bers of Congress were so much pleased with it that they voted him twenty-five hundred. Vanderlyn painted very slowly and elaborately, as I know to my cost. Believing that Burrs estimate of him was correct, and that he was our ablest American artist, I had always been very desirous to have him paint the portraits of my father and mother. In 1833, accidentally meeting him in New York, I proposed to him to undertake the work; but he declined, alleging that he had no studio. I found him living at an obscure French boarding- house in Church Street, and I proposed to him to come to my fathers house and use the library as a studio. So he came, blocked up the windows, ex- cept a square place in the top of one of them, and began his pictures. It was in the autumn when he commenced, and the winter was nearly over when he finished. I wanted to use the libra- ry for my studies, and tired enough I was at the long exclusion. My moth- er sat for a couple of hours in the morning, and my father in the after- noon, and each of them had about sixty sittings. In this way the whole winter was spent. He made fine pictures, of course, but the victimized sitters felt that the cost was too great. During this time my father acci- dentally discovered that the Napoleon gold medal was pawned in New York for thirty dollars, and redeemed it. Af- ter keeping it some time, he returned it to Vanderlyn. The Napoleon med- als, executed under the direction of the Baron Denon, were celebrated in Eu- rope. This one was the medal always used by the Emperor for rewarding civil services. On one side was a splen- did head of Napoleon, and on the other a wreath of laurel, within which was the vacant space for engraving the name of the recipient, and the reason of the award. Vanderlyns medal had engraved on it, ExPosITIoN AU SALON UE i8o8. 4--- JOHN VANDERLYN PEINTRE. The year 1842 brought what should have been a gleam of sunshine to the disappointed artist. Congress resolved to fill the remaining panels in the Ro- tunda of the Capitol with historical pic- tures, and one of them was allotted to 1867.] Recollections of Yokn Vanderlyn, tke Artist. 233 Vanderlyn. He was to receive twelve thousand dollars, which sum was paid him in instalments while the work was going on. He went immediately to France, as a more convenient place for executing a great work, and there be- gan his Landing of Columbus. The relief; however, had come too late. The enthusiasm for art which marked his early years was gone; he was old and broken in health and spirits, and his professional pride had given way in the mere struggle for money. In 1844 I was in Paris, and, inquir- ing about the picture, found that it was advancing under the hand of a clever French artist whom Vanderlyn had employed. Of course, the concep- tion and design were his own, but I be- lieve little of the actual work. In fact, no one familiar with Vanderlyns early style could ever imagine the Colum- bus to be his. Place it by the side of the Marius, and you see that they are evidently executed by different art- ists. The Marius has the dark, se- vere tone of the old masters; the Landing of Columbus is a flashy modern French painting. Wishing to see whether I could not procure the Napoleon medal, I sought for Vanderlyn, and at length found him in the gallery of the Louvre, where he was copying pictures for some gentle- man in Boston. I soon discovered that he was in an awful humor, perfectly embittered against his country, not- withstanding the late government pat- ronage. In the course of our con- versation, he ended one of his usual tirades with this remark: No one but a professional quack can live in America. There s the Lawrence fam- ily in New York; they brought for- ward a quack. This alluded to the fact that they had been the patrons of , then a distinguished artist, and had brought him into notice. The remark, how- ever, was intended for my own particu- lar and especial benefit, as he knew that I had married one of the Lawrence family. Without apparently noticing the personal character of his speech, I quietly remarked, You remember, Mr. Vanderlyn, that Mr. Lawrence, in the latter part of his life, did not employ , but took up Inman. Humph! he was another charla- tan, was his reply; so I found I had not gained anything by attempting a diversion. One day, being with him in the Louvre, I determined to plunge into the subject of the medal. I felt very much interested about it, for the medal was of course worth more to us than to any one else, and should accompany the picture. I was afraid, too, that it would be pawned in Paris, and that, as Vanderlyn was getting old, it might after his death be entirely lost to us. So I began my inquiries in this wise, feeling my way. Mr. Vanderlyn, I was at the mint to-day, and saw the bronze copies of the series of French medals. I wished to get a copy of the Napoleon medal; but it is so many years since I have seen it, I could not remember which it was. Will you let me have it for a day to select the copy? V. (curtZy.) No, sir, I will not. A pause, during which I said to myself; he has not got the medal. V (resuming.) The fact is, sir, the medal is not now in my possession.~~ Another pause, while I thought, It is as I suspected ; he has pawned it again. V (going on.) The truth is, sir, that, being in want of funds, I was obliged to place it in the hands of a friend. I shall keep the medal as long as I live, and then I dont care what becomes of it. This was the confirmation of my fears, and, believing the case hopeless, we parted. That evening I went to the American Legation. Our Minister, William Ru- fus King (who died while Vice-Presi- dent of the United States), was not at home, and I saw Mr. Martin, the Sec- retary of Legation. I was telling him some of Vanderlyns speeches, illustrat- ing his bitterness, when he said, I can show you something as good as that! 234 Recollections of Yokn Vanderlyn, the Artist. [February, He opened a drawer and took out a manuscript, which he informed me was a memorial addressed by Vander- lyn to the American Minister, detailing his grievances. These were certainly very amusing, and for the most part entirely imaginary, the paper being a general complaint against Mr. Cass, our former Minister to France. Two of the wrongs will do for specimens. Mr. Cass had actually sent Vander- lyn an invitation to his balls ! As if, writes Vanderlyn, such places of van- ity and fashion were fit places for me! Probably, if he had not been invited, that neglect would have been cited as the cause of complaint. Again, Mr. Cass, in speaking to Van- derlyn about Healy, a young Ameri- can artist patronized by Louis Philippe, had expressed his admiration of him for not letting his success turn his head, and had commended his sim- plicity and modesty. Whereupon the indignant Vanderlyn comments thus: I considered these remarks as a re- flection on myself, implying that I was marked by the opposite qualities. It is evident from this how perfectly morbid he had become. A couple of years later, Vanderlyn returned home with his picture, which is now in the Capitol, and which is al- together inferior to his earlier works. Some time after, in January, 1848, Kel- logg, the artist, came over in charge of Powerss Greek Slave, and went to my mothers (as lovers of art often did), with the request that he might see the Marius. My brother-in-law, the late Bishop (Burgess) of Maine, being there at the time, went in to show it. He wrote me, that he had gathered, from his conversation with Kellogg, that the Napoleon medal had been brought tc~ this country. Whereupon I made another effort to procure it. I wrote to Vanderlyn, and finally he informed me that it was in the hands of a gentleman in New York, who had brought it from Paris, and held it for a loan of some fifty-six dol- lars. After some correspondence he allowed me to redeem it, and papers were exchanged by which I became bound to restore it only to himself per- sonally. A few months afterwards, Crawford, the sculptor, sent to me, in the name of a number of artists, to inquire whether they could redeem the medal, which they wished to present as a com- pliment to Vanderlyn. I declined, for it was the second time it had been in the possession of my family, and, if re- turned to Vanderlyn, it would probably soon again pass out of his hands. It was best that it should go with the picture. And so it remained with me. Within the next six months, both Van- derlyn and Crawford died. Vanderlyn had come back to the country, as poor as ever. He had spent the instalments of his twelve thousand dollars as fast as he received them. Age, too, was creeping over him, and he must before this time have reached his threescore years and ten. After my fathers death he used to write to me occasionally, for he seemed to consider my ownership of the Marius a tie between us,general- ly to complain of his treatment by the world, and once to tell me of a raffle he had arranged to dispose of his two pictures of Niagara Falls. The draw- ing never took place, nor did I ever hear what became of the paintings. From my recollection of them, I do not think they possessed great merit. Landscape-painting was not his forte. He had retreated back to Kingston, where he died in poverty about 1850, ending life where it began. So me years after his death, I cut from a newspaper the following account of a visit to his grave: The writer yesterday stood beside the grave of Vanderlyn, the artist. He is buried near the southern extremity of the beautiful village of the dead, called Wiltwyck Cemetery, at Kingston, N. Y. There is no stone, nor even mound, to mark the spot: only a few vines twining and intertwin- ing, like the network of the life that was, but which now is forever ended. Patches of snow lay on the ground, and the trees still stood disrobed, save 1867.1 The Republican Alliance. 235 where, here and there, on the compact foliage of the cedars, the snow clung, making them seem like those twilight spectres which, in the old Norse le- gends, were said to haunt ruins.~~ Such is the melancholy story of one who might have been one of the first artists our country has produced. He left, however, little behind him. Be- sides the pictures I have mentioned, there are only a few portraits among some of the old New York families. Why he did not paint more, I do not know. Burr, in writing to his daughter, in 1802, says: Vanderlyn is run down with applications for portraits, all of which, without discrimination, he re- fuses. Probably he neglected por- traits while dreaming of grand histor- ical pictures which he never had appli- cation enough to paint. As is usual in such cases, no sooner was he dead, than the community began to wake up to an appreciation of his merits as an artist. It was the realiza- tion of what I found in a letter of my father to him, in reply to his complaints that the world undervalued his works. The Marius, he writes to him in 1834, will probably be more valued, when you and I care nothing about it. The people of Kingston began sudden- ly to feel a pride in the fame of their townsman, and wrote to me to ask if I would sell them the Marius to place in the court-house of their village. A number of public galleries made the same proposal; but the propositions were declined, and the Marius is now on the Pacific coast, where, at the time when Vanderlyn was sketching his hero in the Eternal City, the soil was trodden only by the wild~Indian or the Franciscan missionary. And now, as I write, I look up at Marius, and there he is, as grand as when he came from the artists hand, so many years ago. More than two generations have passed away since that time ; his early admirers are dust; the Roman ,~rtists, the great Emperor, the Baron Denon and his artistic staff the men who gathered before the pic- ture when first shown in New York, all are gone; but Marius still looks out from the canvas, the tints of which are only mellowed and softened by time. I think of the old Jeronymite monk who, when Wilkie was in the Refectory of the Escurial, looking at Titians famous picture of the Last Supper, said to him: I have sat daily in sight of that pic- ture for nearly threescore years. Dur- ing that time my companions have dropped off, one after another, all who were my seniors, all who were my contemporaries, and many or most of those who were younger than my- self; more than one generation has passed away, and there the figures in the picture have remained unchanged I look at them, till I sometimes think that they are the realities, and we are but the shadows! THE REPUBLICAN ALLIANCE. J F from the late war, and the peace now concluded, Italy should fail to learn a decisive lesson for the future, and the democratic party fail to per- ceive the path to be followed in pursuit of that future, we should be driven to despair of both. War for Venice, a war to regain our own territory and our own frontier, had become a necessity, the supreme and sole condition both of security and honor. All men felt that, until the na- tional question was solved, and Italy secure from foreign attack, no stable internal organization of the country was possible. All felt that, if we de

Joseph Mazzini Mazzini, Joseph The Republican Alliance 235-246

1867.1 The Republican Alliance. 235 where, here and there, on the compact foliage of the cedars, the snow clung, making them seem like those twilight spectres which, in the old Norse le- gends, were said to haunt ruins.~~ Such is the melancholy story of one who might have been one of the first artists our country has produced. He left, however, little behind him. Be- sides the pictures I have mentioned, there are only a few portraits among some of the old New York families. Why he did not paint more, I do not know. Burr, in writing to his daughter, in 1802, says: Vanderlyn is run down with applications for portraits, all of which, without discrimination, he re- fuses. Probably he neglected por- traits while dreaming of grand histor- ical pictures which he never had appli- cation enough to paint. As is usual in such cases, no sooner was he dead, than the community began to wake up to an appreciation of his merits as an artist. It was the realiza- tion of what I found in a letter of my father to him, in reply to his complaints that the world undervalued his works. The Marius, he writes to him in 1834, will probably be more valued, when you and I care nothing about it. The people of Kingston began sudden- ly to feel a pride in the fame of their townsman, and wrote to me to ask if I would sell them the Marius to place in the court-house of their village. A number of public galleries made the same proposal; but the propositions were declined, and the Marius is now on the Pacific coast, where, at the time when Vanderlyn was sketching his hero in the Eternal City, the soil was trodden only by the wild~Indian or the Franciscan missionary. And now, as I write, I look up at Marius, and there he is, as grand as when he came from the artists hand, so many years ago. More than two generations have passed away since that time ; his early admirers are dust; the Roman ,~rtists, the great Emperor, the Baron Denon and his artistic staff the men who gathered before the pic- ture when first shown in New York, all are gone; but Marius still looks out from the canvas, the tints of which are only mellowed and softened by time. I think of the old Jeronymite monk who, when Wilkie was in the Refectory of the Escurial, looking at Titians famous picture of the Last Supper, said to him: I have sat daily in sight of that pic- ture for nearly threescore years. Dur- ing that time my companions have dropped off, one after another, all who were my seniors, all who were my contemporaries, and many or most of those who were younger than my- self; more than one generation has passed away, and there the figures in the picture have remained unchanged I look at them, till I sometimes think that they are the realities, and we are but the shadows! THE REPUBLICAN ALLIANCE. J F from the late war, and the peace now concluded, Italy should fail to learn a decisive lesson for the future, and the democratic party fail to per- ceive the path to be followed in pursuit of that future, we should be driven to despair of both. War for Venice, a war to regain our own territory and our own frontier, had become a necessity, the supreme and sole condition both of security and honor. All men felt that, until the na- tional question was solved, and Italy secure from foreign attack, no stable internal organization of the country was possible. All felt that, if we de 236 The Republican Alliance. [February, sired to place ourselves in a condition which would enable us, in the prob- able case of the non-fulfilment of the September Convention, to concentrate all the forces of the country upon the solution of the Roman question, it ~vas of the first necessity to secure our- selves against an Austrian invasion, by gaining possession of the Rhetic, No- nc, and Carnic Alps. The Venetians, owing to the exer- tions of our party, were preparing for insurrection. The ruinous state of Italian finance imperatively demanded such reforms and such economy as were impossible of realization so long as the Damoclean sword of war was suspended over our heads. It had be- come impossible for our monarchy to hold back any longer without serious risk. Action was decided upon. Had they really willed it, victo r was cer- tain. The monarchy had had five years to prepare; it had had unlimited supplies of money, an obsequious parliament, and a country resigned to any amount of misgovernment, provided only the promise of action was kept. War once declared, the whole of Italy rose up in a ferment of enthusiasm, and ready for every description of sacrifice in blood or money. The monarchy, in order to remain the sole unwatched master of ~be field, de- manded unlimited powers, both finan- cial and political: they were granted. Reluctantly, and only under the pres- sure of public opinion, it demanded twenty thousand volunteers: seventy thousand eagerly answered the call. It demanded that all parties should sig- nify their adhesion to the war: it was done. It demanded of Garibaldi the support of his name and the aid of his genius, without conditions: he gave both. These concessions, so blindly made to a power that had repeatedly betrayed alike the desires and the rights of the nation, were mistakes; but our present purpose is only to show that the monarchy obtained everything it demanded, and everything that was necessary for the overthrow of every obstacle in its path. The majority of the republicans albeit full of dis- trust and evil presentiment believed that, although the national question of unity and the internal question of liberty were based upon one and the same principle, yet their field of appli- cation was different; they held that, by uniting with the monarchy in the en- deavor to emancipate upwards of two millions of Italians from a foreign yoke, they did not for a single day abdicate their right of republican apostolate; and they considered that that right would be strengthened and confirmed by the fulfilment of the duty of combating Austria in aid of their Italian brothers. They remembered that the nation, al- though still unprepared to adopt a bet- ter system of internal government, was eagerly desirous for war; and they knew that the true method for those who sought to educate and convince the nation could never be that of hold- ing themselves aloof. They knew that, if left alone in the field, the monarchy would in case of triumph assume the entire honor of the victory, and in case of defeat attribute the dishonor to the dualism engendered in the national camp by the separation of the republi- cans. They felt how grave would be the danger, and how immense the dis- grace, of a Napoleonic intervention in the Italian xvar; they knew that the monarchy would invoke that interven- tion on the slightest pretext; and they considered it their duty to deprive the monarchy of all such pretext, by af- fording it all the assistance and all the men required. They therefore has- tened to action in the ranks of the vol- unteers. The monarchy entered the field with three hundred and fifty thousand reg- ular troops, one hundred thousand * * The official accounts stated at the commence- ment of the xvar that the government had four hun- dred and fifty thousand troops ready for action. They now state that they were only two hundred thousand. They lied then, as they lie now: the first time, in order that the country, confident of suc- cess, might leave everything to them; the second time, in order to explain the fact of their having done nothing. The above are the correct figures. 1867.1 mobilized national guards, thirty thou- sand volunteers, and the whole nation ready to act as a reserve upon territory whereon every single man was a sworn foe to the enemy. Austria had one hundred and fifty thousand men in Italy. The war with Prussia rendered it impossible to aug- ment that number in any case. Yet more; on each side of the Alps, on each side of the Save, by the shores of the Danube, along the Carpathian chain, in Hungary, Galicia, and Bo- hemia, in Servia, half of the popu- lation of which is under Austria, among the Roumain race, a large portion of which is in Transylvania, in the Banat and other Austrian prov- inces, among the Southern Slavonians, eagerly desirous of cons%ituting a widely extended Illyria, Italy had allies at hand; all of them ready, nay, eager, and entreating a word of encour- agement or a movement on our part. The government knew these things. Agents from those provinces were in correspondence and contact with us, and with the government at the same time. The war, if rightly conducted, would have carried dissolution into the very heart of the Austrian empire ; it would have insured to Italy the initiative of the movement of the nations; it would have gained for her those indissoluble alliances founded on gratitude, which would have opened up the path of Italian economic progress in the East; it would have constituted Italy a first- class power, and rendered her arbi- tress of the European question at one bound. In this, the first war to be fouo~ht with our own forces, Heaven set be- fore us a glorious opportunity of can- celling that stigma of vassalage which has oppressed and weighed down our languid existence since Villafranca, and of transforming that existence into vig- orous life, the life of giants, respect- ed as powerful, and beloved as bene- factors. In a case like ours, a national re- publican government would have ac The Republican Alliance. 237 cepted the vast and holy mission set before them, blessing and adoring the God of Italy. A national government would have felt that Italy only exists in virtue of the right of revolution; that she had naught to do with diplo- macies, naught to do with treaties and alliances, save with those peoples called, like herself, to the conquest of their own freedom; that her banner is the banner of a princi~5le, the prin- ciple of nationality, and they would have boldly raised that banner in the face of friends and foes. A national government would have understood that, in order to preserve the country from the ruin of repeated wars, and to vanquish Austria, not once, but forever, it was necessary to dismember her; and that this necessi- ty for the dismemberment of the Aus- trian empire pointed out the Danube, Vienna, and Southern Slavonia as the objective points of the war. A national government would have instantly convoked an Italian parlia- ment, had none such been already assembled, and bade them watch over the internal security of the coun- try, and keep open every path through which aid might reach the holy war, saying to them, Watch also over us, and see that neither from weakness nor incapacity we fail in our sacred mis- sion. A national government would have is- sued a proclamation to the Italian peo- ple, saying, Hold yourselves in threat- ening readiness as our reserve force, so long as we do our duty and go for- ward; and be also ready to punish us should we offer to draw bach while one inch of Italian ground remains to be conquered. A national government would have addressed another proclamation to the peoples now subject to Austria, saying to them, Arise! the Italian army is your army; yours the ports along the eastern coast of the Adriatic, beyond Istria, which we shall set free,across which sea we will form the alliance of freemen with you.~, A national government would have 238 The Republican Alliance. [February, opened unlimited registers of volun- teers; would have organized the Hun- garian legions, and the thousands of Poles, sons of the last insurrection, now wandering over Europe; it would have placed them with their national flags in the vanguard of our army; then, leaving two intrenched camps be- hind to guard Lombardy and the ex- treme Po, would have sent two hun- dred thousand regulars to push on by way of Laybach and Udine to Vien- na, would have given the command of our fleet to Garibaldi, and, when he had destroyed the enemys fleet, would have poured fifty thousand volunteers beyond the Adriatic into Croatia and Hungary. Had this plan appeared too daring, which, however, it was not, a nation- al government would have arranged to have an insurrectionary outbreak j5re- cede the war along the zone of the Alps, and, first occupying the Trentino to its farthest frontiers by the regular troops, would have brought the main body of the army into the field between the Quadrilateral and Venice ; in either case contriving a simultaneous move- ment by the volunteers in Southern Slavonia. The monarchy, however, as if de- sirous of proving to Europe that insur- gent Italy would have no other allies than the agents of despotism, chose for its sole ally Bismarck; who, being decided to make war upon Austria for his own purposes, would have afforded Italy all the aid she required from the mere force of things, and without any effort on her part. The monarchyas if dreading above all things that the people should ac- quire the consciousness of their own strength elevated distrust into a sys- tem ; dismissed the parliament; sanc- tioned exceptional laws against the press, and against all public meetings or associations. It first refused all aid from the volunteers, and then, when compelled by the public excitement to accept them, limited their number to twenty thousand; then, urged again by the threatening attitude of the people, agreed to accept double that number, but refused to allow either riflemen or guides (indispensable elements of every army) among them; then, once more compelled to yield, stipulated that they should provide their own horses and rifles. The monarchy purposely introduced an unworthy element among the volun- teers; gave them unpopular and in- capable superior officers ; armed them with old muskets, carrying only one fourth as far as the rifles of the enemy; and, in order to make them appear use- less and incapable, first sent them to do battle amid almost inaccessible moun- tains, and then abruptly recalled them to occupy points already strongly de- fended. The monarchy refused Garibaldis re- quest when he asked the command of the fleet; refused him all access to the Adriatic; disallowed all insurrection in Venice and the Trentino before the war ; abstained from occupying Tn- este, though it was left, as the govern- ment well knew, for more than twenty days without a single soldier, in the sole keeping of the National Guard, three fourths of whom were Italians; declined the movement offered by the Southern Slavonians; held back the fleet in absolute inaction, and then, as if in mockery of the outcry raised by the country, sent it to sea unprovided with the most necessary stores of war, and under the command of a man al- ready notorious for his utter incapacity, to the meaningless enterprise upon Lis- sa, which ended in defeat. The monarchy, rejecting the advice of Prussia and of the best military men of Italy, in order to follow sugges- tions from Paris, sent a portion of the army, under the command of the author of all the disasters of 1848, upon an im- possible enterprise against the Quadri- lateral, which, combined with tbe fabu- lous disorder of all the secondary oper- ations, and the total want of ensemble in marches and manceuvres, resulted in the overthrow of Custozza. After this, whether from cowardice or some unknown cause, exaggerating the im 1867.1 portance of the defeat, the monarchy inexplicably rested on its arms, until, when already in treaty for peace, it despatched Cialdini to invade where there were no enemies, and recalled Medici the only one of the regular generals who had attempted any se- rious operation from the Trentino, when he was within a few miles of the capital. The iniquitous flight from Milan in 1848, Novara, Custozza, and Lissa, such have been the results of the only wars our monarchy has undertaken without foreign aid. Foreign rulers, we say it with a grief that passes words, though at times guilty of crime, have at least shrunk from dishonor. It was natural that the peace that fol- lowed should he upon a par with the war; but the m~narchy contrived even to surpass the point of disgrace already reached. The monarchy has submitted to hear Austria declare: I do not give back this Italian territory to those who are unable and unworthy to con quer it for themselves. I fling the now useless en- cumbrance at the feet of the despot who has already wrung an Italian province from your cowardice, and who still de- prives you of your own metropolis. Tahe it as an alms from him, ~/ he chooses to bestow it upon you. The monarchy has submitted to hear the usurper of Rome and Nice declare: I, a forei?ner, bestow upon you as alms this Italian province which you are incapable of winningfor yourselves by force of arms. You shall henceforth do homage as vassals, not to Austria, but to me. And the monarchy has swallowed the double insult. Had it not, a few years before, upon ground yet teem- ing with Italian blood, swallowed the insult of a peace concluded by an ally, who, though but a few steps dis- tant from the king, yet deigned no word to him, I will not say to ask counsel, but not even to inform him of the abrupt decision? And this peace, though this is of small moment compared to dishonor, The Republican Alliance. 239 this peace is ruinous to Italy. In- trenched within the Alps; master of Istria, the key of our eastern frontier; master of the poor betrayed Trentino, the key of Venetian Lombardy; mas- ter of all the passes through which he has been wont to descend into Italy, the enemy can lie in wait to seize the favorable moment, which the embar- rassed position of Italy will surely of- fer, to fall upon us. A peace such as the present carries with it the neces- sity of another war, a war which it is needless to deceive ourselves will find Austria stronger than before. Re- jected by Germany, she will be com- pelled by the force of things, and by the numerical superiority of the Slavo- nian element, to transform herself into a Slavonian power; and the Southern Slavonians, despairing henceforth of Italian aid, and certain of preponder- ance in the Empire, will at length rally round our enemy, and become enemies in their turn. Meanwhile, the certainty of having sooner or later to engage in a new war will compel Italy to maintain her army undiminished, place her in the neces- sity of making fresh preparations, and render any important reduction in her expenditure impossible. It will force upon her a progressive increase of lia- bilities, threatening the state with bank- ruptcy; reduce her to a constant con- dition of commercial uncertainty, alarm, and consequent inactivity of capital; compel her to new loans, new taxes, and the indefinite interruption of every great industrial, agricultural, or com- mercial enterprise. Ruin and disgrace. A monarchy which, with a people like ours, with half a million of men under arms, with an army of approved courage, with sol- diers and sailors such as those who sank in the Palestro, crying, Viva 1 Ita- ha! coldly brings this vassalage, pov- erty, and dishonor upon the country, may yet exist for a brief period upon the corruption and cowardice of others; but, before God and man, its doom is sealed. Why is it that Italy patiently sub- 240 Tue Republican Alliance. [February, mits to all this accumulation of dis- grace and wrong? How is it that no cry bursts forth from the army, spe- cial guardian of a countrys honor, to whom a stain upon the banner is worse than death, from the corps of more than thirty thousand volunteers, the majority of whom had sworn not to lay down their arms till Italy was united, from those cities which hailed with de- light the signal of an Italian war they believed destined to initiate a new era, and to be the baptism of our emanci- pation from direct or indirect foreign rule, how is it that from these no cry bursts forth of Out, cowards / Be all this shan~e and infamy upon your heads alone. We tear asunder the unright- eous compact. We will ourselves carry on the war you either cannot or will not conduct. The causes of this silence are many, both individual and collective; nor need I enumerate them here. But, as regards our masses, the causes may all be summed up in one, distrust: dis- trust, discontent, suspicion of all things and of all men. They have met with so many delusions in a few years, that they fear a new deception in every change, and shrink from the unknown future. This distrust, the parent of inertia, this want of all confidence in their own forces, this disposition to disbe- lief in the capacity and power of the na- tion to save herself; is the result of the long lessons of immorality taught the country, deliberately by some, uncon- sciously and from an intellectual habit nurtured in slavery, by others. Our country, a land seeking regen- eration, has been taught and retaught by a press unworthy of Italy, by the ex- ample of men whose services in the past had endeared them to the people, and by an entire governmental hierarchy apt in assuming the credit of the work done by others, and in boasting their devotion to that unity which, but a few years since, they derided as the dream of our martyrs, You shall rule your life by a sham. Truth is not the law of the times, and the times are your mas- ter; say nothing ofyQur rights,forfear the monarchies of Europe should grow suspicious of you, and turn their forces against you; say nothing of duty, the word is odious to those who achnowledge no duty; seeh only utility, a temporary andpartial UTILITY, it matters little ~f achieved at the price of servility and hypocrisy; falsehood; ~f successful, is but prudent statesmanship. Caress the foreign tyrant, even while abhorring him in your hearts; hail the Pope as spiritual sovereign and Vicar of Christ, altho ugh you hnow that he has trampled underfoot andfals~fted all true religion through lust of do;ninion .. from theflrst you will soon be freed by death; and you will overthrow the temporal power the sole importance of the second more easily by the help of genuflexions and imposture. Extol monarchy, even though the old republican blood of your fathers boil within you , proclaim the constitutional system an ARCANUM of science, even though its most devoted sup- porters confess it afiction, and the Pied- montese STATUTO inviolable, though you hnow it to be a wretched creation extorted in a moment of fear. Declare the monarch sacred and unimpeachable, even when he yields up Italian soil to the forezgner; Europe is alarmed at the word republic, and the hing has anar- my. There will come a time, but as yet it is too soon. Substitute for the war of priizczples ignoble shirmishes about men; but do not attempt to strihe hzg her than ministers. The men who, from Socrates to 7esus, have preached and fulfilled what they believed the whole truth, were but sublime dreamers, and they perished, holdfast by Machi- avelli, your sole guide. Teachings such as these have poi- soned and still poison the sources of all moral and intellectual development in an infant nation, which, though full of magnificent instincts, has but just emerged from the darkness of slavery, by depriving them of all true criteria by xvhich to judge the true worth of men or things. When artifice and falsehood are once admitted as means of realizing the just and true, who shall venture to con- 1867.] The Republican Alliance. 241 deron the minister who lies? who shall say he did not lie for the purpose of securing their triumph? who shall ven- ture to condemn the writer who recants his early opinions or creed, the dep- uty who swears the reverse of his for- mer oaths, when it may he that they are only making a sacrifice to utility, and taking a hidden and less danger- ous path to the goal we are all endeav- oring to attain? Who shall venture to say to the king, when he yields up Ital- ian territory to the foreigner, You are nifait/ful to your mission and to the country, when it may he that still graver dangers, which to reveal would he to increase, are hanging over the nation, and compelling him to the cession? In this state of perennial doubt, hesitating in the obscurity of this moral twilight, wandering through a labyrinth of personal questions, led hither and thither by the promises of each politi- cal coterie, without the escort of any principle to guide their judgment, the moral sense of the people is gradually blunted, and they become accustomed to accept as the only signs by which to direct their choice of men, first, talent, which when unaccompanied by virtue is a source of evil, and then success, which, when immediate, is too often the fugitive result of mere force or cunning. In this alternation of delusion and deception, the mind becomes contami- nated by scepticism; and scepticism is by degrees transformed into indiffer- ence. The people, wearied and dis- gusted, lose all manly energy of pur- pose, and end by regarding the suc- cession of events that passes them by without producing any real improve- ment in the state of things as a matter in which they have no concern, and by accepting as inevitable the fatal dual- ism that exists between their own life and that of the governing power. When things reach this point, if no speedy effort be made to put an end to it by a sudden initiative, a country is lost. It will inevitably sink into ego- tism, that gangrene of the soul which is the destruction of the future. But a few more years of the actual VOL. XIX.NO. 112. system, and of the theoretic and prac- tical teachings of its supporters, and Italy will reach this point. The force of circumstances may restore us this or that fragment of our own soil, this or that limited development of mate- rial force; but the great soul of Italy will sink once more into the sepulchre from which it strove to rise. Without morality, without the consciousness of a mission, without faith in the power of truth, no nation can exist. We shall be, not a people, but the inane, de- spised phantom of a people. A people can neither be revived through Jesuitism, nor regenerated through falsehood. Jesuitism is the instrument of religions in decay; false- hood, the art of peoples condemned to slavery. Socrates and Jesus died by the hand of the executioner; but it was the death of the body only. Their souls still live immortal, and are trans- fused from age to age into the worthiest life of the generations. Every moral and philosophical progress which has been realized for two thousand years recalls the name of the first; an entire epoch of civilization and emancipation was informed and inspired by the sacred name of Jesus. All the science of Machiavelli did but furnish a funeral lamp to illumine the tomb of Italys second life; and could that great anat- omist of a period of infamy and decay see the pygmies who, standing round the cradle of her third life at the pres- ent day, yet strive to ape his work, it would fill him with noble rage and in- dignation. A nation is a conscience; the con- sciousness of a great idea to be reduced to action; of a collective duty to be followed as authority; of an invinci- ble force brought to bear upon the fulfilment of the duty of all, by all. So long as this conscience remains bright, clear, and incontaminate, that people will be great; so soon as it be- comes darkened, so soon as the wor- ship of utility is substituted for the worship of the idea, the spirit of calcu- lation and interest for that of duty, a timid, servile hope in others for a calm 242 Tiw Rcpublicicuz Alliance. [February, trust in their own strength, that peo- ple ~vill dwindle and decay, until fate points them out as the victim of other nations. Truth alone is fruitful. Shams are barren; they dissolve, hut cannot cre- ate ; they are to truth as galvanism is to life. Our martyrs, hy hearing tes- timony to the truth we had taught, generated the necessity which com- pelled others to clear the way, how- ever incompletely, for the advance of Italy. The policy of shams led to naught hut the cession of Nice, and the series of dis~races which threatens to force her to recede upon her path. One instinctive glimpse of this con- sciousness of truth and duty was enough to enable the unarmed popu- lation of Milan to drive out the Aus- trians. and win hack t~eir native land in five days. Shams and tactics, nice calculations made in the service of a lie, gave us hack the Austrians then, as they now give us Custozza, Lissa, and Venice dunn to us as an aims the future will reveal upon what condi- tions hy the foreigner. The history of Italy is the history of all peoples and of all periods. Great initiatives and great enterprises have always sprung trom movements made either hy the people or by individuals in a moment of holy enthusiasm for an idea, an idea of sacrifice and progress, a tradition recovered from the tomb of their fathers, hefore which they had knelt in spirit, to arise, saying, We have faith in ourselves. And sham has ever followed after to render the initiative harren, or to seize its fruits, to lull into inertia, or to excite into anarchy. The great sham for us, we have now a double right to declare it, the lie that falsifies the whole life of Italy, and generates an interminable series of secondary lies, is monarchy. This is the source of our misfortunes and our impotence; nor will they cease, happen what may, until monarchy shall cease to he. Monarchy, all who have read our history know this, monarchy is not a national institution in Italy. We are no Utopians; we do not condemn mon- archy at all times and in all places, be- cause, historically speaking, the repub- lic is the hetter form of. government. Like the Papacy, monarchy has had in certain nations an historic function, a mission. In France it aided the con- stitution of the national unity; in Eng- land it stood between the rising com- mons and the arbitrary power of the nobles, sons of the Conquest. Ilut,in Italy monarchy has never represented any element of progress, has never identified itself with the life of the country. It entered Italy with the for- eigner, and foreign it has ever remained. Servile in its origin, it ever was and is servile, formerly to France, Spain, and Austria alternately, now to France alone; but should Louis Napoleon fall, it would sink again under one of the others. Nor has monarchy inscribed any of those historic pages in the records of Italy which mark some progress in the destinies of the country. Our wool- combers have played a more brilliant and useful part in our Italian life than all our kings put together. The com- munes which diffused the germs of Ital- ian civilization before the days of Rome were republics composed of heads of families. The period of Romes true greatness, and of her grand unifying mission, was republican; the Empire came later, and came hut to usurp and dismember. It was without any aid from our princes, in spite of foreign rulers, and beneath a republican ban- ner, that our people overmastered the feudal nobility, and it was beneath a re- publican hanner that our arts, indus- try, commerce, colonial influence, and literature grew, flourished, and were diffused among the various peoples of Europe. The brave men who have, from time to time, protested by dagger, conspiracy, or pen, and handed down to us a tradition of liberty, even amid the darkness of slavery, were repub- licans; and republicans are they who, in our own day, have treasured up the promise contained in that tradition. i86y.] The & pu& licau Alljauct .243 Monarchyneverachievedaughteither forthelibertyor unityof the country; it has always persecuted the apostles of both; and only when it perceived the result to be inevitable has it stepped forward to appropriate the frt4ts of their labors. At the present 4y it corrupts and destroys the life and moral great- ness that should spring from their work The true Utopians stupid and ig- norant Utopians are they who, in spite of the natural law which. ordains that the institutions of a people are al- ways the issue of the national tradi- tions, fecundated by an instinct of the future, (and this instinct is republican all over Europe at the present day,) im- agine that they can work out the pro- gress and greatness of Ltaly through the medium of an improvised monarchy, unsustained by a powerful aristocracy, destitute of all great memories, without a spark of genius, without faith in Its own mission, or power, in all things a mere copy4t of the foreigner. Without faith, in its own mission .or power. Herein lies the source of th~t corruption which. would, were mon- archy to last, destroy the very soul .of our people, and, at the same time, this is the reason why it is impossible that the monarchy should improve. Our monarchy feels itself a foreigner in Italy; itlias a sense ofth~ fatality by which it is pursued; it feels that it is not beloved even by those, not be- lievers, but ojjortmusisas (the barbarous word is of their own forging), wbo,.from lustofpower,greed of gain,orfear of imperial France, pretend to revere it The monarchy distrusts, inevitably and irrevocably distrusts, the peopl& Hence the necessity it is under of beg- ging for foreign aid, the necessity of begging that aid from dpspots, that they may be ready to step in between it and the dreaded demand for liberty; hence the necessity of servile concessions, in order to preserve that alliance, and the necessityofconstitutingthe.government as a government resistance; hence the necessity ofa permanent standing army, with such leaders and a mode of organ- nation so calculated as to render it an instrument of repression, and transform its functions into those of a machine; hence the necessity of rejecting every plan of national armament, or the or- ganization of a militia on the Swiss or American system; hence the necessity of creating an immense mob of ensploye% a sort of civil armybound tothe duty of watching over and falsifying public opinion in the interest of the govern- ment; hence the necessity of keepingall these, qxceptthe highest grades, undes- paid, which creates a constant incite- ment to fraud and wrong; hence the necessity of corrupting the weak by means of place, industrial concessions, public or private pensions, and of tern- fyingthe strong by means of exceptional laws, the sequestration of newspapers, and arbitrary prosecutions; hence the necessity of avoiding all irritation of the Catholic element, and therefore of hypo- critical caresses be4tqwed on the Pope; hence the unwillingness to boldly cut the hot of the Roman question, and the necessity~ sad lesson of immoral- ityof hailing with applause those4e- serters from the opposite camp desetv- ing only of contempt; hence the ne- cessity of surroqn4ing the monarchy with ministers and mep devoted to its petty traditions and its foreign ajlies; hence the necessity of supplying, the expenses of its artificial existence by a progressive increase of loans ~nd taxes; hence the necessity of restrictions on the suffrage, the press, and public as- sociations, and of impeding as much as possible the liberal edqcaion of the pee- ple~ and the free expression of their wilL All these and other dire necessities are the logical consequences of a state. of distrust and peril; they are the weap- ons and defences inseparably belong- ing to a monarchy doomed to fear and, resist You may change as you ~ill the individuals at the head, of the gov- ernment, the fatal idea will govern them. The evils we have but ,slightly sketched will not decrease, but always increase in intensity. It is the cause of these evils that must be destroyed. The government must be converted into an educational institution of liberty 244 The Republican Alliance. [February, and progress. The govern